Author's Note: We are finally heading into New York. But it's NOT canon, so although some events will be 'inspired' by the season 3, Hotch Goes Boom, finale, these should not be considered that storyline, or missing scenes therein. If you want to read some missing scenes based on canon, I have some in the main Girl story. For what happens in this story, please just go with whatever's on the page :) I only mention the episode for the sake of maybe some visuals/characters that you might recognize, but all mishmashed together with my own version of the case that brought them to that state.

This is safe for work.

And we're about six weeks into their relationship.

Prompt Set #48 (April & May 2013)

Show: Lost

Title Challenge: Because You Left

Come Back To Me

Emily awoke early Friday morning to find Hotch already awake and sitting on the end of the bed.

He had his head in his hands.

Feeling her stomach begin churning again, she pushed the blankets back and crawled down to his still form. Determined to prevent that catastrophic rift from forming once more . . . even though he'd barely spoken to her the night before, he'd still kept the cuddle until they fell asleep . . . she wrapped her arms around him from behind, and rested her head on his shoulder.

"You should be sleeping," she murmured.

"I couldn't," Hotch whispered back, "woke up around three." Then he sighed as his hand came up to cover the one she had resting on his stomach. He squeezed her fingers.

"You should probably be going back to your room now."

Her head twisted to check the alarm clock by the bed.

"It's barely five. I have time," she patted his chest with her free hand, "come lie down with me for a bit." Then she nuzzled his shoulder, "it might make you feel a little better."

Ideally this would be a day where they could start things off with a quickie . . . God, if EVER he'd needed that release, it was now . . . but she still wasn't feeling a hundred percent down there. Really, yesterday was the first day that it hadn't stung when she'd peed, so she figured that the abrasions had finally healed, but she also knew that it would be a couple more days before any physical activity would be 'advisable.' A cuddle would still help him though. Just as long as she could keep him close, then she could keep him from drifting away.

That was her hope anyway.

Hotch sat there for a moment, still slumped over with his hand covering Emily's. Then he sighed and patted her wrist.

"Okay."

He supposed it couldn't make him feel any worse than he already did . . . but he didn't want to say that.

It would just hurt her feelings.

So instead he shifted back and pulled his legs up onto the bed. A few seconds later he found himself in the same position that he'd fallen asleep in six hours earlier.

Staring up at the ceiling, Emily cuddled on his chest . . . his arm wrapped around her waist.

And even though his feelings for her were deepening, deepening enough now that they were actually beginning to overwhelm him . . . okay she was beginning to overwhelm him . . . at the moment, he really didn't want her there with him. Not that his upset was with her, not at all.

It was with himself.

Last night though, her presence, her touch . . . her acceptance, it had given him a small measure of comfort. That wasn't the case today. Today it was just making him feel sad.

Or more to the point . . . he winced . . . sadder still.

Perhaps it was the sun streaming in around the drapes that made the difference. Or perhaps it was the significance of the sun streaming in around the drapes that made the difference.

A new day.

One where nothing had changed.

Not a God damn thing. He was still an emotionally crippled son of a bitch who'd nearly beaten a man to death. And as much he wanted Emily's presence in his bed to somehow change those facts . . . it didn't. Last night it had been enough just to know that she didn't hate him for what he had done.

For who he was.

But that wasn't helping him anymore. Nothing was going to help him . . . nobody could. His eyes started to burn.

Not even her.

Still though, for her sake, he tried for a few minutes longer to get back to that place where they were before. But remembering what he'd lost . . . that connection with her which had meant so very much to him . . . it was just making him feel worse.

The tightness in his chest was increasing.

So finally he took a breath . . . as deep as he could manage, which wasn't much . . . and rolled over, pinning Emily beneath him.

For a moment he stared into her eyes.

They were soft and kind . . . and worried. So very worried. And seeing her concern, the tears he was trying to fight off, began to pool. His control was further eroded when he saw the same salty pools begin to mirror in her eyes. They were born of sympathy, and kindness . . . and yes . . . love.

Love was definitely there too.

He could see it in the way that she looked at him, feel it in the way her fingertips were caressing his cheek, and finally, he could hear it in her voice. The way that she said his name.

"Aaron."

