Penelope Garcia had a few set rituals that she did every night before sleeping, no matter where she was sleeping. Penelope prayed, nightly, to the highest power, to keep her family safe—Morgan and Emily, JJ and Reid, even Hotch and Rossi. Tonight she prayed to God that He remove whatever it was shoved up Hotch's rear and have the supervisor apologize to Emily first thing in the morning.

Penelope had never been so angry at her supervisor in all the time she'd known him. Emily so did not need work strife right now. Not after everything the girl had been through lately. Penelope might not be a profiler but she was well aware that Emily's relationship with that guy she'd met nearly six months ago when out jogging had flopped only two days before they'd left Quantico for this case. And she also knew Emily was probably blaming herself. Emily had a somewhat exaggerated sense of responsibility where things in her life were concerned, and Penelope knew her friend was probably beating herself up over the failed relationship.

And then the female profiler seems to be Hotch's favorite target; all of a sudden, unexpectedly, Emily was persona non grata with the boss man.

Penelope couldn't help but wonder why. Everything had been fine between them on the jet. Hotch had even walked beside Emily through the airport—they'd landed at Louisville, using a commercial landing strip.

But the instant she'd stepped into the lobby to meet the rest of the team after their initial nap, Hotch had been all over her. Everything she'd done had set him off. Even Rossi had been angered at Hotch—something Penelope never thought she'd ever see.

But she had.

Penelope sat down by her hotel bed, ruthlessly pushing thoughts of how dirty the floor might actually be out of her head, and began reciting the prayers that helped calm her every evening.

She didn't hear the scratching at her second story window, and if she did, she would have just chalked them up to branches against the glass.

It never even occurred to her that they could be ragged fingernails searching for entrance, and being held off by an unseen and powerful benevolent force evoked by the blonde woman's prayers.

EMILYTHEQUEENEMILYTHEQUEENEMILYTHEQUEEN

Emily awoke tucked neatly into her bed, residuals of her nightmare still running through her mind. Her body felt lethargic, and she knew she was coming down with the flu or something—she always had horrific nightmares when she was sick. Of course, she had horrific nightmares when she wasn't sick, too. Her neck hurt and she gave a momentary thought of meningitis. She pushed it away, before trying to stand. One of her socks was missing, and she searched briefly, thinking she'd kicked it off between the threadbare covers on her bed. It wasn't to be found. It irritated her, it was one of her favorite pairs.

She stumbled into the bathroom, eyes squinted against the bright light of morning filtering through the window. She really must be getting sick, her eyes had never been that sensitive before. She wondered briefly the odds of Hotch letting her just stay in bed all day.

Probably not very high, considering how he'd acted yesterday. The man had had it in for her, and she still hadn't figured out why. Today, she resolved, she'd just not get too close to the man. If he wanted to play that emotional yo-yo with someone, he could look elsewhere. She'd thought they were at last halfway to being friends. Yesterday's circus had made it abundantly clear that wasn't happening. One thing she could say about herself—she was a fast learner. She'd learned her lesson with Aaron Hotchner, and had it reiterated yesterday. So today, she'd stay far, far away from him.

The bathroom mirror revealed a scary sight. Emily admitted she looked like a corpse, and wondered if she shouldn't play it up, forgoing makeup. Maybe the boss man would let her stay behind at the hotel. Her skin was paler than usual, her lips darker, more red. Her eyes were always as dark, but never that sensitive before. She'd just have to wear her sunglasses all day.

But it was her neck that drew her attention. Two bumps marred the surface, and around them were crescent shaped bruises, forming an almost mouth-shape. She sighed, cursing her runaway imagination. Bug bites, that she'd probably itched in the night, forming bruises. She looked at the nails on her right hand, not surprised to see faint traces of blood and skin cells.

No biggie, she'd bruised herself.

She hurriedly prepared for the day, then she was ready to face the team—and Hotch.