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whump-town · 1 month

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Scared pt.1

Trust that if I can write nothing... I can always write more about what comes post-foyet's attack. Is this very in character? no. but if you wanted that you'd go elsewhere. Instead, I offer:

Hotch doesn't just go down and when he does... it's terrifying for all involved, and the terror isn't through yet.

here's about 4k of 11k words I have (P.S. the other part has a bit of Reid and JJ but if you want Garcia you're going to have to beg and plead bc I can't write Garcia)

it's also on Ao3!

Hotch is sleeping that deep, medicated sleep when Emily sees him and it unnerves her. A full twenty-four hours has not passed since the time she saw him last and he looks damn near like a stranger. John Doe, she vouches, is Aaron Hotchner but as she looks at their John Doe and thinks abouts the Hotch she’d seen just a little while ago on the jet… it feels impossible. He sleeps so utterly still, like a corpse surrounded by medical equipment. Pale and still in a completely unnerving way.

Claiming to know the weak, incapacitated man means immediate paperwork. Suddenly, there’s a doctor standing in between Emily and her view of Hotch. It’s quite scary now to not have him in her sights, as if he will disappear again. The doctor is talking about the first surgery — there’s a tube and drains — the strain it placed on Hotch’s heart. Emily looks straight at Hotch, hearing but unwilling to feel anything as the doctor tells her that Hotch’s heart is weak. Weak? Emily shakes her head and the doctor keeps talking. They are watching him closely, the next twenty-four hours are critical. Emily’s still caught up on Hotch’s weak heart.

Maybe this man isn’t Hotch at all.

Emily never considered anything about Hotch weak. His problem is that he is too strong. He can physically endure the storm, the only living, standing thing for miles and so that makes him think that he has to. Because he can do it by himself, he must. It makes him selfish, guarded, and lonely. It does not make him unfeeling. He’s always there with his hands balled into fists, his eyes wet with tears he won’t let fall. His voice betrays him, breathy from strain. He feels, there’s no denying it, but Hotch will try. His body will fail him long before his heart.

Some of the doctor’s previous words come back to Emily as she approaches Hotch’s room. From here she can see the tubes running underneath the thin blanket across his chest. Iodine stains his skin in swipes, thick gauze visible beneath his gown. His face is utterly expressionless and Emily’s throat feels tight, her eyes darting to the floor.

Weak, huh... Emily pulls a chair up beside him. She glances again at his face which is so pale, her eyes dart to his hand, he probably feels as cold as he looks stiff.

Emily pulls in a slow breath, forcing herself to shake off this unsteady feeling. It’s more than fair; it’s definitely someone else’s turn to be strong for a while. He’s done a good job and held the burden long enough. Restlessly, Emily picks at her fingers. Her hand comes to her teeth, peeling away stubborn bits of her skin until her middle finger is bleeding and her pointer finger stings. On the bed, Hotch's finger twitches. Everytime Emily looks up at it and then at his face, waiting for an expression to cross his blank features, and everytime nothing.

A nurse steps in preparing his next round of medications and Emily stands silently and leaves the room.

To her annoyance, it is the moment she is not there to see his finger twitch that Hotch’s eyes manage to crack open. There’s an intense pressure over the right half of his chest and some machine in the distance sputters out a shrill alarm that irritates the tinnitus in his bad ear. He tries to turn his head, get away from the noise, but the canal under his nose is pinched to his cheek and the plastic hurts. The sound is making his ear hurt and finding his arms immobile, Hotch lets out a panicked grunt. He moves his head uselessly on the bed, a deranged, raw panic overtaking him.

“Hotch.”

Emily Prentiss. His eyes lock onto her, a single raft in the middle of the ocean. A familiar face. He flinches from the doctor, pulling in another ragged, scared breath from his straw-like throat, but Prentiss is standing right by the bed. She is comforting enough for that part in the back of his brain alight with terror, seeking to flee, to ease. She is easy to focus on hovering so close, he feels safer with her here. Scary and strong, she’ll protect him. He’s distracted enough that the doctor is able to slip her cold stethoscope under his gown. She instructs him to breathe, deep breath, but Hotch’s eyes are on Prentiss. It feels like days since he’s seen someone familiar, though he hasn’t a clue how long has passed since right now and… whatever came before.

The doctor speaks to Prentiss and she stands there at the end of the bed, eyes locked with Hotch, while the doctor’s words go in one ear and out the other. One of the machines begins to make a new sound, liquid being moved and another dose of medications snaking through the tubes into the I.V. taped to the back of Hotch’s hand. His head tilts on the pillow, eyes struggling to stay open. She watches his fingers twitch and he moves his head uselessly fighting sleep.

The doctor leaves and Emily hesitantly, watching Hotch watch her, takes her seat back at his side. “You need to rest,” she repeats the doctor’s sentiments.

Hotch has no verbal response, just a terribly slow blink.

Not bold enough to take his hand, Emily places her hand at the end of his, their fingers grazing. “The other’s will be here soon, rest.”

His finger twitches against hers and he exhales slowly, lips hardly moving and distorting the words he mumbles incoherently. He’s asleep in an instant, pulled back under. For a moment, the creases of pain remain claw-footed in the corners of his eyes, down the sharp lines between his eyebrows. All that time before spent wishing for something from him is all gone, Emily can’t tear her eyes away from the lines.

He pulls in a deep breath and they ease away.

The sounds of the room are never ending. Lights blink back feedback that Emily can’t understand, things hiss and churn and move. Emily has nothing to do but think. Should she be grateful it’s not worse? But how much worse can it really get? Hotch isn’t dead… yet. That’s worse but that might just be next. Doesn't make much sense to be grateful for what hasn’t happened when it might merely be hours away. She can be angry but she can’t do anything. She can cry but she doesn’t even feel like doing that. So she sits. Thinks.

Emily flinches when her phone vibrates in her pocket and she rises quickly as her adrenaline does, moving from the room to the hall in anxious anticipation for the team to arrive. Still, Hotch remains in her sight. Happy to let someone else take charge, Emily stands on the edge of the group as the other’s step into Hotch’s room. They haven’t had the opportunity to see him yet but Hotch’s eyes open to slivers and Emily can feel their hazy focus gather on her. She’s quick to move, eager to make use of the words like whispers leaving his dry lips. Until she’s holding his bloody clothing, clothes she’d just seen him in, dried stiff.

The other’s leave to get Haley and Emily watches them from the end of Hotch’s bed.

“Prentiss.”

“Hmm?” Emily turns slowly back to face Hotch, not sure she can manage to keep her own expression level. Not when looking at him like this makes her stomach hurt.

“You were at my apartment? Could you tell how he got in?”

Emily slowly shakes her head, “I couldn’t.”

Hotch nods solemnly, as he stares up at the ceiling.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

He clears his throat, eyes lowering to find her, “I don’t know. After he stabbed me the first time it all goes blank.”

