"It's been very rare to have known you, very strange and wonderful" -F. Scott Fitzgerald

She comes back the very next day.

It's about noon and she'd seen the blonde one- the happy one, uhm… Penelope! Emily had watched Penelope pull up in the driveway at about eleven thirty. So, she knows someone's home over there but when she steps out on her porch she's not expecting him to be sitting in that rickety old rocking chair.

Idiot- because she'd seen, from her kitchen window, Penelope helping him outside. The woman was talking his poor ear off.

The icing on the cake, of course, is that she was creating a dialogue for what to say when she got over there.

Out loud.

So, he definitely heard her talking to herself like a crazy person.

"Hey," she says lamely, stopping in her tracks. Now she's in a really bad spot. He looks like he didn't sleep last night and definitely not in a talking mood with the oxygen mask over his face.

Of course, she can't really know that he didn't sleep last night. Spent the whole night breathlessly fighting with Dave over his own health and how he was feeling. Of course, like shit is the truth but he's fighting the clock and he doesn't want to go to the hospital over a little labored breathing. Now he's paying the price. He couldn't even stand on his own this morning. He'd laid in bed until Garcia got here and been forced to ask her to help.

Life is slowly becoming unbearable.

"I need..." she blows out an unsteady breath. She has to clench her hands to stop them from trembling. "Do you have any bananas?"

Idiot.

Stupid fucking idiot.

But he nods. It takes him a moment but he reaches up and pulls the mask off his face, pinning it against his chest. "Just go…" he curses himself, mentally for his inability to do something as simple as breathing. Why should heart failure come with not only a permanent ache in his chest but also the double hit to the lungs? Anatomy is so stupid.

"Ask Pen," he rasps, gesturing with a head tilt that he means for her to go inside. "She'll get you one." He knows there's bananas in there because Garcia always brings him some from the store. He used to eat one every morning with his coffee. Now he can't even stomach the thought.

Insult to injury is the awkward silence that passes between them as Emily steps into his house.

She comes out a moment later, Penelope trailing her. She shows him the bananas from last week. They're pretty brown but she's smiling. "Actually," Emily says, stepping out and smiling between Garcia and Hotch, "the recipes Derek's mom's. She, uh, sent it my way to keep me from getting bored."

Garcia nods and Hotch rolls his eyes fondly. He'd spent the last half an hour listening to Garcia go on and on about Emily's sexy little partner Derek Morgan. And, as insufferable as it had been, he had seen the signals the two of them were sharing. The good thing is that he was visibly not the only person unsettled by Garcia and Morgan's flirting.

Reid really hated it.

"She's making banana bread," Garcia tells Hotch, bumping her hip against him.

Emily blushes, "yeah but…" She twists her shoe uncomfortably in the dirt. "I'm not that great of a baker."

Garcia shakes her head, "don't be so hard on yourself! I'm sure it'll be great." She grins, "besides if you need any help Hotch and I are more than willing to be unbiased judges or helpers."

Emily could laugh at the face Hotch makes. He most certainly does not want that. She shakes her head, "I'm gonna go throw these in. If they're good, I'll send you a piece?"

Garcia nods and they watch in silence as Emily goes back to the house.

The banana bread must not turn out so great because she never brings a piece over but the next day she knocks on his door with a plate of pancakes.

He's in a sweatshirt- Georgetown's logo slapped on the front and worn with age- and a pair of grey sweats that make her cheeks flush a little. Nice, idiot, she thinks as she explains she used the leftover bananas to make pancakes and wondered if he'd like some. Mercifully, he either ignores or doesn't see her making intense eye contact with the floor so she doesn't look anywhere near his hips.

After that, they form a strange pattern of her showing up with various baked goods or other types of gifts and such.

Otherwise, they'd both sit in their homes all alone with nothing but the silence. Or, rather, he'd have the silence because she is very loud. He likes to sit on the porch and listen to her blasting music through her house. Occasionally, he knows a song but mostly he just likes the way the rest of the neighborhood scowls at their houses.

It's about nine in the morning when Hotch hears the knocking at his door. For a solid moment, he considers not even answering the door. There's about a ninety percent chance whoever it is he doesn't want to talk to. The number of people who have sent cards, and food, and made weird phone calls is numerous. So, if they don't have the key to his front door or the familiarity to just come busting in- it's not worth his time.

Besides, he's feeling grumpy and he'd like to just wallow for a moment… in peace, alone.

But then the door does bust open.

