Not knowing how to think

I scream aloud, begin to sink

My legs and arms are broken down

With envy for the solid ground

There is not a sound. Not a shiver. The floorboards do not moan lowly. No hinge gives its creaking complaint. The disturbance is a felt one. Something she feels right where her fourth rib meets her sternum. It has no name. Calling it instinct is superstitious. Claiming it as training or intuition is childish.

It has everything to do with love and fear. And love and fear alone.

"Aaron?" The comforter he seems to be forever tangled has been kicked away in his fitful sleep. In the low light of the room, the hallway light seeping in, she can see his heaving chest. As though he has run a great deal, not lying supine on his bed. "Aaron, can you hear me?" Despite the bitter scent of sweat, she can't tell what it is that draws her deeper into the room.

Slowly, his dark eyes open, breathing rasping out as he opens his mouth to answer but no sound leaves his pale lips.

Looking over her shoulder, only after looking and listening for a sign they've awoken Jack, does she enter the room. Shutting the door behind her, she stifles the room to darkness. She can't even see the hand extended in front of her. Not that she needs it. The path of his room is simple.

Two steps in there is an outfit shed by the dresser on her right side. The pant leg extends out and if she doesn't lift her foot, she'll trip. Three more steps in and she needs to extend her hand just a fraction to feel the cool wooden bed frame. There she can pivot herself with its aid. Step high over the sweatshirt on the floor and she's good. Well, mostly.

She gets tangled in the comforter he kicked off.

"Em-" he coughs, letting out an achy moan. "Emily?"

She gets to his nightstand and leans heavily on the old wood, catching her breath. The damn blanket was like fighting an octopus. "Right here," she promises, knocking all kinds of shit to the floor as she fights her way to the lamp. It comes on with a click and they both wince at its sharpness. She's got her eyes closed, trying to allow her pupils some small reprieve, when his hand wraps around her forearm. Cold clammy fingers wrapped around her wrist. "Hotch?"

The soft hazel of his eyes is unfamiliar. "I want to go home," he rasps softly. His chest shutters with the effort the simple request has taken. The tears in his eyes slide down his cheeks without the guilt. He strikes her. Not with his palm open and hands roughened by callouses. He does not hit her or cause her to draw back with his words. By the look in his eyes. The confusion. The pain.

"Aaron-" Once and only once does she consider trying to convince him that he is exactly where he craves to be. Mouth open, the words pushing at her tongue, she decides that will only hurt them both. Softening the look on her face, she crouches down by his side. Taking a seat on the edge of his bed.

The rash on his chest has depended its angry red, it taunts her now as the glisten of his sweat across his pale skin. Every visit to the doctor promises that it's not as bad as it looks. It causes him mild discomfort and nothing can be done. It is a product of the radiation. To heal the wound is futile. Stepping off a cliff to avoid a hill.

"You're feverish," she notes, moving the back of her palm against his forehead. To her surprise, he doesn't pull away from her touch. Not even as her fingers draw against the sharp peak of his cheek bones. He lays, compliant, eyes foggy but on her. With a fond sigh, she observes, "dehydrated. You didn't drink the water I gave you."

When he speaks, he sounds much more like himself. The tone costs him more than it's worth. "My throat hurts." Which is an awful excuse but it's the truth and she knows it's just another part of normal life falling away from her grasp. Today it is just water but tomorrow it is the hospital. It's the central line and the saline and the tube they're going to place in his stomach because he's reaching the point of inabilities.

And it is never as simple as a sore throat.

She's tired of seeing his blood so casually wiped from his pale skin. The bags under his eyes deepened to caverns and the lakes of tears in his eyes. There is nothing she can do. The mass of cancer can be cut out of his flesh but the cells could still multiply. Quite simply, there is nothing she can do for him. Except-

"Stay."

He mistakes her movement for the path to leave. She's just aiming to pull the comforter back over him.

"I-" They look at each other. She sees so much burning vulnerability. "I'll stay," she caves and with that promise she can reach down and pull the comforter back over his body.

