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masterwords · 9 months

Text

out of these shadows comes the light

Summary: Hotch is particular about getting his hair cut. (autistic!Hotch)

Pairing: Hotch/Haley -> Hotch/Morgan

Words: ~5k

Warnings: implied/referenced past child abuse, violence, self-harm/suicide attempt, internalized ableism, ableism, scars, pain, sex (brief at the end, not explicit), food, divorce...if I missed any please let me know.

Notes: Written because of this ask, and I took it to some pretty intense depths but I love squeezing every single drop out of a backstory every time. I probably could have turned this into a 50k word multi-chapter event, all of the simple ending of getting Derek to cut Hotch's hair. Nothing is ever easy with me. In other news, you can expect updates to each of my on-going big stories this week as I should have a few hours each day to devote to writing for once!

Read under the cut or on AO3 here!

Grace Underwood was a young mother. Maybe too young. Twenty-three, fresh out of college, pregnant by the first man who took her to bed. She’d been a good girl, everyone said. All girls private school led her to an all-women’s university. She should have been saved from all of the worldly temptations.

But then there was Edward Hotchner and his roguish charm. His wild blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes told her lies from the moment they met. Lies and temptation that hid all the regret that would come later.

One night. It started out as one wild night, a frat party at Georgetown that she and her friends were invited to. It was a two and a half hour drive so they got a hotel room and decided to stay the weekend in the city. She never saw the hotel room, only Edward’s dorm. After that it became weekends book-ended with long drives for her (he wasn't allowed at her university and she liked the city), and then they were hot and heavy and she was lost in love. He had plans for his future, big plans. She loved him for them.

But those plans didn’t involve a screaming, crying newborn baby while he was studying for the bar. That had been a surprise, and Edward Hotchner hated surprises. Those plans didn’t involve having a toddler digging through his briefcase with high profile case files and sticky peanut butter fingers. And they certainly didn’t involve late nights with a young boy who couldn’t seem to do anything without it being a production.

He pulled his diaper off and shouted “scratchy!” and “owie!”...brand new expensive disposable diapers, thrown away hardly used. Back to the old cloth and safety pins. He would peel his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches apart, fold up the bread with the jelly side and eat it while discarding the peanut butter side. “Ick!” he would shout, because he didn’t have any other words. He wore the peanut butter but he wouldn’t eat it. Cups of milk spilled on the floor. He liked Cheerios but not Chex. If he could speak he would have told them that the Chex hurt his mouth, the corners of the little squares were sharp and he didn’t like it...Cheerios being round were okay. He didn’t have the words to explain all of that yet, so he pushed his bowl away and shook his head no.

“You’re spoiling him,” Grace’s mother would say to her as she cleaned his little hands. “He should eat what you eat.”

“He won’t.”

“He would if he was hungry enough.”

“He won’t.”

She was right, he wouldn’t. He’d gone an alarming number of days refusing to eat, and it had been enough to frighten even his father who finally pulled down the wheat bread and grape jelly from where they’d hidden it in the cupboard above the fridge, somewhere he couldn’t get to, and threw it at her in a huff. The jar of jelly hit the floor with a thud and a pop, deep purple goo oozing around jagged glass at her feet. “Feed the kid for christ sake, Grace! Look at him!”

“I thought you said…”

“I was wrong, dammit. Feed him before we end up in the hospital.”

Aaron ate just the bread greedily until his father got back from the store with a new jar of jelly. A bag of them. All grape. He’d fill the whole damn cupboard with the stuff if he had to.

The arguments over food ceased when his vocabulary grew. He was precocious, learning new words by sitting outside his father’s office door while he met with clients or spoke on the phone. He would play with his little toys, pretend to run his own office, be the one in charge.

“He needs a haircut,” Edward said one day. “Kid looks like a damn hippie.” Aaron was four and his hair was...long. His mother thought it was gorgeous and she was a little overly sentimental about it, her baby’s hair was a special thing. She’d been content just to let it go. There were occasional trims to keep the unruly ends in check but he seemed to like his hair long. He would play with it sometimes, and if he was anxious she would find that he had it in his mouth. He didn’t just suck on it, he seemed to almost chew on it. She was forever walking by and hooking her finger into the lock against his cheek, sliding it out from between his teeth with a gentle smile. Some part of her already knew that cutting it would prove to be a challenge and she wasn’t sure she was up for it. If his aversions to certain fabrics and foods was any indicator, she was going to be in for a fight to get clippers anywhere near him.

She was right. It was a complete disaster that ended up with him in tears, her in tears and the barber telling them not to come back until the kid had learned some damn manners. His haircut happened but not without it becoming a traumatic endeavor for everyone involved.

The long walk home down the old gravel road was fraught with tumultuous thoughts. What was she going to do now? They lived in a small town, there was only one barber...she would have to try to take him to the city or do it herself if Edward thought he needed another cut. But she looked down and Aaron looked so pleased, walking along at a steady clip beside her, rubbing his hand up and down the back of his head against the freshly shaved hair.

“Do you like it hun?”

“Yes!”

They arrived home to a message on the answering machine. It seemed that the barber had second thoughts about his previous stance on the matter and pleaded with her to bring him back when he needed a trim. He had some ideas. “I mighta pulled his hair some, he had some tangles in there and my clippers weren’t in tip top shape.”

Aaron was apprehensive but he was a gentle boy, quiet and forgiving. He didn’t have any friends and people were pretty averse to him in general – that the barber wanted to have him back was enough for Grace. And Aaron was willing to try again because he hated the way the hair felt tickling the back of his neck when it hit that awkward mid-length, and having it short was sweet relief. He also loved the feel of running his hand up his hair against the grain, it was soothing as it brushed his palm.

“I think you should go, ma’am. Let me to it, just the boys.”

She trusted Ernest Brooks. He was a pillar of the community, so she went next door for a cup of coffee and a dozen donuts. She didn’t need a dozen, not in a million years. But if Aaron was good and he got his haircut without all the fuss of the last time, hell, she’d let him eat his way through the whole damn thing as a treat. Well, most of them...she managed to eat three while she sat anxiously waiting for her son to finish.

Mr. Brooks walked Aaron into the donut shop a half hour later crisp and clean and smiling.

“How did you do it?” she asked, flabbergasted. Yeah, she was going to let him eat every single donut left in the box. All eight of them. (She managed to polish off a fourth without even realizing it.)

“A magician never reveals his secrets. Come see me next time, kid.”

She began bringing him in every six months for a trim. It gave her a free morning, and he and Earnest Brooks began a friendship that she couldn’t quite understand. The man was in his sixties, and more than once Edward wondered aloud with a bottle of whiskey open on his desk what the hell a man that age wanted with his son. It wasn’t enough to make him do anything, he had more important things on his plate than policing his odd son’s friends but it was always in the back of his mind. And if it kept Aaron out of his hair, well, all the better.

For both of them.

They played chess and dominoes with some of the other old men who congregated outside of the barber shop. Aaron was little but he was smart, he caught on quick. Ernest called him peculiar, the little intricacies in the way he did things baffled and amused him. No one used the word autistic, not at that time, but they all knew he was operating just a little different than the other kids who hung around and caused trouble. He didn’t seem to take any interest in what they were doing.

Aaron was always different. He wanted to learn everything he could, he wanted to listen to old war stories, to stories about what his little town looked like long before he was born. He wanted to hang out in the barber shop after school and learn how to shave faces and talk like the men talked.

When he would show up with bruises that he couldn’t (or wouldn’t explain), they knew and were furious but there was nothing they could do except give him a soft place to land. His dad was powerful, he had connections that could put anyone in town out of business. “You come work for me,” Ernest had said when Aaron was thirteen and had started to fall in with the wrong crowd. He’d gone from that sweet boy who knew too much and was particular about his haircuts to a sullen teenager who didn’t know how to tell his friends no. He wouldn’t stand up to them, would go along with everything they said because he so desperately wanted to fit in. The overwhelming need to be part of his peer group had finally taken hold.

The problem was, as he got older, the social dynamics at school almost forced it. In a small town like that, if you didn’t fit in, you were ostracized. He was handsome and he was wealthy, he had all the components and what he lacked he learned quickly to fake. He was able to fake his way through a lot of things. Unfortunately, the more things he had to fake in order to fit in, the more he realized how unpalatable he really was on his own and he suffered for it.

The first time he tried to kill himself, he used a straight razor he’d been given by Mr. Brooks when he started developing facial hair. It was a thoughtful gift, the first blade he bought for his shop. Of course, that caused a lot of problems he hadn’t foreseen, being a child still. Mr. Brooks was treated like an accomplice, like he’d encouraged Aaron and while Aaron was hospitalized in an attempt to fix his brain and make him love being alive again, Mr. Brooks was put through the ringer. When Aaron was released, Mr. Brooks wouldn’t speak to him, wouldn’t let him in the shop anymore. He went from cherished friend to liability.

