Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was cold today- very cold.

The chill seeped through the glass of his office windows, curling around him like a snake and squeezing his body tightly. The delicate structures of ice crystals on the windows were creeping along the glass. Had it only been a degree lower, Hotch swears he would be puffing steam with each breath he let out. Even so, he feels comfortable from where he’s sitting at his desk.

The team always complained that his office was too cold, but he doesn’t see why. His office is a perfect, comfortable temperature- he finds it relaxing.

He assumes it's a human thing he just doesn’t grasp. That he can’t truly feel how cold it is sometimes- that he doesn’t need jackets or a heater to be content in the Winter’s chill. How the low temperatures don’t bite at his fingers like snapping fish, but rather calms his body into a state of passive content.

And as much as Hotch does truly love the cold, today was pushing it, even for him.

It was getting into the low thirties, if he remembers what he heard on the radio on his way to work earlier correctly, and would continue to drop throughout the day. Clouds were looming over the city like a shadow, promising snow within the next day, if not the next hour. They trapped the cold air underneath them, further freezing the people below.

So, mixed with his already heater-less office and the dropping temperature, Hotch isn’t surprised that something like this ends up happening. “This” being that when it gets too cold, even for a vampire like himself, Hotch sleeps. Or better yet, hibernates.

His heart that only works half the time to move any blood he eats will stutter to a slow stop, barely moving. His lungs slow to scarcely noticeable shallow breaths; and despite what his slightly blue lips and unresponsive body would say, he is still alive.

So as the temperature continues to drop over the next hour, his breaths now actually coming out in faint puffs of steam, Hotch feels drowsy.

The words on the page in front of him are blurry and smudged, mixing into a muddled mess of lines and dashes. His pen feels heavy in his hand, shaking and uncoordinated. His fingers have a ghostly pale color to them, the faintest hints of grey-blue on their tips. 

Every few minutes Hotch has to pick his head up from where it’s drooped and blink his eyes open. His limbs are getting steadily heavier and losing feeling, leaving him in a blissful state of disconnect.

And despite how much he wishes for it, the weariness is not leaving. Hotch can feel the temperature drop steadily, the Winter chill soaking through his windows and snaking in from his unused heating vents. And with the temperature’s lowering numbers, Hotch can feel his awareness follow it.

It grows more and more apparent that Hotch is not going to be able to simply push this away. His heart is slowing down, his breaths are growing more shallow. The pull of sleep is getting more and more enticing with each passing second.

The heater, he thinks, trying to get his legs to move and stand up, I can turn the heater on and then I’ll be able to work.

But his body is too heavy to hold up on his own when he tries moving, slumping onto his desk not a second later. His arms are sprawled messily across the surface and his head falls to rest on the paper he had just been working on. Huffing in a frustrated manner, Hotch tries to weakly gather himself enough to sit up again to no avail.

It seems his body has finally given into the lull that had been so sweetly calling him. His legs won’t move and his arms feel like they’re made of lead. His eyelids are getting harder and harder to open with each slow blink he makes. Breathing has slowed to nearly unnoticeable, slow, controlled breaths slowly flowing from his lungs every few minutes. The rhythm of his heart slows to a count of only a handful of beats per minute.

Knowing he won’t be able to move much for a while, Hotch closes his eyes a final time with a sigh. He manages to drag his arms into a more comfortable position and under his head. He nuzzles his face into the sleeve of his suit, purring sleepily as he settles into the new position.

Just for a few minutes, he tells himself, just to rest my eyes. I’m not going to fall asleep right now. I’ll get up in a minute and-

(He’s asleep before he can finish his sentence.)

---

Upon stepping into Hotch’s office, Morgan swears he could have walked into a freezer more comfortable than this.

He curses, wrapping his arms around himself and watching in odd curiosity as his breaths puff out in clouds of steam- while inside. He knows their resident unit chief likes the cold, but this is a bit extreme.

The room is dark, only Hotch’s desk lamp on, lighting the surrounding area in a soft yellow light. 

In the dim light he sees Hotch slumped over on his desk, head resting on his crossed arms. Morgan huffs, moving to place the files he brought up on the desk in front of the man.

“It’s cold as hell in here, man,” he says, waiting for Hotch to lift his head up, “Turn your heater on for once. I think I’ve been in snowstorms warmer than your office.”

Hotch doesn’t reply, doesn’t even so much as twitch in response to Morgan’s words. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Morgan, which is odd.

Morgan’s face twists in confusion, leaning down slightly to try and look at Hotch. His face is buried in his arms, hiding from the light of the lamp beside him. Morgan would say he was sleeping, but something feels off. Hotch would have woken up the moment he knocked on the door, let alone spoke to him- something is wrong.

“Hotch,” he says, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. Nothing.

Morgan shakes his shoulder, but he still gains no response. Now thoroughly concerned, Morgan moves to crouch next to his boss, trying to wake him. But no matter what he seems to do or say, Hotch won’t wake up.

“Hotch! You need to wake up man,” Morgan says, raising his voice.

He shakes the man’s shoulder a little rougher than necessary, jostling his head. It tips to one side, revealing Hotch's face. Hidden under his messed up hair and face curtained by fallen bangs, Hotch's face is blank.

An eerie kind of blank, Morgan notes. His eyes are closed and the man's face is slack. His mouth is just barely parted but there's no puffs of steam from each breath- he's not breathing.

He's not breathing.

The realization kicks Morgan into gear, rushing to help the man.

He pushes Hotch back in his chair, his head tipping back and arms hanging limply at his side. The man has no response to Morgan's attempts to check his pulse or wake him.

He calls out for Rossi sometime in his panicked movements of dragging Hotch to the floor. He checks for a pulse again, and oh god- his skin is so cold, but can't find it. It only furthers to stress his racing mind as it tries to wrap around what's happening.

As he waits for the older agent to come into the office, Morgan starts CPR. He would have started with rescue breaths, since Hotch's lips are just barely turning blue and his fingers are turning grey, but he knows starting the man's heart is the first step.

He gets to eight compressions before he hears Rossi rush into the room. He gets to ten before the older agent is yanking him back- off of Hotch and halting his efforts to save him.

"Rossi! What the hell man," Morgan yells, getting up again to try and help Hotch, "Call 911!"

Morgan is back on his knees and about to start CPR when Rossi pushes him away again. This time he tries pushing the man's hands away, but the older agent is persistent. After a moment of pushing each other back and forth over Hotch's body, Rossi roughly shoves him.

"Derek," the man snaps, getting on his own knees and covering Hotch's chest with his hands.

"What," he snaps back, breath coming in heavy pants.

"I need you to listen to me carefully," Rossi starts, "and you're going to have to trust me when I say- Hotch is not dying."

His brain is still reeling from the adrenaline and panic of the whole situation. It isn't functioning at its normal pace, leaving Morgan to miss what the words could really mean.

"Dammit, Rossi! Hotch isn't breathing, his heart isn't beating! We need to-"

"Morgan?"

Both men turn to face the door of the office, where the team has gathered- no doubt drawn in by the commotion Rossi and Morgan had been making. They're watching with a concerned type of curiosity from where they're all standing at the doorway.

Reid stands the closest to the men kneeling on the floor- the one who had called Morgan's name. He has a calculated look on his face as he steps closer to Morgan.

"I think you should listen to Rossi," Reid tells him, grabbing his shoulder to try and guide him back.

"Reid," Morgan hisses, throwing the hand off his shoulder, "Hotch is literally turning blue. I don't give a damn about what Rossi says, we need to-"

He is interrupted by an odd clicking sound. Everyone freezes, turning to face the source of the sound.

Rossi is no longer on his knees, instead he's sitting on the floor. Hotch's back is pulled against his chest and the older agent is rubbing his arms to warm the man up. He's muttering something, seeming to speak to Hotch.

Another second later, the click sounds again- the noise is coming from Hotch.

Morgan watches, brain buffering, as Hotch's throat bobs with the small sound he makes. His fingers twitch, eyelids just barely fluttering. The man slowly, like he's tired, turns his head to one side, nuzzling Rossi's shoulder.

Unlike the rest of the team, who are all shocked and confused, Rossi seems happy. Upon Hotch moving and making sound, he smiles widely.

"Hello," he says, voice laced with humor as Hotch continues to slowly stir awake, "waking up from our nap, are we?"

The man runs his hand through Hotch's hair, gaining a sound that sounded suspiciously like a purr from the man.

"What the fuck," Morgan states plainly, breaking the shocked silence that had befallen the room.

Rossi looks up, smile falling slightly when he sees the state of the team. They all look either lost out of their minds or in shock- not that he blames them, he was pretty shocked when he had found Hotch like this for the first time too.

"I told you," he says to Morgan, "that Hotch would be fine."

Morgan doesn't respond, staring at Hotch as he continues to make clicking sounds and twitching. He looks lost, like his brain is blue screening and he's trying to reboot. Rossi would pity him and answer the obvious question hanging in the air, but the reactions this is garnering are too amusing to pass up.

The older agent runs one hand through Hotch's hair again, gaining another purr from the man as he leans into it.

"Is," Prentiss starts, hesitant with her words as she breaks the silence, "is he...purring?"

Rossi nods, smiling as he opens his mouth to respond- but Reid beats him to it.

"Vampires purr when they feel happy or safe. It's also used as a self comforting gesture or as a way to calm down other vampires," Reid states mechanically, like he's reciting lines from a book.

Rossi watches as the words sink into the team's heads. The shock and understanding that flashes across their faces makes him chuckle.

"Hotch," Morgan starts carefully, "is a vampire."

"He sure is," Rossi tells him, grinning when he draws another purr from the man still leaning against him.

JJ speaks next, voice less hesitant than Emily's was before.

"What happened to him?"

Rossi scoffs, scratching at Hotch's scalp again as he replies, "He was being a dumb ass."

When the team seems to be lost on the vague answer, Reid swoops in to answer it properly.

"Vampires," he starts, "will go into a state similar to hibernation if they get too cold, particularly when they haven't eaten enough and don't have enough blood.

The same way humans' bodies will draw blood towards vital organs in the cold, vampires do the same. Only they do not have enough blood to send to every limb like a humans' circulatory system would. So their heart will slow greatly to avoid wasting blood and-"

Reid's ramble is interrupted by Hotch stirring awake with a confused chirp-like click. The man slowly opens his eyes. His pupils blown wide and fogged with the confusion of just waking up as he looks at his surroundings.

The whole team stares at him as he slowly lifts a hand to rub his eyes. His movements are sluggish and uncoordinated, comparable to a child waking up from a nap- which isn't really too far from the truth.

Rossi smiles, pulling his fingers through the man's hair. Hotch starts to purr again before it abruptly cuts off.

"Rossi," he asks, voice still laced with exhaustion.

"Yes," the man replies, grinning down at the unit chief as he slowly looks around the room.

He takes in each of the team's expressions- shock, understanding, hesitancy. Morgan in particular looks shaken, kneeling on the floor near Hotch and staring at the man intently.

"What, uh," Hotch tries talking, interrupted briefly by a yawn, "what's happening?"

With a great deal of humor and exasperation in his voice, Rossi tells him-

"You were being stupid and your office got too cold. You feel asleep- damn near gave Morgan an actual heart attack with your stunt."

"Oh," he states dumbly, "sorry."

Rossi chuckles at Hotch, shaking his head fondly before pushing the man to sit up right. Hotch goes with it, letting himself be moved around.

He still seems out of it, eyes blinking slowly with wide pupils. The man's breaths are still far too shallow to be normal, but the blueish tint on his lips is starting to fade away. He sits still for a minute, staring off into space when-

"'Oh', that's all you have to say?"

Morgan's angered voice startles Hotch slightly, making him nearly fall back until Rossi places a steadying hand on his back.