So much sadness there . . . and so many possibilities. He leaned down . . . and he kissed her.

It was deep and passionate, and he poured everything that he could into it. It was a thank you for accepting him as he was, and trying to help him get better. And it was a goodbye . . . because she couldn't.

Last night had been a terrible setback for him. Worse even than the day in the prison with Reid. Another day where he'd nearly beaten a man to death. But this was two incidents now in three months.

He needed to get this shit under control before he actually killed someone.

And he knew that he wouldn't be able to make his peace with what had happened . . . and figure out the right path to move forward to PREVENT it from happening again . . . as long as Emily was around him.

She'd be a crutch.

Acceptance was a wonderful thing . . . except when it wasn't. And right now, her desire to help him deal with his depression, and his anger, was just making things worse.

She needed to go.

And seeing her expression when he finally broke away, he knew that she understood what was happening. She whispered his name again, "Aaron." Though that time it was followed by a desperate "please." And then she started to cry.

He kissed her again.

"I'll be okay," he murmured against her lips, his eyes watering as he pulled back.

"But I need you to go back to your room now, sweetheart. We need to take a break."

/*/*/*/

On the flight home, Emily tucked herself into a single seat on one end of the jet . . . Hotch did the same on the other. Neither of them spoke a word for the entire flight, but that didn't raise any eyebrows.

Because nobody was to talking anyone.

The case alone had been horrible, the attack on Emily unsettling, and Hotch's reaction to her attack . . . unnerving.

Everybody was off in their own little worlds.

Still though, Emily could see them all pretending to sleep, pretending to read . . . pretending that everything in their fucked up lives, was completely normal in its usual fucked up way.

That's what she was doing too.

And if her eyes kept getting a little watery as she turned the pages of her book, well, that was nobody's business. All she was trying to do was get through the flight without anybody noticing that she was on the verge of a complete breakdown, and asking what was wrong.

Because she had no answer to that question.

At least not one that she could share with her colleagues . . . except Hotch of course. But he already knew what was wrong. He was pushing her away.

Again.

And even though she hated that he was trying to deal with these things by himself . . . he was being so stubborn . . . she was at least slightly comforted by the realization that it was Friday.

Which meant that he would be getting Jack tonight.

She was thinking that time with his little boy was probably just what he needed to help break him out of this funk. And then on Sunday . . . God willing . . . her body would be fully healed. And no matter what his mood was today, and how hard he was trying to push her off, she knew that he wouldn't turn down sex.

Especially now.

And she was sure that if she could just get that intimacy with him again, that she could fix this break.

Her eyes started to burn again.

And if she couldn't, then God help her, she didn't know what she was going to do. Because the possibility of losing him like this . . . so soon, and so abruptly . . . it had never occurred to her. Another tear slipped down her cheek.

And it was breaking her heart.

/*/*/*/

With the time change, they landed back in Quantico early Friday afternoon. As they undid their seatbelts, Hotch spoke the only words he had for the entire trip.

"Everybody go home. We're off rotation until Monday."

And then he picked up his bag, and walked out. And although Emily's gut wanted her to run after him, her head knew that it would be a pointless endeavor.

And a spectacle to boot.

No, she was going to respect his wishes and give him a little break. A very little.

She wasn't allowing much.

Just until Sunday.

Emily had decided . . . somewhere over Kentucky . . . that if he didn't show up on Sunday afternoon as their schedule 'dictated', then she'd go to his place. But she was really hoping that he would come over on his own. That she wouldn't have to bust down his door.

She bit back a sigh as she slipped her bag onto her shoulder.

Because that would just get ugly.

/*/*/*/

Sunday morning Emily took a long, hot bath, carefully washing all of her sensitive bits to make sure that she was completely healed from the previous week's activities.

Everything seemed good.

So after she'd dried off, she wrapped herself up in her old flannel bathrobe . . . the one Hotch had collected for her their first night back home . . . and stood in the middle of her bedroom.

She was trying to decide how to dress.

It wasn't a day like their others. And she didn't think any of the 'skin baring' outfits were appropriate to meet him at the door in. Things were too solemn right now. So she went in and opened the lingerie drawer.

And then she closed it again.

