Author's Note: And now to the last visit, for this arc of the story, from Pop Pop Prentiss.

History Lessons

Feeling a faint, recurrent, pressure on his arm . . . somebody poking him, he realized . . . Hotch's eyes popped open.

They immediately locked onto Emily's father's, where he was standing at the side of the bed.

The older man's lip quirked up.

"I was half expecting you to pull your gun on me," he whispered.

"Do that again and I will," Hotch yawned back. Then he blinked, and lifted his head slightly to look down at Emily curled up in front of him.

Fortunately she was still sound asleep.

So he bit back another yawn while carefully disentangling himself so he could shift backwards. And as he moved around . . . sitting up so he could swing his legs over the side of the mattress . . . Emily's father walked to the other side of the bed, and dropped down into the visitor's chair.

Seeing the dark circles under the older man's eyes, Hotch's gaze flickered down to his watch and back up again.

It was a little before six a.m.

"So where you have you been?" He whispered to Richard, not really wanting the answer to the question, but knowing that he needed to ask it nonetheless.

But Emily's father surprised him with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

"St. Louis," he replied matter of factly.

And apparently sensing some disbelief by Hotch's facial reaction to that response, he repeated the answer again.

"Seriously, St. Louis. If somebody is so inclined, they will find me all over the security footage at the Excelsior Hotel. Why," Richard's lip quirked up in a cold smile, "did something happen while I was gone?"

Hotch stared over at him for a second before he huffed.

"I should have anticipated that you'd have an alibi. But you must know," he continued softly, "this isn't going to stop the investigation. His father is still going to want Rossi's hide."

"Oh," Richard snorted, "don't you worry about his father." He pulled his phone from his pocket and opened a web link.

"See," he leaned forward, holding the device out so Hotchner could see the screen, "he's got much bigger problems to worry about at the moment."

Feeling his stomach turning at the images in front of him, Hotch's eyes popped open wide before they snapped back to Richard's.

"You didn't set those pictures up, did you?!" He hissed, horrified at the implications.

There were various shots of the senator having sex with a VERY young boy. Not even close to pubescent.

Actually much closer to Jack's age.

Feeling a jolt of indignation at the accusation . . . he might live his life in the grey edges, but he had NEVER knowingly allowed a child to be hurt in the furtherance of his own agenda . . . Richard's face twisted in disgust.

"God no," he grunted while shoving the phone back into his pocket, "even we have a morality code, Agent Hotchner. We just did a little hacking, found the photos, and had them shown anonymously to a contact on the Denver Post. The story's hitting today. And given what you do for a living," his fist clenched slightly, "it can't really surprise you that the man who raised a serial killer, would just happen to be a complete fucking deviant himself, now can it?"

Richard's tone had more than a bit of heat on it, but he was unaccustomed to having to justify to anyone of importance in his life, what he did for a living. And given that this was his daughter's chief, her romantic partner, and the father of his future grandchild, Hotchner did now hold some level of 'import.' And he didn't like that this man who meant so much to his daughter, could think that he would do such a terrible thing.

He didn't like it one bit.

"Of course that doesn't surprise me," Hotch responded with a shake of his head while shifting back slightly, "but I still needed to ask. You know," he paused for a second, "I don't judge what you do, and God knows I'm not sorry about the deaths of those inmates, I just, well," he looked up and caught Richard's eyes, "that man raised Mahoney, and you raised Emily, and Emily will raise our child. And given what you've done in the past two days, I just want to know what's coming from her side. Because," he took a breath, "I know what's coming from my side, and it would be good if we knew now what genes we were mixing together."

With Jack it was different, he had known Haley's family since he was in college. They were harmless. Yes, her mother was a narrow minded, petty, spiteful, witch, but those were flaws in character, not in psychopathology. But still, his concerns about his own gene pool were serious. And that had been the other reason that he'd waited for so long before he'd even agreed to have a child. It wasn't just because of the things he'd seen at work. No, he'd been afraid not only of the world he'd be bringing his child into, but also what type of child he'd be bringing into the world.

