Author's Note: Starting with Monday night of the same week.

Monday Night

Fez Hats and Firing Pins

Emily's eyes popped open.

'Well, that SUCKED!'

For a moment after she awoke, Emily lay there, staring across the room and into the shadows by the dresser. She was thinking about her dream. And then she got annoyed thinking about her dream . . . it just wasn't right(!) . . . and rolled her eyes in disgust. Then she turned to look over her shoulder.

She just wanted to make sure that Hotch was still sleeping.

Yep.

So she carefully lifted his arm from where it was wrapped around her waist, inched forward, and slid off the bed. After that she turned back to fix the blankets back around her man's shoulders, her lips twitching slightly when she saw that his hair was mussed up in front.

That was a rebellion he'd never tolerate when he was conscious.

And although she had the urge to wet her fingers and push it down . . . it always looked wrong for him to be disheveled . . . she resisted, afraid that she might wake him. Instead she just blew him a kiss, before walking over to pick up her new silk robe from the bench at the end of the bed. She slipped it on over her short flannel nightgown, which Hotch had slipped onto her after they'd made love earlier in the night.

Once she was all wrapped up nice and warm, she turned and padded quietly out of the room. It didn't matter that it was the middle of the night.

She had stuff to do.

/*/*/*/

Hotch woke up with a start.

At first he wasn't quite sure why he was awake, but then he noticed that the bed was much too big. And he blinked and yawned as he felt blindly over to where Emily should have been lying next to him.

But that side of the bed was cool.

Hmm . . . his brow furrowed slightly . . . where had she gone?

And now afraid that she might be feeling sick . . . she'd been fine when they went to bed, but that meant nothing . . . he rolled over and stumbled out of bed.

It was immediately apparent that she wasn't in the bathroom . . . the door was open and it was dark . . . so he after he checked the time (a little after two) he flipped on the lights so he wouldn't trip.

Then he headed downstairs.

A moment later he found himself at the bottom of the staircase, staring over in bleary eyed bewilderment, at the love of his life.

'What the hell was she DOING!?'

"Emily," he croaked out, "what the hell are you DOING?!"

It was the middle of the night, and she was sitting at the breakfast bar . . . the majority of which had been covered over with a familiar, neatly folded white cloth . . . using a small brush to clean the firing pin of her Sig 228.

The rest of the gun parts were neatly spread out in front of her.

Emily tipped her head back to look up at Hotch.

Though he should have still been sleeping, it wasn't really a surprise to see him up. It didn't matter that it was the dead of night. No matter where she went these days, he was never more than a few steps behind her.

It was a comfort.

And in answer to his question, she huffed out a breath.

"I'm cleaning my gun. I had that dream where it jammed, then I ended up having to break the UNSUB's nose with my elbow, and when I was putting on the cuffs, I realized I'd cracked a nail," she looked down woefully at her pretty French manicure. Probably her last of the season.

"It really sucked."

Hotch stared sleepily down at Emily.

Now her middle of the night OCD made total sense. Because he knew that most people in law enforcement had the 'jammed gun' dream/nightmare on occasion. And he had also, on those occasions when it had happened to him, then gone immediately off to disassemble his weapon and check the parts. It might have been a ridiculously superstitious act, but it was a superstition that could not be denied.

Your life could literally, depend on it.

And with that thought in mind, as he saw Emily go back to cleaning her firing pin, he crossed over to the downstairs safe where they locked up their service pistols.

The upstairs one was usually just for their personal weapons now.

And after he'd punched in the code for the box in front of him, he pulled out his nine millimeter. A weapon which was, for all intents, virtually identical to Emily's.

He shut the cabinet, and then walked over to place the gun down on the corner of her folded white cloth.

"Here," he pulled his arm back with a yawn, "I like a little extra oil on the slide."

Emily smirked.

"Would you like extra starch as well, sir?"

His lips curved in a sleepy smile.

"Surprise me."

Then he bit back another yawn while leaning down to give her a kiss.

"I'm going to go lie down on the couch," he murmured as he pulled away, "wake me when you're done, and we'll go back up to bed."

And with that, Emily watched Hotch turn and head into the living room in his white t-shirt and black and white pin-striped boxers.

After tripping over the ottoman by the end chair, he stumbled the last few feet to the sofa. That's where he collapsed face first down onto the cushion. She pushed herself up slightly to look down at him.

And . . . her lips twitched . . . already asleep.

'That's my guy,' she thought with no small amount of amusement. And with the little smile persisting, Emily shifted her attention back to the firing pin in her hand. But that's when she started thinking about what he'd just done.

Given her his gun.

As a matter of principle, most agents . . . or really anyone who carried a gun professionally . . . wouldn't allow another person to even handle, let aloneclean, his or her weapon. Of course with them living together, Emily knew that principle didn't really apply to her and Hotch. Because she'd handled his gun many times in the past year. But mostly that was just when they were tucking them into the safe at the end of the day. She'd only fired it once at the range . . . he was testing a new weight of ammunition and had wanted her opinion on it . . . but she'd never cleaned it before.

It had never occurred to her that a situation would arise where he'd let her.

But here he'd just handed it to her out of the blue. Which that meant that he really trusted her. Like really, REALLY, trusted her.

Really.

Just as she reached over to pick up the oil again, a light bulb suddenly popped in Emily's mind.

Aww . . . she bopped her head back and forth in delight . . . that meant that he really LOVED her! Of course she knew that, hell, the man freaking adored her(!), but it was always a special little kick when he demonstrated his affection in some new . . . her gaze shifted over to his half hidden form on the couch . . . incredibly sweet way. And only for people like them would an exchange of firearms be a declaratively romantic statement.

