Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jack's legs are too long for the booth. They've always been too long, he used to trip over them like a newborn colt, but now they just fold, a bit crooked, jeans bunched at the knees. Emily watches the steam curl off his chai and fights the urge to reach over and straighten his beanie like she used to when he was twelve and all ears.

"So," he says, bored (and also deeply traumatized), "college is great."

Emily snorts into her Americano. "Uh huh. That bad?"

"Picture four months of people talking about Ayn Rand and asking if I've tried shrooms yet.'" He taps his cup. "My roommate sleepwalks naked and joined a crypto club. My best friend might be dating a Marxist. It's been educational."

She laughs, full-bodied. "And yet you're still somehow alive."

"Barely. I eat like, two real meals a week and my TA definitely hates me. He wrote, like, question marks on one of my essays. Three question marks."

Emily winces in solidarity. "That's evil. You should retaliate. Slash his tires or something."

"Tempting," he says, and for a second they both let the silence settle.

Then, without looking up from his cup, Jack asks, "When are you gonna talk to my dad again?"

Emily blinks.

The pause lasts exactly one blink too long.

"I talk to him," she deflects, vague and not really immediate, ah, like it doesn't sting the inside of her mouth to say it.

Jack raises an eyebrow. "No, you don't."

"Okay, well not... recently."

He is totally unimpressed. The sound is so Hotch it makes her want to fling herself through the plate glass window.

She stares into her cup, swirling it. "Jack," she says softly, "does it... bother you? That we're not—"

He shrugs, but, huge ugh, not like it doesn't matter. More like he's trying to soften the truth. "I don't know," he says. "You're like... you know. And he's my dad. And I can't even really remember when it wasn't like that. It's weird, that I have to see you guys separately now."

Something crawls under her ribs.

She tries to breathe around it.

"I didn't mean for it to be weird."

"I know you didn't." He's not mad. "But it is."

Emily looks up, heart in her throat, and Jack is already halfway to the next sentence.

"He's getting a divorce, by the way."

Emily chokes.

Actually chokes. Has to set her cup down before she accidentally inhales her entire drink.

"What?"

Jack frowns painfully like that's what got her. "Yeah. Told me two weeks ago. Said it was an amicable split. Beth sent me a picture of her new apartment the other day."

Emily wipes her mouth. "Oh. Wow. I... wow." Her throat is not large enough for air. Oh, nostrils. "Are you okay?"

Jack lifts one shoulder. "Actually? Yeah. They were fine. Just... not fine. It was bound to happen."

She nods slowly. The coffee tastes different now. A little bitter.

"Dad's been talking about moving, though," Jack adds, more offhand than it deserves. "And going to that new club Uncle Dave joined. Playing golf. It's ridiculous. You have to stop him."

Emily barks out a laugh that dies too fast.

"You think I have that kind of power?"

Jack just looks at her.

"You definitely have that kind of power," he says.

Not the point.

"He'll be fine," Emily says eventually. "He's resilient. Like a tree. Or a very grumpy cactus. He'll thrive. Alone. In the desert."

Jack scoffs.

"He's retired and divorced."

She points her stir stick at him. "Wow. Way to go for the throat."

"I'm just saying. He gets this look now."

Emily groans. "Jesus, stop picking on your dad, he's a nice dad."

Jack rolls his eyes. "He's the best dad. That's the problem. He's gonna try to pretend it's fine for my sake."

She squints at him over the rim of her cup. "Are you trying to get me to call him?"

Jack blinks like it's the stupidest question he's ever heard. "Yes."

Emily groans again, drops her head into her arms. "Maybe I'll text him. Say hi. I make no promises."

Jack grins, all teeth. He kisses the tips of his fingers and presses them to the back of her hand, same spot she used to touch on his forehead when he left for school, for college, for anything. A little forehead blessing that somehow got reversed when she wasn't paying attention.

Emily stares at her hand. Her eyes sting, traitors.

"Okay, sap," she says, throat thick.

Then the bell above the café door jingles, and Emily looks up just in time to see Garcia, glittered scarf, and JJ, sunglasses, navy coat, waltzing in.

Jack's already up.

"That's my cue."

"Nooo," she grabs at his sleeve. "Stay. Let's talk about girls. Or boys. Come on. Have you met anyone? Be honest. I can handle it."

He laughs and snatches his coat off the bench. "Nope. Thanks. Not telling you. Dead. Ever."

Emily lifts both hands. "Mean."

Jack backs away dramatically. "Have fun with the girls. I'm gonna go save my dad from that empty, depressing house since you won't."

Emily throws a sugar packet at his head.

He catches it.

-

She gets home, kicks off her boots, doesn't bother with the light.

Phone in hand.

She drafts something.

Something long and mature and articulate. Something that starts with I'm sorry and ends with Do you want to get coffee?

She stares at it.

Backspaces until only the cursor remains. Blinks at it.

And then, because she's way too old to be that much of a coward in all the ways that count, she sends:

Hey

It sits there for a second. Small. Pathetic. Floating in the ocean of his unanswered texts that came before it.

Are you okay?

Did I cross a line?

The last one, a week ago. How long is this going to go on?

She puts the phone down, face hot, walks to the kitchen. She pours a glass of water she doesn't drink. Stands there. Tries not to think about the way her body remembers things in flash burns.

The buzz comes six minutes later.

She doesn't run to the phone. She walks.

Good start.

Emily puts a hand to her face. Covers her eyes to stop the sensory recoil. Now that should erase the memory of teeth dragging over her earlobe, his hand urgent under her dress, the counter digging into her spine, the heat of tongue going off at her throat and spiraling down.

Beth had just stepped into the backyard. It had been stupid. Reckless. It had been—

Another buzz.