Already, his eyes are dropping shut. "You can-" he coughs, his whole body jarred by the movement. "You can sit, Emily. I can keep my hands to myself."

She rolls her eyes but sits down on the corner of the bed. She takes his hand, rubbing at his knuckles when he turns his head to cough. "Shut up," comes her hesitation reply. It feels wrong, misplaces. She wants to slip into their innocent, normal tit-for-tat banter but he's not up for it. It's not what he needs or is even capable of.

"Please don't just sit there and stare at me," he rasps.

Her face flushes. She had been doing exactly that. "If I lay down, you better not try to cuddle me."

He huffs at that but whatever he might have said is overshadowed by his deep, nasty sounding coughs.

She reaches

"Aaron?"

"Hmm?"

She gently moves her hand across the bed sheet until she finds his. Interlacing her fingers with his she manages, thickly, "please don't die." His head turns on his pillow and she can feel him looking at her but she keeps her eyes on the ceiling. After a long pause, her heart beating frantically the whole way, he simply squeezes her hand. Not a promise… just comfort. Sniffling she sits up and grabs some of the blanket, pulling it over her own bare legs. "Stop hogging the covers. You're not the only who might want some."

As she settles down, turning her back to him, she closes her eyes. Feeling the hot stream of her tears falling over her face. The last thing she hears before she falls asleep is his hoarse voice, full of tears of his own. "I'm so sorry Emily."

"How are you?"

Radiation was early this morning. He'd been lying if he didn't admit that he gave Emily hell about it. Which he does feel fairly guilty about but she got what she wanted to he's not that sorry. For the first time, he let her come in with him. Mostly because he didn't have the strength to get himself out of the car but if he doesn't dwell on that thought too much then it's okay.

But he also knows that Emily told Garcia about this morning. Briefly, no doubt, about him being an absolute pain in the ass. Mostly how he'd let her tie his shoes. How he'd limped, leaning heavily against the wall to the bathroom and losing the meager bit of breakfast he had. Whatever she knows, she wears on her face. The worried crinkle between her brows. The downward quirk of her pink sparkling lips.

She shouldn't be here.

Despite the ear protection Dave had spent so much time finding, his ears still ache from the rattling from the radiation machine. Every nerve in his body agitated by hot fire packers digging further and deeper into his brain. The dancers with their little tacs glued to their shoes traveling along his skin. To his legs and then up his arms. And, yet, he pushes on.

As confidently as he can manage, he forces himself to focus his eyes on Garcia. Smiling through the haggard, involuntary sway of his body. "I'm okay, Garcia. No need to worry."

But she can see how pale his skin has gotten over the last month. How the shadow of a beard across his cheeks makes him look sicker, weaker. She knows that he won't like her attention but she craves for Aaron Hotchner. So, she finds herself looking at him longer, trying harder to see within him. To find her boss and not the ghost he's left behind. "We… I love you, sir. You know that, right?" She hesitantly touches his hand and as much as she thought it would hurt to feel him recoil it hurts even worse when he doesn't.

But he's here, isn't he? Is it not just like her stupidly brave boss to keep trying, to keep pushing?

Hotch's hand trembles where she's captured it in her own and as self-conscious as that makes him feel… he can't pull away. All these shields, blocades he's built around himself have been his destruction. He's pushed them away until they no longer let him near without armor of their own. Always prepared to enter the cave and find a beast. But Garcia, merciful Garcia, still just sees him. It terrifies him but he just wants someone to disregard his wishes. To throw caution to the wind and hug him. Touch him.

"I know," he manages. He smiles, clenching his teeth to refrain from showing or saying how much better he feels with her around.

She stands, leaving his side. "Just making sure," she confirms. She turns, her hand on his shoulder, as she takes in the state of his house. Empty. Emily has been diligent with cleaning up after them. Hotch, too, when he can manage to stand long enough to wash the dishes.

