5 Stages... [FanFic]
Title: 5 Stages...
Author: Tooks
Pairing: General
Rating: FRT (mostly just a precaution due to topics being covered)
Prompt: "Five Times..." by criminal_prompt
Summary: The team goes through the five stages of grief (according to Elisabeth Kübler-Ross in her 1969 book, On Death and Dying) after Hotch's attack.
Notes: This is based on the prompt of "Five Times..." by criminal_prompt; though I've adjusted it to "FIve Stages..." because they said we could tweak, haha! Oh and, yeah, season 5 spoilers!
Stage One: Denial:
Whenever asked Hotch would say he was fine. Even when he’d jumped, spilling his coffee over the counter, the time Reid approached him from behind while attempting to reach his mug in the mini-kitchen. Even when caught by JJ passed out on his desk as she came in the morning after everyone was to go home. Hotch even claimed he was fine when he’d actually lost his place in the midst of giving a profile, thinking he’d seen Foyet just outside the police station window.
Prentiss had asked him once or twice what happened, but he could only answer with the blank response, “He got the upper hand, he stabbed me, then I blacked out.” After all nothing else about that event really seemed real to Hotch, nothing else about it left the undeniable scars now scattered about his body. Rossi never asked, a fact Hotch first found odd but then grew to understand…Rossi didn’t have to ask, he’d been around victims long enough to read them like a book. Hotch supposed he should just be grateful Rossi hadn’t called him out on anything yet.
For the third week since being released from the hospital Hotch was planning to sleep in the office. He’d already made preparations to put his apartment up for sale but, in the current real estate market, he wasn’t ready to make it official until he had a new place, far from the old, set to move into. The lights in other offices were off, as were most in the bullpen, and Hotch found, as he prepared to leave his office and cross it to get to the mini-kitchen for his late night cup of coffee, he was nervous. Scared even. There were too many shadows, too many good places for a man with Foyet’s slender body to hide. Then he watched in shock as lights about the bullpen began to flicker back on, leaving a path of safe travel to the kitchen. “Hello?” He voice came out stern…except for that underlying shakiness of his nerves betraying him.
“Just me,” Morgan called out, raising his hand up so Hotch could pinpoint him in the vast field of desks and chairs, “I thought you could use the light.”
“I’m fine,” Hotch knee-jerked before looking down a little in slight embarrassment that those two words were the first he could even think of these days and recall a more suitable response. When he had one he looked back over to his fellow agent, “Thank you.”
Morgan smiled some and began to head closer to the stairs leading up to where Hotch stood, gripping the railings of the balcony, “Hey, uh, you need any help? You know with paperwork or something? I’m guessing you’re pretty backed up on that.” The days in the hospital, the days recovering at home, the days of distraction.
Hotch shook his head some, “No, that’s alright,” He knew the offer to help was a cover…Morgan didn’t even like doing his own paperwork! He wondered if Rossi put him to it somehow? Or did Morgan now think that little of him, so little of his boss that he suspected the man scared of his own shadow. Then again, he was, wasn’t he? “I can handle this,” he added, then froze, “it…the paperwork, I mean. It’s nothing I can’t handle on my own.”
“I always felt that way too,” Morgan replied as he began to almost cautiously head up the stairs. He was taking a big risk doing this, bringing up those things that never should be brought up. “I was wrong though and it took my getting arrested for a series of crimes I never could’ve even committed for me to see that.”
Hands slipped from the railing fast, as if the metal burned suddenly, and Hotch straightened up as his colleague climbed the steps towards him. “It’s not the same thing,” Hotch replied in an almost panic.
Morgan stopped at the top of the stairs, giving his boss more than enough room, “Look, I don’t know what happened with you and…” he paused as his boss and friend grew so tense he thought the guy might start shaking, “him and I’m not gonna pretend that I do. But the more you stuff that memory down the worse it’s gonna be when we have to dig it up to add to the guy’s profile.”
“The…the profile’s wrong,” Hotch stated with a resigned sadness, “My profile of him was wrong and that…” that’s why this happened to him, to his family, all this pain came because he’d been wrong.
Morgan shook his head, “No, Hotch, the profile changed, that’s all. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again. So we do what we always do, reexamine the crimes and adjust the profile.” He then slowly moved closer until he was caught in the light from Hotch’s office and his eyes showed him a man holding in way too much pain for anyone’s own good. “The only thing that gives him power now is you holding onto his little secret.”
“His?” Hotch questioned, legitimately confused.
