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Morgan wakes up tired and uncomfortable. Sometime during the night he's kicked off his blankets. His neck is stiff and painful, which isn't much of a surprise since his pillow is on the floor next to the bed. There's a lingering anxiety that makes him want to retrieve his blanket and stay in bed. Hypervigilance--his senses are all dialed up to eleven. It's going to be one of those days.
Coffee is definitely out this morning. It'll only make him ready to jump out of his skin. He showers, dresses, and fills the tea kettle with water. Green tea is a lifesaver on days like this--calming, but with enough caffeine to avoid the headache from hell.
He stops with a frown as he's about to put the kettle on the stove, and grabs the box of tea instead. He's probably not the only one who could use a break from coffee today. Morgan grabs his wallet and keys and heads for work. He gets there early--there are plenty of others in the break room, but no one from his team. Perfect. He boils water, lines up extra-large styrofoam cups, and uses the microwave clock to time the tea. By the time he's carrying the last cups back to the bullpen, JJ is walking in.
"Tea." He hands her one of the cups, and she smiles as she takes it from his hand.
"Thanks, Derek. That was...thanks." It's too early for real coherence, but he gets the point.
"Sure. You're welcome."
Garcia's next. She greets him with a hug, and a smile that turns a little sad when he hands her the tea. "I'm here if you need me," she says softly. He wonders if it's possible for someone to know you too well.
"I'm okay, baby girl. A little shaky after that case, but okay." She stares hard for a minute before she relents.
"If you're sure," she murmurs. There's a brief pause. "If I were you, I'd give Hotch his next." Morgan blinks, a little surprised.
"He's here already? I didn't see him come in."
"That's because he got here before you." She turns to her computer and pulls up the security logs. "By several hours. He's been here since four." Morgan's eyebrows shoot up.
"Four? That's...Wait. Why were you looking at the security logs?"
She grins at him again. "Just making sure you kids weren't out past your bedtime. Go on. Go see Hotch."
When he walks back through the bullpen, Emily's at her desk and Reid is taking off his coat. There are greetings and expressions of gratitude, and then he finds himself outside Hotch's door holding two cups of tea. He tucks one between his wrist and torso and taps on the door softly. "Hotch? It's Morgan."
"Come in." His words have that peculiar slur to them that comes with sleep deprivation. Morgan twists the doorknob and pushes the door open, closing it behind him when he gets a look at Hotch's face. He looks a level beyond tired. His tie is crooked, Morgan notes with slight disbelief. He sets the cups on Hotch's desk and takes a seat. The older man still hasn't met his eyes.
"Hey...you alright?"
Hotch glances at him briefly, surprised. "Tough case, I guess." It's not really an answer, but it's probably as much as he'll get.
"We're all glad you're staying." This earns him another glance. They don't really do this, don't talk about feelings. They're profilers, but they aren't girls.
"Thank you," Hotch says quietly. There's a roughness to his voice that wasn't there a moment ago, "For the tea, as well." He's projecting a vulnerability that Morgan isn't used to seeing, and that's what keeps him from just walking out.
"We saved the kid, Hotch. He'll be okay." The moment he sees Hotch's reaction, he wants to take it back. His eyes narrow and suddenly Morgan has the urge to duck for cover, because the other man is seriously angry. He expects Hotch to dismiss him, or tell him to back off, or...anything but the explosion he gets. He doesn't expect the truth.
"No. He'll never be okay. He's going to...he's going to live the rest of his life hating himself because he's never good enough. He'll hate everyone else, too, because they take for granted the things he can never have. He'll be angry, just on general principle, at the entire universe, because he has a need that can never be met. We took his father away, Morgan. Don't give me that."
"He was dying. And you saw the bruises on the boy the same as I did. I know losing your father is hard, but...he'll be okay, Hotch. He's better off without the guy."
Hotch's eyes slide shut momentarily at the reminder of the bruises they'd found on the child. He can still see them. "Tell him that." Greens and yellows and violets. "He had nothing else. He sacrificed everything in a desperate attempt to earn the love of a father who wasn't capable of loving him. He gave up everything for his father, and then we took his father away." The ghost of fingers holding too tightly.
There's something more going on here, and Morgan knows that even if he's not sure what [or why]. He's careful when he answers. "You said it yourself, Hotch. He wasn't capable of loving his son. That wouldn't have changed if we'd left them together."
"You can't know that, not for sure. Maybe, if..." He pauses, a tumult of emotions fighting for the surface before he shoves them away. "Well, it doesn't matter now. You know as well as I do what that kid will be like when he grows up."
"Tell me anyway," Morgan requests softly. He does know the statistics, but somehow he doesn't think that's what they're talking about anymore.
