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Hotch scans the stream of people escaping the building, eyes peeled for his agents' familiar silhouettes. He ushers the survivors along, can even hear himself giving instructions, but his mind is elsewhere. Hotch generally prides himself on his sense of calm and focus, but ever since Morgan hollered for him in the bullpen three days ago, he’s been unable to compartmentalize. The sound of that psychopath’s fist connecting with Emily’s jaw still echoes in his ears. And now, with the explosion rocking the ground beneath their feet, he needs eyes on his people now.
His knees nearly give out when Prentiss stumbles into sight behind Rossi. Her face is littered with bruises and her shirt is stained with blood, but seeing her on her own two feet lifts a weight from his chest. She steps away from the exodus, turning to watch the flames climb higher. They all exhale when Reid and Morgan step into view, hacking up lungs, but leaning on one another as they always do.
Prentiss collides with Reid and they cling to each other. Hotch can see her jaw moving, undoubtedly whispering reassurances into the younger agent’s ear. Reid fists his hand in the back of her tattered shirt, and Hotch turns away out of respect.
The next few hours pass in a blur.
The Colorado state police step back in to take charge of cleanup. They all help organize the survivors, take official statements, contact next of kin, and ensure the injured get checked over by frenzied medics. He wishes he could triage Reid and Prentiss to the front of the pack, but he knows they’re both too stubborn. He won’t be able to convince either of them to sit down until everyone else has been seen to. It’s a mad dash to get them all taken to safety in the frigid mountainous night, and in the hustle of bodies Hotch loses track of his team.
He eventually finds Morgan and JJ flanking Reid, who sits on the back of an ambulance rig. Morgan is trying to wrap the younger agent in silver fabric.
“C’mon, Pretty Boy, settle down.”
“I don’t need a shock blanket, I’m not in shock!”
“Hotch, there you are,” JJ turns to greet him. “The first wave of survivors filled the local hospital’s ER. We’ve had to transfer twenty-two of them to Mercy General, about forty miles east. Morgan and I were just going to join Reid in the ambulance there, unless you want me to take the SUV?”
He shakes his head. “Rossi’s staying behind with Dan, he’ll need it. You two go with Reid to patient intake.”
Reid sits up straight. “I actually don’t have to go to patient intake, because I’m fine.”
Morgan balks. “I found you on the floor in there, kid, you—”
“Nothing happened, I didn’t—”
“Reid.” Hotch interrupts. “The sooner you get cleared, the sooner I can give you all a week off.”
That shuts them up.
Morgan manhandles Reid into the rig while the kid rattles off statistics about delayed shock in hostage victims. Hotch closes the doors behind them, then offers JJ a hand up into the cab. She cradles her stomach as she slides into the seat, and Hotch wonders, not for the first time, if it’d be unfair to ground her in DC for her own safety. He’s sure Prentiss would think it sexist, maybe call him old-fashioned, but it feels unwise to have a pregnant woman in the field when she’s this far along.
“Hey,” JJ squeezes his arm to stop him from turning away. “I didn’t see where Emily went, have you—?”
“I’ll find her. We’ll meet you at Mercy soon.” They share a look. Tears pool in JJ’s eyes. She rarely lets her emotions get the better of her while on the clock, but almost losing her friends is one thing she cannot seem to tolerate. “They’re both safe, JJ.”
She nods, and swallows hard to fight the tears. She’s never liked crying in front of people. Hotch tips his head down to make eye contact. “I’m trusting you with Reid, don’t let him argue with the doctors.”
JJ laughs, and the tension snaps like a rubber band. “I’m pregnant, not a superhero.”
“Well, that’s debatable,” he mutters before shutting the door. She smiles fondly through the window.
Hotch leaves behind the ambulance carrying half his band of misfits and sets off to find the others. He makes his way back towards the crumbled compound, its foundations in pieces. Uniformed personnel are still hosing down the last of the flames beyond some caution tape. He flashes his badge to an officer and ducks underneath.
