Chapter 6
The weeks passed by and Dave returned to work, this particular night he had been away on a case in Arizona, where the unsub had been kidnapping women in their 30s and holding them hostage until he received large ransom payments.
Back home Aaron and the kids were asleep.
"Dad, dad wake up, man. C'mon you need to get up."
The gentle luring of an unknown voice is what coaxes him out of a deep sleep that night. In his fatigued state he vaguely registers the feeling of somebody gripping his shoulder through his duvet cover, shaking him roughly in order to rouse him from sleep. He feels almost like he's suspended between reality and his dreams, not quite able to place his exact positioning or why he's being forced awake so abruptly.
Then, he's reminded of the last time somebody was shaking him awake and he basically bolts fully awake. They're late.
"Shit, did I'sleep through my alarm?" He mutters, almost incoherently as he attempts to rub the sleep from his eyes. His voice is hoarse from lack of speech and he struggles to open both eyes fully, instead settling for squinting. The hand, which Hotch belatedly realizes belongs to Derek, is removed from his shoulder as he scrambles to sit up in bed.
"No, no dude, it's like 3am," Derek sighs, sounding equally as drained. Hotch furrows his brow in confusion as he attempts to process this statement. What the hell is Derek doing up at 3am? "The kid's sick," He explains with a heavy sigh, explaining the situation before Hotch can ask any questions. "He won't let anybody help him." The boy adds. Suddenly, Hotch feels wide awake as he swings both his legs over the mattress and stands up to his full height.
"Where is he?" He demands fervently, concern evident in his tone. His head spins slightly from the initial shock of waking up so rapidly, but the panic he's experiencing has him more alert and aware than he usually would be first thing in the morning.
"Bathroom," Derek supplies succinctly. "Want me to come?" He offers and Hotch gives a single shake of his head as he reaches the door to their bedroom, already left ajar.
"It's okay, I got it," he assures Derek, but it's clear that his words do very little to assuage the younger boy's growing apprehension. "Go back to bed, you've got school in a few hours." He reminds him but doesn't stay long to see if Derek is actually going to follow his orders or not. Within a few hurried strides he's already in the bathroom across the hall. The overhead light is on, creating a dim amber glow that contrasts with the darkened hallway. He's not in the least surprised to see the door cracked open a bit or to hear Emily's voice speaking in soft, soothing tones.
"—c'mon Spence, it'll be okay." Emily cajoles lightly and Hotch grimaces a bit as he gently pushes open the bathroom door and is greeted with an unpleasant sight. His youngest child is leaning up against the bathtub's low wall, his head lolling to one side with his soft brown bangs stuck to his sweat-soaked forehead. His mouth hangs slightly open but what's infinitely more worrying is the clear digested remains of his dinner smeared down the front of his pajama shirt and across his mouth. The toilet seat is propped open and a wastebasket sits nearby, clearly set there in preparation for another unfortunate bought of sickness. Emily crouches a few feet away from the boy, desperation evident in her tone as she tries to convince the stubborn boy to comply.
"No, 'm fine," the youngest whines softly and Hotch feels his heart twist as how small his voice sounds. His face is scrunched up in pain and his breathing seems shallow and uneven, only adding to both Hotch and Emily's unanimous concern. "'m fine, just go away." He repeats, his words slurring slightly at the effort it takes to speak. Hotch approaches them as softly as possible so as not to upset or startle his son, but it doesn't seem to matter much considering how clearly out of it the boy is. Emily shoots him a grim look, one of her hands carding aimlessly through Spencer's sweaty curls.
"It'll make you feel better," the older girl coaxes gently, clearing at her wit's end. It doesn't take a genius of Spencer's level to decipher that Emily is trying to negotiate with the obdurate boy who's most likely refusing any form of treatment. "Besides we gotta wash your pajamas, kiddo." She adds fruitlessly. Hotch's frown deepens as he watches Spencer stubbornly shake his head, adamantly denying whatever Emily is attempting to offer him for relief. He takes it upon himself to grab one of the handtowels from the sink and run it under the cold tap, hoping that he'll at least be able to wash off Spencer's face without being rudely shoved away.
"I don't need it!" He whines a bit louder now and more childish than Hotch has ever heard him. Not in the mood to witness a temper tantrum he hurriedly removes the damp washcloth from underneath the sink and strides over to kneel by the two siblings, shooting Emily a sympathetic look.
