strausserin:

Do you ever think about Rossi sitting at his desk and thinking about all the things he said to Strauss and all the things he didn’t say and all the things they did and all the things they didn’t do and the last thing he said to her before she died?

Oh God, I probably will now *weeps*

“Emily Prentiss is a lesbian” as soon as I finish the sentence, a screammakes it’s way to my ears

“YES SHE IS!” The crowd parts ways and she appears in the middle like a deity, her beautiful hair eyes stand out in the crowd and I know I’ve heard that voice before. It’s Emily Prentiss herself, Paget Brewster.

“THE CBS WERE COWARDS!” She adds loudly, the crowd stays silent for a few seconds, processing her words until they all erupt in cheers, aplauding her, they grab her by her arms and legs and lift her in the air as her body flies through the people cheering her on

a/n: this is lowkey ass but here’s another request filled !!! if i don’t fill your request i am so sorry my inbox is VERY full and some of them get lost in the sauce!! 

word count: 2k

warnings: hints at smut but none actually, fluff as always

“Are you sure we can’t cancel?” Spencer whined, letting his hands come to rest on your hips. You had gone to the break room for a last minute pick-me-up before heading out to the bar with the team, not knowing that Spencer had followed you. It had been a long day with the completion of a case early in the afternoon, and the jet ride was only an hour and a half back to Quantico. You knew Spencer wasn’t fond of the bar scene on a good day, let alone after a long winded case.

“Spence, it’s okay, you don’t have to go if you really don’t want to.” You said leaning into him as you made your coffee. Spencer frowned and shook his head.

“No, I’ll go.” You handed Spencer the extra coffee you had made for him and he gulped it down gratefully, pausing to rub his eyes. You grinned and placed a kiss on his cheek before returning to your desk to grab a pair of new clothes. You went to the bathroom to change, and found Emily and JJ already in there, getting ready.

“Hey there!” Emily said, applying a fresh coat of lipstick.

“Did you convince Spence to join us?” JJ asked.

“Somehow yes. It took a lot of coaxing and a few promises of different things for when we get home tonight.” You giggled. Emily’s jaw dropped and JJ raised her eyebrows, sharing a look with Emily.

“Ooooh, dirty things?”

“I don’t kiss and tell!” You replied, fixing your makeup in the mirror. Emily and JJ shared your laughter and you went into the stall to get changed. You emerged in a red, off the shoulder top and a pair of red black skinny jeans with some calf-high heeled boots. You looked in the mirror and grinned at yourself. You looked like a badass. JJ and Emily had already finished and returned to the bullpen by the time you got changed, with Morgan and Spencer. Morgan whistled as you approached and Spencer stopped mid-conversation with JJ to drop his jaw. You knew that red was Spencer’s favorite color, so wearing it in this capacity was a huge thing for him. You grinned as he approached, resting his hands on your waist.

“You look absolutely gorgeous, my love.” He said quietly, placing a quick peck on your lips. Morgan whistled again, and you gave him the finger. He held his hands up in surrender and walked towards the doors, the rest of your team and you following him into the elevator, where Spencer grabbed your hand. Generally Spencer wasn’t a huge fan of PDA, however, he knew that it was your “love language” of sorts, so he would often compromise with small but sweet gestures; such as allowing his hands to rest on your hips or waist, holding your hand, or the occasional peck on the cheek or lips. It was small enough that Spencer was still comfortable, but it made you ridiculously happy.

You split up among yourselves in the parking lot, meeting up at the bar. Hotch promised Emily that he would take his own car there, to which Emily made a face. He gave a look with her that conveyed he had to do something he didn’t want to, such as having a conversation with the witch herself, Erin Strauss. Prentiss broke into a sympathetic smile as she climbed into the car and rocketed out of the parking lot. You plugged your phone into Spencer’s aux to try and get him a bit more perked up, so you put on one of your playlists that he hated the least; and actually had come to enjoy. He hummed along quietly, absentmindedly stroking his thumb across the top of your hand. You stared out the window and just appreciated the quiet time you got with your love. You arrived shortly later, and the drinking had commenced as soon as you and Spence walked in. Garcia shoved a Bay Breeze into your hand and forced you to chug it for being late.

You complied, shotgunned the drink, and slammed it back down on the bar with a cheer. Garcia seemed satisfied and you felt a hand on the small of your back; it was Spencer. He had a weird look on his face, following his gaze you quickly realized why- some guy at the bar was staring at your ass. His look quickly changed to a scowl as he pulled you in and placed a passionate kiss on your lips, to show the entire place you were entirely his. He pulled away and you quickly pecked his lips and smiled.

“I love you.” You said.

“I love you too.” Spence grinned and took a sip of his beer, grimacing at the taste. It was one of the alcoholic drinks he despised the least, but that was not to say that he was particularly fond of it. He couldn’t understand how Morgan was such a fan of the drink, but learned quickly not to ask questions. To each his own.

Spencer lost track of you rather quickly as you were a little ways away, at the other end of the bar, doing shots. Suddenly Spencer felt a presence behind him, and looked back to see Morgan.

“What’s up, Boy Wonder? You look a little lost.” Spencer frowned and shrugged.

“I just don’t like the party bar sort of scene, but I wanted to make (Y/N) happy.” Morgan chuckled and took a sip of his beer.

“Pretty boy, you are both very very sweet, and frankly quite whipped.” Spencer furrowed his eyebrows and looked at his friend, who was being beckoned by Garcia. Spencer followed behind and when you saw him, you lit up.

“Hey you,” You said, reaching out your hand. Spencer took it gratefully, and pulled you into a hug. You melted into him.

“You guys wanna grab a seat at the bar, get some apps and a few more drinks?” Morgan offered, taking Garica’s hand. You all agreed and Prentiss walked away to call Hotch, to see if he was on his way and if he wanted anything for when he got there.

Your time at the bar was relatively short lived before moving to a table to accommodate the group better. Morgan sat back with his arm slung around Garcia’s shoulders, who was getting closer to tipsy with every sip of her margarita. You were talking about first kisses, to which you felt Spencer tense up slightly beside you, like he so often did during these sorts of conversations.

“I mean, I kissed my childhood best friend on the playground, but I doubt that really counts.” You paused.

“Not really. It counts for something, but it’s not your real like, first kiss. Spill it, girl.” Morgan said, smirking.

“Alright, alright. I was a sophomore in high school; my best friend had this family friend who had a son a year younger than us, who went to high school with us. He was really sweet, but also very VERY quiet. We were sort of friends, in a sense. Like, we knew each other and would text back and forth sometimes, mostly about a bio class we had together, but regardless. I really liked him and he never expressed any real interest in me, other than just like smiling at me and getting close to me, which didn’t mean much. Anyway, my best friend and I went to a New Year’s Eve party at his house and we were mostly hanging out in the basement or floating around with the various kids we went to high school with, just hanging out and other teenager stuff. Lo and behold, it’s the countdown to midnight and he appeared at my side. It became midnight and he grabbed my hand so I would look at him, he took my head in his hands and just kissed me.” You smiled at the memory of the sweet boy who only lasted in your life for about a month.

Derek laughed, Garcia and Prentiss awed, and Spencer didn’t really express anything. He just took a quiet sip of his beer.

“Alright, I said. It’s your turn, Prentiss!” Her eyes widened as she shook her head.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” She smirked, echoing your words from earlier today. You rolled your eyes as Hotch approached the table.

“Saved by the bell.” You muttered as Emily stood, giving Hotch a quick peck on the lips. He smiled and sat beside her.

“Another round?” You offered, standing up with your now empty glass. You crossed the room and took a seat at the bar, waiting for the bartender to notice you. You saw someone sit beside you out of your peripheral and realized it was Garcia, who was grinning wickedly.

“Hi, Sweets.” She said, sounding entirely too innocent. You narrowed your eyes.

“What did you do?” You asked.

“Nothing!”

“Pen.”

“I didn’t do anything. I have an idea,” She smirked.

“Oh God, what?”

“I saw this hilarious thing on Twitter last night where you text your significant other something SUUUPER nasty when you’re in a public setting together to see how they react.” You considered it for a minute, when the bartender approached. You listed off the group’s order and he disappeared.

“You’ve caught my attention, Pen. Have you tried it with Derek?” She raised her eyebrow.

“Have I tried it. Please, honey. I’ve done it 4 times tonight alone, have you noticed him even FLINCH?” You glanced back at Morgan, who was clapping Hotch on the back. Your eyes wandered to Spencer, who was finally smiling, and looked like he was actually having a good time. Perfect opportunity.

“You’re on, Garcia. $20 says Spencer blushes, shifts in his seat, and looks down at the table.”

“Alright, I say he smirks, rests his head on his hand, and gives you that look he does right before you leave the BAU.” A flush filled your face as you realized that your allegedly “discreet” look was apparently not so discreet.

The bartender returned with the drinks seconds later, and you only had about a minute to come up with something GOOD. With the help of Garcia, you got to work crafting the dirtiest text you could think of that would earn you the response you were looking for from your boyfriend.

Spencer felt his phone vibrating in his pocket which immediately alarmed him, considering the few people that would actually text him were all sitting with him. Besides you, who had gone to the bar, but you wouldn’t have just disappeared and only sent a text. He furrowed his eyebrows as he read the text he received from you, immediately reacting the way you thought he would.

He quickly locked his phone and put it face down on the table, running a hand through his hair in discomfort. He felt the blood rushing to his cheeks, among other places, as he began shifting in his seat to try and discreetly make himself a bit more comfortable. He stared at the table, hard, as if he was going to burn a hole through it with his eyes. Meanwhile, you were collecting $20 from Garcia across the room, in tears from laughing so hard. With Penelope’s help you escorted the drinks back to the table, earning a few cheers from your friends. You sat beside Spencer and placed a casual hand on his thigh, making him squirm even more.

