Hotch sat at his desk, the silence pressing against deafeningly his eardrums. The security fluorescents flickered outside his office door, the digital clock's 2:17 a.m. a harsh bright red on the filing cabinet by the door.
His right hand ran up and down the black typeface of Chloe's draft. He had read through the entire thing twice now. The only thing that had stayed verbatim from the composition notebook was one of the first passages. He'd lost count of how many times he'd read that part, the pages softening and weathering in his fingers.
It's been said that anyone can be a father, but it takes a special person to be a dad. A father will take you to the doctor when you're sick, but a dad will stay up, holding your hair back, until 2 a.m. A father will teach you how to drive, but a dad will teach you how to put air in the tires and always have a pair of jumper cables for your trunk.
Aaron Hotchner is a dad. Not only to his young son, Jack, but to his entire team. As the unit chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, he has a responsibility that can be the difference between life and death. As such, he weighs every decision as though he were Atlas. Nothing is lackadaisical, nothing is overlooked, and nothing is glossed over. A father is suspicious, but a dad is unscrupulous.
He hovers protectively over strong, able-bodied Derek Morgan and makes sure that Dr. Spencer Reid, sweater-vest clad child prodigy, gets the respect he deserves. He doesn't favor Emily Prentiss or Jennifer Jareau over the boys, but never lets anyone else sell them short, either. He guards them as he would young Jack, against outsiders and those with malicious intent, both of whom he deals with on a nearly constant basis.
Those who know him say he's stiff, has no sense of humor, and rarely blinks. Those who really know him say that, underneath the icy composure and the constantly scowling eyebrows, Hotch is a cheeky smile and a pair of jumper cables.
The notebook page where the passage ended was stiff, now crinkled and dotted with dozens of tiny saltwater circles. He had made the calls and okayed his decision for the publication with all the right people, but he was stuck on that one passage, the heartfelt words left behind by someone who had every reason not to print them.
He closed his eyes, bracing a hand on each temple to hold his head up. Just like Haley, she was gone. Just like Haley, it was too late.
And just like Haley, it was his fault. Not directly, but if not for him, they both might not have died.
Finally, he rose slightly, and rested his chin in his left hand, turning to a blank page toward the end of Chloe's dilapidated notebook. He selected a black ballpoint pen from the handleless coffee mug on the upper right-hand corner of the desk.
As the clock silently struck 3 a.m., he began to write.