He finds Prentiss standing at the base of the chapel, head tilted back to watch the remaining plumes of smoke crawl into the sky. He walks up beside her, making more noise than necessary to ensure she doesn’t spook. Not that she needs to be coddled—he knows how unflappable she is in the field, even after a disaster like this. But no one is invulnerable, and she’s had a hell of a few days.
“You escaped Rossi’s watchful eye, I see.”
“I had plenty of practice sneaking out as a teenager.”
“Oh, I remember.”
They stand side by side, and she does not look at him.
He waits.
“I thought we could save her,” she mumbles eventually.
“Prentiss, Jessica believed Cyrus was a prophet of God. There’s nothing you could’ve said that would’ve changed her mind.”
“I know, but…she was just a kid. We had her, me and her mom, she was right there, and then…”
“None of this is your fault, do you hear me?” Hotch leans into her line of sight to catch her eye. “You saved lives tonight, Reid’s included. You know as well as I do that if he had been outed as the FBI agent, he would've been shot in the head. You were smart and brave in there, and because of you we got over sixty innocent people out alive.”
She shakes her head in denial, and the movement sends her swaying backwards. Hotch anchors a hand under her elbow. “Whoa, alright, come sit down.”
“No sir, I’m fine, I—”
"Look at me, please.” She does, reluctantly. It's barely daybreak, so her profile is mostly illuminated by the flashing emergency hazards. At first it’s a trick of the light, but then he clocks how much red still coats her face. “Prentiss, you haven’t seen a medic yet?”
She winces. “C’mon, Hotch, you know I hate hospitals.”
“I’m sorry, but you need medical attention. That’s not up for debate.”
“Can’t you go bother Reid? You should be with him anyway, he was closer to the explosion.”
“JJ and Morgan have him, they left already. We’ll meet them there.”
“You don’t understand, I’m really not comfortable with doctors I don’t know.” The more agitated she gets, the more her balance seems to wane. Hotch grips her arm tighter, worried she might fall.
"Emily.” The fight goes out of her at the sound of her first name. “You’re barely standing. Please sit down before you hurt yourself.” She looks up wide-eyed at his face, suddenly just a few inches from her own. He has a long moment to wonder what she sees in his expression before she’s closing the distance between them.
Emily flings her arms around him and tucks her face into his neck. He tenses at first, thinking she’s about to collapse, before he realizes he’s being hugged.
Oh.
Hotch wraps his arms around her back and cradles her against him, mindful of her injuries. With his height advantage, he finds his cheek resting on top of her head, like how he holds Jack after a nightmare. Her wine dark hair smells like ash. He sighs deeply, grounded by the scent, the reminder it serves. Gratitude spreads through him. She survived this and he can feel her heartbeat under his own two hands. After the terror that's threatened to choke him today, he wouldn't have thought it probable.
Hotch holds Emily, tilts his head towards the horizon, and watches the sun come up.
When she does speak, it is muffled against his shirt collar. “Please don’t make me see a medic. I have been touched, and grabbed, by a lot of hostile opponents today. If some EMT stranger puts his hands on me right now, I…I think I might actually cry.”
Her voice is small, unsteady, which he’s never heard from her before. He can feel her straining to take a full breath and eases up his hold on her ribs, palms sliding down to her waist instead. She’s been out of the fray for over two hours now; plenty long enough for the momentum that's kept her going to abandon her. He doesn’t envy the adrenaline crash she must be feeling after three consecutive days on the defensive.
“Let me do it.” The words escape his mouth before he’s fully considered the weight of them. Emily meets his eye in surprise. “No strange men, understood. I’ll patch you up in the ambulance and make sure the EMTs keep their distance. It’s forty-five minutes to the hospital, and you will be seen by a professional when we get there. On that, I won’t budge. But I’ll make sure it’s a woman, and I can stay with you to make sure no one touches you without asking first.” She hesitates, her hand absently twisting into the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m not a stranger, Emily. Let me help you.”
After a charged beat, she exhales shakily. “Okay.”
They turn their backs on the smoking ruins.
Twenty minutes later finds them in the back of a moving ambulance. Emily sits on the stretcher, squinting against the fluorescent lights, while Hotch fumbles with supplies between them.
