Break Me Out, a criminal minds fanfic

Break Me Out

Disclaimer: Nope, neither the song nor the characters are mine. The plot, however, I do claim as solely mine.

A/N: Well, here's the next installment in my behind the scenes series. This is a sequel to 'All She Could Do' though you don't really have had to read that one to understand what's going on. Still, I do recommend it. I just want to remind you that I wrote this one before I even thought of writing the 'All She Could Do'; so, if there are any discrepancies or if it just feels different, that's why. Though, it could just be because this one is different. Here we have a look into Hotch's brain as opposed to Emily and we have a sort of plot - it's not just a character study, we actually have . . . stuff happen. I included the lyrics of the song because this fic wouldn't exist without the song. I had no intention of writing anything remotely like this until I heard the song again and then, I knew I had to write it. I hope you guys like it; I'm actually pretty happy with it. I consider it the real start to my series. 'All She Could Do' was necessary to set it up but I think this is the beginning, that one was just a kind of prequel. If Hotch seems a little OOC at the beginning, please bear with me, I think I explain it as the fic goes on. If you still think he's a little OOC by the end, well, he's just gone through a very traumatic thing, I think if he's going to be a little out of sorts, this is the perfect time for it and I hope you can go with it. Okay, enough of me going on and on about nothing. Oh, one more thing: thanks to Pup for all her help and to those that reviewed my other stories! Now, go, read, enjoy, review!!

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"Here's that report you wanted," Emily said as she walked towards Hotch's desk, folder in hand.

"Thanks," Hotch nodded as he took the folder from her. He was so absorbed in what he was doing that he barely looked up during the exchange.

"Well, I'll be heading home now," she told him.

"See you tomorrow," was all he said, without raising his head.

"Are you staying much longer?" She asked him, looking at her watch. "It's past nine o'clock already." She added as she looked at his desk and all the files he had strewn on it.

"Yeah," he answered absently, still not looking up. "I want to get these done tonight."

"That could take you a few hours," she pointed out.

"Maybe," he shrugged, not sounding at all interested in how long he might have to stay.

"Don't you think you should go home soon?" she pressed. "You've only been back on the job two weeks; I know you're fine, but you should still get more rest than you've been getting."

"Keeping tabs on me, Prentiss?" he asked, finally looking up.

"Not really," she shook her head. "But I am a profiler and those bags under your eyes and your short-temper . . . well, they've been hard to miss."

"I'm perfectly fine, Prentiss," he insisted. "There's no reason for you to worry about me."

"I don't see how you could be fine, Hotch," she told him. "I know if I was going through everything you're going through, I wouldn't be fine."

"Well, I guess it's a good thing you're not me then," he drawled before he, once again, turned his attention to his work.

"Are you at least taking this weekend off?" she asked. She should probably stop pushing him but she'd stood by for the last six weeks, offering him her silent support and keeping all her concerns to herself and he didn't seem to be doing any better. He hadn't reached out to any one in the team and he seemed to be trying to lose himself in both his off duty search for Foyet and his regular BAU duties. Neither of which was healthy as he wasn't only ignoring his physical health but he was running away from the emotional trauma caused by Foyet's assault instead of facing it. And by the look of things, avoiding thinking about it wasn't really working out as he was more stressed, closed off and . . . more brittle than she'd ever seen him.

"I know you came in last weekend. And you haven't really taken a day off since you came back. You need to rest, Hotch; you know that. You've always been a workaholic but this is too much, even for you. You'll be of no good to anyone if you keep pushing yourself this much."

"Your concerns are so noted, Prentiss," Hotch told her in his best attorney voice, which was, not surprisingly, extremely effective. "If there's nothing else, I'd like to get back to work now."

"Yes, sir," Emily nodded; it'd been a while since she called him 'sir' but whenever he used that tone with her, she inevitably went back to it. She hesitated before turning and heading for the door. She wanted to say something else, wanted to make him see what he was doing, how he was slowly killing himself and isolating himself from everyone that cared about him. But she knew that nothing she said would do any good until he was ready to stop running. And telling him that by acting this way he was letting Foyet win, as she was more than tempted to do, wouldn't do anything but push him even further away.

But she couldn't just leave him there, thinking that without his son, he was alone in the world. She'd already told him once but maybe she had been too subtle and he hadn't understood her. So, she took a deep breath and told him, "You're not alone, you know?