"You were dying and I had to come in and find you-"

"Morgan," Rossi cuts in, his voice quickly flipping from the light tone it had before to a more stern one.

Morgan looks at Hotch, eyes wide and confused, and sighs. His shoulders slump as he moves to stand up, rubbing a weary hand across his face.

"You scared me man," he says, looking down at Hotch.

"Sorry," he repeats, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.

Rossi shakes his head again, moving to stand himself. He mutters curses as he does so- something about Hotch making him sit on the floor with his old joints. Once standing the older agent hooks his arms under Hotch's.

"Ready to get up," he asks the man.

Hotch nods, allowing Rossi to tug him up and into a standing position. He sways slightly, blinking away the lingering fogginess of sleep as he reorients.

The man still seems sluggish and lost, arms hanging by his sides and blinking as he slowly looks around the room. His hair is messed up, sticking in odd directions and falling over his face. It’s odd- seeing their normally put together leader so out of it.

After a minute of silence, Rossi speaks; grabbing Hotch's arm he starts to lead the man towards the couch on the other side of the room.

"Cmon Hotch, why don't we lay you down. You're still pretty tired, yeah?"

Hotch nods, following Rossi as he leads him to the couch. He's guided to sit down and then lay on his side. Even though he had only just woken up, he looks exhausted.

"We'll leave you alone for a while," Rossi says as he starts to usher everyone out, "I turned the heater on, so once it kicks in and you properly wake up you can come talk to us."

Hotch doesn't verbally respond aside from a click as he gets comfortable on the couch. He closes his eyes as the team files out and the door to his office shuts.

With the team now outside of the office, Rossi sighs. It turns into a chuckle half way through as he looks up at the agents infront of him.

"So," he says, smiling, "that was fun, wasn't it?"

"Shut up Rossi," Morgan grumbles, turning around and stalking back down the stairs towards his desk. JJ, Emily, and Reid move to do the same, looking more amused than Morgan had been as they walk away.

Rossi sighs, looking through the window of Hotch's office to look at the man. He's curled up on the couch, face partially hidden by his messy hair. He looks relaxed, peaceful.

With a chuckle, Rossi turns away and heads back to office with one thought on his mind-

He’s gonna have a hell of an explanation to give when he wakes up.

Chapter Text

Everything is fuzzy and disconnected when Hotch opens his eyes.


His brain, waking slower than he is from sleep, is delayed in its reactions to the information around him. It files in but gains no real attention as the man slowly sits up and blinks. Something hurts, maybe his chest- but he doesn’t have the awareness to be worried about it as he scrubs at his eyes to rid them of the lingering exhaustion. Hotch stares steadily at the floor for a moment before looking to his left.


He turns to the window, staring out at the city outside of it with a blank expression. Ice still clings to his window, branching patterns creeping in from the edges of the glass. It’s darker than when Hotch remembers looking outside of it last; whether it’s because hours have passed or because those storm clouds have dropped further, he can’t find the energy to decide.


It takes a few moments, simply sitting up and catching his bearings again, when a proper thought drifts through his head, loud and echoing against the almost unnatural silence in his mind-


‘Why am I not at the desk?’


That seems to be the spark that lights the fire under his mind, making Hotch look around his office- the information and awareness of his surroundings snapping into place and starting to make a list of things he notices.


His heater, almost never turned on and an unfamiliar sound in his office, is humming gently above him. The vent points down at his legs, warm air flowing over him like water. It feels weird, just barely prickling his nerves in an almost uncomfortable way, like a blanket that is slightly too scratchy on the skin. Hotch isn’t quite sure how to take in that fact- who had turned on his heater?


And as he starts to properly wake up, Hotch is noticing a lot of odd things in his office since when he first passed out. Not only is his heater on, but he’s laying on his couch and decidedly not at his desk like he remembers.


He tries to recall if maybe he moved himself as he stands, stretching his arms out, if maybe he got up and moved to the couch to be more comfortable. But his mind has a hazy fog wrapped around it, clouding his memories and leaving them a blurred, mixed mess he can’t even try to decipher.


As Hotch moves his arms above his head, continuing his stretching, a sudden and sharp pain shoots through him. He gasps, instinctively moving his hands to cover the area the pain came from. His chest burns harshly, pain constant and pulsing now that his brain has noticed it. It’s not the worst pain he’s felt, but having just woken up and anxiety starting to stir from all the odd things he’s noticing, it sends him to lean back against the couch.


Hotch decides that he should try and assess his apparent injury as soon as he can, slowly drifting his fingers around the stinging area. Taking a deep breath, he moves his fingers and traces the edge of the area that stings the most. Hotch doesn’t notice the slight shake of his fingers, or the even more deathly pale color of his hand than his normal washed tone, as he tries to figure out why he’s in pain.


The injury is roughly the size of a fist and sits high on his sternum, some place between his collarbones and his stomach, the pain slowly radiating from the section of abused muscle and skin. He lifts the edge of his shirt, and sees the faintest coloring of purples and greens that is a bruise forming. Hotch frowns, letting the shirt collar fall back in place and absently rubbing his chest as he tries to connect how he got hurt.


He’s sure if he had more blood in him, there would be a much nasiter bruise- he has pretty much nothing in him as is and there’s a bruise already formed, whatever hit him did it hard enough to leave a mark. Normally the bruise shape, the color and time between when the injury happened and how quickly the skin discolors, would help him figure out what the damage was but he doesn’t have that.


Hotch tries to connect it to anything he’s felt before as he sits up and walks towards his desk. ‘It feels almost like how CPR training did,’ part of his mind whispers as the man sits down in his chair. His hands shuffle through the papers he had been working on earlier, eyes scanning the words but mind not acknowledging them.


‘How could that happen?’ another part of his brain asks. ‘Did I fall on my way to the couch?’


‘When did I move to the couch,’ another thought jumps in, ‘what did I hit on my over-? Why can’t I remember how I-’


Hotch shuts off his rambling mind and its insistent questions about how he had been moved or why he’s hurt. He instead focuses on the paperwork he left abandoned at his desk, carefully reorganizing the strewn about pile into a neat stack so he can work on them. After a moment of sorting he finds the paper he half finished before he passed out, grabbing his pen and finishing his signature at the bottom.


Wind whistles outside the window, blowing cold air against the glass. It’s still getting darker, but Hotch thinks it has more to do with the storm clouds above the city than with the lowering of the sun. Winter has been particularly cruel with its storms this year- not that Hotch is complaining of course, he loves the snow and the waves of cold air that come with a storm.


The gentle hum of the heater kicks off, the warm, prickly air smoothing out into nothing as the room falls into relative silence again. The click of Hotch’s pen as he taps it against the surface of the desk and the occasional whistle from the winds outside is the only thing that occupies the room with their noises.


Hotch’s mind keeps trying to bring up the odd things happening around him, to him, as the clock ticks away past another hour mark- he ignores it. It's easier with the cloud of his failing memory, swirling and obscuring his thoughts just enough to leave him with a faint headache and a sense of confusion.


The man wants to will this all away- the headaches, mystery pains in his chest, fluttering anxiety, his stomach and its cries for food that have been ringing in his ears for the past few days- but he knows he can’t. It doesn’t really matter, he decides, scanning the words in front of him with the yellowed light of his lamp, what happened or why he’s suddenly sporting an injured chest. He just has to finish his paperwork and get home, maybe manage to get himself to eat something and then go to sleep.


The sky gets darker and the small lamp casts shadows about his office as Hotch works. The clock, a gentle tick that almost mirrors the sound of the clicking pen, echoes through the room. Hotch isn’t entirely sure when he woke up, but he knows that when he looks up at the time that he’s been working for hours and it’s nearly half an hour past the end of his time in the office.


He grabs his things, organizing papers and pulling his suitcase to sit on the top of the desk, but he doesn’t stand yet. Even after waking up and working, Hotch feels light headed in a dizzying way that he can’t seem to chase away. At first he thought it was just from being groggy, but it lingered far too long to be that. His next assumption is that it’s because he’s been hurt- the throbbing of his chest has only slightly calmed, moving from a bright, flared pain to a more dulled sense of soreness.


He tried drinking water, sipping from his previously abandoned glass on the edge of his desk, but it did nothing to quell his headache or the foggy feeling draped over his mind. Hotch thinks that maybe all of these things should add up to a concerning picture, but as annoying as the thick smoke that clouds his mind is, he does take a small bit of comfort when it dulls his anxiety when it tries to rise.


After a moment, Hotch braces himself for the wave of dizziness that will swing through him, and stands. He braces one hand against the edge of his desk to keep from wavering, and takes a deep breath. It tugs at the bruise on his chest, but he feels less sick then he was earlier which he finds nice.


Confident he isn’t about to topple over, he goes about collecting his things to head home- stacking papers, cleaning his desk off, grabbing his suitcase and turning off his lamp. The office, now dark and only lit by the city lights from outside the window, makes it hard to see anything besides shadows. Hotch can still see fine, the darkness not a particular disability to him like it would be to others, so he is able to safely navigate to his door without tripping on anything.


Hotch steps out of his office, closing the door behind him quietly and making his way to the stairs. The bullpen is mostly empty, overhead lights shining down on the abandoned desks and on the few remaining agents. All of them have their heads down, too drawn into the work to acknowledge Hotch as he moves. He notes how all of his team, his agents, are not at their desk, probably all have gone home for the night. Hotch likes it and finds it almost calming- he's always the first one in and last one out, seeing that all his agents are back home makes his anxiety fall into a lower tide.


Just as Hotch is about to make it to the glass doors, thinking about what he’s going to do once he gets home, he hears a door open. He shouldn’t technically be able to hear it, but his enhanced hearing picks up the slight squeak of a hinge and footsteps quietly stepping out of a room. He waits until he figures someone- a normal human- would be able to hear the sounds before turning.


The door he heard turns out to be the one to the conference room, up the steps and down the hall from his office. The footsteps belong to none other than Morgan, who stands near the railing of the raised floor and stares down at Hotch. He finds it very odd that one of his agents is here after hours, even if it’s only forty-five minutes past the clock.


“Morgan,” he greets, turning slightly to better address the other man, “What are you doing here so late?”


Morgan makes a face, once that Hotch can’t decipher what it could mean, before schooling his expression. He crosses his arms and leans against the railing, keeping a steady gaze with the unit chief.


“We’re all hanging out in the briefing room-” Hotch keeps himself from making a surprised face, why are they all in there? “-and I was gonna ask if you wanted to join us.”


The lights don’t quite reach the upper floor like they do in the bullpen and Morgan is standing right on the edge of a shadow. Even though Hotch can see the other man with his sharper than human eyes, something in his brain warns him that there is something innately wrong about this. It reminds him of a predator, sitting in the shadows and luring in their prey, making them come too close before striking.


Mentally shaking himself, Hotch rids himself of that train of thought. Morgan is not an enemy, threat, or predator- he is one of his agents and Hotch trusts him. Even so, something with a careful amount of wariness whispers in his mind, hidden vaguely by the fogginess that lingers.


“What is the team doing in there?” Hotch asks.


Morgan makes another face, but this one disappears quicker than the other one. He shrugs his shoulders, giving a small smile and motioning his head back towards the room he came from and the still open door.


“Just relaxing,” he says, “why don’t you come join us for a bit, Hotch?”


Despite how the earlier thoughts of his were softened and rounded on the edges by the fog, this anxiety comes cutting through it like a whip, sharp edges and with a sudden speed. Hotch doesn’t manage to keep a wary look of his face as his mind loudly calls out, riling his emotions into higher tides. The lighting makes Morgan look even more ominous, no longer just a passing train of thought as it was moments before.


