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Living alone is new. His single bed apartment with its peeling paint and single pane windows is… different. It’s a far cry from what he’s used to. Even when he first moved out of his parents’ house with Haley, their cheap apartment in the middle of nowhere at least had a working oven. If Hotch eats, he’s only had things that can be fried, microwaved, or delivered.
Now, Hotch fumbles for a moment, locking the door behind him and trying not to trip over his own feet. He can see his own breath as he sighs; he misses Haley. He yearns to slide into bed beside her after a long day, for her to cuddle in closer. Misses coming home to a warm, loud, bright house, trying not to trip on Jack’s toys strewn across the hall. Now, it’s coming home to dirty dishes, surviving on three hours of sleep and a mind focused on yet another few deaths on his conscience.
Hotch is not in the mood to do laundry just so that he can sleep in clean clothes. He’ll worry about a clean suit for work in the morning.
Kicking off his shoes and throwing his bag on the floor, he flicks on the switch for the heating and makes sure the timer is still set correctly. It’s late and way past dinner time, but Hotch isn’t hungry enough to convince himself that food is worth waiting for. He walks into his bedroom and ignores his stomach growing as he strips down to his boxers, shivering more and more as he does so. He locks his gun in the safe, and barely has time to plug in his phone before he’s falling into bed and slipping into dreams of oblivion and times gone by.
His alarm goes off at six a.m. and Hotch takes a moment to remember the importance of punctuality at work. Rolling out of bed, he shuffles down the hall and is thankful that goosebumps don’t immediately rise. He thinks about making a coffee but doesn’t want to have to wash up. Yet another flaw of this apartment: no dishwasher. Which was fine at the start – Hotch had grown up washing dishes by hand – but when he fell a bit behind on dishes and had spent an evening washing up for hours, he’d started to avoid using any plates, cups, or cutlery. Which, sure – Hotch acknowledges that this may not be the best way to combat the problem, but it works. Less dishes, less chores.
He ambles around the place for a bit until he gets his bearings. Remembering he has no clean clothes, he curses his past self for going to bed before putting in a load of washing. He digs around in his bag and manages to put together a relatively professional looking outfit. Throwing the rest in the washing machine, Hotch grabs a breakfast bar from the cupboard and grabs his phone from where it had been charging.
As he grabs his keys to leave, he remembers he hasn’t had a chance to shower or brush his teeth yet. He clenches his jaw and reasons that he can brush his teeth at the office. He’ll be late otherwise. He can already hear the traffic building up. He turns off the hall light and locks the door after himself.
In his car, Hotch can’t help but sit in his own self-pity for a moment while he lets his engine warm up. He lives near a daycare now, which would’ve been good if Jack was still daycare age. Now? It’s just a reminder of what he once had. Jack is coming over on Saturday, provided all things go as planned. He can’t help but miss his son though, when he sees fathers smiling down at their toddlers as they walk hand-in-hand towards the kindergarten teachers waiting outside. Hotch wonders if this monotony is something that will last forever.
He finally leaves, and drives to the office. Inside, he makes himself a coffee. No one else is in yet, so the office is quiet. These moments of quiet used to be calming; a time for reflection and planning before the bustle of people came in. But now, it’s oppressive. Work used to be an escape from the chaos of home, but now it’s a distraction from his ever present loneliness and solitude. It keeps him from being a recluse, locking himself away until he disappears from society.
“Mornin’,” Hotch hears from the entrance and looks up to see Morgan walking through the doors. He looks cheerful, if not slightly sleep deprived. Hotch gives a small nod in response, and looks back at the coffee he’s been stirring for too long.
Walking up the stairs, Hotch enters his office and feels an abject sense of isolation as he shuts his door behind him. He sets his coffee on his desk and gets to work on some overdue paperwork. His wrist hurts as he grips the pen and he thinks carpal tunnel is just the thing he needs right now.
Re-reading the same paragraph of legal jargon has Hotch reaching for his coffee cup, before spitting his mouthful of stone cold coffee back into the mug. He takes this as a sign to take a brief coffee break, and he gets up to refill his cup.