Liar. She’s not certain what he does remember but he’s lying about it. He remembers something well enough to wake him in a panic, instantly obtaining attention from a nurse or doctor. She hasn’t seen it but she’s not stupid, Emily’s aware of what’s happening. And he’s looking at her now, fully expecting her to let it go, knowing she won’t call his bluff.

“If you do,” Emily offers, with a shrug.

Hotch cracks the driest, faintest smile. Graciously, he’s been given a momentary pass and it makes Emily smile too. If there’s anyone anymore who might poke and prod the information from him it is probably her. And it scares him at the same time it relieves him. Because Emily isn’t just saying it, this won’t leave her mind until it leaves his. She’s judgemental as hell but she understands, maybe more than he wants her to.

The energy is off but Emily tries to find comfort in silence. It’s usually easier, anyone who spends time with Hotch has to be used to a little silence. He’s not much of a talker himself, unless inhibited by alcohol or anytime he hasn’t got to be in slacks. Or… a hospital gown. Hotch has got to be comfortable and he’s clearly not. It’s easy to be comfortable in silence because when Hotch is comfortable it just feels comfortable. Safe. Easy. Hotch feels like none of those things right now and Emily can’t either.

He’s stripped down to his raw skin, no armor in sight, just a weak man, tired and confused by the countless medications fighting his body to live and manage his pain.

It feels wrong to even look at him like this. Emily’s seen him in jeans, Aaron with hair astray from the toddler sitting on his shoulders gripping it for dear life. She’s seen him drink himself a little silly, criss-crossing his long legs while he walks like a crane in deep water without any of the grace. But that was a choice. He’d cried, smiled, and been exhausted before but everytime that was a choice. Even knowing him without the armor, it feels wrong to see him without when she knows he wants it.

If there weren’t medications muddling his blood and keeping his heart calm, it would certainly ache more than it does now. Without full access to feeling, Hotch can’t even find it within himself to be embarrassed. Later, it will come later.

She watches him try and turn his head, uncomfortable in a way neither of them can identify. “Do you–” Emily moves anxiously, “do you want to sit up?”

“Please,” he whispers, turning his head back to her.

When the bed moves he flinches and the combined motions make him stiffen and suck in a breath that he holds. Emily stops the bed but he shakes his head and silently he’s thankful she understands and the bed keeps rising until he’s sitting up.

Boredom was better than what comes next. Emily looks everywhere but at Haley as she comes down the hall, Derek directing her into the room. Jack goes to Dave who distracts him quickly and effortlessly. Emily looks at the floor, counting linoleum tile to keep her distracted. Otherwise, all she’s got to think about is her possibly dying friend and the ex-wife and child he’s sending to witness protection.

Haley leaves with Jack on her hip and Emily stands, hands anxiously twisting together. She feels panic for Hotch, watching them leave. Her heart pounds in her chest, fear makes her hands shake at her sides, as she watches them leave wondering if they will ever come back.

Valiantly, uselessly, Hotch tries to fight off his fear. He jerks himself awake every few hours, sucking in tight breathes and eyes darting around. Foyet’s name isn’t far from his lips and Hotch sits vigilantly unconvinced that Foyet isn’t the door’s shadow across the wall or the stuffed bear in the windowsill. Nothing can be done to soothe his irrational fear. Dave tells him that he’s safe, and holds his hand. Derek sits by the door, facing whatever comes in. Emily is hiding in a shadow, the only comfort he can truly find. This feels safe, having her hiding in the same domain as Foyet. Let the man show his face, he’ll find someone much scarier waiting for him.

Hotch is in no position to make decisions for himself. However tired but lucid he was worsens as Haley and Jack leave. Fat tears roll down the sides of his face, his words are breathy, weak. He’s scared and lonely, a little clingy.

“Em’ly?”

She sees the pulse ox out of the corner of her eye, doesn’t hear him call her, and she moves to his side close to the hand he’s moving around vaguely. “We’re just going down the hall,” she tells him because she’s already explained twice that he’s going to surgery. His surgical team has already been down, they’ve told him this. But he’s confused and agitated and terrified, so Emily is given permission to come as far as she can. That means sitting in the hall, waiting to move Hotch once he’s asleep, less likely to be alarmed by the changes in his environment. “Rest,” she says, placing her hand over his.

He’s asleep by the time they are ready and his eyelashes bat as he’s put under. Emily grabs his hand when he moans, turning his head fitfully, and with an exhale he relaxes again.

His sleep is black, soundless, and then he is in that car, the smell of cheap cologne burning his nose. Foyet’s singing along to the radio, drumming his hands on the wheel and singing off-key to Guns N’ Roses. Bloody, wet hands come from the darkness, blurry eyes peer over surgical masks saying words to him in morphed muttered languages. Fingers take hold of him, arms lift his limp body and his eyes are rolling back into his head. He’s conscious and not, he feels dead. Floating. A thumb presses on his jaw and a feral part of his brain clamps his teeth together. His mouth is pried open and his breath restored, cold solid oxygen sitting in his balloon lungs. He’s limp, his oxygen deprived body greedily taking what it’s given. Hotch is taken right back to the car, ends up swarmed and overtaken by the hands. The dream is fitful and never ending.

Dave goes with the doctor, the first to take in the news. Hotch’s heart stopped again and he’s still intubated to try and alleviate the strain on his heart. Watching Hotch’s chest move with breaths a machine takes brings tears to Dave’s eyes. It’s hard to not believe something right in front of you but Dave does it. Hotch had never been that youthful, bright-eyed rookie. He’d come hardened and strong, too strong for his own good. Dave had thought it would get him killed but it seemed that never knowing when to back out of a fight has been the only thing keeping Hotch alive. That’s all Dave has now, hope in the man who has never figured out how to back down. The ICU has different rules and no sooner than Dave’s ten minutes is up, before he can even get off the floor, his phone is ringing. There’s a case in Oregon.

Hotch is by himself when he wakes twenty-five hours later. Medicated cocktail weighing him down, he was only vaguely present through the veil. He can’t be certain he’s actually awake, that he’s not just swept up in another dream. He gags weakly around the tube in his throat. Tears roll down the corners of his eyes and he fights perilously against the doctors. He shifts in and out of consciousness, medicated calm keeping him from fighting the machines helping him, and his drug-addled brain conjures visitors from the shadows of the room.

Dave is there six hours later when the doctor removes the tube, in the corner of the room while Hotch coughs, gagging and stiffening in pain. He cries for Haley with a voice and throat too raw to make more than rasps. But fat tears leave his eyes, his lips form her name soundlessly, persistently until his eyes are rolling back into his head before his eyes have fully closed.

In his sleep, Hotch cries. He makes small, hurt sounds and whimpers, recoils from fears only he can see.

“What’s wrong man?”

Hotch’s blurry vision slowly settles on Morgan, “mm?”

