"Light is easy to love. Show me your darkness." -R. Queen

He finds it very difficult deciding whether or not he enjoys how frequently she comes around after that. While dealing with might be a crush- or maybe he's desperate for human contact or even just this last-ditch effort to feel loved before the nothingness he's afraid he's going to face in his painful death… He just knows it's easier to breathe when she's around.

Well, most of the time.

"Jesus!" If he weren't so busy hacking his lungs out, his sore throat scraped raw and painfully protesting each inhale he pulls in he might find her shock amusing. "That was in you!" She shouts, grimacing at the intubation tube being cast aside while the doctor presses a stethoscope to his chest.

Against medical advice, he'd asked for the vent and everything to be sent away. If he's going to die, he'd at least like to be able to talk. Even if he has to manage it between gasped breaths. Per Dave's request, Emily had taken her lunch break to be at the hospital during the removal. Her job was supposed to be to talk some last-minute sense into Hotch but she'd sided with him.

She wouldn't want that thing in her throat either!

Between mangled coughs, he manages to gasp out her name. "Emily," he rasps, waving her and the cup of water she's supposed to be giving him closer.

She snaps out of her shock, "right, right sorry." She holds the cup for him to drink out of. Holding it steady when his hands shake and threaten to spill the water. But she compensates him- Dave had also noticed how well they work together. He'd seen that little speechless communication thing they do. A version of finishing one another sentences that always leaves him smiling smugly, about what, he'll never tell them.

The thing is: she's there for it all.

The good:

He's not sure he can do it but he also doesn't want to let her down. Not when she's so certain he can do it.

Arms shaking with the strain and oxygen mask quickly fogging and clearing with each wheezing breath he takes, he looks at everyone in his room. Dave's dark brows are furrowed, the lines of his face drawn in worry. Reid and Penelope are standing by the door, Jack watching him sleepily from where he's placed his head on Reid's shoulder. Emily, though, she's beaming.

She thinks he can do it. She always thinks he can do it.

"Alright," Dave protests, grimacing as Hotch pushes off the bed and stands. Emily is right beside him, her hand wrapping around Hotch's bicep. He's looking her the whole way up and when he shuts his eyes as the pain becomes unbearable her hand moves to his back. It's her voice softly reminding him he can do it. Her voice soothing him.

"You're good," she whispers, pushing the walker closer. "You're doing so good."

The male nurse in front of them keeps the walker level with his hips but Hotch is deaf to whatever the man's saying.

He just hears Emily.

"You're doing it," Emily exclaims happily. "You're doing it!"

Each step is harder than the last but he's reminded that it's only seven steps. Seven steps to make Emily happy. Seven steps to keep living to see his son go to Kindergarten. Seven steps. He can manage seven steps.

He makes it to the chair across the room- a recliner that Dave had brought in earlier in the week when they'd set the goal for him. Four days ago, he'd struggled to sit up. He'd called them crazy but smiled all the same when Emily laid out the plan. And sure enough, it's her hand that he holds as he takes that seat. Her hand squeezing his in a way that only she can 'I told you so'.

"You did it, daddy!" Jack shouts.

And Hotch chuckles, his smile growing when Dave reaches down and rustles his hair. And if he stops breathing for a second when Emily plants a kiss on his temple, no one says anything.

And the bad:

He can't even find the energy to pretend to be okay.

Half-lidded eyes greet her at the door and she knows. Smiling, she comes to the rest of the way into the room and sits down in the visitor's chair. "So," she asks, pretending like she can't hear each breath he struggles to pull in. She tucks her legs underneath her body and takes his hand. "How apposed are you to the idea of busting out of this place and getting blindly drunk?"

His eyes slide shut for a moment but she knows he's heard her because he gives her hand a light squeeze.

Her faith wavers a little. Resorting back to one-squeeze as yes and two as no feels… it feels like everything they've done to get him back on his feet has been in vain. And, sure, she knows that it is in vain unless he gets a new heart but when he's too weak to even talk to her… There are still days when she walks out on her porch and expects to see him sitting on his own.

"Is there anything I can do," she asks, running her thumb over his bony knuckles.

This time only his thumb moves, the lightest, weakest touch. Yes. He peels his heavy eyes open and offers her a soft, little smile. After a moment, struggling to pull in enough air to speak he whispers, "you're here. That helps."

She smiles, unable to look at him while she blinks tears from her eyes. There's nothing more she can do than offer up her own heart. Which, seeing him this miserable makes her want to do. She wants to give her heart away just to see him smile or laugh again. To take away the deep lines of pain in the corners of his eyes or the crackle his lungs expel each time he exhales.

"I'll stick around as long as you let me," she whispers, aware that he's more than likely fallen asleep in the time that it's taken her to respond but he knows. She hopes he knows.