Everyone’s hard at work in the bullpen so he has a clear path to the coffee machine. As the liquid slowly trickles into his cup, Hotch has the sudden image of a younger version of himself with a blade in hand. Has the sudden urge to pry the blades from his razor at home, the top drawer in his kitchen that–
Coffee spills over his hand and he bites his cheek to stop himself from making a sound. He puts the coffee jug down and wipes down the counter. He walks up to his office once more and doesn’t react when his hand stings with every movement.
Reviewing his budgets, he’s spent too much money on gas the past few weeks. He needs to develop other coping mechanisms that aren’t driving. But driving gets him out of the apartment and getting out of the apartment gives him reason not to think too hard about his own blood.
Rossi’s been observing him closely at work. When his hands shake as he hands out files, he can feel Rossi’s gaze on his back. When he stays late, Rossi stays late. They get any case across the country and Rossi insists on sharing a room with Hotch, even if there are single rooms available. Hotch no longer drives alone, shops alone, sits in a room alone when they’re out of state. Rossi is his shadow and Hotch feels like he’s in his twenties again, joining the BAU on a case for the first time.
It makes him feel watched. He’s not a kid anymore. He’s not going to mess up. It undermines his authority as the team leader to outsiders and makes the team unsure about his ability to lead. If Rossi doesn’t trust Hotch, how is anyone supposed to? Morgan, Ried, JJ, Prentiss? He is a good profiler and he doesn’t need to be supervised or second guessed.
(Yet, he knows that Rossi trusts him to work alone.)
(It’s that Rossi doesn’t trust him alone.)
A knock on his door breaks Hotch from his unintentional staring contest with the desk wood. He curses himself as he realises he has zoned out once again. “Come in,” he calls, and notes that it’s the first time he’s said anything to a person all morning. Is it even morning anymore?
JJ’s head pops through the door and smiles at him. “Hey, Hotch. Just coming by to see if you have those forms signed for Strauss?” Hotch looks at her for a second as her words register, before nodding.
“Yes, they’re, uh. Somewhere here, one second,” he says, as he shuffles through the loose sheets strewn across his desk. JJ steps into his office and shuts the door after her, before sitting down across from him.
“Hotch?”
“Yes?” he answers without looking up. He picks up the two sheets that Strauss had needed his signature for, and taps them on the table once to straighten them out. Looking up, it’s clear that the paperwork wasn’t JJ’s only reason for being here. “What’s going on?”
JJ looks to the side, then back up to him. “Are you ok?”
Hotch furrows his brow. “Where is this coming from?”
“You look… tired.” Neither of them are giving straight answers, and Hotch can tell that JJ is watching for any signs that Hotch isn’t ok. She may not be a profiler by title, but she knows enough that Hotch makes sure to keep his poker face on.
“We all are. It’s an occupational hazard,” he says, smiling just enough to put her at ease. JJ still doesn’t seem convinced.
“Have you been eating?” she asks, then adds, “--enough?” when Hotch gives her a look.
He shakes his head fondly. “JJ, I’m fine.”
She just looks at him, serious. She’s not smiling, despite Hotch’s best attempts to bring the conversation to a more lighthearted tone. She’s concerned, and once JJ is concerned, Hotch knows that it’s almost impossible to stop her from interfering.
He sighs. Looks down at the paperwork and then back up at JJ. Tries to be as convincing when he says, “I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. It’s fine, I’ll set up an appointment with my GP for it.”
JJ doesn’t seem happy but lets it go with a nod. It seems his small honesty was enough. “Ok. But if there’s anything you need…” Hotch nods with a polite smile and looks back down at his desk, picking up his pen as if to resume his paperwork. In his peripherals, she lingers at the doorway before slipping out and clicking the door shut behind herself. Alone once more.
The straightened forms for Strauss sit at the edge of his desk. JJ doesn’t come back for them.
It’s midnight when Hotch has the sudden epiphany that the weird smell he’s been smelling in his room is mould. He wonders if Haley would help him move the furniture if he phrased it like a safety concern for Jack. Digs his nails into his palms; his son is not a card to trade in to spend time with his ex-wife. It’s pathetic.
