In the bedroom, Reid was opening drawers and wardrobes, grabbing the nearest comfortable items he could find for them both to wear. In a normal situation, picking underwear for your boss would have been extremely uncomfortable, but Reid's mind was too focused on the task at hand. A black shirt and a relaxing pair of pants was lying in a pile on the bed for Hotch, and Reid had found himself a nice dark buttoned shirt and black pants. The shirt was hanging loosely on his skinny frame and he had to borrow one of Hotch's expensive leather belts to keep the pants around his waist. He felt like wearing his dad's clothes, a memory that was both happy and painful.
Moving to another dresser, he spotted two packed duffle bags by the door. The top one was still open, a little yellow bucket and a red shovel protruding through the opening. Small swimming shorts were tucked away at the bottom, curled up along with a blue towel and some mini action figures. Jack had clearly packed the bag by himself with only a small guidance from his dad. Reid's heart sank. It didn't take a profiler to read the scene that was right in front of him. These bags were packed and ready to go.
Images of a red bucket and shovel suddenly flashed through his mind. They seemed familiar but the memory felt dislodged and unrecognizable. They shifted and changed until he was at a beach, six years old, his feet dug into the hot sand as he was focusing on tapping his bucket with the shovel. Tree taps on the side, and two on the bottom was his scientific method of creating the perfect sandcastle. Going to the beach had been one of his favorite activities as a kid, something he had forgotten all about. His dad would make it a special occasion every time his mom was having a good day and they would all go, just like a normal happy family.
The times got further apart as his mom turned for the worse and arguments replaced his once happy childhood. It had been four years since their last trip and his dad had finally promised him, they could go. He could barely remember the feeling of sand between his toes or the water swallowing his feet as the wave broke on the shore. The whole day was spent packing his favorite books, swimwear (even though he would never fully venture into the water) and everything else a ten-year-old Spencer Reid would find imperative for a trip to the beach. When he heard the sound of the front door opening and his dad's footsteps in the hallway, he could barely contain his excitement. He walked out of his room, a broad smile on his face and his arms holding his packed brown shoulder bag. A sudden scream stopped him in his tracks. It sounded like his mom. Reid could already feel the beach trip slipping through his fingers, another year just waiting to pass. He should have known. It had been a long time since he last saw his mother happy. He missed her nightly cuddles and bedtime stories, the wet kisses she would often plant on each of his cheeks before telling him that monsters aren't real.
He had followed the noise to his parents' bedroom and saw his dad, suits in hand and an open suitcase on the bed. For a moment he had felt the hope return. His dad was clearly packing for their trip and it wouldn't be long till they would all be on the road, singing along to the radio classics. Confusion flashed across his features as questions started to form. Why would his dad bring suits to the beach? Where was mom's suitcase? Why did she look so sad? Was she not coming with them? and then his dad glanced at him, the resigned look in his eyes telling him all he needed to know.
And that was it. His childhood was never the same again. His dad walked out with only a short goodbye, leaving him to take care of a mom who had given up all hope of getting better. Gone were the happy memories of sandy feet, his mom's proud cheer as he finished his third castle and his dad's warm hand in his as the water inched closer to their feet. He never went to the beach after that. If people asked why, he would tell a lie, something believable like drug-resistant bacteria spread by seagull feces.
He moved his hand to his cheek and wiped away a silent tear. Another boy was about to get his heart broken.
Turning off the water and opening the slide door, Hotch could finally relax. A small every day task had suddenly turned into a hellish nightmare, but it was finally over. His sight was still blurry, spots multiplying and blinding him completely when the light from the bathroom now had full access to his pupils. He squinted his eyes shut, feeling his way with his feet as he carefully lifted them and stepped over the shower edge.
Moving forward, his arms stretched in front of him, he located the towels and felt the soft cotton underneath his fingers. Now that his sight was almost gone, he felt all his other senses suddenly radiating stronger. Every touch, smell and sound were suddenly louder, more defined. The fibers of the towel brushed so softly on his skin as he wrapped it around his weak form, drying himself from top to bottom.
After a long struggle with a tangled towel, cramping fingers and dizzy spells he had to settle with wet hair and slightly damp skin. The humid air in the bathroom felt heavy on his chest, his lungs struggling to obtain any oxygen from his surroundings. He needed to get out. He needed air.
As he moved towards the bathroom door, he felt a tightness in his chest. He rubbed his left hand at the clammy skin, trying to ease the pressure building underneath his ribcage. He reached for what looked like a door handle, his vision only providing the outline in the yellow light. He concentrated, willing his eyes to focus and for a minute it felt clearer. He couldn't tell if it was just himself imagining it or if by pure stubbornness, he had gained just a bit of his sight back.
