(Warnings for school shooting, violence, language, and heart failure)
"The world breaks everyone, and afterward many are strong at the broken pieces." -Ernest Hemingway
They sit in the back of a cramped van. The heat swelters between them. Thick enough to cut. It makes it pretty damn hard to breathe between how close they all have to sit atop one another and the lack of air conditioning in the back. Still, there's no time to complain about the heat. They need to get into their headspaces. They need to be prepared.
The van comes to a halt and before the engine is even cut, the side door is thrown open. They dismount fluidly, the product of constant practice. "We know the target. Don't be stupid. Don't take any chances. We're in and out, are we clear?"
She's not accustomed to working with SWAT but that doesn't matter. They've got an active shooter in an elementary school. Bureaucratic nonsense can be put aside for this. She's so ready to take the building, she doesn't so much as blink an eye as SWAT takes the command. Sure, she's supposed to have it but in the face of getting into this building and saving kids and bossing around a bunch of overgrown toddlers in tactical gear… she's not butting heads over this.
Rifle cradled into her shoulder, she follows the others in.
It's a simple protocol.
"3."
"2."
"1!"
But things are never that simple.
The first room they enter makes her heart drop.
On the floor, is a single man. A single teacher. He's sitting upright against a desk. It's the tiniest little chair she's ever seen and looks even smaller with his large frame sitting against it. His eyes raise to hers and he smiles. It's soft and the crimson of his blood has stained his teeth, but she knows it's taking every bit of strength he doesn't have to produce it. "They're in the cabinets," he tells them.
It takes her a moment to understand him. His voice is raised just above a whisper and strained with his pain but she nods her understanding. He'd moved his students to the cabinets lining the west wall. She moves from the others. There isn't a need for her to be told that she's their best bet in protecting the children saved by their teacher. The children will trust her.
She opens the first door and stifles the soft shocked noise she makes. "Hello," she greets softly. They're fucking pre-schoolers. "Hey, baby." The softly crying boy goes straight into her arms. Behind her, the other's call for medics.
"Prentiss, we're leaving Anderson with you."
She throws a glance over her shoulder and sees Anderson kneeling down beside the teacher. "Okay," she responds, moving to the next cubby.
In total there are six children. Four boys and two girls. She does her best to protect them from seeing their teacher bleeding out on the floor but they're frustrated. Not a single one is happy with her for not letting them go crawl to the man. They cry softly for him and she knows the way that he's writhing away from Anderson's touch that he wants to be with them just as badly.
"Fuck."
Emily whips around. Anderson and the teacher had been pretty loud. Mumbling curses between the two of them as Anderson laid heavy and constant contact on his painful wounds but she hadn't been able to make out much of what they were saying. Not until now. The single syllable word breaks through the tension of the tiny room.
"No!" She moves to her feet but it's too late.
The shooter looms in the doorway. His blood is landing in quick, heavy drops beside him. She knows he's hurt and he's trying to take out as many people as possible. And his current line of sight is the teacher and Anderson.
He unloads as much of his clip as he can before her bullet hits its mark.
Blood sprays, the children sob.
She clears the body, seething with anger as the sounds of ragged breathing and sobbing children are measured out behind her. Scooping the gun up in one hand she shoves it away, watching it clatter across the cheap linoleum tile in the hall. Away from them.
"Suspect is down," she says shakily over the radio piece in her ear. "I need medevac, stat on the west side of the campus! I have an agent and a civilian down and six kids in here like sitting ducks." She turns back into the room and feels her chest sink for the second time today. So much for the protocol. "Anderson?"
She sinks down beside the teacher and Anderson. The children are horrified by the sight of the blood but they've grown steady with the presence of the other man.
His dark hair is plastered to his skin. She can recognize past the cold sweat and the dark bags under his eyes that he's attractive. "I'm Aaron," the man rasps, wincing as his body is consumed in a wave of pain. His face is dangerously pale but he manages to control his face enough to force himself to relax. This is the first time she's really been able to get a good look at him. But, his furrowed brows and light brown eyes aren't what's important.
The children are gathered close to him are who she needs to be watching out for. Each one is gripping his hands or articles of his clothing. Even as he lies dying, they understand the safety he presents. So, she has to trust their judgment.
He had saved them and he wouldn't change a thing about what he'd done.
