Danger from home

Disclaimer : I don't own Criminal Minds and make no money writing. English not my mother language, please excuse any mistake.

Chapter 1: Disturbed sleep

Aaron's Hotchner's nights usually were very short. The supervisory agent rarely got home before the first hours of the next day, and he made it a point to be at the office before all his agents. Which meant that, on regular paperwork days, he rarely slept over five hours a night. And this did not include nights spent on the field, all over the country, in crammed motel rooms or on the couch of a random police station. So, when the FBI agent's head finally hit the pillow, sometime between midnight and three in the morning, he would fall into a deep coma for the next few hours. Tonight, he had not even taken the time to get off his suit before crashing on his king-size bed. Aaron had kicked off his shoes and torn off his tie, which was now lying somewhere between his mattress and the bedroom door. The alarm clock was set on six a.m. Tomorrow would be a slow day, they had decided the evening before, after the jet had landed. Another draining case, another week of sleepless days spent in a far-away state, in-between dump sites, police stations and crime scenes. So, when the ringing tone of his cell phone echoed just after one in the morning, Aaron Hotchner swore to himself, keeping his voice low for his five-year-old son's sake. He would never get a restful night.

"Hotch." He answered when his fingers had found the call button.

"Aaron Hotchner?" The voice on the other end was hesitant and the agent immediately recognized it as an elderly woman's. Wondering why an unknown woman who knew his name was calling in the middle of the night, Aaron Hotchner straightened up in bed and brushed the last remnants of sleep off his face. She didn't really have the voice of a stalker.

"Yes. Who am I talking to?"

"Um… I am truly sorry to call you this late." She continued hesitantly. "I am Amy Richardson." Hotch's mind quickly scanned through the cases of last year in search of this name, in vain. "I live next door to Emily Prentiss…"

Hotch immediately focused on the sound of the name, as he waited for elaboration.

"Again, sorry to bother you."

"No worries, is she alright?"

"It's just… you're first on her emergency contact details…" For a second, the dark-haired agent wondered why Emily would chose him as emergency contact instead of her own mother, but then again, he spent much more time with the young agent than her family.

"What's wrong?"

"Maybe nothing. I'm not sure…"

"Calm down and tell me what happened." Hotch tried to take on his gentle voice, the one he used with victims, so as not to startle the woman. He could imagine that, whatever had led to this call, it had to be big.

"I heard shouts coming from her apartment, and a crashing noise. It's very unusual for Emily… When I knocked on the door to check up on her, she sent me away. She apologized and said that she had an argument with a friend."

Hotch frowned, wondering what friend might be at Emily Prentiss' apartment in the middle of the night.

"And what makes you think it was not just that?"

The silence on the other end of the line was eloquent. The woman obviously pondered whether she should have called in the first place, whether she maybe had overreacted.

"She had a bruised lip and an eye that was half-closed. M. Hotchner, I was in an abusive marriage myself for thirty-two years. I know a battered woman when I see one… I thought that it was best to call someone she knew, as she obviously didn't want the police to come over." The words had been spat out at an incredible rate after this long silence, as though Amy wanted to get it off her chest. When she came to an abrupt end, Hotch was at a loss of words. Never had he thought of Emily Prentiss as a victim. She was a fighter, a trained FBI agent, an independent woman. But not a victim to men. Gathering his thoughts, Hotch realized he had yet to react to the statement.

"Thank you for calling, Mrs Richardson. I'll be right over." With that, he shut the phone and stayed a few more moments sat on the side of his bed, pondering what would be the best way to burst into his agent's apartment in the middle of the night.

xxx

Emily had been looking at her reflection for the past minutes, her hand frozen in mid-air, as she had intended to clean off the blood from her split lip. A dark bruise had already begun forming around her left eye, where the wooden floor of her bedroom had come into contact with her face. Strangely, it looked much worse than the simple bruised lip, which was Dean's original doing. Emily noticed that her hand was slightly shaking, as she wiped off the not yet dry blood from her chin. She still couldn't believe what had happened. Only an hour before, they had been chatting friendly over a glass of wine, him joking around and her trying to keep up with his energy after this tiresome day. She had been all fuzzy when she had found the man awaiting her in front of her apartment building, and had gladly invited him in. And there she was, wiping off the traces of his violence. How a simple statement could trigger such an outburst, it still was incomprehensible to her. The man had hidden well his anger management problems. Closing her eyes, Emily tried to erase images of Dean's balled fist approaching her face, of herself getting off her bedroom floor while holding her head, of the look in Dean's eyes when she had pushed him out of her apartment. A knock suddenly interrupted her thoughts, and her eyes immediately searched for the gun, safely stored away in the bedroom drawer. She went as silently as possible to the piece of furniture, grabbed the Glock and walked back to the main door, carefully approaching her eye from the peephole, in case Dean had chosen to come back and finish off his job, so to say.

"Crap." She couldn't help swearing when the familiar face of Hotch appeared on the other side of the door. She knew she couldn't just pretend not to be home, because he had probably seen the lights on. Neither could she tell him to get the hell away from her door – after all, he was her chief unit and one of her friends, and his visit could be work-related. Emily took a deep breath and opened the door, careful to stay in the dim light of her entrance so that the blows would not appear too much.

"Hi." She said without a smile, that would have been too painful. "Did I miss a call?"

Hotch frowned and just stared at his friend, noting that she was still wearing her work clothes at almost three in the morning. And even in the half obscurity, he could clearly see the swollenness on the left side of her face.

"No… no, you didn't. Can I come in?"

Emily hesitated and finally opened the door enough for her superior to enter. He couldn't help noticing the gun in Emily's hand.