We all want to catch the bastard and we'll do whatever we need to do. And we're here, Hotch; we're here for you. When . . . if you ever want to talk, we're here; you just have to talk to us. I wish you'd talk to me . . . or Rossi or Morgan. We all just want to help you." He froze when she started talking but didn't raise his head to meet her eyes.

"I know that," he said softly. "And I appreciate it." That's all he said on the matter and she was pretty sure he wouldn't do anything about it. She waited a few seconds more before continuing.

"Ok," she nodded. "I guess I'll just go now. But . . . please know that if you ever want to talk or just don't want to be alone, you can call me – any time." She waited a few more seconds but this time he barely nodded his head in acknowledgement. And she finally accepted there was nothing else she could do; so she sighed in resignation and said 'good night' before she walked out. It was probably one of the hardest things she'd ever had to do – leave him there.

She'd been doing a variation of the theme ever since he got attacked; you'd think she'd be used to it by now. But then, how could you get used to to leaving the person you love behind, alone and hurting? Even when you knew you couldn't do anything else – when you certainly couldn't let on that you loved him? The last six weeks had been hard – on him and, in a different way, on her. She thought she'd been doing a good job in hiding how she felt; for a bunch of behavioralists, no one seemed to know she was in love with their boss – which was a good thing. Still, it was moments like those that were the hardest. With a heavy heart, she walked out, noticing that he didn't even bother to say 'good night' back to her as he was already once again completely immersed in his work.

He didn't look up until the words started to blur in front of him. When he glanced at the clock, he realized it was past eleven at night. With a sigh, he dropped his pen on top of the papers he'd been working on and leaned back on his chair. He rubbed his hands over his face before he raked his fingers through his hair. With another sigh, he dropped his hands down to his lap and after looking at all the papers on his desk, he decided he was too tired to continue working. Maybe, he was even tired enough to finally sleep through the night.

It took him less than five minutes to straighten out all the folders, choose which ones he was taking home and to turn off the laptop and desk light. Ten minutes later, he was driving out of the parking lot. Twenty minutes later, he was walking into his apartment, not really remembering much of the drive over. He'd made it on auto pilot and he was so out of it, he wasn't concerned about it or even realized it had happened. All he wanted to do, all he had the energy to do was get into bed and sleep.

My empty room
Crowded too soon
I look for the fire escape
I picture myself
Running like hell
Making my getaway

The walls are caving in with no warning
This ship is sinking, I gotta swim for it
I'm running out of air

He was out seconds after his head hit the pillow. He slept like the dead for almost three hours before a violent nightmare abruptly woke him up. His eyes shot open in panic and he panted for breath as he scanned the empty bedroom for any threats.

In a sudden movement, he threw the covers off his body and sat up. He slid his legs over the side of the bed and gripped the edges until his knuckles were white. He stayed there, with his eyes fixed on a point in the floor for what seemed like hours, trying to regain his breath and calm his heart rate. But the sense of panic he'd woken up with wouldn't abate. It kept building and building and, though he knew it was a trick of the mind and he was old enough to know better, the shadows around him seemed to be moving and circling him just waiting to smother him under their darkness.

Abruptly, he realized he couldn't stay in his bedroom or his apartment. The whole place was full of ghosts and dark memories that seemed to be sucking all the air out. If he stayed there one more second, he'd drowned into the pit of misery he'd been fighting for the past six weeks. And for the first time, the thought that he might very well drown crossed his mind. He'd been keeping his head just above but he no longer had the strength to hold it up. He was so tired that a growing part of him wanted to just give in and sink under. But he couldn't do that; he wouldn't let that bastard win and he would not leave his little boy to grow up without a father. But he also could no longer keep fighting alone.

Without taking the time to think about it, he stood up and shoved his feet into a pair of sneakers that he'd left out by the side of the bed and all but ran out of his room. In the living room, he slowed down just enough to pick up his keys, wallet and credentials. He also took the time to secure his back up gun on his ankle and set the alarm. And less than three minutes after the nightmare woke him up, he was closing and locking his front door and sprinting towards his car. He could only be grateful that he slept in sweat pants and a t-shirt because he hadn't been in a frame of mind to even think about changing his clothes.

Break me out tonight
I wanna see the sun rising anywhere but here
Come with me
Oh, this could be
The only chance we get
We gotta take it
We don't do it now we'll never make it
Lose this crowd
Oh break me out

Before he knew it, he was driving aimlessly around the city. Sometime later he found himself in front of Emily's building and realized that it was the second time that night he'd driven on autopilot, without any knowledge of how he'd gotten from point A to point B. He knew that was bad but he was so weary he found he was nowhere near as concerned as he knew he should be.