“Why did you do that?!” He whispered in your ear.

You simply smirked in response and took a sip of your drink.

“Let’s just say i’m now $20 richer.” Spencer narrowed his eyes at you before looking around the table, his eyes landing very quickly on Garcia. She was being uncharacteristically quiet and still leaning on Derek, but avoiding eye contact with Spencer. He scowled and she ignored it, trying to suppress her laughter.

You placed a chaste kiss on Spencer’s cheek and he shifted again, but grabbed your hand anyway. For what it was worth, Spencer was definitely very good at putting up with your mischievous ways.

You unlocked your phone to send someone a text, when you saw your own to Spencer. You grinned in spite of yourself.

I can’t think about anything besides you throwing me on the bar and ravaging me in every way you please. You know, kinda like last night…. I’ve never heard you say my name so loud.

hey

it’s my last day of being 15

*cries to northern downpour by panic at the disco because ryan ross is an icon*

i love spencerrrrrr

hi. uh hey. it’s been a while. have a spencer appreciation post

- “to be honest i didn’t know this was football”

- “i’m just going to have a heart attack real quick”

- “you’d be surprised what comes up when you type death into a search engine”

- “you kick like a twelve year old girl”

- “there are phds. three of them”

- “i don’t hate you. i’m just not necessarily excited about your existence”

- “it doesn’t matter what she looks like, she’s already the most beautiful girl in the world to me” (this one really had me crying)

- “no, i didn’t lie, i am a doctor so technically it wasn’t a lie.”

- “without a gun i look like a teacher’s assistant!”

and lastly of course

- “is there any more jello?”

me vs. everyone else

normal human: omg he’s so hot i wanna fuck him so hard

me: i want spencer reid to so much as breathe the same air as me so that i can scream about it on tumblr

reid starts playing piano with sammy in s6 ep16

me:

boii

okay so i haven’t even finished what’s on netflix of cm but here i am

restarting the series

because i missed gideon

two alpha males

spencer reid smut!

warnings: this is my first smut?, i haven’t been able to write x reader smut so this is x my criminal minds oc chloe!, also a lot of smut like wow

wc: 1633

———

Reid was worn out- the case was more than tiring, it was more than exhausting, it was full out draining. Couples being killed in a romantic situation… One that he and Chloe had been through a few times. Rose petals, mood music, sexy lingerie. He’d done nothing but race to catch the guy- before he could get to Chloe. He’d do anything to make sure she didn’t get hurt. Especially since she’d traveled with the team this time.

The team had all gone out into the field, which by the way never got less terrifying for Chloe, knowing that the love of her life might die confronting a serial killer. Then again, of course, there was almost nothing sexier than Spencer Reid with a gun.

Chloe was still outside, and still thinking. He’d said two alpha males, like he wasn’t one of them. But Chloe knew he was quite the alpha male when he wanted to be. (Which was anytime he got turned on. It’s like there was a switch in the back of his brain that just flipped whenever certain things got hot).

They all had one more night before they could get the jet back to Quantico. It had to fuel up before the flight- which was probably a safe idea. So, Chloe and Spencer settled in for the night.

“Hey, Spence, can I ask you something?” Chloe said, as they laid in bed, Spencer reading, Chloe just watching him take in the words at a million miles a minute.

Spencer looked up from his book, “Well, we have been together for… A few years now, Clo. I hope that you’d know you can ask me anything.” He smiled goofily.

“Well, it’s just… Earlier, when you were talking to Hotch, you said that she’d react differently to you than to an alpha male. Are you not an alpha male, Spence?” She teased, raising her eyebrows at him, taunting him. She knew he’d hate this.

“What? No! I was just saying that I don’t tend to come off as one-“

“Baby, were you trying to tell everyone that you don’t wanna be alpha? Maybe that I’m the one who wears the pants in our relationship?” Chloe moved towards him, whispering huskily into his ear once she’d crawled close enough.

Spencer was basically a cartoon at this point- you could see the steam coming out of his ears but he wasn’t ready to explode yet. That’s when Chloe climbed on top of him.

“Were you telling them you need to be dominated by little girl like me? That you’re not man enough to take me roughly right here?” She whispered in his ear, starting to kiss down his neck slowly.

Spencer huffed, clenching his fists, but still not speaking, as Chloe unbutton his shirt. “Were you telling all your teammates that you couldn’t control me? That maybe you need to be dominated like the pretty boy they all think you are?”

Spencer had finally had enough, he flipped Chloe over with ease so that he was positioned on top of her. “You know damn well who’s gonna dominate who in this bed, princess.”

Chloe sighed, happy. This, of course, is what she’d been hoping for the entire time. “Why don’t you show me, Spence?”

And that’s all it took. Spencer was replaced with someone who looked like him, but had only one motivation: lust. Suddenly, with his shirt still all the way unbuttoned, he got off of Chloe.

“Shirt off, now. I can’t believe… You can’t just pull this shit, Clo!” Spencer ran a hand through his hair, practically boiling with rage. Chloe did as she was told, stripping off her tight shirt slowly, still not getting enough of Spencer like this.

“Oh but Dr. Reid, how could the gangly boy genius ever dominate a strong girl like me? You know they’d never believe it.” She taunted again, knowing the deep shit she’d just gotten herself into.

Spencer, at this point, was done with this bullshit. He got back onto the bed, slamming his hands on either side of Chloe’s face, getting as close as he could to her while being able to see her whole face.

“Oh, you know you’d be so frustrated without me, princess. I know how you feel about my hands, about my hair, about my lips.” His lips grazed her ear as he whispered angrily, “You know damn well no one else could make you feel like I make you feel, because no one else could ever dominate you like I do.”

And with that he pressed his lips to hers roughly, caring more about the actual contact of their flesh beneath them- their bare stomachs were touching, and he could feel how shallow her breathing was. He discarded the open fronted shirt and leaned down to whisper to her again, “You’re going to scream for me tonight, princess, and you’re not gonna hold back. Got it?” He asked, looking at Chloe for a response.

She was too eager to muster much of one, so all she could say was, “Oh, Dr. Reid, if you only knew how much of your name the people in this hotel will be hearing tonight.”

Their lips were connected once again, with Chloe’s hands in Spencer’s shorter hair cut, pulling and tugging at it every so often, making Spencer moan involuntary. Spencer however, had one hand on the bed to keep himself steady, and the other running up and down her side, not paying any specific attention to any place, just ghosting over the bare skin.

Chloe gasped, “Baby, please…” She whispered, forgetting about what Spencer had said earlier.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t quite hear that, princess. Speak up.”

She whimpered lightly, “Baby, I need you to do something, anything. Fuck, I’m desperate for you.” She said, louder this time.

Spencer laughed silently, “Same old Chloe, no patience.” He shook his head, “Good things come to those who wait.”

He brought his head down to kiss her neck, the valley between her breasts, and her stomach, before bringing his hands back up to pay attention to her still clothed chest. The cups were lightly padded, and she’d always been so sensitive. One firm grasp and she’d gasped.

When he started to kiss her again, entangling their tongues, without even a fight for dominance, Chloe knew the time for her teasing was over. He roughly massages her breasts as they kissed, the feelings of his girlfriends moans against his lips making him even harder than he previously was.

He pulled back from her completely, sitting up so that his hips were aligned with hers. “Princess, you made fun of me earlier. You know what you need to do to make up for it, right?” He asked, shifting his weight off of her and allowing her to climb on top of him again.

She nodded, “Of course, Dr. Reid.” She kissed his neck again, this time taking her time to suck and bite at it as he’d done to her- dear god this was going to be fun to cover up in the morning. Good thing she’d packed a turtleneck…

As she heard his moans from her assault on his neck she brought a hand down and started palming him through his jeans.

“Come on, now, princess.” He grunted, “No teasing.”

She batted her eyelashes at him and smiled innocently, much like she had earlier, “But Dr…. That’s what makes it fun.” She kissed down his stomach, his toned body still amazing her to this day. When she reached his belt buckle she skillfully undid it, tossing it to the side as she unbuttoned his jeans.

What she did next is something Spencer would never forget. She took the zipper in her mouth, and making eye contact with him, unzipped his pants. He practically felt himself cum at the sight. Once his pants were off she wasted no time ridding him of his boxers, leaving him fully vulnerable in front of her. She smiled at him, taking his length in her hand and slowly pumping. Agonizingly slow. She brought her thumb up to swipe the precum already gathering at his tip. She brought her face down, and while never looking away from Spencer, kissed the tip lightly. The kissed it again, this time stopping and licking up the remaining precum. Spencer moaned again, unable to hold it in. Even after all this time her skills amazed him.

She took her lips off of him and looked up at him, “When I’m done teasing… Are you gonna help me, Doctor?” He nodded, and she went back to her work. She pumped once more before removing her hand completely and licking a full stripe up his member. She then took the head in her mouth, swirling her tongue around it. He moaned again, bucking his hips up to her slowly, and twisting a hand in her hair.

That was her cue to get going. She slowly took as much of him into her mouth as she could, and drew back at the same pace. She slowly quickened her pace, taking more and more of him and his hand helped her head bob up and down. He was a moaning mess, just hips still bucking up to meet her mouths motions.

She felt him twitch in her mouth and let out a little moan, the vibrations sending him completely over the edge. She looked him in the eyes again as she swallowed his load, licking her lips after removing her mouth from him. He caught her lips in a loving kiss.

