A/N: So I decided to be nice and post this chapter before I go away for the weekend. I am going to spend four days on a lake, not thinking about work, hopefully de-stressing, and just being with my Neenie.

That's right. I get to spend this weekend with my little sister. Neenie, who is the only person who doesn't have a God-complex, because she's actually God. Neenie, who declares that Hotch/Emily is almost canon. Neenie, who refers to the stoic, forbidding, badass Aaron Hotchner as "Hotchie". Readers, be completely jealous that I get to spend time with this perfect person. And then read my story. And then review it.

Disclaimer: I may not own Criminal Minds, but my Big has promised to get me a Paget plushie!

Emily handed him her visitor's pass for her apartment's parking garage, and he swiped it through the machine. The silence that had followed his acquiescence persisted as they stepped into the apartment complex, but it was, like most of their silences, a comfortable silence, one that needn't be filled with useless chatter, because it in itself said enough.

He had only ever been to Em—Prentiss's home once before, but he remembered everything with a strange precision. Nothing had changed since that day, more than a year ago, when he had come to ask for her to return. He found that oddly comforting.

"The bathroom's over there," Prentiss said, pointing. "I'll go get the guest room ready."

She was right; it was late, and they both needed sleep. He took his bag into the bathroom and quickly stripped off his damp suit. Sliding into dry pajamas, he ignored the rest of his nighttime routine for the moment, intent on helping Prentiss get the bed ready.

A light was on down the hallway; hopefully, that was the guest room, and Prentiss was in there. He entered, and took the scene in at a glance. A couch-bed was halfway unfolded, and she was leaning against a wall, her head back, supported by the wall. Her eyes were shut tight, her jaw clenched, her face screwed up in pain; she had pushed her blouse up, and her hand was laid gently against her stomach, which was even more deeply bruised than her face.

"Emily," he breathed. He hadn't known where Cyrus had hurt her, and the position and darkness of these bruises scared him a little.

Her eyes snapped open and she spun on him. "Hotch!" she exclaimed. She looked surprised, but made no effort to move her shirt or cover the bruises. "It's not as bad as it looks?" she tried sheepishly.

"Bullshit," he replied. "You don't bruise easily. What did he do to you?" He had unconsciously moved closer, and was on the brink of reaching out to move her hand so he could get a better look at the injury.

"Kicked me," she answered, sighing. "I think his boots had a reinforced toe." She didn't protest when he placed his hand over hers, and met his gaze steadily.

"You didn't tell the EMT about this," he said, trying hard not to think about what he wanted to do to Cyrus; the bastard was already dead. "You could have a broken rib, or internal bleeding."

She snorted. "Hotch, I know what a broken rib feels like, and you and I both know that I'd be dead already if I were bleeding internally. Now, if you'll let me get back to doing up the bed…"

"No," he said firmly. "You are doing no more than absolutely necessary until you heal. I can make my own bed."

She looked like she was going to argue for a moment, then her shoulders sagged in defeat. "Okay," she said. "The sheets and blankets for the bed are in that closet, and my room is the next one over, if you need anything else."

He smiled softly. "I don't think I will, but thanks for the offer."

She nodded, and turned to the door. He went towards the closet, but a small sound arrested his movements.

"Hotch."

It was barely a whisper; just a breath, really, like the way he had said her name. Her first name.

He turned back to her, and saw her teeth worrying at her lip. She seemed unsure about what to say for a moment, but then there was a split second of defeated shoulder-sagging once more, and she said only, "Thank you."

He fell asleep still wondering what else she had wanted to voice.

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"Hotch! Hotch!"

Her screams woke him as the sky was just beginning to lighten. He exploded from his bed and was throwing open the door before he had even registered moving. When he reached the next door, he didn't even bother knocking; he just threw it open, terrified of what he might find.

She was alone, and still asleep, thrashing violently at a phantom foe her subconscious had brought before her. Immediately, he was at her side and shaking her gently.

"Emily," he called softly. "Emily, wake up."

She was in his arms seconds later, clutching at him and trembling fiercely. He wanted to return the tight embrace, but forced himself to merely place his hands on her back; pressing her into him would just hurt her. It took several minutes for her shaking to subside, by which time he had begun rubbing her back in an effort to soothe her. Her grip loosened, but she didn't let him go.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked softly.

She shook her head. "I—I don't remember much," she replied. The confusion in her voice was sincere. "I just remember…you. You were gone, and…and it was bad." She buried her face in his shoulder, and he restarted the rubbing that had momentarily ceased when she said the dream had been about him.

As he let Emily cling to him, he took the opportunity to look around her room. He told himself that he wasn't profiling her; he was just curious. The walls were lined with bookcases, which were all almost completely full. She had a lot of books on psychology, both criminal and regular, including every single one Rossi had written, but most of her collection consisted of novels and what he suspected were trade volumes of comics. She also had a lot of framed pictures around the room; atop the bookcases, set on her dresser, hung on the walls. They were mostly of members of their team in all sorts of different permutations; there was only one of each of her parents, and the one of her mother looked like it had been newly added.

The one that caught his attention, though, was the only photograph that sat on her bedside table; it was a picture of the two of them, probably the only one of just them, and he knew immediately when it had been taken, though he had never seen it before.

Right after his divorce from Haley, the team had gone out, and Rossi had insisted that he come along. He had, but had at first just sat and watched his team mingle at the bar they had chosen. About midway through his third beer, Prentiss had pulled him out of his chair and onto the dance floor. He remembered not protesting, remembered thinking that they were trying to help him feel better, remembered it beginning to work.

As he looked at the photo, which he figured Garcia had surreptitiously taken, he suddenly realized how happy he looked in it, and he couldn't miss the look of tenderness the camera had caught on Emily's face; a look that was directed at him. And, he realized suddenly, it was being mirrored on the same face, albeit the living, breathing counterpart that wasn't caught forever in a digital image. She had leaned back only moments before, and as her chocolate eyes caught his, he felt his mind and famous self-control surrender to his heart and realize what it had been trying to say.

A/N2: Psh, of course it ends there! You'll have to wait for the next chapter to find out what happens! And remember, happy authors post quickly, and reviews make authors happy!