Hotchniss One-Shots

just us

The city lights reflected off the Potomac in soft, trembling waves as Emily leaned against the railing of the rooftop bar. She took a slow sip of her wine and let the cool spring breeze stir her hair. For the first time in months, she felt like herself—like herself with him.

"Looking thoughtful," came the familiar voice behind her.

She smiled without turning. "You think I'd let the view steal all the credit?"

Hotch's presence was steady, grounding. He joined her at the railing, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders relaxed in that rare way he only allowed himself around her.

"I'd argue the view is only half the equation," he said softly, eyes sweeping over the city, but always flicking back to her.

Emily rolled her eyes, though her smile softened. "Careful, Aaron. You're dangerously close to being sentimental."

He smirked faintly. "Not dangerous. Honest."

It was a quiet kind of honesty that carried weight. She turned fully toward him, letting the city blur behind her. His eyes caught hers, and for a moment, the rest of the world didn't exist. The sirens below, the hum of traffic, the chatter from the tables nearby—they all disappeared.

"Remember the first time we came up here?" she asked, her voice low, teasing.

"I do," he admitted. "You insisted we sit in silence and watch the stars. You nearly gave me a panic attack because you made me wait for the right moment to speak."

Emily laughed, leaning into him, feeling the warmth of his coat brush against her arm. "And you still waited too long to kiss me."

His jaw tightened slightly, almost imperceptibly. "I had my reasons."

"Reasons, huh?" she teased, nudging him with her shoulder. "Care to share now, or do I have to extract them with therapy techniques?"

He chuckled, a sound that never failed to make her stomach twist pleasantly. "Let's just say I was... careful. Patient. Strategic."

Emily leaned her head on his shoulder. "Careful is one way to describe it." Her voice softened. "I was worried you'd think I was reckless."

Hotch turned slightly, tilting his head so their eyes met. "You? Reckless?" There was a flicker of amusement, but it didn't hide the undercurrent of something deeper—something that had survived every case, every distance, every hard day. "Never."

She pressed her lips to his chest lightly, inhaling the familiar scent of him—leather, cologne, and something inherently Hotch. "I like that we can just... be here. No cases. No files. No deadlines."

"Just us," he agreed.

The waiter arrived then, interrupting their small bubble, placing their meals on the table. Emily grinned, lifting her glass. "To us, then. Rare, chaotic, and undeniably stubborn."

"To us," he echoed, his hand brushing hers across the table, lingering longer than necessary.

They ate slowly, savoring the kind of conversation that wasn't about work—about nothing and everything. Emily told stories of her latest Interpol adventures, exaggerated slightly for dramatic effect. Hotch listened, half teasing, half rapt, laughing quietly at the small moments where she couldn't hide her glee or frustration.

At some point, she caught his hand under the table. Fingers intertwined naturally, as though they'd been doing it forever.

"You always make me feel... normal," she said quietly.

He looked at her, expression softening. "Normal isn't the right word."

She tilted her head. "It is for me. Normal is sitting here with you, knowing we don't have to be anyone else for just one night."

His thumb traced small circles over her knuckles. "Then let's stay normal, tonight. No work. No interruptions."

Emily leaned in, letting her forehead rest against his. The city lights behind him framed his profile perfectly—sharp, composed, impossibly beautiful. "I like that idea," she whispered.

After dinner, they walked along the river. The spring air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of cherry blossoms. People strolled past, laughing and chatting, but Emily and Hotch moved in a quiet bubble. Their fingers stayed linked, occasionally brushing over each other's palms, each touch light but electric.

"You're terrible at choosing restaurants," Emily said after a pause, breaking the comfortable silence.

Hotch raised an eyebrow. "I thought you liked Italian."

"You did pick the place," she pointed out, smiling. "But you also didn't know half the menu was seafood, and I'm allergic to shrimp."

He laughed softly, shaking his head. "Point taken. Next time, I'll let you lead the way."

"Glad we agree," she said, bumping him lightly with her shoulder.

They reached a quiet stretch along the water. Emily stopped, tugging Hotch gently so they faced each other. Her eyes searched his, reading the familiar intensity that had always drawn her in.

"You know," she murmured, "sometimes I forget how much I like this—like you—when we're not on a case. I forget until moments like this."

Hotch leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "And then?"

"And then I don't want it to end."

His lips hovered near hers. "It doesn't have to," he said softly.

The kiss was slow, gentle, and deliberate—a conversation without words. Emily pressed closer, feeling the weight of months, years of unspoken emotions melting into something raw and grounding. It wasn't desperate; it was familiar, comforting, and dangerous all at once.

When they finally pulled back, foreheads resting together, the city glittered around them like a witness to their quiet rebellion against time and distance.

"I could get used to this," Emily whispered.

"So could I," he replied.

They walked the rest of the river path in silence, their hands still entwined, shoulders brushing occasionally. No cases, no deadlines, no chaos—just the two of them, navigating the simple act of being together.

By the time they returned to the car, Emily rested her head on his shoulder again, sighing contentedly. "Tonight was perfect," she murmured.

Hotch glanced down at her, his fingers tightening around hers. "It was us," he said. "And that's always enough."

Emily smiled, eyes closing briefly. For the first time in a long while, she felt like she could breathe without thinking of the next case, the next threat, the next distraction. She could just exist—just be with him—and that was enough.

And as Hotch started the car, she let herself lean into him fully, knowing that, at least for tonight, the world could wait.