An Imitation of a Light - Part Ten
An Imitation of a Light
Written for cm_bigbang
See the header here for full details.
Chapter specific warnings: Self harm
Hotch spent three days in the farmhouse, doing everything he could to avoid Doctor Welles, or Michael as he’d asked Hotch to call him, and his scientific curiosity. It wasn’t that Hotch couldn’t understand where the other man was coming from, it was more that Hotch was fairly certain the man was used to being the teacher; the saviour.
Hotch didn’t need a saviour, or a mentor; he had had plenty of those over the years.
What he did need, he wasn’t quite sure. Time alone in his own head seemed to be the only thing he could think of.
The farmhouse was big, with eight bedrooms and various hidden passages that spoke of the building’s age. Hotch spent a day in one of the hidden passages, in the wall behind the kitchen, tracking Michael as the other man wandered the house.
Michael knew where Hotch was, but he didn’t make any real effort to find him, and for the first time since waking up, Hotch considered actually listening to the other man. Though he knew he would have to make it beyond the enthusiasm, and the vague concepts of understanding.
On the fourth day, Hotch was waiting for Michael in the kitchen when he arrived.
“I must say, I’m surprised.” Michael stuck his hands into his pockets, not moving any further into the room. There was a weariness that there hadn’t been before, and Hotch felt a little guilty.
Hotch shrugged, “I needed some time.”
Michael nodded after a moment, pulling his hands from his pockets and moving to the table, dropping into a chair and pouring himself a cup of tea. Hotch waited for the other man to centre himself; for the inevitable lecture to begin.
Michael stirred milk, then sugar into his tea, taking a sip before he placed the cup back onto the table and steepled his hands in front of him, elbows resting on the table.
“I’ll be honest with you, I’m used to dealing with people who think they’re crazy, who have spent years surrounded by people who are actually crazy because everyone thought that was where they belonged.” Michael looked up meeting Hotch’s gaze, “But you don’t think you’re crazy do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
Michael smiled, though it wasn’t as smug as it appeared, “How long have you known?”
Hotch’s eyebrows rose, “How long have I known what?”
Michael shook his head, picking up his cup again, “That you’re an empath?”
Hotch considered lying, but sitting in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, talking to the one person who might actually be able to help him, it didn’t seem worth it. “I’ve known my whole life, that I could tell how other people were feeling.”
Michael rolled his eyes, “That you’re an empath.”
Hotch frowned, shaking his head, “No, I never thought of it that way. I was twelve when I realised that I was the only one who seemed to be able to tell how people were feeling.” His mother had been dead for almost a year, but he hadn’t been able to get that day out his head, what little he had been able to remember about it.
His father had sent him to a psychiatrist, and the man had done his utmost to try and get Hotch to talk to him. The only problem was, the first time, the first appointment, when Hotch had told the man that he had felt his mother die, the man had looked blank for the longest moment. Then, he’d started talking about how it must have seemed like that, and how really it was just Hotch’s sense of loss. Hotch hadn’t bothered talking much after that.
Michael hummed, tapping his fingers against the side of his cup, before he lowered it, “You never thought of it as empathy?”
“I thought of it as empathy, but I didn’t think of myself as an empath.” Hotch said, in something that was almost a monotone, “I thought I just related to people better than most, that I was just picking up on cues.”
“Really?” Michael’s doubt was almost palpable, “Doing the job you’ve been doing for the last, what, fifteen years? You never thought it was more than that?”
Hotch sighed, rubbing his temple. He had, but it was one of those things he tried not to think about. His mother’s death, his father’s slow transformation into someone Hotch barely recognised, the way Haley’s feelings about him had changed, Gideon breaking; the list seemed to grow longer every day. So many things that he didn’t want to think about, didn’t want to admit had happened, or were happening. Hotch had been living with denial for most of his life.
“I didn’t let myself think it might be more than that.”
Michael smiled, “But you know better now?”
Hotch just looked at Michael, making his opinion on the other man’s tone clear. It wasn’t that he had never dealt with it; he had just pushed it away. There wasn’t anything wrong with wanting to be normal. Hotch snorted; not that Michael would agree with that. Everything about the other man said that he thought Hotch should be embracing his ‘gift’.
Hotch wondered how Michael would feel if he had Hotch’s ‘gift’.
Michael’s smugness faded a little, the longer Hotch remained silent, and he managed to look a little apologetic. Hotch resisted the urge to point out that faking emotions via body language and expression wasn’t likely to convince an empath you were feeling a certain way.
“I’m sorry, I know I have a different opinion on this than you, and no, I can’t completely understand what it’s like, but I do want to help you.” Michael was sincere in that much.
Hotch sighed, rubbing his temple again. Reminding himself that he had decided to give Michael a chance. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life living in a remote farm. He owed Jack better than that at the very least.
“What do you want me to do?”
-
Making the trip out to the barn had been difficult. Hotch was relieved that Michael had agreed to let him make it alone, and in his own time.
There were a lot of people in that barn, and as he grew closer to the door, the stronger their emotions became. He had to stop, to take a few steps back, away from the barn, fighting to get his breathing back under control.
It was hard, knowing there was a possibility that he walked into that barn, his own emotions would be subsumed by theirs, just as they had been during his time in the hospital.