The stinging in his chest, the cries of his empty stomach, are getting louder and more intense. He thought that his abused sternum was getting better, but now that he’s moving around, walking and not sitting down like before, it stirs back to a stinging pain. Hotch shifts from one foot to another, keeping his gaze with the other man.


Hotch knows he should say something, he’s been letting the question sit too long without an answer, but he doesn’t know what to say. Morgan looks like he wants something from him, but Hotch doesn’t know what that would be. Was there a meeting he forgot about? Did one of the team tell him about this ‘hang out’ earlier and he dismissed it? Was it-


“Hotch,” Morgan’s voice cuts through his thoughts, “come up here and sit down with us.” He says it almost like it’s a command, like Hotch doesn’t have a choice whether or not he’s going to be sitting in that room.


‘Don’t-! Something’s not right,’ the whip of anxious rambling snaps again upon seeing Morgan’s smile as he speaks. They all may be a great team of profilers, and have learned how to hide their emotion if a time comes to it, but Hotch can tell there’s something hidden under Morgan’s smile. It’s barely there, shrouded in shadow like the agent himself is, and leaves only the slightest whisper of unease. That whisper is all Hotch’s anxiety needs to start pacing, it seems.


He knows there’s no real reason he could argue for not going up and spending time with his team, so he reluctantly starts walking towards the stairs. “Alright,” he says, voice just barely quieter than normal as something climbs up his throat and warns of a near future where it will strangle his voice- he clears his throat and ignores it.


The walk up the stairs is a short and familiar path, one that Hotch takes many times a day. Eight steps up and then thirteen steps down the hall- memorized down to a set pattern Hotch has perfected since when he first got his own office; he’s memorized a lot of paths throughout the building, blue prints to every foot fall that remain hidden in his head.


‘One, two, three-’ Hotch counted as he headed up each step, coming closer to Morgan at the top of the landing. ‘-four, five, six- eight’ He skipped the seventh step to keep himself from stalling as he makes his way down the hall.


Once he gets up to step ten, Hotch stands right next to Morgan. Up close he’s able to read the agent much better than before- lines of restrained stress and eyes sharp, brows drawn in concentration. With another lash of anxiety, Hotch realizes that Morgan is profiling- Morgan is profiling him. Why the other man would be doing it, he isn’t sure, but he knows it can’t be anything good.


Hotch keeps his gaze steady and face blank, carefully avoiding letting his agent know he was onto his tells. It seems to work, Morgan’s smile growing more real and tained with less of the shadowy unease that seemed to linger when Hotch makes it down the hall and next to him.


“C’mon,” Morgan says, turning to walk back into the meeting room and coming to a stop by the door. Hotch moves past him and over to his usual seat, part of him quickly catching how the other man didn’t move to sit down like everyone else, opting to lean on the door frame he’s stopped by.


The briefing room is lit with varnish coloured lighting, feeling much more comforting than the white bulbs out in the bullpen. The heater hums quietly, filling the room with warm and skin tingling air. Had he not been so anxious, Hotch would have found the room relaxing like he so normally did whenever he and his team took breaks in it- but the feeling of burning gazes keeps him from taking comfort in the room.


Hotch takes the first proper look at the agents in the room around him, all stationed at their normal seats aside from Morgan.


JJ was sitting closer to the door than the rest of them, sitting on the left of Hotch and at the opposite edge of the rounded table. Prentiss and Reid sat on the right, the younger agent sitting one chair away from Hotch’s. All of their gazes were locked on their uint chief, matching expressions on their faces as he flicked his about to each of them.


They’re all profiling me, Hotch realizes with another, sharper snap of anxiety. This time it leaves a stinging mark on his mind, matching the thrum of his bruised chest as he remembers it’s there again. The fog in his mind stays stubbornly stuck to the edge of his brain, like cobwebs made of syrup. Hotch thinks it maybe has something to do with the fact his stomach has been increasingly empty for the past few days, but he can’t exactly do anything about it until he gets home- until he’s no longer trapped.


He sends another quick glance about the room and notes the seat next to him, on his left, that’s remained empty. This time the crash of emotion isn’t just anxiety but also dipped in a tinge of shock as he sees- Rossi isn’t here. The older agent is like his life line, and without him here Hotch gets a foreboding feeling that something is going to go wrong.


“So,” Prentiss’ voice cuts through Hotch’s head, gaining his attention from the spaced off thoughts he had been filing through. When the female agent doesn't say anything after the single word, Hotch raises a brow.


“So?” he parrots, confused on where this was going. He really wants to rub at his chest, the stinging was getting less frequent but it was sharper now, each wave lingering longer than before- he keeps himself from doing so if only to not alert his sudden, suffocatingly eagled-eyed team.


“So,” she says with a hint of frustration for having to say the word again, “When are we going to get our explanation?” Prentiss asks, sitting up slightly straighter in her seat. Her words send another whip-like jolt down Hotch’s spine and leaving a glaring mark in his mind- what explanation? The sense of foreboding climbs higher up his spine and settles just over his head, sticking to him like wet clothes.


He quickly glances about the room, but sees nothing that would help him figure out what Prentiss means; all of his agents are masked with concentration and leave no hints. The only one who looks different is Reid, but even that agent’s altered expression gives no scrap to him on how to react. Hotch swallows the block in his throat, gaining a sharp edge as he tries to rid it- the dread is building, growing heavier.


“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Prentiss,” he says with an even voice, turning back to the female agent and letting his eyes fall into a tense stare. Nobody says anything for a moment, only the hum of the heater’s vents filling the silence. Hotch hears Morgan shift slightly from his spot, sees Reid shuffle uncomfortably in his seat from his peripheral. He assumes JJ reacts much the same as the other agents from her seat, but he can’t really tell.


The slightly yellowed lights blare down on them, the heater’s hum sounds more like a growl now. The edge of the table digs slightly into Hotch’s arm from where it’s resting against it- the door, the only exit, is blocked. Hotch knows this was all planned, he just doesn’t know what for; his team are penning him in and they’re not acting right.


Just as Hotch is about to vocalize his thoughts- why are you all acting so weird? Why are you trapping me in here?- JJ cuts in with her voice, catching his attention.


“The explanation of why Morgan found you without a heartbeat in your office?” The dread crashes down with a sudden heaviness that threatens to make him drop to his knees, even though he’s sitting down.


If time could stop, Hotch thinks it would feel just like this; the air is sucked from his lungs like a vacuum, whatever warmth that filled the room snapping away and leaving him feeling desolate and frigid. His breathing stopped, lungs catching on a sharp inhale of air- eyes wide and hands gaining a tremor- this was not supposed to happen, this was not allowed to happen.


Hotch had been so careful, he worked so hard to make sure no one on the new team, beside Rossi, knew about the fact he wasn’t human. He had years of practice, knowing when and where to do something, what to say or how to move so people would think he’s normal. All this time working at the BAU has been a gently pieced together puzzle of a facade, each part made of glass and with a desperate hope that it wouldn’t break with each new part added.


But now all of it is shattered, scattered into an unfixable pile of sharp edges and razor shards. His anxiety is raging, lashing wildly against his skull like a rabid animal- fear drips down his back like ice water, leaving a burning trail of frostbite-like dread that soaks into his bones. The pain from his chest stings harsher, pulsing in time with his fluttering heartbeat that is trying to speed up but it has nothing to push through his veins- if anything his pulse rises to a normal, human one instead of what one would think is a normal rate for panic. Hotch’s stomach screeches, awakened again by the sudden up cry within him, adding to the swirling mixture of blaring inputs from everything else.


He closes and opens his hands under the table, fingers stiff and joints twitching. Hotch’s eyes blink wildly, caught off guard with the question and his sudden, internal reactions to it. Nothing could have prepared him for that question, for this situation. What is he meant to do now?


Prentiss’ eyes hold nothing but kindness and patience as she stares back at Hotch, but he doesn’t have the free space in his mind right now to process it. Over the screaming and flashing red lights from his brain, one thing rings through his ears-


'I need to get out of here. I need to leave- right now.'


But his limbs won’t move, his arms stay locked, hands folded in his lap to try and hide the shaking of his pale fingers. Hotch’s legs stayed weighted with invisible blocks of lead which kept him stuck in his seat. Everything is slowly slipping out from his grasp, replaced with a dizzying cloud of fear and confusion that smothers any thought that tries to rile within his panicking mind.


‘They know! They know,’ the mantra in his head screeches, ‘They know! Get away from them, they know!’


With a disconnected sense of awareness, and ignoring the echoes of his mind begging him to get away from the room, Hotch turns to face the agent who had spoken to him. He locks eyes with JJ, eyes wide and full of what Hotch knows is to be an unfiltered show of wild-like fear.


“Hotch,” the female agent says, her lips moving and noise filtering into unhearing ears. Hotch only responds with a blink, eyelids heavy and his throat blocked with the invisible hands that squeeze his voice from his lungs. With no response, JJ worriedly calls their unit chief’s name again. The man’s face stays blank, a reflection of his usual expression if only it were hollowed out.


When she gets no response, she turns to the other agents at the table with a worried look. They all talk amongst themselves, gesturing to Hotch and trying to gently get his attention- well, JJ and Prentiss are. Reid is shifting in his seat, looking guilty and trying to timidly catch Hotch’s dead-eyed stare. Morgan is still leaning against the door frame, not adding to the conversation like the two female agents are.


Hotch, still feeling disconnected and like he’s moving through syrup, slowly turns to face the agent blocking the exit. Lazy, fear glazed eyes meet sharpened ones in a silent standoff. After a moment, Morgan shifts slightly and moves away from the door frame, stepping towards the table. His hands are held slightly out, palms up and movements projected carefully- ‘he’s trying not to scare me,’ Hotch realizes.


“Hotch,” the man says gently, eyes holding the other man’s gaze steadily. “Hotch, hey- what’s goin’ on man?”


Hotch’s jaw twitches, mouth barely moving and lips parting a fraction, but he doesn’t speak. He can’t speak. Any form of words are lost within the mad scramble of anxiety and under a cloud of crushing fear. He knows he should move, this silence is only further digging a grave, but he can’t. The dread is crushing him, he wants to move but he can’t- Hotch wants to explain what’s going on to his team but he can’t.


Morgan opens his mouth, probably going to ask him what’s wrong again, when a noise echoes from the hall- footsteps.


Hotch isn’t sure why that is what tips him over the edge; he’s been through much more harrowing things, been in more panic than he is now without a flinch to the noises around him. But the sound of someone new, some other threat, coming down the hall sends whatever strings of grounding sense in his mind to be yanked away, stolen by the whirlwind of the anxious, blaring storm within him.


The air is getting thicker, it settles heavily in his lungs and blocks his nose. Hotch flicks his gaze around the room, at each of the agents sitting at the table. They’re all concerned, yes, but each still holds the same expression as earlier- profiling. Even when Hotch is struggling to gather himself, trying so hard not to lose it, they’re expecting an answer.


He can’t look at them right now, not with the expressions on their faces, so Hotch turns his head away; looking down at his shaking, pale fingers as he tries to close them into a fist again. The sound around him, the echoing footsteps, the searing gazes of the agents, all fades into something that’s all too close yet too fuzzy to make out from each other. He barely hears when the new person speaks.


“I’m back!” The person crows, sounding much happier than Hotch thinks can be possible right now- he feels like his chest is trying to tear itself apart, how can you be happy?- “Did he wake up yet or- Oh! Hotch, you’re awake now! How are you feeling? I bet you got a nasty bruise on your chest, but don’t worry it’s just-”


The voice abruptly cut off, the single shine of chipper attitude that had overtaken the area crashing, sending the room back into the stifling, icy climate it was before. The extra set of eyes Hotch feels on him makes him choke, breath stuttering and too loud against the tense silence that has befallen the room. He’s trying to catch his breath- even he needs to breathe sometimes, and right now he’s panicking- but it’s coming sharper wheezes and gasps each time. His stomach, empty and hollow, shrieks again; the feeling of desperation claws at his insides, scrambling up his throat and escaping in the form of a choked off click.


