"The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain." -Lord Byron

Recovery is, by no means, linear.

His body is healing. It's a slow progression of drainage tubes, surgical staples, and gauze. Every hour of the night, a nurse comes to check in on him. There is pain management and physical therapy. Some guy in jeans and a dress shirt, dressed more like a teacher than someone from the psych department (he would know), comes to ask some roundabout questions.

It's not that hard to lie, he knows exactly what needs to be said to get out of here.

So while his body carries on, he's fighting to keep wanting to heal.

He's not sleeping enough and off the morphine and sedatives, he's dealing with the aggravation of a tremble in his left hand. The physical therapist is more worried about his chest, getting back to physical health, and establishing routines that will keep his heart healthy. He's preoccupied with the fact that he can't even raise his arm to his mouth or hold a cup of water without spilling it.

It's going to make a wicked scar though. One of many that's he's acquired in such a short amount of time. There's the scar from the central line which pales considerably to the three bullet wounds on his chest. Now, he's got a ghastly cut that runs diagonally with his ribs. Not that he can see it, he's still not currently able to raise his arms much more than to bend his elbows.

The hospital's "cure-all" is routine.

Everything has a routine. Food. Walks. Visits. Therapy. Nurse rotations. All of which would be nice, if he had any semblance of control. That's what this surgery was about, no? Getting back to a point where he wouldn't need constant aide and, yet, he struggles to sit up by himself.

It's mentally draining.

"Physical therapy," Dave says with a smirk. He's pointing to the board the nurses keep updated with what he's doing every day. It bothered him that they come in every morning to rewrite it. It's the same routine every day. "Oh, I bet they love you down there." They do not, in fact, love him down there or here. He's an impatient bastard who wants to go back to work and is so very tired of being touched constantly by so many strangers.

He's an impatient bastard… who is just so very tired.

He chooses not to comment, keeping his gaze down to stare at the floor. To be honest, he needs to go home. His mental health is slipping like water in his desperately cupped hands. He's moody and stiff and… he just wants to go home (and if he dares to say a word about the fact that he keeps thinking about how he should have never let them convince him to take the adrenaline, to accept treatment they'd keep him here even longer. He'd become a whole new kind of threat).

Dave notices the not to casual drop of conversation on Aaron's part. His eyes just cast aside and shoulder slumped. "Alright," Dave caves. "Let's go." That's plenty of torture for one day and he's not done yet. "How about you I go on a walk?"

Aaron frowns, looking over at Dave with a strange, tense feeling of embarrassment. As if he's said something he isn't supposed to. "Why?"

He's been withdrawn. Everyone's noticed. It's not that Dave thinks Aaron should be more grateful. The boy just got a heart transplant and that's fantastic but that doesn't erase everything else that's happened. The hospital visits. Stress. And now, at the top of it all, his visitor's list has essentially dwindled down to just him- just Dave.

"You're just looking a little down," Dave says, bending down to retrieve one of his three duffel bags.

Watching Dave unfold a flannel Hotch can't help but groan. "I don't want to go to the garden, Dave." It's not until after the words leave his mouth that he realizes how pathetic and whiny it sounds.

Dave just shoots him a simple glance out of the corner of his eyes but doesn't comment on his tone. "We're not going to the garden," Dave informs him. He brings the flannel to Hotch, offering him it with a nod. He refrains from smiling when Hotch sighs but puts on the flannel. "I'm taking you to see Jack."

Hotch's head jerks up, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Oh," he says, so happy that he doesn't even put up a protest when Dave starts to pull the flannel secure around his shoulders. Smoothing out the worn fabric. "Is he-" he swallows thickly around this strange tightness in his throat. It makes no sense to be unnerved at the thought of seeing his son.

"He's thrilled," Dave says. "Penelope told him about our little plan yesterday and the poor kid barely slept at all last night he was so excited." That gets Dave the softest little laugh. "I don't think he's gonna last very long," Dave mumbles. Jack had really been squirming about when he's left them just a moment ago. Anxious and annoyed with the adults for taking so long, Jack was acting up just a little. "He'll probably crawl right into your lap and be out like a light."

Hotch smiles at the thought but he knows what he really wants more than anything- to just hold his son close to his chest. To feel his tiny little ribcage press into his own. The soft, trusting way Jack presses his face into his neck and links his arms behind Hotch's head.

"Ready?"

Hotch nods.

Walking is getting easier. The strain that pulls along his ribcage is still there. The muscles are healing very slowly but at least he can hold himself upright now. His shoulders pulled back and there's some life to his gate. No longer looking like a broken marionette held up by his strings.

"Look, Jack!"