But it was.

And with that new bit of warmth settling in her soul, Emily refocused on the task at hand . . . finishing cleaning her weapon so she could move on to his. Fortunately she'd been about half done with her pistol when he'd stumbled down the stairs. So she was sliding both Sigs back into the safe less than an hour later. And after that she went into the downstairs bathroom to wash her hands.

While she was in there washing up, Emily also reluctantly took half of one of her new pain pills. There was a little tickle starting over her temple that she'd learned . . . the hard way . . . that if ignored, would only lead to bad things. Like waking up, sobbing in agony.

Stuff like that.

And with all of the other crap side effects she was dealing with now, not only from the tumor, but also the damn treatment, she was trying to be better about taking the heavy duty pain pills.

If not for herself, than at least for Hotch.

That was her mantra every time she hesitated about picking up the bottle. Do it for Hotch. Because she'd immediately think back to the night that he'd gotten so angry with her for trying to suck it up, and pretend like she wasn't in agony. Her being in pain hurt him, just as she would suffer if, God forbid, their positions were reversed.

Which meant that avoiding the narcotics was simply punishing them both for no good reason.

And although she took the half pill without hesitation, she was then suddenly afraid of it upsetting her stomach. That was another delicate balancing act. Trying to keep down her cookies.

Metaphorically speaking.

So when she came out of the bathroom, rather than going down to wake up Hotch, Emily went into the kitchen to make herself a little snack. She settled on a few grapes and some hard cheddar.

Just enough food to coat her stomach.

And as she wandered around the kitchen, popping grapes into her mouth and listening to the love of her life lightly snoring ten feet away . . . his nose was half smushed into the couch cushion . . . Emily's eyes suddenly caught on said 'love of her life's' recent gift from his son. Her eyes crinkled.

It was a tie.

But not just any tie, the best tie any little boy had ever picked out as a present for his father. It was a wide red polyester with 'dancing mama and baby,' panda bears on it. Both the mamas and the babies were wearing little fez hats and carrying little canes in their paws.

Again . . . Emily's lips twitched as she stared at it dangling off the back of the couch . . . the best tie ever.

Jack had picked it out at the zoo gift shop as his thank you for their trip yesterday morning. Of course she had actually paid for it . . . that was while Hotch was getting the car . . . but it was worth every damn penny just to see how happy it had made Jack to find, the "bestest present ever" for his daddy. It had come down to the tie, or a plain black and white panda bear mug.

And she had to admit, for Hotch's fashion sake, initially she'd been pulling for the mug. But it was a well-established fact, a fact oft repeated by Hotch, that when it came to the littlest Hotchner, she had ZERO self-control.

And that was true. She could deny Jack nothing.

Or at least nothing to date.

But he'd just been SO excited to buy that hideously tacky tie for his daddy, that she'd let her "how about we get him the coffee mug, sweetie?" die on her tongue. It would have taken the joy out of his little face. Besides that though, if they'd bought the mug . . . at her suggestion . . . then the present really wouldn't have been from Jack.

It would have been from her.

So even though she knew that it was God awful, she'd had it wrapped up with a bow before Hotch had texted to say that he was double parked out by the front gate.

Jack had made him open the present in the car when they'd stopped in front of Haley's house. And God bless him, but somehow Hotch had managed to keep his smile even as he'd shook that tacky little swath of polyester out in front of him.

"I love it buddy. It's the best present I ever got."

That's what he'd said . . . and that's when she'd started to fall in love with him all over again. So after they'd sent Jack scooting up the front walk, and they'd come home for her to take nap . . . walking around the zoo for three hours had completely worn her out . . . Emily had woken up to immediately go dig into her lingerie drawer.

Her plan was to give Hotch a SECOND present, in honor of him being the best daddy ever. And she had . . . it was a sexy red halter top nightie.

She'd slipped it on after her post-dinner bubble bath.

And Hotch had been VERY pleased with his gift. So pleased in fact that she'd ended up setting a personal best for orgasms in one two hour period. Seven.

Hotch was a great gift giver too.

Her lip quirked up as she popped the last bite of cheddar into her mouth.

They really were the perfect couple.

And after she'd chewed and swallowed the cheese . . . and gotten one more sip of water, not too much or she'd be up in an hour to go pee . . . she headed back to the living room.

That's where she stooped down and brushed her fingers through Hotch's hair.

"Aaron," she pressed her lips to his ear, "come on, sweetie, you have to wake up for a minute. Time to go back upstairs."

It took a second . . . and a bit of rubbing of his back . . . but then Hotch mumbled something unintelligible into the cushion, right before he turned his head. His face was once again visible.

Though his face did have some crease marks on it.

"Bed?" He mumbled back, his eyes half closed. And she nodded and patted his butt, "yep," she leaned in to kiss his cheek, "bed."

He murmured a "'k," and rolled over, dropping his feet to the area rug.

For a second he sat there, his eyes bleary and unfocused and Emily started to think that maybe she should have just let him keep sleeping on the couch. It was obvious that he was exhausted. But then he blinked and looked up at her as his lips suddenly curved into a sleepy smile.

"I was dreaming about us. Me, you, and Jack. We were dancing bears."

She started to laugh.

"Come on, Yogi," she chuckled and hauled him to his feet.

"You can tell me all about it on the way upstairs."

A/N 2: I am off work for three more days, and I've been trying to shake of this sinus thing I've had for the last four days, so, my goal is to simply sleep, and write, because I really do need to rest and I don't feel like going anywhere. Aiming for at least four more postings of 'something' by the end of the weekend.