Somehow, that thought, the idea of that happening again, was the scariest thing he had faced in his life; and he hated it. So many things had happened, so many things that should have scared him more than that. It felt like he was somehow belittling his other losses, by being selfish as he sat on the grass, just a few metres short of his target.
He had to walk through that door, had to deal with this new found fear. He couldn’t let it own him.
Hotch took a deep breath, closing his eyes and listing all the reasons why he had to go into that barn. Jack needed him, needed a father, needed a life that didn’t entail living in near seclusion with a father who wouldn’t leave the house. That was the reason he held onto, that he used to force himself to stand and cross those last few metres.
He would do it for Jack.
-
The barn was overwhelming the first time. Hotch didn’t really remember what had happened, he knew he had fallen to his knees, that at some point he had started tearing at the bandages on his right arm. At some point, the pain had become his touchstone; the one emotion he knew was his and his alone.
It had taken him a while to notice they were leaving, that one by one the groups of emotions were dropping away, fading into background noise. By the time he had been able to focus again, it had just been him and Michael, and Hotch’s left hand had been covered in blood.
Hotch stared at it for a long moment, slumping against the wall, watching the blood start to dry. He needed to stop doing that, stop using the pain as a crutch. It wasn’t healthy, he knew it wasn’t healthy. It was only his desperation that drove him to do it, the logical thought that the only emotion he could be sure was his own was an emotion he caused.
Pain was the only emotion he knew of that he could control in that way.
“Agent Hotchner?” Michael moved closer, holding out a pressure bandage, not quite closing the distance between them. There was a wariness there that hadn’t been before, almost fear.
Hotch frowned, “Hotch, you can call me Hotch.” He closed his eyes, then opened them again, forcing himself to reach out and take the bandage, wrapping it around his right arm as best he could. He wondered just how much damage he had done, between the cutting and the almost constant reopening of the wound.
Hotch took deep breaths, waiting for the pain to ease a little before he focused on Michael, “Sorry.”
Michael shook his head, and Hotch could feel the frustration and guilt coming from the man. Hotch frowned, “What?”
Michael blinked, confusion edging in to join the other emotions, “Hotch?”
“Something else happened, other than me tearing my stitches and collapsing.” Hotch said. It was there in the way Michael was looking at him.
“You may have projected.” Michael said, and Hotch just stared at the other man, not understanding.
Michel sighed, sitting down next to Hotch, “Up until now, you have always been feeling other people’s emotions, to some degree. When you came in, you were overwhelmed, but unlike previously, when those other emotions overrode your own, you pushed back. You made yourself feel the pain, to keep your connection to your own emotions, but at the same time, you made everyone else feel that pain.”
Hotch stared at Michael for a long moment, half aware that he was shaking his head, “If I could do that, I think it would have happened before now.”
Yates, Foyet, Perotta, all of the others. It would have happened before. If what Michael was saying was true, it would have happened before.
Michael shook his head, “I should have thought of it before. From what you said, you have always been empathic, but you’ve never had a breakdown before. Normally, the people I help, they have just come into their gifts, it’s all an unknown to them, all new.” Michael sighed, finally turning his head to look at Hotch, “I made assumptions that I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.”
Hotch frowned, “What does that mean?”
“The approach I normally use isn’t going to work.” Michael offered Hotch a rueful grin, “But then you’re my first empath, so I should have considered that before.”
“Who are the other people? What were their ‘gifts’?” Hotch asked, turning a little, but keeping up the pressure on the bandage. The bleeding was slowing.
“Telepaths. They’ve been the focus of all of my work over the years. That’s how I met Agent Rossi.” Michael said, “He worked with someone who claimed to be a psychic, who was in fact a telepath. The woman led Agent Rossi’s investigation down the wrong path, because she was just using the police’s own theories.”
Hotch nodded, “He’s mentioned that case.”
Michael smiled, “I got the impression that he holds it up as an example of why psychics can’t be trusted.”
Hotch managed a smile, though the throbbing in his arms was becoming more insistent. “He does.”
“With telepaths, there are ways to block your thoughts.” Michael said, returning to his original subject, “Every member of my staff is trained to block telepaths; if they weren’t, the telepaths who come here wouldn’t be any better off than they were where they came from.”
Hotch winced, “But you can’t block your emotions.”
Michael sighed, “I tried, when I visited you in the house the first time? I was blocking, it took me a while to realise it wasn’t working.”
Hotch shook his head, “I used to be able to,” He searched for a way to explain what he had done, before Yates, “it was like I could reduce other people’s emotions to background noise. Like being in a room full of people, who are all talking, but being able to hear just the one conversation?”
Michael smiled, “That’s what I’ve always taught the telepaths to do, how to focus on the one person, how to block anything out they don’t want to hear.”
“How to be alone in their own head.” Hotch said, closing his eyes. He felt Michael’s stab of regret, but he didn’t say anything. They were both guilty of their own arrogance.
Hotch for believing that nothing would ever happen to break his control. Michael for thinking that his experience with telepaths could be translated into a way to help someone who was empathic.
They had both learned the hard way they were wrong.
-
Hotch spent a week back in the farm, though he was allowed to talk to Jack, using the web camera that had been set up for him. Jack was always happy to see him, but Hotch could tell, even without being able to sense how his son was feeling, that his son wasn’t as happy as he wanted his father to think he was.