“Right,” Morgan said firmly, “Because he’s the only one that should ever be ashamed by what happened.”
The agent, the team leader, the man who was always in charge of everything blinked a few times, then backed away into the shadow some. For a moment Morgan worried he’d pushed too hard and Hotch was going to slip away into his office, but he didn’t. Instead the senior agent hit the wall by the doorframe and slid down, tiny particles of his clothing rubbing the scars as if to remind Hotch what he could never forget. “I’m sure that’s easy for you to say, but -“
“No, it’s not,” Morgan cut the other man off as he went to settle against the railing on the other side of the lit office. Though facing each other both men’s faces, their body’s, stayed in the shadows and hidden from sight. While he hadn’t been in a church all those years from his childhood until Garcia was shot Morgan could feel a confessional atmosphere form between them. “From the moment Carl Buford came into my life, from the moment he, uh…he started…” even now, years later and in the darkness where his emotions on his face could be hidden, the man found it hard to speak of out loud, “I felt so…ashamed and…weak and…and…”
“Dirty,” Hotch finished the thought in nothing more than a breath before taking in so much air his lungs hurt, “Violated.” He let the air out and, even though he couldn’t make out Morgan’s face, he looked down some, focusing on his knees as they curled up towards his chest as if to protect him farther, “I can…remember every inch of that knife…and the…the weight of…him…on me. The, uh, the first two thrusts were fast, furious, brutal. The one’s that came after though…” the agent had to stop to remind himself to breath and leaned his head back against the wall to keep tears from escaping now watery eyes, “they were slow, purposeful…he spoke the whole time…”
Morgan sat silently, without judgment, as the light in Hotch’s office caught the water now spilling from the man’s eyes while words spilled from his mouth.
Stage Two: Anger:
The cast was large, unwieldy, and enough of an aggravation to him that he’d frequently resorted to cursing madly under his breath as he hobbled about the offices. His teammates had stopped suggesting he use his vacation days to recover once he’d snapped at Morgan claiming that he could handle things just find and, if he felt he needed a vacation, he’d take one. Prentiss suspected, maybe, he’d returned to his drug use as a metaphorical crutch to help deal with his real one. Rossi assured her Reid was clean, that it was likely just him feeling left out and somewhat ineffective having to stay in the offices while the rest of them were out in the field.
Reid worked his way, with get care and little success, into Garcia’s office. He threw his bag nearly knocking over the full tower to one of her main computers as he flopped into a chair with a displeased face. “Hey,” he muttered not even pretending to be pleasant.
“Well hello there, Sunshine,” Garcia piped happily, feigning obliviousness at her favorite genius’s foul mood. “How are you this fine Friday?” When all she got in reply was a scowl her smile faltered before she sighed, “I know my office isn’t where you want to be, Reid, but it’s my own happy place so could you, please, not rain all over it with your mood?” She then rolled over some to snatch up Reid’s bag and set it beside what, over their time together, was now his chair. “Or your bag, these computers don’t come cheap.”
Reid seemed to consider her words, then his face grew a little more sullen and he shifted to sit up a bit more. “It’s not you, Garcia, actually, uh…it, uh…it’s not even…uh…me.” He looked at her a moment or two then continued, “It’s Hotch.”
Garcia gave a soft smile, “Don’t take anything he does or says too personally, Reid, he’s been through a lot.” Almost losing his life, loosing his son, his actual reason for living. Garcia was just amazed, strong as he was, the man hadn’t broken down yet. “He’ll be okay, Reid, he just needs time.”
“But he shouldn’t have to need time,” Reid countered almost surprising the computer tech with his anger. “He’s…he’s been through enough Garcia, he shouldn’t have to take UNSUBs turning him into their own personal plaything on top of it.”
The woman’s mouth stayed open a moment before she closed it and bit the bottom lip some. Most the team, herself included, had assumed Reid was upset over his own injury, not Hotch’s. She cleared her throat some and gave a sympathetic look, “No, he shouldn’t, and the fact that this happened makes me feel like the world got just a little less bright and shiny. But if you let it get to you than that big ol’ heart of yours is going to shrink and the creepy crawlies win.”
Reid seemed to consider her words, but then shook his head, “It just isn’t fair, at all. He’s already been blown up, isn’t that enough for Fate or God or whoever’s up there to throw at him? No! He has to get attacked, in his own home, and almost killed. He has to lose his son…I mean…” the youthful agent looked like he might hit something as a hand balled into a fist, “that’s his whole reason for living outside the BAU!”