He then pulled back, his eyes still full of lust, “Now it’s your turn to scream my name, princess.”

the end! i might write a part two if this is any good ;))

you ever watch criminal minds for hours at night and then you hear something and you end up profiling your closet

whump-town:

Oh, Sinnerman 

Chapter Two

Words: 5,500

Same Warnings as Chapter One

Oh, sinnerman, where you gonna run to?

Flames dance behind his eyelids. Hotch sees a burning bush. He hears a deep thunderous voice calling out Moses! Moses! He sees a bush on fire but did not burn up. Take your son to the top of Moriah and kill your son there as a sacrifice to me. This must be Issac, your only son, the one you love. Use him as an offering– 

He wakes with a jolt, his body broken out in a cold sweat. He watches a tree pass above him. His tinnitus is horrid, making his temples pulse in a rigid band. He hears Abel, like a preacher on the radio coming in and out of service. Static, ringing. Then a decisive sermon. He’s reciting Exodus. Moses leading his people from slavery. 

“Abel?” his voice is weaker than he’s expecting but the sun beats down between the treetops and he’s dehydrated. “Abel, you have to–” He tries to sit up but quickly gives that idea up. His arms can’t hold his weight and his head spins dangerously. His stomach hurts so bad he can’t think straight. 

“Aaron,” Abel breathes wistfully, speaking to the trees. “The brother of Moses.” 

Hotch thinks Abel should begin in Genesis; And it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abraham his brother, and slew him. He’s stuck somewhere between compassion and loathing. His head aches fiercely, his stomach is tied into painful knots. His left shoe is gone and on some tarp, he’s being roughly pulled through the woods. Rocks hit his back. Sticks stab at him. And yet, he imagines the crime scene photos one more time. Imagines Abraham at the top of his mountain with his son and Abel lost in these woods. Both raise daggers to the throats of people they love. One Abraham is ready to kill his own son and another begs his brother to see reason. 

Only one was saved. 

He’s bleeding. 

A bush leans down over him, leaves grazing skin. On its tilted edge, a drop of blood gathers and he watches it. He looks at the blood on that leaf until the colors blur together until that brush is lost amidst the others. Leaving a trail is good, even if blood isn’t. 

He drops, suddenly. The tarp is released and no warning given. He can’t hold himself upright so he just falls down onto the ground. Left to stare hazily up at the tops of the trees. 

“Are you faithful, Aaron?” 

Keep reading

Oh, Sinnerman 

Chapter Two

Words: 5,500

Same Warnings as Chapter One

Oh, sinnerman, where you gonna run to?

Flames dance behind his eyelids. Hotch sees a burning bush. He hears a deep thunderous voice calling out Moses! Moses! He sees a bush on fire but did not burn up. Take your son to the top of Moriah and kill your son there as a sacrifice to me. This must be Issac, your only son, the one you love. Use him as an offering– 

He wakes with a jolt, his body broken out in a cold sweat. He watches a tree pass above him. His tinnitus is horrid, making his temples pulse in a rigid band. He hears Abel, like a preacher on the radio coming in and out of service. Static, ringing. Then a decisive sermon. He’s reciting Exodus. Moses leading his people from slavery. 

“Abel?” his voice is weaker than he’s expecting but the sun beats down between the treetops and he’s dehydrated. “Abel, you have to–” He tries to sit up but quickly gives that idea up. His arms can’t hold his weight and his head spins dangerously. His stomach hurts so bad he can’t think straight. 

“Aaron,” Abel breathes wistfully, speaking to the trees. “The brother of Moses.” 

Hotch thinks Abel should begin in Genesis; And it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abraham his brother, and slew him. He’s stuck somewhere between compassion and loathing. His head aches fiercely, his stomach is tied into painful knots. His left shoe is gone and on some tarp, he’s being roughly pulled through the woods. Rocks hit his back. Sticks stab at him. And yet, he imagines the crime scene photos one more time. Imagines Abraham at the top of his mountain with his son and Abel lost in these woods. Both raise daggers to the throats of people they love. One Abraham is ready to kill his own son and another begs his brother to see reason. 

Only one was saved. 

He’s bleeding. 

A bush leans down over him, leaves grazing skin. On its tilted edge, a drop of blood gathers and he watches it. He looks at the blood on that leaf until the colors blur together until that brush is lost amidst the others. Leaving a trail is good, even if blood isn’t. 

He drops, suddenly. The tarp is released and no warning given. He can’t hold himself upright so he just falls down onto the ground. Left to stare hazily up at the tops of the trees. 

“Are you faithful, Aaron?” 

Aaron. All he hears is his name – his ears conducting an intensely painful concert of forever ringing bells. Just trying to look at Abel hurts. The sun is too bright, even dulled by it’s passage through the trees. His head hurts. Faithful? He frowns, faithful? He doesn’t understand. It doesn’t make sense. He reaches for his phone but… His pockets are empty. That’s probably good a good thing? No wallet or keys or… gun. No gun. Damn. But these things must be discarded somewhere, a pile of proof to document the direction they’re headed. 

“Aaron.” Abel crouches down by his side and pushes his thumb against the weeping wound against Aaron’s forehead. “I apologize,” he says. “I’m afraid I hit you much harder than I originally anticipated.” He frowns, he seems to mean it which is more confusing than anything else. “I was afraid and I over-reacted.”

The tarp wrinkles as Aaron moves his hand, he nods. The mud is cold. The sticks damp from a recent rain. He finds a rock, cold and hard. A rock. He curls his fingers around it and feels its weight in his palm. 

“I hope you can forgive me.”

Breathing in slowly through his nose, Aaron swings his arm. His fingers end up pinched between the rock and Abel’s skull, an instant bloodied nailbed, but he can’t get further. Abel crumples, goes right down. Time is off the essence – he knows this somewhere in the back of his mind, it drives Aaron into movement. But he gets one sore shoulder to move, one aching arm up underneath him and his vision blackout. He gets nowhere. 

The sun is lower. 

Hotch’s first thought is Jack. The sun is too low. Jack needs to go to bed. He needs to.. 

He can’t remember. 

Beside him Abel groans, shifting but staying where he’s fallen. Move.Something in him screams. Anxiety lances up his stomach and painfully sits hot and heavy. Move.He pushes himself up slowly, taking a moment to gasp between waves of nausea. 

His knees buckle and he leans into a tree, grunting at the pain of leaning his body weight into thistles growing all around. More blood, that’s helpful. He needs to move. Move. Get out of here. 

He kicks up dirt in that first step, rocks and acorns and sticks. His fucking shoe. His left shoe is gone, missing. Abel moans again and Hotch knows he’s got no more time. 

[x.]

“And he just… disappeared?” 

Calling in what happened was uneventful. Only a few seconds had passed since Hotch tore off into the woods and she thought she knew he’d come back out – a few more scrapes and bruises and his clothes dirty but UNSUB in cuffs and his scowl in place. Only Hotch didn’t come back out. He just disappeared. And as JJ was realizing this the SUVs came into sight. Brown and black trooper cars coming in a swarm behind them. 

And Hotch was nowhere to be found.

JJ swallows nervously, eyes darting between the others. They’re in various stages of fury, all zeroed in on her. She’s confused about how this always happens to her. First Reid and now Hotch – and both with weird religious things going on? The odds of that have to be… impossible. 

“You have to understand,” Derek says, crossing his arms, “this doesn’t make any sense.”

JJ shrugs, “he – he just ran into the woods, Morgan. He called for–for, Uhm, Abel? The brother of the victim.” She holds her arms to her chest, glances at Emily pleads with her to say something. For anyone to say something and stop just staring at her. “I called you as soon as it happened. But–But the guy had a gun. I don’t think he hit Hotch but he shot at us.” She’s already explained this. Twice. Some guy comes out of the woods. She didn’t see him. Hotch did. The gun is what she heard but only after it was fired. She told Hotch to go. She stayed with the old woman. There’s nothing more to be said. 

Emily and Derek went into the woods to look, staying where they could be seen shouting out into the nothing and hearing nothing but their own voices in return. They know as well as she does, he’s just gone.

“Derek,” Emily finally warns, stepping in before Derek can make a complete ass of himself in the middle of his hopeless fear. “Leave her alone.” There’s a rogue stare-off. Derek already knows he’s in charge. The decision of next in command is Hotch’s and just a few short months ago that was Derek, leading them while Hotch took a step back. Pretended to unravel to give Foyet a show, a very convincing show. And Derek might be in-charge but Emily still has sway. It’s her advice that could sway any of Hotch’s decisions. Derek might be political, on paper in charge but they’ll listen to Emily just as quickly. Neither will win the silent battle of wits. 

Dave comes steadily back down the driveway to them, shaking his head. He’d gone to talk to the widow – she’d be more help anyway than standing down here getting mad at JJ for something stupid Hotch did. “Our UNSUB is Abel Boseman.” He nods in the direction of the woods, “his mother says he’s been living in an abandoned house on the other side of the woods.” He holds up a piece of paper, “I got the address. We gonna keep standing here talking nonsense or are we going to go do our jobs?”

They’re good kids, Dave knows, but some days he’d like to smack Emily Prentiss and Derek Morgan upside their big heads. What good are the two of them against one another? Aaron needs them. And he needs them to have clear, level heads. Not heads shoved up each other’s asses. 

Derek calls Penelope as they head up the old dirt road, all crammed into one SUV with Dave driving. It’s been a long time since any of them had to drive up a road in the state as this one is in. “What have you got baby girl?” It’s really just making them tenser but Garcia is always a lovely addition to the worst conversations. She’ll help. 

Garcia doesn’t answer right away, she’s not even sure she should. 