With a sigh, he dropped his head to the steering wheel even as his fingers tightened around it. He wondered just what the hell he was doing there. He hadn't been thinking when he left his apartment; all he'd wanted was to get as far away as fast as possible from his apartment. He'd had no specific destination in mind – certainly, not Emily's place. But the thought must have been hiding somewhere in his subconscious because somehow that's just where he ended up. He hadn't even known that the route from his place to hers had been added to his 'autopilot' list; he hadn't driven it nearly enough times for that to be the case.

He should go back home. He really should not be going to a subordinate apartment's in the middle of the night – despite the fact that she'd offered to be there for him if he ever needed someone to talk to. And God knew he needed to talk to someone because avoiding and ignoring the aftermath of Foyet's assault was not working; he wasn't forgetting about it and he really wasn't moving on either. Though how was he supposed to 'move on' from not being able to see his son, he didn't know. But he did need to deal with it so that he could be at his best, find Foyet and get his son back. He just . . . he couldn't do it alone; he needed help. But why hadn't he gone to Dave's? He was his closest friend. Why had he come here, to Emily's? More importantly, why had his subconscious mind brought him here? Because he knew he wouldn't have consciously made that decision. So, what did it mean?

With a groan, he sat back up and decided that he really needed to go home; that he wasn't in any shape to try and figure out what the answers to all those questions were. But when he went to turn on the car, he couldn't do it. Whatever the reasons, he was there and he found that he really didn't want to leave. He'd left his apartment because he wanted to get away from the memories, because he no longer wanted to think about the mess his life had become. He had, in a word, been looking for an escape. As lowering as the thought might be for a strong a man as Hotch, he still wanted only to escape. He wanted for one night, for just a few hours to not be tortured by the same thoughts over and over again.

He'd wanted to escape and he'd run to Emily's; he didn't need to be a profiler to know what the possible implications were. And given who they were and what their jobs were, there were more than enough reasons for him to leave. But he just couldn't make himself turn that key. Logically, rationally he knew he should leave; he was just so tired of always being logical, of always doing what was right and ending up alone.

He'd dedicated most of his adult life to helping and protecting others without asking anything for himself and that dedication had cost him his family. For the past two years, he'd given everything to the job, the only light in his life had been his son and now he too was gone and he felt as if he was floundering in a sea of darkness. He needed a lifeline to pull him back up and it seemed as if, without meaning to, he'd chosen Emily to be it.

As he thought back to the last six weeks, he realized that it had been her that had always been there; she was the first one at the hospital, the one that stayed at night and had taken him home when he was discharged. She had driven him to work his first day back and back home when they returned. She hadn't pushed or nagged but had just been there, silently offering her support. And her quiet presence had been more of a comfort to him than he'd even known. He'd come to depend on her being there off the job as much as he depended on her on the job. And it didn't feel as weird as he would have thought it'd feel; it had an almost . . . inevitable feel to it, as if they had been walking towards this place for the last few years.

But when he went to car open the door, he couldn't. He couldn't turn on the car to leave and he wasn't quite able to get out of the car and walk to her door. Leaving meant going back to the silence, the darkness and the emptiness where only ghosts and memories kept him company. But walking to her door meant starting on a path he wasn't sure they should be on. Going to her now, in the state he was in, opened the door to a host of possibilities he had done his best the last couple of years to ignore, to pretend didn't exist.

Knocking on her door now meant acknowledging them and he wasn't sure that was the best idea. All the reasons why he'd never even considered doing something like this still existed: they worked together, he was her boss, there was no guarantee she felt the same, if they began something and it ended badly the whole team would suffer, if he said something and she didn't feel the same way the whole team could suffer . . . the list went on and on and recent events had added another item to it: he was in no emotional shape to start down that path.

And yet, if he didn't start on it now, when would he? When would be a good time to think about himself? Didn't he have the right to have something good in his life? Did he have to keep losing everything that meant anything to him? He was beyond tired of not having anything to call his own; he loved his job but it wasn't capable of loving him back or keeping him company at night. The life he'd been living was no life. If he kept going on like this, he would burn out in another couple of years and then he won't even have the job.

Did he really want to end up like Gideon? So consumed with work, with what he'd done right, what he could have done differently, thinking everything that went wrong was his fault and taking on the responsibility for saving everyone on himself and not sharing it with the team that in the end the only thing he could do to save his sanity was to walk away – from everyone and everything that ever meant to a damn to him. Did he really want to follow that example? Because he had to admit, if only to himself, that he had acted too much like Gideon in the Kentucky case.