The strangled sound spurs the new person into action with a curse, footsteps rushing over to Hotch’s side of the table. Something is placed on the wooden surface, a gentle clink that Hotch would usually find pleasant if it weren’t for the fact his whole chest felt like it was caving in on itself.


“Hotch, hey kid,” the voice says, “You’re ok, look at me. You’re fine, nothing bad is happening. No one in this room hates you or is going to hurt you. Whatever’s going through your head, don’t listen to it right now- you’re safe.”


If time had frozen, Hotch thinks this is what it would feel like if it started again. It feels like the air is turned back into something breathable, that his limbs aren’t burning and his bones aren’t made of lead- Hotch is saved because Rossi is here.


Hotch looks up, eyes stinging and hands still holding onto their tremor, and sees Rossi. The older agent looks thoroughly concerned, face drawn tightly and expression pinched. The man’s hands flutter over Hotch’s shoulders like he wants to comfort him but doesn’t quite think he should make contact- he appreciates it, unsure if right now he could even handle someone as trusted as Rossi to touch him.


“They know-?” Hotch’s voice is whispered and interrupted by a stressed click that manages to escape him. Rossi’s face contorts, flicking between a lot of emotions before settling on a sad, worn smile.


“Yeah, Hotch, they know.” Rossi pulls his hands back and takes a seat next to the man. He keeps the worried smile on his face as he watches Hotch- he’s twisting his ring between the fingers of his other hand, the movement is repetitive and simple; the repeated motions helps calm the racing in Hotch’s mind.


Hotch takes a wavering breath, “How do- when did they-” another click cuts him off. He huffs a frustrated sigh, brows srunching together as he glares at Rossi’s ring. His mind, while calmer than before, is still jinggling about like loose change. The thoughts he has, the control he usually keeps over his inhuman traits, is all over the place. Rossi seems to realize this and give a sigh of his own, one that sounds like a tired parent.


“It’s ok Hotch, just take a breath,” Rossi tells him, “You want me to start from what I saw or do you want Morgan to explain it?”


At the mention of the other agent, Hotch jolts slightly- this is the first time since Rossi has walked in that Hotch remembers that there are other people in the room. Clearing his throat, and gathering himself to try and look put together. With a deep breath, Hotch lifts his head to face his agents again.


They’re all still staring at him, but it’s much less intense than before. He sees what made the small sound from before, a ceramic mug that’s full of what he assumes to be coffee- Rossi must have been out getting it when Morgan dragged him in here. Reid, while still looking immensely guilty, shares the emotion with the rest of the agents. To some point each of them looks apologetic, eyes soften and gazes less sharp or analytical as they were moments before. Some part of Hotch’s mind hisses that they’re pitying him, but he shoves it away; they are concerned, there is a difference.


Morgan, who is still standing, meets Hotch’s gaze steadily and without hesitation. He almost admired it, that Morgan wasn’t treating Hotch any differently right now; the fear of rejection still lingered too heavily above him to let any form of hope form.


“Morgan,” he said, voice a few notches quieter than his normal volume.


“Hotch,” his agent replied, tone not changing from its steady conviction. Silence, tense and almost physical, hung between the agents in the room.


With a sigh, “Morgan, would you explain what happened today in my office.” For a moment the other man just stared at him, and Hotch felt a sliver of fear and desperation writhe in his chest, “Please?” he half begs, trying to convey the importance of this through his eyes.


Morgan stared at him a moment longer, not speaking. The other man turned to look at Rossi for a second, who in turn gave an encouraging nod and gestured to the empty seat near Morgan’s edge of the table. He moved then, stepping forward to grab the back of the chair and pulling it out. Once he was sitting comfortably, arms braced on the table and hands intertwined, he started talking.


“I went up to your office,” Morgan starts, “to give you some files. It was a case you had told me to look into, I was going to return my notes on it to you. 


“But when I got up there, into your office, it was ice cold. And I mean cold, Hotch. I could see my breath while still inside because of it. I made some snarky comment and brushed it off, you always like your office cold- it was weird though, because you didn’t look up when I came in.”


Morgan pauses, trying to gauge Hotch from across the table, eyes trained on the other man’s face. Hotch assumes he’s looking for confirmation on what went down, but this is all new information to him; he can’t remember any of what Morgan is describing and it’s worrying. When the agent seems to find his voice again, he starts back into his explanation.


“I thought maybe you were asleep, we all know you work too hard for your own good,” Morgan gave a small smile that’s echoed in varying degrees by the other agents at the table. Hotch gives a small frown in response, though, and that gets Morgan back into his explanation.


“I thought you were asleep, head resting on your arms and not really moving. So I went up to get you attention- I tried talking, to get your attention, but it didn’t work. So I tried to wake you up, shaking your shoulder and calling your name.


“But… I don’t know, it just wouldn’t work- you weren't waking up. It,” Morgan pauses, something flashing over his face as he gathers his words, “It was scary, man. Your head rolled to one side and you wouldn’t move no matter what I tried.”


Hotch takes in the information with no small amount of shock- did he really just pass out on his desk like that? He’s never done that in years, and the last time that happened it was back with the old team, when Rossi and Ryan found the whole thing, his true biology, out.


He wants to apologize to Morgan, this whole thing has obviously stressed the man out, along with the rest of the team. But he holds his tongue until after the explanation is over with.


“It was pretty soon after that I noticed you weren’t breathing- like what I said about seeing my breath? I couldn’t see yours so I panicked-”


“RIghtfully so,” Rossi interjects, causing everyone to look over at the man. He looks between them with a small smile, shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t react much better when I found out- and Ryan, poor man nearly had a full blown heart attack.”


“Max Ryan?” Reid questions, voice confused and awed, “As in the unit chief of the team? The one even Gideon told me he was afraid of?”


Rossi snorts, leaning back in his seat, “Of course Jason would say that- but yes. Hotch near gave our beloved Ryan a heart attack last time he pulled something like this. It was pretty funny really-”


“I think I’d like to hear the rest of the story from Morgan,” Hotch interjects before the conversation can stray into the old, largely embarrassing story. Rossi quiets, turning and giving Hotch a smile before looking over at Morgan. “Go on,” he says, encouraging the other agent to continue.


“As I was saying, I panicked. You weren’t responding and barely breathing, and when I checked for a pulse I couldn’t find one. So I yelled for Rossi, dragged you to the floor and started compressions. I didn’t get very far before he,” Morgan gestured towards Rossi, “stopped me. We argued for a bit about what was going on before Rossi and Reid explained it a little bit.”


The team goes quiet again, everyone looking at Hotch while he looks at Morgan. The story lines up with what he expected it to, and it gives reason behind the sharp pain in his chest and faint bruises. He knows that with the past few days of working on an empty stomach, both food and blood wise, that falling prey to the cold is reasonable. But on thing he doesn’t get is-


“How did I end up on my couch then?” Hotch questions, turning to look at the older agent beside him. Rossi smiles, moving into his own explanation of the events that transpired.


“That would be my doing,” he admits, “I came into your office after Morgan started yelling for me. After I managed to convince him you weren’t dying- which is very hard to do when your lips are blue, Hotch- I tried warming you up a little.


Once you were lucid enough to stand, I walked you over to the couch so you could get some proper rest while your heater dethawed you. I figured it’d be more comfortable than the floor.”


Hotch’s face scrunches; he doesn’t remember waking up or being moved to the couch at all. He just about to ask Rossi if he’s sure that he was actually awake when he did so, when Morgan intercepts his words.


“Hotch, do you not remember any of this, man?”


“No,” he replies simply, leaning back in his seat. The information is swirling around in his mind as he tries to understand all of it. His panic from earlier is still there, twisting under the surface of his skin and brushing against his mind, but it’s much tamer now. His agents, his team, aren’t yelling at him; he’s not being attacked or cast out for being found out as something inhuman.


He knows, deep down, that his team would never do such a thing to him. He’s even seen them work with cases involving someone that wasn’t exactly human, treating them with the same concentration and care as they would with an average person. But some dark colored insecurity had wrapped around his heart too tightly to completely trust his team with this information about himself.


As he sits there, running through what events he’s been walked through. As he further picks it apart, Hotch realizes something-


“Morgan,” he says, catching the other man’s attention, “I- I’m sorry I scared you like that. This whole thing must have been very stressful for you,” he looks around to each of the agents at the table, “Stressful for all of you really. I should have taken better care of the situation and avoided this.”


Everyone seems to take in the apology well, nodding along or quietly agreeing with his statement. Morgan nods once before leaning back in his seat, the shadowy look and tenseness in his frame leaking away now. Hotch looks at each of them, trying to wordlessly convey that he’s genuine, when he sees Reid’s face.


“Is there something you’d like to say, Reid?” Hotch asks, anxiety whirring slightly at the odd look on his face.


“You said you ‘should have taken better care of the situation’,” the younger agent states. Hotch looks about to the other agents, confused and anxious as they also don’t seem to know where Reid is trying to take this. “I- yes I did. Why?” he questions hesitantly.


“You’re purposefully avoiding saying that you have to take better care of yourself. Why are you doing that,” Reid says, head tilted with a curious angle. He’s not trying to put Hotch on the spot, not in this way, but suddenly Hotch feels very much trapped- every one of his agents staring him down with sharp eyes.


“Hotch,” Rossi says in a stern, slow tone that he deliberately ignores so he doesn’t have to turn and look at the older agent, “Have you been taking care of yourself? You know, you’re normally pretty good with the cold.”


Hotch clears his throat, only turning his head enough to look at Rossi through a side eyed glace. He squares his shoulders and stands up from the table, ignoring the blaring question with shaky confidence and starts to gather his things again. Even when Rossi’s hand grabs onto his wrist while he grabs his suitcase from the floor, Hotch acts as if it’s normal.


“I apologize again for scaring you all like I did,” he says, gently trying to tug his wrist away from Rossi, but the man won’t let go, “I can explain everything better tomorrow, if you’d like. Whatever questions you have- at lunch time, same room.”


“Hotch,” Rossi cuts in, far too familiar with Hotch’s tactics of avoidance and trying to slip a topic that he doesn’t want to talk about, “You didn’t answer my-”


“I’d like to go home, Rossi. I don’t feel well and…” Hotch hesitates for a minute, “I’m hungry… so I’d like to go home now.”


Rossi catches the meaning, its real meaning hidden from the rest of the team, of the statement about hunger. His face drops its stern edge and softens into something more caring. The hand on his wrist lets go as Rossi stands up as well.


“I’ll walk you out then,” he says, and Hotch knows better than to deny the man’s not-quite request.


Hotch tries not to look at the agents as he and Rossi walk past them, knowing that hurt or frustrated looks are plastered on their faces. He just sat through a retelling of how he scared them all half to death and then told them he wanted to go home because he was hungry? ‘An absolutely stellar example of your manners, Hotchner,’ some bitter part of his mind hisses before he shoves it away.

The walk down the hall and stairs is a quiet affair. Hotch doesn’t feel like talking and Rossi isn’t initiating a conversation; the two men walk silently down to the elevator and stop at the doors. Hotch pushes the call button, waiting for the doors to open, when Rossi finally says something.


“They’re really worried,” he tells him.


“I know that,” Hotch replies, trying to stamp down the anxiety that riles at the comment.


“And they care about you.”


“I know that, Rossi.”


“Morgan was stressed out all day, waiting for you to wake up.”


