An Imitation of a Light - Part Nine
An Imitation of a Light
Written for cm_bigbang
See the header here for full details.
Chapter Specific Warnings: Language, self harm
Early morning phone calls are never a good thing, Rossi knew, but this one had been worse than most. It had taken him less than five minutes to dress, throwing on whatever he could grab first, not caring what he looked like. The only thing he’d made sure to do before leaving his apartment had been checking on Mudgie, making sure the dog would be alright until whatever time he made it back. Then he had headed out, go-bag slung over one shoulder.
The drive to the hospital had seemed to take forever.
The car park was emptier than it ever was during the day, and Rossi managed to find a parking space close to the doors. He used the stairs rather than the elevator, his bag banging against his hip as he jogged up the two flights of stairs to the right floor.
The shift nurse was waiting for him by the desk, her hair damp and pushed back into a tight bun. They had met before, during his late night visits. With the team back on rotation, it had been the only time Rossi could make it to the hospital.
“Agent Rossi.” She blocked the path to Hotch’s room, motioning him towards the small family room across the hall from the desk. Rossi hesitated, wanting nothing more than to push past her, to make sure that Hotch was still breathing; if he was still breathing.
As though sensing his thoughts, the nurse squared her shoulders and shifted her weight, “He’s resting at the moment.”
Rossi gritted his teeth, then nodded, and allowed her to lead him into the private room. He sat on the overly comfortable sofa, and listened as she explained what had happened and what had been done, and what they wanted to do in the future.
Rossi sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, hating the decision the woman was asking him to make. If there was a downside to being a person’s next of kin, that was it; having to make the hard decisions.
“Are there any other options, other than drugs?” Rossi asked, “I would hope that after this, more care will be taken to make sure he doesn’t get his hands on anything he could harm himself with.” The phrasing was overly official, but it was that or yell at the woman, curse her and her staff for missing the razor. No one could explain how Hotch could have gotten his hands on it, but clearly he had.
The nurse winced, shifting her weight again, “I really am sorry Agent Rossi, I promise you it won’t happen again.”
Rossi bit back a sharp remark about how the promise wasn’t much use now, when the harm had already been done. He sighed, shaking his head. “You can sedate him if you have to, but no drugs.”
She opened her mouth to argue and he held up a hand, shaking his head, “I want a second, and third opinion; I want to be sure that it’s the only option before I make any decisions like that.” Saying yes would be surrendering, it would be admitting Hotch was broken; that he might never be fit to return to the BAU.
Rossi wasn’t quite ready for that, not just yet. It hadn’t even been a full month. They could afford to give it time.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to sit with him for a while.”
The nurse hesitated again, chewing on her bottom lip before she nodded, somewhat reluctantly. She stood and led him out of the room, and down the corridor to Hotch’s room. She started to open the door, then paused, reaching out to touch his wrist, “You need to be ready for what you’re about to see. He lost a lot of blood and he did a lot of damage.”
Rossi schooled his features, holding back a snarky comment he might have seen countless victims in hospital beds over the years, but seeing his own friends and family was always so much harder. With the victims, it was another person’s grief; with a friend, it was your own.
She nodded, apparently happy with what she saw, pushing the door open further and letting him past. Rossi was careful, he kept his eyes on the floor until he heard the door shut behind him, only then did he allow himself to look at the man laid on the bed.
-
Prentiss made her way to Hotch’s room slowly, balancing her gift carefully. It had taken her a long time to figure out what to bring, remembering the warnings from both Rossi and the nurses. Everyone but Garcia, who was at Prentiss’ side carrying her own offering, had been against the idea of gifts, but Prentiss didn’t care. She was fed up with the starkness of Hotch’s room, the off-white walls and the grey bedding, and she only spent a few hours there, once a week. She couldn’t imagine what it was like for Hotch.
Garcia was humming softly as they walked, and Prentiss couldn’t help but smile; of them all, Garcia was the only one who hadn’t lost hope. She was still the same, even in the hospital. Prentiss knew that sometimes Garcia cried, that there were times when she and Kevin would visit, and that those times were different. Garcia was doing everything she could do to be the rock for the rest of them, recognising the way that Rossi seemed to have pulled back from them.
All of them, they were all so scared of getting hurt. Prentiss allowed herself a moment to think, that was the bad side of the way they were, of the type of people they were. They’d formed strong bonds, strong enough that when one of them was hurting, they all hurt. And that wasn’t entirely healthy.
Prentiss shook her head, forcing the thought back. She wasn’t going to dwell on anything, not when she had other things to be focusing on. She shifted her grip on the box on her hands again as they approached the desk, drawing the attention of the head nurse; who looking less than impressed.
The woman stood, rounding the desk to stand in front of them, arms crossed over her stomach, eyes narrowed. Prentiss knew what was coming next.
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to take any of that into Mister Hotchner’s room.”
“We have checked, and there isn’t anything he could use to harm himself,” Garcia replied, her tone deliberately light. “I knitted this myself,” Garcia held up the sweater that was her offering, “and I made sure that it couldn’t be used for anything other what it should be.”
Prentiss could still remember the conversation Garcia had had with Reid, discussing her options. It had taken three days for Garcia to find yarn that she could still knit with, but that broke if more than a certain amount of pressure was applied. It had been rather morbid really, the amount of thought gone into that one sweater.
The nurse didn’t let up, and Garcia sighed, dumping her bag onto the desk and pulling out the sample she’d made specifically for this reason, holding it out to the nurse. There was a pause before the nurse reached out to take it, and the moment the other woman’s hand closed around it, Garcia tugged, the knitted strip breaking in two.
Prentiss watched the nurse’s expression; it had been a while since she had last felt that kind of a rush over someone else’s shock. Served the woman right, for thinking that they might not have considered their gifts carefully; though Prentiss guessed that enough people were likely to live in denial, that they were in fact a rarity.