She's torn between what she's supposed to do. Anderson's unconscious and he won't last five minutes with or without her help. He's quickly bleeding from what she can only assume is an arterial wound. She's kneeling in his blood. Covered in it. While the teacher- Aaron, she's reminded- needs help too.
"I'm Emily," she responds. She moves to shake the hand he's weakly lifted when the hall behind them is flushed in beams of light: help. She moves to them, shouting above the radio noises to draw attention to their situation. Leaving the man on the floor and the children with him.
She's greeted at the door and the feeling of relief is mutual when she steps into the hall and sees Derek.
"Princess," he sighs, pulling her into his arms. The high pressure of the situation they're in is unbelievable but to hear her voice through his radio calling for help in a frantic, shaking voice had made his stomach tie itself in knots. Emily Prentiss is a strong woman, unphasable but this a new extreme. It's past conceivable.
He can breathe. "I thought-" she's his best friend. Hell, most days she's his only friend.
She pushes her body closer to his. Behind her shut eyes all she can see is Anderson. The blood- there was so much blood. It seemed to just keep pouring out of him. Anatomically, she knows the human body holds liters but…
"Shh," Morgan runs a hand over her head. This isn't about images. She's not a female agent who has to micro-manage every expression she has to be taken seriously. They're just two agents who have been through the worst case they've ever worked. They're just hurting.
They're just broken.
He knows something isn't right the moment he looks over to his left and finds David Rossi. The older man is practically all of the family he has, as well as his only friend. But in all the years he's known the other man, he's never once seen his resolve so crumbled. His faith so broken.
Dave's name gets caught in the back of his throat. It comes out a mangled, pained cry grunt as an ache settles across his chest. It feels like there are hands pressing down on his chest, keeping him from breathing.
It had taken a lot of arguing for Dave to get himself access to Aaron's ICU room. No amount of doctor talk could push Dave away and no amount of Dave's in-depth explanation of Aaron's "love language" seemed to be doing the job either. But with time and as the scene calmed, Dave was allowed back. Mostly, so that the doctor's wouldn't have to be the ones to explain that one of the three casualties had been Aaron's ex-wife, Haley.
It seemed an unfair price to pay but Dave didn't care so long as his trouble-finding prodigy didn't wake up alone and in pain. And Dave made sure he was there at Aaron's bedside for as long as he could be.
"Hotch," he grabs the younger's man's hand. Gently calling out for him as Aaron's eyes find Daves. The first thing he notices is the absence of Aaron's laser-like focus. His eyes are on Dave but it's like they can't quite focus on him. "How are you, son?"
Hotch swallows thickly around the sharp pain in his throat, wincing. After a moment, he manages to control his body and force out a weak, " 'm okay."
That's a blatant lie. For more reasons than one.
Dave is sitting on a bomb. A ticking time bomb.
The doctors had found themselves at a dead end with Aaron. They'd fixed the damage done to his chest. He wouldn't be winning any wet t-shirt contests but his stitches wouldn't rip and he'd heal with time. The problem was that his heart had been under too much strain. He'd lost too much blood. He'd pushed himself too far.
He needs a new heart by the end of the year.
"Okay," Dave whispers, his fingertips stroking back Aaron's hair from his face. "I'm right here," he promises as Aaron's eyes start to drop back down. David Rossi is going to have to watch as the boy he'd practically raised dies slowly and painfully. The transplant teams won't care that Aaron's a single father. They won't care if he saved his classroom of kids in a shooting.
They'll just see a man in need of a heart.
And they'll all see a list of people who need it just as much as Aaron Hotchner.
"I'm right here, son."
She's absolutely seething. The world seems to be falling in around her. There is no balance and she's certainly convinced herself there can't be a God. Not a merciful one, anyways.
"It's not that big of a change," Morgan tries and fails to comfort. He knows it's not that simple. He knows it the way everyone knows it. She's too unstable to work. Not that anyone can blame her. She'd seen awful things. Watched a friend bleed to death. Comforted children in a dark room. And all for what?
A reassignment.
He stops at the address she'd given him and when he sees the neighborhood and the house… he understands her frustration even more. They're kind of in the middle of nowhere. It's close enough to the middle of everything that stores aren't a long drive but every house on the block is boring and they didn't pass a single person younger than sixty.