“Rossi,” Hotch bites out, keeping his eyes firmly locked on the unopened elevator doors. His voice is tense, a form of anger, guilt, or a mix of both- he’s not sure. Rossi continues on anyway.


“I think Reid was just about to cry before he realized you were ok.”


“David,” Hotch says, voice wavering slightly. He hasn’t turned away from the elevator doors to look at the other man- it’s taking far too long for these doors to open up and provide him his escape.


“Hotch,” Rossi sighs, putting his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. With a quiet chime, the elevator doors finally open. But he’s rooted in place by Rossi’s hand holding him still. 


“Hotch, look at me,” Rossi says, voice soft as he starts to gently turn the man around. Hotch complies, turning and facing the older man as he looks at him. His face looks concerned, expression fond and caring as he looks at the unit chief.


“You know I care about you right?” Hotch doesn’t answer- Rossi doesn’t need him to. “So does the team. We all love you, nothing is going to change that.”


Hotch doesn’t respond, the tightness in his throat returning. This time it isn’t from fear or anxiety, but a crushing wave of emotion that he can’t really describe. It’s fluttering, bright and soft edged- it’s like a hummingbird that dances about his chest and ticks against his ribs. The feeling is overwhelming but not so much in a bad way, leaving Hotch stunned and stuck in place.


Rossi takes Hotch’s sudden frozen stance with stride, urging the man into the elevator with gentle ushering. Once he’s inside, Rossi pushes the ground floor button for him and steps out. Hotch watches him, the man standing just outside of the elevator entrance. Just as the doors start to close, Rossi smiles and gives a small wave.


“Good night Hotch,” he says, the doors closing before Hotch can respond with a similar pleasantry.


As Rossi turns back around, moving back towards the stairs and up to the conference room, a familiar and oddly funny thought comes drifting back in-


‘He never really did give them that explanation, did he?’

Chapter Text

Hotch always shows up early to work, it’s part of his schedule. Whether it’s five minutes before he’s meant to be in or two whole hours before anyone else gets into the building, he has yet to miss this part of his work-day routine in years.


It started when he was new to the team, the point where he was the new agent, wide eyed and just about as jumpy as a rabbit, trying to impress everyone. But it turned from a sense of impression to a comfortable habit. It always brought Hotch some form of contentment- watching from a desk when he used to be down in the bullpen, or from the dark corners of his office- to see life slowly float into the office. He liked watching his agents file in for another day of work every time each day started.


Usually, and most surprisingly, it was often Garcia who was the next in, sometimes even before he was there. She never spoke to him in those early hours, giving him a bright smile and moving wordlessly past him to her office. He appreciated it, oftentimes he had no energy to properly speak so early in the day. But seeing Garica, dressed in bright colors and glittery tassels, made his mornings a little warmer each time he saw her.


The pattern was years in the making, planning his mornings hours earlier than he needed to in order to arrive first at the office. Waking up when it was still dark, when the moonlight was bright enough to light his apartment through his window that he didn’t have to turn any lights on. Driving on near empty roads and street lights acting as an artificial sunrise, enjoying the peace of the city before it woke up and started ticking away like a frantic machine.


This trait of his was quickly caught on by the team. Everyone knew he would always be in the office before any of them, aside from Garica, and they could count on it. For years now, as Rossi has explained from Hotch’s early days on the original team, the man has always been an early riser. Very few times has he strayed from this schedule; the only times this behavior has been disrupted were times in which Hotch was ill or hurt.


So it makes it all the more concerning when it’s half an hour past the start of the day and Hotch is nowhere to be found.


Garica had been the first in and noticed that Hotch wasn’t anywhere in the office, but she had no reason to question his tardiness. She had arrived particularly early today, so maybe Hotch was simply running behind her schedule. But when Morgan came in and Hotch still wasn’t there, and then Prentiss, who was soon followed by JJ, entered with no sign of their unit chief; and even after Reid came in, there was no chief in the upper office- Hotch was not in the building.


Morgan was stressed by it, that was easy to see. With the absent chief he was drawn into the anxious cloud that hovered around him with every second that Hotch was late, getting more staticy by the minute. Prentiss was glaring at her work like it personally offended her, Reid was fidgeting with his pen as he tapped it against the desk, unable to focus on the paper in front of him. And while the others couldn’t see her, JJ was in her office, worriedly checking the clock every few minutes and wondering why Hotch picked today of all days to come in behind schedule.


It was odd enough that Hotch would be late, but the fact he was late after what had happened the day prior was just suspicious. They all know the man wouldn’t just avoid them like this, but something odd was definitely going on.


That ‘going on’ turned out to be Rossi, who they all had failed to notice was also late, too wrapped up in the mystery that was Hotch’s tardiness. Nearly an hour after the day had started and everyone had turned into the building, Rossi walked a very disheveled and worn looking Hotch out of the elevator and up the stairs to his office. Both looked stressed, Hotch more anxious and upset than worried like Rossi was, as the older agent ushered the unit chief into his office before closing the door behind him, protecting their conversation from the rest of the bullpen.


Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid, the only three on the team who worked down in the bullpen, watched with confused looks- what was that? Their confusion only grew when words, loud but too muffled to make out, started to echo about Hotch’s office. It wasn’t quite yelling, but it did get a few extra heads turning to look at the office in concern.


The noises continued for a moment, during which Garica had come marching out of her office. With a plan on bothering Morgan, who had been jittery and on edge all morning, she watched as the three agents stared up at Hotch’s office. No sooner had she stopped by the edge of her friend’s desk, just about to make some comment that was sure to have gotten written up somewhere, Rossi came storming out of Hotch’s office.


Unlike the rest of the team, Garica had no reasoning behind why the older man would be so upset. Unaware of the excitement from yesterday, to her it really only looked like Rossi had argued and got mad at their unit chief- maybe for being late? She noticed how Hotch was unnaturally late today, so maybe Rossi was upset by it.


“Who kicked his puppy?” Garcia asked, finally turning away from the upper floor after Rossi stalked off into his own office.


The frown on Morgan’s face doesn’t lighten as he turned to his friend standing beside him, if anything it gets more troubled. That’s… odd- Morgan always smiles when she shows up or makes some odd comment, what has him so upset? Looking about at the other two agents, Garica sees how ruffled they are as well. Reid is fidgeting and looks like he wants to go talk to Hotch, based on his flickering gaze that keeps drifting up to the office; Prentiss is glaring up at their chief’s door like it’s personally offended her, like the man inside has slighted her in some way.


Garcia may not be a profiler like the rest of them, but she is not blind to the signs- something has happened between their chief and the rest of the team. And if she has any guess, it has to do with why Hotch was late today.


“What happened to my babies, you all look so sad,” she asks, concern written over her face as the downed looks stay on their faces. “Did something happen? Did Hotch say something- is it about why he’s late? What did he do?”


The rapid fire questions aren’t answered immediately, but there is a collective almost-wince when the last question is blurted out. Morgan, finally letting himself relax a little and flashing a strained, tired smile up at her, responds.


“It’s not so much of what he did, it’s more of what we did. I think we maybe stressed him out a little bit.”


Ok, not vague at all, mister Derek. I wanted a real answer- “Well what did you say then?” Garica asks slowly, glancing back up at the office that Hotch was hidden in. The lights are off aside from the man’s signature amber colored lamp, the dark figure of the man hunched over his desk barely discernible from the rest of the shadows. None of them can really see him from down here, but there’s something more tired about his silhouette than normal- only Hotch would be able to work so hard that even his shadow looked tired, she supposed.


Nobody answers her question, which makes something uncomfortable stir in her chest. Something has upset her team, her friends, and she wants to know what it is.


“C’mon my lovelies, don’t make me worry like this. Just tell me what happened and why you all have been watching boss man’s office like buzzards.”


Reid quickly turns away from the upper office at the comment, instead trying to focus on his paperwork; it isn’t working, not judging by how frantically the pen tapping has become. Prentiss shakes her head, turning to more fully face Garcia from where she stands beside Morgan’s desk. The glare is gone, but something tense is still settled over her.


“Maybe sit down for this, Pen?” Morgan’s voice is tense and clipped, like he doesn’t want to talk but knows he has to. Garica looks over to him, eyes wide with worry and the feeling in her chest sparking. With a shallow nod she pulls over an extra chair and sits beside her friend, intent on listening to his story.


“I’ll ask this first,” Morgan starts, “Did you hear anything weird yesterday? Yelling or anything like that?”


What-? How does that- “No, I didn’t. What does this have to do with a moody Rossi or Hotch, Morgan?”


“Just- yeah ok. So yesterday I was yelling at Rossi to come into Hotch’s office. I thought he had gotten hurt and panicked, so I called the first person I thought of.”


“Hotch was hurt?” Garica asks, voice soft and bordered with fragileness. Someone on her team was hurt and she didn’t know until the day after? But Morgan shakes his head, face twisting like he’s frustrated or confused. “Not really,” he says.


Morgan pauses, trying to collect the right words and think about how to say them. It’s a subject he doesn’t quite feel like he can just spit out, but he’s not too sure how to put all of this nicely and in a calm way. Whenever he thinks back to it- finding Hotch lying limp on the floor, lips blue as he tried to get his heart moving again- it makes his anxiety flash; how is he meant to explain that without making Penelope upset too?


“Morgan,” his friend’s voice breaks him from his too long silence after his last comment. She looks upset, bright eyes mixed with worry and face twisted into a sad look- how is he meant to tell her that he thought he found Hotch dying without making her freak out?


He doesn’t have to, it seems, because Prentiss chips into the conversation. She cuts in suddenly, not giving Morgan a chance to get the right words to more delicately describe the situation and the events that have happened.


“Hotch is a vampire and we thought he was dead yesterday because he wasn’t breathing.”


“Emily!” Morgan hisses, whipping around to face the female agent. Reid looks affronted by the words, flicking his eyes between his two female friends. Prentiss holds a steady gaze with Morgan and his bewildered look from across their desks.


“What?” She says, “She was going to be told anyways, no reason to sneak around it.”

“You could have put it more delicately than that! You’ll give Garcia a heart attack if you just say something like that. Even I had a heart attack when I saw Hotch and found out, you can’t just spring that on someone.”


“She was going to find out anyway!” Prentiss repeats, the tense atmosphere from earlier rolling back over them as the two agents start to become snappish. “There’s no reason to be slow about it- she was going to have to find out before lunch, I wasn’t going to wait until then.”


“That doesn’t mean you can-”


“Morgan,” Garcia cuts in, voice gentle, “It’s ok, there’s no need to fight about this. I’m glad Em told me but it’s very sweet you worried about me.”


The tense atmosphere melts back into something more docile, Morgan and Prentiss giving each other matching, apologetic looks. Reid, still strung as tight as a bowstring, keeps flickering his gaze about the room- from Prentiss, Morgan and Garcia, to Hotch’s door and then over to Rossi’s, back and forth between the papers on his desk and the clock. Garica shoots a worried look to her friends, ‘why is he so upset?’ the silent question being asked- neither of them have an answer.


Something uncomfortable still hangs in the air, so Garica sets about on her original plan of cheering her friends up. Carefully prying Reid away from his anxieties, she draws the other agents into an easy conversation. It’s only simple things, like how their days were, or what they were planning to do over their next days off, but it works. Even with the three agents knowing this is an intentional distraction, they happily go along with it; Morgan cracks jokes and fires back and forth comments and pet-names with Garcia that would have given the harassment seminar presenter from a week ago a stroke, Reid rambles about a new book he found and describes how on the seventh time reading through it he found some hidden meaning in a sentence that could change half the plot, and Prentiss mentions a new show she wants to watch on their next weekend off.


