Hotchniss One-Shots

hotel coffee

The hotel room clock glowed 2:47 a.m. in red, unblinking digits. Hotch had been lying on his back for hours, staring at the ceiling, chasing sleep that never came. His mind replayed the case in loops — the crime scene photos, the interviews, the choices he second-guessed even though they'd already caught their unsub. Sleep wasn't coming. Not tonight.

Finally, he sat up, tugged on his suit jacket, and left his room without turning on the light. The hallways were silent, the kind of silence that pressed too close. He headed downstairs, intending only to walk it off, maybe grab coffee if the lobby had some left over.

The lobby was nearly empty, save for the night clerk behind the desk and a soft lamp lit in the corner. Hotch's footsteps slowed when he noticed someone curled on one of the couches. Emily, hair down, in a loose sweater over her pajamas, a hotel mug of coffee cradled in her hands.

She looked up when he approached, and a small, knowing smile tugged at her lips.
"Couldn't sleep either?"

Hotch hesitated, then exhaled. "No."

She gestured to the empty cushion beside her. "Sit. Misery loves company."

He sank onto the couch, the leather cool beneath him. For a moment, neither spoke. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, steady and indifferent.

Emily broke it first. "What's keeping you up? Or do I not want to know?"

"Everything," he admitted, surprising himself with the honesty. "The case. The choices. Jack."

Her expression softened. "That's a lot of ghosts for one room."

Hotch glanced at her mug. "How many cups have you had?"

"Two. Well, three. Don't judge me." She smirked, the corner of her mouth quirking in that way that always pulled him closer whether he meant to or not. "I figure I'll crash sometime around sunrise. Until then, I'm just keeping the hotel's coffee industry afloat."

"God help us if they run out," Hotch murmured.

Emily tilted her head, studying him. "That's as close to a joke as I've ever heard you make at three in the morning."

His lips curved, just slightly. "Don't get used to it."

"Too late." She leaned back into the couch, stretching her legs out so her sock-covered foot brushed his ankle. To anyone else, it would look accidental. Hotch knew better. He didn't move away.

They sat like that for a while, the quiet between them less sharp than it had been upstairs. Emily sipped her coffee. Hotch let his shoulders ease a fraction, his hand resting against his thigh close enough to hers to almost touch.

Finally, Emily said, "You know what Reid told me earlier? He read some study about how agents who sleep in hotels average 30% less REM sleep than they do at home."

"Sounds about right."

"Yeah, but then he launched into a twenty-minute monologue about circadian rhythms and memory consolidation. I swear, I nearly started begging for a second unsub just to put me out of my misery."

Hotch gave a low huff of laughter, shaking his head. "Careful. You'll manifest it."

"Wouldn't be the worst way to go. Death by Reid's statistics."

"Prentiss." His voice carried warning, but there was warmth threaded through it, the kind only she could draw out of him.

She smiled into her mug. "What? Too dark for you?"

"Not dark. Just... accurate."

Emily snorted. "See? You're darker than I am."

Silence settled again, but softer now. They'd always been good at this — speaking in half-measures, letting the unsaid carry as much weight as the words. It was part of why this thing between them had started at all.

A few weeks ago, late night paperwork at Quantico. An empty office. One too many long looks that neither turned away from. A kiss that had been meant to be a mistake but hadn't felt like one. They hadn't defined it, hadn't told anyone, hadn't even said the word "relationship." But it was there. Quiet. Dangerous. Theirs.

Emily shifted, placing her mug on the table. "So. What's our cover story if Rossi comes down here and finds us? Two insomniacs bonding over burnt coffee, or a top-secret meeting to discuss our classified affair?"

Hotch's eyes flicked to her, sharp, but she was grinning.

"You think that's funny?" he asked.

"A little. Mostly because you look like I just suggested we rob a bank."

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "It's reckless."

"So's this whole job." She leaned closer, her voice lowering. "Don't worry, Hotch. I can keep a secret."

Her hand brushed his where it rested on the couch. The touch was casual, but the spark it sent through him wasn't.

He turned his hand slightly, just enough to let his fingers graze hers. To anyone watching, it would look like nothing. To them, it was everything.

Emily's expression softened. "You know... I don't hate these nights."

"You don't hate insomnia?"

"I don't hate running into you when I can't sleep."

Hotch swallowed, his throat tight. He should pull back. He didn't.

Instead, he murmured, "It's easier. Being here. With you."

Her eyes flickered, and for a moment all the humor fell away. "Yeah. It is."

They stayed like that, suspended in the fragile stillness of the lobby. The clerk behind the desk flipped a page of his magazine, uninterested. The lamp cast a soft glow over them, making the space feel smaller, safer.

Emily let her head tip back against the couch, eyes half-closed. "You ever think about how insane it is that we do this for a living? Fly across the country every week, crawl through people's nightmares, then try to sleep in beds that aren't ours?"

"All the time."

"And your solution is..." She gestured to him.

"Coffee in the lobby at three in the morning," he said.

Emily smirked. "Romantic."

He glanced at her, deadpan. "It's effective."

Her laugh bubbled out, quiet and genuine. "God, you really know how to sweep a girl off her feet."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "You're still here, aren't you?"

That shut her up, but her grin lingered.

Minutes blurred into hours. They traded stories, half-whispered so the clerk wouldn't overhear. Emily confessed she'd once dyed her hair green in college; Hotch admitted Jack had started telling knock-knock jokes and wouldn't stop. They joked about how Rossi would probably order room service wine at this hour if he were awake.

The coffee grew cold. The exhaustion didn't.

Eventually, Emily shifted closer, curling her legs under her. Her shoulder brushed his. He didn't move away.

"You should try to sleep," she said softly.

"You first."

She gave a tired smile. "We could both try. Right here."

He raised a brow. "On the couch?"

"Why not? Beats staring at the ceiling alone."

Hotch hesitated. But her hand was still there, warm against his. And the thought of going back upstairs, back into silence, felt unbearable.

So he leaned back, letting his eyes close. Emily shifted until she was tucked against his side, her head resting lightly against his shoulder. His arm found its way around her almost without thinking.

They didn't speak. Didn't need to.

The hum of the lobby, the faint shuffle of papers at the desk, the warmth of her pressed against him — it was enough.

When sleep finally came, it wasn't deep, but it was the first peace he'd felt in days.

And when morning broke, and the rest of the team came downstairs to check out, they'd find Hotch and Emily fast asleep on the lobby couch, side by side, hands still twined together in the space between them.