This is set right after "A Slave to Duty."
Hotch is drunk (a mean one) but I didn't write the slurring into the dialogue...just imagine it's there.
I honestly don't know where this idea came from and I'm not sure if it's any good. But hey, I wrote it and if even one of you out there likes it than that made it all worth it.
I don't own or make a profit off of Criminal Minds or Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven."
A vicious clap of thunder boomed through the air around midnight, waking up the lone occupant of Dr. Spencer Reid's apartment.
The genius's eyes flew open at the loud clap and for a moment he panicked. Did a bomb just go off right down the street?
He would have hopped out of his bed to look out his window if it wasn't for his knee injury. The idea of grabbing his crutches and hobbling across the room wasn't very appealing. So he threw on his glasses and snatched his T.V. remote control off of the nightstand. He tuned on the television and scrolled through the guide until he found one of the local stations, checking to see if there were any severe weather warnings.
Alas, there were no alerts posted on any of the local channels, leading Reid to deduce that what woke him up was just an abnormally loud clash of thunder spurned from a relatively harmless storm. He turned the T.V. back off and looked back toward his window. Now, in addition to the storm's impressive fireworks display, the rain had started to relentlessly pelt the thin sheet of glass.
"Figures," he muttered, pushing a strand of hair out of his face as a few quick flashes of lightening infiltrated his room. The successive rumbles of thunder swiftly followed the electrical charges, causing Reid to fall back into his pillows with a groan. "God, I hope this doesn't keep me awake all night."
He closed his eyes and tried to block out all the sounds that were assaulting his brain when a particular crash of thunder caught his attention.
He opened his maple brown eyes and squinted, causing his nose to scrunch up in what Garcia liked to call his "cutey-wooty bunny wrabbit face." He strained his ears, hoping that he'd hear the peculiar thunder again.
It didn't take too long for the sound to emanate through his apartment once again and Reid realized that it wasn't caused by the storm.
"Tis some visitor tapping at my chamber door – only this and nothing more" he murmured, the poetic prose from Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven" coming to mind immediately.
Hoping that the inconsiderate soul that thought a midnight visit was appropriate would just go away, Spencer closed his eyes again and held his breath.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"No such luck," he grumbled. He sat up slowly and gently pivoted his body so that his legs would hang off the side of the bed. He then unplugged his cell phone from its charger and slid it into his pocket. His gun, which he hadn't secured in a safe because he had been too tired when he got home, was dropped into his other pajama pant pocket. The injured agent then reached over and grabbed his two crutches from where they were propped up by the side of his bed. He positioned them under his armpits and used them as leverage to help himself stand up from his seated position.
Quietly, he shuffled down the hall. Once he reached the living room he flipped on the light switch that connected to two of his floor lamps. The soft yellow glow penetrated the darkness and chased away some of the shadows.
Another knock thudded against the door, reminding him that his visitor was still waiting for him to answer.
Spencer cautiously approached the door, trying his best to keep his crutches from tapping too loudly against the hardwood floor. He wanted to look through the peephole without letting his mysterious caller know that he was on the other side of the door.
Unfortunately, the floor creaked with his last step, betraying his presence.
"Reid, open the door."
"Hotch?" the genius whispered to himself in disbelief before he did a quick check through the eyehole to confirm his guess. "What in the world?"
Spencer reached up and unlocked the deadbolt before fiddling with the doorknob. He opened the door and asked his boss, "Hotch, what's going on? Is there a case? I swear my phone didn't go off."
The raven haired man didn't answer his subordinate's question; rather he pushed his way into Reid's apartment, brusquely brushing by the injured tenant.
The younger agent caught a whiff of a pungent woody scent on Hotch's clothes as the man passed by him.
Whisky.
Reid immediately recognized the distinct smell and felt a shiver of fear down his spine. Hotch, the man who had just laid his wife to rest a few days ago, had shown up drunk at his apartment in the middle of the night.
Nothing good would come of this.
Slowly, Spencer closed the door and refastened the locks before turning around to face the inebriated unit chief.
"Hotch? Why don't you have a seat? I'll put on a pot of coffee," Reid suggested, eyeing the typically stone-faced man for any hint of emotion.