She remembers, like a blow to the heart, that Emily has fallen behind on laundry. That had been the one chore Hotch was solidly keeping up on. Emily had seemed so positive about that, only a few weeks ago. Smiling as she reassured he was very adamant to let her anywhere near the laundry (and as she suspected, his underwear) so as long as he was managing to be his usual stubborn self things would be fine. They had been. But after the nose bleeds he's not as strong. His appetite is gone and every week when they draw his blood the odds are slowly shifting out of his favor.

He's anemic and they gave him a blood transfusion at the hospital after the nose bleed but it hasn't helped. Now he takes iron supplements and a pill that smells horrible and tastes even worse. He can get over the pills. It's just two more in the sea of things he takes. It's the fact that he can't lift anything. Years of training and rigorous training down the drain but his knees are like jelly and his arms like boiled noodles.

On top of all that, this morning they talked about starting chemotherapy in addition to the radiation. His cells aren't responding. So, Emily's thoughts have been elsewhere. Not on the laundry steadily building unwashed.

"I'm going to make myself useful," she says, getting in a quick kiss before he can put up too much of a fight. She's not sure if his lack of response is good or not. Either way, she tucks a blanket up around him. Smiling when he just looks up at her- there's a flash of Hotch in his exhausted eyes. He starts to fuss with her- she doesn't need to clean, that's not why she's here (which they really don't need to argue about unless she wants to hash out how she's really here to babysit him).

But he just sinks into the pillow behind his head. No fight.

"Please tell me if you need help," she says as she walks away. He hums something under his breath but she knows he won't. She'll just have to listen for him.

The laundry really isn't that bad.

Emily's room is a mess but Emily is a bit of a mess herself so it's not that surprising. She picks up minimally. Moving anything around too much will just make Emily flustered to have been caught. So, she just picks up the towels she sees and a few pairs of shirts and pants she knows Emily likes the most and heads to the laundry room. The washing machine and dryer are down the hall, pushed aside in a closet like space.

Tossing in what she's gathered she goes back to Emily's room- she's just wasting time so she doesn't have to go into Hotch's room. Picking up a discarded glass of water and a few water bottles. She makes note that if Emily isn't back in time to throw their sheets and bed sets in the washing machine. It's always nice to have clean bedsheets.

Looking at Emily's room she realizes she has to venture to Hotch's room now.

She comes to linger in the living room. "You doing okay?" She doesn't get a response but she can't really see him so she moves closer. One of his legs is drawn up, resting against the couch and the other stretched out and over the arm of the couch. When she'd left him he'd still been sitting up, fighting to stay alert through their short conversation. It's… nice to see him comfortable.

Without thinking, she reaches down and moves her hand through his hair. Trying her best not to react to the amount of grey she sees. He moves, shifting his face further into the couch. She fears she's woken him but his eyelashes flutter for only a moment before he sighs and stills once again.

Sighing, she leaves him once again. Blindly hoping he'll sleep for a while if she doesn't bother him.

His room is… exactly as she expects it to be and, yet, not.

His bedspread is a dark green color, nearly emerald and surely something Jessica or one of the other's picked out. There are pieces of him thrown through-out the room with the finest touches of someone else left behind. For example, the books that litter every surface is him. From his nightstand, to his dresser, to a few stacked on the floor. The nightstands are old and she feels a little sore work itself into her throat at the possibility that they are a set and were probably bought for him and Haley.

And now there's only him.

There is a stuffed elephant and blanket on the floor on the other side of the bed. She wonders how frequently Jack sleeps with him. Probably more than normal now.

His room is neat. She tucks his comforter back where it should be. Placing a piece of paper in the book he'd left face down. There's a single sock with colorful, swirling patterns. A shirt that looks very well loved tucked inside of a sweater of equal wear and tear. Clothes and homely things. Hotch things.

From down the hall she hears his muffled coughs and something hard hitting the wall.

"Sir!" She hurries from his room, letting the clothes in her hand hit the floor. It's not hard to find him. His house has a familiar, simple layout. "Are you okay?" He's standing in the hall, facing her. Shoulder pulled in, left arm around his chest, and the right blindly leading him along.