He's trying to read the paperwork either the hospital or the school sent- obviously, he hasn't gotten very far into it if he can't even tell what the papers are for. All that he knows is there are vibrantly colored sticky notes where his signature should be. But he isn't just going to go singing his name willy-nilly. He's not that far gone.

He looks up and Emily Prentiss is blindly- her hands are over her eyes for some reason- trampling through his living room.

"Can I help you?"

At the sound of his voice, her head jerks up. Two paired fingers separate and she looks just like one of his students as she lowers her hands and grins at him. It's an awkward little grin but it's not bad. "Uh," she motions behind her to the door. "Sorry about that… Dave, he, uh, he told me that you'd be home all day and you are home all day and if I needed anything to just-" she grimaces as if she's just considered how strange this is. "You didn't answer and Dave said you always answer and you do and I didn't want something to be wrong…"

She stops talking.

Mercifully.

Hotch grunts, "I do, normally."

Somehow, the only good thing to come out of the last month is that Hotch gets to spend his days at home. Besides the drastic rise in homeschoolers in their town, the school had been gracious enough to handle his disability checks. Of course, everyone had smiled and thanked him for what he'd done to save his kids but Hotch is still very aware of the lawsuits and trouble David Rossi would cause if everything hadn't gone smoothly.

Being the semi-famous author of a very successful line of children's books earns Dave that power. Although, Hotch has seen him use it for good and for… well, mostly sex.

The downside is he gets pretty lonely at the house.

Jack goes to his aunts. Haley's sister Jessica has been a huge help over the last few weeks. Reeling from the loss of her sister, she'd been more than happy to keep her only family close. Even if it's just her ex-brother-in-law and nephew. Not that Aaron and Jessica's relationship was severed just because of Haley and Aaron's divorce.

It had been painful but not ugly. It had never been about the devotion they felt for one another or even the love.

Life just gets complicated.

A few teachers had still managed to get some more leave time and with Hotch's heart actively failing, Reid, Garcia, and Rossi are on the receiving end of lots of understanding when it comes to asking for time off. They have a schedule set into place now: Garcia brings him lunch, Reid picks up Jack, and Dave brings stuff to make dinner for all of them.

It's simple but affected. Daily and boring.

"Now this is going to make me sound like a dumbass-"

He's known Emily Prentiss for all of week. He excludes the school thing from memory and the timeline. It's better for his mental health- which isn't doing much better than his physical health if he's being honest. The problem is, the woman is kind of crazy. It's in an endearing kind of way but still.

Now he's sitting in her living room. She'd come barging into his house just thirty minutes before, a hand over her eyes. He'd had to listen to her awful explanation for that while slowly and painfully making his way across the whole five feet separating their houses. The hand over her eyes had been in case he was naked because she may invade his personal space but she really doesn't want to see his junk.

He's not entirely sure where this comfort of hers is coming from. All he does know is that Dave has swindled his way into every aspect of Hotch's life and now Hotch has his neighbor's phone number. It's for "emergencies", of course. In case Hotch, God forbid, needs help and his only contact is his batshit neighbor.

"I mean it, Aaron," she's standing right in front of him with two spices in her hands. "It's really going to make me sound like a dumbass here but what exactly is the difference between Cinnamon and Nutmeg?"

God, she's crazy but she's funny and hasn't passed any judgement on his inability to get dressed. Just like now while she's standing in a simple, well-loved tanktop and work jeans and he sits in his flannel pajama bottoms and a Hanes t-shirt that's seen better days five years ago.

But they kind of passed lots of mile markers for judgment a long time ago. As in, last week.

He'd watched in silence as she emptied the contents of her stomach over the railing of his porch and she'd put pressure on the bullet wound that tore through his side. It's why it was so easy for her to, after that night on the porch, to bring over a plate of pancakes and offer to grab him stuff from the store. Of course, he'd told her he was good and he, mostly, was.

Which is in direct consequence for why he's here now.

"Nutmeg tastes like Christmas," he explains because he has no idea how he's supposed to explain this to a grown woman. "What are you making?" He's suddenly very worried for whatever dish she's making. Especially if she put nutmeg where cinnamon is supposed to be. It's freaking September and, if he's being honest, he really hates Christmas. That might make him too biased to figure out if she's really messed up though.

She grimaces at the containers in her hand. She pulls her lip into her mouth and mumbles, "apple pie."

His grimace is too much and if she weren't so bummed with the aspect that her apple pie is most definitely ruined she might laugh. His accent is thick enough for her to comfortably assume he's from the south not to mention he's got a lot of that southern gentlemen charm.

"How much nutmeg did you use?"

Her face says it all.

