Hello, hello, dear people. Two month is a long time, but, hey, one does what one can when one can. Apparently, I can't write when I am extremely sad or extremely happy. Now I'm balanced.

Oh, this is unrevised so… grammar, spelling… are pretty bad.

That said, here it goes.

Disclaimer: Yeah, Criminal Minds isn't mine.

There wasn't any tantalizing in their undressing. It wasn't slow and careful, it lacked all delicacy. As the first strained, desperate sounds filled the dark room they yanked at each other clothes, they kicked shoes off, they undid buttons, unclasped holsters, unzipped zippers, amazingly well considering fingers were shaking, blood was rushing and all organized thought was gone, leaving them in the middle of a sensorial haze.

She couldn't tell if her back as against a wall or her bed. Hotch was glued to her front, heavy on her, shifting the pressure as he moved, and she moved to adjust, to keep the contact. It was a mess, his hands grabbing, pulling. And she knew exactly what they were doing to do, where they were headed. It was that, the anticipation, the tickles, the nerves sending alarm signals before he reached every single spot what made everything more intense, what made her explode, ripped the flesh off of her bones when he finally touched those spots, lashed her head backwards and made her bit her lip and plucked loud grunts out of her throat.

He had no idea of what elicited those responses, he had never known nor had he cared. All he knew was that what he liked doing she liked feeling. And she was squirming beneath him, her fingers digging in his back and raking painfully over his bare skin. And there were her legs, two boas constrictor, one tangling up with his, the other on his lower back pulling him closer. It drove him crazy. How they could hold back just to make it last, building it up, screwing each other senses, how the air that she puffed unintentionally on his face was energy when he inhaled it.

It was too much. Because she had the faint notion of her legs feeling something that she loved and her fingers running over ribs, twitching muscles, a hairless chest, a round butt that she grabbed and tried to pull towards her. And lips and a tongue inside her, the taste of coffee and scotch. And the silly song breaking through. She might have said it out loud or just thought of it, bite my lip and close my eyes, take me away to paradise.

Sweet, sweet pain then that opened her eyes and made her eyelids flutter. He loved her fluttering eyelids, the shine in her eyes as he pushed in. He loved how her entire body lost tone for just an instant.

She loved it too. The look in his eyes, the tension in his body that clasped her harder, crushed her to him, the impression in the back of her minds of things falling into place, of everything making sense. And Hotch inside her, making her expand as he moved. She was moving too, but she was not aware of it. All she knew, felt actually, because there was no space for reason, all she felt was him in, out, above and around. Something filling her, from her groin all the way up, passing by her stomach, breaking though her heart, pushing a whimper out of her throat and expanding from that axis, swimming away and twirling with her every fiber. She could feel it in her arms, her legs, her skull. Hotch's something swimming inside her, into every one of her cells. She could feel it inside her teeth, her fingers, her earlobes, her breasts, her hips and her stomach. All inside her, he was locked within. Every bit of hers was intertwined with Hotch. Filled with Hotch. All Hotch.

He felt the exact same thing. As if with each thrust he was making her exude her essence and he breathed it in, soaked himself in her, was invaded by Prentiss, and even when the feeling that his body wouldn't actually contain them both but not caring if his skin cracked and the room was flooded with them.

Of course it all precipitated into a frenzy, into a crazy race to get more, to get all, to steal each other, and locked the other inside themselves. He pushed harder to make her ooze herself and she clasped harder to draw every bit of him out until the world caved to the moans, the grunts, the cries, to the force of the clutched arms, legs, hands, lips and it crumbled on them, and they were empty of themselves and filled with the other.

They were dead. They were absolutely dead, not an ounce of energy left. Still, they danced a bit more, between hummed sounds she helped him to hover over her, he helped her to keep her legs around him.

She could see it in his eyes, could sense it in his breathing, could feel it in his weary moves. This was how a man felt. How a loving man felt. This was how loving felt. It was being you and someone else at the same time. It was the kiss she was now receiving, the ladder of wet lips that pulled just a little, the nose that glided against hers. It was not knowing that she was mimicking his ministrations.

