Author's Note: Getting there!

Picks up some hours later.

Prompt Set #29 (March 2013)

Author: Budd Schulberg

Title Challenge: The Harder They Fall

Fair Blows the Wind

It was a little after midnight when they arrived back at the hotel.

As they walked through the lobby, Hotch was grimacing with each limping step. He was also holding his left arm like it was made of glass.

That was the one that he'd almost dislocated falling off the bridge two hours earlier.

For her part, Emily was hovering anxiously at his side, one hand ghosting over his back, ready to catch him if he collapsed. And that was not just her being mother hen'ish. He'd nearly hit the deck two minutes ago when he'd climbed out of the SUV. She'd asked him to wait for her to come around to help him get down, but of course . . . she bit back a sigh . . . he didn't. He thought that he was fine. That nearly plunging to his death off the Golden Gate Bridge was not an occasion worthy of even a pause for reflection.

Yeah well . . . she shook her head . . . he was dead wrong on that one. And her eyes started to sting as she thought back to that moment of absolute horror when he had been grappling with Matt Boyd, and then suddenly they'd both gone flying over the railing. If she lived to be a hundred, she was pretty sure that image was one that was going to stick with her until the day she died.

Hotch disappearing into the mist.

And she'd raced over, screaming his name, believing in that instant the absolute worst had happened . . . that he was about the hit the water with the force of a of a concrete block.

He'd never survive.

But as she half threw herself over the railing, frantically trying to see where he'd gone, suddenly she'd spotted the gold reflection of the lettering on his windbreaker. And even in the fog, her eyes were able to trace along through the shifting darkness to find his arm wrapped around one of the metal girders crisscrossing above the Four Point Arch.

He'd caught himself.

Matt Boyd was not so lucky.

When they were leaving, Harbor Patrol had just finished fishing him out of the bay. His skull was crushed in . . . he'd bounced off something on the way down . . . and after pressing her hands around his shattered ribcage, the ME said it was likely that his internal organs were soup.

He was very, very, dead.

But fortunately (thank God, really) Hotch had survived his fall with minimal internal or external damage. And with the assistance of Emily, Detective Chan, two patrol officers from the SFPD, an off duty Oakland firefighter . . . one who fortuitously had a length of climbing rope in his trunk . . . he was hoisted back up to solid ground within twenty minutes of his near death experience.

Of course he'd refused to go the hospital . . . no surprise there . . . but once the EMTs arrived, Emily had at least gotten him to sit still long enough to allow them to take his vitals and check the rotation on his arm. And though they were rather insistent about wanting to get him properly checked out at the hospital . . . they were worried about a possible tear in his rotator cuff . . . once they'd confirmed officially that his arm wasn't hanging by a tendon, Hotch tuned out the rest of it.

He wasn't going to the hospital, and that was that.

And though Emily knew that if their positions were reversed that he would one hundred percent have dragged her off to the emergency room, regardless of how "fine" she said that she was, unfortunately she wasn't in the same position to pull rank on him. Nor could she toss him over her shoulder.

Not with him still having one good arm to fight her off.

So though she hadn't . . . and still did not . . . approve of his decision to leave AMA, she'd reluctantly helped him from the back of the ambulance, and back over to their SUV. It was still parked where they'd left it two hours earlier, smack dab in the middle of the outside outbound lane.

Because that was how it all began.

After Boyd had crisscrossed around the city avoiding the road blocks and spike strips by tearing over sidewalks and through city parks, Hotch and Emily had caught up to the pursuit a mile out from bridge. Unfortunately for Boyd, the bridge had traffic delays.

It had come to a near standstill.

He'd ended up slamming into the rear end of a plumber's van that had come to a full stop in that same outbound lane Hotch and Emily had stopped in four vehicles back. It had only taken Boyd a second to shake it off, jump out, and then take off at a limping run across three lanes of idling traffic. Hotch and Emily . . . plus a half dozen members of the SFPD . . . had gone chasing after him.