Aaron, in all his teenage glory, rebelled and began causing more trouble. Where he’d once been tethered, the one place he felt like he’d ever belonged was gone from him now and he was left only with darkness. Despair.

He threw a brick through the barber shop window with some of his friends and ran away before the other kids looted the shop. His dad managed to convince the police that he wasn’t involved in the break in, was there for the broken window but left before anyone went inside. He would be liable for repairing the window, of course, and he’d pay for it himself...right before they sent him to boarding school. It was Mr. Brooks who asked for that, knowing how Aaron was. He still believed the kid had a good heart and he wouldn’t rob his store. The brick was a cry for help, it was a child acting on his anger and abandonment, not an intent to steal from him.

Part of the admittance to the school he was sent to was a buzz cut, military style. Aaron panicked beforehand, and when they clipped the plastic gown tight around his neck and began roughly shifting his head forward and back, clipping and buzzing around his ears, he thought he might really have a heart attack. None of his usual calming tricks helped, he was completely beside himself by the time they finished and shoved him back into the line to move on to the next humiliating experience – getting the uniform. Scratchy wool sweater, stiff canvas and khakis, he was in hell.

But he survived it, and when he came home to finish high school at the local public high school and help his mother with his father’s sickness, he was a changed young man. Probably not better, he still suffered from depression and anxiety but he’d become an expert at hiding in plain sight. No one else would get the drop on him.

Meeting Haley had been a blessing...and a curse. When he found out who she was, who her grandfather was, he almost abandoned his pursuit but he couldn’t. He fell in love with her almost instantly. It was infatuation, pure and simple. He woke up thinking about her voice and went to sleep thinking about her smile. His mother told him to ease up, back off, don’t be so intense but Haley didn’t seem to mind. That was the best part. So he did things a little differently and he behaved in a manner that wasn’t exactly congruent with the way other boys his age did...she liked his little quirks.

The other boys his age were assholes. He was...nice. He was kind and thoughtful and he took care of her. She told her mom that he was like a knight in shining armor. Her mother had concerns but didn’t voice them, she trusted her daughter.

It was Haley and Jessica, both interested in psychology, who brought up the notion that he might be autistic one night over a little too much wine. “It makes sense,” Jess said with an authoritative nod, tipping her glass almost far enough to spill it. Somehow her drunkenness didn’t discredit her statement, not in her sister’s eyes. Aaron and his own wine soaked thoughts scoffed. “You check most of the boxes.”

“I do not.”

“No?”

“Jess stop. It’s okay if he doesn’t want to do this right now.”

“He’s never going to want to, sis…”

“That’s up to him. Go get another bottle!”

He eventually looked it up himself and found that he didn't disagree with their assessments as much as he'd originally thought. He didn't care much for the idea that they read him so well, but the fact that they saw all of him and stuck around was enough. He never sought out a diagnosis, and after an initial weekend spent spiraling his way through endless research papers he was content. One more piece of his mind's puzzle clicked into place. They never brought it up again.

Her grandfather sold the shop and gave her his clippers, told her how Aaron likes his hair cut. They hadn’t spoken in years, not since the brick incident, but he still harbored a soft spot for the gangling kid who had grown into a confident young man.

She did it perfectly, and so did Jess. They joked that it was a Brooks family secret, cutting Aaron Hotchner’s hair. Some families passed down recipes, but not them.

He learned how he liked to have his hair cut, and the brand of suits that fit him in a way that felt comfortable and made him feel good. Not just passable but good. Really good. He found a tailor that would cut his suits a little large so the fabric didn’t bunch in his armpits but made him look fashionable enough.

The BAU gave him an outlet he’d never had before. A place where the way his mind processed information was actually helpful, almost like a superpower in some regards. And he loved feeling that way for once in his life, like he was good at something and he didn’t need to pretend so much.

But it pulled him from the safety of his little world with Haley further and further. He developed a deep friendship with Derek Morgan, someone who he never would have imagined in a million years would want to do anything more than punch him in the nose. Steal his lunch money. (And maybe he still did want to do both of those things, friends or not.) He looked at Derek and saw everyone who had ever tried to bully him in that confident way he strode around, but when he got to know him...really know him...he realized that he wasn’t the only person masking. Who pretended to be something they weren’t to make themselves more palatable or to fit people’s perceptions of who they should be. It shifted his perspective about a lot of people, and made him almost cling to Derek.

During his suspension, Haley cut his hair. It had been a while, he’d been playing around with letting it get a little longer, just keeping it trimmed around the nape of his neck but he was tired of that look and something about being able to run his palm over the short fuzzy hair was something he was almost craving. He felt like he’d lose it entirely the longer he went without it. The idea of leaving the BAU, transferring to save his marriage, Gideon going radio silent instead of communicating with him during their joint suspension...he was already on the verge. Barely maintaining so he didn’t frighten Jack with his outbursts. So she shaved his hair short and he smiled more and she was able to believe for a little while longer that their marriage was not a sinking ship.

But he couldn’t manage it. The BAU was pulling him back, and the phone call...the phone call that he’d known was coming...it was too much. He couldn’t cling to her anymore, she’d betrayed him. What else could it be but another man?

Failing to see the irony in the situation, he left her for another man too. Derek called and begged him to come help them, they were drowning and Strauss was killing them all. He couldn’t see another choice. If his transfer hadn’t been put through yet, he was in dereliction of duty. That would be damning to his future...Haley had to see that, right? He wouldn’t get his transfer if he didn’t do his job. That thought spun around like a top in his mind until he felt sick and dizzy. It didn’t matter anyway. In a way, he figured she made the decision for him. Because what was she going to do with this other guy once he transferred? In his experience, once you go down that path you don’t just come back.

And when Haley left him, it was Derek that he confided in. Alone in his big house, neat and tidy, he cried. He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat. For days he existed on nothing but coffee from the office. It wasn’t even that he wasn’t hungry, it was just that he kind of forgot that he needed to stop what he was doing and make time to eat. It seemed unimportant. Fell off his radar entirely.

Derek noticed, though. “Let’s go to lunch. You look like shit.”

“You said you didn’t want to hang out with me. That you just needed me to lead this team.” The sarcasm, which should have been obvious, came laced with a deep sadness that made Derek ache. Did he say that? To Hotch? Who takes everything just a little too literally?

“That’s not how I meant it. Don’t look for reasons to be mad at me, I’m on your side. Now come on, I’m buying.”

Lunch became a standing thing, when they were at Quantico. And when that reached its threshold, it became weekly dinner dates that sort of turned into casual sleepovers. Hotch discovered that he loved to wake up beside Derek, the feel of soft stubble coming in on his usually slick head. On days off he would smile sweetly and ask Derek to put off shaving for a few extra hours so he could enjoy it.

And Derek never called him weird for it. Sometimes he got a little irritated and wanted to shave his head and be on with it, but he was kind. Hotch’s job was stressful, his life had more or less fallen apart, and if he wanted to rub Derek’s head for a little while in bed or on the couch while they watched the morning news and drank their coffee...there were worse things.

Hotch made an appointment with Dave’s barber when he needed his first haircut after Haley left. Dave insisted his guy was the best. A true artist.

It was an unmitigated disaster. The man talked too much and expected responses out of Hotch that were unreasonable in their depth. All Aaron wanted was to sit in silence and have his hair cut. The barber tucked that gown so tight around Aaron’s neck he thought he might choke. Every time he swallowed he could feel it pull tight against his adam’s apple and it made him feel sick.

The worst of it was that though though he brushed the tiny cut hairs off of the back of his neck to clean him up, in the end he only really brushed them down into Aaron’s shirt.

He felt like there were tiny needles in his suit all day. He was miserable and grouchy. He snapped at everyone. It was apparent he was in distress when he even snapped at Garcia.

The next haircut was done begrudgingly by Jessica, just because she couldn’t stand to see him looking so miserable. She came to his apartment, used the clippers Haley had left for him and managed it in exactly the way her grandfather had. He hadn’t felt so good in weeks. He felt confident, felt like himself. And as much as she was certain she was going to find it awkward to be cooped up in his apartment after the divorce...she found it to be the opposite.

So she did it again for him, and again. She was good at it and she did enjoy their short visits. Like old times. She missed him.

But after Foyet, he didn’t want her to see him like that. He couldn’t bear it. And maybe she couldn’t either.

He needed a haircut, he needed it badly. He was maintaining the stubble on his chin with an electric shaver just barely but he knew he’d only mess up his hair so he let it grow. Emily mentioned how long it was getting, told him he was starting to look like a hippie.

Derek liked it, the way it was soft when he was so full of sharp edges now. He was in pain day and night, hardly spoke two words for hours at a time, lost completely in his head or Foyet’s files. The wounds had healed on the outside but the internal damage would take months, and he couldn’t hide it at home.

“Let me cut your hair,” Derek said one night when he noticed Aaron brushing it angrily out of his eyes while he worked through a consult on the dining room table. He didn’t even look up.

“What? No. It’s fine.”

