When Hotch got a random call at nearly 2 AM, he tried to ignore it.
He knew it was immature and unwise, knew that it could quite possibly be a summoning from Strauss or a call from Jessica about Jack, but he was absolutely exhausted and stressed beyond imagination. Something was off with Reid, the agent who had become infamous for never taking a single sick day now on leave for weeks by now. He didn't blame the man for finally deciding that he deserved a break, but it couldn't have come at a worse time with Doyle and Prentiss…no, he wouldn't think about Prentiss for now. He couldn't afford to, needing to find ways to help his team cope with the loss. And before he was able to do that, he had to sleep, gather his bearings, and return to work supporting everybody else.
But the phone kept on ringing. And ringing. And ringing.
He suppressed a groan as he forced himself into a seated position, snatching the device emitting the obnoxious sound. Clearing his throat and trying to rid his mind of fog, he clicked the receive button. "Aaron Hotchner."
He listened to the rapid explanation the obviously-exhausted woman on the line produced, eyes growing wide with a mixture of disbelief, shock, and horror. " What ?"
It took him twenty-five minutes to get there.
Everything was a mad rush of dressing into appropriate clothes, snatching his key from the counter, and rushing into his car to start the engine. This couldn't be possible, couldn't be real , because if it was he could never forgive himself. How could he have never picked up on the signs? How could he have never seen what was going on?
The logical part of him insisted that he had been swamped with work, that all the cases with the addition of Doyle not letting him think straight. But there was the emotional aspect of him, the part of him that knew he should have known, knew that he should have seen what was going on.
When he arrived, he couldn't get out of the car faster, hurrying into the local station that had called. He hoped that this was all some kind of nightmare, some kind of tension-induced dream, but it was becoming less and less likely as his eyes adjusted to the crappy lights of the room, as the woman who had called him waved him over to the cells.
His heart sank.
It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a nightmare, wasn't a hallucination, wasn't anything he had prayed it would be. Sure enough, Reid sat behind the bars, eyes wide and distant. His lips were moving but only a slight whisper of noise escaped from them, far too quiet to pick up over the faint conversation floating from around the building.
"Reid?" he asked softly, trying to keep the horror out of his voice. The younger man, always well-kempt and put together, was in more of a disarray than Hotch had seen him in since Hankel. His hair was messy, body trembling, suit jacket missing, and his sleeve was rolled up to reveal a brand new patch of those familiar red marks from so long ago. He wanted to say that this was withdrawals, that the agent was suffering from relapsing, but as a profiler it was obvious it was so much more. "Hey, Reid— Spencer , I'm going to bring you back to my home. Is that okay?"
"That your son?" an officer asked, nodding vaguely at Reid. "Found him in the alley downtown—y'know, where all the dopeheads are? Clear them out every night, but he was putting up a struggle."
"His name is Dr. Spencer Reid and he's one of the best agents on my team," he said firmly. "Please refrain from speaking about federal agents in such a sense. Thank you, officer, and good night."
The cop's eyes widened and he opened his mouth as if wishing to apologize, but Hotch was already urging Spencer out the door. The young agent allowed himself to be led outside but was unresponsive, eyes staring straight forward as if he were dissociating.
"What happened to you, Spencer?"
He didn't reply.
He sighed. Tomorrow would be the time for questions. Tomorrow would be the time to sort everything out. Tomorrow would be the time to deal with whatever all of this was.
But for now, he drove the two of him to his home. For now, he urged the younger man into the guest room, wishing him goodnight like a child of his own. For now, he trudged to his own bed, exhausted with sleep deprivation and the nearly unbearable stress of his current life.
God, he was tired.