For a long while the two BAU members just looked at each other, one in silent anger and the other simply unsure how to help her friend. Then Garcia turned in her chair to grab something on the table farthest from where Reid sat and then turned back to him. In her hand was a stress ball in the shape of a heart. “So you can feel the anger without ever loosing your heart,” she explained before smiling a little and then leaning over to give the agent a friendly kiss on the cheek, “You have such a good heart, Reid, show that instead of your anger…I’m sure it’d be more help to the team and Hotch in the long run.”
Reid gave a small smile as he looked over the stress…heart…and listened to Garcia. No matter what was happening, how bad it got, he still couldn’t remember a time when his fellow nerd friend had really had a grim outlook. (Worrisome and even agitated, yes, but never a full on pessimistic one.) He was about to speak when a notice on her main screen flashed for an incoming call. As Garcia moved to answer just as happily as ever he mouthed the words, “Thank you.” He might still be angry, still want to curse the powers that be and hunt down and kill Foyet but for this moment, in Gracie’s computer room, he felt some measure of hope and even pleasantness.
Stage Three: Bargaining:
“I should have known,” Prentiss mumbled from across Rossi’s desk as she gave the paperwork one last look over before setting it onto the finished pile. They’d been at this for hours; clearing through Hotch’s stack of piled up files that needed signing off. At first they’d held back because, maybe, it wasn’t as bad as it first seemed. Then they held back not wanting Hotch to think they were encroaching on his territory, showing him that he wasn’t needed. Finally, when they couldn’t put it off any longer - because Hotch wasn’t going to just bounce back from this, because they’d rather face his wrath later than risk looking incapable as a whole to a keen eyed superior in Strauss - they both hunkered down in Rossi’s office to finish the paper work that was now weeks behind.
Rossi did little more than lift his eyes to his female compatriot as he took another folder from the pile and examining it, “Because you’re psychic?” he questioned, that slightly sarcastic, Devil’s Advocate, tone ever present in his voice.
Emily sighed some, “No, of course not.” She really hated when Rossi pulled this stunt - the one where he basically mocked an emotion. True it was an irrational one, to feel guilty over something she could’ve never controlled, but she’d wanted to feel and express it just the same. “It’s just,” she paused to take the folder he’d finished with to review it, though instead her eyes stayed fixed on Rossi, “It’s just…we knew Foyet was out there, we should’ve been more cautious.”
“We or Hotch?”
“We,” Emily stressed before looking down at the file and giving a sigh, “If we had just, maybe, made a policy of calling one another when arriving home or…something.”
The older agent sighed some and moved to lean forward on the desk, “Emily,” he called her from her thoughts gently but firmly, “there are a million different things that could’ve been done or not done to avoid what happened. There are also a million things that could’ve been done or not done to make what happened a whole hell of a lot worse. You start to play the ‘What If?’ game and you’ll drive yourself crazy.”
“Are you saying you don’t? I mean you honestly don’t wish you could go back and change what happened?”
Rossi seemed to think a moment, leaning back as he did, before confessing, “Sure I do, but I can’t. There’s no deal that can be made to undo the damage done and harping on the wish that there was only hurts us in the end. It keeps us stuck in the past rather than focusing on the future, which is where we’ll catch Foyet.”
Emily frowned a little, “Hopefully. And sure we can all assure him that we’ll catch Foyet eventually, but does that help Hotch now?”
“I don’t know if it does, but it doesn’t hurt,” Rossi commented before giving a small smile, “Right now Hotch just needs to know we’ll stand by him…and giving the guy a ride to work and back wouldn’t hurt either.” It was a suggestion he knew Emily would accept happily and without question. It was something she could do that not only would sooth her mind and guilt but also a way to help Hotch that the man would except…from Emily at least.
Stage Four: Depression:
Little Henry wailed in his mother’s arms, this was the second time JJ had purposely woken the boy up to spend time holding and comforting him. She’d really never been like this before, not before Hotch was attacked. The attack itself, though horrifying to think of, wasn’t what made her like this…it was the idea of losing a son. The thought alone made her eyes water as she settled into the rocking chair with her baby boy.
“Jennifer, darlin’, what’re you doing?” Will’s voice called out soft with sleep and concern.
“It’s just…so terrible,” JJ replied tearfully, “to lose a son.”
“Our son’s not lost.”
“No, but Hotch’s is.”
Stage Five: Acceptance:
“Acceptance is not submission; it is acknowledgement of the facts of a situation. Then deciding what you’re going to do about it.” - Kathleen Casey Theisen.