“Baby girl?”

She pulls in a shaky breath, “he’s going to be…” Tears gather in her eyes, she feels like she’s betraying Hotch. And she can’t stand it. Angry is the word that comes to mind but Hotch is never angry at them. He’s angry with things. Even when he is angry with them, he doesn’t take it out on them. But this… This might… “So I was looking at that the, ugh, that address Agent Rossi sent?” There’s a pause, dramatic and full of Garcia having no idea what the hell to do now. He’s going to be so upset with her and she can’t stand that thought. But they need to find him alive. Emotions are a symptom of life and he has to be alive to be upset with her. So she has to tell them. “It was owned by a Robert… Hotchner.” She clears her throat, “coincidentally… the same Robert Hotchner who, uhm, signed our Hotch’s birth certificate?”

The SUV is painfully silent. Emily gives the only reaction, she turns right to Dave. “His dad?” Hotch’s dad has been dead for as long as she’s known him – at twenty-something, scrawny and weighed down by the gun on his hip playing security around her mother’s house. She doesn’t even know that man. “So we’re going to his house?”

“Oh,” Garcia says, “my sweet raven-haired beauty you’re going to his childhood home. Where he grew up, where our Hotch started.” There is only such a tiny, itty-bitty little piece of her that is jealous. The rest is as scared as they are. 

JJ clears her throat but says nothing, just stares hard at her hands. “I grew up a few miles from here. On the other side of those woods.” Hotch hadn’t lied. Of course, he wouldn’t, she shakes the thought away. Hotch is an enigma, a thousand-piece puzzle missing pieces but never the same pieces. Each time you open the box it’s a different piece that’s missing. Making it impossible to complete the damn thing. 

“Can I–” Reid gets to the front steps and feels like he’s going to throw up. “Can I stay out here?” He’s not cut out for this job, not entirely. He’s a genius, they need him, but this part he’s no good at. That’s why he stays in the rooms with the maps. He spends all day doing math and creating a geographical profile. He’d be more use, even now, to sit out here and mess with his maps. Not in there. Not when they all know… No one says anything, they wouldn’t dare, but they have a good idea about the severity of what happened to Hotch in that house. 

Derek and Dave speak over one another – of course andno, we need you inside. 

Derek wins. “You have your map on you?”

Reid nods, face flushed. He doesn’t want to go inside and he doesn’t want Dave and Derek fighting about it either. He reaches a trembling hand behind him and pulls it out. “Yeah.”

Derek nods, “figure those woods for me? We gotta see how far he could have gone.”

“Okay.”

It’s probably better Reid didn’t come in, anyway, but at least JJ would have had some more company. She steps back because she knows Hotch very well but not like Derek, Dave, or Emily. He’s trusted the three of them with much more than he’s ever given her. So she just stands there in the doorway, horror gripping her chest tight and painful, as a cold chill runs up her spine. 

The worst part is that it almost looks like a normal house. 

She can imagine Hotch kicking his shoes off at the door, a habit he’s carried into adulthood. Kicking a ball around the front yard and riding his bike in the driveway. Children have lived here and that’s… that’s horrifying. 

“Can’t imagine anyone living here,” Dave mumbles, shaking his head as he steps to the foot of the stairs. The banister has been nearly ripped from the walls at the top and Dave moves his eyes away. The chill of this house, not just this room, makes the skin on his arms ache with shivers. No love has ever seen the inside of these walls. 

Emily steps behind him and looks up the stairs. “I don’t want to go up there,” she confesses, shaking her head at the sight above. She can’t imagine what they’ll find. What would her childhood home reveal about the interworkings of her mind? It certainly wouldn’t be fair. She’s torn, gripped by relief that it’s Hotch and not her being psychoanalyzed and still horrified they have to do this at all. To find Abel. To save Hotch. 

“God this is–” JJ covers her hand with her mouth, standing in shock in the doorway of the room Derek takes them to. He’d only been in the house once, the year their mother died. He was Sean’s friend but he came down with Aaron as a helping hand. The three of them trying to get as much crap out as possible. They never went inside Aaron’s room. He did, he stepped in there once. Came back out pale as a ghost, blamed it on the heat, and spent an hour outside on the porch with a cold rag and a bucket to throw up in. His grip was too weak after that, he was shaking too hard to stand strong. So he took over folding up his mother’s clothes for donation. Derek never bothered to ask what really spooked him that bad. 

It’s… a normal room. Ramsaked by time and likely Abel but bland. 

He’s always been a little boring, God love him.

Derek steps into the room, frowning at the heavy dust clinging to everything. There’s a plain blue rug on the middle of the floor, about the only color or decoration in the room. Sean’s room had posters, Aaron’s walls are flat, no tacks were ever poked in the walls. 

“Guess he’s always liked blue,” Emily mumbles, hesitantly looking around. Together, Derek and Emily say, “same color as his comforter at home.” They both immediately turn to each other, frowning in tight disgust at the train of thought they both assume. Derek knows Emily spent a lot of time with Hotch while he was recovering. He’d seen them sleeping together in Hotch’s bed many times. Just as Emily knows Derek returned Hotch home many times sore and limping from “runs”. They had both assumed the other was fucking the boss. They weren’t going to say anything, to him or each other. It was keeping Hotch alive, that was all they wanted. 

They’re both wrong but neither clarifies. 

Emily touches the furthest wall from the door and runs her finger over raised marks scratched into the wall. Tally marks. Endless tally marks. He was keeping track of something, she wants to know what. 

“I hate you,” Dave reads out, stepping back to allow the others to see what he’s found. The words aren’t scratched, they’re engraved. Each one is meant. “Who do you think that’s to?” It’s entirely rhetorical and Emily hates him just a little bit for asking. 

Derek pulls out his flashlight, eager to turn his attention elsewhere. Something about being in this room, thinking about Hotch like this is making him nauseous. And it only gets worse as he looks into Hotch’s closet. There’s nearly nothing inside, one moth-eaten black t-shirt barely hanging onto its hanger and a blanket folded up in the upper corner. Which makes sense. Sean told him Hotch packed for college in one night, was gone without saying goodbye. But it’s what he finds in the dark corner that makes him feel even sicker. “Here,” he calls out, stepping aside so Dave can see where he’s aimed his flashlight. 

There’s a rusted razor stuck to the ground, Derek can’t move his eyes from it. It’s stuck to the floor, by a hardened, immobile substance. It’s not hard to guess which substance. Blood, Derek clears his throat, swallowing around the way his body attempts to rebel and heave his meager breakfast up. There’s gauze, what once was, at least. A toppled-over first-aid kid tossed beside it. Clearly knocked over. Never picked back up. 

Emily just stares at it. Not a thought in her head. Just blank. 

Dave grunts and turns away from it. Is it really that surprising? Aaron is a complicated man. Poor attachment style and while self-harm might not be on the table in any traditional sense nowadays, he lived out of an unpacked boxed and slept on a couch for over a year after his divorce. He’s carried these tendencies with him. They reared their ugly heads not that long ago.

Something about the way Derek just keeps staring at it that enrages Emily. It’s not surprising. She wants him to stop treating it like it is. As if this is news to them, like any of this is going to change how they view Hotch. They know he was abused and maybe self-harm is a little predictable but it’s not startling. Hotch is dark. This is the man that strips his vest to go into hostage situations. And then she remembers, suddenly, how Derek treated Hotch during everything with Foyet. “You don’t think we’re going to find him,” she says. Derek just doesn’t think he’ll be alive. 

He says as much, “he’s had a hard year.” His flashlight still aimed at the corner. In one year he’s hardly recovered from the damage Foyet did to him. He’s taken, what, one day off in all that time? He’s not stripping his vest off and running into dangerous places like he was but there hasn’t been that much of an improvement. He wouldn’t qualify the situation as resolved. 

“He’ll come back,” Emily seethes. Their eyes meet, Derek’s dulled by sadness and Emily’s bright with new hot anger.

Derek shakes his head, “you don’t know that.” He shrugs, finally looking away from the rusty razor and stepping away. Jack almost wasn’t enough a few months ago. What about now? Who says this isn’t too much? Everyone has their breaking point. “You can’t know that.” 

[x.]

Hotch doesn’t remember falling. 

It was just starting to drizzle. The muffled sounds drew his attention to trace the sounds of the raindrops hitting the leaves of the trees around him. Small drops pitter and patter as fat drops of rain made their way through the maze of leaves above his head. The humidity had grown, thickening until it could be felt seemingly pressing against him. The air like the packed streets of New York, knocking him this way and that until it felt nearly claustrophobic just to breathe.

It hadn’t taken long for the clouds to consume the light, his ability to see slowly being taken. He could hear Abel following him, quick, angry footsteps. Aaron!Follows him around every turn. Agent Hotchner! Cracks through the woods. 

The rain started falling harder, hitting the leaves loudly and drowning out the shouts. Until the drops tore holes through the leaves, hitting too quickly, too heavily to remain captured by the many overlapping branches.

Somewhere, he falls. 

The rain hits his face, enough to encourage him to shut his aching eyes again. Sleep is much safer. And he’s slept so little lately, it’s hard to fight the impulse now. So he doesn’t.

His head hurts so bad, like someone’s palms are on his temples and they’re pressing their whole weight into his skull. Trying to push his head down into the dirt below him. It makes thinking impossible. His body feels disconnected from him, like a foggy extension he doesn’t know how to reach. He’s fairly certain all parts of him can still be accounted for. His left foot throbs – he stepped on something that felt like it snapped when he pressed his weight down. Whatever it is, it’s splintered up into his foot. It aches, and pulses with each pounding beat of his heart. 

