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Rossi is surprised to glance up at Hotch's office and find the blinds tightly wound shut. In itself it wouldn't have registered, except for the fact that he hasn't seen or heard from Hotch all day, and that is a rarity. The man needs his coffee, after all.
When Rossi gently pushes open the door to Hotch's office he finds himself surprised once again, by the total darkness the room is encapsulated in. Only the light Rossi himself leaves in his wake lights up a thin rectangle that stops just short of Hotch's desk. With a confused yet mostly disinterested raise of his eyebrows, he's about to back out of the office on the assumption that Hotch is just out, when he hears a restrained groan coming from inside.
"Hotch?" Rossi asks. The groan comes more assertive this time, before it begins to morph into words.
"Shut...thedoor."
In his alarm, Rossi shuts it almost too enthusiastically, and it rattles in time with further groaning and a rustling of material. It takes a while for Rossi's eyes to adjust to the darkness, but when they do, he shuffles towards the desk and then around to the back of it. Hotch is curled up on the floor, his jacket laid across him like a blanket, and his tie wrapped around his eyes like a blindfold. Clearly it's not all that effective.
"Are... you alright?" It's a stupid question really, but it's the only thing Rossi can bring himself to say.
"Migraine." Hotch mumbles, a frown forming and causing the tie to slip slightly. Honestly, he wishes Rossi would just go away, all he's done since he got here is let all the light and cold and noise in, and Hotch is sure he can still hear the door rattling around in his brain. Every word Rossi says reverberates in his skull like a hammer to his head.
"Well this is no good, let me drive you home." Rossi tries.
A stifled groan and Hotch bringing his hands to his eyes indicates that this is not a good suggestion. "No..." He moans. "Too bright, too loud. Motion. Sick."
Rossi's expression is filled with worry, but the only migraines he's ever dealt with were self inflicted, and he's pretty sure Hotch wouldn't drink on a school night. Besides, he doesn't remember ever being this desperate, even then.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
Hold hot towels against my forehead? Ask Garcia for her weighted blanket? Run your hands through my hair?
"No. 'm good." Hotch curls into himself slightly more than he already was, and Rossi thinks 'good' is an overstatement. "Just go. Quietly."
Rossi nods, though Hotch can't see it, being careful to slip out quietly, and closing the door as slowly and carefully as he can. He figures he'll get some better advice from the team, knowing Hotch is more than likely holding out on him just to be as little of an inconvenience as possible.
***
Reid rattles off a list of causes of migraines, before pausing and adding that genetics and diet can also play a role. When Rossi reminds him that he asked for advice, Reid frowns.
"Maybe a blanket? Garcia has a weighted blanket that she loans to me when I'm stressed."
Rossi nods, adding it to his mental checklist. "Is there anything else?"
"I've read that some people like cold, and some like heat, but if Hotch was complaining about being cold, then maybe he would prefer heat."
"Heat? Heat, how?"
"Towels, soaked in boiling water."
Rossi looks thoughtful. "Alright. Hot towels."
"Maybe a head massage? Though some people can be sensitive to the extra stimulation, and it can make their migraine worse."
"Alright Spencer, thanks. I think that's enough for now."
"No problem. When he's better, tell him I hope he feels..." Reid trails off when he realizes the logical circle. "Just don't speak too much."
With a smile, Rossi heads to Garcia's office.
***
"Oh no... poor Hotch." Garcia whines, her expression a pitying frown, but wholeheartedly genuine nonetheless. She roots around in a cupboard at the back of her office, muttering dubious advice of varying sources - some that Rossi is almost certain would only exacerbate the problem, but he knows she means well and chooses to stay quiet. He paces a little, already conscious that time is passing when he could be comforting Hotch - that is if it works, and doesn't just make everything worse.
"Gotcha!" Garcia suddenly exclaims, pulling out a thick, folded up blanket and enthusiastically handing it over to Rossi. "Tell him I hope he feels better soon."
Rossi nods and smiles reassuringly. He'll at least think it.
***
Rossi hesitates outside Hotch's office with an armful of supplies, trying to think of the best possible way to deliver them without making matters worse. The worst part is the light from the corridor, so he acts as quickly as possible in order to minimize the amount of time he lets the light in, while also making sure he doesn't rattle the door too vigorously, if at all.
Despite his best efforts, there's still that signature groan that reliably updates Rossi on the sitation - no change.
"Hey." Rossi murmurs as softly as he can, unfolding the blanket and stepping quietly towards Hotch. "I'm just going to move your jacket out of the way."
Hotch groans in protest, but it comes out more like a whine as he paws at where he thinks Rossi's hands might be. It's to no avail though, and its brief absence gives Hotch a shiver until the weight of the blanket across his entire body suitably fills the role.
This time his groan is different, more of brief satisfaction, but the fact remains that his brain still feels like it is being drilled into.
"Oh, Dave..." Hotch whines.
"I know." Rossi tentatively places his hand at the top of Hotch's forehead, lifting the front of his hair slightly. "I'm sorry."
"Feel sick." Hotch mumbles.
"Will you be sick?" It's only a question of logistics and planning.
"Not again." The response temporarily alarms Rossi, as he begans searching out the potential sick spot with his eyes, until Hotch decides to speak up again; "Made it to thebathroom."
"Oh." Rossi relaxes again. "I'm glad to hear that."
A small mumble of assurance encourages Rossi to run his hand back through Hotch's hair, then replace it where it was. He repeats this action multiple times until his arm begins to ache, and he has to re-steady himself in his position crouched on the floor. Then, he returns to his pile of supplies, and pulls a folded towel out of a plastic bag, rolls it into a thin strip, and lays it carefully across Hotch's forehead. The action earns him a satisfactory hum, and Hotch's hand revealing itself from underneath Garcia's blanket.
Rossi hesitates, but eventually decides to rest his own hand on top of Hotch's. The soothing warmth from the towel, plus the comfort of his friend, gives way to a series of soft sighs in between the occasional groan of nausea, which Rossi considers a humble victory.
"When will you learn to ask for help?" Rossi murmurs, lightly squeezing Hotch's hand.
"Don't go," is all Hotch manages in response. It's an improvement on his earlier feelings - this time Rossi has brought warmth and comfort with him, and though Hotch still feels as though his guts are being whisked and there are several angry honeybadgers gnawing away at his brain, it beats being stranded here alone in the dark with only a measley suit jacket for a cover.