#even after he killed Henry WHICH MIND YOU MATTERS VERY LITTLE DAVE ALSO KILLED JACK A FEW TIMES AND EACH TIME HE WAS LIKE hey sportsy ^_^

[the-acid-pear]

thinking of dave and henry's relationship again that shit is so fucking well written i hope that hound got mad sloppy toppy for that one

[whump-town]

The Fever That Burns

I don't want to hear a word-- this wasn't even my idea. This is all @genevievedarcygranger fault. I am a slave to the muse.

Hold on, keep hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times and brace for impact bc you're not gonna like this

No real warnings yet, I think but it's not going to be pretty

Part One:

When Emily Prentiss got the signal from Clyde Easter that she had the green light on getting Declan out of that house and away from Ian Doyle, she never looked back. Creating demons like that, leaving behind a past with men who hold grudges, means that she knew she would be haunted for the rest of her natural life. Her body and her mind will not recover but Declan will. He was a child, he deserved a world that he could not obtain anywhere near his father. She knew that the moment she took Declan, she could never go back. Forever from here on out, she would have to outrun that decision. She has to outrun Ian.

She could feel him closing in. The flowers-- the fucking flowers-- and that feeling in the depth of her gut. She knows he’s here and she didn’t run.

After Foyet, Hotch got sick. A fever that consumed his every thought with these twisted ideas about security while it ravished his healing body of what little energy he could spare. She’d seen it herself, the bloodshot aggravation that Derek threw words like “hypervigilance” and “social isolation” at. Before, she had seen Derek and Hotch go at it but not as much as what that fever caused them to say. The way that they looked at one another, wolves snarling at throats and she never knew which one she could put her back to. Which one to call down.

In the end, hypervigilance won out. Derek was right but he was too insistent, too hurt for her to take him too seriously at first. Then she’d had to work through the tangle of locks on Hotch’s front door, the only control he could formulate in his fever. He never took them down. When Jack came home-- more importantly, when Haley didn’t-- it took every bit of charisma and conviction she could give to convince him he didn’t more. Nothing would happen.

The monsters of the past are dead and they survived.

Nothing is going to happen.

At two in the morning, on the Saturday Hotch had spent the month promising Jack he’d take him to the aquarium, her monster comes knocking. The locks don’t matter-- a fever put them up and a fever brought them down. Ian Doyle stands in the living room of Aaron Hotchner’s apartment, two feet from the carpeted spot Derek Morgan spent an entire day ripping up, and he calls out for the man he knows is somewhere. For the man, and the boy, he can take away from Emily Prentiss the way she took his boy. There is no planning, intelligence breeds paranoia. The fever in Ian Doyle burns bright, strong. He will not be talked down.

The guns in their hands waver. Standing in only his boxers and a dirty white t-shirt, Aaron Hotchner’s hand tremors beyond his control. The sleep is still taking over his body and mind, his muscle haven’t woken enough to control themselves. To stifle the pains of the scars Foyet caused him but he’s there, he’s ready.

“Lower your weapon, Hotchner,” Ian drawls. He’s high as a kite, ready to die by the hands of the oaf in front of him or to take the boy as he plans. Either way… “I’d hate to see that boy of yours come out here. You already killed a man in front of him, how many more do you think it will take before he realizes you’re just like me?”

Hotch scowls, “I don’t even know who you are.”

Ian frowns, blinking for a moment as he takes in the man before him. “I know who you are,” Ian says. He knows everything about Aaron Hotchner. Pulled medical records, smirked into the fine lines of the abuse in his childhood spelled out in broken arms and countless contusions. He’s watched him with Emily, seen how close they are. She cares about him and with that thought Ian Doyle knows what he wants to do. He wants to take everything from her just as she took everything from him.

The gunfire shocks Jack awake, his little heart thundering in his chest as he recognizes the noise. It’s not the first time he’s woken with it but this marks the only time it was real. The only time that it had been a gunshot and not the product of an altogether far too lifelike feeling nightmare. Jack throws the comforter off his body, tearing out of his room with no more than the stuffed bear closest to him. He’s headed for his father’s room, feet carrying him blindly when he hits the living room.

