It was the pain in his shoulder that he was aware of first. It was a powerful pain, dull and throbbing but with such intensity that it washed over him in waves: it was dislocated, for certain, and when he tried to move from where he'd fallen – been dropped – he found that he couldn't really shift that arm at all. Next, opening his eyes, he realised how his vision was blurred even though he was still wearing his contacts, clarity itself seeming to sway in front of him like an uncertain wind – the pain in his head came from the back of his skull.
A flash of memory: a blur to his right, slightly behind him. The man was shorter than him, because he'd had to strike upward. Reid turned his head, his stomach rolling and his throat spasming in one motion: the sound of the vomit spattering on the floor was somehow worse than the sensation of expelling it, and worse again than the taste of bile in his throat.
"You're very young, for a fed," said the man in the room with him – a basement room, all grey walls, he thought, but It was difficult to tell. "What's your name?"
"Spencer Reid," Reid said. "Have you been killing women?"
The words were slurred – he was confused, his awareness foggy, and when he tried to move, it just brought on another wave of hard nausea, and he gagged again.
"Yes," the man said casually: the knife slid smoothly into Reid's thigh, and Reid screamed.
"Um, yes," Mrs Dagher said, slowly, confused. "It was how we buried our cat – we took him up to the lake, wrapped in a sheet. Why?"
"Mrs Dagher—" She was interrupted by her phone ringing, and Prentiss brought it up to her ear. "Hi? He…"
There was a sinking feeling making itself known in her belly, as she looked outside of the window, and saw no sign of Reid, and only Mara walking back and forth in the garden, bouncing a little on her feet.
"Mrs Dagher," she said quietly. "Does Andrew Cummings live here?"
"Andy Dagher," she corrected slowly. "Our mom took him in after his mom died – he's our brother. He lives downstairs."
"Yes, Hotch," Prentiss said quietly.
"We're nearly there," Hotch said. "Get your vest out of your car."
Reid was losing a lot of blood.
He didn't know for how long he'd been losing blood for – his awareness of things was hazy, uncertain, and his head hurt, his shoulder hurt, his leg hurt. He'd twisted the knife – Reid had felt him twist the knife, and he had screamed, he thought, although he didn't remember – but his throat hurt badly, badly because he had screamed.
There were tears on his cheeks, but he had gone – he was gone…
"Clear!" he heard someone say, a hazy figure, he didn't know who. "Reid's here: get an ambulance, ASAP!"
"You said you wouldn't use your belt on me," he mumbled, even though his throat was pained and ragged, and Hotch – Aaron, Aaron – wrapped his belt very tightly around the upper part of Reid's thigh. That was called something, and it began with t – tone? Tory? It was called something, he knew that it was called something, and it was very, very tight – maybe that was what it was called.
"Different context, Reid," Hotch said – it was Hotch.
"I'm dying," Reid said: there were tears on his cheeks, and they felt hot, very hot, perhaps because he was so very cold.
"No, you're not," Hotch said gently, cupping his cheek. "You're not dying."
Reid couldn't really see his face – it was hazy, blurry, and Reid felt himself sob, even though it hurt his throat, it hurt him. There were sirens, and noise, and Reid kept repeating himself, kept mumbling the same things over and over – it seemed unlikely that he should be awake, and he suspected that he wasn't, really.
"Don't leave me," he said when he was on a thing, couldn't remember the same – a flat thing, a thing for bodies that weren't bodies yet but were going to be, and were going to the… medical place. "I'm dying," he said: he had said it many times already.
"You're not," Hotch said: he had said that a lot of times too.
"I am," Reid said. "I worked out the probability of my survival, Aaron – do you want to hear my calculations?"
"Maybe some other time," Hotch said: with the hand that worked, and the arm that was not dislocated, Reid pulled him down. Hotch's mouth was so warm against Reid's, because Reid's was cold, Reid was cold: with blood loss, you felt cold.
"Love you," he managed to mumble against Hotch's mouth. "Please, don't leave me, I don't want to die on my own."
"You're not dying," Hotch said.
"You said you wouldn't lie to me."
"I lied," Hotch said.
Reid laughed at that: he tried to hold Hotch's hand, even though his hand was very weak, and he couldn't grip it properly. "Please."
"I have you, you're okay," Hotch said.
"Liar."
"Just hold my hand, Spence."
"I'm really scared of dying," Reid said. He thought he said it, anyway: he didn't think he said anything else, after.
They all saw it.