It was a long moment before the nurse turned to her, eying the box critically. Prentiss managed her best smile, “I won’t be leaving much of this with him, it’ll be leaving with us.” The box itself, and the cup, once its contents had been drunk, but the soft lump at the bottom of the box would be staying.
The nurse stared at them for a moment longer before she sighed, shaking her head, “You can go in, but I’ll be doing a check as you leave.”
They both nodded, accepting the condition. They had expected it after all.
They walked slowly down the hallway, and stepped through the door into Hotch’s room. He was in the chair by the window again, staring out at the world. That at least hadn’t changed.
His right arm hung by his side, heavy bandages covering it from wrist to shoulder, and Prentiss forced herself not to think about it. Rossi had been vague with the details, but really, one look at Hotch, or the nurses in charge of his care spoke volumes.
Garcia ignored the blankness of Hotch’s gaze, and started talking as soon as they were though the door, filling him in on everything beguine that had happened since she had last visited. Prentiss doubted that there was much of it that would interest Hotch, but it was nice, the break in the silence that seemed to so often reign in Hotch’s room.
It took a few minutes, but Hotch finally seemed to focus on them, smiling at Garcia, though it didn’t seem to quite reach his eyes, and it was one of Hotch’s smiles. Like most of the expressions Prentiss had seen on Hotch’s face since Yates, it didn’t seem to be his own.
She noted that thought, then pushed it away, focusing on the gifts, and the things she wanted to do during her visit. She’d found, in the weeks since Hotch had woken, that it was easier to do something other than just sit dumbly in the chair if she went in with a plan of attack. Treating it like a raid as Morgan had teased her when she’d mentioned it to him. She’d managed not to throw a biting comment back; just barely.
“We brought you tea.” Prentiss interrupted Garcia’s description of Reid’s latest magic trick, to hold out the disposable cup to Hotch, who stared at it blankly for a moment before he smiled, thanking her. Prentiss felt a little sick, remembering what JJ had said, about how more often than not Hotch would forget to eat or drink.
Prentiss watched as he drank the tea, not reacting as it touched his lips, even though Prentiss knew it was still hot. She felt Garcia tense minutely at her side, and knew that she was thinking the same thing. As though sensing their feelings, Hotch lowered the cup, cradling it in his hands.
He didn’t say anything, just sat there waiting.
“I made this for you.” Garcia dropped her bag onto the bed, and pulled out the sweater, it would be a little big on him, and it was a brighter blue than Prentiss had ever seen Hotch wear. He stared at it for a second before he smiled again.
“It’s nice, thank you, Penelope.”
Garcia smiled, making a show of blushing. “I figured you could do with some colour, to break up all the bland.”
Hotch nodded, but didn’t say anything else. There was nothing more for him to say, no automatic response to that. Prentiss started to sympathise with Morgan’s urge to hit walls, and she watched as Hotch’s hands clenched into fists. He still didn’t say anything.
She wished he would start just the one conversation, or would just say something to show that the old Hotch was still in there somewhere. She didn’t even know if he’d asked about Jack.
And that made her other gift all the more important.
“We brought you this as well.” Prentiss placed the cardboard box onto the bed and pulled the remaining occupant out, holding the stuffed toy out for Hotch to take.
There was a pause, as he stared at it, that same vacant expression that kept stealing across his face firmly in place, before he took it from her hands. Hotch held it at arm’s length for a moment before he moved, resting it on his knees as he examined it.
Prentiss had gotten the idea from what Garcia, JJ, and Rossi had told them all Jack had said, when they’d told him his father was sick and couldn’t see him for a while; Jack had been concerned that his father needed company. Prentiss had wondered if Haley had ever mentioned that to Jack, after the divorce, or while they were in witness protection; or maybe Haley had just mentioned it to her family, or friends, not realising that it would stick in her son’s mind.
The teddy bear had dark brown fur and was dressed in a tiny suit, though there weren’t any shoes. The tie was stitched to the collar of the shirt, the tiny stitches hidden, invisible unless you knew where to look. Its eyes were thread, rather than glass. The bear was as harmless as the sweater.
“Thank you.” Hotch said, finally, after staring at the bear for what seemed like hours, and Garcia relaxed, returning to her run down of Reid’s magic trick, then Anderson’s practical joke.
Prentiss just sat on the bed, watching Hotch stare at the teddy bear while Garcia spoke. For the first time since Hotch had been admitted to the hospital, Prentiss found herself wondering if she would ever see Hotch in a suit again.
Or if she even wanted to.
-
Hotch was angry, or at least, someone was angry.
He stared at the teddy bear that sat on the windowsill, the suit a perfect replica of one of his own, as the anger built. There was no one in his room, and the door was locked, he knew. They only unlocked the door when they knew he was due visitors or when there was a nurse nearby.
Hotch dropped his gaze, fiddling with the cuff of the sweater Garcia had knitted. The nurse hadn’t been impressed that morning, when Hotch had slipped it on over his head, but they hadn’t done anything about it. Hotch wasn’t sure why he’d put it on, just that it seemed like something he should do.
Under different circumstances he thought, it was what he would have done. He would have been touched by the thought, maybe even embarrassed, but he wasn’t. The sweater was just sweater, he couldn’t even say if he liked it or not.
The anger stirred again and Hotch growled, unable to fight it. He pushed the sheet back and climbed out of the bed. He started to pace, clenching and unclenching his fists, tapping them against his legs. He would have bruises he thought; he usually did, but there was no pain so he didn’t stop himself.
Hotch had to do something, had to move, or the anger would drive him to something else. Pacing was safe, if a nurse saw him they would leave him to it; they had decided that pacing was fine, just so long as he didn’t make any moves to purposefully injure himself.
