"And I don't care whether I live or die
And I'm losing blood, I'm gonna leave my bones
And I don't want your heart it leaves me cold

I don't want your future
I don't need your past
One bright moment
Is all I ask"

Leave My Body - Florence + The Machine

She awoke to the world of blinding pain. Every fibre of her being seemed alight with a flame of agony, bursting through her veins and spreading across her skin so that nary an inch was spared from its scalding burn. It seemed to burn from the inside out, and the outside in, from which she was not certain, was the accurate source of her pain. All she could be sure of though, was that she was in severely, severely strong bouts of agony.

She would have howled and writhed against it, had her limbs not felt like they were leaden and fused to the bed beneath her.

Finally the strength came to her, and she forced her heavy eyelids open, squinting in the blinding glare of light. Her throat burned as an object forced it open and pumped her lungs with air that apparently she could not breathe herself, and her eyes watered when she tried to do just that. When she found herself unable to force the object – what she had now identified as a tube – from her throat, she focused her energies on something else.

The sound resonated from her chest, low and pained; the only sound she could muster. Beeping emanated from an object beside her bed, most likely some sort of monitor attached to her by the multiple tentacles strung upon her body. Her cluttered mind fought the fog and the light long enough for her to deduce that she was in a hospital somewhere, or perhaps even in Heaven or Hell, whichever she preferred to believe.

There was a rush of noise – footsteps against the floor that approached her bedside, and figures that shrouded the light above her. Slowly did her eyes focus on the faces then, and blurred images of nurses appeared. They spoke things to her, but she shook her head at them all, willing her body to move away from them as a burning pain shot rivets along her neck, and a machine beeped a warning at her.

"Don't move, sweetheart. Just let us handle this for you, okay?"

Hands touched her body, removing wires and tugging at things. A pair of hands unstrapped something from her face, and from deep in her chest, she could feel the tube move. "Take a deep breath and exhale as I take it out, okay?" said a voice; soft and warm and gentle. She did what she could to nod, sucking in as much air as she was able to without the pain in her neck.

With one long, painful exhale, she found her throat devoid of an intruder, and the sudden whoosh of air entered her lungs. Her throat protested the sudden intrusion of air, and she coughed desperately. There was a weight in her hair, soothing and calm as it stroked through her mass of greasy locks. She gasped a heavy breath and finally, the spasms of her throat ceased.

"Don't fight it, sweetheart. Don't fight it; just take it in nice and slow. Deep breaths in, out slowly; good girl."

Her voice was a low rasp when she finally spoke. "Where am I?" The cloudy room came to focus as someone dabbed at the tears in her eyes, and she blinked rapidly in the light. Her mind swam with nothing but thick fog; there was no memory for her to recall, and no thought other than where am I? What happened? Why am I in pain?

The memories returned with a vicious force – slamming into her mind all at once; Doyle, Easter, the team. The blinding pain of her burning flesh that ached now in her chest as she remembered the brand etched on her skin. She remembered the pain of fleeing from her family; hurting her team and running away when she should've stayed. There was no other way, and though she was lying cold, scared and alone in a hospital bed somewhere she doesn't know – Emily knew that her family was safe.

The hand stroking her hair was accompanied by a familiar low, soothing thrum. The sound of the voice seemed to resonate in the room, in her chest, and Emily tried to cast her bleary eyes in the direction of the shadow out of the corner of her eye. She could make out a face – a familiar, handsome face that she'd dreamed of several times before. The low ridge of his brow, the dark hair; the deep, dark eyes staring down at her with an unbridled concern…it was him.

"Don't talk if you're not ready," he said to her gently, and his hand moved down from her hair towards her hand; clutching it in his as she gripped his anxiously. "Just take your time; it'll be alright." His chest clenched at the fear in her eyes – he'd never seen her so vulnerable and afraid, and it hurt him to know that he had ample opportunity to save her from the misery she was in.

