Author's Note: Wow! You guys are amazing, I've never had this much of an immediate response to a new story. Apparently that opening chapter struck a nerve. If I haven't dropped you a thank you yet, please know it's coming :) And you should know, the incredible response it the only reason I even got this up today. I had three different stories with chapters nearly finished and I decided to focus on this one because I knew I had so many people clamoring for an update :)

Even when I actually get these damn stories sketched out to the end before I start posting, they still end up going off on their own on the final draft. Basically this got a little longer as I was polishing. Plus overall the emotional arc has always been a bit complicated. So the story is now going to be three parts, plus the epilogue. But given that I don't have anywhere else to send them, I don't see it getting any longer than that :) I know if nothing else, this will at least make immananthropologist happy because she was sad this world was wrapping in only two chapters.

As to what transpires in the bathroom, some of you might have been expecting it to go another way. But hopefully it will be clear as they go along why I did what I did. But I'll explain at the end why I handled it that way.

Progression

The guy crouching over her . . . Hotch immediately flashed on his face . . . creepy dance partner number two . . . didn't even have a chance to do more than turn his head before Hotch had slammed it into the plaster wall behind him.

Once . . . twice . . . three times just for good measure.

When Hotch dropped him to the ground, he could see there was blood pouring out of the guy's nose.

Broken.

As he fell, Hotch also could also see fresh fingernail gouges on his cheek and around his eyes.

Those had clearly been left by Emily. And that meant that he'd been too close for her to react with any of her professional training.

That was pure instinct.

Already in a rage, Hotch's anger turned white hot at seeing those marks. And he was about to drop down and beat the fucker into a bloody pulp, when his rational brain stepped up and took control.

It reminded him that there would be time for that in a moment. But first he had to make sure that Emily was okay.

So after he did a quick pat down of the dazed, soon to be dead man on the floor . . . he pulled a switchblade from his pocket . . . Hotch turned back to see Emily pushing herself up off the dirty tile.

Her cheek and eye were swelling, and there was a thin stream of blood running down her face.

The fucker had hit her.

That was the sound Hotch had heard. The one that drove his panic as he ran for the door. It was the familiar 'thwack' of a closed fist connecting with a woman's face.

He'd certainly heard it enough times growing up.

Shoving the knife into his pocket, he hurried over to her. As he put one hand out to steady her arm, he reached up with the other to gently touch her cheek.

"Are you okay?"

His tone was soft as his fingertips glided over her skin. Though she had blood running from the corner of her mouth, and a cut over her eye, it didn't look like anything was broken.

The guy who left these marks was not going to be able to say the same thing when he looked in the mirror tomorrow.

Emily's own hand came up to touch her face, wincing as she actually palpated the spot where she'd been struck the hardest.

Her eye socket seemed to be intact, and given the blinding white pain of a moment ago, that was the thing she'd been most worried about. So with her gaze still on the floor she answered Hotch with a slow nod, "I think so."

She was still feeling a bit dizzy though . . . she swallowed . . . and nauseous.

Hotch stared at her . . . but she wasn't looking at him. His stomach began to sink . . . why wasn't she looking at him?

He'd thought that he'd gotten to her quickly enough. But he really didn't know what had happened before he came through the door. And the longer she looked away, the more terrified he was that he was too late.

So he had to ask the other question . . . though he wasn't sure if he was prepared for her answer.

He had to swallow twice before the words would come out. But finally he managed to whisper, "Emily . . . did he . . .?"

As many thousands of conversations he'd had with victims of assault, this one was the hardest. Because in this moment . . . with her . . . he couldn't even finish the sentence.

Emily's eyes slowly came up to meet his. He could see the pain and the anger and the humiliation all mixing together. For a moment he thought the answer was yes.

And for that split second, he saw nothing in his mind but the blood that he was about to spill on the floor.

His fingers had started to curl into fists . . . when to his undying relief . . . she shook her head.

"No," her jaw twitched, "no he didn't touch me. Not like that."

Her gaze shifted away from his again, this time in embarrassment, "I wasn't paying attention, I didn't realize he'd followed me," she scoffed in disgust, "Christ, I didn't even know anybody else was in the bathroom with me . . . not until he grabbed me when I came out of the stall," she shook her head, "it all happened so quickly. And he was too close to pull back for a punch so I went for his eyes," she looked down at the blood and tissue under her fingernails, "and that was when he hit me."

