Ok, since I'm an idiot I updated without checking what document I was submitting. So I had to do it again, the right document this time... hopefully. I'll blame exhaustion, though, because I was sitting in front of this damn computer all day.
I want to thank those who reviewed, it makes me happy.
And finally, I apologize for my English in advance.

AND to those of you who are under the appropriate age to read this, just don't read it, ok? This is rated M for a reason.

Without much further ado, I hope you enjoy.

Defeated, she took the stairs up one floor, to her room. Standing in front of her door and searching every single one of her pockets, she cursed her utter and innate tendency to lose everything smaller than her gun. She had lost her key... probably at Mick's. Thanking God for budget cuts and instantly thinking what a strange phrase that was, she knocked on the door and waited.

Nothing.

Crap!It was possible, however, that she was already asleep. She knocked again a little harder and called, "JJ, it's me! I locked myself out!"

Silence again.

"JJ?" She called a little louder, closing her eyes in prayer, God, let JJ be sound asleep and not still at the gathering. She had no desire to go back there. She wanted her bed, darkness and solitude to wallow in her misery and self disdain.

A door opened, causing her to snap her head to the right in fear.

Hotch stood under the threshold of his room's door. She stared at him like a deer caught in the head lights, eyes wide open, while she thought that of course her luck would be such that she would have to face Hotch now.

He blinked first and drifted his gaze- glare, actually, to the other end of the hall.

"I locked myself out of the room," she explained needlessly, but compelled for some reason to fill the silence.

"I don't think JJ has returned," he replied in his most inexpressive tone as he took in her appearance. She was untidy, her clothes disarranged, her hair slightly disheveled and her face wearing a confused and exasperated expression. He couldn't help but clench his jaw.

She took her cell out. She was not sure calling JJ would be better than going back to find her, but it certainly beat standing silently in front of him, so she scrolled down to her number.

While she was gathering the courage to press call, Hotch cleared his throat.

"Prentiss, a word?" He asked.

She looked up at him in disbelieve. She knew this was coming, she had even told herself that the second they were alone this would happen, but it was pass midnight, he was wearing his so called pajamas, she had just come from another man's room... She could go on for weeks with reasons why a word now was not a wise idea.

"Please," He added after her silence, stepping out of the room so she could come in, clearly indicating that she should come in.

It was not a question, and it certainly wasn't a plea, she didn't need a body language expert to know. It was an order delivered by her superior and, as such, she had to oblige much against her will and good judgment.

So she silently sighed her frustration walking away from her door and into his room.

Though she was making a conscious effort not to snoop around, she couldn't help but notice that his bed was unmade. Obviously, he was already in bed when she returned to her room. It took him about 10 minutes to get ready for bed, a little longer sometimes, if he was stressed. She reprimanded herself for trying to figure out if he had left the gathering long enough after she had as to not know exactly how much time she and Mick had spent together.

Unable to dilate it any longer, she decided it was time to turn and face whatever needed to be faced. Namely Hotch.

In the dim light that the bedside table's lamp casted on the room, his serious expression seemed almost irate. The way in which he was standing between her and the door, with his arms crossed over his chest, his face slightly to the side so he could give her his dreadful sideways glare, made her feel cornered.

Annoyed at his display of authority, she held his eyes. Regardless of what or how she felt or had been feeling, she was not going to show any sign of frailty.

"What you did tonight was stupid," Hotch finally said.

She wondered to which part of the night he was referring. The adjective sounded too informal for the statement to be work related, but he had asked her in a certainly sternly enough manner for it not to be.

She decided to answer as if he meant that the almost getting killed part of the night had been stupid given that it was, indeed, the most stupid thing she had ever done since joining the Academy. "It was reckless, I know. It won't happen again." The sir that would have accompanied that succinct statement had they been in his office was left out for reasons she didn't want to clarify.

"Don't say anything else, ok, Hotch? I… I already know," she quietly snapped, suddenly enraged. She did not want to hear it. Right now, she really didn't want to hear that she could have been erased from the face of the Earth in less than a second. She already knew.

All she needed -all she had thought she needed was one night of reality. Of real conversation and a real connection with a man that was not beyond boundaries. With a man that was possible, with whom some kind of disclosed relation was possible. And she had had that, at least the chance. But she was an idiot of epic proportions and had blown it, she thought, anger swelling in her.

"Fine, we'll continue this conversation at a more appropriate time," Hotch replied in that particular Hotch tone that was both sharp and understanding at once.

"Thank you," Emily said appreciatively and slightly surprised by his change in demeanor, even when fury still dripped of her voice.

Now she just had to get out of there and into her room to finally crawl under the covers of her bed and at least try to put this horrible day behind her. Or batter herself some more until it was time to board the plane.

Hotchhad been staring at her, not missing a single twitch of her muscles or the subtle changes on her inflection. She was an open book. To him, at least. It had nothing to do with his profession, though. Had that been the case, he would have been able to read her since the first time she walked into his office. No, it was not professional experience what gave him insight. This ability he had was the result of knowing her. Of seen her in different situations, under different circumstances, emotions always leaking out of her regardless how hard she tried to keep them inside or how effectively she though she did.

