The team was spread out on the airplane, discussing the end of another brutal case.
In the back of the aircraft, Hotch and Prentiss sat on one small sofa, facing Morgan and J.J. on the other. All four were paging through documents and chatting quietly as the others dozed.
Slowly, their conversation waned. Emily's hand dropped to her lap, the file she held falling closed. Her head drooped as well until she snapped herself upright, jerking the file back up in front of her face.
A few moments later the process repeated.
And again, but this time the file stayed down while her head jerked up.
Again.
Sighing, Hotch reached out and gently guided her head to his shoulder.
Turning his face into her hair, he murmured quietly, "Sleep, Emily."
When the wheels touched down her head was pillowed on his chest and his arms were wrapped around her, both of them fast asleep.
///
"What are you doing up?" she asked, startled at seeing him sitting on the sofa in the living room of the suite the team was sharing.
"Can't sleep," he replied, getting a good look at her make-up free face and comfortably ratty flannel pants and t-shirt. "You?"
"I was thirsty. Do you want some water?" She grabbed him a bottle without waiting for his response and handed it over as she dropped onto the sofa next to him. "What's keeping you up, Hotch?"
"Nightmares."
"They keep us all up sometimes. Anything in particular?"
The corner of his mouth quirked in a facsimile of a smile. "Of course."
"Want to talk about it?" she queried, her voice soft.
"Not really. But it's been a long time since I've slept. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back on the floor of my apartment, Foyette standing over me."
She reached out, resting her elegant, long-fingered hand on his arm in empathy.
"Do you want something to help you sleep?"
"No. I hate the drugs more than I hate the nightmares."
She ran her hand up his arm and squeezed.
"How about some company, then?"
He sighed and finally took a drink of the water she'd brought him. "Yeah. That'd be nice."
She scooted closer to him, so her left side was pressed against his right. She knew, after all, how sometimes the simple warmth of another person could ease the soul. He leaned his shoulder against hers, silently thanking her.
They sat, sometimes talking, but mostly quiet. And the knot in his gut eased. His shoulders relaxed. His head drooped.
She guided his head to her chest as she reclined on the couch and wrapped him in her arms. He sighed and shifted to lie next to her, pressing his nose into the fragrant softness of her neck.
Threading her fingers through his hair, she murmured quietly, "Sleep, Aaron."
When dawn broke, they were wrapped up in each other, sound asleep.
///
While normally a pleasant, if precocious, child, being ill turned Jack into a pint-sized dictator. Hotch had been run ragged all day trying to entertain a sick and cranky child on about 2 hours of sleep and after 3 days on a grueling case. He'd sounded at the end of his rope when he called to check in at the BAU an hour ago.
Prentiss shifted her grip on the heavy grocery bag as she knocked softly on his door.
"Hey," she whispered when he opened up it. "Jack sleeping?"
"Yes, thank God," he said, pulling the door wide for her to step in. "What's going on?"
"Well, I figured you probably didn't have much on hand to take care of a sick little boy, so I brought over some juice, the makings for soup, and a new coloring book and crayons to keep him busy when he wakes up.
"Emily," his heartfelt sigh was more than enough thanks. She grinned at him.
"Will I wake him if I start some making the soup?"
"I doubt. He was up most of the night, so he should sleep pretty soundly now."
"How about you? Up all night?"
"Of course."
"Go crash, catch a nap. I'll wake you up if anything happens."
"I'd rather keep you company."
And so he sat at the table, chopping whatever she put in front of him while she bustled efficiently around his kitchen and they talked desultorily of whatever came to mind.
Drawn by their voices and the scents of cooking, Jack shuffled into the kitchen, a tattered stuffed dog clutched in his hand.
"Daddy?"
"Hey, buddy, how are you feeling?" Hotch scooped Jack up.
"A little better."
"Do you want to eat something?" Prentiss asked, coming to stand near them.
Instead Jack thrust his arms out, demanding that Prentiss hold him. Chuckling quietly, she reached out and snuggled his feverish body close.
She hummed a little, comfortingly, as she pressed her lips to his forehead, checking his temperature. "How about some soup, sweetheart?"
He nodded, his little head resting on her shoulder. When she moved to set him down, though, he protested, clinging to her neck.
"I'll get it," Hotch said, pulling out a chair so she could sit with Jack on her lap.
He dished up three bowls of soup and when the meal was over he pulled an unresisting Jack out of Emily's arms and into his own. Shifting his grip, he held out his hand for Emily's and she grasped it as they walked into the living room.
A couple of hours later Jack was asleep between them on the couch, his head on his father's knee as he dozed, his new coloring book and crayons discarded. When the evening news was over, Prentiss stood and sighed. "I should get going."
"Emily, thank you," Hotch said. "You were a life-saver."
She smiled. "Anytime."
Jack chose that moment to wake up and pitch a fit when his father suggested it was bedtime. Despite the exhaustion that obviously pulled at the little boy, he demanded that Prentiss tuck him in.
The fit, calmed by her capitulation, sprang back into life when she tried to tuck him into his own bed.
"No," he protested loudly. "I get to sleep in Daddy's bed when I'm sick!"
And so he was tucked into Hotch's king-size and Prentiss now knew what Hotch's bedroom looked like. White and navy-blue, with heavy oak furniture, it was tasteful and calming and definitely in need of a few feminine touches. And she could have done without knowing that.
When she tried to leave, to get away from the intriguing scent of man in the air, Jack again began crying. "I want you stay," he demanded, "and I want Daddy to sit down and I want you to sing me a lullaby and stay with me while I sleep."
So she sighed and gave in to the little dictator, perching on the side of the bed and racked her brain for a lullaby. Nothing came to mind, so she began singing the last song that had played on her ipod on the car.
Will you stay with me, will you be my love
Among the fields of barley
And you can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in fields of gold
I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that I've broken
But I swear in the days still left
We'll walk in fields of gold
We'll walk in fields of gold
Hotch watched with adoring eyes as she sang his son to sleep. When she finished, they both stood and reached to tuck the blankets more closely around the sleeping boy. Their hands brushed and his eyes, still adoring, flew to hers. He turned his hand and caught hers.
"Stay," he whispered.
She nodded.
She changed into a pair of his sweats and an old t-shirt. They crawled into his bed, the sleeping boy between them.
It felt right. It was right.
He watched them, his precious son and the incredible woman, as they slept. His own eyes were heavy, his body weary, but he was content and didn't want to lose a second of the feeling.
When his son stirred, mumbling in his sleep and Emily reached out, tucking him against her body and whispering, "Sleep, Jack," his heart stopped and then thudded once, hard, full to bursting with love.
Daylight found the three of them sound asleep, Jack sleeping sideways on the bed, his head pillowed on Emily's stomach, his feet on his father's. Stretched across the bed above the sleep boy, Hotch's arm reached for Prentiss. Her arm reached for him. Their fingers laced.