Pausing for a moment, she winced at the memory of the attack, "he hit me hard," her hand ghosted over her cheek again, "closed fist. I was so stunned that for a second I thought I was going to pass out. And that's when he got the drop and pushed me down," her voice faded, "if you hadn't come in when you did."

If he hadn't come in when he did, she probably would have made a police blotter tonight.

Hotch's expression softened and he spontaneously pulled her into a hug as he whispered, "thank God," before he kissed the top of her head.

Before her mind had a chance to process the kiss, his presence . . . or really anything else that had just happened . . . he'd stepped back. With a hand on the small of her back he guided her over to the sink and steadied her against the vanity, "I need you to stay over here for one second Emily," his gaze hardened as his eyes ran over the marks on her body.

"I'll be right back."

And then he turned back to the man who had attacked her.

His hands curled into fists as he saw the fucker was starting to push himself up off the tile floor. Hotch made his feelings clear on that move with a kick to the ribs.

Even in his rage he remembered to kick down low and on the left side. The crunch was satisfying.

But not as much as the scream that came with it.

As the asshole twisted to the side, Hotch dropped down on top of him. He pinned his body with one hand as he pounded his other fist repeatedly into what he now knew was broken bone.

Her assailant yelped in agony like a wounded animal.

And in Hotch's mind the sound was juxtaposed against the one he'd heard Emily make just before he'd come through the door.

His temper . . . already raging . . . turned another notch up the dial.

If he hadn't been here then she could have been raped by this fucking . . . piece . . . of . . . shit!

Each word in his head was punctuated by another pounding of his fist.

Seeing the fucker was about to pass out from the pain, Hotch stopped with the body slamming and needlessly smashed his fist into the already broken nose.

He'd need surgery to put that back together.

Now panting and bloodied himself, Hotch pushed himself off the floor and stood there looking down at what he'd done.

Often he worried that all of the time he spent chasing monsters, that one of these days he would turn into one himself. Right now he wasn't sure how close he'd come to that line.

To that point of no return.

But he did know that he didn't regret his actions. And he knew that he would do it again in a heartbeat, because this was for her. This was because he'd hurt her.

And that would not be tolerated.

The figure at his feet . . . the handsome man who had been charming women on the dance floor . . . was now a bloody, broken mess. Hotch had taken out his nose and Emily had taken out his eyes. And he was now curled on his side wheezing through his mouth like an emphysema patient.

Good enough.

Hotch's jaw clenched as he turned away from the mess on the floor. And then his eyes snapped over to Emily's.

She was just watching him.

After everything that had just happened . . . after all of the violence she had just seen him inflict on another human being . . . the only expression he saw on her face was confusion.

"How did you know that I was here?"

Not that she wasn't incredibly grateful for his appearance, or for what he'd just done to that asshole. As soon as she'd seen the pounding begin, she'd locked the door before anyone else entered the bathroom.

But now that the moment was over, she couldn't for the life of her figure out how Hotch happened to come flying through the door seconds after she screamed.

For the moment, both her humiliation over what had happened, and even her God awful, mind numbing depression, had been temporarily pushed aside. Now all she was filled with was utter bewilderment.

At the exact moment she was dazed and bleeding on the floor, feeling that those horrible fingers moving up her thigh, she'd actually screamed in her head.

'HOTCH I NEED YOU!'

He was her partner. These past few weeks of distance notwithstanding . . . her closest friend in the world.

It was ingrained for both professional and personal reasons to call out for him when she was in trouble.

And here he was. She'd cried out for him and here he was . . . even though she'd left him back in Quantico hours ago.

'How was that possible?'

His eyes shifted away for a moment before he looked back over guiltily, "I followed you," as her brow darkened he hastened to add the needed apology, "I know. I'm sorry. It was wrong. Though . . ." he looked back to the lump on the floor, "in retrospect it was the right move."

Thank God he'd listened to his instincts and not gone home and left her here alone.

But as he looked back over at her, his only hope was that what had happened just now had mitigated her anger. Because if she was as upset he'd earlier feared that she could be, this might be the end of things between them.

That loss wasn't something he could even contemplate.

So he quickly closed the distance between them, standing in front of her as he pleaded, "please don't be mad Emily. I was just worried about you. I didn't," his emotions started to rise up and he cleared his throat, "well, you won't talk to me anymore. And I know that something's wrong," he reached over and slid his hand down her arm as his voice got husky, "when I saw you come into the office dressed like this I didn't know what else to do. I was afraid you were slipping too far away from me to get you back."

