CHAPTER TWENTY

(All right, it is winding down now. This story will NOT be a 'they realize they're madly in love with each other and will live happily ever after cheese fest of fanfiction. Real relationships just flat out don't work that way, and two such complex individuals as Hotch and Prentiss doubly wouldn't act that rashly—This is however, the first step to that reality, and I hope you enjoy! This will most likely be the last (or second to last chapter) of the story. And the SUV she and Ziva are in is an older model—does not have shatter-resistant glass. I hope you all enjoyed!)

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Emily thought about Hotch's words long after he'd gone down to the lab to check out Garcia's latest find. Of course, she'd told him she trusted him. What else was she supposed to say?

What she didn't know, was whether she really did. Did she trust him? She'd have to think about that.

She read over the files on her desk, then reread them, hoping she'd find something that would tie into Franks. No luck.

She was about to take a lunch break when the elevator doors opened and Hotch, Gibbs, and Rossi stepped out, purpose in their strides. She knew immediately that they'd found something.

"What? What is it?" She demanded, moving to stand in their path.

"Todd Marks, after his mother left Franks, Todd chose to stay with him, he and his brother. His mother didn't object. The boys were fifteen, twelve and old enough to know their own minds. Morgan and DiNozzo are talking to her now. McGee, Reid, and JJ are talking to Todd's co-workers. We're going to his most recent address." Hotch explained, one hand unconsciously rising to rest on her arm. His fingers flexed on the blue cotton of her—his—shirt as he spoke.

"I'm coming, too." Emily said. "I'll stay by the car. I won't be in direct contact."

"I don't think that's such a good idea." Hotch said, the thought chilling him as much as seeing her across the interrogation table from Franks had.

"Hotch, I need to." Emily said, feeling the strength of his fingers around her arm. His warmth soaked through the sleeve of the shirt and heated her flesh. "Don't you trust me?"

"You stay in the car, Agent Prentiss." Hotch ordered, softly. "Don't get out of it under any circumstances. This man has shown himself to be a competent sniper, and he's adept with a knife. You won't be a match for him, not now with your dominant hand in a cast. You cannot be a target at all."

"I won't." Emily promised. "I'll be there strictly as an observer."

"I'll hold you to that."

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They left Ziva to guard her. Emily wasn't stupid-she knew why the younger woman waited in the driver's seat. A—they'd both been injured, B--they fit the victimology, and C—the two team leaders were grossly over-protective.

So the two women sat there, waiting. Waiting for something, anything. Emily normally was a very patient woman—the woman beside her, obviously was not.

"So this profiling hocus pookus—it really is as accurate as you all say?" Ziva asked to fill the silence. She sat behind the wheel of an FBI SUV, Prentiss in the passenger seat beside her. They could see Hotch and Gibbs in position, Morgan and DiNozzo behind them.

"Hocus Pocus. Long O sound," Emily absently corrected. "Statistically, we can accurately predict certain behaviors—it's all based on patterns and factors. Of course, we have to know the factors to make an accurate profile."

"Are you ever wrong?"

"Occasionally, not often. Every wrong profile is a step closer to a right one." Emily said, distractedly. The door had opened and Hotch, Gibbs, Morgan and DiNozzo stood talking to the owner. Emily couldn't see him fully, but saw enough to know whomever had answered was smaller than Hotch, thinner. Fair haired. Probably light eyed though she was, of course, too far away to be certain.

"This him, you think?" Ziva asked.

"Maybe. He fits the profile." Emily said, watching as Hotch and Gibbs pulled the man out of the house and onto the porch.

Something wasn't sitting right with Emily. "This is off."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think this guy is him. Look at his body language. He's frightened, cowed. Our UNSUB's not the least bit frightened. He's an adrenaline seeker who feels he's doing his job. He'd be almost 'pumped' by all of this. Especially at being questioned by the government."

"This guy is definitely intimidated by whatever they're asking, isn't he?" Ziva asked, watching the man shake his head and look down after Hotch apparently asked him a question. "So if it's not him—who is it?"

"I don't know." Emily said. "But I'm sure Hotch and Morgan have realized the same thi--" Before Emily could finish her thought the back passenger window of the SUV shattered—sending shards flying over the two agents.

"Get down!" Ziva shouted, unnecessarily. Emily was already down in the floorboard, gun gripped awkwardly in her left hand. Ziva was crunched under the steering wheel, her own weapon at the ready.

"What the hell?" Emily said, tersely. "Dammit! We need to see what's going on!"

She wasn't to get her wish—the back window of the SUV shattered, drowning out Ziva's reply.

All they could do was huddle in the floorboard and pray that whatever bullets the man was using weren't designed to pierce through metal. And that the rest of their teams could somehow help them.

Emily darted a glance at Ziva, quickly checking for signs of injury. The other woman seemed fine. Glass glinted in her dark pony-tail, but the NCIS cap she wore appeared to have protected her face from the flying glass.

Emily, herself hadn't been so lucky. She wasn't wearing a hat, and she was on the side closest to the shooter. Glass had cut her cheek, and the plaster of her cast had several pieces imbedded within it. She thought briefly on the irony of if she had been shot again—it would have been in that same arm.

Three times in one arm would have been just way too much.

It seemed like hours passed before Ziva's door was suddenly jerked open. Less than half a second later the passenger side door was pulled open. Hotch stood there, breathing heavily, fear written on his face. "Emily?"

"We're ok." Emily reassured him as he reached in and pulled her out of the floor board. "I'm ok."

"Thank God. When we realized the son of a bitch was shooting at the SUV…" Hotch said, jerking her almost roughly against his chest—her cast banging awkwardly against his waist. "I didn't know what to think, couldn't even breathe."

"I'm ok, honest." Emily's free arm was wrapped around his back, holding him tightly, as his hands fisted in the blue cotton covering her back. He'd tucked her head beneath his chin, and she rested there against him, breathing in the warmth that was Hotch.

It was a moment out of time, and she knew it would change everything between them.

As he pulled back slightly and looked into her dark, dark eyes, he knew that nothing would be the same between them ever again.