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Aaron grieves in private.
Rossi has known this for years. He has mentored Aaron from his early days with the Bureau; through his training, his father’s death, his tumultuous marriage. In each and every case, when shit hits the fan, Aaron does not let anyone see him break. He would rather bear the weight of his scars in silence. Dave admires the younger man’s heart, but worries about his hero complex. He is pretty sure that one of these days, that thick head of his is going to get Aaron killed.
Then Emily Prentiss comes into the picture.
Dave knows from day one that he’s going to like her. She’s bold and brilliant, with a thousand watt smile and an impressive resume to boot. Most importantly, she does not take anyone’s bullshit. If he’s honest, she’s become a bit like the smartass kid sister he never had, and one of his favorite agents to be partnered with at that. But now that she and their boss are past their suspicious phase, she might be even more of an asset off the field.
The week that Haley and Jack Hotchner are put into protective custody, Aaron self-isolates, as Dave expected. He declines when invited out for drinks with the team, he eats his lunch in his office with the door closed. He pretends to sleep on the jet after a late night case, even though everyone can tell he’s faking it to avoid idle conversation.
But before Hotch can disappear into himself entirely, Prentiss steps into the fray.
On Tuesday morning, she brings him coffee from the shop around the corner and forces it into his hand with a smile. Rossi watches as Hotch’s brain short-circuits at the gesture. He mumbles a surprised thank you and shuffles off. Emily, undeterred, flounces away.
On Thursday, she declines Rossi’s offer to share his lunch (“Homemade pasta, Prentiss, you’re missing out!”) and instead pulls out two sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil. She grabs a stack of paperwork and waltzes into Hotch’s office. Rossi can just hear the tail end of her saying “Could you go over this report with me?” before the door shuts behind her. Then he watches through the window in amazement as she shoves a sandwich into Hotch’s hands and firmly plants herself in one of his office chairs. Rossi glances at his watch. It’s 12:28pm, which means the man will now be forced to spend his lunch hour with another human being. And a mighty determined one at that.
Then on Saturday, so he hears later on, she shows up at Hotch’s front door carrying bags of groceries. As Aaron recounts to him, she strong-armed her way inside and demanded he “eat a goddamn vegetable” and drink an entire bottle of water. Then, she pulled out a roll of cookie dough and the extended edition box set of The Lord of the Rings DVDs.
Aaron’s face is open and expressive as he describes the impromptu movie marathon to Rossi, his eyes brighter than they’ve been in weeks. Then, a flush rises on the back of his neck, and he says a little too quickly, “How was your weekend, Dave?”
Rossi watches them after that. When Emily does these things, these check-ins, she floats in on a cloud of nonchalance, like it’s no big deal. She deposits her gifts for Hotch or cracks some ridiculous joke, and then waltzes out without a word. She asks for no compensation, refuses to take it, in fact. He’s seen her pull an unimpressed face when Hotch tried to hand her a few bills last week. From what Rossi can tell, she doesn't even demand conversation from him while they unpack groceries, split a turkey club, or sit through an episode of Star Trek: TOS. She gives him the space he needs, but sits close enough to remind him he’s not alone when the grief threatens to swallow him whole.
Hotch doesn’t talk about Emily after that first weekend, but Rossi can see the way trust begins to blossom between them. Trust will become true friendship not long after, so he peers on from afar and wonders if he’s finally found a partner in his war to keep Aaron Hotchner afloat.
Then Foyet kills Haley.
Their Unit Chief takes exactly one month off before returning to work. It’s not enough time, but it would never be enough time, so no one says a word. When he does return, he is a shell. He has shrunken from them all, Emily included - their tentative newfound truce, perhaps the most delicate of Hotch’s relationships with his team, loses its footing. The whole team trades concerned looks day after day, but they keep their thoughts to themselves. No one knows how to help, or if he would even allow it. He can’t tolerate JJ’s mothering, or Spencer’s statistics on loss recovery. Morgan’s tough love wouldn’t do any good, and Garcia’s bubbly optimism can’t even scratch the surface. They do not ask how he plans to care for his son, or how he can possibly survive this world as a bereaved single parent with a traumatized 5-year-old and an extremely demanding job. He does not speak of his or Jack’s progress, and no one dares to speculate. Out loud, at least.
Emily and Rossi in particular share knowing glances on the first few cases with Hotch back. They seem to have come to a silent understanding, as two of Hotch’s biggest defenders. They watch together as he white-knuckles his way through, remaining every bit the stoic leader he always has been. But he doesn’t say a word about what happened.
One night, after everyone else has filtered out, Rossi finds he and Prentiss are the only two left in the bullpen. She isn’t looking at him, so he goes back to work.
