Written por Max Alleyne.
“Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Realize the strength and mover on.” –Henry Rollins
He stood outside the door of his hotel room for a moment, not wanting to open the door. He knew what waited for him on the other side of the door. It was another impersonal hotel room with one of those horrible flowered bedspreads and faux mahogany furniture. But mais than the impersonality of the room was the emptiness. He would open the door, and no one would be waiting on the other side for him. He would be far from início without the things that he held dear.
Despite the fact that he and Haley had been divorced for quite some time, despite the fact that she had been…that she was dead, he still expected someone to be waiting for him when he pushed the door open. Jack was at home—always waiting for his father to get início so that he could launch himself down the stairs and into his father’s arms—but he was a little boy. He couldn’t tell his son about the evils that he saw every day. He would tuck his son into bed, and then go to his bedroom, where he would lie alone until eventually he drifted off to sleep.
“Are you alright?” Emily Prentiss’s voice pulled him from his musings. She stood across the hall, studying him with a worried expression on her face. He tried to look less like a brooding, over-worked widower, but failed miserably. Instead, he looked her in the eye and nodded.
That was a mistake, looking her in the eye. There had been tension between them since before Haley’s death, and it wasn’t exactly the platonic type. They were never able to ignore it—even while they were working cases, they were hyperaware of each other—but they tried to at least push it away so that it didn’t interfere with the case. But now they were both tired—more than tired, exhausted—and they couldn’t do it anymore.
“No, you’re not alright,” she said, her voice careful and filled with understanding.
“No, I’m not. I don’t want to open this door because I know that when I do, I’m going to be—“
“Alone,” she finished for him. She knew the feeling. The feeling of going início to a barely lived-in house. Too many nights she walked through the door, thrown away the remnants of her takeout, showered, and gone to bed. Too often she had rushed through the things at início in an attempt to ignore the fact that there was no one to share her início with.
“Yes.” He looked down at the key in his hands, and then over at Emily, who was doing the same. He didn’t have to be alone, he knew this. Everything about her body language was inviting him in—her arms were relaxed at her side, she was leaning towards him and making eye contact. It was all encouraging him to ask that pergunta that he so desperately wanted to ask. Do you want to come in?
It shouldn’t be hard. He was a grown man, and they were both consenting adults who knew exactly what they would be getting into. It wasn’t like he was considering a lifetime commitment. But maybe that was the problem. When Aaron Hotchner did something, he committed to it completely. One night stands were completely new territory for him. He wasn’t entirely sure that he was able to do something without that element of commitment. Maybe that’s why it was so hard.
Or maybe it was because he kept seeing Haley’s face everywhere he turned, staring at him, questioning. Why did I have to die? she was asking him. And then her eyes were dead. They were as empty as the darkened hotel room that waited for him. They were reminding him of his failures as a husband and an agent. That’s why it was hard. He couldn’t screw up again.
Emily saw the hesitation on his face, in the way that he was thinking through everything before he spoke. He was nervously crossing and uncrossing his arms, telling her that he wanted to be open to her, but was unsure. Something—probably the lasting scars from what had happened with Haley—was keeping him from speaking. But she understood scars, she had some herself, and knew what it was to be inhibited por them. She wasn’t going to let Hotch’s scars overwhelm him and keep him from moving on.
”Would you like to come in?” she asked. Again, he made eye contact and she could feel the tension between them.
“Actually, I was hoping you would come in,” he said, pushing the key into the slot with trembling hands. As the door slid open, they stepped inside quickly and quietly. It was dark, and he felt the emptiness creeping in, despite Emily’s presence. Her hand slipped into his, tugging him away from the front hall and farther into the room. Hotch hesitated.
“Wait…the lights. Turn on the lights,” he whispered. She slid her hands along the wall, and flipped the switch. Light flooded the hallway, and she could see the tears in Hotch’s eyes. She knew that memories of Haley were filling his mind, and it was all she could do not to cry with him.
“Hotch…”
He shook his head, keeping her from speaking. She understood now. The hesitation was because of guilt. He had loved his wife even after she divorced him. He loved her all those times that he had left her to go to work. He had loved her when she took Jack and left. He loved her while he was holding her lifeless body in his arms. And now, he felt like he was betraying her.
Emily slid her hands beneath his dusty, grit-covered jaqueta and pulled it off his shoulders. She gently loosened his tie and slipped it over his head. She cupped his face in her hands, ever so gentle. Her kiss was just as light. She was demanding nothing, and giving him the only thing that she knew to give him; comforting him the only way she knew how.
“You’re filthy,” she whispered, still gently running her hands over the planes of his face.
