Chapter Text
Hotchner wasn’t quite sure when he stopped being Aaron. Maybe it was when Hayley finally left. Or maybe it was when Hayley died. Maybe it was the first time he killed. Maybe it was the first time his father took out the belt, or maybe it was when he found the man on the floor of his studio, his brain dripping from the bookshelves and a gun by his hand. It didn’t matter. Whenever the year, whatever the reason, Aaron was gone. And Hotch didn’t know how to mourn him.
He didn’t know much at all, these days. Time was blurring into maintenance, details that he let slip by. The wins he used to take pride in meant nothing. It was just another day, another case. Another day, another victim. Another day, another life he was too late to save.
Your fault. She’s dead because of you.
So he threw himself into his work. Late hours, early mornings, sleeping in his chair at the office. Forgetting to eat for days on end before passing out on his desk, then pushing himself twice as hard to make up for the time he missed.
“Where were you!? You didn’t call.” “I miss you, daddy.” Your fault. He hates you for it, hates you. What kind of hero are you? An absent father, always catching the bad guys, too late the one time it really mattered.
The concern of his teammates was met with blank stares and a set jaw. Garcia told him once about the therapy she was taking, not-so-subtly hinting that he should get some. He told her that her business was with the computers, not people, and to never try to tell him how to handle his personal matters again. She didn’t bring it up after that. It didn’t make him feel better.
Exhaustion was the only thing he really registered. Down to his bones, it permeated everything he touched. Bright colors dimmed until he could hardly tell what was red and what was green. What was blood, and what was ink on his fingers after a long day of writing. Coffee tasted bitter but weak. The shiny black leather on his seat cushion wore away to a cracked, tired-looking grey. Most days, as he slogged through work, all he wanted was to lay his head down to sleep and never wake back up.
Hayley. Hayley would know what to do. She would know just what to say, just how to touch him to make him fall apart in a way that she could put back together again.
But that was his whole problem, wasn’t it? That was why she left him. He was always expecting her to mend his broken pieces, but never did he notice when she started to crack. Hadn’t Reid, the resident genius, put it clearly out there? A classic, textbook narcissist. That’s what he was. He needed to apologize to Hayley. She didn’t deserve to have to put up with him for so long. He should call her, say hi to Jack, let her know--
You killed her. She’s dead because of your incompetence.
Hotch struggled to breathe. Red, there was red all over, she was lying on the ground with a hole in her neck, asking him why, why wasn’t he fast enough, why wasn’t he good enough, and Foyet’s face was caving in beneath his fists, so much red, red, all his fault why don’t you stand up, you coward? Too much of a girl to face me? So girly, maybe I should fuck you like one, huh? I wouldn’t have to do this if you were good, if you were a good little boy who didn’t tell the cops I was hitting you. What, did you think they’d believe you? Me, against your word? What were you thinking? You’re a disgrace. I’ll have to hurt your mother too, now, you know, and it's all your fault, Aaron. You killed her, you killed her, red red red everywhere the gun was in his hands and she was looking at him with shock. I loved you, she mouths, before his finger pulls the trigger and she crumples and he tries to scream, tries to scream her name, Hayley! HAYLEY!
Someone grabbed his shoulder and he shot awake, grabbing his gun on pure instinct and clicking off the safety in one fluid motion as he fell sideways off his chair. He pointed the gun in his assailant’s eyes, trying to blink the crust of sleep out of his own so he could see their face. Their mouth was moving, but through the blood pounding in his ears, he could barely make out any sound.
“...otch! Aaron, it’s okay, you’re safe, it’s me.”
Derek.
It was just Morgan, hands held out in front of him in a placating gesture. Hotch let himself drop the rest of the way to the ground, the pistol falling from his grip.
“Morgan,” he breathed, relief flooding his veins, pushing the adrenaline out.
He sat up gingerly, trying to keep the world from spinning around him. He pressed a hand to his forehead. His head was pounding.
His forehead felt wet. He caught sight of the smear of blood on his hand and a wave of revulsion crashed through him. He was bleeding. Foyet's blood on his hands, Hayley's blood, or was it Jack's? Was-
No. He sucked in a breath. It was just ink.
“What….” he croaked. “What time is it?”
Morgan regarded him in silence for a moment, that same look on his face that he always got.
“It’s almost midnight, man.” he said finally. “You gotta go home.”
Hotch nodded, and struggled to his feet, leaning on the desk for support. The world had been spinning when he was sitting, but standing up it was ten times worse. His vision clouded over with white and and his legs almost gave way again. Somehow, he managed to stay upright, taking deep breaths until the world’s violent rocking stopped. He straightened after a moment, grabbed his computer, and strode out the door, leaving Morgan staring after him.
Morgan caught him just before he reached the bullpen. “Hey,” he said, putting a hand on Hotch’s shoulder. “You alright?”
Hotch sighed, but stopped walking and turned to his concerned friend.
Friend? Were they even friends? Or had he managed to push Derek out just like everyone else?
“What did I say?” he asked shortly.
“Huh?”
“Well, clearly, I said something that concerned you while I was asleep.”
“What? No,” Morgan frowned. “You didn’t say anything. Just thrashed around a bit. But we’re all worried about you. You haven’t slept for the past two days and the day before that you slept in your office. I haven’t seen you eat once. What’s going on with you?”
Hotch stared at him for a moment, forcing himself not to let the fresh wave of disorientation show. “I don’t believe my personal matters are of consequence to you.”
