Rain battered the windshield of the SUV as she glanced over at her boss’s face, impassive and stony but for his eyes. They were dark, shining conspicuously beneath his furrowed brow. A muscle jumped in his jaw, mouth a gash that seemed chiseled into his face. Her eyes drifted to his hands, clenched around the steering wheel, vice-like and white knuckled. She looked down at her own, wound tightly together, her pale skin seeming blue and bruised in the dimness of the vehicle.

“Why did it have to be children?” she murmured quietly, voice impossibly small and lost.

Hotch looked over at her for a long moment, gaze crushing.  “I don’t know.” he responded simply, softly, as they pulled to a stop. She nodded tightly, still staring at her hands.

A pregnant pause, then, “Emily? It’s not… a crime... to feel.” his voice was rough, and she glanced over at him sharply. He held her eyes, and she found herself unable to tear away. He nodded slowly and averted his eyes. She cleared her throat, jarringly loud to her own ears, and forced a small smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “I… suppose I’ll just have to get used to it.”

Hotch’s eyes jerked back to hers, pinning her, and, suddenly, he seemed older and sadder than she’d ever seen him. “If that ever happens…” he responded softly, “get out of the FBI.”

She blinked, startled. “Yes sir.”

He nodded.

Emily opened the door, dropping herself to the ground. She tipped her face toward the night sky, frigid rain striking her face with a cleansing sort of brutality. A car door slammed, footsteps, deliberate and familiar echoed behind, and a strong hand was placed on her shoulder, warm and heavy. ‘I understand.’ it said.

She lifted her own, hesitantly placing it on top of his, squeezing once; ‘Thank you.’

Rain streamed down her face in rivulets, mingled unnoticed with something warmer, because… this, this solidarity…

Slowly, painfully, the ragged edges of gaping soul-wounds began to knit together.

 Suddenly, Emily Prentiss wasn’t alone.