Hotchner waited quietly in the morgue. His eyes were tired; blood stained his clothing, pink and dark red/brown where it hadn't been diluted by the rain. His tie was slightly loose around his collar, hair mussed.
He sat on a steel three-legged stool with a Naugahyde cushion. One heel was hooked on the lowest rung, the other flat on the floor, he leaned one elbow on the lower leg hand dangling between his knees. The other elbow propped on the higher knee held his chin.
He needed to shave, his skin was pale, rough looking, the lingering scars of adolescent acne thrown into harsh relief by the flickering overhead fluorescents. His sidearm sat on the steel surface of a counter to his right, before him were two exam tables with sheeted corpses.
One corpse was whole, its outline solid and full from crown to foot. The other was a lumpy mystery. Mounds and hills of white cloth hung neatly, hinting at the carnage underneath. The cloth tugged at the high relief points, the main features, draping mysteriously over awkward chasms and voids.
Hotchner shifted the material squeaked and sighed as the soft cotton wool blend of his suit pants scraped across its surface. He was waiting for the dead to rise.
Methos' eyes fluttered open, his jaws gaped, and his lungs expanded, a gargling gasp announced his resurrection. He rolled on to his side coughing and spluttering, the white sheet of an institutionalized death wrapped him in its folds, confusing his barely firing brain, his arms shot up clawing at it, his roll and spastic reflexes hurled him off the exam table and onto the ground. He fought free of the shroud, caught his breath in aching lungs and found his senses. Chest still heaving, eyes wild he realized where he was. He could see two legs, clad in a dark cloth – suit cloth? On the other side of the exam table. Slowly Methos got up almost expecting to see an orderly or startled pathologist.
Hotchner held his sidearm in hand, brown eyes full of …what? What was Hotch's default expression? Neutrality? Methos caught his breath and realized he was naked; he reached up and felt his collarbone for the tell-tale autopsy Y incision. It wasn't there; of course, he likely could have healed from it if it had been. The muzzle of Hotch's weapon twitched at Methos, the immortal went still.
"I waited for you." Hotchner said.
"What now?" Methos asked.
"I've been sitting here, and I've been thinking. I've been thinking about what you said about the UNSUB." Hotchner said carefully.
Methos was silent.
"According to your reasoning I have to accept that you're going to kill someone. Whether it's another immortal or not is irrelevant. You're a killer, it's what you do. So why should I let you walk away?" Hotchner's voice was calm, recitative.
Methos considered this. "Two reasons Hotchner, I only kill to live." Methos said then was quiet for a moment. "I only kill to live and if I can, I avoid it altogether. I won't lie down and die and I won't walk away from a threat when I can stop it." Methos said finally.
The soft buzz of the florescent lights and the rasp of Methos' breathing filled the antiseptic space. Hotch stood up and slipped his sidearm into its holster.
"You're a useful asset. We can help one another. If you do something that dangerous and stupid again I'll personally make sure you're locked away in super max." Hotchner said quietly.
Methos stared at the agent, he suddenly felt horribly exposed and being naked and newly un-dead had nothing to do with it. Hotchner extended his hand, Methos glanced at it and then took it. Hotch shook his hand once and released him.