An Imitation of a Light - Part Eight
Aug. 25th, 2011 12:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
weaselettAn Imitation of a Light
Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
cm_bigbang
See the header here for full details.
Chapter specific warnings: violence, suicide, self harm and some foul language.
The sight of Yates pointing his service weapon at Hotch’s head was the last thing Rossi had wanted to see. There was a part of him that thought Yates wouldn’t pull the trigger; after all the man had already killed someone that way. Yates didn’t do repeats.
The thought didn’t help him though, as he stared at the gun, Yates’ finger poised on the trigger. The safety was off, if Yates’ squeezed the trigger that would be it; a point blank shot to the head. Few people survived that.
“You don’t need to do this.” Rossi said, edging a little closer, stepping into the house, holstering his own gun. There were others covering Yates, the loss of one wouldn’t make much difference in the grand scheme of things.
Rossi glanced at Hotch, who barely seemed to be aware of what was happening; that worried Rossi more than anything else. In all the years he’d known Hotch, in all the years they’d worked together, he had never seen his friend so out of it.
Yates didn’t react, didn’t move, just stared at Rossi. The gun didn’t even waver.
“If you surrender now, we can sort something out.” Rossi said, using the standard opening gambit. It rarely worked, but it was always worth a try. “I understand why you did it, he killed your family. A lot of people will understand.”
Yates’ eyes narrowed, “They’ll claim to understand. I know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work.”
“What am I trying to do?” Rossi asked, keeping his voice steady, reasonable. He took a single step closer, slowly, not daring to break eye contact with Yates.
Yates smiled, a bitter twisted thing, and Hotch swayed a little, confusion flashing across his face for just a moment before the glazed look returned. Blood dripped from Hotch’s hands onto the floor. The carpet was slowly turning a deep red.
Rossi frowned, his eyes dropping to Hotch for a split second, just as Yates moved, pressing the muzzle of the gun against Hotch’s temple.
“Did you figure it out?” Yates asked, and Rossi didn’t need to ask what the other man was talking about. The position of the gun told him all he needed to know.
“Your wife lost her mother, when she was a child. She was murdered by the same man who murdered Carolina Hotchner.” Rossi said, repeating what Garcia had told them.
Yates growled, “He saw him,” The gun jabbed into Hotch’s temple again as Yates’ spoke, adding emphasis, “could have stopped the bastard before he killed again. But he didn’t.” Yates wasn’t looking at Rossi anymore, and he took the chance to move forward again.
“That isn’t the only reason though, is it?” Rossi asked, and Yates’ turned, his eyes a little wild, the gun wavering, as it was almost aimed at Rossi; and that was exactly what Rossi wanted to happen.
“What?” Yates spat.
“You weren’t there.” Rossi didn’t repeat himself; he just kept going. Kept attacking.
Yates was frowning, muscles in his jaw working. Rossi knew when he was hitting a sore point, he’d done it so many times over the years, knew exactly what buttons he needed to press, just from the different reactions to different statements.
“You were meant to be there weren’t you?” Rossi asked, and Yates recoiled, the gun shifting. It wasn’t aimed at Hotch anymore, but it was still too close to his head. Rossi kept going, ignoring a hissed curse from Morgan. “They would still be alive you’d been there, that’s what you keep thinking isn’t it?”
Yates pointed the gun at Rossi, but his hand was shaking. Yates didn’t say anything, just glared. Rossi willed Hotch to move, to get out of the way, but the other man didn’t move. Hotch just knelt there, swaying ever so slightly.
“None of this is going to bring them back, or make you feel any less guilty. Killing him won’t bring Mary or her mother back.” Rossi said.
“You think I don’t know that?” Yates asked, his voice soft, dangerous. “You think I don’t know that I can’t change the past? All I can do is try to make things right, even the score. Punish those who should have been punished.”
Rossi could see where Yates was headed, and it was the last place he wanted. “You don’t need to do this Yates. It’s over.”
Yates’ eyes narrowed, then he smiled again, the same bitter smile as before, “Yes I do.” Yates lifted the gun, and Rossi watched mutely, “This way, I get to go on my own terms.” With that, Yates pulled the trigger.
-
Reid trailed behind the others as they rushed into the room. He watched as Emily cleared Yates’ gun, avoiding the gore as she moved around his body. Rossi knelt beside Hotch as Morgan vanished further into the house, checking for signs of anyone else.
Gregory and Innes hung back. There was nothing for them to do; it was over. Yates was dead; there would be no more victims. The case was closed, the unsub dead.
All Reid could think about was the fact that Hotch hadn’t even flinched when Yates had shot himself, hadn’t reacted to the gun being jabbed into his temple. Had barely even blinked since they’d arrived.
Reid moved closer to Rossi and Hotch, watching as Rossi tried to get Hotch to focus on him.
“Hotch.” Rossi said, tapping the other man on his unmarred cheek, “Aaron.”
Hotch didn’t react, and Reid swallowed back worry. It was natural, after the day Hotch must have had, to withdraw, anything else and Reid would have been more worried; or so he told himself. He didn’t think about how Hotch had been after killing Foyet, after spending ten minutes cradling his dead wife’s body in his arms.
Hotch hadn’t shut down then.
Rossi gave up trying to gain Hotch’s attention, turning instead to the rope that was wrapped around Hotch’s wrists. It was caked with blood, and Reid could see the edge of the raw wounds beneath it. Hotch had struggled, at some point, enough to make the rope dig into his skin all of the way around his wrists. If it had just been caused by Yates’ pulling him along, Reid thought, it would have just been on the one side.
“There’s an ambulance on its way.” Emily said as she moved to stand beside him, her gaze fixed on Hotch. Reid nodded, reaching for his phone, and tugging it out of from under the edge of his Kevlar vest.
Emily turned to him, eyebrows raised, “I’m going to call Garcia.”
Emily frowned, glancing at Hotch before she met Reid’s gaze again. He knew what she was thinking, had thought the same thing for a moment, but Garcia would want to know; deserved to know they had found Hotch, and he was still alive. Not unharmed, but alive.
“I’ll call JJ.” Emily said, pulling out her own phone and edging over to the patio door again.
Reid sighed, dialling Garcia’s number, his gaze on Hotch as he willed the ambulance to get there faster. All he could think about, as Garcia demanded an update, was the blood stained carpet and Hotch’s blank expression.
Yates might be dead, but Reid wasn’t so sure that he hadn’t claimed one more victim than any of them would be willing to consider.
