this one is for the sweetest nonny ever
All the best and much love 3

Reid went cold turkey. They took turns checking in on him outside of work; he and Penelope visited the library, JJ took him for coffee, Emily took him to the cinema to watch foreign movies that only they could understand. He wasn't stupid, he knew their main motive for spending time with him was to keep him distracted, and to make sure he wasn't spending his time off high as a kite, and, frankly, he appreciated it. He stayed behind with Penelope, for the first few cases after he decided to get clean, and Hotch cited PTSD as the reason, and, thankfully, no further questions were asked.

Reid wasn't the only one who needed comforting, in the months that followed.

Each night, heading home after a case, after staring at the horror that passed his desk everyday, Hotch went home to Haley. He waited too long in his car on the drive.

He hated himself for it. He hated Emily for it. What right did she have to come into his life as nothing more than a one night stand, and turn his world upside down? He knew he was to blame, that he never should have entered into anything with her. There were no excuses, but he still sought them in her dark eyes and the curves that called to him, even now that they had put anything romantic behind them. He couldn't help it if, when he looked at her across the conference table, he remembered her naked body, contorted in pleasure beneath his own. He tried not to, he really did, but if she wore a low cut top, the images of how she looked without it fought their way back into his mind.

He treated her the same as everyone else, these days. And he never faltered with it, mostly because he was so acutely aware of it. He didn't overstep, he didn't avoid her. He used her according to her skills, as per each case, which was what he did with Morgan, Reid, Jason. She was his subordinate, his agent, and nothing more.

But there were moments.

In San Francisco, they spent more time together than they had in a long time, than they ever had on a case. But he needed her camera, and he needed her brain. She was the one who figured it out, that the arsonist had joined the EDF with the impression that they were out to set fires, not put them out.

It didn't help Abby, though. As he stood there, watching the warehouse burn, knowing the fires would rage until the gas ran out, that there was nothing anybody could do for the poor, dying man inside of the building, Hotch felt his conviction wane. He always felt it, on days like that. Felt himself grow closer and closer to handing in his badge and gun, and walking away, forever. Haley would be delighted. But, no matter how close he got, he never did it. None of them did. Gideon had almost, after the death of six agents as a direct result of an order he had given. He wondered how close Reid has come, after Hankel, and even JJ. He'd never seen her so scared, so tormented by the memories, as in the days following Reid's abduction. She had come pretty close then, he thought. And then there was Elle.

Elle should have left after she was shot.

The last time you sent me home, Hotch, you got me shot.

He flinched away from the memory, from the words that still haunted him, because of how much truth and pain there had been in them.

"Hey," Emily's voice was soft, and far too familiar. He closed his eyes against it, as though it were a feather against his cheek. "Are you okay?"

His flinch had been noticeable, then.

"Me?" Turning around, away from the evidence board he was taking apart, he met her eyes, nodded a little. "Of course."

She was lingering in the doorway, as though unsure of whether or not she should be there at all. She twisted her hands together, tugging on her own fingers, absently, and he noted her discomfort with a grimace. Then she inhaled, tilting her head to the side as though she was debating over what to say, and stepped into the room.

"Morgan told me what happened with Abby," She looked at him with narrow eyes full of concern, "He said you were taking it pretty hard."

"He said that?" Emily held her hands up.

"Give him a break, okay?" A smile danced on the corners of her mouth, and then fell away, giving way once more to concern, "I guess I just wanted to check in. Make sure you're alright."

Hotch regarded her, the care and sympathy in her eyes so genuine that it made his chest ache. She'd taken to wearing her hair in waves, the ends flicking out around her face. Her lipstick was dark, her mascara thicker. He wondered, briefly, if she was trying to impress anybody, then cast the thought away just as swiftly. Emily Prentiss wasn't a woman who changed her appearance according to what anybody else might like. He liked to think he knew her well enough to know that for sure. She was just settling into herself, into who she was here in DC, at the BAU.

He did wonder, though, if she would have sought out any of the others, if they were the ones in distress. With disappointment, he realised that yes, she probably would have. Why that disappointed him, though, he wasn't willing to investigate.

"I'm okay," He tried to reassure her, although he wasn't, not really. Abby's death had shaken him. It was nonsensical and unfair; two things he couldn't stand. "I'll be okay."

She pressed her lips together, giving him one, brief nod. "Okay," She turned to go, but paused in the doorway. "You don't have to be, you know. It's okay to lose it, sometimes."