She opened the one above it and took out a plain white tank top . . . it was ribbed and tight fitting . . . and in the drawer above that, she pulled out a pair of pink and grey plaid pajama pants.

Loose, with a drawstring.

She pulled on the outfit without underwear or a bra.

Then she went back into the bathroom and put her hair up in a loose bun before applying a bit of mascara and brushing on a light coat of powder, and then a little blush.

After she was done, she looked at herself in the mirror, and nodded at her reflection.

Perfect.

Then she went downstairs to wait. Except . . . Hotch didn't show up. And he always showed by one fifteen at the latest, so at one thirty she tried calling him.

The phone rang three times before he answered . . . though at first he didn't say anything. And then finally there was a slow exhale.

"I can't talk right now."

His words were barely audible, but still she heard them clear as day. The fingers of her free hand tightened into a fist.

Her eyes started to sting.

"But Aaron . . ."

And he cut her off, though his tone was gentle.

"Not today, Emily. I'm sorry, I can't."

And he hung up the phone.

For a moment she stared down at it buzzing in her hand. Her jaw twitched and she blinked. And even though part of knew that the wisest course of action was to just drown her sadness in ice cream and chick flicks . . . she would at least get the tears out . . . she couldn't do that.

She couldn't leave him alone.

So she went upstairs and pulled on her sneakers and a black zip up hoodie. Then she came back down, picked up her keys and her gun, and headed out the door.

The break was over whether he liked it or not.

/*/*/*/

Emily had only been to Hotch's apartment once before. A couple weeks earlier she'd gone with him one night when he went over to pick up a clean suit.

She'd just wanted to see the place.

The furniture was minimal and plain, and purely functional. There was nothing warm or cozy about it. Against the walls . . . which were bare and white . . . there were stacks of unopened boxes, with the contents neatly labeled in black magic marker. And although there were a couple of pictures of Jack on the shelves, there were no paintings on the walls or curtains in the windows. The one genuinely bright spot in the living room . . . a bit of color and character and life . . . was the toy box in the corner.

Jack's space.

But it was so tiny.

The whole visit, short though it may have been, had made her feel sad. Because she could see then how stuck Hotch really was. That he had been forced out of his home and into this little white box. And he wasn't unpacking, or decorating, or anything like that, because he hadn't been ready to have a new home.

He'd still been missing his old one.

But he wasn't getting that one back. So instead he was living in this limbo state. And she'd wanted to think of some way to help him to move forward and out of that rut. At the time she couldn't think of anything . . . how do you REALLY help someone start an entirely new life . . . so she'd had to settle for just cuddling him close when they got back to her place. It was all that she could do for him.

And he hadn't even known what she was doing.

But now here she was, back again at this sad space, barely two weeks later. This time she paused for a moment in the hallway, thinking about her best approach. What she should say.

How big a scene she was willing to make.

Finally she bit her lip . . . and raised her fist. Two quick raps on the wooden door . . . and then she waited.

A second later she heard movement, and then locks turning . . . she sucked in a breath . . . and then the door was open.

He was there.

And he was there looking so sexy in his tight white t-shirt and blue jeans . . . her gaze flickered down . . . and bare feet, that it made the little butterflies float through her stomach.

His eyebrow was raised in surprise.

And even though he'd sent her away three short days ago . . . and hung up on her twenty short minutes ago . . . she was about to step forward and kiss him. Because hell, fuck it, he was gorgeous.

And he was still more hers than anyone else's.

But then suddenly she heard another set of footsteps. And then a little body appeared beside the bigger one.

An adorable little Hotch mini-me . . . he was even wearing the blue jeans.

Jack.

"Who'sit daddy?" He whispered shyly from just behind Hotch's leg, his words a bit of a little boy mumble.

Emily felt the heat begin to rise on her face. Because she'd just realized the true meaning of Hotch's words on the phone . . . why he couldn't talk.

Jack would have been two inches away.

Her eyes snapped up and locked onto his. But just when she opened her mouth to apologize for her terrible intrusion . . . and complete misread of the situation . . . she was preempted by Hotch's response to his son.

"It's just daddy's friend, buddy," he threw down to his side, "a nice lady." Then he twisted slightly to take his son's hand . . . one little eye was poking out from behind Hotch's thigh.

