Hotch grips her arm on the stairs as she heads for the conference room. It's not a painful grip, nor is it insistent, but the little tug he adds tells her that it most certainly isn't a request. So she follows him, weaves through the chaos of departing agents and cops.

She finds her fist clenching as the pass the doors, her body screaming to take off, to run. She wants to hunt Ian down the way she knows best. She wants the control of being the one in the hunt, not chasing him, playing his game. She can feel it, the way her mind automatically calculates the easiest way to get out of Quantico without drawing attention. Even trailing behind Hotch she knows it wouldn't be that hard.

Instead, she climbs the stairs to his office, lets him close the door and box her in.

It's the first time they've been alone since the kiss and her body responds. Her eyes want to flutter despite the mess of her brain. Her palms are pressed flat to the door. It's a fight not to reach out, just as much as it's a fight not to run. She hates the juxtaposition. She hates the idea that he's opened a proverbial door and now it's changing the way she wants to look at this case.

His eyes flash, either because he knows he has her or because he realizes just how close she'd been to slipping away.

"No."

She lets confusion rather than awareness race across her face. He isn't fooled.

"Whatever it is you're thinking about doing, no."

She doesn't deflate or play the victim. The time for that has long passed. Now she needs to take control. "Waiting for him is useless."

She expects an argument if she's honest. She expects him to tell her that Ian is just like every other UNSUB they've ever faced. It's not even close to what happens. He steps back, minute, but enough that she feels it. It's a shocking bereft feeling as much as a relief.

"What other options do we have?"

There's nothing she can do to stop the feral smile from spreading over her face. Her game. Her element.

He's not impressed. "No."

The smile doesn't diminish. It won't. Not now. He's tipped his hand in even asking her and she has no problem taking advantage.

"No."

The repetition does nothing to dissuade her, nor does the stern tone to his voice. He's trying, bless him.

"We don't have a choice," she says.

"We always have a choice."

She shakes her head, doesn't realize she's reached out until her palm is pressed flat to his chest. It's a careful, intimate gesture she shouldn't make, not because she can manipulate him but because it's a connection that will not serve her well in the next few hours.

Having her emotions tied up in someone else isn't going to help her do what needs doing.

And what needs doing is the furthest thing from pretty.

"We don't have a choice. Not this time."

Still, they both know her touch gives him permission, a new sort of leverage he can use against her. He takes advantage, stepping in again. Even this is reckless. He knows it and she knows it. His hands cup her hips, low, out of sight. He's close enough now that she can feel the heat of him, even if he isn't pressing.

"I have to go," she murmurs, her hand tangling around his tie. "You know it."

"Our way works."

"Not with Ian."

The familiarity, the intimacy of using Ian's first name isn't lost on her. In fact, it's deliberate and carefully calculated. It's a reminder of who she is, and who she'd been to Ian. It's a reminder that this case isn't like every other one; this case is different. Still, Hotch's only outward reaction is the way his fingers tense on her hips.

"No running."

He's right she'd promised. It's the only reason she hasn't made a run for it. "Still here, aren't I?"

His mouth twitches, a miniscule acknowledgement of the fact that she, indeed, hasn't made a run for it. She focuses her eyes on her hand, the stark paleness of her fingers and the dark colour of his tie.

"We can't chase him, Hotch. We'll lose."

"So you want to hunt him."

It rises up in her, the ruthless darkness that had endeared her to Ian to begin with. The viciousness and need. His thumb strokes along the edge of her waistband over her blouse, desperate in his own way, demonstrative in ways she could never have anticipated in the confines of the BAU.

"You want to put yourself directly in the line of fire," he goes on, voice low, angry and intimate in equal measure. She shivers. "You want to be bait."

"Our hunt, our terms," she counters. "The right plan, the right back up."

"Your plan. My backup." He doesn't like it. It's written in the tension of his jaw.

She's undaunted. "We're playing his game." It's a thought she's been playing with for hours now, days really. "Let's lure him into ours."

He watches her for a moment, hoping, she thinks, to find another way around it. He can't find it, she knows it. He does too.

"What do you have in mind?"