“It is not, and Jessica says you’re particular about it but I think I can handle it.”

“She says I’m particular?” He didn’t like the way that sounded. Maybe he was being overly sensitive but he supposed he was allowed to be a little, in some ways. He was reminded of their joke, that cutting his hair was their family secret. It made him feel like a sideshow suddenly when it never had before.

“She does. You disagree?”

“No. I don’t...it’s just...that’s a little rude don’t you think?”

“She didn’t say it like it was wrong, man, chill out. I just mentioned that you’ve been acting like you wanted a haircut and she said she could show me how you like it done because you’re particular.”

It didn’t sound any different than before but he knew he was prone to being angry now, almost looking for a reason to fight. He didn’t seem to be able to cool down anymore. Every day was a battle against his temper, and his angry inner voice had started to sound an awful lot like his father. But Derek was the last person he wanted to fight with. Derek was the only person he wanted anywhere near him.

“Okay. You can try.”

“Your confidence in me is encouraging.”

Aaron finally looked up at him, really looked at him. “I’m not particular on purpose, Derek. I try not to be.”

“I know. I shave my head every damn day, and I do a good job. I think I can manage.”

He did ask Jessica for some pointers though, while Aaron went out for a morning run to clear his head and blow off some excess energy before allowing Derek to touch his hair. It seemed like a good start. Running was slow and painful, a humiliating experience at times when he had to stop and lean against a tree or sit down on a park bench to catch his breath. The searing pain in his chest was unbearable and he couldn’t tell if that was panic setting in over the idea of Derek cutting his hair and seeing him that way, or if it was Foyet.

It didn’t matter. The pain was there and he had to embrace it, move with it, live with it. He ran home just as fast as he’d started and found his entire dining room set up like a barber shop. His clippers were sitting out beside a towel and Derek had turned The White Album on at a moderate volume, even though he couldn’t stand it. The sound was just enough to drown out the din of the clippers but not enough to be overwhelming.

“You ready?” Derek asked, watching Aaron slip his shoes off at the door and kick them to the side. He looked more on edge than when he left, and when he walked toward the kitchen for his post-run glass of water, he held his palm flat against his sternum like he was holding it in place. “Aaron?”

“I need a minute.”

“Something happen out there?”

“No. I just need a minute.”

Derek knew him well enough now that he didn’t ask him to explain. I need a minute usually just meant he needed to sort himself out, and with his glass of water he headed toward the bedroom to do exactly that. It only took a few minutes before he was coming back down the hall not looking much better but it seemed to be enough. Derek knew he had ways of mitigating things when he got overwhelmed, some of them were healthier than others but he tried not to be too vocal about the ones that he thought seemed harmful. Aaron was a grown man, he knew what he was doing. The look in his eye was changed from wild to something akin to calm. He ran his thumb over the edges of his fingernails as he approached and forced a smile.

“Sorry about that.”

“All good baby. Have a seat, let’s get this goin’. I’m not sure how much more of this album I can take.”

He started by running his fingers through Aaron’s hair. Up the back, over the top, scratching gently at the scalp until Aaron’s muscles seemed to relax. He liked that. He’d always liked his hair being played with. When he finally began cutting, he was gentle. His hand led the way, dancing through the hair with clippers following in hot pursuit. No tangles would meet the blades that way. By the time it was over, Aaron was nearly in a trance. They hadn’t said one single word.

“Shower,” Derek whispered, kissing him on the tip of the ear first and then down his cheek. “Now.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. There was a towel around his neck but it didn’t stop all of the renegade bits of hair from settling against his skin. Derek started there, washing the back of his neck first, taking care to remove every little stray hair he could before running his soapy hands over Aaron’s freshly cut hair. Aaron was not only relaxed for the first time in over a week, he was relaxed enough that he let Derek’s kisses turn him on in a way he couldn’t even imagine enjoying again after being under Foyet.

His chest still ached but it wasn’t so bad with Derek’s lips dusting wet new scars, wasn’t so bad with the shower rinsing away the last of the soap and leaving him feeling fresh and clean. His skin tingled and there seemed to be showers of sparks left behind each one of Derek’s kisses.

“I’ll be gentle,” Derek promised and Aaron could only smile.

“Don’t be,” he purred, gripping Derek’s shoulders tight. “Please.”

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #hotchgan #criminal minds #autistic aaron hotchner #mind the warnings!#fanfiction

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masterwords · 9 months

Text

probably lucky i'm alive

Summary: Derek drives Hotch home from New York (coda to 4x01 - Mayhem) and their car breaks down. It's a comedy of errors but they make the best of it.

Pairings: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 10.5k

Warnings: concussion, bomb mentions, death mention, grief, vomit...Hotch is a whole mess. It's all canon based so if you know the episode you probably have an idea what to expect. Except you know, Hotch is actually hurt in a more realistic way after having a car explode in his face so he is suffering.

Notes: Another Mayhem story. Yep! You're welcome. I think this is my favorite one to date, if that tells you anything. Thank you all for putting up with me! (I wrote this for the "only one bed" prompt for Day 5 of @criminalmindsweek but it took me forever and totally got away from me. They do have to share one bed it just takes 10k words to get there.)

Read on AO3: probably lucky i'm alive

Steam or smoke, that’s the game his mom used to play when her car would go on the fritz. If it’s steam, she’ll make it. Her car will be toast but she’ll probably get to her destination. If it’s smoke, she has to pull over right away before it’s in flames. They went through a lot of beaters when Derek was little, it was more economical for his parents to drop $250 on a new car that would limp them through a few months to a year than to fix problems that would arise on any of them. Fixing anything would have been more than most of the cars were worth.

After his father died, they just started taking the bus for a long time. They didn’t have to play the game with the city bus.

Derek hasn’t ever had to play that game with any of his cars. He’s made damn sure of it. But now he’s playing it with a government issue SUV that should be in tip top shape. He’s playing it on a long road trip back home after a really bad case, a road trip that really just needed to go smoothly. He glances at the dash, checks for indicator lights, checks the engine temperature and the oil pressure. Nothing is indicating that it’s an immediate thing, not yet. The car’s precious sensors haven’t registered what the problem is.

Hotch is asleep in the passenger seat. He’s been asleep since they crossed the New Jersey state line. They’d been talking, just awkward small talk that felt forced until he sort of went quiet. Got a faraway look on his face and then let his eyes drift closed. Derek was glad for it. They’d never had trouble talking before, hell they were practically inseparable from the moment they met but the last few weeks things have been challenging and it came to an explosive climax in New York. Derek thought driving him home might fix it. Or at least put them on the right path.

The trajectory they were currently maintaining was not supportable long term. Something had to give.

After a little too long convincing himself that it’s definitely steam and it’s disappearing, it’s fine, he’s absolutely certain that what is coming out from beneath the hood in fine little tendrils is in fact smoke. And those fine little tendrils are taking on more substance as the miles tick by. There’s no shoulder to pull over on, not here, so he angles the SUV toward the next exit and tries to get them to a safe place to pull over before the engine erupts in flames.

After the night they had, this is about the worst thing he can think of to happen.

“Smoke,” Hotch mumbles, shifting in his seat. He hasn’t even opened his eyes yet but the smell has permeated the vehicle now. “Is that smoke?”

“Yeah, hold tight I’m finding a spot to pull over. Dammit.”

The last thing Hotch needs to see after last night is another SUV in flames and Derek is right, the minute the other man registers what is happening his entire body goes rigid. He’s doing his best not to show it and maybe if it were anyone but Derek they might not see it right away it but he knows better. He knows Hotch better.

“It’s all good, man,” he says in as calm a voice as he can muster when he knows he’s pulling them off of the highway in the middle of nowhere. It’s not really the middle of nowhere, they’re just in that stretch of no man’s land between townships, a place where cell reception is weak at best because you don’t stop here you zip right on through. Unless your SUV starts billowing smoke and making creaking, popping and hissing noises. Hotch squeezes his eyes shut and Derek worries that he’s on the verge of a panic attack but he quickly pulls himself back out of it and looks straight ahead. Trains his eyes on the horizon. There are a few sparse patches of trees among an endless sea of cropped green grass, buildings off in the distance but nothing nearby.

“That doesn’t look good.” Hotch deadpans it, but Derek can hear a little tremor in his voice. He manages to angle the vehicle off the road enough not to be a burden but he can’t justify driving it any further, they’re dangerously close to seeing flames. He can feel the heat against his knees. It would be just his luck to have it erupt while they were both still in it. Lucifer’s poetic justice.

“Yeah, okay it’s not good but we’re fine. She’s overheating. Probably a coolant thing. I’ll take a look as soon as it’s safe, just relax okay?”

Easier said than done. Hotch is watching the smoke curl out from the seams and the smell of it is making him sick to his stomach, taking him back to the night before. To standing on the street watching his vehicle burn. Derek puts his hand on Hotch’s shoulder, a reassuring weight, and squeezes.