-
JJ offered Morgan a faint smile as he stood, surrendering his chair to her as she joined them in the hospital waiting room. It had been two hours since Yates’ death, an hour and a half since Hotch had been wheeled off on a gurney to have his wounds tended.
JJ eyed each of her team mates in turn, from Morgan, who was pacing the room, to Reid who was settled into the corner, hands clasped together between his knees. She didn’t know what had happened exactly, just the basic facts that Prentiss had given her, and the few things the locals had mentioned.
She had, however, seen the entirety of Yates’ basement; she had even asked one of the crime scene techs to walk her through it, giving a rough timeline. There had been layers of blood in some places, in others the blood had just been obviously old, or very recent.
“They haven’t ID’d the body we found in the basement yet,” JJ said, wanting to break the silence. Better to think about the case then just sit around thinking the worst. “But Deputy Innes told me they’ve identified the last victim.”
There was a pause, then Rossi straightened in his chair a little. JJ tried not to stare at his hands, but it was hard, coated in blood as they were. “Who was he?”
“How did they ID him?” Morgan asked, almost at the same time, and JJ watched as the two men exchanged a look.
“His parents reported him missing, and he was known locally, for his drinking.” JJ said, remembering the way Innes had worded it, the slightly bitter edge to the woman’s words. “Lewis Pearson, his parents have a lot of money, apparently.”
Prentiss grimaced, “What about the woman?”
JJ shook her head, “They aren’t certain yet, but they think she’s Sophie Lawson.”
“What was her crime?” Morgan asked, leaning on the wall across from the row of chairs.
JJ sighed, shaking her head again, “It’s not clear, Duncan said that the friend that reported her missing had mentioned that Sophie didn’t always think before she spoke. They’re waiting on the family for a formal ID.”
Prentiss grimaced, and JJ sympathised, she had seen the crime scene photos. Sophie’s death might have been quick, but it hadn’t been pretty. The ME would have to be careful how much of her they showed the family.
“How did it go with the press?” Rossi asked, and JJ fought not to wince. After speaking to Prentiss, she had arranged a brief press conference, with the Sheriff, to give a statement about what had happened. It had been hard, avoiding the leading questions, making sure not to mention any names.
They were keeping the identity of the killer secret for the time being. A cop turned killer never looked good, though JJ was sure that once the press got hold of more details they would find a way to turn it around.
There would be headlines about the detective punishing sinners, and the details of how his tragic loss had driven him on a mission. JJ just hoped that no mention of Hotch ever made it into the papers.
There would be enough to deal with, without that.
“Why Hotch?” JJ bit her lip, mentally cursing herself for asking the question out loud. She knew, from the comments Prentiss had made, and the way Garcia had spoken, during the brief conversation they had had following the press conference, that they had finally figured that much out.
Silence reigned for a few minutes before Rossi shifted his weight, reaching out to press his hand against her wrist, “Because Yates saw himself in Hotch, only Hotch managed to save his kid.”
“And?” JJ asked, knowing there was something else. They had found Hotch and Yates far too quickly for there not to have been something more.
“Mary Yates, her mother was killed by man who murdered Carolina Hotchner.” Morgan answered, “Yates knew, and he took Hotch to the house his mother died in.”
JJ frowned, “The house Hotch’s mother died in?”
Morgan nodded, and Reid shifted his weight, sticking his legs out in front of him. Prentiss rubbed her forehead and Rossi glanced towards the closed door again, as though willing a doctor to appear and force an end to the conversation.
“It’s empty?” JJ tried again. She wanted, needed, to understand as much about what had happened as possible. She had no interest in just forgetting it, in just accepting that Yates was dead.
Rossi sighed, “According to Garcia, Hotch’s father never sold the house. Hotch inherited it after his father died, and it was rented until recently. It’s been empty for the past year.”
JJ opened her mouth; wanting to ask why Hotch still owned the house his mother had died in, then stopped herself. She had the answers she needed. Everything else could wait.
JJ sat back, tilting her head back, exhausted suddenly. It had been days since she had last gotten a full night’s sleep, but she’d had a reason to keep going, to stay awake. Now, with Yates dead, and Hotch being looking after by trained medical personnel, JJ found herself drifting off.
Someone would wake her when there was news.
-
Rossi was the only one still awake by the time the Doctor came with news. He had given up his chair to Morgan, knowing that it was the only way to stop the man from pacing a hole in the floor.
“Aaron Hotchner?” The doctor asked, not seeming too sure that she was in the right place.
Rossi offered her a smile, nodding, “That would us.”
The doctor hesitated, and Rossi sighed, fishing his badge from his pocket and showing it to her.
“Hotchner’s our boss, and I’m the next of kin on all of his forms.” Rossi knew, because Hotch had asked him after Foyet. With Haley gone, Hotch had decided that it was better to list one of the team on his forms than any of his family. Hotch hadn’t wanted to burden them, should anything happen.
Rossi hadn’t been impressed with that perspective at the time, but he had to admit, as he watched the doctor eye his badge then glance at her paperwork, it made things easier.
JJ had just woken when the doctor walked the last few steps to bring herself level with them, flipped the file open. “Mister,” she paused, gaze flicking to Rossi, then back to the file, “Agent Hotchner is stable, though he’s lost a lot of blood, and taken quite a beating. We also have concerns about the drugs we found in his system. There is evidence of prolonged exposure, and his kidneys aren’t looking too good, that means we can’t give him a lot of the drugs that we normally would. We’re going to watch, see if his levels even out, then we’ll review his situation.”
“But he’s stable?” Reid asked, making the doctor start. She hadn’t realised he was awake.
“For now, until we get the results back exactly what drugs are in Agent Hotchner’s system, we can’t say for certain.” The doctor answered.
Rossi glanced at the others, who were all awake, the doctor’s voice having woken them out of their sleep. “Can we see him?” Rossi asked after a long moment, and the doctor hesitated for a moment before she nodded.
“You can go in one at a time, for no more than five minutes each.” She told them, her voice firm, “And don’t expect him to wake up anytime soon. Between the blood loss, shock and the drugs, it’s a wonder he was awake at all when he was brought in.”
-
None of them speak after they’ve had their allotted time in Hotch’s room, they just group together in the waiting room, waiting for Rossi to return. He had chosen to go in last, letting the others go in first while he stayed in his chair.
Prentiss sighed, pressing her hand against her forehead, aware of how much her neck hurt. They all needed sleep, then they would have to talk to the locals, finish up their part of the investigation. There was paperwork to be done, reports to be filed.
