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Aaron Hotchner is at a loss.
Give him a serial killer, kidnapping and torturing their victims, an arsonist, or a hostage situation, and he’ll handle it without breaking a sweat— he’ll be the hero. But give him a grieving son who won’t talk, eat, or do anything besides lay in bed, staring at the wall, listening to his late boyfriend’s voicemail greeting, and he’s in over his head.
The agent pads down the hall, heavy silence hanging in the air, and stops outside his son’s closed door, frowning at the untouched bowl of cereal he left that morning on the floor.
“You’ve reached Derek Morgan. I can’t come to the phone right now–” Hotch knows the message by heart, chest aching as he listens to his son’s muffled voice teasing his boyfriend in the background of the recording. “–leave a message, and I’ll get back to you–”
He waits until the recording ends to knock on the door, interrupting his son’s mourning.
“Spence? I made you a sandwich,” He doesn’t get a response; he isn’t expecting one, but it hurts nonetheless. “Come on, Spencer. You have to eat.”
Silence.
Hotch sighs, picking up the bowl and leaving the plate in its place.
“I’m sorry you have to go through this–” This wasn’t supposed to happen— not to his son; he shouldn’t know the pain of losing his best friend, first love, soulmate, whatever you want to call them because they made each other so happy.
George Foyet damned Hotch with that pain; Spencer doesn’t need to know it too.
“–I’m here to talk or just listen— whatever you need— when you’re ready, Spence,” Still, nothing. “I love you.”
He lingers for another moment, part of him wanting to break down the door and force his son out of bed, but he knows that’ll only drive them apart–
“You’ve reached Derek Morgan–”
–before returning to the living room with a heavy heart.
The alcohol in the house starts disappearing, and he gives Spencer some leeway; he doesn’t bring it up, locking the cupboard, but his son is smart— too smart for his own good— so he throws it out.
He isn’t one to judge— god knows he spiraled after Haley died— and confronting Spencer is like walking a tightrope, standing between cathartic and dangerous, waiting for a strong wind to push them either way, so he stays quiet.
But without alcohol in the house, Spencer starts leaving— silent as he emerges from his room, looking more like a ghost than alive, and disappearing until late at night— and it doesn’t take a profiler to know he isn’t coping; that he’s is falling down the same hole Hotch did, but the problem with raising a genius is he’s too aware. He knows what he’s doing, and instead of trying to stop it— reaching out or getting help— he’s keeping everyone at arm’s length and letting himself drown.
And Hotch is trying— staying up on the couch until Spencer comes home, only for the younger brunette to give him the cold shoulder, disappearing into his room— but stubbornness runs in the family, and his son doesn’t budge.
“You’ve reached Derek Morgan–”
And three weeks after his boyfriend’s funeral, Spencer disappears.
Hotch asks his team because they’re like his son’s extended family, telling him he’s always welcome in their homes, but they haven’t seen him. He calls and leaves messages–
“This is Spencer Reid–”
–until his son’s voicemail greeting because as painful to hear as Derek’s. He has Garcia track his phone, nearly putting his first through a wall when she tells him it’s turned off, and JJ takes them off the case rotation because their unit chief isn’t the only one worried sick, and the team can’t focus on anything besides their missing pseudo-son–
Beep.
“Hey, Spence, it’s JJ–”
“Spencer? It’s Alex–”
“Boy Genius! Where are you–”
“–we’re worried about you, Spence–”
“We’re sorry, the number you’re trying to reach is unavailable–”
Hotch becomes irritable, snapping at anyone who gets too close after he hears that message, and running himself ragged, looking for any proof his son is alive, holding onto shreds of hope like a lifeline, and at some point, he realizes his son learned his coping mechanisms— the isolation, the anger, disregarding his health— from him, and when Aaron looks at himself in the mirror, panic clawing up his throat, hands trembling, his father looks back.
He failed.
He let his son slip through the cracks.
And he almost lets himself go.
Almost.
But he doesn’t, clawing back to reality after his destructive thoughts tell him that his worst fears have come true because he needs to be there for his son if Spencer comes back– when his son comes back, Hotch won’t turn his back on him— that is the difference between Aaron and Michael Hotchner— he will not abandon his son.
His team is his lifeline, rotating who’s on “Hotch Watch,” one of them always staying with him, filling the suffocating silence Haley left first, then Spencer, making him eat and sleep, promising they’ll wake him up if they hear anything, but they don’t.
They have nothing.
They have nothing until three weeks after Spencer Reid disappears when Hotch’s phone rings through the grief that’s settled over the Hotchner household like a thick fog–
“Hotchner.”
It’s 2 am when the sound pulls Aaron from his thoughts as he answers, exhausted— too exhausted for hope, and there’s a pause that almost makes him hang up, thinking it’s a sick prank or spam, when–
“Dad?” The voice is weak, rapidly fading, and barely a low croak, but it’s him.
–and Garcia is on her computer in an instant tracing the call as Aaron slips on the facade of calm he wears when he’s talking to scared– god when Agent Hotchner is talking to victims, falling into “agent mode” like he isn’t hanging onto every ragged breath coming through the speaker.
And he isn’t religious, but Hotch thanks every god in the universe that Penelope was with him that night as he buries every emotion, everything threatening to shatter his heart right there as he speaks, deep in his chest because his son needs him. Spencer needs help that Aaron Hotchner— father, widow, human— can’t give, but Agent Hotchner— unit chief and hero— can.
“Spencer? Where–”
“Dad, ‘m sorry…” The sob echoes through the house, silence hovering in the air, save for Garcia typing furiously. “I fucked up… ‘m sorry…”
“It’s okay, Spencer. I promise it’s okay. I’m not mad; I could never be mad at you. Just keep talking, Spence. Stay on the phone.”