Author: Tooks
Pairing: General
Rating: FRT (mostly just a precaution due to topics being covered)
Prompt: "Five Times..." by criminal_prompt
Summary: The team goes through the five stages of grief (according to Elisabeth Kübler-Ross in her 1969 book, On Death and Dying) after Hotch's attack.
Notes: This is based on the prompt of "Five Times..." by criminal_prompt; though I've adjusted it to "FIve Stages..." because they said we could tweak, haha! Oh and, yeah, season 5 spoilers!
Stage One: Denial:
Whenever asked Hotch would say he was fine. Even when he’d jumped, spilling his coffee over the counter, the time Reid approached him from behind while attempting to reach his mug in the mini-kitchen. Even when caught by JJ passed out on his desk as she came in the morning after everyone was to go home. Hotch even claimed he was fine when he’d actually lost his place in the midst of giving a profile, thinking he’d seen Foyet just outside the police station window.
Prentiss had asked him once or twice what happened, but he could only answer with the blank response, “He got the upper hand, he stabbed me, then I blacked out.” After all nothing else about that event really seemed real to Hotch, nothing else about it left the undeniable scars now scattered about his body. Rossi never asked, a fact Hotch first found odd but then grew to understand…Rossi didn’t have to ask, he’d been around victims long enough to read them like a book. Hotch supposed he should just be grateful Rossi hadn’t called him out on anything yet.
For the third week since being released from the hospital Hotch was planning to sleep in the office. He’d already made preparations to put his apartment up for sale but, in the current real estate market, he wasn’t ready to make it official until he had a new place, far from the old, set to move into. The lights in other offices were off, as were most in the bullpen, and Hotch found, as he prepared to leave his office and cross it to get to the mini-kitchen for his late night cup of coffee, he was nervous. Scared even. There were too many shadows, too many good places for a man with Foyet’s slender body to hide. Then he watched in shock as lights about the bullpen began to flicker back on, leaving a path of safe travel to the kitchen. “Hello?” He voice came out stern…except for that underlying shakiness of his nerves betraying him.
“Just me,” Morgan called out, raising his hand up so Hotch could pinpoint him in the vast field of desks and chairs, “I thought you could use the light.”
“I’m fine,” Hotch knee-jerked before looking down a little in slight embarrassment that those two words were the first he could even think of these days and recall a more suitable response. When he had one he looked back over to his fellow agent, “Thank you.”
Morgan smiled some and began to head closer to the stairs leading up to where Hotch stood, gripping the railings of the balcony, “Hey, uh, you need any help? You know with paperwork or something? I’m guessing you’re pretty backed up on that.” The days in the hospital, the days recovering at home, the days of distraction.
Hotch shook his head some, “No, that’s alright,” He knew the offer to help was a cover…Morgan didn’t even like doing his own paperwork! He wondered if Rossi put him to it somehow? Or did Morgan now think that little of him, so little of his boss that he suspected the man scared of his own shadow. Then again, he was, wasn’t he? “I can handle this,” he added, then froze, “it…the paperwork, I mean. It’s nothing I can’t handle on my own.”
“I always felt that way too,” Morgan replied as he began to almost cautiously head up the stairs. He was taking a big risk doing this, bringing up those things that never should be brought up. “I was wrong though and it took my getting arrested for a series of crimes I never could’ve even committed for me to see that.”
Hands slipped from the railing fast, as if the metal burned suddenly, and Hotch straightened up as his colleague climbed the steps towards him. “It’s not the same thing,” Hotch replied in an almost panic.
Morgan stopped at the top of the stairs, giving his boss more than enough room, “Look, I don’t know what happened with you and…” he paused as his boss and friend grew so tense he thought the guy might start shaking, “him and I’m not gonna pretend that I do. But the more you stuff that memory down the worse it’s gonna be when we have to dig it up to add to the guy’s profile.”
“The…the profile’s wrong,” Hotch stated with a resigned sadness, “My profile of him was wrong and that…” that’s why this happened to him, to his family, all this pain came because he’d been wrong.
Morgan shook his head, “No, Hotch, the profile changed, that’s all. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again. So we do what we always do, reexamine the crimes and adjust the profile.” He then slowly moved closer until he was caught in the light from Hotch’s office and his eyes showed him a man holding in way too much pain for anyone’s own good. “The only thing that gives him power now is you holding onto his little secret.”
“His?” Hotch questioned, legitimately confused.
“Right,” Morgan said firmly, “Because he’s the only one that should ever be ashamed by what happened.”
