Archive of Our Own

It's after one in the morning when they finish up at the sheriff's office and Hotch generously gives them until eight before they have to be in the air.

"At least we get to sleep," Emily mutters to Rossi in the elevator. The alternative, of course, would be to travel overnight and then be at the BAU a mere hours later. No, that's not fair - Hotch would give them the day, but it would mess up everyone's biorhythms and well, heaven forbid.

"Small favors, huh?" he replies with a little half-smile.

"Don't knock it," JJ says, glancing back over her shoulder. "Six hours of sleep? In a row? I love hotels."

"Actually," Reid pipes up, "73% of travelers report sleeping worse in hotels than they do in their own beds."

Emily lets her head hit the back wall of the elevator. Rossi doesn't look at her and she doesn't look at him, but she can see the muscle twitch in his jaw and knows he's trying not to laugh.

"Yeah, that's because 73% of travelers don't have a six-month-old baby at home," JJ says wryly and then the elevator doors open on their floor.

Emily follows JJ and Reid out. Rossi brushes the back of his hand against hers as they exit the elevator and she's not sure if it's deliberate or accidental, but it's calming, either way. She feels 73% less likely to become a serial killer herself if she doesn't get a shower and some sleep.

Their rooms are at the end of the hall and JJ gives out room cards from an envelope in her handbag. Their luggage had been sent up when they arrived, but no one had actually gotten any sleep since they'd arrived.

"Thanks," Emily sighs when JJ gives her the plastic card.

"Take a shower," JJ suggests, reaching up and plucking some foliage out of Emily's hair. "You'll feel better."

"That's great," Emily says, taking the leaf from JJ. "At least it's not poison ivy." She turns away and checks the number on her card. The hotel put them in alphabetical order, which puts her between Morgan, who still isn't back from the jail, and Reid.

Except no, Reid's on the other side of the hallway and Rossi's letting himself into the room next to her's. She doesn't dare look at him because they work with profilers. She halfway wishes she could curl up with him and bitch about the day, and that was sure to show up on her face.

It's not that it was bad, really, not any worse than most days, and far better than some of them. But this one involved running through the woods and Emily fell down a hill and she had leaves in her hair and she'd definitely wrenched one shoulder in a thoroughly uncomfortable way, and she was pretty sure she had dirt - well, like JJ said, a shower would take care of that.

She deadbolts the door behind her and already has her dirty t-shirt over her head before she realizes that there's another door in the room. A door to an adjoining room. It's on Rossi's side and it's latched and Emily stares at it for a full minute before she shakes herself out of her reverie.

They never, never on cases. They don't have rules; don't need them. It's one of the nice things about what they do. But there are certain lines they don't cross. Never on cases. Always at one of their houses. They never even go out - they cook or order in.

Technically, the case is over. The unsub is locked up. They'd be on their way home now if Hotch didn't know the importance of a recovery period. They are, technically, off the clock. Emily has never cared much for technicalities.

She could, though - she could just unlatch the door. Just in case. A teammate is next door; there's no danger. Even if there was danger, it would come through the front door, and it would be better to have someone accessible - now she's just making excuses. She flips the latch open and goes to the bathroom to get rid of the twigs and dirt that have worked their way into her hair, her clothes - everywhere.

It takes a lot of soap and some scrubbing and she finds a handful of scrapes and bruises she hadn't noticed before. She should probably track down some antibiotic cream, but the only one who regularly has that sort of thing is JJ and she's all the way down the hall. Instead, Emily puts on a tank top and a pair of running shorts from the top of her go bag and rolls her dirty clothes into a ball next to it. She'll wear the clean outfit tomorrow and lug home her laundry.

She pulled a room with two double beds, so she can't even luxuriate in sleeping diagonally. Crap. Emily scrubs one hand over her eyes and rotates her sore shoulder in the socket. There's nothing wrong with it, just a muscle strain, and she should really just get into bed and get her six hours of sleep before she gets up and gets on the plane and goes back to Virginia.

Instead she leans her forehead on the connecting door, her skin against the cool paint, and imagines how easy it would be to turn the knob, pull it open, and knock on the door to Rossi's room.

He's probably asleep already, fully dressed in pajamas that cost more than the suit in her bag. Maybe he left his door unlatched, too. Maybe if she turned the handle and it gave, she could crawl into bed with him, spoon up next to him...that's all she wants, really. Just his steady hand on her hip and the slow rhythm of his breath against her hair. Both their outer doors would be locked and deadbolted. No one would ever have to know.

No. She pushes away from the door and goes to turn down the bed. Her mind races. She's never this indecisive. She spends plenty of nights away from Dave, this one is no different. She doesn't need this kind of risk; not tonight.

She walks back to the door, intending to latch it again but instead she swings it open, just to prove that she can and - Dave is on the other side.

Emily doesn't scream but she jumps and she does make a sound that is something like a squeak, before she slaps her hand over her mouth.

Dave, who has his fist raised to knock on her door, lets out a muted, "Fuck!" and steps back.

"Don't do that!" Emily hisses when she can breathe again.

"Don't do what?" he snaps back.

"Scare me to death!" she whispers.

"You're the one who opened the door," he says, his voice overlapping with hers.