If he didn't want to end up like Gideon; if he didn't want to end up a shell of a man and lose everything that made him who he was, that made him human, then he needed to act and act now. His son could never be replaced; there would be an empty place in his life until the day he could see Jack again. His life would always be a little darker because of his son's absence but that didn't mean that he couldn't look for another light. It didn't mean that he had to wallow in the misery of feeling guilty and let everything good in life go. He needed to hold on to something; he needed to find some kind of light to help him get through the darkness that had invaded his life. And that light was Emily.

With that thought in mind, he finally got out of the car and walked towards the building. The bravado lasted until he was in front of her door; there it faltered again as he couldn't bring himself to knock. He was a man that prided himself on his decisiveness, he made decisions and he followed them through; he didn't dither or vacillate when a decision had to be made. And all the back and forth he'd been doing was really starting to annoy him.

On a sudden surge of determination, he raised his fist and knocked. Only to grimace as the sound seemed to be amplified and echoed in the empty hallway. He tried to stuff his hands in his pockets only to realize that his sweatpants didn't have pockets. He frowned briefly before he settled for crossing his arms tightly across his chest. He only waited a few seconds before he decided that it was too late and Emily was in all probability asleep. He started to turn to go back the way he'd come when the door was quickly pulled open.

"Hotch?" Emily said as she rapidly ran her eyes over him to make sure he wasn't injured. What she saw was a decisively disheveled man, wearing a t-shirt, sweatpants and having bed hair. It was a look she'd never thought to see on Hotch. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I . . . I," Hotch started to say but couldn't go on. He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration and sighed heavily before he shook his head. "It's late; I shouldn't have come. I'm just going to go back home."

"No, no," Emily denied. "Please come in," she said, stepping to the side to let him in but he stood rooted to the spot and at the same time, seemed ready to flee. Emily sighed and said, "Hotch, you're already here. You must have had a reason to have come all this way. Please, come in." When he still didn't move, she reached forward, took his hand and pulled him in.

Whisper of our feet
Sneak down the street
Some kind of secret race
They'll carry on
Won't notice we're gone
So easily replaced

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said as he followed her into the living room.

"I wasn't asleep," she argued. "I was just vegging in front of the TV." She motioned to the bunched up afghan on the sofa and the old re-run playing on the TV. She had been too restless and worried about Hotch to fall asleep so she'd cuddled on the sofa and had dozed on and off until Hotch's knock had woken her.

"Prentiss, it's almost three a.m., you should be asleep," he told her. For a moment there, he was Hotch the BAU chief again. If the circumstances were different, Emily would have smiled; as it was, she just shook her head.

"We've been home for the last three days," she shrugged. "I've been getting enough sleep – for once. And tomorrow's Saturday; I have no intention of getting up early." He just nodded and rocked back and forth on his heels. She studied him silently for a few moments and was surprised at how . . . vulnerable he looked. Usually, vulnerable, breakable or shaky were not words she associated with Hotch but all those seemed apt at the moment and her heart broke for him and how much pain he was in.

"So," she said, breaking the silence that had fallen over them when she turned off the TV. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," was the immediate and expected answer. The look he gave her when he glanced up from his study of the floor almost dared her to contradict him. Having worked for the man for over three years, his glares weren't quite as effective as he'd like to think. Of course, she had never been one to be easily intimidated or back down when she felt strongly about something and she had always been more forward with Hotch than anyone else in the team. She didn't see why this night should be any different.

"Hotch," she said, patiently. "You came here for a reason. And it's obvious something's . . . not right. Please tell me what's wrong?" He still hesitated for a moment before finally speaking.

"I had a nightmare," he said in a rush.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, calmly. She wasn't really surprised it was something along those lines; she'd have been more surprised if he wasn't having nightmares.

"NO!" it was a shout and he immediately closed his eyes; obviously feeling bad about it. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout," he apologized but she just waved it away. "But I really don't want to talk about it; the last thing I want to do right now is talk about it. In fact, I want to forget all about it. I just want to stop thinking about it. I want, if just for tonight, to be normal again – to feel normal again. I want this knot in my stomach, this crushing sense of guilt and hopeless feeling to go away. I want to pretend that I have a life again, if just for a few hours."

"That won't solve anything," Emily shook her head. "You know, it won't." She didn't like what he was proposing. She especially didn't like that it was Hotch that was proposing it. He was a strong man, one that believed in facing things head on; for him to be looking for escape wasn't normal and, to be honest, freaked her out a little.

