Collateral Damage, for resolucidity, Hotch/Reid, PG
Title: Collateral Damage
Author/Artist: nebula99
Recipient: resolucidity
Pairing: Hotch/Reid
Rating: PG
Word Count (if applicable): 5452
Warnings/spoilers: None given
Summary/prompt: 1) Due to a tactical mistake of someone else, Reid gets injured by Hotch in a case of Friendly Fire.
Hotch stood motionless as the chaos raged ahead of him. His left hand dropped to his side, his fingers still clutching his Glock. His feet seemed embedded in the soft earth, anchoring him in place as he stared at the sea of uniforms scurrying across the clearing. He really couldn't move.
In his head, he knew that he should be taking action. An agent should respond to the shouts of "Officer down" but he really couldn't move.
Someone had found a spotlight and the dark circle of the clearing now contained a smaller circle of light. There was a cluster of anxious figures blocking his view but still he didn't move his feet.
Hotch lifted his hand and pulled the earpiece from his ear, letting it dangle against his vest. Afterwards, his hand trailed down the Kevlar - the protection that he no longer needed. Mark Shelton had been shot and the case was to all extents and purposes completed. The threat had been annulled. There would be no more need for instructions whispered into tiny microphones, codes and countdowns - not tonight anyway.
With the earpiece out, he felt strangely detached. He could see the frantic action in front of him but he didn't feel part of it. He didn't really feel anything.
Moments ago he'd been crouched in the undergrowth, Glock trained on Shelton, totally focused and ready to fire at the slightest movement.
The young officer beside him was fidgety. Hotch turned to him for a second, meaning to steady him with a look and a raised hand. It would only have taken a moment.
But the officer spooked and pulled the trigger. Hotch was standing up as Shelton turned, his rifle trained on the hostage. Hotch took aim and fired at Shelton but on the follow through there was something wrong. Something very wrong. He shouldn't have moved, he shouldn't have been there. The order was to move after the shot - but the shot came early.
There was a wailing in the background growing steadily louder and louder. Turning his head slightly, Hotch caught sight of blue flashing lights in the darkness.
Help was coming.
The velocity with which Reid had been slammed back into the tree silenced him for a moment. His breath had been knocked from his chest and it took him a moment of gasping for air before he could even begin to make sense of what had happened.
There were shouts all around him and the sounds of bodies running, but Reid wasn't paying attention to all of that. He could feel an intense burning and his shirt was wet, so he lifted his hand to touch his shoulder. Bringing it up to his face, he stared at the blood on his fingers.
Momentum - bleeding - pain. Ignoring the noise around him, Reid swallowed hard as he processed what had happened - he must have been shot. Gunshot wound - bleeding - shock - exsanguination - he had to stop the bleeding. Grimacing, Reid bent his elbow and tried to press his hand against where the wound seemed to be. He gasped in pain, his breathing growing faster and sharper as he tried to make enough pressure to stop the wound. Brachial arteries bleed out fast - how long had he been bleeding? Class one hypovolemic shock after seven hundred and fifty millilitres blood loss - Reid tried to bend his head to see how much blood was on his shirt. It was difficult to know and he couldn't tell how much was underneath. He struggled to keep up the pressure on his wound - it was an awkward angle and there was so much blood that his hand kept slipping.
He needed to get up and get some help. Reid bent his knees to try to push himself up to a standing position but as he started to move, a shout of "Reid - sit the hell down!" stopped him. He looked up to see Morgan running over and dropping to his knees beside him.
"Morgan - I think I got shot," Reid told him, his chest heaving and his voice sounding breathless. "I have to get to a hospital - I'm bleeding." He was trying not to panic but he couldn't ignore the time slipping away and the blood that was flowing out of him.
Morgan's voice was gruff but kindly. "I know, kiddo," he said, leaning over to move Reid's hand and replace it with what looked like his balled up shirt. "I'm going to keep the pressure on until the EMTs can get here - okay?"
Reid nodded and then grimaced. Morgan was able to apply far more pressure than he had been, and now it really hurt. He tried to slow his breathing down, partly to slow the blood flow and partly to quell the rising panic. He breathed in and then exhaled sharply through his nose, fighting all the while not to whine with the pain.
After what seemed like an age, Reid asked Morgan, "How long has it been? When do the EMTs get here?"
Morgan sighed and said, "Soon, kid. They're on their way."
It wasn't enough information - he needed more. He needed to know how much blood he'd lost. "How long, Morgan?" said Reid, his words staccato from the effort of speaking. "I need . . . know how long since."
"I dunno," replied Morgan with a frown. "Couple of minutes? Maybe three or four. Just relax and they'll be here soon."
Four minutes - he was definitely at Class One shock and probably headed for Class Two. "Morgan," said Reid, inhaling again sharply, "No narcotics. Can't have." He didn't have the energy or the breath for a long explanation and he hoped that would be enough. "Don't let - please."
It took a moment before Morgan seemed to get it. He nodded at him and then said, "Don't worry, kid." He looked over his shoulder and then back to Reid. "Ambulance is coming. You're going to get some help."
The sound of sirens became gradually louder and Reid allowed his head to fall back against the tree trunk, closing his eyes for a moment and trying to visualise the blood flow slowing down. When the thoughts of blood just started to panic him more, he tried to remember the relaxation techniques that he'd attempted with his Mom when he was younger.
He really made an effort, but trying to picture himself on a warm beach was as unsuccessful for him now as it had been for Diana then. He was nowhere near a warm beach - he was stuck in a woodland clearing, it was dark, and he was miles away from a hospital and potentially bleeding to death. Plus the pain in his shoulder was agonising. There was no way he could picture himself as anywhere other than here.
Hotch felt a tug on his arm and turned to see David Rossi standing next to him.
"C'mon," said Rossi gently, pulling on Hotch's arm to lead him over to where a small crowd had gathered. "The EMTs are here."
Hotch allowed himself to be taken there, walking on autopilot, not really conscious of the movement until they came to a stop. Rossi manoeuvred him into a small gap in the crowd and then Hotch saw Reid.
Reid was slumped against a tree, his head bowed and his hair falling over his face. His pale blue shirt was stained dark with blood and, of course, he wasn't wearing a Kevlar vest. There was one jumpsuit-clad EMT crouched next to him and another was wheeling a gurney over the bumpy ground. The technician was speaking to Reid in a soothing murmur as he worked and his voice was low enough for Hotch to hear Reid's breathing. The young man was exhaling hard through his nose, his chest rising and falling rapidly and the pain was etched into every part of his body.