"He gave up everything. His life, his sanity, his ambitions, his free will, his health..." Ashes, cigarette smoke, searing pain, the smell of burning flesh. "And it wasn't enough. He'll always wonder why. He's going to be desperate for others to care about him, but he'll push them away when they get close. He'll always expect to be a failure, but he won't be able to stop trying. Not because he still has hope, but because he'll do anything to make the authority figures in his life happy, even though he avoids them. And he will avoid them, because it's the only way he'll be able to protect himself from the thing in him that wants to please them, to be liked, to roll over and die if they ask him to. He's going to grow up confused, and hurt, and self-sabotaging...As an adult, he'll fight for the clearly defined boundaries he never had as a kid. At home, at work, most especially emotionally. He'll have a need to remain in control, because controlling what you feel, or convincing yourself you don't feel anything at all, is the ultimate form of protection. He'll remind himself every day that he's supposed to smile, and maybe eventually he'll give up. And that...all that is best case scenario, assuming he survives that long. You know the suicide rates. And assuming he doesn't turn into one of the men we hunt. That is NOT OKAY, Morgan. That's anything but okay. No one should have to live like thi--" He breaks off the word as he realizes he's saying it. Watch your mouth, boy! "No one should have to live like that."
"No. No one should." It's a little awkward to be touching Hotch, but he reaches over the desk to set a hand on the other man's arm anyway. A little physical contact can go a long way toward chasing cold misery away, he's found. "We both know the world's not fair, Hotch. But..." He's searching, struggling to put words to sentiments he's never expressed out loud. "Things can never un-happen. But they can matter less. It's about how far you get and how much good you do along the way, not about where you start or end up. I know," he says quickly when Hotch starts to argue, "that it's wrong. It's deeply, horribly, unspeakably wrong, and nothing will ever be the same. But that doesn't mean that things can't be good again."
Hotch becomes less tense while Morgan's talking. Whether it's the words or just the human contact, he's done something right. "Yeah," Hotch whispers eventually. "I forget that, sometimes." The ghosts in his eyes are fading, but he looks a little lost. Morgan tightens his hold on Hotch's arm, which is when he notices the bandage.
This is a day for surprises, apparently. "You cut yourself." It's not a question, really, but it still requires an answer. Hotch nods, wincing.
"It was stupid. I know it isn't...I don't usually..." He looks away again. "I haven't, not in a long time. It's a bad habit from when I was a kid, and I woke up a few times last night, a little...disoriented, and...I don't know."
Trust Hotch to admit he cut himself with no problem, but be ashamed of flashbacks, Morgan thinks wryly. "We all have nightmares," He says. "You know that. Some of us get them worse than others." He sees a little shiver, like Hotch is remembering last night's dreams.
He is. There's a crash and glass everywhere and he knows he can't move without stepping on it. His heart is pounding in his ears, bunny-rabbit fast...Haven't they been known to die of terror? And there are heavy footsteps shaking the ground as they come toward him, tangible anger. God, God, there's nowhere to go, nowhere to run, he can't even duck, can't move without driving glass shards into himself. "Hotch." Hands, huge, strong hands, fingernails digging bloody crescents in his arm, yelling is too mild a word for the terrible roar..."Hey. Hey, Hotch." A furious red face, blows raining down, spit and words flying at his face-- "Aaron. Hey. Hey, look at me." He knows that voice. That's...someone he knows, who...Morgan. It's Morgan. "Hey," the voice says gently, "do you where you are?" The room's coming back into focus.
"I. Uh. Office...work. There's..." He looks around, trying to reorient himself in space-time. It's obvious when he succeeds, because he's more embarrassed than Morgan's ever seen him. "I, uh, I'm sorry about that. That doesn't usually..." Morgan never thought he'd see Hotch trying to melt into a chair, and yet here they are.
"Drink your tea. It'll help." He'd nearly forgotten about the tea he was holding, and pauses to take a sip. "It's okay. Really. It's not a big deal. You've talked me down more than once since Chicago." Hotch shakes his head, but--"Hey. No. I know what you're about to say, and don't even try. It's no different." Morgan eyes his boss critically and is a little surprised to see him tiredly accept Morgan's words. He really is worn down. He hasn't been taking care of himself--Morgan would be willing to put money on it. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Well, that question came out of nowhere." No real answer, but Hotch gives a small self-deprecating laugh.
"That wasn't an answer," he reminds the other man. Not surprising, really, but still sad. Hotch sighs and glares at him a little. Not his angry glare, but the one that says 'I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you.' It's not very convincing. "When?"
"Yesterday."
"When, yesterday?" He asks suspiciously. Hotch breaks off his glare when he has to think about the answer, and gives Morgan a sheepish look instead.
"I think I remember eating breakfast?" Morgan has to smile a little.
"You're too stubborn, you know that? It makes you a good lawyer and a good profiler, but..."
"Yeah. Yeah, I know."
"Come on, man. I'm buying you breakfast, and you're going to eat it."
"You don't have to--"
"I know. But I've been there plenty of times myself." Hotch studies his face for a moment before he relents.
Maybe, Hotch thinks as he stands, It's okay to give in.