You readers and reviewers are awesome. Your continuing support is much appreciated.

So... to all you fans of Hotch... sorry I've been ignoring him! I find him really difficult to wrap my head around as a character - he's a very complex fellow! Nevertheless, here's a look into his take on the "I'm having a bad day" from "Unknown Subject" in season 7. It's also references the wonderfully creepy "Outfoxed".

Happy reading =)

"But I feel that old chill down in my bones,
Guess the storm's gonna hit any place I call home.
There's no use in seeking higher ground,
'Cause with this kind of rain, you always get found."
– Kate York, Rains Here Too

There is usually a fraction of time between when we complete a case and when we land at home (and have to begin the daunting task of completing all the requisite paperwork) when I am at peace. My thoughts turn to Jack, and more often than not, if it isn't too late, I'll give him a call. These moments between the job's ugly reality and the bureaucratic interpretation of the job are what keep me grounded as a human being, and as a person.

But sometimes dynamics don't allow for that relaxation. Sometimes, those in-between moments are instead filled with concern and worry over the team. Given what we face every single day, it's hard not to be concerned for them. A certain level of worry for each other is normal for each of us – it's what makes us such a close-knit group. But lately, with everything that's gone on surrounding Prentiss and her past, my worry level for her specifically has increased significantly.

She's been back a while now, and has done everything she possibly can to return things to how they were. I worry that she's trying too hard, using it to avoid dealing with everything that came up as a result of Doyle's reemergence in her life. The report from the Bureau's therapist confirms my suspicions – she used her knowledge of psychology and profiling skills to lie her way through her evaluation. To be fair, it's not the lying I really object to – after all I wasn't overly forthcoming in my own evaluations after Foyet – it's the avoidance of dealing with the issue head on.

We made a deal before this case began, that she'd tell me when she's having a bad day. She agreed readily, but her face was unreadable, no doubt the result of growing up a diplomat's daughter. I hoped she would take it seriously, because I knew there would come a point where she wouldn't be able to shove it all down and box it up in her mind. But I never thought that point would come so quickly after making our deal.

I board the jet an hour early, a stack of files and papers to be completed in my arms. My intent is to finish them before everyone gets here, so that precious in-between time can be peaceful and give me time to speak with Jack. But as I lift my head to negotiate the corner, I see one seat already has an occupant.

I admit, my first reaction is one of slight frustration – the entire premise of me finishing my paperwork before everyone arrives has now been rendered moot. But once seated, I lift my gaze and study her face, which is a battleground between composure and breaking down. I feel my face shift to reflect concern and worry. Her smile is small and sad as she nods her head gently, acknowledging my presence, but not daring to speak a word. Tears well in the corners of her eyes, and I see her swallow in an attempt to stay in control.

I can tell she despises the words coming out of her mouth, but she fights her gut reaction to internalize it and instead opens her mouth to speak as a defeated expression settles onto her face.

"I'm having a bad day."

"The statement?" I ask gently, already knowing it was what set her spiraling downward.

She nods, swallowing largely once more to contain the emotion threatening to spill out the cracks of her defensive walls.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask carefully – I can't afford to push her too much, it would only serve to set her back further.

She gives a non-committal shrug in reply.

"I'm here if you do want to. The rest of the team shouldn't be here for another hour or so."

She considers my words for a moment before responding, "He's everywhere."

I don't' respond, sensing there's more she needs to say.

"It wasn't like this the last time," she says.

"After the initial mission, you mean?"

She nods, "I never really forgot about him and what I did, but I could compartmentalize it. This time I can't."

"Why do you think that is?"

I watch as she squeezes her eyes shut to stop the flow of tears. Her efforts are in vain as tears quickly make trails down her cheeks. I consider offering her my handkerchief, but ultimately decide it might spook her.

"I don't know," she says, a hint of despair in her voice. "I don't know why I can't deal with this."

"I never said you can't deal with it, no one did. I think that you're comparing the two experiences as though they are the same, and that's making it difficult for you to make sense of."

Her eyes briefly find mine once more before she closes them again. I take her silence as an opportunity to explain further.

"As much as the two experiences are similar, they aren't the same. They were for different reasons, with different outcomes, and in different contexts. It's like apples and oranges."

She looks up at me with eyes pleading for answers, "So what do I do? How do I fix this feeling?"

I shrug, "Hard to say, but I'd recommend taking some time to deal with it head on. You can't ignore and run from it forever. I know you'll hate this, but after Foyet I saw a therapist that really helped me get my head back on straight. Maybe it's something you should consider."

I'm not surprised when she doesn't respond and instead focuses on wiping away the evidence of her tears and composing herself. Evidently we've reached her threshold for discussion on the topic.

While she tries to painstakingly focus her mind onto another subject, my own mind continues to ponder her predicament. Our conversation sparks a memory of a previous case.

She sits on the chair, looking very much like she wants to escape her own skin. She rubs her legs and arms as though her skin crawls with the remnants of their interaction. Her head shakes and her body shudders with loathing at her recent actions. Given her actions, I can't say I entirely blame her. It's one area I have come to realize she is quite adept at, and represents just one of the skills she brings to this team. But at what cost?

"I encouraged him," she says with a loud exhale, her eyes widening at her own admission.

She crosses her arms, almost as though to protect herself from the memories of it, "I flirted with him."

She breathes out slowly and shakes her head as a look of disgust fills her face, "I… made it personal. Getting intimate with a killer is… so different."

"It's what we do," I reply in a weak effort to comfort her.

Her hand brushes her hair from her face and she nods in agreement when she meets my gaze.

"Yeah, but…" she trails off, dropping her gaze and letting silence fill the room for a moment before meeting my gaze once more. "There's no fixing how I feel right now, is there?"

"No," I say simply. "But it helped the case, and you did what you had to."

There's no doubt in my mind that she must have thought of Doyle during every second of that interview, and I'm reminded once more of how strong a person she really is. And I'm reminded that for all we know about her, CIA past included, there are still countless layers to her that have yet to be revealed.

The fact that she's sitting in front of me probably showing more genuine emotion than she has in years speaks volumes to me. But questions also rise. Why did she show that emotion that day? Why did she let me see it? Was it in an effort to play the never-worked-for-the-CIA Emily character? Or was it real emotion based on her experiences with Doyle? Given her prowess at portraying exactly what she needs people to see, it could be either.

"How did you deal with that interview with Karl Arnold?" I ask, partially out of curiosity and partially to give her a chance to change the topic somewhat.

She frowns in concentration at my abrupt question, but offers a small smile as she answers, "Alcohol. Lots, and lots of alcohol."

As per always, I'd love to hear your thoughts/impressions/critiques, if you have the time to do so. And of course I also welcome suggestions for future conversations!