A/N: Updating may take a bit more time, since I just recently started working graveyard... :P But I moved out of retail and into police records! Woot! Huge change! I'm hoping I develop a pretty good perspective when it comes to crime-based fiction...Anyway! Onward!

Hotch's team had cycled through their checkup on their leader, stopping by to make their requisite visit and to give him support. Rossi had come in shortly after Emily's departure and had stayed just until the nurse on duty loaded Hotch up with pain meds. He'd been quite uncomfortable by then as the sedative used for surgery had finally lifted and in its wake was the unpleasantness that he remembered from his past experiences with going under the knife. The creeping ache that had begun in his elbow had become a swarming pain that encompassed his entire arm, and by the time the nurse had decided to show up, he'd been close to losing his cool and had wanted to begin screaming for something to ease the discomfort.

Fortunately, by the time JJ had tiptoed into his room, he'd been good and medicated, fighting through periods of morphine-induced semi-consciousness and he'd hardly paid her any notice, couldn't even be sure that she'd been there in the first place—everything had a dreamlike quality to it, the sounds, smells, touch of his surroundings—and his perception of reality and time had been distorted so he hadn't been aware of what was real and what was a mere figment of his drugged-up imaginings. Had he dreamt up the mostly one-sided conversation he'd been having with the blond woman? He'd vaguely recalled his incoherent responses to her soft questions, and her good-natured chuckling. Felt real enough.

What had seemed like a few seconds of drifting in and out had actually been several hours. When he'd, at long last, awoken entirely, he had expected JJ to still be at his side, but he had been surprised to not only find he was in a completely different room, but Morgan had taken up residence at his side, a large file in his lap. He'd been engrossed in the text when Hotch had turned toward him, grunting in frustration at the limitations of movement he'd now faced.

If the older man is honest with himself, he will admit that he had hoped Emily would return and continue the strange conversation she'd started hours earlier.

After an orderly wheels in a feast of soft foods covered in aluminum lids, trivial dialogue about the crew and Reid's improving condition quickly turns into shop talk.

Once Hotch's bed is adjusted into a sitting position, Morgan closes the file and regards the man in resignation. "His name was Dean Marcus Klinger." Morgan unfolds his arms and adjusts his long legs as he rests awkwardly in the chair next to Hotch.

"Sounds familiar. How do we know him?" the unit chief asks, faintly attentive as he turns his sickeningly sweet apple juice in a plastic bottle around in his right hand. He looks more despondent than interested. None of the containers before him have been touched with the exception of the small jug clutched in his grip. He'd been forced to accept help from Morgan after the younger man had spied his boss attempting, and failing, to stab a straw into the top of the container. One sip later, Hotch is glumly acquiescent of this new reality—requiringassistance with simple, mundane tasks that he'd performed himself since he'd been old enough to walk. Why couldn't he have been shot in his non-dominant arm? His life would have been far easier if his left elbow had stayed intact.

He imagines the prolonged stay in Portland, then the month long recuperation at home with the three day a week visits to the physical therapist, doing circles around his apartment, chasing Jack with one good arm and half of the patience. Learning how to write without making himself look ridiculous, relearning once again how to hold and operate a firearm. If he cannot recover beyond reproach, he may as well turn in his shield and retire while he still has a morsel of his pride—that's the scariest notion of all. And something that could very well be his life from this point on.

Morgan appears to take notice of Hotch's deep contemplation, but he continues as if he is being heard. "He knew one of our victims, Natasha Haynes, associated through one of his kids."

Hotch's mind skimmers over the images he'd viewed a week before in his Quantico office—a picture of a striking 12 year old girl with an open, trusting smile, perfectly styled mahogany brown locks, and then the dark, repulsively explicit shots made by one of the responding crime scene technicians after a jogger had discovered her body in a heavily wooded area near Mount Tabor Park.

"The cops over at the central precinct office had originally investigated him for sexual abuse in 2008, allegedly made by a girl who disappeared about a year ago. They've never been able to locate her body, and never got him to confess to anything, so they were forced to release him until they found her remains or more evidence was uncovered."

Hotch frowns toward the wall at that. The rotten injustice of the local police having an eye on the UNSUB and having their hands tied by lack of evidence does not sit well with him. Especially when it results in an innocent girl enduring sexual abuse and being killed by the same creep while local law enforcement sit on their hands, waiting for the man to commit another heinous act so that they have something more concrete to charge him. "His first victim." His gaze switches to his younger counterpart. "What was her name?"

"Brittany Quinton, who was 11 years old at the time she vanished. She had accused him of trying to rape her a year prior. Her disappearance generated one of the largest searches conducted in Multnomah County history by then. Volunteers have launched three of their own since the police decided to pull back after nothing turned up."

Hotch scoffs discontentedly and stares at the side of his apple juice as if he has found something interesting about it that requires so much attention. He wishes that he can simply move on from this case, try to recover now that they know the UNSUB is dead and the girl they'd been attempting to find is safe from harm and in the stronghold of police protection. However, he knows that Morgan's deductive mind needs answers, and that is why he is studying the large manila dossier instead of one of the magazines lying untouched in the plastic holder against the wall. Not to mention, something just doesn't sit right with Hotch—his intuition is still screaming at him despite the conclusiveness brought by the UNSUB's death. "What was her connection to Klinger?"