“We both almost got blown up. It happens.” His voice wasn’t empty, but full of self loathing.
“Do you want to shower?”
“No. I just want to go to bed…not alone.” Hearing Hotch speaking in broken sentences was killing her. Her coração ached for him, for the hell that he had been through and was still going through. She had suffered trauma once, but the wound had healed, leaving only scar tissue behind. Hotch hadn’t quite gotten there yet.
“I know. Let’s get you out of these dirty clothes, and then we’ll sleep,” she said. She laid a light kiss on his forehead and began unbuttoning his shirt. His fingers were clumsy as he tried to pull hers over her head. She stopped him, and he protested.
“We were going to…make—have...” He couldn’t find the words. Have sex? Technically right, but it was mais than that. Make love? No, he had made amor to Haley and never would again…but it seemed to fit Emily. Maybe that was the right term, after all.
“No, Hotch. I would. I want to. But right now, you’re the walking wounded. Now, sleep,” she explained. Understanding and gratitude filled his expression as he pulled off his shoes and slid out of his pants. He stood before her clad in only his boxers and socks, trembling and vulnerable. She took him por the hand and guided him to the bed, where he lay down. She pulled off her shoes and started to climb in beside him.
“Em, you’re dirty. You should…you can have one of my shirts,” he told her. Warmth filled her at his use of her nickname. He was the only one that called her that. Em. She loved it. Without protest, she quickly removed her clothes, pulled on one of his shirts, and slipped into bed.
“Thanks, Hotch.”
“Aaron,” he corrected. Special people should call him Aaron.
“Thank you, Aaron,” she said, taking him into her arms. He rested his chin on her shoulder and pulled her tight—almost painfully so—against him. She didn’t complain. She wouldn’t. It was comforting to have someone so close. No one had been this close to her in a long time.
She ran her hands over his back comfortingly. Instead of finding smooth skin, it was covered in raised marks—scars. She froze for a moment. It was only a dividido, dividir second, but he noticed. After all, it was his job to notice such things. She didn’t have to ask the question. Before she had a chance, he was telling her.
“They’re scars,” he said. “It was one of my earlier cases with the BAU. Serial bomber. He was an anarchist making political statements. He decided to stick it to the man and set a trap for us…we saw the bomb and were running away when it went off, but I didn’t have a vest on and took some shrapnel in the back.”
The words had spilled out of his mouth before he knew they were gone, and much to his surprise, they didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt to share with Em. She wasn’t going to take from him, only give. Now he was giving, too. He gave her his story, a part of his life, and it hadn’t hurt. Emily opened the camisa and exposed a nasty scar that ran down the entire left side of her ribcage. Taking Aaron’s larger hand in hers, she touched it to the scar. He traced over it several times with great care, as if afraid of hurting her.
“I was undercover, back when I worked in the Mid-West. I was tailing an unsub, and wasn’t careful enough. He caught me off guard, and before I knew it, he pulled a faca on me. I’m lucky he didn’t kill me,” she said. And now I’ve got the scar to remind me to never let my guard down.”
“You can let it down with me,” he whispered before he had time to think about his words. “Does it get any easier?”
“It will get better, I promise. Some days are worse than others, but it will get better. You’re a strong man, Aaron Hotchner. You’ll get through it. It’s like scars. Eventually, the wound will heal and leave scar tissue. The scar is never gone, but it makes us who we are. We’re stronger for having those scars.”
“You’ve given me so much,” he whispered. She had given him understanding, and patience, and tenderness. She cared for Jack, and she cared for him. She had shown him her scars—both emotionally and physically—and held him together when he thought he couldn’t go on.
He brought his hand to her cheek, which was soft and smooth beneath is rough, calloused hands. Silence settled between them in that moment as he studied her face. Gently, as if she were made of porcelain, he kissed her. It was tender and full of understanding about that which had passed between them. He hadn’t intended to for it to be a lasting kiss, but it was. He found solace in the touch, but also found himself wanting to give her something. When they broke the kiss, both were breathless and wanting more.
“You won’t leave me.” To anyone else, the words would have sounded like a question. But Emily knew that they weren’t. It was a statement. Aaron knew that she was going to stay with him, and he found himself very content—no, happy—with that. He wanted her close, because he also didn’t want to leave her. He wanted to give to the woman who had given him so much when he needed it.
“No, I won’t.” Her voice was steady and sure as she answered.
“Even with all the scars?”
“Especially because of the scars. Now go to sleep, Aaron. I’ll be here when you wake up.” He nodded and followed her orders, relieved to have found respite at last. It helped knowing that she would be there when the morning came.