Emily whimpered, and he could see her struggling to find her voice by the frantic bobbing of her throat. "Do you need water?" he asked her gently, and Emily nodded eagerly. He reached beside him, grasping the cup in his hand as he guided her upright slightly before easing the cup towards her mouth. "Slowly," he coaxed her, and he reached behind her to cup the back of her neck; easing the strain.

She took in as much water as she could before her throat protested, and Emily turned her head away from the cup. Water leaked down the side of her mouth, and she tensed slightly under Hotch's thumb as he reached up to brush the liquid away. The gentleness in her Unit Chief's touch threw Emily; she wasn't used to the attention he was giving her, even as she lay in bed, aching. She expected brutal indifference, or perhaps even blame – not the soothing warmth of his low baritone, or the gentle roughness of his hands on her skin.

"They okay?" she managed to croak. Her mind reeled at the absence of her team – her family – and Emily wasn't sure why Hotch wasn't looking directly at her face. Her dark eyes widened anxiously as her brow pinched, and suddenly the man was back to stroking her skin. Something was wrong. "What -?"

Hotch could taste blood on his tongue from where he had sunk his teeth into his lip. She had been unconscious for days; he'd spent every moment by her bedside. Jessica had taken Jack wordlessly, and JJ had been bringing him things through the week. She'd offered to take his place, but the man had merely fixed his dark gaze at her, and the blonde was silent.

Many things had transpired since they'd found her bleeding on that warehouse floor. There were many things that had changed, and they were things he wasn't sure he wanted to tell her. It would do her no good – she would panic, feel guilty and even more tortured than she already did.

They'd buried her.

"They're fine," he assured her, though the lie was hard to force through his teeth. They weren't fine. They were nowhere near fine. Emily had been such an integral part of their team; their family, that her absence was a gaping hole in all of their lives. They hadn't realized it until it was much too late – just how much Emily Prentiss was a part of their lives. How much she had done for them through the years by just being there and being her and being the woman that they'd all come to love and respect.

The woman that he hadn't realized he'd built his life around.

Emily stared up at his face, and she could see the lie there, as she always could. Tears welled in her eyes and she squeezed them shut as she turned away from him, and only looked back when Hotch slid his fingers underneath her chin to guide her gaze back to his soft ones. "Liar," she whispered, and her lower lip quivered before she could stop it. She was too tired, she couldn't be stronger for long; not with her body and mind screaming at her to just let go already. Just die.

Hotch stared down at her sadly. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he uttered quietly. "I did what I could."

The woman sniffled, nodding her head weakly. She trusted him; knew that he had done everything in his power to find her and to put Doyle behind bars. Something inside her wished that she had gone to him for help – that she hadn't decided to run, but then something else inside her, the stronger side, remembered his loyalty to the Bureau. She couldn't make him choose between her and the Bureau. Even if it was something like this; she would never make him choose.

"What happened?"

Hotch hesitated. What was he going to tell her? He'd rehearsed this with JJ before countless of times, over and over again until he could convince himself that he believed the words coming from his mouth. But he couldn't lie to Emily. He couldn't possibly bring himself to lie to her. Not now, when she was lying wounded and disoriented from trying to protect them. The truth would stress her; hurt her more than the physical wounds on her body.

His hand clenched tight into a fist before he could help himself, and he pinned the hand to his side as it shook at the thought of Ian Doyle laying his hands on Emily; marking her skin and spilling her blood. Rage flared in his chest, rage and shame and disgust at allowing Doyle to get so close to Emily that she now bore his mark on her skin.

Emily moaned quietly, and the rage and disgust melted away, but the shame lingered. He curled his lips inwards, biting down on them hard before he mustered the strength to speak. "Doyle got away." The way her eyelashes fluttered as she slid her eyes shut had him grinding on his molars hard, but Hotch continued. She had to know.

"He was gone when we arrived. You were…bleeding on the floor. He stabbed you." He swallowed thickly at the memory of seeing Emily unmoving with blood pooling beneath her; remembered how much he had wanted to shove Morgan aside to pick Emily up and run out to the paramedics.

There was so much blood.

