Hotch groaned as the doorbell rang. 'Great,' he thought, 'the pity parade has arrived.' He had only just finished a 10-minute sneezing bout, and he wanted to stay in the warm cocoon of his bed. It was soft, and it was comfortable. The floor in the hall was cold. Why couldn't they just leave him alone?

"Hotch, open the door."

"Go away." He buried his head in the pillow, but it didn't drown out the sound of the doorbell ringing repeatedly in intervals of a second or two. It was too annoying to ignore. Hotch sighed self-pityingly and heaved himself out of bed, dragging the bedspread with him. If he had to get out of the bed, then he'd be damned if he was going to leave all of its warmth behind. He had a doomed feeling as he unlocked the door and pried it open, like it was his mother on the welcome mat. 'Well, I got it half right,' he thought. "Elle, what are you doing here?"

"I heard you were sick, and Gideon told me that Haley was out of town visiting her mother, so I figured I'd bring you some soup, since you probably wouldn't be interested in cooking for yourself right now." She looked him up and down appraisingly, and the corners of her lips turned up as her gaze returned to his face. "Nor, apparently, in putting on clothes." Hotch quickly looked down at himself, and he almost blushed as he realized that he was wearing nothing other than a pair of boxer shorts; well, besides the bedspread that he had wrapped loosely around his shoulders. "Guess I'm lucky you remembered pants."

Hotch groaned and spread the fabric out over his body so it covered everything except his head. "The only reason that there is no Elle-shaped hole in that snow bank right now is because you come with food."

"Well, there is that. Also, at the moment you couldn't even kick a baby rabbit's ass."

"No soup is worth this," Hotch said flatly, and he tried to push Elle out the door while simultaneously trying to keep the blanket wrapped around his neck.

"Hotch." Elle rolled her eyes, and combined with her tone of voice, it made him realize why he had felt like his mother was visiting. "Don't be ridiculous. Show me to a microwave and stand back. Trust me, you'll feel better," she said more gently.

"Just a second. You didn't bring Reid or Morgan with you, did you?"

Elle looked suitably mystified. "Why would I do that? I don't see them outside the office. Or do you think that all of the sad, single people hang out together after work because they have nothing better to do except go home, feed their thirty cats and knit wool sweaters?"

Hotch's half-smile was wan. "No, I think they go around making soup for their sick colleagues on their free evenings." He took the soup from her hands gratefully. "Come in."

Elle smiled, and took the soup back. "I'll get this ready. You go put something on before you freeze to death and I'm seen standing over your naked corpse." Hotch just gave her his patented 'don't even go there' look, closed the door and headed back up the stairs.

Elle made her way to the kitchen and put the soup in the microwave. She took the opportunity to have a look around the house. Of all the agents she had ever met, Hotch was the most rigorous by far about keeping his private and professional lives separate. The only time she had ever even met Haley was when she had come to the office with their newborn son. All Elle had said was 'congratulations,' but she had to admit, that was one cute baby. She had always wanted to have a child someday, but the problem was that first you had to get involved with a man beyond the 'don't call me, I'll call you' stage. Which she hadn't managed to do in a very long time. The men in her life were scum, or they were friends; that was it.

When she had first met Hotch, when she had been called in to assist in one of his cases, she had instantly been struck by his cool, professional demeanor. The first few times he had stumbled over her name, as if it were almost impossible for him to call an agent by her first name. She hadn't truly known how to approach him, in spite of the fact that his methods and habits when he worked were very much like hers. She soon found that she earned his respect simply by doing her job effectively, and after that, friendship followed with surprising ease. But until very recently it hadn't been a friendship characterized by very much overt warmth or demonstrativeness. Unlike Morgan, who would sling his arm around a woman when he felt like it, or when he needed something, Hotch was not a tactile person where his female colleagues were concerned. The men he worked with received shoulder squeezes and claps on the back from time to time, but Hotch never touched the women around him, perhaps out of some idea of professional etiquette, or maybe in his mind it was part of earning their trust.

