"You're gonna sleep on the couch in here again?" Rossi asked softly, and Hotch glanced up from where he'd been restacking Reid's books on the counter, taking up the paper bag that one of them had been in. It was dark outside, and the rest of the team had gone out to get something to eat with the promise that Gideon would bring something back for Reid and Hotch later, and to let Reid have some time just with him for the time being.

"There's no point getting another room at the hotel," Hotch murmured. "It's a sleeper couch, Dave – it's no worse than the beds in the hotel would be."

"Sure, if you were sleeping on it," Rossi said. "Are you going to?"

"I wouldn't sleep any better at the hotel," Hotch said softly.

"No," Rossi murmured. "No, I guess you wouldn't." He turned back, looking to Reid, who looked vaguely awake, but not with it – he had his glasses held loosely in one hand, and was rubbing at his temple with the other hand, a book of California wild birds in his lap. "You need any more painkillers, kid?"

"I just took some," Reid muttered.

Hotch picked up the notebook from the side counter, scanning it quickly, and he tried not to lean away when Rossi looked over his shoulder, looking at the neatly printed time stamps in Gideon's handwriting.

"Spencer, it's been nearly four hours since you took your last pill," Hotch said, taking a few steps forward and handing the notebook to Reid, who squinted at it while holding his glasses in front of his face, so that he didn't have to slide them on, but when Hotch handed him the pills and his water, he took them.

"Sorry," Reid said in a whisper. Hotch hated the look on his face, the shame, the swallowed terror, and he took the glass of water away, replacing it with his hand.

"It's okay," Hotch said, leaning in. "It's the concussion."

"But what if—"

"It's the concussion," Hotch repeated, touching Reid's chin and tipping his head up slightly to look at him properly, and although Reid didn't make eye contact, he nodded his head, leaned his cheek into Hotch's hand. "It'll take a few days, that's all."

"How long's it been?"

"Not much longer," Hotch murmured.

"You're avoiding specific answers so I won't get upset," Reid complained. "You're deflecting."

"I know," Hotch said. "You're not the only one with a profiling career."

Reid blinked, his lips parting, and then he smiled, just slightly.

"See," Hotch murmured, "your memory is fine."

"Thanks," Reid said, and Hotch kissed him before he pulled back. "I don't want any soda," he said before Hotch could open his mouth, "and I need to start adding it to this." He held up the meds book.

"Caffeine intake?" Hotch asked after a moment of perplexity, and Reid nodded. "I'll tell Gideon."

They closed the door behind them, and Hotch turned to see Rossi staring at him. "Was that Gideon's idea?"

"The book? No. He, um… He used to do it with his mother," Hotch said quietly as they walked down the corridor, toward the linen closets for the guest sleepers. "Until she stopped trusting that it was just Spencer writing in the book – but he knows my handwriting and Gideon's, so."

"He, um… he have a lot of plans laid out like that?" Rossi asked quietly. "For memory problems?"

"He rewrites his living will pretty often," Hotch murmured. "He hasn't shown it to me, but I know some of the details – he's got a printed guide for… But honestly, he's significantly over the average onset for men. It isn't something I'm worried about – the only thing that worries me is how much he worries about it. I knew that he did, but not… not this much."

"He's gonna be okay," Rossi said. "It's just going to be a rough few days. Please, try to sleep tonight. You call Haley and Jack?"

"I did. She's…" He didn't know what to say, or how to say it – Rossi had been divorced three times over, and Hotch's tongue still felt tied to the roof of his mouth as he shook his head. Haley hadn't said a thing since they'd talked before – she'd been worried about Spencer, had told Hotch he should stay out in California if he needed to, and Jackhad drawn Spencer a get well picture.

But…

"How long since you separated, really?" Rossi asked softly. "Eight months, seven? That's not a long time, Aaron. It really isn't."

"I know," Hotch murmured. "She's being too nice about it. That's what bothers me."

"The explosion's coming," Rossi said. "Doesn't mean it'll be at you, though – doesn't mean it'll even be in your presence. How she deals with your divorce is kinda her business."

"I know," Hotch said. "Go, join the rest of the team for dinner – sleep."

Rossi's hand was warm in Hotch's when Hotch shook it, and then Rossi pulled him closer, squeezed him tightly before he stepped away. He patted Hotch's cheek. "I know you're taking care of him," Rossi said quietly. "But you need to take care of yourself a little too. You hear me?"

"I hear you."

"You actually gonna listen?"

"Have a good night, Dave," Hotch said softly, and Rossi patted his shoulder before he left.