Hotch wondered how much his son had learned from him about putting up fronts; about showing people what they wanted, expected to see.
It made his chest ache.
Michael eased Hotch into a few exercises, careful not to overload him with emotional input. No more than three people would be in the farm house with him at any time. Hotch was starting to recognise the different people. It was hard to explain how, though Michael had asked him to; there weren’t any voices to match to a face, just what Hotch could only describe as a ‘taste’.
All three could be feeling the same thing, but Hotch would be able to tell to what degree, and which of the other emotions matched each of them. No one, it seemed, felt the same combination of emotions at any one time.
“What about when you close your eyes?” Michael asked. It was the standard approach now, for Michael to ask Hotch to do something, and then ask what had happened, whether it had made it easier or harder to figure something out.
“When there’s more of you, it’s more overwhelming, but it makes it easier sometimes, to tell which of you is feeling what.” Hotch said, tearing up another piece of tissue. It was the only way he could take out his frustration during their sessions; he would go for a run afterwards.
Hotch hated how much harder he seemed to find it to keep his own emotions in check, though he knew, at the same time, it was because he was savouring them. He needed to feel them, to know he still could.
Yates had left a legacy Hotch wasn’t sure would ever fade.
Michael tapped his finger against the table, “Do you get any impressions, along with the emotions, other than who they belong to?”
Hotch closed his eyes, focusing on the emotions he could tell were Michael’s; he frowned, struggling with how to verbalize what it was he was feeling. That was another thing on his list of things that were making him feel powerless, out of control. Words had always been his main weapon, but when it came to finding the words to explain his ‘gift’ to Michael, he couldn’t find them. “Yes and no.”
Hotch’s shoulders sagged a little, and he felt his control slip a little more. He was exhausted, after a long day of exercises and questions. He had a headache, and so did Michael.
Michael wrote a few more notes, before he nodded, looking up at Hotch, “That’s is for today, we’ll leave you to yourself.” Michael offered Hotch a smile, then gathered his stuff and motioned for the other scientists to follow him back to the barn.
Hotch sighed, burying his face in his hands. He wished he knew what they said about him, what they thought.
More than that, he wished that he could go back, tell JJ to pass the case on to another unit. He could have taken the team to Lawrence. But he knew that he never would have made that decision, not with the information they had had.
Hindsight, the thing you could never really use, because by the time you had it, it was far, far too late.
-
Hotch sat in the field, far enough from the farm that he couldn’t sense any of the scientists clearly, absently scratching at the scabs on his right arm. He was wearing the sweater Garcia had knitted him, not caring about the ragged half-length sleeve, it was more of a comfort than anything else.
Of all the things that had been sent to him, it was the only thing that was of any comfort; other than the letters Jack sent every few days. Hotch could see Reid’s hand in them; just as the sweater reminded him of Garcia, and her endless warmth. He wondered what his son thought of his honorary Uncle Spencer, of the numerous facts that the man had probably been telling a rather bemused Jack.
JJ and Prentiss had been keeping an eye on Jack, Hotch knew, from the brief conversation he had had with Jessica, while Garcia was happy to take Jack for a day ever so often to give his aunt a break. Rossi called every once in a while. Really, it was only Morgan that Hotch hadn’t really heard from.
Hotch sighed; he missed Jack, missed his team, missed home. Missed feeling like a person rather than a science experiment.
Hotch rubbed his temples wearily. Even with the space he had put between himself and the farm, he could still sense them, there was no shutting it off, and when he was honest with himself, he knew Michael’s exercises still weren’t helping enough.
It seemed like an insurmountable challenge, the idea of ever leaving the farm; ever being able to spend time in a city, surrounded by people; surrounded by emotion.
Hotch sat back, resting against the fence, staring at the farm, watching the scientists come and go. They lived in quarters in the loft, during their time on the farm, and he was starting to get to know the full timers. He didn’t hate them, even if they did make him feel more than a little bit like a lab rat.
It was strange, Hotch thought, listening to their stories about the telepaths they had met. As far as he could tell, there had only been a few, and only one whose ‘gift’ could be compared to Hotch’s. They spoke fondly of her.
He wondered if he would ever get to meet her.
All of his life, Hotch had been almost certain that it was just him, that there was no one else like him. No one else who had seemed so aware of how other people were feeling; Haley’s joy had always been her own, his father had never noticed how much his step-mother had been hurting, his brother Sean had never noticed the emotional rift between his parents.
The BAU had been the first place that Hotch had doubted that certainty. It had been there that he had come the closest to finding people like him. It had taken him a little while to accept that they weren’t like him, that he had come so close to finding people who would understand, only to realise that they really wouldn’t.
He had become paranoid at one point, after coming under Ryan’s scrutiny one too many times, that if they had found out what he could do, they would have locked him away.
Hotch closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the tree, focusing on the feeling of bark against his cheek when a sudden flare of triumph reached him from the barn. Someone had clearly had a breakthrough on one of their projects.
As a prosecutor, Hotch had only ever used his empathy to gauge how well he was doing with the jury, how convinced they were of his argument. As a SWAT member, he had used it to gauge where the line was during negotiations, though he had never relied solely on that.