Emily's initial anger over his actions had faded almost instantly. Comparing what he'd done wrong with he'd done right, well, there was no contest.

As strong and capable as she believed herself to be . . . as she knew herself to be . . . she wasn't entirely sure that she would have been able to fight that assault off on her own.

But beyond that, there was also the look on Hotch's face. The emotion in his voice.

He was baring his soul to her.

And he wanted to help her. And she wished so badly that he could. But this wasn't something that he could fix for her.

Her face crumpled as her underlying pain came roaring back . . . nobody could fix this for her.

When she opened her mouth, her voice cracked, "I want to go home," she bit her lip as a sob tried to escape, "please take me home."

She was about to start bawling, and she did not want to do that in the men's room.

His face softened as squeezed her hand, "of course, of course I'll take you home. But first . . ." taking a breath, he turned her around so that she was facing the mirror, "we need to clean up a little."

He wasn't sure if she was ready to tell him her secret, but just her willingness to let him take her home was progress. And as much as he wanted to just run out the door with her now, neither of them could walk out of the club looking the way they did.

She had her own blood on her face and her shirt, and her attacker's blood on her hands. And Hotch . . . he looked down at himself . . . his hands were a mess and he had red splatters on his shirt too.

But the club was dark, hopefully once they washed up the little bit of blood on their clothes wouldn't be noticed.

The asshole on the floor was still breathing, and that was the extent of Hotch's concern for his well being. Though he definitely didn't wish to be involved in any discussions as to how he got into the state that he did.

That would lead to discussions about Emily's actions tonight.

Not that she'd done anything wrong. But Emily was a beautiful woman, and Hotch knew that she'd been noticed. If the two of them were pulled into a police investigation there would be witnesses that would say they saw her dancing earlier with her assailant. And the bartender would say that she was drinking shots and flirting with a half dozen strange men.

Not to mention the outfit she was wearing.

Any opportunity to blame the victim. To say that she was asking for it.

A 'he said she said' would ensue about what had transpired in the bathroom. Whether Emily had been clear . . . after her earlier flirting . . . that she wasn't interested in going any further.

If Hotch had misinterpreted what was happening when he came in on them.

Or even worse, the presumption that Emily HAD been interested and had only lied about it when Hotch arrived so that she could save her reputation in front of her boss.

Over his years working in the criminal justice system Hotch seen every nauseating variation from the defense that it was the woman's fault. That she'd wanted to be pinned down on a urine stained floor as she was raped by a stranger, that she wanted to have her face bashed in, her arm broken, lit cigarettes burned into her breasts.

Criminal defense lawyers deserved their own special section of hell.

And Hotch was not about to let Emily put up with even a moment of that kind of bullshit harassment and humiliation.

So though he was a sworn officer of the law, in this instance he had no intention of filing any reports. If they brought charges, with all of the alcohol and flirting muddying up the waters, most likely the asshole would just get a slap on the wrist.

Not to mention the possibility of a cross complaint against him and Emily. No, no tonight he preferred poetic justice rather than criminal.

But as he looked down to his scraped, bloody knuckles and . . . he cringed as he turned to her . . . the bruises forming on Emily's face and shoulders, he knew that it was possible somebody might notice them as they were leaving.

They were going to have to hurry.

Emily winced at she looked in the mirror . . . great.

Just . . . FUCKING . . . great!

She started washing the blood off of her hands . . . like she needed this now on top of everything else. She wasn't going to be able to hide all of this on Monday. People were going to ask questions.

How was she supposed to explain these marks on her face?

'Oh God! Monday she had to go back to the . . .'

She shook her head . . . it didn't matter. What was done was done. She'd just have to try and cover the marks with makeup.

As Emily dried her hands she looked over at Hotch wetting a soapy paper towel.

At least he wouldn't be asking any questions. He was always the one she was most worried about.

What he thought of her. And God knows right now he must think that she's a complete fool.

And why wouldn't he?

She'd been so stupid tonight. Not only was she out by herself without her gun . . . though she wasn't sure if Hotch realized that yet . . . but she'd gone to the men's room alone. Alone.

What an idiot.

And that was after she'd lost track of that asshole she'd been dancing with earlier. He'd given her the creeps, she'd known that there was something wrong with him, and still she'd gone off by herself.