He said nothing, but met her eyes, and knew she could read him better than anyone else. She smiled, softly, at him, and he couldn't help but return it.

Watching as the life leaked from Johnny Mulford's pathetic, bleeding form, as he cried and begged for his brother to be spared, as Bobbi Baird loomed over him and gleefully grin about how she had won, Emily felt her hand shake. The gun that was trained on Johnny, pointlessly, tracked back and forth. Her eyes prickled, pressure building in her nose, and she was entirely confused as to why.

Later, alone on the jet, with Bobbi's words ringing in her ear, her hand shook again, as she brought it to her face, covering her nose and mouth as the tears that had threatened finally spilled over. Emily's shoulders shook with the force of her sobs, and, still, she didn't even know why.

It was so...confusing. Johnny was the bad guy, he and his brother, hunters. But the venom, the vindication, the evil she heard in Bobbi Baird's voice...

Looks like I had all the fun.

The words rang again and again in Emily's ears, along with her final question.

"How can these guys do something like this?" The girl had asked, covered in sweat and mud and blood, as the man Emily knew would haunt her nightmares lay dying on the forest floor. Emily couldn't even spare her a glance, her shaking gun trained on the dying man.

"They don't think like you and me," She'd told Bobbi, and immediately knew her words were a lie.

Maybe normal people didn't think like Bobbi, but she, Emily, had to think like him. It was part of the job. Everyday, each member of BAU woke up, got dressed, headed into work and spent their days worming their way into the psychology of serial killers, analysing interviews and histories and motives, looking for ways to understand, rejoicing when they could make another tentative link between the psychology and the behaviour. That was her job, their job.

It all rolled over her again, as she stood in the jet and cried. How much of her life had she dedicated to thinking like killers? How many people had she killed? How different was she from them, really?

The others, they were definitely good people. Morgan was honourable, immovably so. JJ, Emily felt, was among the kindest people she had ever met. Penelope, and Spencer, were so innocent.

The hand on her shoulder was large and warm, and she started at first, but the voice that hushed her, as his other arm wrapped around her waist, holding her against his strong chest, was so familiar and so comforting that Emily let herself sink back against Hotch. Let herself be held and comforted, because it was easy and gentle and warm.

Hotch was strong, sturdy. A buoy for them all, in the sea of turmoil they called their lives. He carried it all, without complaint, without asking for help.

Hotch held her against his chest, one arm wrapped tight around her waist, the other gripping her hand in his own, and shushed her, soothed her. Emily felt her heart begin to slow, and noticed that the tears had stopped, and were drying on her cheeks. Still, he held her and she let him, didn't try to pull from his grip. Emily closed her eyes and, for a moment, Haley didn't exist. Things were just as they had been a month ago, and Emily was edging towards being actually happy, for the first time since...well, Ian. He held one hand, but her other skimmed over his arm, found the hand that grasped at her hip, and just as she tried to twine her fingers through his, she felt cool metal on the pad of her fingertip, and flinched as though she had been burned.

Immediately, Hotch stepped away. Emily turned, awkwardly tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, blinking away any remaining tears and swiping at her damp cheeks.

"I, uh," She stuttered, words failing her, out of both embarrassment and awkwardness. What was she supposed to say? Thanks?

Luckily, she was spared from saying anything by the arrival of the team, led by Morgan, as they clambered quietly onto the jet, all of them subdued by the sobering outcome of the case. Emily met Hotch's eyes for just a moment, before turning away, heading for the bathroom and some tissue with which to dab her face, but it was long enough to make his heard jump in his chest.

A discarded bouquet of flowers, including some sad, trodden on button mums lay near the doorway to Sarah Jacobs apartment. Hotch stooped, picking up the bouquet; the image of them on the floor was almost grotesque. Was it only half an hour ago he'd heard Jason buying them?

He knew then, staring down at the drooping flowers, that things were about to change, although he would never be able to explain exactly how he knew. There was a churning in his stomach, and it was as though he knew he would be going it alone from here on in; Jason was done, and Hotch couldn't even blame him, when he saw the state of Sarah's apartment.

He knew she was there before he turned, just by the tread on the floor, and her eyes dropped to the flowers in his hands before she met his gaze, and when she did, her eyes were sad, dark.

White button mums, Hotch thought, were an appropriate funeral flower.

Hotch was suspended pretty soon after that. Jason was only half at work, his mind still with Sarah, with the circumstances surrounding her death. He blamed himself, Hotch knew, and there would never be anything anybody could say to discourage him of the notion. It was, unfortunately, a byproduct of their career choice; to be the ones who survived, despite it all. Or, perhaps, in spite of it all.