Hotch . . . as he did so often . . . got there first.

Just once, Emily wished that he'd get there last. Because one of these days . . . her fist pressed into her stomach . . . that amazing luck of his was going to run out.

She just again thanked God that it hadn't been that night.

So now they were on the elevator, on the way back up to their room for probably their one final night in the city. The Kingsley Boys' manhunts were still underway in all three jurisdictions . . . current tally of their perpetrators was one dead, one injured, two in custody and three on the loose . . . but they were done with that part of the case.

Hotch had mostly definitely been tagged out.

And as he shuffled off the elevator, still clutching the sore arm that he refused to get checked, Emily slowly shook her head.

Silly, ridiculous, stupid, stubborn, man.

But once they got inside their room . . . it took her three swipes with the card, after everything that happened, her hand wasn't quite so steady . . . she immediately went to work taking care of that silly, ridiculous, stupid, stubborn man in a way that he would never allow outside of it being just the two of them alone. And really even then, if not for what had happened between them that morning, she probably wouldn't have even felt as confident in taking over the way that she did. But as with so many other things, this part of their relationship had now changed too. And she felt responsible for him in a way that she never had before. Like he was becoming hers to look after.

Whether the matter had been officially discussed yet or not.

So after she'd locked the door, she dropped the key card on the nightstand and then moved to guide Hotch over to the single reading chair by the window. There she immediately slipped his holster and gun from his hip and turned around to place them down on the bed. Then she did the same with her own. And when she turned back to see him wincing as he tried to sit down, she pouted in sympathy.

Poor thing.

"Come on," she murmured while reaching out to help him down, "easy does it."

So slowly, with her help . . . and a bit of under his breath cursing . . . Hotch levered himself into the chair. And once she had him sitting, Emily yanked off her windbreaker . . . that was also thrown behind her on the bed . . . before she stooped down to begin undressing this man who three days before, would primarily have been identified as her 'boss.'

That was no longer his primary label.

Of course he tried to protest. Asking her what she was doing, but it was just protesting for habit's sake. The change was new for him too. Because all she had to do was murmur, "just hush and let me help you," and she didn't hear another word out of him.

At least not while she pulled off his shoes and socks.

That was the easy stuff. It wasn't until she moved back up and started to get his windbreaker, that she heard him groan in pain.

She immediately froze, her brow creasing with concern.

"Aaron," she took her hand off his arm to pat his knee instead, "are you sure that we shouldn't go to the hospital? I know you think you're fine but," she bit her lip, "maybe you cracked a rib, or tore a tendon or something."

Though she'd tried again after they were in the SUV to convince him to at least go and get an X-Ray, he'd been insistent about going directly back to the hotel. He pointed out that he'd actually only 'fallen' about four linear feet, and he had definitely not hit his head. Because . . . as he reminded her . . . if he had, then there was no way that he'd have been able to react quickly enough to snag a metal crossbar on the way down. So he was certain that all of his injuries were soft tissue.

There was no arguing with him.

But now that she'd just asked him the same question again, instead of immediately dismissing her concern as he had before, he was looking up at her. The pain was evident on his face. But there was also another emotion there.

Surprise.

"You called me Aaron," he responded in a strained whisper, "you've never done that before."

"Yeah, well," she reached out to gently stroke his cheek, her lips curved in a sad smile, "you never fell off a damn suspension bridge before." Her eyes started to sting, "now seriously," her hand stilled on his cheek, "are we going to the hospital?"

"No," his eyes fell shut as he slowly shook his head, "no, I'm sure it's nothing serious. Just," he sucked in a breath, "banged up. But we got those pills for you this morning, and uh," he jerked his head towards the mini-bar, "if you get something out of there for me to wash them down with, I'll be on my way back to good to go."