Aaron maintained his stoic silence but took Spencer's advice and sat down on the couch. He then turned his hardened eyes towards his host and wordlessly watched as Reid shuffled into the kitchen nook.
Spencer quickly set to work on making the proffered beverage. He pulled out his specialty grounds and scooped them into the white filter. While the water started to percolate he retrieved two mugs from his cupboard and the cream from his refrigerator. He didn't bother to go and sit down with Hotch in the living room, knowing that coffee would be ready in a few minutes.
He took the extra time he had to himself and tried to decide on a course of action. Should he call Rossi? Dave is Aaron's best friend, perhaps the older profiler would know how to handle an intoxicated Hotch better than Reid would.
But then again, why didn't Hotch just go to Rossi's in the first place?
Deciding that he needed a few answers before he could make an informed decision, Reid tried asking the austere man a question. "S-so what brings you here? I-I mean, not that you're not welcome…or anything like that. It's just that…this is…unexpected…," he trailed off awkwardly.
"I was in the area – at The Oak Tavern," Hotch stated with a level tone.
"The Oak Tavern?" Reid asked, trying to hide the quiver in his voice.
"Yes. I'm sure you remember that bar. It's the one we were at the night of the Super Bowl – before we got called away to Georgia."
Spencer licked his lips and glanced over at Hotch, "Yeah…I remember."
"Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore."
The words of the poem from earlier came unbidden into his mind. Did he really see the glimmer of a smirk on Hotch's face when he'd told him that he remembered which bar they were at that fateful night the Hankel case kicked off?
The younger agent shook his head back and forth. There is no way that his boss would take pleasure from reminding him of such pain.
"Uh-Hotch, you're-uh-you're going to have to come and grab your cup of coffee. I can barely carry my own, and that's only if I use one crutch," Reid called to the other man after he'd finish adding cream and sugar to both mugs.
"Why are you on crutches? You've been using only a cane for the last two weeks at work," Hotch asked, suspiciously.
"I don't really need them that often anymore. It's just that…sometimes I push myself too far during the day, which causes my knee to swell up and ache at night. So when I get home I put the larger brace back on it and use the crutches to help alleviate the pain," he explained as he set aside his left crutch and grabbed his cup. He hobbled over to the couch and placed his drink down on the end table before lowering himself down onto a cushion. The genius sat back into the worn leather and closed his eyes as a spasm shot through his leg. He tried to rub his wound around the cumbersome brace that he had on but his ministrations proved fruitless. "S-so, why were you at The Oak?" he asked, trying to take his mind off the pain.
Hotch, whose critical eyes had watched the boy intently on his trek from the kitchen, shifted in his seat. "It caught my eye on my ride home and decided to stop in."
Reid's brown eyes snapped open, "Y-you didn't drive here, did you?"
The unit chief growled as if he was insulted, "No, Reid. I may be slightly drunk but I'm not stupid. The bar is less than a mile from here. I walked."
The words 'slightly drunk' were definitely an understatement that didn't fool the genius. He easily picked up on the mild slurring of his words that unit chief was trying to hide. "Oh," Spencer said meekly, deciding it was in his best interest not to mention his observation. "Are-aren't you going to get your coffee?"
"No."
Now incredibly uncomfortable and at a loss for what his superior wanted with him, Reid looked down and stuttered, "O-okay."
A silence as thick as a wet wool blanket settled over the two men. The only noises that could be heard were the random vehicles driving by on the city street below and the humming of the lights illuminating the room around them.
"But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token," Spencer murmured quietly when he could take the hush no more.
"What was that?"
"Oh-uh…nothing. I-I have Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven" stuck in my head for some reason. I-it's a poem about a man lamenting over…over the loss…," again Reid couldn't find it in himself to finish his broken sentence.
"Of Lenore," Hotch supplied with a caustic smile, as if Reid had unwittingly told a bad joke. "Reid, I've heard the poem before. Who hasn't?"
"Yeah…it is one of his most famous works," Spencer confirmed. He paused a few seconds before saying, "Sorry," worried that his boss would think he purposefully brought up a poem that dealt with the death of a loved one.
"I want to see it," Hotch demanded out of nowhere.
Reid, confused by the man's request, looked up and saw that Aaron eyes were trained on his knee. "W-what?"
