Author's Note: Okay, I'll admit it. I'm a bit obsessed with stories about Emily's return to the BAU. This would be the third I've written, and I don't think I'm anywhere near stopping. I really enjoyed writing this, and I hope that you all will enjoy reading it! Thanks in advance, and please leave me some feedback - not only do I appreciate it, but it feels incredible to hear from you all. :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds or any of its characters.

Unbeknownst to her, he watched as her pen stilled, her sweeping scrawl halting across the paperwork she had been mindlessly finishing. He watched as her shoulders slumped in defeat, as a hand went up to pinch the bridge of her nose in frustration…as she stared off into space with unseeing eyes.

She looked worn, depleted, aged far beyond her years.

Fragile.

Broken.

Hotch frowned as he saw Emily gaze longingly after the other, watching them leave for the weekend. One by one, they each spared her a glance; as if contemplating whether or not to invite her with them, whether or not to talk to her, and if so…what to say.

But one by one, they each eventually turned away and left.

Left her, sitting there alone.

With a drawn out, almost sad sigh, Hotch craned his neck around his office door. "Prentiss."

He received no response, however. It was as if, despite the emptiness and silence in the bullpen, she hadn't heard him.

"Prentiss?"

Still no response.

His expression softened slightly. "Emily."

She spun around in shock then, and even across the far physical distance separating them, he could see surprise and the slightest tinge of desperation in her eyes.

After all, it had been an eternity since she had been called by that name.

Rising to her full height, she answered, "Yes?" Her beautiful, usually bright and sparkling doe eyes were instead, large with trepidation and things unspoken.

"Go home and get some rest." He motioned to the gradually diminishing stack of files on her desk. "Those can wait until Monday."

What home? Emily shook her head. "I'd rather stay here," she said quietly.

It was a long minute before either of them uttered a word. Then, finally, Hotch broke the silence. "Come in my office for a second," he said, a tenderness hiding beneath his warm baritone.

When she did, it was to find him seated at his desk, two generously filled tumblers of scotch in front of him. Wordlessly, wearily, she sank into a chair and accepted hers, peering at him cautiously.

"How are you?"

Emily blinked once, twice, not knowing how to answer. The question was so simple, yet so complex. "I thought you already received the results of my psych eval," she said in return.

Hotch responded with a curt nod. "I did. You're as objective, clear-minded and level-headed as always. Your outstanding performance in the field these past few days does nothing but prove that." He tilted his head to the side, slowly folded his hands in his lap. "But that doesn't answer my question."

Her eyebrows furrowed slightly. "I'm sorry, I don't understand."

His hands moved to the dark wood of his desk, his calloused palms caressing the smooth surface. "How are you?" Hotch asked once more.

"I'm…I'm fine," Emily shrugged, down-casting her eyes. "I'm coping." A split second passed before she grimaced at her poor word choice, and he knew what she was thinking; the team had been coping, too, with her unfortunate death.

Only to find out, months later, that she was very much alive.

With that in mind, Hotch formed his next question; one he already knew the answer to, but needed to hear from Emily herself. "And the others? How are they treating you?"

Her head snapped up abruptly. Their gazes locked. Emily opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. "Fi – fine," she eventually managed, her voice shaky.

Hotch said nothing, just waited for her to elaborate, just waited for her to push past the self-preserving lies and the walls she had built around herself, and let him in. She always did.

And she did so now. Licking her lips, she took the bottom one between her teeth and turned away from him, her eyes scanning the plain office walls, the books on the shelf behind him, the several framed pictures…

Standing slowly, she walked towards one that seemed to have been taken a lifetime ago, one that captured a memory of seven happy, smiling people. Brushing the edges of the frame with her thumbs, she felt tears clawing at her eyes. "Okay, so maybe everything isn't fine," Emily spat out bitterly. "But you had to have known that already."

Still, Hotch said nothing.

The deafening, crushing silence prompted her to continue. "They hate me," she choked out.

"Emily…they do not hate you."

"Then you give me some other reason, Hotch!" she yelled suddenly, her chest heaving with each breath. "You give me a reason," she repeated, quieter this time. "Garcia can't even look at me. Reid leaves the room every time I enter it, but at least he acknowledges my presence, which is more than I can say for Morgan. And Dave…Dave doesn't talk." Her eyes fell closed. "Give me a reason," she pleaded.

