Hello everyone. I'm sorry this took so long, but you know me by now, don't you? Well, if you don't you'll find out more at the end.
Thanks to all the reviewers. Have I mentioned that I love you? I do.

This chapter is unrevised by obvious reasons, those being that I am me. And I'm sorry for the spelling and grammar errors too.

And finally, the disclaimer: No, I don't own Criminal Minds. If that was the case, both JJ and Prentiss would remain permanent, full time characters (btw, WTF?).

After a few weeks, Prentiss was almost fine. Most of the time. At least she wasn't angry anymore. But she had those moments when she understood, not just with her mind, but with her entire, whole being, that she still had that need to… have him around. When, in the middle of the day or the night, when she was with Mick, or at work or home and something absolutely insignificant occurred. As a reflex, she thought that she would mention it next time. Or when it was late at night or early in the morning and she missed the hand that rested somewhere on her body, or just to straddle him to chat and play with his fingers while he looked at her with that mixture in his eyes that she had never been able to break down and decipher, but that made her feel unique, extraordinaire, dazzling. Or when she thought of him out of the blue, for no reason at all. During those moments, something sunk. And she had to stop and think, find what it was. And yes, of course, it was that. The realization. Ok, store it, put it somewhere else, in the darkest corner of her subconscious. Where it was before. Before it all went to hell on Mick's hand or Hotch's questions. It kept popping out, though, and she was beginning to get used to it. To being surprised and accustomed to it.

Regardless of how she felt, she never cried. Not one single tear. Nor did she ever talk about it. Mick mentioned it sometimes, made a small reference. Maybe to strip it of the darkness those moments brought upon her, or perhaps just to get her to talk, to get some of it off of her chest. Even when she never replied, she didn't mind his comments. After all, his knowledge of the situation made it real. It wasn't just some fucked up dream she had had and couldn't shake off. Yes. Having Mick around helped.

She liked Mick. She thought Mick was great. She thought he was awesome. She still thought that she would have loved to meet him two years ago to smash into him, or twenty-five years ago to go through life with him. It was amazing, to some extent, that they hadn't crossed paths before. For the little they knew about each other, they had pretty much lived parallel lives. They sure got one another, even if they didn't know every fact, they got how things had carved them. She loved that they were kindred souls of sorts.

It was a new, refreshing feeling. Not really, not that new nor refreshing. No. She had had that, that sense of being able to just be. The thing was that with Mick there wasn't a time limit. With Mick, it wasn't until morning and then back to SSA Prentiss without knowing when or if she would be herself again. With Mick, she could be Prentiss all the time.

She also liked that he didn't actually ask about Hotch, but that when she went into that state of instant comprehension, he smiled at her. He smiled that grin that was death for not loving him, with that thing in his eyes that was unreadable and evident.

And his constant innuendos busted her ego. She felt slightly guilty about that, though, because it made her wander if he still wanted something with her, it made her think that perhaps she wasn't being clear enough. But everyone has their moments of weakness, some sort of evilness and selfishness, when they do something even if it might not be decent.

She loved the texts and the calls and the outings, when he pointed to her that men were watching her and why they were watching her. When he told her how beautiful and intelligent she was. Again she felt at fault, perhaps she was still leading him on. But her fear dissipated when he left with a girl wrapped by his arm.

She absolutely loved that when he made those incredibly egotistic, narcissistic comments –a counterpart of her own self-referential humor- she could knocked him off of his pedestal with her quick, sardonic comebacks.

She truly, completely loved that Mick helped her to regain some of her independence from the team.

And, sometimes, when they were chatting, she would look at him and absolutely hate that she didn't love him.

Unlike Emily, Hotch was still made a ball of fire underneath his skin. He was glad anger was his dominant emotion, or at least the one that he let out, because, since every single one of his emotions was always covered up with anger, upon seeing him enraged no one could say if it was personal, professional or simply everyday annoyance related anger. No one would say that his invigorated grimness and dryness were born out of jealousy. And, quite frankly, no one had any reason to believe he was jealous of anything or anyone.

But he was jealous. He hated that they talked –how come no one else had noticed?- he hated that they went out –again, how the hell they didn't see it?-. Yes, he hated all that. But what he really hated was that there was a Mick. Loathsome as it was, he detested the idea of someone else understanding her. Of some other human being, most precisely a good looking, self-assured, less complicated man being there, existing, supporting her. Being available for her. And to whom she was receptive.

He hated that she was in a better mood. That she laughed when someone told a joke.

He absolutely hated the attention she was paying to her hair. Not when they were out working on the field, there she was the Prentiss he had always known, she tied her hair in a ponytail and let it get as messed as she always had. However, when they were in Quantico… she wore it in different styles. And she had begun to use more makeup again. He hated it. She looked beautiful, yes, he was not discussing that. But she had always looked beautiful. What enraged him as that she was trying to look more beautiful.