If it had just been her and the paramedics, maybe not everyone would have known, but that wasn't the case: Prentiss saw, but Morgan and JJ and all the officers from the local PD saw too, saw the way Reid dragged Hotch down to his level with the last of his strength and crushed their mouths together, clumsy and desperate and full of sobbing tears, saw the tears on Hotch's cheeks as he pulled back, still talking to Reid, still trying to keep him awake in the back of the ambulance.
"Take him," Rossi said. "We'll go after Cummings."
"Yeah," Morgan said: his voice was hard, low. "We'll get him. Go, take him."
Hotch helped pull the ambulance doors closed.
Hotch didn't call Diana.
Reid had instructions, guidelines – how to tell her, where his will was, what letter he wanted to be sent to her, a letter that Hotch knew he rewrote once or twice a month. She wasn't to be contacted until – unless – he was dead.
Jason Gideon was still listed as his next of kin on Reid's insurance forms: Aaron Hotchner was listed in such a case as Jason Gideon was unavailable.
Hotch sat there for a long time in Reid's hospital room, staring at those forms.
"Don't touch me," Hotch said. "Please."
Rossi withdrew his hand. "He's still in theatre, Aaron. It's been sixteen hours."
"We have Cummings in custody?"
"Full confession," Rossi said. "You need to eat something, at least."
"I tried. Couldn't keep it down."
"You think killing yourself will make the surgery go faster?"
"Don't," Hotch said again, when Rossi reached to touch his shoulder.
"I'll call Erin," he said quietly. "I'll explain."
Hotch should have stopped him. It was his responsibility, his job – he should have insisted it be him, should have taken out his phone, dialled Strauss' number, called her. Explained.
He remained unmoving.
Reid remained in surgery.
"Um, Agent Hotchner," said Reid's doctor. Hotch didn't turn to look at her: he was looking at Reid, pale and drawn, his head fallen to one side in the hospital bed. They'd slid his shoulder back into place, and he had some bandages at the back of his head, more over cuts that Cummings had made to his shoulders and upper arms: he was still very pale, and it was the blood loss that had nearly killed him, but the severe concussion had done very little to improve matters, let alone the cuts. "I see the allergies here, but you've made a note of no opioids?"
"No opiods," Hotch agreed.
"Sir, I would advise a morphine drip – he'll be able to control it himself once he's awake, but the amount of pain—"
"We've discussed this already," Hotch said. "No opioids. If he wakes up and asks for it, that'll be different – but he won't."
The doctor sighed. "Alright," she whispered. "If you're sure."
"Is it true?" Strauss asked. Her voice on the other end of the line was hoarse, tight.
"I sent you an email a few days ago," Hotch said. "Asking to arrange a meeting between myself, Reid, you, and Vince Logan, in H.R."
"And that was why?"
"Yes," Hotch said.
"How long?"
"Four months."
"Secret?"
"Dave knew."
"Only him?"
"Prentiss, as of this week. The rest of the team didn't, yet."
"If he dies," she started.
"He won't die," Hotch said.
A long pause, then. Perhaps it was sympathy that made her change the subject.
"Are you okay?" Haley asked. When Hotch took a moment to answer, she added, "Physically?"
"I'm not injured," Hotch said.
"Is he going to make it?"
"Yes," Hotch said.
"Jack sends his love."
"I love him too."
"You're shut down, Aaron," Haley said softly. "I've told you you do this – has he told you, too?"
"Yes," Hotch said.
"He's not as naïve as I thought, then," Haley replied. It probably would have hurt, if Hotch was able to feel anything at all. "Is he going to make it?"
"I need him to," Hotch said. His eyes were burning, but he couldn't cry. "I need him to, Haley."
"You should sleep," Haley said. "You haven't yet, have you?"
"I can't," he said.
"I'm sorry, Aaron," Haley said. She hung up before he did.
Reid woke up on the third day. When Prentiss came into his hospital room, Hotch had his chair pulled up close to Reid's bed, and his body had fallen forward, his face pressed into a pillow beside Reid's good leg. She stepped forward to move him, but Reid held up his hand, making a silent shushing gesture, his index finger touching his lip.
"I'm glad you're awake," Prentiss said. "I was worried you wouldn't."
"I didn't think I was going to," Reid said. "I thought I was going to die. I wouldn't have kissed him like that, otherwise. It was stupid of me."
Prentiss looked at Hotch, his body still except for the slight rise and fall of his shoulders as he slept: Reid's good hand was tangled in Hotch's.