He licked his lips. They were dry and tasted of stale coffee from the cafeteria. "We buried you yesterday." The scent of damp ground still lingered in his nose. The bile still burned at his throat.

The quiet gasp was a knife plunging into the very core of his heart, and Hotch could feel the silver dagger pulling out and plunging in with a twist again when Emily looked away. He could see the tears glistening in her dark eyes; her eyelashes were damp, and he wanted to take it all back – lie and tell her that she was taking a trip somewhere to get better. He wanted to stop hurting her.

He wanted to bring her back to life.

Emily's heart plummeted into her stomach, and pain flared up along her body as the muscles beneath her pale skin tensed on reflex at the news she had received. Her mind was reeling; her head was spinning and she was dizzy at the realization that everyone she loved – everyone she cared for – thought she was dead. Her team, her friends, her loved ones; her mother – did they really bury her? Did she have a tombstone now?

Did Emily Prentiss no longer exist?

She felt numb. There should be grief, shock, pain and despair, but all Emily felt was emptiness. She was dead. She no longer existed to her family. They'd put her six feet underground; carried her coffin and stood at her grave and wept over her death. She was wiped from their lives – laid to rest. Her belongings, her apartment, her cat; everything was going to be gone or have been taken away already.

Emily Prentiss had been erased off the face of the Earth.

There was nothing to go home to.

"It's for your safety," Hotch explained to her gently, but Emily stared at the empty space in front of her; dark eyes wide but unseeing. He reached out to take her hand but hesitated, instead settling for a gentle stroke of his fingertips along the skin of her wrist. It was enough; it was support. "They can't know until we find Doyle, but I promise you – I swear to you that we will find him and I will personally put that bullet through his head."

The proclamation stunned Emily, and she turned her eyes to him finally. There was a flash of something in his hazel eyes; something she'd seen there before, but could never really place. So swift would it be shut down behind the barrier of his unreadable façade that she never had the time to properly label it. She could see it clearly now.

It was just unfortunate that she didn't want to see it. The timing was wrong; the moment was lost.

"You won't find him," she murmured miserably; eyes of dark coffee dim. There were things that even the FBI couldn't achieve – there were things she never wanted her team to touch. Doyle was a dangerous man, more dangerous than they were used to, and Emily never wanted the IRA terrorist to come anywhere near her family. "He's too dangerous for you, Hotch. He'll tear you apart and take everyone with you."

Hotch pursed his lips, forehead creased in a confused frown as he stared down at the woman's resigned face. He had feared this – the defeat that Emily would eventually fall into; just like the defeat he had when he sent Jack and Haley away. There was never an enemy he couldn't face, and he'd be damned if he decided that this enemy – the man that had almost killed Emily – would be the one he couldn't defeat.

"We'll find him," he said firmly, sternly enough for Emily to know that he wasn't in the mood to tolerate any other answer. "Doyle is like any other UnSub we've chased – every other UnSub we've hunted down and dragged back by their teeth to lock them away. So what if he was a terrorist. The keyword here is 'was', Emily. He's not that man anymore; he doesn't have the resources or the opportunity to rule anymore."

It seemed for a moment that Emily believed him; he could tell by the set of her jaw and the uncertainty in her eyes that she couldn't stop herself from believing him. It was ingrained in her at this point – believing him. Trusting him.

He wished he could trust himself.

The next question to come from Emily's mouth was one he hadn't expected. "When do I leave?" she whispered tiredly. She didn't have the energy to fight him any longer; her wounds hurt too much, she was too tired. There was no energy left in her to resist him.

Hotch was quiet for a long moment; he wasn't sure how to tell her this – how was he supposed to tell her she was to leave to another country, alone and wounded, away from her family? How was he supposed to tell her that it was all his idea, and his doing, that she was now forced to leave the side of her people?

The same way he told her anything – honestly.

"Tomorrow," he uttered quietly, the guilt clear and heavy in his low voice. Why wasn't there any other solution to this? He could keep her with him – have her stay in his apartment with his son and recover in the quiet peace of his company. But it was nothing but a hopeful dream; Doyle would find her if she stayed in the country. He would find her and he would finish what he started, and that was what terrified Hotch the most.