"Were you… awaiting someone?" he asked, pointing to the weapon with a stern look.

Emily seemed to hesitate a moment, and finally put the gun away with a nod.

"Hotch, why are you here?" she asked, brushing past him to get to the kitchen.

"Your neighbor called me." At his statement, the brunette stopped breathing and absent-mindedly looked at the thin wall separating the two apartments. She knew she should have not opened that door in the first place.

"It's nothing, Hotch."

The two stayed in an uncomfortable silence, not knowing what to say, until Hotch finally took a step forward, reaching the kitchen island. He had spent the whole drive to Emily's apartment thinking about how he would touch the subject, whether he should ask bluntly if she was alright, whether he should collect a name and address and pay a little visit to the careless man, but none of this now seemed appropriate. Emily was a very private and defensive person, in work and in life, and Hotch would have to work harder to get through the wall.

"Emily, have you looked at your face?" Tears welled up in Emily's eyes as the question sunk in and she came to realize the reality of the night's events. She cleared her throat, fighting the wetness of her eyes away, and opened her mouth to say something, not finding the right words.

"Tell me what happened." Hotch's voice cut in again.

"It was so unexpected." Emily's eyes were now lost somewhere on the kitchen counter, in the depths of the half-empty glass of rosé. "He went for my gun, said he wanted to see one for real. I took it away from him, and he just… went mad."

While she was talking, the dark-haired agent let his eyes linger over her figure, assessing the damage. Her face was indeed swollen and bluish around her left eye, and dried blood was punctuating her chin and the corner of her mouth. But apart from that, she seemed okay, physically at least.

"Who is he?" The words escaped his lips before he even knew. He hadn't known that Emily was seeing someone, not that they confided much into each other outside work. But the brunette was a very simple and honest person, who would not try to hide a relationship from her colleagues.

"Dean Johnson. We've been… going out for a few weeks. I just don't understand…"

When the brunette turned away and leaned her back against the counter, Hotch could tell that she was trying her best not to break. Unconsciously, he took another step forward, slowly making his way around the island to reach his friend, even though it was too early for a contact.

"Was he ever… violent before?" he asked in a whisper, his eyes fixed on the bloody tissue Emily was clutching. From his angle, the swollenness of her cheek and eye was even more spectacular, and he quickly shook away these thoughts. He remembered all too well the beaten face of his own mother, when Hotchner senior had had too much to drink.

"Never." Hotch was quite taken aback when Emily turned briskly to face him, in a defensive way. Making excuses for the man, another pattern of abused women, he couldn't help thinking.

"Emily, do you want to come with me to the police and file in a claim?"

The brunette frowned and lowered her eyes to a spot on Hotch's chest, to avoid his gaze. She was slowly taking in his attire, very unusual for the boss he was. No suit, no tie, not even leather shoes. After all, it was three in the morning and the man had probably been sleeping before Amy called him to the rescue. Which explained the Yale sweatshirt and jogging pants he had no doubt hastily put on before leaving his house.

"Hotch, it's not that serious. Thank you for coming anyway."

Although this had been meant as a 'goodbye', the man did not move from his spot nor tear his eyes away from Emily's, until she finally looked up again.

"I am not leaving."

"I already dealt with the problem, Hotch." Emily spat out a little harshly, not liking where this conversation was going. She was no and would never be a victim, and surely wasn't going to be treated like one. "I kicked the bastard out of my apartment and told him not to come back. He got the message and I don't need my boss holding my hand. I can take care of myself."

Hotch merely flinched at the angry tone and finally took a step backwards. He had experienced first-hand how stubborn Emily Prentiss could be, in work as well as life, but was not one to give up either.

"Emily, I was not going to hold your hand or let you cry on my shoulder, because I know it's not your kind. I wanted to make sure you were alright, and in no danger. And if you ever feel like talking about what happened, you know I'm there anytime. I could also kick his ass, if that's what you want." The last sentence was said a little lighter and meant to make her smile, but it only managed to lighten the dark look in her eyes a bit.

"I don't think that will be necessary, but thanks." The dark-haired agent was satisfied when Emily let out a little smile to accompany her response. Despite her reticence, he knew that she appreciated his gesture.

"Are you sure you are alright? I'd feel better if you were checked up by a doctor."

"It's only a scratch. I've been punched in the face before, you know."

Hotch nodded. He remembered all too well all the times when she had gotten injured on the field, to his dismay. Beaten up, knocked out with a piece of wood, nearly shot… Compared to these occasions, the little fight tonight seemed like nothing. But then again, the danger had for once come from home and not the job, and that made it all different.

"Okay." He finally said, his eyes lingering on Emily's face a few more seconds before he turned heels and let the brunette lead him back to the main door. Before she shut the door though, he turned again to her and added, already knowing her answer:

"Don't feel obliged to come in tomorrow, Emily."

The brunette shot another smirk in his direction.

"See you tomorrow, Hotch. And thanks again for coming over. I hope you'll get some sleep."

"You too." He whispered, waiting for the door to click shut before making his way to the elevator. Despite her advice, he was sure as hell that he was not going to get any more sleep tonight, not with the images of Emily beaten up or of his own abused mother filling his head. On the other side of the door, Emily was leaning her face against the door, enjoying the coldness that relieved the pain a little. For a moment, she really pondered whether she should take up Hotch's offer of a day off. Not that she really wanted to rest, but she dreaded her colleagues' reactions when they would notice the state of her face. This was way too big to hide under a little make-up or sunglasses. With these thoughts in mind, Emily finally pushed herself away from the door and went up to her bathroom. If she felt unable to sleep, maybe a relaxing bath would help get her through the next day.