Prentiss sighed again, lowering her hand and titling her head back, ignoring the noise Morgan made. “What are we going to do?” The case was over; she didn’t have to focus on the job anymore. She could fall apart if she really wanted to, or at least let her feelings show.
“We call Jessica, let her know that we have Hotch. Then we talk to the doctors, see if he can be moved. If he can’t, we make arrangements, if he can, we make arrangements.” JJ listed off, worrying at the edges of her phone’s outer casing as she stared at the doorway.
“Arrangements?” Morgan asked, and JJ nodded.
“Accommodation if he has to stay here, transport and hospital admission if he can move.” The way JJ said it, Prentiss got the impression JJ had had to do all of that more often than any of them really considered. She’d known that JJ arranged a lot of the things they needed, that she filled out a lot of the paperwork, almost as much as Hotch did, but it was easy to forget how much JJ really did.
Prentiss reached out, covering JJ’s hand with her own, and squeezing hard, just as a weary looking Rossi appeared, closely followed by a stern looking nurse.
“Hotel.” Rossi said, motioning for them to stand and move. He didn’t say anything else as he herded them out of the hospital, only speaking when they reached the hotel, ordering them all to sleep, and to make any phone calls they felt they needed to.
That Morgan pulled out his phone and hit his speed dial to Garcia was no surprise.
-
It was a week before the doctors allowed Hotch to be moved. He hadn’t shown any signs of waking up, and Rossi knows that the others find his stillness unnerving.
The Hotch they knew has been blown up, beaten, and stabbed, and every time he had kept going. Rossi knows he is the only one to have ever see Hotch fall, and stay down. It had been years before, when Hotch has still been a junior agent, and it’s not a fond memory. The case had been a doozy, all but two of the agents involved coming away seriously injured.
There hasn’t been a case that bad in some time; these days it always seemed to be just one of them getting taken down. Rossi couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if there was a case where they all got injured. Or where he and Hotch were put out of action.
He wasn’t sure how the kids would deal with that, if it ever happened, considering the state they were in trying to cope with waiting for Hotch to wake up.
Rossi sighed, shifting in the chair, looking up from his book and looking at Hotch, who was still so still. The bandages covering both of his wrists were the only truly visible signs of the trauma Hotch had suffered, the bindings around his fractured ribs were hidden by the cotton gown, and the sheet. The bruises had faded to a sickly yellow colour, still visible on Hotch’s pale skin, though the hospital lighting played tricks, hiding them from sight unless you stood in the right place.
Various tubes kept Hotch nourished and pain free, though Rossi’s eyes were always being drawn to the various needle marks visible on Hotch’s arms. Those bruises seemed to be taking the longest to fade, and bothered Reid more than any of them.
Rossi always tried to cover them when he knew Reid would be visiting. There was no reason for the kid to feel so guilty, they’d done everything they could. Yes, they had missed the fact that the unsub was working with them, and they might have been able to stop Hotch being taken if they’d gone everywhere in pairs, but there was no point on dwelling on what they could have done.
If Rossi did that, he would never leave his house. There were so many times that he’d come away from a case, seeing in hindsight, all of things he could have done that would have saved a life, or lead them to the unsub sooner.
You learned what you could, then you moved on.
Rossi sighs, there still weren’t any signs of movement, it didn’t look like Hotch would be waking up anytime soon.
-
JJ knew the moment she stepped into the corridor that something was wrong. On every other visit, the corridor leading to Hotch’s room, the one they had moved him to not long after he’s woken up for the first time, had been quiet, and there hadn’t really been many people around. It had been peaceful.
Now, there were nurses hurrying around, and Morgan was standing, pressed back against the wall as far as possible, out of the way of the nurses, watching whatever was happening inside Hotch’s room. JJ hurried to Morgan’s side, dodging nurses, her blood turning cold at the sounds she could hear coming from Hotch’s room.
She stopped beside Morgan, her jaw dropping as she watched Hotch, who had been laying staring at the ceiling for much of the two days he had been awake, struggling against the nurses. He yelled at them, kicking out, not seeming to notice that his wrists were bleeding.
JJ watched silently as one of the nurses managing to get a needle into Hotch’s arm, injecting what JJ guessed had to be a sedative. She felt a little sick, watching it, remembering the reports on Hotch’s injuries. Yates had used a mix of drugs, all obtained from the hospital where his wife had worked as a nurse.
It hadn’t been a mix that the doctors had ever seen used before, and there had been worry about potential side effects. They had listed mood changes, JJ remembered, along with suggesting that Hotch’s fugue state when they’d found him had likely been due to the mixture of the drugs and the trauma.
JJ swallowed hard, trying not to flinch when Hotch started to sag, turning his angry gaze towards them. JJ felt Morgan’s hand on her arm, and she turned to him, meeting his gaze. Morgan squeezed her wrist gently, and tugged on her arm, pulling her away as one of the nurses started to move towards them, her intent clear.
It wasn’t a good time to be visiting. JJ knew what the nurse would have said, if they had stayed to hear her. Something about Hotch needing to rest, and that they should come back another time.
JJ wasn’t so sure that it would make any difference, and she hated herself for even thinking that. It was Hotch, he would get through it, whatever it was that was happening to him.
He wouldn’t let Yates win.
Just like he hadn’t let Foyet win.
Hotch didn’t lose.
JJ hoped.
-
There was a part of Rossi that wished Hotch had stayed in the fugue state. Staring at the ceiling, never saying a word, just staring, his gaze empty.
Rossi hadn’t felt comfortable, sitting by Hotch’s side as the other man just lay there, but he’s been more comfortable then than he was faced with Hotch in a rage.
The anger, the rage, was worse than the emptiness. Rossi watched as Hotch struggled against the orderlies, fighting against them and cursing them, Morgan stiff at his side. There was nothing they could do to help, nothing but watch and wait.
A nurse appeared with a sedative, hesitating, trying to talk Hotch into calming before she was forced to administrator the injection. They had wanted to avoid drugs as much as possible, but it seemed that they wouldn’t be able to much longer.
The nurse added another needle mark to the selection that Hotch already had on both arms. The more recent marks are cleaner, neater, less bruised. If he didn’t know, Rossi thought to himself, if he hadn’t seen her inject Hotch, he might not even have noticed them. It was just that his brain couldn’t help but see them. Yates had seen to that, and Reid, with his wide eyes and his avoidance. Rossi hasn’t asked, it wasn’t his place.
Reid would tell him if he wanted to. It was the kid’s choice.