Thirteen minutes later, her voice cuts across the silence.
“Does he talk to you?”
Rossi doesn’t look up from the file he’s reading. After all, Prentiss hasn’t looked up from the computer she’s typing on. She simply lets the question hang in the air, as if avoiding eye contact means they aren’t having this conversation.
“No.” He confirms her theory sadly. “No, he doesn’t. Not about this, at least.”
“You two still have your boys’ nights, though, right? Does any of it spill over when he’s three glasses deep in scotch?”
“Prentiss, maybe we shouldn't—”
“He’s drowning, Rossi, he needs us.”
“He doesn’t like company when he’s like this. Trust me, I would know.” He drops the report and meets her eyes. He sees the worry there, eating at her the same way it’s eating at him. “You really did help for a while there, Prentiss, don’t think it went unnoticed. It’s a noble effort. But Haley...he needs time. He grieves alone, he always has.”
“Does he speak to someone?” She asks.
“You mean a therapist? Not that I know of. I doubt that he would.”
“No, he’s too stubborn.”
Dave rolls his eyes. “Yeah, like I haven’t got enough of that to deal with around here.”
She doesn’t take the bait, which rather proves his point. “I don’t know what to do, Dave.”
Rossi heaves himself out of his chair with a grunt. He's starting to feel his age these days, which he doesn't like one bit. He slowly crosses the room and drops a hand onto his colleague's shoulder. “I was hoping I’d come up with something wise and comforting to say by the time I got over here, but...I don’t know either, kiddo.”
“I wish we could help.”
“You are helping. You’re here, you’re being a good friend. You keep him company, make him eat, bring him distractions. You’re as close to taking care of him as I’ve ever seen him allow, and y’know why he’s letting you? Because you speak his language.”
“What do you mean? That love language bullshit?” Her eyes darken, a sign of her defenses sliding into place. “We’re friends, Rossi, nothing more.”
“I don’t mean it that way. You just understand each other, you two.”
She sighs. “I guess so.”
Rossi drops a kiss on the crown of her head. “You’re good for him, bella, and God bless you for it. But don’t push it. He gets in this dark place sometimes where he simply cannot handle company. So, be careful.”
“Are you saying he might lash out if I tried to get involved?
“No, I’m just saying that the man I’ve known for years would prefer to process his grief alone. It’s the only way he knows how.”
”Director. I’m doing alright, thank you very much. Yes, I’m back from my leave. Nothing to worry about, we’re all set. Jack is…as well as to be expected. Yes, sir. I’ll take care of that by end of day tomorrow, at the latest. Thank you, sir. Good day.”
Hotch hangs up the phone and brings a hand up to rub his temples, breathing slowly and intentionally. He allows himself this small moment of respite, grateful that the blinds in his office are closed. That way none of his team members can see his weakness and try to cheer him up, or worse, pity him. He’s been doing just fine. He’s here, he’s working, he’s protecting his son the best way he knows how. And anyone who says otherwise is to be staunchly ignored. They’re fine. He’s fine.
He’s fine.
Until he isn’t.
They’ve been camped out in the Boulder PD Precinct for days, trying to find a missing boy named Louis Halliday. White male, 9 years old, with red hair and freckles. As the sun rises on Hotch’s third morning without sleep, he feels the dread in his gut swirl like nausea. Louis has been gone far too long for his liking - it was he who had to remind the parents that most kidnapped children will die within the first 24 hours of being taken. And now is Day 3 with no leads, no trails to follow, and no hope left for that poor little boy. His thoughts are with the parents, weeping in the other room with JJ. He knows all too well the indescribable pain of being separated from your child.
He stares into the abyss of his black coffee, then glances at his watch. It’s 7:15 on a Friday morning, so Jack should be eating breakfast right now. Jess will be buttoning up his coat and getting him to the school bus soon.
A nasty voice hisses in the back of his head, I guess you’re too busy with work to take care of your family yourself. Shocker.
Hotch drops his head into his hands.
That voice, be it his conscience or his dead ex-wife, is not wrong. He can’t help but think about how Jack is home without him at this very moment, parentless. The boy is being functionally raised by his aunt because his own father, who is alive and well, is too busy helping other children. Not to mention, that father is the man who cost him his mother. He’s done such immense damage already. How can he possibly keep his promise to Haley and protect Jack if he isn’t even there to do so? Mistakes made in BAU cost lives, he knew that when he began at the Bureau and took it in stride. He just didn’t expect to give his pound of flesh in Haley’s name. But his intentions don’t matter, because now he’s thoroughly ruined his child’s life anyway.
How selfish can you possibly be?