He places both his fist on the sides of the chair and forces himself onto his feet. If Emily weren't standing in silent horror that he might fall over or pass out or a hundred other things she might lend a hand. Then again, they haven't established those boundaries and she can't flawlessly just know like Dave does.

"Let me see the damage," he grumbles but she can see that he's not actually mad; he's just wary of what she's done. He's strange in that way. For a man who has made a career around working with children, he's got a horrible resting face.

She lets him set the place, pointing him in the direction of the kitchen. It's only a few feet but they make it two-steps before she decides she can't do this silently watching thing. "Do you-" she offers him her forearm, the same way she'd seen Dave do the other afternoon.

He scowls at her arm but after a moment, he takes her hand. His skin is startlingly cold and his hand trembles until he settles his grip. It's surprisingly easy and she doesn't think much of it. At least he's not dead weight to lug around. She's had plenty of people hang onto her, she doesn't even mind this.

"I think I might have used too much nutmeg," she concludes before he can see the damage and rule her incompetant. It's a warning.

He glances at her out of the corner of his eye… too late for the incompetant thing, she decides. He already thinks she's a moron.

Rightfully so but still…

She'd known he was tall. It's not that hard to see but as she's standing beside him, his body pulled in and hunched over, he's still towering over quite a bit. He's a big man and he smells nice so he's got a lot going for him. Too bad about the heart thing because he's kinda cute.

"That's all…" she moves him to the kitchen table and brings the pie to him. She really doesn't want him falling in her kitchen. Dave likes her and she'd like to keep it that way. Besides, there would be so many awful and weird questions to answer if she had to take him to the hospital.

And now he's sitting in horror at this pie in front of him.

"That's all…" he repeats himself, shaking his head in disbelief. The pie is covered in a brown powder and he's slowly processing that it's all nutmeg.

She grimaces and nods.

He looks up at her, mouth open but disbelief making it impossible for him to say anything. He's seen a lot of weird things. Preschoolers are… they're a piece of work but this is testing every bit of training he has.

"It's bad, isn't it?"

He nods, "definitely."

Huffing in a way that he recognizes from dealing with one too many headstrong four-year-olds, she places her fist on her hips. She scowls down at the pie. It's cooked and it smells okay but if she's been too generous with the nutmeg there's no way that's going to taste good. After a moment she hums and turns around, pulling out two forks she comes right back to the table.

"Well," she says with a tilt of her head, "christmas apples can't be that bad, right?"

He takes the fork being offered to him with no interest whatsoever in eating this pie but it's kind of funny and he's having a good time. Together they break the baked dough and get a bite- sized piece. He's fairly adamant but somehow it's got nothing to do with his tricky stomach or the fact that he hasn't been able to keep down much besides water and saltine crackers. It's going to taste like shit and it's exciting.

Emily chokes on her bite coughing and grimacing as she rushes to spit it out. To his credit, Hotch swallows his bite. "That was honestly the worst apple pie I've ever tasted," he tells her, honestly.

She laughs and that feels so good. She hasn't laughed in a long time.

He shrugs, "I'm not gonna lie to you."

She tosses her fork on the table and shakes her head at the pie. So much for that.

"How exactly-" he bites down on the wave of pain that rocks through his body as he forces his legs underneath him. He stands, trembling and waving slightly with the effort it takes. "Why were you making apple pie so early in the day?"

Emily is still frowning at the pie so she doesn't even look up at him. "Bored," she mumbles. She's upset about her pie. Damn… this whole nutmeg vs cinnamon thing is stupid. They look exactly the same so they should taste the same, right?

"Maybe you should try something else," Hotch says, one hand still keeping his balance on the table. "Baking just doesn't…"

Emily frowns at him, "I like baking, though!"

Hotch looks away, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow. "Baking doesn't like you," he mumbles.

She smacks his shoulder and he chuckles- this isn't the first failed attempt of her's he's tried. There was the cookies from Monday (that were burnt on the bottom and raw on top) and the banana bread he'd only seen but- they could have killed a lesser man let alone him and his broken heart.

"Maybe I can try cooking," she proposes.

He shakes his head, "are you gonna make me eat that too?"

She clicks her tongue, faking offense. "What, are you afraid?"

He smiles and it takes her breath away. He's got high, sharp cheekbones and when he's not carrying so much tension in his shoulders it's so much easier to appreciate just how soft his dark hair looks. Her neighbor is hot. She's not sure if he knows that though.

"A little," he admits playfully, "but maybe you'll be better at cooking than you are baking."

She crosses her arms and scowls down at her pie. "I don't think it's going to take a lot to be better at cooking than baking."

