Hello everyone.

It has taken a lot of time to update, I know. And I am a liar, this is not the end. I cannot believe it myself, but I'm not done yet. It would be hilarious if it wasn't so pathetic. One would think five weeks is enough time to wrap a story up, but no. I hope you're not sick of this. This is the story, the writer, the drama…

Romiross has been incredibly helpful, so GRACIAS! SOS LO MAS! (Thank you! You rock!) She does. She totally rocks :D

English isn't my mother tongue, you may know that by now, so grammar and spelling errors will be found and I am sorry for each of them. Don't hesitate to point them out.

The song to which I make a reference is Pictures of you, by The Cure (awesome song).

Disclaimer: No, Criminal Minds is not mine.

It wasn't really late, but she was beat. She hadn't been able to sleep during the flight back, having that not quite uncomfortable but slightly creepy sense of being watched.

It should be surprising, or disturbing. Worst case scenario, it should be comforting. As it should be that odd feeling of… real normalcy she had been sensing coming from him. Not that he hadn't been acting normally before, he had. But then again, she thought as she dressed, normal was a relative term. Normal as two years ago? A year ago? Four months ago? Two weeks ago? All the normalcies were relatively… normal. Well, that was it, right? Normal is normal. But she meant it as… Whatever, she was beat and she wasn't making any sense. And there was no reason to be thinking of him or his degrees of normalcy or if he had or had not been staring at her in her sleep. Which he surely hadn't and she was simply having a little mental relapse, tiny relapse, because of the woods or some other arbitrary trigger.

Shaking her head and, in doing so, the pointless rant out of it, she slipped into her shoes before taking a look at her reflection in the mirror. She smiled a little, she looked good. Not drop dead good, but good. The shirt had the smallest amount of sassiness, the pants fitted her and the shoes… well, the shoes were plain, but as a whole, it worked.

Why was she even thinking about this? She asked herself shaking her head again. It was just Mick, just dinner, probably takeout. Well, if she wanted to look good to eat pizza and drink beer straight from the bottle sitting on her couch, she had every right, she told herself raising her shoulder as she turned the lights off.

"Hey, Mick," she began as she walked out of her room, before even reaching the stairs, "what do you say if we go to that place around the corner? The burgers are good and I…" could have a salad on the side, she would have said, had she been able to finish the sentence. The shock of seeing Hotch in her apartment simply bolted her to the step.

She gapped her mouth a few times, her eyes wide open, her hand still on the rail, her body frozen in place, her brain racing at the speed of light in no direction. There he was, a few weeks too late for his presence to be soothing and not late enough for it to be insignificant. She didn't know what to say, what to do, how to react. She just stood.

Mentally slapping herself out of that Gone with the wind reenactment, she blinked and tried to focus on just one thing. His eyes, she thought. She had to look into his eyes to know why he was there after all this time.

When she did, the shock fainted. There was something there. He had that expression, that sad, doleful expression that always made her want to hold him. She also slapped that thought out of her mind. But preoccupation tugged at her and she finally managed to come down the stairs and walked to him with relative normalcy.

"Are you OK?" She asked unnecessarily. Had he been OK, he wouldn't be there. Damn, she cursed as she realized that she felt vaguely proud of still being the person to whom he turned when feeling miserable.

He had kept his eyes on her from the moment her feet appeared at the top of the stairs. He had expected to feel trapped or exposed. Instead, he was somehow at ease, his misery instantly bearable in her presence. He could, then, analyze her. Passed the initial shock –could he had honestly expect anything different?- concern had taken over. She had walked to him without hurry, perhaps even apprehensively. Then she had asked. It was a simple question. He couldn't answer it, though.

For a second, she thought he wouldn't answer and simply pull her in, lean his head on her shoulder the way he had done in the past, and just rest pressed to her. The idea wasn't as alarming as she would have guessed.

He didn't. He eluded her gaze and, when he found his voice, replied, low and dry, "Everything's fine."

Everything was not fine. He knew it and so did she.