Hotch doesn’t notice Prentiss coming to join him at the table until she plops down beside him, her hot coffee sloshing over her hand.
“Fuck,” she mutters, wiping it up.
He couldn’t agree more.
Suddenly, the precinct is full of sound. Hotch’s phone starts ringing, and the detective’s landline too. Voices are getting louder, and footsteps pound closer. Reid and JJ emerge from the conference room and face the main entrance, the Halliday parents close on their heels. Hotch reaches towards his piece, and beside him Prentiss does the same. The front door creaks open.
Morgan walks in holding the hand of a young redheaded boy.
The room bursts into loud, raucous joy. Mrs. Halliday cries out and sprints across the room to hug her son. Her husband follows muttering “Louis, Louis, Louis,” and wraps his arms around them both, his weight sinking them to their knees. His wife starts reciting the Lord’s Prayer. There are tears and sighs and gasps of relief all around the precinct.
But Hotch finds he can’t breathe.
He’s trying. He’s trying hard to inhale deeply, and he can’t. When was the last time he had to try to breathe? His chest feels like it’s being slowly crushed. He’s panting now, sudden panic rising in his throat. It’s as if he’s being suffocated by his own body.
“Hotch?”
Prentiss’s bell tone voice rings in his ear, but he’s too busy swaying in his chair to respond. One hand goes to his throat, and the other reaches out to clumsily snag the sleeve of her shirt, gripping tight.
“What’s wrong? Hotch, look at me. Take a deep breath.” He shakes his head, shuts his eyes, no, no, no I can’t breathe and I’m going to die and leave Jack an orphan and it’s all my fault.
Abruptly, there are faces all around. JJ and Reid, Rossi floating behind them. Hotch’s entire field of vision is full of their annoying concerned expressions with big pitying eyes. JJ is making that face she uses when Henry is having a meltdown. Rossi mutters, “This is what I meant, Prentiss, we can't push him.”
“Rossi, I didn’t—“
Reid is now expounding on the benefits of breathing into a paper bag. Morgan is coming over from the entrance, worry clear on his face. Embarrassment stirs in Hotch’s gut, but there’s little breath left to fuel it. Detectives and administrators are starting to notice his distress too. He ignores them all, instead looking at the trio of redheads huddled together. A family portrait turned pieta on a dusty linoleum floor.
Something inside him snaps.
A sob cracks his chest at the seams. His cry is loud and baleful and wretched. He slaps his hand over his mouth to stop any more noise from coming out. In the aftermath of it ringing in his skull, the room has gone nearly silent.
He keeps his eyes closed, hoping to keep it that way.
Suddenly he’s upright and moving, though not of his own volition. When he squints against the onslaught of fluorescent lighting, he can just see Prentiss pulling him by the hand. He stumbles after her on numb feet, down a hallway away from the excitement. Hotch still can’t take a full breath, but at least with her it’s quiet.
Then it goes dark. He grips her hand tighter, momentarily blind. His eyes adjust slowly to a shelving unit and one naked bulb dangling from the ceiling. So he didn’t black out; she must’ve found them a closet to hide in. Makes sense, hiding his inappropriate outburst from prying eyes. She manhandles him by the shoulders, sitting him down on a step ladder and then crouching in front of him. He barely has time to wonder what she’s planning to do there before her hand is forcing his head between his knees.
Oh, right.
“E-Em...I can’t b-breathe.”
“I know, so stop talking.”
He stares down at the concrete floor and tries to calm himself. The vertigo of being upside down does not help the breathing, nor the panicking. His pulse thunders in his veins and a headache throbs behind his temples. He grasps at her elbows, desperate, scared, he’s scared, why are you scared? It’s just a family, they’re safe and happy, this is what we wanted. This is a miracle. Are you jealous of the white picket fence family? That they get their happily ever after? Well maybe you would’ve too if you hadn’t failed so spectacularly. Maybe Jack would still have a future, or maybe Haley would still be alive. And now you’re doomed to become a drunken bitter bastard the rest of your life. A miserable piece of shit who ruins the lives of those around me, just like your father, just like my father, no, no, for Christ's sake what is wrong with me?
“There is nothing wrong with you.” Emily’s voice sounds in his ears.
Fuck.
“Jesus, Hotch.”
Then her hand isn’t pressing his head down, it’s stroking through his hair. Her other palm finds its way to his back, and smooths down the tense muscles of his spine. In his lightheaded daze, his forehead touches her shoulder. She speaks into his ear. “Stop it, stop thinking. I hear you, okay? But put it aside for a minute and just focus on me. I’m right here.” The words strike him as familiar; he has heard Emily comfort the distressed family members of victims many times. “You can feel my hand on your back, right? Yes? And you can hear my voice? I’m here, Aaron, I’m not going anywhere, just breathe.”
