Title: Triggers & Ties 8: Eggshells, Chapter 2
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... anyone else? Please ask first.
Feedback always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios and CBS Paramount Network Television own Criminal Minds. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head. Oh yeah. And DC Comics owns the quote.
***/***
Hotch's post-divorce, new apartment indulgence had been the flat screen plasma TV. He only had basic cable, since the amount of travel required for the Job did not merit one hundred twenty-six channels. He also favored movies over television shows, especially because it seemed there was no escape from procedural dramas.
He skipped over the "Reid" section of his collection, although his attention lingered on The Empire Strikes Back, which was next to a copy of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. "There's a surprising similarity between Emperor Palpatine and the Child Catcher," Reid had said in passing but, oddly, had never elaborated on. Still, Empire was Reid's favorite of the Star Wars triology—they both had agreed that the prequels didn't count as real Star Wars movies—and one of four that Reid would pop in when he took over Hotch's kitchen to make a meal. Hotch could cook, but Reid did it better, cheerfully explaining that, "Cooking is chemistry with edible ingredients."
Hotch wondered how many times that line had been used.
Still, Hotch had put up with the movie he had a personal hatred of, because Reid was a decent cook. He knew he hid his dislike of it well; Reid was stupidly conscientious about things like that and would have certainly retired the movie from rotation if he had known.
But it wasn't as if Hotch would ever explain. Some things were just too… personal. It wasn't as if Reid had earned the explanation, especially after…
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
Hotch still remembered sitting in the tenth row, middle seat on Empire's opening day with two of his friends. When the climatic scene where Darth Vader declared that he was Luke's father and Luke's subsequent denial had unfolded onscreen, Hotch had been transfixed. There it was: proof. Proof that a person was not destined to become his father. An evil that, up until that moment when Luke shouted how he would never join Vader, Hotch had been convinced he would grow up to become.
There had been hope.
But the evening of that revelation, his father had dashed it courtesy of a tennis racket to Hotch's shoulders and thighs.
Hotch hated the movie ever since. He also loathed tennis.
There. Some Like It Hot with Tony Curtis, Jack Lemmon and Marilyn Monroe. One of Billy Wilder's finest.
He muted the sound before settling on the couch and picking up the file on his coffee table.
Just because he was on mandatory leave didn't mean he shouldn't be working.
***/***
Hotch owned navy sheets. Not because he was into the whole home décor crap, but because the sheets had been on sale. He wasn't going to waste money on something that he wasn't really home all that much to use. If he wanted fancy bed linens, he would go to Reid's.
"You'd be surprised what you can find in a thrift shop," Reid had said once in defense of the insanely-high thread count. It was bedding that Hotch would never admit that he had a certain, hedonistic weakness for, ones for which (at one time) he would have stayed the night without hesitation if they were on Reid's bed.
Reid.
He glared at his personal cell phone as it rang. Again. Fourth time in the past hour. Sixteen text messages since seven a.m. Where the fuck was all this persistence on that morning?
To hell with Spencer Reid.
STOP CALLING, he pounded out on the little keys and refused to read whatever messages were sent. He threw the phone towards the kitchen just because he could.
He re-tucked the sheet around the cushions of his navy couch and fluffed his pillow. Sure, his bed was more comfortable, but the television was in the living room as were the case files, and he had more room to work.
He settled back on the couch, stretching his legs out. Awkward, sure, because his gun rested oddly on his hip. It wasn't either of his Glocks, which were still (annoyingly) in evidence, but the second service weapon he had ever owned: a Sig Sauer, the same style that Gideon used to carry. Because of the bandages, Hotch had to wear the hostler forward, like Reid did, and he wondered how in God's name Reid could ever effectively draw his weapon.
Shit. No wonder the idiot had been shot in the fucking knee. Served him right for carrying his weapon so stupidly. It also made Hotch think of the Philip Dowd case, and afterward, how Reid had carried Hotch's backup Glock in his fucking pocket. Jesus Christ, how dumb was that?
Hotch sighed and adjusted the pillow again. He glanced at the door, making a mental note to find out how much the additional lock had cost, and knowing he would have to bully Morgan into accepting the money as repayment. Morgan had also been responsible for having the bullet hole in the wall repaired and the area of carpeting that had been soaked with blood replaced.
