It started as an accident. He couldn't sleep, the new apartment was nothing like the home he'd shared with Hayley, and though he'd lived there for nearly six months, it wasn't home. He felt like he had no home. Not any more.

So he'd hit the streets, just walking aimlessly up one sidewalk then down the other, not paying much attention to where he went.

And then he'd seen her. Her and her date, of all things. He even recognized him, too. The man was an agent with the CIA, one with whom they'd worked a case two weeks earlier. She was having a good time, too. It was in the soft set of her shoulders, in the happy grin on her face. She held the man's hand.

Had he ever seen her that relaxed with another person? Other than Morgan, that was?

He couldn't remember. If he was truthful with himself, he doubted he'd ever looked close enough to see something like that. She'd never really registered on his radar before.

She kissed the man, he tried to deepen it, but she backed away. She wasn't ready for that, he thought. Couldn't the man see that? She bid him farewell, waved a little wave, and started off down the road. It was then that he realized he was only a handful of blocks from her condo.

Still, why was her date letting her walk home alone this late at night? The man was an agent, wasn't he? Didn't he know what could happen to a single, beautiful woman this late at night?

Hotch stepped off the curb, intending to announce his presence. Intending to offer to walk her home. But something stopped him.

It wasn't his place to be concerned with her welfare outside of the BAU. And he knew she wouldn't appreciate it. Not her, not Miss Independence. But he couldn't, in all good conscience, not make sure she made it home safely.

He kept a good twenty strides behind her. Just watching as she walked the path to her upscale apartment overlooking the Washington Monument. She was dressed more seductively than he'd ever seen and she garnered her fair share of looks. She didn't seem to be aware of it. He knew it just made her more vulnerable.

He'd never thought of her as vulnerable before. He'd also never realized how much attention she did garner from men. It was disconcerting that. He'd come to appreciate her mind, of course, in the time she'd been on the team, and it was a phenomenal mind. If it weren't for Reid's presence on the team, she'd probably be considered the extremely smart member of their group. He wondered idly how she felt about that. She crossed the street directly in front of her building, and he paused. No sense in following her that far. He found a park bench and sat down, not needing a break, just not really wanting to return to his barren apartment.

He'd not be able to sleep anyway.

He looked at the building, trying to guess which apartment was hers. 305. He knew that much. He also knew she looked out at the monument that was behind him. So he knew she was on this side. So it was probably…that one right there. Third from the left, three floors up.

As he thought it, the very window he was staring at lit up. A woman was seen silhouetted against the glass. He watched for a little while—nothing else to do with his time. He couldn't see directly into her home, wouldn't have looked if he could, but he knew when she went to bed. Knew how she stood by the window drinking from a mug. He wondered what it was, profiled her just a little bit, before deciding it was hot chocolate. She liked chocolate, and it was a slightly chilly night. It made sense to him.

So it started accidentally, nothing he planned. It just happened. Hotch hadn't really intended to become a stalker. He damned well never intended to stalk Emily Prentiss.

HOTCHTHESTALKER

Hotch developed the habit of walking when he couldn't sleep. He developed the habit of looking for a certain brunette when he walked. He knew when she broke it off with that damned CIA spook, the week after they returned from the New York case. He'd watched, from his now favorite bench across from her apartment, as they held a quick discussion outside her building. He'd wanted to come up, she hadn't wanted him to. He got impatient, pressured her. Hotch's whole body had been tensed, waiting for him to make one wrong move toward her. But she'd handled herself well, and as far as he knew that was the last time she'd seen that man.

She stood at her window for quite a while that night. Hotch hoped that she couldn't see him. But he doubted she'd recognize him in his walking clothes—sweats, t-shirt, ball cap. He was just another nameless, faceless person on the streets of the capitol. He liked it that way. She was sad the next few days at work and only he was aware of the reason why. He hated seeing her that way, knew intimately the pain a failed relationship could bring. So he kept her with him throughout the case. He liked to think it helped, but he knew he was just fooling himself. He would never be a comfort to her. But she was a comfort to him. More than he could ever have imagined, or more than she could ever have known, both at work and at night. During his walks.

