"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear." C.S. Lewis

Chapter 2 – Different Sorts of Caring

As it turned out, Dave was almost as big a fan of Star Trek as Reid was. Hotch would have been more amused if he hadn't somehow been roped into watching a marathon with them. As payback, he forced Derek to come too, just to have someone else there to talk to. In hindsight, perhaps he should have just kept his mouth shut.

Things were going well enough, he supposed, except that Spencer was late, which wasn't really that unusual. Someday he planned on studying the boy more in-depth to see if he couldn't figure out the reasons behind his chronic lateness, but until then he would simply have to put up with it.

Finally he was there, his body barely inside Dave's doorway and already spouting off statistics about the correctness of most of the science behind the Star Trek series. Upon hearing the voice of his little "brother," Derek came bounding in the room, yelling at the top of his lungs.

"Hey Pretty Boy! What the hell took you so long?"

And abruptly the world froze around Hotch as his brain registered the word, "Pretty."

"So pretty," Michael had whispered to him the first time he had raped him. Hotch could feel the other man's chest hair on his back like it was happening all over again. He felt the sensation of slick fingers pushing their way inside of him, followed shortly by the man's thick cock. Sweat broke out on his face approximately the same time that bile began rising in his throat and suddenly, he knew he needed to find a toilet and find it fast before he further embarrassed himself.

Without a word, he turned and ran for the nearest bathroom, making it in time to close the door but not lock it, and then he was on his knees, his stomach forcefully emptying itself into the blessed porcelain fixture. His nose and eyes streamed tears and snot as one is wont towards doing when vomiting, but it wasn't until he had leaned back against the wall that he realized he was actually crying. Worse yet, his tears were still falling when he heard someone knock lightly on the door.

"Yeah?" He called out tiredly.

"Aaron, you okay?" Dave asked; his voice muffled behind the door.

"Sure," he answered apathetically, hastily wiping a sleeved arm over his eyes and face.

"Mind if I come in?"

"If you want," Hotch leaned forwards and flushed the toilet as he answered.

Dave came in, shutting the door again, and crouched down beside him.

"Flashback?"

Profilers, Hotch grunted within his mind.

He nodded wearily, once more running a hand over his face to check for any stray moisture.

"Was it what Morgan said when Reid came in?"

Another nod. It was easier to move his head than to open his mouth and risk emptying his stomach again. The feeling of Michael's hands and eyes on him hadn't completely dissipated yet, even with Dave right next to him.

"Anything in particular?"

Damn, Dave was staring at him again.

"When Michael—," he paused, not quite sure if he was ready to say the word for what the unsub had done to him.

"Assaulted you?" Dave interjected, finally leaning back and taking a seat on the floor. Hotch heard the other man's knees popping as he did so and felt both guilty and amused for it.

Suddenly he couldn't stand to avoid the subject anymore and felt an undeniable urge to say it out loud, even with the embarrassment that he was sure it would engender within him.

"When he raped me," his voice so deep, it was nearly a growl. "He called me," he paused, swallowing hard against the familiar sensation. "He called me 'pretty,'" he finally explained in a whisper. Fingers trembling slightly, he wiped his hand across his forehead, feeling the sweat that had begun to bead up with just that small admission.

"He tried to emasculate you," Dave nodded, his eyes narrowed and flinty as he thought about it.

Hotch nodded and shrugged at the same time, bringing his legs up to his chest once more protectively as he tried to work through the whirl of emotions that he could feel pounding away within his body. It was only as he blinked that he became aware of the tears that had been threatening to fall again.

He felt anger at himself that he couldn't contain himself in front of anyone anymore. He had long prided himself on being levelheaded and logical, and now he felt like neither. If only—if only the memories would leave him alone; memories of pain and disgust, for both himself and what was happening around him. It was almost as though they had taken up permanent residence in the pit of his stomach, weighing him down and never leaving him alone.

"Perhaps I'll tell Morgan to lay off using that nickname for awhile," Dave answered finally, his hand on Hotch's shoulder, squeezing lightly as though he hoped to somehow ground him with just that small gesture.

