"Here ya go, Aaron. That's a good boy."
Rossi couldn't help treating Hotch like a child. There was something so needy in the man's eyes. So tragically vulnerable. It demanded someone strong wrap it up and keep it safe until it could walk on its own once more.
Dave kept an arm around Aaron's waist as he maneuvered him up the steps and into the foyer of his mansion, murmuring soft encouragement all the way.
"You go on up and take a shower. There's gotta be residue from that spray canister we found. Don't want it on your skin any longer than absolutely necessary." And maybe that's why you're acting the way you are. It's still seeping into you. "And I need to bag your clothes as evidence. You know…just in case." Rossi gave the quiet man beside him a gentle jostle before releasing him. "I'll bring your go-bag up. You gonna be okay on your own for a little bit?"
Hotch nodded, eyes downcast. He'd begun shivering; a development that Rossi found disturbing.
"Okay. Go on up. That's a good boy. Just drop your clothes on the floor. I'll come get them."
He watched Hotch pull himself up the sweeping staircase step by step, looking distracted. Preoccupied with some other reality. A customized one from the mind of Peter Lewis. When it looked as though he'd keep on until he reached the top, Dave hurried back out to the car to retrieve his friend's bag.
He returned just in time to hear the upstairs bathroom door close. A few minutes later, the shower came on. Rossi breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't much, but if Hotch could take care of himself even that much, it was an improvement over how they'd found him.
Rossi closed his eyes and tried to shake off his own vision of that moment. He'd been running his hands over Hotch's body, searching for wounds and injuries that might demand immediate treatment. But the entire time, the younger man's eyes had been fixed on him, pleading with a blatant desperation new to them both. He made me see things, Dave. He made me see things.
Sighing, Rossi trudged up to the bedroom next to his. He wanted to keep Aaron close. He set the go-bag on the bed and opened it, looking for the Unit Chief's version of sleepwear. Sweats. It's either sweats or boxers and a t-shirt. Based on how Hotch had been shivering, Rossi chose the sweats.
He moved toward the bathroom, feeling in his pocket for the ever-present evidence bags and gloves. His fingers touched Aaron's gun. The one he'd pushed into the older man's hands with inexplicable urgency. Frowning, Rossi pulled the weapon out and examined it. This is part of it. Part of what he needs to get out. Part of what's preying on him. He hefted the gun, considering its solid, dependable presence. Hotch was good with guns. Phenomenal in fact. Had a talent for them. But something had made Aaron push what was almost an extension of his own hand away as though it were possessed.
Dave slipped the gun back in his pocket. I don't care how much you squirm and shrink, Aaron. You. Are. Going. To. Talk.
He tapped on the bathroom door. "Aaron? I'm coming in." No response. Rossi hadn't expected one. He opened the door, releasing a cloud of steam. He bent to collect the discarded garments lumped on the floor.
"I brought you some sweats. I put your stuff in the room next to mine. I'm gonna…" Dave stopped, frowning.
Something wasn't right.
Not the lack of response; talking seemed to be an issue with the Unit Chief at the moment. Something else. The water. It changes sound when you're showering. As a body moves in and out of the stream, it changes sound.
What Rossi heard was a steady, monotonous cadence. Not right.
"Aaron? You okay?"
Heart tripping into overtime, Dave hooked two fingers around the edge of the shower curtain. He pulled it back, eyes going to mid-range where one would expect to see someone of adult height standing. Then they dropped lower…lower.
Naked, Hotch was sitting in a far corner, back braced against the tiled wall. Knees drawn up. Arms circling them. Making himself as small as possible. Eyes closed, he held his face up to the unrelenting spray.
"Aaron?" The only way Rossi could tell Hotch was crying was because he could see every muscle, every small contraction and ripple of silent grief. The water washed the tears away before they fell. A liquid form of denial. I'm not really crying. You can't see tears, so I'm not really sobbing myself sick.
"Aaron? Do you want me to come in after you?"
One shake of the head, dark hair dripping.
Rossi's voice was so soft, so gentle. "Tell me what you want me to do, Aaron."
Hotch bent his neck, lowering his forehead to his knees, huddling in on himself. His words were muffled.
"I tried to fight him, Dave. I tried so hard."
"I know you did."
"Didn't matter. He beat me. I couldn't stop any of it."
"Sometimes we can't. But he didn't win, Aaron. We got him." Tread carefully here! "Sometimes we pay a steep price for it, but you did your job. He won't be able to hurt anyone ever again. You were the last. The only way he wins now is if you let him." Rossi could sense the edge in that antique world map coming closer; the monsters circling. "You need to fight a little bit longer, and then he'll have lost everything. There'll be nothing left of him." C'mon, Hotch. Take a step away from where the world falls off, from the things with scales and big teeth...
"H-How?"
"Talk to me. Just like this. We'll sit down together and I'll help you fight him. You won't be doing it alone. Talk to me. That's all. Can you do that? Will you try now?" Rossi held his breath, waiting.
Hotch's chest and ribs heaved with a painfully deep, shuddering sigh. He raised his face, but this time it was toward Dave more than toward the punishing jets of water.
"Okay."
Rossi hid his elation. No sudden moves. Nice and calm. "Good. Now, stand up and let's get you dry and dressed. Then we'll sit down and we'll fight him. Together. Side by side."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The entire team had been subdued, worried on their leader's behalf. They'd separated with promises to touch bases tomorrow.
Reid went home to his apartment.
He turned off all the lights, pulled a chair up to the window that looked out over the street and sat down. He replayed Hotch's reactions. He replayed his teammates' assurances that they were attributable to the tail-end tendrils of psychotropic drugs wrapping around their Unit Chief's brain.
But they can't be sure of that.
In fact, there was only one thing of which Dr. Spencer Reid was sure. And that was that neither Rossi nor Hotch would be sleeping that night.
Lips setting in a line of grim determination, Reid slipped on a jacket. He wrapped a scarf around his neck against the chill air. It was a gift from his mother. She'd made it in imitation of one Dr. Who wore. But the color was different.
That's where her own fantasies had taken over. She'd told her son that it was a color of power. A color that would scare off evil emanations and protect him from villains.
So Spencer wrapped the blood-red scarf around his neck, and went off to see if he could help Hotch and Rossi.
