And So We Return and Begin Again

"Have more than you show, speak less than you know."

~William Shakespeare.

*Author's Note: Thank you to everyone for all the adds, follows, faves, and reviews. Some of you have been waiting for a particular section in this particular chapter since the beginning of "The Way the World Ends". Thank you for so patiently trusting that we'd get here.*

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

If Spencer Reid had to guess, he'd say that he'd been in this room for a solid hour. Maybe ninety minutes. Somewhere in-between.

He really should have been counting.

None of that mattered the second that the door swung open and Jack Dawson breezed in. The man hadn't even fully closed the door before he began firing questions.

"So how do you know Benjamin Fuller?"

"I'm sorry, who?" Reid blinked, slightly thrown-off by the immediate attack. He'd expected some kind of opening, some rehearsed speech in which Dawson gave him some kind of clue as to why they'd even think he was connected to all this, much less the actual person behind it all.

"Oh, don't tell me you've already forgotten him." Dawson settled into the chair opposite Reid's, his face completely blank. Something about his tone was borderline aggressive—and Spencer Reid had never responded well to bullies.

"I have an eidetic memory. I don't forget." He kept the snideness out of his tone, but barely, so that it was still felt. It was a trick he'd learned a long time ago. When pushed, push back just enough to make them reconsider trying again.

"Right." Again, Dawson waged between being patronizing and completely sarcastic.

"Right." Spencer returned, with a little more force than necessary. Something was wrong, he could sense it. Dawson's demeanor wasn't helping—it put him on edge, automatically made him feel defensive, and something in the back of his head was screaming that this was not the time to be combative. So he pulled back his own desire to lash out and tried to infuse some calm into his tone, "Could you please just tell me why I've been charged? I just don't…I don't understand what could have happened to make you think—"

"Benjamin Fuller named you as his co-conspirator."

"What? But I've never even met the man—"

"Then why would he tell us that you were the mastermind behind the attack?" Dawson didn't mention that Fuller was dead—it was best to have Reid believing that the person who'd named him was still alive and kicking.

"I don't know—why don't you take your tough-guy act to him and find out?" The young doctor shot back coolly, and Dawson had to stop himself from grinning at the man's attitude. Reid didn't offer explanations, didn't try to besmirch Fuller's testimony—all in all, good signs.

"Right now, I want to focus all my attention on you," Dawson returned easily, setting his elbows on the table in a gesture that implied an earnest openness and a desire to listen. "So tell me your side of the story, Spencer."

"There's nothing to tell. There is no side because I'm not part of the story—at least not in the way that you think." Now he leaned forward as well, eager to prove his innocence, "Look, I get how this looks—but if you go deeper, you'll see that it's the farthest thing from the truth. Have your techs look at the email—there's no way it was actually sent from my phone. And Linnea—whoever sent her the email had to not only know about her connection to Maeve, but Maeve's connection to me, and I promise you, that's a very short list. I don't know why Fuller chose me as a scapegoat—"

"Especially when your team mates would've have made such better sells," Dawson interjected smoothly. With a slight wave of his hand, he pointed out, "Rossi, for instance, or even Hotchner. Both of their tragedies would've fit the narrative better, don't you think?"

"I…don't know." It was a lie, and an obvious one. Spencer Reid might be desperate to prove his innocence, but he wasn't going throw his colleagues under the bus in the process. It was admirable.

"Which brings us back to the question: why you?" Dawson sat back. "If this is all one big set up, why choose you?"

"Another excellent question for Benjamin Fuller." Spencer Reid's gaze was now focused on the one-way mirror behind Jack Dawson, the clinical scrutiny in his gaze giving away exactly what he was doing—he was waiting for someone to open the door to the viewing room, to let a shaft of light pierce the room and perhaps illuminate anyone who was standing closely to the window. It was something you wouldn't even know to look for, unless you knew how those mirrors worked.

Obviously, Dr. Reid did know.

"You know, for such a smart man, you made a very elementary mistake," Dawson prodded—he'd learned a long time ago that most geniuses were fiercely protective of their intelligence's reputation. However, Spencer Reid didn't react at all.

Surprisingly, Jack Dawson still took that as a good sign.

