Hotchniss One-Shots

spend the night

The office was quiet, almost too quiet for their taste. Usually, even at this hour, there was the faint hum of the AC, the clack of keyboards, or the occasional echo of a tired agent muttering through a late-night report. But tonight, there was only the sound of Hotch's pen scratching across paper and Emily's soft sigh as she stacked files on the corner of her desk.

They had stayed late, as they often did, because the case wasn't going to solve itself. But unlike most nights, the tension wasn't entirely professional tonight—it was something else, something heavier, warmer, and dangerously close to intimate.

"You've been quiet," Hotch said, not looking up from his notes. His voice was calm, careful, controlled, but Emily could hear the undertone, the quiet pull that always seemed to linger between them.

Emily smirked, leaning back in her chair. "I'm just... enjoying the quiet. You know, before we dive into another late-night session of playing catch-up with the world's worst criminals."

Hotch finally looked up. His eyes caught hers, and for a moment, there was nothing else in the room but that steady, unspoken conversation. He could see the tired line at the corners of her eyes, the way her hair had fallen loose around her shoulders, softening the strictness of her usual appearance.

"You should go home, Emily," he said softly. "It's late."

She shook her head, a small, teasing grin tugging at her lips. "And leave you here alone? Someone has to keep you company."

Hotch's lips twitched. He had wanted to tell her she didn't have to stay—that she could go home, rest, not carry the weight of the world on her shoulders—but the words lodged in his throat. Instead, he said, "You could... spend the night here. There's a cot in the corner, if you want."

Emily blinked, just slightly, and leaned forward on the desk. "You're serious?"

"I'm serious," he replied. His voice was steady, but there was a rare vulnerability there, a hint of something he didn't often show. "If you want to... sleep. Or... stay. Whatever you need."

The words hung in the air, heavy and charged. Emily felt the pull immediately, like gravity itself had shifted toward him. She wanted—needed—that closeness, the quiet safety of just being near him without the chaos of the world intruding.

"I think I'll take you up on that," she whispered, her voice low, almost hesitant, as if saying it aloud made it real.

Hotch's lips quirked into a small smile, a rare, private acknowledgment that only she ever seemed to get. "Good," he said simply. "You can... make yourself comfortable."

And so she did. She shed her blazer, draped it over the back of the chair, rolled her sleeves up, and curled herself on the cot in the corner of the office. Hotch watched her, careful, quiet, almost mesmerized by the ease with which she folded herself into the small space.

"You sleep like you fight cases," he murmured, more to himself than to her, "all in, no hesitation."

Emily laughed softly, the sound low and intimate, echoing slightly in the otherwise empty office. "I could say the same about you," she said. "Always controlled, always precise... always carrying everything like it's nothing."

Hotch's gaze softened. "It's easier when you're here," he admitted, and immediately cursed himself internally for the confession. But Emily didn't recoil. She just smiled, the kind of smile that warmed the space between them, and inched closer.

"Then maybe I should stay," she said, her hand brushing the edge of the cot, deliberately close. "Stay until it's easier."

He nodded, though he didn't move. Instead, he let her presence fill the room, let her warmth settle into him without touching, without needing more. And yet, when she finally lay down fully, curling into the cot, the distance between them seemed impossibly small.

Minutes passed. Then, slowly, almost tentatively, Emily stretched her hand toward him. Hotch didn't move at first, didn't reach out, until the warmth of her fingers brushing against his wrist demanded attention.

He caught her hand, lacing their fingers together with an ease that spoke of years of unspoken understanding. And then, without thinking too hard about boundaries or rules or the ridiculous professionalism that separated them from the rest of the world, he shifted closer, letting her hand rest over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm.

"You know," she murmured, "I never thought... I'd be here. Like this. With you."

Hotch tilted his head, his eyes scanning hers, searching, always searching, for the right thing to say. "Me neither," he admitted, voice quiet. "But I'm glad you are."

Emily let out a contented sigh, letting herself relax completely. "Then stay," she whispered, almost shyly. "Stay with me."

Hotch didn't hesitate this time. He eased down beside her on the cot, careful not to crush her, careful only to be present, and in that simple act, the office—the world—fell away. All that mattered was the warmth, the closeness, the shared quiet that stretched between them like a promise.

And for once, in the dim glow of the desk lamp, they didn't have to solve the world, didn't have to chase justice or reason or cases that haunted their nights. They could just... be.

Hotch's hand threaded through hers, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles, and Emily's head found its place against his shoulder. "Sleep," he murmured, almost a command, almost a prayer.

"I will," she whispered back. "As long as you're here."

And they did. Sleep came slowly, the kind that only comes when trust, warmth, and quiet safety exist in equal measure. And when they woke hours later, tangled slightly but content, neither of them wanted to move. Not yet. Not at all.