It took two days and two nights for Hotch to realize that there were two kinds of nightmares. There was the kind that haunted you at night when your head hit the pillow, vanished during the day, but never quite deserted you no matter how many times you told yourself you were how old again? And there was the kind that people wished would just stay in their heads at night. The kind that was incomprehensible when it slithered into reality, leaving everything stone cold. Cold and too loud, too bright, unsteadily flickering like an old home movie. Hotch had had his fill of both kinds in the past 48 hours. He was never free of them. Two scenes rolled through his inner ear, alternating, playing in sequence as he clutched desperately to those unresponsive fingers. Elle's voice, pushed into vehement, childish sulkiness, insisting she was fine on the couch in the office, she didn't need to go home, she just needed a quick nap and she could help them hunt. She was fine, before he sent her there...wrapped her up like a Christmas present for that psychopath. That was one of the nicer names he used in his mind.
The other voice was Jason Gideon's, ringing hollowly like far away bells. "Elle's been shot. They don't know yet if..." Hotch was expending a lot of energy trying to keep his mind from filling in the blank. Other members of the BAU had drifted in and out. Gideon was there a lot, and so was Morgan. But none of the others forgot to eat, or to go to the office to keep on the case. None of the others ignored their wives or newborn babies (nor would have done so, had they had them) to cling on to that chair by the bedside, avoiding the active pursuit of night terrors and occasionally trying to will life back into the eyes that hadn't opened in what seemed like years.
Not that he was allowed to just sit there and feel his overwhelming guilt. The others tried to drag him away from it by dragging him away from Elle. It never worked. The minute he left the room, his mind drifted away behind him, and it never caught up with him again until he was back in that chair. Distantly, he had the idea that he was putting everyone through twice as much hell as was strictly necessary, but he didn't much care. Or rather, he couldn't find the energy to make the caring mean anything. So what if he hated himself for doing this to the others, to Gideon? It didn't make him apologize. It didn't make him stop, or even try to stop. Nothing he felt or knew meant anything until those eyes opened, until he had some proof that what he had done wasn't permanent. Even if she never forgave him, he might forgive himself, someday, if...if he hadn't killed her.
Several more nights crawled by, each one bringing a beautiful sunrise that Hotch never saw, even though every pink glow suffused the room with brilliance and brought the illusion of color to the face on the pillow. He was deep in the replay of Gideon's voice in his head when the fingers in his suddenly jerked softly. Hotch gave a strangled yell and leapt backwards, nearly falling off his chair. He stared wildly at the painful movements, at the head slowly turning towards him, at the eyelids trying to force themselves open. His first thought was: there's no coma. None of those horrible things the doctor had talked about were happening. Just another nightmare, he thought, and his heart soared. Soon I can throw this week away as just another monster in the closet, or the file folder. He grabbed her hand back up in his and scooted as close as he could to the bed; if the others came in, they could wait their turn. He needed to see her eyes open, and he needed to maintain the illusion that they were alone no matter what, so he could tell her how sorry he was. He didn't care that he would be airing his guilty conscience to a person who needed nothing more than eons of rest, a strong woman made fragile in one fell blow. Elle was unbeatable; if she was alive, then she was alive, period.
"Elle?" He winced. She would know something was not right with him; his voice sounded like a record that hadn't been played in 40 years.
But she didn't. "Hotch? What's...where am I?" Her line of questioning shifted as her wide eyes took in the hospital room, the bed, Hotch's bedraggled appearance. This didn't escape her attention. "What happened to you? You look like last week's newspaper."
Hotch tried to laugh, but it came out as a gulp when he realized he couldn't laugh without letting everything else out, too. He couldn't stop a few of the tears, however, and Elle's eyes got even wider. "You're scaring me," she whispered.
"Sorry," he said quickly, brushing his rumpled sleeve across his eyes. One apology down, about seven hundred to go, he thought sarcastically. He cast around for something to say next. He decided to start with the doctor's list of questions; that was easy enough. "What's the last thing you remember?"