He resigns himself to buying mould removal spray online and spending a weekend hunting it down himself.
Most of his coworkers live alone and they don’t complain. Why can’t he do the same?
Hotch can feel the skin of his arms all too vividly as he sits staring at the top drawer in the kitchen. It’s late. Hotch can’t help but be afraid of how easy it would be to slip back into old habits.
Reaching across the table, he dials her number from muscle memory. She picks up on the ninth ring and he tries not to think about what that could mean.
“Aaron? What’s– what do you want?” Her words are hushed and hurried. She must’ve just put Jack to bed. Or else, she's trying to hide the fact she's on the phone from someone. Any and all resolve Hotch had in confiding in her dissolve, as the tendrils of rejection flare up through his throat.
“Sorry, Hales. I didn’t realise how late it was. I was, uh… What time do you want me to come pick Jack up this weekend?” He knows it’s meant to be five p.m.; they’d talked about this not three days ago. He can feel his stomach clench with incompetence.
Then– “Oh, no, I forgot to tell you. Jack’s coming with me to my mom’s this weekend. She invited us up so…” Hotch swallows bile. “Sorry, Aaron. I meant to tell you. I just got… caught up in things.”
Hotch tries to keep the hurt out of his voice when he replies, “Oh! That’s ok. Is–” Takes a breath. “Is everything ok with your mom?”
Haley hums affirmatively. "Yep. You can see him the week after. Is that OK?"
It has to be ok. "Of course. Safe travels. Have a good time at your mom’s."
“Thanks. Sorry again, Aaron,” Haley says and Hotch can’t shake the feeling that she knows.
“That’s ok. Goodnight, Hales,” he says, but when he gets no reply, he looks down to see that she’s already hung up. Hotch rubs at his chest as his breaths get a little heavier. He pushes his phone to the middle of the table. She knows, but he’s overwhelmed with the reminder that she can’t help . Despite everything, he is alone.
He stares at the top drawer and reminds himself that he has too much to atone for. A visit to the ER because he couldn’t control himself with a box cutter would not be easy to explain to Strauss.
Rossi glances at his house and Hotch feels his heart in his throat. He opens his mouth to say anything to keep him from being alone for just another minute. Rossi’s reaching for the door handle as he says, “Do you want to come in for a bit?” and Hotch is nodding before Rossi has even finished his sentence.
Despite the number of times he’s been here, the size of Rossi’s house still astounds him. He’s handed a glass of Scotch before he can protest, and then Rossi is sat on the couch beside him, watching.
“I’m fine, Dave.” Hotch sips his drink, staring forwards at the unlit fireplace. Rossi’s gaze doesn’t flicker from Hotch’s face.
“Didn’t say you weren’t.” Rossi moves then, straightening out his legs and leaning back against the couch. He crosses his ankles, sips his drink, and says, “You don’t want to go home.”
Hotch shrugs. “The apartment isn’t really my home. It’s just… where I live.”
Rossi doesn’t say anything, just nods. Both men sip their drinks. There’s a classical music vinyl spinning quietly in the corner that Hotch believes to be Bach. He pretends he can’t feel the tension of unspoken questions in the room.
“Do you think Haley would… Do you think it’s over for me and Haley?” Hotch asks, after a while. He catches eye contact with Rossi for a brief second, and hates the sorrow he finds in them.
“I… I think that’s for you to figure out in time,” Rossi says, and Hotch nods. He silently hates Rossi for his lack of simple answers. He’s sick of waiting for things to get better.
Then; “How are you, Aaron?”
He swallows. “I told you. I’m fine.” He looks Rossi in the eye as he says so.
“This is the third time you’ve driven me home this week and it’s only Wednesday.”
Hotch shrugs. “I like driving.”
Rossi clicks his tongue. “It’s more than that.”
There’s no scotch left in his glass when he brings it to his lips, so he spins it slowly between his hands. Rossi is a damn good profiler. Hotch doesn’t know if he wants to let him dig or not. He listens to the quiet hum of the music and finds comfort in the rasp of old records.
