Author's Note: These are the days following Hotch's birthday, but it's not yet New York. They do have a case though, and things kind of go off the rails. So half and half, fluff and misery.

TV Prompt Set #48

Show: Law & Order: SVU

Title Challenge: Monster's Legacy

We Are What We Are

Hotch came over Monday night as planned. When he arrived at a little after seven, he had two grocery bags dangling from one hand. He gave Emily a kiss at the door, and after she'd slipped his ready bag from his shoulder, his holster from his hip, and his suit jacket from his back, he headed down to the kitchen with the food.

And while he started washing the vegetables for dinner, Emily brought his things upstairs to her room.

Her eyes crinkled slightly as she slipped his jacket onto a hangar, and placed it onto the rod in her closet. There was already a spare suit of his hanging in there.

Black of course.

Then she turned and looked around, taking note then of the little pieces of him that were slowly permeating her world.

Clean laundry on the dresser, a pair of running sneakers behind the door. And in the bathroom she knew that there was a contact case on the counter, and a bottle of solution in the cabinet. The solution was sitting in there next to his deodorant, a can of shaving cream and a razor. He didn't have a whole shelf . . . or even a draw yet in her dresser . . . but she had very deliberately made space for him in her private world. Just having him in that world, meant that it was expanding all the time. He made everything about it, better.

And she was starting to wonder just what she would do without him.

/*/*/*/

When Emily came back downstairs, she saw that Hotch had already finished up with the vegetables, and was now dropping the chopped up chicken breasts into the cast iron. They sizzled as they fell into the pan.

So she went over to pour them both a glass of wine.

Then she started to make chit chat.

But she very specifically chose not to talk about the job. Just life, generally. She started asking him a series of random questions. Music, travel . . . pop culture, simply whatever nonsense thought popped into her head.

What's your favorite movie? Favorite author? Favorite band?

Stuff like that. She'd get his answer, and then she'd share hers. And she just kept crisscrossing back and forth over this inconsequential trivia that people who are sleeping together, usually knew about one another. Though admittedly the things that they were talking about, were NOT the types of things that people who were having 'no strings' affairs generally knew about one another. These were more likely to be the types of things that people in "relationships" would know.

It was a deliberate distinction on Emily's part.

A tiny kick of the can that was already rolling down the road.

But Hotch didn't seem uncomfortable by the vaguely 'interrogative' style of their discussion. On the contrary, the more they talked, the less tension she could see in his form . . . it had been a long day with a shitty new case . . . and the quicker he was to smile at her silly little jokes. So Emily just kept chattering on from her position perched on one of the kitchen chairs. Occasionally he came over and fed her a bite of cheese and took a kiss and a smile in return. It was all very . . . domestic.

She liked it.

And then about an hour after Hotch arrived, they ate. Dinner that night was chicken piccata and fettuccini alfredo. Emily couldn't believe how good it was . . . her "Italian" dinners generally consisted of store bought tomato sauce and pre-breaded chicken cutlets . . . so she ended up gushing about Hotch's amazing culinary skills, a little more than she'd realized. Or intended. She only stopped when she looked over to see that his cheeks had developed a faint flush to them.

Oh . . . her teeth bit into her lower lip . . . she was embarrassing him.

But of course he wasn't really a man who liked to be 'lavished with praise' at work, so it would make sense that he didn't enjoy it in his personal life either. And she hated that she'd made him feel uncomfortable, so she reached over to place her hand on top of his. She squeezed.

"Sorry," she whispered with a sheepish smile, "didn't mean to prattle on. You know sometimes my tongue gets away from me."

Hotch's eyes crinkled slightly.

"Yeah," he huffed drily, relieved for a change from the topic of his culinary skills, "I'm familiar with the wanderings of that tongue of yours."

Her lip quirked up.

"Now, now," she shot him a saucy eyebrow, "you know that's off the menu until Sunday at least. I'll have to stick to bananas until then."

Seeing Hotch's mouth quiver, right before a dimple popped out, Emily knew that she'd reset the tone for the meal. And when he suddenly looked down and shoveled another bite into his mouth . . . probably to keep from saying something back that he knew would just up the ante on the sexual innuendo . . . she pulled her hand away.