At the same time, the days are not always so easy to measure. Not so clearly defined as good or bad. Some days are just… fine. He can sit up in the bed and breathe without the mask, just the oxygen canal. Sometimes he makes it to the recliner in the corner and other days he just sits on the edge of the bed.

What they do know is that without her, he'd be dead. Without her, he wouldn't have gotten stronger. He'd been cleared, once again, for surgery earlier in the week. He qualified for a heart transplant.

Today, he sits on the edge. His legs are thrown over the edge and dressed in black sweatpants.

"If you don't sit still-" she swats at his hand and he grunts a little in shock but stops moving. "Sit still otherwise I'm going to leave you with half a beard. Then you'll really look like an idiot." She leans back in, unaware of just how close the two of them are.

Shaving is a science and it's easiest if she does it for him. It had been weird when Dave and Reid had to do it for him. Penelope was okay but he doesn't mind sharing his personal space with Emily. And she doesn't seem to mind either. It helps that they've got this down.

She's had to sit on the bed beside him, lean over the rail, and stand between his legs, like now.

"Are you saying that I normally look like an idiot," he grumbles, cheeks squishing in when she grabs the bottom of his jaw and tilts his head.

She raises her eyebrows and smiles when he puffs and pouts. "Stop," she says, with a smile. "You keep moving your face and I'm gonna end up cutting you." She really doesn't want that. "Besides, I got the nurse and we're going to take a walk in the garden in a minute."

He tries not to look so sad about the idea but…

"We're taking the wheelchair," she adds softly, unable to look him in the eyes as she pushes shaving cream from around his lips with her thumb. She wonders what it would feel like to press her lips to his. To have one of his large hands wrapped up in her hair and the other on the small of her back, pinning them together until he's had enough.

It's thoughts like these that drive her crazy. Are these feelings twisting in her stomach her own twisted want to fix him or is it-

"It's chilly outside," she informs him with a tight cough, clearing her throat and her head of her previous thoughts. "You'll need a jacket or something."

His reply waits for her to clean the razor off. It's ample time to sit and think about what he just saw- the heat in his own stomach as when her touch had lingered against his lips. He watches her in silence as she packs up the razor and the shaving cream. He sees how unable or, maybe, unwilling she is to look at him while she does this.

"What about you," he asks, cheeks flushing at the sound of his rasping voice. He clears his throat, "I mean, you don't have a coat."

She stops, right, she hadn't thought that far ahead. So she doesn't answer. She excuses herself to the bathroom in his room, putting razor and the shaving cream back up and allowing him a second to wipe his face back off. Looking at herself in the mirror she shakes her head. "What are doing," she asks herself. "Idiot."

When she comes back out, Hotch is standing on the other half of the room. Something he's definitely not supposed to do. His aggravating lack of regard for rules is- insanely hot and incredibly nerve-wracking.

"Here," he says, offering her the Georgetown sweatshirt she knows is his favorite. Not only has Dave told her several times now but he wears it all the time. "I've got another," he adds when he mistakes her hesitation for not wanting to inconvenience him. He shows her another a sweater, this one a soft grey she's never seen before.

So, she takes the Georgetown sweatshirt and her chest feels tight when she pokes her head through it. The way that he smirks at her makes her heart skip several unhealthy beats. Her cheeks flush and she looks down at herself. The bottom ends at her thighs and the sleeves hang down past her fingers. "Fits perfect," she mumbles and she physically cannot look at him when he smiles even bigger at that.

"It does," he agrees.

She has got to get out of this room.

The garden isn't as lavish now that the Virginia heat has backed off. As the breeze blows past them she can't help but feel a deep comfort as leaves crunch under her boots. The familiarity of fall bringing back a swell of memories from her youth.

"My brother and I used to get into so much trouble for tracking leaves into the house," Hotch mumbles. She suspects the comment is for his own benefit. He's not even paying her any mind. His shoulders have sagged in and his eyes glued to the ground. Watching as the wheelchair's wheels break the leaves into a thousand little pieces.

She frowns, deciding to comment anyways. "I didn't know you had a brother," she says. A moment later realizing that could be a hundred reasons for that. All of which are none of her business.

Hotch hums, nodding. He leans back into the chair, hands limp in his lap as she pushes them to a bench. He leaves her comment alone for a long minute. Waiting until they're both settled on the bench and sitting with their shoulders pressed together.

He clears his throat. "His name is Sean," he tells her, glancing at her before looking back down at his lap. "My brother… He's in New York. He's going to be a chef." His sad smile is enough to break her heart and without hesitation she reaches over and takes his hand.

The lump in his throat is tight and now he's blinking back tears, shaking his head to compose himself. She squeezes his hand and he understands that he's got all the time in the world if he needs it. "We had a… difficult childhood." He glances at her out of the corner of his eyes. Almost afraid of what her reaction will be.