For a moment Emily stared at him, trying to gauge the truthfulness of his words . . . whether or not his self-assessment was correct, he seemed to at least believe what he was saying . . . so finally her expression softened.

"Okay," she gently patted his cheek, "hold on."

Then, using his knee as leverage, she came back to her feet and went over to open the little refrigerator. Inside she found an assortment of soda and beers . . . and a half dozen tiny liquor bottles of varying quality and price.

Perfect.

She pulled out two tiny Jack Daniels and two regular sized bottles of Heineken. The beer went down on the writing desk and she twisted open one of the Jacks as she walked back to where Hotch was sitting.

Seeing that he had one fist clenched, and that his chin had dropped to his chest, her lower lip came out in a faint pout.

She'd never seen him in so much pain.

And hating that he was hurting so much, she hurriedly pulled the little bottle of pills out of her pants pocket. After shaking three into her hand . . . then looking down to again see Hotch wincing . . . she dumped out one more.

Eight hundred milligrams.

Not exactly the recommended dose on the OTC bottle, but it was a common enough prescription dose. And for his weight, he'd be fine. So she handed them over with the little bottle of whiskey.

And once he'd swallowed all of that down, she unscrewed the cap on the second whiskey . . . took a long swig of that one herself, basically half . . . and placed it into his hand.

That one went directly down his gullet too.

And when he leaned back in the chair with a heavy sigh, she once more kneeled down in front of him. After she'd taken the empty bottle from his hand . . . that went on the floor . . . she reached up to ease the sleeve of his windbreaker off his shoulder, and down his left arm.

She was so close to him, that she could feel his breath on her cheek.

For a second she paused, once more feeling that rush of emotions that had been overwhelming her all day. Then she reminded herself that it wasn't the time. He was hurt. And she needed to take care of him.

And that was that.

So she sucked in a shallow breath and moved back slightly. Though as she did, she felt the fingers on Hotch's right hand, gliding along her side. But she wasn't sure if that was her getting too close, or if that was him, trying to pull her closer still.

So her gaze shot up from the floor to lock onto his . . . her eyes widened when she saw how intently he was watching her. And then his hand was curling around her hip. For a few seconds they just stared at one another, her eyes wide and curious, his dark and filled with pain. But so focused.

So very focused.

Then she felt his fingertips pressing into her flesh just as he whispered, "come closer."

She blinked.

And then she closed those last two inches . . . and her eyes fell shut.

And he kissed her.

This kiss was different than their others. It was light . . . gentle. One meant to offer comfort.

On both sides.

And when they broke apart, she looked at him for another moment as a wave of emotion began to rise up.

And then it washed over her.

Her face crumpled as her hand slapped over her mouth, trying to cover the sob.

"I would have been so sad if you had died!"

Her voice cracked at the end. And as she sucked in a deep breath, the tears started to slowly slide down her face. And she could see his expression immediately soften, his eyes developing a faint sheen.

"I'm okay though," he whispered. And as she sniffled and nodded, trying to stop the trickle of tears, his fingers pressed a little further into her side.

"If we go easy," he murmured, "pretty sure I could manage a hug."

"You're sure it won't hurt?" She asked with another sniff, and he gave her a sad smile.

"Not any more than it does to see you crying."

Feeling a new wave washing over her . . . this one wasn't grief, it was something deeper, stronger . . . Emily bit down her lip. And then she leaned up to wrap her arms around his neck. And fortunately with her kneeling on the floor, and him down in the chair, they were at just the right angle.

And just the right height.

Her whole upper body was pressed against his. And though she tried not to hold him too tightly, she was just so happy that she was able to hold him at all. He was there and he was warm and solid, and ALIVE. And those twenty seconds where she'd believed that he wasn't . . . the pain had been excruciating.

It was a glimpse of a world that she could not fathom living in.

And she was beginning to see that her underlying attachment for him was stronger even than she'd realized. And that talk that they needed to have . . . she closed her eyes for a second to breathe him in . . . they most definitely needed to have it tonight.