"Hey, it's okay. I got it," he reassures his sister, taking in the sight of her weary expression and downtrodden mood. She seems unconvinced of his claim but removes her hand from Spencer's hair nonetheless as the boy writhes and twists uncomfortably. "You should get back to bed." He suggests calmly, attempting to maintain a cool composure despite his somewhat blatant panic at the sight of his youngest child. Emily gives a solitary nod, hesitantly rising to her feet.
"Don't be surprised if he kicks you when you try to help him," she advises grimly, although it's clear she's attempting for humor amidst an admittedly terrifying situation. "Goodnight, Spence. Feel better, kid." Emily whispers gently. The youngest doesn't give any indication he's heard her and Emily tries to clear her disappointment from her face as she bids Hotch goodnight as well before exiting the cramped bathroom.
He kneels beside the crumpled form, blocking out the lingering scent of vomit by breathing through his mouth rather than his nose. Tentatively, he brushes away a few loose strands of his hair before maneuvering the damp washcloth onto the boy's heated forehead. Spencer's clenched expression almost instantly releases at the sensation of the cool towel and Hotch smiles lightly despite his trepidation. The boy seems to drift in and out of lucidity which worries Aaron immensely, but he attempts to keep up a dialogue in order to distract the kid.
"Hey, buddy. What's wrong?" He sighs, intentionally keeping his voice pitched low. He can infer from Spencer's tightly clenched jaw and squinted gaze that the boy is probably suffering from a pretty massive headache in addition to the fact that he's just rid his stomach of all solid substances from at least the last 12 hours.
Spencer, however, seems as content to accept comfort as a cactus.
"Nothin' daddy, 'm fine. Just let me go back to bed." His youngest son mumbles miserably, shifting slightly in his sitting position against the bathtub. He looks as if he intends to stand up despite his shuddering and unsteady breathing and Hotch places a much stronger hand on the boy's shoulder, careful to avoid the remnants of puke on his shirt, in order to deter him from doing so and exacerbating his current condition.
"No," he orders instantly, no longer allowing the boy to entertain the notion that he was as fine as he so adamantly claimed to be. "You're burning up, so you're not fine," he proclaims, purposefully omitting the other details that Spencer was probably well aware of by now. "I'm sure you're smart enough to know that you probably have a stomach virus and that you're not going to school today." He informs him and Spencer's shoulder tenses underneath his grip.
"I'm also smart enough to know that you're gonna force me to take that gross anti nausea medicine that doesn't even work." He mutters disdainfully and Hotch scoffs slightly at the boy's brutal honesty. He considers it a slight positive that he has the ability to joke. Even though he was well-versed in the art of caring for somebody with a stomach virus (he had raised Spencer and JJ who were walking breeding grounds for germs), that still didn't put his worry entirely at ease. Especially when it came to Spencer who is known for downplaying his symptoms if he felt as though he were imposing on somebody else.
"You're absolutely right," Hotch teases back, rubbing his thumb along the length of Spencer's significantly smaller shoulder. The boy heaves a shaky sigh, exhaustion clearly claiming his already worn-out body and Hotch feels himself frown. He needs to get the kid cleaned up and back to bed. "C'mon, arms up," he orders swiftly, changing course rather abruptly. Spencer whimpers softly as Aaron begins attempting to maneuver the too-skinny figure out of his stained pajama t-shirt, but Spencer wriggles away before Hotch can make any actual progress on the menial task. He scowls deeper, although the boy's glassy-eyed gaze isn't directed at him to see. "You've got vomit all over yourself. You need to take a shower and I'll throw these in the wash." He chides rationally, hoping that if he introduces logical thinking into the equation than his son will stop pushing him away. "No, it's too cold, '' Spencer whimpers weakly.
"Okay" Aaron replies. Quickly standing and walking to the boys bedroom to retrieve a fresh pair of pyjamas along with a blanket and Spencer's favourite stuffed toy. He returns to the bathroom having gathered all of the stuff into his arms, finding a very exhausted looking Spencer leaning against the wall of the bath on the floor. "Here buddy" he says, placing all the things he had gathered on the floor.
Spencer looked up to him weakly, his round glassy eyes appearing dazed and distant.
"Okay, let's try this again. Arms up buddy" Aaron says, gently coaxing the boy to get out of his vomit stained clothes. Spencer responds by very slowly and weakly lifting his small arms. Aaron gently lifts the vomit stained top from his son, being careful to avoid the patches of fabric still covered in the remnants of last night's dinner, he then grabs the clean pyjama top he had retrieved and lightly pulls it down over Spencer's head.
He watched as the young boy's eyelids began to droop, the exhaustion clearly showing.
Once Aaron has successfully changed spencer out of his dirty clothes, he wrapped him in the blanket he had brought, but not before placing the small stuffed turtle in Spencer's arms.
