Author's Note: Still working our way through these building block events. This one will disclose (as evidenced by the prompt) the main event in Emily's file. And as is clear from the title of the chapter, it's an ugly thing. So just a warning, there is an allusion to sexual trauma. But it is not covered as a live event, and is also faint on details.

Prompt Set #7

Show: Pokemon

Title Challenge: The Super Hero Secret

Week 6

The Dark End of the Street

"What are you eating?"

Emily stopped chewing her burger to look up at Hotch with a wrinkle in her nose.

"A double quarter pounder with cheese, and a large fry."

Though she felt badly for starting lunch without him, she was STARVING!

That morning they'd driven up to the prison in Jessup to conduct an interview, and they hadn't gotten out until almost two. By the time they'd left, she'd been so hungry that she'd been ready to gnaw her damn hand off! Unfortunately the guy sitting across from her probably would have enjoyed that.

He had made stew out of his six victims.

And yes, there had once been a point in her life where that knowledge would have completely killed her appetite.

Disturbingly, those days were long past.

No, these days, regardless of how disgusting the caseload, she was generally starving by noon. And that was because she'd finally figured out the trick to controlling her morning sickness. Provided she got enough sleep, and ate her crackers and ginger ale before she got out of bed, it was mostly back to queasiness. The 'wake up crackers' were the one suggestion from the book that actually had some merit.

Of course Hotch had also endorsed them too.

And given their locale today, it was very fortunate that she'd stopped throwing up like it was part of her job. Because she really didn't want to add 'prison ladies room' to the list of disgusting locations where she'd emptied her stomach over the past couple of weeks. After the episode last Sunday in the convenience store bathroom, she'd also thrown up in a gas station bathroom, a dumpster, and finally . . . mortifyingly . . . the SUV.

While they were driving.

The SUV was the worst because again, (of course) she had been COMPLETELY mortified! And even though Hotch had told her that it was okay, and he'd take care of it, she'd insisted on trying to clean it up all by herself.

Bad idea.

The smell alone had brought her back to her knees. So after Hotch had helped her up from the fresh pool of vomit by her door (eye roll) and had walked her over to the curb, he'd just cleaned it all up himself. And she really hadn't figured out how to thank him for that.

Hallmark did not have a card that covered vomit extraction.

But somehow he'd gotten the SUV at least passable to get it back to the field office, and then he'd switched it out before they saw anyone on the team. He'd just told the motor pool guy that they'd had a witness get sick.

She had sworn to herself that nothing like that would happen again.

Luckily the crackers had done their trick today, because she'd managed to keep her stomach tamped down through the morning. And by the time they'd finished the interview, the queasiness was gone and the ravenous hunger had taken its place.

Pregnancy was a weird thing, if you weren't sick . . . you were starving. Either way, she'd told Hotch that she had to eat something before they started back.

So they were now at the McDonald's down the road from the prison, but just as they'd driven into the parking lot Hotch had received a call from JJ. He'd told Emily to go inside without him.

That was five minutes ago. And now he'd just walked in with a really weird look on his face.

He seemed upset.

With an angry shake of his head, Hotch reached down and snatched the offending burger out of Emily's hands.

"No."

Christ! What the hell was she THINKING?!

At first, Emily was simply stunned that her burger had been taken away. But then she was horrified to see it get dumped unceremoniously back into the paper bag. And THEN, adding insult to ENORMOUS injury, Hotch scooped up her packet of fries and threw THOSE in on top of the burger!

The bag was getting closed up.

What the hell was going on here?!

Emily's jaw dropped.

"Hey! What the hell?" She sputtered in disbelief, "what are you DOING?! That's my lunch!"

Hotch scowled at her.

"Prentiss, you can't eat like this anymore! Jesus Christ!" he looked down at the grease stains on the bag, "you're lucky your arteries work at all," his eyes snapped back up to hers, "and they're going to be under more stress now. You can NOT keep pouring in fifty fat grams and 3000 milligrams of sodium in one sitting," his voice dropped, "do you want to stroke out?"

After that day with the no ears thing, he had been trying to be sensitive about not accidentally scaring the hell out of her again. But on this one he was deadly serious. Strokes could happen to pregnant women who were otherwise healthy. And if he had anything to say about it, that was NOT going to happen to her!

Emily's eyes widened in alarm.

"Uh, no! No, I DON'T want to stroke out!"

What the HELL?! How did stroking out become a LUNCHTIME concern?! When did THAT happen?!

Feeling the majority of his anger fade at the look of fear on her face, Hotch's expression softened.