Other people’s emotions were different, Hotch knew, in an abstract way, from his own. His own emotions, he could affect, could do something about. If he was angry he could push it back, or take deep breaths, or spend time in the gym; none of that worked with other people’s emotions. He had no control, no control at all, over how long they stayed.
He started to pace faster, pulling his bed away from the wall so that he could walk circuits of the room. He had an audience, he could feel their worry, but the anger was still stronger, and it wasn’t coming from just the one source anymore.
His breathing quickened and he started to worry at the sleeves of the sweater as he paced, becoming increasingly agitated. He tugged on his right sleeve, hard, and the sleeve gave, ripping away around the elbow. He froze, staring at it blankly, as someone’s horror reached him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Hotch knew that meant that at least one of his audience was a member of his team.
Hotch stood, frozen in the middle of his room, a scarp of yarn in one hand, blood running sluggishly over the other. He must have pulled a stitch.
-
Rossi paced the length of his office, thankful it was late and the others had all gone home. Between the case they had just finished, and the reports he’d been getting from the others after their visits to Hotch, Rossi was feeling increasingly run down.
There had been something bothering him about Hotch’s behaviour. He kept replaying Yates’ final moments over and over in his head, remembering the expression on Hotch’s face, the way he had reacted. Then there was what had happened in the hospital.
Rossi had known Hotch for a long time and he liked to think he knew the other man well enough to be sure that it hadn’t been something Hotch would normally do. And more than that, if Rossi was honest with himself, he didn’t believe it had been the suicide attempt that the hospital staff believed it to have been.
If Aaron Hotchner had wanted to kill himself, he would have. From the hospital records, Rossi knew exactly what Hotch had done to himself, knew exactly how long it had taken. Hotch had had the time, more than enough Rossi knew, to have done the deed. Instead he had cut his palm twice, one shallow, the next deeper, before moving on up his arm. Hotch had avoided his wrists, and the majority of his major veins and arteries. He had cut though muscle, but that wasn’t life threatening; painful, and damaging maybe, but not life threatening.
Yes, Hotch could have died, given the blood loss, but he hadn’t.
Rossi sighed again, rubbing his forehead. It didn’t make a damn bit of sense, any of it.
Rossi had seen people break; other agents, before Gideon, had suffered breakdowns, two even lived permanently in psych wards, but there was something more, something off about Hotch. Rossi hoped that it wasn’t just denial on his part, that it was the instincts he had honed from years as a profiler. He had met enough broken people to be able to judge when there was something more to it than met the eye.
Rossi stopped, rounding his desk and digging through the bottom drawer, hunting for the notebook he knew was in there. It didn’t take long to find it. It was the notebook he took with him on his book tours, and there were pockets in it for any business cards he was given.
There was a business card he remembered; the man who had given it to him had been, different, his theories interesting. At the time, he had rubbed Rossi the wrong way, bringing up one of the cases that Rossi didn’t like to talk about. Sure, he’d included it in the notes in one book, but he’d never written about it in detail.
Never aired his issues with psychics to the public the way he had his own team.
Rossi sighed, remembering what he had said to the kids, when they’d dealt with Stanley Usher. When people are vulnerable, they’ll believe a lot of things.
Rossi stared at the phone number. He’d meet the man since, and while he didn’t agree with a lot of what the man said, Rossi found himself wondering if, maybe, he was exactly who he should be calling.
Rossi listed off the things the kids had told him, from Emily saying that it was like Hotch was just reacting to them, to how they were feeling, that everything he did now seemed fake, to Morgan and the fact that Hotch always seemed to be angry when he visited. Reid never said much, though the way he frowned when the others talked about Hotch said enough. JJ and Garcia were both more vague, their concern the focus of any comments they made.
And then there were his own experiences.
Rossi tapped the business card against the desk top for a moment before he nodded, and picked up his phone.
If it could bring Hotch back to them, it was worth the risk.
-
Rossi didn’t say anything as he settled into the chair beside Hotch’s bed; but he didn’t need to. Even with the sedatives, which had been a constant since the sweater incident, Hotch could feel how Rossi felt.
Hotch curled in on himself a little more, trying to push the feelings away, but he couldn’t quite. There was nothing to use as a distraction either, nothing to think about other than the way he’s feeling. Or rather, the way Rossi is feeling.
It’s easier to tell that they aren’t his own though, as they lack the foggy quality of his thoughts, but still, it doesn’t allow him his own emotions. He thought, maybe, he doesn’t have feelings anymore. Maybe there were only other people’s emotions.
There was such a mixture of feelings coming from Rossi. There was a part of Hotch that wanted to yell, to make his disappointment and anger known, another that wanted to offer comfort, and yet another that seemed to be clinging to a frail hope.
None of those urges were really his, but it was hard to push them away when all he had was a feeble grip on intellectual thought. He didn’t want anything. Want was an emotion, just as much as hunger and pain.
Hotch squeezed his eyes closed, reacting more on instinct than anything else, and clenched his hands into fists. Exasperation flooded through him, and then Rossi’s hand was on his arm, pulling carefully, rolling him onto his back and drawing his attention to his friend’s face.
“Aaron.” Rossi finally broke the silence, leaning forwards, putting his face into Hotch’s line of sight, “I called in a favour.”
Hotch blinked slowly. He didn’t have a reaction to that, not one of his own at least. He could feel Dave’s hope though, overwhelming the more negative emotions.
Hotch licked his lips, frowning, “A favour?” It was the question he should ask; he didn’t know what question he would have wanted to ask. Maybe it would have been the same one.
Rossi nodded, “There’s a doctor; he thinks he might be able to help.”
“Help with what?” Hotch asked. There was nothing to help, nothing to cure, didn’t Rossi know that?
Hotch felt the flare of agony, mixed with worry, and knew that he had said the wrong thing. It was better not to say anything.