Slowly Hotch holstered his weapon, not taking his eyes off Reid as he did so. "This is my fault," he whispered, aware that Rossi was standing close enough to hear him. He didn't get a spoken reply - instead there was a firm hand on his shoulder, answering him with rhythmic squeezes.
Eventually Reid was lifted onto the gurney. As the EMTs moved him, he let out a brief high-pitched cry of pain and his hands fisted into the blankets covering him. Hotch could no longer watch and turned away to walk over the SUV. He would wait for the rest of the team there.
Hotch's statement was brief and to the point. He left out nothing, but the simple factual account of the shooting seemed incomplete compared to what had actually happened. He had shot a fellow officer - he had shot Reid - and the fact that it was unintentional was irrelevant. Reid was hurt because of him - directly because of him.
By the time that a subdued BAU had returned to Quantico, Hotch's mind was made up. He strode into his office without speaking to anybody and wrote a brief note. Then he got up to head out of his office.
Hotch was surprised to find his way blocked by David Rossi, who was standing in the doorway, legs apart and both palms pressed against the door jambs. He definitely looked serious about preventing Hotch from leaving.
"Going somewhere, Aaron?" he asked, looking pointedly at the sidearm lying flat in Hotch's palm.
"Please, Dave," replied Hotch. "Let me through."
"What's the letter?" said Rossi, his eyebrows quirking.
Hotch sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "I'm turning in my badge and my gun," he said simply, "Strauss offered me retirement before and I'm going to take her up on it."
"What the hell for?" Rossi's question sounded genuine enough and Hotch was surprised. Surely it was obvious?
"Reid is in the hospital because of me," said Hotch. "That's why."
Rossi gave him a challenging look. "Reid is in the hospital and he's going to be fine. He's out of surgery and he'll make a full recovery. This is not your fault."
"Dave, it is my fault. I shot him." Hotch's voice was low but determined. "It was my gun, my bullet and my fault. Now let me through."
"Damn it, Aaron," said Dave, his voice full of exasperation. "Reid got shot because of a clusterfuck from the Fairfax PD. How does that make you responsible? Remember, I had a view of the whole thing - you couldn't have avoided hitting Reid."
"It is my fault and he could have died because of me!" Hotch's voice grew louder as he was becoming more frustrated with Rossi.
"But he didn't," replied Rossi. "And now you think the best thing you can do for Reid is to leave him without a supervisor who gets him and who cares about him? Go and beat yourself up if you need to - hell, go to the hospital and ask Reid to punch you - but don't abandon this team." Rossi paused and looked earnestly at Hotch. "I thought you were braver than that."
Hotch processed for a moment, glaring at Rossi. Resignation from a job he loved felt like a pretty brave act right now - it wouldn't be fair on Reid for him to stay, not now.
"We all need you, Aaron," Rossi told him. "Reid especially. At least take some time to really think about it."
Hotch sighed again, feeling both angry with Rossi for interfering and grateful to him for caring so much. And maybe Reid would need the chance to tell Hotch he didn't want him leading the team now. He owed it to the young man to allow him that chance.
"Okay," he said finally, "You win."
Post-operative pain was a shocker. It wasn't the first time that Reid had undergone surgery but he'd clearly managed to successfully rid his memory of any realistic recollection of just how damn much it hurt afterwards. Every movement sent another wave of stabbing pain through his shoulder and he was doing his best to try to breathe through it.
It wasn't particularly successful. Whoever advocated deep breathing as the perfect analgesia had clearly never been shot - or undergone major surgery. At least the pain from the shot had been so bad that he'd passed out in the ambulance - now the pain was not sharp enough to knock him out, but grinding enough to make him utterly miserable.
He glanced at the buzzer beside his bed and again considered pressing it and asking for pain relief. For a moment, he cursed Morgan's co-operation with his stammered request and his own insistence on not taking narcotics. If he'd said nothing, he could have been happily attached to a morphine drip and there would have been no need for recriminations or guilt because it wouldn't have been his fault. But asking for morphine, as opposed to just being given it, was a definite fall from the wagon.
Reid allowed himself to imagine being in a Dilaudid haze right now - floating, feeling relaxed, feeling good and, most of all, feeling no pain. But his imagination clearly wasn't strong enough because within seconds, the stabbing started again. Reid gave a low groan of pain and grabbed a handful of the blanket, crushing the woollen fibres in his fist as he tried to manage the sensations. This was not the intense fiery agony that he had felt after the bullet had ripped into him - instead it was an acute boring sensation, as though being gouged with a sharp object.
The team - apart from Hotch - had all visited, fussing and questioning, wanting to know if he was hurting, if he wanted anything, if he was okay. Reid smiled at them, assured them all that he was fine, and joked obediently about Jell-O. There was plenty of laughter but the jocularity felt forced, as though they all needed to keep on laughing or else something darker might break out.
Pretending to feel happy and pain-free was tiring and Reid was grateful to Garcia for catching his eye, nodding and then skilfully ushering the rest of them away. JJ was the last to leave, stroking and gently kissing his forehead and he whispered to her that he was fine, really, he was okay. Then, when he was finally alone, he gave voice to the pain, whimpering and gasping until it was time for the nurse to top up the woefully inadequate non-narcotic pain relief that he was allowing himself.
Reid dozed eventually, exhaustion finally catching up with him. He registered the sound of someone coming into the room but didn't turn his head, wanting to cling to his moment of relative peace for a little while longer.
When he heard whoever it was clearing their throat, Reid turned slowly to see the visitor, wincing as he did so. Hotch was sitting the chair next to his bed, looking pale and uncomfortable.
"Hi." Reid's voice was raspy and he looked longingly at the cup of water on his bedside table. It hurt too much to sit up without making a sound and he didn't want Hotch to see him in such a moment of weakness.
Hotch seemed to be finding it uncharacteristically difficult to speak. Reid looked at him for a moment, waiting for a response and then, starting to feel awkward and as though he was pressurising Hotch, he looked down at his hands instead.
The silence seemed to spread out from the taciturn Hotch and fill the room, echoing louder than any conversation. Reid stole sidelong glances at Hotch, who was sitting motionless, frozen in position. His face was stricken, as though he was the one who was injured.
Reid looked at the water again and pushed himself at little more upright in the bed. As expected, the movement sent another shockwave of pain through him and he clenched his jaw as he muffled a moan. If Hotch had noticed his discomfort, he wasn't reacting to it, which Reid guessed should have made him relieved. It wasn't as if he wanted anybody fussing over him, least of all Hotch.