“Something bothering you?” Morgan frowns when Hotch moves his head again. Hotch’s clarity is sharpest in the hour before his next dose of pain medication, when the pain is the clearest. It’s been only twenty minutes since the most recent dose, Morgan had watched Hotch go from restlessly sedated in his slumber to limp, melted into cot below him. Steadily for the last five minutes Hotch has been making little agitated noises in sleep, now his eyes are open and he’s moving uncomfortably.

Morgan is ready to give up when Hotch turns to him, and he steps closer, ready to be beckoned any which way at just a rasp from Hotch.

“Hurts…” he mouths.

“Do you want to sit up?” Morgan asks. He hates not being able to help. He hates sitting here not able to do a damn thing. “I can sit the bed up.”

Hotch nods. He turns his head away, pulling harsh breathes audibly, lips twitching with pain he’s barely hiding. “Wanna go home,” he grunts, panting. “Please,” he whines, turning and hitting Morgan with the full force of gut-wrenchingly teary, pathetic eyes.

Morgan’s done this job before, sitting by Hotch’s beside, but typically Haley is near. He just covers for a short while, waiting for her to come back and soothe Hotch back to himself. Morgan had tried but he had learned long ago he needed to stick keeping Hotch occupied with games or being the muscle needed to assist. “I can’t,” Morgan strains out. “I would,” he lies, because right now he just might, but as quickly as he’d do anything to make the tears stop, the idea of Hotch being home scares him far more right now.

Hotch sucks in a sob, turning his head in shame to hide, even if Morgan can see his lips pulled up and more tears squeezing out of his shut eyes.

“We can go outside,” Morgan offers, though he’s not certain. But the idea gets Hotch’s attention and Morgan will bat his eyelashes and flirt with however many nurses or doctors, man or woman, it takes to make it possible. “I’ll be right back,” he whispers, squeezing Hotch’s arm.

It takes minimal eyelash batting to get a wheelchair. The nurse out in the hall is happy to see that Hotch’s visitors have returned and she’s willing to see a whim out. He does better with visitors. She had attributed most of his restlessness and somberness to being more alert, perhaps just more himself. But she can see a difference. Hotch watches her with sad but hopeful eyes as she moves medical equipment out of their way, she can tell that he is more himself with his friends nearby.

It is not that the roles usually go Morgan in the wheelchair and Hotch pushing but it does feel like roles have been swapped. It makes more sense for Hotch to be the assistance not the assisted, it’s difficult for Morgan to make peace with. But this is what it is.

“The grass.”

Morgan obeys, turning the wheelchair off the path and into the grass. He stops it just a few feet from a bench, pushing the brakes down. “You up for a walk?” he asks, stepping around the side and watching Hotch gingerly lift and lay his feet in the grass. “Where are your socks?” He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it earlier but now fire burns in chest at the sight, heating up his face. All Hotch does is shiver, every moment of all day. He comes in and out of pain but constantly he’s cold.

Hotch ignores him, moving his hands to prepare to stand like he’s capable of summoning enough stubbornness to get himself out.

Morgan offers support silently. Again, he’s familiar with this. He knows good and well the only way Hotch will take his shoulder to lean on is if they are silent. Morgan has had to catch Hotch from falling, he knows that if he says anything Hotch will simply push him away and choose to fall.

Bare feet on the cold ground eases something in Hotch more nagging and persistent than the pain. He’d grown up running around without shoes, tracking his muddy footprints on his mother’s scrubbed hardwood. As painful as it is to stand, Hotch bares through it because it feels amazing. He’s not ready to give it up.

“I forget you’re a good ol’ boy,” Morgan chuckles and immediately his eyes dart to Hotch, not certain his comment won’t end in Hotch laying in the grass. He receives a warning, narrowed eyes. But in all fairness, Morgan grew up in the city. He wasn’t walking anywhere barefoot, he still wouldn’t. “You can’t go anywhere without shoes in Chicago,” he says and Hotch allows the slight distraction as he drags himself through walking. “Nails and needles and–” the list goes on and Morgan shakes his head thinking about it. “I don’t understand the appeal. Sticks, bugs, and what’re those plants called with the needles? I’ve seen ‘em in the grass, man, why would you chance stepping on one of those?”

Hotch’s response is a puff, he clearly has an opinion but he can only focus on one thing at a time.

They say nothing on the bench. Morgan watches the breeze move the tree leaves, pleasantly warmed by Hotch proximity.

Leaning into Morgan, too weak to even hold himself upright, Hotch finds himself unable to escape his curiosity. “Why are you here?” The breeze nearly sweeps up his question and for a moment he thinks Morgan hasn’t heard him. Morgan moves his arm around Hotch’s shoulder, carefully pulling his blanket tighter and only then does Hotch realize he’s shivering.

“You hate hospitals,” Morgan says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. It is the truth so maybe it is. “You’ve never left me alone in a hospital,” he says to the foliage and then he turns, looking at Hotch. “You’ve never left any of us.” Maybe he hasn’t personally been there but everytime Hotch has been in the field, doing the hard work, so that they can have visitors when they’re hurt or sick. Everytime, always. And when the job is done, when things are truly safe again, Hotch will show up. It’s never been more apparent than now.

“It’s late,” Hotch says stupidly and Morgan laughs and looks at him with this sad look that even mind-boggled Hotch knows means Morgan is keeping silent for his sake. That he could say something that would be emotional and very telling about Hotch in a way that he most definitely doesn’t want to hear. Certainly not right now.

The truth is easy, Hotch asked. Not recently but years ago now, when the only people who showed up at the hospital were Morgan and Haley. His ghosts were different then but Morgan didn’t need to know their names, he just wanted to help. The request had come from Haley and Morgan has been with Hotch every night he’s spent in the hospital that Morgan has known of. He’d sit in the doorway of every hospital room until one or both of them dies, everytime. Nothing would change that.

“Thank you,” Hotch says, loudly, clear.

Morgan scoffs. It’s the first he’s heard Hotch sound like himself, voice and all. He reaches for Hotch’s cold hand, hospital bracelets scratching his skin, “always, man.”

When they return to the room, Hotch sleeps for the first time unbothered. Morgan sits by the door anyway.

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #derek morgan #haley hotchner #george foyet #emily prentiss #david rossi

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hotchnisslvr · 19 days

Text

come home with me

pairing: emily prentiss/aaron hotchner

rating: t

category: angst, hurt/comfort with a happy ending

word count: 7.2k

summary: An alternate version of "Faceless, Nameless," where Foyet leaves Hotch to bleed out in his apartment and Emily finds him clinging to life. Her quick response saves his life but causes her to question her own decisions in the hours leading up to finding him. Hotchniss. Hurt/comfort with sweet ending. Some angst.

Emily yawns and wishes she’d taken that second cup of coffee for the road this morning when she’d left the office. As the elevator dings, she steps out onto the carpeted hallway. If he slept through his alarm while the rest of us are out working this case, I’m going to kill him, she thinks as she stifles another yawn.

