His watch read 6:18 PM when he closed the front door of his apartment. He set the briefcase on the floor, and dove his hands into his pockets. He hadn't called Jessica or Jack to tell them he was back. He walked over to the couch, and laid down with one arm and leg dangling off the side, another leg over the opposite end, and his other arm the only thing completely on the couch. Then his eyes closed, and for once, he saw nothing. Nothing was beautiful. No unsubs. No BAU. No blood. No death. Nothing at all. He would savor every second of nothing land. The next visit would come in, oh say... five years, he guessed.
He found himself falling. Falling clean through a roof and into a house? What?
He felt no pain as he passed harmlessly through the roof and landed quite ungracefully onto the ground. Propping himself up onto his knees, he watched Jack going upstairs. Then he wretched his head to the right to see Haley breaking down as Foyet walked behind her like a hunter and prey.
"Neither did you." She said.
"I'm sorry for everything." He heard himself apologize. Oh, the phone was on speaker?
"Promise me, that you'll tell him how we met." A dying woman's final words to whoever will hear. He felt his insides battling each other as he walked on his knees to the couch. But his hand dropped right through. "And how you used to make me laugh." He now knew he had no chance of changing anything.
"Haley-" He tried to deny it through the phone.
He pinched himself, slapped himeslf a few times. Anything not to live through this again. But he couldn't leave. He was caged in. He would see Foyet shoot... and see himself butcher Foyet minutes later.
"He needs to know you weren't always so serious, Aaron." Haley explained, trying to control her shaking, her lips trembling, giving her away. "I want him to believe in love, because it is the most important thing. But you need to show him. Promise me." By now, Hotch had seen for a millisecond Foyet softly moving his gun to the right place on her neck, and buried his face in his knees.
"I promise." Hotch heard his voice.
He felt himself faltering and his own lips quivering as he said those goddamed words. He heard Haley's breath unstabilizing and dug his nails into his knees and felt his own breath faltering.
BANG.
No matter how many times this scene happened, it would never get old, and there would always be tears. Hotch looked up with watery eyes and red cheeks as Foyet chuckled, set the gun on the table, and dragged Haley's body upstairs, humming an unfamiliar tune as he did so.
"Don't find Jack. Don't find Jack." He muttered, though he knew that wouldn't happen. Now, he stood up, and ran. He felt like he would never stop running until he felt himself falling once more.
He shot up, hands wildly roaming himself and his furniture. Hands didn't sink through, which was good. He was back. Licking his dry lips, he came to the conclusion of one thing. Foyet had narcissitic tendencies, but in Hotch's mind, that man was not a narcissist, but a megalomaniac sent by the motherfucking devil himself.
After a change into sweats and a t-shirt and downing three glasses of Scotch later, he slowly treaded into his bedroom, wanting the day to end. He'd get Jack in the morning. There was no way he was seeing his Captain America like this.
He rubbed his eyes as he emerged from Jack's former bedroom. He heard footsteps and looked in their direction. There he went, ascending the stairs in search of the sonofabitch who tore his world apart.
"He's in the bedroom, behind the curtain." He said to his 'other' self. But 'other' Hotch ignored him and continued into his old office. Hotch sighed and stepped back, only to fall through the wall and onto the floor. At least that can hold me, he thought as he stood back up to watch himself. He heard the shots, and waited for the two of them to tumble down the stairs. Too bad the fucker didn't land on his head or break his neck on the way down.
He watched the fight in indifference until he saw Foyet break the glass on 'other' Hotch's head.
But that didn't sting at all compared to hearing the prick speak so horrendously about his son. "You're the bastard, Foyet. Not Jack." Hotch said, regardless if he could hear or not.
Contrary to what people may think, there was no sweet satisfaction from smashing George Foyet's skull in. He felt sick once he regained his senses. He felt lower than a savage animal. Not even they continue the attack after the target has stopped moving. Once Morgan had his arms around 'other' Hotch, Hotch remembered how he lost himself that day. 'Other' Hotch just came to face the facts of his actions.
He walked right through the people since they couldn't see, hear, or feel him. He felt his stomach drop at the sight of all the blood, and the broken things that him and one of the decedents had decorated their house with. Together. This increased his walking speed until he felt himself falling again, just like before.
Hotch opened his eyes, and smacked his hands to his face. "Damn it, God! Why?" He screamed into his hands. I am really dead, and I'm in hell. "God, I'm in hell. I'm seriously in hell, aren't I? Do you even exist? Can you even hear me?" He sobbed, crunching into a ball. He felt himself howling so long and so hard he felt his voice straining. In the process he felt himself fading again until things were black.
If it could just stay like this.