There . . . her eyes crinkled as she pierced her own bite of pasta . . . all fixed. Embarrassment removed. And that's why you never underestimated the power of a well-timed, completely uncalled for, piece of raunchy sexual innuendo.

That shit could bring peace to the Middle East!

Well, okay . . . her head tipped slightly as she considered the parties involved . . . maybe not.

But it sure as hell could liven up a dinner party!

/*/*/*/

After they'd finished eating and had a joint clean-up of the dishes . . . though he'd cooked, Hotch still refused to let her do it alone . . . they settled in on the couch to watch a new dinosaur documentary on Discovery called "Mega Shark."

It was a joint pick.

It was a good one too. They both had that affinity for nature documentaries, even if the topic was nature from a few million years ago. But after the first commercial break, Emily found herself with a chill from the air conditioning . . . her after work tank top didn't provide much upper body coverage . . . so she reached over her head to grab the little afghan she'd left folded on the corner of the couch.

Just after she'd tucked it around her shoulders, she felt Hotch reaching for her.

"Here," he tugged her into his lap, "come sit with me." He nuzzled her cheek for a second. "You'll be warmer."

Emily's eyes crinkled as he tucked her in close and she settled against his chest with a breathy sigh.

"Thanks." She murmured with a little kiss to the faint five o'clock shadow on his cheek.

Then she tipped her head onto his shoulder, and turned her attention back to the television.

Hotch's arm was now wrapped loosely around her waist, with the backs of his fingers brushing against her left breast. His hand was right there. But still he made no move to make a move, even though she knew that her breasts had definitely become one of his favorite off duty playgrounds.

That filled her with an unexpected wave of happiness.

That he could hold her so close, and yet still respect the distance that she needed to heal. A lot of men wouldn't get the distinction. Even if they registered 'no intercourse,' they'd think that if the woman allowed one touch above the waist, it meant that he could lead it on to another.

But Hotch didn't think like that.

He didn't think like any man that she knew. Or really any other man that she'd ever known. His world view was unique.

And it was one that she was fast growing enamored with.

At that realization, her hand began to rub a slow, somewhat absentminded circle around his heart.

As she touched him, the soft cotton of his dress shirt began to tickle her palm. And that's when Emily took more conscious note that, though she had changed into her pajamas when she came home from work, Hotch had walked into the apartment and gone right over to start on dinner. So although his tie was loosened and his sleeves were rolled up, he was still very much sitting there dressed in his 'Agent Hotchner' uniform.

That was pretty rare for their alone time.

Usually she had him half undressed within minutes of him walking in the door. So the only time either of them were in their work clothes, was when they got dressed in the morning. But now here they were on the couch snuggled together, him on duty . . . her off.

One foot in each world.

And just like with their activities while he made dinner . . . she liked it. She liked the symbolic implications of it. That they could do both. Be colleagues, and lovers, and also be curled up on the couch like this . . . like something just a bit more. That maybe they might even have a shot at being, well . . . she blinked and looked across the room . . . a couple.

A real one.

It wasn't that she was pinning her hopes on that scenario . . . their future together was far too cloudy for such a silly schoolgirl dream . . . but she couldn't deny that the more time she spent with him, the more time that she wanted to spend with him. The sex, though amazing, was becoming almost incidental to that want.

It was the time itself that mattered.

Of course expecting any sort of commitment to come from their evenings together was very much outside of the parameters of the arrangement. But based on how Hotch had opened up the night before . . . how he had actually shared his tears . . . Emily was starting to see (hope) that he might be amenable to expanding those parameters to build something more.

Or at least something less indefinite.

After all, he was already sharing much more of himself than he ever would in a relationship that anyone would consider a 'no strings hookup.' They had certainly moved far beyond such a casual connection. There were most definitely strings.

And they were starting to get tangled together.

So far that was a good thing . . . emotional bonding and all, they both needed it . . . but she wasn't going to push it. There were certainly no plans to ask Hotch if they should 'talk about their feelings' or anything else so ridiculous. That would be asinine.

And definitely a straight shot to ruining whatever it was they were building.

But he really was such a good man. So sweet and so thoughtful . . . and very funny. He was also brave and strong, a good cook, an excellent lover, and a truly supportive friend. Those were a LOT of check marks in the plus column, and she hadn't even gotten to the fabulous body or the handsome face complete with perfect dimples!

The man really was the whole package.