And maybe it was working, he wasn't sure.

"You don't have to do that, Dave," he answered tiredly—not weakly, his mind vehemently argued. "I need to learn how to deal—," he started, only to be cut off with a glare from the other man.

"There are a lot of things that I don't have to do, Aaron, but that just because I don't have to do something doesn't mean that I will choose not to. Remember what I told you in the hospital? We're going to help you, whether you like it or not, you stubborn asshole."

For a moment, they just stared at each other, neither flinching nor breaking the glare, until finally Hotch sighed and nodded in pained acquiescence.

"Good," Dave bit out a bit harshly. "Now come on," he all but ordered, getting to his feet and then roughly hauling Hotch up on by one arm.

Hotch looked at him in some bewilderment until Dave explained.

"Oh no, you're not getting out of watching Star Trek with us that easily."

He blinked. That was easy?

. . .

Dave watched him calmly as he paced up and down the expanse of the den. Jack was coming to spend the night with Hotch for the first time since his abduction, and naturally he was more than a little anxious about the entire experience. Sure, he had visited with his little buddy since it had happened, but he had put off actually having Jack spend the night because he wasn't sure how things would work out, given the problems he had been having with flashbacks and nightmares. He would have put it off even longer if Jessica hadn't told him how much Jack had been missing his daddy over the past couple of months. Of course she knew about what had happened; he had told her and he was sure that someone else—Morgan or Dave probably—had likely taken her aside and explained the more finicky details of the situation as well.

For some reason, none of that had seemed to matter to her, and when he had tried to argue the point, she had ended it by telling him that none of it would matter to Jack either.

"Aaron," her use of his first name hadn't bothered him for some reason. "Jack just wants his daddy. He understands that you've been hurt and that you're not going to be the usual happy go lucky kind of person he's used to," here she had given him a very sarcastic look. "It doesn't matter though, because he's your son and he wants you!"

For whatever reason, Hotch thought morosely to himself.

And then the time for pacing and worrying was over, because Jack and Jessica had arrived.

"Daddy!" His son had turned into a torpedo. That was the only explanation for how the little boy had managed to leap straight into his arms from all the way over at the doorway.

"Jack!" Hotch had his arms tightly around his son and was hugging him back as hard as he dared.

"Hi Uncle Dave!" His son waved from his arms, but when Hotch made put to him down, Jack shook his head wildly and clamped his legs tighter around his torso.

"Oof," he said aloud, catching Jessica's eye from across the room.

See what I mean? She said with a look.

"Okay, pal. I won't put you down if you don't want me to."

"Good," his son said fiercely, giving him a very Hotchlike glare.

He blinked in surprise and then moved them over to sit on the couch. Soon, Jessica was making her goodbyes, and then they were left alone with Dave once more.

"And Aunt Jessica said you was hurt, and that's why I couldn't come over," Jack paused in the midst of his happy chattering, looking up at him from his lap with an expectant look.

"I was," Hotch answered slowly, watching Dave in his peripheral vision. The older man had sat down at the other end of the couch, and was observing their interaction silently.

"Are you all better now Daddy?"

"Almost. Uncle Dave is helping me. That's why I'm staying here instead of my apartment."

"I like it here better anyways! I like climbin' the stairs!" Jack chirped excitedly.

"But carefully," Hotch reminded gently.

"Of course Daddy," Jack gave him a silly grin.

. . .

It was only later, after they had eaten the dinner that "Uncle" Dave had made, and Hotch had given Jack his bath and gotten him into bed, that he had time to sit down and reflect on the relationship he had with his son. He remembered what Michael had said about his own father—how could he not? But now in the silence that was left after his little boy had gone to bed, he couldn't get the thought out of his mind.

How could a father rape his own child? Not just once, or even on occasion—that was enough to make him shudder—but for years? Because clearly, that was how long Michael had been abused by his father. There was no doubt of that in his mind.

With those thoughts on his mind as he fell asleep, it was little wonder that he had nightmares that night. It was sometime after two in the morning that the feeling of Dave's hand shaking his shoulder finally cut through the very real nightmare he was caught up in.