“I...can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Your body knows how.” She sits him up by pressing on his shoulder, and then they’re face to face. “Look at me. Hey, c’mon. That’s it, look at me. Just watch me, and try to follow along, okay? Okay. Inhale…”
He tries, his chest stalling and twitching like a fish on dry land. Ugly little noises are dragging up his throat. “That’s okay." She reaches up, loosening the tie from around his neck. Her finger brushes his pulse point and it's like a jolt of electricity straight into his bloodstream. "Let's try again, alright?”
The shame is crawling on his skin so thick, he has to cover his face with his hands. Emily takes him by the wrists and pulls them out of the way.
“Hiding won’t help, this will. The only way out is through, Aaron, c'mon. Relax and try again. Inhale…” He focuses on the sound of his first name in her mouth, watches her ribcage and tries to copy, “...exhale.”
But he just can’t stop. His chest is becoming painfully tight from the lack of oxygen. It takes a mortifying amount of time for him to come around to the fact that there are honest-to-god tears streaming down his face. He hasn’t cried since…Haley. Before that, when Jack was born, and before that, decades. The gasps break in his throat, their echo distant and muffled, like he’s underwater. He's as powerless as he was at sixteen, trapped beneath his father’s fists with no way to control his emotions. Pathetic and weak, the man had said, and he’d been right. That’s all he was then and that’s all he’s amounted to now. And to have this revelation in front of Emily, wonderful!
Shockingly, that’s the thought that halts his spiral.
That she’s right here, watching up close and personal while he has an absolute system failure. He is on the verge of collapse, in what is surely his lowest point. He feels humiliated, furious, devastated; no one should see him broken open like this. But when he looks up at Emily, there is no pity in her eyes. Just compassion. She is here with him, patiently grounding him through the storm.
As if reading his mind, she says “It’s going to be okay, Aaron. Jack is safe. I swear to you that we will keep him that way, and you as well. We’re your family too. You don’t get to vanish into a sea of grief and expect us to idly stand by. You do not get to drown on my watch. Do you understand me?”
He reaches for her.
Emily moves without hesitation. He pulls her to kneel between his feet and sags into her arms. For all that he feels cold and shaky, she is warm and strong. Her frame is so small against his, yet so sturdy. She is all wiry muscle and unshakable will wrapped around him. This close, he can smell a hint of the honeysuckle oil she uses on her hands. She’s something else, something he can’t sort into neat little boxes. He wishes he could see what’s beneath her heavy layers of armor. After all, she’s seen beneath his, and she hasn’t run yet.
So he lets her hold him, and he cries.
Eventually, his heart rate slows. His breath comes a bit easier, his chest feels a bit lighter, and Emily shifts against him, relaxing into the embrace. He abruptly realizes how cold it must be to kneel on concrete during December in Colorado, and scoops her in closer. His lower back cramps from his awkward posture, but he can’t bring himself to sit up. That might cost him the fingers softly running through the hair at the nape of his neck.
Then he notices they're sitting between a shelving unit of plungers and a moldy mop bucket.
He clears his throat and pulls back enough to meet her eye. “You couldn’t have found a more hygienic hiding spot?” It's meant to be a joke, to break the tension, but his voice comes out so nasal from the crying that it sounds like an insult. So apparently his tongue is in open rebellion along with his lungs.
God, you dick.
Thankfully, she takes it with a good-natured smirk. “Well, excuse me for not renting the honeymoon suite for your first panic attack.”
That actually startles a laugh out of him. The comedown of the tears and laughter together saps his energy, and he slumps. Catharsis breaks over him.
They’re practically eye level. If he wanted to, he could lean forward and touch their foreheads together. His hands are still resting on the dip of her waist. All he’d have to do is steady her and then—
He sees the large smudge of tears and snot dampening the collar of her pristine shirt.
“Shit. I’m sorry, I ruined your…god, Prentiss, I’m so sorry.” His voice is just strained enough that she figures he’s not talking about the stain.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“No, this was inappropriate of me, please excuse my actions.”
“Oh stow the HR crap, Hotch.”
Her obstinate tone is a curveball he’s not expecting. “I beg your pardon?”
She gives him a pointed look. “We’ve all been waiting for this breakdown. It had to happen eventually.” His hackles rise in defense, but she jumps in again before he can respond. “Stop that, it’s not an insult. You’ve been storing all your pain inside, and it had to overflow sooner or later. It’s natural. No one is judging you here, least of all me.”