He nods, muffling his bone rattling coughs into his elbow. "Just…" he shakes his head. "Going to the bathroom."

She looks over her shoulder, his room and bathroom are only a few steps away but… He doesn't look like he's going to get there without a little help. "Could…" she chews her lips into her mouth. "Would it be okay I help- If you just leaned on me, a little bit? For my sanity?"

He nods, simply going where she moves him. It's not hard to slip under him. Without heels, his height advantage is much more apparent. She looks down at the floor as she works his arm over her shoulders, smiling at the sight of his socks. Her own don't match- a homage to Reid but also because she knows it, secretly, drives Hotch crazy. But he's wearing a pair of polka dot socks. Each one an extreme loud variation of every color you can think of.

"Nice socks, sir!"

It distracts him for a moment from the humiliation of needing both her and the wall to walk down the hall. He looks down at his socks- socks that he and Emily had fought long and hard about this morning. He didn't want to wear them. He'd needed normalcy. Craved it. He wanted plain black socks that would go unnoticed. But she had won and everyone saw him in his boxers and stupidly bright socks. It had put smiles on their faces too. Even Emily's, though, she had tried to hide it behind her book.

"Emily's doing," he reassures her.

They can't fit shoulder-to-shoulder into the room so she lets him lean against the doorframe and manage it on his own. Following closely behind. "Oh, of course," she says smiling now she's behind him and he can't see. Though, as soon as she's done it she wishes he would see. To see her smile and know it's at his expense and give her one of those scowls that have always just made her love him a little more.

But instead she sits on the corner of his bed and closes her eyes. Wincing and flinching as he gets sick.

Emily had been so… afraidwhen she left. Garcia hadn't understood why. Even when the information Emily was throwing at her- hurling words, meaningless words. Now… Now Garcia is cursed with Emily's same burden of knowing.

It had all come so quickly- that the nose bleed had been because he was anemic and that they can't get his red blood cell count back up. "Not to fret", Emily had said thickly with sarcasm, his white blood cells are through the rough and the product of much anxiety. That the awful cough he has is from Radiation Pneumonitis and "not to worry" he's on steroids that make him incredibly nauseous and a complete ass. The best part? It can scar his lungs!

All this information had come so quickly that Garcia hadn't processed any of it.

Dave had called Garcia early this morning and asked if she needed anything to do. Normally, when he asks that sort of thing, he's asking her over to do the grunt work of cooking- rolling breads or kneading dough- but today when she'd happily agreed he'd had something else in mind.

So, today, while Emily goes with Dave for a long lunch she's staying with Hotch.

The original plan was just to leave him by himself. Dave had assumed that would be alright. Afterall, two days ago when Dave had last seen him, Hotch was very himself. Stubborn and grouchy when they tried to help him do anything- even the normal sorts of things you do for people: hold the door, pass them a plate, ask if they want anything when you go to get yourself something, etc.

Having to explain how she couldn't simply leave Hotch had… broken Emily just a little more. Keeping herself calm, collected as she explained that she was going out with Dave for a while and she'd make sure to bring him something back. Coffee or soup (anything so long as he'd agree to eat). She had cried as soon as she stood to walk to her room, lower lip quivering at just how easily he'd caved. He'd protested everything she did all morning and now just… submits. She'd sobbed in the shower.

He annoys her to no end. Her closest friend, the man she'd left behind to search for something more in London, was a basket case. Do not mistake that. Aaron Hotchner has to do everything himself. Independence is very important to him and she's being forced to watch him give in. Too tired to fight.

Garcia had arrived a little sooner than expected and Emily had opened the door in a towel, her mascara from that morning smudged under her eyes. Before she could get out an apology, Garcia had already assured her she had plenty of time and that Garcia would go back out and tell Dave to cut the car and come in for a moment.

And Hotch…

He'd been asleep on the couch. Sitting up, nestled into the corner where Emily had left him.

"Hey, Pen?"

Garcia hadn't even realized she'd been staring.

"He's got a heating pad tucked against his side, will you warm it up?"