There was so much darkness in his past.

But then of course he'd finally met his son that autumn day in the hospital. Perfectly helpless and innocent, with that sweet little face . . . and he'd fallen in love. Jack was all goodness and light.

None of Hotch's own shadows could be found in that bright little soul.

And although he prayed that would be the case for Hotchkin too, he couldn't deny that meeting Emily's father under these circumstances, had raised some questions that he hadn't really considered before. This was a man who lived with a moral compass very different from his own. And though it was true, Hotch didn't judge him for the life that he'd chosen . . . it did give him pause. Because was Richard born this way?

Or did the job make him this way?

Those were answers that he would like to have, just for his own peace of mind. But he could see now looking up into the older man's face, that he was somewhat thrown by the questions themselves.

So it was unlikely he was going to get what he needed tonight.

"I . . ."

Richard started to speak, then he stopped. His gaze shifted down to the hard linoleum floor, and then back up to the dark eyes that were watching him so closely.

And with such curiosity.

He leaned forward and took a breath.

"You really want to do this now?" He asked softly. And he saw Hotchner raise his arms.

"When else are we going to have a chance to talk alone like this?"

Richard tipped his head.

"That's true."

They both traveled constantly for work, so it could easily be months before their paths crossed again in person.

"All right," he continued softly, "but everything I'm going to tell you now is confidential, all right?"

Hotch's brow knitted slightly with both curiosity, and confusion.

"Of course. Obviously I wouldn't repeat anything anyway, but if it helps, my clearances are all in order."

"Yeah," Richard huffed humorlessly, "well trust me when I say that your clearances don't go this high. But for today only, I'll task you as Need To Know on this topic, and what you need to know is about my parents."

Seeing Hotchner's eyebrow inch up, Richard leaned forward and dropped his voice even further.

"During the war," he whispered, "my mother worked for the OSS." He tipped his head, "do you know what that was?"

"Yes," Hotch's hands settled on his knees as he nodded back, while speaking in the same hushed tone, "the precursor to the CIA."

"Correct," Richard rubbed his hands together, "that it was. And my mother was an intelligence officer. They recruited her in part because she had a knack for languages. She spoke six fluently, and four more, passably, but beyond that, she was also already well known in DC social circles. She was young, well educated, and had been a debutante who attended a lot of parties with people from a lot of different countries. Her family," he rolled his eyes slightly, "our family, was very wealthy. Tobacco money, and my mother was looking for a way to help the war effort besides just selling war bonds. Then she found it when a recruiter made contact with her in '42. She was sent off for training under the guise of a trip to see relatives out of state, and when she returned, she went back on the party circuit. Initially she was just working low level espionage. She was safe in the city, snooping around in the embassies. But then in '43, she was introduced to my father. He was trained as a Navy sniper, and had seen action in Eastern Europe, but after he was wounded in Poland, they transferred him to the Pentagon. Somebody with a brain had suddenly noticed that he was a Rhodes Scholar who also had notable language skills. It was something they needed back home. So after he'd recovered from his injuries, he worked to translate intercepted documents in the basement of the Pentagon. But once the OSS hired him out, and put him together with my mother, the two of them were shipped overseas, with the cover of a wealthy young couple traveling abroad. And," Richard cleared his throat, "that's essentially what they were. They took boats and planes and trains all throughout northern Africa, and Western Europe. Through my mother's connections they attended all the best parties and went to all the right homes. They even did a stint in Berlin posing as an Austrian couple on holiday. And between the two of them," Richard took a breath, "between '43 and '45, my parents' were responsible for the assassinations of thirty-seven high level government officials, or wealthy aristocrats, believed, or known, to be traitors working against Allied forces."

Though he had been quiet up to that point, at this news, Hotch's eyes opened wide.

