CHAPTER ONE: BEGIN AT THE BEGINNING

Emily entered the office an hour early, as per her usual, and glanced for a very brief moment at the files on her desk. They could wait, and they would, she decided. Her morning sessions with Hotch had become so vital to her routine that, at this point, she didn't know that she could make it through a week without them. She enjoyed seeing the man slightly more at ease, and she liked knowing that if he needed anything, especially after everything that had happened with Haley, he knew that he could come to her.

At least, he seemed like he understood that, and Emily dearly hoped that he did.

She knocked on the frame of the open door, despite knowing that he left it open for her. Hotch usually worked some before she arrived, and he drove through that work with such intensity that Emily often felt obligated to somehow announce her presence for fear of startling him.

"Good morning," he offered, a small smile tilting the corners of his mouth upward as he set his pen down and closed the manila folder on his desk.

"Don't know if I'd call it good, but Lord, it certainly is morning, isn't it?" She laughed wryly, and handed him the cup of coffee that she held in her left hand.

Hotch raised a brow, but remained silent. He obligingly accepted the coffee as he watched her toe off her heels and make herself comfortable in the corner of the couch, her own cup of liquid caffeine resting on the floor below.

"Anything you want to talk about?" He eventually asked.

Emily made a soft humming noise in the back of her throat, leaning her head against the arm of the sofa, resting her eyes for a moment. Hotch knew that these were the moments where she let her guard down the most, and he also knew that he was very privileged to be one of the few who she trusted so implicitly that she was willing to do that in his presence.

"Nothing to talk about," she said amicably. "Just tired, really."

"You didn't leave until late last night," Hotch reasoned.

"I was helping JJ," Emily replied, nothing but fondness in her voice. "She was swamped. And you didn't leave until after I did, so I shouldn't be any more exhausted than you are."

Hotch laughed gently, and said, "I'm a self-diagnosed insomniac, if it makes you feel any better."

"It doesn't," she murmured softly, but the silent extension of strength that only she conveyed so well clung to her words and carried her voice across the room. Her eyes had peeked open, and they appeared solemn and worried as they patiently waited for him to respond. When he didn't, because he wasn't quite sure how to adequately respond to such an intimate show of concern, she tendered a smile, and closed her eyes again.

"How are you, Hotch?"

He deliberated over his response. He did every morning. Sometimes, he wasn't sure if he wanted to tell her exactly how poorly he was doing. Sometimes, he just liked to reassure himself that when he talked, she would listen. But Emily didn't seem to mind; she continued to ask him every morning because she was genuinely concerned. He knew she liked it better when he answered truthfully, or when he would outright admit that he just didn't want to talk about it, but sometimes he still felt like he should lie to her.

Hotch often felt like she took on too much of the weight that he carried. Hell, Hotch often felt like she took on the weight of the world. He knew she absolutely abhorred seeing others hurt, especially those she cared about, but no matter how talented she was at compartmentalizing, there were only so many emotions and troubles that one person could carry.

"Surviving," Hotch decided lightly. He'd be honest today; besides, all of his answers were decent ones this morning, so she wouldn't have very much to take on because of them.

"Yeah?" It was, technically, phrased as a question, but the easy smile on the edges of Emily's lips told him that she believed him without the reaffirmation of his answer.

"Yeah," he affirmed anyway.

"And Jack?" He watched as her brow furrowed anxiously, just above her still-closed eyelids.

"He's enjoying the time he gets to spend with Jessica, and he likes that I come home for dinner," Hotch replied. There was a surge of easiness and pride in his voice, Hotch was sure, derived from the fact that, thus far at least, he had successfully managed to perform his job adequately while simultaneously pleasing his son.

"That's so great, Hotch," her voice was laced with relief.

"I thought so, too," Hotch said, smiling at her when her drowsy eyes fluttered open. "Are you sure you're alright, Emily?"

"Mhmm," she replied easily.

Hotch considered things for a moment, and surreptitiously checked his watch. He wanted to let her sleep, right there on his couch, but there was something terribly domestic (and therefore something a little unsettling) about her napping while he made notes in the margins of his files.

Emily saved him the trouble of having to make a decision. She forced herself upward, lifting her coffee and taking a long pull from the still steaming liquid. With great reluctance, and a brief glance of shared disgruntlement, she sighed and slid from his office.

Hotch returned to his own work as she traipsed down the stairs to the bullpen. He wondered briefly at the fact that no goodbyes were exchanged, and no other segues were needed to transition from her all but falling asleep on his couch to leaving his office altogether. The thought was so fleeting, however, that he was buried in paperwork before he came up with any reason why that should be abnormal.