He stared at the plate with his lunch on it. Yes, his fridge had been stocked full of the essentials—milk, juice, eggs, fruits and vegetables—and his freezer full of individually, homemade meals all from Mama Bianchi's. He knew which member of the team provided what. The cookies craftily tucked away in the bread cubby were definitely from Garcia, while JJ and Prentiss had provided the fridge items. Rossi, of course, had brought the Italian.
He craved Reid's chicken and rice casserole.
It pissed him off.
The Team was now in Missoula.
Hotch took a bite of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
***/***
Hotch wasn't sure what he was thinking when he had put his Friday tie in the washer along with his dress trousers. The trip through the dryer had only made them worse. 'Dry Clean Only' meant Dry Clean Only. He balled them up and stuffed them in the trashcan by his desk. He wasn't sure what do with his suit coat that now didn't have matching trousers.
He settled down on the couch, smoothing out the navy sheet against the back cushions. His gun was still forward on his hip, but he'd practiced relentlessly until he was able to draw and aim the weapon with the same fluid motion that he had with his Glock. It was still awkward, but he had mastered it.
The team was still in Missoula, everyone except Reid taking turns calling him every night. Garcia hadn't graced his door just yet, thank God.
Hotch checked the newly installed security system.
Again.
***/***
The thump-thump-thump jolted Hotch from his nap. He immediately palmed the hilt of his gun as his vision cleared from the fog of sleep. He swung his feet to the floor, ignoring the protest of his body, and listened carefully, noting the odd gait of whoever was walking down the hallway in his apartment building.
Anger flared up, because if he could hear the sounds of someone clumsily making his way down the hall, then why hadn't any of his goddamn neighbors deigned to call 9-1-1 when they had heard the shot? Hotch could make out the thumping, and he had a ten-percent hearing loss in his right ear.
Sharp knocks at the front door followed, and Hotch immediately recognized the pattern.
He blamed the medication for the dizziness as he stood, as well as for the nausea that triggered a wet, bile-laced belch. He shuffled to the door. He checked the peephole twice, once to confirm his visitor and a second time to make sure there was no one else lurking behind him.
He undid the locks, biting back the flare of pain from his left side. He swung the door open, took a step back, and adjusted his stance.
Reid looked like shit. Pale skin even paler than before. Sweat glistening on his upper lip and forehead. Hair matted around his face while the rest of it looked greasier than usual, as if Reid hadn't washed it in days. The younger man leaned heavily on the aluminum crutches, knuckles white where he gripped the handles. The black brace was stark against his khaki pants. The bag that was slung across his body wasn't his usual tan leather one. This one was olive green and a little larger, looking suspiciously like Army surplus.
"What do you want?" Hotch asked sharply.
"May I come in?" Reid's voice was firm. Polite.
"Why?"
He let go of the right crutch and held out his hand, palm up. The silver key glinted in the low light.
Anger turned quickly to cold fury. Hotch remembered the conversation, the offer made, and was stunned at the audacity. "You want me to leave my goddamn apartment?"
Reid's mouth dropped open slightly before he said, "No." He shifted on his crutches, barely masking the wince. "May I please come in and sit down? I want to talk. We haven't since…"
"There's a reason for that," Hotch snapped. He didn't have to say, Why didn't you call that morning when you realized I was late? Why is this the first time you've stopped by? God knows everyone else on the damn team has been here.
He broke away from Hotch's gaze. Softly, "Please, Aaron."
"No." Hotch slammed the door closed. He was in no mood to deal with this.
***/***
The fourth time Rossi circled around the coffee table, Hotch had had enough. To hell with manners and polite conversation.
"Will you fucking stop that?" Hotch snarled as he sat at his desk. He still hadn't finished the incident report. He knew he couldn't submit something that said: 'the motherfucking piece of shit bastard stabbed me like the impotent fucker he is' followed by 'my goddamn team was only thirty-minutes away from my apartment and none of the selfish assholes bothered to check why I wasn't answering my goddamn phone' and ending with, 'Spencer Reid is a prescription drug addict. Dialudid is his drug of choice. Random weekly drug tests should be mandatory.'
It still felt good to type it.
Rossi paused and then turned to face him. "And if I don't?"
Hotch simply glared.
The other man nodded slightly. "I know you're on edge. Hell, I would be to, considering." He gestured in the air, indicating Hotch's living space. "Are you sure it's a good idea to stay here?"
"That son of a bitch is not chasing me from my own goddamn apartment."
Rossi let out a sigh. "Is that what this is all about? Who has the bigger balls? Christ, Aaron, you know better than to play that game."