"Thirty-seven kills," he repeated softly, "confirmed?"

Jesus Christ. And these were Emily's grandparents!

Richard nodded slowly.

"Yes. They were taken out by all different methods. For many of them, it was a head shot on a crowded street. There were also arsenic poisonings, a few car crashes, and, uh," his voice faded slightly, "in a few instances the targets were stabbed to death in their sleep."

"And they told you all of this? Themselves?" Hotch asked in disbelief.

That would have been one HELL of a family dinner!

"God no," Richard flinched, "neither of them ever talked about what they did in the war. All I knew was that he was in the Navy, Special Operations, and she worked for OSS. She told me it was as a secretary. It wasn't until I began working for the Agency myself back in seventy-three, that I looked them up. You know there's a room at Langley, and in that room you'll find my mother's name on a plaque."

Richard's lip quirked up then, it was almost a smile . . . though it held no warmth.

"The plaque says for meritorious service to country during World War II. But what it really means is that she got an award for murdering twice as many people as this bastard Mahoney. She got an award, and my father got a promotion. After the war, they got married, he took a job teaching up at Annapolis, and she never worked again. She stayed home and raised a family. Me, my two brothers, and my sister. She made dinner every night, baked cookies every Sunday, and in between very often sat and cried for no reason at all. And my father," Richard bit he lip, "well, he drank. Regularly. Not always excessively, but definitely regularly. Most of the time he just seemed like he wanted to be numb. And then when I got back from Vietnam," he nodded, "I went into the family business, though I didn't even know that's what I was doing at the time. It just seemed a logical turn after my Special Forces training. So those," Richard took a breath, "are the genes that your baby is carrying, Agent Hotchner. Decent people, who have done terrible things, for God and Country," he tipped his head, "but in my case mostly just for country. I stopped believing in God my third day in Vietnam."

Though it wasn't generally Richard's way to discuss family matters with anyone, this man was family now. Whether either of them would have otherwise planned for it or not, between Emily and this baby, they were going to be bound for the duration of their time on the planet.

And the kid did have a right to know the world that he was locking himself into.

"So," he jerked his chin, "how's that line up with the Hotchner genealogy?"

Hotch's jaw twisted . . . that was a lot of information for three minutes of listening. And although he didn't much care for the idea of having to 'trade' a personal family history . . . he didn't discuss his personal family history . . . he also knew that he couldn't very well take all that had just been given to him (trust) and not give a little in return.

So he sighed.

"My father also drank," he answered quietly, "and he was in Vietnam too, Marines. But whatever happened to him there, seemed to eat away at his soul more and more as the years passed. He um," Hotch swallowed as his gaze fell to the floor, "he had a very dark side, but," he nodded to himself, "he was a good man at heart. At least in my memories he was a good man," he looked up, "and I'd prefer to remember him that way. Being kind. Making my mother laugh. Taking me hunting for wild turkeys and teaching me to shoot. I liked that," he bit his lip, "I liked spending time with him when he was sober. And I think that he did the best that he could to get by in a hard life, with the tools that he had available. But his toolbox wasn't big enough. He just had some demons that he couldn't beat."

"Yeah," Richard huffed humorlessly, "don't we all?"

They were both quiet for a moment, and then Richard tapped his finger on his knee.

"Do you think you take after your father?"

Hotch lifted his head.

"I don't drink, but yes, for reasons I won't be getting into, I know that I do take after my father. But Emily is, well," his expression softened, "she helps me with that. I don't know if it's just her, or if it's her, plus the fact that she does this work too, but," he turned then, his gaze shifting to the woman still sleeping soundly behind him, "she keeps me balanced," he continued in a soft tone, "she makes me happy. And I do the best I can to try to make her happy."

"You do make her happy," Richard interrupted quietly, "she told me that you do."

"Yeah," Hotch looked over, trying to disguise the hope in his voice, "really?"