If she'd been paying attention like she should have been then she would have known that he was following her.

God . . . she swallowed . . . she was so lucky that Hotch had come along when he did.

As though he could hear her thoughts . . . that she was thinking about him . . . Hotch put his hand on her jaw. A second later he reached up and began gently wiping the sticky blood from her cheek.

Though she could have done it herself, she didn't mind that he was taking care of her. Under any other circumstances, it would actually be kind of nice.

Her eyes burned . . . but these were pretty shitty circumstances.

God, what was he going to say when she told him why she'd been out alone tonight? Because she knew that there was no way that he was going to let this one go. He'd been patient with her these past few weeks, but him following her to the club said volumes about how desperate he was becoming for answers.

But . . . the tears pooled . . . she still didn't know what words to use.

Seeing Emily's eyes watering, Hotch immediately stopped what he was doing. And as he pulled his hand back he asked worriedly, "am I hurting you?"

She shook her head slowly, "no . . . no, it's okay. I've just . . ." she bit her lip as her eyes dropped, "I've just had a bad day."

What a silly thing to say. She'd been smacked around and ended bleeding on a dirty men's room floor. Possibly minutes away from becoming a vic in somebody else's case files. And she boiled it all down to . . . bad day.

Talk about understatements. And really though . . . beyond that . . . it wasn't just a bad day, it was a bad week.

A bad month.

Pick one to fill in the blank. They all worked.

But putting all of those weeks together on top of what happened today, yeah . . . the tears started to run down her face . . . perhaps this day did rank a little higher on the suck factor than the others did.

It wasn't just that she was crying that made Hotch's chest hurt. As bad as that was, as bad as this whole night was . . . there was more.

There was a reason that she was here in this bar alone, a reason she'd ended up bleeding on this bathroom floor.

And he still didn't know what that reason was.

Now her mascara was running. To him, the smears of color on her cheeks made her look like a child. As though she had stolen her mother's makeup bag and painted her face without knowing what she was doing.

It was breaking his heart.

He tentatively reached out to her, and when she just stood there he pulled her into his arms.

Then he just held her close, waiting for her to realize that she was okay. That she wasn't alone.

That he would never leave her.

Even though he could feel the tension in her limbs, he didn't let go. Letting go would be the worst thing that he could do. Like he'd made as much effort as he was going to make, and he was done helping her.

Done trying to reach her.

Hotch knew then that he would never be done trying to reach her. That he would never just walk away and call it a life.

She was too important to him for that ever to be an option.

And as he held her in his arms he wanted so badly to ask what was going on. To ask why she was in this club alone, why she was dressed the way she was, why she'd been doing shots and dancing with strangers.

But they had no time for those questions now.

They had to get going. And there was clearly too much to discuss in the few moments that they had. She'd kept this to herself for weeks. She'd been withdrawn and depressed, that had been obvious. Now tonight he'd seen that depression had extended out to carelessness with her own safety.

He just hoped that tonight was the first night that anyone had tried to hurt her.

'Tried to rape her.'

The correction immediately came to him.

There would no euphemisms about what he'd almost walked in on here tonight. His fingers curled into her back as he looked at the still unconscious body on the floor.

The fucker had tried to rape her.

It was possible that she could have fought him off on her own. Or that she could have maybe gotten to her weapon. But given her position when he came in . . . prone, dazed and almost unconscious . . . the odds were slim. At the very least, even if she had stopped the rape on her own, she would have ended up taken a serious beating in the process.

Either way, the photos in his mind . . . the bad thing he'd been terrified of happening . . . it would have become reality.

And if she'd been out dressed like this every weekend since her depression had begun . . . perhaps more than just Friday nights . . . then she had to have run into more than one douchebag. And he wanted so badly to ask her if this was the first time this had happened.

But he knew that would be selfish.

He just wanted her to allay his own fears, but that wasn't going to do anything for her.

No . . . he gently rubbed her back . . . if he wanted her to trust him again, to tell him what was wrong, then he needed to be patient. Be patient and let her go at her own pace.

For the first time in weeks he felt like she was within reach, that maybe she would confide in him again.

And with her this close, he couldn't do anything to screw that up.

Suddenly he felt her body relax as she leaned against his chest. He felt a flood of relief . . . thank you God. It was working. He was getting through to her.

