Sorry for having you wait so long for the chapter - my classes have started again and I barely have time to sleep... I hope I'll have at least one more chapter for you this week but I can't promise anything.

When they passed the stairs, Hotch heard another suspicious thump, thump, thump and sighed, wondering how long Jack had been eavesdropping for.

"Emily? I'll be right back, okay? Why don't you go to the kitchen and find something for us to eat?"

The realization hit him that he was talking to her the way he was talking to his five-year-old son. But how could he not? She had never looked so petite, so fragile. He was sure Emily had lost weight – at least five pounds, maybe more. She had to eat. Had to sleep. Had to be taken care of. Hotch sighed loudly when he entered his son's room, and of course that didn't go unnoticed.

"Dadee, are you sad?" Jack frowned worriedly and pouted his tiny lips. Hotch knelt down next to his son's bed, giving Jack what he hoped looked like a reassuring look. "Emily is very sad, so Daddy needs to be there for her tonight, okay?" The little boy nodded vigorously and Hotch couldn't help but smile at him before his facial expression changed again.

"Jack" He started with a half-paternal, half-apologetic voice. "Can we postpone your bedtime story?" The five-year-old frowned again. "What is pastpown?" Hotch chuckled. "Postpone means 'do something another time'"
"But I get my bedtime story?"
"Yes"
"Pwomise!"
"Scout's honor!"

The little boy's face brightened and Hotch suppressed another sigh. When did scout's honor stop being enough? When did life stop being so simple, so fair? To his son, something as simple as a promise still meant something, still made him feel safe. You had your daddy check the closet for you, and when he promised you there were no monsters hiding inside, you believed him. You slept through the night. And if you woke up in the darkness, suddenly not so sure whether monsters might have sneaked inside your closet while you've been sleeping, you could just scream "daddy" real loud and have him check again – or sneak into his bed - and you felt safe again. But how could he make Emily feel safe? His thoughts were being interrupted by his son's arms wrapping around him. "I love you, dadee." Hotch managed to get out an "I love you, too, Jack" without his voice breaking, but when his son lay back down, snuggled his favorite stuffed animal against his face, closed his eyes and confidently said "I know, dadee", Hotch could feel the tears welling up in his eyes and didn't know how to stop them from falling.

How could he give Emily that kind of confidence, that kind of trust? When Hotch walked down to the kitchen, he cleared his throat and waited for her to face the door before entering the kitchen so he wouldn't startle her. He tried to be casual but knew it was unnatural when he slowly - predictably – walked towards the kitchen counter Emily was leaning against.

"Found something?"
She shrugged and Hotch knew she hadn't even dared to open any of the cupboards.
"It's okay, Emily." He said gently and opened a drawer. "What about sandwiches?"

Immediate head-shaking. Alright. She had to be the one to decide. She had to be the one in charge. But how could she be in charge when she could barely look at him? Hotch sighed, then opened all the built-in kitchen cupboards.

"Pick whatever you want. I'll eat it with you, okay?"
She nodded shakily. "I'm s...sorry, Hotch. I..."
He made a dismissive gesture. "It's okay, Emily." He meant it.

Silence.

Emily bit her lip, then stood up on tiptoes and – hesitatingly – reached out for a family pack of mac&cheese, as if she were asking for his permission with her eyes. Or studying his reaction. Either way, he must have done the right thing because a few seconds later, Emily was rummaging though the cupboards gathering a pot and other kitchen utensils.

Hotch let her do as she liked and tried to persuade himself that it wasn't a bad sign that she completely avoided his gaze while cooking, tied to persuade himself that she was just focusing on her current task.

Of course he knew there was more to it. He could tell from the terrified look in her face when he reached for the salt without her consent. He could tell from the grateful look she gave him when he casually put the salt shaker back down without using it (because he knew that from her point of view, the content of this salt shaker was out of her control, out of her comfort zone). And eventually, he could tell from the fact that they were wordlessly sitting in his kitchen eating unsalted mac&cheese at ten twenty pm.

But right now, even having her know that he knew all that was dangerously close to the limit of what Emily could take. If he didn't want her to run out and hide in her apartment for the next couple of days (or even weeks!), he couldn't push her. So for the duration of their nocturnal meal, Hotch pretended not to notice the secret looks Emily gave him (alternating between suspicion, fear and shame), and Emily pretended not know that he knew.

Just because that had to be enough didn't mean that it was, though.