"This is Miss Emily," he continued softly with a squeeze of the small fingers, "can you say, hi?"

Jack's head popped out for a split second.

"Hi."

And then most of him disappeared again.

Emily's expression softened as she stooped down slightly to give the little boy a gentle smile.

"Hi, sweetie."

Then her gaze snapped back up to Hotch's again.

"I'm sorry," she cleared her throat awkwardly as she came back to her feet, "I didn't realize that um, uh . . . sorry." She jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

"I'll go."

She'd only taken a half a step before Hotch called her name.

"Emily, wait."

And she turned back to see him putting his finger up.

"One second."

Then he turned and leaned down to his son.

"Buddy, you go play with your fire truck for a minute. Daddy will be right back."

Then he patted Jack on the butt, and sent him off towards the living room. And once he was sure that his son was going where instructed . . . yes . . . Hotch stepped out into the hall.

He closed the door behind him.

When he turned around he saw that Emily's head was down and her eyes were locked onto the scuffed floor. She was standing so close though that he could smell the rose oil that she used for her bath, and that expensive perfume that he liked so much. And those feelings that he'd been struggling with for the last week . . . since a little before his birthday . . . began to rise up once again.

For a moment . . . a long moment . . . he stared down at her, feeling a wave of conflicting emotions running through him. Affection, desire, anxiety . . . sadness.

Longing.

Longing was a big one. And there was also tug of protectiveness in his gut. It was seeing her posture. Realizing then, that she thought that he was angry with her.

He wasn't.

So he put his hand out and lifted her chin. Her head slowly came up . . . their eyes locked. Hers were wide with a faint panic.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered with a faint shake of her head, "I misunderstood what you were saying. I didn't mean to intrude on your day with him."

Hotch's brow creased as his arm fell back to his side.

"It's okay. I just didn't realize that's why you were calling. That you'd been expecting me today." Then he continued with a faint note of confusion.

"I thought I'd explained the other day, we need to take a break."

"Right," Emily cut in, her voice starting to get thick, "but I thought you just meant a few days. And it's been a few days. And we have our standing thing on Sunday, so I thought I'd see you today. And I was um," she swallowed, her fingers curling into a fist, "I was worried about you. I thought you were alone," she gave him a sad smile, "and I didn't want you to be alone."

"I appreciate that, Emily," Hotch responded gently, "I do. But I'm going to have to be alone for a little while, because this is something that I have to deal with by myself." He shook his head sadly, "you can't help me."

Emily's eyes started to burn.

Everything she tried with him . . . he just pushed her further away. So she tried the last approach she had available.

Sex.

"But I can help you. Like before, up in Connecticut, when we helped each other." She bit her lip, "I . . . I'm feeling better, you know," she made a general gesture to her pelvic area, "so you could come over tomorrow night." Her mouth twisted in a sad smile.

"I miss you."

Feeling an ache in his chest, Hotch's eyes fell shut.

"I miss you too," he responded softly, and then his eyes opened as he shook his head.

"But I can't see you tomorrow. It's just not a good idea for us to get together right now."

Although 'no strings' sex had been the basis for their first couplings . . . getting together solely for decompression . . . if Hotch knew anything of the world, he knew that their relationship had moved beyond that a few weeks ago.

Sex meant much more now than it had before.

And although it was clear that his rejection was hurting her . . . and he hated that . . . he knew that sex was a bad idea. There were some things in his head that he needed to get straight with, both as they related to her, and as they related to himself.

And three days had not been enough time.

Feeling an unexpected pang of grief as Hotch pushed her away yet again, Emily's eyes began to water. Then she pressed her fingertips to her mouth.

"Is this done?" She asked, her voice thick with emotion, "are we, done? Is that what you're trying to tell me? Because if it is, if you just don't want to see me anymore, it would be easier," a tear spilled over, "if you could say that flat out. Please."

Feeling a constriction around his chest as his breath caught, Hotch stared down for a moment. His eyes had widened in surprise.

"Is that what you want?" He asked softly, trying to hide his growing despair, "do you want us to be done?"

The words had barely left his mouth before Emily was violently shaking her head.

"No!" she sobbed, "no! I don't want us to be done! I just want you to let me HELP you!" And then she started to cry. "I just want it to be like it was last week!"