Rossi reached out after a few moments of silence, wiping Hotch’s cheek with his thumb. Hotch frowned, watching as Rossi drew back his damp hand. He couldn’t even tell he was crying. There was another swell of despair, and Hotch buried his face in his pillow, Rossi’s hand clamped around his upper left arm.
“With this.” Rossi’s voice was soft, “He’s going to help you deal with this.”
-
Hotch woke in a bed, in a room that didn’t look anything like his hospital room, or any of the rooms in his apartment. He frowned, blinking up at the ceiling. It was white, and textured, swirls of plaster everywhere.
Hotch waited for that rush of emotions, the one that always followed awareness. He knew it was there when he was asleep as well, forming the strange dreams he had been having, but he was always so much more aware of it when he was awake. But there was nothing.
Hotch frowned, shifting in the bed, turning his head from side to side, taking in the room. There’s the residual feeling of haziness from the sedatives he remembered being given in the hospital, but that’s it. It looks like a bedroom, complete with a full set of furniture.
He was still frowning when he started to push himself upright, only to cry out as he put his weight on his right hand. He curled into a ball around his arm, cradling it against his chest, gasping. He froze, eyes widening, then he uncurled slowly, staring at his arm. It was still bandaged, just as it had been in the hospital, and there were a few spots of dried blood, but he could feel it throbbing.
Hotch flexed his hand slowly, laughing as the pain spiked, tears running down his face and soaking the pillow as he kept laughing; he didn’t stop until he was shaking, so close to exhausted by the rush of emotion.
Emotion that was his own and no one else’s.
He had never been so grateful to feel pain in his whole life.
-
It took Hotch a while to gather the energy to move again, hunger winning out against the weariness.
He manoeuvred himself out of the bed carefully, wincing a little as his muscles complained at the movement. He embraced the feeling, wondering at the different pains he could feel. It was as though he had taken his own emotions for granted his whole life, not noticing how much of a range there was.
Hotch remembered, as he slipped his feet into the slippers that are sat at the end of the bed, what Rossi had said, about calling in a favour. At the time, Hotch hadn’t been expecting anything but another doctor; another person to poke and prod him and announce him mentally unsound and in need of another selection of drugs.
There had been so many of them, most sent by the hospital. None of them had entirely agreed on what was wrong with him; fewer had even been sure of their conclusions.
Hotch moved to the window, pulling back the curtain and looking out at fields, endless fields. There was a barn he could see, that didn’t look quite right, but it was across a field from the building he was in. Hotch had no idea where he was, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine who Rossi might know, that a favour would lead to Hotch finding himself in an apparently deserted farm house.
Hotch doubted that any of the doctors he had seen would have been impressed. Leaving a man who had harmed himself, deliberately, with forethought, alone, surrounded by things he could use to further harm himself; it didn’t really sound like a good idea.
Hotch snorted, cradling his right arm against his chest carefully. He wasn’t going to be doing himself anymore harm. Not when he could finally feel.
He took one last look around the room, before he moved towards the door. He pushed it open, stepping out into a corridor. He was in a house, that much he could tell, and he knew, from his brief glimpse of the outside world, that it was a long way from anywhere.
Hotch hoped that there was food somewhere in the house, that he wouldn’t have to venture across to the barn. He doubted he would have been left entirely to his own devices, while it might be the best thing for him, he knew Rossi well enough to be sure that it wasn’t something he would even begin to consider.
Hotch moved slowly through the house clearing rooms, despite not having his gun, and only having one functioning arm. He had to look in all of them, wanting to be certain that there weren’t any unpleasant surprised hiding anywhere, waiting for him to let down his guard.
He was breathing heavily by the time he made it to the kitchen, along with being a little dizzy. He tried to remember the last time he had eaten, but he knew it had been a while. He had been on a drip for a while, before Rossi’s visit. Hotch opened the cupboards, sagging a little with relief as he found food in most of them. The others held plates and saucepans, everything he would need to cook with.
The only problem was, there was only so much he could do one handed.
Hotch pulled out a bowl, then a box of cereal, filling the bowl and carrying it to the table before he went to the refrigerator, pulling the carton of milk out and carrying it to the table as well before returning for a spoon.
Even that much effort was exhausting, and he sagged into the chair, giving himself a few moments before he poured the milk, then dug into the bowl of cereal.
Once he finished, he just sat there for a while, waiting for the food to settle, and for the dizziness to pass, before he stood to collect a glass and the apple juice he had spotted. Two glasses later and he felt ready to retreat to his bed, only there was one problem.
He could feel someone coming.
Hotch didn’t bother to try and run, he just sat at the kitchen table and waited. He could still feel, the pain in his arm still present, along with the ache in his stomach and his own desperation. He wasn’t ready, hadn’t been given long enough alone with his own emotions.
He didn’t want a visitor.
Hotch fought back the panic, clenching his right hand into a fist, focusing on the pain. The kitchen door swung open a moment later, the hinges squealing. Hotch forced himself to look up, to meet his visitor’s gaze.
The man looked to be about Hotch’s age, his hair grey. Hotch could feel the man’s regret, but he didn’t care. If the man knew, if he understand what was happening, what had happened to Hotch, he should have given Hotch a little more time; should have understood that Hotch would want time to just feel.
To be himself, unaffected by the emotions of others.
“I’m sorry Agent Hotchner, for not giving you more time to yourself.” The man sat in the chair opposite Hotch, not asking permission. “But I had to come make sure that you were all right. Agent Rossi made it clear that if anything happened to you, he would take it very badly.”
The man gave a wry smile, but Hotch didn’t smile.
He had no reason to smile, no reason to trust the man sitting across from him. The man who knew his name, but hadn’t given one in return.
It was just one more loss of control.
The man sagged a little, and Hotch felt another flash of regret, accompanied by sheepishness.
“I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. My name is Doctor Michael Welles and I am going to help you.”