"I want to see it," the man repeated forcefully.
"Y-you want to see my knee?" the kid asked, searching Hotch's face for an explanation. Though, all he saw was mild curiosity and a hint of suspicion in the man's cloudy eyes.
"Yes. Show it to me."
"I-I…," he stuttered as his brain tried to come up with a reason to deny the other man his request.
"Reid, just do it," Hotch ordered.
The genius pursed his lips and swallowed the lump in his throat. "A-alright."
Reid righted himself on the couch cushion before he reached out his hands to help guide his leg up to rest on coffee table in front of him. His graceful fingers then glided down his pajama pant leg and started releasing the straps that held the brace in place. He placed the support on the table and watched as Aaron picked it up and inspected it.
"This isn't the first brace you were wearing," Hotch stated rather than asked.
"Uh-no, it isn't. I only needed that one for a short amount of time. My therapists were surprised at how quickly I graduated out of it. I guess it was all the effort I put into my physical therapy that helped," Reid clarified, pausing his actions.
The drunken unit chief tilted his chin up as if to say 'Get on with it' as he callously tossed the brace on the floor out of Reid's reach.
The genius faltered for a second, disturbed by Aaron's actions, "Uh-Hotch…I'm going to need that back in a minute."
The man grunted but didn't move to retrieve the support.
Spencer furrowed his brow and let his hands fall from his leg. He took a breath to bolster his courage and then asked, "Hotch, what is this all about?"
"I need a drink," was the other man's reply.
"Your coffee is on the –"
"I don't want coffee, genius," he said scathingly. "When a man says he wants a drink he usually means one named Johnnie, Jack, or Jim."
Reid's mouth snapped shut; his eyes shining with confusion and hurt.
"Now do you have any of those three gentlemen here or not?"
"Um…there should be a bottle of whiskey that Rossi gave me over a year ago in the pantry. But Hotch – don't you think –"
"Don't," the man snapped, "go there Reid. I know when I've had enough." The intimidating man turned heel and stalked into the kitchen. He ripped open the pantry and quickly located the unopen bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. "Why did Dave give you the good stuff? You don't even know how to appreciate it?" he pondered out loud as he snatched a chipped coffee mug from the cabinet and poured a finger of liquid into it. He quickly tipped it back, barely savoring the smooth taste as it danced across his discerning palate.
Reid watched silently as his boss proceeded to gulp down three more shots of the potent liquor. Each time the older man threw back his head and drained his cup the genius's foreboding feelings grew. By the last shot the young man was fingering the phone in his pocket, wondering if he should call someone on the team for help.
The sound of shattering glass sliced through the air, distracting Reid from making his phone call. The younger agent looked toward his kitchen and saw pieces of the navy blue coffee mug that Hotch had been using strewn about on the floor. He looked up at the other man and saw him shrug.
"Slipped out of my fingers," he said nonchalantly, walking back to the couch and leaving the porcelain shards where they lay. "So, are you going to show me now or do I have to pull your pant leg up myself?"
Spencer's felt his heartbeat increase at the menace in Hotch's voice. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the inebriated agent would follow through on his threat and at the moment he really didn't want the other man's hands on him. "I-I'll do it."
His gangly fingers shook as the reached down and grabbed the left leg's cuff. He gathered the fabric and pulled it gently up his leg, careful to avoid brushing against his knee. When the bunched up cloth reached his mid-thigh he drew his hand back.
The knobby knee looked especially red and swollen tonight; though the black and blue bruises had faded some time ago. Foolishly, he had been on his feet for most of the day, pushing himself too far for the sake of the case.
Aaron approached Spencer and crouched down next to his knee. He studied the entry scar left behind by the bullet and had the audacity to poke at the boy's enflamed knee.
Reid hissed at the sharp jab and automatically tried to swat Hotch's hand away. The unit chief seemed prepared for that though and snatched Spencer's lithe fingers, roughly squeezing them with his own.
"Hotch?" the younger man squeaked, surprised at his boss's rough handling.
The older man glared at his subordinate. "So that's it?"
"What?" Spencer asked with growing alarm.
"That little itty bitty gunshot wound is what's been causing you to limp around for the past few months?"