The sudden feeling of a sharp stab in his chest caught him off guard and sent him crumbling to the ground. The once clear handle was now just a big blur of spots, getting further and further away from his grasp. He had felt it. The freedom and hope so close within his reach. Now it was all disappearing in a fog of pain and swirling colors. He gripped his chest tightly as the pain increased, his whole body now lying paralyzed on the cold wet floor. He wanted to call out to Reid, but only small groans escaped his lips. The pain was so intense and nothing like he had ever experienced before. Was he having a heart attack?
He could hear Reid talking to himself in the distance, his shrill voice traveling through the thin walls. He considered kicking the door to get his attention but from the tone in the young man's voice, it sounded like he had enough on his plate. He had to get through this on his own. People looked to him for guidance. They needed him to be the pillar of strength and support and even now he wasn't about to throw in the towel. Reid needed his help.
Reid was running like a mad chicken around the apartment, duct tape in hand and sweat on his forehead. Windows and doors had to be closed and every little crack and gab to the outside needed to be securely covered. He had no idea how much toxin was released and he needed to make sure nothing could spread beyond the living room.
"Accumulation of ACh at peripheral autonomic synapses leads to overstimulation of the muscarinic and nicotinic receptors".
Reid was reflecting out loud while working. Something he would often do when his mind was overcrowded with thoughts. He was going through his list of every symptom that Hotch had displayed so far, comparing it to his knowledge on all existing toxins. He had a theory, but if he was right, Hotch would not have much time left.
In his hand, his cellphone was playing the waiting tone as he was trying to get through to the CDC. Five minutes had already passed and it was his third call; The other two had been a busy tone followed by a voicemail. He felt powerless. Most toxins used as biological weapons didn't have an antidote and if they did, they needed to be administered quickly. Hotch's only hope was for the CDC to arrive.
Frustrated, he put his phone down on the waist-high bookcase by the door. The speaker was on in case, by some miracle, they decided to let him talk to a real person. He pushed down his worry as he started to work on the door. Every slit was getting covered in silver duct tape, making the apartment look more and more like something out of a murder file. He wiped his forehead, the heat quickly building as the place was now thoroughly sealed. There was still a long time till the sun would set and the heat would only escalate.
He hoped Jack would be okay. He had checked on him after getting fully dressed and to his great relief, the boy had been sitting in his room, fully occupied with battling monsters. Reid had talked to him through the door, quietly telling him that he needed to stay in his room for just a bit longer. Desperate to get back to his figures, Jack had made his best "I understand" noise, blissfully unaware of everything that was currently going on outside of his room and Reid envied it.
He stared at his phone again, the waiting tone now just a quiet background noise as he sighed and looked at the bright big numbers on the display. Time was running out.
Hotch walked out of the bedroom, hand still clutching his chest and trying his best not to let on about his sudden lack of sight. Light from the living room windows was blinding him, creating more dots on his vision and making the rest of the colors splurge into one. Everything looked so surreal, like he was part of abstract painting, the world continuing endlessly in front of him. Even though they had no real structure or edges, he could just barely tell the floor apart from the kitchen counter. With his other arm strictly by his side, he tried his best not to reach out and feel his way around his surroundings. Luckily it was his own flat and he tried, to his best ability. to remember the layout. A sharp edge of something heavy and the pain radiating up his shin, indicated that he wasn't as familiar with his own place as he thought he was. He grimaced and breathed heavily through gritted teeth as he tried his best to walk like nothing had happened, head held high.
The echoing sound of bone hitting something solid could be heard from the living room. Reid looked up to find Hotch, half soaked and in his new set of clothes that Reid had left for him. He was even paler than before, but his face was stern and determined. Only the twitching of his brows showed just how much pain he was in. He walked on shaky legs towards Reid, his left arm now stretched forward to get a sense of balance, ready to catch himself if he did end up tumbling to the floor. He tried his best to walk normal and unaided but would sometimes reach for the closest furniture around him to steady himself. Reid had to admire the stubbornness and drive that his boss possessed.
"I have written these symptoms down so far, "Reid said, eagerly handing him a handwritten note. "Have you experienced anything new in the last half an hour?"
Hotch stared at the list, the text looking more like crawling ants than anything readable. He concentrated, squinting his eyes and could just make out the shapes of the words; Runny nose, small pupils, stomachache, nausea, vomiting, watery eyes, pale skin and sweating. They were all painfully familiar to him and still present. The pain in his abdomen had subsided a bit after his visit to the bathroom but it was still squeezing angrily at his organs and the nausea was slowly building up again.
"Add chest pain and blurry vision to the list" Hotch said with a groan as he sat down next to Reid, his hand running along the armrest for support. He winced as he bent his knee, the area already swollen and throbbing painfully underneath the fabric.
Reid nodded and reached for the paper now lying face down on the coffee table. Things were moving more rapidly than he anticipated and soon Hotch would be in no condition to help with the case. The blurry vision worried him the most, already making Hotch unable to do most things on his own. A knot started to form in his stomach as the realization hit him: soon, everything would be up to him.