Reid carried on looking at the water, knowing without even trying that he still wasn't going to be able to reach it. He knew it was pathetic but he was struggling enough with the pain and he really couldn't bear the agony that stretching forwards to reach the cup was going to cause. Licking his lips, suddenly feeling nervous, Reid looked up at Hotch.
"Hotch, could you please pass me some water?" he asked.
Hotch startled, as though he hadn't expected Reid to speak, and then blinked at Reid, confusion all over his face. He sat like this for a moment before frowning and shaking his head, almost imperceptibly. "Sorry?" he said.
Reid tried hard not to stare. This wasn't how Hotch usually behaved - he was always so composed. "Uh, I asked if you could pass me some water." His voice was now scratchy in his throat and he needed a drink even more. "Please."
Hotch nodded as though he'd only just understood the request. "Of course," he said, reaching out to pick up the cup and pass it to Reid. "I'm sorry."
Reid took a long gulp of the water, closing his eyes as it slipped down his throat. "It's okay."
All of a sudden, Hotch sat up straight and his face darkened. "No." he said, "It's not okay. And I'm sorry - really, I am."
Now Reid looked confused. "Are you okay?" he asked.
At this, Hotch stiffened even more. When he spoke, his words sounded oddly rehearsed and uncomfortable."I need to you know that I deeply regret that my actions have injured you. I should have been more careful and shooting you, while unintentional, was totally unforgivable."
"Hotch - it's okay," said Reid hastily. "I know it wasn't your fault. It was mine."
Hotch inhaled and then exhaled a sharp breath. "I'm afraid it was my fault and all I can do is apologise. I am truly sorry." He jumped to his feet in an almost military movement and then turned to open the door. "Any formal action that you wish to take against me will not be contested."
This was all wrong - Hotch was behaving in a totally bizarre way and now he seemed to be inviting Reid to sue him. "Hotch - it's not your fault," Reid said, "I'm not blaming you, it's-"
But Hotch had already left the room. Reid stared open-mouthed at the doorway, slowly drinking the cup of water and wondering what the hell was wrong with Hotch.
When Hotch arrived home back at his apartment, David Rossi was waiting at his door. Hotch shot him a glare and briefly considered ignoring him completely, but then his upbringing intervened and he gestured to Rossi to come in.
Once inside, Hotch hung up his jacket and removed his shoes while Rossi strolled over to the corner table and poured them both a whisky. Hotch took the drink from Rossi with a brief nod and then sat down heavily in an armchair, pulling his tie loose with one hand.
"So," started Rossi, "You finally went to the hospital. How's he doing?"
"Reid?" asked Hotch. "He's hurt. He's got a scapular fracture and he's struggling with the pain. He's either too stubborn or too afraid of the consequences to take anything stronger than Tylenol for the pain and he looks like hell." He snatched a gulp of his drink and leaned his head on his fist. He hadn't expected Reid to look a picture of health but he'd been shocked by just how much it upset him to see the young man in a hospital bed, pain and exhaustion written on his face. He'd had to fight an urge to reach out and stroke his hair, knowing that such a gesture would be highly inappropriate.
When Rossi didn't reply, Hotch looked up at him, scowling at the slightly quizzical look Rossi was giving him. "What?" he snapped.
"You'd make a good Catholic," said Rossi, his lips quirking into a faint smile. "You've got the guilt down to a tee and you're too honest to hide anything in a confession. So, how long is it going to be before you let this need to take the blame for everything destroy you completely?"
"Don't profile me, Dave," warned Hotch. Just what the hell did David Rossi mean by him "needing to take the blame for everything?". He was the Unit Chief and as such he had to take responsibility for his team - especially when he was the reason for one of them winding up in the hospital.
Rossi raised his hands in a "you got me" gesture. "I'm just here to help, Aaron," he said. "You're my friend and I don't want to see you tearing yourself up over something that wasn't your fault. We've all fucked up enough times on our own in this job - we don't need to take the blame for other people's screw-ups."
Hotch stared at Rossi. "I shot Spencer," he said, his fingers curling tighter around the whisky glass. "He's lucky - I'm lucky I didn't kill him - I could have done. He wasn't even wearing a vest!"
Rossi nodded. "The cops from Fairfax didn't bring enough, so Reid gave his to one of them, figuring he wouldn't need it. And that's on him - nobody else."
Hotch sighed. "Somehow, Dave, the fact that Reid being kind enough to give his protection to a fellow officer doesn't exactly make me feel any better."
Rossi shrugged. "He's a sweet kid. And he doesn't blame you for this - believe me." Rossi paused and gave Hotch a hard stare. "But I guess that doesn't matter, though, does it? You'd rather tear yourself to pieces anyway - because it's easier."
"Easier?" Hotch's voice was icy. Rossi was pushing him now and he was becoming more and more tense.
"Yes, Aaron, easier." Dave leaned forwards, elbows resting on his knees. "Maybe its easier for you to think that everything bad that happens is your fault - rather than to accept that some aspects of life are beyond your control. Shit happens, Aaron, and we have to deal with it."
"Shit happens?" snapped Hotch. "Reid has been badly injured and I can't do anything but blame myself, okay?" He drained the whisky and got to his feet to refill his glass. "And stop profiling me - because you're making a pretty lousy job of it."
Rossi watched until Hotch was sitting down again and then he spoke. "I'm a pretty good profiler, actually, and you wouldn't be glowering at me like that if I was wrong now, would you?" He sighed again and his voice softened a little. "If I shoot you now, will you stop beating yourself up?"
Hotch merely raised an eyebrow in response.
"Okay," said Rossi with a smile. "it was a pretty crappy joke. But if you can't snap out of this funk for yourself, at least try and do it for Reid. He's a good kid and he thinks the world of you - more than that, even. And I know you have feelings for him."
Hotch frowned. "What do you mean by that?"
"Told you, Aaron," replied Rossi with a maddening smirk. "I'm actually a pretty good profiler. Now think about visiting Reid again - and actually talking to him this time."
When Reid heard a knock at his door, he wondered if it was JJ again, bringing yet another casserole or pie to add to the food mountain in his fridge. He appreciated it though, as cooking for himself with only one hand made his menu somewhat limited.
Checking the spyhole, Reid was surprised to see Hotch standing there. He hadn't seen him since that uncomfortable hospital visit, which had left him feeling confused and somewhat unnerved. He could understand Hotch feeling awkward about the shooting, but he was now starting to consider that maybe Hotch was blaming him. He had to admit, giving away his vest had been pretty dumb, as had been following the uniforms out, even with the nagging doubt that the situation was playing out quite right. He couldn't complain if Hotch was angry with him - he knew it was pretty much his own fault.