Rossi sighed, watching as Hotch sagged, his struggles weakening as the sedative slowly took effect. It was the last day before Strauss expected them back at work, all of them but Hotch. Rossi had intended to tell Hotch what was happening, more because it was something he felt Hotch needed to know, than because he thought Hotch would hear him.
It was a struggle to see his friend in the man laid on the bed, dark hair disorderly, forehead sweaty, his eyes glazed. In the two weeks since Yates had died, Rossi hadn’t seen Hotch, hadn’t seen Aaron in those dark eyes, he’d only seen a stranger. One who was angry, and concerned by turns, one who barely seemed to be aware of himself.
Rossi hated it, but he refused to let it show. Refused to let it control him. He was going to be the strong one, show the kids that they would get through it, even if he didn’t really believe it himself.
Time would tell.
Rossi sighed, watching the nurses work to re-bandage Hotch’s wrists, and reinsert the IVs that he had pulled out during his struggle. He wished that there was someone who would be able to keep an eye on Hotch while they were at work, but there wasn’t anyone.
Jessica was busy with Jack, who she couldn’t bring herself to expose to the hospital and the broken shell of his father. As long as there was a chance that Hotch might recover, she wanted Jack to remain unaware of what was happening. Rossi had made the trip to her to talk about it, had seen the way her hands shook as she spoke, her eyes drifting towards the door to her nephew’s room.
Jack, she had said, didn’t need the memory of his father’s blank stare, or his father struggling against the hospital orderlies. Better he remember his father as he had been, should the worst happen.
Like the rest of them, Jessica couldn’t face the possibility that Hotch wouldn’t get better. They would have to soon though, Rossi thought, watching as Hotch’s eyes slid closed.
If Hotch didn’t show signs of improving soon, Rossi wasn’t sure how much hope there was.
And Rossi didn’t have a clue what to do with that thought, or the way it made him feel.
All he knew was he wished he’d had the chance to shoot Yates himself.
-
It was easier than Hotch had expected it to be; breaking the safety razor down until he has the bare blade in his hand. It was small and hard to grip; but he managed.
Hotch weighed the blade in his hand, or tried to, before he drew it across the palm of his hand, avoiding the scabs that were his wrists. He watched the red blood well up, tilting his hand and letting the blood run down his hand to drip down onto the floor. He was sitting on the toilet, the lid covering the seat, in the relative privacy of his bathroom.
Or rather, the bathroom of his hospital room.
Hotch frowned tilting his hand the other way, flexing his hand, watching fresh blood well up. He knew that it was only a matter of time before someone found him, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t care.
He wanted to know if it would hurt. If he could feel the pain.
Hotch reached out for a paper towel, using it to wipe the blood from the blade, and from his fingers. He didn’t want the blade to slip as he cut, moving onto his wrist. He cut below the scabs, but he cut deep, remembering exactly where to cut to cause more pain.
If he had salt, he would have rubbed it in the open wound in his hand, but he didn’t, so he did the only thing he could. He cut himself more.
He could remember, in a vague way, what it was like, to feel something that was his. Now, stuck in a hospital, not knowing where, none of the emotions he feels are his. Not the rage, not the anger, not the worry. Whenever he felt any of those things, he knew it wasn’t his own, but he couldn’t do a thing about it.
Sitting on the toilet, he felt cold, and nervous, but neither emotion was his. He couldn’t say who they belonged to; he just knew that they didn’t belong to him. It was like there was something, an edge to the emotions, which told him that.
He wondered, absently, if maybe he was just in denial. Though, as he thought that, he reminded himself that denial was an emotion. It was strange, trying to think of words to describe how he related to the world. So many had an emotional component and so few didn’t.
Hotch shifted the blade a little, holding the newest cut open, noticing how the blood was a brighter red; it still didn’t hurt.
The rage, that had been Morgan’s, Hotch thought, and he hadn’t been able to fight it. It had been so strong, so constant, he hadn’t had anything to counter it with. Everyone else’s emotions, in those moments, had been so much fainter, just present.
Hotch wondered what it said about Morgan, that his rage could conquer a whole room.
Reid, he always felt sick when Reid visited, even though it was rare for Reid to do anything but watch him through the window. Hotch didn’t think Reid knew Hotch was aware that he was there, so used to his mother, who wouldn’t know, not on her bad days.
Prentiss and JJ always worried, were always concerned, and it was worse when they were both there, even harder to fight. Hotch knew, every time they visited and he reflected their emotions back at them, they worried. There were so many things, so many unsubs they had encountered, who did the same thing.
Hotch didn’t need to feel anything to know that everyone thought he was crazy. That Yates had broken him; finally done what even Foyet couldn’t.
Hotch wouldn’t argue that he wasn’t broken, but he knew he wasn’t broken the way they thought he was. And he certainly wasn’t crazy.
Of all of his team, Rossi is the easiest presence, Rossi is the most controlled, keeping his emotions so carefully in check that Hotch wondered if he knew; though Hotch knew it wasn’t likely.
If Dave had known what was wrong, what was happening, he would have moved Hotch long ago. Hotch knew his friend well enough to recognise that. No one would have been able to stop Rossi from doing it either, Dave had so many favours stored up, so much money that he happily used however he wanted.
If David Rossi had been anyone else, hell if Max Ryan had found himself with as much money as Rossi, as much public attention, it would have been a disaster, but Rossi knew himself well enough not to let the money ruin him.
The problem was, Hotch thought, wiping the blade off again, ignoring the blood coating his legs and pooling on the floor, money couldn’t solve what was wrong with him. There was no magic cure, nothing that could be bought to fix what Yates had so inadvertently broken.
Hotch sighed, flexing his hand, then tensing the muscles in his lower arm; none of it hurt. He considered again, whether there was anything else he could do, but he only had limited supplies. Other than the razor, which he shouldn’t have had in the first place, all he had was paper towels, toothpaste, and his toothbrush.
Smearing toothpaste onto his wounds wouldn’t necessarily cause more pain; it would however make him sick, and that thought was enough for Hotch to shelve the idea of using the toothpaste. Being sick, without the nausea, without the other emotions, the feelings, that normally accompanied it was a strange experience. It was unsettling, or embarrassing, there was no emotional reaction to it.
Hotch remembered what it had been like, almost choking on his own vomit because he didn’t know he was throwing up. It wasn’t an experience he was in a hurry to have again.
Hotch shuddered, the nervousness increasing, closely matched by annoyance. The nurse was in his room; the one who seemed to hate his patients. Hotch knew that the only reason the nurse stayed was because he got off on the power.
Hotch shifted his grip on the blade, selecting another place to cut. He knew he wouldn’t get another chance.
