Hotchniss One Shots

"Bad habits"

After solving a case involving a serial killer in Tuscan, Emily found herself back at her apartment alone that night, overthinking the case more than she should have been.

Naturally, as one does, she tried to forget about this by drowning her emotions into the bottom of a wine glass.

It was easier this way, she knew. She didn't have to face her choices anymore, or wish that she could go back in time and decide a different outcome.

By the time she finished her second glass, she received a call from Aaron. It was around nine.

"Hi," she said, emphasizing the 'I'.

"Hey," he said slowly. "Are you okay?" he then asked, knowing how the case affected her, and knowing what she usually did when a case had this affect.

"Yep, I'm fine," she said with unearned confidence. "I'm fine." She took another sip of wine.

"How about you put the glass down, hm?"

"I'm not-"

"Em, don't do this. There are better ways to deal with your feelings."

She wasn't good at that. Never had been, probably never will be. Neither of them were, in fact.

When a silence grew thick on her end, he spoke. "I'm coming over."

"Hotch-"

Her voice was cut short by the dial tone clicking off as he hung up.

XXX

Shortly after the phone call was made, he knocked on her door twice before entering her apartment.

Maybe I shouldn't have given him a key, Emily thought to herself on the couch near the tall window.

"You didn't need to come over; I said I was fine," she insisted, slurring her words together whilst swirling the wine in her glass.

"If there's one thing I've learned about women over the years, it when they say they're fine, they mean the exact opposite."

He walked to the couch where she was sitting, her legs covered by plaid pajama pants near her.

"I'll take that," he said, removing the wine glass from her hands and picking up the half empty bottle from the table beside her.

"Hey," she protested, watching him put both items on her kitchen counter.

By first glance, she didn't appear that drunk, but she didn't look exactly sober, either. Over the course of their relationship, he developed a mental scale in which he used to decide how far gone she was. He assumed this was maybe a six or seven out of ten.

He poured her a glass of water instead, and handed it to her as he sat down on the couch beside her.

"Why should I drink this?" she asked quickly, taking it from his hands.

"Because you're drunk."

"No I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"I think I know my body better than you do, smart guy," she scoffed.

"Not when you're drunk."

"Did you just come over to argue with me?"

"No, I didn't. Now drink the water."

Shooting him a glare, but hearing the firmness in his tone, she obeyed him, but not without a snarky comment to go with it.

"Sometimes you're a real buzz kill."

"Someone has to be."