"Okay then this," he let out a sigh of exasperation as he shook the bag, "is going right into the trash."

It had been a few weeks now since he'd first wanted to address his concerns about her diet. Even though she had immediately cut out all of the things that the doctor told her to, he'd seen her eating junk food at her desk at least three times a week over the last month. The only reason he'd been holding his tongue about it, was because they'd still been sorting out the parameters of their new Off Duty Relationship, situation.

He wasn't sure if he'd be overstepping.

But this . . . he scowled down at the bag itself . . . THIS was just too much to ignore! This bag was filled with like a week's worth of nutritional intake condensed into a half dozen bites of food!

If she kept eating this garbage multiple times a week, she really would stroke out.

Emily looked over longingly at the bag in Hotch's hand.

"First my beer," she said quietly, "and now my French fries too."

But he was right. She shouldn't be eating that crap anymore. It was just that she'd been so wrapped up in taking the vitamins and supplements and avoiding the cheeses and deli meats, that she hadn't even thought about her junk food.

It was her one true vice, one picked up over years of eating on the go.

God though . . . she sighed . . . this was probably going to be the hardest bad habit to break. Because she didn't know how to eat really healthy. Basically she LIVED off of take out.

And most take out options were not particularly nutritious.

Hotch's expression softened even further when he saw Emily biting her lip.

Damn, she looked so unhappy.

His eyes dropped back to the table as he thought about how little food she'd actually consumed so far that day. Just her one bite of the burger, and the (un)salted saltines he knew that she'd had that morning.

Well . . . he rolled his eyes . . . considering that, a couple fries would probably be all right. So he dug into the bag, pulled out a half dozen French fries from the little paper slip, and placed them down on her napkin.

"Here," he said quietly, "these shouldn't kill you."

For a moment they just stared at each other. And then Hotch's jaw twitched and Emily's eyes crinkled.

"Thanks," she whispered.

That combination of gruff sweetness really was a charm unique to Hotch alone. Nobody else could pull off both at the same time.

With a slight shake of his head, Hotch slid his eyes to the side for a moment.

"Okay," he sighed, "I'm going to go get you something healthy," then his gaze shot back, and he gave her a mock scowl. "Baby should be eating mostly green stuff, not grease."

A huge grin suddenly appeared on Emily's face.

"You said Baby!"

For the last two weeks he'd been rolling his eyes at her capital letter Baby, and now he'd picked it up too! That made her really happy! It kind of made the whole idea of it more fun, like he was in it with her. Somebody else was using her nickname.

Sharing the experience.

Eyes wide, Hotch stared down at her in horror.

Damn it! He hadn't meant for that to slip out! But he'd actually been thinking of the baby as "Baby," for over a week now. After he'd initially teased her about doing it though, he'd thought it best to keep that knowledge from her.

She was going to bust his balls.

So as he attempted to regain the upper hand in this relationship with its INCREDIBLY murky parameters, he cleared his throat.

"Well," he responded formally, "upon consideration, I decided that it is a remarkably efficient term to use given that you don't yet know the sex of the child."

Emily's lips twitched.

"That was some real bullshit there, sir."

And there was the ball busting! So with an irritated grunt, Hotch turned away from the table . . . and a chuckling Emily . . . and headed up to the counter. At first he started to look at the menu options, but then he saw the nutritional chart on the wall.

He walked over and began comparing just the salads.

His eyes popped out.

God, even the stuff that looked like it was good for you, wasn't! But after another minute of review, he finally decided to get her a Southwest Salad with low fat dressing. That looked healthy.

Well, healthy enough anyway.

So he went back to the counter and ordered a salad for each of them, because he figured it would just be cruel to eat a burger in front of her. But then, remembering the 'quantity' of food that she usually ate . . . lumberjack portions . . . he decided to also get her a yogurt parfait to have for dessert.

Hopefully that would be enough to fill her up.

And although he could've gone back to the table while he waited for their order, he decided to go over and lean against the wall instead. After a half a day spent in the prison, he just wanted a minute alone to clear his head.

So as he stood there, watching the room, he started thinking about the morning.

Their interview had gone on for much longer than he'd anticipated. And as the hours had ticked by, he'd started getting a little distracted thinking about the fact that Emily needed to eat. Actually, if he was honest with himself, he'd been a little distracted the whole time that they were in there. And that was because the more weeks that passed . . . Emily was almost at three months now . . . the more he was consciously aware that she was pregnant. In fact, to that point, he'd actually hesitated about bringing her with him to the prison today.

And that was even though it was her turn on the rotation.