It took an extra badge flash and one of his “patented death ray glares” (her words, not his) for the EMTs to let him into the patient compartment, let alone give them the privacy he’d promised her. Both the driver and ambulance tech agreed to ride in the front cab, as long as Hotch promised to knock on the divider in case of emergency.
He stalls by sorting gauze patches, hoping it might help him focus on the task at hand. He obviously needs to assess the physical damage to his agent, but just like earlier, he finds he can’t be objective about her. The first thing he clocks is how deathly pale she looks under the blood and grime, and how her hands tremble minutely in her lap. She’s eyeing the tray of instruments and worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. One of her nails is bitten bloody—ring finger, right hand.
“You really do hate all things medical,” he concedes.
“You should see me at my yearly flu shot.”
His lips quirk up. “For what it’s worth, Reid isn’t a fan either.”
“I don’t think people in our line of work tend to be.” A shiver runs up her spine.
"Here." Hotch shrugs out of his FBI windbreaker and swings it around her shoulders. He’ll have to ask JJ to find the spare go bags, so she and Reid can change their clothes. He’s careful to keep his touch light and clinical, pulling the front edges together and smoothing the fabric down.
The corner of Emily’s mouth turns up at the gesture. “How very Clark Gable of you.” Her tone is sarcastic, but something small and tender blooms in his chest when she huddles further into the warm fabric.
He plays along as he rolls up his sleeves, wanting to keep that smile on her face. “I’ll have you know that I was, at one point in time, a good southern boy.”
It's the right move. Under the exhaustion, a glint of intrigue lights up her face. “Oh, I can see that—baby Hotch in his Sunday best, helping little old ladies across the street. I’ll bet you were a real ‘sir and ma’am’ kinda kid.”
“I have been told my old accent slips out when I’m drunk.”
Her eyes go comically wide. “I would literally pay money to hear that.”
“And that means you never will.”
“Aw, pretty please?”
“No.”
“Alex, can I have a ‘what in tarnation,’ for twenty bucks?”
“Absolutely not.” Hotch sanitizes his hands.
“Why, I never!” Emily intones, in an old-timey southern drawl. “A gentleman like yourself, refusin' a lady.”
“Merely protecting my very delicate reputation,” he corrects her. “Although, for the record, you did just sound eerily like my great-grandmother Edith.”
Emily’s laugh is clear as a bell, until she doubles over with a gasp, palms flying to her battered ribs. “Ow, ow, you bastard, do NOT make me laugh.” He reaches for her on instinct, but stops himself, unsure where to place his hand that would read as non-threatening after the ordeal she’s been through. He settles for her shoulder, squeezing lightly to ground her while she muscles through the pain.
Eventually he clears his throat. “…you bastard?”
“Shit,” she mutters, gingerly straightening her torso. “What I meant was, please do not make me laugh, SSA Hotchner. Unit Chief. Sir.”
“...Aaron.”
“Hmm?”
“You’re off the clock, you can call me Aaron.”
"Since when am I off the clock? I haven't filled out my incident report.” Emily exhales slowly, one hand pressed against her side like she’s holding herself together. “Can you imagine how much paperwork I’ll have to do for not dying in the field?"
He hedges. "As a matter of fact, it’ll involve seventeen forms and two separate notaries." Her jaw drops. "But all that can wait. I say you're off the clock until you've been cleared by a professional."
"Then thank you, that's yet another excuse for me to avoid the quacks." Aaron stares back, unimpressed. She continues. “So, first name basis. 'Aa-ron.'"
"Okay, well, you don't have to say it like that.”
"It’s like the Prime Minister of Luxembourg telling me to call him 'Jacques'."
He rolls his eyes at her ribbing and turns back to his kit. Then he grabs a sterile cotton swab and douses it in isopropyl alcohol, all the while watching Emily’s face. “You’re stalling. Are you ready?”
She concedes with a careless shrug. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead and play a doctor on TV…” It’s remarkable, really, the ease with which she diverts attention away from her own distress, always keeping the mood light with her fiery attitude. But he can see in her eyes and her twitching fingers, she feels rattled.