-
Part Ten
Written for cm_bigbang
See the header here for full details.
Chapter Specific Warnings: Language, self harm
Early morning phone calls are never a good thing, Rossi knew, but this one had been worse than most. It had taken him less than five minutes to dress, throwing on whatever he could grab first, not caring what he looked like. The only thing he’d made sure to do before leaving his apartment had been checking on Mudgie, making sure the dog would be alright until whatever time he made it back. Then he had headed out, go-bag slung over one shoulder.
The drive to the hospital had seemed to take forever.
The car park was emptier than it ever was during the day, and Rossi managed to find a parking space close to the doors. He used the stairs rather than the elevator, his bag banging against his hip as he jogged up the two flights of stairs to the right floor.
The shift nurse was waiting for him by the desk, her hair damp and pushed back into a tight bun. They had met before, during his late night visits. With the team back on rotation, it had been the only time Rossi could make it to the hospital.
“Agent Rossi.” She blocked the path to Hotch’s room, motioning him towards the small family room across the hall from the desk. Rossi hesitated, wanting nothing more than to push past her, to make sure that Hotch was still breathing; if he was still breathing.
As though sensing his thoughts, the nurse squared her shoulders and shifted her weight, “He’s resting at the moment.”
Rossi gritted his teeth, then nodded, and allowed her to lead him into the private room. He sat on the overly comfortable sofa, and listened as she explained what had happened and what had been done, and what they wanted to do in the future.
Rossi sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, hating the decision the woman was asking him to make. If there was a downside to being a person’s next of kin, that was it; having to make the hard decisions.
“Are there any other options, other than drugs?” Rossi asked, “I would hope that after this, more care will be taken to make sure he doesn’t get his hands on anything he could harm himself with.” The phrasing was overly official, but it was that or yell at the woman, curse her and her staff for missing the razor. No one could explain how Hotch could have gotten his hands on it, but clearly he had.
The nurse winced, shifting her weight again, “I really am sorry Agent Rossi, I promise you it won’t happen again.”
Rossi bit back a sharp remark about how the promise wasn’t much use now, when the harm had already been done. He sighed, shaking his head. “You can sedate him if you have to, but no drugs.”
She opened her mouth to argue and he held up a hand, shaking his head, “I want a second, and third opinion; I want to be sure that it’s the only option before I make any decisions like that.” Saying yes would be surrendering, it would be admitting Hotch was broken; that he might never be fit to return to the BAU.
Rossi wasn’t quite ready for that, not just yet. It hadn’t even been a full month. They could afford to give it time.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to sit with him for a while.”
The nurse hesitated again, chewing on her bottom lip before she nodded, somewhat reluctantly. She stood and led him out of the room, and down the corridor to Hotch’s room. She started to open the door, then paused, reaching out to touch his wrist, “You need to be ready for what you’re about to see. He lost a lot of blood and he did a lot of damage.”
Rossi schooled his features, holding back a snarky comment he might have seen countless victims in hospital beds over the years, but seeing his own friends and family was always so much harder. With the victims, it was another person’s grief; with a friend, it was your own.
She nodded, apparently happy with what she saw, pushing the door open further and letting him past. Rossi was careful, he kept his eyes on the floor until he heard the door shut behind him, only then did he allow himself to look at the man laid on the bed.
-
Prentiss made her way to Hotch’s room slowly, balancing her gift carefully. It had taken her a long time to figure out what to bring, remembering the warnings from both Rossi and the nurses. Everyone but Garcia, who was at Prentiss’ side carrying her own offering, had been against the idea of gifts, but Prentiss didn’t care. She was fed up with the starkness of Hotch’s room, the off-white walls and the grey bedding, and she only spent a few hours there, once a week. She couldn’t imagine what it was like for Hotch.
Garcia was humming softly as they walked, and Prentiss couldn’t help but smile; of them all, Garcia was the only one who hadn’t lost hope. She was still the same, even in the hospital. Prentiss knew that sometimes Garcia cried, that there were times when she and Kevin would visit, and that those times were different. Garcia was doing everything she could do to be the rock for the rest of them, recognising the way that Rossi seemed to have pulled back from them.
All of them, they were all so scared of getting hurt. Prentiss allowed herself a moment to think, that was the bad side of the way they were, of the type of people they were. They’d formed strong bonds, strong enough that when one of them was hurting, they all hurt. And that wasn’t entirely healthy.
Prentiss shook her head, forcing the thought back. She wasn’t going to dwell on anything, not when she had other things to be focusing on. She shifted her grip on the box on her hands again as they approached the desk, drawing the attention of the head nurse; who looking less than impressed.
The woman stood, rounding the desk to stand in front of them, arms crossed over her stomach, eyes narrowed. Prentiss knew what was coming next.
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to take any of that into Mister Hotchner’s room.”
“We have checked, and there isn’t anything he could use to harm himself,” Garcia replied, her tone deliberately light. “I knitted this myself,” Garcia held up the sweater that was her offering, “and I made sure that it couldn’t be used for anything other what it should be.”
Prentiss could still remember the conversation Garcia had had with Reid, discussing her options. It had taken three days for Garcia to find yarn that she could still knit with, but that broke if more than a certain amount of pressure was applied. It had been rather morbid really, the amount of thought gone into that one sweater.
The nurse didn’t let up, and Garcia sighed, dumping her bag onto the desk and pulling out the sample she’d made specifically for this reason, holding it out to the nurse. There was a pause before the nurse reached out to take it, and the moment the other woman’s hand closed around it, Garcia tugged, the knitted strip breaking in two.
Prentiss watched the nurse’s expression; it had been a while since she had last felt that kind of a rush over someone else’s shock. Served the woman right, for thinking that they might not have considered their gifts carefully; though Prentiss guessed that enough people were likely to live in denial, that they were in fact a rarity.