Of course the man also had some major issues. And she knew, and had taken note, of those things as well. She certainly wasn't walking around with any rose colored glasses on. That whole package . . . the one most women would die for just a shot at . . . was also an emotionally repressed workaholic with a HORRENDOUS temper, major commitment issues, and slightly stunted (though understandably so) relationship skills.

Haley had done a real number on him on those last two points.

The poor guy was definitely carrying around a lot of emotional baggage. But hell . . . she huffed to herself . . . who wasn't? Christ, she was a freaking MESS! Sarcastic, slightly neurotic, majorly distrustful, (occasional) binge eating, (occasional) nut case, with ongoing self-esteem issues. And yet still, for some INEXPLICABLE reason, he seemed to enjoy spending time with her too.

Go figure.

So what kind of fool would she be, if she blew what was slowly (and somewhat shockingly) turning out to be the one TRULY promising relationship she'd had in years, simply because of a thirty second (post coital) conversation that they'd had nearly a month ago?

A huge one, that's what kind.

So she was thinking that maybe if she just let things roll along as they were now . . . the really good sex interspersed with the intimate conversation, and the nice quiet times curled up on the couch . . . that they might (simply by accident) actually fall in love.

Worse things could . . . and did . . . happen every day.

And if she got her heart broken in the end, if it turned out that they didn't want the same things, that her affection for him would grow stronger than his would ever be for her, well . . . she bit her lip . . . that would be okay.

Really.

She'd certainly cried into her pillow over men far less worthy than Aaron Hotchner. And already, even with what they had now, just spending these nights with him she was happier than she'd been in months.

Maybe even a few years.

And hell, the bottom line was, every relationship from the beginning of time, had to start somewhere. She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder.

So why couldn't theirs start right here?

/*/*/*/

On Wednesday afternoon they were called out on the case that had been rattling Hotch when he came over for dinner the night before. It was a mass abduction in a small resort town high up on the western side of the Rockies. A bachelorette party . . . there for a long week of drinking and late season skiing on the remaining snow trails . . . had been reported missing. Eight women taken, two bodies dumped so far. The first body is what had dropped the case into their lap.

The second one was what put them on the plane.

The first victim's name was Jessica Ramsay. In life, she'd been a gang unit detective working the south side of Chicago. So there was no way she would have rolled over and taken anything from anyone. Her nude body was found dangling early Tuesday morning from one of the local ski lifts.

The lift operator had to be hospitalized for shock.

The detective had been almost unrecognizable from the pretty face of her official credentials. She'd been horrifically beaten from head to toe by something heavy with a sharp point . . . possibly a tire iron.

Maybe a pickaxe.

Either way that's what had been used to rape her too.

The second body didn't demonstrate quite so much rage in the killing . . . more likely the victim had been somewhat more docile . . . but she'd still been beaten to death.

And something pointy had still been involved in the rape.

The tension on the flight out was palpable. It was already a bad case, and they were all preparing themselves for it to get much worse.

After they landed, it was three hours from the airport, driving up switchbacks, before they'd even reached the sheriff's station.

For geography alone the case had already started to kick their ass.

And after a day of humping around in the snow from dump site to dump site and interview to interview, on Thursday night they finally got a break in the case. A single pubic hair pulled off the exposed shin bone of Detective Ramsay, led to a DNA match on a convicted rapist from the Reno area.

A rapist who just happened to have a dead uncle with a hunting cabin, deep in the woods. This was their guy.

They knew it.

So the team headed out with as much backup as they could get that late in the day, that far up in the world. Seven extra cops instead of seventeen.

Two of them were seasonal deputies.

It wasn't ideal . . . it wasn't two heavily armed street savvy tactical units . . . but it was still a decent ratio of good guys to bad. But unfortunately, given the terrain, it was still also a lot of ground to cover. They needed people around the cabin, around the property, back in the trees, and finally at the front door, conducting the raid itself.

And there just weren't nearly enough of them to go around.

But the clock was ticking. The UNSUB had already dumped two bodies . . . one a day since the women had been snatched . . . so any delay in the timing of the raid was likely to cost another life. They had to go in with the army they had.

Emily's bad feeling was getting worse.

She and Spencer were assigned to cover, respectively, the left and right rear corners of the property. Their backs were to the dense forest, and the sun had already set. Their closest backup was a hell of a lot farther than a stone's throw away.