Of course, he had no idea of why she was doing it. Just for her? For him? For somebody else? But it really didn't matter, or at least it shouldn't.

Luckily, he could still manage his irritation. That was a good sign. He could still act normal at work; he could still focus his mind and energy on the cases. And he was also able to be normal at home. He made sure of it. He did not let his troubled mental state leak out; he didn't want his son or Jessica to notice. But at night when the daytime affairs were out of his mind and he was in bed, knowing that it would be cold and silent, when he came to understand not only rationally but physically that he couldn't pick up the phone and ask her to come over, that he wouldn't be falling sleep surrounded by her scent, comfortably knotted with her and that he wouldn't wake up and receive a kiss on the whatever part of his body that was closer to her lips, his feelings were divided. He wanted to get up and go to her apartment. He wanted to beat those feeling out of him. He wanted to tell her to stop acting as if everything was fine because he wasn't fine and it was unfair. He absolutely loathed her for moving on. Because she was leaving him behind, standing still, watching her drift away and unable to stop her.

He was awful and he knew it. But wanted her to be as miserable as he was. He wanted her to suffer as much as he did, if not more. He wanted her to show up at work with dark circles under her eyes and a grim expression on her face. He hated her for not being as destroyed as he was. He hated her so damn much. And he hated himself even more for hating her.

Especially when she wasn't laughing. In those moments when she spanned out, he could not hate her. When she stopped what she was doing. When in the middle of reviewing a case file, or typing another she lifted her head, stared at nothing, that expression she usually wore when processing information, her lips agape as if starting to form an oh that didn't ever come out, her eyes slightly narrowed, her back a little hunched, he could not hate her then. In fact, he was curious when that happened and perhaps even a little pleased. But that thing that leaked from her in those moments, the realization, that gloom that surround her in those precise instants, was quickly shut down, and she went back to whatever she was doing. He wished he could see her eyes then. To understand what was going on in her head, to peek inside her as he used to do when they were talking about anything or they just stared and he was free to give her a reassuring caress.

Yes, he missed it. He missed it all. He missed that when he was repulsed by his selfishness all he wanted was to sit between her legs and feel her God damn fingers roaming over his back or chest or arms or scalp. He missed that all it took for him to feel better was her hand in his.

And yet, he hated being so pathetic, so over-sentimental, self-pitying and damned spineless. Because if he went over there, to her place, what was the worst that could happen? Finding her with Mick or somebody else? Wouldn't that be better than staying home and ponder? Sure, he would feel the most basic, visceral instinct to beat the crap out of whoever was with her and take her home with him. Neanderthal. He was a Neanderthal. But he had established that those were natural reactions that could be restrained.

Actually, he thought, the worst that could happen was that she told him, plain and simple, that she didn't want him. That it had been fun and good while it lasted, but she wasn't interested anymore.

That idea, even when it would put a clear end to everything, transformed him into a gutless coward. And he fell asleep hating himself for all the reasons above and the newly found sense of weakness and fury.

"I have our next weekend activity," Mick said as they hurried their pace by the Alexandria harbor.

"Yeah? What would that be?" She asked as she pondered why she was always accepting to go to those places where there seemed no bar could ever exist.

"Sin to Win weekend in Atlantic City," Mick replied.

She stopped dead on her tracks, her mouth gaped and her eyes rounder than ever, "Wha… What the hell's a Sin to Win weekend?" She asked as all kinds of images began to pile up in her mind.

Mick turned and she could tell he was measuring her reaction, trying to find the right thing to trigger the desired response.

He stepped closer, his by now familiar stroll leaving him right in front of her as his most wicked grin lit up his face, "Forget it. There are certain questions that, if you need to ask them," he said, tilting his head, a shameless provocation, "then you probably can't handle the answer."

She chuckled, he sure knew how to tantalize her wild side, "Oh, I can handle it. Whatever it is, I can handle it," she assured him blinking in that dry, awfully flirtatious manner of hers. She certainly loved how his brown eyes twinkled when she did that.

"Good," he nodded, "it's a date, then."

A flag went up. A weekend getaway? A date? A Sin to Win date? Suddenly it had gone from meaningless banter to something else.

As he turned and began to walk again, she called him, "Hey, Mick?"

When he swung to face her, she relaxed. He didn't look different from the regular, just playing around Mick. But she still had to ask, and narrowing her eyes, she muttered, "You're not… trying to… you're not trying to woo me, are you?" She decided that the formal word would lighten the mood, make her question less serious, as if she was just joking.

He smiled but didn't reply.

"Come on, this weekend is not something you made up so we hook up, right?" She changed tactics, as she thought that, perhaps, this approach would obtain best results.

Mick looked at her in a dismissive manner, "No, I just think you need a weekend to blow some steam off, maybe get a rebound guy," he explained before something changed in his gaze, and a soft light shone there, "after that I'll try to hook us up."