Reid opened the door and greeted Hotch before gesturing for him to come in. Hotch gave him a curt nod in response and then Reid followed him into the living room, flopping down onto the couch and wincing as he jarred his shoulder. "Can I get you anything?" he asked.
Hotch shook his head. "No, I'm fine," he said.
Then they both sat in silence - Reid calculating in milliseconds how long he had to wait before he could take more painkillers and Hotch staring at his feet.
Just as in the hospital, the silence between them grew and spread until Reid could almost hear it echoing around his tiny apartment. He was already tired and uncomfortable after some brutal physical therapy and he wasn't sure he could really deal with another awkward encounter with Hotch. He was having a hard enough time dealing with the fact that he sometimes harboured romantic thoughts about Hotch without there being tension between them. Reid bit his lower lip and considered how he was going to break this tension and restore relations to an even keel between Hotch and himself.
Reid readjusted his sling and looked pointedly at Hotch, who continued to stare at his shoes. Already on edge from the PT and from the wait to take more painkillers, Reid decided not to wait any longer for Hotch to speak.
"I'm sorry I screwed up on the Shelton case," said Reid, "I shouldn't have gone into the field with no protection and without clearing it with you first. " Then he waited for Hotch's response.
Hotch looked up when Reid began to speak and was frowning by the time he'd finished. "Why are you apologising?" he asked. "I shot you - if anyone should be saying they're sorry, it's me."
"You already said sorry - at the hospital," said Reid. "And you didn't do anything wrong - I was the one without a vest and in your line of fire when I shouldn't have been. I screwed up."
Hotch sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Reid," he said, his voice patient and firm, "You did not screw up. The fact that you were injured was not your fault."
Now it was Reid's turn to sigh and comb his fingers through his hair, unconsciously copying Hotch's gesture. "Well, if it's not my fault and it's not your fault, then why are we apologising to each other?"
Hotch got quickly to his feet and strode over to the window. He leaned heavily on the sill, looking out at the street. "I pulled the trigger," he muttered, not looking at Reid.
Reid sat with his legs crossed, watching silently as Hotch's shoulders tightened and his head dropped. Finally, Hotch turned around and looked at him with a pleading expression. "Why aren't you mad at me?"
"Do you want me to be?" asked Reid, now feeling confused. He could see Hotch's unhappiness and wanted suddenly to be able to soothe him. It wasn't a helpful thought, so he quickly dampened it.
"I caused you pain," said Hotch, "I hurt you and I know you've been refusing narcotics - that has to mean you're not getting much relief from the pain. When I saw you lying there, in the woods, I could hardly bear to watch, knowing that I did that to you." His voice cracked and he had to pause for a moment to regain control of himself, covering his eyes with one hand.
Reid got up and walked over to Hotch, hesitating for a moment before reaching out and touching him gently on the shoulder. "I've been hurt before," he said, keeping his voice gentle, "But every time it was always someone hurting me on purpose. I know you'd never do that, so how could I be mad at you? It was an accident - and it could have happened to anybody."
Slowly, Hotch pulled his hand away from his face and then lifted his head to look at Reid. "I feel terrible about what happened and I feel worse because it was you." The distress was clear in his eyes as he seemed to be almost forcing himself not to look away. Reid recognised something in Hotch's expression, reminding him of all the times that he'd steeled himself to walk into his homeroom at school, or into the visitor's lounge at Bennington. Hotch looked like he was bracing himself for an onslaught - or worse.
The way that Hotch emphasised the word "you" and the pain on his face triggered something in Reid. There was sense of possibility that he hadn't seen there before. Reid thought for a moment and then decided to enter into the openness that Hotch had started. "Is that because you like me?" he asked. "Because if it is, then it's okay. I'm attracted to you, too."
Hotch just blinked at him, opening his mouth as if to speak, but then thinking better of it.
For Reid, this was now or never. Hotch's defences were down and if the worst came to the worst, then Reid would blame the painkillers for his actions. Lifting his hand, he reached out to cup Hotch's cheek. Then, he tilted his face, leaned closer, and kissed him.
It was a chaste kiss, but it was an overture nevertheless. A man didn't kiss another man on the lips without it being a suggestion. Reid didn't force the issue, pulling back after the briefest of contact and locking eyes with Hotch. "If you don't feel the same way, that's fine," he said. "I hope you don't think I was taking advantage." He took a step backwards and readied himself to retreat further.
Hotch stared at him for a moment and then surprised Reid completely by starting to laugh. "I thought you'd want to yell at me at least - probably hit me," he said, by way of explanation. "I never dreamed you'd want to kiss me."
"I've been wanting to kiss you for a long time," replied Reid. "I just never thought you'd feel that way about me." He gave a shrug and then immediately regretted it as his injured shoulder protested. Reid forced himself not to wince, however, and kept the discomfort off his face. He could do without the interruptions.
In response, Hotch took a step closer and kissed Reid - a deeper kiss this time, with lips open. The kiss wasn't passionate, or hungry, or any of the other types of kisses that Reid had fantasised about. It was gentle, but purposeful, speaking more in that movement about Hotch's feelings than an hour long conversation could have done.
When Hotch finally left, hours later, they had still done little more than kiss. But sitting together on the couch, embracing and kissing, had been more than enough for Reid. The very best romances began slowly, he thought, and it was right that they laid the right foundation for this one. Sure, they knew each other pretty damn well, but that was as colleagues and friends. Getting to know Hotch as a lover was something different altogether.
But Reid did know him well enough to dare to joke with him on the doorstep as Hotch planted a gentle kiss on his forehead after making arrangements for dinner the next night. "If you wanted a date," Reid said, "You could have just asked." He paused, biting his lower lip for a second. "You didn't need to shoot me."
Hotch looked stunned at first and then uncomfortable. He took a breath and seemed about to apologise again, but he managed to stop himself. Finally, he smiled and stroked a gentle finger down Reid's cheek. "I'll remember that in future," he said. "Now go and get some rest. And that's an order."
"You're the boss," replied Reid with a grin that spread further and further across his face as he locked the door behind Hotch and got ready for bed. After shaking out two Tylenol to get him through the early part of the night at least, he ran his finger lightly over the dressing on his shoulder. He would be a liar if he claimed to be grateful for the injury - and the pain - but he was thankful for what the shooting had given to him. It was only by seeing Hotch with his guard down that Reid had found the courage to act and while the circumstances weren't what he would have chosen, the consequences were.
