Work Text:
Mirrors had always been a bit of an issue for Hotch. He tried not to look directly at them if he didn’t have to, and would duck his head when passing a window that seemed adamant to show his reflection. It made shaving a little tricky, but as long as he focused on the task at hand he could manage to avoid thinking about the face looking back at him. A face that wasn’t just his own.
Hotch looked like his father.
He’s gotten used to it by now, but back when the testosterone kicked in as a budding teenager, it would freak him out every time he passed a mirror, like a manifestation of his nightmares
What was he supposed to do if the ghost that haunted him wore his face?
Sometimes, on nights when it didn’t seem like sleep would come no matter how hard he tried, and with the comforting burn of amber liquor lingering in the back of his throat, he set aside his reservations, braced his hands on the edge of the sink, and studied himself in the mirror. He would frown at first; he was always frowning, but having to actually see the tense expression he automatically wore every day caused him to properly scowl.
This is what people saw when they looked at him?
He ran his hands over his mouth but it just made him look more exhausted. He tried to relax and trailed his fingertips across each of his features. The sharp jawline, distinct cheekbones, prominent brows, dark hair, and deep, sunken eyes were all too similar to the monster from his youth he didn’t need a daily reminder of.
The mirror seemed to mock his unease. He glared menacingly, but despite his attempts at intimidation, the mirror was unphased. He bit his cheek until he tasted copper—anything to drown out the bitter taste in his mouth as he locked eyes with the foul creature he hated most.
Learning to hate his father took him longer than he wanted to admit. His undeveloped mind had such a limited grasp on the world; by the time he even realized dads weren’t supposed to cause their kids pain, he had already accepted that he deserved it. Surely he must’ve done something. His father was a respectable, reputable man with deep connections within the community. He wasn’t yet able to process that all people were capable of bad things—even the ones he looked up to. Layers of lies and misunderstanding enveloped his understanding of the world.
It was a bit of a shock to realize it wasn’t normal for his heart to pound frantically when he heard heavy footsteps approach down the hall. It wasn’t normal to know the taste of cigarette ash, or recognize the sting of alcohol from flying shards of glass. It wasn’t normal to grope his way to his bed in the darkness after being struck blind. It wasn’t normal to be more familiar with the feeling of his father’s fist more than his embrace.
He wasn’t normal. It took years to learn that it wasn’t necessarily his fault. It was something he still struggled to unlearn decades later.
He isolated himself from the other kids in the neighborhood. Even if his mother hadn’t warned him not to embarrass their family, he was already sure that they would notice everything that was wrong with him. He was disgusting, a disappointment, something to be reviled. So he kept his distance. Not that any of them were particularly interested in him in the first place.
As the years went on, he began to notice the whispers around the town. How awful it was for such a loving family to have such an insolent child. How the esteemed lawyer—a pillar of the community—didn’t deserve to have his good name defiled by such a disreputable son. How endlessly patient his parents must be, to deal with such a troubled boy.
He was skin and bones for most of his childhood; smaller than most kids his age. Family meals were reserved for days with guests, and he quickly needed to learn how to smuggle away what he could while he could for the weeks where food was hard to come by. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him alive.
He shot up quickly as a teenager, but just as gangly and thin. That was when he began to back away when he thought he saw someone else in the mirror. His cheeks were hollow compared to the firmly set, square jaw of his father, but it was close enough to catch him off guard more than a few times.
It wasn’t until his mother flinched at the sight of him that he accepted that he truly was his father’s son. Probably in more ways than one. In more ways than he could see for himself.
He ate better than he ever had when he went off to college. Through regular exercise and regular meals, he managed to fill out: his shoulders broadened and he reached a stable weight. He was thankful for that, he really was, but now he was hyperaware of his looming figure. His father had been dead for years, but he still lingered in every movement. As if the scars weren’t enough of a reminder.
He knew the similarities didn’t end there. As much as he may wish the commonalities were only skin deep, he feared he would inherit the aggression, or that his own unaddressed resentment would unleash into an outburst of violence he couldn’t control. He had built a life for himself—even had his own son—but the shadow of his father seemed to cast over all of it. Living with his father’s hands sometimes made him feel like they were one in the same. He could never get away from it.
There was one saving grace: he had his mother’s smile.
He’d seen it in his grandparents’ photo albums. The wide, toothy grin with dimples on either end, radiating genuine joy. He only ever saw his mother’s plastered, thin-lipped smile, one that never quite reached her eyes. Even then it was only used for polite decorum. Careful and calculated. Upholding the façade of a perfect little family.
Truthfully, it wasn’t much easier to look at. It was just another grim reminder that he never once saw his mother happy. He didn’t know how his father’s poor parenting strategies overlapped with his husbandly duties, but, simply judging based on his disposition, he highly doubted she’d been granted any kindness either. All he knew for sure was the cold wall of indifference he felt with his mom; so different from the pictures of the happy woman she’d been before.
Whether it was before her husband of before her son, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t think he wanted to know the answer.
Mirrors were threatening, loaded with a disquieted despair that pulled out everything Hotch didn’t want to see: a grim narrator recounting the inexorable pain of reality. Every feature—from the hair on his head to the hair on his hands; from his deepest frown to his rare smiles—was corrupted in one way or another. There really was no escaping it. Hotch knew logically, as a byproduct of his parents, there were bound to be physical similarities. It was impossible to look at himself without questioning whether there was any difference at all between him and the monsters of the past.
He knew the kind of violence he was capable of. He knew how he needed to the adrenaline coursing through his veins to feel truly alive. It was sick, but he couldn’t tolerate inaction, or the restraint of being under someone else’s thumb. He needed the initiative, the freedom, the exhilaration. He didn’t want to question where that endless restless came from. He could only appreciate that he had found the perfect outlet in his career. He would close his eyes and pretend he wasn’t following his father’s footsteps. How long before Hotch caught up with him?
The mirror said he wasn’t far behind.
The last thing he wanted was to be his parents’ child.