bloodbath: the foyet arc in a different light
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It was there, at his bar, that he realized he was being watched. That his intimate routine had been fodder for unwelcome eyes. Feeling the hair standing up on the back of his neck while he poured his drink, set the glass to his expectant lips, he froze and closed his eyes for what felt like an eternity. He could have lived a hundred lifetimes in that split second. He smelled Foyet, and knew without any reason that it was him. The unmistakable sour tang of sweat and gunpowder and patience...how long had he been here, in Aaron's home, waiting? Hours, days? Where had he explored in the quiet, what corners had he set himself in, what hidden places and unpacked boxes had he explored? He heard the swish of fabric behind him and out of the corner of his eye the murky shadow beside his washing machine seemed to ooze and change shape, coming to life. Not a person, not yet, just a moving ink blot. He tasted his heartbeat, felt it pounding at his adams apple and swallowed it down...not now, he thought. Not now.
“How's my friend Agent Morgan?”
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A year after Foyet's knife scarred Hotch's face, he's ready to return to work. (And Derek can't stop kissing him.)
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