He bent his head down and pulled her in closer. Though part of his brain was screaming that they had to go, had to leave before someone came in, or the guy woke up again, Hotch just wanted to hold her for one more second.

To solidify this connection.

And he was so glad that he did, because a moment later he heard her murmur against his chest, "I've missed you."

When he'd first pulled her into his arms she'd tried so hard to keep inside the little wall she'd built between them. Then she realized it was pointless, he clearly wasn't going to leave her alone now.

And she was just making herself miserable.

So after she admitted that truth to him, how much she missed him, she closed her eyes and pretended that everything was normal. That the world was okay, and that she and Hotch did this all the time.

The reality was . . . everything was far from okay. And that as much as she wished it were true . . . they didn't do this all the time. Emotionally they were close, but they weren't usually this demonstrative.

And these last few weeks . . . in every possible way . . . they couldn't have been further apart.

Even though she knew the distance between them was her own fault, she'd still been missing him every day. It was a steady ache in her chest. She knew that he was just a few feet away . . . but she didn't know how to talk to him anymore.

She didn't know what to say.

But as she felt the strength in his embrace, she couldn't remember why she had started avoiding him at all. She knew that there was a reason, but it wouldn't come to her.

Not with his body wrapped around her this way.

At her words Hotch heart clenched again. And he leaned back slightly to look down at her with a sad smile, "I've missed you too," he tucked her hair back behind her ear as he whispered, "I've missed you so much Emily. And I just want to help you. So when we get to your house, will you please," he begged, "please, tell me what's going on?"

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes filling with tears again, and then she nodded.

"Okay," her voice was soft, "okay, I'll tell you when we get home."

This wasn't a now or never situation. Most likely she was going to have to tell him within a few weeks anyway. To say no tonight would simply be avoiding the inevitable.

And after everything he'd done for her, he did deserve to know the truth.

He breathed a sigh of relief, "thank you," he kissed her forehead before he cradled her close again, "thank you Emily."

His eyes shifted over her head as he continued speaking, "now we have to get going before he wakes up and we have questions to answer."

Emily turned slightly in Hotch's arms so that she could see the figure on the floor.

His breathing was so raspy a terrible thought suddenly came to her. She looked up at Hotch worriedly, "do you think he's got a punctured lung?"

Not that she cared if he did, or really even in principle if he died. But if they left him with an injury like that he could drown in his own blood.

And Hotch gave him that beating for her. The consequences for him would be severe if the prick died.

Standing behind her, Hotch rubbed his hands down Emily's arms as he shook his head, "no, he'll be fine. The ribs I broke were low. The pain was enough to make him pass out but the internal damage isn't enough to kill him."

If there was anything Hotch knew was from his childhood, it was where to pound on the human body to inflict the most pain and the least serious damage.

Her brow furrowed as she looked up at him, "but what about his breathing?"

It sounded awful.

Hotch huffed, "that's his nose. But his mouth's open," he gave a dismissive shake of his head as he reached over and grabbed another paper towel from the rack, "trust me, but I'm sad to say that he'll live."

Of course if Hotch had walked in five minutes later, the guy would not have had the same prognosis.

Hotch wet the second paper towel almost two minutes after he wet the first one, and then he turned back around and began cleaning up Emily's face again.

Now getting not only the blood, but the smeared makeup as well. Once that was done he looked her over.

His jaw started grinding again as he saw the swelling around her eye and the red welts that had formed on her arms from where she'd been grabbed.

If he wasn't sure that he really would kill him, Hotch would have happily gone over and beaten the shit out of the bastard again.

A dead body is a lot of paperwork though. Especially when you've just killed a man who was basically unconscious. And therefore not really in a position to have been defending himself at the time of the beating.

Even with those considerations though . . . Hotch's gaze hardened . . . he was still tempted.

Seeing the look on Hotch's face, Emily reached up and touched his cheek as she whispered, "hey, look at me. I'm okay. Remember, he didn't touch me. You got here in time."

Whatever was going through his head right then, it was bad. And she wasn't about to let her reckless behavior tonight lead to similarly foolish behavior from him.

Hotch dropped his gaze to hers, feeling her hand on his cheek and her touch soothing his temper.

He reached up and took her hand from his face, kissing her palm as he nodded, "right."

And then he moved past his anger, beginning to think clearly again as he turned towards the sinks, "we need to leave now." He quickly washed his hands, wincing slightly as the hot water stung his abraded knuckles.