Morgan squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, stepping closer, the way he always did when expecting a fight. “They’re of consequence to me if your mental state is affecting your ability to work with the team!” he challenged.
Morgan was right, of course, he thought, as he fought to see past the white spots in his vision. Hotch’s carelessness and... lack of focus when after an unsub was going to keep costing them lives. He needed to… he needed to pull himself together. His defensive front was crumbling around him and it was dangerous. He had to fix this. Somehow. He knew there were some over-the-counter pills that were meant for focus… He could use those to fix this, maybe, since he was clearly too invalid and pathetic to function on his own, or--
“Hotch,” Morgan’s voice cut through the fog of his thoughts. His gaze had softened. “Look, man, I know you’re going through a lot after Foyet. The team is here for you. We’ve all lost someone, alright? You can talk to us. If you need more time off, we’re more than happy to pick up your slack.”
Hotch nodded. “Yeah,” he said simply, unable to muster up the energy for either gratitude or a rebuke.
He and Morgan stood above the bullpen for another breath, then Hotch turned and continued his way out without another word. He could practically see Morgan shaking his head and giving a disappointed sigh, even with his back turned. Disappointed, just like every other person in his life. Disappointed or dead.
Oh, Aaron, did you really think people would like you enough to get you out of here? All you are is a mistake. Your mother doesn’t even love you anymore. If she did, would she be letting me do this? No. You disappointed her, Aaron. You're pathetic. She hates you.
His father’s voice in his head was so clear that he barely stopped himself from glancing around for the source, drawing in a sharp breath and choking on it. Immediately, he doubled over in a violent coughing fit. His thin body shook with what felt like dry sandpaper to his throat. He hardly registered Morgan calling out his name. With no surface to cling onto for balance, Hotch was forced to kneel on the floor, and with each cough that wracked his body, the room grew a little bit fuzzier. Morgan’s concerned face in front of his own faded in and out of focus, until there was a sharp pain on the back of his head and the world dissolved into nothing.
Distantly, Aaron could hear yelling. The ringing in his ears made it impossible to make out the words, but somehow he knew that the voices were yelling about him. He opened his eyes, forcing them to adjust to the light, and concentrated.
“You’re going to kill him!”
“So you care about that now, huh?”
“How dare you! I cook all your meals. I do all your laundry. I do everything for you, and you--!”
A thud. His mother cried out.
“I LOVE AARON! You sick son of a bitch, you can’t--”
A smack, and a small shriek.
“SHUT THE HELL UP!”
Another thud, a sob, and the horrible sound of fist meeting soft flesh.
Aaron’s eyes widened. He had to get out there to protect her. He stumbled to his feet, his beaten body screaming with every step, and practically threw himself at the door. It wouldn’t budge. He opened his mouth to yell for the man to stop, but nothing came out. He slammed his hand against the thick wood and panted, trying as hard as he could to make a single sound, but he couldn’t. He reached up and grasped at his bruised throat, frantically mouthing words, panic overtaking his veins,
and he awoke, thrashing and tangling his legs in the sheets, to the sound of rapid beeping. For a few moments, he gasped for breath, heart pounding wildly, hardly even taking in his surroundings, though he seemed to be in a hospital. Before he could compose himself, and before he could rip the IV out of his arm, the door at the end of the sterile white room flew open with a bang. Hotch visibly flinched. In the doorway stood a woman who was clearly his doctor. Behind her, peeking through the gap in the door, stood a frantic Penelope Garcia. “Sir!” Garcia shouted. “Are you alright?”
The doctor rushed to his side, but he waved her off. “I’m fine.” He declared, already swinging his legs off the cot, determinedly ignoring how much the world was spinning.
“You have severe malnutrition and dehydration, and lack of rest is slowing down your systems, causing you to catch a strand of the flu. You tore some of your more recent wounds back open, so we had to re-stitch, but they’re still in danger of infection, and on top of that, you may have a concussion,” the doctor, who’s name tag read Amber, informed him. “You have to stay in your bed while we check.”
Reluctantly, Hotch lay back down. He had hated hospitals since he was a child. They just meant more pain; more savage beatings and dad, please, I just got it splinted. At the moment, though, he just didn't have the energy to fight his way out.
The doctor hummed in approval, then said something about supplies and strode out the door, leaving Hotch alone with Garcia. They sat in tense silence for a minute or two- Hotch wasn’t sure- before the technical analyst opened her mouth to berate him. “Garcia,” he warned, but it was half-assed and she paid it no mind.
“Don’t you ever-- do you have any idea how worried everyone is!? Passing out in the bullpen, I can’t believe you! I know you value your emotional privacy, and I get that. But to this extent? It is unacceptable!” She fumed, and slammed her sparkly purple purse down on the bedside table to emphasize her point.
Hotch stared at her for a few seconds, and hesitantly, she added “...Sir.”
“I appreciate your concern, Penelope,” Hotch finally said, letting Penelope relax, “But--”
“Shhhhhhhh!” Garcia brandished her finger at him. “Shut your pie hole. No buts, or I will tell Strauss you didn’t eat any of the apology cake she had delivered.”
Hotch suppressed a small smile for what felt like the first time in months, and mimed zipping his lips.
“Good.” Penelope sniffed. “Now. Jack is at school right now, but he wanted to talk to you, so he gave me a sheet of things to say and to ask you.” she pulled some papers out of her pocket and shuffled through them, landing on a loose page and preparing to read off of it. “Buckle up, buttercup, because it’s about to get wild. First off; what’s the best color for trees in a coloring book?”