"I know it won't solved anything," he said as he started to pace. "But, frankly, right now, I don't really want to fix anything. I just . . . I want to get through this night with my sanity intact." He paused for a moment and came to stop right in front of her. "You said I could come to you if I needed someone to keep me company. And . . . here I am." It was clear he was asking for her help; it was also clear it was anything but easy. In fact, Emily was pretty sure those were probably some of the hardest words he had ever uttered.

She couldn't turn him away but she wasn't sure what he was asking was the right thing. Ignoring problems was never a good idea. But when she looked at him again, she realized that he wasn't only vulnerable, he was at his breaking point. The poor man couldn't take anymore; he seemed to be on the brink of losing it. If she were to send him away, he'd go home, be alone and break with no one there to help pull him through because she was sure he wouldn't ever go to anyone else for help. If he had wanted to go to Dave's or Morgan's, he would have gone there first.

"I guess you can join me in vegging in front of the TV and we can talk about all kinds of inconsequential and trivial things – no serious topics allowed," she said with a smile. He nodded and seemed relieved. "But," she added, "you have to promise we'll talk tomorrow."

"I don't think . . ." Hotch started to say but she interrupted him.

"You need to talk about this, Hotch," she insisted. "We can hang out tonight and not think about it but you need to talk about it so you can deal with it and go on. You know that, Hotch."

"I . . ." he hesitated and raked his fingers through his hair in agitation before he sighed and gave in. "Yeah, okay. You're right; I know you are. I just . . . it's not easy to think about much less talk about it."

"I know," she nodded. "It's not supposed to be easy but it's necessary. But . . . I'm here and I'll help you any way I can."

"I know," he said softly. "I really appreciate all your help over the past six weeks, Pren . . . Emily."

"It's not a problem, Ho. . . Aaron," she smiled at him. "It's what friends do for each other. You'd do the same for me."

"Yes, I would."

"Ok, first things first," she moved around him and started for the kitchen. "I bet you haven't eaten anything since Dave dragged you out for lunch this afternoon."

"You'd win that bet," he acknowledged just as his stomach rumbled. He half smiled at her until he noticed she was messing around with pots and things. He thought she was just going to make a sandwich or something. "A sandwich will be fine, Em." He was a little surprise how easy it was to call her by her first name. "Or we could order something. There's no need to go to any trouble."

"Order something at 3 in the morning?" she asked. "I don't think there's any place that's still open. And this isn't any trouble; I made pot roast earlier this evening."

"You made pot roast?" he sounded surprised. "I didn't know you knew how to cook."

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Aaron Hotchner," she smiled mischievously at him.

"Oh, I'm sure there are," he smiled back at her. He leaned on the counter that separated the kitchen and living room. "Still, you didn't leave the office until after 9. You came home after a full day's work and cooked pot roast?"

"Yeah, well," she shrugged. "Cooking relaxes me; there's something soothing about chopping, measuring, mixing and knowing that at the end you'll have something good to eat. Don't you have something like that, something you can lose yourself in while you're doing it?"

"I like going to the firing range," he said after a few moment's of thought. "And to the gym; a few rounds of boxing or karate can be relaxing."

"I bet," she snorted. "But don't you have a hobby that's not violent?" She'd known that he went to the firing range at least a couple of days a week, far more than a non-SWAT member usually goes – everyone on the team knew that. The man liked to shoot. She hadn't known about the boxing or the karate, though it didn't really surprise her. Despite the calm façade he projected at work, Emily knew that Aaron Hotchner was a man of strong emotions and passions. All that intensity he brought to his work was proof enough of that. Sometimes, she thought he was like a dormant volcano that had the capability to eradicate everything in its path if he were ever to erupt. She guessed that all that physical activity was a good enough way to release some of that tension.

"Well," he sounded a little hesitant and immediately aroused Emily's curiosity. She stopped messing with the pots and turned to give him her undivided attention.

"Yes?"

"Well, I used to draw," he finally told her.

"Really?" she asked, grinning. She couldn't help it her eyes automatically went to his hands. "Yeah, I can see that. You have beautiful hands – artist hands." His eyebrows shot up at the word 'beautiful'. Not only was that not an adjective he would ever associate with any part of him but the way she said it, so easily and quickly, meant that she'd have to have thought about that before.

"I don't know about that," he replied, looking down at his hands. As much as he liked the compliment, he decided it'd be better if he just moved on. "I did take a couple of art classes in college."