And she'd learned Hotch is prone to chills. That along with nine awful scars, Foyet had damaged his body's ability to regulate temperature and that radiation is being a bitch. So to ease the ache in his side, where Foyet had nicked a rib that won't ever really heal, Emily just keeps a heating pad around. It keeps him warm.

The beast of knowledge.

"Garcia?"

She hates him. For a moment. Anger and impatient it eats her alive and that's such an awful thing to have to feel about someone you love. Why can't he be stronger? It leaves her body in a choked sound. How could she even let herself feel such contempt for the very man who always prides her for her brightness? Loves her no matter how much trouble she drags up? Goes out of his way to remind her to always be her bright silly self?

She stands from his bed and opens the bathroom door.

He looks ashamed and she hates that.

"Have I ever told you about the time Reid and I broke a coffee pot and hid it from you for a month?" she asks before he can apologize.

His Adam's apple bobs as he looks up at her. He's still curled into himself, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. He feels weak, useless. He couldn't even find the strength to stand and pee. Then, on top of it all, she'd been right there on the other side of the door as he vomited. By now, this is not the first apology he's been beaten to. Emily has this infallible way of sensing them coming and quickly changes the subject to something else.

It's… strange to see Garica practice it too.

"Please tell me that was far too long ago to be worth fussing with you over?" he asks, trembling as he accepts the hand she offers.

She smiles and tuckers herself back against him, wrapping her arm around his hips. "Oh it was a while ago," she assures him. "Like… Gideon long ago. He was just a baby-" she keeps talking no matter what. When he whispers that he needs a break at the doorway, a whole two steps later. Tells him how terrified they'd all been of him at some point in time. How that's all rather silly because Aaron Hotchner is nothing but a big softy. And, believe it or not, it has always been Derek Morgan breaking that secret to the rookies. That he's not as big and tough as he looks. That a good, warm batch of snickerdoodles will melt his big icy heart so quickly-

"How many people did you tell that to?" he asks.

She shrugs, only the people that really needed it. "Do I have to give you a number if I make you some right now?"

He considers her offer. His stomach has settled a little and the smell alone would be divine. Plus, Emily had said he could pick dinner… what's the possibility that she would cave to just letting him eat a cookie or two? He smiles, "I'd consider adequate reparation."

"Wanna help?"

His smile falters just a bit. He can't stand for that long and-

"We can make them at the table," she adds, hastily.

And… he nods. Okay.

That's how Dave and Emily find them an hour later.

Hotch is covered in flour and Garcia too. A good proper mess.

He's wrapped in a blanket, the one from the couch, and leaning heavily on the arm propped up on the table. Smiling, content, as Garcia checks the cookies and reassures him that they need only a little bit longer. So that they come out right as the bottom is browning but not brown. ANd he nods his head like he understands when she says the point is to let them finish baking on the pan outside of the oven. That's the secret to soft cookies.

Which, to him, just sounds like she's saying she's going to feed slightly undercooked cookies but he's eaten cookie dough raw for years. He's never had salmonella but he did get cancer so obviously someone wasn't warning him about the right things.

"What in the world did you two get into?"

"Cookies!" Garcia holds open the oven to show them. "If you wait just a moment they will be ready!" She places the dirty dishes into the sink. Throwing some water over them to make it easier to wash the dough off.

Emily raises an eyebrow at Hotch and he shrugs. She's amused by the sight of him covered in flour and what more is to add but a submissive shrug. What can he say except he's a softy who has always lacked the ability to tell them no?

"You didn't let Hotch do the measuring did you?" Dave asks, stepping in and inspecting the damage done to the kitchen. Under his breath he continues, "you can tell he's never been a math man. I'm convinced he doesn't understand fractions." Dave has cooked with him too many times. Hotch has never once successfully measured everything right in any dish. The amount of times one fourth has been mistaken as a half or an eighth of something rounded up to a third… it's crazy.

Garcia glances at Hotch and he already knows exactly where she'd going- "Well," she admits, "I let him put the cinnamon in-"

Hotch groans from the table, a dramatic sigh as he closes his eyes and admits defeat.

