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Hotch remembered the night that Spencer had been lying in his arms after sex, hair tousled over his face, obscuring the sharp cheekbones and eyes ringed by the dark circles that the young man seemed to take a perverse pride in as proof that he was alive, awake, doing something worthwhile at all hours with the mind that he was so frightened he would one day lose. Reid had been listening to Hotch relate the tedium of his latest meeting with Strauss and how stupid her demands had been.
“You know, I could listen to you read the dictionary,” Reid had sighed, his voice heavy with sleep.
“Are you saying this story is boring?” Hotch had retorted, his voice tinged with annoyance but when Spencer lifted his head he saw Hotch’s crooked smile.
“No, well yes, it is. However, my point was that your voice is sexy,” Reid had replied. “Let’s test it.” The younger man slid from the bed and wandered out the room in the direction of Hotch’s makeshift office all long limbs and sinewy nudity that sent another wave of lethargic arousal through Hotch’s sated body. He returned with Hotch’s old Oxford English dictionary from college under one arm and placed it reverently on the bed, brushing dust from its cover. Laying back into Hotch’s arms, Spencer propped the heavy book on his chest. “Go on.”
Hotch laughed but thumbed the pages open before landing at random at the end of the Os. “Obsequy,” he read, “a funeral rite or ceremony. Well, that’s a bright note to start on.” Spencer had huffed his laughter and Hotch had continued to read, eventually just reading the top two words of each page to find amusing conjunctions. They had laughed.
Hotch wasn’t laughing now. The word had stuck with him. Obsequy. He had just lowered his ex-wife into the ground. Obsequy. The meaningless words. Obsequy. The thick smell of white roses that choked his every breath. Obsequy. His son in a black suit saying goodbye to his mother and not understanding. Obsequy. The team carrying the coffin. Obsequy. Spencer in his goddamn stupid purple scarf because he just couldn’t follow the funeral rite or ceremony to the end. The team being called away and once again abandoning him with all of Hayley’s relatives, who wanted to crucify him for murdering her. If it wasn’t for Jack, he’d hold out his hands for the nails, he’d bear his side for the spear. He wanted to scream that none of this was his fault,that he was grieving too. He wanted to lash out and smash all those stinking vases of flowers. He wanted to list the failures of every member of his team that led to Hayley bleeding and leaking brain matter all over the floor of their house. He bent his head. He mumbled apologies for their loss to yet another Brooks family member and he thought about funeral rites and ceremonies and how they do fuck all to help.
Jack was spending the night with Hayley’s father and Jessica because Hotch hadn’t been able to say no to the man who had told him over and over and over that he was the reason that Hayley was dead. Spittle flicking onto Hotch’s face as Roy listed each of his failings as a husband, as an agent, as a father, as a man. Hotch downed his glass and poured. It was nothing new. Roy Brooks had nothing on his own father. Still, it stung. Hotch downed his glass and poured. His suit still smelled like roses and he practically ripped the jacket from his shoulders, flinging it across the room. His phone sat on the table in front of him, at a perfect right angle to the edge. Hotch downed his glass and poured.
“Hello, Aaron,” Spencer’s voice was heavy with sleep like when he had told Hotch that he would love to listen to him read the dictionary. A sob stuck in Hotch’s throat and he nearly hung up. “Aaron?”
“Spencer, I can’t do this anymore,” pleased with how even his voice sounded, Hotch continued. “Our relationship is unethical. I’m sure you’ll understand.”
“I do.” Spencer’s voice was crisp, all traces of sleep erased.
Hotch paused. He’d expected resistance, a tearful plea for another chance, something. That’s what he’d done when Hayley had left. He’d begged. Apparently, he wasn’t worth begging for. “Good. Ok. Fine. You can pick up your stuff whenever is convenient.”
“No.”
“No? You want me to drop it off?”
“No.”
“Spencer, I don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t but I do,” Spencer sighed heavily. “Stop drinking and go to sleep, Aaron. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Hotch bristled, “We’ve broken up.”