Author/Artist: nebula99
Recipient: resolucidity
Pairing: Hotch/Reid
Rating: PG
Word Count (if applicable): 5452
Warnings/spoilers: None given
Summary/prompt: 1) Due to a tactical mistake of someone else, Reid gets injured by Hotch in a case of Friendly Fire.
Hotch stood motionless as the chaos raged ahead of him. His left hand dropped to his side, his fingers still clutching his Glock. His feet seemed embedded in the soft earth, anchoring him in place as he stared at the sea of uniforms scurrying across the clearing. He really couldn't move.
In his head, he knew that he should be taking action. An agent should respond to the shouts of "Officer down" but he really couldn't move.
Someone had found a spotlight and the dark circle of the clearing now contained a smaller circle of light. There was a cluster of anxious figures blocking his view but still he didn't move his feet.
Hotch lifted his hand and pulled the earpiece from his ear, letting it dangle against his vest. Afterwards, his hand trailed down the Kevlar - the protection that he no longer needed. Mark Shelton had been shot and the case was to all extents and purposes completed. The threat had been annulled. There would be no more need for instructions whispered into tiny microphones, codes and countdowns - not tonight anyway.
With the earpiece out, he felt strangely detached. He could see the frantic action in front of him but he didn't feel part of it. He didn't really feel anything.
Moments ago he'd been crouched in the undergrowth, Glock trained on Shelton, totally focused and ready to fire at the slightest movement.
The young officer beside him was fidgety. Hotch turned to him for a second, meaning to steady him with a look and a raised hand. It would only have taken a moment.
But the officer spooked and pulled the trigger. Hotch was standing up as Shelton turned, his rifle trained on the hostage. Hotch took aim and fired at Shelton but on the follow through there was something wrong. Something very wrong. He shouldn't have moved, he shouldn't have been there. The order was to move after the shot - but the shot came early.
There was a wailing in the background growing steadily louder and louder. Turning his head slightly, Hotch caught sight of blue flashing lights in the darkness.
Help was coming.
The velocity with which Reid had been slammed back into the tree silenced him for a moment. His breath had been knocked from his chest and it took him a moment of gasping for air before he could even begin to make sense of what had happened.
There were shouts all around him and the sounds of bodies running, but Reid wasn't paying attention to all of that. He could feel an intense burning and his shirt was wet, so he lifted his hand to touch his shoulder. Bringing it up to his face, he stared at the blood on his fingers.
Momentum - bleeding - pain. Ignoring the noise around him, Reid swallowed hard as he processed what had happened - he must have been shot. Gunshot wound - bleeding - shock - exsanguination - he had to stop the bleeding. Grimacing, Reid bent his elbow and tried to press his hand against where the wound seemed to be. He gasped in pain, his breathing growing faster and sharper as he tried to make enough pressure to stop the wound. Brachial arteries bleed out fast - how long had he been bleeding? Class one hypovolemic shock after seven hundred and fifty millilitres blood loss - Reid tried to bend his head to see how much blood was on his shirt. It was difficult to know and he couldn't tell how much was underneath. He struggled to keep up the pressure on his wound - it was an awkward angle and there was so much blood that his hand kept slipping.
He needed to get up and get some help. Reid bent his knees to try to push himself up to a standing position but as he started to move, a shout of "Reid - sit the hell down!" stopped him. He looked up to see Morgan running over and dropping to his knees beside him.
"Morgan - I think I got shot," Reid told him, his chest heaving and his voice sounding breathless. "I have to get to a hospital - I'm bleeding." He was trying not to panic but he couldn't ignore the time slipping away and the blood that was flowing out of him.
Morgan's voice was gruff but kindly. "I know, kiddo," he said, leaning over to move Reid's hand and replace it with what looked like his balled up shirt. "I'm going to keep the pressure on until the EMTs can get here - okay?"
Reid nodded and then grimaced. Morgan was able to apply far more pressure than he had been, and now it really hurt. He tried to slow his breathing down, partly to slow the blood flow and partly to quell the rising panic. He breathed in and then exhaled sharply through his nose, fighting all the while not to whine with the pain.
After what seemed like an age, Reid asked Morgan, "How long has it been? When do the EMTs get here?"
Morgan sighed and said, "Soon, kid. They're on their way."
It wasn't enough information - he needed more. He needed to know how much blood he'd lost. "How long, Morgan?" said Reid, his words staccato from the effort of speaking. "I need . . . know how long since."
"I dunno," replied Morgan with a frown. "Couple of minutes? Maybe three or four. Just relax and they'll be here soon."
Four minutes - he was definitely at Class One shock and probably headed for Class Two. "Morgan," said Reid, inhaling again sharply, "No narcotics. Can't have." He didn't have the energy or the breath for a long explanation and he hoped that would be enough. "Don't let - please."
It took a moment before Morgan seemed to get it. He nodded at him and then said, "Don't worry, kid." He looked over his shoulder and then back to Reid. "Ambulance is coming. You're going to get some help."
The sound of sirens became gradually louder and Reid allowed his head to fall back against the tree trunk, closing his eyes for a moment and trying to visualise the blood flow slowing down. When the thoughts of blood just started to panic him more, he tried to remember the relaxation techniques that he'd attempted with his Mom when he was younger.
He really made an effort, but trying to picture himself on a warm beach was as unsuccessful for him now as it had been for Diana then. He was nowhere near a warm beach - he was stuck in a woodland clearing, it was dark, and he was miles away from a hospital and potentially bleeding to death. Plus the pain in his shoulder was agonising. There was no way he could picture himself as anywhere other than here.
Hotch felt a tug on his arm and turned to see David Rossi standing next to him.
"C'mon," said Rossi gently, pulling on Hotch's arm to lead him over to where a small crowd had gathered. "The EMTs are here."
Hotch allowed himself to be taken there, walking on autopilot, not really conscious of the movement until they came to a stop. Rossi manoeuvred him into a small gap in the crowd and then Hotch saw Reid.
Reid was slumped against a tree, his head bowed and his hair falling over his face. His pale blue shirt was stained dark with blood and, of course, he wasn't wearing a Kevlar vest. There was one jumpsuit-clad EMT crouched next to him and another was wheeling a gurney over the bumpy ground. The technician was speaking to Reid in a soothing murmur as he worked and his voice was low enough for Hotch to hear Reid's breathing. The young man was exhaling hard through his nose, his chest rising and falling rapidly and the pain was etched into every part of his body.
