No one can ever convince me otherwise that Hotch didn't have some form of PTSD after he killed Foyet. You just can't, honestly. I mean. Come on now. If you think you can, you're kidding yourself. Also, I seem to notice a recurring pattern in my writing here. Huh.

You're also silly in thinking I own this show. Which I don't.

"Trauma does not have to occur by abuse alone..." ― Asa Don Brown

Burden to Bear

Day eleven of the aftermath of Haley's death; unreturned phone calls on behalf of Strauss, visits by Jessica, and the soft, timid questions of Jack that constantly seemed to be asked about Mommy. Everything seemed to be spiralling out of control almosr, and he felt he couldn't do anything to truly stop it. The days would have been spent drinking, trying to escape from Reality's cruel touch and whisper. But even then, that was practically impossible.

A deep breath, trying again to pour the scotch into the bottle and setting the bottle down with a frustrated sigh. He looked down at his hand and lay back against the chair, hearing the door knock. Jack was already running to the door, on the step stool and peeking through the peephole and... "Spencer!"

He sat up with a frown. Spencer? Slowly, he stood up and looked over as Jack tried to undo the locks. With a grunt, the child pushed aside the step stool and opened the door. Spencer looked down and a grin. "Hey buddy!" Immediately, the grin turned into a frown, and he looked up at his father before back down at Jack. "...isn't it your bed time?"

Jack pouted a little before squealing and jumping back from Spencer's cane. "You gonna put me to bed, Spencer?"

The genius glanced at Aaron, and the man nodded tiredly. Again, the boy made a noise of glee and scurried to his room. Spencer limped after him as Aaron collapsed on the couch and glanced at the clock. He cringed- eleven ten. Thank god it was a Friday night. He stared at that clock, watching the seconds tick by and then at the television. Jack had been so listless before, but- little by little, the team had helped with little coping things from time to time. Dropping by Jess's while Aaron was home or visiting Haley's grave. Just little things.

Eleven sixteen, and Spencer walked back into the living room. He stared at the man that had pushed him away for months. Pushed the team away for a while, but mainly Spencer. And he had a hell of a hunch of why Aaron was even doing that. He stood there in the hallway entrance for another moment before his eyes drifted down to his hands. Finally, he limped over and sat next to him slowly. He set the cane down next to him on the couch and gazed at the hands for another moment and back up at Aaron. "...you can't drink, can you?"

Aaron blinked and swallowed. Hard.

"You can't do anything in the condition they're in." Spencer picked up the right hand and held it. His slender digits felt Aaron's entire hand, all the muscles and ridges. The scabs and the scars, gazing at them and a blink before back up to his boss. To the man he respected most. "They're shaking. And you can't get them to stop sometimes." His gaze was steady upon the other man's as he held the one hand before slowly reaching for the other. "You know, it's normal for one to have this after they beat a man to death."

"How is it normal to beat a man to death?" Aaron asked hoarsely. "It's not fucking normal. I beat Foyet with my bare hands. You can't tell me there are men that go around and- continue to slam a body into the floor after they can't punch their face in anymore because it's a fucking bloody pulp. Because they can't feel anything but blood and all they can do is grab them by the collar and feel every last breath of life fade from their being."

The entire time he was speaking, the shaking in his hands got worse, and Spencer held them still. Gentle as anything and watching him become more and more frightened at the reality of what he'd done. And when he was finished speaking, he pulled those hands close to his own chest. He stared at Aaron, and only when Aaron finally met his gaze with those hurt, confused eyes did he finally speak. And it wasn't with a shout, a command, or so much a hint of force in his tone.

"These are not the hands of a killer, Aaron."

Aaron bit his lip and shook his head. "But-"

"No. Listen to me." His hand held Aaron's tighter, quiet still. He gave his complete, undivided attention into those pained brown eyes. "You may have killed him. You may have killed others, Aaron, but that doesn't make you a killer." Those hands, so slightly, were stopping those shakes. So slightly, but it was a start. "These aren't the hands of a killer, Aaron. You know what they are?"

No answer. Aaron kept his eyes on Spencer's own. Trying to keep in contact with them. Trying so desperately.

"These hands- they're of a father. Of a dad who can't let his little boy go. Of a leader of a team so great. Of the rock of so many people in the world, and he needs to realize... that it's..." He held those shaking hands a little tighter and watched him. "...it's okay. It's okay to break down. To have those moments of weakness." His voice got softer. "Aaron. It's human to be shaken up after what- what you went through. If you weren't, I..." He swallowed. "I would truly think something was wrong with you."

Aaron exhaled, slow. Quiet. "It's never going to stop, is it?"

Spencer bit his lower lip. "I- I can't say for sure. I think they'll stop for some time, but something will occur that will disturb you or rattle you again, and the shaking will happen. But w-we can make sure it's never as bad as this. I know of a f-few exercises that will m-make sure you don't... don't have it as bad. But-"

"-I have to let you help me," the unit chief whispered.

A nod.

Aaron stared at his hands and back up at Spencer, and for the briefest moment, Spencer could have sworn he saw a glimmer of hope in those eyes.