Anna Begley's suicide shocked Emily more than anything she'd seen on the job so far. The depths of despair that girl had to be in, to do what she did, were incomprehensible, even to Emily. She knew then that the job had changed her, when she was so shocked that somebody could be so sad and choose to hurt themselves, rather than anybody else. Well, perhaps not rather than, since Anna had actually killed a girl, but her motivation wasn't anger or sadiction, but pain. And that, Emily thought, was so horribly sad.

They set off from Arizona at first light, all of them exhausted from the case. Nobody argued when Hotch sent them home as soon as they landed. And so it was that none of them heard of Hotch's suspension until they arrived at work the following morning.

"What do you mean, suspended?" Emily said, her eyes wide, her lips parted in shock. Morgan gave a light shrug, but there was a frown embedded on his brow.

"I got in early this morning, expecting to see Hotch in before me, as usual, but no car." He had already recited this story twice, to Penelope and to Reid, and he said it again, word for word, to Emily, "Headed up here, saw the office still in darkness. Anderson was setting up his desk. He said Hotch came in last night, told him to tell us he's suspended for two weeks pending investigation."

"Let me guess," Emily said, viciously, "Strauss?"

Morgan's raised eyebrow was all the answer she needed.

The day passed slowly, uneventfully, and under a mound of paperwork. Anna Begley's suicide, though sad, had also created an abundance of problems for the team, as they each had to explain it, multiple times, within their write ups, both from a literal and a behavioural point of view. Occasionally, when they blurred the lines of protocol a little, write ups became more complicated, the wording more scrupulous, more important. Basically, reports took longer to finish when they didn't follow the rules exactly.

But once the paperwork was done, the office was quiet. Emily wandered past JJ's office, hoping for a case, but without Hotch and without Gideon, they were like a ship with no sails; floating aimlessly with no direction.

She spent most of the day clock watching, waiting as the midday sun waned into the wet dimness of a late winter evening. Her pen was chewed to bits by the time she could clock out, and she did so unceremoniously, her jacket swinging in her hand as she made a beeline for the doors. She was in her car before she knew better and pulling up to the end of his driveway, having gotten the address from an oblivious Penelope during a strategic conversation, before she could talk herself out of it.

Emily's eyes immediately went to the two cars in the driveway. The black BMW she recognised; the little blue Mini Cooper, not so much but he didn't need to be a profiler to know that was Haley's car. So, this was where they lived together. He and his wife. This was the house they'd gone searching for together, the one they'd found and been so excited for. Large bay windows, electric gates, a big front yard (and back, she guessed). It was perfectly domestic. Perhaps, inside, there was a room painted as a nursery, ready and waiting for a child they might one day bring into the world together.

Her hands stayed fixed on the steering wheel, the engine running softly, her foot braced over the accelerator. Leave. She thought. Just drive away. It'll be like you were never here. Why are you here?

Emily's tongue skimmed her lips, her hair waving around her face as she shook her head. It made no sense that she was here. Hotch didn't need her comfort; he had a wife. He was fine. He was fine.

Just as she made up her mind to leave, just as she was about to twist the key and turn on the engine, light flooded the driveway as their front door was thrown open. Hotch was coming down the driveway. Emily paused, long enough to see he was taking out the trash. He wore a navy crew neck t-shirt and grey jogging bottoms. No shoes. He was doing that funny walk that people do over little stones, his socks not enough barrier between his feet and the pain. Emily smiled a little, seeing him do something so…normal. It was then, as she smiled, that he looked up, and his eyes found her. They went wide with surprise, then glanced towards the house, and Emily saw the moment of hesitation before he started making his way down the drive.

Emily pushed a button, unlocking the passenger door and he climbed in without a word. They sat there in the silence for a moment, and Emily thought of how silence was becoming their primary form of communication.

"You got suspended," She finally said, quietly, trying not to think about the absurdity of Hotch sitting in her car in what she guessed was his pyjamas, while his wife waited in their house.

"I did." He didn't offer much, and Emily didn't press.

"Where's Haley?" She was too curious not to ask, partly concerned that she would come to the door and see them, and start asking too many questions.

"Taking a bath. Reading." He said, and there was a note of reassurance in his voice. "She won't be down anytime soon."

So what, you'll sit here in my car with me until then? She almost said it, but didn't, because she didn't want to argue, and she wanted him to sit here in the car with her until then. Pathetic.