She checks her phone and surprise, there’s no new texts, voicemails, or emails from Hotch. She selects his contact and hits dial, bringing the phone to her ear as she scans the identical doors for his apartment number.

You’ve reached SSA Aaron Hotchner— Emily groans out loud and snaps her phone shut, cutting off his voicemail, her irritation starting to border on anger. This wasn’t like Hotch, ignoring his phone. Sure they’d all been exhausted last night, but to the point he sleeps this late into the morning and doesn’t bother to answer his phone? No, something wasn’t right. She could feel it in her gut.

She should’ve gone home with him when he offered, but she knew how they operated when a case was over and they settled in for the night. One glass of wine would lead to another and, well, very little sleep would be had for either of them. She’d been so physically, mentally, and emotionally drained after Canada…just the thought of it now felt like a weight dragging down her shoulders. No, she’d needed to be alone; to shower and wash off the sick and twisted vestiges of the horrors she and the team had discovered on that pig farm.

After turning Hotch down, she’d smiled at him and winked and told him they could go and get a late breakfast once they’d had the opportunity to catch up on sleep. Now, a part of her was glad they’d caught a case. He probably would’ve slept through breakfast, anyway, she thought irritably. Ok, she wasn’t actually glad they’d caught a case. This one was a doozy and they needed every pair of eyes they could get if they were going to keep the doctor and his son safe; and they were running out of time. She hated cases that involved kids, no matter how old. They didn’t deserve the trauma that would result from having their own or their loved ones' lives threatened.

Finally, Hotch’s apartment comes into view. She tucks her phone into her jacket pocket and rapps her knuckles against the door.

“Hotch, it’s Emily,” she calls and knocks again. She pauses, straining her ears for the sound of shuffling footsteps. Her brow furrows when there is only continued silence.

“Hotch?” she repeats, this time there’s a question in the way she says his name. She knocks again, harder. Rolling her eyes, she digs her phone back out of her pocket and redials his number. A phone rings on the other side of the door, but there is no sound that suggests someone was moving toward it.

Emily’s stomach turns as dread begins to pool in her belly. The hair on the back of her neck stands on end as a sinking feeling takes hold. Her hand drifts to her gun instinctively; her thumb hooking over the rotating hood and releasing her sidearm. As she removes the weapon, she uses her other hand to reach for the doorknob. Before she even attempts to turn it, she knows it will open.

Hotch never leaves his door unlocked.

She pushes the door open and readies her weapon, quickly moving side to side as she sweeps the room for an immediate threat. Hotch’s keys, phone, and bag are on the coffee table and sofa as if he’d just arrived home but she didn’t see him in her initial glances over the open concept apartment. As she continues her sweep, her ears pick up on the sound of soft wheezing.

That same sinking feeling grows as she crosses through the living room and it’s then she sees the bullet hole in the wall and the glass shattered on the floor. She pushes through the feeling of dread, effectively burying it knowing she needs to be alert and prepared for whatever lay beyond the sofa. Hoping for an incapacitated unsub, but knowing better, her world still shatters as she takes in the sight of her friend, supervisor, and lover unconscious and bloody on the linoleum tiled floor.

She drops to her knees and feels for his pulse with two fingers. It’s faint, but there. “Hotch,” she calls his name and holsters her gun, determining the assailant is no longer present.

His dark lashes flutter. “That’s it,” she says encouragingly, “Open your eyes, Aaron. It’s me. It’s Emily.”

“Emily,” he whispers weakly.

She pulls out her phone again and dials 911. Placing it on speaker, she sets the phone down next to Hotch and begins unbuttoning his shirt to further assess the damage.

The operator answers and Emily cuts them off. “This is Agent Emily Prentiss with the FBI.” She grimaces as she haphazardly untucks the rest of his shirt and pushes the fabric out of her way. “I am at The Langham apartment complex, apartment 121. I’m here with SSA Aaron Hotchner. He’s suffered multiple stab wounds. I need paramedics and a crime scene unit sent here immediately.”

Her eyes rapidly scan the woulds, trying to assess which is the worst. God, there is so much blood. Shrugging out of her blazer, she balls the fabric in her fists and applies pressure to the two wounds that appear deepest, those to his abdomen and chest.

Aaron moans and she apologizes. “I know it hurts, just hold on. Help is coming.”

“Paramedics are seven minutes out,” dispatch states over the receiver.

She wants so desperately to hold his face in her hands, to be comforting him instead of causing more pain, but she needs to get the bleeding under control until help arrives.

Hotch’s lashes flutter again and his head lolls to the side where she is kneeling. “Foyet,” he breathes.

Emily’s eyes widen. “The Reaper is here, in DC?”

“I don’t—” his breath rattles as he wheezes. “He was waiting for me.”

“Did he say anything?” She asks as she adjusts her grip on the jacket she’s using to staunch the bleeding, of which is already seeping through the fabric. She curses under her breath, though the sound of sirens can finally be heard in the distance.

“Emily, if I don’t ma—”

“Don’t,” she interrupts, her voice catching. “Don’t even think about finishing that sentence, Aaron. You’re going to be fine.”

The sirens are deafening now and she knows they’re pulling up outside. She smiles and releases a short laugh. “They’re here,” she says. “Hold on, Hotch. Just a little longer.”

He blinks slowly, trying to focus on her. “He told me I should’ve,” his eyes close momentarily and then open, “that I should’ve made a deal.”

Her brow pinches, but she doesn’t have time to push further as the paramedics come crashing through the door.

“Over here!” she calls.

Immediately they try to take over. “Ma’am, it’s ok,” the female medic says. “You can take your hands off of him.”

It takes a moment for her voice to register, but Emily does as she is told. She releases the pressure she’d been holding to his injuries, and rolls back on to her heels into a standing position to give them space.

“Heart rate is elevated, pressure is dropping.” The medic evaluates. “Start an IV and hang pressors.”

Emily watches them work, her pulse pounding in her ears. While one pushes the IV into his arm, the other fastens a brace around his neck before moving on to snip away what’s left of his shirt and begin packing the knife wounds with gauze. It’s like the world is moving in slow motion. She doesn’t even register when her phone rings until the medic brings her attention to it. She blinks hard and apologizes. She bends down and scoops it into her hand, smearing blood across the screen as she flips it open. She curses as Spencer’s name flashes under the smudge. She turns her wrist to glance at her watch. It’s been forty five minutes and she told Reid that she’d be back in under thirty.

She wastes no time explaining the situation. Reid reports understanding. Before she hangs up she says, “Reid, it’s bad.” For the first time since finding him, tears choke her voice. “I’ll call Penelope at the hospital, but do not tell the others. You all need to focus on the case.”

Emily hastily hangs up and moves to follow the paramedics as they maneuver the gurney through the apartment.

They stop though as Hotch asks them to wait, his voice imperceptible. His hand falls limply off the gurney and Emily steps in, taking it into hers.