SWAT respected instincts, and he played his empathy that way. If he had tried to play it any other way, he doubted it would have gone down well.
With the BAU, he had spent the first three months using his empathy more than he ever had before, thinking that they would understand. In hindsight, a word that came up so often when he thought of the past, it had been risky.
In the face of Gideon, who seemed to be able to work out exactly how a person was feeling, and Ryan who made wild guesses and often seemed to change his approach on a whim, Hotch had thought it the only way to keep up. Had wondered if they felt things the way he did.
It hadn’t taken him long to see they didn’t. There were times when he hadn’t spoken up, but should have, when one of the senior profilers had taken a risk and lost. He started to notice then, how often other people seemed to manage to trick one another.
There were times when Hotch knew he was the only one who could see though the brilliantly faked emotional responses, but his input was ignored. In the end, Hotch had learned to push his empathy down, to tone it down to the point that it was just another part of his thought process.
He had learned the times when he could get away with using it and the times he couldn’t.
Instinct only had so much use in the BAU; rationale, logical thought was better respected, along with working examples.
He knew that his choice to ignore his ‘gift’ had cost him dearly. Knew that, had he just used it that first time in Boston, when he’d helped interview Foyet, he might never have lost Haley. His son might still have a mother, instead of just a broken father.
He had a lot of regrets, and now, with Yates having stripped him of his long fought for control, he knew he was going to have to face the music.
He couldn’t hide that part of himself from the world anymore. Couldn’t deny it anymore.
-
Hotch was in the middle of a complicated exercise, blindfolded and asked to locate people via their emotions, when he became aware of someone new. Someone he could almost recognise, but whose name he couldn’t place.
He didn’t think it was one of the scientists.
Hotch ignored the flash of irritation he felt from Lanie, one of the more data focused researchers, as he reached up and pulled off the blind fold, turning to face the doorway.
“Dave?”
Rossi smiled, and Hotch felt a familiar sense of affection, stronger than he had ever before. For the first time since he’d woken up at the farm, it didn’t bother him. At that moment, the only thing he could feel with delight at seeing his friend in what felt like months.
Everything that had happened in the hospital still seemed more like a dream than something that had really happened to him. He still wasn’t sure if it was because of the emotional disconnect, or the drugs, but he had decided not to examine it too closely. Those were memories he could stand to do without.
“Aaron, I was wondering if I could steal you away from your new friends.” Rossi eyed the scientists, and Hotch could feel Rossi’s distaste. It was a comfort to know that someone else was just as uncomfortable with their attitude as Hotch was.
He had been starting to feel more and more like a freak, especially on the occasions when he tried to speak to Lanie and the rest of her group. They always seemed happier if they could remain relatively objective, and conversations with the test subject didn’t seem to be something they were willing to explore.
“I could do with a break.” Hotch agreed, already starting across the room. Rossi wouldn’t have been able to visit if Michael hadn’t given him the ok, so the others could just live with whatever results they had gotten from the hour he had already spent with them.
Rossi grinned, “Good, I trust you know somewhere more private for us to go?”
Hotch nodded, taking the lead through the barn and out, heading for the farmhouse.
-
“You’re looking better.” Rossi commented, toying with his mug idly as they sat at the kitchen table, looking out the window at the empty fields. Hotch nodded.
“I’m doing better.” Hotch admitted, eying the contents of his mug for a moment before he looked up at his friend. “I owe you.”
Rossi shook his head, “No you don’t; you would have done the same.”
Hotch smiled; it was nice to know where he stood, and Rossi hadn’t changed. He might be walking on eggshells a little, but Hotch couldn’t exactly blame him.
Rossi sighed, shaking his head and pushing away his mug, “Aaron, as much as I would like to tell you that I just came out to see how you were doing, that isn’t why I came.”
Hotch frowned, gone was the relief that had been Rossi’s main emotion, replaced by frustration and the kind of anger he was used to feeling from Morgan. Politics, Hotch thought, Rossi had to have heard something, something that bothered him, and it had to be something to do with Hotch. It was the only reason that Rossi would have even mentioned it.
Rossi might have most people fooled, but Hotch knew that he was bad a mother hen as any of them. He believed in letting people get better before laying anymore weight on their shoulders.
“I’m guessing whatever it is you’ve heard, I’m not going to like it.” Hotch said.
Rossi sighed, rubbing his forehead before he spoke, “From what I’ve heard, you no longer have a place with the BAU or the FBI. It seems they have another position in mind for you, once you get out of this place.”
Hotch gritted his teeth, aware of his own anger growing to match Rossi’s, “I have no intention of leaving the BAU.”
Rossi’s smile was bitter, “I’m not so sure you’re going to be given a choice.” Rossi sighed, slumping a little, shaking his head, “I’m not sorry, for calling Welles, but don’t doubt I wish there had been something else, another option.”
“If I had any alcohol,” Hotch answered dryly, “I would offer it to you.” He took a breath, “I don’t blame you Dave, if you hadn’t called Welles, I’m sure I’d still be in that hospital.”
Rossi shook his head, reaching to pat Hotch’s hand, not saying a word and Hotch couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he had just exchanged one kind of prison for another.
And he dreaded what that might mean for his family.
