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In the two months since Haley's passing, Hotch hadn't woken one single day without first considering how he was wholly incapable of caring for his son in the ways he needed. It wasn't fear necessarily, he wasn't afraid he would screw Jack up, deep down he just knew he couldn't do it. There was something fundamentally missing inside of him that would allow him to entertain the idea of him being able to do this on his own.
And yet, he did it. Day in and day out, he woke up and he made toast and oatmeal and he made it a point to sit and eat with Jack whenever he could, even some days he really shouldn't have. Orange juice or milk for Jack, coffee for him. On Saturdays he made Haley's blueberry pancakes from the little recipe box she'd had since they got their first apartment. Her pancakes were terrible, they were often lumpy and overly sweet but somehow, inexplicably, they were a favorite of both he and Jack. The first time he made them he put the batter in a blender, effectively taking care of the problem of biting into a lump of powdery flour, and while the texture was improved there was something inherently wrong about them and he never did it again. Just whisked it with a fork, exactly like the recipe said, and realized somehow that there was something special, maybe even a little magical, in that random powdery bite. It felt like they still had a piece of her.
Friday nights, job willing, they had a routine of making dinner out of snacks and watching a movie. He'd already sliced the cucumbers and fanned out the baby carrots, put the crackers and meat and cheese on a tray and prepared the movie, feeling rather proud of himself for pulling it all together before Jack finished getting into his pajamas. They were both exhausted after a long week, Jack looked dark under the eyes and Hotch, well he always looked like that but he was feeling it a little extra so they were going to get their movie going and get to sleep early. It was a lofty goal, he realized, but necessary. He kept the apartment dark and warm, set out their favorite blankets and pillows and waited for Jack to make his way out.
“Jack?” he called, listening for the sounds of his son. Usually he hummed while he got himself in his pajamas, or played out little action scenarios but there was silence. He found Jack lying on his floor fast asleep with his pajamas on but only half buttoned and his heart sank, he felt awful that the kid had been so exhausted he would fall asleep getting changed and he hadn't even realized it. Gently he lifted Jack into his arms and tucked him into his bed. A kiss on the forehead, a little pat on the belly and a smile and he found himself seated in front of his snack feast and The Lion King, his party of two now a party of one. Truth be told, he wasn't terribly hungry and he was certain he could fall asleep as fast as Jack had if he just went to bed. By 8pm he'd put away their food, packed it so they could try and redo the feast the next night, and was slipping into his thick flannel sheets.
In the pitch black he woke to the sound of Jack crying and calling for him. Paralyzed at first, he lay there with his eyes wide open, lost somewhere between dream and reality, not sure where he'd heard Jack cry. Once he was sure it was reality, he threw himself out of bed and rushed down the hallway. The smell hit him before he opened the door – flipping on the light he saw Jack sitting up in bed, face red from crying, surrounded by vomit. He panicked. It wasn't this proudest moment, whisking his son out of bed and carrying him down the hall toward his own bathroom because the tub was bigger. On the way down the hall, his own stomach churned and he stumbled a little, shoulder hitting the wall as he turned into his room. By the time he and Jack were in the bathroom, he was swallowing saliva thick and hot, not sure whether the smell of Jack's sickness was getting to him or if they were both afflicted by the same illness.
With the shower on and Jack beneath the water, he breathed a sigh of relief, allowing his shoulders to relax in the brief moment before he was holding his face over the toilet and emptying his stomach into the bowl. More than the sickness, there was pain, his stomach cramped and twisted angrily at first and he felt like he was being stabbed repeatedly, a sensation he only recently became familiar with. He writhed there over the toilet, his focus drawn by the sharp pain, the way his insides felt like they were ripping apart.
“Daddy?” Jack whined from inside the shower, sputtering beneath the water. Hotch groaned and closed his eyes, pressing his hand against his stomach.
“Yeah buddy?”
“You okay?”
He didn't answer, he couldn't lie but he couldn't tell the truth either. Instead he slid back away from the toilet and reached into the shower, plugging the drain with a shaking hand and instructing Jack to sit down as it turned into a nice warm bath. It would buy him some time, allow him to regroup. Haley would know what to do, she would talk him down, give him detailed instructions, save the day. If only he could call her, hear her voice, have her remind him that he was capable of doing some of the most difficult things imaginable and if he could do those things, he could manage a stomach bug with a child. Listening to Jack splash happily in the water, he doubted the truth in that sentiment. He slumped over the tub, arms folded on the edge, cheek pressed against the cool porcelain and he let his eyes drift shut while Jack played. Warm water splashed against his hair. He wouldn't fall asleep but he could rest, try to ignore the increasingly acute pains in his stomach, his intestines wrapped in barbed wire.
