To Hell first…and On to Heaven

It seems to be a tradition for us fanfic writers to attempt to explain the happenings of the seasons' finales throughout the summer. Last year, ironically, I blew up Hotch in my 'Prentiss's Find' story—and a few others—and blew up Dave in my 'Lion and Antelope' collection. This year, this is my attempt to explain just exactly what happened in Hotch's apartment that night. Hopefully, I will finish this one by the time next season starts! (As well as finishing Words Not Heard, and some of my others that I've not had a chance to work on lately!)

Love seeketh not itself to please, nor for itself hath any care, but for another gives its ease, and builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."

WILLIAM BLAKE

It wasn't her phone.

But she knew whose it was. It was definitely Hotch's, his was the only one similar enough to be mistaken for hers. She must have picked it up when both cells had been resting on the table. Her mind hadn't exactly been on the little details of her routine, but instead was focused on those dog-tags Morgan had given back to the brother.

Sometimes being the one left behind sucked. She'd been left behind, had lost Matthew, and as messed up as she knew he had been, it still hurt her. So bad.

Matthew had had such big dreams when they were fifteen. He'd wanted law school, wanted to fight fights with his words, to save some part of the world.

Matthew had never saved part of the world, but he had saved her. She tried to remember that whenever she thought of him.

She tucked her hands in her pockets, left hand toying with Hotch's cell, right hand fisting in the material of her leather coat and bumping against the weapon she'd yet to take off. She rarely ever walked anywhere that late at night without it. The spring rain echoed her mood as she walked the eleven blocks that separated her condo from the small apartment Hotch had rented after his divorce.

She'd been by there once before, when his car hadn't started and he'd called her for a ride. She'd lived the closest to him, and they'd been called in for a case. But Hotch needed his phone, many times he was called directly, especially when the case was a special request. She wondered if he realized yet that he had hers. Still the error would only take her a little while to correct.

And Emily just wasn't ready to go home yet.

As she walked, she profiled Hotch, trying to determine just exactly how he'd react to having her show up at his apartment uninvited. First, she imagined what he'd do when he got home. Take off his gun, unbutton his suit coat. But he'd not take the coat off; no, that would wait. Emily had suspected for a while that Hotch's suit coat was permanently glued to his wide shoulders. He probably only took it off when going to bed.

She'd never asked, and never would. They didn't have that kind of a relationship. They were close, she supposed, in that they spent a lot of time together. But not close like she and Derek. Or Dave. Dave was fast slipping into the role of her closest friend, someone she could share things with. She genuinely liked Dave.

Sometimes, she didn't quite know if she liked Hotch or not. She certainly respected him, admired what he'd accomplished. Trusted him implicitly when it came to the job. But she would be the first to admit she didn't really know much about the supervisor. With Derek, Reid, and even Dave she could talk about interests, hobbies, general randomness. Not so with Hotch. Hotch was more complex, more driven, more…if she wanted to be honest…more obsessive about the job than anyone she'd ever met. Whenever around him, she automatically went into a professional mode.

Not like she could discuss her secret longing to go to Comic-con in July with Hotch. And she didn't dare mention it to Reid. He'd insist they go, regardless of how much they had to pay. And it would be all the kid would talk about for weeks. JJ and Derek would kill her for even mentioning it, and it wouldn't exactly do much to alleviate Emily's growing reputation as a nerd. Still, maybe she should go ahead and purchase two tickets—one for her and Reid.

It would thrill him, and she could give him the news over the Fourth of July holiday. That would give him time to enjoy anticipating it, and still keep the rest of the team from killing her.

That's what she would do. She'd once worked a case with a man who rented a booth at the convention every year. The police officer had been one hell of a graphic novelist in his spare time. Emily had saved his partner's life and he'd always promised he'd get her a membership to the convention at a good rate. She'd have to call him.

A brief thought of Hotch walking around Comic-con had her lips twisting. She wondered how many people would approach him and ask to see the large "Superman" emblem under his navy suit. All he'd need was the dark-rimmed Clark Kent glasses and he'd be a dead ringer for the superhero.

She was finally at the entrance to Hotch's building. It was just a short trip up to the fifth floor. She took the stairs, wanting to feel the warm burn that physical activity could bring. Anything to keep the sight of those rows and rows of shoes out of her mind's eye.

A man about her height was in the stairs, dressed in a dark, hooded sweatshirt and dark jeans. Something about him was familiar, but Emily couldn't quite put her finger on it. He brushed against her as they passed just before the landing to Hotch's floor.

"Sorry, lady."

"No problem." She said, still trying to place him. Her hand came out of her pocket, resting on the butt of her gun. It was an instinctive gesture, one that she knew echoed her unease with the man and the brief contact. Still, she couldn't quite place him. And she hadn't got a good look at his face.

She'd seen him before. She knew she had. She made a note to remember him, to look at recent unsolved cases to see if thatwas how she knew him.

Or she'd ask Hotch if there was someone in his building she might have seen around the office or something.

The fifth floor was strangely quiet, and she got the impression once again that only a handful of the apartments on Hotch's floor were rented out. He'd mentioned briefly that he'd gotten the place at a steal because the building had been closed for renovations for the last two years, and tenants were just recently beginning to move back in.

Emily hated half-empty buildings. They just creeped her out. And after the guy in the stairwell, the hair on the back of her neck was standing on end. Something just wasn't right. She'd been an agent long enough to know how to trust those instincts.

A man was standing outside Hotch's apartment. He was about Emily's age, clean cut, strong. Good-looking. Built along the same lines as Hotch. He had silver streaks in his dark hair. He was knocking hard on Hotch's door. "Hotchner!"

"What's wrong?" Emily asked, pulling her badge from her waist and flipping it for the man to see.

"Heard gunshots." The man pulled out a gold shield, one Emily recognized as a DC police detective's shield. "Hotchner's apartment is the only one this end of the building."

Tension rolled from the man, and Emily immediately took over knocking from him, knocking and calling. "Hotch! Sir! It's Prentiss, you need to open the door! Now! Or we're coming in!"