“What did he leave?” he asks, though his voice is muddled by the oxygen mask that’s been placed over his mouth and nose. “What did he take?”

“I-I don’t,” she stammers in response. The Reaper’s profile flashes through her mind’s eyes. The glasses, the wedding ring, he always takes and he always gives. “I don’t know, Hotch.”

She nods to the medics, signaling them to keep moving. Emily doesn’t drop his hand. As long as she can feel the warmth of his skin on hers, she knows he’s alive. That he’s still here.

Crime techs and police units are pulling up to the building as they load Hotch into the back of the ambulance. Emily watches on from her seat, anxiety clawing at her insides as she does her best to stay out of the paramedics’ way as they continue to work on stabilizing Hotch.

The blaring sirens echo in her head, rattling around and bouncing off of her skull. It’s not a sound she’s unfamiliar with, but today it’s drone seems more of a death march than a rally cry. The cavalry isn’t coming to save the day, but rather fleeing from death’s grip.

The ambulance comes to a grating stop and the medics waste no time flinging open the doors and pushing Hotch out. Emily follows quickly and as doctors and nurses swarm the gurney, arms reach out to halt her movement.

Emily cranes her neck around the woman that’s stopped her, pushing against her as she tries to follow the team of doctors that have disappeared behind two swinging double doors.

“No, I have to follow him. I’m an FBI agent,” she states, attempting to leverage some form of authority over the situation.

“Ma’am, he’s being rushed to surgery. I need to make sure you’re alright. Where are you injured?”

Emily’s face screws up, her lips turning and brow furrowing. “Injured? I’m not—” It’s then she catches a glimpse of her reflection in the lobby window. Her face is smeared with Hotch’s blood. Like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, her eyes drop to her hands, which are covered front and back with blood. The red substance stains the skin on her arms as well as the entire front of the dressy tank top she’d been wearing under her blazer. “It’s not mine,” she finally says.

The nurse’s face softens and Emily hates the way her eyes fill with sympathy. “Is there anyone I can call?”

Yeah, about 7, but they’re all occupied or on death’s door.

“No,” she says. “I can just,” she rubs her temple and takes a deep breath. “Where’s the closest waiting area?”

The nurse tsks and shakes her head. “No, no, come on,” she says, gesturing for Emily to follow her. “You can shower in the locker room. I’ll get a pair of scrubs for you to wear and a bag to store your clothes in.”

Emily thanks her and follow silently, twisting and turning through the many hallways until she reaches the door labeled “Women’s Locker Room.”

“There’s soaps and hair products in each shower. I’ll be right back. Go on in. I’ll leave everything on the bench for you.”

Emily nods her thanks and ducks inside. As she passes by the long stretch of mirror behind the row of sinks, her stomach lurches. It did look like she’d been on the receiving end of Foyet’s knife with how much blood covered the front of her body.

She tears her gaze away from her sullied figure and turns toward the showers. Slowly, she sinks down onto one of the wooden benches. Resting her elbows on her knees, she drops her head into her hands. Thick, hot tears blur her vision as she takes a shuddering breath.

2 minutes, she thinks. 2 minutes and then you pull yourself together.

No sooner does the thought cross her mind does the dam break and the tears free flow down her cheeks in thick, hot lines. She takes deep gasping breaths as the sobs rattle her body. Her mascara bleeds into her eyes, stinging them. Using the backs of her hands, she presses them to her eyes, wiping the tears away and no doubt smearing blood and makeup across her face in the process.

She blows out a breath and forces herself into a seated position. “He’s going to be alright,” she affirms to no one but herself. She stands on shaky legs and feels the weight of exhaustion slowly creeping into her muscles. She kicks out of her boots and undresses.

She swipes at the faucet inside the shower and doesn’t wait for it to warm up before standing under the icy stream of water. She gasps and sputters but keeps her face under the flow. Once the water begins to heat up, she opens her eyes and glances down at her feet. Blood sleuces down her legs in pink rivulets, swirling and disappearing down the drain.

She pumps the lavender scented shower gel into her hand from the dispenser on the wall and scrubs her skin until it’s red and raw. She works it under her nails and up and down her limbs. It feels like it’s stained her permanently, his blood, inked onto her like a tattoo. After washing her hair, she cuts the water off and squeezes the water from her dark locks. She pulls the shower curtain open and just as the nurse had said, everything had been left for her in a neat pile on the bench. The nurse had even bagged her dirty clothes for her, not like Emily would try to salvage them. She dresses quickly in the pair of blue scrubs. They're a little big on her, but it feels so good to not be wearing clothes soaked with Hotch’s blood.

Slowly, but surely, she retraces her steps back to the waiting room and the charge nurse at the desk tells her Hotch is still in surgery. Of course he is. It had only been twenty five minutes since she’d arrived.

At least if he’s still in surgery, he’s still alive, she thinks, though the thought is still far from comforting.

Reluctantly, Emily crosses the waiting room and sinks into one of the plastic covered chairs settling in for a painfully long afternoon that smelled like antiseptic.

•

It bewilders her to look down at the hard tile floor and not see a path worn down to the cement underneath. How long had she been pacing this same stretch of floor in the waiting room? Her thumb nail aches from where she’d been anxiously gnawing it down to the quick, a bad habit she’d fought for years to quit, but in her most vulnerable moments came back.

She glances down at her watch, of which she’d been ninety eight percent successful at cleaning free of Hotch’s blood. She’d have to send it out to get the bits stuck in between the interlocking pieces of the wrist band cleaned out. It had been three hours. She blows out an exasperated breath.

Surely there would have been some update by now. What if he’s—

She’s unable to finish the thought when a doctor pushes through the double doors where Hotch had disappeared behind earlier.

She perks up and sends up a silent prayer that he’s on his way to see her. He wears a surgeon’s cap, covering his short blonde hair, and as he meets her eyes, she knows it’s the doctor that operated on Hotch.

“Well?” she asks, her voice shaking with the anticipation of news. “How is he?”

The doctor approaches and slows to a stop in front of her. “It was touch and go there for a while. He lost a lot of blood. We were able to stabilize him, but it’ll take some time for him to heal. He’ll be out of commission for a month, maybe longer.”

“Can I see him?” Emily asks, eyes pleading.

A glimmer of sympathy flashes across the surgeon’s eyes. He nods. “He’s unconscious now. When he wakes, he’ll likely be out of it. He’s under the influence of some pretty strong painkillers.”

Emily swallows and nods as she inhales. “I understand.”

The doctor’s eyes shift then and Emily immediately realizes he’s got more to say. “Is there something more I should know?”

“Well,” he begins. “When you brought him, you confirmed with the paramedics and nurses that that is indeed, Aaron Hotchner.”

Emily’s features twist, puzzled by his question. “Yes?”

“We found this when we cut his clothes off of him.” He reaches into his pocket and passes Emily a bifold badge identical to hers. She flips it open, eyes widening as she reads Derek Morgan’s name and her mind flashes to several weeks earlier when he’d lost his credentials. George Foyet had stolen them from him.