-
Part Nine
Written for
cm_bigbang See the header here for full details.
Chapter specific warnings: violence, suicide, self harm and some foul language.
The sight of Yates pointing his service weapon at Hotch’s head was the last thing Rossi had wanted to see. There was a part of him that thought Yates wouldn’t pull the trigger; after all the man had already killed someone that way. Yates didn’t do repeats.
The thought didn’t help him though, as he stared at the gun, Yates’ finger poised on the trigger. The safety was off, if Yates’ squeezed the trigger that would be it; a point blank shot to the head. Few people survived that.
“You don’t need to do this.” Rossi said, edging a little closer, stepping into the house, holstering his own gun. There were others covering Yates, the loss of one wouldn’t make much difference in the grand scheme of things.
Rossi glanced at Hotch, who barely seemed to be aware of what was happening; that worried Rossi more than anything else. In all the years he’d known Hotch, in all the years they’d worked together, he had never seen his friend so out of it.
Yates didn’t react, didn’t move, just stared at Rossi. The gun didn’t even waver.
“If you surrender now, we can sort something out.” Rossi said, using the standard opening gambit. It rarely worked, but it was always worth a try. “I understand why you did it, he killed your family. A lot of people will understand.”
Yates’ eyes narrowed, “They’ll claim to understand. I know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work.”
“What am I trying to do?” Rossi asked, keeping his voice steady, reasonable. He took a single step closer, slowly, not daring to break eye contact with Yates.
Yates smiled, a bitter twisted thing, and Hotch swayed a little, confusion flashing across his face for just a moment before the glazed look returned. Blood dripped from Hotch’s hands onto the floor. The carpet was slowly turning a deep red.
Rossi frowned, his eyes dropping to Hotch for a split second, just as Yates moved, pressing the muzzle of the gun against Hotch’s temple.
“Did you figure it out?” Yates asked, and Rossi didn’t need to ask what the other man was talking about. The position of the gun told him all he needed to know.
“Your wife lost her mother, when she was a child. She was murdered by the same man who murdered Carolina Hotchner.” Rossi said, repeating what Garcia had told them.
Yates growled, “He saw him,” The gun jabbed into Hotch’s temple again as Yates’ spoke, adding emphasis, “could have stopped the bastard before he killed again. But he didn’t.” Yates wasn’t looking at Rossi anymore, and he took the chance to move forward again.
“That isn’t the only reason though, is it?” Rossi asked, and Yates’ turned, his eyes a little wild, the gun wavering, as it was almost aimed at Rossi; and that was exactly what Rossi wanted to happen.
“What?” Yates spat.
“You weren’t there.” Rossi didn’t repeat himself; he just kept going. Kept attacking.
Yates was frowning, muscles in his jaw working. Rossi knew when he was hitting a sore point, he’d done it so many times over the years, knew exactly what buttons he needed to press, just from the different reactions to different statements.
“You were meant to be there weren’t you?” Rossi asked, and Yates recoiled, the gun shifting. It wasn’t aimed at Hotch anymore, but it was still too close to his head. Rossi kept going, ignoring a hissed curse from Morgan. “They would still be alive you’d been there, that’s what you keep thinking isn’t it?”
Yates pointed the gun at Rossi, but his hand was shaking. Yates didn’t say anything, just glared. Rossi willed Hotch to move, to get out of the way, but the other man didn’t move. Hotch just knelt there, swaying ever so slightly.
“None of this is going to bring them back, or make you feel any less guilty. Killing him won’t bring Mary or her mother back.” Rossi said.
“You think I don’t know that?” Yates asked, his voice soft, dangerous. “You think I don’t know that I can’t change the past? All I can do is try to make things right, even the score. Punish those who should have been punished.”
Rossi could see where Yates was headed, and it was the last place he wanted. “You don’t need to do this Yates. It’s over.”
Yates’ eyes narrowed, then he smiled again, the same bitter smile as before, “Yes I do.” Yates lifted the gun, and Rossi watched mutely, “This way, I get to go on my own terms.” With that, Yates pulled the trigger.
-
Reid trailed behind the others as they rushed into the room. He watched as Emily cleared Yates’ gun, avoiding the gore as she moved around his body. Rossi knelt beside Hotch as Morgan vanished further into the house, checking for signs of anyone else.
Gregory and Innes hung back. There was nothing for them to do; it was over. Yates was dead; there would be no more victims. The case was closed, the unsub dead.
All Reid could think about was the fact that Hotch hadn’t even flinched when Yates had shot himself, hadn’t reacted to the gun being jabbed into his temple. Had barely even blinked since they’d arrived.
Reid moved closer to Rossi and Hotch, watching as Rossi tried to get Hotch to focus on him.
“Hotch.” Rossi said, tapping the other man on his unmarred cheek, “Aaron.”
Hotch didn’t react, and Reid swallowed back worry. It was natural, after the day Hotch must have had, to withdraw, anything else and Reid would have been more worried; or so he told himself. He didn’t think about how Hotch had been after killing Foyet, after spending ten minutes cradling his dead wife’s body in his arms.
Hotch hadn’t shut down then.
Rossi gave up trying to gain Hotch’s attention, turning instead to the rope that was wrapped around Hotch’s wrists. It was caked with blood, and Reid could see the edge of the raw wounds beneath it. Hotch had struggled, at some point, enough to make the rope dig into his skin all of the way around his wrists. If it had just been caused by Yates’ pulling him along, Reid thought, it would have just been on the one side.
“There’s an ambulance on its way.” Emily said as she moved to stand beside him, her gaze fixed on Hotch. Reid nodded, reaching for his phone, and tugging it out of from under the edge of his Kevlar vest.
Emily turned to him, eyebrows raised, “I’m going to call Garcia.”
Emily frowned, glancing at Hotch before she met Reid’s gaze again. He knew what she was thinking, had thought the same thing for a moment, but Garcia would want to know; deserved to know they had found Hotch, and he was still alive. Not unharmed, but alive.
“I’ll call JJ.” Emily said, pulling out her own phone and edging over to the patio door again.
Reid sighed, dialling Garcia’s number, his gaze on Hotch as he willed the ambulance to get there faster. All he could think about, as Garcia demanded an update, was the blood stained carpet and Hotch’s blank expression.
Yates might be dead, but Reid wasn’t so sure that he hadn’t claimed one more victim than any of them would be willing to consider.
-
JJ offered Morgan a faint smile as he stood, surrendering his chair to her as she joined them in the hospital waiting room. It had been two hours since Yates’ death, an hour and a half since Hotch had been wheeled off on a gurney to have his wounds tended.