On the other side of the glass, Aaron Hotchner watched, his mouth pressed into a thin line of barely-contained disapproval. He was flanked on either side by Matt Cruz and Scott O'Donnell, who'd had a very heated debate over whether or not to allow him in the room on this one. Jessalyn Keller was standing closer to the glass, watching the verbal volley between her boss and Dr. Reid with a rapt intensity that blurred out everything else in the room.

"Is there any particular reason that Agent Dawson is taking such a hostile tone with Dr. Reid?" Cruz asked quietly, though the disapproval in his tone was still evident. You generally didn't get a lot of cooperation from a suspect by being aggressive and insulting their intelligence.

"There is," was Keller's only reply. She never took her eyes from the scene in front of her.

The door opened, and Eden and Shostakovich entered. Eden moved up to the glass, giving it a light tap with her knuckles. Dawson heard the sound and halted the interview, reassuring Dr. Reid that they would continue in a moment. Within seconds, he was in the viewing room.

"So?" He looked to Eden and Shostakovich expectantly.

Eden shrugged, "The two techies didn't give us anything more than what we already knew from Sura."

She handed him a sheet of paper, ripped from the little notebook that was now safely reinstalled in her back pocket. "But here's some direct quotes, anyways."

Dawson gave a curt nod. He spared a quick glance at Aaron Hotchner, his brows lifting in slight surprise. It was obvious that Agent Hotchner had plenty of comments to make on the current status of the investigation, but he was also wise enough not to voice them aloud.

"Alright then," Dawson held up the piece of paper with a slight flair. "Back into the belly of the beast."

Hotchner's cellphone buzzed. He glanced at it, quietly informing Cruz, "Kate Callahan's here."

He slipped out the door without another word, though Cruz could tell by his dour expression that Aaron didn't like the idea of leaving Reid to the wolves, even if his presence was little more than an unseen show of solidarity.

Cruz still needed to figure out how Aaron had known about this at all. He glanced around at the people in the room—the only ones, in theory, who knew about Reid's alleged involvement. Jonas Shostakovich seemed like the least likely candidate for sharing—he hadn't exactly become a fan favorite with the BAU, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. Jessalyn Keller seemed almost as unlikely as her team mate—she wasn't cold, but she was a bit…standoffish. The idea of her getting cozy enough to warn the BAU in advance didn't seem plausible. Judith Eden was a bit of a different story, but he'd watched her set aside her personal bias numerous times over the past two days, and he felt that even if she'd wanted to say something, she wouldn't have ever crossed the line.

The only two people left in the room were himself and Scott O'Donnell—he hadn't said anything, and he knew that Scott wouldn't have done anything to jeopardize the investigation, much less his position as SAC.

No, he needed to look outside the room. Who else knew? Adelaide Macaraeg and Sura Roza. The latter was a definite no-go—she was a textbook example of the infamous GSA, the German Shepherd analyst, so named due to their fierce sense of loyalty towards their particular team. She'd never give a single shred of information to anyone outside that circle, unless specifically instructed to do so by her team leader.

Which left Macaraeg. The day before, she'd acted oddly about another leak that had happened—as if she'd known who it was. Which implied that the leak was either herself or someone on her team. But would she have taken the time to either call the BAU herself, or to inform her other two team members about the development, which would have in turn led to one of them telling Hotchner about Reid's arrest?

It didn't make sense. Macaraeg had known about the mention of Reid in Fuller's journals, but she hadn't been part of the conversation in which Dawson decided to actually arrest him. So her knowledge would have been based on supposition.

Aaron Hotchner wouldn't have come here on a supposition. He had to have heard the news from someone who'd been there, who'd seen or heard it, someone in the building—

The answer nearly smacked him in the face with its obviousness.

Dora. She'd been here. She'd been waiting for him, waiting to ask him what they'd found—and her behavior, it had been so…knowing. Like she'd known the answer to the question before she even asked. He hadn't confirmed whatever suspicions she'd had, but his refusal to confirm could've been just as easily taken as confirmation—Dora Carrington wasn't stupid, she could easily put two and two together. If she somehow already knew about Reid's arrest, Cruz's denial would have only enforced her suspicions, instead of putting a damper on them.

Reality settled like a stack of bricks on his shoulders—both the shock of the betrayal and the inevitable truth of how it must be dealt with.

He sighed as he headed for the door as well. Someone was going to have to quell whatever storm was brewing amongst the BAU agents, and he might as well start his penance now.