He had lost the courage that had hauled him there, he had lost the anger that Mick's presence had awaken or refueled -he wasn't sure- and he had lost the little confidence he had on his nonexistent plan and himself. And he had discovered that, even when he had had the time to prepare himself, seeing her outside the professional staging did still fluster him. And it soothed him terribly.

Crushed by that contradiction and his feeble determination, he dragged his feet to the couch and sat on its back, facing the kitchen. It wasn't as ostentatious as the view of the city that the window offered, but he liked it better. He had spent more time there than looking out the window.

Mouth agape, eyes slightly narrowed and stomach a little clenched, she studied him. He seemed serious, almost angry, as he always did. And he wasn't talking. OK, she thought, nodding. It was one of those occasions when she had to draw the words out of him.

She sat next to him, thigh and shoulder against his. None of them flinched or squirmed. It was still familiar. The physical contact was still comforting and warm. She wasn't as surprised as she would have been a week ago. It was a distracting thought; she had to go back to the point.

Consciously disregarding the warmth –it had a pull on her she preferred to ignore- but accepting the comfort -it had been too long to deny herself of that tiny, almost naïve pleasure- she tried, "Is it Garcia?"

Of course she would ask that, he thought as his teeth gritted involuntarily. She knew he hated towing Garcia into their world, into the un-buffered violence of the field work, where she could not hide in her aseptic, sterile bunker. Not that he liked any member of his team seeing someone die, but it was harder on everyone when it was Garcia. However, "No, it's not Garcia."

She nodded again, and his head lifted just enough for her to see pass the anger frosting, giving her a brief but unmistakable insight on his thoughts. Oh, this sucked. Oh, this really sucked, she told herself as a ton of sand fell on her and buried her. Truth can be oppressive.

She bowed her head slowly and stared at the floor, trying to think what to say, if anything at all. Was there anything she could say that would make things any better?

The music cut through and reached her brain. One of her favorite songs. Sadly, it fitted them. Horribly accurate. Almost a mock of the moment, as if the stereo's shuffle had a twisted sense of humor and had decided to display it. Mick had turned the thing on, obviously. Hotch would have never even considered to hit play. He wouldn't have thought of dimming the lights either, that was Mick too.

Other friends would have stayed to be supportive. Mick had left. Probably because he had seen in Hotch's eyes the same thing she was seeing now. Probably because he had their relationship nailed, he understood it better than either of them did. Probably because he knew she had to decide what to do about Hotch, and she didn't need an audience.

But there wasn't such decision to be made. Because Hotch, oh, this really sucked, wasn't there over some random reason. It was simple, her stomach knotted as she faced it, named it. He was there because he loved her. And he was glum because he knew there was nothing they could do. She felt the same, really. Disheartened. Her fucked up luck was such that when she finally fell so completely stupid in love and the man loved her back, they just couldn't be together.

She had accepted it. Before she even knew he loved her, she had accepted that she could not have a relationship with him. The newly acquired knowledge changed nothing.

OK, that wasn't entirely true. It changed everything, actually. Because while they hadn't known, since the beginning and all the way up until that night in San Francisco, not knowing had been their little haven. While they had that thing they had, that undefined nothing, they were possible –within the boundaries- . But having feelings, feelings that transcended those couple of hours and invaded their entire world… You can't decide how you feel. But when there are feelings you shouldn't be having, the right thing to do is not to act on them. So, if anything, knowing meant they really, really had to end it. Their work defined them, it constituted them.

So… that was pretty much it, she thought. They were sitting on the back of her couch, heads down, silently acknowledging the death of their non-relationship.

She glimpsed at him, a stupid attempt to share their defeat. Rationally, it made sense, but it was ridiculous. They had to be the only two people in the whole wide world whose relationship ended because they loved one another.

But he didn't glimpsed back. He was staring down to his knees, very still. Rigid. So brave. God, he was… burning inside. So desolate… God, she almost said out loud as another realization pelted rocks on her.

It wasn't Garcia, he repeated to himself. It was coming to her place to see her, to be with her. He had come to see where he stood, to confront things, her, himself, everything.