You okay? Jack told me to give you a call. Said you're barely eating these days.

"Oh my god," she mutters, rubbing at her eyelid.

She hits the call button before she can talk herself out of it. He picks up immediately.

"Emily."

"I am eating," she says, not even hello. "Appetite's just fine."

"That's good news," he replies. "I was... worried."

Another second. Then softer.

"I missed your voice."

Literally what. Why would he say that. The phone just burned her. She winces.

"Hotch."

Silence.

Then, a little more tired.

"Please."

She closes her eyes. Bites into the hollow of her cheek.

"You can't just say things like that."

"Noted." His voice does that thing where it tries not to sound frustrated, which, of course, makes it sound more frustrated.

Emily licks her lip. Mouth makes a soft pop.

There's a silence big enough to walk laps in. He fills it.

"I know you heard the news," he says. Carefully. "I... wish I had told you myself."

"Let's not talk about it."

She can hear the nod in his silence. She's known him long enough to hear it across a phone line.

"What are we going to talk about then?"

Great question. Gold star. What are they going to talk about, weather? The economy? The fact that her heart's been a clenched fist lately?

Nothing comes. Actually, scratch that, something comes. But it's not the right thing. It never is. She chews a fingernail that's already down to a nub. Self-mutilation as communication.

"When I kissed you I wasn't..." she starts, and then realizes she doesn't know how to end that sentence. "...thinking straight."

"It's okay."

"It's not. And I'm sorry. I don't care if the marriage was falling apart, Beth didn't deserve... whatever that was."

"We had sex in the pantry."

Jesus Christ.

"Hotch," she groans. "I just mean it shouldn't have happened."

A beat. Two. Then a sigh. The legendary Hotchner sigh, reserved for personal failure.

"Do you regret how it happened or that it happened?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters a lot," he says. Not pushy. Just matter-of-fact.

Then, gentler:

"You're kidding, right? You're... a mother to my son. Do you really think that whatever answer you have is going to ruin what we've built all these years? You matter too much, Emily."

She touches her throat like it might keep her voice from slipping out sideways.

"Then why..." Her voice cracks in the middle. "Why didn't you marry me instead? Why did you give someone else the life I..." her breath stumbles.

Shit. Open wound. Heart on plate, served with a garnish of self-loathing.

Her voice gives up completely. She wipes her cheek. Fucking ridiculous.

"You know what," she says, barely audible, "I'm hanging up now."

She does.

-

The knock's not a surprise. She's been waiting for it like a smoker waits for the crash after a nicotine patch.

She opens the door and yeah, there he is. Flash t-shirt. Hand braced against the frame.

The look he gives her is up a wall between judgment and exhaustion.

"The beard looks nice," she offers, because she's impulsive and emotionally constipated. White stubble on his jaw? Hell of a detail to catalog mid-crisis.

He steps in when she makes room. Doesn't say thanks. Just breathes. Charging up for a thesis defense.

"I'm sorry," he starts, "I was under the impression you blamed me for the nothing-between-us situation. When I remember very clearly the Monday you flew back to London, you said this wouldn’t work anyway."

He turns to her, flash shirt and all, and still somehow makes it feel like a federal interrogation.

"The way you dictated that, Emily," he says. Voice calm, too calm. "I always gave you space. You never showed me you wanted more. In fact, when I met Beth you said—"

"That I was happy for you." Big eye roll. Deserved. "Yeah, I know. The problem's me."

A shrug that almost dislocates her shoulder. "I was happy for you. I've been happy. You didn't have to pay for my lack of emotional testicles. I wasn't available. Not like you needed."

"I wanted whatever you could give me," he says, sitting down. "But then you moved on. Got yourself a boyfriend. I don't know if you realize how much hell that was for me."

"Oh, and your marriage has been such a joy to watch unfold," she deadpans, arms crossed. "I could've gone to the wedding, by the way. I didn't have an emergency. I just... would’ve preferred a two-hour burp podcast."

"Emily," he says. Pats the couch. Offers a truce. "Two grownups. Let's talk. You're retired. I'm retired. Jack's in college. We've got the time now."

Great. Time.

The final boss of emotional repression.

She sighs.

Ties her hair back.

Slouches onto the couch.

"We had sex. How do you feel about that?" He blurts.

"Are you asking performance?"

He blinks. "No. God, no. I'm asking if you were scared. That I'd change. That we'd change."

"No."

"Then what?"

"I don't know," she says, scooting until her head lands on his shoulder. Leg draped over his. A peace treaty signed in lazy muscle memory. She missed him. Missed this.

"You could've picked your marriage."

"Over you?" he asks. "We'd been talking divorce since last year."

"You never told me."

"You weren't exactly available for heart-to-hearts."

She snorts. “Jack’s right. You’re starting to sound just like me."

That gets a chuckle. Sweet, chest-vibrating. Makes her want to bottle the sound.

"That's really a nice look on you," she adds, needs to keep the warm thing going. It does.

The look he gives her sticks. His hand finds her thigh, heat and pressure and intent. He shifts her with a little tug until she's fully in his lap, knees on either side, face-to-face with everything she pretended not to really want for years.

"I missed you too," she says.

His hand cups the back of her neck, palm flat on her skin.

"But we're way too old for the couch th—"

He kisses her mid-sentence. Efficient. Thorough. "Shh," he murmurs against her mouth.

"Don't... shush me," she mumbles, but her jaw is already slack under his kisses, mouth trailing down her neck, then teeth skimming her collarbone.

Her hips roll, remember how he feels already.

"We should talk," she says, breathless, dizzy. "About your recent involvement with golf. Because what the fuck."

"Don't ruin it," he says into her shoulder, but he's laughing.