“Really. It’s just the engine being a shit head. Nothing to worry about. Worst case scenario we call a tow truck and hitch a ride somewhere to wait.”

Hotch doesn’t move beneath the weight of Derek’s hand, and for a beat too long Derek leaves it there. “Come on, let’s hop out huh? I’m gonna pop the hood and let it air out, see if I can get a feel for it.”

“Do you know anything about this engine?” Hotch has his doubts, but ultimately he does trust that Derek won’t make it worse anyway. A smoking engine seems about as bad as it can get, at least with the vehicle still in one piece.

“I know my way around under the hood.” He smirks a little and catches Hotch doing the same, a brief but welcome change in mood.

He can tell where the problem is, and has a pretty good idea of what needs to happen, but he also knows he can’t fix it. They need a few parts and a lot more experience than he has tinkering around with broken old cars. Maybe if it was a Ford Pinto with carburetor troubles, he could manage it. A faulty alternator? Or a broken muffler that needs a patch job. He became his mother’s personal home mechanic at a young age, helping her limp her broken cars along until payday after his father’s death. Becoming the man of the house at 10 came with a steep learning curve, but as he pops this hood and the smoke obscures the world around him he can only cough and shake his head. Whatever is causing this much upheaval is beyond his limited mechanical abilities. These vehicles are all computerized, he’s

Hotch coughs and covers his nose and mouth with his forearm, turning away from the acrid smell before he really does get sick. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Derek poke around, hiss as the oil cap burns his fingertips and step back. He massages his aching shoulder and sighs.

“Gotta call for a tow. This old girl is toast.”

Hotch’s phone is broken.

Not just broken. Obliterated. It had been in his pocket during the blast and shattered on impact, he’s got a slice on his upper thigh from the broken screen. Derek pulls his out and frowns.

“Of course. No service. I’m gonna take a little walk, shouldn’t be too far. Just sit tight.” Derek starts walking right away, doesn’t even wait for Hotch’s response but he can hear uneven footsteps behind him. Limping, he’s limping and he won’t stop. “Hotch. Come on. Just wait here.”

Hotch scowls and it looks a little scarier with all the bruises and cuts on his face. Derek stops long enough just to lock eyes with him. “The last time you disappeared you drove an ambulance rigged to explode into Central Park.”

“Ahh, very funny. Good one. Thought I was gonna have to wait a year for you to pull that one outta your pocket. Feel better now?”

Hotch smirks and limps behind Derek for a few more steps, not exactly keeping up but moving away from the still smoking vehicle. He’d like to put a little distance between the SUV and his body.

“Hotch. Stay with the car, dammit.”

“No.”

“Hotch. You can barely walk. I’m just gonna go until I’ve got enough service to call for a tow truck, I’ll be right back. Just rest okay?” He no longer sounds sharp or authoritative, just pleading. He’s worried, there’s no hiding it now. Acute acoustic trauma and shrapnel in his leg. There’s no way that’s all of it, Derek can see it plain as day. “You need to take it easy.”

It’s true, he can barely walk. But he suspects Derek can see something that looks dangerously like PTSD in him when he looks back at the smoke plume emerging from beneath the hood of the SUV. And that changes Derek’s mind, he realizes why Hotch wants to move away from it. He can’t fault him for that. Derek doesn’t want to smell smoke right now either. They’ve both had their fill of vehicles and fire.

“Okay, man. You can come with. It’s not like we have anywhere we gotta be. Just tell me if you need to take a rest or something okay? I don’t know how far we’ll have to go to get a signal and you look like shit.”

Hotch won’t say a word. He’ll just limp along with his lips set in a grim line, forcing one foot in front of another no matter how badly it hurts. The further they go the slower he walks, and Derek is checking his phone almost obsessively, willing that stupid little triangle to fill with bars so they can stop. So Hotch will rest.

They talk about nothing. Just bullshitting. Hotch can’t hear very well, his ears are ringing and his head is pounding but he keeps up the best he can. It’s nice, he thinks, being alone with Derek when there isn’t anything really on the line. They’re easing back into that comfortable space again.

“Remember when our car broke down in buttfuck Idaho?” Derek asks, slowing his pace a little. He’s conscious about which side of Hotch he walks on, makes sure he’s near the good ear. The less bad ear, maybe. The one that isn’t crusted with flecks of dried blood. The one that Hotch doesn’t reach up and cover every time a car whizzes by on the interstate nearby. “On that huge stretch of nothing highway?”

“It was 98 degrees,” Hotch says quietly. “But it felt like 150 out on that blacktop. I remember thinking the soles of my shoes were going to melt before we got help.”

“It’s always you and me. Been on a hundred road trips with Reid, never a problem. A few with Em, with Jayj, even Rossi. But you and me? It’s like disaster follows us. My blisters were out of control.”

“Mine too. My socks were full of blood. Dress shoes and socks are not ideal for July in hell.”

“I’m not sure any shoes would have been ideal. That was a nightmare.”

It’s not hot now, the walk is almost pleasant. They’re walking on a stretch of road that butts up to an expanse of green, maybe grass, maybe something else. It’s autumn but the leaves haven’t started changing much yet. There’s a crisp breeze that keeps them comfortable while they walk, it’s nice and keeps them comfortable. Derek keeps checking his phone obsessively, every step he expects he’s moved into a sweet spot. It finally happens about ten minutes in and he stops abruptly.

“Got some bars, I’m gonna get us a tow truck. Pop a squat, man.”

Hotch listens this time. He lowers himself down into the cool grass in the shade of a small tree and leans his back against the trunk. It does feel good to take the weight off of his sore leg. The shrapnel tore through his shin and his knee is swollen, he isn’t even sure why. Maybe if he’d let the doctor really check him over he might not be so surprised when a new pain rears its ugly head...but it doesn’t matter. If he had let the hospital continue checking him out, they would all have died. For once his impatience with doctors, at hospitals, at all of it paid off. His stubborn refusal to play by their rules saved lives.

He doesn’t fancy himself a martyr, he didn’t do it for him, but the unexpected kickback wasn’t so bad.

“Okay. Half hour. We got time to hoof it back to no man’s land even at your snail’s pace.” Derek extends a hand and helps Hotch back to his feet, noticing the way he favors his knee. His entire left leg, really. It seems to be getting worse. “You good to walk back or you need another minute?”

“I’m okay.”

“You sure? I can piggy back you.”

“I’m fine Derek.”

Derek isn’t surprised to hear Hotch say that, he expected nothing else. If Hotch ever owned up to really feeling like shit, he would know they were all doomed. He could read the vocal inflections, though. There were certain tonal changes that he could detect easily, the words were superfluous at best.

“Good,” Derek says, but he starts them out at a slower clip and Hotch notices but says nothing. He appreciates the more leisurely pace. They’re really starting to find their way back now and it’s an easy, comfortable thing. He’s missed this comfort. Adrian Bale’s bomb blasted it to pieces and they never really bothered to put it back together, just mended what they could quickly and let the rest settle where it lay. Hotch didn’t realize until now how badly he really needed this, Derek’s friendship, this closeness. Someone who knows him intimately and more importantly doesn’t take his shit.

“Hey. I’m sorry about Joyner,” Derek says to break the silence. It’s on both of their minds and Derek doesn’t want Hotch thinking that he’s glad she’s dead, or that he isn’t busted up about it. She died on his watch and he’s feeling the weight of it. He’s responsible, culpable. At least in his own mind. They might have had some friction but she was a good Agent and he hated the way everything went down. That she probably died thinking he was a hot head, an asshole. “How well did you really know her?” He heard Emily and JJ talking of course, he’d heard it all but he wants to hear it from Hotch’s mouth. He wants to get Hotch talking, make him open up before he suffocates.

“She came over and worked in Atlanta during the 1996 Summer Olympics when she was with Scotland Yard,” Hotch says, slowing his pace a little. He’s worn out. Pain is exhausting. “She was young and eager, we share a lot of the same traits.” His head is swimming and his chest feels tight. He realizes he just referred to her both in past and present tense and there’s a squeezing sensation as his heart thumps that he doesn’t like. “I was a new recruit with the Bureau and volunteered for some security detail, it seemed like an interesting assignment and would pad my resume. I joined later than most people do, I guess I wanted to make up for lost time. We met at that time and became friendly. When I joined the BAU she called me for a consult on a serial killer she had in London, they didn’t have the resources on behavioral science that we did. I wrote her a letter of recommendation when she decided she wanted to join the FBI not long after.”

“Did you keep in touch?”

“Not well. Haley admitted that she was threatened by my friendship with Kate, so out of respect for her I didn’t pursue it. I wouldn’t have…”

“I know. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“I think I do. I heard the way Prentiss and JJ were talking about Kate and I. And after the way things happened in New York, how the two of you...I owe you an explanation.”

“Nah. It’s good. Really. I never thought you slept with her, not if you were married to Haley. Now...whether you wanted to or not...well that’s none of my business, but I didn’t think you actually did.”