Slowly Hotch holstered his weapon, not taking his eyes off Reid as he did so. "This is my fault," he whispered, aware that Rossi was standing close enough to hear him. He didn't get a spoken reply - instead there was a firm hand on his shoulder, answering him with rhythmic squeezes.
Eventually Reid was lifted onto the gurney. As the EMTs moved him, he let out a brief high-pitched cry of pain and his hands fisted into the blankets covering him. Hotch could no longer watch and turned away to walk over the SUV. He would wait for the rest of the team there.
Hotch's statement was brief and to the point. He left out nothing, but the simple factual account of the shooting seemed incomplete compared to what had actually happened. He had shot a fellow officer - he had shot Reid - and the fact that it was unintentional was irrelevant. Reid was hurt because of him - directly because of him.
By the time that a subdued BAU had returned to Quantico, Hotch's mind was made up. He strode into his office without speaking to anybody and wrote a brief note. Then he got up to head out of his office.
Hotch was surprised to find his way blocked by David Rossi, who was standing in the doorway, legs apart and both palms pressed against the door jambs. He definitely looked serious about preventing Hotch from leaving.
"Going somewhere, Aaron?" he asked, looking pointedly at the sidearm lying flat in Hotch's palm.
"Please, Dave," replied Hotch. "Let me through."
"What's the letter?" said Rossi, his eyebrows quirking.
Hotch sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "I'm turning in my badge and my gun," he said simply, "Strauss offered me retirement before and I'm going to take her up on it."
"What the hell for?" Rossi's question sounded genuine enough and Hotch was surprised. Surely it was obvious?
"Reid is in the hospital because of me," said Hotch. "That's why."
Rossi gave him a challenging look. "Reid is in the hospital and he's going to be fine. He's out of surgery and he'll make a full recovery. This is not your fault."
"Dave, it is my fault. I shot him." Hotch's voice was low but determined. "It was my gun, my bullet and my fault. Now let me through."
"Damn it, Aaron," said Dave, his voice full of exasperation. "Reid got shot because of a clusterfuck from the Fairfax PD. How does that make you responsible? Remember, I had a view of the whole thing - you couldn't have avoided hitting Reid."
"It is my fault and he could have died because of me!" Hotch's voice grew louder as he was becoming more frustrated with Rossi.
"But he didn't," replied Rossi. "And now you think the best thing you can do for Reid is to leave him without a supervisor who gets him and who cares about him? Go and beat yourself up if you need to - hell, go to the hospital and ask Reid to punch you - but don't abandon this team." Rossi paused and looked earnestly at Hotch. "I thought you were braver than that."
Hotch processed for a moment, glaring at Rossi. Resignation from a job he loved felt like a pretty brave act right now - it wouldn't be fair on Reid for him to stay, not now.
"We all need you, Aaron," Rossi told him. "Reid especially. At least take some time to really think about it."
Hotch sighed again, feeling both angry with Rossi for interfering and grateful to him for caring so much. And maybe Reid would need the chance to tell Hotch he didn't want him leading the team now. He owed it to the young man to allow him that chance.
"Okay," he said finally, "You win."
Post-operative pain was a shocker. It wasn't the first time that Reid had undergone surgery but he'd clearly managed to successfully rid his memory of any realistic recollection of just how damn much it hurt afterwards. Every movement sent another wave of stabbing pain through his shoulder and he was doing his best to try to breathe through it.
It wasn't particularly successful. Whoever advocated deep breathing as the perfect analgesia had clearly never been shot - or undergone major surgery. At least the pain from the shot had been so bad that he'd passed out in the ambulance - now the pain was not sharp enough to knock him out, but grinding enough to make him utterly miserable.
He glanced at the buzzer beside his bed and again considered pressing it and asking for pain relief. For a moment, he cursed Morgan's co-operation with his stammered request and his own insistence on not taking narcotics. If he'd said nothing, he could have been happily attached to a morphine drip and there would have been no need for recriminations or guilt because it wouldn't have been his fault. But asking for morphine, as opposed to just being given it, was a definite fall from the wagon.
Reid allowed himself to imagine being in a Dilaudid haze right now - floating, feeling relaxed, feeling good and, most of all, feeling no pain. But his imagination clearly wasn't strong enough because within seconds, the stabbing started again. Reid gave a low groan of pain and grabbed a handful of the blanket, crushing the woollen fibres in his fist as he tried to manage the sensations. This was not the intense fiery agony that he had felt after the bullet had ripped into him - instead it was an acute boring sensation, as though being gouged with a sharp object.
The team - apart from Hotch - had all visited, fussing and questioning, wanting to know if he was hurting, if he wanted anything, if he was okay. Reid smiled at them, assured them all that he was fine, and joked obediently about Jell-O. There was plenty of laughter but the jocularity felt forced, as though they all needed to keep on laughing or else something darker might break out.
Pretending to feel happy and pain-free was tiring and Reid was grateful to Garcia for catching his eye, nodding and then skilfully ushering the rest of them away. JJ was the last to leave, stroking and gently kissing his forehead and he whispered to her that he was fine, really, he was okay. Then, when he was finally alone, he gave voice to the pain, whimpering and gasping until it was time for the nurse to top up the woefully inadequate non-narcotic pain relief that he was allowing himself.
Reid dozed eventually, exhaustion finally catching up with him. He registered the sound of someone coming into the room but didn't turn his head, wanting to cling to his moment of relative peace for a little while longer.
When he heard whoever it was clearing their throat, Reid turned slowly to see the visitor, wincing as he did so. Hotch was sitting the chair next to his bed, looking pale and uncomfortable.
"Hi." Reid's voice was raspy and he looked longingly at the cup of water on his bedside table. It hurt too much to sit up without making a sound and he didn't want Hotch to see him in such a moment of weakness.
Hotch seemed to be finding it uncharacteristically difficult to speak. Reid looked at him for a moment, waiting for a response and then, starting to feel awkward and as though he was pressurising Hotch, he looked down at his hands instead.
The silence seemed to spread out from the taciturn Hotch and fill the room, echoing louder than any conversation. Reid stole sidelong glances at Hotch, who was sitting motionless, frozen in position. His face was stricken, as though he was the one who was injured.
Reid looked at the water again and pushed himself at little more upright in the bed. As expected, the movement sent another shockwave of pain through him and he clenched his jaw as he muffled a moan. If Hotch had noticed his discomfort, he wasn't reacting to it, which Reid guessed should have made him relieved. It wasn't as if he wanted anybody fussing over him, least of all Hotch.
