Hotchniss One-Shots

kiss me

The tarmac glowed dull silver under the hangar lights, a cold hum of engines and wind pressing faintly at the walls. The jet waited in the corner, sleek and still, its lights dimmed, a haven carved out of the aftermath.

They were early.

The rest of the team was still at the precinct, finishing reports and closing statements, Morgan making sure the local PD didn't mishandle the evidence. But Hotch and Emily had left first. She'd needed out. He'd seen it in her eyes before she said a word — that faint tremor under her professionalism, the exhaustion stitched too tight to her posture.

Now, inside the jet, it was quiet except for the occasional ping of metal settling in the cooling air.

Emily sat by the window, hands clasped in her lap. There was a faint smudge on her cheek she hadn't bothered to wipe away, and her hair had fallen loose from its braid. She looked smaller in the low light, but not fragile — just... still.

Hotch stood for a long moment before sitting across from her. He loosened his tie, set his briefcase aside, and exhaled. For once, there was no phone, no paperwork, no voice in his ear demanding something. Just her. Just the hum of silence.

She didn't look up when she spoke.

"You should've let me go in first."

His brow furrowed slightly. "You weren't in position."

"I was close enough," she said quietly, eyes still fixed on the dark beyond the glass. "Closer than you."

"You were exposed."

"So were you." The words were sharp, but soft-edged — more worn than angry. "You always are."

He leaned back, jaw tightening. "Someone had to draw him out."

"You didn't have to be the one doing it."

He almost smiled — that almost imperceptible twist that never reached his eyes. "That's not how it works."

Emily finally looked at him. Her gaze was steady, but he could see it — the flicker underneath. The memory of how close it had been. The moment the suspect had turned the gun, the half-second where she couldn't get the shot off, the way his body had shielded hers before the chaos broke.

"How it works," she repeated. "You getting shot at while I watch."

"I didn't—"

"You did." Her voice cracked on it, soft but raw. "You always do."

He fell silent, watching her. The metal of the armrest felt cold beneath his fingers.

"I'm fine," he said after a moment, too quietly. It wasn't defensive, just tired. "You're fine. We're both fine."

Her lips curved, but there was no humor in it. "You call that fine?"

"Alive counts as fine."

"Barely," she whispered.

The silence stretched again. Somewhere outside, a mechanic shouted something indistinct, the sound swallowed by distance. Inside, it was only them — suspended in the quiet space between what almost happened and what didn't.

Emily leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its edge. It was smaller, gentler. "When it happened, I thought—" She stopped herself, shaking her head. "I thought that was it."

Hotch's throat tightened. "Emily—"

"I know," she cut in softly. "I know, we do this job, we all take risks, it's part of it." Her hands twisted together, restless. "But for a second, I thought— I thought I'd never get to say—" She stopped again, exhaling shakily. "It doesn't matter."

He leaned forward slightly. "It matters."

She looked up, meeting his eyes. The hangar light caught in them, making them darker, deeper. "Then what?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper. "What are we supposed to do with that?"

Hotch didn't answer. He couldn't. The weight of everything unsaid hung between them — years of near-misses, of looks that lingered too long, of moments that ended before they could begin. All of it compressed into this one fragile pause before the team arrived, before reality came flooding back.

The silence grew heavy enough to hurt.

Then, softly — so quietly he almost didn't hear her — she said, "Kiss me."

He froze.

Her gaze didn't waver. "Please," she added, and the word wasn't desperate. It was human. Simple. A plea not for romance, but for proof — that they were here, that the world hadn't taken what it almost did.

He hesitated, breath caught somewhere between instinct and restraint.

"Emily—"

"I just need to know," she said, voice trembling. "That it's not all just almosts."

The hum of the air system filled the silence. A faint sound, like the world holding its breath.

He moved before he decided to. Slowly, deliberately. His seatbelt clicked free, and he crossed the narrow aisle. She didn't move — just watched him, still and wide-eyed, her pulse visible at her throat.

Hotch crouched beside her, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off her skin. For a long moment, neither spoke. The faint scent of gunpowder still clung to their clothes, mingled with jet fuel and the ghost of adrenaline.

When he finally touched her face, it was with the gentlest precision — the same care he used when handling evidence, when holding his son. His thumb brushed the smear on her cheek, tracing it away.

Emily's eyes fluttered closed.

Then, finally, he kissed her.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't hungry. It was soft — unbearably soft — like the kind of moment that shouldn't exist between two people who lived in constant danger. A quiet collision of two souls who had both almost broken too many times to count.

She kissed him back once, then again, slower this time. When they finally pulled apart, her forehead rested against his.

Her voice came out as a whisper. "We shouldn't."

"I know."

But neither moved away.

The hangar lights flickered as the team car pulled up outside — a reminder of reality's approach. She exhaled, a shaky little breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

"Back to almosts, then," she murmured.

Hotch didn't answer. Instead, he reached for her hand — just for a second — and let his fingers brush hers, deliberate and grounding.

Then he stood, buttoned his jacket, and returned to his seat across from her.

By the time the others boarded, the world had righted itself again. The jet filled with the soft noise of footsteps, voices, and paper rustling. No one noticed the quiet between them — the faint trace of something fragile and infinite that hung in the air.

The engines started, a low hum beneath their feet.

Emily looked out the window again, but this time, she didn't feel so far away.

Across the aisle, Hotch's hand rested on his knee — still, composed, but his thumb moved once, almost unconsciously, as though remembering the shape of hers.

Outside, the world began to move again.
Inside, they stayed still — both knowing something had shifted, even if it could never be spoken aloud.