Spencer Reid would recognize the back of that head anywhere.
Even amidst the flickering candles that glistened onto darkened glass art that covered the windows and the pews that sliced through the wide space of the church, Hotch looked like he belonged, dawning a suit and tie on a raining Thursday evening. He was dry, meaning he had to have been there before the storm started, which was approximately an hour, 15 minutes and... thirty four seconds, Reid noted as he checked his wrist watch.
The day had been long. Full of chess references from colleagues, thinking it would cheer him up, but it only dragged him into the pit he'd been trying to crawl out of for a year, three months, two days, six hours... he'd gotten so tired of counting. How many numbers had he calculated before? What good did it do for him? For Maeve? He shed his soaking wet overcoat, running his fingers through his hair and closing his eyes. Was he to sit next to Hotch? Was he to leave? There were so many questions, but his mind and his strength were so weak. He could use someone to support him, even if it was in silence.
The wooden pew creaked as he lowered himself a few inches from his boss, unraveling his scarf from around his neck and wringing it out onto the concrete floor. His bag hit the floor with a muted thump. It wasn't the best church; run down, old, smelling of old perfume and candle wax. But its history was fascinating. So much faith was built into these walls, and the dome-like structure of the ceiling was designed personally by an architect in order to amplify the sound of prayer and send it straight upward to whatever angel, God, or planet was listening. Although not a man of religion, there was a charm to the effort of speaking to higher power.
Hotch kept his eyes forward, but acknowledged the younger man's presence with a small, "Hey."
Reid sighed, his breath whirling out from his lips in a cloud, "Hi."
They sat in silence. Reid watched, calculating how long it would take for the wax of the candles to drip down the sides and create stalagmites along the floor. Hotch, as it seemed, was praying. Not to anyone in particular, just to whomever was sitting directly above the dome. He seemed distracted, though. Kept lifting his head and breathing in through his nose before ducking his head again.
Eventually, the older man looked over to Reid and gave a thoughtful hum. "You don't seem to be praying."
"Because I'm not?" His voice raised at the end made it a question, but there wasn't really an answer for it.
Hotch gave him a smile, "Reid, if you're here, there's something to pray about."
"Hotch, 22.8 percent of the American population is religiously unaffiliated," Reid breathed, hints of hope overshadowed by the utter helplessness that floated just under the surface. "While I may consider myself in that minority, there's no doubt that the appeal of churches as a public safe haven for your thoughts pulled me here."
The other man nodded slowly, his eyelashes spilling onto his cheeks as he closed his eyes and leaned forward, his elbows braced against his knees, "What about your, uh... movies?"
Reid sighed, "NA gave me some comfort for awhile, but now that I don't really crave as much, it seemed obsolete. I couldn't keep listening to the members talk about the emotions they feel toward their narcotics anymore. Just made me crave again. Seemed better to find an alternative." He fidgeted with his hands in his lap. "I don't know. I could have gone to a library or something, but something in me just... just thought I would praise myself for going into a religious building. Like it'd flip a switch and everything'd be okay."
Hotch chuckled, nodding in agreement, "Haley used to watch those televangelists that came on at three in the afternoon, begging for money. She never sent anything in, though. Just watched. Fascination with the abomination."
"Actually, the psychological aspect of televangelism and the marketing machine is-" Reid sucked in a deep breath and bent over, pulling at his hair. "I can't even statistic. My brain is burned out..."
The top of the dome played a quiet drumline, the pattering rain holding the beat as the thunder carried it along. Hotch seemed unfazed by the war going on in the sky, but Reid slowly retreated into himself.
"Why are you here, Reid?" Hotch asked quietly, giving the younger man a once over before returning his gaze to his eyes. "No cravings, no indication of danger. What is it?"
The brunette man sighed and pulled Maeve's copy of The Narrative of John Smith, worn out with its frequent use. "The last chapter includes a, uh... a dialogue between a doctor and John Smith. They allude to war and metaphorize disease as a battle, and that Smith had won."
Hotch watched him carefully. His eyes weren't tearing up, but his vocal chords were closing, most likely preparing him for hyperventilation. But he didn't. He just stared at the book in his hands, his lips parted and his wet hair dripping onto his shoulders.
"Perhaps evil and sin and pain may prove to be merely the dark background which is necessary to make the bright design stand out hard and clear," he recited quietly, "That was her favorite quote. Reminded her that, um... her... her past didn't always have to control her, because it was... just that, just the past. A, uh... dark background, if you will."
"You miss her?"
"I actually feel quite guilty," Reid murmured, his mouth hanging open in between sentences like it did when he was disgusted or shocked. "I wrote my mother daily letters because I was guilty about not visiting her. I read this every night and... apparently I go to church because the nightmares have started going away, and it doesn't hurt as much when I think about her. I've moved on, but it feels wrong. Like I should feel pain forever."
"Reid," Hotch's hand was resting on Reid's shoulder within a second, "Moving on is good. You're recovering. I've recovered since Haley. I still have Jack, I still have my team. I miss her like hell, but you can't let the demons kill your resolve to enjoy the good things. Like religion, or love, or good books."
Reid smiled softly, his lips drawn tight together. "I don't miss her like I thought I would."
Hotch raised an eyebrow, carefully scanning the small man as he tucked the book back into his bag. "Why do you think that is?"
"I think it was the lack of intimacy," Reid answered honestly, "As intellectually strong as I might be, I don't think I could have withheld the weight of a relationship based entirely on phone calls from phone booths across the country. I'm sure we were going to be more, I just... Hotch, I..."
"I know."
The silence settled into their bones like concrete, and Reid felt his lungs collapsing again. It wasn't the guilt this time, it was something else. Something even heavier than guilt; the possibility of missing opportunity.
Without much control, his hand slowly lifted itself and placed itself on top of the larger one that rested just inches away. He was warm, a lot warmer than Reid was, sitting in the chilled room in wet, heavy clothes that were weighing him down more than his aching bones were.
He expected no comment from Hotch. Maybe a slow evolution of him inching away from Reid before leaving the church, possibly a suspension from the team. But, instead, Hotch gently hummed, looked to their hands, and turned his own over to grip onto the soft palm in his reach.
"Why do you consider yourself religiously unaffiliated?" Hotch asked, his voice echoing and his hand still holding onto the other man's.
"If there was a god worth worshiping, I might feel happier," Reid murmured, lulling his head slightly to catch Hotch's dark, kind eyes, "I would know for sure that the people we aren't in time to save would be going to a good place. But, unfortunately, I was raised a man of science, and even more unfortunately, the things I've seen just can't... just can't come from God."
Hotch stood slowly, not letting go of his hand, "You can sleep at my house tonight. I don't think I want you staying alone tonight."
Reid looked down to their hands, unconsciously grabbing his bag and nodding slowly. "I don't think I'd want that either."