Also, not to mention that she'd specifically requested to get more experience taking the lead on in-custody questioning. But even with both of those factors, he'd still hesitated to bring her because it was a maximum security prison, and he'd been worried about her safety.

But then he'd realized that he was being ridiculous.

The prisoner that they were going to question was SO dangerous that he had to be in full restraints whenever he was out of his cell. Which in a perverse way, meant that Emily was even safer in the room with him, than she would have been if it was just a run of the mill serial.

Beyond that though, Hotch had also realized that he simply didn't have the right to restrict her duties because of his own personal hang ups. Emily certainly was still more than capable of performing all elements of her job.

Especially today when her job had simply been to sit in a chair and talk.

And of course she had handled herself exemplarily. To such an extent actually, that Hotch had started to feel genuinely ashamed that he'd ever considered leaving her at the office. What he needed to remember was that she was an agent first, and a pregnant woman second. Her doctor had said that she was cleared to work, so who the hell was he to question that? And if Emily had any concerns about accompanying him today, then she would have raised them.

She hadn't.

So he needed to start putting aside his own, admittedly, slightly chauvinistic tendencies. It wasn't that he was intentionally being sexist though. It just all came back to his primary experience with pregnant women being through Haley. Of course he wouldn't have brought his pregnant wife to a maximum security prison to interview a cannibalistic serial killer who had once bitten off the nose of a guard who had leaned in too close when he was taking off the restraints. That was clearly NOT a situation you bring your pregnant wife into.

So he had therefore immediately recoiled at the idea of bringing Emily into it.

But as Hotch had to keep, annoyingly, reminding himself . . . Emily was not his wife! So he had to be very conscious of his motivations when making decisions in regards to her safety.

Those decisions needed to be grounded in solely professional concerns, NOT personal ones.

Honestly, in that regard, he was a little surprised at himself lately. He wasn't usually so conflicted when it came to separating his personal and professional feelings for the agents under his command. Otherwise he would never be able to send any of them into harm's way.

Which he did for pretty much half the days out of the month.

Whatever it was though that was going on with this Emily situation . . . he shook his head slightly . . . he'd figure it out eventually.

Just then Hotch heard his order number being called. So he took a breath . . . shot a quick glance over at Emily slowly eating her paltry allowance of fries . . . and went over to pick up their food.

/*/*/*/

Emily looked up as Hotch came back to the table.

She was slowly chewing her last French fry, trying to make it last as long as possible. But now that her second lunch had arrived, she quickly swallowed and gave him a little smile as he sat down with the tray.

But then she saw what he'd actually brought back for her, and her brow wrinkled.

What the hell?

She looked over at him in confusion, "what is this?"

Hotch shot her a look.

"Something that won't kill you," he responded drolly.

He began taking the covers off of their salads, trying to ignore Emily's frown, but then she blurted out.

"But it's just lettuce!"

Huffing he reached over to pick up the extras . . . they had come separately.

"No," he shook the little bag, "it's not. See, you can put the nacho chips on it. And there are beans and things in your salad," he gave her a faint, encouraging smile, "I know it's not what you're used to Emily, but it is good for you."

Her brow now creased in a little frown, Emily stared down at the bowl for a moment. Then a look of resignation came over her face.

Nobody said it was going to be easy.

So with a slow exhale, she started to put together her sad little meal. But then she looked over at Hotch's meal and stopped.

"Wait, how come yours has chicken?" She bit her lip, "I like chicken."

Hotch looked back up with a wince.

"The chicken adds, approximately, another thousand milligrams of sodium."

Damn it. He knew that she'd notice. But HE sure as hell wasn't going to be able to survive on just lettuce! This was definitely the last fast food restaurant they'd be going to. If he had to put out extra cash to find something healthy for her to eat . . . that wouldn't turn him into a rabbit too . . . then that's what he would do. Seeing her now though, with that pathetic little expression, and hearing her dejected, "oh," he felt guilty, even though he was doing this for her own good. He looked between their two bowls.

Eh, she was right . . . it was a crappy lunch.

And as he chewed on his lip, Hotch looked back down at his meal and sighed. Then he picked up his plastic fork and moved three of the small strips of chicken from his salad over to hers.

Her expression immediately brightened when she saw the protein now sitting on top of her pile of lettuce. Eyes crinkling, she looked over at him.

"I wasn't trying to guilt you into sharing, but," she tipped her head, "thank you."

Really, she hadn't meant to make him feel guilty. It was more that she had been so disappointed when she realized how hard it was going to be to eat a healthy meal on the go.

When Hotch looked over at Emily again he was about to say something smart, but then he saw the smile she was giving him, how soft it was, and his eyes crinkled.