Hotch winced in pain.

Though it would have been easier for him . . . at least abstractly . . . if he could have kept his physical distance from Emily for this whole visit, he could never bear to see her crying. And as she buried her face in her hands, trying to smother her sobs, he took a step forward and pulled her to his chest.

He wrapped her up close.

"Oh, Emily," he murmured with a kiss to her temple, "I want it to be like it was last week, too. But," he sighed, "it's not. And it's not going to be. But that's not about you, or us. It's about me," he rubbed his hand down her back, "do you understand?"

"No," sniffled and rubbed her cheek on his shirt, "no, I really don't understand at all. I don't understand why you want to be alone. And I don't understand why you don't want to come over tomorrow." She stepped back, sniffling and wiping her hand under her nose.

"And why didn't you answer my question?" Her voice cracked. "Do you want us to be done, or not?"

Hotch winced as his lips curved in a sad smile.

"No," his eyes started to water, "I don't want us to be done, Emily. I really don't. But I do want to be better. And I know that you don't understand why, but I have to get better by myself." He reached out and cupped her cheek. He took a breath.

"I promise that we'll talk next weekend."

/*/*/*/

Four days after Emily went to Hotch's apartment, all hell broke loose in New York City. Within thirty-six hours, a subway sniper had become a subway bomber. And although the NYPD had . . . on day one . . . formed a joint task force consisting of members of their own elite units, and the FBI's NY Field office, the violence continued unabated.

Seven dead in four attacks.

Since the first LDSK victim was identified, the team had been monitoring the case as part of the morning briefing. But nobody asked for their help until day three of the spree.

That was the day the UNSUB took out a city tour bus. Thirteen dead, seventeen living victims . . . fourteen amputations. The victims were the wives and children of the UN delegation from South Africa.

In short, it was a diplomatic nightmare.

After Hotch received a personal call from the director himself, the team went wheels up at two am Sunday morning. By then it had been eight days since Emily's visit to Hotch's apartment. She was still waiting for him to ask her to talk.

Because that's what he'd promised.

But instead she got to fly into what had become an urban war zone. A city . . . at that point . . . which was, quite literally, under siege. They were at Code Red, which meant chance of additional terror attack, 'imminent.'

Imminent.

There were on an island with eight MILLION potential victims, and that's where she got to watch Hotch tuck himself away with the head of the joint LDSK/Bomber task force, SSA Katherine Joyner.

Kate.

He called her Kate.

Hotch didn't call anyone by their first name, ever. He'd only started calling her "Emily" . . . off duty only, mind you . . . after he'd stripped her naked three days in a row. Which meant that Emily very much did NOT wish to consider the reasons behind him calling Agent Joyner, "Kate" now.

Even a glancing consideration of those reasons made her feel sick.

Officially . . . according to Rossi . . . Hotch and Joyner had 'liased' back when Hotch had done a rotation through Scotland Yard a decade earlier. It was funny though, in all of their late night talks, Hotch had never mentioned that assignment to Emily. He'd mentioned working a case with the RCMP back in '03, and the BKA early in '01, but nothing about Scotland Yard.

Not a God damn thing.

And even though Emily hated herself for feeling such a petty and stupid emotion as 'jealousy' in the middle of that shit storm they were working in, she couldn't help it. That was in part because Hotch had been avoiding her like the plague since they'd arrived, and in part because he was acting like a complete asshole to everybody else.

Okay . . . her jaw twitched as she jammed her finger down on the elevator button of the Grand Hyatt . . . maybe not an asshole. But there were definitely some major un-Hotch'like tendencies in play.

Number one being the golden pedestal upon which "Kate," and all of her fabulous ideas, had been immediately elevated upon.

Every suggestion she made, was like the best idea Hotch had ever heard in his entire LIFE! And God forbid that anybody else on the team, or the entire freaking TASK force, dared to pose an alternate viewpoint to Agent Joyner's . . . even though that's how they'd worked EVERY SINGLE CASE EVER(!) . . . this week he was brushing them all off like gnats.

It was unbelievable.

And then there was the thing last tonight with Morgan. He and Joyner had a major clash over allocation of manpower in the subways, and Hotch had taken Joyner's side.

In front of EVERYONE!