Kate Callahan had to admit—as much as she wanted to help Reid, her first thought had been about keeping her other teammates from doing something brash. Upon seeing Hotch's expression, followed by Derek Morgan's hurried and displeased appearance shortly afterwards, she knew that her concern hadn't been unfounded.

Hotch looked calmer, as if he'd had time to deal with whatever intense emotions he'd felt after first learning of Reid's arrest, but Morgan obviously hadn't had that luxury yet. He looked ready to storm the entire Academy, a one-man army on a mission. It was a minor miracle that he hadn't done just that.

"What's going on?" Morgan asked, trying to keep his voice quiet, although there wasn't anyone else in the foyer. The hour was late and the Academy was practically abandoned, except for the two dozen or so agents who were pulling some long hours to sift through interviews or watch security footage.

"Dawson's questioning Reid now," Hotch informed them. With a slight shake of his head, he added, "It's not looking good."

"What evidence do they have?" Callahan asked, truly bewildered at the question.

Hotch took another deep breath, "Some kind of journal the UNSUB left behind—implications to Reid. Plus, they're trying to use his behavior surrounding the entire incident, the connection to Maeve's sister—it's highly circumstantial at best, but with the right spin…"

He didn't have to finish that statement. The behavioral analysts understood—an atrocious crime had been committed, and the Bureau wanted blood. Their frenzy for retribution could easily cloud their judgment, especially if given just enough pieces of rope to construct a noose.

And by now, everyone in the BAU had been made aware of the fact that a reporter, who happened to be Maeve's sister, had come forward, claiming that Spencer Reid had emailed her about the bombing (a laughable concept for anyone who knew Spencer). It had drawn Rossi and Reid further into the investigation, and when the rest of the team had left earlier that evening, they'd all assumed that their two teammates would be released in few hours, once the Flying Js had realized what was really happening.

But those assumptions were currently being proven false—in the worst of ways.

"So what do we do now?" Morgan asked, setting his hands on his hips.

"Nothing," Hotch looked as if the answer pained him. "We're not in charge on this one—if we cause too big of a fuss, we'll likely find ourselves in some kind of holding room, and that won't do Rossi or Reid any good."

The sound of footsteps in the corridor got their attention. The three behavioral analysts turned to see Scott O'Donnell and Mateo Cruz headed their way.

"Cruz, you know this is bullshit," Morgan attempted to appeal to their section chief. "You know Reid, man. You know he couldn't do something like this, not in a million years."

"Agent Morgan, there is a convincing amount of evidence," O'Donnell returned, his face contorted in an expression of compassion. He understood the desire to believe that your friend was innocent—even if he wasn't.

Morgan stood a little straighter, "You know, when I was arrested for the murder of those three boys in Chicago, the police department said the same about me—and I was innocent."

"Yes, but it's a numbers game, isn't it?" O'Donnell shot back. "I mean, that isn't the only time a member of the BAU has been considered a suspect—how many times can the BAU members be accused of a crime and actually be innocent?"

"As many times as we actually are innocent," Callahan replied coolly. "Like now."

"What can we do?" Hotchner cut in, his voice low and serious. "What do you need to prove Reid's innocence? We'll sit down for a second round of questioning, we can provide documentation of an alibi—just tell us what we can do to help."

Cruz and O'Donnell took a beat to share a look of uncertainty.

"It's not really for us to decide," O'Donnell admitted quietly. He held out his hands in a helpless gesture, "Jack Dawson and his team have free rein to handle this investigation as they see fit—and so far, Dawson hasn't made any kind of sign that he wants anything from you guys. Given the fact that you're all infamously tight-knit, he might think it's a waste of time. I mean, what's the point in interviewing you, when all you're going to do is protest Agent Reid's innocence?"

"It would all be true, and it would all be on the record—and it's Doctor Reid." The last bit tumbled out of Hotch's mouth before he could even stop it. He could've sworn he saw the briefest flicker of a grin at the corner of Derek Morgan's mouth.

"I'm sorry," O'Donnell truly did look apologetic, for what it was worth. "There's nothing you can do—honestly, you shouldn't even be here unless Dawson sent for you."

He looked over at Cruz in slight puzzlement, but the section chief merely gave a curt shake of his head (long story, I'll explain later).

"Where's Agent Rossi?" Morgan asked, trying to keep the frustration from overwhelming him.

