Title: Triggers & Ties 8: Eggshells, Chapter 1
Author: Kuria Dalmatia
Rating/Warnings: FRM/R (profanity, adult content)
Characters/Pairing: Hotch/Reid, the BAU
Summary: It was an insight about victims that Aaron Hotchner never wanted to have: returning to the living space where one had been brutally attacked.
Word Count: ~9,700
ARCHIVING: my LJ and FFNet account... anyone else? Please ask first.
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"In brightest day, in blackest night,
No evil shall escape my sight.
Let those who worship evil's might,
Beware my power..."
—Captain Hal Jordan, USAF
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It was an insight about victims that Aaron Hotchner never wanted to have: returning to the living space where one had been brutally attacked. The trepidation. The irrational fear rushing through him followed by the sharp swift pain as his body protested when he involuntarily tensed up.
He wondered if his neighbors peeked out of their doorways as he passed by, unsure whether to apologize for not calling 9-1-1 when they had heard the ruckus coming from his apartment at nearly midnight. For fuck's sake, the damn gun hadn't had a silencer. The shot had been loud. If that hadn't alerted them to something being wrong, the scuffle afterward should have been a big hint.
Cowards. Bastard cowards.
How many times during cases had Hotch heard witnesses protest, "But I didn't want to get involved!" or "I thought it was nothing."
Hotch had little patience for those types of people before all this mess, and this incident only solidified his disdain for those thoughtless, careless, selfish cowards. God help them if Hotch had to ever question one of them during a case.
Hotch fumbled with his keys, cursing the harsh sting along his forearm and sides.
You shouldn't be doing this alone.
Fuck that. He didn't need any damn help.
You don't want them to see you this way. Weak. Feeble. You can't even wipe your own ass without doubling over in agony.
Thank God the team (including Garcia) was in Texarkana, his brother was in France, and his parents were dead. Haley and Jack were…
No. It was better not to think about the latter.
He jabbed the key in the lock. He could manage just fine on his own.
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The cocktail of prescription painkillers, anti-inflammatories, antibiotics, anti-anxiety, and anti-depressants made him dizzy and nauseous.
Hotch had never been keen on taking medications, even for the aches that came after someone had attempted to garrote him. Or from wrecking the SUV into the UnSub's vehicle as a last-ditch effort to end the chase. Or from bone-deep bruising that one could only get after being blown ten feet backwards as a car bomb had detonated.
He had lined up the bottles on top of the toilet tank, labels facing outward. They were arranged in order of dosage frequency. The last one was supposed to be taken before going to bed, one that would knock him out for at least six hours.
Six hours where he would be at his weakest, most vulnerable.
Hotch hadn't taken it last night because he had puked up the chicken broth and medication he had for dinner; he wasn't about to risk another round of worshipping the porcelain god. It was a special kind of agony when surgically-repaired abdominal muscles heaved.
Thank God the team was still in Texarkana.
And if Hotch hadn't called his brother after being nearly blown up in New York over a year ago, there was no way in hell he was going to call him over something as trivial as being stabbed. Sean had finally secured an internship in Courchevel, a stepping stone Hotch was sure his younger brother needed to advance in the culinary world. There was absolutely no reason to disrupt that. No reason at all.
It's your arrogance that's going to do you in.
He shuffled towards the living room, not wasting the energy to actually lift his feet. His toes dug into the soft plush of the carpet. Going without dress shoes and socks had been Hotch's only concession while dressing this morning. The loose fabric of his boxers and the fine wool of his suit trousers felt good against his legs. The soft cotton of his undershirt contrasted comfortably against the starchiness of his pinpoint oxford dress shirt. The red silk tie was his "Tuesday" one, an order he kept in his closet to avoid wearing the same one twice in a row. Haley had started that particular ritual, insisting that there was no way he would ever move up the chain of command if people believed that he only had three ties. It was one of the few leftovers from his marriage that he still abided by.
Like people actually gave a shit about what kind of tie he wore.
Reid does.
To hell with Reid.
His big toe caught on a rough patch of the carpeting that shouldn't have been there. He glanced down and then to the side, and when the nausea hit, he automatically pawed for the desk chair that should have been to his left but wasn't. Bile tickled at the back of his throat and Hotch decided that the kitchen sink was closer than the toilet.
He made it in time and watched through watery eyes as the undigested pills swam in the yellowish liquid his body had expelled.
Stupid. He knew better than to take those medications on an empty stomach.
But, at least he learned something: leaning over the sink to puke was certainly less stressful on his body than kneeling in front of the toilet. The garbage disposal would take care of any food that came up.
His heart hammered in his chest. Annoying as hell, but it would subside eventually.
Hotch rinsed out his mouth before washing down the mess. Once finished, he cleared space to the left of the faucet so he could move his medications there. It made sense, actually. Close to the sink and the water glasses. Near the fridge so he'd remember to eat something when taking the pills.
Plus, prescription drug addicts—which Hotch definitely was not—tended to keep their paraphernalia squirreled away in the bathroom. So when the Team stopped by (and he knew they would), it would be one less thing for them to check off on their "How bad is Hotch's PTSD?" list.
Why hadn't anyone searched for him after he didn't pick up the phone right away on that morning?
Hotch shook his head.
Why hadn't Reid?
Had Reid kept his Dialudid in his bathroom back when he had been using? Or had he carried it around in his messenger bag? Probably the latter, because there had been mornings when Reid had been a bit slower, a bit slurrier, than normal.
It wasn't as if Hotch would ever ask.
Reid could go to hell.
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