After he was done he turned to Emily, "okay," he reached for her, "come on."

He really wished he had his jacket with him to wrap around her. He hated that outfit. But they weren't going far so he just tucked her under his arm, unlocked the bathroom door and stepped into the hall.

As they started down the back corridor, she slipped her arm around his waist and turned her face into his chest. He wasn't sure if it was just to cover her bruises, or if that made her feel better.

But either way . . . it made him feel better.

When they turned the corner and walked past the ladies room, Hotch saw a man walking towards them. There was nothing else behind them but the men's room so that was clearly where he was heading.

Fortunately the light wasn't that bright, so Hotch just dropped his head down, kissing the top of Emily's head as they passed him in the hall.

It was a good way of covering his face. And hers was already shielded.

After they were clear he moved them double time through the crowd on the dance floor, and then quickly out the front door.

They were cuddled together so the bouncers didn't even give them a second look. It was the people going in that were on their radar, not the canoodling couples on their way out.

Once they were on the street, after her behavior of the past few weeks, Hotch wouldn't have been surprised if she'd pulled her body away from his. But if anything she seemed to cling to him even more tightly.

Apparently what had happened tonight in the bathroom had broken down whatever wall she'd built up between them. And in place of that wall, there now seemed to be a bridge between them instead.

For that he was grateful beyond words. His only regret was that things had to have gone as far as they did for that to happen.

It was after midnight, but well before last call so they wasn't much traffic in the street. They were able to cross quickly without going to the light at the intersection.

When they got to the car he went around to her side and opened the door. He threw his tie into the backseat, but picked up his jacket and wrapped it around her.

She looked up at him for a moment and then she gave him a sad smile right before she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you."

She'd thought that once they were outside he would have yelled at her for being so stupid. Given that she hadn't actually joined the ranks of their sexual assault victims, he wouldn't have been an ogre if he'd told her how foolish she'd been tonight.

And he would have been right. He would have been completely justified in reprimanding her.

But instead . . . he was just being really sweet.

Hotch patted her cheek gently as he whispered back, "I'm just glad you're okay."

Or at least he hoped that she was okay. All he knew for sure was she hadn't been raped tonight. Beyond that . . . he took her hand and helped her into the car . . . there was still much to talk about.

After she was safely inside, he shut the door and hurried around to the driver's side. Just as he slid the key into the ignition he heard sirens.

His handiwork in the bathroom had been discovered.

Emily's fingernails dug into his knee and he immediately covered her hand with his. Then he turned to give her a little smile, "it's fine Emily. I told you, he looks like hell, but he'll live. And he never saw me coming so he sure as hell isn't going to remember who hit him. Plus it's going to be obvious to any doctor or police officer who looks at him, and sees the scratch marks on his face that it was a woman who was fighting him off. He's going to be in serious shit if he opens his mouth and even begins to try to explain what happened in that bathroom. So we," he began backing the car up the street so he could turn around, "are going to go back to your place, we're going to take some pictures of your bruises as an insurance policy, and then we're going to put the whole thing behind us."

Then a thought came to him and he glanced over at her worriedly, "unless you don't want to put it behind us. If you want to talk about it, you know I'll listen."

As he was now driving, he reached over blindly with his hand as he shot her another look, "you do know that right? That I'll always listen if you want to talk?"

They both knew he wasn't just talking about tonight. And she grabbed his hand, winding her fingers through his as she whispered, "I know that. And I promise that's not why I've been so distant. It wasn't you."

At his sigh of relief she addressed his more direct question, "and no, I don't think I need to talk about what happened again. We covered it in the bathroom. And really, he left less marks on me than the last UNSUB we chased down did."

Emily had tackled him just before Morgan and Hotch came around opposite corners. Before the guys had gotten there she'd had the UNSUB subdued. But in the process she'd also taken an elbow to the face, a kick to the shoulder and a punch to the gut. Hotch had helped her up off the ground, and then he'd allowed Morgan to take the prisoner the long way around to the SUV.

By the time they caught up with them again, the UNSUB . . . the pedophile . . . he was crying. But beyond that, he had no more marks on him than the ones that Emily had left when she was defending herself. Whatever Morgan had said though . . . it had been enough to terrify him.

And it pained her to realize that the guys had done that for her even though at that point, she'd barely spoken two words to either of them in a week.

It wasn't about them though . . . her eyes started to sting again as she reminded herself . . . it was about her. She'd been so depressed, but that didn't mean it was okay to shut them out.

