Headspace ▪︎ a•hotchner|oc

One.

Unlike most people, you know who's knocking on your front door at three in the morning. You stay in bed for a long moment, knowing also he won't knock more than once, but ultimately you sit up, rub your eyes, and make your way to the door. His head is down when you glimpse him through the peephole, always uncertain as to whether or not you'll open the door, in spite of having no evidence to back up his concern. You have always let him in, and you always will. No matter what the consequence.

His head rises when the door opens. Your eyes meet his, those mahogany pools reeling you in. Everything part of a routine. Part of a dance. His perfect hair is in its perfect place, he still wears the customary suit and tie, but his body is buzzing - you can feel the energy pulsing off of him. No words are spoken as you step aside and allow him entrance. He looks around your apartment at all the same pictures, decorations, furniture. Eventually he turns to you.

"I thought you got control of it," you speak first.

"I thought you weren't going to open the door," he counters.

"Sounds like we're both terrible thinkers."

The lines under his eyes seem etched deeper, his brows knotted together. You don't expect a smile from him, you never do, but his eyes usually light up when he's entertained by something. He's seen it all, in his life as a prosecutor and as a supervisory special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but tonight it seems he's somehow seen more. And now he's here.

You close the door. You stand before one another, neither afraid of eye contact. In fact, you welcome it, despite the agony you see there, the hopelessness, the cynicism. Others crumble under the weight of his stare. You used to be one of them. Now, however, now you crave the attention. Your feet take you to him without your permission, but you'd have ended up here anyway. Just like he ended up here anyway. Your thumbs touch the lines under his eyes, adding a bit of softness to his coarse skin, and his lids close, lashes brushing the tips of your fingers.

"I'm ready whenever you are," you whisper.

His Adam's apple bobs with a hard swallow, you feel his hands on your hips, apprehensive, and then they give a more confident squeeze. Your skin tingles beneath his touch. It's all routine. The toes of his boots kiss the bare tips of your toes, his heat washes over you, your entire body becomes jello. You think he's about to kiss you, but his lips stop just short of yours, and your eyes are again locked with his.

"Why do you let me do this to you?" he asks.

It's your turn to gulp.

"Why do you let me let you do this to me?"

He lifts you in the air, wrapping your legs around his waist, everything effortless for him. He doesn't want to answer the question posed to him, and that's fine, because you'd rather not answer what he asked you. And maybe your silence does a lot more talking than you thought. You press a gentle kiss to his earlobe and feel a harsh exhale against your shoulder, you smile. This might be the only tenderness you get tonight and you have every intention of taking advantage.

You're carried into your bedroom where you and he have been many times before. You continue working on his ear, swiping the tip of your tongue along the shell, nibbling on the lobe, location and force dependent upon each of his groans. He smells so good, like cleanliness, like a man, and a tinge of something always present you suspect might be the scent of blood, permanently stuck to him from the hundreds, maybe thousands, of victims he's seen in his life. Your nails scratch down the back of his head as you suck the throbbing vein on the side of his neck, and he slaps you hard on the ass. You squeal into his skin and tighten your arms around his neck as though it might prevent things from moving further away from the affection you so crave. But he's not here for what you covet. He's here to release everything that's been building since the last time he knocked on your door.