-
Epilogue
Written for cm_bigbang
See the header here for full details.
Chapter specific warnings: Self harm
Hotch spent three days in the farmhouse, doing everything he could to avoid Doctor Welles, or Michael as he’d asked Hotch to call him, and his scientific curiosity. It wasn’t that Hotch couldn’t understand where the other man was coming from, it was more that Hotch was fairly certain the man was used to being the teacher; the saviour.
Hotch didn’t need a saviour, or a mentor; he had had plenty of those over the years.
What he did need, he wasn’t quite sure. Time alone in his own head seemed to be the only thing he could think of.
The farmhouse was big, with eight bedrooms and various hidden passages that spoke of the building’s age. Hotch spent a day in one of the hidden passages, in the wall behind the kitchen, tracking Michael as the other man wandered the house.
Michael knew where Hotch was, but he didn’t make any real effort to find him, and for the first time since waking up, Hotch considered actually listening to the other man. Though he knew he would have to make it beyond the enthusiasm, and the vague concepts of understanding.
On the fourth day, Hotch was waiting for Michael in the kitchen when he arrived.
“I must say, I’m surprised.” Michael stuck his hands into his pockets, not moving any further into the room. There was a weariness that there hadn’t been before, and Hotch felt a little guilty.
Hotch shrugged, “I needed some time.”
Michael nodded after a moment, pulling his hands from his pockets and moving to the table, dropping into a chair and pouring himself a cup of tea. Hotch waited for the other man to centre himself; for the inevitable lecture to begin.
Michael stirred milk, then sugar into his tea, taking a sip before he placed the cup back onto the table and steepled his hands in front of him, elbows resting on the table.
“I’ll be honest with you, I’m used to dealing with people who think they’re crazy, who have spent years surrounded by people who are actually crazy because everyone thought that was where they belonged.” Michael looked up meeting Hotch’s gaze, “But you don’t think you’re crazy do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
Michael smiled, though it wasn’t as smug as it appeared, “How long have you known?”
Hotch’s eyebrows rose, “How long have I known what?”
Michael shook his head, picking up his cup again, “That you’re an empath?”
Hotch considered lying, but sitting in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, talking to the one person who might actually be able to help him, it didn’t seem worth it. “I’ve known my whole life, that I could tell how other people were feeling.”
Michael rolled his eyes, “That you’re an empath.”
Hotch frowned, shaking his head, “No, I never thought of it that way. I was twelve when I realised that I was the only one who seemed to be able to tell how people were feeling.” His mother had been dead for almost a year, but he hadn’t been able to get that day out his head, what little he had been able to remember about it.
His father had sent him to a psychiatrist, and the man had done his utmost to try and get Hotch to talk to him. The only problem was, the first time, the first appointment, when Hotch had told the man that he had felt his mother die, the man had looked blank for the longest moment. Then, he’d started talking about how it must have seemed like that, and how really it was just Hotch’s sense of loss. Hotch hadn’t bothered talking much after that.
Michael hummed, tapping his fingers against the side of his cup, before he lowered it, “You never thought of it as empathy?”
“I thought of it as empathy, but I didn’t think of myself as an empath.” Hotch said, in something that was almost a monotone, “I thought I just related to people better than most, that I was just picking up on cues.”
“Really?” Michael’s doubt was almost palpable, “Doing the job you’ve been doing for the last, what, fifteen years? You never thought it was more than that?”
Hotch sighed, rubbing his temple. He had, but it was one of those things he tried not to think about. His mother’s death, his father’s slow transformation into someone Hotch barely recognised, the way Haley’s feelings about him had changed, Gideon breaking; the list seemed to grow longer every day. So many things that he didn’t want to think about, didn’t want to admit had happened, or were happening. Hotch had been living with denial for most of his life.
“I didn’t let myself think it might be more than that.”
Michael smiled, “But you know better now?”
Hotch just looked at Michael, making his opinion on the other man’s tone clear. It wasn’t that he had never dealt with it; he had just pushed it away. There wasn’t anything wrong with wanting to be normal. Hotch snorted; not that Michael would agree with that. Everything about the other man said that he thought Hotch should be embracing his ‘gift’.
Hotch wondered how Michael would feel if he had Hotch’s ‘gift’.
Michael’s smugness faded a little, the longer Hotch remained silent, and he managed to look a little apologetic. Hotch resisted the urge to point out that faking emotions via body language and expression wasn’t likely to convince an empath you were feeling a certain way.
“I’m sorry, I know I have a different opinion on this than you, and no, I can’t completely understand what it’s like, but I do want to help you.” Michael was sincere in that much.
Hotch sighed, rubbing his temple again. Reminding himself that he had decided to give Michael a chance. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life living in a remote farm. He owed Jack better than that at the very least.
“What do you want me to do?”
-
Making the trip out to the barn had been difficult. Hotch was relieved that Michael had agreed to let him make it alone, and in his own time.
There were a lot of people in that barn, and as he grew closer to the door, the stronger their emotions became. He had to stop, to take a few steps back, away from the barn, fighting to get his breathing back under control.
It was hard, knowing there was a possibility that he walked into that barn, his own emotions would be subsumed by theirs, just as they had been during his time in the hospital.
