Disclaimer : I own none of the characters (sadly).

TW: implied abuse

Chapter One

The Secret Even Aaron Hotchner Couldn't Figure Out

"And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you," - Friedrich Nietzsche

"Are you cold? I can fetch you a jacket. Emily? Agent Prentiss? Emily?" Hotch snapped his fingers in front of the brunette's face, startling her for a brief moment. Emily shook her head, moving to stand, only to sit abruptly back down with a wince. The paramedics moved from the back of the ambulance so Hotch could sit next to her.

"Don't move, they're still patching you up," his voice was stern, but Prentiss could sense the concern. It was in his gaze, in his tone.

"I told you, I'm fine," she muttered stubbornly, trying for a glare. It simply ended in her diverting her gaze to the floor. Hotch sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Emily, you're hurt. Please, give me something here. Tell me who did this,"

"Nobody,"

"Emily-"

"Hotch, I'm not a victim," Prentiss snapped, shooing the rest of the medics away, forcing herself to stand and ignoring the way her legs felt weak.

"Agent Prentiss, sit back down and allow yourself to be helped for once. That is an order,"

"It's an order I'm not going to follow," Emily started walking off, to her car. She ignored the calls of her boss, ducking into her car. She didn't start it though, not yet, she just rested her head against the back of the seat, taking a deep breath. Her shoulder throbbed, her knee ached, her head hurt. Everything was painful.

But she couldn't tell them.

No-one could know.

It was eleven thirty at night, and it wasn't the last of these incidents. Emily Prentiss knew that.

o-O-o

"Welcome back!" JJ smiled, squeezing her friend's shoulder. Prentiss had been off for a few days, Hotch ordering her to take a few days to recover. Emily hid the wince as the blonde's hand made contact with the bruise.

"Thanks," she returned the smile with a tight-lipped, fake smile. Maybe it would work? JJ clearly sensed something was wrong, but didn't press further.

All the team knew was that Emily had been injured. They didn't know how, and they didn't know that an ambulance (plus Hotch) had been called to her house. Hotch himself didn't know what had happened, though he knew Emily hadn't tripped down the stairs and hit her head, like she'd said. Trying to profile her would be useless - she was a profiler, she knew how to hide things.

But there were small things he picked up on. The way she didn't twist her wedding ring anymore. She always used to. The way the photo of Ian was no longer on her desk, it was in her drawer. Oh yes, he'd picked up on the small things. He was trying to figure out everything when a knock sounded at the door.

"Come in,"

"Sir, about what happened the other night-" Prentiss began, taking a step into his office. Before she could continue, however, Aaron cut her off.

"The picture of Ian on your desk isn't there anymore, it's hidden in your drawer. Why? There could be several reasons - but the most probable one is that you relate that picture to something bad, there isn't anyone in that picture other than Ian, so the bad thing must be him. But why, again? I'll take a guess later,"

"Hotch, excuse me if I'm out of line, but this is-"

"You don't twist your wedding ring anymore either, you always used to when you were nervous, or before we went on a case. Like how you always used to call him before a case. For the past three months, I haven't seen that happening. You don't want him to know where you're going, so you don't tell him. You don't answer his calls to you during the day - the calls that have become more frequent, more demanding. Yet, you still won't pick up. Either you don't want to talk to him, or you don't want us to hear what he'll say... or both,"

"What are you getting at?" Prentiss' voice was filled with caution. Hotch still didn't reach his conclusion, though. There was still more.

"And when that ambulance was there, isn't it strange that your husband was not present to comfort you after your fall? I know that if I were with someone, I would be there to make sure they were okay. So where was he, Emily?"

"What are you getting at?" she repeated, fiddling with one hand.

"Is Ian Doyle abusing you?"

"No, and how dare you accuse him of that!" her voice faltered slightly, a fire burning bright in her eyes. It was dim, though, it wasn't as fierce as it usually was.

"I will ask you again, Agent Prentiss, is Ian Doyle abusing you?"

"No," Emily said again, turning on her heel and storming out of the office. Her heart was beating almost painfully fast, panic rising. Yet, she held her head high and continued walking. Straight down the stairs, straight to her desk in the bullpen, straight to her chair, resting her head down. Keep it cool, Em, she had this, it was alright, it was okay, everything was okay. That's what she had been telling herself for three months now. Ian was just going through stress at work, it didn't help she was always out too, it didn't help that Hotch was always calling her, it made Ian suspicious. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't much, anyway. Just a few...occasions where he would grab her wrist a little too hard, or his voice would raise a little too high, or he'd shove her away. The other night had only been the second time when he'd properly lashed out. She'd just been too challenging, that's all. He was stressed. She shouldn't have argued back as harshly.

It wasn't his fault.

o-O-o

"Prentiss, wheels up in ten," Morgan informed her, dropping by her desk for a moment. "You okay?"

"I'm fine, Derek..."

"You sure?"

"Positive,"

"Talk to me if you need," his smile was kind, his eyes soft. But Ian's had been at some point. Ian had been kind at some point. Ian had been soft and sweet at some point.

No. Morgan wasn't Ian. Morgan was those things. He was compassionate, determined, he was everything good in a guy. She could trust him.

She could trust Ian at some point.

Stop.

"How's your shoulder doing? Hotch said there was a pretty bad bruise over it,"

"Yeah, it's fine. Honestly, the pain meds are working like an angel, my knee's not as bad either, and the cut on my head is healing,"

"Good, good. Well, I'll see you on the plane," with that, Derek was moving on, file case tucked in the crook of his arm. Emily watched him go with a sigh. How did she tell them? If she did, she would be treated like a victim.

And Emily Prentiss was not a victim.