If Emily hadn't been there to see it herself, she wouldn't have believed it. It wasn't like him not to back his people. So whatever Hotch's relationship was with Joyner now . . . Emily shook her head . . . or whatever it had been before, the woman most definitely did NOT bring out his best qualities.

That alone, was reason enough for Emily to hate the woman's guts. But of course there was more.

There was the "Kate" thing.

And ANY other week, Emily would have backed Hotch into a supply closet and asked him what the fuck was going on . . . but not this week. Personal exchanges like that . . . in the midst of a case like this . . . were completely verboten. So they were both being very professional and detached. "Prentiss" this and "yes, sir" that.

And again, whenever possible, he was avoiding her like the plague.

He'd actually had her partnered up . . . exclusively . . . with one of the NYPD detectives since they'd arrived two days ago.

Detective Cooper.

Nice guy . . . she felt a pang of sadness in her gut . . . good cop, but Emily had still been missing her own team.

She'd been missing Hotch.

And not just personally . . . as had been the case for over a week . . . but by then professionally as well. Because he'd been partnering the two of them up pretty regularly, for the last couple of months. And that was WELL before they'd started sleeping together. When they were on the job, they had a good rhythm in their back and forth. A good rapport in their interviews.

They were just a good team, period.

At least they used to be.

But again . . . she stepped off the elevator and onto her floor . . . he had picked Joyner as his BFF for the week. And Emily just didn't know what that meant. Because he'd told her that he didn't want them to be done . . . but then he'd also told her that they would talk in a week.

And they hadn't.

Instead, he had rediscovered the wonderful Kate . . . and pawned Emily off on one of the locals. So even if Joyner hadn't known what she was stepping into with them, Emily wanted to knock the bitch on her ass simply for screwing things up even worse than they had been.

And they were pretty fucking bad to start.

But Emily would have been happy enough to try and shove the whole ugly, messy . . . painful . . . cluster out of her head until they got home, if not for what had happened that afternoon.

Detective Cooper had been shot.

Killed.

And although Emily felt sadness . . . and yes, some guilt . . . over his death, intellectually she knew that it wasn't her fault. There was nothing that she could have done to prevent it.

Because it was the LDSK.

And he'd chosen which one of them was supposed to die, before she'd even known the bullet was in the air . . . she'd had no say in the matter.

Cooper had been standing a half a foot in front of her when it had happened. They were doing a re-canvass of one of the first neighborhoods to be hit by the pipe bombs. And they'd just walked out of a Starbucks in Alphabet City, when suddenly he'd fallen to the ground.

No noise, no brain matter . . . just a light splatter of blood on her face. The bullet went straight through his left eye.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

When the team arrived, Hotch had leaped from the driver's side of his SUV, and then sprinted over to where she was standing by Cooper's body. At that point she still hadn't cleaned up . . . she hadn't left her guard post even after first backup arrived, because Cooper was still her responsibility until he was taken away. . . so she knew that even though she'd wiped her arm across her mouth, that the faint red spray was still visible on her face.

Hotch had run up yanking off his sunglasses . . . taken one look at her . . . and dragged her inside the coffee shop. With one hand on her elbow, he'd marched her back by the three terrified employees, and down to the two, single stall, bathrooms off the side corridor.

He'd picked the ladies room.

After they were inside, he'd locked the door and walked her over to the sink. Once there, he'd washed her face, and her hands, and scrubbed off the blood she'd wiped onto her sleeve when she was wiping her face.

He hadn't make eye contact once.

He hadn't said word one, either. Not until he was done. Then he'd turned off the water, and looked straight into her eyes, as his hands had fallen to her hips.

"I should have kept you with me."

That was all he'd said. And then he'd kissed her forehead . . . and let her go.

That was it. Then he'd unlocked the door, put his hand on her shoulder . . . and walked them back out to the crime scene.

Business as usual.

And she had NO idea what that MEANT! All she knew was from that moment on . . . two something in the afternoon . . . he'd had her attached to his hip. Unfortunately that meant she was now part of a triumvirate.

Joyner was their third side.

And if Hotch felt there was anything strange . . . or tense . . . about the three of them sharing an SUV, or making their canvasses together, he didn't let on. But Emily, for one, couldn't have been more fucking uncomfortable if she'd worked the rest of the day buck naked.

