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The most important thing in Hotch’s life was undeniably Jack. From the moment that child was born, Hotch was sold. Jack’s little hand curled around Hotch’s finger with an impossible grip. It was inconceivably soft, the scent of fresh baby lingering on Hotch’s skin even after he let go. The perfect picture of innocence—the complete opposite of Hotch.
It was an immense, absolute joy that Hotch didn’t deserve to have.
He’s always been a little reluctant to have children. He didn’t exactly have the best family history, nor the most ideal role model when it comes to fathers. No matter how Haley tried to comfort or reassure him, he just couldn’t help but think he’d end up the exact same. It was in his blood, after all.
He could fight it all he wanted—he may even win most of the time—but it doesn’t change the anger that laced his veins. He was fighting his own nature. The memory of his own father forever singed into his flesh, the old, faded scars a perpetual reminder of what he’s capable of.
He didn’t want his son to go through same fear he grew up with. He got accustomed to it eventually—kids are adaptable that way. But the icy shudder running down his spine when he felt his frustration mount was a different kind of fear entirely. It frayed his nerves, like a powerful electric current buzzing just under his skin; pins and needles drowning out all his senses, making him numb to anything other than the overwhelming horror at the thought that he might hurt someone he loves.
He shut down in those moments, much to his long-suffering wife’s irritation. (Haley preferred to be straight-forward with confrontation, so it annoyed her constantly that he refused to so much as raise his voice in an argument.) There were certain situations where he felt he could appropriately release his anger—the interrogation room, mostly—but it was easier to suppress everything than risk lashing out. It’s dangerous. He’s dangerous.
It’s easier to run away. Easier to bury himself in work and fly halfway across the country every week. Easier to let Haley move out and file for divorce. Easier to cut off contact with people he cares about so he doesn’t hurt them. Easier if he’s not around anymore.
Easier if he’s not around at all.
That point was never made clearer to him than his encounters with the Reaper. At first it was just guilt. Guilt was something he was used to, guilt was something he could handle. How he was sent away all those years ago, tail between his legs, after failing to do anything useful. How there was a part of him that was frustrated that the killing stopped, because it meant he couldn’t finish the job. How he’d looked George Foyet in the eyes and didn’t see anything but another victim, never once understanding who the man truly was. How, when he was given a second chance, he let the man slip through his fingers again, failing again.
The humiliation of being caught off guard in his own home. The unspeakable agony he felt—too weak to even writhe on the carpet—as Foyet carved into him. It was fitting that they matched, even if he retched at the memory when he looked in the mirror the first dozen times. He forced himself to look, anyway, nearly breaking bone with how tightly his jaw was clenched. Marked by the two reflections of himself manifested in a brutal reality.
He’d only be lying to himself if he said he didn’t deserve it.
If he hadn’t been there, maybe someone else would’ve seen what he couldn’t. If he hadn’t been there, maybe Foyet wouldn’t have started killing again. Maybe Haley—
No. Haley’s fate was sealed the day they locked eyes in the theater all those years ago. It was an inevitability he didn’t want to confront, so he shoved it down and pretended he was capable of living a happy life, of making someone happy. Hotch couldn’t blame Foyet for her death. If it hadn’t been Foyet, it would’ve been something else Hotch’s existence wrought.
Somewhere in the back of his mind as he was slamming the corpse of Foyet into the floor over and over again, he had the sense to be disgusted. But it wasn’t a surprise. The shock on Derek, Emily, and Dave’s faces as they got a taste of what kind of monster Aaron Hotchner kept locked up were expressions he didn’t want to see. Every horrible truth about himself that he tried to contain proven in an instant. He was violent. He was dangerous.
He couldn’t hug Jack that day. Couldn’t even look him in the eye, just ushered him into JJ’s arms so he could be held by anything other than bloody hands.
Every fear he ever had about who he was had been confirmed; the evidence was growing cold downstairs with a face so distorted it was almost hard to recognize. Hotch wasn’t capable
He had to adjust that mindset when Jack moved into his apartment. He had someone who relied on him to do… well… everything. The kid was only 5. He could barely brush his teeth by himself. Hotch shoved aside all the fears that came hand in hand with attachment—he needed to. There was no other option. He had to be there for his son.
He had to be a father.
The mental adjustment of Jack living with him wasn’t as difficult as he thought. He still startled when he tripped on toys littering the hallway, as if he forgot Jack was even there. He performed his fatherly duties on autopilot, spending most of his time processing this huge adjustment in his life, dimly recognizing in the back of his mind how much of a threat he posed to his son.
Jack sat on the carpet playing with Legos in the same spot that had been stained with blood—wounds inflicted by the man Hotch beat to death with his bare hands. It was grounding, in a way. Sometimes it was encouraging: showing how far he’s come and how happy Jack is despite Hotch’s anxiety, replacing blood on his hands with washable marker. Sometimes it was excruciating: a reminder of the darkest parts of him that he didn’t want Jack to see. A reminder of what his hands were actually good at.
It was beyond horrifying. He wondered if Jack noticed the way his hands shook in their first few months of living together, or the way he hesitated every time he went to touch him. Physical contact eventually became routine, but there was still that underlying fear that he would do something to hurt Jack.
It was a deep, sinking feeling that he was going to fuck this all up somehow.
But when Jack reached out to him… When Jack crawled up to sleep next to Hotch in bed, or raced to throw his arms around him in a bear hug when Hotch returned home, or snuggled closer on the couch during movie nights, it was as if a slight weight lifted from Hotch’s chest and he was able to breathe a little easier.
Hotch could ruminate on future regrets as much as he wanted, but it didn’t change the fact that right here, right now, Jack didn’t fear him. Jack loved him. It tugged on Hotch’s heart almost painfully, but he’d gladly take that unabashed, unconditional love his son gave, even if he was unworthy of it.
When Jack reached for his hand, still unbelievably small, Hotch could pretend they had a chance.