The agent, the team leader, the man who was always in charge of everything blinked a few times, then backed away into the shadow some. For a moment Morgan worried he’d pushed too hard and Hotch was going to slip away into his office, but he didn’t. Instead the senior agent hit the wall by the doorframe and slid down, tiny particles of his clothing rubbing the scars as if to remind Hotch what he could never forget. “I’m sure that’s easy for you to say, but -“
“No, it’s not,” Morgan cut the other man off as he went to settle against the railing on the other side of the lit office. Though facing each other both men’s faces, their body’s, stayed in the shadows and hidden from sight. While he hadn’t been in a church all those years from his childhood until Garcia was shot Morgan could feel a confessional atmosphere form between them. “From the moment Carl Buford came into my life, from the moment he, uh…he started…” even now, years later and in the darkness where his emotions on his face could be hidden, the man found it hard to speak of out loud, “I felt so…ashamed and…weak and…and…”
“Dirty,” Hotch finished the thought in nothing more than a breath before taking in so much air his lungs hurt, “Violated.” He let the air out and, even though he couldn’t make out Morgan’s face, he looked down some, focusing on his knees as they curled up towards his chest as if to protect him farther, “I can…remember every inch of that knife…and the…the weight of…him…on me. The, uh, the first two thrusts were fast, furious, brutal. The one’s that came after though…” the agent had to stop to remind himself to breath and leaned his head back against the wall to keep tears from escaping now watery eyes, “they were slow, purposeful…he spoke the whole time…”
Morgan sat silently, without judgment, as the light in Hotch’s office caught the water now spilling from the man’s eyes while words spilled from his mouth.
Stage Two: Anger:
The cast was large, unwieldy, and enough of an aggravation to him that he’d frequently resorted to cursing madly under his breath as he hobbled about the offices. His teammates had stopped suggesting he use his vacation days to recover once he’d snapped at Morgan claiming that he could handle things just find and, if he felt he needed a vacation, he’d take one. Prentiss suspected, maybe, he’d returned to his drug use as a metaphorical crutch to help deal with his real one. Rossi assured her Reid was clean, that it was likely just him feeling left out and somewhat ineffective having to stay in the offices while the rest of them were out in the field.
Reid worked his way, with get care and little success, into Garcia’s office. He threw his bag nearly knocking over the full tower to one of her main computers as he flopped into a chair with a displeased face. “Hey,” he muttered not even pretending to be pleasant.
“Well hello there, Sunshine,” Garcia piped happily, feigning obliviousness at her favorite genius’s foul mood. “How are you this fine Friday?” When all she got in reply was a scowl her smile faltered before she sighed, “I know my office isn’t where you want to be, Reid, but it’s my own happy place so could you, please, not rain all over it with your mood?” She then rolled over some to snatch up Reid’s bag and set it beside what, over their time together, was now his chair. “Or your bag, these computers don’t come cheap.”
Reid seemed to consider her words, then his face grew a little more sullen and he shifted to sit up a bit more. “It’s not you, Garcia, actually, uh…it, uh…it’s not even…uh…me.” He looked at her a moment or two then continued, “It’s Hotch.”
Garcia gave a soft smile, “Don’t take anything he does or says too personally, Reid, he’s been through a lot.” Almost losing his life, loosing his son, his actual reason for living. Garcia was just amazed, strong as he was, the man hadn’t broken down yet. “He’ll be okay, Reid, he just needs time.”
“But he shouldn’t have to need time,” Reid countered almost surprising the computer tech with his anger. “He’s…he’s been through enough Garcia, he shouldn’t have to take UNSUBs turning him into their own personal plaything on top of it.”
The woman’s mouth stayed open a moment before she closed it and bit the bottom lip some. Most the team, herself included, had assumed Reid was upset over his own injury, not Hotch’s. She cleared her throat some and gave a sympathetic look, “No, he shouldn’t, and the fact that this happened makes me feel like the world got just a little less bright and shiny. But if you let it get to you than that big ol’ heart of yours is going to shrink and the creepy crawlies win.”
Reid seemed to consider her words, but then shook his head, “It just isn’t fair, at all. He’s already been blown up, isn’t that enough for Fate or God or whoever’s up there to throw at him? No! He has to get attacked, in his own home, and almost killed. He has to lose his son…I mean…” the youthful agent looked like he might hit something as a hand balled into a fist, “that’s his whole reason for living outside the BAU!”