"You were on the other side!"

"I couldn't sleep," he admits, nodding back toward his room. The lights are dimmed but he's still wearing his jeans and the shirt he had on earlier.

"In your clothes?" she asks.

He grins a little. "What if it wasn't you?"

"You saw me walk in here!" Emily reminds him.

"What if you'd traded with Reid?" Rossi counters.

"Okay," Emily concedes, holding both hands up. "Okay, let's just...what are you doing here?"

"I figured if you couldn't sleep either, maybe..." he trails off, then interrupts when she tries to speak, "we could play some cards. I don't have a Monopoly board, but there's always charades?"

"Oh, my God, Rossi," Emily said, and laughed helplessly. "We can't do this." She wrapped her arms around her waist and sighed, still laughing quietly. "We can't."

"Why not?" he asks. "What's wrong with charades?"

"Oh, my God," Emily says again, and knowing she's losing ground fast, pushes him back through her door and straight back into his room. Morgan's room is next to hers, and she happens to know he snores like a freight train, but Rossi's room is on the end and it's a better bet for privacy.

"Hey, hey," he laughs, walking backward as she steers him. "It's okay. I just came over to see if you were asleep."

"Really?" she asks, setting her hands on her hips. He sounds sincere but she would hate to pass up a chance to give him shit.

"And to see if you managed to get all the leaves out of our hair," he adds with a devilish grin.

"Oh, you had to go there," she laments. "And just when you were getting somewhere."

"Oh, yeah?" he asks, sauntering forward a couple of steps.

She glances up at him through her eyelashes and waits to see what he'll do. He reaches out and tucks her wet hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering, and then he drops his hand and his grin fades to a wistful smile.

"Mostly I wanted to see how you were doing," he confesses. "That was quite a spill you took."

"Wasn't it?" Emily agrees. "Look, I'm all scraped up here - " she turns her forearm up to him, " - and here - " propping her foot up on the bed to show him the shredded skin on her shin, "and I wrenched the hell out of my shoulder - "

"Prentiss," he interrupts, but his gaze is fond. "I have every good intention in the world, but you are not making things easy here."

She gapes at him for a minute and then realizes that she's standing in his room in shorts, showing off one bare leg almost to the hip, she's not wearing a bra under her tank top and it's obvious, and even better, her hair's dripping water down her chest and back.

"I should uh, I should put on a robe," she says, straightening up and taking her foot off the bed. Her shorts, predictably, stay where they are, so she tugs at the hem until they fall straight again.

"Put something on, take something off..." Rossi drops into the highly-uncomfortable-looking chair paired with the writing table in his room. "I really did just come to see you."

"Aw." Emily finds the fluffy white hotel bathrobe in the closet and slips it on over her makeshift pajamas. "That's sweet of you."

"Yeah, I'm a sweet guy," Rossi says, and he looks tired.

"I wouldn't go that far," Emily says, but gently, because she knows just how sweet Dave can be and it doesn't surprise her at all that women fall for him before they even know what hit them.

"Were you coming to see me?" he asks suddenly, lifting his head, and she realizes she's been caught out. She opened her door before he'd had a chance to knock.

"Couldn't sleep," she offered with a shrug.

He nods but says, "It's okay to say you just wanted to - see me. Even if it's just to show off your battle scars. It doesn't always have to be about sex."

"If only I was wearing a wire," Emily laments good-naturedly. "I could have make a fortune by selling that confession on eBay." He gives her a wry smile but she can tell more teasing isn't what he wants. "I want something normal," she says. "To make dinner, or watch tv, or read a book." She laughs and it sounds a little sad to her. "Charades, even."

"I'm terrible at charades," Rossi says. He braces his hands on his knees and stands up. "Let's watch some tv," he offers.

"Okay, hold on a sec," she tells him, and scoots over to her room to set the alarm, tousle the bedclothes, turn off the lights, and gently close the connecting doors. When she returns, he's piled pillows at the head of the bed and is stretched out on one side of the bed, shoes off, watch off, sleeves rolled up.

"Which shoulder did you hurt?" he asks when she climbs up on the bed with him.

"Right one," she says, lifting her elbow until she feels the twinge. "It's just muscular."

"C'mere," he says, and hands her the remote. He sits at her back, legs stretched beside hers, and cups both hands around her injured shoulder. He works the muscle, warming and loosening, as she skims through romantic comedies, monster movies, cop shows, and endless reruns of Cheers before settling on the Charlie's Angels movie.

"This is a terrible movie," she proclaims as Dave works her shoulder carefully. "But I love it. I used to watch the show and sneak around pretending I was Sabrina."

"Somehow," Dave says, "that doesn't surprise me in the least."

It really is a terrible movie, maybe even worse than she remembers, but Dave slides his arm around her and pulls her into the curve of his shoulder, and he chuckles at the appropriate moments, and groans with her when the stunts are a little too unbelievable or the storyline is a little too ridiculous, or the hair-tossing is a little too over-the-top.

It feels good to lean against him and soak in his warmth, and when Emily closes her eyes, she doesn't actually mean to fall asleep - she just wants to concentrate a little more on the way he smells under the starch of his shirt.

Fin