#imthegodofbacon

...

Hotch skids to a stop beside JJ. He’s blown by Gonzalez and Janssen. He means no disrespect, but the local LEOs right behind him can tend to their bodies, confirm their deaths. His only concern is making sure that JJ isn’t dead. She can’t be dead.

He flips her body over. JJ’s lips are tinted blue -- she’s so cold -- but the more pressing observation is that she’s not breathing. Hotch immediately starts compressions. No one’s confirmed dead until they’re warm and dead.

Hotch’s steady rhythm of compressions belie his tumultuous thoughts.

One, two, three, four, another one bites the dust. No! Wrong song! So, so terribly morbid. Kaplan and his partner are long gone. Five, six, seven, eight, staying aliiiiiiive. Or at least, they’re not here now -- Nellie the Elephant packed her trunk and said goodbye to the circus -- and if they are, someone else can take charge of tracking them down.

His peripheral senses pick up people approaching.

“Hotch,” someone says above him. His name is repeated – more emphatically this time – and strong arms wrap around him to pull him away. It’s then that he realizes the voice belongs to Derek Morgan.

Still he struggles.

He only stops once he realizes the new arrivals include the paramedics who are working on JJ in his stead. He insists that he rides in the ambulance with her.

…

Hotch knows the verdict the moment he sees the doctor’s face. He lets her words fade into each other, wash over him, as the reality of the situation tries to sink in.

Silence falls as the doctor leaves. The team looks to him – for guidance, in sympathy, he doesn’t know.

Eventually Rossi offers, “I can call Will.”

“No,” Hotch responds quickly. He sees the way Rossi looks at him – hates the way Rossi looks at him like he’s fragile and needs to be handled – and takes a second to gather himself together. He repeats the word quietly, “No. I should do it.”

But what the hell is he supposed to say? I’m sorry for your loss? We did everything we could? We’ll get the sons of bitches who did this?

It occurs to him, and painfully so, that JJ would’ve been the person he’d turn to in a situation like this. JJ would know how to come up with something meaningful, some beautiful combination of words whose meaning hadn’t been worn down through repetition and could convey everything he feels and how genuinely he feels it.

It also feels cheap to try channeling JJ to the person who potentially knows -- knew -- her best in the world.

...

“Okay,” said JJ as she prepared their hot cocoa. “Now what are these Tim...” She trailed off, gesturing for Stevie to finish for her.

“Tim Tam Slams.” 

“Right, those. Are they something you learned about in school?”

“No, Mom,” said Steve, rolling her eyes. “I had them at Aunt Emily’s. Didn’t she tell you about them?”

JJ shook her head. Their drinks usually involved more alcohol.

Once the hot cocoa was poured into two mugs, Steve walked JJ through the basics.

“You bite opposite corners off.” Stevie demonstrated with her own cookie. JJ followed along. “A little bit more,” Stevie instructed, waiting until JJ did so before continuing, “And then you use it as a straw.”

JJ looked at her skeptically. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Stevie echoed, wanting to leave the rest as a surprise. “Try it.”

JJ dipped one bitten corner into her cup and sucked up the hot cocoa through the other end, surprised when it actually came through, the taste enhanced by the chocolate, melted biscuit, and filling from the cookie. 

Then suddenly the Tim Tam was melting in her hand. “Oh my God,” she blurted before quickly cramming the rest of the cookie into her mouth.

JJ’s shocked expression and the mess of melted chocolate covering her hands and mouth had Stevie laughing. 

“That was amazing,” JJ declared.

“Right?” Stevie grinned. “See why we need so many now?”