"Look," he points to the beat-up old jeep sitting in her neighbor's drive-way. They watch in silence as an older man gets out of the driver's side and a flutter of hope is shared between them as the passenger's door is opened right after, a man about their age sitting in the seat. That optimism is kicked out of place.
They watch in stunned silence as the younger man crumbles into the other's arms. An oxygen tank pulled behind them.
"We should probably-"
Emily looks away, "no." She looks down at her lap, to the hands she's clenched there in her obvious tension. It's dark and it's twisted but she can't. She can't feel anything past the pain in her own chest. The vulnerability of the scene before her is too much. It's overwhelming.
Morgan can't stand it. He throws his door open and goes to the men, anyways.
She can hear them talking.
"Derek Morgan. I work for the FBI," Morgan informs the pair. He hits it off with the older one. The man's hands had been warm and calloused. He assumes he's the other man's father. "What about you guys?"
Morgan finds himself being bathed in a warm smile. "Teachers," the man says. "I'm Dave and this grumpy son-of-a-bitch is Aaron." Before Aaron can grumble- or gasp- out a retort, Dave amends, "but everyone calls him Hotch."
Morgan nods his understanding, he throws a hooked thumb in the direction of Emily in the car. "I know a thing about brooding co-workers." Sure, Morgan doesn't outright understand what's wrong with Hotch but he knows pissed at the world when he sees it. "That's my partner, Emily Prentiss. She's moving in right over there."
Dave pats Hotch's shoulder, it's nothing more than softly laying his hand on Hotch. He knows his pain bad and Dave isn't aiming to make it worse. "You need any help," he asks, moving in union with Hotch as he eases him onto one of the chairs on his scrappy porch. It's not much but Hotch needs a break before Dave pushes him into bed.
Hotch melts into the old wood of the chair. It's a learning curve but he's a quick study and closes his mouth and tilts his head back, pulling in wheezing inhales as he struggles to breathe. Allowing the oxygen canals to do their job and supply him with a steady stream of cold air. It's not even ten feet from the car to the porch. He'd never expected dying to be this painful.
Or so fucking slow.
"We'd really appreciate that," Morgan says, sincerely.
Dave nods his head, "just give me a minute and I'll meet you over there, okay?" It's just across the yard, no one's going to get lost. He just needs to make sure Hotch is good. Morgan nods his head and ducks out of the yard, heading for his car with a thankful wave and nod.
Attention now turned back to Aaron, Dave can really take into consideration who the younger man's doing. "You cold?" It's hard to tell if his body is trembling with a chill or from the strain of their walk.
Hotch cracks an eye open, chest still painfully heaving as he struggles to breathe. He manages a single look, a glare that says it all. No.
Dave still shrugs out of his light jacket and pulls it up around Hotch's body. "I'll be right back," he promises. "Then to bed with you."
Hotch is almost looking forward to it.
A breeze sweeps through the yard and Hotch turns his face into it. He can feel the sunbathing his skin in warmth, the air blowing past him warmed by the humidity looming in the air. Yet, it's still too cold to go without a coat. That had always been one of Hotch's least favorite parts about Virginia.
He'd hated it even more with a group of preschoolers on the playground. The kids always got too hot and would strip themselves of the thin jackets their parents would send them in. Of course, there is always that one kid who's parents gets them a winter jacket on sale somewhere in the middle of September. When the humidity is still too high to be wearing anything besides a thin layer to protect from the breeze. But children are relentless in their pursuits of what makes them happy. And new winter jackets are a great sense of joy for them.
Hmm, he'd never have to deal with that again. He… He already misses it.
Feeling an eerie chill run down his neck, he cracks an eye open and finds the woman from the car staring back at him. She has a box in her arms while Dave and Morgan move past her with an awkwardly built coffee table. As he lifts an eyebrow in confusion, she blinks and lowers her gaze. Both unable to shake the unmistakable feeling of deja vu.
Dave invites them both over for dinner.
Hotch suffers through angry nausea he's hit with at just the scent of the spaghetti. The worst part is that no one can make spaghetti as well as David Rossi. Besides, he can't shake this weird feeling in his chest. And no, it's not the slowly dying from a failing heart feeling. That's distinct and it's just intense never-ending pain. This is… it's deja vu. He's seen this woman and he knows she recognizes him.