Hotch knew all these things already. He knew what it was like to have a woman wasting herself to him. As he kissed her he realized that Prentiss wasn't wasting herself. She wasn't falling for a fake compromise, believing that if she endured it long enough she could turn him around and get him to be the man she wanted him to be. Because she didn't want him to be any different. The thought weakened him and his muscles trembled. So this was being loved.

She felt the trembles and half smiled. Silly man, trying to remain strong. Didn't he know he couldn't because she had robbed him?

She brought him down, made him lay fully on her, slipped him out, pulled him up until his face was sideways on her pillow so she could touch his lips with hers as her hand landed somewhere on his back.

He allowed it. It wasn't the first time she took care of him and Hotch hadn't ever had any problem with it. In fact, it was one of the things he sought, knowing as he did that Prentiss did it out of genuine tenderness.

Hotch's hand went up and she felt rough fingertips gliding over her fingers, down her palm, drawing firulettes on the soft skin of her wrist, coming down again to caress the inner side of her elbow, down again to softly touch her armpit. She giggled a throaty giggle. He smiled on her lips.

How did he know those things? When had le learned them? They shared a fixation with armpits. Patrick had said it was disgusting, had made her feel disgusting. And there was Hotch, who sniffed them, buried his fingers in them.

And then the tip of his middle finger was tracing the straight line from the not quite obvious dint on her chin, up over her lips, to the well defined valley above them and up the depression between her nose's cartilages, falling down the straight bridge, shaping her eyebrow, brushing her lashes, touching her lachrymal –yes, they had odd likings- and then his hand resting on her cheek while his thumb followed the curves of her lips.

Prentiss knew what he was doing, memorizing a combination of features that was no one else's. She had done the same.

Out of sheer caprice she ran her fingers up and down his spine, predictably making him shiver. They both shook with quiet laughter.

She closed her eyes and knew he was closing his too. They came to lay perfectly still after that, her arms wrapping him, one of his hands still on her face, the other idly cupping her shoulder, each lost in their own thoughts.

Hotch was remembering how she had slapped his hand when he reached for a condom. A huge relief had swamped him. Similar to the one he had experience when she did close to a year ago. In that occasion she had said You don't need it, do I? They had locked gazes and everything had been understood. He had squeezed her, kissed her and entered her for an answer and she had clamped around him. He realized now that his usage of the future tense in San Francisco hadn't been the first thing that spoke about future and commitment. She had implied those things with her question. There wasn't anyone else. Because even with condoms she wouldn't have put him at risk. As she wasn't now. And he knew that her makeup hadn't been smudged over any face, her neatly styled hair hadn't been messed up by other hands, her dresses hadn't been peeled off of her body by any other man. He felt a strong warmth spread in his body. He would have kissed her, hadn't he been so exhausted.

And so he began to plan it. And he even cracked a joke.

"You'll tell me if I'm crashing you, right?" He asked.

"Of course," She answered.

It hit her then. The same phrase, the same place. The things that had started their game. What was he thinking saying that?

She opened her eyes and blinked at the ceiling.

It wasn't that she thought this night was a mistake. (He had used that word that first night, mistake). No, it wasn't a mistake. However, somewhere along the line, probably when they stood up from the back of the couch, she had abandoned herself to the moment and had fallen in a selfish state.

Because she hadn't done it to steal him. Or it hadn't been her intention. But she had caved to his caresses, his kisses and had selfishly taken it all in. Probably because she wanted to feel it. To know what it was like to be kissed and caressed and… well, fucked knowing that it wasn't just her who felt it. She wanted to experience it. To get all that knowing he was guided by love too. To resignify the previous nights starting who knew when, but certainly San Francisco.

No. She had decided to do it so he knew. So he understood. So he could experience all that.