“No we haven’t.”
“Yes we have,” this was getting ridiculous and childish. “You just agreed, no argument.”
“No, I said I understood. I never said that I agreed. We’re not doing this over the phone, Aaron. When I get back, we can talk.”
“We’re doing this now, Spencer. Don’t throw the job in my face. I know the job. I am the damn job. Far better that you’ll ever be,” There was a small voice in the back of Hotch’s mind screaming at him to stop but the burning alcohol in his veins made it easy to push on through. “You’ll never be half the agent I am.”
Spencer just sighed, “That’s undoubtedly true, Aaron.” He sounded sad and slightly cracked. Hotch scented blood and decided to break him.
“Maybe if you were a better agent Haley wouldn’t be dead. Maybe Jack would still have his mother.”
“Don’t do this, Aaron. You’ll regret it when you’re sober.”
“Don’t do what? Tell you the truth. You’re pathetic, Reid.”
“And you’re projecting, Hotch.”
Hotch choked slightly. “You think I’m to blame for Haley’ death? Yes, I should have been faster but maybe if Morgan hadn’t diverted the team’s attention from Foyet I would have been there on time. You’re the genius with geographical profiles and yet you had no idea where Foyet would be. What about Rossi with all his years of experience? What good did that do her?” Hotch was definitely sobbing now, rasping, gulping sobs as he screamed into the phone.
Spencer was silent on the other end until Hotch was gasping softly, tears running unchecked down his face. “We all did our best, Aaron, and sometimes it just isn’t enough. You taught me that. Don’t throw away what we have because you’re grieving and angry at the world.”
“They all said it was my fault, Spence, and they’re right. And then you left me there, alone, to deal with them. I’m so angry at you right now,” The words were there but Hotch’s voice was soft and broken.
“I didn’t want to go, Aaron, but it’s what you would have done.”
Hotch sobbed again, “It’s what I did, every time. I’m a terrible partner.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Haley’s dead because of me.”
“Haley’s dead because of Foyet. This is all on him, Aaron. You know that. Haley’s family can’t understand that right now. They’re looking for a scapegoat and that’s you but you know better. What you experienced today is called obloquy. It’s censure, blame, or abusive language aimed at a person or thing, especially by numerous persons or by the general public.”
Hotch tried to laugh but it came out like another strangled sob. “All day I was thinking about that time you asked me to read the dictionary to you.”
“Obsequy,” Spencer said softly and Hotch nodded even though he couldn’t be seen.
“Why did you wear your scarf?”
“You gave it to me. It makes me feel safe, like you’re embracing me. I thought it… that, maybe, you would see it and be able to focus on our love, you know, to get you through today. I was wrong, wasn’t I? It pissed you off that I wasn’t in all black. I’m sorry, Aaron. I get these things wrong. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Hotch remained silent, his mind reconfiguring the events of the day. Spencer wore the scarf for him, not to flout the accepted customs. The team left because it was what he would have wanted. Haley’s death was not his fault. That one would take a while to accept, if ever. Spencer was still apologizing, a soft, nervous voice in his ear.
“I love you, Spencer.” Spencer’s monologue was cut off with a sharp intake of breath.
“I love you too, Aaron.”
“Get some sleep, you’ve got a killer to catch. Where are you, anyway?”
“Nashville. You’re right, I should sleep. So should you, Aaron. I’ll call when we’re on the jet.”
Hotch hung up and replaced his phone on the table, at a right angle to the edge. He looked at his empty glass and poured another measure, swirling the liquid around the edge. Apparently, he was worth fighting for. It was encouraging. He sipped at the Scotch and watched the dark night through the window. He thought of all the darkness in his life and his son who would be that much closer to it now. He sipped again. He thought of Spencer wearing his purple scarf, a splinter of colour in a black and white day. He finished his glass and lay back on the sofa, closing his eyes.