JJ eyed each of her team mates in turn, from Morgan, who was pacing the room, to Reid who was settled into the corner, hands clasped together between his knees. She didn’t know what had happened exactly, just the basic facts that Prentiss had given her, and the few things the locals had mentioned.
She had, however, seen the entirety of Yates’ basement; she had even asked one of the crime scene techs to walk her through it, giving a rough timeline. There had been layers of blood in some places, in others the blood had just been obviously old, or very recent.
“They haven’t ID’d the body we found in the basement yet,” JJ said, wanting to break the silence. Better to think about the case then just sit around thinking the worst. “But Deputy Innes told me they’ve identified the last victim.”
There was a pause, then Rossi straightened in his chair a little. JJ tried not to stare at his hands, but it was hard, coated in blood as they were. “Who was he?”
“How did they ID him?” Morgan asked, almost at the same time, and JJ watched as the two men exchanged a look.
“His parents reported him missing, and he was known locally, for his drinking.” JJ said, remembering the way Innes had worded it, the slightly bitter edge to the woman’s words. “Lewis Pearson, his parents have a lot of money, apparently.”
Prentiss grimaced, “What about the woman?”
JJ shook her head, “They aren’t certain yet, but they think she’s Sophie Lawson.”
“What was her crime?” Morgan asked, leaning on the wall across from the row of chairs.
JJ sighed, shaking her head again, “It’s not clear, Duncan said that the friend that reported her missing had mentioned that Sophie didn’t always think before she spoke. They’re waiting on the family for a formal ID.”
Prentiss grimaced, and JJ sympathised, she had seen the crime scene photos. Sophie’s death might have been quick, but it hadn’t been pretty. The ME would have to be careful how much of her they showed the family.
“How did it go with the press?” Rossi asked, and JJ fought not to wince. After speaking to Prentiss, she had arranged a brief press conference, with the Sheriff, to give a statement about what had happened. It had been hard, avoiding the leading questions, making sure not to mention any names.
They were keeping the identity of the killer secret for the time being. A cop turned killer never looked good, though JJ was sure that once the press got hold of more details they would find a way to turn it around.
There would be headlines about the detective punishing sinners, and the details of how his tragic loss had driven him on a mission. JJ just hoped that no mention of Hotch ever made it into the papers.
There would be enough to deal with, without that.
“Why Hotch?” JJ bit her lip, mentally cursing herself for asking the question out loud. She knew, from the comments Prentiss had made, and the way Garcia had spoken, during the brief conversation they had had following the press conference, that they had finally figured that much out.
Silence reigned for a few minutes before Rossi shifted his weight, reaching out to press his hand against her wrist, “Because Yates saw himself in Hotch, only Hotch managed to save his kid.”
“And?” JJ asked, knowing there was something else. They had found Hotch and Yates far too quickly for there not to have been something more.
“Mary Yates, her mother was killed by man who murdered Carolina Hotchner.” Morgan answered, “Yates knew, and he took Hotch to the house his mother died in.”
JJ frowned, “The house Hotch’s mother died in?”
Morgan nodded, and Reid shifted his weight, sticking his legs out in front of him. Prentiss rubbed her forehead and Rossi glanced towards the closed door again, as though willing a doctor to appear and force an end to the conversation.
“It’s empty?” JJ tried again. She wanted, needed, to understand as much about what had happened as possible. She had no interest in just forgetting it, in just accepting that Yates was dead.
Rossi sighed, “According to Garcia, Hotch’s father never sold the house. Hotch inherited it after his father died, and it was rented until recently. It’s been empty for the past year.”
JJ opened her mouth; wanting to ask why Hotch still owned the house his mother had died in, then stopped herself. She had the answers she needed. Everything else could wait.
JJ sat back, tilting her head back, exhausted suddenly. It had been days since she had last gotten a full night’s sleep, but she’d had a reason to keep going, to stay awake. Now, with Yates dead, and Hotch being looking after by trained medical personnel, JJ found herself drifting off.
Someone would wake her when there was news.
-
Rossi was the only one still awake by the time the Doctor came with news. He had given up his chair to Morgan, knowing that it was the only way to stop the man from pacing a hole in the floor.
“Aaron Hotchner?” The doctor asked, not seeming too sure that she was in the right place.
Rossi offered her a smile, nodding, “That would us.”
The doctor hesitated, and Rossi sighed, fishing his badge from his pocket and showing it to her.
“Hotchner’s our boss, and I’m the next of kin on all of his forms.” Rossi knew, because Hotch had asked him after Foyet. With Haley gone, Hotch had decided that it was better to list one of the team on his forms than any of his family. Hotch hadn’t wanted to burden them, should anything happen.
Rossi hadn’t been impressed with that perspective at the time, but he had to admit, as he watched the doctor eye his badge then glance at her paperwork, it made things easier.
JJ had just woken when the doctor walked the last few steps to bring herself level with them, flipped the file open. “Mister,” she paused, gaze flicking to Rossi, then back to the file, “Agent Hotchner is stable, though he’s lost a lot of blood, and taken quite a beating. We also have concerns about the drugs we found in his system. There is evidence of prolonged exposure, and his kidneys aren’t looking too good, that means we can’t give him a lot of the drugs that we normally would. We’re going to watch, see if his levels even out, then we’ll review his situation.”
“But he’s stable?” Reid asked, making the doctor start. She hadn’t realised he was awake.
“For now, until we get the results back exactly what drugs are in Agent Hotchner’s system, we can’t say for certain.” The doctor answered.
Rossi glanced at the others, who were all awake, the doctor’s voice having woken them out of their sleep. “Can we see him?” Rossi asked after a long moment, and the doctor hesitated for a moment before she nodded.
“You can go in one at a time, for no more than five minutes each.” She told them, her voice firm, “And don’t expect him to wake up anytime soon. Between the blood loss, shock and the drugs, it’s a wonder he was awake at all when he was brought in.”
-
None of them speak after they’ve had their allotted time in Hotch’s room, they just group together in the waiting room, waiting for Rossi to return. He had chosen to go in last, letting the others go in first while he stayed in his chair.
Prentiss sighed, pressing her hand against her forehead, aware of how much her neck hurt. They all needed sleep, then they would have to talk to the locals, finish up their part of the investigation. There was paperwork to be done, reports to be filed.
Prentiss sighed again, lowering her hand and titling her head back, ignoring the noise Morgan made. “What are we going to do?” The case was over; she didn’t have to focus on the job anymore. She could fall apart if she really wanted to, or at least let her feelings show.