Hell . . . she ripped her pass card through the hotel lock for the second time . . . she would have probably preferred it! Because it had been PAINFULLY clear, with every clipped word and icy stare, that Joyner wanted her hell and gone from their inner circle.

And Hotch had her so turned around that she didn't know if she was coming or going.

All she knew was that she was tired, and sad, and confused . . . she pushed her door open . . . and stressed, and good Christ did she want a God damn drink! Fortunately, after a dinner which had consisted of a quick . . . cold . . . slice of pizza, Rossi had slipped her and Morgan each two nips of Glen Fidditch.

A liquor store had been on his canvass route.

And so . . . she hit the deadbolt and started pulling off her boots . . . after she'd stripped, the first thing she was going to do was mix herself up a little drink of whiskey and tap water. Not exactly service at the Ritz, but a girl on the road had to make do with what she had.

So she just kept yanking off her clothes, flinging them over into the general direction of her open suitcase.

She'd just finished unhitching her bra, when she heard a knock at the door.

Crap.

With a sigh she whipped her second best Victoria's Secret demi-cup over to the suitcase before walking over to pick up her gun off the mattress. Then she went to check the peep hole.

Hotch . . . she rolled her eyes . . . of course.

The man avoids her for ELEVEN DAYS STRAIGHT, and the second she strips down to get into the shower . . . he knocks on the door. And she was just about to ask him to hold on for a second . . . she was going to go over and get some clothes . . . when she rolled her eyes again.

'Break' or not, putting on any pretense of modesty with the man who had been her lover for the last six weeks, was completely asinine. So even though she was now wearing nothing but a small pair of black cotton briefs, she whipped open the hotel room door.

Seeing his eyes widen in surprise at her state of undress, she raised an eyebrow.

"Can this wait?" She sighed, "because I was just about to take a shower."

Hotch looked at her for a second . . . to his credit, his eyes stayed locked onto hers . . . and then shook his head.

"No," he stepped over the threshold, "it can't wait." And with that he pushed her a little further into the room with one hand . . . on her stomach . . . before dropping it to turn and push the door shut.

After he'd reset the deadbolt on the door, Hotch turned around to see Emily's arms crossed just under her breasts. His gaze lingered for a moment over her absolutely perfect chest.

God, had he missed it!

"Well," she finally snapped, "what is it?!"

Now that he'd completely intruded . . . literally pushed his way into her room at one am . . . Emily was making no attempt to hide her irritation at ALL of his recent behavior.

Hotch's attention snapped back to the moment, just as his eyes snapped back to Emily's face. He scrubbed his hand across his mouth and huffed out a breath.

"JJ's pregnant."

A/N 2: Now obviously for canon, that's not exactly a jawdropping cliffhanger development :) but it is for them. It's 'big' news. And it's a good place for a scene break. Obviously there is 'more' but it is also long and messy so, another day.

And you might have noticed that after the opening section, I deliberately kept Hotch's POV to a minimum so the whole confusion as to his mixed signals, would be more obvious from Emily's side. Also, for the same reason, poor fictional Detective Cooper had to die. Him simply getting shot would not have been sufficient to knock Hotch completely back on his heels. But again, this isn't canon. Different variation on the case. In part, because my one big complaint with the 'realism' on the show, was that EVERY frigging case, no matter how complicated, or elusive the killer, or how long the local constabulary had been working the case, was resolved like 36 hours after they arrived. Obviously I understand for purposes of an hour long procedural, that's the way it had to be . . . but it still bugged me. So that is usually why my fictional cases drag out a big longer.

Requisite Jack meets Emily scene in each universe. Much more low key here, given the circumstances. Otherwise, a fine line writing Emily as angry and confused and jealous as opposed to just catty and jealous. Because that "Kate" thing, if Emily was sleeping with Hotch, REALLY would have stuck in her craw. That would have, rightfully so, driven her completely around the bend trying to figure out what hell was going on between the two of them. Which is why I needed to keep that element of canon (Kate Joyner) in this storyline. It was a plausible scenario for another woman to come between them.

Thank you everybody for sticking with the story! Knowing you give a crap, is why I'm doing this :)