"How come I didn't know this," she mused. She wrinkled her brow and looked over at him accusingly.

"I guess the same way I didn't know you cooked," he shrugged. "Besides, it's been a while since I've drawn anything."

"Well," she told him as she moved into the living room. "It's about time you started again." She looked through the drawers of her desk until she found some paper. "Here," she held out a pad and pencil. "You can draw me something while your food heats up."

"I don't know, Emily," he demurred. "It's been awhile . . ."

"Come on, Aaron," she coaxed with a smile. "Just a little something, it doesn't have to be anything elaborate."

"Okay," he gave in and took the pad and pencil. "Just don't expect much."

"Don't worry. I'm not expecting Rembrandt," she smiled to take the sting out of the joke. He shook his head and bent down to the pad. Giving his protests, she'd thought he'd take longer to start drawing. But it seemed like he'd had something in mind already because he didn't take any time at all before he started. She studied his bent head for a few seconds before she smiled and walked back into the kitchen.

"So," she said a few moments later into the comfortable silence that had fallen over the room. "If you could actually go away and leave all of this behind, would you?" The question was asked in a light tone and it was clear that she was not trying to start anything really serious. "Sometimes, I really wish I could," she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

"I know what you mean," he agreed, looking up from his drawing. "Sometimes I wish I could too. Especially lately," he admitted. "I wish I could just get in my car, start driving and never come back, never look back."

"Where would you go?" she wanted to know. "I think I'd like to go to a chalet in the French Alps. Where no one knows me or could get to me."

"The French Alps?" he asked, looking thoughtful. "It is beautiful over there. And not a lot of people would look for us there but it also gets awfully cold over there. No, I think a little island in the South Pacific would be better – much better climate."

"Umm, you might be right," she acknowledged. She turned to 'check on' the food to hide the huge, delighted smile that crossed her face at him saying 'us' and intimating that they would run away together. Something she had no problem with at all, since there was no one she would rather run away with than the man in front of her.

The thought that maybe him showing up in the middle of the night to ask for her help meant that their relationship could be taking a more personal turn had crossed her mind a time or two since he showed up. But, giving his emotional state, she hadn't really let herself dwell on it at all. She'd promised herself as she sat by his beside, that she would be his friend, be there if he needed her and would keep her feelings to herself. And she'd kept that promise for all these weeks; she wasn't about to start breaking it now – not even in spirit. Besides, chances were better than good that that he had just taken her at her word and shown up looking for a friend to help him keep his sanity, as he'd said. She would never, not in a million years, presume it could mean more than that – not without some clear indication of it from him.

Still, though it had been mostly unconscious, she had been fighting her feelings for the man for almost two years, with the fight getting harder and harder all the time, especially whenever he was injured. The assault by Foyet almost two months prior had been the last straw; she had no longer been able to deny, at least to herself, that she had fallen head over heels in love with her boss. But she had been excruciatingly aware of just how unlikely it was that anything could ever happen. However much she hadn't want to feel it, she hadn't been able to stop the rush of hope that had filled her when she'd seen him on her doorstep – after the rush of worry that he was there at all.

And now he was using words like 'us' and she couldn't but smile at the indication that he more than likely felt the same way about her that she did about him. Despite the fact that he wasn't in the best of places emotionally speaking, she knew that if he said it, he meant it. He wasn't one to say things he didn't mean – no matter the circumstances and, just as she would never presume to infer anything without his say so, she also wouldn't presume to doubt the veracity of his words. And yet, she also knew that whatever they seemed to be starting would be slow in developing; there was too much at stake for both of them to rush straight ahead.

He needed to be in a better place before they could take the next step. Even though his plea to help him forget might be taken as him looking for something more 'physical', she hadn't taken it that way and knew he hadn't meant it that way. Neither of them was ready for anything physical – that night would be strictly platonic, if with undercurrents of something more. She had too much respect for him, for herself and for what they could build between them to allow anything more to happen.

"A warmer climate would be better," she continued. "Especially if Jack is coming. I'm assuming he would be coming?"

"Of course," he nodded. "He's the only other person I couldn't leave behind." He said it without really thinking about it, but after he said it, he realized how true it was. He wouldn't think of leaving if Jack or Emily were to stay behind. Despite the realizations of earlier in the evening, it wasn't until that moment that he realized just how much she had come to mean to him.

"Of course," she agreed with him. "But as much as I agree with you that he should come with us," she added. "What about Hailey?"