"They should be releasing him soon," O'Donnell assured him. "But I don't think Dr. Reid's going anywhere tonight—they've got 72 hours to hold him, although since this is considered an act of terrorism, I'm not sure if those rules even apply to this."

"Will we at least be allowed to speak to him?" Hotch felt a tremor of fear—they needed to figure out what the hell was going on, and they couldn't do it without talking to Reid.

O'Donnell made another gesture of uncertainty. "It's Dawson's game right now—and anybody's guess as to whether or not he'll allow something like that."

A movement at the other end of the hallway caught Kate Callahan's eye—she felt her entire body sag in relief at the sight of David Rossi. The others noticed her sudden change in physicality, and they all turned to look as well.

The glare that Rossi bestowed upon O'Donnell and Cruz definitively implied his current disdain for the roles they were playing in this drama, though for once, he kept his thoughts to himself. He walked around them, firmly planting himself next to Callahan, keeping the other two men in the deadlock of his stare.

Trying to break the tension, Hotch quietly asked his friend, "Are you alright?"

"Oh, I'm fine," Dave replied in a nonchalant sing-song that was the furthest thing from matching his facial expression or body language.

"Rossi," Cruz began. "I don't expect you to—"

"Good. Because I don't. In fact, I'm not sure why you two are even still standing here right now. Unless you're planning to show us the evidence against Reid."

"We're not at liberty to show anyone," O'Donnell reminded him, a harder edge slicing into his tone. "And why the hell would it matter, anyway? It wouldn't change your mind."

Rossi gave a slight shrug of agreement. "No, but at least it would show us where we need to start, when it comes to poking holes through whatever laughable case you think you've got against him."

"Agent Rossi, I've always admired the hell out of you, but don't push your luck," O'Donnell warned.

"An honest man should never fear to speak the truth," he returned easily. He spared another cutting glance at his section chief (what's your excuse, Cruz?).

"I think it's best if you all just went home," Cruz spoke quietly, trying to soothe away the frazzled nerves and tense muscles in the room. "Dr. Reid isn't going anywhere tonight, and I very seriously doubt that Dawson will let you speak to him—certainly not yet. Everyone's tired, everyone's stressed, emotions are running high—it's a recipe for disaster, and I'd prefer to head it off before someone does something we'll all regret."

"Oh, it's a bit too late for that," Derek Morgan intoned, almost under his breath. David Rossi gave a slight smirk of agreement.

"Tell Dawson we're here," Hotch turned his focus back to O'Donnell. "Tell him that we need to see Reid, and that we want to see this supposed evidence against him."

"I don't think it's gonna get you anywhere—"

"Won't know until we try," Hotch returned easily, though the determined set of his face informed the Quantico SAC that they weren't going anywhere until they received some kind of answer anyways.

"Fine," O'Donnell threw up his hands in exasperation. "I'll ask. But that's all you get."

"That's all we're asking for," Hotch reminded him quietly.

O'Donnell and Cruz disappeared down the hall again. Once they were out of earshot, Hotch turned back to his team, keeping his head low and his voice quiet.

"We need to get ahead of this, and we need to do it now. O'Donnell's right, there's no way we're going to get anything tonight. Even if Dawson agreed, O'Donnell and Cruz both need to pull power plays to remind us of our rank in this situation. Which means it will be at least tomorrow before we get to speak to Reid or see the evidence—if we're lucky."

"So we go cowboy on this?" Callahan's eyes were wide, but more from adrenaline than fear.

"Not the phrase I would've chosen to describe it, but yeah," Hotch admitted.

"We can use my place as home base," Rossi offered. "Plenty of room to set up boards, maps, whatever we need."

Hotch's cellphone buzzed. He glanced down and read the name on the caller ID. "Actually, I might have a better location."

He answered the call, "Garcia, are you home yet?"

"Yes, sir. That's why I was calling."

"Good. Do you mind having visitors?"

London, England.

"Have you ever had sexual relations with a coworker?"

Emily Prentiss took a moment to size up the somber faces seated around the table, taking care to keep her body relaxed and unreadable. The inquest had been hell, but it hadn't broken down all of her defenses.

Then, with a quick flick of the wrist, she downed her shot of vodka.

The table erupted into cries of surprise—and that's when Emily realized that she was the only one who'd taken a drink.

"Emiline," Brighid took on the tone of feigned shocked disapproval as she used her friend's nickname (it was part of the odd language of their group friendship—they'd given one another "uppity" names that were similar to their actual ones, like Emiline for Emily and Brighidalia for Brighid).