He knows his father’s friends. The men and women he’s grown to call his aunts and uncles and he’d recognize them easily. He spends weekend nights with Uncle Dave on the occasional Saturday being pampered with blueberry waffles and toys. Uncle Derek and Aunt Penny take him to the park, always remembering the sunscreen. Sometimes Uncle Derek gives him his cool sunglasses and Jack feels like he runs so much faster with them on. Aunt JJ and Uncle Will have Henry, his very best friend but he’s also a baby so Jack has to be careful when they play. Aunt Emily comes over all the time and lets him watch Finding Nemo as many times as he wants.

Whoever this man is, Jack does not know him.

“Daddy?”

Ian looks up, leaving the sight of Hotch on the floor without a second thought. His gun still aimed at the downed man’s head. “Jack,” Ian recognizes with a smile. “You’re smaller than I thought.”

Jack can’t tear his eyes away from his father. He’s laid out on the floor, white t-shirt turning red as the blood on his chest expands rapidly down his sides. He doesn’t respond to either of the times Jack calls for him, no more than blinking heavily and making wet, choked sounds as blood pools out of his mouth. It scares Jack. His father is… he’s never lost. Not even with Foyet, Hotch saved Jack. He never burns pancakes and lets Jack get by only eating half the green beans on his plate. He never gets hurt.

“Will you come with me?” Ian asks, stepping into Jack’s line of sight and squatting down in front of the boy. Watching as his eyes move from Hotch and glue to Ian, allowing the man to get close to him. “I’d like it if you came with me, Jack. I think we can have some fun, you and I.”

Jack nods but glances away, “but--” His eyes wander back to his father, those choked sounds getting louder but Hotch doesn’t move. His chest starting to still but his eyes on them, watching Ian talk to Jack but unable to do a thing.

Ian places the gun against the side of Jack’s face, moving his head with light pressure back to him. “Never mind him,” Ian says. “Come with me, Jack.”

Jack nods because he isn’t sure what else to do. He goes with Ian, allowing the man to pick him up in his arms. Jack watches his father as Ian carries him away, confused by the tears streaming down his father’s face.

“Say goodbye to daddy.”

Jack waves and asks, “is he gonna be okay?”

Ian nods, shutting the front door behind them. “Don’t worry about him, Jack. It’s just you and I, now.” He smiles at the boy in his arms, “tell me, how much do you know about you Aunt Emily?”

Taking Declan away from Ian Doyle was a decision that Emily Prentiss promised herself she would never have to be guilty over. That boy deserved so much better than what he had with them and she hadn’t hesitated to put what little she had on the line to guarantee he got the chance at a normal life. Nothing she had was ever worth anything. Lauren Reynolds was just a shell and losing her was easy enough. No place had ever felt like home so moving on-demand hadn’t even crossed her mind as a con, if a place got boring she could just leave. Emily Prentiss had never had anything to lose, not a family or a life. She was, effectively, no one. A ghost. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Then they came.

The light she had only ever heard about reaching her darkness. She’d pulled away, afraid of what would happen when they saw her ink-black history, and noticed she always had more questions than answers. That she couldn’t smile like Reid and talk about where she came from as if her past was somehow behind her. How Morgan went dancing for the stress relief but she needed a mindless fuck, someone to forget. She found herself gaining traction, finally claiming worth. In the picture Will took at Henry’s birth, throwing up bunny ears behind Hotch’s head. Picking Garcia and Reid up at one of their conventions and hearing about a variety of far too new nerdy things for her to understand. Listening to JJ complain about living with a man and Morgan teasing her about past haircut disasters. Leaning on Hotch’s shoulder as the bourbon takes over, hearing Dave go one and on about his second divorce and Hotch humming occasionally so he feels heard. Realizing just how much she trusts them. All of them.

They give her something to lose and the first rule when outrunning the past-- never have anything worth taking.