First she had been surprised and perhaps a little embarrassed. When she came in, she had been uncomfortable. But then anger had started to build up. Directed to herself, he was sure. For almost getting killed, for letting her somber state of mind shine during the celebration, for whatever it was that had made her decide not to spend the night with the guy with whom she had left.

And anger was not a good companion for Prentiss. As stable and secure she could appear, underneath that surface laid the Prentiss that trashed herself, doubted herself and failed to see what everyone else saw in her. And Hotch hated that. If Mick had done something to exacerbate that particular state of mind, he would… he would do nothing, if he had to be honest, he had no right. He would have to settle for throwing menacing, frightening glares at him.

But that wasn't important at the moment. He could hunt down the assholes that caused her distress tomorrow. Now, having an upset Prentiss, he simply wanted to ease her. But, and that was the catch, the only thing that could ease her, he could not do now. There wasn't a path to go from where they were to there. To their on-going game.

Because it was that, honestly. It was playing house when they needed it, just for tonight, they always said. It went on until the next morning, until one of them left. But they had, from whatever time at night till 6.30 or 7, occasionally even 9 in the morning, a slice of normalcy. Laughter, comfort, passion, trust, lust, profound conversations or discussions and teases over meaningless things as if they were a real couple.

However pretense, that simulation of happiness they shared was the one thing that could ease her. It could. It could ease him too. Because, though catching the perpetrator was one of the highs of the job and saving hostages was probably the highest satisfaction they ever got, having one of your team members almost killed could, and did, overshadow those satisfactions. So, yes, he had to admit that, selfish as it may sound, he could use that bubble now. He could use those reassuring five or six hours of complete connection.

"May I use your bathroom?" Emily asked after a short silence.

To Hotch, deep in thoughts as he was, the practicality of question seemed out of place. But he hadn't forgotten his manners. "Of course," he replied, and his hand did the motion towards the bathroom that everyone does to point a direction even when there's only one possible door that can be the correct one.

From Emily's point of view, going to the bathroom was the smart thing to do. If she was going to sit by her door waiting for JJ, at least she would have an empty bladder. Her other option was to go to the front desk and ask for a replacement key. But while she waited by the front desk, the chances of anyone from either team spotting her were higher than if she waited by her door. Only members of her team could see her there, that if JJ wasn't the first to return. Which was highly possible, though, most likely, accompanied by Reid? But Reid didn't concern her much.

Washing her hands, she decided that she would sit on the floor, lean on the door and wait for the last humiliation of the day. Destiny was a fucked up thing, and it didn't hesitate to kick you when you were down. Three days of personal and professional hell, with a gun to her face on top. And then some more crap. But she was Emily Prentiss, she should have known better than to expect anything different. God, how could she be so sad and pathetic? she wondered as she glared at her reflection on the mirror.

When Emily walked out of the bathroom, anger seemed to have dimmed and all that was left was exhaustion, her steps a little dragged, her eyes heavy lidded.

"Thanks," she muttered and strolled towards the door.

Hotch had been replaying the events of the night, analyzing everything, trying to think of the right thing to say, the appropriate thing to do other than that. Failing to find either, he leaned on the cheap chest of drawers opposite to the bed, and replied with a quite, "Sure".

As Prentiss passed by him, his hand flew to her shoulder out of its own volition.

He meant to pat her, to comfort her a bit with that non personal gesture and say good night, he told himself after the fact. It was just a gesture, simple, small.

Feeling the weight of his hand on her shoulder, she slowed her pace down. She didn't stop, just accepted and acknowledge the gesture. But then the warmth from his hand transferred through her clothes to her shoulder. And that warmth on her skin was very shooting.

She stopped then, her head tilting towards his hand almost imperceptibly, and closed her eyes to absorb as much of it as she could.

Even then, seeing those tiny signs that told him that that was the path, his hand on his shoulder opened the door for a night of them, he didn't stroke nor rub nor squeeze. He just left his hand there, providing whatever she needed, if anything at all from him, and waiting in case she decided to cross the threshold.

The warmth began to spread. God, she had longed for that. She wanted that. She shouldn't fall for that, not tonight. But his fingers seemed to irradiate something that had been missing before. His touch, she should have known, was the right kind of touch. The one that made her lean in instead of… whatever had happened earlier with Mick.

A minute or two may have passed, impossible to say when time doesn't march according to watches, as she reduced her tight grip on her self control or pride. Perhaps she was giving in to the comfort, to the warmth. Perhaps it just wasn't a night to spend alone. Perhaps she preferred the little slice of the impossible she tasted from time to time to an actually possible potentiality.

As if it was a well rehearsed waltz move, she twirled slowly, lazily. His hand, without ever leaving her, was now around her shoulders as her side rested against him. A sigh escaped her and she thought it was one of those that took the tension out of her body along with the air. However, he could feel her still tense.