“We call Jessica, let her know that we have Hotch. Then we talk to the doctors, see if he can be moved. If he can’t, we make arrangements, if he can, we make arrangements.” JJ listed off, worrying at the edges of her phone’s outer casing as she stared at the doorway.
“Arrangements?” Morgan asked, and JJ nodded.
“Accommodation if he has to stay here, transport and hospital admission if he can move.” The way JJ said it, Prentiss got the impression JJ had had to do all of that more often than any of them really considered. She’d known that JJ arranged a lot of the things they needed, that she filled out a lot of the paperwork, almost as much as Hotch did, but it was easy to forget how much JJ really did.
Prentiss reached out, covering JJ’s hand with her own, and squeezing hard, just as a weary looking Rossi appeared, closely followed by a stern looking nurse.
“Hotel.” Rossi said, motioning for them to stand and move. He didn’t say anything else as he herded them out of the hospital, only speaking when they reached the hotel, ordering them all to sleep, and to make any phone calls they felt they needed to.
That Morgan pulled out his phone and hit his speed dial to Garcia was no surprise.
-
It was a week before the doctors allowed Hotch to be moved. He hadn’t shown any signs of waking up, and Rossi knows that the others find his stillness unnerving.
The Hotch they knew has been blown up, beaten, and stabbed, and every time he had kept going. Rossi knows he is the only one to have ever see Hotch fall, and stay down. It had been years before, when Hotch has still been a junior agent, and it’s not a fond memory. The case had been a doozy, all but two of the agents involved coming away seriously injured.
There hasn’t been a case that bad in some time; these days it always seemed to be just one of them getting taken down. Rossi couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if there was a case where they all got injured. Or where he and Hotch were put out of action.
He wasn’t sure how the kids would deal with that, if it ever happened, considering the state they were in trying to cope with waiting for Hotch to wake up.
Rossi sighed, shifting in the chair, looking up from his book and looking at Hotch, who was still so still. The bandages covering both of his wrists were the only truly visible signs of the trauma Hotch had suffered, the bindings around his fractured ribs were hidden by the cotton gown, and the sheet. The bruises had faded to a sickly yellow colour, still visible on Hotch’s pale skin, though the hospital lighting played tricks, hiding them from sight unless you stood in the right place.
Various tubes kept Hotch nourished and pain free, though Rossi’s eyes were always being drawn to the various needle marks visible on Hotch’s arms. Those bruises seemed to be taking the longest to fade, and bothered Reid more than any of them.
Rossi always tried to cover them when he knew Reid would be visiting. There was no reason for the kid to feel so guilty, they’d done everything they could. Yes, they had missed the fact that the unsub was working with them, and they might have been able to stop Hotch being taken if they’d gone everywhere in pairs, but there was no point on dwelling on what they could have done.
If Rossi did that, he would never leave his house. There were so many times that he’d come away from a case, seeing in hindsight, all of things he could have done that would have saved a life, or lead them to the unsub sooner.
You learned what you could, then you moved on.
Rossi sighs, there still weren’t any signs of movement, it didn’t look like Hotch would be waking up anytime soon.
-
JJ knew the moment she stepped into the corridor that something was wrong. On every other visit, the corridor leading to Hotch’s room, the one they had moved him to not long after he’s woken up for the first time, had been quiet, and there hadn’t really been many people around. It had been peaceful.
Now, there were nurses hurrying around, and Morgan was standing, pressed back against the wall as far as possible, out of the way of the nurses, watching whatever was happening inside Hotch’s room. JJ hurried to Morgan’s side, dodging nurses, her blood turning cold at the sounds she could hear coming from Hotch’s room.
She stopped beside Morgan, her jaw dropping as she watched Hotch, who had been laying staring at the ceiling for much of the two days he had been awake, struggling against the nurses. He yelled at them, kicking out, not seeming to notice that his wrists were bleeding.
JJ watched silently as one of the nurses managing to get a needle into Hotch’s arm, injecting what JJ guessed had to be a sedative. She felt a little sick, watching it, remembering the reports on Hotch’s injuries. Yates had used a mix of drugs, all obtained from the hospital where his wife had worked as a nurse.
It hadn’t been a mix that the doctors had ever seen used before, and there had been worry about potential side effects. They had listed mood changes, JJ remembered, along with suggesting that Hotch’s fugue state when they’d found him had likely been due to the mixture of the drugs and the trauma.
JJ swallowed hard, trying not to flinch when Hotch started to sag, turning his angry gaze towards them. JJ felt Morgan’s hand on her arm, and she turned to him, meeting his gaze. Morgan squeezed her wrist gently, and tugged on her arm, pulling her away as one of the nurses started to move towards them, her intent clear.
It wasn’t a good time to be visiting. JJ knew what the nurse would have said, if they had stayed to hear her. Something about Hotch needing to rest, and that they should come back another time.
JJ wasn’t so sure that it would make any difference, and she hated herself for even thinking that. It was Hotch, he would get through it, whatever it was that was happening to him.
He wouldn’t let Yates win.
Just like he hadn’t let Foyet win.
Hotch didn’t lose.
JJ hoped.
-
There was a part of Rossi that wished Hotch had stayed in the fugue state. Staring at the ceiling, never saying a word, just staring, his gaze empty.
Rossi hadn’t felt comfortable, sitting by Hotch’s side as the other man just lay there, but he’s been more comfortable then than he was faced with Hotch in a rage.
The anger, the rage, was worse than the emptiness. Rossi watched as Hotch struggled against the orderlies, fighting against them and cursing them, Morgan stiff at his side. There was nothing they could do to help, nothing but watch and wait.
A nurse appeared with a sedative, hesitating, trying to talk Hotch into calming before she was forced to administrator the injection. They had wanted to avoid drugs as much as possible, but it seemed that they wouldn’t be able to much longer.
The nurse added another needle mark to the selection that Hotch already had on both arms. The more recent marks are cleaner, neater, less bruised. If he didn’t know, Rossi thought to himself, if he hadn’t seen her inject Hotch, he might not even have noticed them. It was just that his brain couldn’t help but see them. Yates had seen to that, and Reid, with his wide eyes and his avoidance. Rossi hasn’t asked, it wasn’t his place.
Reid would tell him if he wanted to. It was the kid’s choice.
Rossi sighed, watching as Hotch sagged, his struggles weakening as the sedative slowly took effect. It was the last day before Strauss expected them back at work, all of them but Hotch. Rossi had intended to tell Hotch what was happening, more because it was something he felt Hotch needed to know, than because he thought Hotch would hear him.