"Little? Hotch, it shattered my knee cap – "
"Unbelievable, Spencer. Leave it to you to make a mountain out of a molehill. What? Were you getting jealous of me getting all of the team's attention? Had to drag out your injury so that people would act like they gave a shit about you?"
"I-I didn't drag – "
"You know what, kid? Maybe if you stopped being such a goddamn nuisance and acted normal for once you wouldn't have to put on a charade to get people to notice you. You ever think about that?" the older man said contemptuously.
The sting that Hotch's words carried cut Reid to the core. They were very similar to the ones that the bullies would taunt him with back in high school. "I-I've would never fake an injury – "
"I didn't say that you faked this one. Did I, genius? No…I am merely implying that you've exaggerated it," he spat out with venom in his voice.
Reid felt tears welling in his eyes. He never in his life thought that Hotch would turn on him like this. Though he knew some of the man's behavior could be chalked up to the alcohol and the deep depression spiral Haley's death sent him down, he also knew that liquor loosened up a person's tongue. Somewhere deep inside his superior's mind he actually harbored these thoughts and at least partially believed they were true. "I-I think you should go now," the genius forced out, barely keeping his emotions at bay.
"No."
Spencer casted his glassy gaze up at the man he once respected deeply, "Well I'm not going to sit here while you belittle me and my injury." His fingers had just brushed the metal of his crutch when it was snapped out of his reach.
"Yes, you will. I'm not done yet," the ebony haired man stated authoritatively before he literally launched the crutch across the room.
Reid watched with wide eyes as his only support hit his wall length bookshelf and clattered to the floor, well out of his reach. Upon seeing that his only means of escape was beyond him, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
Unfortunately, the liquor hadn't impaired Hotch's reflexes as much as it had his good judgment. For the muscular agent effortlessly snatched the ancient cellular phone from his subordinate's hand and shoved it in his back pocket.
Reid looked up at the agent towering above him and asked timidly, "Why are you doing this?"
"Because you're going to listen to me for once," he slurred with his arms crossed over his chest and a hint of mirth shining in his hazy eyes. "You know, when I walked into that bar I couldn't help but think about how much fun I had dancing with Haley the last time we were there. Did you know that was the last time her and I danced before the divorce?"
"No," Reid admitted quietly.
"It was. We rarely ever got to go out and have fun like that due to work. It figures that a case popped up just in time to ruin our night," Hotch said bitterly. "But that got me to thinking about you."
"Me?"
"Riddle me this, genius – do you feel any guilt over the fact that Frank killed Sarah?"
"What?"
"Do you feel any guilt over the fact that it was your fault that Frank killed Sarah?" the older agent repeated almost word for word.
"M-my fault?"
"Yes, genius. Please don't tell me that you never realized that Gideon was completely focused on finding Frank up until you got yourself kidnapped by Hankel. You fucking distracted him – all of us – from what was really important, thus making Gideon and Sarah easy targets for that psychopath," Hotch stated as if it was common knowledge.
Reid flinched at the man's blunt explanation. "I-I never…never meant to…i-it wasn't on purpose…"
"Right, of course not. You only made one of the stupidest decisions of your life, endangered a teammate, and turned everyone's focus to you afterward by accident. I mean…how many hours did we all have to put in to detox you? And that was after you waited weeks to tell us – so that you were almost irrevocably addicted – making the effort to get you clean harder than it should have been. Really Reid, don't you feel even the least bit guilty that Gideon and the rest of us were so engrossed with your issues that we didn't have time to continue hunting down one of the most notable killers of our time?"
A ball of lead settled in the boy's stomach. He'd felt ashamed about his addiction before but now Hotch was shining a whole new light on it. This new perspective of one of the worst times of Spencer's life was one he had never considered. Was it really all his fault that Sarah had been killed – that Frank had gotten the upper hand on the BAU?
"Not to mention the fact that you were so out of commission during that time that you barely contributed anything of substance to our cases," Hotch continued, relishing the boy's suffering.
"I-I didn't think – "
"My point exactly," the unit chief said smugly. "You weren't thinking about Frank, we weren't thinking about Frank and that's how he got the upper hand on all of us…and now this time…"
"…this time…" Reid echoed hesitantly.