“Maybe an apology, then.”

“Yeah, I’d take an apology…” Derek smiles. He’s not sure he deserves to get one any more than he needs to give one, he thinks everything kind of came out in the wash. But if it’ll make Hotch feel better to offer it, he won’t turn it down. He’d been so angry. He could still feel the last embers of that fire in his belly, the way Hotch looked at him and told him to take a walk, told him it wasn’t his place...yeah an apology didn’t sound half bad.

“An apology then. I’m sorry, Derek. I should have been more open with you. Kate pulled me aside when we arrived and told me that they had their eye on you, that her job was on the line.”

Derek nods and picks up the pace when he sees that there’s a car pulled over beside theirs and someone looking in the windows. The road is deserted, there’s no reason for anyone to be out here unless they were broken down. He didn’t expect anyone to stop and couldn’t remember if he bothered to lock the vehicle. Wouldn’t that just be his luck? Break down on the side of the road and abandon a government vehicle full of case files and other sensitive materials with easy access. Like a big neon sign saying come rob me.

“Hang back a sec,” Derek says, and Hotch grunts his displeasure at being coddled.

“Derek, I’m perfectly capable of...”

“Dammit Hotch. Just listen to me for once okay?” He might be a little too sensitive, but after the case they just put a pin in he’s not sure he trusts anyone that isn’t on his immediate team. The world is fucked and he’s just trying to get them home safely. It feels like things are spinning wildly out of control, a car bomb, the ambulance, their SUV breaking down and now this guy wants to poke around in their business? He’s about to go off and he doesn’t even know what the guy is doing yet.

Derek’s hand is on his weapon as he approaches. He’s an open guy, loves to smile and make friends, but now is not the time. He might be feeling a little over protective of Hotch, and maybe that’s not even warranted but he’s going to listen to his gut right now and remain on alert.

“Saw the car pulled over, thought someone might need help…” The guy smiles, but his body language isn’t friendly. The way he stands tall feels like an attempt at intimidation.

“We’re good buddy. Already got a tow truck on the way. Thanks for checking.”

The man takes a step forward and stares Derek down. Even from his vantage point Hotch knows this is trouble – messing with Derek right now is bound to get messy. “How do I know this is your vehicle?”

Hotch’s head swims and his knees start to buckle. He stands there, comes completely still and he curses his body for its terrible timing. It takes this moment to turn on him? The smell of smoke still emanating from the car doesn’t help, it’s taking him back to a moment in time he’d rather forget. He plants his feet and considers reaching for his weapon too but for the time being, he listens to Derek. The sound of his voice. He’s still in control of the situation. The SUV is full of confidential documents, full of weapons, full of things this man shouldn’t see and he has no idea if he’s been picking through it. Derek is wracking his brain and for the life of him can’t remember if he locked the SUV before they left.

“It’s mine and that’s all you need to know. Back off.”

Derek and the other man are bristling now, too close for comfort. Derek produces the key fob and clicks it, flashing the lights on and then off with a sarcastic smile. Of course, it occurs to him a moment too late that now he’s clicked it he’ll never know if it was locked or unlocked when the interloper arrived. “See?”

“That don’t prove a thing. You coulda found those keys on the side of the road.”

Hotch is about two seconds from being sick all over the ground, and on sheer will alone he manages to produce his FBI credentials before he goes limping toward the two of them. His knees are about to buckle but he’s going to fix this situation without violence first. He’s in no condition to jump into a fist fight, let alone draw his weapon, but there will be no choice if the man goes after Derek.

“This vehicle is ours, sir. There’s a tow truck on the way to help us. I appreciate your concern but it’s under control.”

The man leers at Hotch, and then at his badge, and back at him skeptically. He’s a whole mess of a man with scrapes and bruises on his face, favoring one leg heavily, he looks like the kind of guy who broke out of a hospital. He wouldn’t be hard to take, and Hotch can see him calculating the risk while he studies the credentials. “We’ve got everthing under control.” Hotch repeats himself, a little more firm, rising up to his full height against the angry protest of broken ribs. Recognition flashes in the man’s features, he believes Hotch now. He looks like FBI, there’s not a question in the man’s mind as he takes in the suit and tie, the severity of his set features.

He hesitates though, one last flash of indecision. The items in the vehicle are tempting, whatever they are. And he wants to fight Derek, he wants to do that badly, maybe for no other reason than he doesn’t like his smug face. Still, he gets into his vehicle and drives off without another word, at least not another that either of them can hear. Derek rifles through their things, makes sure nothing is missing while Hotch collapses in the passenger seat with his head in his hands willing the lightheaded feeling and the intense screaming pain in his skull to pass. They never said he had a concussion but he’s no stranger to that, he knows exactly what it feels like.

“You locked it,” Hotch says quietly through his fingers, not looking up.

“You sure?”

Hotch doesn’t want to say why he’s sure, but his body knows he heard that sound. Every part of his body is certain. He felt it in his teeth. “I’m sure.”

Derek pops his head up from the file box in the back and studies Hotch curiously, like he’s putting it together somehow. PTSD. The letters float around and bash into one another in his head, they flash like a neon sign. Hotch is suffering and he doesn’t know how to help him, not out here. Maybe not at all. “You good?”

“I’m okay.”

“Does it ever occur to you not to lie?” Derek asks, sitting down on the edge of the bumper when he’s satisfied everything is intact. The SUV tilts his direction briefly and stabilizes. Hotch lets out a strangled laugh that makes his chest hurt. It would never occur to anyone but Derek to ask him a question like that. They might think it, but no one would ever say it. Not even Dave, he would just raise an eyebrow in that silent judgmental way he has but he wouldn’t make a peep. Derek blurts it out and damn the consequences.

“In my experience, it’s better this way.” He pauses and smirks. “Don’t profile that.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He’s already doing it. There’s no way around it. But he smiles and shrugs like it’s nothing important, like everything is casual and cool.

It’s closer to an hour by the time the tow truck finally shows up and Hotch is reclined in the passenger seat with his arm thrown over his eyes, sick to his stomach. The smell of smoke has permeated everything and he can’t get far enough away, it’s in his clothes now. His best bet has become simply not moving, instead focusing on breathing in and out through his mouth. Moving makes his head swim, makes his brain feel like its come dislodged. They’d been talking at first, but after a while Derek quieted down, like he thought Hotch might get some sleep if he just left him alone. When the driver arrives, Derek catches him before he even gets halfway to the SUV. They go through the paperwork together at the end of the tow truck, far enough away that their voices don’t carry all the way to the SUV. He knows Hotch isn’t asleep but operating under the guise that he’s helping in some way makes him feel better about the situation they have found themselves in.

“Hey,” Derek says, tapping Hotch gently on the shoulder. “He’s about to hook us up then we’re outta here.”

“Thanks.” Hotch doesn’t move until the SUV rocks beneath him and the sound of metal grating against metal fills the air. With one hand pressed against a sudden pulsing in his forehead, Hotch falls out of the side of the car and stumbles away as quickly as his legs will carry him. He’s aware that it probably looks funny, like Igor lurching through Dr. Frankenstein’s castle, but he can’t get away from the sound fast enough. Every scrape and bang makes his skull feel like it’s coming apart at the seams.

“Hotch?”

He raises his hand, tries to keep Derek back. He doesn’t want to be touched right now, he doesn’t want anyone near him. He walks away faster and leans against a tree, breath heaving angrily in his chest. It’s getting hard to pull in enough and he’s aware of just how close he is to passing out. His vision has narrowed to a pinpoint.

“He okay?” the driver asks, thumbing in the direction of Hotch when Derek walks back. He’s concerned, rattled, but he’s got to mask that and pretend like it’s fine. Just get them out of there. That’s his only objective, get them the hell off the side of the road. His only consolation through all of this is that he’s glad it’s him and not Agent Davis out here with Hotch. She’ll be glad when he tells her about it, too. Tells her how she dodged a bullet.

“Oh, uh yeah. Rough night. You know how it is.”

The driver chuckles and shakes his head like he gets it. Like it was a night of hard partying. Derek is content to let him think it’s as simple as a hangover. He wishes it was just a hangover. That this could be fixed with some Tylenol and hashbrowns.

“You guys need a ride somewhere or you got someone coming for ya?”

“If you got one,” Derek says with a smile. “We’ll take it.” He sprints over to where Hotch is hugging the tree for dear life and grabs him, practically pulling him toward the truck. “Guy thinks you’re rocking a wicked hangover. Just go with it.”

Hotch nods, or tries to anyway but the movement is too much so it’s stunted and he stops, miserably resting his forehead against Derek’s shoulder for a moment. He leans heavily on Derek while they walk, willing his body not to give out on him, not here on the side of the road, not in front of a perfect stranger. Doesn’t have much choice though, if it’s going to it’s going to and that’s just how it goes. He’s about out of energy to control the way things go.