It was a long moment before the nurse turned to her, eying the box critically. Prentiss managed her best smile, “I won’t be leaving much of this with him, it’ll be leaving with us.” The box itself, and the cup, once its contents had been drunk, but the soft lump at the bottom of the box would be staying.
The nurse stared at them for a moment longer before she sighed, shaking her head, “You can go in, but I’ll be doing a check as you leave.”
They both nodded, accepting the condition. They had expected it after all.
They walked slowly down the hallway, and stepped through the door into Hotch’s room. He was in the chair by the window again, staring out at the world. That at least hadn’t changed.
His right arm hung by his side, heavy bandages covering it from wrist to shoulder, and Prentiss forced herself not to think about it. Rossi had been vague with the details, but really, one look at Hotch, or the nurses in charge of his care spoke volumes.
Garcia ignored the blankness of Hotch’s gaze, and started talking as soon as they were though the door, filling him in on everything beguine that had happened since she had last visited. Prentiss doubted that there was much of it that would interest Hotch, but it was nice, the break in the silence that seemed to so often reign in Hotch’s room.
It took a few minutes, but Hotch finally seemed to focus on them, smiling at Garcia, though it didn’t seem to quite reach his eyes, and it was one of Hotch’s smiles. Like most of the expressions Prentiss had seen on Hotch’s face since Yates, it didn’t seem to be his own.
She noted that thought, then pushed it away, focusing on the gifts, and the things she wanted to do during her visit. She’d found, in the weeks since Hotch had woken, that it was easier to do something other than just sit dumbly in the chair if she went in with a plan of attack. Treating it like a raid as Morgan had teased her when she’d mentioned it to him. She’d managed not to throw a biting comment back; just barely.
“We brought you tea.” Prentiss interrupted Garcia’s description of Reid’s latest magic trick, to hold out the disposable cup to Hotch, who stared at it blankly for a moment before he smiled, thanking her. Prentiss felt a little sick, remembering what JJ had said, about how more often than not Hotch would forget to eat or drink.
Prentiss watched as he drank the tea, not reacting as it touched his lips, even though Prentiss knew it was still hot. She felt Garcia tense minutely at her side, and knew that she was thinking the same thing. As though sensing their feelings, Hotch lowered the cup, cradling it in his hands.
He didn’t say anything, just sat there waiting.
“I made this for you.” Garcia dropped her bag onto the bed, and pulled out the sweater, it would be a little big on him, and it was a brighter blue than Prentiss had ever seen Hotch wear. He stared at it for a second before he smiled again.
“It’s nice, thank you, Penelope.”
Garcia smiled, making a show of blushing. “I figured you could do with some colour, to break up all the bland.”
Hotch nodded, but didn’t say anything else. There was nothing more for him to say, no automatic response to that. Prentiss started to sympathise with Morgan’s urge to hit walls, and she watched as Hotch’s hands clenched into fists. He still didn’t say anything.
She wished he would start just the one conversation, or would just say something to show that the old Hotch was still in there somewhere. She didn’t even know if he’d asked about Jack.
And that made her other gift all the more important.
“We brought you this as well.” Prentiss placed the cardboard box onto the bed and pulled the remaining occupant out, holding the stuffed toy out for Hotch to take.
There was a pause, as he stared at it, that same vacant expression that kept stealing across his face firmly in place, before he took it from her hands. Hotch held it at arm’s length for a moment before he moved, resting it on his knees as he examined it.
Prentiss had gotten the idea from what Garcia, JJ, and Rossi had told them all Jack had said, when they’d told him his father was sick and couldn’t see him for a while; Jack had been concerned that his father needed company. Prentiss had wondered if Haley had ever mentioned that to Jack, after the divorce, or while they were in witness protection; or maybe Haley had just mentioned it to her family, or friends, not realising that it would stick in her son’s mind.
The teddy bear had dark brown fur and was dressed in a tiny suit, though there weren’t any shoes. The tie was stitched to the collar of the shirt, the tiny stitches hidden, invisible unless you knew where to look. Its eyes were thread, rather than glass. The bear was as harmless as the sweater.
“Thank you.” Hotch said, finally, after staring at the bear for what seemed like hours, and Garcia relaxed, returning to her run down of Reid’s magic trick, then Anderson’s practical joke.
Prentiss just sat on the bed, watching Hotch stare at the teddy bear while Garcia spoke. For the first time since Hotch had been admitted to the hospital, Prentiss found herself wondering if she would ever see Hotch in a suit again.
Or if she even wanted to.
-
Hotch was angry, or at least, someone was angry.
He stared at the teddy bear that sat on the windowsill, the suit a perfect replica of one of his own, as the anger built. There was no one in his room, and the door was locked, he knew. They only unlocked the door when they knew he was due visitors or when there was a nurse nearby.
Hotch dropped his gaze, fiddling with the cuff of the sweater Garcia had knitted. The nurse hadn’t been impressed that morning, when Hotch had slipped it on over his head, but they hadn’t done anything about it. Hotch wasn’t sure why he’d put it on, just that it seemed like something he should do.
Under different circumstances he thought, it was what he would have done. He would have been touched by the thought, maybe even embarrassed, but he wasn’t. The sweater was just sweater, he couldn’t even say if he liked it or not.
The anger stirred again and Hotch growled, unable to fight it. He pushed the sheet back and climbed out of the bed. He started to pace, clenching and unclenching his fists, tapping them against his legs. He would have bruises he thought; he usually did, but there was no pain so he didn’t stop himself.
Hotch had to do something, had to move, or the anger would drive him to something else. Pacing was safe, if a nurse saw him they would leave him to it; they had decided that pacing was fine, just so long as he didn’t make any moves to purposefully injure himself.