She broke into a low key, deep laughter. Moments like this made her want to kiss him. He could not be that tender. She was not going to kiss him, though. Of that she was fairly sure. He was good looking, fun, charming, sweet to the point of giving you cavities, and had that dangerous air floating around him that tempted her oh, so much. But she wasn't completely sure she was over that thing that had made her push him away and run out that night. She liked him to death, yes, she honestly did. God, she was evil, she thought as she blinked slowly, she was so evil if he still had some sort of hope.

But then, "Oh, please, just because your boss fell for you, it doesn't mean every single man in America wants you."

She shook her head and chuckled, Hotch related jokes, so Mick, she thought. One of those things that exasperated her and made her smile at the same time. She absolutely adored that he made it sound as if it wasn't serious.

"Some men are married," Mick added with a wink as she was catching up with him.

She tittered, "You're impossible, you know?" She asked before they picked up their pace. "And my boss didn't fall for me," she added more to herself than him.

He stared at her for a long moment and she saw that thing she had seen before, the thing that was behind his playful, lay back half lidded eyes, the same she had seen on the plane. But he directed his eyes straight ahead and pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, "So, Sin to Win weekend?"

What the hell, "Sin to Win weekend," she confirmed, in her raspy don't-mess-with-me voice, "and I'll kick your British butt."

If she had to be totally honest, she was scared to death by the mere idea of a Sin to Win weekend. Especially because her googling had delivered no information on the matter. Nothing at all. But she received the vouchers, so it was a real thing. And she had to go.

After deciding that her sinning would be limited to Gluttony, Sloth and Envy, she thought that Pride had to factor in. She couldn't show up to such an event wearing slacks and a t-shirt. Not if she didn't want to be teased by Mick from that moment to eternity.

That's when the dresses showed up, along with purses, high heels, skirts and even a few things that she would call throw-ons and that were slightly transparent. Slightly because she was still Prentiss. She thought she would feel like a grotesque impersonator of a woman wearing those clothes, but she didn't. She actually liked them. She hadn't expected that the things to which she had referred as over-priced pieces of cloth helped her fulfill her desire to be noticeable and attractive. She still kicked ass, she was still though and rough around the edges, she continued to distill Prentiss attitude, she made sure of it, she didn't want to lose that, but she kind of liked the attention she got walking down the street or even at the Bureau. She was somewhat self-conscious, though, because when a few heads turned to follow her, she wandered if maybe it was the result of the odd combination between the feminine attire and the masculine woman that wore them.

Luckily, the team didn't comment on her new wardrobe. Had they said something, she would have been embarrassed out of her skin and would have gone back to boring slacks, perfectly dull shirts and graceless boots. But no one did. Not that she was expecting any of them to say anything or even notice, she reminded herself as a deep sense of stupidity and frailness washed over her.

"Gotta cancel, got a case", she texted him Friday night as soon as JJ came with the news. She didn't know if she was relieved or upset.

"You're gutless," she received as a response.

"Hey, I bought dresses, I am ready to sin all the way up to my victory, just got a case."

"You're lying, you didn't buy any dress."

"I'll send you a photo to prove it."

"Great! Free soft porn."

She snorted, "You're disgusting. Call you when I come back."

Oh, Hotch noticed. He noticed the texting. The first time he actually saw it and heard the snort that came after the last one. And the stupid smile that adorned her face when she walked into the conference room. She had obviously been absorbed by her dialogue; otherwise she would have realized he was staring at her and would have never texted, he thought. It was not a pleasant thought. But they had work to do, and he would not indulge himself, getting lost in anger, hatred, despair or numbness. He could do that on the flight back, after the case was finished.

However, when the stupid dresses kept on coming the week after, he he realized that it was getting harder to ignore the urge to grab her by the arm, take her to some private place and tell her that she shouldn't be doing that. That she shouldn't be dressing up, falling into the stereotype of a girlish woman. That if any man, and by that he would be meaning Mick, wanted her to look pretty and dismissed her natural inner and outer gorgeousness, she should kick them on the shins and cut them lose. She had done with him, hadn't she? And he truly appreciated her as she was.

Of course he didn't do that. He was above passion, wasn't he? Hadn't that been his trade mark for years? He was a professional, he was above those basic reactions. And, quite frankly, he feared that she might kick his shins and yell something back. Or that someone overheard them and they both ended up being kicked out of the Bureau.

So he kept his mouth shut and his nerves and urges under control all week. Until, of course, he heard them whispering.

I hope you liked it. I'm not quite sure I do. But, what the hell, that's what I came up with. Hotch ended up being a mushy. As I've said before, I have no knowledge of the male mind inner works.

Drop me a line, tell me what you think of this, it really helps. And I like getting those emails ;)

See you,

allthatisevil.