What we call life is a journey to death.

What we call death is the gateway to life.

—Anonymous

Chapter Two: Burning

Everything burned. Hotch hadn't known dying burned so badly. Surely he hadn't really done anything to deserve this heat. Or this darkness.

Of course, his eyes were closed. He didn't think he had the strength to open them. He didn't even have the strength to call out for help. And he didn't think he could, anyway. The second bullet had punctured his lung, he was aware enough to know that. Two bullets, one to the chest, one to the thigh. Before he could even react, Foyet had him. And he'd already removed his own weapon. Stood there defenseless in his own apartment.

Maybe he did deserve this fire, for being so damned careless. Hadn't Elle been attacked in her own home? Hadn't Jason had an UNSUB in his own house? Hadn't Penelope been shot in her own courtyard? Stupid. He'd been stupid. Maybe they'd put that on his headstone. "Here lies stupid."

Someone was knocking on his skull again. Then there were words. A voice.

A voice he knew. Not Foyet. Hotch felt hope. Prentiss. Emily Maureen Prentiss, age…how old was Prentiss? Hotch wondered idly, caught half between unconsciousness and burning. She was younger than him, he knew that. But not by much.

Funny, that he'd be dying and thinking of Agent Emily Prentiss in his last moments. Weird, that. Considering he'd never really thought of Agent Emily Prentiss when at home before. Not really. Nothing specific. So why when he was dying, did he imagine he heard her voice calling his name? Saying she was coming through his door?

Weird.

He shifted slightly, pain causing his body to writhe, to spasm. An involuntary cry escaped. No, he wasn't going to cry and whimper. Hotch was going to die with dignity.

HPHPHPHPPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

The cry was all it took. Emily shoved the detective unceremoniously out of her way, and with one practiced kick, knocked Hotch's door open. Then it was her releasing an involuntary cry. "Hotch!"

At first she thought he was dead, eyes staring lifelessly in her direction. And then he blinked. And then he…laughed. The sound light and almost missed. She was on her knees beside him, immediately. She vaguely heard the detective calling for a bus to Hotch's address. She sent a silent prayer to a God she rarely spoke to that the ambulance would arrive in time. "Hotch, where? Who?"

"Em..ly? Pren..ss? You're real?"

"Hotch. Where were you hit?" She pulled the suit coat back, trying to trace the source of the blood. She grabbed a pillow from the nearby couch, using it to press against the wound. Blood soon obliterated the cartoon character printed on it.

It must have been his son's. She'd never met the little boy, but she knew she'd never forget watching blood erase the face of Mickey Mouse, as his daddy bled and bled. "Oh, god, Hotch. Who did this?"

"Foyet…is he…here?" Hotch was partially with her, she realized that quickly. She almost wished he would pass out, he had to be in pain. He had to.

Emily had been shot once, in St. Louis. She knew what it felt like. Oh, God, Hotch.

"No. He's gone. I think I passed him in the hallway." She kept her words soothing, tried to suppress a shudder as she recalled just exactly what Foyet was capable of.

"He didn't…hurt…you?"

"No, sir. He didn't. He hurt you." Emily tried to keep the pressure on his chest steady while the detective—she didn't even know his name—worked on the hole in Hotch's leg. "I didn't realize it was him, I'm sorry."

"Not sorry. Shouldn't be. You never met him, never saw him. Which was good. He'd have hurt you…or JJ. Just to watch Morgan…and me….hurt." Hotch was more lucid than Emily could believe. And every inch the profiler. "Need to call Morgan. He knows where he lives."

"Yes. I need to make sure you're ok, first." Emily kept one hand on the pillow, the other pulled Hotch's cell from her pocket.

Thank God she'd grabbed his phone. If she hadn't, would he have bled to death? Would his body have been found when he didn't show up for work Monday morning? Or worse, would his ex and his son have found him this weekend? God, that poor little boy.

She spent less than a minute on the phone with Derek, confirming that he was ok, and that he'd remain on alert. And that he'd gather the rest of the team. It went unsaid that they were going hunting. Foyet would not get away with this.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Killing someone always made him…burn. Burn for sex. It was the only time he actually wanted it, the only time he actually enjoyed it. Knowing he'd just taken a life, and by his actions he could, if he so chose, create a life. Foyet found that to be one hell of a turn on.

The bitch in the stairs had smelled nice, had looked nice, as well. He'd seen her before, but he couldn't remember where. He'd like to see her again, with a lot less clothes, and one less gun. He hadn't missed the weapon resting on her hip.

Hey may have seen her around while he'd been following Hotchner, learning his routine, his address. Had the bitch been a part of the group that Hotchner had worked with?

Was she a member of his hallowed team, maybe?

That would be interesting. He'd never stalked anyone before, other than Hotchner but…if she were a part of the team, what would it do to Supervisory Special Agent Morgan to know he'd not only killed Hotchner, but had the bitch as well?

Foyet loved a challenge.

He heard the sirens, wondered who they'd been called for. Had a neighbor heard the shots and called for help? Had she found Hotchner? Was she there to…visit…him? Was she screwing Hotchner?

He'd not seen any indication that Hotchner had a girl. In the weeks that he'd watched him Hotchner had worked…or visited his kid.

Foyet didn't mess with kids, otherwise he'd have gone that route with Hotchner. But kids…they weren't a challenge. Hotchner's ex wasn't must of a challenge, either. He'd watched her for a few days, too. But she was missing something that his other victims had all had. They'd all had a spark that Hotchner's ex just couldn't claim.

But that brunette, he'd seen the spark in her eyes. That's why he'd wanted to screw her. He'd considered it, considered pushing their meeting in the stairs. Considered flirting, hitting on her. Convincing her to go for a drink with him.

She'd have been a challenge. He knew that. It was only when she'd touched her gun, drew his attention to the fact that she wouldn't be an easy lay that made him stop and reconsider.

The EMTs were inside, and he casually leaned against the building across the street. Just to watch. He knew he blended in to the crowd that was forming slowly. Ambulances always drew the morbid. He knew that intimately.

Less than five minutes passed before the EMTs returned, pushing a stretcher with none other than Hotchner himself strapped to it.

She walked at his side, clinging to his hand.

Foyet's decision was made.

He'd have her.

And then he'd kill her.

And then he'd return for Hotchner.

Everything else he'd planned could wait.