Hell, Emily could barely even SEE Reid standing on the other side of the yard!

The goosebumps were already running along her spine.

But they had a job to do, and they needed to get it done quickly. So they all got into position, waiting for the crackle on the radio saying that Hotch and the sheriff were going in the front door.

But then suddenly Emily heard something moving in the trees.

She spun around, and the second that she did . . . she was tackled from the other side.

SHIT!

Before she knew what was happening, she'd flown face first into the new snow, her gun tumbling far ahead of her body as the wind was completely knocked out of her.

She was down.

Fortunately she knew that Reid actually saw it happen. Because even as she was trying to suck in a half a breath, she heard him screaming into the radio. His words were getting closer as he ran across a property that was suddenly much bigger than it had even seemed before.

But she knew that she couldn't wait for him to get close enough to take a shot in the dark . . . she could be dead by then . . . so she jammed her elbow up, hitting the UNSUB square in the ribs.

He retaliated by calling her a filthy bitch and punching her in the back of the head.

Her vision filled with stars . . . so much so that she almost blacked out. And then he hit her again.

That time her cheek cracked down onto a rock under the snow.

SON OF A BITCH!

From far away she could hear Reid much closer now, screaming for him to let her go. To let her go or he'd shoot. If she'd had the oxygen in her lungs she would have screamed back for him to shoot anyway. There was no way that he was going to hit her by mistake.

The ONE benefit of getting your face pounded into the snow, was that she couldn't have gotten down any flatter onto the ground, if she'd tried!

Before she could even try to croak the words out though, the pressure on her back was gone.

The UNSUB was gone.

Somebody had knocked him off of her.

And then there was a lot more yelling coming from a lot more directions. All directions. Boots were stomping through the snow and branches were cracking underneath.

Slowly, Emily rolled over and lifted her head. It was just in time to see through the shadows, Hotch and the UNSUB grappling on the ground.

Reid and one of the deputies . . . their closest backup . . . were just trying to stay out of the way.

And then Hotch got the UNSUB pinned beneath him.

His thighs were locked down, and his arms were twisted above his head. But rather than simply holding the man until the others could reach down and cuff him, Hotch went another way.

Down a much darker road.

His bare fist came flying up . . . and he socked the UNSUB square in the center of the face. Once . . . twice . . . three times.

Four.

Five.

Every hit on soft tissue. All in rapid succession. Blood was splattering. Bones crunching.

It was a brutal pounding.

And he actually, quite literally, BROKE the UNSUB's face! It was all very clear in the glow of the flashlights. Nose pulverized, teeth broken, lips split in half. The younger man was screaming and gagging. His blood was oozing down into the previously pristine white snow.

Hotch only stopped hitting him when Morgan screamed that it was enough, that he was down.

Funny . . . it hadn't occurred to Emily to do the same.

Still though, even if she hadn't thought to stop it . . . it was clearly a horrible sight.

Especially seeing it in the bouncing white glow of a half dozen Mag lights.

When Morgan and the LEOs pounced down on their, now seriously fucked up suspect, Hotch fell backwards into the snow. Almost like a prize fighter hitting the stool.

But then he quickly pushed himself up and ran over to where she was still lying on the ground.

Emily stared up at him, slightly in a daze from not just the physical attack, but also from what had happened after.

That was a lot of shit to go down in a minute.

Before she could form any sort of conscious thought about what all of that meant, Hotch was stooping down in front of her. His fingers immediately brushed over the bloodied cut on her cheek.

That rock that she'd hit down under the snow.

"Are you okay?" He whispered, the panic clear in his tone. She nodded slowly, "yeah," and with his help pushed back herself up to her knees, brushing the melting ice crystals off her chest as she did so.

Then she winced and huffed out a slightly pained breath.

"Just the cheek. And kind of got the wind knocked out of me."

Hotch's expression tightened as he put his hand out to help Emily to her feet. And with the UNSUB still screaming behind them, he pulled her up.

And although he immediately let go of her hand, he made no move to step away from her.

They were only inches apart.

When Emily looked up, still sucking in her slow and deliberate breaths, trying to get the oxygen flowing evenly again, her eyes widened in alarm.

Hotch was no longer looking at her, he was looking over her shoulder. Staring down again at the UNSUB some feet away.

