SPOILER ALERT for 6x18 'Lauren'. A small series of vignettes set during 'Lauren', in the hours after the hospital scene. I know everyone and their mothers are doing this, but hopefully this will be unique enough for your R&Rs!

+o+

"While I thought that I was learning how to live, I have been learning how to die." – Leonardo da Vinci

There is still so much that Jack Hotchner cannot yet comprehend; why the ocean rolls back and forth, why he's never been taken to a theme park with dinosaurs, how shoelaces work, why real life doesn't have background music all the time, or what exactly fishsticks are made of. But one thing he does know, at six years old, is that when his daddy comes home from work and the first thing he does his hug him, sometimes without even dropping his briefcase, he is feeling sad.

That is what happens today, as Jack waits by the door listening to his daddy's car pulling up. He's got a clay mug in hand that he made in school and stayed in at lunchtime to paint, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he prepares to show it to his father. He knows his daddy is sad as soon as he walks through the door, because he's already smiling. Normally his daddy doesn't smile until he becomes at-home-dad, after he's put his briefcase down, taken off his jacket and tie. When he comes in smiling Jack doesn't know it's because he prepares it deliberately in the few seconds it takes to unlock the door, he just knows that it means something.

Jack shifts his hold on his blue and red painted mug to one hand, letting his arms go loose at his side as his daddy comes towards him, scooping him up into his arms. He puts his own around his father's neck, and doesn't complain when he presses his face to his shoulder and squeezes a little too tight. He knows hugging makes things better, and he doesn't want his daddy to be sad.

Aaron cradles the back of his son's head, his eyes pressed closed as he slowly fights the bitter creep of emotion at the back of his throat. There are no words to the boy's aunt who had been looking after him; she knows what has happened, and she puts a hand briefly on the man's arm, giving him a sad look of sympathy. Hotch nods. She leaves.

Finally pulling away, he sits Jack on the edge of the kitchen counter, smiling down at him and smoothing the boy's hair back gently with both hands.

"Did you catch the bad guy today, daddy?" he asks sadly, and his father knows his son can sense that he isn't okay. He knows his son expects the answer he gives.

"No, Jack." He says softly. "Not today."

"You can't catch them every time." Jack says, and Hotch is a little surprised by this; kids are meant to have a view of their superheroes as never failing. But he considers even in his son's comics, the villains sometimes get away, to be chased another time. All the same, he feels somehow he's letting Jack down admitting it, until the boy speaks again. "But you'll get them in the end."

It's childish innocence, and Hotch has no illusions that so many of the 'bad guys' will get away, but his son's faith makes him feel soothed. He puts a kiss against his son's head, and then rests his own forehead against him.

"Do you remember Emily?" He said gently as he straightens. "The lady I work with? With bangs?" he touches his own forehead, and Jack understands and nods. "She died today." He watched as subtly Jack's bottom lip protrudes a little.

"Like mommy?"

"Yes." Aaron lies. He has to tell his son, because he wants to give him some understanding of things outside of the routine that will happen because of it. He has to prepare his son for when he watches him prepare that same black suit as he wore for Haley's funeral.

At the same times it feels cruel to tell him, to remind him of his mother. Even more so there is a tangible worry in Hotch's mind that one day, maybe, he'll have to tell Jack that Emily Prentiss isn't dead, and that it was pretend. The thought that Jack might run with this idea and start to believe that is what happened with his own mother threatens to make him cry right there in front of his son.

"I made this for you." Jack says, because it makes sense to hold the mug out and show him to stop his face turning sad again. His daddy takes it from his hands and looks at it.

"Wow, Jack, you made this?" his dad says, sounding impressed. Jack smiles proudly and nods.

"That's your badge." He said, pointing it out on the mug because his dad doesn't paint and he might not know about it.

"I see." He's smiling properly now, nodding a little. "And is this a sword?"

"No," Jack giggles, knowing he's right; he daddy doesn't know anything about painting, "it's your tie."

"Oh right. Yeah, I see." He said.

Hotch turns the mug around in his hands, feeling the glazed paint and pottery slide over his palm. On the opposite side to his somewhat abstract portraiture are the painted words 'coffee for my best dad'. He cracks and a grin that creases the corners of his eyes, knowing it's a little misshapen and bumpy, but it was crafted with so much love he can practically feel it permeating the clay, and on the handle there are several of Jack's small fingerprints preserved. It is perfect.

"Can I take it to work with me, Jack?" he asks. "I'll put it on my desk. Maybe I could use it for pens?" Jack looks unimpressed.

"If it was for pens it would say so." He says, making a face that is mockingly impatient and tapping the mug with his finger. "It's for coffee, daddy."

"You're right." Aaron agrees. "Can I take it to work with me if I promise to drink coffee from it?"

"Okay." Jack nods.

"Thanks." He kisses his son's head again. "Did you have dinner already?"

"Yeah."

"You want to help daddy cook his dinner anyway?"

"Okay!" Jack holds out his arms so his dad can grab him under the armpit and lift him off the counter with a flourish. He's smiling now, his father's calm spreading through the kitchen.

Hotch goes to the fridge and is silently thankful that his son doesn't have to know it is a calm with currents of regret and sadness below the stillness. He thanks no power in particular that at least for a few hours, his son can distract his mind from the swirling river that is the technical death of Emily Prentiss.

"There are so many little dyings that it doesn't matter which of them is death." - Kenneth Patchen