In the truck, Derek slides into the middle seat and lets Hotch take the window. He rests his head against the cool glass and closes his eyes, hands clasped in his lap. Giving some kind of an image that he’s got it together, that he’s not a dead man walking. As the day wears on, he becomes more and more aware that there is more wrong with him than he’s been willing to admit or explore. All he wants is a bed and a few hours of sleep, convinced that will fix the worst of it.

The engine is too loud and Hotch instantly feels sick when the pain strikes. He can’t get away from it, he’s trapped in the truck and the sound is a hot knife picking around in his brain. The driver smiles and turns the radio on, unaware of Hotch’s plight. He’s not going to say anything. “There’s a little motel next to the truck stop a few miles up ahead. They can fix your car up at the mechanic shop a little further down, you boys can stay the night at the motel if you need to and there’s a greasy spoon right there too. One stop shop.”

“Good deal, man. Thanks for coming out. You’re a lifesaver.”

It’s hard to rest in someone else’s vehicle. They’ve seen too much. Derek does his best to form a sort of human shield between the driver and Hotch, just in case anything gets weird. Hotch is vulnerable and it’s just radiating off of him, he can’t hide it anymore. It’s going to be pretty obvious it’s more than just a hangover soon and no Derek doesn’t exactly think the tow truck driver is a serial killer but he’s still on edge. It’s in his nature to be suspicious.

So, he talks. He strikes up every conversation with the driver he can think of until they arrive at the mechanic shop. It’s an hour before they get there, and he’s not sure if Hotch slept a wink but he didn’t say one single word the whole time. He was just lost inside of his head, willing the pain to settle, willing his body not to give out entirely before he has somewhere to crash.

The mechanic shop is small, derelict vehicles practically piled up all around it. Half junkyard, half mechanic from the looks of it and the land it sits on stretches as far back as the eye can see. It doesn’t instill confidence in Derek that the mechanic shop is surrounded by acres of junked cars and trucks but he doesn’t have much choice. “You saw the motel we passed? It’s nothin’ special but they got beds.”

“I did,” Derek says, not giving it much thought. They can just call someone back at Quantico for a ride but he’s not going to say that. The guy has been more than helpful, he’s been kind, he had great taste in music. Derek found himself enjoying the ride when he could stop himself from worrying about Hotch for a minute or two.

“Hope it don’t take them too long to fix you boys up. Feel better, buddy. Get you some gatorade and some greasy food. They got biscuits and gravy over there that’ll cure anything.”

Hotch doesn’t think either of those things will fix his problems but he thanks the man anyway. What he really needs is a bed and a week long nap. He’s starting to feel completely detached from his life. Like he’s just out here bumping into things, un-tethered, and everything hurts.

While the mechanic checks out the vehicle, runs a complete diagnostic, Derek calls Penelope. He knows he should probably call Strauss first, or Rossi maybe but he calls Penelope because he’s about as anxious as he can possibly be and he needs to hear her voice. She’s been sending him a barrage of texts all morning, most of which he isn’t even seeing until right now because he’s been in and out of service.

“I can try to send a car but it’ll be about 6 hours before they can be there,” she says. “They’re all being used right now. That is if Strauss even approves it. She’s going to throw a fit about you guys breaking this car after what happened last night.”

“Yeah, like any of that last night was our fault. Plus we didn’t break this car, we didn’t do anything but drive it.”

“Be that as it may, sunshine, light of my life, she’s going to blow a gasket. Much like your vehicle. Do you want me to try and get someone up there? Or if you don’t mind waiting I can drive up when I finish here...”

“Six hours?” he asks, frustrated. “Nah. I don’t want you driving all the way up here like that and I don’t think Hotch will fit in your car anyway. We’ll just stay the night, drive this car back if they can get her road ready or figure something else out tomorrow. I don’t think Hotch is up for any more excitement. He’s dead on his feet, I just need to get him somewhere quiet and leave him be.”

“That bad?”

“I think the sound of the tow truck hooking up our SUV almost killed him. He’s a wreck.”

It’s a slow walk to the motel, and Derek is avoiding telling Hotch that there isn’t anyone coming to get them. Right now Hotch just thinks they’re going to find somewhere to sit, maybe grab a bite to eat and wait it out. He’s got to find a way to break it to him that they’re stranded. The way Hotch is walking, it’s doubtful he’ll mind much when met with the alternative: a bed. Right here. The motel looks quiet enough, nothing fancy but it’ll have a bed and a shower and by the looks of it, blackout curtains. It all seems like a recipe for sleep if he can get Hotch there without a fight. He doesn’t look he has any left in him.

“Is someone coming to pick us up?” Hotch asks.

“Nah. It was gonna be like 6 hours at best, then we got 4 more hours in the car. Garcia offered to drive up when she’s off work but I figure we just stay the night here and get back on the road in the morning, that guy said it should be an easy fix, at least enough to get us home in one piece.”

Hotch isn’t keen on the motel thing and the “one piece” bit doesn’t instill him with confidence, but Derek does make a good point about waiting until morning. He’s beat and as much as he’d like to tell Derek he’s fine, that excuse wore itself out hours ago.

The motel room has pink floral comforters and turquoise carpets. It’s an eyesore. The blankets are scratchy and thin, and the rooms smell like cigarette smoke but Derek was right, the blackout curtains covered a multitude of sins. They could sleep the afternoon and the night away if they so desired. They were able to splurge with their per diem and each get their own room, adjoined by a thin door just in case. Derek insists that the door remain unlocked, just in case. Strength in numbers. He’s really just laser focused on the fact that Hotch isn’t as okay as he wants everyone to believe.

“You hungry? There’s a greasy spoon attached...I could go for a burger and fries. We can try to blow your hangover away.”

Hotch forces a smirk at that and nods. He is hungry, and the last meal he ate was long enough ago that he couldn’t remember exactly when or what it was. And if he eats then he can take the percocet the doctor so kindly prescribed. That should have been a dead giveaway that his body was a complete mess if the doctor, who barely had a chance to look him over, would prescribe such big guns.

The diner is small, only a few booths scattered inside of a dark room. The roar of the semi-truck engines outside the window echoes in Hotch’s head and he rests his head on his hand, covering his painful ear carefully. Trying to be casual about it so he doesn’t alarm Derek. The man has been making too much fuss today. Touching it hurts but that’s less than when sound enters therefore better.

“What happened in the ambulance?” Hotch asks, sliding a fry absentmindedly through his ketchup. He wasn’t as hungry when he sat down as he thought so he stuck with a turkey sandwich and a side of fries. A safe bet. Derek talks on the third pass through the red glob, waiting for Hotch to finally put the damn thing in his mouth instead of playing with it.

“Garcia blocked the cell signal with her crazy magic just long enough for me to get the ambulance away from people. I jumped out and booked it out of there just before the thing went up. Don’t think I’ve ever run so fast in my life. You know those stories about the moms lifting cars off of their kids to save their lives? It felt like that. An out of body kind of thing I guess. I jumped and rolled and somehow got right to my feet and just ran like fuckin’ Forest Gump. Wish you coulda seen it.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Nah, I’m alright. A little sore but it’s all good. This is what I work out for, right? I got far enough away before it went up.” He pauses and sips his water, willing Hotch to just eat the damn fry. The poor thing is about ready to break off and sink into the ketchup like it was quicksand. “You would have died, Hotch.”

“What?”

“I know you were gonna do it and there is no way you would have gotten away from it in time. You can barely walk. As soon as we realized what was going on, I knew you were gonna try to drive it outta there and everyone would have let you. Hell, you drove it in, you already knew the thing, and you’re Hotch. Right? They all think you can’t get hurt, you’re invincible, nothing happens to Hotch. No one would have argued with you.”

“You would have.”

“You’re damn right I would have, but you know what happens then? We die arguing. Everyone dies. The arguments we get into get pretty epic. No time for that, man. I had to stop it before it got to that. If you want, we can go at it now.”

“I don’t.” He finally bites into the fry and Derek grins like he’s just won a prize.

“Not even a little? Come on...I know you’ve got something to say...”

“You already win.”

Yeah, Derek thinks. Hotch is in bad shape. Not even willing to argue.

Derek wants to say something else, something helpful or positive, he’s not sure exactly what but he’ll wing it...his phone buzzes just before he has a chance to open his mouth. Hotch takes the opportunity to drag himself out of the booth and limp toward the hostess stand to pay the tab. Derek sighs and glances down at his phone, not overly interested in answering it but it’s Spencer and he can’t let that just go to voicemail. He’d feel awful. Spencer has been sending him texts all day too, worried and kind of desperate ones.

“Are you okay?” he asks, clearly agitated when Derek picks up. He doesn’t even start with hello. His voice is a high-pitch whine in Derek’s ear. “Garcia told me your car broke down. I can come get you. Just tell me where you are.”

“It’s fine kid. We got this little roadside motel we’re gonna shack up in and our car should be good by morning. I think Hotch is glad not to be in a car. He probably needed another day of rest before travel.”