There was murder in his eyes.

It was a blackness that Emily had only seen in him a few times before. His jaw was like granite, and one of his fists was clenched so tightly that she could see his nails had gouged into the skin. A tiny trickle of blood was running out of his palm.

A droplet fell down into the snow.

Her eyes started to burn. And she so badly wanted to reach out and take that bloodied hand. To slide her fingers into his, to show him that she really was just fine. That all she needed was a Band-Aid.

That he didn't need to do any of those terrible things that she could see that he wanted to do.

But they weren't in a position to engage in any personal touching. Not with half the team and half dozen cops around. So instead of taking his fingers like she wanted (hell, needed) to do, she put her hand on his shoulder.

"You did enough," she murmured, her voice too low for anyone else to hear, "you saved me, so you can let it go now. Please let it go, Aaron. Let it go for me."

It took a second, but somehow she got through to him.

His eyes snapped down to hers.

The storm clouds were still there, but then suddenly something in them shifted. The fury falling away to show something tender and soft, something that could make a girl's knees weak.

Even a girl like her.

But then his look hardened again. Though it was nowhere near as frightening as it had been before. Before Emily could say anything more, JJ had run up. She was asking if Emily was okay, and then Dave was yelling for Hotch. Telling him that he needed to get into the cabin.

Telling him that they'd found the women.

For a moment Hotch looked torn, like he didn't know his place. But then Dave called for him again, and Hotch's professional mask slammed into place.

All of the softness was gone.

After muttering for JJ to get her checked out by the paramedics, he turned and ran back towards the cabin.

Emily's jaw twitched as she watched him go.

And even though JJ was trying to get her to walk back out to the road and over to the ambulance that they'd had on standby, Emily ignored her for a moment. Her gaze had locked down on the trampled snow.

Hotch's footprints.

Until that moment it hadn't occurred to her that their relationship might have any actual ramifications for their work in the field. After all, Hotch was very protective of his people anyway, so she hadn't expected to notice any real difference in his behavior towards her personally. And really, thinking about what had happened, what he had done . . . and what he'd almost done . . . there wasn't much of a difference in his behavior towards her now either.

It was the behavior on her behalf that had changed.

Though she'd seen glimpses of that rage slip out of him before, it was only ever a glimpse, and only ever in an interview room. A situation where he'd needed to tap into the darkness, to help him connect to whatever monster was lurking down in there. Tonight he'd jumped down into it to knock the monster off her back.

And he'd come out with a monkey on his.

As JJ finally started dragging her along, mumbling nervously about her maybe being in shock, Emily's hand came up to scrub across her mouth.

Oh Christ . . . her eyes started to sting . . . this was going to be bad. Really, really bad.

Shit.

/*/*/*/

It only took the EMT a few minutes to check Emily's vitals, patch up the little cut on her cheek, and again deem her 'fit' for duty. So she went back to work.

This time helping the half dozen traumatized women who were being pulled out of the root cellar of the cabin.

They were all half naked, with duct tape still wrapped around their wrists and hanging from their ankles. It was obvious that they had all been raped, including the bride to be. And initial witness statements indicated that they'd all seen their friend, the lady detective, get butchered right in front of them. Victim number two they'd heard shrieking in the bedroom above their little torture chamber.

So no happy endings for anyone.

The team included.

This was one of those cases that was going to stay with them. And it didn't help Emily's particular worries about Hotch's mental state . . . or their personal relationship for that matter . . . when he went out of his way to avoid her for the rest of their time at the crime scene.

Not that they didn't both have things to do . . . six victims to counsel, six agents to do the counseling, no waiting for anyone . . . but it was still very obvious that he was making sure to keep his physical distance. And she didn't know if it was because he was upset with her, upset with himself, or just upset about the whole fucking mess.

No matter how you interpreted it, it was one giant cluster.

One that continued even back at the sheriff's office. Hotch went off on his own to file his field report about the prisoner's injuries, and then he caught a ride back to their inn with one of the deputies going off duty. The only person that he told he was leaving, was JJ.

And that's only because she banged into him when he trying to slip out the back door.

The one fortunate development that night . . . and 'fortunate' was being used VERY loosely here . . . was that it had begun to snow again as they were taking the women in to the small medical clinic on the outskirts of the ski town.