The first thing he saw was Dave standing at the side of his bed, a teary eyed Jack being held securely in his arms as both waited patiently for him to fully wake up.

"Jack?" He asked in confusion, blinking hard to clear the sleep from his eyes.

"Daddy!" Jack wiggled out of Dave's arms and launched himself at his body.

"Why are you up buddy?" He asked, peering over his son's soft head at the still silent Dave.

"You hads a bad dream, Daddy! And I couldn't wake you up, so I got up Uncle Dave instead!"

"Did I scare you?" A very real fear of his own and one of the reasons he wasn't sure if Jack should visit yet.

"You were crying, Daddy. I wanted to make it all betters, like you do when I have bad dreams," his son answered honestly, concern evident in his face as he gripped Hotch's t-shirt tightly with his little fingers.

"It wasn't a problem Aaron," Dave's sleep roughened voice broke through his worrying. "Jack's my buddy too, right?" He said with a smile to the small boy.

"Right!" Jack quipped brightly, still not letting go of Hotch's shirt.

In all of his concern for his son, Hotch realized that his nightmare had completely slipped from his mind, but now as things were leveling off, he was starting to recall some of the images with more clarity. Largely unaware of his physical actions, he wrapped his arms around his son's small form more firmly, pulling him up on his chest to rest his chin on his head. In turn, Jack seemed to be melting into his body, the little boy's head drooping as the night's excitement was exchanged for sleepiness.

"Can I sleep with you tonight daddy?" The small voice was already a great deal fainter than it had been even two minutes prior.

"You want to?" Some of the uncertainty for the safety of his son came through in his hesitantly spoken question.

"Uh huh daddy," sleepy boy eyes looked up at him and he couldn't help but smile at his son. "I wanna make sure that the monsters don't come back again."

How could anyone ever hurt such an innocent thing! His earlier thoughts reasserted themselves in his mind with a vengeance.

"Okay buddy," he agreed with a small smile.

"Can Uncle Dave sleep here too?" Jack asked, perking up a bit to look up wide eyed at his face.

"Son?" Hotch asked, caught off guard by the strange request his son had just made. From the looks of Dave's face, the other man was faring no better.

"In case you have another bad dream!" His son answered as if it were the most sensible thing in the world. Hotch supposed it was in terms of little boy logic. "It can be like a sleepover," Jack added, settling back down on his chest once more.

"Well, I don't know Jack," he responded, raising his eyebrow at his friend who was still waiting patiently next to the king sized bed.

"Please Uncle Dave?" Hotch knew how hard it was to resist sleepy boy pleas, and if the small smile on Dave's face was any indication, Jack would be winning this round.

"Aaron, I honestly don't mind," Dave shrugged.

Jack was nearly asleep again anyways. Dave would just have to wait five minutes and then return to his own bed, if he wanted.

"Okay, fine," Hotch sighed, but did so with a smile; sliding back down under the covers properly while Dave went around to the other side and did the same. It wasn't as though they hadn't shared a bed before while on cases.

Hotch felt the warmth of another body slip its way closer to them and fought against the chills of déjà vu. It was simultaneously both like Michael and like Haley, and quite conversely, it was nothing like either. For one, he had never felt Michael get into the bed, because his captor had always drugged him to sleep. And with Haley, he had usually been the one climbing into bed after she had already been there for some time.

Both of those people had always caused him some anxiety in bed, if not downright fear, but Dave was an entirely separate entity. His presence was warm, but not mentally or physically taxing on him. He was safe, and therefore Hotch was safe.

Hotch pulled the covers up more securely around the now sleeping form of his son and turned his head to look at his old friend.

"You can go back to bed now if you want. He's asleep," he said in a quiet voice.

"I told you Aaron. I don't mind. If it puts his mind to ease, I'll stay. Unless you won't be comfortable with me here?" Dave looked at him in askance.

"I'm not bothered by your being here." It was the closest he could get to saying that Dave's close proximity made him feel safer.

"Then I'll stay."

Hotch imagined the smirk that was no doubt gracing Dave's face now, but didn't say anything else. Sleep was quickly retaking his senses.