It was a struggle to see his friend in the man laid on the bed, dark hair disorderly, forehead sweaty, his eyes glazed. In the two weeks since Yates had died, Rossi hadn’t seen Hotch, hadn’t seen Aaron in those dark eyes, he’d only seen a stranger. One who was angry, and concerned by turns, one who barely seemed to be aware of himself.
Rossi hated it, but he refused to let it show. Refused to let it control him. He was going to be the strong one, show the kids that they would get through it, even if he didn’t really believe it himself.
Time would tell.
Rossi sighed, watching the nurses work to re-bandage Hotch’s wrists, and reinsert the IVs that he had pulled out during his struggle. He wished that there was someone who would be able to keep an eye on Hotch while they were at work, but there wasn’t anyone.
Jessica was busy with Jack, who she couldn’t bring herself to expose to the hospital and the broken shell of his father. As long as there was a chance that Hotch might recover, she wanted Jack to remain unaware of what was happening. Rossi had made the trip to her to talk about it, had seen the way her hands shook as she spoke, her eyes drifting towards the door to her nephew’s room.
Jack, she had said, didn’t need the memory of his father’s blank stare, or his father struggling against the hospital orderlies. Better he remember his father as he had been, should the worst happen.
Like the rest of them, Jessica couldn’t face the possibility that Hotch wouldn’t get better. They would have to soon though, Rossi thought, watching as Hotch’s eyes slid closed.
If Hotch didn’t show signs of improving soon, Rossi wasn’t sure how much hope there was.
And Rossi didn’t have a clue what to do with that thought, or the way it made him feel.
All he knew was he wished he’d had the chance to shoot Yates himself.
-
It was easier than Hotch had expected it to be; breaking the safety razor down until he has the bare blade in his hand. It was small and hard to grip; but he managed.
Hotch weighed the blade in his hand, or tried to, before he drew it across the palm of his hand, avoiding the scabs that were his wrists. He watched the red blood well up, tilting his hand and letting the blood run down his hand to drip down onto the floor. He was sitting on the toilet, the lid covering the seat, in the relative privacy of his bathroom.
Or rather, the bathroom of his hospital room.
Hotch frowned tilting his hand the other way, flexing his hand, watching fresh blood well up. He knew that it was only a matter of time before someone found him, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t care.
He wanted to know if it would hurt. If he could feel the pain.
Hotch reached out for a paper towel, using it to wipe the blood from the blade, and from his fingers. He didn’t want the blade to slip as he cut, moving onto his wrist. He cut below the scabs, but he cut deep, remembering exactly where to cut to cause more pain.
If he had salt, he would have rubbed it in the open wound in his hand, but he didn’t, so he did the only thing he could. He cut himself more.
He could remember, in a vague way, what it was like, to feel something that was his. Now, stuck in a hospital, not knowing where, none of the emotions he feels are his. Not the rage, not the anger, not the worry. Whenever he felt any of those things, he knew it wasn’t his own, but he couldn’t do a thing about it.
Sitting on the toilet, he felt cold, and nervous, but neither emotion was his. He couldn’t say who they belonged to; he just knew that they didn’t belong to him. It was like there was something, an edge to the emotions, which told him that.
He wondered, absently, if maybe he was just in denial. Though, as he thought that, he reminded himself that denial was an emotion. It was strange, trying to think of words to describe how he related to the world. So many had an emotional component and so few didn’t.
Hotch shifted the blade a little, holding the newest cut open, noticing how the blood was a brighter red; it still didn’t hurt.
The rage, that had been Morgan’s, Hotch thought, and he hadn’t been able to fight it. It had been so strong, so constant, he hadn’t had anything to counter it with. Everyone else’s emotions, in those moments, had been so much fainter, just present.
Hotch wondered what it said about Morgan, that his rage could conquer a whole room.
Reid, he always felt sick when Reid visited, even though it was rare for Reid to do anything but watch him through the window. Hotch didn’t think Reid knew Hotch was aware that he was there, so used to his mother, who wouldn’t know, not on her bad days.
Prentiss and JJ always worried, were always concerned, and it was worse when they were both there, even harder to fight. Hotch knew, every time they visited and he reflected their emotions back at them, they worried. There were so many things, so many unsubs they had encountered, who did the same thing.
Hotch didn’t need to feel anything to know that everyone thought he was crazy. That Yates had broken him; finally done what even Foyet couldn’t.
Hotch wouldn’t argue that he wasn’t broken, but he knew he wasn’t broken the way they thought he was. And he certainly wasn’t crazy.
Of all of his team, Rossi is the easiest presence, Rossi is the most controlled, keeping his emotions so carefully in check that Hotch wondered if he knew; though Hotch knew it wasn’t likely.
If Dave had known what was wrong, what was happening, he would have moved Hotch long ago. Hotch knew his friend well enough to recognise that. No one would have been able to stop Rossi from doing it either, Dave had so many favours stored up, so much money that he happily used however he wanted.
If David Rossi had been anyone else, hell if Max Ryan had found himself with as much money as Rossi, as much public attention, it would have been a disaster, but Rossi knew himself well enough not to let the money ruin him.
The problem was, Hotch thought, wiping the blade off again, ignoring the blood coating his legs and pooling on the floor, money couldn’t solve what was wrong with him. There was no magic cure, nothing that could be bought to fix what Yates had so inadvertently broken.
Hotch sighed, flexing his hand, then tensing the muscles in his lower arm; none of it hurt. He considered again, whether there was anything else he could do, but he only had limited supplies. Other than the razor, which he shouldn’t have had in the first place, all he had was paper towels, toothpaste, and his toothbrush.
Smearing toothpaste onto his wounds wouldn’t necessarily cause more pain; it would however make him sick, and that thought was enough for Hotch to shelve the idea of using the toothpaste. Being sick, without the nausea, without the other emotions, the feelings, that normally accompanied it was a strange experience. It was unsettling, or embarrassing, there was no emotional reaction to it.
Hotch remembered what it had been like, almost choking on his own vomit because he didn’t know he was throwing up. It wasn’t an experience he was in a hurry to have again.
Hotch shuddered, the nervousness increasing, closely matched by annoyance. The nurse was in his room; the one who seemed to hate his patients. Hotch knew that the only reason the nurse stayed was because he got off on the power.
Hotch shifted his grip on the blade, selecting another place to cut. He knew he wouldn’t get another chance.
-
Part Nine