“Thank you,” she says and tucks the badge into the scrubs pocket. “Derek is a member of our team. This relates to a case we’re working on. I’m afraid I can’t say more. Please,” she says, her words now a plea, “take me to him.”

The doctor hesitates, like he might say more, but he doesn’t. “Follow me, then.”

•

Her eyelids are so heavy, but she refuses to fall asleep in case he wakes up. She takes another sip from the now lukewarm hospital coffee. It’s bitter on her tongue and her stomach roils as it travels down her esophagus. When was the last time she ate? She glances at the clock and it’s pushing 3:00PM. School would be getting out soon. Her thoughts wander to Reid and the team, and if they’d had any luck with locating the unsub threatening the doctor and his son. How could this be the same day she’d woken up on? It felt like it had been days since she said goodnight and kissed Hotch goodbye after he walked her to her car last night. It was only this morning since they were supposed to go to breakfast and enjoy the rare day off from cases and unsubs and torture and murder.

She holds Hotch’s loose hand in hers, the feel of his skin and its warmth a comfort. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, and rotates his hand gently to hold it against her cheek. Closing her eyes, she leans into his palm and kisses the skin there gently. “I should’ve gone home with you,” she whispers, “Maybe I could’ve done something.”

She ponders the likelihood of that as she sits there watching the rise and fall of his chest, the steady beeping of the heart monitor pulsing rhythmically beside her. Now and then the blood pressure cuff around his arm hisses as it contracts and releases. What were the odds that her being there would’ve changed the outcome? The Reaper had almost exclusively killed couples, but those were in smaller enclosed settings. He took advantage of couples by trapping them in their vehicles, minimizing their ability to escape. Hotch might have still taken off his gun, but would she have? Would Foyet have even had the chance to get the shot off? Or would that bullet have gone into her instead of the wall?

“You’re going to drive yourself crazy, Emily,” she whispers to herself. She knows there is no sense in reviewing the ‘what if’s,’ but it seems impossible when her entire support system is unavailable and she’s keeping this monumental secret from them.

“Just wake up, Hotch,” she quietly pleads before pressing another kiss to his hand. “I just need you to be okay.”

Her eyes flare as she feels the slightest twitch against her ring finger. She sits up straighter and holds his hand in both hers.

“Hotch?”

Her breathing stills. Did she imagine that? She squeezes his hand in hers.

“It’s Emily, Aaron. I’m here.”

Faintly, his fingers press into hers. An excited bubble of laughter escapes her lips as relief floods through her veins. She kisses his knuckles. “Thank God,” she whispers.

“Emi—” his voice is hoarse as he starts, but doesn’t finish her name. His eyes don’t open, but his head tilts in her direction.

“I’m right here, Hotch,” she says, shushing him. “I’m not going anywhere. Just, just rest.”

Hotch hums a response but doesn’t articulate anything further than that.

“Emily!” Garcia’s voice is filled with both pain and relief.

She sits up and gingerly lays Hotch’s hand back down on the bed. “Penelope!” Emily stands up and quickly closes the space between them and pulls her into a tight embrace.

“Oh, honey,” Penelope soothes as she rubs a hand up and down Emily’s back. “I’m so sorry you were dealing with this all by yourself.” She pulls away and looks her up and down from behind the lenses of her purple glasses.

“I’m so glad to see you,” Emily says. Her brow pinches. “But the team, the case—”

Penelope’s pink-painted lips curve into a smile as she holds up a manicured finger, cutting her off. “Not to worry, my sweet girl. The case is closed. The team saved the day. All is good in the world.” Penelope purses her lips as she pauses. “Well, except for the part where Agent Hotchner was treated like mincemeat and Reid was shot.”

Emily’s head snaps up. “Reid was what?” she shouts.

Penelope’s eyes widen and the glittery green eyeshadow she’s applied to her eyelids shines under the fluorescent hospital lighting. She waves her hands in front of her body, the multi-colored bangles on her wrist jingling as she does so. “No, no, no, no, no,” she repeats again and again. “He’s fine, he’s fine. He caught one in the leg, but he’s ok. I think he’s being patched up down the hall.”

Emily is already halfway out the door as she calls over her shoulder, “Maybe lead with that next time!”

Penelope’s high-heeled clad feet click and clack as she teeters after her. “Sorry!” she cries as she catches up to her. “So much has happened today I’m just glad that everyone is ok, well, as ok as one can be given the circumstances of the last 72 hours.”

Emily inclines her head to the side and blows air out through her nose. “You could say that again.” Without pausing to peer inside and be sure she’s in the right room, she enters the only other hospital room with an open door, the sound of voices telling her she’s found the right place.

Morgan, Rossi, and JJ stand around the hospital. They’re faces all bear surprised expressions and confusion. Somehow she finds it in herself to crack a joke, “Guys, I get it. My Prada boots don’t match the scrubs, it’s not that bad.”

Morgan breaks apart from the semi-circle that’s formed around Spencer, who also looks incredibly happy to see her despite his injured leg, and pulls her into a hug. “You could’ve called,” he chastises.

Emily rolls her eyes as she pulls away and transitions into JJ’s open arms. “You would’ve made the same call, Morgan. He grunts in response and she smirks to herself.

“How’s Hotch?” Spencer asks, using his fists to push himself into a sitting position without bending his braced leg.

Emily blows out a breath. “He’s in pretty bad shape, I won’t lie. What do we have on Foyet? Anything?”

Rossi shakes his head. “Nothing yet. Crime techs are still going over the apartment.”

“Someone needs to tell them to look for anything that looks like it might be missing; disturbed dust, signs something was torn from something, anything.”

“What are you getting at, Emily?” Derek asks.

Her gaze locks on his as she reaches into her pocket. Without looking, she passes his credentials to him. His eyes shimmer with concern as he takes his badge from her. “Where did you find this?”

“The surgeon,” she gestures aimlessly toward the day. “It was in his pants pocket. Foyet must have put it there after he,” she pauses, voice wavering.

“Ok,” Morgan says, tucking his badge into his pocket. “Thanks, Emily. Rossi, can you?”

“Already on it,” Rossi answers, phone up to his ear. Someone answers almost immediately and he begins to deliver instructions to them regarding this development.

Suddenly, a wave of dizziness and nausea crashes over her. Emily takes a step and stumbles, catching herself on the rail of Spencer’s hospital bed.

“Emily!” Spencer and JJ shout in unison, though JJ is the one to catch her, holding her up with a supportive arm.

Emily blinks twice, hard. The wave passes and she straightens, shrugging out of JJ’s arms though JJ keeps her hand on her back just in case.

“Prentiss, when’s the last time you had something to eat or drink?” Morgan asks, and he sounds more like her father, than her friend.