Slowly the tension dissipates, all the agents relaxing. Later on even JJ joins them, original plan to give Hotch some files discounted with a head shake from Morgan - “Just wait until lunch, JJ. Hotch had a rough morning, the least we can give him is some time alone.”- and sits on the edge of Emily’s desk, wrapped into their friendly conversations. For well over the time they could justify, they all sit and talk. The anxious cloud remains hovering over them, especially Reid, who still sends worried looks to the upper offices, but sitting next to each other helps.


Before they all really realize how long they’ve been talking, Rossi comes out with the tense announcement that it’s lunch time for ‘all of them, right now’ and that he would grab Hotch to join them in the conference room in five minutes. The hovering cloud suddenly comes crashing down on the profilers surrounding Garica, all her hard work in cheering them up washed away in a torrent of twisted faces and drawn up postures.


“I’m sure it’ll all be fine,” she tries to reassure them as the group heads up to the room, all wordlessly ignoring the raised voices and arguing silhouettes of the two men in an office as they pass, “You’re all worked up over something silly. Just take a break- it’s lunch time which means no bad moods.”


Her unusual trains of thought and bouncing wildly from topics brings a comforting familiarity to the group, keeping them from slipping too far into their anxious storms. They continue their conversations from before, the only one of them willing to acknowledge the fact it had been ten minutes without two certain agents showing up being Reid, who refuses to turn his gaze away from the room’s door and the hallway hidden just outside of it.


Finally, nearly fifteen minutes after they all had gathered at the rounded table, the door swings open. Much like that morning, it’s Rossi who is first in line to enter, and Hotch, who looks like a half drowned kitten with his sad face, follows behind him. The older agent doesn’t say anything, moving to his seat and settling down. When he sees that Hotch hasn’t moved from the doorway, he frowns.


“It’s not like you need permission to enter,” Rossi says, tense and with hard-edged humor in his tone, “Come in here and sit down.”


Hotch’s face twitches, like he doesn’t like the hint of the joke made, but does reluctantly come forward. Without saying anything, or looking at any of the agents sitting around the table, the unit chief comes to sit in his chair. It’s not his normal seat, instead of sitting beside Rossi like he usually does he’s now sitting across from him- off to one side. None of them need to be profilers to know he’s trying to avoid the other man looking at him; none of them say anything about it either.


There’s a few moments of tense silence before Rossi clears his throat. “I’m sure you all have questions about Hotch? Why don’t we get started,” the man says, leaning back in his seat, getting comfortable for the predictably long conversation that’s about to happen.


“Are you really sure we should be doing this?” Morgan asks, face concerned as he looks over to their unit chief, who is staring at the light reflecting on the table top; Rossi frowns and shrugs. “Why not,” he counters, “You were promised answers today, I doubt you all think Hotch is one to break promises, right?”


“Rossi!” Morgan hisses out, “Look at him! Look at Hotch, he’s not gonna be able to make it through one question like-”


“I’m fine,” Hotch interrupts, voice flat and monotone. There’s no conviction behind the statement, there is no wavering edge or desperation to be believed, no anger at having been questioned; it’s just words that are being vocalized- it’s off putting


“See?” Rossi says with the faintest hints of frustration, “He’s fine, now go on with your questions.”


The team hesitates, some of them torn between staring worriedly at Hotch, who still looks robotically blank, and glaring at Rossi and his laid back, if not provoking, attitude about the whole thing. But with not many other choices, Prentiss decides to reluctantly ask a question.


“Hotch?”


“Yes,” the man replies, lifting his head to look at the female agent. She refuses to wince at the blank look he holds when he does so.


“What made you stop breathing yesterday?”


There's a few seconds before Hotch blinks and answers the question. “I was low on,” there’s a faint pause, “energy. When that happens, combined with too low temperatures, I fall into a hibernative state. That makes me breathing slow or stop completely, if it gets to that point.”


Prentiss nods, she already knew that information thanks to Reid from yesterday when it all went down, but hearing it from Hotch just acts as a confirmation. There’s another bout of quiet that falls over the group. It feels like they’re all strangers, not knowing what to say or how to approach a conversation with one another. But another question is eventually risen, this time from Garcia- they all had practically forgotten she was there.


“Are you really sure you’re ok, Hotch?” She asks, voice concerned as she leans slightly forward in her seat.


Hotch almost seems startled, like awareness has flooded him with the voice of Garcia and her concerns. It doesn’t completely wash away the empty look, but it scrubs some of it away from their unit chief’s face.


“I- yes, I’m sure Penelope.” Hotch hesitates on his words again before asking, “The team told you?”


“Yes,” Garica says without missing a beat. Had they all not been so preoccupied with Hotch, there would have been plenty of questions about how she was handling the news so well- but those would have to wait for another, less hectic time.


Morgan, who finally turns away from his silent, furious glaring match with Rossi, faces Hotch. The two men are sitting almost across from each other, so Hotch can’t escape Morgan’s sharp gaze when it lands on him. 


“Does what happened, the whole not breathing thing, have any lasting effects? And how can you- or with our help- avoid it again?”


“It doesn’t have any lasting effects, and there’s nothing that-”


“That’s not true.”


“Bullshit, Aaron!”


Reid and Rossi speak at the same time, although one of the agents is easily more angered by the half finished answer. The younger agent looks hurt by the words, like he’s so tightly wound up on what Hotch is apparently lying about he’s going to snap. Rossi looks furious, but there’s something desperate in his eyes when he sits forward and turns to face Hotch.


“That’s bullshit and we both know it- even Reid knows it. Don’t lie to them, not about this.”


Hotch looks like he’s been struck, he looks like a kid torn between lying to protect himself or risk getting hurt. They all know their unit chief has had a rough life as a kid, so they always find some silent, unspoken joy when Hotch does manage to show some more child-like side of himself. Right now though, as he stares at Rossi with wide, glassy eyes, it’s an agreement- however unspoken- that right now isn’t one of those good times for Hotch to look like a kid.


Hotch stares for a second more before swallowing, turning away and looking like he’s burning himself when he forces his eyes to meet Morgan’s again.


“There are lasting effects to this state as it is only used as a last resort- a defense tactic by those with,” another hesitation, just as vivid and painful as the others, stutters the man’s words, “-similar…biology to me. I can have symptoms similar to a concussion, internal bleeding or similar internal pain, and can go into shock if not treated properly.”


The team, even Rossi, who they all know has knowledge of this topic and situation already, sit shocked. It feels like Hotch has just confessed to murder- none of them know how to say anything, what can they say? What could they respond to when Hotch just told them that?


“Hotch…” Morgan says, worried and unsure of how to continue. He doesn’t, and the room falls back into a tense silence. Reid, still looking endlessly worried and concerned, breaks it this time.


“You said biology,” he says in a quiet, hesitant voice, “Why?”


“Because that’s what-” Hotch starts, but is interrupted by Reid and a raising voice that’s edged with desperation.


“Why do you keep doing that? You’re purposely distancing yourself from what you are- a vampire.”


Hotch flinches, flinches, at the word like Reid has struck him. Something like a mix of long suffering sorrow and panic fills Hotch’s expression. He turns quickly over to Rossi- seeming to momentarily forget his earlier argument and aggression from the man- like he’s begging to be saved. The older agent just stares back, eyes sad and knowing but not making any move to defend Hotch or his choice of words.


“Hotch,” Morgan calls again, somehow more worried than before, “Tell us what Reid means.”


There is another beat of silence again- JJ, Garica and Prentiss are all shooting each other worried, frantic looks across the table; Reid is flicking between looking at Hotch and glaring down at the table, Morgan and Rossi are watching the unit chief like hawks. When the man being questioned doesn’t answer, Morgan starts again.


“Hotc-”


“Because I hate myself,” Hotch suddenly blurts out- not really; he says it with the same, near monotone voice he’s been using the whole conversation. It almost hurts more that there’s no emotion in the statement, the man in front of them all acts like he’s been completely gutted and they don’t know how to help.


“You don’t really mean that,” Garica ventures, voice wavering with sadness- they all know what that answer is going to be.


“I do,” Hotch replies, having given up the attempts to hold eye contact and staring back down at the table.


“Why? Why do you think that, Hotch?” JJ asks, talking for the first time in the whirlwind conversation. She’s hesitant, letting Hotch know that he doesn’t have to answer the question through her tone and body language, but the man either doesn’t see, doesn’t care, or feels too obligated to answer their questions to take the easy out.


“I’m not a human, like you all are. I’m not right,” Hotch says- god, that toneless voice hurts like a stab to the heart with each word that comes out with it.


The whole team, like they’ve all been personally offended, jerk forward. Garcia appears absolutely horrified by what Hotch has said, Prentiss and Morgan share looks of anger- not at the man, but at his words and what he apparently believes about himself; Reid and JJ both have their mouths open, like they’re about to rebuke what Hotch has said. All of them stop, however, when Rossi raises his hand- it’s a silent signal; ‘let him talk’, the older agent is telling them.


They all, with tense postures and hesitation to follow the unspoken order waving off them, sit back in their seats. But true to what Rossi predicted, Hotch keeps up his talking and furthers his explanation.


“I’m not human,” he reiterates, “And I act wrong and make odd sounds and I don’t- I drink blood. I’m a monster, it’s a simple fact- I shouldn’t even be leading this team, or be part of it at all. I’m sorry.”


Through the process of what seems to be a painful admittance, Hotch raises his voice to a painful pitch. The man’s voice breaks at various points, like the words being spoken are made of glass shards that cut his soul with their razor edges. It hurts, like they’re all being physically attacked, with how much pain and hollowed out, long ago accepted sorrow is seeping from Hotch’s words.


Hotch looks two seconds away from dying, and they all know that it isn’t really a joke with him. His skin, already pale- not as much as yesterday, it had gained some color back since when Hotch left the office last night and came in that morning- has become completely washed of what color it had managed to regain. His hands are trembling, and if he weren’t so good at hiding it they would have been shaking wildly.


The team, all watching him from their seats, feel like they’re watching a dying animal- helpless and wounded as it bleeds out. Reid, however much he resents the jokes or comments thrown his way about it, looks exactly what he is- the youngest in the team. He looks at their breaking unit chief like he wants to comfort him but is too lost to know how. He may be one of, if not the most, intelligent person on this team, but no matter how good he is, nothing can fix what is happening to Hotch.


The silence is so suffocating and thick that it only makes Hotch’s slightly stuttered breath even more painful. It’s somewhere near a minute or so later, even if it feels like years, before someone speaks again.


“Another question,” Hotch says, voice finally gaining some kind of emotion- desperation, the need for a reply.


“Hotch,” Morgan ventures quietly, “I don’t really think we should-”


“I haven’t killed anyone,” Hotch answers the question that was never asked. “I’ve felt like biting people and I’ve done it before. I don’t want to, but it still happens and I hurt people.”


Everyone at the table shoots each other looks- what do we do?- but none of them are quite sure how to stop what seems to be the start of a steep spiral. Hotch’s breaths are becoming shallow, more frantic and airy. The color in his face is still pale and his hands are shaking worse now; their unit chief’s eyes hold a resigned look, like he knows he’s been condemned.


Morgan sends a lingering, pointed look at Rossi before turning back to Hotch. He makes sure to keep his voice calm, patient and slow as he speaks. It almost sounds like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal- none of the team like that comparison when it pops in their heads.


“Hotch, man, listen. We know you wouldn’t hurt anyone-”


“I’ve attacked Rossi, I hurt him,” the answer completely ignores the agent’s words and flattens them without consideration. Hotch, it seems, is in another world right now, and he’s going to be answering his own questions from now on.


“I didn’t mean to, I didn’t want to. But I’m a monster and I hurt people. I shouldn’t be here-” Hotch starts to almost ramble.