But then hearing Hotch's groan of pain, Emily was reminded that this wasn't the right position for a heart to heart. Or even a good hug.

So she pulled back.

His fingers were still pressed into her side as he gave her a pained smile.

"Sorry, got a cramp."

"Yeah," her lip quirked up, "figured that one out." Then she leaned up to press another kiss to his lips, because well, fuck it. He'd almost died.

And that was reason enough.

He seemed to agree. Because although the kissing thing wasn't exactly an 'all the time occurrence' he went along with this one with the same level of gusto and passion with which it was offered. And this kiss went on long enough that mouths opened and spittle was exchanged. But then he broke it off with a moan.

It was not one born of passion.

"Sorry," he winced and shook his head, "another cramp."

"No," she pushed herself back, "my fault. I got distracted." She quickly pushed herself back and up to her feet with one hand on his thigh, "I'm supposed to be getting you ready for bed."

His eyes crinkled.

"I'm not five you know."

"No," she gave him a soft smile, "you're not. But you are a tiny bit broken, so you let me help, okay?"

He huffed.

"Okay."

And so she went back to getting him undressed. It was a painful process . . . for both of them. Though she tried to be careful and not jostle his bad side, it was almost impossible for him to get off his jacket, or his shirt, without some shifting of that shoulder. And each time he did move it, he'd suck in a ragged breath.

Sometimes there was a groan.

And she'd feel another stab in her own chest as she stopped and let him get his bearings again. But once he could nod, and murmur, "okay," she'd start again.

It took them ten minutes to take off just his outer layer of clothes.

But eventually his windbreaker, his vest and his dress shirt were down on the floor. She looked down at his t-shirt and then shook her head.

"Well, we can leave it on for tonight, but I think tomorrow we'll probably need some scissors."

"Yeah," he gave a heavy sigh, "that would probably be best."

Relieved that he agreed, Emily started to turn to go get him the Heineken off the desk. But then she saw his hand come up again to rub his shoulder, and she turned back. Her brow now inching up, she leaned down to grasp the bottom of his t-shirt.

She pulled it up.

What she saw there made her eyes water. Though she'd been expecting some bruising around his shoulder, she wasn't expecting the mark coming up from his hip, or the one terrible one on his mid-section. But then she realized . . . those were the two places where he'd hit the railing as he went over.

And he'd gone over hard.

Christ.

She dropped the soft cloth.

"I'm going to go get you some ice," she murmured, looking at a spot over his shoulder, "I'll be back in a minute."

And though she heard Hotch calling her name as she turned to walk out, after throwing him a tight smile, and an, "I'm fine," she kept going.

She just needed a minute.

First she stopped into their communal bathroom to wash the sticky tears from her face. And then she went down the hall to get a bucket of ice from the little room. She grabbed two free chocolates for herself. One while she was there, one for the road.

Aka, the walk back down the hall.

And when she returned to the hotel room approximately three minutes after she'd left it, Emily found Hotch in a different place than she'd left him. Somehow he'd managed to get his pants off and had shuffled himself over to the bed. But just to the edge of it.

He was sitting there in just his boxers and undershirt, staring down at the grey carpet.

"Hey," she quickly placed the ice bucket on the night stand before stooping down in front of him, "you okay? You need something?"

"No, uh," he waved his hand slightly, "I mean yes, I'm fine. I just uh," he looked up at her, "I just suddenly realized how lucky I was tonight."

It hadn't really hit him until he was all alone. Because up until then he'd had other distractions. Chief among them the excruciating pain in his shoulder . . . and Emily.

But then she was gone.

And it hit him. That was as close to dying as he'd come in some months.

He would have left his son without a father.

Though she'd just washed her face clean of the tears, Emily's eyes once more started to burn with sadness.

"Yeah," her voice caught, "you were really, REALLY lucky. And how about you don't dive of a bridge again, huh?"