“Hold still.” He steadies her face with a light touch to the jaw, and she tenses beneath his fingertips. The flinch is tiny, so controlled that he probably wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t well within her space.
“Emily,” he murmurs, and waits until she meets his gaze again. “It’s just me.”
She takes a shaky breath, nods, and relaxes minutely.
Aaron is relieved to wipe the dried blood from her face, but must fight to keep the anger off his own at the sight of what's underneath. Her skin is painted with bruises of various sickly colors. Her lower lip is split, and when he pushes back her bangs there’s some active bleeding along the hairline that’ll definitely need stitches. But her eye is the worst of it. He can make out Cyrus's knuckles in the raised marks there. The man was clearly left-handed, as nearly all the damage is clustered around one temple, with the other left untouched. Blood is pooling in the hollow beneath her lower lid, and the whole area is badly swollen.
“I think you may have an orbital fracture,” he confesses. Emily grumbles under her breath. “The good news is they usually heal without surgery, but chances are you’ll need an X-ray before you’re cleared to fly.”
“Lucky me,” she bites.
”Tilt your head back for me.” Aaron brushes his fingers down her nose and around the eye socket, feeling for cracks beneath the swelling. He pities whichever medical professional ends up with her chart at the hospital. He’s been on the wrong side of her ire before, and it's not a particularly comfortable position. Even dazed and fatigued, she's liable to raise some hell. That said, the fuzziness of her gaze has him absently calculating how many hours it's been since she slept.
When he presses his thumb to her brow bone, Emily flinches hard.
“Ah, fuck!”
He retreats. “Sorry! Sorry. I’ll be gentler.”
“It’s okay, I’m okay,” she insists. “Not your fault.” But her voice has jumped up an octave, betraying her words. She blows out a grounding breath too—her tell.
Aaron glances at his watch. “The aspirin should’ve kicked in by now. Are you sure you don’t wan—“
“No, no opioids.” She shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “By the way, sorry about all the, uh, cursing.”
“After what you’ve been through, I think you’re entitled to a bit of uncouth language.”
“Really? Oh, thank god. Because I secretly curse like a sailor and I’m way too tired to try and code switch for your benefit.”
“There’s no need, not for me.” He squeezes an instant ice pack until it pops between his hands. “That eye definitely needs an X-ray, but this is all we can do for now.” He presses it to the worst of the swelling. Emily lets out a grateful sigh. “Speaking of your foul mouth, I'm curious. Why, given your upbringing, do you curse in English of all languages?”
“Huh. I haven’t thought about that. I guess it’s mostly habit, though Slavic and Indo-European swears slip out sometimes. Any requests? I’d try Italian, but Grandpa Rossi would probably overhear and correct my grammar.”
He laughs for the first time in days. She very carefully does not, one hand still pressed to her side.
“May I?” At her nod, he lifts the hem of her shirt so he can check for broken ribs. He runs his hands along her bruised abdomen, and frowns when the base of her ribcage gives with a bit of pressure. She bites down hard on her already split lip. There isn’t much he can do for the ribs right now either, so he grabs another ice pack.
A trail of blood on her pant leg leads him back to her left forearm, where several shards of glass are deeply embedded. He recalls the sound of something shattering, in the background of his own mounting panic. “What happened here?”
Emily tilts her shoulders in a shrug. “Mirror, I think? Maybe a window. I didn’t catch all the details, I was a little distracted.”
Yeah, me too.
Hotch holds the arm across his lap, teasing the smaller pieces of glass out with tweezers, disinfecting the wounds and bandaging them carefully. He leaves the larger ones for the ER doctors, knowing that removing them could make the bleeding worse. Emily’s head hangs low as she breathes through the discomfort. When he pulls a deep sliver from her wrist, she chokes down a whimper in the back of her throat. Aaron gulps, and tries not to think of her pained cries in his headphones, of the sounds she’d made as the cult leader struck her to the floor. Of how those sounds map onto the physical evidence here on her skin.