Reid carried on looking at the water, knowing without even trying that he still wasn't going to be able to reach it. He knew it was pathetic but he was struggling enough with the pain and he really couldn't bear the agony that stretching forwards to reach the cup was going to cause. Licking his lips, suddenly feeling nervous, Reid looked up at Hotch.
"Hotch, could you please pass me some water?" he asked.
Hotch startled, as though he hadn't expected Reid to speak, and then blinked at Reid, confusion all over his face. He sat like this for a moment before frowning and shaking his head, almost imperceptibly. "Sorry?" he said.
Reid tried hard not to stare. This wasn't how Hotch usually behaved - he was always so composed. "Uh, I asked if you could pass me some water." His voice was now scratchy in his throat and he needed a drink even more. "Please."
Hotch nodded as though he'd only just understood the request. "Of course," he said, reaching out to pick up the cup and pass it to Reid. "I'm sorry."
Reid took a long gulp of the water, closing his eyes as it slipped down his throat. "It's okay."
All of a sudden, Hotch sat up straight and his face darkened. "No." he said, "It's not okay. And I'm sorry - really, I am."
Now Reid looked confused. "Are you okay?" he asked.
At this, Hotch stiffened even more. When he spoke, his words sounded oddly rehearsed and uncomfortable."I need to you know that I deeply regret that my actions have injured you. I should have been more careful and shooting you, while unintentional, was totally unforgivable."
"Hotch - it's okay," said Reid hastily. "I know it wasn't your fault. It was mine."
Hotch inhaled and then exhaled a sharp breath. "I'm afraid it was my fault and all I can do is apologise. I am truly sorry." He jumped to his feet in an almost military movement and then turned to open the door. "Any formal action that you wish to take against me will not be contested."
This was all wrong - Hotch was behaving in a totally bizarre way and now he seemed to be inviting Reid to sue him. "Hotch - it's not your fault," Reid said, "I'm not blaming you, it's-"
But Hotch had already left the room. Reid stared open-mouthed at the doorway, slowly drinking the cup of water and wondering what the hell was wrong with Hotch.
When Hotch arrived home back at his apartment, David Rossi was waiting at his door. Hotch shot him a glare and briefly considered ignoring him completely, but then his upbringing intervened and he gestured to Rossi to come in.
Once inside, Hotch hung up his jacket and removed his shoes while Rossi strolled over to the corner table and poured them both a whisky. Hotch took the drink from Rossi with a brief nod and then sat down heavily in an armchair, pulling his tie loose with one hand.
"So," started Rossi, "You finally went to the hospital. How's he doing?"
"Reid?" asked Hotch. "He's hurt. He's got a scapular fracture and he's struggling with the pain. He's either too stubborn or too afraid of the consequences to take anything stronger than Tylenol for the pain and he looks like hell." He snatched a gulp of his drink and leaned his head on his fist. He hadn't expected Reid to look a picture of health but he'd been shocked by just how much it upset him to see the young man in a hospital bed, pain and exhaustion written on his face. He'd had to fight an urge to reach out and stroke his hair, knowing that such a gesture would be highly inappropriate.
When Rossi didn't reply, Hotch looked up at him, scowling at the slightly quizzical look Rossi was giving him. "What?" he snapped.
"You'd make a good Catholic," said Rossi, his lips quirking into a faint smile. "You've got the guilt down to a tee and you're too honest to hide anything in a confession. So, how long is it going to be before you let this need to take the blame for everything destroy you completely?"
"Don't profile me, Dave," warned Hotch. Just what the hell did David Rossi mean by him "needing to take the blame for everything?". He was the Unit Chief and as such he had to take responsibility for his team - especially when he was the reason for one of them winding up in the hospital.
Rossi raised his hands in a "you got me" gesture. "I'm just here to help, Aaron," he said. "You're my friend and I don't want to see you tearing yourself up over something that wasn't your fault. We've all fucked up enough times on our own in this job - we don't need to take the blame for other people's screw-ups."
Hotch stared at Rossi. "I shot Spencer," he said, his fingers curling tighter around the whisky glass. "He's lucky - I'm lucky I didn't kill him - I could have done. He wasn't even wearing a vest!"
Rossi nodded. "The cops from Fairfax didn't bring enough, so Reid gave his to one of them, figuring he wouldn't need it. And that's on him - nobody else."
Hotch sighed. "Somehow, Dave, the fact that Reid being kind enough to give his protection to a fellow officer doesn't exactly make me feel any better."
Rossi shrugged. "He's a sweet kid. And he doesn't blame you for this - believe me." Rossi paused and gave Hotch a hard stare. "But I guess that doesn't matter, though, does it? You'd rather tear yourself to pieces anyway - because it's easier."
"Easier?" Hotch's voice was icy. Rossi was pushing him now and he was becoming more and more tense.
"Yes, Aaron, easier." Dave leaned forwards, elbows resting on his knees. "Maybe its easier for you to think that everything bad that happens is your fault - rather than to accept that some aspects of life are beyond your control. Shit happens, Aaron, and we have to deal with it."
"Shit happens?" snapped Hotch. "Reid has been badly injured and I can't do anything but blame myself, okay?" He drained the whisky and got to his feet to refill his glass. "And stop profiling me - because you're making a pretty lousy job of it."
Rossi watched until Hotch was sitting down again and then he spoke. "I'm a pretty good profiler, actually, and you wouldn't be glowering at me like that if I was wrong now, would you?" He sighed again and his voice softened a little. "If I shoot you now, will you stop beating yourself up?"
Hotch merely raised an eyebrow in response.
"Okay," said Rossi with a smile. "it was a pretty crappy joke. But if you can't snap out of this funk for yourself, at least try and do it for Reid. He's a good kid and he thinks the world of you - more than that, even. And I know you have feelings for him."
Hotch frowned. "What do you mean by that?"
"Told you, Aaron," replied Rossi with a maddening smirk. "I'm actually a pretty good profiler. Now think about visiting Reid again - and actually talking to him this time."
When Reid heard a knock at his door, he wondered if it was JJ again, bringing yet another casserole or pie to add to the food mountain in his fridge. He appreciated it though, as cooking for himself with only one hand made his menu somewhat limited.
Checking the spyhole, Reid was surprised to see Hotch standing there. He hadn't seen him since that uncomfortable hospital visit, which had left him feeling confused and somewhat unnerved. He could understand Hotch feeling awkward about the shooting, but he was now starting to consider that maybe Hotch was blaming him. He had to admit, giving away his vest had been pretty dumb, as had been following the uniforms out, even with the nagging doubt that the situation was playing out quite right. He couldn't complain if Hotch was angry with him - he knew it was pretty much his own fault.