Somehow, that thought, the idea of that happening again, was the scariest thing he had faced in his life; and he hated it. So many things had happened, so many things that should have scared him more than that. It felt like he was somehow belittling his other losses, by being selfish as he sat on the grass, just a few metres short of his target.
He had to walk through that door, had to deal with this new found fear. He couldn’t let it own him.
Hotch took a deep breath, closing his eyes and listing all the reasons why he had to go into that barn. Jack needed him, needed a father, needed a life that didn’t entail living in near seclusion with a father who wouldn’t leave the house. That was the reason he held onto, that he used to force himself to stand and cross those last few metres.
He would do it for Jack.
-
The barn was overwhelming the first time. Hotch didn’t really remember what had happened, he knew he had fallen to his knees, that at some point he had started tearing at the bandages on his right arm. At some point, the pain had become his touchstone; the one emotion he knew was his and his alone.
It had taken him a while to notice they were leaving, that one by one the groups of emotions were dropping away, fading into background noise. By the time he had been able to focus again, it had just been him and Michael, and Hotch’s left hand had been covered in blood.
Hotch stared at it for a long moment, slumping against the wall, watching the blood start to dry. He needed to stop doing that, stop using the pain as a crutch. It wasn’t healthy, he knew it wasn’t healthy. It was only his desperation that drove him to do it, the logical thought that the only emotion he could be sure was his own was an emotion he caused.
Pain was the only emotion he knew of that he could control in that way.
“Agent Hotchner?” Michael moved closer, holding out a pressure bandage, not quite closing the distance between them. There was a wariness there that hadn’t been before, almost fear.
Hotch frowned, “Hotch, you can call me Hotch.” He closed his eyes, then opened them again, forcing himself to reach out and take the bandage, wrapping it around his right arm as best he could. He wondered just how much damage he had done, between the cutting and the almost constant reopening of the wound.
Hotch took deep breaths, waiting for the pain to ease a little before he focused on Michael, “Sorry.”
Michael shook his head, and Hotch could feel the frustration and guilt coming from the man. Hotch frowned, “What?”
Michael blinked, confusion edging in to join the other emotions, “Hotch?”
“Something else happened, other than me tearing my stitches and collapsing.” Hotch said. It was there in the way Michael was looking at him.
“You may have projected.” Michael said, and Hotch just stared at the other man, not understanding.
Michel sighed, sitting down next to Hotch, “Up until now, you have always been feeling other people’s emotions, to some degree. When you came in, you were overwhelmed, but unlike previously, when those other emotions overrode your own, you pushed back. You made yourself feel the pain, to keep your connection to your own emotions, but at the same time, you made everyone else feel that pain.”
Hotch stared at Michael for a long moment, half aware that he was shaking his head, “If I could do that, I think it would have happened before now.”
Yates, Foyet, Perotta, all of the others. It would have happened before. If what Michael was saying was true, it would have happened before.
Michael shook his head, “I should have thought of it before. From what you said, you have always been empathic, but you’ve never had a breakdown before. Normally, the people I help, they have just come into their gifts, it’s all an unknown to them, all new.” Michael sighed, finally turning his head to look at Hotch, “I made assumptions that I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.”
Hotch frowned, “What does that mean?”
“The approach I normally use isn’t going to work.” Michael offered Hotch a rueful grin, “But then you’re my first empath, so I should have considered that before.”
“Who are the other people? What were their ‘gifts’?” Hotch asked, turning a little, but keeping up the pressure on the bandage. The bleeding was slowing.
“Telepaths. They’ve been the focus of all of my work over the years. That’s how I met Agent Rossi.” Michael said, “He worked with someone who claimed to be a psychic, who was in fact a telepath. The woman led Agent Rossi’s investigation down the wrong path, because she was just using the police’s own theories.”
Hotch nodded, “He’s mentioned that case.”
Michael smiled, “I got the impression that he holds it up as an example of why psychics can’t be trusted.”
Hotch managed a smile, though the throbbing in his arms was becoming more insistent. “He does.”
“With telepaths, there are ways to block your thoughts.” Michael said, returning to his original subject, “Every member of my staff is trained to block telepaths; if they weren’t, the telepaths who come here wouldn’t be any better off than they were where they came from.”
Hotch winced, “But you can’t block your emotions.”
Michael sighed, “I tried, when I visited you in the house the first time? I was blocking, it took me a while to realise it wasn’t working.”
Hotch shook his head, “I used to be able to,” He searched for a way to explain what he had done, before Yates, “it was like I could reduce other people’s emotions to background noise. Like being in a room full of people, who are all talking, but being able to hear just the one conversation?”
Michael smiled, “That’s what I’ve always taught the telepaths to do, how to focus on the one person, how to block anything out they don’t want to hear.”
“How to be alone in their own head.” Hotch said, closing his eyes. He felt Michael’s stab of regret, but he didn’t say anything. They were both guilty of their own arrogance.
Hotch for believing that nothing would ever happen to break his control. Michael for thinking that his experience with telepaths could be translated into a way to help someone who was empathic.
They had both learned the hard way they were wrong.
-
Hotch spent a week back in the farm, though he was allowed to talk to Jack, using the web camera that had been set up for him. Jack was always happy to see him, but Hotch could tell, even without being able to sense how his son was feeling, that his son wasn’t as happy as he wanted his father to think he was.