And then there’s this business with his side. 

He can’t really remember why or where it would have happened. There are these little holes just torn right into his skin. They’re bleeding like crazy and that doesn’t make thinking or moving any easier. But that’s okay. 

He turns his head, angles his cheek up towards the sky, and lets the rain pelt the side of his head. 

He’s hungry. 

[x.]

His food sits on the table.

Dave ordered him a sub out of reflex and it’s just sitting there. Mockingthem.Insultingthem. 

Derek can’t stop staring at it. 

They found Abel Boseman’s body. His skull was cracked by a rock, he was dead long before they got to him. 

Which means going to that house was basically pointless. All they figured out anyway was that Abel planned to return and Hotch would end up somewhere but not here. It made no sense for him to go back to that house, even as it began to rain. Sean had told Derek once Aaron spent every day of his childhood out there, playing around in the woods. And now Abel is dead and still, no one knows where Hotch is. 

“Do you really think…” Reid stays focused on the board. If he keeps re-angling, keeps crunching numbers then none of this is real. None of this is happening. “Do you really think he did it?” But Abel Boseman’s photo goes up and it’s hard to push what’s happening to the side. “That Hotch…” 

They found blood and Abel Boseman’s body – enough was Hotch’s to not ease their concern about him but too much of it was Abel’s too. There was a struggle. It wasn’t much of a question, Hotch killed Abel. Maybe he didn’t mean to but he did. And that made two men dead by nothing more than Hotch’s hand in less than a year.

Derek rubs at his temples, unable to stifle his frustration. “Obviously, he did.” Reid immediately turns away from the heat in Derek’s gaze, the hatred in his voice.

They found Abel a mile away from where they found Hotch’s badge, gun, and phone dumped. Only ten yards from Hotch’s left shoe – hooked on a log. It was clear Abel had dragged Hotch through the woods on the tarp, the bottom shredded and the blue tarp stained by Hotch’s blood. An altercation occurred. Abel did not survive and Hotch… Well, it’s hard to tell. They have dogs out there, searching. That’s where Derek and Reid should be. Looking. 

But Derek is benched for the time being. 

The Sheriff made a comment as they zipped the body bag containing Abel Boseman. Derek hadn’t even heard the whole thing but he understood the message – Aaron Hotchner is a nobody and no badge could ever make him a somebody. And it made him snap. He’d just spent the day searching through that abandoned house. Thinking about that fucking razor. About Foyet. About Haley and Jack and that it was his badge that started everything. He couldn’t take it. He shouldn’t have been in the field anyway. 

The Sheriff fucked off. 

Derek was sent back to the station. 

“The hounds picked up a scent,” Emily swings into the room, running in to grab more batteries for their flashlights and umbrellas. “They think they’re close. Dave wants everyone out there.” 

[x.]

JJ hates the woods.

She hates the south.

The gravestones where people lay buried with names and dates of birth and death that no one ever seems to know. Once, someone will mumble, once the dates and name could be read. Dragging a finger across the uneven stone will allow that much to become obvious. No one ever knows the people who lay at rest here but standing near, stopping to stare will settle the most discomforting feeling in the pit of your stomach. Whatever the people do here you know, as the hairs on your neck raise and you shiver like there are cold fingers playing your spine like the keys of a piano, no one rests.

The woods are like that too. The eyes that follow you into the trees never blink, they are always watching. 

Ahead of her, stomping through the underbrush with unsettled anger of a man having lost his temper multiple times today, Morgan pays JJ only as much attention as he has to. Enough to shout above the rain when he finds a particularly slick area of mud or to avoid thistles reaching out to snag against the skin. 

Morgan isn’t taking it very well. He stomps and breaks the eerie calm of the woods with each foot he puts down – breaking twigs or rustling plants. 

The people JJ had expected a riot out of took the news without blinking. Dave had nodded gravely with understanding, getting this glint in his eyes that read plainly he knew their likelihood of catching this unsub and finding Hotch alive seemed grim. Emily had taken a deep breath in and just shook her head, declared it bound to happen with a dismissive shrug. “It’s better that it’s him,” Emily promised her. “He knows the woods and… and he’s tough. He’ll come back.” But she was already considering how long it would take before their resources were cut. Before Strauss called and declared they would have to come home. Irrational but valid. What if Abel cracked his skull too? What if they never even find his body out there?

They’ve never left anyone behind before. 

“Morgan?”

JJ comes up over a bit of a hill, mostly just rocks and roots twisted and covered in leaves. She’d been following Morgan, he’d slowed his place to allow her to get a little closer. But he was right here. 

“Derek!”

Someone screams. The sound erupts from the ground, from through the trees or from under her feet. From behind her, she thinks but she can’t find a source. She can’t reason where it could have originated. Softer this time, her courage to scream into the darkness stolen from her throat. “Derek?” It’s raining, the water soaking through her hair and down into her eyes. She’s drenched. Lost. Laughter bursts out of her chest, tumbling up out of her chest in thick, tense bursts. Wherever Hotch is, chances are she’s going to end up in the same place. So at least there’s that, right? Maybe he’s alive but it’s unlikely he’ll be as happy to see her as she will be to see him. 

“JJ?”

She turns around, whips around so fast the world is just a pitch of orange blur. Nothing. There’s no one. Just fire and mud.Her fingers stiffly curling over her radio but she’s not certain she’s actually turned the thing on. “This is – This is Jennifer J–” her radio isn’t working. The static doesn’t sound out. Depressing the button does nothing. 

“Jennifer?”

She turns around, eyes searching along the trees to find absolutely nothing. Decaying leaves. Fallen tree branches. “Hotch.” He’s leaning against the trunk of one of the larger trees, holding himself up with the tight grip his fingers have on the dark bark. He’s soaked clean through, hair flat against his forehead, and clothes clinging to his skin. “You’re–” she steps towards him, eyes finally catching the smaller details of his stature. Rain isn’t what’s soaking his clothing through. “Oh my God.”

“Are you real?” he rasps.

There’s blood down the side of his face, coming from behind his ear somewhere. Or maybe out of his ear… 

JJ nods, “Yeah. Yeah,  of course.”

He squints, adamant. It’s hard to know what’s real and what’s not. “Can you…” he starts to tip forward and he hears the crunch of her footstep, the step she tries to make towards him. He stumbles back, hitting a tree hard. “No! No! Stop, stop, please.” He holds up a hand, holding her back. “Please,” he repeats. He holds his hand up as he breathes, focusing so hard on pulling air into his lungs. He has to think about it. Otherwise, he’ll forget to. “Can you…” he’s not even sure how to say what he means. “I don’t know what’s real.”

JJ just wanted to help him. He’d started to fall and he doesn’t look like he can really handle falling again. “Okay, okay, I can prove I’m real.” She smiles, “I know… Uhm, I know you like oatmeal raisin cookies? And – And blueberry muffins. You take your coffee black but only when someone else makes it for you. If you make it for yourself you like two creams and a sugar.” She’s not sure that’s enough but it’s what she thinks of first. 

He nods, face pinching up as starts to cry. Tears fall down his face. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah.” He tries to stay standing up, “thank, God. I’m gonna – I think I’m gonna–"

JJ watches his eyes roll back, his entire body going limp as he falls to the side. “Hotch!”

whump-town:

Oh, Sinnerman

Warnings: child abuse, bible nonsense, I’m pretty sacrilege but like really it’s just a funny word I’m only half sure of the meaning, and self-harm

Word count: 6 or 7,000? No pairings. All of them die single.

Here’s the bible shit you need to know only because Hotch knows: In Genesis, Cain killed his brother Abel. Also In Genesis, Abraham’s faith was tested by God telling him to take his only son, Issac, to the top of a mountain and offer him as a sacrifice. He is stopped before he delivers the killing strike and a goat is offered in Issac’s place. In Exodus, Moses saw a flaming bush and God instructed him to get the Israelites out of Egypt.

Now to the main show:

He goes to sleep with his window shut. 

Dreams of the branches of the willow in the backyard creeping into his room. Long branches wrapped around his throat. A noose. He’s seen pictures in his history books. Black and white pictures of limp bodies. How bad would it really hurt? Worse than broken ribs? Worse than a fractured skull? He’s passed out before, a hand around his throat and another slamming into his stalled chest. That hurt. But suicide is a sin. The preacher on Sunday mornings, voice cracking through the mountain fog, looks right at Aaron as he breathes these words. It’s the worst sin. To kill the gift of life that God has so tenderly breathed into your lungs. Aaron looks away. He’s angry enough, scorned enough, not to care. 

He wakes up and his window is open, leaves scattered on his carpet. 

His mother tells him this too shall pass, holds his hand, and reads from the bible. She thinks that this is a trial, smiles, and tells him his father is just battling the devil. Aaron looks away from her, lets her hold his cold, thin wrist but refuses to sit with her. God is her comfort but not Aaron’s. If the devil is who his father battles, Aaron can’t imagine how small God must be. The devil is a bottle. So who is God?

Whiskey. The devil is whiskey, hellfire scorching Aaron’s face as his father holds him still. “Smartass,” his father jeers, thick fingers sunk into Aaron’s bottom jaw. “You never know when to shut the hell up, do you?” Aaron’s mouth hurts, his jaw grinding under the grip his father has on it. His lips are bleeding, split by the fat class ring on his father’s index finger. His blood is smeared on his cheek, dripping onto his nice shirt. Held still by his father’s crushing grip, looking into his wild, angry eyes only inches away from his own,  Aaron survives by withdrawing. He sees nothing and feels nothing. Thinks about the willow in the backyard. He wouldn’t even need a rope. The branches are so thick– He’s shaken back to cognition, reflexively pulling back as his father’s face gets closer. “Are you listening to me, you little bastard?”