“Daddy...” Jack said softly, and Hotch cracked one eye open. He wished he hadn't, it would have been better if he hadn't seen his son lean over the edge of the tub and vomit into his lap. He didn't flinch, didn't move out of the way, just sat himself up and patted Jack on the back, waiting it out. What else could he do? “Need mommy...” Jack whined, big tears welling up in his eyes. Hotch felt the hot sting of tears in his own eyes and he nodded.
“Yeah,” he whispered, in complete agreement. “I know.”
Cleaning himself up took considerable effort. Between his clothes and Jack's bedding, his washing machine was pulling overtime at 2am, he hoped his neighbors didn't mind. The smell was everywhere in the apartment and he couldn't do anything more than throw open the windows to let in the chilly Autumn air and stumble around spraying Lysol over every surface he could think of. Jack fell asleep in his bed with a bucket on the nightstand, too young to really understand or be able to react quickly enough to use it. The bucket was more of a comfort for Hotch, knowing it was there. Like marking a checklist except his was incomplete. Hotch sat on the couch, dizzy and miserable, too nervous to try and sleep again or even lay down. He finished the washing and drying before finally allowing himself to lie in the bed beside Jack and close his eyes.
They took turns after that, one making use of the bathroom or the bucket and then the other. That meant that Jack was getting some sleep while Hotch was getting none. Each trip to the bathroom was preceded by agony shooting through his body, and the only thing saving him from total collapse was the water he was sipping between rounds. Giving his body something to rebel against. Even that was becoming harder as night turned to morning, sunlight trickled in and mocked his heavy, burning eyes. Jack slept peacefully for hours when the sun shone through and he'd decided not to leave the bathroom, no point. He wouldn't get a long enough break, between his stomach's angry revolt and the way standing made the room spin around him. Jack slept peacefully and he tried to keep himself quiet when he got sick, when he fell into the wall for support after standing too fast.
The fevers hit next. He hadn't known, during the night, whether either of them had spiked a fever, they had more pressing matters at hand and he hadn't thought to check. Unsure what too high was, he stared at the thermometer telling him that Jack was sick and again when it read his own three digit number. If he knew where his phone was he could look it up but he'd thrown it sometime in the dead of night as it buzzed with case files and emails from people who thought it made them look like good little worker bees to never sleep. Like it proved their worth. He'd been there once, it ruined his life somehow lead him here to his moment. Could tell you every detail of a trial that happened twelve years ago but couldn't for the life of him tell you how high a fever had to be to permit a trip to the doctor. Jack was drinking water and hadn't been sick in hours, it seemed to be passing or at least giving his little body a rest. The Lion King was already in, he turned it on and there Jack lay watching and giggling and singing along while Hotch found it increasingly difficult to fight the nausea back. There was nothing left for his body to reject but that didn't seem to deter it. His weakness wouldn't be tolerated, he had Jack to care for. Jack who was asking for breakfast, somehow. Offering a banana or some toast, he was rejected, Jack wanted cereal. The kind with the marshmallows for him to pick out and eat first he said. If he could find his phone he could look it up, see if that was allowed. He tore apart his bedroom, the blankets a huddled mess on the floor, fought his way through towels in heaps until finally locating his little box of nightmares. Rather than doing a search, he called Jack's doctor's office, grateful for their Saturday hours. He'd thought Haley was silly once when she told him that it was important to her that the pediatrician be open on the weekend – what's the difference, he thought? It had made it such a challenge to find one, offices that were open on weekends were rare. Urgent Care would do on in a pinch, but the comfort of knowing he could call an office that really knew Jack while he felt like death himself was up there among the greatest things he'd experienced. Something he could never tell Haley he appreciated.
They could hear it in his voice. Poor girl on the other end of the line, they'd just opened their doors. Talking came at great cost, used as few words as he could and collapsed into his bed while he mustered the strength to answer questions. Most of them ended with I don't know, his uselessness on display. Finally tired of the clueless game she made them an appointment to come in and told them to head down as soon as they could, just to be safe. She assured him that Jack sounded like he was fine but they had plenty of open spots in their schedule and it would bring him peace of mind. It occurred to him that he shouldn't drive, that he could barely stand. He had to make sure Jack was alright. The office was only one mile down the road, fresh air would do them some good. Jack asked to ride his bike, cried huge tears when told no. He asked again and again, threw himself on the ground and wailed. Hotch crouched beside him, steadying himself against the wall and tried to talk him out of the fit, knowing this was the fever screaming through him, it wasn't like Jack to act out like this. It was scary and loud, set Hotch's nerves on fire.
It took two more visits to the bathroom for him before they were ready to walk out the door. Wasn't sure he'd make it out the door at times, sliding along the wall for support until the last minute. Cold and sunny, it was a beautiful day. Hurt his sleepless eyes and he stumbled along with Jack's hand in his. They had to take a lot of breaks, sometimes only a few steps before he had to stop, knees buckling. He would point out a flower, a bug, a cloud, anything to make Jack stop without getting concerned.
