CRYING

He heard crying. That's what he heard first. Hotch sat up in the hotel bed and looked at the clock, noticing it was three am. Three a.m. was the time when your body was at your lowest, when you were at your weakest. Logically, he knew that.

He knew who was crying, too. Emily Prentiss. She was in the room directly next to his, they shared an adjoining room. Morgan and Reid were across the hall and Rossi occupied the room between Emily's and the stairs. They'd effectively surrounded the lone female agent on this case, and they all were well aware of why. Six women dead, each and everyone a dark-haired female law enforcement agent. Emily might as well have had a bright red target painted on her chest as far as the team was concerned.

Hotch knew they may be going slightly overboard to think Emily would be a target, but after everything that had happened to her lately—not a one of the men was taking even a chance. He'd yet to see her break down, had seen her offer comfort to Reid, supporting the younger man just by being with him. But Hotch had yet to see how she was dealing with Cyrus's actions.

He had a sneaking suspicion he was hearing that breakdown now. He didn't think, didn't even consider that of all of his team, the one most likely to not appreciate him seeing them at the her weakest was Emily Prentiss. They were colleagues and nothing more. He'd seen to that. She'd seen to that. An invisible wall existed between them that neither had seemed inclined to break down—or climb over. But the sounds of those tears were enough drown out the buzzing that had plagued him in the weeks since New York. Emily was crying, and crying hard. And for all that Hotch strove to keep that boundary between him and his subordinates, he couldn't in good consciousness, just leave her in their alone. He stood, pulled on sweats and a t-shirt and turned the knob to the adjoining door, thankful the hotel the team was in was of the shoddy side, and the door knob broken. They'd been warned on check-in that the door didn't lock, but Hotch had been fine with it. As long as it was one of the team with such easy access to Prentiss, it hadn't really mattered.

Now it mattered to him a great deal. He found her in her bathroom, sitting against the wall and crying so hard she didn't recognize him at first. Her eyes widened and she jerked, then she realized who stood staring down at her. "Hotch."

Hotch said nothing, just reached a hand down and grabbed her elbow. He pulled her to her feet, and she followed his unspoken command. But instead of moving away or looking away or doing that retreat-behind-the-ambassador's-perfect-daughter mask he'd noticed she used to cover-up any insecurities she just stood staring at him. Just a blank look in those dark eyes.

It physically hurt him to see her like that. She was always strong, he'd counted on that from her since the moment he'd realized she could take anything the job dished out. She could take it. His head jerked at the significance between his own thoughts. She could take it, that's what she'd told Cyrus as the bastard had reached out hands to batter her body. Hotch looked down at her and though the bruising was almost gone, he knew then that he'd never forget the sight of her with a swollen face, busted lip, black eye, or the way she had moved so gingerly.

She'd done what she had to do, the logical part of him knew that, in order to save as many people as possible—including her and Reid. She'd done what he would have done. But it had hurt him so much to hear her cries, to hear each thud and crash as her body was flung around like nothing. He looked at her then, as she stood in front of him just staring, her cries silent now, though the tears still flowed down her cheeks so freely. She stood barefoot, dressed in a thin t-shirt that he recognized as Derek's. He wondered idly why she had it. Her legs were encased—rather, half not encased in black gym shorts. And she had really long legs. He wondered why he'd never noticed before. But she was shorter than he was used to seeing her, by a good couple of inches. No boots, he realized.

It made him feel like he loomed over her, like she was small, delicate, fragile. Vulnerable. He'd never seen her so vulnerable, even last week. She'd been strong, wounded, but not so truly vulnerable.

He didn't think, just did what he would have done had they been closer. He pulled her to his chest, tucked her against him. "Hey, it's ok."

"Is it?" Her words were flat, her affect uncaring, and he hated that. Hated the basic emptiness, though he knew, of course, that it was just temporary. "I'm not sure how much longer I can do this. But I don't think I can do anything else."

"I know. I've felt the same way." And he had. "You're not alone in that, Emily."

It was the first time he'd used her first name in that manner. Usually it was just when introducing her, or in some other official capacity. But standing holding her in a sterile hotel bathroom—it even tasted different on his lips.

"I have always been alone." She said. She stiffened in his arms, before twisting, pulling away. Her arms crossed across her chest, and he found himself distracted by the way the soft material of Derek's shirt pulled against her chest. "I'm sorry if I woke you. I'll try not to let it happen again."

"Hey, we all have our weaker moments."