"I...I was really tired after the vacation that wasn't. Completely beat. I didn't want to give up the case, though; you told me to go home"—Elle's inward-turned attention missed the way Hotch's face drained at this—"I yelled at you, but I left anyway because I was so tired I couldn't think straight. Then...he was there," she gasped out, and she couldn't contain a few of her own tears, which rolled down her temples and made little pools on the pillow. Hotch reflexively reached out and wiped away the wet trails, but his eyes were vacant, as if he were miles away. His face fell as Elle pulled away from him; he had to remind himself that it was probably because she hated being vulnerable more than anything. "I was so stupid. I was going to take a nap on the couch, so I left my gun on the coffee table. I had to grab it, before...I don't know what happened after that." Hotch squeezed her hand as her eyes closed tightly with frustration and remembered pain.
"He just left you there," Hotch hissed. "If Gideon hadn't gone by to see if you were ok..."
"I guess that means he won the race," Elle murmured, sniffling and turning her head into the pillow.
"Dammit, Elle," Hotch blurted out. "This isn't about who was fastest with a gun. Don't you understand? He was waiting for you there, like a spider in a web, and I just fed you to him. You weren't going to go home, you were going to argue until the cows came home, but I pulled rank. I ordered you to go..." Hotch lowered his face into his hands, completely missing Elle's exasperated expression.
"You idiot," she said softly. When Hotch's outraged eyes met hers, she managed not to laugh by reminding herself of the pain that was clearly consuming him. "Of all the people that might be blamed for this, I don't think you qualify," she insisted, taking his hand in order to soften the words. Her eyes widened as she again took in his rumpled suit, his uncombed hair, his unshaven face. She no longer felt like laughing. "Hotch, come here," she ordered, pulling him to sit on the side of the bed. She began to run her free hand up and down his back. "He was inside my house. He was waiting for me. No one could have known this. I would have gone home sometime, and he would have been there waiting. If you hadn't told me to go home, it would have been Gideon, or Morgan would have put me in a headlock and stuffed me into my car. I was running on empty, and everyone knew it, including me. It was only a matter of time. This is not your fault." She felt him take a shaky breath.
"But it was me," he managed to say. "No matter what might or might not have happened, what did happen was that I sent you there. If—" She stopped him right there.
"Hotch," she said firmly. "What also happened is that I woke up. My chest feels like a gorilla sat on it, but I'm going to be fine. If you insist on looking at this so simplistically, I think I can say to you 'no harm, no foul.'"
"I wish I could feel that way," he whispered. "But you have no idea—"
"Oh, I think I do," she interrupted swiftly. "You've been sitting here torturing yourself day and night because you were afraid you might have killed me. One, the unsub was the one who shot me, not you. Two, I'm right here. And three, to kill someone, it takes either carelessness, which is your Anti-christ, or malicious intent, which you could never have even if you tried. If you won't take my word for it, take United States criminal law."
This got a grin out of him, and he turned to face her. She could see his nightmares loosening their hold; they were in his eyes now, close to the surface. "At least let me say I'm sorry," he pleaded. She nodded, and very carefully, almost as though he were afraid to touch her, he put one hand on her shoulder and one on her waist, then lowered his head to rest on hers. "I'm sorry. I'm so glad you're awake. I missed you."
Elle hadn't meant to release her own feelings with him there; he was so utterly destroyed, and he needed her. But the relief and affection in those words were too much for her, and she broke down in his arms.
Hours later, Gideon walked through the door and stopped in his tracks. Hotch was there, yes, but he was immaculate. The only traces of his recent dishevelment were the hints of shadows behind his eyes and the dark circles under them. In one hand, he held a newspaper, and the other was wrapped in both of Elle's, resting on the bed. Hotch looked up and met Gideon's eyes. "She woke up," he said simply.