Her eyes search the room for a clock and quickly land on the digital red numbers blinking up from a small box on the bedside table. 6:04 PM blinks back at her. “What time did we land last night?” she asks.

Morgan releases an exasperated sigh. “That’s it, I’m taking you home.” He reaches for her arm and Emily recoils. “No, Morgan. I’m fine. I need to stay here. Hotch—”

“Will be fine,” he finishes. His brown eyes are hard, but there’s concern in them too. “You’re no good to him, or anyone here if you pass out. Come on. I’ll take you home.”

Emily emerges from her bathroom smelling like her own vanilla-scented shower gel and floral shampoo. She pulls her robe around her and pulls the ties around her waist, securing it at her navel. She smells a combination of aromatic spices and exits the bedroom to find Morgan closing the door to her apartment. In his hand is a white plastic bag, its sides fit to bursting from the number of styrofoam takeout containers stacked inside.

He smiles, flashing a row of white teeth as he does so. He holds up the bag and shakes it, wiggling his hips as he does so. “I got your favorite,” he sing-songs. “We are going to have an Indian feast. We got butter chicken. We got chana masala. We got paneer, and girl, we got enough naan to last us a lifetime.”

Emily smiles, though it feels almost wrong to do so when Hotch and Spence are in the hospital and Foyet is still out there.

As if reading her thoughts, Morgan shakes his head and drops the food on her coffee table. “No,” he says as he shakes his head. “Nope, come on,” he takes her by the hand and guides her to the sofa. “You are allowed to eat and rest. Hotch is stable and Penelope is knitting the world’s longest scarf at his bedside as we speak. JJ just texted me and they’re taking Spencer home now.” He plops on the couch and pulls her down to sit beside him. “You’re only job right now,” he says as digs in his pocket and pulls out a plastic-wrapped set of disposable silverware, “is to eat, drink, and sleep.”

Emily wakes with a start. Very seldom did she fall asleep on the couch. The credits to How to Lose A Guy in Ten Days roll on the flat screen. She pushes herself into a seated position and that’s when she realizes she’d fallen asleep on Morgan’s shoulder. He stirs but doesn’t wake as she stands and picks up the now very empty takeout boxes. She crinkles the aluminum foil linings as quietly as she can as she pushes the trash down into the bin in her kitchen. The headache she’d had when they’d left the hospital is gone, thanks to the many glasses of water Morgan has pushed in front of her. She flips off the kitchen light and crosses back into the living room where she picks up the remote to turn off the TV. Pulling the throw blanket off of the back of the couch, she tosses it over Morgan’s hulking frame and her lips curve into a half smile as he subconsciously snuggles into the plush blanket.

“Goodnight, Derek,” she whispers as she walks to her bedroom and shuts the door behind her. She leans her back against the wood of the door. Light from the streetlights streams in through her partially open blinds, casting strange shadows around the room. She twists them shut, blocking out the light, and climbs into bed. Her muscles ache as she sinks into the mattress, finally allowing them to relax and after making them carry her through the day. She turns onto her side and stares at the empty space beside her. She pictures Hotch resting his head on the pillow next to hers, smiling and telling her goodnight; what they should’ve been doing last night. Instead, he’d been mutilated on the floor of his home, where he was supposed to feel safe after a day of combatting danger.

She blinks back tears and pushes the thought from her mind. “Hotch is fine,” she whispers, reminding herself. As her eyes fall shut and she allows sleep to finally drag her into its cool embrace, she thinks of Hotch squeezing her hand in the hospital. She thinks of its warmth. It’s enough to promise her a dreamless sleep, and that’s far better than being haunted by nightmares.

Emily wakes with the sun. The golden light streams through the blinds in slats across her bed. She glances at the clock and it reads 6:34 AM. A full 7 hours, that was more sleep than she’d had since before the team left for Canada.

After quickly going through the motions of her morning routine: washing her face, brushing her teeth and hair, and dressing in a comfortable pair of leggings and Hotch’s old FBI Academy sweatshirt, she emerges from her bedroom.

Morgan is still right where she left him, though at some point during the night, he’d stretched the length of his body across the whole of the couch. She stifles a laugh. One leg is dangling off of the couch while one arm is stretched straight out overhead. His mouth hangs open as he cuddles the bulk of the throw blanket against his chest. Silently, she pads across the room to where she left her phone on the kitchen counter. Approaching a sleeping Derek with as little sound as she can muster, she flips open her cell phone and snaps a pic. Derek’s eyes snap open and widen as he immediately sees Emily with the phone in hand.

“Oh hell, no!” he jumps up from the couch but before he can take one step, the throw blanket twists around his ankles effectively tripping him. Those three seconds are enough for Emily to text the photo to Garcia.

“Gimme that phone!” Derek orders as he finally makes it to his feet and tries to wrangle it from her. As he wraps his arms around her from behind, Prentiss can’t help but laugh. “Too late, Morgan. I already sent her the photo of Sleeping Beauty. You know that’s going in the archive.”

Morgan releases her and points a finger at her. “As long as it doesn’t make it into the slideshow at the Christmas party.”

Emily arches an eyebrow and tilts her head back and forth, weighing the likelihood of that. “We’ll have to see about that.”

Morgan laughs and his features soften into a gentle smile. He inclines his head toward her. “It’s good to hear you laugh.”

She feels heat rise to her cheeks, and a small wave of guilt crashes over her. She allows it to do so and then envisions it cresting before rolling gently over a sandy beach. She takes a deep breath and smiles knowing that Hotch would want her to be laughing and joking despite what he’s been through. He’d remind her that Foyet would’ve been there regardless of if she’d come home with him. And she knew that he’d be telling her that he was glad she wasn’t there, because he couldn’t bear to see anything happen to her.

“Thanks for last night,” she says. “I really needed it.”

Morgan waves her off. “Nah, it’s nothing. We’re family, Prentiss.”

“I know,” she says with a smile. “Do you want to grab breakfast or a coffee? I’m going to head back to the hospital and relieve Garcia.”

Morgan claps his hands together, “That shitty diner on 8th?”

Emily moans at the thought of a sausage, egg, and cheese bagel crammed into a plastic red basket overrun by a mountain of red potatoes. “Oh my God, yes. You know, I don’t know what they put in their food, and I don’t think I want to, but damn, a big pile of grease is exactly what I need right now.

Morgan grabs the car keys off the counter and pockets them. “I’m driving.”

•

Derek drops her off at the hospital’s front entrance. He rolls down the window as she circles the car. “Tell Garcia I’m waiting for her.”

Emily’s lips quirk into a half smile. “I’ll be sure to tell her her chariot awaits.” She raises her cup of coffee to him, “Thank you, Derek. For last night.”

He winks, “That’s what family’s for, right?”

She nods and turns toward the hospital. She navigates the twists and turns of the hallways, keeping out of the way of doctors and nurses as they go about their duties. After signing in at the nurses station, she shoulders her purse, picks up both cups of coffee and heads toward Hotch’s room.