"It wasn't his fault!" It was. "There might just be a little bit too much cinnamon. It's not a big deal!"

Aaron Hotchner brought to his knees by fractions.

When Hotch was in the second grade he got chickenpox from his next-door neighbor Michael. A very common thing given the time and the general mindset of "chickenpox parties". It had been awful and itchy. His brain so ravished by the fever that he doesn't remember a whole lot about the experience. Just that it had begun as a patch of dry skin under his right arm, perfectly wedged between two of his protruding ribs. That week of horrible fever and endless itching is the only time Hotch can ever recall his father being gentle.

He'd awoken once during that week, just after four and when his father typically arrived home, to the door shutting softly. His mother whispering to gather his father's attention and diverge the man away from Hotch. Who, thanks to itching, had only just managed to fall asleep.

Halfway up the stairs, Hotch can remember waking up in his father's arms. The man had shushed him softly, rocking him the way you might a child until Hotch had laid his head against his father's chest and gone back to sleep. The gentleness of that action has haunted Hotch for years. Something he thinks about occasionally. Trying and failing to wrap his mind around something so out of character. So bizarre.

"Daddy," Jack whines, he twists in his father's lap. "You're not watching, look!" His little finger demands Hotch's attention, pointing to the TV. "Did you see it?" Jacks asks, sitting up to gauge Hotch's reaction. "It was amazing, huh?"

Knowing his son, Hotch does try and get the boy out of the house as much as possible. Which means that lazy nights come far and rare in between. If he can, Hotch likes to take him to the park, museums, aquariums. Anything to keep his little mind crazed by the ideas of the world around him and actively engaged. Today… is not one of those days. There hasn't been a lot of those days recently.

"The cancer is spreading-"

There's a certain understandable science to the way that chickenpox works. They actually follow a pattern on the body when they spread. Hotch's had curled from his left side to his right, working in the grooves of his ribs, and up his sternum.

A very similar pattern to the cancer spreading in his body.

Radiation is no longer enough.

He has two rounds of chemo and spends a lot of time thinking about what comes next. He's going to get sicker. Weaker. Probably lose his hair. What will really be left of him when all is said and done?

Outside the rain comes down in buckets, thunder shaking the earth, but there's nothing to the peace inside. Emily had gone around lighting candles, trying to soothe Jack in preparation for if the storm knocks out the electricity. Even if she'd managed to annoy him with her fluttering about, she'd been gentle and understanding. Making sure his shirt was buttoned to hide the deeply irritated skin on his chest.

She's stronger than he is.

They are all.

"Asland," Jack mumbles in amazement. He's settled back down in Hotch's lap, head on his thigh so Hotch can mindlessly play with his hair. Hotch can't follow the plot of the simple movie but he's seen it enough times to hum and mumble responses to Jack's questions.

The Chronicles of Narnia. It's Jack's new favorite thing.

They've probably watched it now at least a dozen times.

Emily's started having dreams about the movie.

No matter how many times he requests it though, she'll still play it and Hotch will sit down and let Jack explain the plot again. Everytime, it ends with tears.

"I don't understand why he has to leave," Jack whimpers.

Hotch is struggling to fight with consciousness. Radiation leaves him haggard. Limbs seemingly attached by measly strings and joints that buckle with minimal weight. He's got a rash up his chest that itches and burns a lot like that chickenpox rash. It's normal, he's assured, and they give him ointment to keep on it. Not to clear it up but rather to keep it from getting infected. Which… seems so practical if not normal. Mundane, really.

"Who?" Hotch rasps, forcing his eyes back open to squint at the TV.

Jack looks up at his father, tears streaming down his face. "Asland." Over the course of the last few months, of course Jack can tell his father isn't well. Everyone treats Jack like a thoughtless child, and he is child, but he's not stupid. He knows why he has to sleep at Jessica's and why, no matter how much Emily and Hotch make a point to only see him on Hotch's "good" days, that his father is slowly withering away.

