"Daddy?"
Hotch looked up from his book to find his son standing in front of him, clutching his Scooby Doo. There was a very serious look on his face, and he shuffled his feet against the carpet.
"What's up, buddy?"
"Can I have some medicine?"
Hotch immediately frowned - he hadn't know that Jack was feeling unwell. "Do you feel sick?
Jack shook his head. "It still hurts."
"What does?"
The little boy's voice trembled slightly. "Mommy."
The book forgotten on the couch beside him, Hotch opened up his arms, holding his son tightly. For a long time, they just sat there, clinging to one another in the silence.
"I wish there was a medicine for that, Jack," he finally said, his voice soft. "But I think it might always hurt. Not as much as it does now. But just a little."
Jack's hands played with his tie. "Do you still hurt?"
Hotch nodded, swallowing thickly. "Yeah," he replied, his voice hoarse. "But I think the only way to make it feel better is to laugh, and live, and remember the good times with Mommy." He cleared his throat. "Think we can do that?"
Jack nodded, resting his head against his father's chest. "Love you, Daddy."
"I love you, too, Jack," he said, kissing the top of his head. "I love you, too."