But, damn it, he was not a brave man. He wasn't dauntless. Mick Rawson had made his move the second he had had the chance. He, on the other hand, had blissfully ignored reality until it punched him on the face, and even then he had sat on the bench, he had taken himself off the game, leaving his place free for the taking. He was like a scared little deer. Well… put an criminal in front of him, he didn't even hesitate. But Prentiss… Put Prentiss in front of him, and he became a stupid, boneless twelve years old kid. Damn it! He gritted his teeth; he had thought about all these things before coming, and he had decided to come anyway. He needed to man up again. Recover that sense of self-assurance, that manly pride that had led him to believe she was never going to leave.

But his self-directed anger wasn't bracing him enough to regain his resolve. He was weak. He needed a sign. He needed a signal from her to regroup, reorganize his thoughts and decide again.

Oh, man… He didn't have a clue, she thought, her head hanging a little to the left. God, this man. He didn't know. There she was, her heart, her entire body being slashed inside out by the unbelievable force of her feelings, and he didn't know. And there he was, so in love with her –the idea made her shiver- that he had come, his ever-effective facades useless, just to sit next to her. Her heart sunk a bit. A lot.

She could have argued that perhaps it was best for him not to know. That there wasn't a good reason to tell him when they couldn't do anything about it. That the pain it would bring would be even worse because he would feel as impotent as she did. However, it would be wrong from a moral point of view, and her sense of honesty and fairness were too strong to be disregarded. And, even when there was nothing they could do, she was glad to know it hadn't just been her. She wasn't ashamed of what she felt, she had no reason to hide it. In fact, for her it was vital that he knew. She had to tell him. The fight that hadn't even taken place in her mind was over, and she said it.

Her index finger tapped his thigh, a caress more than a call for his attention, and she sighed a muttered, "You."

Her you told him nothing and the little tap told him even less. So he continued to sit there, motionless, wrenched inside but totally rigid.

There were a couple of words left out when she said you. And, seeing him, she knew that just that one hadn't been enough. However, she couldn't, physically couldn't string the three words together. Oh, damn, she would have to go further, be obvious.

It took just one finger. Her right index finger on his jaw. And it was the same as always. The slightest physical direction and the right answer from him. He turned his head as guided, and when her finger barely hooked the bump of his chin, his lips parted. And she closed her eyes. And she closed her lips on his.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five seconds passed before she released his lower lip, only to trap it again.

Please, please, please get it, she silently willed him, because kissing him again felt like a million tiny pricks to her heart.

Another five seconds, and her finger was still lax but keeping him in place, and her heart was pounding rapidly, and her eyelids crunched, and please, please, please get it and stop me.

And she pressed her lips the slightest bit harder against his as she kissed him yet once more, and she didn't wait this time and kissed him again and again and again while her brain yelled at her to get the hell out, and why were his lips malleable to hers but unresponsive, and why the hell couldn't he just get it into that stubborn head of his, and why the hell was she letting herself fall down again in front this impossible man, and why couldn't she just stop when her stomach felt as if claws were tearing it apart and he was doing nothing, God, she was stupid and pathetic, and please, please, please, please, Hotch, just push me!

But then the hand. Fingers on her nape, palm on the side of her neck, thumb caressing her throat, the softest touch, the stroke that was so unbearably Hotch. And lips, thin, thin lips catching hers, barely even sucking them.

Her kiss had paralyzed him. It shouldn't have, because the second her finger was on his jaw he knew what was going to happen. But he wasn't expecting to feel fear, actual fear at the contact. It should have clarified everything, it was the sign, it was his cue to speak.

And then his lip had been freed and an even worse terror ran through him, because it hadn't been the sign, it was just pity, but then she was kissing him again and his bones became foam and his brain checked out.

And again, and again, and again, and a sharp intake of air from her, and the finger, and, yes, damn it, man up! Act! Do! Respond!

Thus, the hand, her neck. He loved her slim neck and how he was almost able to circle it with one hand. And her throat, he loved the ridges of her throat. And her mouth, he just loved her wide lipped mouth. So he touched, he caressed, he kissed back.

Thanks God or Goddamn. She honestly didn't know. And she was beginning to not care.