“Well a car did just blow up in his face. How is he anyway?”

Derek sighs and watches Hotch move slowly toward the restroom. He’s limping hard on his left leg, using the backs of the booths for support when there isn’t anyone sitting there.

“Not good. He won’t say anything of course, but he’s in bad shape.”

“Watch for signs of PTSD.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s a little early, but I’m looking.”

“What about you? Are you okay?”

“Yeah kid, I’m fine. Got some bumps and bruises, found some grass and twigs in my boxers when I went to bed last night...looked like I got into a fight with Sasquatch or something but I’m good.”

“You guys are too much alike.”

“No, I’m serious. I’m okay. I got away from the thing before it exploded, ran like hell. I tumbled a little in the grass and breathed in some smoke but I’m good. Promise.”

Reid keeps him on the phone a little longer, and Derek is pretty sure he’s being profiled through their conversation but he lets it happen anyway. If it makes Reid feel better to do it, he won’t argue. He’s not hiding anything.

They walk back to the motel in amiable silence, hardly any space between them on the stretch of broken sidewalk between the diner and their rooms. At almost timed intervals, Hotch seems to dip, like his knee is giving out on him and Derek twitches, ready to reach out and catch him if he goes down. It’s not a fun game to play.

It’s hardly late afternoon, way too early for bed in Derek’s book but Hotch looks beat so he doesn’t argue about retiring in the daylight even if it makes him feel like a geezer. “What’s your plan?” he asks, fitting his key in the lock. Hotch takes a minute, fumbling with his own key and shrugs.

“A shower and sleep.”

“Yeah, shower does sound good. I can still smell the smoke on my clothes.”

Hotch nods and hopes that Derek won’t look too far into that himself, it’ll just make him come through that door that adjoins their rooms every half hour to check on him. He’s doing everything he can to avoid Derek’s scrutiny. It’s all well-meaning, he’s not doing it for work, he’s doing it because he cares but Hotch isn’t ready to address anything except the immediate pain in his head and the smell of smoke on his clothes. And even then, he’s willing only to do that in private.

“You get a hankerin’ for pie or something later, give me a shout okay? Doesn’t look like there’s much nightlife here but we could watch a movie or something.”

“Sure.”

Derek is in the shower before anything else. The minute his door is shut he’s throwing his bag on the bed and turning on the hot water. He’s not worried about anything other than just washing off the day. The smell of smoke and motor oil are pungent enough to make him gag if he thinks about it too long. Getting under the spray of water and forgetting, relaxing, is all he wants. Hotch is as safe as he can be tucked into his hotel room, and Derek can hear him on the other side of the thin wall moving around.

The hot water rushes over his sore shoulder and he rotates it, loosening angry muscles. No clicking. He’s not hurt, not badly, just sore. Exactly like he said.

At his feet, soap suds collect near the drain in little cloud mountains. The drain is slow and the tub is collecting a little more water than he’d prefer. As he stares down at the suds, he pushes his toes through them and over the drain cover to see if there is something obscuring it. His toe touches something with a lot more substance than bubbles and as he pulls his foot back, it moves. He tells himself that it’s just his mind playing tricks on him. There’s nothing there.

But then it moves again and he takes a step back so he can bend over and get a better look. That was a mistake. He realizes it once he’s hunched over, catches a glimpse of something like a worm swish in the water and beady eyes blinking up at him, calm and collected. It’s a mouse, and it’s in the damn shower with him. He takes another step back but this one is hastier and he doesn’t pay attention to anything, his eyes are locked on the mouse.

He hears the snap before he feels the metal slicing his heel, scraping and pulling at the taut skin. A mouse trap, he’s just stepped on a mouse trap and now he’s crashing to the ground more out of surprise than pain. As he lands with a deafening thud, he does the only thing he can think to do. The only thing he’s ever thought to do in situations like this since joining the BAU.

It comes out so naturally it never occurs to him not to.

“HOTCH! HOTCH!”

He wishes he hadn’t done it immediately. Hotch is hurt, he doesn’t need this shit, but it’s done and he can already hear the door that adjoins their rooms flying open. It’s too late. All he can think to do is throw his hands over his dick, hide what he can before Hotch is in the bathroom and throwing the curtain back.

His gun is aimed right at Derek, right at his junk. “Woah, woah, hey,” Derek says automatically, turning away from the gun like that’ll do any good.

“What is it?!” Hotch asks, lowering his weapon, glancing frantically around the room to catch a sight of what could have scared Derek so badly. For a second he wonders whether he actually heard anything or if his mind was playing tricks on him. The thought chills him to the bone. If he’s just broken in on Derek in the middle of a shower for no reason…

“Sorry man, I’m sorry...there’s a damn mouse...I panicked…”

Hotch sees the twitch in the bubbles, sees the tail and reaches for it. His hand snaps forward, fingers pinching through soap suds and he comes up with the mouse dangling in his grip. The thing seems so calm and collected it doesn’t even flip around in his hand, it just hangs there. His lips twitch at the corners and he smiles, turning toward the door to walk it outside. Catch and release. Though he has his doubts about how long it’ll stay outside. A few minutes, maybe.

Derek’s chest heaves and he grunts, trying to sit himself upright with some dignity. There’s a mouse trap digging into his back dangerously close to his ass and he’s not exactly thrilled with this situation. Hotch comes back in once he’s gotten out and wrapped a towel around his waist.

“You’re bleeding.” There is blood on the floor behind Derek’s foot and he glances down at it, craning his neck to see the damage.

“The trap snapped my heel.”

Hotch waits for more, an explanation, a wild story, but he gets nothing. Derek is still on edge, staring at the tub like it might sprout legs and start walking around.

“There are traps in my room too,” Hotch offers finally. “I didn’t see any mice, but I called the front desk. They have an exterminator coming tomorrow.”

“They couldn’t say anything when we checked in huh?”

Hotch shrugs and leans against the counter for support. He’s been getting dizzy spells all day but they’re coming more frequently now. “She said she’ll comp our rooms.”

“This is fucked.”

Derek can’t believe how unbothered Hotch is over this entire ordeal. Before he has a chance to ask why he’s so calm about it, he hears a scraping sound behind him and looks back to find a mouse slipping down the sloped wall of the tub. “I can’t sleep here.”

“You can stay in my room. Strength in numbers.”

Then it hits him. The way Hotch stands with his hand planted against the counter, the way he sways a little on his feet, he’s taken his percocet. He’s half cocked on pain meds. The thought makes Derek laugh, and feel both jealous and guilty all at once. He was ready to zonk out in bed when Derek shrieked his name and even in the state he’s currently in...he came running. Damn that big softy, Derek thinks. He’s kind of cute in his slacks and t-shirt though.

“You sure?”

“Get your bag. Hurry up.”

Hotch’s room looks lived in. Torn apart. The blankets are pulled entirely off the bed and left in a heap at the foot, chair on top of the desk, the furniture pulled away from the walls where he could get it. It looks like Axl Rose and a bottle of top shelf whiskey got paid to do the housekeeping. Derek has to laugh at the absurdity. “You checked for mice huh?”

“There’s a trap beside the trash can, saw it right away.” His words slur just the smallest amount, and Derek detects a hint of the south in the accent that slides with it. “No mice. So far.” What Hotch doesn’t say, what he only implies, is that he’d planned to be passed out before any of them made an appearance. Out of sight out of mind.

“I’d say I’ll take the floor but that is not happening. We’re getting cozy.”

“Be my guest.”

Hotch falls asleep almost immediately. Derek finds the remote and clicks around aimlessly through channels, stopping for a while on jewelry infomercials and spaghetti westerns that hold his interest only mildly. Every so often he glances over at Hotch who looks almost peaceful with his head cradled in his arms against the thin pillow. He’s curled up beneath the papery sheets and the scratchy comforter like it’s the most comfortable nest in the world and Derek finds himself more than a little frustrated and jealous. He’s buzzing, he won’t be sleeping a wink, which really doesn’t work because he’s got to drive in the morning as long as their car is ready to go. No way Hotch is in any condition to get behind the wheel.

He’s certain he won’t sleep but eventually it does happen, he nods off while he’s still sitting up and watching a Jackie Chan movie marathon. His chin tucks into his chest and he leans slightly to the side as his eyes slip shut.

They sleep for hours while the world continues buzzing right outside. The late afternoon sun gives way to a deep orange blaze of sunset that melts like a popsicle on hot cement as it drips in beneath their blackout curtains. Derek is lost in some kind of fiery dream he’ll barely remember when he hears a thud and a whimper beside him. His first thought is mouse, huge fucking mutant mouse and his eyes shoot open.

“Hotch?” he asks, patting the empty place on the bed beside him when he realizes he’s alone. “Hotch where are you?”

He can hear it before his eyes adjust, Hotch dragging himself along the turquoise carpet miserably toward the bathroom while he gags, trying to fight off the sick. Derek leans over the edge of the bed and squints, watching the shadow of his friend move and then the bathroom door closes and he’s on the outside listening to it.