"You're welcome," he responded quietly.

For a moment he just stared at her, but then he began to get flustered when he suddenly realized that he had gone past polite eye contact and was indeed . . . staring. So he cleared his throat and changed the subject to one he was going to bring up anyway.

"You did an excellent job on the interview today," he smoothly segued, "solid command of the room, and you didn't allow him to get you flustered with any of his personal inquiries. Really, Prentiss," he nodded, "impressive work all around."

Pausing for a moment after she swallowed her first bite of chicken, Emily's chest began to warm.

"Thank you very much, sir," she answered with a little smile.

After he'd tipped his head in acknowledgment, they both went back to their salads. But Emily wasn't really focusing much on her food anymore. Because she was INFINITELY more excited about Hotch's remark, than she was letting on to him!

An "excellent!" She'd gotten an "excellent," that was a REALLY big deal! Because Hotch was not at all inclined to throw out meaningless praise. Not that he was a difficult boss, not at all. He was actually a great boss. Always supportive, and very protective of his people.

Plus he always went out of his way to thank everyone for their hard work.

Still, the regular thanks notwithstanding, he definitely didn't toss around the "excellent" word lightly. In fact, she could probably count on one hand the number of times that he'd said it to her. And she did indeed remember every occasion.

Because his good opinion meant a lot to her.

As evidenced by her string of shit boyfriends, she didn't have much of a personal life. Not a meaningful one anyway. So her work was everything to her.

Her hand involuntarily touched her stomach.

At least it had been.

Because of that preoccupation with her job though, of doing it well and being respected by her superiors, Hotch's opinion had initially meant more to her than perhaps was healthy. Your sense of self worth should never be dependent on anyone else's opinion of you.

It should always come from within.

But she'd had problems with her self esteem for years . . . since Albuquerque.

That was her first assignment out of the Academy. She'd been fluent in Spanish and they'd needed someone to help with the drug cases that were starting to swirl up out of Mexico. The problems with the cartels in that part of the country were nothing like they were today, but still, at the time, they'd been getting pretty bad.

And back then she'd just been a kid.

Twenty-four years old, and fresh out of the Academy with absolutely zero field experience. Before she'd decided to join the FBI, she'd had a really bad few years with both personal and family issues. So she'd desperately been trying to put all of that behind her and make a new life for herself. And because of that drive, she'd made one COLOSSALLY stupid, on the job, mistake.

She'd nearly died because of it.

Given how she was only a rookie then, she was just supposed to be translating what the senior agents told her to translate. Mostly what she'd worked on were wiretaps. Occasionally she'd accompany the other agents on their meets with the CIs. But she had most definitely NOT been a handler.

She'd been a grunt.

One who had still been paying her dues. But then one day she'd translated a message from a known informant saying that he had important information about a shipment of cocaine coming in the next weekend.

She'd seen it as her chance to prove herself.

At that point it had already been seven months out in New Mexico, and she'd still been status quo in the office, with no chance for advancement in sight. Not that her plan that day had been to chase any glory, she'd just thought that maybe if the senior agents saw she was capable of showing some initiative, that she could maybe get a little more responsibility. And even though the CI meet had been set in an alley, it had also been set for two o'clock in the afternoon on a bright, sunny, day in the middle of downtown. So before she'd left for that alley, she honestly hadn't thought she was taking any real chances with her safety.

She'd been wrong.

The cartel had set a trap. The information the CI had provided in the message had been bogus. It had only been intended to lure out the informant himself . . . and of course to see who he was meeting with. Not necessarily the individual agents, but the agencies.

The cartel was trying to find out who specifically was coming after them, and when.

And any individual law enforcement officer who happened to get in the way of this fishing expedition of theirs, well, these were the people who had thought nothing of blowing up judges. So what was one pesky little junior grade FBI agent in the grand scheme? Nothing. Nobody. Again, she'd just been a kid.

A kid whose hand had actually shaken when she'd pulled her gun out.

They'd laughed as they'd taken it away from her. And then the butt of that gun had been smashed against her temple. That first blow to the head had probably been the only kind act God had allowed to be bestowed upon her for the next day and a half.

Well, that, and actually letting her live.

She only remembered those next thirty-six hours in vague bits and pieces. Which really was a blessing too. Because what she did remember was bad enough. The next night they left her, half dead, on the side of the road just a few blocks from where the original meet had taken place. And a few hours after that, an officer doing a routine traffic stop had seen the bloody sheet catch in the flash of his headlights. It had been chance.

Luck.

The first lucky break she'd had since that piece of hardware had connected with her skull.