He's still making his steady but slow progression down the hall when Penelope spots them. Hotch mirrors the excited look on his son's face. Stopping and leaning against the wall as Jack is placed on his feet.

Reid snags the toddler by his waist, whispering their constant reminder that Jack has to be careful. With a nod that is so very grown-up and serious for someone of his little stature or age, Jack is released back onto the floor. Reid pushes his butt and sends him on.

"Daddy!" Jack comes flying at them as fast as he can. All along the way, his little shoes light up the dark hallway. Sketchers. Something Penelope or Reid bought him, no doubt. They spoil him.

Hotch can't crouch which really puts a damper on the reunion hug Jack is coming for. 6'2 vs. 3'0 is a big gap. "Hey, buddy." Hotch chuckles as Jack wraps his little arms around his legs, burying his face in Hotch's sweatpants. He can reach from here to run his hands through the boy's hair.

Dave crouches down and Jack turns and happily goes into his arms. "Let's let Daddy sit down, okay?" Dave offers. "Then you can sit with him."

Jack nods, eagerly.

They've taken three small steps when Jack starts to squirm in Dave's arms. He sets the boy down on his feet and smiles fondly when Jack goes right to Hotch's side grabs a fistful of his pants, and "helps".

Hotch smiles sadly down at his son. He wants to be better. Someone needs to be here for Jack. Needs to do all the things that he just keeps failing at. He's a bad father.

"Up we go-" Hotch blinks and he's in the chair, opening his arms to accept a very happy Jack into his arms. Jack curls straight into his chest. Tucking his little head up under Hotch's chin. Wrapping both his arms around them, Hotch sighs and shakes his head. Things are going to be okay.

They have to be.

She's supposed to be on desk duty for the next to foreseeable future. That's not her fault. There were nor ever have been any mistakes made by her to deserve this banishment. Aside from the fact that her partner is dead… and if management knew she spent 95% of her time thinking about the hot teacher she'd met that day they'd be even more worried.

But Derek Morgan isn't worried. He thinks she's doing okay. Great, really, considering. Mostly, though, he's okay with everything because he knows the teacher is keeping her together in ways that he couldn't. Does that make him a little jealous? Yeah, they've been friends for years. But she's smiling again.

"Are you sure you're up for this?"

The fallacy in moving her between the desk and the field is that she has field knowledge. Valuable knowledge that Derek doesn't have time to teach a rookie. Not when mistakes can be made.

Emily rolls her eyes, "I'm not broken, Derek. I remember what to do." The gun in her hand fits like a glove but as her fingers curl around the handle… it's not her glove anymore. It feels like she's not supposed to have it. Sure, she's had it. She's been carrying it around but having it out and needing to use it versus just having it as a second limb attacked to her belt is…

"I don't want to drag you into something you're not ready for," Morgan defends. Rightfully so. He's sticking his units neck out right now asking for her help. He needs her help, there's no mistake there, but he doesn't want her to get hurt. Not if he can help it.

He stops her, hand on her bicep and voice low- making a point so that no one else will hear. "There's no pressure," he whispers. "Just… you don't have to do this."

She swallows thickly as she considers what he means. There are things she can lose. Another lesson she's learned recently… brushes with death are not as fun as everyone foretells them to be. Death is on her mind constantly, especially after almost losing Aaron.

"I known," she decides. She has to do this. She has to prove to herself. Besides, this will all be fun in a few days. A cool story to tell Aaron.

It'll be fine.

Jack leaves after lunch.

He's cranky and cries when Reid picks him up out of Hotch's lap. There's nearly nothing Hotch wants more than to keep the little boy here. To hold him through his nap. Especially when Jack cries out for him, rubbing his eyes with his fists and burying his face in Reid's shirt.

"We'll come back later," Reid soothes the boy.

Hotch watches with intense jealousy.

"See ya' Hotch," Reid mumbles ducking away with the crying boy. Rubbing his hand up and down his back.

Hotch just… watches numbly.

Numbly as they leave.

Numbly as he sits alone.

"You tired," Dave asks after they've left. The room has settled. It's silent. That silence is heavy.

Hotch shakes his head but the answer is yes.

Dave already knows this. "We can-" Dave stops what he's saying to look down at his phone. He frowns, "ugh, give me a second." He steps to the side, and accepts the call. "Hello?"

Emily Prentiss is sitting three floors down from them right now. Her mission didn't go as smoothly as planned but it's nothing a few weeks of physical therapy and desk work won't fix. So, what she's been dealing with for months now. She's calling to informs Dave that she will, in fact, not be making it up to see Hotch this afternoon.

"We'll be down in a second."

Bad idea.

Sitting, three floors down, Derek Morgan is waiting to visit her too. He's got his hands on his head, elbows on his knees. He looks up when the door opens, expecting a doctor to sept in but instead, he finds the Mr. Teacher Man. Aaron.