Fresh, slippery, powder, made the switchbacks far too treacherous to even consider trying to drive down the mountain until the sun came up. Which meant that they had to spend another night at the local inn.

And that was the fortunate news.

Although ordinarily Emily would be raring to get on the jet and go home to sleep in her own bed, given what had happened . . . and how Hotch was behaving . . . she was thrilled that they were staying over another night. Because on the jet, the bad things currently swirling in Hotch's brain would have continued to fester. And maybe by the time they got home . . . and she'd stalked him back to his apartment . . . it would have been too late to save him.

But now she could pin him down. Now she could try and find out what the hell was going through that tortured soul of his. But of course she already knew the basics.

Nothing good.

So after she got back to her room at the rustic mountaintop inn . . . and that was after she'd assured the rest of the team for the tenth time that she was feeling "just fine" . . . she changed out of her damp work clothes and into a pair of warm, dry, pink and white plaid flannel pajamas complete with fresh socks and sneakers. Then she went in search of a man that she knew in that moment wanted absolutely nothing to do with her.

It wouldn't be the first time.

Fortunately, for privacy's sake, the team's room assignments had been somewhat scattered throughout the inn. There had really been just enough rooms still available to allow all of them to get their own. So Emily stepped out of her room on the fourth floor with a thin hoodie hanging from her shoulders . . . the place was drafty . . . and headed down the hall, and then the back staircase, with just her room key, her phone, and her gun.

Never leave home without them.

When she arrived down on the third floor, she turned left to get to Hotch's room at the far end of the wing. And though she wanted to stop and take a breath before she knocked, she didn't.

She just plowed into it.

Though she felt no sense of surprise when Hotch initially refused to answer. She had to figure that he'd looked through the peephole and seen that it was her. As though simply ignoring her presence meant that she would go away.

Please.

Nobody shook her off that easily. All she did was take out her cell phone and text him a message.

'I'll sleep out here if I have to.'

On its face, not necessarily the most professional text from an FBI account. But one that could easily be chalked up as referring to a stakeout, and not a lover's quarrel.

Either way though, it was at least enough to get him to open the damn door.

When it swung back, Emily could see that Hotch too was dressed for bed. Though also wearing a light zip up hoodie.

Again, the place was drafty.

"Are you going to let me in?" She asked quietly, her eyes locked onto his, "or are you not going to speak to me again until we get home?"

For a moment Hotch stared down at Emily, his jaw tight as he took in the soft lines around her eyes . . . she looked tired . . . and the small bandage on her left cheek.

Where she'd been shoved down onto the rock.

Finally he stepped back, holding his arm out.

Even though at that moment he had no desire to talk to her, or even to see her, he knew that the woman was serious about sleeping out in the hall.

She was stubborn like that.

When Hotch moved back, Emily immediately slipped by him with a brush of her fingers over his stomach. Partly she did it because she needed to have that contact, and partly she did it as a test.

To confirm that she was still allowed to touch him.

And if she felt him tense up when her fingers pressed into his flesh, well, maybe that was just a reflex reaction.

Maybe he wasn't trying to break her heart.

"Put the chain on," she instructed softly while pausing to push off her untied sneakers, "I'm staying."

Then she walked over to slip her gun and cell phone out of the pocket of her hoodie. She placed both items on the nightstand opposite where Hotch had left his own gun and phone. The image of those four items made her inexplicably sad. Her mind was wandering, and it was wandering to places that did no one any good at all.

Her gaze shifted back then to see Hotch looking down at her. His hands were clenched into tight fists.

His eyes were so sad that she wanted to weep.

And although her instinct was to go over and give him a hug, she knew he'd just turn away if she tried. So instead she pulled back the covers and climbed up onto the mattress.

Then she put her hand out to him.

"Come to bed, Aaron," she whispered, "please?"

He stared for another moment before finally taking a breath. Then he walked over to the foot of the bed.

Though she'd flipped the blankets back, still he paused again, standing there looking down at her.

Just looking broken.

Seeing him like that made her stomach hurt. And part of her was expecting him to ask her to go and leave him to wallow in peace. Not that she had any intention of doing such a thing.

But she wouldn't have been surprised by the request.

Finally though he let out a soft sigh . . . it was unmistakably one of resignation . . . and walked around to the other side of the bed.