Knowing that Ian Doyle was capable of finishing what he started.

"We'll fly you to Bethesda until you've recovered enough to travel, and then you'll choose," he told her. "I've…asked for permission for you to choose between Paris and Rome. I know you have fond memories there," he uttered quietly; the jealousy could've been perhaps, kept hidden a little better.

Emily stared up at the white ceiling above her, trying her best to smother the tears that came to her eyes and welled in her throat. She sniffled and she hated herself for it, and she swallowed the sob in her throat to nod.

He reached out and touched her hand, enveloped it in his own larger hand, and leaned over her face with a gentle, worried look on his own handsome face. "Don't cry, Emily," he murmured soothingly to her. The tear he wiped away with his thumb was hot and uncomfortable on his skin; her tears hurt him more than actual wounds. "Please don't cry. It'll be okay, I promise you. I swear to you, you'll come home. You'll come home, and we'll put this behind us before you know."

God, why was he so good to her? He wasn't in the beginning, but that didn't matter now. He'd done so much to prove himself to her, to show her that he cared for her in ways that at first she couldn't understand, but now suddenly the pieces fell into place. "God, Aaron." His name was so foreign on her tongue; it was so odd to realize that he had a first name. That before Hotch, there was Aaron, who had been named by his mother and loved by Haley. It wasn't odd, not really, but she had never predicted that she would ever be intimate enough with him to call him by his first name.

She wasn't even sure if she was allowed to call him by name now.

It didn't faze the man in the slightest. "I'm right here," he promised her.

"I'm scared," she whispered, and suddenly she was so small in her bed; wounded and defeated and afraid. He felt like a failure; he was meant to protect her and keep her safe – it was ordained even before she set foot into his office those years ago. He was her security detail then, wasn't he? This was what he was meant to do.

At her side, he was meant to stay.

He couldn't explain why, or really, he couldn't explain how he came to the realization, but he did, and there was no turning back, because he was already opening his mouth, and the words were already coming from his mouth.

"I'll come with you," he blurted, and Emily stared at him with a reciprocating confusion and bewilderment she must've seen in his eyes.

She wasn't sure if he was being serious. "What?"

The lump in his throat was thick; the fear was prominent in his hold, in his eyes, in his stance, but he swallowed the growing lump in his throat, and forged onwards. He wasn't a quitter; he was never raised to be a quitter. "I'll come with you," he repeated, slower and clearer this time. "The rest of them can wait – I'll come with you and we'll get you better until you can come home. They won't ask questions; not if the Bureau assigns me somewhere overseas. I'll – I'll take Jack, and we'll run away with you. We'll run away somewhere no one can find us, and we'll come back when the time is right.

We'll come back together."

They stared at each other; unsure if he was joking or if she would deny his offer. There was so many things he wanted to say to her, so many things he wanted to tell her, but yet he couldn't. It wasn't the right time, and maybe if he missed this opportunity – there would never be a right time.

She needed him now; he'd failed her enough times. He was going to be there for her no matter what.

Emily was quiet for a long, tense moment as she licked her lips and but the corner of her mouth anxiously. Her decision would change a lot of things between them; there would be consequences to bear once she had recovered, and she came back to the team. All of this scared her; terrified her because she felt like she was repeating the vicious cycle – another man had promised her similar things before, and he had driven a stake through her stomach.

Was she willing to take the risk again?

She met his gaze; the warm hazel and anxious affection that she had seen there sometime before. Aaron Hotchner was no Ian Doyle; he would never, never be Ian, and there was nothing left to say about that. He offered her things she hadn't dared to dream of – promised her things that she had once dismissed as a friendly crush.

Emily squeezed his hand in hers, the large, warm grip that promised to never let go.

"Together?" She stared up at him uncertainly.

He squeezed in return – bent down and brushed his lips against the corner of her mouth.

"Together," he whispered.