“It’s almost…” Rossi stops. Hotch can see the cogs turning in his peripheries. Can see Rossi weighing up the pros and cons of calling him out, rephrasing and carefully crafting his sentences. Scratches on the record force the music to skip and stutter. Rossi’s eyes meet his. “It’s almost as if you’re putting yourself on a suicide watch.”
His hands tighten around the glass, before putting it on the table for fear of breaking it. Hotch stares at his hands and resists the urge to press his nails into his palms. “It’s… it’s not like that.”
Rossi sighs, and puts down his near-empty glass on the coffee table. “What is it like, then, Aaron?”
He places his head into his hands, elbows on his knees. Presses his palms into his eyes until stars explode in the darkness. Bach has been reduced to noise. “I don’t know,” he admits, quietly. “I don’t know.”
There’s a plaster on the underside of his wrist, hidden by his watch. He watches the white hypoallergenic tape stick out as he pulls into the Quantico parking lot. It wasn’t as stress relieving as he remembers, yet he yearns for the blade once again.
One more is never just one.
He rights his watch and walks into the office, wondering how long it will be ‘til he has to stop again.
It’s a Sunday morning when JJ calls him. There’s been a mass shooting, and they need to know if it’s terrorism. Hotch grabs his go bag and drives to the plane before he can think about anything else. It’s only when they’re a thousand feet in the air does he remember that Haley was supposed to come over on Monday to deal with the divorce paperwork.
When the initial brief is over, Hotch excuses himself to the bathroom and calls her. It rings and rings and rings, and goes to voicemail. He tries again. And again.
On the fourth try, he leaves a voicemail; “Hi. So, uh. You might’ve seen but there’s a case in Austin. I’m already on the plane there. I’m sorry, Hales. I don’t know when I’ll be back but… we can go over the paperwork when this is… sorted. I’m– I’m...”
He grips onto the sink and stares at himself in the reflection. He needs to shave. He needs to sleep. He needs to… His breath rattles his lungs and he dismisses the lightheadedness as flight related. He washes his hands and opens the door.
Flying to the Lone Star State in the middle of a heatwave has everyone in shorts and t-shirts. The most Hotch concedes is stripping himself of his jacket and tie. He rolls up his shirt sleeves and is thankful that most of his scars are faded white. No one notices bloodstains on black slacks.
Sleeping is harder.
The hotels they stay in are more homely than his apartment – most don’t even have the mould that he keeps forgetting to get rid of – but the combination of heat and sharing a room with Rossi is a torturous combination. The thought of packing light sleep wear had slipped his mind this morning, and now he’s paying the price.
Rossi sleeps in his boxers and nothing else. He insists Hotch do the same. Hotch fumbles when Rossi asks why, and he can feel Rossi’s gaze harden. He’s not doing this now.
They’re not talking about why Hotch has a fully stocked first-aid kit in his go-bag. They’re not talking about why his watch stays on, even while sleeping. They’re not talking about the skipped meals, or the two newly punched holes in his belt. They’re not talking about Rossi’s shadowing, about the worried glances JJ throws his way, or about the cupcakes Garcia brings him and no one else–
They can’t.
If they talk about it, they’ll have to do something about it. And Hotch is scared that there is nothing they can do.
He needs this job. He needs it. It’s all he has.
Rossi looks at him meaningfully. It makes his heart jump and the hunger pains turn vicious. He’s dead either way.
Hotch sighs. “Turn around.”
It’s a confession and warning all wrapped up in one. They both know it.
Rossi turns.
They get back from Texas. It wasn’t terrorism. It was murder-suicide. He can feel eyes on him the whole trip back. Garcia gives him a pink cupcake with sprinkles.
He drives to his apartment. Walks in. Texts Haley. Flicks on the heating. Laments the lack of clean clothes. Ignores the growl of his stomach. Strips to his boxers, lays in bed and stares up at the dark.
The safe stays empty. The one condition of Rossi’s silence.
He waits for the sun to rise.
He has to. He will.