He makes a soft sound, "you said it, not me."

She shakes her head at him but there he is smiling again. She can't even be mad. "Maybe I'll make dinner," she proposes, tucking her hands under her armpits as she thinks. "Are you interested?"

Honestly, no but he doesn't want to pass up on hanging out with her. So he nods.

"Six o'clock should be enough time to cook something, right?"

Jesus, she's going to kill him.

"Why don't I come over and help?"

Oh, she hadn't thought of that. She nods, "okay. You wanna come over at three, then?"

It's dangerous, without a shred of doubt there, but his heart does this little flutter. "Uh," he has to clear his throat. "Yeah, sounds like a plan."

Except three rolls around he's a no show. Three turns into three-thirty and she's not trying to be a buzzkill but the recipe calls for caramelized onions and she has no idea what that means but she hopes it doesn't mean what she thinks it does. Carmel on onions? Sounds disgusting.

"Knock, knock?" She's already barged into his house once today so it really shouldn't be that big of a deal but something doesn't feel right. She can't shake it and she certainly can't just… leave. "Hotch?" God, she hopes he's just in the bathroom.

He isn't.

"You okay?" she falls to her knees beside him. She'd never been this far into his house. Mostly, she'd never passed the living room but now she's kneeling in his hallway and can see his bedroom from here. As much as she'd like to evaluate that- because the space is strangely neat and God, who knew the bare minimum of a clean room was such a perfect green flag-

Right-

He shakes his head.

Oh.

"Should…" she knows he hates the hospital, who doesn't? But… he's gasping for breath on the floor, his pale hand clutching at his chest. The sight is very overwhelming and hurting her deeply because it's bringing feelings back that she thought were getting better. "Do I need to call-"

To the school and to the blood pooling between their bodies.

He nods. He's terrified but just seeing Emily brings some strange comfort. Her and her awful cooking might just get him through this. He won't die on this floor. Not on this ugly ass rug Dave made him put down.

The ambulance comes, bounding the sirens shrill sound up and down the block. Making a spectacle out of an awful experience.

He winces when the IV goes in and she just stands, bouncing from foot-to-foot awkwardly watching. It's not until he's on the gurney, fighting the drugs rushing through his system. "You can come," he rasps but no one can hear him clearly from behind the masks. Reaching up to pull it away, several hands swat his hand away and he makes a grunted, annoyed sound at hte back fo his throat.

An EMT leans over and calms him back down before Hotch starts trying to fight his way back up into danger. "Easy, buddy." The EMT pushes on Hotch's shoulders and it's not a lot of force but Hotch isn't strong enough to fight it. "The pretty lady can come, okay? Just settle down."

She stays with him and tells herself it's because she doesn't want him hurting himself but she really doesn't want to leave his side until she knows he's going to be okay. There's no hand holding because they're still at the point where they smack shoulders and stand feet apart but they've only known one another for a week and- Emily can't fathom what she's supposed to do if he dies in the back of this shitty ambulance.

"Can you-" the EMTs give him something that nearly knocks him out on the spot but his breathing gets better and he stops gasping and wheezing. He just lays supine on the gurney. Limp. "Dave?" He can't keep his eyes open but he hears Emily make what he thinks are words of confirmation but his sentence didn't exactly make sense so maybe she didn't understand him.

He's pulled under by the warmth spreading through his limbs before he can repeat himself or worry with it.

"You can't go back there, baby."

Emily blinks and there's an older woman stopping Emily's zombie-like march beside the gurney as they rush Hotch off to the side. She can't tear her eyes off of him. Watching numbly as they cut his shirt down the middle and start to attach to electrodes to his alarmingly pale chest.

Her hands are trembling as she pulls her phone out of her pocket. "Dave?" she's breathless with the anxiety swelling in her own chest. "I'm so sorry-" and she's crying. Why? He's not her friend? He's her neighbor who she's known for a whole freaking week and yet- And she can't deal with Dave being mad either. But he isn't.

The minute he steps into the hospital, he comes right up to and pulls her into a hug. She sobs into his arms and he lets her because he's seen Aaron this bad before. He knows it's unnerving.

"Do you have any news?" Dave asks her and she shakes her head. He squeezes her arm and smiles at her tear-stained face. "I'll be right back, okay? They know my face, I might be able to wrangle some news out of one of the nurses."

She nods her head and watches dejectedly as he walks away.

Aaron had told her that Rossi had slept with many nurses while he was in the hospital. She's thinking about the way he'd smiled when he told her that when she falls into the waiting rooms stiff chairs.