She felt Hotch's fingers entwined with hers . . . to shut him out.

This whole time she'd known that she was hurting him, that he didn't understand her distance. And still she'd said nothing to him.

And tonight he'd possibly risked his career for her. The man had risked his career just to get justice . . . vengeance . . . for an attack that he'd already thwarted.

This would be one of the reasons why she fell in love with him. Not that he knew that either. That was another secret she was keeping from him. Another thing that she didn't know how to tell him.

But it might be too late for that anyway.

She lifted his hand up, kissing the back of his knuckles before she whispered, "I just don't want you to get into any trouble."

His face softened as he looked over at her, "don't worry, I won't."

They rode the rest of the way in silence, Emily continuing to clutch his hand in her lap as he drove to her apartment.

By the time they arrived at her home it was after one. And he knew that it was generally too late for a talk . . . especially a heart to heart . . . but he really wasn't leaving until they'd had one.

Too much had happened tonight. Too much could have happened tonight. And he couldn't risk losing all of the progress he'd made in getting her back again. Because it was possible that in the light of the new day that she might decide that she didn't want to tell him her secret.

And then they'd back to where they were this morning. No hugs, no hand holding.

Just that cold, gaping maw between them.

Hotch parked in her visitor's spot and they sat there for a moment, the car ticking as it cooled down. Then he turned to her, "wait for me for one second," he squeezed her hand, "okay?"

He knew that she was more than capable of getting out of his car without any assistance, but he was feeling a little protective at the moment. And it was the middle of the night.

If she could get jumped in the bathroom of a crowded bar, then a deserted parking lot at one in the morning really wasn't doing anything for his level of comfort about her safety.

She looked at him and then nodded slowly, "okay."

It was a simple request that would make him happy. So why fight him?

After squeezing her hand one last time, Hotch got out of the car. Then he leaned down to take his other weapon from the lockbox. He slid it onto his hip before he put the box back under the seat and shut the door. And only then did he circle around the car and help Emily out.

Even though he was wearing the Glock, for some reason he didn't want to leave his pistol in the car. He knew that his nerves really must have been shot to hell tonight if he was still this jumpy.

As they walked towards her building, he again tucked her under his arm, holding her close to his body.

If she was going to allow the contact then he was going to go with it. The one thing he'd learned over the past few weeks was not to take anything for granted. If she ever pulled away from him like that again . . . he kissed her temple . . . he really wasn't sure how well his heart would take it.

That was a conversation that they needed to have at some point. The 'I've fallen in love with you' conversation. But that was of course after he found out what was going on with her.

One thing at a time.

They got up to her apartment, and as they stood by the door his hand slipped off of her shoulder so that she could get out her key.

She pulled it from a small zippered pocket in her skirt.

A thought came to him then, and his eyes widened as they ran over her body.

Her tank top was skin tight and left nothing to the imagination, nor did the skirt. It stopped at least three inches above her knee. And that's when he realized . . . there was no room for her holster.

She wasn't wearing her gun.

They wore their weapons everywhere, so he had just assumed it was under her skirt. It hadn't even occurred to him that she wasn't wearing it. But now that he knew that she wasn't carrying it, his temper flared up out of nowhere.

It was the first time that he'd been angry with her since he'd seen her allowing herself to be touched by that first strange man.

Of course he wasn't upset because she'd violated protocol. No, he was upset because she'd gone out unarmed and alone into the city.

But as they stepped inside her apartment the anger didn't manifest itself in the yelling that he would have thought.

Instead, as soon as he hit the deadbolt he turned and picked her up, holding her tightly to his chest as he whispered fiercely, "what were you THINKING going out without your weapon?"

He sucked in his breath as all of the horrible scenarios he'd thought of earlier, came rushing at him again, "what if I hadn't been there? What would you have done?"

And he realized then that was why he was so angry.

Until that moment, a small part of him had clung to the belief that she would have been able to fight off that attack by herself. That his presence tonight hadn't been an imperative to preventing her from becoming a victim. That even if she'd taken the beating, that somehow maybe she would have been able to get her hands on her weapon.

The reality was that she had absolutely nothing to protect herself with . . . she would have been screwed.

That's when he felt her warm tears on his neck as she clung to him, "I know. It was stupid," her voice cracked, "it was so stupid. And I'm sorry, but please don't be angry with me," a sob broke free, "on top of everything else I couldn't bear that right now Aaron."