Emily's first reaction to the gleefully scandalized expressions of her three friends' faces was laughter, though she flushed slightly as she explained, "It wasn't—I mean, it was after we stopped working together."

"Oh, god," Anne (uppity alias: Annissa) clapped her hand over her chest. "Please tell me it wasn't Jonathan from the translation department."

"Why? Already put your own finger in that pie?" Sorcha (alias: Sorchinia) arched a coy eyebrow, taking a sip of some fruity concoction that contained enough rum and sugar to ensure both liver failure and diabetes. However, she'd earned the right to a good, solid drink—they were all members of the London Interpol branch, and they'd all been neck-deep in a damned inquest for days now, but it was finally over and this was the first time they'd had a moment to relax. For Emily, it was the first time she'd even left her office in days.

The table erupted into laughter again as Anne rolled her eyes, giving Sorcha's shoulder a playful nudge, "No…Jonathan was just bonkers over Emily, so he seemed like the logical choice."

"Our dear Emiline did have a hold over him," Brighid agreed with a wry smile at Emily, who was suspiciously silent. "So, who was it? Did valiant young Johnny conquer the pristine peaks of Mount Prentiss?"

"No, no, it was…." Emily didn't finish, instead setting her glass back on the table forcefully in protest. "Wait, this isn't how the game is played! Questions are only answered in shots—"

"Deflection, Emiline." Brighid sing-songed. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much—"

"I second Emily's statement," Sorcha raised her glass, rescuing her friend from the moment. She tapped Brighid, "Get on with it. Your turn to ask a question."

"Have you ever," Brighid turned her calculating green eyes back to Emily, and the American knew that she wasn't off the hook yet. "Slept with an FBI agent?"

Well, of course, Emily had to take a drink. It was the rule of the game, after all.

And, of course, she was the only one.

"I knew it!" Brighid crowed, slamming her hand on the table as if to emphasize her point.

"Oh, please tell me it was that Agent Morgan who visited a while back," Sorcha gave a dry smile. "He was positively yummy."

"I plead the fifth," Emily held up her hands.

"You're not in America, Chief Prentiss," Anne reminded her. "The Fifth Amendment has no power here."

Emily gave a groan of mock defeat, which only elicited more laughter from her friends.

"Keep your secrets, Emiline," Brighid decreed, taking a sip of her vodka tonic with a knowing smile. She twirled one of her naturally-corkscrewed curls with her fingertips—a simple habit that always seemed to make her look more cunning and devious. "But we're on to you. The truth will out."

Emily ignored the playful threat as she refilled her own shot glass. She decided to remind her friend exactly how dangerous it was to play with fire, "Have you ever had sex in the bathroom of the Lexington Pub?"

Brighid took the shot like a champ. More howls of surprise escaped from Anne and Sorcha.

Emily arched her eyebrow. See? Two can play this game.

Brighid merely winked. Of all the people Emily knew in London, Brighid was easily her closest friend. Her wit was quick, sharp, at times a little too biting for comfort, but she was never malicious about it, and for some reason, that made Emily like her all the more. Brighid could push buttons—in fact, there was an interoffice joke that she'd been recruited simply for her ability to instantly get under anyone's skin, from the moment they met her—but there seemed to be some kind of invisible line, something only she saw and would never cross. She might tip-toe right up to it, but she'd never even breathe over the line. She teased Emily mercilessly at times (especially when she'd been drinking or when they were letting off steam after a rough day), but she never gave Emily more than she could handle. It was a trait that was both irritating and admirable—and fascinating, Emily had to admit.

There was a slight lull in the game as Anne went back to the bar to get another drink. Emily took a moment to simply observe her companions—if anyone ever wanted a physical compilation of the tribes that once ruled and warred along this set of islands, they could look no further than her three friends. Anne was tall, lithe, and blessed (or cursed, depending on who you asked) with striking ginger features, pale skinned and freckled, with a smile that could crack open the hardest heart. Sorcha was her polar opposite, short and stocky with dark features accented by a roman nose, high cheekbones, and resting bitch face. Then there was Brighid, with her curly dirty-dishwater blonde hair, wide green eyes, and skin that was easily two shades darker than her companions, giving her an exotic allure amongst the paleness of her friends. They complemented each other well—Sorcha often joked that all they needed was a black woman and they'd be the cast of any television programme, with their diverse looks (to which Brighid would always add, and, yeah, we've even got an American, because she never wanted Emily to feel left out).