Later, she was told she'd barely survived that first night. Then it was six hours in surgery, intensive care for eight days, a period of rehab, and basically a little over five weeks total in the hospital. Another three months passed before she was cleared to go back to work. Her first day in the ICU though, (when she was still unconscious) she was told afterwards that her mother hadn't even recognized her when she'd first walked in. That was because Emily had been beaten so severely that her features had been completely distended.

She hadn't even looked human.

The broken jaw had taken the longest to heal. Five and a half weeks before she could eat anything that hadn't come through a straw. Over that time she'd lost seventeen pounds of weight that she couldn't afford to lose.

It had made her recovery even more difficult.

But every day that Emily was in the hospital, her mother still came to see her. Each time she would stay for exactly one hour, and she'd wait on her hand and foot the whole time . . . but the atmosphere between them was tense.

Worse than it had ever been before.

And although her mother never said it aloud, Emily had seen the anger in her eyes. Anger that Emily had done something very stupid . . . and she'd almost died because of it. Her parents had already lost one child. Then they'd almost lost another.

Their last one.

So basically after that day that she made her very stupid mistake, things with the ambassador had gone from bad, to as bad as they would get.

But her dad, he was great. As soon as he found out what had happened to her, he took an unofficial leave of absence from the Agency. And unlike her mother who only visited for one hour each day, her dad had actually stayed with her day and night for the full five weeks until she was released from the hospital.

His support was the main thing that had carried her though.

Also, given the severity of her injuries, she'd had no clear memories of her assailants. Certainly not enough detail for composites, because the faces had been, and still were, just a blur in her head. Really the only thing that had stuck with her, were their tattoos.

And their scars.

That had been enough for her dad. Because while he'd been spending every moment with her at the hospital helping her learn how to once more exist in the world without screaming . . . he'd also been working her case. Reading over the chicken scratch notes she'd managed to make with her broken fingers, and showing her books of mug shots she could point to while her broken jaw prevented her from speaking. He'd taken note of all the details she had remembered.

And then he'd worked those details through his back channels.

The thing to remember was, his world had never operated under the same rules that hers did. For his people, laws were inconveniences simply to be worked around. So in the end she'd been able to provide enough information for the CIA . . . via her father . . . to get her justice, but ironically, she'd been utterly useless during the debriefings with her own people.

Her case with the FBI still remained open to this day.

But in fact, it had truly been solved shortly after her kidnapping. A month after she was released from the hospital, a border patrol chopper had spotted a half dozen bodies out in the desert. The initial reports in the news had speculated that they were undocumented immigrants who had gotten lost and died of dehydration in a tragic border crossing incident. But those men had NOT died of dehydration. And there had been no tragedy born of their deaths. Though they had actually been undocumented immigrants.

That very small point was true.

More particularly though, those undocumented immigrants had been ones with some very unique scars and tattoos. Ones that lined up perfectly with the notes her father had taken in the hospital.

In the end, the only thing that had been certain about their deaths, was that they had not been quick.

Things had been done to their bodies, both before and after their murders, which were almost unspeakable. And Emily had known . . . that was all her dad. Her dad and his colleagues. But she never told him that she knew . . . and he never told her that he did it.

It just became one more of a million things that her family didn't talk about.

And by the time those bodies had been found, she had already been transferred up to Portland. Everyone up the chain had agreed that she was no longer safe in New Mexico, and the Bureau hadn't wanted her anywhere near any other border state either, just in case the cartel had decided to finish off what they had started.

If Emily could have told them that all of those men were dead, maybe that would have made a difference in her next assignment. But she certainly wasn't going to inform her superiors that members of their sister agency had already tortured, castrated, dismembered, and executed her assailants. And yes, based on the autopsy reports, the dismemberments had definitely come before the executions. She still wasn't sure how she felt about that. Most days she was okay with it.

Some days she wasn't.

Either way the FBI hadn't known those men had been her assailants. Not to say that they hadn't taken their investigation as far as they could. And they had been quite sympathetic. After all, she'd only been a rookie. And she hadn't gotten anyone else hurt. The CI would have been dead no matter what. So all of those senior agents that she'd worked with for those first seven months of her career, they had been very kind to her throughout during the whole investigation. But behind those masks of sympathy, she'd also seen in their faces the hard truth of the matter.

She had fucked up.

Emily knew that's what they had thought every time they looked at her. Because that's what she thought every time she looked in the mirror. That point had NEVER been in question. She had fucked up.

And she'd paid dearly for it.