Part of this professional detachment that he had exercised with her had been their clipped and efficient, albeit increasingly fluid, communication. He had been serious and sedate; no jokes, rare smiles, usually in appreciation of her methods in detaining suspects. All that had suddenly changed a few months ago, when she had been a hostage on a train stranded in the middle of Texas and taken over by a paranoid, insane scientist. When she had exited the train, when the whole nightmarish scenario had finally ended, Gideon had checked her and Reid over for injuries and put an arm around each of their shoulders to lead them over to the cars. The rest of the team had rushed over to them then, and J.J. and Morgan, seeing that both Elle and Reid had their defenses down and were reveling in Gideon's concern, had flung themselves at each of the rescued agents in turn. Morgan had lifted her up and spun her around, ignoring her half-hearted protests and threats of recrimination, until she was laughing in spite of her embarrassment. As everyone was settling down and getting ready to leave, Hotch had joined the circle. He had approached Reid first, patting him on the back and trying to scold him for taking off the vest. But Reid's attention had soon refocused on J.J., who was still asking him if he was all right in between phone calls to various news agencies.

Hotch had turned to face her, and he hadn't said anything. He had merely put his hands on her waist and pulled her to him for a moment. One hand had moved to the back of her head, and he had whispered teasingly in her ear: "Next time, strap a gun to your ankle before you board a train." She had been so shocked that she hadn't been able to do anything except return his smile as he let her go and went to check in with Gideon.

Since that day, there had been a note of good-humored conspiracy in all their interactions. They had taken to choosing seats next to each other on the plane whenever one of them wanted to have time to think; none of the others, except Gideon, had much patience for prolonged silences, but both of them knew when the other person was done thinking and wanted some company, whereas talking to Gideon was a little like walking out onto thin ice: you wanted to try it but never knew if you were going to make it to your destination.

In addition to these silent agreements with Hotch, there were the sarcasm contests. Elle no longer felt uncomfortable being flippant and a little silly around him, and it was amazing what a difference this made. Actively hunting down un-subs, they were as cool and efficient as ever, but ever since she had discovered that he had a keen sense of humor, and moreover, that it was a lot like hers, she had taken to throwing out baiting remarks, and to her satisfaction, he always, always bit, usually with a dose of her own medicine. That these dry retorts frequently ended up being at the other person's expense was just part of the fun.

The microwave dinged, and Elle began hunting through the kitchen for a bowl and spoon. She had just found them when Hotch reappeared, and she couldn't help smiling when she saw that he was wearing a collared shirt and slacks. "You know, you only have to look like a Versace model when you're not at home sneezing your lungs out."

Hotch smirked. "What would you prefer me to wear?"

"I am a woman, you know; I wasn't complaining. But that's what most men would consider adequate for an anniversary dinner at a fancy restaurant." In spite of her efforts, a touch of bitterness seeped into the words, and she knew that Hotch had noticed it, because he was frowning slightly. She busied herself with the soup, setting a place at the table and searching for crackers to go with it.

"One cabinet to the left, top shelf near the back," Hotch offered, still sounding slightly curious. He watched her sprinkle the crackers into the soup and bring everything to the table, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that sometimes crept over her when informal conversation with a profiler seriously threatened her emotional privacy. Perhaps that was why it took behavioral analysts such a long time to trust each other; it was all too common to feel that others around them could read every thought in their heads. Elle made sure that Hotch was settled in the chair and carefully ladling soup down his throat before she draped her jacket over a second chair and sat down next to him. When the soup was half-gone, he paused and looked up sheepishly. "I don't mean to be such a bad host. But this is really good; thank you, Elle."

"You're welcome." She hesitated for a moment, and then added: "I just thought that since I really hate being alone when I'm sick, you might feel the same. I guess it's because when I was little, my mother always waited on me hand and foot when I wasn't feeling well. Until I was about 11, that is. She always drew a firm line in the sand between 'little girls' and 'big girls.'"

Hotch looked at her. "That explains a lot," he said seriously.

Elle was taken off-guard. "Like what?"

"Like...the way you don't flinch when things get really dire. Your independence. The way you throw yourself into your job without wasting time second-guessing yourself. And the way you make sure the rest of us know we can count on you...you even manage to keep Gideon from spending too much time in his own head, which most people who know him will tell you is something of a miracle."

That made her grin, but it lasted only a moment. She tried her best to keep her tone light and mocking. "Now you're profiling me?"

"What?"

Hotch looked shocked, hurt and a little angry. This wasn't the direction she'd wanted to lead him in. Not at all. "Hotch, I was just teasing..." But Hotch looked even less convinced than she sounded.

