Chapter Two: Damaged
Nobody is stronger, nobody is weaker than someone who came back. There is nothing you can do to such a person because whatever you could do is less than what has already been done to him. We have already paid the price. – Elie Wiesel
Apparently, Garcia had no qualms tracking down an agent's cell phone location with no explanation or reasons behind it.
He made a mental note to send her a fruit basket.
The motel was, in a word, a shit hole.
There really was no more refined words that would work to describe it.
It didn't take a profiler to guess that if Emily was in trouble, she'd be in the room furthest away from the office. It also didn't take much effort to guess that the room with the open door would be a good place to start looking.
His gun drawn, he pushed open the door slowly, wondering in the back of his mind why he hadn't called for backup. This was stupid.
The sheets from the bed were scattered all over the room, making it difficult to take a firm step without worrying about tripping. The bathroom door was off it's hinges, as if someone had broken it down to get inside. The only person possibly in the room (no closet space was visible) was the shivering figure on the bed, desperately clutching a dirty, stained pillow.
It was Emily.
Aaron could identify certain points in his life when he could feel parts of himself die. When he worked his first child murder. When he lost his first murder case as a district attorney. When Jason Gideon cracked, and ran. When Haley died, and he murdered a monster with his bare hands.
And right now, in this seedy motel he wouldn't be caught dead in.
"Emily?" he called, fearing the worst.
She flinched, shivering more.
"It's alright, Prentiss, it's Aaron. It's Hotchner, you're safe now."
He wanted to cover her up. He desperately wanted to give her his jacket (one of the only clean pieces of cloth in the room), and help warm her. But her back was striped with what he new to be lash marks, her arms were torn up from rough restraints, likely rope, and there was a long gash in her leg from what looked to be a jagged weapon. He was afraid he'd hurt her more putting course wool over her wounds.
He stepped around the bed to face her, knowing better than to touch her when she couldn't see him.
Then he wished he hadn't, because both her eyes were swollen shut, and it wouldn't help.
"Emily," he repeated, hoping for a response.
"Hotch?" she said, sounding much the way she did on the phone. Scared and fragile.
"Yes," he said calmly, but inwardly rejoicing. At least she recognized him. "I'm here. I'm going to put my coat over you to keep you warm, all right?"
She nodded slightly, or possibly shook a little, but he took it as a good sign and gently wrapped the material around her. He pulled his phone out, intending to call for help (too little, too late), when he heard the sirens in the distance.
He mentally upgraded the fruit basket to a new computer.
Morgan, Reid and JJ met him at the hospital.
"Garcia's on her way, she just had to get Kevin Lynch set up looking for whoever booked that hotel room," J.J. said without preamble. "Rossi was at a conference in New York, he'll be here within an hour."
"Good," Hotch responded, trying to ignore the fact that his shirt was wet with Emily's blood.
"How is she?" Derek asked.
Aaron did not know how to respond.
"She's alive."