Yesterday, when they all thought he had almost died, their minds were preoccupied. The incredibly odd behavior from their unit chief- wide eyes, the whispers of an accent seeping through his words, sluggish and slurred speech, allowing himself to be helped and cared for- was brushed off. But today, while they all sit here at the table, staring at him, it feels unreal.


The Hotch they know, however fantasized the idea is, never breaks. He’s smart and hard working and wouldn’t break down- never. He’s made of something else entirely, to the team; Hotch is meant to be the strongest of them.


But reality has a way of checking people so harshly it sends their beliefs crashing to the ground like glass. This is the team’s wake up to see that no matter how much of a front, or how good he is at making it seem otherwise, Hotch is so painfully broken. Hotch is not perfect and does feel things, he breaks under the pressure of the burdens he carries and it’s showing now, in front of the whole team.


“I’m so sorry Rossi, I- I didn’t mean to. It was an accident- I’d never do that to any of them,” Hotch’s rambling cuts through the reality check the team is going through. He sounds so heartbreakingly desperate, like he has to be heard and believed if he’s going to be able to take his next breath.


The team is torn between looking at Hotch and Rossi, both men looking immensely upset- Hotch looks desperate while the older agent looks heartbroken. It takes a second before either of them make a move, but eventually Rossi sits up and leans further forward to look at the unit chief.


“Aaron,” he says, using his privilege of being one of the only ones who gets to call Hotch that, “it’s ok, I know that. The team knows that- you’d never hurt any-”


Hotch shakes his head and turns to face Morgan again. The agent would say it’s a good thing, to have eye contact during a conversation. It’s easy to read people from their eyes, not many people realize how expressive they are with their gazes. But with Hotch, right now in this room, it feels like Morgan is invading- he feels like he’s forced his way into the vulnerability that his unit chief is showing them all right now.


“I’ve hurt people before,” Hotch tells him, ignoring the quiet attempts from Rossi to stop him, “And I’ve been this way for years. Ever since I was nine, my father- he came home one night and he-”


Rossi all but leaps from his seat and rushes over to Hotch’s seat. He uses the advantage of swiveling chairs to forcibly turn Hotch away from his desperate staring contest with Morgan and make the man face him. The usual hesitancy about initiating touch- only Rossi does that, none of them, even for all the profilers they are, never caught onto it- is forgoed as he puts his hands on Hotch’s shoulders.


“Aaron, don’t do that- it's ok,” Rossi stresses through drawn out words. He’s staring down Hotch like if he looks away the man will break, none of them want to test and see he actually will. “Whatever is going on in your head, you need to stop. If you really can’t do this then don’t.”


“All the questions, Dave. I- I need to answer the questions,” Hotch argues back, but there’s no real fight in the words. He’s too tired to try anymore, the resignation is flooding his system like a tidal wave that he’s helpless to fight against.


“They’re not asking those questions, Hotch. You’re doing this to yourself and you need to take a second, breathe, and stop what you’re doing- you don’t have to force yourself to do this.”


It was more odd to see Hotch so emotional- a rather toxic thought, yes, but they were all so used to the man being the stoic, stern leader- and on the verge of crying. Almost more so than finding out the man they’re been working for and with, for all these years as a blood drinking creature of the night. It maybe says something- a lot- that the news of their boss being a vampire is less world tilting than seeing the man crying, but right now it wasn’t the biggest issue.


Rossi and Hotch are quiet now, ignoring the rest of the room to have what seems to be a silent argument between their eyes. It’s impressive, really, how easily the two are able to communicate through small facial movements and their eyes. But seeing as the two worked with each other longer than anyone else on the team had, it was kind of to be expected.


When whatever argument the two men were having seems to come to a conclusion, Rossi moves back to his seat. He’s not as stiff as the first time he came into the room to sit down, but there’s still something off about his usual open and friendly posture.


Hotch clears his throat and makes an odd swallowing motion- Prentiss really wants to ask him what that’s about, he’s been doing it the whole time they’ve been in here- before drawing himself up and into a more upright position.


“I apologize for my… outburst. My emotions got the better of me.”

“You don’t have to apologize boss man,” Garica says while smiling; it’s a fragile thing, like she wants to be sad, but for the sake of their unit chief, she’ll wait until later to grieve the broken man that’s been hiding under the facade Hotch has put up. “We love you, no matter what you are,” she assures.


“Exactly,” Prentiss agrees, her response getting an echo of agreement from the rest of the agents at the table.


“Thank you,” Hotch says with a fragile voice, “really. That means a lot from you all.”


However often it manages to happen, a small bout of silence befalls them all yet again. This episode isn’t as heavy as the others, there’s still something tense about it, but it feels like someone’s opened a window and let most of the smoke out- it’s less suffocating.


“I assume you all still have questions?” Hotch asks, sounding wary but determined.


This statement is met with immediate outrage-


“Absolutely not Aaron!”


“You really think after all of that-?”


“Hotch, man, you can’t be serious-”


“I highly doubt you’d be able to answer any questions in your current state-”


JJ, the only one who doesn’t join in the outcry leans forward, “All of you! Stop it- you’re being a bit overwhelming.”


Instantly, all of them back off with guilty looks; Hotch sends his agent a grateful look for getting all the others to step back. She sends a small, warm smile his way before turning back to the team. She gives them all meaningful looks as she does so, letting them all know she’s serious.


“Let’s avoid jumping over each other- if Hotch wants to answer some more questions, then we’ll let him.”


There isn’t a silence this time, but more of gathering of words and preparing questions as the team all lean back in their seats. Eventually it’s Morgan, who seems to be the most intent on getting as many health related answers as he can, that asks a question.


“I’m not the only one who caught onto your very specific wording, Hotch.” The man winces, knowing he’s been caught, but Morgan carries on. “When you told Prentiss it was about your energy levels earlier, what did you really mean?”


Hotch face twists, like he’s bitten into something sour or he’s just gotten his socks wet. Morgan almost tells the other man to neglect his question if answering makes him uncomfortable, but Hotch just makes that subtle, odd swallowing motion before clearing his throat again.


“Blood,” he says, “I meant blood. If v-” he cuts off at the first letter of the word they all knew he was going to say. Hotch’s face twists further, but Reid decides to step in and save the man from having to explain it himself.


“Vampires get their blood from others, along with the purpose of nutrients. They need it for their own circulatory systems. If a vampire does not get enough blood in their system and it gets too cold- as I’ve explained before- the body will shut down in an attempt to save itself from completely failing.”


The explanation gives everyone another jolt of shock- so Hotch was actually dying yesterday? He had so little blood his body was shutting down? Reid seems to realize this at the same time the rest of them do, his own words catching up to him. Once it seems to hit, his face twists and he quickly whirls around to stare right at Hotch.


Reid has his quirks- incredibly endearing ones, if you’d ask about anyone on the team- and one of those is eye contact. It’s an off and on thing that the younger agent deals with. Some days he avoids it like the plague, keeping his eyes carefully avoidant of any others. Other days he’s able to stare so intently it feels like he’s digging into your soul- the others don’t really know it, but Reid definitely learned that from Gideon; that man has a stare like no other.


It seems like today is one of those soul breaking days, because Hotch almost feels like shrinking under his young agent’s gaze.


“When was the last time you ate anything Hotch,” Reid questions, voice serious and stern- another thing he’s learned from Gideon.


Today seems to want to keep playing wild cards, because Hotch, the unit chief of the BAU, their boss, starts sputtering and attempting to dodge the question from their youngest. Only Morgan- who has kept his gaze always flitting about between Hotch and Rossi- sees the oldest agent in their group smile, increasingly entertained by Hotch’s reactions.


“It wasn’t really that long- honestly I’m surprised it even happened,” Hotch tries, but seeing as Reid has had time to learn from both Gideon and Hotch himself, he knows better than to let the unit chief slip out of the question.


“Hotch,” the agent says, “when was the last time you ate.”


The unit chief hesitates, obviously debating his answer. Something flashes over his face, it looks almost conspiratorial- contemplative. They all know he’s going to try something, especially with that odd swallowing- they’ve all figured equates to nervousness by now- makes Hotch’s throat bob.


“Tuesday night,” he replies, voice taking on what is most certainly an edge of sterness that’s being used to mask some sort of lie.

Well isn’t that something- it’s currently Thursday, which means their boss hasn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. It’s definitely concerning news, just another issue on the ‘things we need to help Hotch with’ list, but Reid seems to think something else. The serious look on his face doesn’t completely melt under the flash of concern that crosses it, if anything it gets stronger.


“I’ll rephrase and ask, when’s the last time you ate any blood?”


Rossi frowns, clearly already knowing the answer and not being happy about it; Hotch lets his eyes flicker to the door for a moment- ‘looking for an escape, he feels trapped and doesn’t want to answer,’ the profiler in all their minds whisper at once- before settling back on Reid. The man looks almost shy, like he doesn’t want to say whatever he’s about to admit.


“Sometime last week, maybe Sunday,” Hotch tries, but Reid only frowns further. There’s a quiet bout of wide eyed staring from one agent to another, the odd swallowing motion results in a barely audible clicking- he’s been avoiding making the sound then.


“Stop doing that, it will hurt your throat,” Reid orders, and then, “Is that the truth?”


“Probably closer to Saturday, if not late Friday,” Hotch admits, making both Reid and Rossi’s frowns deepen. But they’re the only two who understand what the admittance means, the rest of the team sits confused. Prentiss ventures with the question, “How often do vampires need blood?”


“Everyday,” Reid and Rossi say at the same time, but the younger agent further elaborates. “At least every other day, and that’s depending on if it’s a recommended amount or not.”


Despite how often it’s been happening over the past few days, the team still is shocked. It leaves them in a frozen state than a more vocal, outraged one like the last times. There’s a question all of them want an answer to, but Prentiss is the first one to say it outloud.


“And what’s the recommended amount?”


Rossi scoffs, humor and exhaustion leaking into one when he answers, “Not as much as Hotch has been having.”


“Basing it off of a three meal system like a human, and how the average body holds roughly one-hundred-ninety ounces of blood, with the danger levels of low blood in vampires being around sixty ounces- I can’t be sure what levels Hotch is at now without an examination or seeing how much he eats usually-”


“Reid,” Morgan cuts into the younger man’s rambling. The words cut short, and Reid quickly reorganizes himself.


“Sorry,” he quickly says before continuing, “If you go off of a three meal a day schedule a healthy vampire would need at least seventeen ounces for each meal- about an average water bottle’s worth.”

Everyone turns to Hotch in a silent judgement, knowing that whatever amount Reid has just given them is definitely not the amount Hotch has been having. And with the knowledge that the last time he ate was last week- not counting the fact he hasn’t eaten any food for over a day- arms them with enough to pin Hotch on the spot with their fierce, worried gazes.


Hotch gulps, trying to choke down another click, but Reid catches the motions and glares sharply at him. The man looks away guilty, but does allow the sound to quietly climb from his throat. It seems to satisfy the younger man as he nods and lets his glare fall away.


Morgan, voice stern and prying, asks Hotch, “So why haven’t you been eating then, Hotch?”

“Technically,” Hotch sounds too much like Reid, it seems he’s had the time to learn from others as well, “I don’t need that much food. My metabolism is different- much slower than any of you. I can survive off of-”


“Hotch,” Rossi and Reid cut in at the same time, both of them equally as tired with the attempts to sneak out of a real answer. Hotch frowns, closing his mouth with a click that makes his throat bob. Had they all not been told Hotch is pretty much starving himself, the team- particularly Prentiss, who is never one to pass up a chance to have something to hold over someone else’s head- would have found the quiet noise endearing. It sounded like a mix between a cat chirping and a baby chicken’s clucking. It wasn’t quite like any normal animal sound, but it was the closest comparison they have.