“There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with.” --Harry Crews
“Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Realize the strength and mover on.” –Henry Rollins
He stood outside the door of his hotel room for a moment, not wanting to open the door. He knew what waited for him on the other side of the door. It was another impersonal hotel room with one of those horrible flowered bedspreads and faux mahogany furniture. But mais than the impersonality of the room was the emptiness. He would open the door, and no one would be waiting on the other side for him. He would be far from início without the things that he held dear.
Despite the fact that he and Haley had been divorced for quite some time, despite the fact that she had been…that she was dead, he still expected someone to be waiting for him when he pushed the door open. Jack was at home—always waiting for his father to get início so that he could launch himself down the stairs and into his father’s arms—but he was a little boy. He couldn’t tell his son about the evils that he saw every day. He would tuck his son into bed, and then go to his bedroom, where he would lie alone until eventually he drifted off to sleep.
“Are you alright?” Emily Prentiss’s voice pulled him from his musings. She stood across the hall, studying him with a worried expression on her face. He tried to look less like a brooding, over-worked widower, but failed miserably. Instead, he looked her in the eye and nodded.
That was a mistake, looking her in the eye. There had been tension between them since before Haley’s death, and it wasn’t exactly the platonic type. They were never able to ignore it—even while they were working cases, they were hyperaware of each other—but they tried to at least push it away so that it didn’t interfere with the case. But now they were both tired—more than tired, exhausted—and they couldn’t do it anymore.
“No, you’re not alright,” she said, her voice careful and filled with understanding.
“No, I’m not. I don’t want to open this door because I know that when I do, I’m going to be—“
“Alone,” she finished for him. She knew the feeling. The feeling of going início to a barely lived-in house. Too many nights she walked through the door, thrown away the remnants of her takeout, showered, and gone to bed. Too often she had rushed through the things at início in an attempt to ignore the fact that there was no one to share her início with.
“Yes.” He looked down at the key in his hands, and then over at Emily, who was doing the same. He didn’t have to be alone, he knew this. Everything about her body language was inviting him in—her arms were relaxed at her side, she was leaning towards him and making eye contact. It was all encouraging him to ask that pergunta that he so desperately wanted to ask. Do you want to come in?
It shouldn’t be hard. He was a grown man, and they were both consenting adults who knew exactly what they would be getting into. It wasn’t like he was considering a lifetime commitment. But maybe that was the problem. When Aaron Hotchner did something, he committed to it completely. One night stands were completely new territory for him. He wasn’t entirely sure that he was able to do something without that element of commitment. Maybe that’s why it was so hard.
Or maybe it was because he kept seeing Haley’s face everywhere he turned, staring at him, questioning. Why did I have to die? she was asking him. And then her eyes were dead. They were as empty as the darkened hotel room that waited for him. They were reminding him of his failures as a husband and an agent. That’s why it was hard. He couldn’t screw up again.
Emily saw the hesitation on his face, in the way that he was thinking through everything before he spoke. He was nervously crossing and uncrossing his arms, telling her that he wanted to be open to her, but was unsure. Something—probably the lasting scars from what had happened with Haley—was keeping him from speaking. But she understood scars, she had some herself, and knew what it was to be inhibited por them. She wasn’t going to let Hotch’s scars overwhelm him and keep him from moving on.
”Would you like to come in?” she asked. Again, he made eye contact and she could feel the tension between them.
“Actually, I was hoping you would come in,” he said, pushing the key into the slot with trembling hands. As the door slid open, they stepped inside quickly and quietly. It was dark, and he felt the emptiness creeping in, despite Emily’s presence. Her hand slipped into his, tugging him away from the front hall and farther into the room. Hotch hesitated.
“Wait…the lights. Turn on the lights,” he whispered. She slid her hands along the wall, and flipped the switch. Light flooded the hallway, and she could see the tears in Hotch’s eyes. She knew that memories of Haley were filling his mind, and it was all she could do not to cry with him.
“Hotch…”
He shook his head, keeping her from speaking. She understood now. The hesitation was because of guilt. He had loved his wife even after she divorced him. He loved her all those times that he had left her to go to work. He had loved her when she took Jack and left. He loved her while he was holding her lifeless body in his arms. And now, he felt like he was betraying her.
Emily slid her hands beneath his dusty, grit-covered jaqueta and pulled it off his shoulders. She gently loosened his tie and slipped it over his head. She cupped his face in her hands, ever so gentle. Her kiss was just as light. She was demanding nothing, and giving him the only thing that she knew to give him; comforting him the only way she knew how.
“You’re filthy,” she whispered, still gently running her hands over the planes of his face.