"I'll get your doctor," she said softly, reaching up and gently touching his hair, because it seemed like the safest part of him she could touch. "I'll tell the others you're awake."
"Would you get something for us to eat, please?" Reid asked.
"Of course."
"Thanks," he said dully.
"Spencer."
"Emily?"
"Hotch wouldn't let them give you morphine. Do you want me to ask?"
"No," Reid said.
"You must be in agony."
"No opioids," Reid said.
Weeks later, Hotch and Gideon took turns driving, and they made it back to Washington in three days.
Lying in his own bed, on his back, Reid reached for Hotch and held his hand, their fingers interlinked. Hotch had gone back to the BAU for two weeks to put things in order, leaving Gideon with Reid in California, before he had applied for his leave of absence. Now, he laid on his side in Reid's bed, and he looked at Reid's expression, at his blank stare.
"Do you believe in God?" Reid asked.
The lights were off and the blinds were down, but not flattened: some yellow-orange light filtered in from the street lamps outside, and cast strange shadows over Reid's face and Hotch's own, exaggerating the planes and troughs of their cheeks, their noses, their eyes. Reid's eyes glittered like there were precious metals in them.
"Yes," Hotch said.
"You're Catholic, right?"
"Yes."
"What's that like?"
"There's a lot of guilt," Hotch said softly.
"Is it comforting?"
"Sometimes."
"Do you ever pray?"
"Yes."
"The last few weeks?"
"Constantly."
Reid was quiet, for a few moments, keeping hold of Hotch's hand. "Me too," he whispered. "Rectus femoris, sartorius, tensor fascia latae."
"The muscles in your thigh. They'll heal."
"I know. But they'll take a long time – I'll have to be on crutches. I won't be able to be in the field."
"Would you rather be dead?" Hotch asked.
"I don't think so," Reid said. He was crying, then, and Hotch moved closer, pulling Reid close to him, and he still couldn't quite believe that he had Reid in his arms, that he was holding him, that Reid was alive, back home in D.C., and he was safe. Hotch's hands were trembling as he wrapped them around his back. He sobbed into Hotch's neck, the sounds ragged, destroyed – Hotch had seen a lot of those tears from Reid in the month or so, tears of fear, relief, horror, desperation.
Hotch hadn't been able to cry. He'd tried.
"You don't have to stay here," Reid said. "If you don't want to."
"I want to," Hotch said. "I wouldn't be anywhere else, not right now."
"Are they going to fire you?"
"No," Hotch said. "No – they would have asked me to take some time, but I applied for it before they asked. We'll have to talk to Human Resources, and justify the incident report – effectively, prove to the Bureau that your injury wasn't due to our relationship."
"Can you— Can you talk?"
"What about?"
"I just want to listen to your voice," Reid whispered. "I really, I really need to know you're still here."
"Coasts and islands," Hotch said lowly, "fall silent before me, and let the peoples renew their strength, let them come forward and speak; let us assemble for judgement."
It had been a long, long time since he had recited verse like this, since he had done more than prove to an unsub or a witness that he knew the texts they assumed he didn't. It had been a long time since the verse had comforted him, but it was still engraved on the inside of his head, probably scrawled onto his bones in indelible ink, inescapable, constant. It didn't matter that it didn't comfort him anymore: it was already buried in him.
It washed off his tongue so quickly, so easily: the comfort was the way it made Reid sink against his chest, as though the words were a balm in themselves. When Reid spoke up, Hotch went quiet, letting him speak.
"Do not be afraid," Reid said quietly, "for I am with you; do not be alarmed, for I am your God. I give you strength, truly I help you, truly I hold you firm with my saving right hand. Do you believe that?"
"I don't know."
"Did you used to?"
"I don't know," Hotch said again. "I used to kneel on a splintering floor with the Bible in front of me – my brother wasn't allowed to talk to me, or my mother. It would be snowing outside, and I would shake so hard from the cold that my knees would bleed. If I moved, he'd belt me. He didn't force me to read from the Bible, but it would make it easier. I don't know if I ever believed it, but I came back to Isaiah a lot."
"Why Isaiah?" Reid asked softly.
"Look," Hotch said. "All those who rage against you will be put to shame and humiliated; those who picked quarrels with you will be reduced to nothing and perish."
"Oh," Reid whispered. "Keep going." He slept, and Hotch wouldn't let him go – couldn't let him go. Even when he slept himself, he held Reid the night through.