“Can’t…”
“Yes, you can, Spence. You’re so strong. Please–”
“‘M tired…”
“I know. I know, Bud, but I need you to stay awake–”
“I got the location; first responders are en route now.”
“Did you hear that, Spence? Help is coming; I’m coming— just hold on. Please, Spencer.”
“Tired…”
“I know. I know, Bud. You’re doing great. Just a few more minutes.”
“Can’t… love you…”
“No, Spencer, please–”
“Derek…”
He can almost hear Spencer’s heart stop.
Aaron Hotchner waits in the single ICU room for 48 hours, fingers folded together, pressed against his lips, keeping cries at bay as he watches the steady rise and fall of Spencer’s chest with every oxygen-mask-assisted breath, his son almost blending into the stark white hospital sheets, a deathly pale pile of skin and bones.
“–overdose–”
“–severely malnourished–”
“–coded twice in the ambulance–”
“–unsure when he’ll wake up–”
“Aaron.”
Hotch blinks, looking up from the constellation of track marks in the crook of Spencer’s elbows, accompanied by rows of neat, parallel scars and cuts he knows too well, all in various stages of healing, watching Alex sit beside him, handing him a cup of coffee.
“Thanks.” She nods, watching her friend’s fingers trace the matching marks of undoing on his bicep, the t-shirt he threw on two days ago revealing decades-old scars against his skin.
“You don’t have to, but–”
Aaron clenches his jaw, praying his coworker isn’t going to offer to talk because he might lose it if he stops biting his tongue, but to his relief— and surprise— she hands him a book, cover worn, well-loved, and heart-wrenchingly familiar.
Proust.
Hotch remembers the first time he met Spencer, eight years ago, the young boy looking up at him through thick, broken glasses that were too big, bangs falling in his face, clothes old and torn, and clutching a book the size of his head.
“Hey, Bud,” Aaron knelt before the trembling boy whose world had just collapsed, his father gone and mother institutionalized. “What’ve you got there?”
He didn’t respond— Spencer barely spoke for the first year he lived with them, only uttering single words when Aaron and Haley didn’t understand what he was trying to communicate— moving to let the agent read the title, still holding the book protectively.
“Proust, huh? Is that yours?” He nodded, Spencer’s social worker piping up to talk about how the boy was academically advanced, desperation to place the boy clear in her tone, but those wide, brown eyes that reminded Hotch of himself already had him sold. “I haven’t read that one yet? Is it good?” He nodded again, grinning. “Well, I guess I’ll have to get myself a copy. Want to reread it with me?”
“Aaron?” He blinks, wiping away a silent tear before it lands on the cover of his son’s treasured book.
“Sorry, I–” He swallows the lump in his throat, walls threatening to crumble as he holds the novel. “Thank you. I don’t– Thank you.”
“She shook her head, pursing her lips, a sign which people commonly employ to signify that they are not going, because it would bore them to go, when someone has asked, ‘Are you coming to watch the procession go by?’”
The first thing Spencer Reid notices when he regains consciousness is the pain.
“–or ‘Will you be at the review?’ But this shake of the head thus normally applied to an event that has yet to come–”
At first, it’s a dull ache blooming in his head and chest, spreading to his arms and dancing in his fingers as he blinks sluggishly, body lagging behind his thoughts.
“–imparts for that reason an element of uncertainty to the denial of an event that is past–”
And then it bursts into searing agony, burning in his core, pulling a silent groan from his chapped lips.
“–Furthermore, it suggests reasons of personal propriety only, rather than of disapprobation or moral impossibility–”
He blinks again, his head lolling to the side as the comfortingly familiar words drift through the air.
“–When he saw Odette thus signal to him that the insinuation was false, Swann realised that it was quite possibly true–”
“‘I’ve told you, no. You know quite well,’ She added, seeming angry and uncomfortable.” Spencer coughs as the words flow from his mouth, lips moving on memory as his father looks up from the page. “Dad?”
His fingers twitch as Aaron takes his hand, warmth spreading up his arm as the older brunette kisses his knuckles.
“Hey, Bud. How’re you feeling?” Spencer’s eyes burn as his father rubs the back of his hand, unable to stop his tears from cascading down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry–”
“It’s okay, Spence; you don’t have to apologize–”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry–”
“Shhh, I know, Bud. I’m not mad; I could never be mad at you,” Aaron speaks softly, voice level and calm despite the throbbing pain in his chest. “I’m not mad.”
“It hurt so bad,” Spencer’s sobbing now, trembling as his father embraces him, careful of all the tubes and wires attached to his body. “I just wanted it to stop. I’m sorry.”
“I know, Bud. I understand,” Hotch murmurs, carefully holding him against his chest like he had when Spencer was young, holding his son through panic attacks and nightmares, resting his chin on unkept brown hair. “I know. I’m not mad at you, Bud. I understand.”
Half of Spencer wishes he was— that his dad would yell and get angry at him— because Aaron doesn’t deserve this, not after what he put him through, but he knows his father would never get mad, truly mad, like William Reid had, not at him.
“It’s not fair.” Gentle fingers run through his hair, combing through the brunette tangles as his father sways back and forth.
“I know. It isn’t. I’m sorry you have to experience it.”
“‘M sorry I was such an asshole when Haley died,” Haley was never Spencer’s mother— he already has one— but they were still family, and while Aaron grieved by feeling everything, Spencer bottled it up, turning his mourning into anger. “It wasn’t fair..”
“It’s okay, Spence— you were hurting too— the past is in the past. What matters right now is that you’re safe. Okay? We’ll figure everything out later, but I’ll be here the whole time.”
Spencer nods, shoulders relaxing as he leans against his father’s chest, too tired to respond as his tears run dry, exhaustion washing over him.