At the exhaustion and sadness in her voice, his anger washed away again.

It was like the tide. All of the emotions he never allowed himself to feel, they were now beating against the rocks.

He hoisted her up, wrapping her up more tightly in his arms as he whispered, "shh don't cry. I'm not angry. But I'm worried Emily . . . I'm so worried about you," he reluctantly lowered her back to the ground, holding her close as he looked down at her, "what is going on with you? What is so bad that you made that many serious mistakes with your safety tonight," he gently brushed her tears away, "you were reckless Emily. And that's not like you. It's almost like you didn't even care if you got hurt."

And that terrified him.

Still crying, she shook her head, "no, that's not it. I do care. I . . ." she sniffled, "I just wasn't thinking. I just haven't been thinking clearly lately," she wiped her eyes, "but I promise you Aaron, I wasn't deliberately putting myself in harm's way."

Though she knew her behavior tonight had been irresponsible, she'd like to think she'd never get to that point. That no matter how bad things were, that she'd ever want to deliberately hurt herself.

Feeling the smallest bit of his tension leave him, he nodded slowly, "okay," he kissed her forehead, "okay, that makes me feel a little better."

At least she wasn't that self destructive. But he still couldn't get those horrible images out of his head, so he hugged her again. As he felt her tears drying on his shirt, he rubbed her back, "so what is it Emily? What is it that's had you twisted in knots these past few weeks? What is it that had you so distracted that you left the house without your weapon? That you were drinking alone in a bar?"

His voice started to get husky. But he didn't care anymore that he was wearing his emotions on his sleeve.

All he cared about was her. And the more the more she touched him . . . the more familiar he was allowed to be with her . . . the harder it was to ignore his feelings for her.

If he didn't find out soon what was going on with her he was going to go nuts.

Emily leaned back, her face sticky from her tears. She sniffed, this was it . . . no more evasions. No more avoidance. He'd just asked her a lot of direct questions. But what was the best way to give him the answers that he wanted?

She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his lips. As she pulled back he saw her looking at her quizzically. And why wouldn't he? That wasn't exactly an answer to anything.

At least not an answer that he'd understand right now.

So reached over and took his hand, squeezing his fingers before she looked up at him again.

"I need to show you something."

A/N 2: As to the degree of violence in the bathroom and to not calling the police to report her attack. Whether or not you agreed with it, hopefully it all made sense. At least through their eyes. They live in a violent world. You spend enough time watching people slip through the cracks, knowing the humiliation that the victim suffers at the hands of the system is worse than anything really that happens to the perpetrators, you're going to just do what needs to be done and walk away.

So I think, given Hotch's temper and intensity, the things he's seen, that it's completely in character that he would have reacted the way that he did. In this story anyway, given his feelings for her. There's also some discussion for season 5 to go back to that question which he asked himself here, and has come up on the show before, if you can chase monsters and not become one yourself. I don't presently have any more deep discussion in the story as it relate to his actions in the bathroom. But, it's possible that I might end up addressing the question again on the final draft. One thing I will be addressing is their decision to leave the way they did. So, if you have concerns there, don't yell at me yet. The story isn't over :) Hell, you guys don't even know what's up with her yet! Originally the story was just supposed to be what was up with her, it wasn't supposed to be all of this other moral quandary stuff.

And though I usually would have let Emily get a few more licks in there (sorry paksiegurlie – meant to get back to you), I needed her carelessness to have real consequences to make an impression on her. So, though I'm generally of the opinion of letting her look after herself, I needed for Hotch to be all alpha 'big strong man' here. This is a short story, and it was the only way that the wall she'd built up between them was going to crumble that quickly. The averted tragedy had to have been clear to her. But to balance that out, I did add in the story with her taking their last UNSUB out all by herself.

One last note there, given how quickly Hotch took a beatdown in the season opener, as I was writing that scene, it seemed entirely plausible that Emily, with a similar blow to the head that he took, would have hit the deck just as quickly. So, really, at that point I felt better about letting him play hero. It should be seen that rather than making her look damsely here, she's just taking the same punishment that Hotch did. It's just unfortunate for Hotch in canon that Emily didn't come smashing through his front door in the same fashion that he did here for her.

I'll get chapter 3 up sometime this week. Perhaps, with proper motivation, for the now regular Wednesday new episode, posting.