The thigh under Jack's head used to be bigger. Tense with muscles not thin, almost to the bone. His father seemed to loom, towering over everything. Jack had thought him a king, a knight, a hero. Someone who, through the aches pains of it all rises triumphant and reigns on. Because his father has always been the best kind of person. Strong, vigilant, and forgiving. Surely… that would offer some forgiveness, no? An extra life in the bonus round or a break.

Hotch swallows thickly around the nausea knotting up in his throat. "Asland," he repeats with a sigh. Right. Asland dies. They're passed that point but he does die. For the greater good, a strategic move, but the sacrificial play none-the-less. "Sometimes," Hotch lifts his head. "He was saving the other's, Jack. He sacrificed himself." He's too tired to explain how the book was just a huge religious metaphor. "Sometimes people have to leave."

Jack sniffles and wraps himself around Hotch's stomach, burying his head closer. "Why?" he asks miserably.

Hotch doesn't know. It's never what you want but he doesn't want to tell Jack about all of that. How at one point Jack and Haley had been the ones to leave Hotch reeling with that same question, despite logic dictating a clear answer. That Emily had done the same thing to him multiple times. Everyone on the team, really. He's probably done it to them. If not already, then soon.

"I don't know, buddy," Hotch shakes his head. "I really don't." Jack nods his head, crying softly against Hotch. Hotch starts to rub Jack's back, despite the ache in his limbs. "Listen…" Hotch clears his throat and Jack senses the turn in conversation. Jack sits up, looking, searching in Hotch's eyes as he sniffles and wipes his face with the back of his hands. "I have to… We have to talk about something, buddy. About what's been going on."

Emily sits in the guest room and tries her best not to think about what's going on in the living room. It was only a matter of time but… she couldn't help but think maybe they could fix all this. It must be a matter of faulty testing. Surely, that must be the case. Hadn't they already been through enough? Have they not lost enough?

Jessica sends her a text, Hotch isn't answering his own phone.

Emily leaves her room, leaning out first just to see if they're still talking. They're not. The TV has been turned off, no sound.

Jack is curled into his father, clutching Hotch's t-shirt in his little fist. Despite the dried tear tracks on his face, the boy looks at peace. His head tucked under Hotch's chin and arms holding on tight, Hotch won't be able to move without Jack noticing. Understandably, Jack has some apprehensions about his father leaving his sight.

"How'd he take the news," Jessica asks. Her anger has melted, leaving her wilted in a puddle of emotions that she doesn't even know where to begin to deal with. "I can't-" she shakes her head. "I just can't imagine it," she whispers, glancing at Emily. "He's so young," she brushes her tears from her cheeks. "He can't lose Aaron, too."

She nods her head, she's afraid to lose him as well. To be a child, though, living this as a reality that at any moment you might become an orphan… Jack's only a child. He's not even ten yet. What will he have to cling to? The cold nights come frequently and he'll be alone. Surrounded by people but alone.

In London, there wasn't a single moment she could step out and not get lost in crowds. It was the safest way to avoid detection. In those days, she'd clung to online Scrabble and read and rereading the letter Hotch had written her before she'd left. It was in the file with the other identities and money. While it had not been a technical element to the FBI's idea of "everything" she might need it kept her alive.

On those cold night's she'd curl into herself with her heating pad pressed against those old wounds and read his letter. Fingers ghosting over the ink and eyes taking in every detail. Where his hand wavered writing about Reid failing to cope. The stain of a tear beside Jack's name. Her favorite passage:

"I believe Ashley will try to leave the unit the next chance that she gets. You were her mentor and I'm afraid I have not offered her too much in claims to stake here. A part of me is partial to her staying. You were her mentor and she reflects that in the strangest moments. I hope she stays, I indulge myself in her rebellions against me. I think it reminds me of you."

It never failed to make her smile. Take her back to the nights she'd drive home in a fit of rage or have arguments with her imaginations version of him in the shower. Cursing like a sailor but telling him how she really felt.

What will Jack cling to when Hotch is not here?