She had done it to get it into his stubborn and somehow insecure head that he did brought those feelings up in women. That she wouldn't be the only one that felt them. Her purpose had been to set him free, to tell him that it was time to move on, to find the next one, the right one. The one that was perfect for him. The one that could give him everything he needed every day, every night, that didn't required secrecy, that didn't jeopardize his career.

But, she excused herself, she was only human. She wanted to be chosen too.

And this situation, this obligation to cut the tethers loose and let him go was killing her a little. Maybe a lot.

But it was fine, she told herself, willing herself to believe it. Yes, she was going to be fine. It felt as if knives were slashing her from her guts, trying to escape her body. But that was right now. Right now, with that sea of feelings washing her over, damping her and leaking in until she was absolutely inundated of course it would seem like she wasn't going to bounce back.

But she was going to bounce. Tomorrow everything was going to be better. Ok, maybe not tomorrow. But it was going to begin tomorrow, she told herself even when her heart was shrinking and a deep, deep sadness overtook her. She was going to sleep well into the morning, then she was going to do something and at six o'clock she was going to call Mick. Please, don't be him away; please, God, stop serial killers if only for a few days. So Mick could stay close by and they could go out, to the movies, to some crappy club, plan a night in New York or maybe even a Sin to Win weekend.

Tomorrow the stupid fantasy was going to die, she thought, a little pissed. The stupid fantasy was stupid and it deserved to die. So he could move on and she could set both feet on reality and move on too. Leave him behind, leave it all behind, push the memory out, and the feeling and the physical pain, expel them from her mind and her body.

It was so sad. So unfair. She felt the anger fading and the sense of Hotch inside her following it. The one time she fell crazy in love with a man that was also absolutely stupid in love with her, she had to end it. So unbelievable heartbreaking.

She bit her lip because she knew that those moments would still show up and she was going to have to remind herself that there wasn't going to be a next time. And she was going to feel void, she was going to feel naked for a second or two because during that time people would be able to see it all.

But, she reminded herself, she was tough. She was going to tough it out, until it all became a numbness she could bare, and then it was going to be gone. She wasn't feeling tough at the moment, and she was broken right now, but she could pull it off, fake it until it was real.

She indulged herself in one last pleasure. Like a sommelier of his scent she inhaled. She could distinguish all the traces. A strong, dominant scent of Hotch, the rancid smell of sex, her own aroma emanating from his skin and faint traces of shores and woods. Ah, it killed her.

She closed her eyes because spikes had pierced though her back and were now wiggling and waggling until every single organ was pulp. And for the first time since this crazy breakup had started she wanted to cry. She wanted Hotch to hold her and cry the pulp out.

But it was time. So she blinked the moist on the corner of her eye that wasn't a tear yet and tightened her embrace with arms and legs. She lifted her head and planted a soft kiss on his shoulder.

"We'll be fine," She muttered. "We… We'll be fine," She repeated because those were the only words that passed the lump in her throat.

Hotch had been focused on his plan. On the answer to them. And on her. On every square inch of her that was in contact with him. On her smell, on their drying sweat.

Until he heard her. The words were right, but the tone of her voice… the tone of her voice was off. His eyes snapped open as his brain raced trying to scan the tone. Because the words were right. What… And then the awful though. Had he been doing one thing and she the exact opposite?

He pushed himself up on his elbows to look at her. To read her. Her eyes were blank, staring at some random spot on her ceiling even when she was still holding him close. He was right. She was a shell of herself. She was just a shell locked around him because that's what she thought he needed.

He felt fire inside and he didn't know if it was anger or what. His jaw clenched, and he understood the feeling. Hatred. He hated her. He hated her more than ever before. He wanted to shout What's wrong with you? What the hell is wrong with you? He wanted to shake her until she snapped out of that hollow state and gave him an answer. His teeth gritted, his hands fisted, his eyes narrowed and he slipped off of her with a brusque move.

She thought he was going to get dressed in a hurry and go. She would have liked that. Not really, a voice said. Yes, she replied. She would have liked it. It would have broken the pattern. They always spent the night. Leaving would be different. It would close the deal.