"Even you? Or do you just bury your head in paperwork? Does Derek just find another willing woman to flirt with? Does Reid find a few more books or reports to read? Does JJ just suck it all up, so as not to appear the team's weakest member? Does Garcia go buy another troll? Does Dave go to another bar and throw back Scotch like it was apple juice?"

Hotch's head went back at the pure venom in her normally modulated voice. Emily Prentiss never lost control like that. He wrapped one hand around her arm, pretending he didn't feel the way she tried to pull away from him, the way she flinched in his grasp. "Prentiss?"

She jerked fully away from him, darted around him back into the bedroom. "Sir? I'm sorry, but I just want to be alone."

"I understand." Hotch said, and he did. He knew what it was like to not know what to say to another human being, to not be able to put into words all the horror that vised your mind at three a.m. "But Emily—you're not alone. I'm right next door if you need me."

"Are you?" Her words were deliberately low, and he half-resented her for doing that. He knew his hearing issues weren't a secret, he knew she knew. What she didn't know was that he'd heard her. He didn't call her out on it. It wasn't the time nor the place, and she was already upset. He'd not add to that. "Somehow, sir, I don't think you are."

She looked away then, and her voice rose as she spoke again. "Thank you, sir. And good night."

Hotch left it at that.

Hotch returned to his room feeling utterly useless. She had made it perfectly clear that his help wasn't wanted, needed, or appreciated. He'd never thought Emily Prentiss could bite like that, or that it would matter to him if she could.

If he admitted to himself, he'd not given her much thought beyond what she could bring to the BAU's table. His own fault, his own error, he wouldn't deny that. But last week her place on the team had become clearer than glass to him, and he found himself thinking of her—worrying about her—at the strangest times. Like while lying in his bed, while driving the SUV with her beside him, while sitting in his office looking out the window at her as she sat dealing with paperwork.

After nearly two years of working with her, and Hotch knew next to nothing about her. He didn't know what she did in her spare time, he didn't know what music she liked, didn't know who she spent time with outside of work. Had he missed that much of the world around him in the last two years that a woman he trusted to have his back had registered so little of his notice?

Had he been living in a cave for those two years?

Was he destined to be like Kate, living and dying for the job, so consumed with being the best at his job that he left little room for the people around him? Was he going to take it and take it, putting everything he had into the job until it took from him all that he valued, until he just walked away like Gideon? Leaving those who cared for him behind with no explanation? Would there be anything left of him for people to care about?

Would Emily follow that same path to self-destructiveness? God, he hoped not.

How would he have felt if Prentiss—no, Emily—hadn't came out of that compound? Would he be lying there thinking of how he could have done something different the way he had in the weeks after Kate's death? Would he have been able to say something about Emily that didn't revolve around how much of an asset she was to the BAU?

Would he have said how she had tried until the very last to protect Reid, someone she obviously cared about? Would he have said how she knew her job, and did it very well?

Would he have seen her family—her mother—sitting in the church pew weeping, and have had anything to say to the woman about the last two years of her daughter's life? Would he have had to explain to a boyfriend or lover how he'd failed to keep her safe?

Was she even seeing someone? JJ and Garcia were both in committed relationships, would it be too far of a stretch to think that maybe Emily had found someone to make her happy, as well? He half hoped she had….but then again, the other half shouted a big no to that idea.

He lay there for a while, pondering just exactly why the thought of Emily Prentiss being with some nameless, faceless man bothered him. It took him a bit to realize he was jealous of that faceless man for getting to know so much about her. Hotch was perplexed, but he admitted it to himself with all honesty.

The thought of Emily with a man bothered him on a deep level. She was a fascinating woman, he'd learned that over a week ago—her strength and determination made her stand out far above the crowd. The fact that he hadn't noticed how fascinating she was until now just increased that fascination exponentially. How had she managed to hide it from him for so long?

She wasn't weak, didn't need protected from all of life's harsh monstrosities—but he longed to do that very thing. Just hold her close, make her understand that she didn't have to cry alone in a hotel bathroom, that she could come to him, that he'd do his very best to make the world as alright for her as he could make it.

He wove his fingers together behind his head as he lay there contemplating just where those wants had come from. Had it merely been the residue from that damned cult having her helpless within their midst? Had it been when he'd watched her try to reassure Reid on the plane ride home instead of her curling up in her seat and resting, like she should have? He didn't know. It was abrupt, different, confusing, and so much more-what he didn't exactly know.

But Hotch wanted to find out.