“Alright, alright--” Emily stretches long and slow, her phone still wedged under her chin. She can hardly discern the information coming in through the other line. The thoughts in her mind are sticky, webbing of the past gumming up the cogs until she’s not entirely sure what’s being said. “Can you say that again?” she asks, stretching out to her left to feel that familiar pull on her ribs. The movement is nice without a bra on and she’s not sure if it’s JJ or Hotch on the other line but she doesn’t want to put on a bra and it’s tempting to just hang up and play dead. Emily who? She can’t come to the phone right now. You’ll have to call back lat--

“Hotch is in the hospital.”

Oh. All that stretching is for nothing, she can feel the ball of weight forming at the back of her neck. Pressing into her vertebrae, hurting from just holding her head up. “What happened?” Her fingers work into the groove, the chill of her skin shocking her, but the pressure she applies is futile. She imagines a thousand answers to that question but none of them are enough to prepare her for the real answer.

JJ clears her throat, her tears thickening her voice. “Shot,” comes her simple response and Emily is naive enough to consider that’s the end of it. He was shot. They’re going to have to hunt down another serial killer with a grudge but they’ve learned their lesson this time, right? Foyet taught them lessons about themselves that they needed to learn the hard way and they can beat it this time. Hotch will be fine and-- “And Jack’s gone.”

And Jack’s gone.

[whump-town]

Whump. Very minimal, hardly there Hotchniss.

Jack is a big kid now and he’s still not forgotten the mortality of the adults around him-- not that they give a chance to

Jack puts up his best defense-- avoidance. Walking into the hospital, he holds his head high. He’d inherited his father’s height and in moments like these, it’s incredibly helpful. No one so much as blinks as he walks to the front desk. Looking more like a man than a seventeen-year-old, it’s not hard to garner some attention from the desk.

“What can I do for you, sugar?”

Jack clears his throat, counting fingers his fingers so that he doesn’t exhibit all of the stress tells he knows he has. “I’m looking for my--” he looks to the side for a moment. He’s looking for Hotch and Emily but he needs to establish a relationship to get anywhere near them. “The agents?” He asks, eyebrow raised. “The agents that came in, they’re my-- my parents.” He brings his hands together to rub nervously at his palms. “Agent Hotchner and Prentiss?”

The woman nods her head, not even giving his stuttering or hesitation a second thought. She’s seen plenty of kids and parents come in through those doors. Most of which, aren’t in the best state of mind. Rather one tracked with their goals in mind. Not that she can blame them.

“Alright,” she says, pulling up both files. “Well,” she clicks her tongue. “Agent Hotchner is, currently, signing himself out AMA on the third floor.” She looks up at him. “You can get to him through that hallway straight back,” she turns and shows him. “Agent Prentiss is in surgery so I can’t do much for you there.”

Without taking his eyes off of the door she pointed out, Jack nods. “Okay, thank you.” Suddenly, he’s lost his nerve. 

“On through there,” the nurse repeats, her kind smile still in place.

Jack nods, “right.” Right.

Stepping into the hall he falters to put on some hand sanitizer-- which is always a good idea but it’s just a diversion. To keep as much space between him and all of this. Whatever has happened.

When he sees them, he pulls in a full breathe and straightens his back again. “You guys suck,” he announces to the room. Their heads shoot up and he gets a few forced smiles in response. “A family reunion without me?”

Dave forces himself up out of one of the uncomfortable chairs lining the wall. “How are you holding up, my boy?” Jack closes his eyes as he’s pulled into Dave’s arms. He stands just a little taller than him now but that doesn’t stop him from pushing his face into his Pop’s shoulder. 

Jack has to fight back the tears Dave is attempting to wrangle out of him. “Me?” he asks, voice stiff with the emotions bursting in his chest. “Dandy,” he replies. “How are dumb and dumber?”

Dave chuckles and the sentiment is shared with the others. Jack can see Derek shaking his head, JJ even smiling and rolling her eyes. Good, he thinks. They need to laugh more.

Dave releases him with one final squeeze. “Emily,” he says, “is back in surgery. She was holding on pretty strong there until the end.” His face pinches as he fails to decide just how much of the truth he’s willing to divulge and how much of it Jack can handle. Placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder he smiles sadly, “she gave us quite the scare.”