But he just sat on the edge of the bed motionless.

She didn't. She stared at him, her gaze roaming over him. She bit her lip, thinking about how beautiful he was. His torso wasn't triangular. His lips were thin, his hair was stiff, his skin wasn't smooth. His arms weren't perfectly toned. He had wrinkles and a little dewlap. His legs, arms and hands were hairy. It was so weird to find his middle age body so breathtaking. Because even now, looking at him, she found him mesmerizing. And he seemed so sad that she wanted to straddle him from behind, sneak her arms around him, massage his nape with her forehead like a little kitten, scrape him with her teeth, get him to turn his head and open his mouth so she sound pour herself into him, so even her heart and everything it contained fell in him.

Jesus Christ, get over yourself, the by now angry voice said. You're not the only one that can tough it out. For the past month he had done it too. And stop staring. This isn't a movie. This is life and life sucks.

She was angry too. At the voice, at her fucked up life, at herself. At Hotch for existing. But she lacked the energy to jump up. She actually lacked the energy to stay angry. She rolled to the other side of the bed, away from him, walked to the dresser, pulled a drawer open and took some underwear, panties and a top. She slipped in them and strolled to the bathroom, not looking at him as she passed by.

He did look at her. He watched her sway away, close the door. She seemed to be at peace with it. With her idea of what tonight had been.

He took a deep breath, and then another, and another until he had exhaled every bit of anger, every confusing thought.

Stretching his arm, he turned the bedside lamp on. A very soft, diffuse light casted more shadows than brightness over the room. He looked around, the scattered clothes, his guns on the floor, her overnight bag still packed. Suddenly he felt naked. As if his nudity didn't fit the moment, the scene.

Boxers on, he was himself again. The one that had dragged him to her house. He sat back, running facts and events in his mind, resolved. Though not quite as much as to not get anxious by the noises that came from the bathroom, telling him of her every move, anticipating the moment in which she would come out.

When she did, she came to a surprised –though not surprising- halt. Her brief shower had lasted enough. She had assumed he would have left by now. She was expecting him to be gone and she would then open the windows, change the sheets, spray some Glade and go to sleep. Hotch in his boxers altered her plans.

He stared at her. Her hair was no longer mussed, she had combed it and it was as straight, neat and shiny as when he arrived. Her eyes wore the same shocked expression they had sported then.

She wanted to ask why he was still there, half naked. Half naked Hotch was distracting and slightly infuriating.

He saw it, the tang of anger and bitterness that her eyes shot at him. Honestly, he couldn't care less what she thought or felt at the moment. Honestly, he considered that thinking had ruined them.

This was wrong. He was sitting there, serious, staring at her as if she had done something wrong. As if taking a shower to wash him off and brushing her teeth to get rid of the taste were wrong. As if he had the right to remain engraved in her. As if trying to get away from him was a crime.

To hell with it. "I want us back," He finally said, his voice sharp, dry.

I want us back? Her features hardened, her body quaked, anger creeping in her from the sole of her feet and spreading like fire.

"Are you…" out of your mind, stupid, or just being selfish?

She held his gaze, pierced his eyes with her glare. It was insulting. Because good for him if he could go on pretending nothing was different, if he could still control himself and play the game, store the past month somewhere and pick things up at some point before San Francisco. She couldn't, nor did she want. She wanted to untangle herself. She wanted him to untangle and move on.

"I told you you couldn't fix this with sex," She replied, equally dry.

He blinked slowly, hoping he could find the right words. He couldn't. "I'm not."

Well, no, he certainly wasn't, she thought glancing around just to stop herself from slapping him.

Ok, now, explanations.

Told you not to trust this was the last chapter.

This chapter was written in one day after discarding all the previous versions, which may or may not be better than this one. However, they had me so tangled up that it was impossible for me to sort out what was good and what sucked. Yes, this final version is dry and pretty unemotional –unlike the others- but… what ya gonna do?

Review if you will :)

See you,

allthatisevil