“We both almost got blown up. It happens.” His voice wasn’t empty, but full of self loathing.
“Do you want to shower?”
“No. I just want to go to bed…not alone.” Hearing Hotch speaking in broken sentences was killing her. Her coração ached for him, for the hell that he had been through and was still going through. She had suffered trauma once, but the wound had healed, leaving only scar tissue behind. Hotch hadn’t quite gotten there yet.
“I know. Let’s get you out of these dirty clothes, and then we’ll sleep,” she said. She laid a light kiss on his forehead and began unbuttoning his shirt. His fingers were clumsy as he tried to pull hers over her head. She stopped him, and he protested.
“We were going to…make—have...” He couldn’t find the words. Have sex? Technically right, but it was mais than that. Make love? No, he had made amor to Haley and never would again…but it seemed to fit Emily. Maybe that was the right term, after all.
“No, Hotch. I would. I want to. But right now, you’re the walking wounded. Now, sleep,” she explained. Understanding and gratitude filled his expression as he pulled off his shoes and slid out of his pants. He stood before her clad in only his boxers and socks, trembling and vulnerable. She took him por the hand and guided him to the bed, where he lay down. She pulled off her shoes and started to climb in beside him.
“Em, you’re dirty. You should…you can have one of my shirts,” he told her. Warmth filled her at his use of her nickname. He was the only one that called her that. Em. She loved it. Without protest, she quickly removed her clothes, pulled on one of his shirts, and slipped into bed.
“Thanks, Hotch.”
“Aaron,” he corrected. Special people should call him Aaron.
“Thank you, Aaron,” she said, taking him into her arms. He rested his chin on her shoulder and pulled her tight—almost painfully so—against him. She didn’t complain. She wouldn’t. It was comforting to have someone so close. No one had been this close to her in a long time.
She ran her hands over his back comfortingly. Instead of finding smooth skin, it was covered in raised marks—scars. She froze for a moment. It was only a dividido, dividir second, but he noticed. After all, it was his job to notice such things. She didn’t have to ask the question. Before she had a chance, he was telling her.
“They’re scars,” he said. “It was one of my earlier cases with the BAU. Serial bomber. He was an anarchist making political statements. He decided to stick it to the man and set a trap for us…we saw the bomb and were running away when it went off, but I didn’t have a vest on and took some shrapnel in the back.”
The words had spilled out of his mouth before he knew they were gone, and much to his surprise, they didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt to share with Em. She wasn’t going to take from him, only give. Now he was giving, too. He gave her his story, a part of his life, and it hadn’t hurt. Emily opened the camisa and exposed a nasty scar that ran down the entire left side of her ribcage. Taking Aaron’s larger hand in hers, she touched it to the scar. He traced over it several times with great care, as if afraid of hurting her.
“I was undercover, back when I worked in the Mid-West. I was tailing an unsub, and wasn’t careful enough. He caught me off guard, and before I knew it, he pulled a faca on me. I’m lucky he didn’t kill me,” she said. And now I’ve got the scar to remind me to never let my guard down.”
“You can let it down with me,” he whispered before he had time to think about his words. “Does it get any easier?”
“It will get better, I promise. Some days are worse than others, but it will get better. You’re a strong man, Aaron Hotchner. You’ll get through it. It’s like scars. Eventually, the wound will heal and leave scar tissue. The scar is never gone, but it makes us who we are. We’re stronger for having those scars.”
“You’ve given me so much,” he whispered. She had given him understanding, and patience, and tenderness. She cared for Jack, and she cared for him. She had shown him her scars—both emotionally and physically—and held him together when he thought he couldn’t go on.
He brought his hand to her cheek, which was soft and smooth beneath is rough, calloused hands. Silence settled between them in that moment as he studied her face. Gently, as if she were made of porcelain, he kissed her. It was tender and full of understanding about that which had passed between them. He hadn’t intended to for it to be a lasting kiss, but it was. He found solace in the touch, but also found himself wanting to give her something. When they broke the kiss, both were breathless and wanting more.
“You won’t leave me.” To anyone else, the words would have sounded like a question. But Emily knew that they weren’t. It was a statement. Aaron knew that she was going to stay with him, and he found himself very content—no, happy—with that. He wanted her close, because he also didn’t want to leave her. He wanted to give to the woman who had given him so much when he needed it.
“No, I won’t.” Her voice was steady and sure as she answered.
“Even with all the scars?”
“Especially because of the scars. Now go to sleep, Aaron. I’ll be here when you wake up.” He nodded and followed her orders, relieved to have found respite at last. It helped knowing that she would be there when the morning came.
“There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with.” --Harry Crews