Hotch picked out one of the fleece blankets and a pillow from the linen closet, giving a small nod to one of the nurses as he walked back into Reid's room. He had his glasses on, was staring down at the page in front of him, frowning deeply.

"Did you know there are six species of quail native to the western US?" he asked quietly. "There's only one kind in Virginia. I mean, there are subspecies, but they're all Northern Bobwhites – but these – Mountain, California, Scaled, Montezuma, Gambel's, and a Bobwhite…"

"They all have that little tuft on their heads?"

"The Bobwhite doesn't," Reid said, turning the page back to show him, then turning back to the California Quail. "They're called crests, or plumes – they serve a similar purpose to peacock feathers in attracting mates. The longer or wider the crest, the more attractive the male is to potential matches."

Hotch nodded his head, and then he reached out, gently taking hold of the front of Reid's fringe, holding it up above his head. As Reid looked up at him, scowling, Hotch retained a thoughtful expression on his own face, tilting his head and examining him critically.

"Do you think you're funny?" Reid asked.

"I do."

"I'm in a lot of pain," Reid said. "And here you are, mocking me."

"It's the little things in life, Spencer," Hotch said, dropping his grip, and Reid smiled at him, then wincing. Hotch took his glasses when he removed them, setting them aside, but before he could move to sit in the chair, Reid reached for him, grabbing for his hand with both hands at once.

"Sit with me," he said. "Just for a while?"

"I'm too big," Hotch said. "Those beds are barely made for one man your height, Reid, let alone—"

"Just sit with me, just for five minutes," Reid said. "Please?"

"Fine."

When Gideon stepped into Reid's hospital room, he stopped short, his lips parting.

Hotch was still wearing his suit pants, but he'd stripped off his jacket and was just in his shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows: he was sitting back against the pillows in Reid's bed, a blanket thrown loosely over his lower legs and Reid's both. Reid was leaning against his chest, gripping loosely at the arm Hotch had slung around his waist, Hotch's chin on top of his head. They were both asleep, so far as Gideon could tell, and Gideon stepped slowly forward, dropping the food aside on one of the counters.

He reached out to gently shake Hotch awake, but Reid's hand snapped out to grab his wrist, and Reid opened his eyes to look at him, his expression pleading.

"Don't," Reid said. "Please, he hasn't slept since I've been in here."

"Is this comfortable for you?"

"I'm fine," Reid said. "It's… nice."

Gideon looked at Hotch, laid back against the pillows, looked at the arm wrapped around Reid's waist, probably slung that low to make sure he didn't push at Reid's sore shoulder as the bruises kept healing.

"You need to eat something."

"I'm not that hungry."

"It'll get cold."

"So? Cold dumplings won't kill me."

Gideon reached for the blanket that haphazardly covered Hotch's legs and Reid's under the sheets, and he unfolded it, bringing it up to both their waists.

"Thanks," Reid said softly.

"How long has he been out for?"

"I… I don't know," Reid said. "Um, I don't— I don't think I wrote it down, can I—"

"Don't worry," Gideon said. "Don't worry. Go back to sleep."

Reid hesitated a moment, but then he leaned back into Hotch, his cheek on Hotch's chest, his fingers clasping Hotch's own. They weren't the sort of men that looked like they should really match with another, both of them tall with pointed edges, but the way Reid relaxed said everything, let alone Hotch's closed eyes, his slack expression, the genuine sense that he was resting.

"You want me to stay for a while, or do you want me to go?" Gideon asked softly.

"You can go," Reid said. "We're okay. Thank you, Jason."

"See you tomorrow," Gideon murmured.

He hesitated a second, as Reid relaxed, as his head lolled against Hotch's chest, and then he took a picture with his cell. He'd show it to Hotch, later on – it might be something for them, later on.

When Hotch woke, it was light enough outside that he could feel it on his eyelids, and he took a few moments to really wake up – a few moments to realise that Reid was talking with Gideon and Rossi, and that he was still in Reid's bed, with Reid curled against his side.

He'd slept. He'd really, really slept—

"You sure you don't want your own bed back?" he heard Rossi ask.

"Let him sleep," Reid said. "We prescribe rest after trauma, don't we?"

"He's very bossy," Rossi said. "You notice that?"

"I don't think he's bossy," Gideon replied.

"Well, you wouldn't, he's the same kind of bossy you are."

"I'm not bossy."

"You've been bossy for thirty years, and I—"

"I have not, I have been driven, I have been—"

"Driven? Driven? The driven you've been is driving me crazy—"

He felt Reid lean in closer, felt Reid's breath on his neck. "I can tell you're awake," Reid said softly.

"Shh," Hotch murmured. "I'm resting."