He didn't get as much paperwork completed as he'd planned to, though. He'd spent much of the day on the phone, dealing with higher-ups intent on performing evaluations on his team. Hotch didn't mind if his team was interrogated on their methods; they could all hold their own fairly well in front of Strauss or anyone else who was thrown at them. The problem arose when the evaluations extended into the field. That made the team nervous. It made him nervous. Under conditions like those, it was hard to perform your best work, and on cases like the ones they handled, their best work was really the only acceptable kind.

And after half a day of speaking with people who, Hotch was sure, wanted nothing other than to see their unit fail, he was exhausted. He bowed his head and rested it in the palm of his hand, kneading at the stress wrinkles that he knew were present. The voice that chattered in his ear was entirely too irritating.

JJ's appearance moments later was a relief, as far as Hotch was concerned. She smiled at him sympathetically, and he nodded his head, appreciating her condolences and indicating that she should have a seat.

"No, sir, that's not what I'm saying… Yes, sir… I'll have to get back to you… Yes. Thank you very much." He placed the phone back in its cradle, aggravated. All he wanted was to introduce his head to the wooden plane of his desk, but that would be both unprofessional and pointless, and it certainly wouldn't have helped the migraine that had eased its way in sometime earlier that morning.

"That sounded lovely," JJ intoned lightly, earning a blank glare from her unit chief. She laughed shortly, but she sobered soon after. "I'm afraid I don't have anything that's going to improve your day."

"What is it?" He obediently inquired.

She held up a file, much like the closed one that he'd been desperately trying to return to all morning long. "It's a doozy," she informed. "There's been a series of murders in New York, all of them involving politicians."

Politicians meant press, unfortunately, but JJ was very talented at her job, and if anyone could handle this sort of publicity, it was Agent Jennifer Jareau. He stood, and gestured for her to do the same. Collecting the file and taking it with them, they slipped through the door of his office.

"I need the BAU team to gather in the conference room immediately," Hotch announced, his pace quick and efficient, his tone urgent and brooking no arguments.

When they'd all gathered, he gave his approval for JJ to start. She picked up the remote to the screen, and pushed a few buttons before she began.

"Five politicians have been murdered within New York City in as many weeks," JJ said, and as she spoke, she pressed the remote. Five pictures of brutalized victims immediately followed her statement.

"Murdered?" Morgan snorted incredulously. "These guys look like they were slaughtered, to me."

The unit chief raised his chin in acknowledgment, and allowed the team a moment to sift through and accept the information that they had been handed.

"Talk about an angry killing," Emily said wryly.

JJ made a small sound in agreement. "This was Victor Tin, a state representative," JJ proceeded, pointing to the first picture on the left, and continuing to list the victims. "This was Adam Crand; he was a judge who lived and worked in the city. Walter Vick worked for the DA's office. Jaron Farth was a high-power attorney, who mostly only took cases for politician's kids – you know, dealing with the yacht accidents or drug scandals that shouldn't be released to the press; in the city, these kids are usually minor celebrities. And then there's Dr. Mike Lavor, the Commissioner of Health.

"Each of them was sodomized with some sort of metal pipe before they were beaten, stabbed, and eviscerated. The ME says that the victims most likely died before or during the process of removing the internal organs. The UNSUB left each of the bodies in some sort of construction site, but the site varies, obviously. Each time, there's been some sort of foundation for whatever building is being plotted out; on the walls, or on the floor, or somewhere on the scene, this had been written near each of the victims' bodies," she paused, clicking the remote once more.

"We did this?" Rossi read aloud, confused. The words were spelled in what was clearly blood, and were written in all capital letters.

JJ nodded. "The NYPD is at a loss. Most of the team is reluctant to call us in, but they've run out of leads, and the media is hounding them for answers."

Reid's brows furrowed together in confusion. "The amount of bloodshed and the number of wounds in the bodies indicate that these were uncontrolled crimes, committed out of rage. Generally, that should lead us to believe that the UNSUB would be disorganized, but as crazy as it sounds, this looks very meticulous."

"How do you figure?" Emily asked.

"There are many injuries and lacerations that appear as though they could be the cause of death. But look at the wrists and the neck. The UNSUB didn't touch either of those areas."

"Okay," Derek said slowly. "So what does that mean, Reid?"

"In a human, the veins that are closest to the surface are located in the neck and wrists. These are the veins that would most likely lead to exsanguination, and therefore the quickest death," Reid explained.

"So he wanted them to suffer," Emily deduced.

"We'll talk about it more on the plane," Hotch declared firmly. "Wheels up in half an hour."

Author's Note:

Guys, I have to thank you. I don't think I ever expected as much feedback as I received, especially not when this is my first fic in this area. I hope the second chapter didn't disappoint!
Please continue to review!