Hotch didn't reply. Instead, he closed his laptop and pushed away from his desk. He stood, cursing inwardly that he still had to hold on to something for balance. He also cursed inwardly at Rossi, who made no bones about observing his behavior.
"Spencer was at the office today," Rossi said after a few moments. "First time since he got shot. He has to keep his leg propped up to keep the swelling down. He says he's been cleared to go back to work."
"And?"
"You do know that Morgan's been staying with him."
Hotch flinched. A fresh wave of pain hit from where his muscles tensed. He bit down on his lower lip to keep from gasping aloud. His hand found the grip of his gun. "And why the fuck should I care?"
"If my lover was shacking up with… What does Garcia call him? The Chocolate Mountain Thunder Sex God? You know, the guy who can pick up anyone in any bar at any time without lifting a finger?"
"Reid gets solicited far more often than Morgan does," Hotch interrupted flatly. He watched as Rossi casually approached him.
"Solicited. Nice term there, Aaron."
"What the hell is your point?"
"My point is that yesterday was the first time Spencer left his apartment since being released from the hospital," Rossi replied. "You know? He's had a few setbacks. Some issue about a bone chip or some shit like that. So, yesterday, he orders Morgan to drive him here. He refuses to allow Morgan to help him out of the car, up the stairs, going all 'Mister Independent, I'm Fine' and all that crap." Rossi closed the distance between him. "It seems that Spencer had been planning on staying with you. You know. Since it was Thursday and all that."
"Thursday," Aaron sneered.
"Yeah. Thursday. As in, on the Friday mornings that we're in town, you're not such a complete bastard," Rossi shot back. "Hell, you even smile on occasion." He planted his hands on his hips, one close to the Springfield .45 on his belt.
"We are not having this conversation, Rossi."
"Oh yes, the hell, we are, Aaron." He crowded into Hotch's personal space. "Spencer took a cab in this morning, and the first thing everyone thought was that he'd stayed with you. Morgan dared to ask how you were doing but got cut off. And you know Spencer's a pretty nice guy. He doesn't take people's heads off unless he's really upset about something. And when I asked him how it went last night, he told me—and I quote—'it's none of your fucking business.'"
"He's right about that, Rossi. It really isn't any of your damn business."
"Aaron, I consider you one of my closest friends," he countered. "And I've watched you and Spencer sort out your relationship in the pressure-cooker of the BAU, watched how you've come to rely upon each other. You're discreet. You're also cautious. You both also make it clear that you don't let your personal relationship interfere with the Job. How the fuck you two manage to do that is beyond me. But, regardless, you do."
"Stop it, Rossi."
"No."
Hotch crossed his arms over his chest, pain exploding through his waist and torso at the sudden movement. His vision blurred for a few seconds and he knew he swayed. Still, their gazes locked. Hotch knew he was bearing his teeth.
"Don't you see what you're doing?" Rossi's lips peeled back into a sharp yet sour smile. "Foyet's been stalking you for months. He wanted his attack to be perfect.So like a good little psycho who happens to be skilled with computers, he gets a whole bunch of information on you. Divorce records are public, you know, so Foyet knew that Haley filed, not you. He knows the terms of the custody agreement. He figured out his target. He knew what would have the biggest impact on you. He then picked the best moment, the best time to attack."
"Get the fuck out of my apartment."
"Think about it, Aaron. Foyet already knew that you and Spencer spend a lot of off-duty time with each other," Rossi continued. "He also knew that you spend the night together sometimes. But that didn't fit in to what he wanted, to what he had planned. Spencer's not a target, Aaron."
"I said…"
"He's not," Rossi insisted. Suddenly, he shook his head. "You're doing exactly what Foyet wants, Aaron. You're cutting yourself off from everyone."
"Go to hell, Rossi."
"You're letting him win, Aaron. Stop being such a bastard and let us help, okay? Let Spencer help."
"Get out or so help me, God, I will…"
"Think about it," Rossi stated coolly. "Really, truly think about it. Something like what you have with Spencer doesn't come around all that often. I should know. I'm—what? Fifty-five now?—and I'm still searching for what you managed to luck in to. You throw this away? Then Foyet has won." He spun on his heels and then walked swiftly to the door. "I know you'll lock up behind me."
Rossi left.
And Aaron sank to the floor of his kitchen, hugging his knees to his chest and ignoring the pain blazing through his body.
You're letting him win, Aaron.
***/***