Her gaze is locked forward but she nods her head when he pauses to reassure him she's still listening. When she notices him looking she smiles at him and squeezes his hand. "Did you grow up in Virginia," she asks.

He nods his head, unable to trust his voice when she's looking at him like that. Swallowing around the lump in his throat he manages, "not far from here, actually." He forces a smile, "that's how I met Dave. He, uh, taught me high school psychology."

She smiles, surprised. "I thought Dave taught kids, like you."

He shake his head, "not always." Hotch had changed that. The day that Hotch caught Dave's attention was an awful one. The sun had been hidden behind clouds for days and only three days previous Hotch had found his father was dying. Something that stirred an awful mix of emotions in his stomach. How could he love a man like his father?

Beaten and sobbing, Dave had found Hotch where he'd locked himself in the boy's bathroom.

Dave didn't know much about Hotch then. He knew he sat in the third-row, first seat and he had a habit of falling asleep in class but he couldn't complain too much. Aaron always aced the tests. He also had a habit of falling around, getting bruised. Always had, the other teaches promised Dave when he expressed some worry.

The fact that Hotch had managed to stay in the their school system for thirteen years and never once had a teacher say something about his father beating him had rubbed Dave wrong. So, when Hotch graduated, Dave moved down to the elementary school. So, if there was another little boy like Aaron Hotchner came around he wounldn't go unnoticed like the first.

And, when Aaron graduated from college, there was a double effort.

"Have you always taught little kids, then?" She shivers as a breeze blows by and unconsciously leans closer to him.

He nods his head. He smiles just thinking about them. "Children are highly impressionable," he informs her. "They're pretty easy going... As long as you let them use you as a jungle gym." His smiles broadens as she chuckles at that. It's true. His kids had loved it when he threw them around.

He misses that.

"It must be hard being away from that," she says, "and poor Jack…"

He looks away. Jack.

He hadn't been able to see a lot of his son lately.

After spending all day being pampered by Reid and Penelope, Jack comes to the hospital pretty worn out. Which means that there isn't much talking shared between father and son. Not that it would really matter. Jack won't remember anything he has to say now.

"He acts a lot like you," she says, softly. "Smart and stoically silent."

He frowns, half of his lip humorlslly lifted.

She laughs and bumps her shoulder against him. "See," she says, "that was a joke! Jack is never silent. He never stops talking."

True. Jack really doesn't stop talking, not unless he's sleeping.

"He is pretty cute though," she says with a smile. "You have that in common." She bumps his shoulder again, her compliment making both their cheeks flush. Jesus, Emily! Why does she just- the dumbest things just come flying out of her mouth!

He clears his throat and points at their phones thrown on the seat of the wheelchair. "Your phone's, uh, ringing."

She scoops it up, showing him that it's Dave with a confused frown. "Hey, Dave."

His voice is rushed, like he's moving quickly. "Are you with Aaron right now?"

She hums an affirmative.

"There's a heart, Emily! It's coming right now."

She looks over at Hotch and he frowns back at her, confused. "Do- What-" she opens her mouth but nothing comes out.

"Tell him!"

She blink stupidly. She looks to Hotch, "it's Dave. He says- There's- You've got a heart."

The blood drains from hsi face. A panic immieditedly takes over and he shakes his head.

"Are you at the hospital then," Dave asks.

Emily nods and manages a strangled yes.

"I'll be there in a minute, okay?"

"Okay."

The call ends.

They're both shaking.

"He's sure," Hotch whispers, anxiously wringing his hands.

Emily nods. "We should go back in," she says.

He grabs her hand, she can feel how hard he's shaking. "Can we just-" he blinks. "Can we just stay here for another minute, please?"

It only takes two hours.

Two hours for them to come grab him and have him hooked up to all kinds of machines. He's out of his mind with the drugs they've already got him on. There are tubes and wires and there's hardly any Hotch at all.

"Alright," the doctor says to the lot of them. "We'lll see you in the few hours." He settles one of his hands on Hotch's shoulder, "isn't that right, Aaron."

Except Hotch hasn't let go of Dave's hand.

Sensing what the doctor's trying to do, Dave tries to ease himself away from Hotch. "Alright, son," he whispers, carding his hands through Hotch's hair. "We'll see you when you're out, okay." He pries his hand out of Hotch's, the broken look in his eyes killing Dave. "I'll be right out here, son. I promise."

Hotch grabs Dave's jacket and the proximity between them blocks him from teh other's view. When Hotch releases Dave, they're both crying.

Dave deflates, watching in silence as Hotch is wheeled away.

"What'd he say," Emily finds the courage to asks. She's got her arms wrapped tight around her body, trying and failing to hide how badly she's shaking.

Dave looks up at them with tears in his eyes and shakes his head. He steps away from them, headed in any direction but here. Here in this hall. He glances over his shoulder and answers her question. She knows just from way he looks that she no longer wants to know.

"He said he was sorry."