The fingers loosen just a fraction, he’s moving his other hand back to slap him, but Aaron sees it coming. He wrenches his face free, feels the sting of the slap, but runs. Throws the screen door open and runs. Doesn’t look back. Can’t look back.

“Come back here you stupid little prick!” 

The woods welcome him. He is their child. His blood has spilled onto their foliage. He has laid in their safety. It is their life that has maintained his. 

He stole a knife from the Brookes’ County Store, the owner the father of a girl he goes to school with. He’s a nice old man but Aaron doesn’t trust him. No matter how softly he speaks. Aaron’s not stupid. He’s not certain Roy Brookes would hurt him but he knows what happens when you trust adults. Two summers ago, Johnny Raylan was found drowned in the river. Lured there by his neighbor. A man he trusted, a man who loved him. Roy Brookes doesn’t even care about Aaron, so no, he doesn’t trust the man. 

He stole a knife just because he knew Roy wouldn’t say anything and that made him feel big, powerful. Untouchable. 

Mockingly, he carved into the bark of the oak in the middle of the woods. Taking out his pain and fear on old wood. Where no one would find his sacrilegious offense, he left “These trials will show your faith.” Aaron finds it easily and knows where to go. The woods are his home, these trees are just hallways. He comes to stand at the base of the oak tree, panting from his run. He presses his fingers into the jagged letters, feeling where the wood raises. From his back pocket, he pulls out his knife. He thumbs the blade experimentally. He sinks it into the tree, satisfied by the resistance but craving more. The knife shimmers in the sunlight, a wicked idea crosses his mind. How terribly fucked, he imagines, he must be to think such a thing. To hurt himself because he’s being hurt. How terribly unforgivable and immoral… He craves it nonetheless. 

Keep reading

Oh, Sinnerman

Warnings: child abuse, bible nonsense, I’m pretty sacrilege but like really it’s just a funny word I’m only half sure of the meaning, and self-harm

Word count: 6 or 7,000? No pairings. All of them die single.

Here’s the bible shit you need to know only because Hotch knows: In Genesis, Cain killed his brother Abel. Also In Genesis, Abraham’s faith was tested by God telling him to take his only son, Issac, to the top of a mountain and offer him as a sacrifice. He is stopped before he delivers the killing strike and a goat is offered in Issac’s place. In Exodus, Moses saw a flaming bush and God instructed him to get the Israelites out of Egypt.

Now to the main show:

He goes to sleep with his window shut. 

Dreams of the branches of the willow in the backyard creeping into his room. Long branches wrapped around his throat. A noose. He’s seen pictures in his history books. Black and white pictures of limp bodies. How bad would it really hurt? Worse than broken ribs? Worse than a fractured skull? He’s passed out before, a hand around his throat and another slamming into his stalled chest. That hurt. But suicide is a sin. The preacher on Sunday mornings, voice cracking through the mountain fog, looks right at Aaron as he breathes these words. It’s the worst sin. To kill the gift of life that God has so tenderly breathed into your lungs. Aaron looks away. He’s angry enough, scorned enough, not to care. 

He wakes up and his window is open, leaves scattered on his carpet. 

His mother tells him this too shall pass, holds his hand, and reads from the bible. She thinks that this is a trial, smiles, and tells him his father is just battling the devil. Aaron looks away from her, lets her hold his cold, thin wrist but refuses to sit with her. God is her comfort but not Aaron’s. If the devil is who his father battles, Aaron can’t imagine how small God must be. The devil is a bottle. So who is God?

Whiskey. The devil is whiskey, hellfire scorching Aaron’s face as his father holds him still. “Smartass,” his father jeers, thick fingers sunk into Aaron’s bottom jaw. “You never know when to shut the hell up, do you?” Aaron’s mouth hurts, his jaw grinding under the grip his father has on it. His lips are bleeding, split by the fat class ring on his father’s index finger. His blood is smeared on his cheek, dripping onto his nice shirt. Held still by his father’s crushing grip, looking into his wild, angry eyes only inches away from his own,  Aaron survives by withdrawing. He sees nothing and feels nothing. Thinks about the willow in the backyard. He wouldn’t even need a rope. The branches are so thick– He’s shaken back to cognition, reflexively pulling back as his father’s face gets closer. “Are you listening to me, you little bastard?”

The fingers loosen just a fraction, he’s moving his other hand back to slap him, but Aaron sees it coming. He wrenches his face free, feels the sting of the slap, but runs. Throws the screen door open and runs. Doesn’t look back. Can’t look back.

“Come back here you stupid little prick!” 

The woods welcome him. He is their child. His blood has spilled onto their foliage. He has laid in their safety. It is their life that has maintained his. 

He stole a knife from the Brookes’ County Store, the owner the father of a girl he goes to school with. He’s a nice old man but Aaron doesn’t trust him. No matter how softly he speaks. Aaron’s not stupid. He’s not certain Roy Brookes would hurt him but he knows what happens when you trust adults. Two summers ago, Johnny Raylan was found drowned in the river. Lured there by his neighbor. A man he trusted, a man who loved him. Roy Brookes doesn’t even care about Aaron, so no, he doesn’t trust the man. 

He stole a knife just because he knew Roy wouldn’t say anything and that made him feel big, powerful. Untouchable. 

Mockingly, he carved into the bark of the oak in the middle of the woods. Taking out his pain and fear on old wood. Where no one would find his sacrilegious offense, he left “These trials will show your faith.” Aaron finds it easily and knows where to go. The woods are his home, these trees are just hallways. He comes to stand at the base of the oak tree, panting from his run. He presses his fingers into the jagged letters, feeling where the wood raises. From his back pocket, he pulls out his knife. He thumbs the blade experimentally. He sinks it into the tree, satisfied by the resistance but craving more. The knife shimmers in the sunlight, a wicked idea crosses his mind. How terribly fucked, he imagines, he must be to think such a thing. To hurt himself because he’s being hurt. How terribly unforgivable and immoral… He craves it nonetheless. 

His blades are one thing, sterile and thin. Pinched perfectly between his own fingers, the depth and length determined by him. 

He presses the blade into his skin, the same way he would with a razor. He punctures the skin, grunting at the hot pain that lances up his arm. This is so different. It bleeds more. More than cutting and more than he’s expecting. He presses his wrist to the tree and guides the blood into the words. Forces his blood to take to the words. It looks written in his blood.

A blood sacrifice. 

[x.]

A painter does not put brush to canvas without a reference, without some idea of what comes next in the process. And for that reason, Hotch could never imagine fatherhood. How do you raise a child as a man raised by his own hand? And as the living proof of his own handiwork, at his own success at raising a child, Hotch could not suggest that other people leave their children in his care. His well of understanding on how to raise a child was not just barren, it was dry. There had never once been water to pull from his well. He’d never seen successful, kind fatherhood. He had never felt it. So how could he do it? How could he be expected to love and care for a child when he had never known it himself? When he had never been able to show even himself that same kind of gentleness. 

Yet… 

Jack’s head rests on Hotch’s pillow. His hair is thin still, a youthful straw yellow he’ll grow out of before too soon and Hotch will miss just how young blond hair made Jack look. His little face is still pink with agitation but his breathing calmed. He’d woken up sobbing, as he often does these days. He’s too young still to understand exactly why Hotch can’t just go get Mommy, why she won’t come back no matter how much either of them cry or agree it would be better if she were here. 

It’s soothing to watch Jack sleep. 

His morning breath smells like pure rot but he’s terribly adorable taking up all of the bed with all of the three feet of his body. Hotch’s on the edge of the mattress, sleeping on his side – Jack’s razor-sharp elbows and harsh kicks having driven him to there. And as fit full as his own sleep had been, he smiles as Jack slowly works at waking up. He yawns and Hotch grimaces at the face full of his son’s morning breath. Hotch makes him brush his teeth every day but there is just something about the breath of little kids…  

Jack is disjointed, moving his shoulders and hips in a way that would certainly cause Hotch’s to lock up painfully. Jack tries to stand up and Hotch smirks at the state of him. His little wisps of hair stick up in every direction but he smiles happily. “Morning!” Jack dizzily falls back down on the bed, aiming and landing right on Hotch’s side. Hotch grunts at the impact, sharp elbows meeting his ribs unforgivingly. “I’m hungry.”

“Morning,” Hotch kisses his forehead, soaking in the unexpected way Jack crawls up to him. “Did you sleep alright?” Jack lays down on his chest, yawning and nodding as a reply. “You ready to get up?” Hotch rubs his back, not surprised to find Jack’s back and hair slick with sleepy sweat. The kid sweats more than anyone else he knows. Jack shakes his head. Hotch hums, he’s not ready to get up yet either. The day holds so much to do and taking a shower and shaving does not hold up to sleepy cuddles. Neither does the meeting he has with Strauss at three this evening. 

But they can only put off getting ready for the day for so long. 

Jack sleeps while he showers, rolling over to claim the warm part of the mattress Hotch had been laying in. Hoarding the one part of the bed he hadn’t taken over earlier in his sleep. By the time Hotch is out of the shower, working a towel through his hair quickly and trying to get a shirt on while Jack’s frantic knocking begins to be accompanied by a loud, Daddy hurry! I’m gonna pee myself! The carpet is spared an accident and Jack scowls at him from the toilet seat. He’d much rather stand to pee but in the rush, Hotch had embarrassed him by just stripping him naked himself and plopping him down on the seat rather than watch Jack piss himself trying to get out of a pair of footie pajamas. It’s happened more than once. A pouty four-year-old is better than one standing in a puddle of his own urine, sobbing uncontrollably over an accident. 