Jack takes the news as he has to-- without flinching. He nods his head and digs his nails into his palms to keep his voice steady. “And Dad?” 

No sooner than Dave can even process the question, Hotch steps out of a room. He’s leaning to the left, using his dominant hand to keep him balanced as he slowly shuffles the two steps through the doorway. “Jack?” His white dress shirt is pulled open and his hair is pushed in every direction by thick white gauze wrapped around his head. 

JJ is the first to move. Before anything can be said, she’s moving to stand in front of Hotch. She starts to button his shirt, ignoring just how far off Hotch looks when he just stands and watches her deftly manipulate the tiny buttons into the equally tiny holes. Covering up his exposed chest because if he were in a better state of mind he wouldn’t want any of them seeing the scars littering his chest.

“You need to sit down,” JJ says, taking his elbow and gently turning him back towards the room. Hotch grunts but doesn’t go with her. She reaches up and cups his cheek, waiting for his cloudy brown eyes to find her. “Come with me, Hotch. Jack can come too.”

It makes Jack feel immensely guilty but he has no desire to be anywhere near his father right now. The sight of him so vulnerable-- his blood is still soaked into his shirt, confusion twisted into his pained expression, and the emotion in his eyes-- is too much. Of course, Jack understands everyone is mortal. His father will die. Maybe not today but eventually. 

But he’s still a seventeen-year-old kid who can’t wrap his head around what he’s seeing right now. 

“Don’t…” Hotch grunts again this time pinned between Morgan and JJ and losing any say he has in the matter. “I’m not gonna sit in that bed,” he mumbles, shuffling where he’s guided. 

Morgan shakes his head, “it’s the bed or the wheelchair, Hotch.”

Jack scowls at the ground. As they’re all funneling into the room, Dave makes Jack go next right after Morgan, JJ, and his father. He’d much prefer being in the back. Away from all of this. 

Settled into the wheelchair and grumply allowing Garcia to tuck a blanket around him, Hotch looks a little better. The blanket covers his bloodied t-shirt and the bulk of where the bandages sit on his chest. “How’s Emily?”

Jack keeps his eyes on the floor even when he’s certain his father is looking up at him. He just glares at the floor and wills his tears away. He does glance up as someone-- Dave-- steps into the room. But he’s looking at the ground again before he catches anyone’s eye. 

“I just talked to the doctor,” Dave says. He comes into the room and Jack can feel Dave looking at him. “She’s doing well. They’ve put her in a room and she’s already responding to them.”

Jack makes the mistake of looking up and when he catches his father’s eye he feels a heat across his face. Hotch looks away first. 

Dave clears his throat, “they’re gonna let Aaron back to see her--”

Jack looks up, torn between anger and ease that he doesn’t have to go too. 

“So the rest of you can head on home,” Dave says. “Come back in the morning, well rested, and they’ll let us all back. But for now it’s just Jack and Aaron.”

Fuck.

They share awkward half-hugs which are really just bad because neither Hotch nor Jack do much more than limply allow the hugs they’re being pulled into. Hotch won’t actually look at any of them, not that Jack does much more than mirror Morgan’s chuckle and lean into Garcia’s hug.

“Come on, boys.” 

Sooner than they’re ready for, it’s just Jack, Dave, and Hotch. The later of which is losing his fight against the drugs he was given upon being admitted into the hospital. 

Jack down right looks pissed when he realizes Dave standing at the door means he’s being left to push his father’s wheelchair. Once again, he loves the man. Hotch has been an amazing father. He’s kind and loving and Jack’s never felt anything but safe and loved but… he’s uncomfortable. 

Without a word, Jack moves behind Hotch and heaves all his weight forward. They go no where.

Hotch glances back at him with a shake of his head, silent judgement. “Brakes, genius,” he rasps.

Jack puffs out an impatient sound and moves to the side, shooting Hotch a frown as he unlocks the brakes. “I’ll run you into a wall,” Jack threatens. This time, when he moves behind the wheelchair, they move when he pushes. “Lay off the brownies, old man.” It’s hard to take turns but he successfully makes it down two halls and an elevator without running them into anything. Not that Hotch certainly acts like he’s being reckless. 