His hearing wasn't getting any better. The Lower Canaan Ohio case had just illustrated all that for him. He'd spent a good deal of that drive just thinking of things. He'd made a decision not to walk to her home anymore. He wasn't stalking her, he told himself, though he knew the truth. He was. And like most stalking victims, she wasn't even aware of it. He made a conscious effort not to walk past her building. But he did walk, he just made sure he walked in the opposite direction. That night was the first since he started doing it that walking didn't help ease his mind.

His resolve lasted two days. Then he found himself right back on that bench outside her building. She wasn't home. Her lights were off. He wondered briefly where she was, who she was with.

He got his answer soon enough, and it soured his stomach to see Morgan kiss her on the cheek. The other man ruffled her hair, she slapped him on the shoulder. Nothing romantic in their actions, he told himself. And the profiler in him knew his observations were correct. But the man in him, that man hated Morgan touching her. At all.

But she was happy. He liked seeing her happy. And he knew they were good friends, had been from early on. Probably his fault for always assigning her to work with Morgan. Had he kept her with himself, she might have been waving good-bye to him tonight instead of Morgan. Strange thought, that. Did he want her that way? Did he want to be the man leaving her at her door? Did he want to be the lucky man she invited to share that spot by the window she favored?

Hotch didn't know.

He walked to that bench every night that week.

Then she and Reid had flown to Colorado on a child abuse consult. Had ended up requesting permission to enter the Septarian compound from the Colorado field office. His heart had stopped after Morgan had yelled for him, after he'd realized just what was going on.

And the day, the night had just gotten worse from there.

After he had them safe and home that first night, after the paperwork was filed, after they were examined and deemed recovering, after it was all said and done—he walked directly to his bench. He needed to watch her window the way she needed to watch out it. This time she didn't stand, just sat. he could see her silhouette as she curled up, her body pressing against the glass. As she cried. And cried. As he imagined he could see the sobs shaking her thin body, his mind replayed each and every sound she'd made as Cyrus was beating her, slamming her into walls, kicking her, slapping her. Throwing her into a glass mirror.

Hotch had never needed to watch her window more than he did that night. He returned the rest of the week to his bench, too. He'd stay long after he suspected she went to bed, just watching her window, proving to himself that she was still safe, that Cyrus hadn't taken her from him.

He knew it was true. He was a stalker, and as he sat there his mind reviewed everything he knew about stalkers and their victims. Stalkers and there victims were generally in their thirties and forties—that fit with him and Prentiss. No history of drug abuse or any other criminal behaviors, so that didn't fit them. No personality disorders—on either of their parts. Unless he counted his slight belief that she was a bit on the obsessive-compulsive spectrum. Most stalkers are not psychotic during their stalking incidents. Hotch didn't think he was psychotic. He was starting to develop fantasies—but they were the normal, red-blooded male variety, about an attractive woman he worked with. He didn't think he was becoming obsessed. He wasn't exhibiting the characteristic Meloy's study outlined—he didn't think she loved him, he didn't want to be exactly like her, he didn't think they complemented each other, and he didn't think they shared a common destiny. No, he wasn't a typical stalker. Like most stalkers, though, he was of high intelligence. And he was damned good at planning strategies, just like many stalkers.

So no, the profile of a stalker didn't fit him exactly. He took some reassurance from that. He wasn't stalking Emily. He just happened to prefer to sit outside her building and think. A lot. And if he sat out there until nearly one or two a.m. before heading home, there was nothing wrong with it. He just couldn't sleep.

Watching her helped him relax. Then he'd walk home, fall into bed, and dream about her. About her walking with him. About her holding his hand. Kissing his cheek.

Hotch's beeper sounded, and he looked down, seeing JJ's number reflected. He looked back up in time to see Emily's window suddenly lit. It was a case, and apparently JJ was calling in the rest of the troops. Including Emily. It would be her first case since Colorado, and he was anxious to see her. To make sure the bruises were completely gone. He needed to stand next to her, to touch her, to see her smile. Even if it was at someone else. A friend, another co-worker. Reid, Rossi—even Morgan. He wanted it to be him, though. And he hoped it would be him.

As he stood from the bench, sending his last glance to her now lit window, he realized the truth.

He was stalking Emily Prentiss, and he had no intention of stopping any time soon.