But here was the thing . . part of her had also thought that she had those thirty-six hours of hell coming to her. And for awhile . . . deep down in the part of her brain that had been messed up for all of those years prior . . . she'd thought that her mother had felt the same way. Of course the rational part of her brain had known that her mother loved her, would had never wished her harm, and probably would not have ever emotionally recovered from the loss of a second child.

But the rational part of Emily's brain had never held court at three in the morning.

A few years of mandated therapy had at least curbed some of that self loathing and unfounded blame of her mother. But Emily hadn't been much of a fan of shrinks. Even now she still wasn't. So she'd really only gone to one as long as the Bureau had ordered her to, which had been for two years and seven months. After that seventh month she'd been deemed 'cured.' And she certainly hadn't protested her release from those weekly sessions.

Because she had been better.

A LOT better.

By then her scars had faded, her nightmares had become very infrequent, and she'd even started dating again. That last one had been what the therapist had determined was her great marker of true progression in her mental health.

A date.

So it wasn't as though Emily didn't believe there had been some merit to those visits. They definitely had helped her get through the worst of her trauma. But she'd never liked discussing her problems with strangers. So after she was rubber stamped, she had never sought out any additional 'official' help. And back then she didn't have any close friends.

So really . . . once her therapy was done . . . she had stopped discussing her problems with anyone.

That had been twelve years ago.

Literally she'd not told one person since then what had happened to her, or how she'd felt about it. And that was probably why she had been as screwed up as she had been, for AS LONG as she had been. She'd had crappy taste in men before her attack, and she'd had crappy taste in men after her attack. But it wasn't as though she'd been date raped, or jumped in a parking garage.

Her attack had been something which had happened to her on the job.

So once she'd gotten over that first year of recovery, her phobias were no longer about abandoned alleyways, or trust of men in general, they had been about work.

And about how would she ever find a way to get her career back.

For over a decade she went from one meaningless assignment to another. She'd excelled in each one because she had been filled with a desperate need to prove herself. But basically, for all that time, all she'd done was ride a desk. The Bureau just hadn't wanted to put her back into the field again. And she had understood their reasoning.

And she was sickened that part of her had, initially, been secretly grateful for that decision too.

But all of those years sitting behind a desk, she'd used that time to sharpen her skills. She'd taken every defensive training course the Bureau had to offer, and once she'd exhausted all of their resources, she'd started taking classes on her own time.

On her own dime.

First she'd learned kickboxing, then she'd gotten a brown belt in Karate and finally a black belt in Tai Kwon Do. And slowly, she'd started to feel like she was ready to try again. Because from the beginning, all she'd wanted to do was help people. That was why she'd joined the Bureau. And she had known that she wasn't making a difference just riding those desks. Not really.

Not like she could have been.

So once she was physically ready for the field, she'd researched, found the hardest division to get into, and that was the one where she'd decided she could do the most good. And then she'd taken all the requisite classes . . . and applied to the BAU. Of course she'd been absolutely THRILLED when her transfer had been approved.

Finally she'd had her chance to really prove herself again.

Of course she'd had no idea that Strauss had signed off on her paperwork without Hotch's approval or consent. And the stupid woman had done that in the misguided hope of placing a mole in his unit. But oddly enough, Strauss' treachery had actually helped Emily in the long run. Not only had it solidified her relationship with Hotch . . . that day when he'd discovered that she had quit rather than spy on him had been a true turning point . . . but her arriving at a Unit where she was initially not wanted, nor trusted, had been what finally helped her to turn the last corner.

The one where she started to TRULY feel confident in her own abilities.

Because from day one at the BAU, she'd had to work so much harder to be accepted, so she'd known from Hotch's first nod of approval, the first "good job, Prentiss," that she'd truly earned his respect. And that any praise he gave her from that point on, would be based solely on the merit and quality of her work. There was never any pity. No knowing glances.

No corners that were cut to make things easier for her.

Rape survivors are already prone to have issues with their self esteem. It was even worse when your entire organization coddled you wherever you went. But she'd never been coddled by Hotch.

Not once.

And as she looked across the table at him now, watching him clean up their trash, she wondered if he'd ever read her file. Because it seemed almost inconceivable that he wouldn't have. All of her other chiefs had, and they'd all treated her differently from the moment they'd found out what had happened to her. Her jaw twitched.

So why hadn't he?

Sensing Emily's eyes on him, Hotch looked up.

"What?"

He'd been running through the things he needed to do when he got back to the office, but then he had noticed that Emily had been unusually quiet while they ate. Though it wasn't until he caught her staring at him, that he'd realized how odd it was for her to be THAT quiet, for that long.