Jack recovers from his humiliation and is happy to be allowed to sit on the edge of the sink and watch Hotch shave. Yawning sleepily as he walks his fingers over his father’s ribs and up to his sternum. All until he falls forward and just lets Hotch hold him upright, little feet kicking off the counter. 

Brushing his teeth is like torture. Jack can not brush them well enough to avoid cavities on his own so Hotch has to double back and Jack hates it. “If you let me brush your teeth,” Hotch barters, moving Jack’s toothbrush back so he can’t grab it, “I’ll let you brush my teeth.”  

Jack squints skeptically at Hotch for a moment but that’s too good of an offer to refuse. “K.” 

True to his word, Hotch does allow Jack to brush his teeth and he’s very rough on the gums. But Hotch smiles and tells him that he did such a good job anyway. 

He has his morning cup of coffee and two or three spoonfuls of soggy cheerios. Jack eats all of his cereal soggy, a side-effect of not yet mastering the motor control it takes to wield a spoon. Most foods he eats end up all over him. They’re working on it. In the meantime, Hotch is force-fed bits of soggy cereal every morning. Bites he has to take because he’s pretty certain if he rejects his terribly adorable son’s offer he’s an awful father. And he does enough stupid shit throughout the day to be a bad dad, he needs the easy breaks where he can get them. 

Unfortunately, he really fucking hates soggy cereal. 

He has two more cups of coffee before he leaves the house and he realizes then that he is fighting a very unwinnable battle. 

He hasn’t been sleeping well. 

Or, at all. 

The couch in his office was a gift from Dave in ‘98 when he got promoted. It was a complicated gift – Dave was retiring, leaving, and giving Hotch that shitty old couch felt like blood money. Not that Dave really cared, he just didn’t want to figure out how to get that couch out of the building or to pay for a U-Haul. And who better to pawn it off onto than Hotch? In the three years that the couch sat in Dave’s office, only Hotch had ever liked that ratty old thing. The cushions are thin and the fabric is very rough. Jason would rather stand through hour-long meetings than sit on it – springs digging into his ass and back were not as bad as just standing uncomfortably. 

The first concussion Hotch got on the job he slept off on that couch, curled up like a baby, and almost unwilling to get up once Haley got there. It had taken Dave and Jason to get him back up off the couch – the only reason he left the safety of the shitty couch was with the promise of a peanut butter & jelly sandwich. The only person who ever liked that couch was Hotch but Dave was almost surprised to find Hotch had kept that old piece of junk for so long but then again, not really. Then again, Hotch was still packing PB&Js for lunch so nothing really changes. 

That couch is every bit of twenty years old, it’s only redeemable quality is simply that Hotch loves it. The cushions are thin and the only way he can sleep on it is on his back but that couch does what nothing else can. He takes sleeping pills and he ends up having nightmares – sleep is futile to the body if it never has the chance to relax. And the nightmares are night terrors, dreams so intense he wakes up soaked in sweat. He takes sleeping pills and then sits up for four hours in the middle of the night waiting for anxiety medications to bring him down from whatever anxiety attack he manages to work himself into. 

Penelope buys him tea and the only person that seems to work on is Jack. The smell of organic Chamomile tea steeping, even just the sound of water boiling, has Jack yawning and rubbing at his eyes. Penelope says honey will help the taste and dutifully, Hotch stirs a little into his mug, but he’s not sleeping. 

Except for one that shitty old couch. 

It’s not at a point where people are noticing, people being Emily, but someone’s noticing and that’s never any good. She doesn’t say anything to him or any of the others about it because when it comes to dealing with Hotch making public observations about him doesn’t blow over well. Noticing him is always a bad thing but it’s better to notice in private. 

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Hotch sits up slowly, palms pressed into his eye sockets as he tries to encourage his brain to work. “I was,” he offers matter-of-factly. For someone else he might sit up, fake being more attentive and awake. Get right to business and distract from his just sleeping hair sticking up in every direction. But Emily’s seen him worse. Besides, she’s got her arms crossed over her chest and giving him this look that he knows is going to annoy him. He has no choice but to entertain it. 

She’s sitting on the coffee table, her knees against his. She’s cornered him. “You’re being weird.” 

He uses the side of the couch to stand, old knees protesting the deep movement. “I do believe that calling people names is rude.” His left leg is asleep and he limps to his desk, rubbing at his eyes as he moves blindly around his office. He knows exactly where everything is just as he knows Emily is watching his every movement. 

Emily clicks her tongue, pleased that he’s still groggy from his nap. Enough to loosen his tongue, to give her what she wants. “Now you’re deflecting.” She has no questions to ask. If she should be worried, he’d tell her. If something were wrong, he’d tell her. They’ve worked hard at this trust, given up too much to suddenly start pulling back. 

She caves, she doesn’t want to but he sits down at his desk and puts his head in his hands. He needs to drink more water and eat something. She brought him a muffin from downstairs, a little plastic-wrapped situation. Blueberry. Normally, she brings him the chocolate chip muffins because those are the ones she likes and he never finishes one on his own. So he’ll always give her half, it’s a win-win. They’re giant muffins, really. But he is acting weird. So she feels bad and he knows it. “Here,” she throws the muffin at him and he reads the vulnerability in her kindness easily. “Eat something.” 

She got him the muffin he prefers. 

“Thank you.”

She shrugs it off and makes a face at him that says more than she’s willing. A warning not to make this a weird thing and a careful avoidance of his eye contact, a clarification that he does matter to her. That his well-being is something she considers and cares about. “Eat it, JJ wants us at the round table. Got a case.” 

He frowns, JJ didn’t say anything to him. “Where?” 

“Winchester.”

Winchester. 

Barefoot two a.m. runs down the road, tearing off in one direction for as long as his legs would carry him. Hoping, praying, that his father would be too drunk to be able to find him. Seeing headlights coming up behind him and bracing for the impact. 

Squeezing between his mattress and the floor when the yelling got too much, hoping if he made himself scarce he’d suddenly be forgotten. Drunk hands swiping at him, trying to grab at an ankle or a wrist and pull him out. Coming into his room the next day to find his bedframe gone, his mattress on the floor. 

The clawfoot tub in the bathroom, being held under the water by a strong grip on his hair. He could never do anything right. His fear of water was born one summer afternoon, the lawn hadn’t been mowed the right way, and his t-shirt was too dirty at the dinner table. He couldn’t breathe, didn’t think he ever would after that. 

One short invaluable life measured out in quick, thundering heartbeats not certain things wouldn’t end right here. His head underwater. Headlights casting the shadow of his long skinny legs up the road. 

Winchester.

“Hotch?” Emily is still standing in his office, watching him just pause – this vacant, horrified look in his eyes. 

He clears his throat and lowers his eyes to his desk like he’s looking for something. “I’ll – I’ll be out in a second.” He opens the muffin but only to make her think he has any intention of eating it. He doesn’t. 

Winchester. 

In terms of relativity, is a big enough place. Logically, the odds are on his side that they run into no one that he knows. But he knows better than to hope that luck is aligned with that logistic. 

JJ hands him the file and he opens it, holding his breath as his eyes scan the page. And, of course, he’s wrong. JJ doesn’t need prompting to start so with him standing she begins the case outline. 

Abraham Boseman, thirty-four, was found in the woods at the base of an old dying oak tree. Laid out on a firewood prye, throat slit.

Under the table, Emily kicks his foot. Hard. No one else notices, Derek keeps on his worried path arguing with Dave about sacrilege. Reid is trying very hard to patiently wait them out. Lips pressed together to glue them shut and his entire body bounced with his leg. 

“It looks like  a sacrifice.”

Hotch can’t tear his eyes away from the pictures. 

“What’s that written on the tree?”

The tree. He can’t think. The tree? He looks up and watches Emily flip to pictures forward. He does the same. The tree. 

Solemnly, Derek reads, “these trails will show your faith.” His voice is steady and even, the opposite of Hotch’s beat skipping thundering heart. He can’t help but look up, search Derek’s face for some reaction to the thing that he is seeing. But Derek gives nothing. He just sighs and shakes his head. “Look at that tree, the coloration of the wood, the words?” He points the tip of his pen up at the board, “it’s dark. Aged. That was written there… years ago.” He shakes his head and looks back down at the photos in front of him. “So, either he chose these woods, this tree… or we’re missing years worth of bodies.” 

Hotch wonders if they can see the pulse he can feel in his face. 

Dave scoffs, “we don’t know that. Something like this?” They all look back at the photo, Hotch stares forward. “It upsets people. Southern, old people don’t sit well with sacrilege. They’d have called it in if there were more bodies or, at least, called in a priest.” Like an exterminator. Leave some traps to drag the pests out. 

JJ sighs, “I meant, where’s the quote from?”

Spencer raises his hand, fingers poised in that thoughtful way he does as he thinks. “It’s 1st Peter, These trials will show that your faith is genuine. It is being tested as fire tests and purifies gold—though your faith is far more precious than mere gold. So when your faith remains strong through many trials, it will bring you much praise and glory and honor on the day when Jesus Christ is revealed to the whole world.” 

Derek grunts, “so this is a sacrifice? For who, God? Kind of… grotesque.” 

Spencer shakes his head, “no not really. Biblically, sacrifices are very common. From the Israelites, God asked for a ram. From Abraham, his son Jacob”. From Aaron–” Spencer’s eyes move involuntarily to Hotch “–Mose’s brother, a bull.” 

Derek frowns, rolling his eyes, “animals are a totally different thing.” 

Penelope gasps. 