His eyes crinkled slightly as he gave her a sad smile.

"I'll try."

For a moment there was silence, and then Emily blinked and reached up to touch his cheek.

"Want your beer now?"

"Yes please," he nodded, "and if they have some peanuts or something in the fridge?" His lips pursed slightly, "pills are kind of sitting there."

"Oh," her hand fell down, "actually there's a vending machine in the ice room." She shoved her hand into her pocket to make sure she had some change, "I'll be right back."

She started to turn towards the door, but then she immediately turned back to go over and get the beer off the desk.

"Sorry," she walked back to Hotch with a sheepish smile on her face, "almost forgot," she untwisted the cap, "I offered the beer first."

"It's okay," he responded with a wink as he took the bottle from her hand, "I forgive you."

Her lips twitched . . . God he was freaking adorable.

"'K," she tipped his head, "I'll be back in a flash."

And once more she hurried out of the room. This time immediately banking right, pulling quarters from her pocket as she half jogged down the corridor.

A minute later she returned to the room with two bags of chips and a bag of M&Ms.

Complimentary chocolate squares only covered so much stress . . . it had been a long night.

So once she had the deadbolt on, and Hotch settled back on the bed with his beer and his snack . . . and a jerry rigged ice pack like he'd done for her the night before . . . she went about pulling the room back together. She pulled off her vest . . . she hadn't even realized she was still wearing it . . . and tossed that onto her ready bag. Then she did the same with Hotch's from where it was lying on the end of the bed. After that she hung up their windbreakers in the closet, and pulled off her boots.

They fell to the floor with a thud.

When she started to unbutton her blouse, her gaze shifted over to see that Hotch was staring at her. Her fingers stilled for a moment . . . and then she kept going.

There was nothing he was going to see that he hadn't already.

And a second later the blouse fell down on top of the vest. And then her pants went on top of the blouse. And with her then in her underwear, she began to dig into her bag to pull out some pajamas.

Tank top, and . . . she looked over her shoulder at Hotch in just his boxers . . . eh, she zipped the duffel up.

The tank was enough.

So she half turned away . . . though not all the way around, again, nothing he hadn't already seen . . . to slip off her bra. Then she yanked the purple tank top over her head.

The bra fell to the top of the pile of clothes.

Once all that was done, she picked up her own beer from the desk . . . the bottle was starting to get a little warm and drippy . . . and walked over to the foot of the bed.

Hotch was still staring at her.

And now she was wondering why. So she made a little gesture to her mid-section.

"Do I need to put on more clothes?" She asked softly.

But he just slowly shook his head.

"Not on my account," he whispered back, "no."

Then he took a breath and Emily watched as he slowly moved his hand over to pat the mattress.

"Are you coming to bed?"

Feeling a faint warmth in her chest, and a pull a little further south . . . the difference from one night to the next . . . Emily's eyes crinkled slightly. Then she gave him a small smile.

"Absolutely."

A/N 2: It had been my intention to wrap this up all in this one huge chapter. But the chapter became ridiculously huge. This is 5000 words and I've got like another 5000, and I've still got some connecting scenes to polish up and I'm still sick so the days just kept ticking by and it was irritating me that it wasn't up yet. So figured, that was a sign I should just put up what was completely done and then I'll finish up the rest this weekend.

But to the chapter, it was deliberate to mostly stay out of Hotch's head and just see where they were from Emily's perspective. Next chapter will DEFINITELY be the last and we'll obviously find out where their relationship is going. And I always from the beginning of this story, saw Hotch falling off the bridge during a fight with the UNSUB, so it's strange the scenes that will pull a story along. But that was this one. And after some focused research on the Golden Gate, the Four Point Arch was the best place that I could make that work where he'd have something to grab. It's the only place I could see there's a lot of lattice work underneath.

And thank you everybody for all the reviews last time around!