With her jaw still twitching, Emily continued to stare over at Hotch for a moment longer, as though she would be able to see the answer on his face. Finally she shook her head.

"Nothing," she answered quietly, while letting her gaze fall back to the table, "it's nothing."

She supposed it really didn't matter that much. Either way though, it wasn't the time or the place to ask him about it.

Now somewhat concerned at her mood, and what had brought it on, Hotch's brow quirked up.

"Are you sure there's nothing bothering you?"

"Yeah," Emily nodded slowly as she placed her empty water bottle on the tray, "yeah, I'm fine." Then she slid her chair back, the legs scraping on the floor as she stood up, "let's go."

Hotch's jaw clenched for a second as he looked at her, and then he came to his feet as well, picking up their tray and the rest of the trash when he did so.

If she wanted to talk, she knew that he would listen. They'd certainly moved past the 'awkward pauses' a few weeks ago, so he figured that he would leave well enough alone for now.

If it was important it would come up again.

So after he'd dropped their trash into the bin, he hurried over and caught the door that Emily had been holding open for him.

Once they were outside though, Hotch noticed that she was still too quiet for his comfort level.

When they were traveling alone she was generally chatty . . . cheerful. Though he sometimes feigned annoyance with that cheerfulness, he actually enjoyed it. It was nice. So he did have some genuine worries now about her change in mood. There was definitely something on her mind.

Something serious.

Still, he was trying to give her space, so he figured instead of poking her soft spots, he'd just ask the question that he'd been thinking about while they ate lunch. Given though how she was walking slightly ahead of him, and he needed to get her attention, he reached out to gently grasp her fingers.

He gave them a squeeze.

She stopped in the middle of the parking lot, and turned to look up at him with a quizzical expression.

"What?"

He decided to just plow right into it.

"I have another cannibal interview to conduct in a couple weeks. It's out in Montana. Would you like to come with me?"

This was him proving to himself that he wasn't treating her any differently just because she was pregnant. And because this was not going to be a trip that most people would take an expectant mother on with them, he'd decided that this was a good litmus test for himself. Because his new mantra for Emily was . . . Agent First, Pregnant Woman Second. And she had truly done an excellent job today, so she had earned this reward. However, sadly, in their line of work, rewards were somewhat perverse things. Like this one.

This was going to be a very ugly visit.

A child killer. And his crimes were prolific. But studying his methodology would hopefully save more potential victims in the future. Gideon and Morgan had gone out to interview this subject a few years ago but they'd come back empty handed. He'd refused to speak to them at all. Now though, a little more time had passed, a few more of his appeals had been denied, and the BAU had finally convinced him to agree to at least complete their questionnaire. The fact that he had agreed, meant that this interview would probably be more productive than the prior one.

He should at least speak this time.

Emily's eyes brightened at Hotch's offer.

"You're asking if I'd like to come with you to interview Harvey Willis?"

Seeing him nod, she gave him a huge grin.

"Yes, absolutely! I would love to go!"

This was awesome! Willis was a white whale!

Of course her enthusiasm was immediately tempered with the knowledge of what they were going to have to sit through with him. The details of the rapes and murders of those young girls. But she was trying to push aside that ugliness for now.

There would be time later to prepare for the horrors of the interview itself.

No, at the moment she just wanted to revel in the happiness that Hotch had asked her to come with him. Because again, he wasn't coddling her, he was treating her like he would any of the others.

So her eyes sparkled as she looked up at him.

Because these were the moments that boosted her confidence, and her morale. They were the reminders that she was damn good at her job and she had no reason to doubt herself anymore.

She no longer had anything to prove to anyone.

Of course, as had become the custom lately, when Emily smiled at him, Hotch involuntarily found himself smiling back. It was a small smile, but still . . . he felt that quirk of his lip. But as he stared into her eyes, thinking about what . . . he didn't know, suddenly he realized that he was still grasping her fingers.

Both the smile and his hand immediately fell away.

Surprised, and a little disappointed in himself, his brow wrinkled faintly.

'What the hell was that, Aaron?'

Not having a satisfactory answer even for his psyche, he just jerked his head towards the car.

"Uh, we should probably get going so we don't hit any traffic."

Emily, seemingly oblivious to his unexpected discomfort, gave him a happy nod of, "right," and continued on towards the car.

While he watched her cross the parking lot, part of him was pleased to see that her mood so completely altered now, but yet part of him was still thrown by what he had done. It wasn't that he'd grabbed her hand, he'd done that before. That one wasn't such a big deal on its own.

It was that he'd done it unconsciously.

In a completely professional moment. He'd been talking about work assignments!