For a long while the two BAU members just looked at each other, one in silent anger and the other simply unsure how to help her friend. Then Garcia turned in her chair to grab something on the table farthest from where Reid sat and then turned back to him. In her hand was a stress ball in the shape of a heart. “So you can feel the anger without ever loosing your heart,” she explained before smiling a little and then leaning over to give the agent a friendly kiss on the cheek, “You have such a good heart, Reid, show that instead of your anger…I’m sure it’d be more help to the team and Hotch in the long run.”
Reid gave a small smile as he looked over the stress…heart…and listened to Garcia. No matter what was happening, how bad it got, he still couldn’t remember a time when his fellow nerd friend had really had a grim outlook. (Worrisome and even agitated, yes, but never a full on pessimistic one.) He was about to speak when a notice on her main screen flashed for an incoming call. As Garcia moved to answer just as happily as ever he mouthed the words, “Thank you.” He might still be angry, still want to curse the powers that be and hunt down and kill Foyet but for this moment, in Gracie’s computer room, he felt some measure of hope and even pleasantness.
Stage Three: Bargaining:
“I should have known,” Prentiss mumbled from across Rossi’s desk as she gave the paperwork one last look over before setting it onto the finished pile. They’d been at this for hours; clearing through Hotch’s stack of piled up files that needed signing off. At first they’d held back because, maybe, it wasn’t as bad as it first seemed. Then they held back not wanting Hotch to think they were encroaching on his territory, showing him that he wasn’t needed. Finally, when they couldn’t put it off any longer - because Hotch wasn’t going to just bounce back from this, because they’d rather face his wrath later than risk looking incapable as a whole to a keen eyed superior in Strauss - they both hunkered down in Rossi’s office to finish the paper work that was now weeks behind.
Rossi did little more than lift his eyes to his female compatriot as he took another folder from the pile and examining it, “Because you’re psychic?” he questioned, that slightly sarcastic, Devil’s Advocate, tone ever present in his voice.
Emily sighed some, “No, of course not.” She really hated when Rossi pulled this stunt - the one where he basically mocked an emotion. True it was an irrational one, to feel guilty over something she could’ve never controlled, but she’d wanted to feel and express it just the same. “It’s just,” she paused to take the folder he’d finished with to review it, though instead her eyes stayed fixed on Rossi, “It’s just…we knew Foyet was out there, we should’ve been more cautious.”
“We or Hotch?”
“We,” Emily stressed before looking down at the file and giving a sigh, “If we had just, maybe, made a policy of calling one another when arriving home or…something.”
The older agent sighed some and moved to lean forward on the desk, “Emily,” he called her from her thoughts gently but firmly, “there are a million different things that could’ve been done or not done to avoid what happened. There are also a million things that could’ve been done or not done to make what happened a whole hell of a lot worse. You start to play the ‘What If?’ game and you’ll drive yourself crazy.”
“Are you saying you don’t? I mean you honestly don’t wish you could go back and change what happened?”
Rossi seemed to think a moment, leaning back as he did, before confessing, “Sure I do, but I can’t. There’s no deal that can be made to undo the damage done and harping on the wish that there was only hurts us in the end. It keeps us stuck in the past rather than focusing on the future, which is where we’ll catch Foyet.”
Emily frowned a little, “Hopefully. And sure we can all assure him that we’ll catch Foyet eventually, but does that help Hotch now?”
“I don’t know if it does, but it doesn’t hurt,” Rossi commented before giving a small smile, “Right now Hotch just needs to know we’ll stand by him…and giving the guy a ride to work and back wouldn’t hurt either.” It was a suggestion he knew Emily would accept happily and without question. It was something she could do that not only would sooth her mind and guilt but also a way to help Hotch that the man would except…from Emily at least.
Stage Four: Depression:
Little Henry wailed in his mother’s arms, this was the second time JJ had purposely woken the boy up to spend time holding and comforting him. She’d really never been like this before, not before Hotch was attacked. The attack itself, though horrifying to think of, wasn’t what made her like this…it was the idea of losing a son. The thought alone made her eyes water as she settled into the rocking chair with her baby boy.
“Jennifer, darlin’, what’re you doing?” Will’s voice called out soft with sleep and concern.
“It’s just…so terrible,” JJ replied tearfully, “to lose a son.”
“Our son’s not lost.”
“No, but Hotch’s is.”
Stage Five: Acceptance:
“Acceptance is not submission; it is acknowledgement of the facts of a situation. Then deciding what you’re going to do about it.” - Kathleen Casey Theisen.