"She lived down the street from his house, and was in the same after school choir as his daughter Nicole and the other victim, Natasha. All three girls were friends."

Hotch fiddles with the bulky straps enclosing his mangled left arm, his mind starting to fill in the gaping holes that had plagued the investigation from the beginning. "So he went from murdering girls in his neighborhood to running up and down I-5, nabbing perfect strangers? Are you absolutely sure that he didn't have an associate?"

Morgan shrugs. "As far as we know, he acted alone. He very well could have started where he felt comfortable, and then expanded his scope when his criminal conduct began to escalate."

"Maybe so, but I think we need to look into the theory of another potential UNSUB."

Emily knocks on the open door. "Hey."

Hotch's attention shifts to the right and he urgently tries to ignore the little leaps his middle does at the sight of her. "What's going on?"

The woman half-grins, then enters the private room appearing strained. "Something's come up."

Morgan stands to greet her. "A new development?" Emily nods grimly, eyes sneaking over to the man in the bed and holding his just a moment before flitting away nervously. Morgan turns to Hotch seemingly unaware of the awkward exchange, whose hawk eyes have sharpened in intensity. "Another missing girl?"

"Not quite," Emily says, pocketing her hands in her jeans—clearly she'd had time to clean up and change—as she comes to a stop at the foot of the bed. "Dean Klinger's son Gregory hasn't been heard from in five hours. His mother said that this is extremely unusual for what is typical of his normally methodical and organized behavior."

Hotch rubs at his left collarbone. "Why is that significant? Do the police think that Klinger killed his son?"

"Actually, I don't think Dean Klinger killed those girls in Washington or California. I think that his victims have been solely based out of the Portland area."

"Our profile was wrong," Hotch mumbles softly.

Morgan glances at Emily. "There were two UNSUBs. Father and son."

Emily lifts her shoulders haplessly. "As bizarre as it sounds, this seems to be a family affair. Digging into Klinger's background turned up something interesting—his father is serving a life sentence for murdering a stranded motorist off of I-5 just before he raped and strangled the man's wife, and then dumped their bodies in a shallow grave a few miles away." Their silence urges her to continue. "We can presume that young and impressionable Dean rode with him and also participated in the murders, but investigators back then were unable to place him at the scene, and they were forced to release him to his mother after they questioned him."

"So the family business is alive and well through Klinger's son."

She nods, and then makes room for Rossi, who squeezes his way in. "Hotch," the older man says, appearing ready for action. He is busily clipping his shield onto his belt next to his service pistol. "An APB was sent out about thirty minutes ago with Gregory Klinger's physical description, as well as his car. He may have been spotted heading southwest toward I-5, on his way out of Portland. He just recently filled up his gas tank about 15 miles from here. If we leave now, we may be able to cut him off before he hits the freeway. The central and east precincts have just been dispatched to respond."

Hotch feels the welcome rush of adrenaline hit his senses at the opportunity of hunting down an UNSUB, one of the best reasons to be a crime fighter—at least as long as they are able to help a victim and put an end to any kind of violence. He watches his teammates eagerly glance at one another, then burst into action. Morgan drops the file onto the rolling table still holding Hotch's untouched trays of food, and the three mobile agents assemble themselves to prepare to leave. His mood wanes—of course, he's stuck here in the hospital and must observe the chase from over on the sidelines.

Emily's expression implores him for his direction, but there is something else that unsettles him, something he can't, or won't, identify. Her wide, obsidian eyes latch onto his and he remembers her being there when he had come around from the depths of the anesthesia, her concern and gentle humor, then the implicit, unconfirmed thing between them that had developed while he hadn't been looking. He'd been too distracted by everything around them—the job, his home life, the tragedy surrounding him—to really pay close enough attention.

Now it is at the forefront, and what should seem obvious to a man who prides himself as a seasoned, quick as a whip profiler is the failure to notice the growing attachment he'd developed with Emily. He probably should have recognized the change in their dynamic after his attack and Haley's murder—she'd insisted on escorting him to and from work and home—but he'd been too wrapped up in his own head to see it. It is apparent to him now, but he no longer knows how to act around her without making the air between them bizarre and riddled with uneasiness. He has an inkling that she's dealing with a similar conviction.

Hotch squirms a bit, then gestures at them, tearing his gaze from the dark-haired stunner to avoid any scrutiny from the other men. "Go."

They turn to leave, but Emily lingers a few curious seconds. Hotch forces himself to be still and regard her need for some kind of intimate exchange just for the two of them. She waits for the men to disappear before speaking. "Aaron," she begins, and his mouth hangs agape, unsure of what to say in return. She inches up to him and finally takes his free hand, squeezing gently. A tiny smile lights up her face and he lies there, captivated. "We'll be back."

He nods, a responsive smile in place. "Stay safe."

She bites her bottom lip, seeming hesitant, and then leans over and lightly kisses his temple, allowing her mouth to brush the skin for a moment longer before pulling away and moving from his side and out of the room. Hotch can only stare at the doorway, dumbstruck, her kiss having left a permanent print on the flesh next to his brow.

Thanks for reading!