He should NOT be holding Prentiss' hand while they talked about work assignments!

Still trying to shake off his unease, as he approached the driver's side door, Hotch hit the remote lock button but then he stopped short. And he stopped because Emily had crossed over to his side of the car. She gave him a grateful nod.

"Thank you for this opportunity, Hotch. I really do appreciate it."

Jaw tight, he held her gaze for another moment, still completely uncomfortable in his own skin. But then he realized that whatever had happened a moment ago, whatever was happening right now, these were his issues . . . not hers. It wasn't right to pull back from her now.

She'd done nothing wrong.

So his expression softened and he tipped his head.

"No thanks necessary, Prentiss . . . you earned it."

That's when she gave him another brilliant smile before she reached over to give his forearm a quick squeeze. Then she started to cut around the front of the sedan.

For a moment he just stared at the empty space where she'd been standing, and then he shook his head.

It doesn't mean anything Aaron . . . just let it go. If you start getting a complex about your interactions with her, then you're going to ruin this new friendship.

After he'd taken another breath, and let it out, that point had completely solidified in his mind. Because he really didn't want to do anything that might jeopardize these new facets of their relationship.

They made him happy.

So after he'd gotten into the car and got himself settled, he looked over to Emily buckling her seatbelt. His lip quirked up.

"So, did you get enough to eat?"

A/N 2: I never intended to write an 'Emily gets raped story.' I'm adamantly opposed to that. I feel somewhat possessive of them now and I don't enjoy 'hurting' them. But as far as I'm concerned, this is not a rape story. I simply made allusions to what she'd gone through over fifteen years earlier. And Morgan was also sexually assaulted (that's canon, he was a child) and simply to mention it in a story wouldn't make it a 'Morgan rape story.' In both instances those were things that happened a long time, it's just part of their backgrounds. And though they both still have some ripple effects today in what they do, the people they are, neither of them want those incidents to be what defines them. So although Emily and Hotch will eventually have that discussion about whether or not he has read her file, (which we know he has) this won't be a notable plot point beyond really what we've covered here. This is a story about two damaged people who fall in love, not a story about why they're damaged.

Until I started scribbling this chapter I actually wasn't sure exactly what I was planning on putting into her file. But as I began to write the back story, I debated about just having her get severely beaten. But beyond Hotch's reaction in the last chapter about reading her file and seeing how bad things had been for her (something worse than just a beating), I was thinking about two other things. One, her occasional self esteem issues. That's canon, though it's generally chalked up to the 'geeky tendencies', there's nothing to say that's her only issue. And I'd already given her the deceased sister here, and there's some shadowy stuff around that. So it fell more in line that maybe she'd do something 'unwise' in an effort to push forward on building a new life, and that it ended up backfiring catastrophically. Plus, as I said initially, this is a world with much more shadow than light, so the bad things in their pasts will be worse than Girl.

But the one thing that struck me from canon, the thing that made me decide to make her Albuquerque thing a real horror story, was something JJ said in the episode where Reid gets abducted. The follow up one, when she and Hotch are questioning Emily about how she's handling things. And JJ says something to the effect that Emily's been riding a desk for years and all of a sudden she's in the field and nothing that's going on seems to be affecting her. So beyond explaining Emily's need to 'compartmentalize' as a coping mechanism (understandable if she'd gone through a trauma like the one here where she'd probably have drifted off even when she was conscious) why would Emily, who WAS clearly so capable in canon, have been benched for so long? Either she'd seriously screwed up and was being punished, or something had happened and they'd been wary about putting her back in the field. Though here she did make a mistake, I'm leaning towards the latter being the reason she was out of play for so long. That also gave me the idea of why she'd be motivated to be a kickass field agent by the time they did cut the apron strings. Because again, per canon, why WAS she such a capable field agent right out of the gate if she'd been working the desk for years? My answer is that she'd been preparing herself for the moment that she'd get the chance to prove herself again.

Again, this all comes back around to a kind of a reinterpretation of what I've already interpreted one way in canon. Again, canon from the EARLY years. Not that crap they did later on which all came out of the blue to justify the 'firing and hiring' of PB over that like 18 month period. Ah CBS executives, you still suck hard for that one :)

I decided to have her dad be in the CIA in this world too just because I still think that's a very logical career for him based on my versions of Emily.

It's also obvious here that Hotch is starting to look at her a little differently. So now with his feelings beginning to shift, we'll get to embrace a little of the awkward push and pull that will result.

We are going to go to Montana with them, but next up we're actually going to Lamaze class! And I know it seems early for that but there is a logical reason which will be explained in the chapter.

Thanks all!