“Daddy?” Jack asked, looking up at his father. Hotch forced a smile.
“Yeah?”
“Can I have cereal when we get home?”
“We're going to ask your doctor if that's alright,” he said softly, pressing his free hand against his stomach as it did flips and flops and swirled with each step, acid bubbling up angrily into his esophagus, lighting his ribs on fire. His raw throat burned at the thought of being sick again. One mile. One mile. Safer than driving, he could make it on knees that wobbled like jello.
“Jack is fine, Mr. Hotchner,” the doctor assured him while Jack scribbled on a chalkboard in vibrant pinks and greens. They'd completed a thorough check-up and while Jack did have a fever, it wasn't troubling to them. “Honestly I'm more concerned about you.”
Dignity went out the window.
He was sick enough that he found himself lying on the examination table in the middle of a Pediatrician's office, surrounded by zoo animal decals and wearing a too small gown covered in zig zags and shapes in bright primary colors. His legs hung over the end of the table, his thick black wool socks in stark contrast to the bright colors of the room. It made him think of Penelope, the way they must look standing side by side, brought a smile to his lips while the doctor pressed his cold stethoscope against his clammy fevered skin.
“Are you keeping water down?” the doctor asked, palpating his stomach and noting each pained wince. His cold hands were beneath the gown, he didn't raise it, didn't look at the scarred expanse of skin beneath but he knew the man's story, everyone in the office did. Hotch shook his head, closing his eyes. “Well,” the doctor said finally, gripping Hotch's hand in his and pressing his other hand to the back of Hotch's shoulder to help ease him back to sitting. He held him there while Hotch swayed, gathered what little balance he was capable of and smiled. “I'd like to draw some blood and send you downstairs to Urgent Care for hydration. Under normal circumstances we might hold off a day or two, but as a fellow single parent I understand that you can't put yourself into a position where you're experiencing an emergency and it's just you and Jack. We can call his aunt to pick him up if you think she's available.”
Hotch swallowed thickly, afraid he was going to be sick again. Color drained from his face, he swayed and the doctor grabbed hold of his shoulders and eased him back down until he was lying again in case he passed out.
“She's home,” Hotch whispered, defeated. He knew Jessica was going to yell at him, be upset he didn't call for help sooner, couldn't be helped now. He'd only wanted to do one single thing on his own, prove that he had any business at all calling himself a father.
“You take me home?” Jack asked, tugging at her coat. “I want cereal!” She smiled and Hotch just looked up at her, pleading silently for her not to lay into him now, save it for later. She would do that much for him. He was going to get an earful but not until he was well enough to take it.
He was still lying down on the table when she breezed into the room, her unruly curls pinned back in a messy ponytail. “Aaron!” she exclaimed and he didn't move, let her come to him and look him over.
He was curled on his side, a Spiderman bandaid in the crook of his arm, legs pulled toward his chest just so that he would fit on the table. Jack jumped up and wrapped her legs in a hug. “You could have called.” Too weak to respond, he just lay there and looked at her with heavy eyelids, tears collecting at the corners and she shook her head and pressed her thumb against his cheek to wipe them away. She hated to see him cry. It was unsettling how he could go from stoic to completely broken. There was no in between.
Sitting in a wheelchair in Urgent Care was a Saturday experience Hotch knew too well, it was familiar watching the people come and go but he wasn't usually alone. His team were always there in some fashion, one or all of them crowding around him, fussing over him. As he was getting used to the quiet, he heard a familiar voice from across the room calling his name. He turned his face toward the sound and watched as Morgan limped toward him, a look of confusion on his features. It took all of the strength in him to lift his hand, to try and stop Morgan's approach.
“Contagious,” he mumbled, waving Morgan back. “You don't want this.” Shrugging, Morgan continued his approach, every few steps becoming a hop to move along faster until he was seated beside his sick friend.
“What's going on?” he asked and Hotch sighed, fighting back another wave of nausea.
“Sick,” was all he could manage. Morgan laughed and muttered something about it not taking a genius to figure that out while he rubbed mindlessly at his ankle. “What happened to you?”
“Oh, I hurt my ankle on the court this morning,” Morgan shrugged. "Thought I should get it checked out, see if I can get a few days off work for my trouble." He laughed, hoping Hotch would take the bait and smile too. Hotch coughed, a ragged wet sounding thing that ended with his face in the bucket and Morgan reached up to pat him on the back. Nothing came out, he had nothing left, just painful dry heaving and an involuntary stream of frustrated tears. He rubbed in soft circles between Hotch's shoulders and was glad when the nurses came to get him and take him back. “Feel better, Hotch,” he said, waving as if Hotch could see him while being wheeled away.