“If Cyrus wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him,” he admits to the stillness between them.
She smirks, eyes still pinched. “Your chivalry is through the roof tonight, boss.”
“Could you stop deflecting for once and just let someone care about you?” The spark of humor goes out of her expression. "I was ready to go in.”
“What do you mean?”
"I mean, I nearly sprinted for the entrance when I heard you scream.”
Emily's eyes widen. “You were listening?”
“We all were." He cocks his head in confusion. "You knew that, wasn't your message for us?"
"I knew someone would be listening, but I thought maybe the BAU wouldn't be at the helm, given the conflict of interest."
"Well, we probably shouldn't have been. I...we were all too emotionally invested. But we couldn't risk handing the reins to anyone else. Not with your lives at stake."
Her doe eyes are becoming increasingly distracting, so he drops his attention back to the bloodied arm. "Listening to him hurt you and knowing you were right, that we'd blow the mission if we came in...I have never felt so useless. I was this close to charging in after you, damn the consequences." Then quieter, shamefully, "Dave had to talk me down.”
Emily gulps. “How much did you hear?”
“Most of it, I think. Why, did..." He glances up as bile rises in his throat. “Did he—?”
Her eyes go wide. “No! No, nothing like that, I promise." Her words dull the blood suddenly roaring in Hotch’s ears. "I'm just thinking about how hard that must've been for you. I mean yes, it sucked for me, but I made a tactical decision. I knew what I was getting into. You had to listen and do nothing."
”It won’t go down as my favorite memory of this job, I'll say that much.”
"I’m so sorry you had to hear that.” She rests her free palm on his forearm. “What can I do?”
"God, Emily." This woman will never cease to amaze him. “You can do your best to stay in one piece."
She looks vaguely affronted, and he rushes to explain. "No, don't misunderstand me. You showed great courage today. Because of you and Reid, those families got out alive. But when you give 100% of your energy to protecting those around you, absolutely nothing is reserved for yourself, and that’s unacceptable.” A flush rises in her cheeks. “I heard you loud and clear, I know you can 'take it.' But this team can’t, I know that too. We cannot bear to lose you. So please, take care of yourself. Have your own back the way you would any of us. That’s an order. And do your best to avoid being held hostage in the future, for the sake of our collective blood pressure if nothing else. Understood?”
He twists their already entangled hands, lacing their fingers together. After a moment, she squeezes back. “Yes, sir.”
“Ah—what did I say?”
“Yes…Aaron.”
Emily keeps her promise and checks into the Mercy General Emergency Room of her own volition, and with minimal scowling at that. He stays with her through everything they'll allow him to, offering a hand to squeeze when the doctor palpates her abdomen. Her face goes grey at the pressure on her ribs and a truly filthy word escapes her mouth at full volume. A kind intern convinces her to accept more effective painkillers after that, and Hotch gives the woman a grateful nod. (His aching knuckles are grateful too, screaming at him from Emily's iron grip.) But eventually, a nurse insists that patients need privacy for X-rays, and 'maybe you'd like to wait elsewhere, Mr. FBI Man.' Emily snorts at his offended expression and tells Hotch to go find the others.
An orderly directs him to a private room on the third floor. He finds JJ and Morgan there, once again on either side of Reid, who sits cross-legged on his hospital bed. He’s eating lime green jello and an oxygen mask hangs off one ear.
“How are you feeling?” Hotch asks, standing beside Morgan's chair.
“I’m absolutely fine.” Reid pokes Derek's shoulder. “This one won’t let me see my own chart, but I’m not being detained for anything in particular.”
JJ swallows a laugh. “Did you just say ‘detained’? My god, drama queen...”
Morgan hands Hotch the coveted chart. “He’s got a bruised spleen and is being treated for smoke inhalation.” He reaches up and shifts the oxygen mask back over Reid’s face. Under the clear rubber, Reid pouts. "Oh, boo hoo, he would've found out anyway."
JJ chimes in. “I don't know, snitches get stitches, Morgan.”
