CHAPTER SIX: SURRENDER

Emotions raged within him before any fluid thoughts could struggle to the surface. JJ had cried and rushed through the story of Emily's past, and the information snuggled into a deep corner of his brain to be saved for further processing at a later time. But, heaven help him, he didn't know what to do with it now.

He couldn't imagine it. He didn't fucking want to imagine it. Not his Emily – and he would assess that particular possessive pronoun at a later time, too. He couldn't picture Emily in her own bedroom, with her own father atop her, feeling that absolute coward of a man move above her in ways that she couldn't possibly have understood.

Hotch didn't know when he'd leapt from his seat, and couldn't remember the last words that JJ had uttered before he was up, pacing the length of the floor. He was furious. Incredulous. He was in awe of the wonderful woman who had somehow become an integral part of his oh-so-messed-up life.

But God and every other deity above knew that such a compassionate, sweet, caring woman didn't deserve what that sadistic bastard had done to her. And Aaron Hotchner certainly knew it.

Below those emotions, though, Hotch was cognizant of one vital thing: his heart burned feverishly with something far beyond his current range of comprehension. Every fiber of him hurt for her, for all that she had suffered through, and all that she had come from. His blood boiled with vehemence that he had no idea what to do with. And his heart just burned desperately for something he couldn't at all understand.

Hotch never heard the shower stop running, but he was jarred from his stupor of swirling emotions by the sudden absence of JJ's sobs. He didn't know how long he'd run the length of the small hotel room, and didn't care to know. He spent the following two minutes trying to control any outward expression of his emotions, and held his breath as his agent emerged from the bathroom.

And fuck if Aaron Hotchner didn't lose every single piece of the already unsteady façade that he'd just deigned to put into place. Nothing that anyone said would ever justify what had been done to the fantastic woman before him. Nothing. But it had happened, and she was hurting – and, God, so was he – and she needed them. Emily needed them.

He'd barely noticed that she'd started speaking.

"… And it was twenty-four years ago. That's no excuse – I ought to remember. I ought to, and I'm trying, Hotch, but – "

Hotch certainly hadn't realized that she'd been talking to him, but despite the bomb of emotions that had just detonated within him, he understood that she was looking for something from him. And this… Well, this he could do.

He was in front of her in two strides. Hotch didn't know what made him think that it was okay to hold her, but instinctively he wanted to; he needed to. And he did. He wrapped his arms around her and murmured words in her ear that he couldn't remember ever reading, but suddenly seemed so appropriate.

"It takes strength to conquer," Hotch rasped roughly, trying to force smoothness into his voice that he didn't feel at all equipped with. "It takes courage to surrender."

He had no idea if it had been the right or wrong thing to say, but sobs crushed from her mouth immediately after, and he could feel her hot breath on his neck with each one. Emily's whole body trembled in his arms, and he felt her fingers clutch desperately at the lapels of his suit jacket.

Hotch never noticed JJ's departure, and he wasn't concerned with it. He didn't know what else he whispered into Emily's ear, but he felt her knees give in a few moments later and he all but carried her distraught, weakened body to the bed behind them, setting her in his lap and holding her as tightly to him as he could.

"Hotch," she gasped, the breath she drew in making an almost barking sound in her throat, and echoing cruelly in his ears, "what did I do wrong?"

Hotch hated to see her this way. He hated that she looked so broken, and that so much hurt was radiating from her in ways that he could never have imagined. But, damn it, he would do all that he could to make it recede.

"Nothing," he hissed angrily, forcing an inhalation of breath to calm himself. "You were a child, Emily. A mere child."

"I was twelve," she shook her head quickly, her fingers grasping for his clothing tighter, apparently needing to ground herself somehow. "I should have stopped him. I should have known better. I should have – "

"You should have had better," Hotch growled. "You always should have had better."

"No, I wasn't good enough, Hotch," Emily whimpered, tears and her soaked hair dampening his entire front. "I wasn't good enough, even then. Even while he was doing it, Hotch, I just – He was furious. He was always angry, and he'd tell me to do better, to be better at it, to be better at everything. I was never – I never did it right, Hotch," shaking her head more, and pleading with him to understand what she was saying. "I couldn't ever give him – them," she corrected, an utterly damaged noise escaping her red lips, "I couldn't ever give them what they – what they wanted. I was never," another sob broke her speech, "I was never good enough."

That son-of-a-fucking-bitch had the nerve, the absolute gall to rape his own daughter and tell her that she wasn't good enough at it?

Hotch shook his head, trying to shake the fiery emotions from his mind and barely managing to push them back long enough not to launch upward and scream his wrath to the heavens.