Hotch wondered how much his son had learned from him about putting up fronts; about showing people what they wanted, expected to see.
It made his chest ache.
Michael eased Hotch into a few exercises, careful not to overload him with emotional input. No more than three people would be in the farm house with him at any time. Hotch was starting to recognise the different people. It was hard to explain how, though Michael had asked him to; there weren’t any voices to match to a face, just what Hotch could only describe as a ‘taste’.
All three could be feeling the same thing, but Hotch would be able to tell to what degree, and which of the other emotions matched each of them. No one, it seemed, felt the same combination of emotions at any one time.
“What about when you close your eyes?” Michael asked. It was the standard approach now, for Michael to ask Hotch to do something, and then ask what had happened, whether it had made it easier or harder to figure something out.
“When there’s more of you, it’s more overwhelming, but it makes it easier sometimes, to tell which of you is feeling what.” Hotch said, tearing up another piece of tissue. It was the only way he could take out his frustration during their sessions; he would go for a run afterwards.
Hotch hated how much harder he seemed to find it to keep his own emotions in check, though he knew, at the same time, it was because he was savouring them. He needed to feel them, to know he still could.
Yates had left a legacy Hotch wasn’t sure would ever fade.
Michael tapped his finger against the table, “Do you get any impressions, along with the emotions, other than who they belong to?”
Hotch closed his eyes, focusing on the emotions he could tell were Michael’s; he frowned, struggling with how to verbalize what it was he was feeling. That was another thing on his list of things that were making him feel powerless, out of control. Words had always been his main weapon, but when it came to finding the words to explain his ‘gift’ to Michael, he couldn’t find them. “Yes and no.”
Hotch’s shoulders sagged a little, and he felt his control slip a little more. He was exhausted, after a long day of exercises and questions. He had a headache, and so did Michael.
Michael wrote a few more notes, before he nodded, looking up at Hotch, “That’s is for today, we’ll leave you to yourself.” Michael offered Hotch a smile, then gathered his stuff and motioned for the other scientists to follow him back to the barn.
Hotch sighed, burying his face in his hands. He wished he knew what they said about him, what they thought.
More than that, he wished that he could go back, tell JJ to pass the case on to another unit. He could have taken the team to Lawrence. But he knew that he never would have made that decision, not with the information they had had.
Hindsight, the thing you could never really use, because by the time you had it, it was far, far too late.
-
Hotch sat in the field, far enough from the farm that he couldn’t sense any of the scientists clearly, absently scratching at the scabs on his right arm. He was wearing the sweater Garcia had knitted him, not caring about the ragged half-length sleeve, it was more of a comfort than anything else.
Of all the things that had been sent to him, it was the only thing that was of any comfort; other than the letters Jack sent every few days. Hotch could see Reid’s hand in them; just as the sweater reminded him of Garcia, and her endless warmth. He wondered what his son thought of his honorary Uncle Spencer, of the numerous facts that the man had probably been telling a rather bemused Jack.
JJ and Prentiss had been keeping an eye on Jack, Hotch knew, from the brief conversation he had had with Jessica, while Garcia was happy to take Jack for a day ever so often to give his aunt a break. Rossi called every once in a while. Really, it was only Morgan that Hotch hadn’t really heard from.
Hotch sighed; he missed Jack, missed his team, missed home. Missed feeling like a person rather than a science experiment.
Hotch rubbed his temples wearily. Even with the space he had put between himself and the farm, he could still sense them, there was no shutting it off, and when he was honest with himself, he knew Michael’s exercises still weren’t helping enough.
It seemed like an insurmountable challenge, the idea of ever leaving the farm; ever being able to spend time in a city, surrounded by people; surrounded by emotion.
Hotch sat back, resting against the fence, staring at the farm, watching the scientists come and go. They lived in quarters in the loft, during their time on the farm, and he was starting to get to know the full timers. He didn’t hate them, even if they did make him feel more than a little bit like a lab rat.
It was strange, Hotch thought, listening to their stories about the telepaths they had met. As far as he could tell, there had only been a few, and only one whose ‘gift’ could be compared to Hotch’s. They spoke fondly of her.
He wondered if he would ever get to meet her.
All of his life, Hotch had been almost certain that it was just him, that there was no one else like him. No one else who had seemed so aware of how other people were feeling; Haley’s joy had always been her own, his father had never noticed how much his step-mother had been hurting, his brother Sean had never noticed the emotional rift between his parents.
The BAU had been the first place that Hotch had doubted that certainty. It had been there that he had come the closest to finding people like him. It had taken him a little while to accept that they weren’t like him, that he had come so close to finding people who would understand, only to realise that they really wouldn’t.
He had become paranoid at one point, after coming under Ryan’s scrutiny one too many times, that if they had found out what he could do, they would have locked him away.
Hotch closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the tree, focusing on the feeling of bark against his cheek when a sudden flare of triumph reached him from the barn. Someone had clearly had a breakthrough on one of their projects.
As a prosecutor, Hotch had only ever used his empathy to gauge how well he was doing with the jury, how convinced they were of his argument. As a SWAT member, he had used it to gauge where the line was during negotiations, though he had never relied solely on that.