There was a point in time when he'd be pissed that anyone is seeing him so weak. He's leaning his weight into Dave, his body too weak to even carry him. He'd lost substantial weight over the last few weeks since waking up in the hospital. They'd given him a year and now he's looking at a month, maybe.
The damage had been worse than they'd been expecting.
And he's going to leave his son an orphan.
"Daddy!"
Emily watches silently as the brooding man- Hotch, Morgan had informed her- is nearly swept off his feet by an overly excited toddler. He's quickly followed by a brightly dressed blonde woman and a scrawny brunette man. Neither can halt the toddler's progress.
Not that Hotch minds.
"Jack," Hotch manages, his voice a breathless grunt as Jack throws his arms around his legs. It's the first time she's seen anything other than a pained grimace on the man's face. It makes it much easier to see how young the man actually is. The smile takes years off and she's forced to look away as she thinks about just how attractive he is. "Hey, buddy."
The toddler beams up at his father, a toothless mess that just adds onto the adorableness of the scene before her.
"Sorry," the scrawny man grunts out. His face is flushed with his concern and anxiety over not being fast enough to stop Jack's head-on collision. "We tried to subdue him as much as possible-"
Whatever excuse he's putting into place is cut off as the brightly dressed woman steps in front of Emily, her hand outstretched. "Hi-ya!" If it's at all possible, she's smiling harder and brighter than the little boy. "I'm Penelope! That's Spencer."
Emily takes the woman's hand, unable to stop an easy smile from spreading over her own face.
"I take it you've met Hotch and Dave?" she asks, throwing a thumb over her shoulder in their direction. She leans in as if telling a secret, "Hotch isn't always so grumpy, I promise."
Somehow, Emily finds that really hard to believe.
"I teach Kindergarten!" She grins, "we all teach in the same elementary school." The way that she looks at the others garners a strong sting in Emily's chest. They're a little family. A wolf pack all centered around the man who Emily can't quite wrap her head around. They seem to love him… she wonders what that's like.
The sudden sound of Jack crying evokes an instant panic in Emily's chest. It reminds her of the school and the kids and the- and the man. Her eyes find Hotch's over the crowded room. He'd been so much worse then but the dark bags under his eyes and his pale face- it's him. He was the man. He is Aaron. The same Aaron.
"Excuse me-" manners aside, she can't breathe. She tears out of the house, knees giving out beneath her. She can hear someone call out her name- probably Morgan, he's the only one who would care. She just hardly gets to the edge of the porch before losing all three bites of the spaghetti she'd managed to get down. It hurts and it only makes the panic swell in her chest.
She's still heaving over the edge of the porch, the cold metal of the railing biting into her skin, when the front door opens. She doesn't care enough to observe who it is. All she hears is the croaking groan of the wood from the pair of rocking chairs behind her. Someone taking a seat.
"I heard about your partner."
She jerks around, brows furrowed. It's Hotch. He still looks like shit and she's sincerely concerned watching him wheeze and fight for a steady breath. He seems fairly unphased and she wonders how long he's been like this- dying. Not that it's any of her business but he really doesn't seem like he should be chasing her around.
"His name was Anderson," he rasps, "right?"
She nods, lowering her gaze. "Yeah," she manages. She chews on her lip, wincing when her tongue moves over her tattered gums and tastes the copper of her blood. "He didn't make it to the hospital."
Hotch shakes his head, obviously displeased. "You saved the kids," he says after a moment. The sun has mostly gone down, leaving just the meager light filtering through the window for them to see one another. It's probably for the best but that doesn't really matter. They've already seen each other at their lows.
And yet they're still mostly strangers.
"You good," Emily asks, starting to worry a little with the sound of his breathing.
He waves her off, dismissing her with a simple, "this is my new reality until either I die or someone else does."
She grimaces at the plain truth of his statement but he doesn't owe her gentle lies. They're just strangers.
"You said the kids all made it out," she asks.
He nods.
"Good," she whispers.
They can agree there. No matter what that day has taken from them- peace of mind, family, and sleeping at night- at least the kids made it out. No matter what happens to them, at the least the kids are okay.
I hate to sound clingy but I mean this is: if you don't pressure me to finish this by means of bullying, threats, or overwhelming support I WILL NOT DO IT. LOOK AT MY OTHER WORKS- okay? I am so bad for shit like this