"You are perfection," he growled into her ear, fearful that he might frighten her, but not able to calm his tone or anything else any further. "That man," Hotch laughed somewhat maniacally, "if you could even think to call him one," he pressed onward with rage, "abused you, Emily Prentiss. He abused everything you ever gave him. He abused the love that you had for him, and your fierce desire to feel that love in return – and, fuck, Emily, you deserved their love, if nothing else. He abused your trust – a trust that he'd never done a damn thing to earn, and a trust that you generously granted to him, anyways. He abused you physically, he abused you emotionally, and he abused you on a basic, intrinsic level that should never be forgiven. But do not," he intoned passionately, "do not ever think that you are at fault for any of that, Emily."

Hotch's hand rose to the back of her head, holding it gently against his neck as he felt her sobs intensify. He soothed circles against her back with his opposite hand, and his eyes stung with tears that tried to claw their way outward, but Hotch refused them access. He needed to be strong for her; he would release the anger, the desperation, the anguish, and every other emotion that plagued him later. But now, right now, Emily needed him, and he would be there for her as she had always been there for him.

"Hotch," she whispered brokenly, "I don't know what to do. I don't know how," she sobbed again, "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be – to be this. I can't put it away," she gasped again, oxygen having long ago deserted her, "I can't put it away. I can't put it back in its box, Hotch. I don't know how. I don't know how to do this."

"You have help, Emily," he assured her strongly, and that much he was absolutely certain of.

"But I can't," she shook her head again. "I can't think, or breathe, or stand, or – " breaths evaded her, then, and she choked over a sob. "God, Hotch, I have to make funeral arrangements and call my mother and deal with the will and handle all of the properties that he owned and – "

"Emily," he interceded, furious that she thought she had to do all of that for a man who had done absolutely nothing for her throughout her entire life, "you don't have to do anything. You need to do whatever it is that will help you get through this. You're not expected to act or behave in any way at all. Everyone here only wants what's absolutely best for you."

"No, you don't – you can't understand, Hotch," Emily wailed, and Hotch knew that absolutely heartbroken noise would haunt him until his dying day. "She'll be infuriated if I – if I don't. She's going to be so – so angry with me for letting this happen," Emily's words fell from her mouth in a rushed exhale. "The papers, Hotch," her fingers held tighter to his jacket, and he saw the digits pale even further, "the papers are going to know about this. The Ambassador – she's going to be livid."

"Emily, stop," he pleaded with her. "Stop, and listen to me. You don't need to be worrying about your mother. We'll do what we can to take care of that, and we'll do everything we can to help you, alright? All I need you to do is focus on yourself."

"I'm so sorry, Hotch," Emily whispered thickly, and he felt a particularly great rush of tears against his neck. "I'm so sorry that I'm doing this to you. You don't deserve – " She cut herself off with another shake of her head and a sob, "You don't deserve this, and I'm so, so sorry."

He didn't have to think about the words that followed. "I want to be here, Emily. I want to be here, doing whatever I can for you. God knows you've done the same for me countless times. Let me help you, Emily," he delivered the line emphatically. "I want to help you, however you'll let me. However I can."

Her ragged breaths and sobs filled the room for what felt like an eternity to Hotch, but he'd lost all concept of time, and it seemed irrelevant now. Hotch's big hands stroked over the back of her head and drew patterns over her back.

"What can I do, Em?" He whispered, his voice breaking halfway through as he identified that burning feeling invading his heart as grief for a woman that he cared very deeply for.

"You're doing it," she muttered back, wrapping one arm around his neck and hugging him tightly to her.

It didn't feel like enough. He didn't know of anything else that he could be doing, but that didn't matter. He felt like his efforts were inadequate, because she was still so clearly upset. But if that was what she wanted, and as long as he couldn't think of anything that would be able to help her further, then this was exactly what he would do.

Hotch squeezed her more tightly against him and kissed the crown of her head, leaving his lips against her still-damp hair. "You're perfect, Emily," he whispered, tears breaking through the shield that he'd valiantly erected and gliding down his paled cheeks.

He heard another of her self-deprecating laughs break through the long stream of sobs, but he shook his head as he felt her lips move against his neck, attempting to deny his words. "Perfect," he emphasized, breathing her in and feeling the absolute life that he held in his arms.

Emily Prentiss was broken, and hurt, and she had every right to be. But Hotch would not let her go through this devastating time alone, casting stones at herself for the misdeeds of a pedophilic, sociopathic asshole and his apparently unfeeling wife.

"Thank you, Aaron," the dark-haired agent rasped into his skin.

And, ridiculous as it was for such an incredibly inappropriate time, warmth surged through him as his name fell from her mouth with that deliciously cultured voice.

"Don't thank me, Emily," he insisted. "This is what we do for the people we care about."

He would show her how it felt to be loved and cared for; not because she had never had it before, but because she deserved it, and because she was such a delightful individual who filled others with her warmth and kindheartedness. Hotch would show her love, if nothing else.


Author's Note: The quote is Sylvia Kelly. I thought it was appropriate. Feed me with reviews, please.