He lifted the young boy up and carried him into his bedroom, placing him softly onto the bed.
He lethargically raises a hand to rub his face, attempting to wake himself up a bit more in order to adequately deal with the situation of a sick kid. Seeing one of his children in a state of pain was never an enjoyable time, especially at 3am in the morning.
"This sucks." The young boy mumbles dejectedly and Aaron is pulled from the false sense of security as he's reminded of just how unpleasant this entire situation is. He feels a pang of guilt in his chest as he considers the obvious fact that the boy has literally been through hell within the last twelve hours and all he probably wants to do is return to bed.
"I know, kid, I know," he murmurs gently, running his hand from the boy's brunette locks before bending down to uncap the bottle of anti-nausea medication that he had grabbed on the way out of the bathroom. "Just take some of this for me and we can both go back to sleep," He promises, the allure of his bed in the next room motivating him to act quickly. He pours the recommended dosage into the measuring cap and passes the small amount to Spencer who grimaces before downing the cherry-red liquid, making sure to choke all of it down despite its admittedly abhorrent taste. "Good job," he praises gently, taking the small cup from the young boy's grasp and replacing it with the glass of water. "There we go, take some water," he narrates, the sound of his voice hopefully providing some sort of comfort to his worn-out son. The boy takes a few sips before bluntly passing the glass back to Aaron, eyelids drooping heavily with the extended effort of staying awake.
"Alright," Hotch sighs with finality, moving to place the bottle of medicine and glass of water on the bedside table in case he needs to retrieve them in a few hours. "C'mon, you should get some sleep." He offers.
"Can...can I—?" He begins apprehensively, wide brown eyes looking up to Hotch's level. Then, almost as if chiding himself for even speaking, the boy refocuses his gaze on the floor, silencing himself completely. Aaron's brow furrows in confusion at the sight.
"What?" He pries, making sure to emphasize that he's perplexed rather than angry so his youngest son doesn't get the wrong idea.
"Never-mind." The boy mutters dismissively. Hotch retraces the steps of their conversation, attempting to find a keyword that will clue him into what his youngest is trying to ask for. Then, it hits him.
"Yes, you can stay in my bed," Hotch allows and Spencer's minuscule smile confirms his suspicions. Hotch merely places an arm around the kid's shoulders and another one beneath his knees and effortlessly lifts him. He pretends to stumble as he scoops the boy up, but really Spencer is about as light as a feather. "Man, what are you eating? Rocks? You're almost as heavy as Derek." He muses with fabricated struggle as he swiftly reaches out with the hand supporting Spencer's shoulders to flick off the light switch, dousing the room in darkness. Spencer's lithe, bony arms reach up to wrap around his neck, stifling a yawn as he does so.
"Maybe you're experiencing loss of muscle tone in your arms due to Thoracic Outlet Syndrome," The younger boy mumbles into his neck, voice muffled slightly. Hotch chuckles at the sleepy diagnosis as they make their way across the hall and back towards their shared bedroom. "Or you're just old." The kid adds tauntingly and Hotch can almost feel his grin grow against him.
"I'll drop you, don't think I won't." He threatens light-heartedly, obviously not meaning the sentiment. Spencer scoffs, his breath warm on Hotch's neck and his damp hair dripping slightly on the older boy's shoulder.
"You wouldn't, I'm sick." Spencer reminds as Hotch pushes open the door to his bedroom softly, not wanting to wake anyone else in the house.
"Yeah, you're probably right." He exhales, detangling Spencer's skinny arms from around his neck as he shifts the boy out of his grasp and onto Hotch's bed. The kid relaxes easily into the mattress and Aaron suppresses his amusement as he pulls the paper wastebasket by their closet closer to the bed, just in case. He's just about to clamber into bed next to his son when a sudden thought strikes him and he takes a few steps over to Spencer's bed in the far corner of the room. Knowingly, he grabs the overly worn stuffed turtle from the bedspread that appears to have been dropped earlier before making his way back to his own mattress where Spencer is clearly just beginning to drift off.
He peels back the covers and slides in, feeling a pang of sympathy when Spencer shifts over to accommodate for Hotch's much taller frame. Wordlessly, he passes the stuffed animal to the boy who constantly claims not to care about it, but who knows he sleeps better with the well-loved toy anyway. Hotch settles his head against the pillows, relishing in the comfort as he's finally able to close his eyes. He vaguely registers Spencer's damp mop of curls resting against his upper chest and he silently encircles his arms around his youngest son in a tight embrace as he feels the kid breathe against him.