He climbed in.

But he didn't look at her . . . and he stayed far over on his own side. There was a gap of almost three feet separating them.

Basically nearly the whole width of the mattress.

And that hurt a little. Okay . . . she blinked away the tears pricking her eyes . . . it hurt a lot. It was the first time since they'd begun sharing a bed, that he hadn't immediately reached for her.

That he hadn't wanted to hold her.

And suddenly she was very frightened, whatever confidence she'd that she'd be able to 'handle' him out this mood, shattered.

When she was walking down the stairs, she'd been sure that just them being alone together would be enough. That his defenses would immediately fall as they always did now. He would stop being distant Hotch . . . he would just be Aaron again.

Her Aaron.

But her Aaron wasn't there in that bed. Because her Aaron would have reached for her. He would have cuddled her close and he would asked if her head was hurting, and did she want him to get her anything. And she would have said no, that she was fine, but she would have loved that he asked anyway.

That he cared.

And it wasn't that now she doubted his depth of affection . . . his reaction out at the cabin was proof enough of that at least . . . but more that she doubted he was still capable of demonstrating it to her.

He was shutting down.

It was strange, in that moment of pure fright when Hotch couldn't have been farther away emotionally, she couldn't have felt more vested in him. It was like they had suddenly been summersaulted into a "real" relationship. The kind not made up solely of sexy lingerie at the door, and light hearted banter under the covers, but one that also encompassed genuine pain and trauma.

And horrible depression.

The shitty stuff that nobody wants to deal with. The stuff that makes people walk away. But that's where they were. They'd turned onto a hard road.

One that she hadn't been prepared to walk down. Not now.

Not yet.

Because she didn't know her way through this neighborhood. It had been years since she'd felt this emotionally attached to another person. Her eyes began to water as a tightness filled her chest.

And she just didn't know how to make things better!

So for a few minutes they just lay there, the tension filling the air, neither looking at the other. The only sound for Emily was that of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. The more the seconds ticked passed, the more the panic was rising up. Panic that things really were broken between them.

That she was going to lose him.

And not just the Aaron that cuddled up with her on the couch, or waited on her hand and foot after every round of sex, rough or otherwise, but also the Aaron that had been watching her back these last few years. The one with whom she'd spent countless hours at work bouncing theories off of, and building profiles. All semblance of their intimate relationship, or collegial friendship, it would be gone. Poisoned.

Ruined.

That thought was finally enough to break her paralysis. She couldn't let it all evaporate like that . . . because of a stumble in the woods. So she took a deep breath, her gaze remaining focused on the crossed wooden beams of the ceiling far above the bed.

There was a cobweb up there, it was dangling down over them like a transparent diamond. Vaguely, she wondered where the spider had gone. Then she slowly exhaled.

"Do you blame me for what happened in the woods?" she whispered, trying to keep the tears out of her voice.

It took a moment, one where she thrice swallowed over the lump forming in her throat, but then finally she heard his response.

"No."

It was a soft murmur, but she was trained to spot lies and the liars that told them . . . he sounded sincere.

Or at least she wanted him to be.

"Okay then," her voice still soft as she rolled onto her side, the faint moisture in her eyes now beginning to pool. "If you don't blame me, then why are you punishing me?"

Hotch turned then, his eyes snapping over to hers in surprise.

"I'm not."

A tear spilled over and ran down Emily's temple. It soaked into the pillow beneath her head.

"Then why won't you talk to me?" She whispered in confusion, "or touch me? Because I'm here Aaron, I'm right here," she bit her lip, "but you're a million miles away." Her voice started to get thick, "and I feel like you're not coming back," another tear slipped out, "or at least you're not coming back to me."

Emily's voice broke on the last word, and Hotch closed his eyes. Hearing her in pain was like a knife in the gut. He was hurting her.

That had never been his intention.

But this was one of the pitfalls . . . though perhaps other people would say benefits . . . of having a woman in his life again. Once more he had somebody who actually gave a shit about him.

Somebody who cared that he was in pain.

And he wanted to tell her not to. That he was too fucked up to bother with. And then he wanted to tell her to go back to her room, and to lock her door, and that he would see her on the plane . . . but he couldn't do that.

Because he cared too.