"Hailey?" he repeated, taken aback that until that moment he'd forgotten about his ex-wife. "Ha, Hailey; she wouldn't really like it if I just took him, would she?"

"No, I wouldn't think so," Emily answered.

"Oh, well," he shrugged. "This is our fantasy, isn't it? So, in it, Hailey doesn't mind at all. She's too . . . something to care either way." Both knew that would never happen but he was right – it was just make believe.

"Ok," she nodded. "If that's the case, then my mother won't care one way or the other and I won't even have to try and explain before I just disappear. And she won't mount a search and rescue for me."

"I, however, doubt anyone would miss me at all," he said it so matter of factly that it took her a few moments to assimilate what he meant. When she did, she realized he wasn't just talking about the make believe situation but what would happen if he were to disappear for real. And that had her back going up as it brought back too many bad memories about what they'd gone through six weeks prior.

"That's not true," she denied vehemently. She put down the plate she'd been fixing and turned to look him in the eye so he'd know how serious she was. "Jack would miss you; the team – I would miss you."

"Yeah but wouldn't you two be with me in this island paradise?" he asked and though he was smiling there was something in his eyes and his tone that told her he was also serious underneath it all.

"Hotch," she said patiently. "The team would miss you. Didn't we look for you when you were missing six weeks ago?" She asked; it was kind of too close to the subject they decided they wouldn't talk about but she felt that this needed to be addressed right then.

"As I heard it, you were the one that went looking for me," he told her.

"That was because the rest were busy trying to keep a teenager from being killed," she argued. "And Garcia called every hospital in the area as soon as I found you missing from your apartment. And you know Dave and Morgan would have been knocking your door down if they hadn't had the case or if they hadn't thought you could be taking a well deserved rest." The look he sent her said he wasn't really convinced. And she had to admit that him ignoring a phone call in order to sleep was way out of character for him and one of the reasons, if not the main reason, why she had been so keen in going to look for him.

"Hotch," she said again. "We were called on an emergency case with four hours of sleep. They were focused on it but that doesn't mean they weren't worried about you and it definitely doesn't mean that they wouldn't have turned the city inside out until they found you if Garcia hadn't found you so soon." She kept looking into his eyes until he nodded his head in acceptance.

"Okay," he finally nodded. "Then, they would also turn the city inside out looking for you. It wouldn't be just your mom that would worry."

"Yeah, you have point there," she agreed as she turned to finish fixing his plate. "I think we would have to come up with something to tell them so that they wouldn't worry and start looking for us."

"Yeah, I think we should," he nodded again. "Between you and me, I'm sure we could come up with something good."

"I'm sure too. Well, here it is," she said as she put his plate down in front of him. "Food's ready."

"That smells great," he told her enthusiastically as he put away the pad he'd been drawing on.

"Are you done with the drawing?" she asked, pointing at it.

"I guess," he shrugged. "Doubt it'll get any better."

"I'm sure it's fine," she assured him as she reached forward to reach it. She gasped when she saw it. "Hotch, that's me," she said in awe when she saw the picture he'd drawn of her in the kitchen. "And I look all domestic," she added with a smile.

"Well, that's how you looked a minute ago," he shrugged again.

"It's great," she told him. "It really is great. You should draw more often."

"It's not bad, I guess," he said as he peered at the paper on her hands.

"It's more than 'not bad'," she argued but he shrugged a third time and she decided to let it go. He was too self-deprecating to take a compliment too well. "You should really draw more often," she insisted.

"Maybe," he prevaricated. "We'll see." She let that go too but made a mental note to see to it that he did draw again.

"So, what are some things we would need in this island paradise of ours?" she asked, going back to the make believe topic.

"Umm, good question. Let's see," he said and she was amused to see that he took on the air he had when he was explaining something at work. "We'll need shelter and food. So, we should probably take enough tools to create appropriate shelter . . ."

"We'd be building our own shelter?" she sounded skeptical.

"Don't worry," he reassured her with a grin. "I was a Boy Scout, I know how to build a proper shelter. And I'll do most of the actual physical work," he added with a wider grin when he saw she was about to protest the physical activity.

"Good," was all she said to that; because even in fantasy land, there was no way she'd agreed to build anything. There weren't many times she'd pull the 'girl card' but that was definitely one of those times.

"We should also take some animals for food," he continued. "Like chickens, maybe a few cows. Some horses for travel; something along those lines."

"Makes sense," she agreed.

"And of course, we have to take books and music."

"Of course," she was quick to agree. "We have to have something to do when it's raining and we can't be outside."