And, again, a hand. The other hand on the small of her back, from one side to the other until he had her half surrounded. It still worked. His arm around her inundated her with bubbles, melted her body and blew her head.

Conscious thinking momentarily blocked, her fingers ran over his scalp, messing his hair a little, and she rolled somehow to end up sitting on his thigh, one leg between his. It wasn't exactly passion what guided her. It was the unavoidable, inexorable need to be closer, as close as she could so the hollow ache inside that she hadn't been feeling that often anymore but that had returned reloaded two seconds ago went away. And, God, damn it, this also worked.

Hotch held her in place, his fingers gliding up and down her back, her sides, her hips, making sure that she was real, that Prentiss was on his lap, that she was raining on him, exuding that thing that filled him with self-worth out of every single one of her pores, that one of her hands was indeed resting on the center of his chest. It was real. She was there. And his heart almost thumped out of him and onto her hand. God, thank you.

Mouths opened, tongues slipped out, touched, mouths opened wider, heads tilted, he slid her up his thigh a bit, felt the hand on his chest tense and the other cup his head, and the part of his brain that wasn't completely lost in the haze asked why the hell he had waited this long.

Immerse in a self-indulgent state, Prentiss deepened the kiss and began to purposely maneuver his head so her nose could visit certain uniquely Hotch's facial features. The pronounced nick on his left nostril, one of the moles on his right cheek, the chickenpox's mark by his lip. Shit.

It was the smallest of gestures, the kind that, in its lightness, mixed passion with adoration. He loved it. It burned him. It ignited him.

He slid her up his thigh, one strong arm around her waist, the other hand squeezing its way down her leg, hooking fingers on the back of her knee, and yanking it up until her inner thigh was pressed against his hip and her front was flat against his.

Undone, boneless and stupid, lost in the kiss and swapped by his body, she didn't even realize she was bucking her hips against his. She didn't even realize her fingers were clutching his back.

She didn't even realize his right hand was travelling down until the pads of his fingers brushed so impossibly delicately the strip of skin exposed on her back. Her brain froze. Time stopped. A punch on the nose, that simple touch knocked her out of the sensory jumble. Her eyes shot open, her spine lashed up braking the kiss, separating their upper bodies, her hands gripped his shoulders, keeping him at distance and she was present again, in the actual reality of the moment.

His eyes, God, his eyes, his face, his sudden astonishment, maybe even fear, his body, that thing that enveloped her, it was too much. Rational thinking had to kick in again. This was it. This was the moment to stop. To step out and away, to explain, to leave it at that.

And rational thinking won. Because she wasn't the type that said I couldn't help it. She wasn't the kind that, after the fact, blamed lack of character for her misery. She wasn't the kind that threw herself in now and called it misfortune in the morning. She knew consequences, she took responsibility for them and a certain amount of guilt often accompanied said action. But they were choices, things she could decide to either do or not, whatever the reasons.

And she chose. Her body lost tone, her head dropped and her hands went from his shoulders to his face. Limp thumbs forced his mouth open once more as she leaned in.

"You", she muttered again against his lips before truly and completely letting go of any possible conflict that could still be swimming inside.

God, he loved her hesitant and confident. He loved to witness the exact moment in which she made up her mind. Still, he kissed her as if to suck any remaining thread of doubt out of her and one arm went up, fingers to her armpit -he really loved that spot- the other arm down, across her lower back, the palm of his hand almost on her hipbone, encasing her, squeezing her hard without crashing her.

That manner of his, that particular hold that made her feel slender and graceful surrounded by a solid, utterly confident Hotch broke the little resistance her mind was offering. She was gone. And so completely present.

Impossible to say if he pushed her or she dragged him up the stairs and into the bedroom. Most likely, it was both.

I am not terribly pleased with this chapter, hopefully you didn't think it completely sucked. I kinda do. But if I didn't published another two months would have passed without any update. So, yes, this time I am unashamedly begging for reviews. Good or bad. I have low standards.

I would say "the next one is the last one" but we all know better than to believe me.

See you,

allthatisevil (AKA all-that-is-overdramatic-and-unconfident)