Hotch watched as she wandered back to her seat, this empty, fragile shell of a woman who had once been so driven, so fierce. So strong. "They just need time."

"Time?" Emily asked weakly. "How much time?" she whispered.

"I –"

"Ian Doyle ruined me. Lauren Reynolds ruined me. I'm not the person the team knew." She dropped her head forward, her hair falling in her face in the process. "When I was in France and Ireland and Spain and England hunting down that bastard, I knew they wouldn't accept me back with open arms. I knew better than to get my hopes up and construct a pipe dream like that. But this?" Emily shook her head violently. "I'm a ghost to them. And Hotch, I appreciate that you've paired you and me together these past few days; it's made the transition and the…the pain much easier to deal with." Her eyes slowly met his. "But I need to be honest with myself, and I need to be honest with you. I can't go on like this forever." She wiped away a lone tear. "Maybe…maybe my return to the BAU was a mistake."

Without thought, Hotch leaned forward and grasped her hands in his. "Don't. Don't say that. This is your home."

"No, Hotch. There was a time that the BAU was my home, my safe haven." Her voice broke and Hotch held Emily's hands tighter as she began to tremble. "There was also a time that Garcia and I could make each other laugh, a time when I could sit on Reid's desk and tease him for hours, a time when Dave and I could grab coffee together during lunch…a time when Derek and I could talk about anything. And we were a family. That's all gone," she sobbed. "It's just gone."

Hotch was kneeling in front of her now, pressing tissues into her shaking hands and watching as his agent – his friend – broke down, her carefully built walls shattering into a thousand pieces. "Emily. Emily. Look at me." When she refused, he cupped her face in large palms and gently brought her gaze up to his. "Four years ago, you said something that has stuck with me ever since. You told me you belong here, in this unit, and that I wouldn't be sorry if I accepted you onto the team. In all the years that I've been your supervisor, not once have I regretted my decision. I have never been sorry, and I never will be," he assured. "We still are a family. That hasn't changed, and it won't. Ever. We all still care about you."

"No one cares," Emily argued, her lithe body wracking in tremors.

"I do." He steadied her, handed her more tissues. "JJ does. And the others…" She sniffled quietly. "They do, too. They're just confused," Hotch sighed. "I know how it feels to have people look at you like you're a mirage. Believe me, I do. But these things get better with time. You'll get through this. And the others will, too. And then…" He glanced at the picture Emily had previously been looking at wistfully, the one of the team in the middle of a laugh, a joke, a perfect day. "And then, life will go on."

"I don't know if I can." The words fell from her lips huskily, thickly.

"I'll help you," he promised.

"No one can help me, Hotch. Ian and Lauren made sure of that," Emily said reproachfully.

"Ian and Lauren are dead. But Emily Prentiss…" He shook his head. "You aren't. Don't let them define you."

Again, she was silent.

"I will help you," Hotch repeated, gentler this time, more tender. More sincere.

It gave her hope.

"Thank you." For everything. Her voice was small, almost child-like in its shyness.

"It's what I'm here for, Emily."

"Can…" She stopped, worrying away at her bottom lip in contemplation. "Can I ask you something?"

Hotch nodded. "Anything."

Emily looked at him with a fragility that made his heart wrench. "Can I give you a hug?"

He smiled softly. "Come here," he whispered.

And as his arms wrapped around her and he held her close, Emily felt something she hadn't in almost a year.

She felt safe.

"Thank you," she said again, murmuring the statement into his chest.

Hotch ran a hand up and down her back soothingly. "You're welcome." Pulling away slightly – but not fully – to look at Emily, he wiped away her last tear with a feather light touch. "Come on," he said after a long lovely minute. "I'll drive you home."

She managed a weary smile. "Okay."

As they made their way out of his office, Hotch felt his heart swell at the newfound confidence in Emily's stride, the way she pulled her shoulders back, straightened her posture, moved forward with purpose. She was on the road to recovery already.

Even though Ian Doyle and Lauren Reynolds had broken her down, Hotch knew, deep down inside, that he would be there for her, to put her back together. Step by step. Piece by piece.

And he did.

THE END.