SWAT respected instincts, and he played his empathy that way. If he had tried to play it any other way, he doubted it would have gone down well.
With the BAU, he had spent the first three months using his empathy more than he ever had before, thinking that they would understand. In hindsight, a word that came up so often when he thought of the past, it had been risky.
In the face of Gideon, who seemed to be able to work out exactly how a person was feeling, and Ryan who made wild guesses and often seemed to change his approach on a whim, Hotch had thought it the only way to keep up. Had wondered if they felt things the way he did.
It hadn’t taken him long to see they didn’t. There were times when he hadn’t spoken up, but should have, when one of the senior profilers had taken a risk and lost. He started to notice then, how often other people seemed to manage to trick one another.
There were times when Hotch knew he was the only one who could see though the brilliantly faked emotional responses, but his input was ignored. In the end, Hotch had learned to push his empathy down, to tone it down to the point that it was just another part of his thought process.
He had learned the times when he could get away with using it and the times he couldn’t.
Instinct only had so much use in the BAU; rationale, logical thought was better respected, along with working examples.
He knew that his choice to ignore his ‘gift’ had cost him dearly. Knew that, had he just used it that first time in Boston, when he’d helped interview Foyet, he might never have lost Haley. His son might still have a mother, instead of just a broken father.
He had a lot of regrets, and now, with Yates having stripped him of his long fought for control, he knew he was going to have to face the music.
He couldn’t hide that part of himself from the world anymore. Couldn’t deny it anymore.
-
Hotch was in the middle of a complicated exercise, blindfolded and asked to locate people via their emotions, when he became aware of someone new. Someone he could almost recognise, but whose name he couldn’t place.
He didn’t think it was one of the scientists.
Hotch ignored the flash of irritation he felt from Lanie, one of the more data focused researchers, as he reached up and pulled off the blind fold, turning to face the doorway.
“Dave?”
Rossi smiled, and Hotch felt a familiar sense of affection, stronger than he had ever before. For the first time since he’d woken up at the farm, it didn’t bother him. At that moment, the only thing he could feel with delight at seeing his friend in what felt like months.
Everything that had happened in the hospital still seemed more like a dream than something that had really happened to him. He still wasn’t sure if it was because of the emotional disconnect, or the drugs, but he had decided not to examine it too closely. Those were memories he could stand to do without.
“Aaron, I was wondering if I could steal you away from your new friends.” Rossi eyed the scientists, and Hotch could feel Rossi’s distaste. It was a comfort to know that someone else was just as uncomfortable with their attitude as Hotch was.
He had been starting to feel more and more like a freak, especially on the occasions when he tried to speak to Lanie and the rest of her group. They always seemed happier if they could remain relatively objective, and conversations with the test subject didn’t seem to be something they were willing to explore.
“I could do with a break.” Hotch agreed, already starting across the room. Rossi wouldn’t have been able to visit if Michael hadn’t given him the ok, so the others could just live with whatever results they had gotten from the hour he had already spent with them.
Rossi grinned, “Good, I trust you know somewhere more private for us to go?”
Hotch nodded, taking the lead through the barn and out, heading for the farmhouse.
-
“You’re looking better.” Rossi commented, toying with his mug idly as they sat at the kitchen table, looking out the window at the empty fields. Hotch nodded.
“I’m doing better.” Hotch admitted, eying the contents of his mug for a moment before he looked up at his friend. “I owe you.”
Rossi shook his head, “No you don’t; you would have done the same.”
Hotch smiled; it was nice to know where he stood, and Rossi hadn’t changed. He might be walking on eggshells a little, but Hotch couldn’t exactly blame him.
Rossi sighed, shaking his head and pushing away his mug, “Aaron, as much as I would like to tell you that I just came out to see how you were doing, that isn’t why I came.”
Hotch frowned, gone was the relief that had been Rossi’s main emotion, replaced by frustration and the kind of anger he was used to feeling from Morgan. Politics, Hotch thought, Rossi had to have heard something, something that bothered him, and it had to be something to do with Hotch. It was the only reason that Rossi would have even mentioned it.
Rossi might have most people fooled, but Hotch knew that he was bad a mother hen as any of them. He believed in letting people get better before laying anymore weight on their shoulders.
“I’m guessing whatever it is you’ve heard, I’m not going to like it.” Hotch said.
Rossi sighed, rubbing his forehead before he spoke, “From what I’ve heard, you no longer have a place with the BAU or the FBI. It seems they have another position in mind for you, once you get out of this place.”
Hotch gritted his teeth, aware of his own anger growing to match Rossi’s, “I have no intention of leaving the BAU.”
Rossi’s smile was bitter, “I’m not so sure you’re going to be given a choice.” Rossi sighed, slumping a little, shaking his head, “I’m not sorry, for calling Welles, but don’t doubt I wish there had been something else, another option.”
“If I had any alcohol,” Hotch answered dryly, “I would offer it to you.” He took a breath, “I don’t blame you Dave, if you hadn’t called Welles, I’m sure I’d still be in that hospital.”
Rossi shook his head, reaching to pat Hotch’s hand, not saying a word and Hotch couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he had just exchanged one kind of prison for another.
And he dreaded what that might mean for his family.
-
Epilogue