“Speaking of which, shouldn’t the snitch be treated for smoke inhalation too?” Hotch asks pointedly.
Morgan’s face drops into a scandalized expression. “Et tu, Brute?”
Reid laughs like a kid on Christmas morning.
A couple hours later, there’s a knock on the door. A young nurse rolls Emily into the room in a wheelchair, and the brunette announces with a flourish, “Special delivery!" She scrambles out of the chair before it stops, ignoring the cacophonous warnings of every other person in the room. Morgan jumps up to help her transfer to the bed beside Reid’s.
Once they've got her settled and the nurse is gone, Morgan perches beside her and asks, "What's the verdict?"
Emily, looking a bit dazed, tallies the injuries on her fingers. "I am sporting five new stitches, three bruised and one broken rib, and one fractured eye socket." She shoots dramatic finger guns at Hotch. "Just like our fearless leader here predicted." Then she giggles. Honest-to-god giggles. Her head drops onto Morgan's shoulder, and a blissful, dopey smile appears.
Hotch asks innocently, "How are those painkillers treating you, Prentiss?"
"Oh, no." She sits up sharply, only to start tipping the other way. Morgan takes her by the shoulders and props her upright. "This is why I said no opioids, I didn’t want you guys to see me all loopy."
"What's the big deal, Em?" Morgan asks with an amused expression. "We drink together."
"Oh, I'm a fabulous drunk. But high?" Her hands form a megaphone around her mouth and she stage whispers, "This is blackmail material."
Morgan holds up one finger. “Hang on, let me go grab my video cam—"
"Hey!" She whacks him on the arm.
“I’m kidding! In your delicate state? I would never.”
"Oh, don't you worry about my delicate anything, Derek Morgan. I'll be back to kicking your ass in no time." Emily squares up like a boxer. Reid snorts under his oxygen mask.
Morgan beams. “Well then! If that signature sass is intact, you must be feeling like yourself.” He takes her hands between his own and kisses her on the temple. "We’re really glad you're safe, Princess." She gives him a fond smile.
JJ crowds the other side of Emily’s bed. The two women share a long and slightly tearful hug, before JJ whispers, "I'm so sorry. If I had kept a tighter handle on the media, he never would have found out, and then you—"
"Oh, don't do that," Emily says back, sobering quickly. She runs a comforting hand through JJ's hair. "No, don't you dare. This was not your fault. All of you, listen to me." She pulls away from JJ, making intentional eye contact with the other members of the team. Hotch tries to hold her gaze, even though the shame of having sent them in there has been gnawing at his stomach for days. "I made a choice, and I would do it again in a heartbeat. So no guilt fest, okay?" Her eyes linger on Reid, who is suddenly very interested in his hospital-issued compression socks. Hotch imagines she'll have a talk with him in private later, to ensure the young man doesn't blame himself for her injuries. Either way, he'll be keeping an eye on both of them for a good long while after this.
Emily continues. "Now, will someone get the pregnant woman a chair that isn't made of plastic?"
Hotch procures a cot from one of the nurses, and JJ takes to it with a huge sigh of relief. Garcia calls Morgan and demands to be put on speaker so she can fuss over their battle wounds and wax poetic about her glorious team of superheroes. With her coercion (“Simply my prized powers of persuasion, Sir.”) Morgan lets himself be bullied into an oxygen mask. The two of them banter over the airwaves, causing the others to burst into laughter. Hotch begins to relax.
He glances over at Emily, who is floating on morphine, but still chuckling along with the group. Her shirt and slacks have been replaced by a blue hospital gown, and he realizes with a start that she has his navy jacket from earlier pulled over it. Since the rest of her clothes have been changed, she must’ve asked for it back specifically. The fabric hangs loosely off her, far too wide in the shoulders for her petite frame. It occurs to Aaron that his varsity crew jacket had hung off Haley like that too, back in his college days. Something deep inside him thaws at the sight.
Feeling his eyes on her, Emily meets his gaze. She pinches at the jacket, and mouths Thank you. Then after a beat, she gives him a little wave, as if he isn't already looking directly at her.
Fuck, that’s cute.