Hotch sounds miserable. There’s no hiding it, no pretending it’s anything but what it is. Derek knows that Hotch has a concussion and with that comes a slew of symptoms that neither of them has done a very good job of managing or even acknowledging.

When he comes back, he’s on his feet but just barely. Derek pretends he didn’t see him crawling, pretends he hasn’t spent the last fifteen minutes listening to him getting sick. His instinct is to once again ask if he’s okay, but that’s a pretty stupid question at this point and all he’ll get for his trouble is a lie.

“Rumble in the Bronx…” Hotch rasps through his raw throat, all but collapsing on his side of the bed. “Haley’s sister Jessica loves this movie.”

“It’s a classic.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t recommend you for the job,” Hotch says on the verge of tears, completely out of the blue. One minute it’s Jackie Chan, the next it’s a sob fest. Derek can’t keep up no matter how hard he tries. Hotch’s head hurts worse than it has all day, like someone is pulling his skull apart with a crowbar. There is no relief except what little he can do to distract himself, and sleep isn’t going to do the trick. Not now. So he’s going to try talking. “I should have. It was childish.”

“What was childish?”

“I didn’t want you to leave. It was never about Kate. I just don’t want to lose you…”

“Lose me?” Derek asks, his heart leaping into his throat. He’s a little concerned that this sudden outpouring of emotion means something is terribly wrong so he mutes the television and turns to focus on Hotch half-expecting to watch him having a stroke or something equally terrifying. But he just looks normal. Drained, half-lidded eyes sensitive to the small amount of sunlight seeping into the room but nothing alarming. “Hotch, all I ever do is fight with you. You’re gonna miss me being a pain in your ass?”

Hotch nods and lets his half-lidded eyes slip closed. He can tell Derek wants to argue, wants him to bristle a little. He wants to see that he’s okay but his head is splitting and he doesn’t have the energy to keep up with that. It’s an abrupt change of course, avoiding the inevitable argument and he just barely manages it. “Do you remember the room we got in Idaho? When someone finally found us out on that highway and gave us a ride to town?”

“Do I ever. That place was worse than this one. The water ran brown and there were cockroaches everywhere. They were in the fuckin’ fridge.”

“I’ll take mice over cockroaches,” Hotch whispers, pressing his face into the pillow. The pressure on his forehead feels almost soothing. “Your feet had to hurt as bad as mine, but you walked down to that gas station and bought bottles of water and a bag of ice and that styrofoam cooler so we could soak our feet in water that wasn’t brown.”

“Nothing ever felt as good as that ice. I’ve never had sex that felt better and I’ve had some good damn sex.”

Hotch smiles a little wistfully while his stomach knots. “We used the whole box of bandaids in my go-bag.”

“My feet never hurt so bad in my life.”

“Me neither. Derek,” Hotch says, rolling on his side. It takes all of his strength to make his body move that way and the pressure change in his head is instant and furious. He takes a couple calculated breaths before he’s able to continue. He just has to say this...it’s important and getting the words out might just kill him, he’s starting to get that panicky feeling that comes with the knowledge that the injury he’s been ignoring for days might be more serious than he wanted to admit. Either that or his mind is shot to shit. He has no idea. It could just be panic, it could be the sound of the trucks outside putting him on edge. He can barely tell up from down anymore. “I don’t want to let you go. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You keep saying that you’re gonna lose me…isn’t it up to me if I even go? Who says I want that job anyway?”

Hotch looks up at him and offers him a sad little smile. The tears in his eyes might be from the swell of emotion or the intensity of the pain in his head, he’s not sure at this point. “I would be lost without you. Everyone thinks I can’t be hurt, you said it yourself. They all have this idea that I’m invincible, and I am only able to be that way because you’re beside me. Look what happens when…”

“None of this happened because of anything you did. You know that.”

“Maybe if my judgment hadn’t been so clouded, if I hadn’t been so focused on Kate keeping her job I would have seen what was happening sooner.”

“None of us saw it. This isn’t on you. We’re a team and we failed collectively.”

It’s not within Hotch to believe something like that, not when everything stacks up in his favor. But Derek is trying to cheer him up and he’s not in any shape to mope around, he’s got bigger problems than etching what-ifs into his conscious. He’s got a splitting headache and all he wants to do is sleep it off, his eyes are practically closing of their own accord now. It’s probably the worst concussion he’s ever had and that’s saying a lot, he’s had some real winners.

“Are we cool?” Derek asks, tossing the remote onto his nightstand. Hotch doesn’t have an opportunity to answer before two mice come darting out from beneath their bed at the sound and Derek nearly jumps out of his skin. He slides quickly to the center of the bed, crashing into Hotch’s prone form and Hotch can’t help but let out a small laugh. He thinks it’s kind of cute the way this big strong man who can face down the biggest monsters humanity has to offer is terrified of these tiny little creatures. Slowly he drags himself upright and rests his aching back against the headboard.

“There’s one on my side too,” he adds, figuring Derek will want to know that. He saw it when he fell out of bed and dragged himself to the toilet. There’s at least one mouse between them and the bathroom and that seems like a pretty big deal now that Derek is practically clinging to him. “They have us surrounded.”

“I’m never sleeping. It’s all I can hear. I can’t close my eyes.”

“You should have stayed a little closer to the ambulance when it exploded, your hearing could be ruined like mine. I don’t hear anything, and even if I did the headache makes it impossible to think about anything else.”

Derek makes a sarcastic ha-ha-ha and leans against Hotch. They’re cool, he knows it now. Whatever weirdness had settled between them was gone now. “You remember how we passed the night in Idaho?”

Hotch gives Derek that little smile that only shows some of his teeth, it’s a little devious and not many people get to see it. Derek likes to think that this smile belongs to him. “I might need a refresher. Head injury and all.”

“Oh. Yeah. Head injury...you gonna milk that all night?”

He really wants Derek to kiss him right now. It’s all he can think about, the only thought rattling around inside his skull. It bypasses the circuits of pain and takes center stage. After everything he’s done and said, after everything with Kate, he can’t be the one to reach out and make that first move. It’ll be too much.

Derek knows it too. He knows it and he wants it, but he’s having a little fun teasing. He leans forward, pressing their foreheads together and whispers something Hotch can feel against his lips but he can’t hear. And Derek knows damn well he can’t hear it above the high-pitch ringing in his ears. Asshole. Hotch swallows hard and decides he’s going to take the bait, whether he heard what Derek said or not.

He’s right there. No space between them, nothing else to do with this moment. He’s got a bruised jaw and a split lip, a headache that’s bordering on emergency level pain even for him...what he really needs is another painkiller and some sleep but what he wants is Derek and at this point he thinks he’s made that pretty damn clear.

Derek gets to it before Hotch decides to. The contact is soft and sweet, a little hesitant until he feels Hotch move with him, hears the small strangled sound in the back of his throat that tells him all he needs to know. He’s gentle, hand cupping Hotch’s jaw, his lower lip sliding between teeth, all breath and heartbeat and Hotch can feel the warmth spreading down the length of his spine. He’s trying to play it cool but Derek can sense it, the way Hotch presses harder into the touch. Like it’s inconceivable that Derek could let him go, could break the connection. He presses into it like it’s giving him sustenance.

“Ringing a bell?” Derek asks between kisses, one hand sliding down Hotch’s arm, gripping his wrist, pulling him in. Hotch hums and nods, smiling into the litany of small kisses that he hopes are leading to something bigger, deeper, something that’ll erase every memory and every sensation that isn’t Derek.

“Getting there…”

Derek is content to spend all night reminding him of that time in Idaho, a time when everything was simpler. Hotch and Haley hadn’t been married yet, they’d decided to take some time apart before taking the plunge. Carefree time to explore what else was out there, just in case...and Hotch found Derek out there and that was good, so good, but too complicated. He isn’t sure it isn’t still too complicated. It’s probably worse now, he’s got an ex-wife and a child and more responsibility...but he’s also got a newfound appreciation for how quickly it can all be taken from you, too. He lost Kate and nearly died himself the night before, and if that isn’t enough to tell him how fast things change he’s not sure he’ll ever learn that lesson. Derek is here right now and his kisses are just as intoxicating now as they ever were, and he’s pretty sure that the New York job will remain unfilled for the time being...so, complicated or not, it’s a chance worth taking.

They’re content to continue this slow, quiet reintroduction to their past while ignoring the mice that skitter around in their carpet. In the morning they’ll call Penelope and ask her to send them a car and a driver, neither of them will be in any condition to drive...instead, they’ll sit in the back seat and sleep all the way back home.

And after that? Who knows. They’re not going to make plans, they’ll just wait and see. Things change pretty damn fast.

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #hotchgan #criminal minds #fanfiction #another mayhem story?#more likely than you think #mind the warnings!#tw: vomit #tw: concussion #tw: explosion aftermath #hurt/comfort #criminal minds week 2023 #day 5: only one bed

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