Maybe under different circumstances he’d put up more of a fuss, but he’s so tired all of a sudden. Besides, he finds he actually believes her, to his own surprise. “I noticed that about you.”
“Noticed what?”
“You don’t judge.”
A distant memory rises in her eyes. “Those in glass houses, y’know?”
He wants to ask what she means, dig deeper at the seams of her. Unravel everything he can’t profile.
But before he can speak, she blurts out. “You can talk to me, y’know.” She isn’t meeting his gaze. Instead she’s focused on a point just above his eyebrow, which allows him to watch her face flush in embarrassment. She’s nervous, he realizes. “I know you probably won’t, because you never do, but we’re similar, you and I. We live on the same wavelength, emotionally. It’s like…I can speak your language. Rossi said that, actually. So, just, if you want, I’m here.” She finds his eyes again, determined not to shy away from her words.
Hotch feels the threat of tears prickling behind his lids once more. If she really is anything like him, it must take immense courage for her to speak up. "Since when do you listen to Rossi?"
"Oh, you know, it's Bureau policy to respect the elderly."
“Ah, of course."
"Besides, I think he had a point."
"Y’know, that might be one of the first things I ever learned about you.”
“Hm?”
“You’re good with languages.”
She smiles softly.
The moment breaks when she shifts and winces, wobbling on her knees. Emily braces a hand against his shoulder, which jolts him into the knowledge that he’s left his own hands on her hips for far too long. He pulls back like he’s been burned.
She scrambles to her feet in the cramped closet. “Ready?” Her voice is carefully neutral. He nods, takes her proffered hand, and absently wonders how her skin could possibly be that soft when she logs so many hours in the shooting range. She pulls him to his full stature, and the hanging lightbulb whacks him in the head with a dull plink.
He glares at the bulb, swinging above their heads, mocking him. Emily laughs, wincing in sympathy. "Incoming."
She has a nice laugh, he thinks, before his vision starts swimming. The head rush of abrupt altitude change hits hard, and he tips towards her.
"Whoa," Emily grabs his arms, hauling him upright. "Okay, you're alright, I've got you." They’re crowded chest to chest in the tight space, close enough that her voice ghosts against his jaw. The world is spinning once more. A frustrated sound comes from deep in his throat. “There’s no rush, just breathe until you’re ready. It’s okay.” He attempts a deep inhale and has to try a few times to get it right, like an engine turning over. It’s better than before, but he still feels a weight sitting on his chest. The dizziness fades the longer he focusses on her hands wrapped around his biceps, and the more he blinks to clear the spots from his vision.
After a minute she takes one hand back, and he feels its absence acutely. She leans on him as she stretches one quad behind her, face twitching.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, my leg fell asleep.”
“Sorry, I know I wa—”
“Would you stop apologizing?”
He’s still wrangling his respiratory system, but he grits out, “We should get back. Whatever happened to get that kid here, I’m sure it will require a lot of paperwork.”
She frowns. “Take your time, Hotch.”
“I have to take Morgan’s statement.”
“I can do that.”
“You’ve done more than enough already.”
She gives him a shit-eating grin. “Fine, then Rossi can do it.”
”Okay.” He sniffles, and wishes for a millisecond that he still carried a handkerchief like when he was a young man. He rubs his eyes and asks, “Do I look like I’ve been crying?”
“Of course you do, you’ve been crying,” she says drily, straightening his lapels. “But it’s not that noticeable. Wait here for a bit and the redness should fade. I’ll go ahead and brief Rossi, buy you a few minutes.” She starts towards the door, taking her hands away with her.
“Wait, Emily.” His palm finds hers without his permission. God, his body will not listen to him today. “I wanted to, um...you didn’t have to, and I just…”
“Yes?” Her tone is playful, teasing. He tries not to smile, but he can’t help it. She has that effect on him.
“Thank you.”
She squeezes his hand. “Anytime.” The look in her fathomless eyes says she means it.
Then she walks away, hip checking the door open and striding down the hall as if nothing has happened. He is left alone in a supply closet, wondering if this is what it actually feels like to be cared for in times of stress.
He’s been missing out all these years.
Rossi doesn’t ask what happened between Aaron and Emily after she pulled him from the precinct. He’s busy handling the fallout of the case, delegating tasks to the remaining team members, fielding calls from Quantico. He trusts that she must have some idea of what she’s doing, even if he’d never dive into the fray of a Hotchner panic attack unarmed.
Later on, when he sees Aaron sit beside her for the flight home, Rossi fights to keep a grin from spreading on his face.
The grin wins when, somewhere over the midwest, only after everyone else is asleep, Aaron tentatively lays his head down on Emily’s shoulder.