“Knock, knock,” she vocalizes, unable to physically knock on the half open door. Using her shoulder, she pushes it open and steps inside.

“Emily!” Garcia greets cheerfully. She sits in a chair near the hospital bed. Her chunky ring-adorned fingers hold knitting needles paused in mid-air, a lengthy scarf made up of maroon fibers hanging down to her ankles.

Her eyebrows knit together as she eyes the scarf. She smiles at her friend. “Been busy?”

“I think I fell asleep to the sound of those needles clacking together,” Hotch says. Emily’s attention shifts to him and her smile widens. The bed is angled, allowing him to rest in a half-seated position. There seems to be more color on his face today and that floods her chest with warmth. Just barely, he inclines his head toward her. “Is one of those for me?”

Emily sucks air through her teeth. “Ooo, sorry. This is for Penelope.”

Garcia perks up. “Yes, please!” she says. “Give that caffeine to mama.” She lays her knitting needles in her lap and holds out her hands, thanking Emily when she passes her the cup.

“Morgan is waiting for you at the entrance.”

A flirtatious grin crosses Penelope’s lips. “My knight in shining armor, come to get me from this extra sanitary antiseptic-rich tower. Someone catch me as I swoon.” She tucks the mass of yarn into her bag and stands. “It’s been a pleasure, sir. I’ll have this scarf waiting for you on your desk when you return.”

As she passes Emily, she gives her a peck on the cheek. “He’s all yours, kitten.” She sashays out of the room, gently shutting the door behind her on the way out.

The room is small and she crosses the short space in a matter of steps. She exhales as she takes the seat previously occupied by Penelope. Hotch flexes his hand as he inches it closer to the bedside and Emily takes it in hers.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, squeezing her hand.

Emily breathes out a short laugh. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Well, I feel like I’ve been stabbed nine times, but that’s to be expected. I understand that you almost fainted yesterday.”

“I—” Emily’s mouth clamps shut as she feels the weight of his hard stare on her. “Did Garcia say that? I wouldn’t say I fain—”

“Emily.”

She hates that tone of voice. His supervisory voice. The one he uses to give orders. The one he uses when they’re acting as colleagues, not partners.

She rolls her eyes. “Hotch, don’t give me that look.” She then aims a pointed look of her own towards him. “And you’re not my boss right now. In fact, you’re not even allowed to think about work for the next four to six weeks as far as I’m concerned, so lose the ‘I’m-your-boss’ tone.”

Aaron’s brow arches slightly at her challenge. “Fair enough,” he relents. “You didn’t answer my question though. How are you feeling?”

Emily relaxes as his tone does and gently taps his fingers with her own. “Better than I was yesterday. Morgan took me home. He ordered takeout, I made him watch my favorite chick flick—”

“ How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days?”

Emily’s jaw drops, her open mouth smiling. “You remembered that?”

“I heard you and JJ talking about it on the plane,” he answers, smiling. “I do my best to remember little things like that about everyone,” he inclines his head towards her, “you especially.”

Emily can’t fight the pinkening of her cheeks. “Why do you do that?”

“It reminds me that we’re all individuals beyond the case files; that we’re not just behavior analysts, that we don’t just spend time studying and watching the why’s, what’s, and how’s that make up other people’s lives, but that we have those same qualities about ourselves. That we have hobbies and interests and beliefs outside of the bureau. If I don’t do that, well, I wouldn’t be a very good boss, now would I?”

A small sound of disbelief passes her lips. She’d had the pleasure of scaling the walls that he’d erected to distance himself from others allows him to lead his team from a place free of bias, but hearing him dictate that despite all of that and the image he projects, he is still internalizing all the bits and pieces that make each of them human. That that’s what makes him human.

“Ya know, if the team finds out you’re actually a big softie, you’ll never hear the end of it.” She says.

“Yes,” his lips twitch into a soft smile. “Well, I think they know that and just choose not to say anything about it.” He squeezes her hand again. “I’ll have to thank Morgan. I’m sorry for what you must have gone through.”

Her face falls. “Oh, Aaron don’t. You don’t need to—”

His eyes are hard again as he speaks. “I do. To find me like that after what we’d all gone through together in Canada. It couldn’t have been easy. Your response time was critical. I know you, Emily. I know you immediately had to force yourself into action. I know you had to bury your emotions to see past me; to see past your colleague and partner. And I know that wasn’t easy. I also know you couldn’t tell anyone else because you didn’t want to distract them from the case at hand. I also know that you were willing to sit in the waiting room covered in my blood until you knew I was alright. You did all of this on little food and drink, and even less sleep.”

Emily stares at his hand around hers, unmoving, as he speaks. In her mind’s eyes, the images of yesterday flash in rapid succession: finding him, his face twisted in pain as she applied pressure to the stab wounds, stumbling out of the ambulance as he was whisked out of reach, his blood spiraling down the drain in the hospital’s locker room…

“Emily.” Her name is lighter on his tongue this time; not an order, but a light guiding her back to the present moment. Her eyes focus on him and relief floods throughout her entire body. His hand is warm in hers.

Suddenly, pressure builds in her eyes, the heavy heat that comes before tears. She swallows and when she finds her voice, it wavers, “I was so scared, Aaron.”

“I know.”

“If I hadn’t found you, if you’d di—” Her voice breaks and she swallows the growing lump in her throat. She breathes deeply in a poor attempt to compose herself.

“But I didn’t,” Aaron states firmly. “Emily, I’m alive because you found me. Don’t sit here and torture yourself with ‘what-ifs.’ You know better than that.”

Emily nods and tucks the strands of hair that have fallen from her ponytail behind her ears. “You’re right, I’m just,” she sighs, “I wish there was more that I could do.”

“What you’re doing is already enough,” he says. “And,” he adds, “if the idea of moving my body didn’t make me think I’d physically pass out from the pain, I’d be putting my arms around you so you’d feel comforted and trust that I am so utterly grateful that you chose to go home that night.”

His fingers twitch, but he winces as he tries to lift them off the mattress. Emily reacts immediately and slips her cool slender fingers back into his hand. His are longer, rougher, and curl around hers.

When Emily speaks, her voice is soft. If she speaks any louder she’ll fear it’ll crack and she doesn’t want to cry again. “When they say you can leave here,” she starts and allows her lips to twitch into a whisper of a smile, “Can I come home with you?”

Hotch smiles in turn. “Come here.”

Emily stands and leans down, her bound hair falling just so over her shoulder as she does.

“Closer,” he says and she acquiesces, lowering herself so that her lips are hovering just over his and she can feel his breath on her skin.

His lips are as light as air as he brushes a feather-light kiss against her mouth. It’s all that he can do in his current condition, but the feel of it is enough to melt the icy grief that had been clinging to her these last thirty-six hours, and now it felt as though the sun was shining on her bare skin in this small sterile hospital room.

“My home is your home, Emily. And you’ll always be welcome.”