They take an elevator to the next floor up.

“Jack?” 

He gets really, really hot. Glancing at Dave out of the corner of his eyes, he realizes that bastard has left him completely on his own. “Mhm.” He pulls his hands from the wheelchair he rubs at them nervously.

“I’m sorry.”

Jack turns his head away from Dave and Hotch, thankful the elevator stop just then.

He doesn’t say anything. 

Hotch has been sorry for stupid crap like this Jack’s entire life. While he doubts whatever happened occurred without fault of some kind on his father, he also knows he can’t change his dad. 

Hotch is a hero and Jack knows what happens to heroes. 

His entire life he’s looked up to heroes. Equating his father with the likes of Captain America or… Ironman. Jack had seen how that ended. He’d gone to see the last Avengers movie with his friends, Henry amongst them. And when Ironman snapped, dying a slow painful death, and leaving behind his kids and wife… Jack had excused himself to the bathroom. 

Because he knows that he’s more than likely going to loose his father in the same way.

Except, men like Aaron Hotchner don’t get memorilized. They turn into ghost and lessons. 

Jack pushes Hotch right up to Emily’s side, never once looking at either. He settles himself into a chair on the opposite side of Emily, away from Hotch. He looks up at his father once, catching his eye. He has to look away. 

He’s lost a mother, already. He remembers what that was like. To hug his mother for the last time while his father cried on the other end of the line. A serial killer standing in their living room and being told to go hide and just hope… what would have happened if Hotch wasn’t a little quicker? If he’d died that day or both of them?

Glancing up at Hotch once more time… 

Jack knows his father wishes he’d died that day. That Haley were still here and Foyet had killed him. 

Jack can’t imagine life going any other way than how it did. Would his mother take him out to the park every Saturday like he and Hotch had? Would his mother have stayed in touch with the team? Would he view his father like he now views his mother?

What he does know, is that he’s scared by the way his mother died but he’s glad his father is still around. He loves and appreciates Hotch fighting the way he did that day and everyday sense and one day, Jack will learn how to say that.

But for now he’s got to worry about Emily. Who is not only awake but reading his tension like an open book.

Jack fiddles with his thumbs, unwilling, or unable to look at Emily. 

She doesn’t say anything about it. In the low light of the room, silent while Hotch sleeps peacefully, she’s content. Slowly, she keeps drawing her fingers through Hotch’s hair. His back is going to ache and his ribs will give him hell but for now, he’s bent over the side of the bed with his head on her hip. Snoring softly. Sleeping, as he should be. 

“Do you want to talk about it,” she asks, keeping her eyes on the steady rise and fall of Hotch’s back.

Jack shakes his head, clutching his hands tighter and willing them to steady. “No, ma’am.”

Ma’am. That makes her snort a little. There’s nothing that really says Hotchner like manners popping up out of nowhere. Well, was she not the Queen of pettily calling Hotch sir just to piss him off? Maybe it’s just them thing. The three of them.

“I’m mad at you,” he whispers. He tries so hard to keep that humorous undertone but it falls sort of flat. Not that she doesn’t get he’s being slightly funny. “Always out running around like reckless kids.” He leaves out that if they die they’re leaving behind a kid. Him. And at seventeen it wouldn’t be a big deal having to deal with foster-care or even adoption.

They know Dave would take care of him. That’s just not the point.

“Baby,” she whispers, her own tears pooling over as one runs down Jack’s face. 

He wipes it away angrily. “I’m fine,” he grumbles.

Her smile saddens. She reaches out to him, hand palm up on the bed. He takes it without really thinking. “You’re too much like your father,” she chides, softly. “You’ve got to get out of that head of yours and tell me what’s wrong.” Squeezing his hand, a hot tear runs down her cheek. 

Jack sucks in a choked breath and he stands, not even asking when Emily opens her arms up and he buries his face in her neck. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promises, holding him closer. “I promise, Jack.”

And, God, what he would give to believe her.