Emily tried to remember how they'd all fallen into their little gang—sure, they all worked together, but in completely different departments. Sorcha was the front-desk receptionist, Anne was a translator, and Brighid had retired from the field to go into the accounting and expense department. Then of course there was Emily herself, who was technically their boss, but they never seemed to remember that, whenever they were out and about—and for that, Emily was extremely grateful. After a lifetime of being pushed to the side, she hated feeling different in any way, and they never let her feel on the outside of anything that happened in their little clique, though the three had been friends before Emily had shown up.

Suddenly, Emily felt her phone vibrate—she sat back, slipping the phone out of the front pocket of her black jeans.

Her heart stopped at the name on the screen.

"I, um—I have to take this—hold on," Emily slipped away from the pub table, stumbling her way out onto the street, where the coolness of the night air snapped a bolt of sobriety through her.

"Hello," she answered, her voice as breathless as if she'd run a marathon, not navigated fifty feet.

"It's me."

"Hi." She didn't know how else to respond—she'd already spoken to him more times in the past forty-eight hours than she had in months. Each call became more ominous, and the quivering in her gut informed her that this one would continue the pattern.

"I know it's late—"

"No, no, it's fine—the inquest is finally over, but we're out—it doesn't matter. I'm still awake, it's fine." She'd taken more shots than she'd realized. Her tongue was stumbling over her teeth, as if it had somehow doubled in size. Of course it wasn't entirely the alcohol to blame—even with an ocean between them, her heart still raced at the mere blip of his name on her phone's screen.

"I wouldn't call unless it was important," his voice was almost-timid, almost-apologetic.

She didn't tell him that she wouldn't mind him calling just to talk—she couldn't. Whatever they had, whatever this was, it only existed when they were together, physically together, in the same room, the same time-zone—everything in between was another world a place of gauzy remembrances and faint longings.

Except that the homesick longing currently coursing through her veins was anything but faint.

Homesick. How could she be homesick for a person, for a man who'd never been more than a temporary port in the ongoing storm of her life?

She didn't even allow herself to consider that question.

"What's going on, Hotch?" She forced herself to focus on the present moment, cringing at how cold and impatient she sounded.

"It's Reid."

Her heart stopped. "What's happened? Hotch, is he OK?"

"Physically, yes—"

"Physically, what does that mean, physically?"

"Emily, I need you to keep calm." He wasn't Aaron anymore, he was SSA Hotchner, and the change sent an ice-pick through her gut—if he was slipping into his professional armor, the news he was delivering must be horrible indeed.

However, she simply nodded, "OK. I'm…I'm as calm as I'm gonna be."

If had been a less serious situation, he probably would have laughed at the statement. But this was serious, and so was he. "Earlier tonight, the team leading the investigation found a possible suspect. When they went to his house, they found evidence—a few journals, possibly something else, since they're not letting us see anything—that implicated Reid in the bombing."

"Jesus, Hotch, they can't possibly think—"

"They do. They arrested him."

Emily stopped all movement. Then, before Hotch could continue, she quickly informed him, "I'm calling you back in five minutes—you can tell me the rest on the cab ride back to my apartment. I'm going to be on the next flight out of Heathrow."

"Emily, I…there's nothing you can do," his voice was gentle, breaking with tenderness.

"Hotch, I should have been on a plane the second that I knew what had happened to JJ. My family's falling apart and I won't stay on the sidelines an ocean away. I don't know what I can do to help, but I certainly can't do it from here. I'm coming home."

He gave a slight sigh, but he knew better than to try talking her out of it. Truly, he had to have known that this was how this call would end, before he even dialed her number. The die was as good as cast, the moment Reid was arrested. Briefly, she wondered if that was why he had called—because he knew it would bring her back, back to him, back to another chance (but another chance at what?). She pushed that ridiculous thought from her mind. Aaron Hotchner was many (mostly wonderful) things, but he wasn't that manipulative or desperate.

Either way, it didn't matter if Aaron Hotchner had known how she'd react or not. Because either way, Emily Prentiss was joining the fray.

"Demons run when a good man goes to war
Night will fall and drown the sun
When a good man goes to war."

~Steven Moffat.