"You'll be back after two weeks?" Maybe now was the time to tell him Strauss had set her on him like a bloodhound, to reassure him that she hadn't passed anything back; his suspension was nothing to do with her, but for some reason, Emily couldn't bring herself to say it. Maybe it was pride. She had believed, until her mother's party, that she'd gotten herself to the BAU on merit. It was embarrassing to admit otherwise.

His pause was too long and, finally, she looked at him. He turned to her, saw her wide, questioning eyes, and gaped at her. His mouth opened and closed several times, and Emily realised she'd never really seen him speechless. His shoulders gave a heavy shrug, his hands splayed on his knees.

"I don't know, Emily," Hotch shook his head, and Emily finally let go of the steering wheel, her hands falling into her lap. "The BAU takes a lot from people." Emily, still relatively new to the unit, had seen that already. It had taken so much from Reid in the short time she had been there, and she knew all about her predecessor, Elle Greenaway, thanks to Morgan. "Maybe I've given enough."

She looked at him for a long moment. A car drove by, it's headlights illuminating his features; his sharp cheekbones and thick eyelashes. His lips were set in a tight line, his eyes downcast, as though he couldn't bear to look at her. Suddenly, sharply, Emily remembered the last time they were in a car together. Her tongue ran over her lips, as though as a reflex, and she turned away from him, staring out of the front window. Now, she really didn't know why she was here.

"You should get back inside, Hotch," She told him, shortly.

"Emily-" Her voice on his lips was like a plea, and she couldn't help him, because she didn't know what he was pleading for.

"Just go, okay?" She said, and this time she was the one pleading, because she needed him out of her car, as more memories of that rainy night in Atlanta flooded her brain, "And maybe I'll see you in two weeks."

He didn't move. He sat, staring at her, and Emily stared straight ahead, wishing he wouldn't. It was too much, when he looked at her. Too intense. It triggered…memories. Things that made her weak in the knees and wet between her legs, and she couldn't look at him like that anymore, couldn't think about him like that anymore. But, as they sat there, and he looked at her, she felt her skin grow hot. Her tongue shot out, wetting her lips, and she would have sworn she heard him gasp, softly.

"You should go," Her tone was less convincing, her conviction waning, even though she meant it. He should go, but she didn't want him to.

"Emily-" His voice was lower, darkner, full of something she had to ignore, something that couldn't be there. He didn't touch her, but she felt the way his tongue curled around her name as if he had licked up her spine. She turned her eyes on him, finally, and his were full of darkness, of desire. He shook his head, even as his eyes begged to kiss her.

"I have to go," He said, softly, and she nodded, because she knew it was true, even if she wanted him to stay. He had to go. His wife would be out of the bath, soon, and wondering where her husband was.

"Yeah," She breathed.

Hotch's eyes traced her lips, as though he couldn't tear his eyes from them. As though he, too, was remembering...things. With a glance at the house, at the bathroom window, where the light was still on, he leaned in, his lips finding her in a hot, wet rush in the dark car, on the dark road, in front of the house he shared with his wife. The danger of it gave Emily a rush, and she kissed him back with vigour, teeth clacking together, tongues rhythmless and clumsy, in the thrill of it all. His hand was in her hair, her locks knotting around his fingers, around his wedding band.

Finally, needing to breathe, Emily shoved him away. She brought the back of her hand to her lips, as though she could wipe away that kiss, erase its existence from her memory, but she just tasted him in her mouth. His lips were red, and she knew hers were, too, from the force of that kiss. They were both panting, breathing hard and heavily. He wanted more, she knew, and, truthfully, so did she. The ache between her legs had only grown, and she felt angry, knowing he had a wife to go inside to, where she would go home alone to a cold and empty bed.

At that moment, she was spiteful. She leaned across, capturing his lips with her own once more, her hand snaking between his legs, finding him half-hard already. She broke their kiss, fondling him.

"Think of me," Her eyes bore into his, almost black with desire and spite, "When you fuck her."

He groaned, then. He actually groaned, as she withdrew her hand and turned back to the road, and he knew he really had been dismissed. Catching his breath back, Hotch pulled down the mirror, checking his face for any sign of her, any lipstick or make up. He was clear. With a glance towards her, he adjusted his pants and made to climb out of the car.

"I'll see you in two weeks." He said, and Emily gave him a smirk.

"If you can wait that long." And she drove away, leaving him standing in the middle of the street, staring after her.