"It's happened before," she muttered defensively.

Hotch sighed. "I thought we were past this kind of thing," he whispered into his soup bowl.

That stung, but her expression never wavered. "It's an instinct, that's all. People like to know their liabilities. They get curious." She took a deep breath; this was harder than she'd thought, but she had to deal with it sometime, and Hotch was here to listen. "They usually stick to guessing, but when the people around you are profilers..."

"Damn it, Elle! If you think I want to know you out of some professional curiosity, to see if I can figure you out, like some kind of lab rat—"

"No! No, of course I don't. But sometimes...it's hard not to feel that way."

Hotch stared at her for a few moments. "Elle..." He seemed lost for words. "You love being a profiler, being one of us. And you're great at it. What makes you think we'd be examining you for liabilities?"

She wasn't ready for explanations yet. "Because people do. To be prepared when things get...messed up."

He looked at her shrewdly. "Prepared how?"

Her eyes widened, and for a second she felt like running. Strange, how she never was fazed by anything an un-sub could do or say, but Hotch's line of questioning made her feel boxed into a corner. She raised her head and looked him straight in the eye. "Prepared with ammunition, with secrets...the way we use the un-subs' insecurities against them. Remember the Tommy Killer case, when we were on the plane to San Diego... Gideon said, 'finding new ways to hurt each other is what we're good at.' Even compassionate people will do it, because people like to do what they're good at; they like to win."

When Hotch finally spoke, it was almost too quietly for Elle to hear. "Who did this to you?"

Elle swallowed hard. "Let's just say...sometimes when a woman is a little too independent, a man spends a lot of time searching for ways to gain the upper hand." Hotch looked pained, then furious, but he forcibly relaxed his expression and took Elle's hand, squeezing it tightly. "I know it's unfair...to transplant all of this onto every man who seems to care about me. But he wasn't the deadbeat boyfriend I can write off as a stupid mistake." She looked at Hotch, and the sympathy she saw helped her continue. "Hotch...I was going to marry him."

"Oh, Elle..."

"It was six years ago. He, um... he called me up, said he had something to say to me. I thought he was going to break up with me." She tried to smile at the irony, but she couldn't manage it. "He came over to my place, and he brought me flowers. He told me I was the only woman with whom he'd ever wanted to spend the rest of his life." There was a small hitch in her voice; she cleared her throat and went on, staring at the tabletop. "Three weeks later, he was gone. He left me a note."

Hotch's voice was soft and restrained, and the grip of his fingers was crushing on hers. "What did it say?"

Elle smiled painfully. "You mean, before I ripped it into microscopic pieces? The part I remember went like this: 'Elle, I can't marry you. I've spent some time figuring it out, and I realized I was trying to figure you out. Here's what I know: you don't need me. All the things you are—all the things I thought I wanted—are the things that have been making me miserable. I'm sorry if that's what I've made you feel now, but I can't live that way. Every day I feel put down by your strength, your intelligence, the way you don't get upset when things go wrong—the things that drew me to you in the first place.'" No one said anything for a minute. Then Elle seemed to shake herself awake. Hotch's hand was hot and trembling in hers, and she worriedly pressed the back of her other hand against his forehead. "God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pour my life story on you when you should definitely be in bed. I'll put the rest of the soup in the refrigerator so you can have it later, and then you should go get some rest." She cleaned away the dishes, grabbed her jacket and headed for the front door, all the time perfectly aware of Hotch's gaze trained on her back. He followed her to the door, and as she pulled it open, he put a hesitant hand on her elbow.

"Elle." She turned to face him questioningly. He was obviously struggling for the right words to say. She waited, and eventually he murmured: "He didn't know you. If he had...he could never have done that to you."

Elle smiled softly and turned quickly towards the door; she would not cry now, not after managing to get through the whole wretched story without a tear. She stopped on the front stoop and whispered: "Thank you."

He smiled back, giving her a little wave. "See you at work."

"Only if you get your ass back in that house before you catch pneumonia," she said cheerfully.

"Yes, mother. By the way, Elle..."

"Hm?"

"Feel free to stop by with or without soup." Elle nodded and gave him an understanding grin. As she headed for her car, she inhaled deeply, letting her breath out in a drawn-out cloud of cold air. It was a funny thing about healing, she thought; it didn't always come on time, but it always showed up in the right places.