"Yes," Richard's eyes crinkled, "really."

Hotch bit his lip, trying to hide the faint smile he could feel tugging at lips.

"Thank you for that," he whispered back.

Though from simple observation he knew that Emily was definitely 'content' in their relationship, it was still nice to get the validation from an independent source too.

Things were going well.

The two men were quiet for a moment, and then he heard Richard clear his throat. Hotch looked up.

"I can't stay all day. There's a transport flight leaving here at eight-thirty that I want to catch back East, so could you please give me a few minutes alone with my daughter?"

"Of course," Hotch pushed himself off the bed, "I'll go find us some coffee," his eyes crinkled slightly, "black, three sugars, right?"

"Yeah," Richard stood up, huffing slightly, "how did you know that?" His lip quirked up in amusement. "Profiling?"

Though that wasn't his recognized specialty like it was with these two, he had been reading people's behavior for probably as many decades as the two of them had been alive.

It was a skill that of course came in handy with his profession as well.

"No," Hotch flashed him a dimple, "Emily mentioned it recently when she was lamenting her new caffeine restrictions with the baby." His mouth quivered as he thought back, "she literally sat there grumbling over her tea cup, for an hour, naming every person that she knew, and every way they took their coffee and how cruel it was that all of us were out there 'gallivanting' around with quarts of caffeine, while she was suffering over her evening cup of weakly steeped, earl grey."

Richard chuckled softly.

"That's my girl."

Hotch's amused gaze shifted to Emily's still form under the covers. Then he nodded with soft agreement.

"Yeah . . . mine too."

Seeing the older man's lips twitch slightly right before he tipped his head, Hotch knew that he'd just crossed a barrier.

He'd received the official fatherly blessing.

So with a faint crinkling of his eyes, he went over to his temporarily assigned (though no longer to be used now that he could sleep with Emily) bed, and pulled his sneakers out from where he'd had them tucked out of sight for the last week. Though for the most part he was still just living out of his duffel, he had stored a few things so he wouldn't have to dump his entire bag out every time he wanted to find so much as a pair of socks.

And after yanking on his sneakers and FBI windbreaker . . . something to cover up that he was still basically in his pajamas . . . he adjusted his holster on his hip, and gave Emily's father a quick wave goodbye.

Then he headed out to the base Starbucks which he knew was (thank God given his schedule that week) open 24/7. Given the base was enormous though, getting there was actually a bit of a drive.

Three point two fives miles to be exact.

And given all that he was picking up, it was a good twenty minutes before he got back to the clinic. The first thing he did was drop off a box each of French Roast coffee, and assorted pastries, at the main nurses desk. He'd been trying to do something nice for the medical staff each day . . . hitting a different shift each time . . . just as thanks for giving Emily such good care. And of course for letting him stay on the ward with her.

They were good people who did good work, and he wanted them to know he appreciated that.

And after accepting the cheek kiss from Lieutenant Rodriguez for remembering from Tuesday that she liked the blueberry scones, and getting her another one today, he shot her a wink in return and headed back down to the mostly empty patient ward.

It had just been him and Emily for the past two days.

But there he found his ward mate awake and sitting up, laughing with her father.

"Hey there," he said with a smile while walking over to the bed, carrying their coffee and breakfast, "how you feeling?"

"Feeling great," she responded with a happy grin that she shared between both him and her father, "how about yourself?"

"Pretty good," he chuckled as he leaned down to give her a kiss. Then he pulled out a small cup of half (really quarter) caf, from the tray.

"Captain Turner told me last night that you can start back with a smidge of caffeine today," he said while handing it over, "but just a smidge. I had them fill it three quarters with decaf."

Though on day four Emily had been moved off the nutritional mush and back to solid food, she'd still been on a low sodium, no caffeine regiment because of lingering (cautionary) concerns about Hotchkin's well being. But Captain Turner, the base gynecologist/obstetrician, had told Hotch that Emily's last panel of tests had came back perfect, so she could have a treat today. He'd asked if she'd prefer caffeine or a slice of pizza. Hotch had said the caffeine, hands down.