Reid opened the door and greeted Hotch before gesturing for him to come in. Hotch gave him a curt nod in response and then Reid followed him into the living room, flopping down onto the couch and wincing as he jarred his shoulder. "Can I get you anything?" he asked.
Hotch shook his head. "No, I'm fine," he said.
Then they both sat in silence - Reid calculating in milliseconds how long he had to wait before he could take more painkillers and Hotch staring at his feet.
Just as in the hospital, the silence between them grew and spread until Reid could almost hear it echoing around his tiny apartment. He was already tired and uncomfortable after some brutal physical therapy and he wasn't sure he could really deal with another awkward encounter with Hotch. He was having a hard enough time dealing with the fact that he sometimes harboured romantic thoughts about Hotch without there being tension between them. Reid bit his lower lip and considered how he was going to break this tension and restore relations to an even keel between Hotch and himself.
Reid readjusted his sling and looked pointedly at Hotch, who continued to stare at his shoes. Already on edge from the PT and from the wait to take more painkillers, Reid decided not to wait any longer for Hotch to speak.
"I'm sorry I screwed up on the Shelton case," said Reid, "I shouldn't have gone into the field with no protection and without clearing it with you first. " Then he waited for Hotch's response.
Hotch looked up when Reid began to speak and was frowning by the time he'd finished. "Why are you apologising?" he asked. "I shot you - if anyone should be saying they're sorry, it's me."
"You already said sorry - at the hospital," said Reid. "And you didn't do anything wrong - I was the one without a vest and in your line of fire when I shouldn't have been. I screwed up."
Hotch sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Reid," he said, his voice patient and firm, "You did not screw up. The fact that you were injured was not your fault."
Now it was Reid's turn to sigh and comb his fingers through his hair, unconsciously copying Hotch's gesture. "Well, if it's not my fault and it's not your fault, then why are we apologising to each other?"
Hotch got quickly to his feet and strode over to the window. He leaned heavily on the sill, looking out at the street. "I pulled the trigger," he muttered, not looking at Reid.
Reid sat with his legs crossed, watching silently as Hotch's shoulders tightened and his head dropped. Finally, Hotch turned around and looked at him with a pleading expression. "Why aren't you mad at me?"
"Do you want me to be?" asked Reid, now feeling confused. He could see Hotch's unhappiness and wanted suddenly to be able to soothe him. It wasn't a helpful thought, so he quickly dampened it.
"I caused you pain," said Hotch, "I hurt you and I know you've been refusing narcotics - that has to mean you're not getting much relief from the pain. When I saw you lying there, in the woods, I could hardly bear to watch, knowing that I did that to you." His voice cracked and he had to pause for a moment to regain control of himself, covering his eyes with one hand.
Reid got up and walked over to Hotch, hesitating for a moment before reaching out and touching him gently on the shoulder. "I've been hurt before," he said, keeping his voice gentle, "But every time it was always someone hurting me on purpose. I know you'd never do that, so how could I be mad at you? It was an accident - and it could have happened to anybody."
Slowly, Hotch pulled his hand away from his face and then lifted his head to look at Reid. "I feel terrible about what happened and I feel worse because it was you." The distress was clear in his eyes as he seemed to be almost forcing himself not to look away. Reid recognised something in Hotch's expression, reminding him of all the times that he'd steeled himself to walk into his homeroom at school, or into the visitor's lounge at Bennington. Hotch looked like he was bracing himself for an onslaught - or worse.
The way that Hotch emphasised the word "you" and the pain on his face triggered something in Reid. There was sense of possibility that he hadn't seen there before. Reid thought for a moment and then decided to enter into the openness that Hotch had started. "Is that because you like me?" he asked. "Because if it is, then it's okay. I'm attracted to you, too."
Hotch just blinked at him, opening his mouth as if to speak, but then thinking better of it.
For Reid, this was now or never. Hotch's defences were down and if the worst came to the worst, then Reid would blame the painkillers for his actions. Lifting his hand, he reached out to cup Hotch's cheek. Then, he tilted his face, leaned closer, and kissed him.
It was a chaste kiss, but it was an overture nevertheless. A man didn't kiss another man on the lips without it being a suggestion. Reid didn't force the issue, pulling back after the briefest of contact and locking eyes with Hotch. "If you don't feel the same way, that's fine," he said. "I hope you don't think I was taking advantage." He took a step backwards and readied himself to retreat further.
Hotch stared at him for a moment and then surprised Reid completely by starting to laugh. "I thought you'd want to yell at me at least - probably hit me," he said, by way of explanation. "I never dreamed you'd want to kiss me."
"I've been wanting to kiss you for a long time," replied Reid. "I just never thought you'd feel that way about me." He gave a shrug and then immediately regretted it as his injured shoulder protested. Reid forced himself not to wince, however, and kept the discomfort off his face. He could do without the interruptions.
In response, Hotch took a step closer and kissed Reid - a deeper kiss this time, with lips open. The kiss wasn't passionate, or hungry, or any of the other types of kisses that Reid had fantasised about. It was gentle, but purposeful, speaking more in that movement about Hotch's feelings than an hour long conversation could have done.
When Hotch finally left, hours later, they had still done little more than kiss. But sitting together on the couch, embracing and kissing, had been more than enough for Reid. The very best romances began slowly, he thought, and it was right that they laid the right foundation for this one. Sure, they knew each other pretty damn well, but that was as colleagues and friends. Getting to know Hotch as a lover was something different altogether.
But Reid did know him well enough to dare to joke with him on the doorstep as Hotch planted a gentle kiss on his forehead after making arrangements for dinner the next night. "If you wanted a date," Reid said, "You could have just asked." He paused, biting his lower lip for a second. "You didn't need to shoot me."
Hotch looked stunned at first and then uncomfortable. He took a breath and seemed about to apologise again, but he managed to stop himself. Finally, he smiled and stroked a gentle finger down Reid's cheek. "I'll remember that in future," he said. "Now go and get some rest. And that's an order."
"You're the boss," replied Reid with a grin that spread further and further across his face as he locked the door behind Hotch and got ready for bed. After shaking out two Tylenol to get him through the early part of the night at least, he ran his finger lightly over the dressing on his shoulder. He would be a liar if he claimed to be grateful for the injury - and the pain - but he was thankful for what the shooting had given to him. It was only by seeing Hotch with his guard down that Reid had found the courage to act and while the circumstances weren't what he would have chosen, the consequences were.