"This time when Foyet initially eluded us you decided to check out again. You got jealous that people weren't paying attention to you anymore. Your recovery from the drugs and overcoming the suffering you underwent with Hankel gave you a taste of what it was like to be taken care of – to be cared about – something you didn't get to experience too much as a kid," Aaron profiled. "You enjoyed it - craved it even - and I think since then you've gone out of your way to put yourself in situations that would bring out the caretaker side in all of us. So, all the other times you've put yourself in danger since Hankel speaks to the fact that you thrive on our interest in your well-being. And honestly, I wasn't the least bit surprised to find out that once again you had gotten yourself into trouble when I woke up," Hotch concluded.
"You honestly think I go out of my way to get hurt?" Reid asked incredulously.
"Sometimes…especially if it's been awhile since anyone has paid you attention or…if another team member has everyone's focus," the man said simply.
Reid was speechless at the agent's blunt words. He wanted to say something to prove Hotch wrong but his usually sharp mind had dulled under Aaron's vicious attack.
"And while I don't think that you purposefully went out of your way to get shot this time…it did happen and I think you milked it for all its worth. Except…this time your injury wasn't enough to keep the focus on you. But your need to be nurtured didn't get fulfilled so you prolonged your healing, desperate for one of the others to finally come and take care of you," he said matter-of-factly.
"No, you're wrong Hotch. I may…I may long for the companionship of others but I would never go out of my way to manipulate them like that. My injury is real and it has taken this long to heal…," Reid responded in a sullen voice. "And no one from the team ever came to help me out. I had to navigate that stairway out there twice a day with my crutches. On top of that I had to figure out how to bring groceries up those stairs; I had to navigate the subway stations by myself; I had to get myself home from the hospital. I never once asked anyone for help. And you know why? Because I knew you needed them more."
"Ha!" the unit chief laughed sardonically. "If you were being so selfless than explain to me why you diminished your efforts when it came to finding Foyet?" He asked, his voice heating up with every syllable he spoke.
"I-I put my all into finding Foyet! We all did," the genius exclaimed, disturbed that the man thought otherwise.
"Really? Than explain to me why JJ was the one to figure out that Foyet was subbing over the counter meds for his prescriptions. I would think that someone that holds a doctorate in chemistry would have thought of that a long time ago," the man snapped furiously.
Spencer clenched his jaw in frustration. He knew he wasn't going to win against the irrational man before him. He dropped his gaze down to his knee, "Would you please just leave?
"Don't like hearing the truth?" he snarled.
"Please…go," the younger man implored, his voice downtrodden and defeated.
A derisive smile painted Hotch's face as he crouched down next to Reid's injured leg once more. He placed his hand over the swollen joint and gave it a mild squeeze.
Spencer immediately tensed up as his boss's sturdy fingers settled on his wound. His expressive brown eyes went wide as they searched Hotch's face for any sign of the compassionate man he once knew. "H-hotch?"
"Sure Reid, I'll leave…but not before I give you a parting gift," he said.
Reid's instincts were yelling at him to remove his knee from his mentor's grasp but he couldn't. Aaron had tightened his hold on Spencer's leg and started to squeeze it in a viselike grip. The genius started to whimper and wiggle, lightly jerking his seized appendage, trying to dislodge the other man.
"Don't…," he moaned as a stabbing pain started shooting through his knee. His distraught orbs silently beseeched his former friend but Aaron's russet eyes just hardened.
Suddenly, Hotch twisted his hand along with Reid's knee to the side, turning it sharply to the left. Spencer let out an agonized cry as tears of pain started flowing down his cheeks.
"There you go, Reid. Now you'll actually have a reason to use your cane," Aaron jeered as he let go of Reid's leg. He stood up and scowled at his simpering subordinate. "And I hope that every time you take a step you remember that it's your fucking fault that Haley died."
Spencer let out a sob as he tried to massage away the reawakened pain. He was in so much agony that he barely realized that his cell phone had been tossed onto the couch next to him.
"I'll see you at work on Monday," he called, walking out the apartment door.
The rattled genius didn't respond. He just sat on his couch rubbing his leg as saltwater tracked down his face.
In less than an hour a man that he had grown to love and admire had permanently shredded his confidence and betrayed his trust. He had no idea how he was going to show his face at work on Monday for a friendship that he once cherished was now nevermore.