Hotch waves back.
Rossi appears a while later, having wrapped up his reports with Dan. He gives Reid an uncharacteristic hug, and spends a few minutes enjoying the comedic stylings of High Emily before kissing her on each cheek like the Italian patriarch he is. Then he steps into the lobby and returns with coffee and donuts for everyone.
"Santa!" Emily yells.
“My love can’t be bought, old man,” Morgan quips.
“Oh, mine can.” JJ gratefully accepts her cup of herbal tea.
The six of them congregate. Morgan sits beside Reid and ruffles his hair, Rossi pulls up a rolling chair from the nurse's station, and Hotch joins JJ on the cot in between the two beds. They rip into the donut box, passing it in a circle. Emily snags two glazed munchkins and JJ picks out three chocolate ones, while Morgan devours those with powdered sugar. He even gets Rossi to toss one at him, which he catches in his mouth. Reid pours an obscene five packets of sugar into his paper cup, while Hotch watches in disgust, sipping his own black coffee.
He looks around at his team; exhausted and a little worse for wear, but a strong and brilliant unit in the face of the horror they've seen. JJ sits beside him, genuinely resting for once. She’s always so poised, so alert and attentive. She runs a hand over her stomach, and he wonders absently if her child will have her same smart eyes. Rossi, steadfast and focused, is making sure everyone has a treat they enjoy. He’d deny it, but he loves to nurture them this way—through thoughtful gifts and gestures. Morgan is smiling at his phone, undoubtedly joking with Garcia, and then he is wiping powdered sugar on Reid's nose. He may act playful and goofy, but the tenderness of his hands betrays his roughhousing exterior, so obviously full of love for his fellow agents. And Reid, all too aware of the coded affection there, smiles back for once instead of retaliating. He loosens up when the team is all together, like he’s truly comfortable in his skin. Perhaps it’s because he knows he is accepted completely as is in their makeshift family. This group, Hotch wouldn't trade for the world.
And then there's Emily.
Emily, who sits above him on the bed, bare legs dangling beside his arm, is currently licking excess donut glaze off her thumb. Aaron considers her profile as she calls out a retort to Morgan’s jibes. Unlike the others, Emily had to put up a real fight to earn his approval. He averts his eyes, feeling mortified by the memory of how awful he was to her in the beginning. She is now one of his most trusted agents, and they came far too close to losing her today. The team needs her. Her wit and humor buoy them all after the hardest cases. Her stubborn integrity is both a pain in his ass and an unquestionable asset. She matches him move for move in the interrogation room like they're dancing a waltz. And after the things she went through on his watch today, Aaron is reasonably certain that her distressed voice will ring in his ears for many nightmares to come.
Emily's knee presses against his shoulder. Think of the devil and she shall appear.
He looks up at her, brows raised in question. She peers down, curious and a little worried. “Lost you. Where’d you go?” Are you alright? Her eyes seem to say.
Her hair has been tied up in a messy bun, exposing the elegant curve of her neck as well as the damage to her face. The stitches on her hairline are a stark black ladder across her alabaster skin. The bruising under her eye has darkened to a deep purple, and the lid has nearly swollen shut. But there is some more color in her cheeks than before, some more brightness in her irises. He can't help but notice that even bruised and beaten, sleep deprived and stoned on pain meds, she is a beautiful woman. Aaron wonders what it might be like to hold her under happier circumstances.
He gives her a gentle smile. “I’m right here.” We're alright.
“Oh, Hotch, I forgot to mention,” Rossi breaks him of his reverie. “I did ask, but they were all out of your favorite jelly filled donuts.”
Aaron gasps dramatically and declares, in an accent conjured from far below the Mason-Dixon Line, “What in tarnation?”
After a beat of shocked silence, the team shrieks in laughter. Rossi looks stunned, JJ tries to cover her mouth with her hand, and Morgan and Reid cackle into each other shoulders like hyenas.
Emily stares at him, jaw hanging open. Feeling bold, he winks at her. She smirks back, reaches into her bra, and hands him a folded twenty dollar bill.