He was barely awake, head hanging limp, cheek resting against the cold pink bucket. He had rolling veins and his dehydration made it challenging to get the IV placed, but once the bag was hung over his head he closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. Nausea coursed through him, nothing he could do for that except wait it out and hope that the anti-nausea medication they'd given him would kick in sooner rather than later. Knowing he would be there for hours, he let the humming of the machines and people around him lull him to sleep. He could feel when they checked him, monitored his pulse and his blood pressure, changed his bags of fluid but he never woke fully and they did their best to keep him sleeping. When he did finally wake they were starting the drip on the final bag and the room had cleared of most of the patients he'd come in with, now an entirely new group surrounded him. He shivered, realizing he was still in the gown from the pediatrician's office, covered by a few thin blankets the Urgent Care staff had provided him while he slept.
“Should we get your friend back here?” the nurse asked with a smile. “You're almost finished now.” He furrowed his brow and tried to make out what she meant. He knew his head was fuzzy but he didn't remember having a friend in the lobby, he'd walked with Jack and planned to walk home.
“Friend?” he asked, his voice hoarse. His throat was fire, chest burning but the nausea was gone. She smiled.
“The young man you were sitting with earlier,” she added and he frowned, shook his head.
“No, he's here...” he gulped, weak and too tired to argue. Speaking was already more trouble than it was worth. “He hurt his ankle. Not here with me.”
“Oh, sweetie, he was treated hours ago, he said he was waiting for you. He's your ride.”
His frustration was palpable when Morgan came back holding his clothes, a grin on his face. “Surprise,” he said, limping toward Hotch while they pulled his IV and patched him up. “Jessica called to let me know you and Jack were sick, if a case came in...figured that was some luck, huh? She calls me when I'm already sitting here in the same office as you. She said she would let me know more when she picked you up and I told her not to worry, I got you.”
Hotch's instinct was to argue. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitated, took note of the fact that Morgan had given up most of his Saturday to sit in an Urgent Care waiting on him for no reason other than he was a good friend and he sighed. Couldn't fault a person for wanting to help. He would try, though.
The indignity of it all was that he could hardly walk without Morgan's arm looped around his waist, fingers curled into his hip. The nausea was nearly gone, replaced with raging vertigo he didn't bother to tell the nurses about because he just wanted to go home. Just wanted his own bed, he could die there peacefully. Leaning his weight against Morgan was familiar, how many times had they performed this dance with each other? One dead on his feet, the other taking it all on. Here was a man who should have been on crutches helping him into his apartment, shouldering all of his weight, moving him past Jessica and Jack in the front room and straight to the bedroom without hesitation. They both sat heavily on the bed, blanket corners pulled tight, room tidied. The laundry was going, the windows were open and the sick smell was nearly gone – he owed Jessica more than he could fathom.
“You good?” Morgan asked, kicking his legs out before him, crossing his injured foot over the good one and sighing. “Want me to stay and cuddle you?”
“Out,” Hotch grumbled but he didn't mean it, not really. Good-natured jesting, even if it came out a little too abrupt, a little too gruff. Morgan shrugged and stood to leave.
“Take Monday off, Hotch, that's an order...” he said before walking out the door, not bothering to turn around and listen to the argument out of the man on the bed. He knew Hotch couldn't chase him, at least not fast enough to catch him, and he'd just spend the next two days ignoring his calls. He heard Hotch calling his name and he smiled, waved at Jessica and told Jack he hoped he felt better. Jack was busy picking at his Lucky Charms, his third bowl of the day – it was all he wanted to eat, and Jess wasn't going to argue with a sick five year old so long as he was eating and drinking.
She was prepared to argue until she was blue in the face with Hotch, however.
“You should have called,” she grumbled, forcing him into his blankets, fluffing the pillows behind his head. Her actions were kind, caring, gentle hands but her words were harsh, frustrated. His stomach hurt too much to argue, nausea completely gone and leaving only throbbing misery in its wake. She leaned over him to tuck the corners up, brushing momentarily against the tenderness in his belly and heard his sharp intake of breath.
“I just,” he whispered, sighing, voice breaking. “I can't do this. I hoped I could...”
“Aaron,” she interrupted, softening her tone and sitting beside him. Her hand found his, fingers twisting between his, locking them together. “It's one thing to deal with a sick child, it's quite another to do it when you're sick too. Give yourself a break.”
“How did Haley do it? I'm just...lost. All the time.”
“She called me, you idiot. What, you think she was some kind of super hero who never needed help? For someone so brilliant you can be really damn stupid sometimes.” She wiped the tears spilling down his cheeks and shook her head. “It's okay not to know what you're doing, it's normal. But you don't have to do it alone. We can figure it out together.” She held his hand while he let his frustrated tears fall, poured himself out before her in his silence.
“Get some sleep, Aaron. Don't make me call Derek back here.”