Hotch's chest aches at the sight of Derek. He doesn't know much at all about the man. He's Emily's friend, an old friend whom she trusts. "Is that-" his knees feel weak. A familiar feeling of lightheadedness and tight pain in his chest nearly taking his off his feet. "Is that her blood?"

Morgan looks down at his arms. It is her blood. All of it. It's covering his arms up to his elbows. "It's not that bad," the man stutters. "There was so much blood-" his eyes widen as he realizes that was the wrong thing to say. The look on Aaron's face says it all. The fear struck the way that Morgan feels. "There was a lot of blood but she's fine now," he stammers. "Really. It just looks bad!" He's shaking, just a little. His cool is gone, his demeanor on the mend. "I promise," he manages. "I promise, okay? Please just- she's okay."

Fuck, if he kills this guy- this guy that Emily is in love with- she'll kill him. She'll hate him.

"Have you-" Hotch is marginally aware of Dave's tight grip on his arm. Of the shake in his knees. "Have you seen her?"

Morgan shakes his head. "No," he answers. "She's okay though, really man. Just needs a few stitches." A graze more than anything. The problem had been when she passed out. He'd had her in his arms, reminding her to stay with him. To keep fighting. There had just been so much blood.

It takes an hour for anyone to come to get them.

There's no debating, just a silent step back as they enter the room. All three of them want to see her. To really make sure she's okay. Dave steps closer, wrapping his body around Hotch's thinner one. Keeping him upright until he can be eased into the visitor's chair. Morgan watches from a few feet behind. Eyes trained on Emily.

"I'm okay," Hotch grunts. "I'm okay."

Morgan clears his throat, "I'm going to get some coffee." He throws a thumb in the direction of the door, "you guys want anything?"

Dave runs his hand across Hotch's back, shaking his head his stubborn ass kid. "Yeah," Dave sighs. "I'll come with you. I need a cup of something but I could use something stronger than this hospital's shitty coffee."

Morgan agrees.

Hotch waits for them to leave before taking her hand. Emily never stops talking and she's always moving. It's scary to see her like this. So still. He takes her hand. Rough calluses circle her much smaller hand. He squeezes her fingers, rubbing his thumb along her thin knuckles.

She makes a soft, inhaling sound as she wakes up. Immediately groaning when the lights and the pain hit her.

"Hey," he greets.

She clears her throat, feeling the heavy effects of the drugs in her system. "Hey, yourself." It makes her stomach do a strange little flip with the way he's holding her hand. "Were you worried about me, Hotchner," she asks. She smiles at him, toothy and happy despite the blood on Morgan's clothes and the IV's in snaking into her body.

"Just a little," he admits, shaking his head. He looks down, away from her. Embarrassed at just how terrified he really was at the thought of losing her. Even when Derek swore she was, by most standards, okay. "I just…" he realizes there's an almost confession trying to worm it's way off his lips. He clears it away with a rough cough. Pulling in a shaky breath he amends, "I just got this heart, Emily."

She looks over at him and feels deep shame in the effect her actions have caused.

"I'm just… it's a new heart, you know? I can't have you going around trying to stop it."

She's not sure if that makes her want to cry or to hug him. Voice thick and eyes swelling with emotion she nods, "I'll try not to go doing that anymore. We wouldn't want to ruin your new heart."

He smirks and nods his head. The day is catching up with him, though, and he catches himself yawning.

Emily squeezes his hand, "you're tired." She narrows her gaze, the tone turned serious. "You should go get some sleep."

He shakes his head, "I'm not. Really, I'm fine." Besides it's the middle of the afternoon. No time for a nap.

"You are," she says. "Go," she nods. "Get some rests. You're still healing. You can't heal sitting here next to me."

Hotch nods his head but stays, ultimately. His face is a light blush as he admits, "I just… It can be scary, staying here by yourself. I don't want to leave you alone."

Fuck. If he isn't the sweetest man. God, why can't he be a dick? Why does he have to be so easy going and caring? "Aaron," she chokes on his name. Her chest is tight as she bites her lip to keep from crying.

He squeezes her hand, "until you fall asleep? Okay? And then I'll go. I promise."

She wants to say no. She wants to remind him that sitting here isn't good for his body and that he really, really needs to think about his recovery but… He's pleading and worried and having him here is relaxing. She likes the way he's holding her hand. And she doesn't want to be alone. So if he wants to stay then she can't ask him to leave. Not when she wants him here too. "Okay," she caves. "Until I fall asleep and no later."

It makes him smile and that makes it 100% it all alone. "Okay," he agrees. "Yes, ma'am."