Other people’s emotions were different, Hotch knew, in an abstract way, from his own. His own emotions, he could affect, could do something about. If he was angry he could push it back, or take deep breaths, or spend time in the gym; none of that worked with other people’s emotions. He had no control, no control at all, over how long they stayed.
He started to pace faster, pulling his bed away from the wall so that he could walk circuits of the room. He had an audience, he could feel their worry, but the anger was still stronger, and it wasn’t coming from just the one source anymore.
His breathing quickened and he started to worry at the sleeves of the sweater as he paced, becoming increasingly agitated. He tugged on his right sleeve, hard, and the sleeve gave, ripping away around the elbow. He froze, staring at it blankly, as someone’s horror reached him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Hotch knew that meant that at least one of his audience was a member of his team.
Hotch stood, frozen in the middle of his room, a scarp of yarn in one hand, blood running sluggishly over the other. He must have pulled a stitch.
-
Rossi paced the length of his office, thankful it was late and the others had all gone home. Between the case they had just finished, and the reports he’d been getting from the others after their visits to Hotch, Rossi was feeling increasingly run down.
There had been something bothering him about Hotch’s behaviour. He kept replaying Yates’ final moments over and over in his head, remembering the expression on Hotch’s face, the way he had reacted. Then there was what had happened in the hospital.
Rossi had known Hotch for a long time and he liked to think he knew the other man well enough to be sure that it hadn’t been something Hotch would normally do. And more than that, if Rossi was honest with himself, he didn’t believe it had been the suicide attempt that the hospital staff believed it to have been.
If Aaron Hotchner had wanted to kill himself, he would have. From the hospital records, Rossi knew exactly what Hotch had done to himself, knew exactly how long it had taken. Hotch had had the time, more than enough Rossi knew, to have done the deed. Instead he had cut his palm twice, one shallow, the next deeper, before moving on up his arm. Hotch had avoided his wrists, and the majority of his major veins and arteries. He had cut though muscle, but that wasn’t life threatening; painful, and damaging maybe, but not life threatening.
Yes, Hotch could have died, given the blood loss, but he hadn’t.
Rossi sighed again, rubbing his forehead. It didn’t make a damn bit of sense, any of it.
Rossi had seen people break; other agents, before Gideon, had suffered breakdowns, two even lived permanently in psych wards, but there was something more, something off about Hotch. Rossi hoped that it wasn’t just denial on his part, that it was the instincts he had honed from years as a profiler. He had met enough broken people to be able to judge when there was something more to it than met the eye.
Rossi stopped, rounding his desk and digging through the bottom drawer, hunting for the notebook he knew was in there. It didn’t take long to find it. It was the notebook he took with him on his book tours, and there were pockets in it for any business cards he was given.
There was a business card he remembered; the man who had given it to him had been, different, his theories interesting. At the time, he had rubbed Rossi the wrong way, bringing up one of the cases that Rossi didn’t like to talk about. Sure, he’d included it in the notes in one book, but he’d never written about it in detail.
Never aired his issues with psychics to the public the way he had his own team.
Rossi sighed, remembering what he had said to the kids, when they’d dealt with Stanley Usher. When people are vulnerable, they’ll believe a lot of things.
Rossi stared at the phone number. He’d meet the man since, and while he didn’t agree with a lot of what the man said, Rossi found himself wondering if, maybe, he was exactly who he should be calling.
Rossi listed off the things the kids had told him, from Emily saying that it was like Hotch was just reacting to them, to how they were feeling, that everything he did now seemed fake, to Morgan and the fact that Hotch always seemed to be angry when he visited. Reid never said much, though the way he frowned when the others talked about Hotch said enough. JJ and Garcia were both more vague, their concern the focus of any comments they made.
And then there were his own experiences.
Rossi tapped the business card against the desk top for a moment before he nodded, and picked up his phone.
If it could bring Hotch back to them, it was worth the risk.
-
Rossi didn’t say anything as he settled into the chair beside Hotch’s bed; but he didn’t need to. Even with the sedatives, which had been a constant since the sweater incident, Hotch could feel how Rossi felt.
Hotch curled in on himself a little more, trying to push the feelings away, but he couldn’t quite. There was nothing to use as a distraction either, nothing to think about other than the way he’s feeling. Or rather, the way Rossi is feeling.
It’s easier to tell that they aren’t his own though, as they lack the foggy quality of his thoughts, but still, it doesn’t allow him his own emotions. He thought, maybe, he doesn’t have feelings anymore. Maybe there were only other people’s emotions.
There was such a mixture of feelings coming from Rossi. There was a part of Hotch that wanted to yell, to make his disappointment and anger known, another that wanted to offer comfort, and yet another that seemed to be clinging to a frail hope.
None of those urges were really his, but it was hard to push them away when all he had was a feeble grip on intellectual thought. He didn’t want anything. Want was an emotion, just as much as hunger and pain.
Hotch squeezed his eyes closed, reacting more on instinct than anything else, and clenched his hands into fists. Exasperation flooded through him, and then Rossi’s hand was on his arm, pulling carefully, rolling him onto his back and drawing his attention to his friend’s face.
“Aaron.” Rossi finally broke the silence, leaning forwards, putting his face into Hotch’s line of sight, “I called in a favour.”
Hotch blinked slowly. He didn’t have a reaction to that, not one of his own at least. He could feel Dave’s hope though, overwhelming the more negative emotions.
Hotch licked his lips, frowning, “A favour?” It was the question he should ask; he didn’t know what question he would have wanted to ask. Maybe it would have been the same one.
Rossi nodded, “There’s a doctor; he thinks he might be able to help.”
“Help with what?” Hotch asked. There was nothing to help, nothing to cure, didn’t Rossi know that?
Hotch felt the flare of agony, mixed with worry, and knew that he had said the wrong thing. It was better not to say anything.