Morgan, realizing that Hotch is going to try lying his way out of a real answer, turns to face Reid. The younger agent meets his gaze readily, obviously knowing he’s about to be asked some list of questions.


“How much do you think Hotch has been eating?” Morgan asks, to which Reid lights up, cogs in his brain happily kicking into gear. It’s near opposite to Hotch, who is scowling at the younger man - probably an attempt to wade him off from answering the question; it doesn’t work.


“Based on how long I guess Hotch was out for yesterday, and with how cold it was, I’d say not even a quarter of the amount he’s meant to be having.”


Everyone turns to shoot Hotch looks, which he returns with reverence- he’s not backing down, he’s too stubborn. The scowl on his face fades though, when he meets Rossi’s eyes and sees the disappointed look on the older man’s face. It makes the team laugh a little inside- seeing Hotch melt under Rossi’s gaze never stops being a little funny.


Reid continues his explanation, either not caring about or not noticing the stare down he’s sparked the team to give their unit chief.


“It wasn’t really all that cold yesterday, the thermostat said it was only forty degrees in the office when we walked in. Vampires can handle twenty degrees comfortably, so that means Hotch was really low on blood at the time, maybe something around sixty to sixty-five ounces was in his system. But vampires can also run on low levels even in colder climates, so I’d say it’s more accurate to say thirty to forty ounces.”


“Hotch,” JJ says, sounding like the perfect mix of disappointed and worried. “What’s going on, why aren’t you taking care of yourself?”


With the most recent question answered, the team can all focus one hundred percent of their attention on the unit chief. Hotch shifts slightly, suppressing another click- Reid is visibly bothered by it, but seems to realize the suppression is more a habit by now and he’s not going to be able to break the habit in a day, so he avoids doing anything other than frowning- and clears his throat. The man sits up straighter, looking the most put together and aware he has the whole time this conversation.


“I have,” there's a pause and they all know Hotch is avoiding saying the word issues, “situations that lead to me forgetting to eat or avoiding meals. It’s become a habit that I can’t break easily so I compromise.”


“What exactly does ‘compromising’ mean then, Hotch? Go on and tell them,” Rossi asks, voice far too sweet to not be mocking- he knows the answer and wants Hotch to tell them, probably because they’ll all readily agree with the older agent’s concerns. Hotch frowns, knowing what the man is doing, but answers anyway.


“If I’m not hungry then I won’t eat,” Hotch says, but Rossi keeps up his countering. “And what exactly did you tell me ‘being hungry’ felt like, Hotch?”


The unit chief looks back and forth between each of his agents. They all have the same attentive and worried look on their faces, and he knows they’re all about to turn into sharp looks again with what he’s about to say. He can already feel the exclamations from his overprotective team echoing in his ears before he even says anything.


“When I start shaking or my stomach hurts too much to comfortably ignore,” he admits quietly, wincing at the expected outcry from the rest of the table. Not even JJ, who seemed to have been playing team mediator before, stops herself from making a concerned comment on Hotch’s words.


After a moment, and when the team has calmed slightly, Reid turns to fully face the unit chief. He has what Rossi and Hotch secretly call the ‘mini-Gideon’ look on his face, and Hotch can already tell he’s about to be pressured into some other self-incriminating answer about his health.


“Have you eaten today?”


Rossi frowns and Hotch gets a flash of panic crossing his face, but both expressions are gone within a second and schooled back into something less readable. The older agent shakes his head, leaning back in his seat and turning his chair to face Reid.


“He has, but definitely not enough- especially not after the whole thing yesterday.”


Reid hums, but doesn’t turn to properly acknowledge the older agent. He keeps his eyes trained on Hotch; he feels like the agent is looking into his soul and picking out each one of his lies to bring them to light. Sometimes Hotch forgets how scary Reid can be, with how observant the young man is.


“You’re still shaking, and your skin is too pale even for a vampire,” Reid announces, sounding much too like a doctor speaking to a sick child, “How much have you had today so far?”


Hotch glances over to Rossi with wide eyes- the whole time those two have been sending so many signals that mixed together into some undesirable mess that the team knows they’ve been arguing about this exact topic, but they’re still missing a piece and it’s infuriating- but when the other man doesn’t answer for him, he clears his throat.


“About half a cup, maybe?” Hotch tries, hoping that the topic is dropped. Reid frowns, but seems to notice that this isn’t a topic he should push the man to answer in front of so many people.


“I think you should go home for the day,” Reid tells the unit chief, cutting past the instant arguments saying otherwise that comes from the man, “You’re probably still- no, I know you’re still feeling adverse effects from yesterday, both from the shut down and whatever bruises you have from Morgan’s CPR. You haven’t had enough blood today, or this week- your whole life if I’m assuming this is a pattern of yours?”


“Unfortunately it is,” Rossi confirms the younger agent’s assumption as he stands from his chair. The man walks over to Hotch’s chair, gently tapping at the other man’s shoulder until he reluctantly stands. “But I agree with the doctor-” Reid frowns briefly at the nickname and knowing that Rossi is mocking both him and Hotch, “-and say you should go home.”


Hotch looks at the agents sitting around the table, carefully inspecting their expressions. He’s…not really sure what he expects. Anger for lying to them? Disappointment for going home early? Disgust at him not being human like all of them? Whatever he had expected to see isn’t there, replaced entirely with concern and worried eyes. All of them care about him, whether he wants to acknowledge that or not; sometimes Hotch thinks his team is too good for him.


He must take too long to respond or make any move to listen to Rossi, who’s trying to gently usher him out the door, because Garcia looks up at him, bright eyes and smiling.


“Go home Hotch, we’ll be fine. You deserve a break,” she tells him.


Hotch stares down at her, heart twisting happily- his team really are too good for him sometimes. The echoes of Penelope’s words are spread by the rest of the team- Morgan, JJ, and Prentiss- with sincerity. Reid gives him a small, encouraging smile as Rossi nags him further, now gently but insistently pushing him towards the door.


“Thank you,” Hotch tells them, because he is. He’s so happy and relieved that his team don’t care what he is and that they love him anyway. “You’re all too good for me.”


“Sometimes they really are,” Rosi grumbles sarcastically as he keeps trying to move Hotch towards the door. The man finally complies, stepping away from the prodding hands and walking towards the exit on his own. The older agent smiles, happy he’s gotten the compliance he was after, and trails after the man- no doubt his ride home.


“I’ll be going to,” Rossi tells them, pausing just within the doorway to face the team. “Got to make sure someone takes care of himself.”


They all smile when they see Hotch’s scowl from beyond the doorway, having heard Rossi’s comment. He looks like a kid who knows their parent is making fun of them but doesn’t get the joke- not terribly far from the truth, really. Morgan waves the men off with a shooing motion, grinning as Rossi and Hotch start to walk away again.


“Go ahead Rossi, I’m sure we can handle a day in the office without you two.”


Rossi smiles and nods, turning back around walks towards Hotch, who is a few paces down the hall. They’re both quietly talking to one another as they make it toward the stairs and down into the bullpen. The team watches as the two men walk away; once they’re both out of earshot Prentiss leans forward.


“So are none of us going to mention that Hotch can purr?”


Hotch, who is almost halfway across the bullpen to the elevator, whips around, complete shock and embarrassment written across his face. ‘Oh,’ Prentiss realizes, ‘He’s got super hearing.’


Everyone in the room seems to get caught on the humor at the same time, all snickering as they watch Hotch flip back around and start wildly gesturing at Rossi. From what they can see before the men make it into the elevator and the door closes is Rossi laughing, trying to reach up to pet Hotch's hair while the other man swats his hand away.


---


The click of the apartment door closing echoes through the previously empty living room.


Hotch sighs, shuffling over to his couch and lets himself flop onto the worn fabric dramatically. Behind him, somewhere in the kitchen, he hears Rossi snort, amused by his antics. He huffs in response, lifting his head up to look over the back of the couch to glare at the other man but can’t see him from his spot.


“What are you laughing at, Dave,” Hotch questions. Something is moving around in the kitchen, Rossi’s opening and closing cabinets and the fridge- when the man makes a happy sound and the sound of something pouring dribbles faintly through the room. After a moment the other man comes around the corner, holding two cups. “You, of course,” Rossi tells him, smiling widely.


When one of the cups is extended to him, Hotch begrudgingly sits up right and takes the offering. He lifts the cup to his face, grimacing when the thick, sweetly smell of blood floods his nose. It was expected that Rossi would give him some, he heard the fridge open and he assumed as much, but it doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.


Rossi sits on the edge of the couch that remains mostly empty, aside from Hotch’s feet- even curling his knees up and leaning against the other arm of the couch he’s too tall- and holds his own cup. It matches Hotch’s, tall, somewhat thin and a solid green color. Only when held up to the light could you see there was anything inside the cup, and even then it would be impossible to tell the color of the contents- Rossi’s done this on purpose.


The older man knows Hotch caught onto his cup trick and smiles. He swirls his cup around like it’s a full wine glass, fingers stretched out and all.


“I got us matching cups,” he says happily, smiling a little too wide to not be mocking. Hotch thins his glare, holding his own cup closer to his chest. He frowns ever so slightly when he tells Rossi, “I’m not sure we’re drinking the same thing, Dave.”


Rossi grins even wider, turning away to grab the remote to the TV sitting on the nearby lamp table. He flicks it on, getting up from his seat to go kneel by the stand and opening the small door on the cabinet. Grabbing a movie, he stands and puts the movie into the DVD player before reclaiming his seat.


“How would you know?” Rossi fires back, smiling as he gets comfortable in his seat again.


“I doubt yours has blood in it,” Hotch says, fighting to keep the disdain for the statement from his words. He knows he doesn’t quite manage it, not fully, but the other man seems amused anyway.


“Yours doesn’t either,” Rossi says, sounding suspiciously smug. Hotch decides to humor him anyway, “Then what’s in our cups?”


With a much too smug smile, the man replies- had Hotch thought about it he would have realized what he just walked himself into.


“Cranberry juice.”


Hotch groans and shakes his head as Rossi cackles, far too amused by his referencing joke. It’s been years, since some time before Rossi originally retired and left the team and yet he still manages to make jokes about that day.


“It wasn’t really that funny, Dave,” Hotch grumbles, turning away to face the TV. Rossi sighs, trying to calm his laughter and breathe normally again. “It will always be to me,” he responds.


The movie screen pops up, presenting a title screen and a small set of options. Hotch instantly recognizes the movie, it’s one of his favorites. The memory attached to this one is much less embarrassing than the cranberry one, so he gives Rossi a small smile and quiet ‘nice pick’.


The movie starts, Rossi having calmed his laughing and huffs and pressing the button over the play options. The starting credits start to play, the first scenes following after a car that swivels around the streets as it heads to its destination.


Just as the man steps out of his car, having pulled into a gas station, and drops the first of many cigarettes to grind into the ground, Rossi speaks up. Hotch will later complain he interrupted his favorite scene, but at the moment it’s more important than what’s on screen.


“You know the team loves you right? No matter what you are.”


It’s a simple question with a not so simple answer. But thinking about how the team looked at him makes him think it could be easier than he once thought it was; Morgan looked so happy to see him moving around again, Reid smiled at him with the shy look of his. JJ gave him a considerate look, Garcia nudged his mind the right way with her reassurances, Prentiss asked questions without feeling like she was prying for information.


They all looked at him like they loved him. And now, sitting on his couch watching his favorite movie- the title had just shown on screen, reading in bright letters, Loaded Weapon 1- with Rossi beside him, both of them with their childish like ‘matching cups’ and passing jokes, he thinks for the first time in a while the answer to that question comes easy.


“I know.”