"Right."

"What about clothes?" she wanted to know. She was a woman that liked her clothes.

"We can take a bunch of stuff with us," he told her.

"Yeah, but sooner or later they'll get worn out," she pointed out. "And what about junk food? I mean, I'll miss sodas, potato chips, cookies – stuff like. I don't think I could give them up for good."

"Ice cream," he added. "Yeah, I like ice cream. I guess we can choose a deserted island that's close to an inhabited one and make some kind of deal with the natives to pick us up every so often so we could get back to civilization and stock up or maybe have them bring us whatever we need."

"I like that," she nodded. "Oh, a laptop. We'd definitely need a laptop to keep up with what's going on in civilization."

"Emily," he looked at her with a 'did you just say that' expression. "We'll be living on a deserted island; there won't be any electricity to power up a computer, much less an internet connection."

"Hey, this is make-believe time, remember," she told him with a nudge. "If we make it so that Hailey won't care we're taking Jack and so that my mother won't come looking for me, we can make it so that there'll be electricity and internet connection. Oh, and running water. I have to have running water – and it better be hot too!"

The subject had gotten so ridiculous that he couldn't help but burst out laughing; a real, honest to God, belly laugh. The kind she had very rarely heard from him. The fact that she had caused it made her feel all warm and giddy inside.

"Speaking of ice cream," she grinned at him. "Do you want some for dessert?"

"Well," he looked down at his plate, which he'd finished, and hesitated for a moment. "Hell, why not," he grinned back at her.

"I think I'll have some too," she decided as she picked up his plate. "Why don't you go out to the living room and find something you want to watch on TV. I'll be there in a minute with the ice cream."

"Emily, thank you," he told her. "Really, for the food, which was amazing – you're a great cook by the way, and the company. And especially for not pushing me to talk."

"You're welcome," she answered. "It's not like it's a hardship having you here, you know. I like having you here. I've always enjoyed spending time with you." It was more than she had ever dared tell him before and more than she had thought she would say when she opened the door that evening but given how the night had gone, she thought that it was appropriate.

"I like spending time with you too," he told her. And both felt that was declaration enough for the evening.

"Go on to the living room," she repeated. "I'll be there in a minute." He smiled at her and nodded. Then he got up and turned to go to the living room; when he passed her, he squeezed her hand and smiled tenderly into her eyes. She smiled back at him and the warm and giddy feeling she'd been feeling went up another notch. She walked into the kitchen feeling as if she was walking on air.

She knew it wouldn't be easy and that people would more than likely talk – about her sleeping her way to the top or how she had taken advantage of him when he was at his most vulnerable. But they and those that matter would know the truth; whatever they'd manage to build between them would be true. The fact was that they fit; even when she hadn't admitted that she was falling for him, she had known that there was chemistry between them. They were alike in the ways that mattered and different enough to keep things interesting.

That was something that the rest of the team had commented on at one time or another. She was sure none of them would be too surprised at the change in hers and Aaron's relationship. Thankfully, having grown up like she had, she'd developed a very thick skin and what third persons that didn't know either Aaron or her said about her or them didn't really bother her. What did worry her was how to keep Aaron focused and in good spirits. But that was a problem for tomorrow. Right then, she was going to go out into the living room, eat ice cream, watch TV and keep talking about their completely implausible running away plan or something equally as trivial with the man she loved.

Tomorrow, she would sit him down and make him talk about what had happened and how he was dealing with it; tomorrow she would make him get rid of all that poison he'd been swimming in. It wouldn't solve everything, she knew that. Until they found Foyet and brought Jack back, Hotch wouldn't be at peace but it would be a beginning. And whatever happened from that moment on, they would face it together. Which was all anyone could ask: to have someone besides yourself as you faced the challenges life threw your way.

He had taken that first, hardest step and come to her for help; that's all she'd asked for, anything else was a blessing she hadn't been expecting. Even if he'd just come as a friend, him reaching out had been all she had prayed for. He had realized he couldn't do it alone and had done what he needed to do. He'd been on the verge of breaking down and instead of staying isolated and letting himself go down the abyss, he'd called out and finally broke out of the downward spiral he'd been on. It might take them a while but they would find Foyet and father and son would be reunited. Hotch would be whole again and she would be next to him every step of the way, ready to break him out of any depression or destructive behavior he might fall into on the way.

The walls are caving in with no warning
This ship is sinking, I gotta swim for it
I got a feeling we're better off anyway
I don't care what they say