Though he hadn't planned it . . . and had most particularly not DESIRED it . . . somehow Emily Prentiss had gotten under his skin in a way that very few women had before. And he didn't have it in him to send her away. Because he knew that he'd be sending her off to cry alone in her room. Which would make all of this so much worse.

For both of them.

So he swallowed, and dug down deep. Dug down below his own pain, and confusion . . . and abject horror . . . over what had happened in those woods. Over what he had done.

And then he opened his eyes.

Emily was still staring at him.

His gaze stayed locked on hers for a few seconds, trying to reassure the commitment scarred parts of himself, that this woman was a safe place . . . that she would keep his secrets.

And that she would never betray him.

Once that point was again clear in both his head and his heart . . . it was hard keeping them connected tonight . . . he reached out, the tip of his index finger gently stroking along her cold cheek, just below the bandage. This was the moment . . . but still he couldn't look at her. His eyes fell shut again. His voice cracked.

"I was going to kill him."

And that was the bloody truth of it. He'd beaten that man to a pulp not because he'd raped and murdered those women, but because he'd jumped on Emily's back and smashed her face into the ground. Hotch had seen it happen. He'd been racing across the yard, his flashlight beam bouncing on the scene in front of him. He'd seen her head snap, and heard her scream in pain. That bastard was hurting her.

He was hurting his Emily.

And that . . . to Hotch's warped mind . . . was immediately a death penalty offense. Not the rape and torture of those women, but that he'd smashed his lover's face into the ground.

How fucked up was that?

"But you didn't kill him, Aaron," Emily immediately countered, her hand coming up to catch Hotch's fingers as they fell from her cheek. It was the hand with the scraped knuckles.

The irony there was not lost on her.

"You walked away. You had the thought, but you didn't act on it. You didn't do anything wrong. And you needed to get him under control, so hitting him was right. It was just. And you have to trust me on this, and you know that you should. Because you know that I've never lied to you. I always tell you the truth."

And she always had . . . even when he didn't want to hear it. And seeing Hotch's eyes slowly open again, Emily gave him a sad, watery, smile. Then she kissed the back of his hand.

Kissed those battered fingers.

"And the truth here is," she murmured against his skin, "if he'd hurt you, I would have broken his face too."

Hotch's eyes immediately filled with tears.

"But I don't want that for you, Emily," he whispered back, his voice breaking, "I don't want you to be like me."

"It's too late," Emily reached out with her free hand to cup his cheek, "I already am like you. And I was long before we met. So you can't fix what's wrong in me, any more than I can fix what's wrong in you. But if you want," another tear spilled over and her voice crackled, "maybe we could just try to be broken together."

Feeling a sob threatening to rise up, Hotch sucked in a ragged breath.

This had been his fear that night in the bar. That the reason they connected then . . . the reason they connected now . . . was because something terrible had happened to her too.

That their scars were what bound them.

And even after he'd found the marks on her thigh, he'd continued to pray that he was wrong about how they had gotten there. That she hadn't been hurt by a monster.

So much for that.

He pushed himself up and leaned over to give Emily a kiss. It was salty and sad . . . and filled with so much regret. But still it gave him comfort.

More than he deserved.

And when he rolled back, he had his arm around her waist.

He pulled her with him.

Emily immediately cuddled against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder as she wiped her hand across her face. The other one was pressed over his heart. And so he fixed the blankets around her back and wrapped his arm tighter, holding her as close as he could. They were quiet for a moment, and then Emily sniffled.

"Do you think someday we can be better than this?"

Hotch took a deep breath, his eyes locked onto a large spider scurrying along the beam far above the bed. He slowly exhaled.

"I have no idea."

A/N 2: Now THIS leads them into New York. I wanted some rearing of angst and uncertainty before they even got there. Because things were going along too well. Like they were just going to sleep together for a few weeks and then BAM, everybody's happy and in love. It wasn't going to work that way. They have "issues." And here, at this point, they have only maybe a month of genuine bonding to drag them over the pot holes. It's a rough road. But it wouldn't be any fun to write (or read) if it was all glass slippers and happily ever afters :)

Reading this over, I remembered how much I loved writing this part of the story the first time around. This is where it does get deep and messy and complicated, and it stays that way for the rest of the story. And again, I am hopeful that I can get it wrapped this time.

And any folks out there reading this one, please do let me know! Not a lot of feedback thus far on the repost :)