In an attempt to help her soothe, his hand moved first up her neck, then down her spine to the small of her back coming to rest on her hip. The warmth traveled with his hand, and left a defined path on her back. It felt so reassuring and simple, even if they were…In fact, they were simple, she thought. Their tacit agreement was clear. There was no illusion it of being something else. It didn't leak into their everyday life, it lasted what it lasted, one night and part of the adjoining morning. It was what it was; a palliative measure for those moments when they felt their lives lacked something.

It was simple. As simple as to spin and rest flat against his chest. So she did, relinquishing the last thread of control and stepping fully into another night of just for tonight.

It wasn't enough, though, even if she didn't want to, she needed more. She needed that everywhere. And with him, all imitation of bashfulness was a cheap charade un-wanted and un-needed.

She brought his head down to hers, opening his lips in the process and, before she let her open mouth to reach his, she muttered, "I'm still mad at you."

He kissed her anyway, celebrating his victory –wasn't that vile?-, and wrapped her waist with one arm while the opposite hand sneaked under her armpit. For some twisted reason he liked that. And his grip was tight enough as so she knew he didn't want her to go, but loose enough so not to crash her against him. For some other twisted reason, he liked that too.

Smiling into the kiss, he mumbled, knowing that it was a bold move but convinced that they were in that place that allowed teasing, "Then why are you kissing me?"

"Don't be smug," she replied strongly running her fingers against his scalp. "Being mad doesn't mean I don't like you or don't want to be with you." After all, even when mad at one another, real couples, healthy couples, didn't cut ties over that.

God, she was brainless, she thought as she deepened the kiss and pressed herself flat against him.

Hotch wasn't stupid. As much as he wanted to ask, to have that reassurance about the effect he had on her not only when they played their game but all the time, he refrained himself from asking why she was mad. He limited himself to play the part, to let her lead. When she was feeling exposed she liked to lead, to be in command, to try and get some sense of control. And, as far as he could tell, she was a good leader. She had taught him many things. For instance, she had been the one to strip many sexual acts of the veil of guilt with which he had covered them. And, just now, she had taught him that anger was not a good reason to break things off.

So when she pulled him towards the bed, he followed. And when she a directed his hands under her shirt, he maneuvered to get her off both the jacket and the shirt.

She was already short-breathed when her fingertips slipped underneath his clothes and up her chest. The damned revelation that had been stuck in the back of her freaking compartmentalizing mind and that had been pushing out tonight finally broke through with the strength of a train as she brushed his torso. Whilst most women longed for a perfect chest, she didn't. She didn't want Mick's flawless chest. The one she wanted, the one she sought and that soothed and rattled her at the same time, it was covered with scars. The lips that were kissing her now and that she gladly kissed back, those lips were reluctant to smile 90% of the time. And the man who owned them didn't know one iota about The Clash or Sex Pistols.

And yet, she couldn't care less. He was there, kissing her, holding her, undressing her, while his fingertips did things to her that would make Viper blush.

There was no doubt on his mind. He knew she wanted this as much as he did. And even if he hadn't known, he was beyond the point of being able to do something about to stop. Yes, he was having a very selfish, egocentric night. But it felt too good. Excellent, actually. She was letting him star as the man in her night, demoting Mick to a supporting role in the charade of theirs; although he was starting to question how much of a charade it really was. But those were thoughts that he would confront at another time, not when she was dragging him to the center of the bed.

They sat at the center of the bed, a position that gave them both an impression of equanimity, and she accommodated herself on his lap, legs and arms wrapped around him. He wrapped himself around her too. And the atmosphere around them pivoted to a less lighthearted, more dense and significant one.

They made slow, careful, quiet love enveloped in their little cocoon, the igloo of warmth and sweat and almost silent moans and gasps they had been craving.

Feather light touches, deep, passionate kisses, rocking to a tempo that was their own. The back of her knees, the small of her back, her bony ribcage, and every part of her body where she liked to be caress was caressed in the right manner. And he poured himself in each of those things, as if he was trying to let her know those things he hadn't even recognized before tonight.

And she panted on his ear because it was the only way she had to tell him all the things she didn't want to admit just yet.

She couldn't let go of him when they finished. Not that she wanted to. Not that he did either. They sat like that, her forehead resting in the crook of his neck, one hand on his shoulder, the other idly gripping his bicep.

They were still lightly quivering, and he was still slightly rocking, unable to stop, while he kept her close, encased within his embrace.

Safe. They both felt safe. As if that thing they had was all they needed to be completely off danger. As if no one, nothing could get to them. Perhaps, she thought when reasoning came back to her, that was why they kept doing it.

Hotch pulled her down with him, to lay on bed, he on his back, she on top of him. He carefully covered them with the sheets and blankets up to her neck, keeping them warm. It was one of the things he loved the most. Just to rest on top of each other enjoying the contact. Having her absolutely spent, absolutely abandoned to him, her hair tickling his chest, his shoulders, his neck. Or the other way around, when he just let himself go and rested on her, heavy on her slim body, secure, held together by her.

Hotch began to drift away. Prentiss, however, did not, her body still quivering. She wasn't entirely sure it was just because of the sex. Her mind had gone back to analyzing mode.

That's all for now. I hope you liked it. Be kind, rewind... oh, no, I meant review (how very '80s-'90s of me)
See you,

allthatisevil