And he had chosen well.

Because his girl was ECSTATIC to get that cup of coffee! She actually squealed a sound that he had previously only heard her make under MUCH more intimate circumstances! And though she didn't really seem to notice what she'd done . . . she was too busy tearing the tab off her cup to get to the coffee . . . he actually had to turn his head to hide his grin, and blush, from her father. He rolled his eyes affectionately.

Only Emily!

So to buy a few seconds, he put his head down to busy himself with pulling out the breakfast sandwich he'd bought for Richard, and the two multi-grain bagels he'd bought for Emily and himself. No, he wasn't on a restricted diet too, but he was trying to be supportive and not eat 'good' food in front of her. So if she had to eat the healthy bagel with the smear of low-fat cream cheese, he would too. And as he turned to hand her father the gooey bacon and cheese sandwich he'd bought for him, he saw the older man giving him a soft smile.

"Thanks," then he tipped his head towards the matching bland bagels Hotch had put on the tray and mouthed, "for that too."

Feeling a twinge of embarrassment . . . it was the first time that his feelings for Emily had been put under a microscope by anyone . . . Hotch shrugged off the praise with an actual shrug, and a slight wrinkling of his nose.

Then he turned back around to slice up her bagel and put on the cream cheese.

Once everybody was set up with their coffee and food, he dropped down on the end of the bed by Emily's feet. They shared the tray in the middle. Then the three of them sat around having breakfast, and talking.

Mostly really they were telling stories about Emily.

Her father relished in sharing tales of her (mis)adventures during childhood. The time she crawled into a wall when she was eight months, the time she put on a Wonder Woman cape and leapt out of a tree at the Romanian Embassy when she was six, the time she smuggled a bullfrog into the State Dinner when she was nine . . . "his name was Beauregard, Dad," Emily interjected with a mumble around her coffee cup . . . and Hotch tucked each tale away for future exploration when they got home. Because each story was a new thread to add to the tapestry of what he knew of Emily and her life.

It was a beautiful picture coming together.

And after her father left them an hour later with a kiss for her, and a hearty handshake and slap on the back for him, Hotch climbed back up onto the bed with Emily. Though the nurses would be along soon with morning meds, he knew that they had probably another twenty minutes of privacy. And for now, as he pulled Emily into his arms, and tucked her against his chest, he just wanted to enjoy the few private moments he could get while living with no privacy at all.

He gently rubbed her stomach . . . time to share some good news.

"I think Dave and Morgan might be able to stop by today," he stated conversationally, and Emily's head twisted around.

"Yeah," she asked hopefully, "really? I know they've been busy, but I've missed them."

"Yeah," his lips twisted in a faint smile, "they've missed you too, but the part of the case that was tying them up, it came together last night."

She nodded as she settled back against him again.

"That's good," she said softly. Then she patted his hand. "When we get home, I want you to tell me what they found out there, okay?"

"Yes, sweetheart," he sighed, "I promise we'll talk about everything when we get home."

And that that was the truth. He had no intention of keeping secrets in this relationship. When the time was right, he planned to tell her everything that had happened with Dave and Morgan, and her father.

And all that he had done to save their friends.

But that was a conversation that could wait. Wait until after she was well, and the baby was stable, and they were back home in their own bed. In the meantime, he just cuddled her close, and nuzzled her neck. Four more days until they could go home.

He couldn't wait.

A/N 2: We've never had any Girl back story on Emily's paternal grandparents, and given what her father does for a living, I thought it fit well that they could have been spies during the war. I also thought it was a good point of bonding for the two men, and really it was the only time they could have a conversation like that. Alone, in the dead of night.

This was seriously just intended to be a like a three chapter arc but it all exploded into what it became...half the story :)