Rossi reached out after a few moments of silence, wiping Hotch’s cheek with his thumb. Hotch frowned, watching as Rossi drew back his damp hand. He couldn’t even tell he was crying. There was another swell of despair, and Hotch buried his face in his pillow, Rossi’s hand clamped around his upper left arm.
“With this.” Rossi’s voice was soft, “He’s going to help you deal with this.”
-
Hotch woke in a bed, in a room that didn’t look anything like his hospital room, or any of the rooms in his apartment. He frowned, blinking up at the ceiling. It was white, and textured, swirls of plaster everywhere.
Hotch waited for that rush of emotions, the one that always followed awareness. He knew it was there when he was asleep as well, forming the strange dreams he had been having, but he was always so much more aware of it when he was awake. But there was nothing.
Hotch frowned, shifting in the bed, turning his head from side to side, taking in the room. There’s the residual feeling of haziness from the sedatives he remembered being given in the hospital, but that’s it. It looks like a bedroom, complete with a full set of furniture.
He was still frowning when he started to push himself upright, only to cry out as he put his weight on his right hand. He curled into a ball around his arm, cradling it against his chest, gasping. He froze, eyes widening, then he uncurled slowly, staring at his arm. It was still bandaged, just as it had been in the hospital, and there were a few spots of dried blood, but he could feel it throbbing.
Hotch flexed his hand slowly, laughing as the pain spiked, tears running down his face and soaking the pillow as he kept laughing; he didn’t stop until he was shaking, so close to exhausted by the rush of emotion.
Emotion that was his own and no one else’s.
He had never been so grateful to feel pain in his whole life.
-
It took Hotch a while to gather the energy to move again, hunger winning out against the weariness.
He manoeuvred himself out of the bed carefully, wincing a little as his muscles complained at the movement. He embraced the feeling, wondering at the different pains he could feel. It was as though he had taken his own emotions for granted his whole life, not noticing how much of a range there was.
Hotch remembered, as he slipped his feet into the slippers that are sat at the end of the bed, what Rossi had said, about calling in a favour. At the time, Hotch hadn’t been expecting anything but another doctor; another person to poke and prod him and announce him mentally unsound and in need of another selection of drugs.
There had been so many of them, most sent by the hospital. None of them had entirely agreed on what was wrong with him; fewer had even been sure of their conclusions.
Hotch moved to the window, pulling back the curtain and looking out at fields, endless fields. There was a barn he could see, that didn’t look quite right, but it was across a field from the building he was in. Hotch had no idea where he was, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine who Rossi might know, that a favour would lead to Hotch finding himself in an apparently deserted farm house.
Hotch doubted that any of the doctors he had seen would have been impressed. Leaving a man who had harmed himself, deliberately, with forethought, alone, surrounded by things he could use to further harm himself; it didn’t really sound like a good idea.
Hotch snorted, cradling his right arm against his chest carefully. He wasn’t going to be doing himself anymore harm. Not when he could finally feel.
He took one last look around the room, before he moved towards the door. He pushed it open, stepping out into a corridor. He was in a house, that much he could tell, and he knew, from his brief glimpse of the outside world, that it was a long way from anywhere.
Hotch hoped that there was food somewhere in the house, that he wouldn’t have to venture across to the barn. He doubted he would have been left entirely to his own devices, while it might be the best thing for him, he knew Rossi well enough to be sure that it wasn’t something he would even begin to consider.
Hotch moved slowly through the house clearing rooms, despite not having his gun, and only having one functioning arm. He had to look in all of them, wanting to be certain that there weren’t any unpleasant surprised hiding anywhere, waiting for him to let down his guard.
He was breathing heavily by the time he made it to the kitchen, along with being a little dizzy. He tried to remember the last time he had eaten, but he knew it had been a while. He had been on a drip for a while, before Rossi’s visit. Hotch opened the cupboards, sagging a little with relief as he found food in most of them. The others held plates and saucepans, everything he would need to cook with.
The only problem was, there was only so much he could do one handed.
Hotch pulled out a bowl, then a box of cereal, filling the bowl and carrying it to the table before he went to the refrigerator, pulling the carton of milk out and carrying it to the table as well before returning for a spoon.
Even that much effort was exhausting, and he sagged into the chair, giving himself a few moments before he poured the milk, then dug into the bowl of cereal.
Once he finished, he just sat there for a while, waiting for the food to settle, and for the dizziness to pass, before he stood to collect a glass and the apple juice he had spotted. Two glasses later and he felt ready to retreat to his bed, only there was one problem.
He could feel someone coming.
Hotch didn’t bother to try and run, he just sat at the kitchen table and waited. He could still feel, the pain in his arm still present, along with the ache in his stomach and his own desperation. He wasn’t ready, hadn’t been given long enough alone with his own emotions.
He didn’t want a visitor.
Hotch fought back the panic, clenching his right hand into a fist, focusing on the pain. The kitchen door swung open a moment later, the hinges squealing. Hotch forced himself to look up, to meet his visitor’s gaze.
The man looked to be about Hotch’s age, his hair grey. Hotch could feel the man’s regret, but he didn’t care. If the man knew, if he understand what was happening, what had happened to Hotch, he should have given Hotch a little more time; should have understood that Hotch would want time to just feel.
To be himself, unaffected by the emotions of others.
“I’m sorry Agent Hotchner, for not giving you more time to yourself.” The man sat in the chair opposite Hotch, not asking permission. “But I had to come make sure that you were all right. Agent Rossi made it clear that if anything happened to you, he would take it very badly.”
The man gave a wry smile, but Hotch didn’t smile.
He had no reason to smile, no reason to trust the man sitting across from him. The man who knew his name, but hadn’t given one in return.
It was just one more loss of control.
The man sagged a little, and Hotch felt another flash of regret, accompanied by sheepishness.
“I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. My name is Doctor Michael Welles and I am going to help you.”
-
Part Ten