𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐞𝐫

two

"So, what's the rush with this case?" Lou enquired, curiosity overriding any attempt to distance herself from all things to do with the Force, "I mean, for one, it's four in the morning. You should be sleeping."

"So should you," he said pointedly, bringing his black coffee to his pale lips.

"Sleep's overrated," Lou said flatly.

He frowned but didn't ask about the shadows under her eyes even though he wanted to. He'd always been good at that —knowing when to intervene and when to leave things alone.

"Adam Marcus," he said, his eyes searching hers with such an intimate intensity that Lou blushed.

"Am I supposed to have heard the name?"

As Lou talked she reached under the armchair she was sitting on, her fingertips closing around the familiar fabric of her favourite blanket. She had pulled on a faded hoodie —his hoodie— over her gym clothes but the January air was biting. Neither mentioned the fact that she still wore his clothes after five years but Hotch couldn't help but feel a twinge in his stomach. She used to always steal his clothes; sleeping in his T-shirt's and living in his hoodies. He never minded because he always wore his suits and he loved that, when he did wear his more casual clothes, they smelled like her. Sometimes, he bought his clothes just for her. 

"No," he sighed, "And I'd hoped you never would but, unless we stop it, he'll be executed tomorrow for murders he didn't commit and his name will be all over the headlines."

"And how do I come into this?"  She asked, with her hands and not her voice.

"By getting the right guy, Jacob Myers, to confess."

Hotch answered after a moment's hesitation. His sign language was rusty; he knew just enough to understand her. But he was annoyed at having allowed himself to slip. He had learnt it all those years ago —just for her. He had thought it the most beautiful thing about her. He loved watching her fingers dance. He loved that, with a floury of fingertips, she could make music out of silence. She had taught him patiently, guiding his hands with her own until he was almost fluent. He had learnt so quickly and with such infectious interest that they could have conversations as loud as they wanted to in libraries,  privately in the presence of strangers and above the deafening blare of music in clubs. It seemed to Hotch that, despite the 70 million people who spoke it, it was theirs. He had been desperate to be as close to her as possible and with each new word, each new phrase, he felt himself get a little closer. He'd managed to slowly break down the walls surrounding her hardened heart but just as she had almost let him in, they had been ripped away from each other.

He had known her better than anyone and now he struggled to understand her.

Lou's eyes dropped to her mug as she sipped distractedly, searching the brown liquid for something she would never find, "What were you thinking about?"

"What?" He asked, a soft chuckle emitting from his throat.

"You disappeared behind those eyes. You were always doing that." She reverted to using her voice, aware that he might not hear her if she didn't.

"Sorry," he said distractedly.

"You don't need to be sorry, Hotch," she said pointedly, intent on making sure he understood, "You don't ever have to be sorry."