“Baby girl–”

Aaron clears his throat, his head throbbing as the attention in the room spins back to him. He feels immediately light-headed. “I think Dave’s right,” heknows, “but we won’t know for certain until we get to the scene.” It’s meant to be demissive, the sound of closing files following him out. They don’t but he’s also not going to stop for the meandering conversations that they’ll have once he’s gone. His residual presence in the room will make things awkward, they’re less open when he’s around. After all, he’s the boss, not their friend. 

Emily noticed his unnoticeable dissociation.  The way his eyes never left the photos JJ paperclipped to the file. She follows him out of the room, accusing his back, “you’re still being weird.” 

Hotch keeps on his path and ignores the Emily that apparates at his heels. He does leave the door open when he steps into his office and lets her take the time to close it behind them. He tosses the file on the desk, and lets it thud punctuate his sentence. Gives things a theatric pause. “Do we need to talk about the hostile work environment you’re causing?” He leans back onto his desk, arms crossed. There is no malice in his tone. He collected coins as a child. Endured torture at home and in class. Weird is on the list but it’s not that harsh or even creative. 

Narrowing her eyes, Emily crosses her own arms. “See?” She nods her chin at him, “now you’re being defensive.”

He opens his mouth nearly immediately but closes it and that’s nearly the same thing as answering her. At least this way he doesn’t arm her with words. Pushing himself off the desk he rounds the other side, puts the desk between them. Keeps being defensive. “Is there something I can do for you, Prentiss?” 

She frowns at him, calculating the response she’ll get from anything that isn’t her departure. He’ll kick her out, he’s done it before. “Yeah,” she decides. “I gave you the muffin to eat.” She turns back to the door, “so eat it, you get real… moody when you’re blood sugar is low.” 

“It’s not–” he shuts his mouth. He hates the way that she gets under his skin, and bothers him like no one else can. “Tell the others we’re heading out in thirty. I just need to call transport, get enough SUVs.” He smiles politely, already thinking about how he’ll send her in the same SUV as Penelope and Spencer. Payback. 

“Yes, sir.” 

It’s mocking and he knows it. 

“Thank you.” 

[x.]

It’s a forty-five-minute drive which is, truthfully, one of the more tame adventures they’ve endured in cramped SUVs. Not that Emily will forgive Hotch anytime soon for making her go with Derek, Penelope, and Spencer for it. Her head pulses to the beat of the song Derek and Penelope happily sing over, not even the wind from her downed window relieves the pressure. He’s a bastard and she stares at the SUV in front of them, trying to stare a hole into the tires. She wants him to have to change one on the side of the road. The sweltering sun beating down on his suit-clad shoulders. Make him get a weird pain in his back. Dirt all over his hands. He’s a rat bastard and she hates him. 

They’re greeted into the city of Winchester by an old wooden sign, rustic in an authentic, rotting in the ground kind of way. Derek cringes. Small towns are the worst cases to work.

Immediately, something is off. The Sheriff is a little too stiff as he shakes JJ’s hand. But Emily can’t figure out why. She narrows down the oddities to age – no one younger than thirty eyes them oldy. The woman who works the front desk frowns at them and not even Dave’s nasty way of flirting with her eases that tight frown. It’s weird, Dave’s charming. It’s also nasty but he’s very good at it. 

Leaning close to JJ, the only trustable person on this team, Emily asks, “Is it me or…” Emily frowns, “they’re acting weird.” All of the officers. It started with one or two, no reason she could wrap her head around. They don’t typically like having the team around but the reactions are… different. Too much whispering and side-eyes. Not the side-eye JJ gets or the kind Spencer gets. 

JJ looks up from her work, because she’s doing work and not gossiping like Emily, and frowns. She looks over her shoulder, around the room, and then back to them. “I guess,” she shrugs. “Why?”

Emily sits down, shaking her head. “Hotch.” JJ frowns. “They haven’t even noticed Reid, you notice that? Everyone notices Reid. And Garcia? Same thing. Hotch asks for something, they get weird.” She taps her finger, thinking. “Nobody does that to Hotch.” He’s big. Not broad but long. Mean too. And angry looking. Hotch asks for something and people do it. Not here. 

It started with the Sheriff, the old man’s face falling as quickly as Hotch’s had twisted into something unrecognizable. Something akin to fear or… at least recognition. Then a few of the older officers. They looked angry. 

JJ shrugs, “people are weird.” 

“Always,” Emily frowns. She leaves, suddenly, no warning. 

JJ doesn’t bother overthinking that comment or even wonder what the hell that’s supposed to mean. She has no particular interest in paying them any more mind than she has to. Places like this create a certain type of man. Those who eye her as she walks past because they don’t care to be seen watching. That’s exactly why Hotch asks her to go out to visit the victim’s family with him. He doesn’t want to stay at the station any longer and he suspects JJ will have far less to say about everything than anyone else. 

Her silence is valued and then it’s corrupting. She doesn’t play music in the car and he has entirely too much time to think. 

His house of horrors was framed by woods on three sides, the front opening to a driveway connected to the end of a dirt road. As a boy, he’d rest his head on the fence in the backyard gazing out into the trees and imagining the life within them. His mother forbade this after one night he told her a story, one he’d come up with all on his own, about a deer with human teeth standing on the edge of the property. It stood on its hind legs and waved. He was, from then on, no longer allowed anywhere but the front yard. Which he thought peculiar given the front yard was where his story took place. His mother smoothed this over by making sure he understood to never tell that story again. His little head just got away from him sometimes, she said. He was a gifted storyteller with an overactive imagination. 

Though, typically, overactive imagination is what she called rehearsing his lies with him. Dotting fleshy color back into reddened, painful skin. Her fingers were gentle where his father’s had been rough the night before. “How’d you hit your head, sweetheart?” And with crooked teeth, he’d smile, “fell off my bunk bed!”

He wasn’t sure he’d actually seen a deer do what he told his mother he’d seen it do until that very moment. This was the line between fiction and truth – his overactive imagination.

He never really wanted to play in the backyard after that anyway.

Not to say he’s scared of the woods. He’s a grown man, faced real demons in the daylight, not ones living under his bed and waving at him from the edge of the woods. But that’s not to say he can’t feel a cold sweat breaking out underneath his shirt as JJ drives them down winding backroads of another Virginia county he wishes to not recall the name of in a month. It makes him nauseous as well, hills upon hills and forever winding roads. It has nothing to do with the trees. Nothing to do with Spencer’s sudden interest in folklore or the older man who Derek questioned who smelt exactly like honeysuckles and moonshine. It’s the road. Long and winding. 

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” JJ says, blinker keeping track of the pause that follows her comment. She looks down both sides of the road and turns left. The blinker stops with a click. He says nothing. She glances over at him again. Quiet is the polite way to put it. He let her drive. Aaron Hotchner doesn’t let anyone drive. He’s been acting oddly. Paranoid in the exact same way Spencer is – looking over his shoulder and sitting with his back to the wall. She thought he might just be ill. Hotch wears ailments like relapses in his PTSD. As if the flu brings George Foyet back to life and once again they are in an active manhunt. But she’s fairly certain he’s not sick.

JJ doesn’t want to test her luck, she’s planning on bragging to the others that he let her drive and it’s really salt in the wound if she gets to drive back to the precinct too. But she also just can’t let this go. “You grew up in the area, right?” she glances over at him. Finds a storm cloud in her passenger seat. Quickly, to throw the blame, she adds, “Emily said something about it.”

Head turned towards the window, he hides the eye roll he can’t really help.  

Both Derek and Emily have said something about it to him. No sooner than he could pull his hand out of the Sheriff’s, offering the man a small, tight nod, as they walked side-by-side the Sheriff’s attention going anywhere but Hotch. Which is never the standard. Sheriffs usually like to talk to Hotch, not because they like him but just because he’s the easily identified guy in charge. This Sheriff goes to Derek. Even less normal. 

Derek knew. Emily was only just starting to work it out. He might not know the name of the street Aaron grew up on or which backroad would take you there but he knew the county name and that look on Hotch’s face. The same one Sean gets when he’s had too many drinks and heads down a road Derek wishes he wouldn’t. 

Seatbelts unbuckling, the rest of their car ride spent in complete silence, Hotch pauses a moment before opening his door. JJ sees his contemplation and waits. After a moment he offers, “I grew up a few miles from here. On the other side of those woods.” Then he opens his door and leaves the conversation. That’s all he’s willing to say on this matter. 

JJ doesn’t look in the direction he vaguely nodded to until they’re walking towards the house. He grew up in a home, that much she knows for sure, but Hotch’s history is a patchwork of half-truths. This one she’s inclined to believe but she looks into those woods and can not imagine a boy. Knowing Jack, and loving him to pieces, she knows he’s entirely woven from Haley. JJ could never imagine such wide smiles coming from Hotch, such unashamed laughter. It’s heartbreaking. 

Normally, Hotch would send Derek or Emily out to do this sort of work. He is better at it and yields better results faster but he’s usually preoccupied with sheriffs and deputies. Here those people would prefer he stay very far away from them and he couldn’t be happier to oblige. He leaves them to Dave and prays the older man doesn’t say too much. 

They’re visiting a widow, the victim’s mother. She’s in her eighties, a very typical southern mother. It’s easy and Hotch is comforted by the idea of it. He plays fully into his southern charm, slipping into an accent occasionally guided by the older woman sitting across from them. “And your other son–?”

“Abel,” the old woman gushes. “Abraham, Abel, and Abigail.” She sips at her sweet tea, her smile never fading. “Two sons and a daughter and I couldn’t be happier. They make me very proud to be their mother.”

JJ smiles back, “three As, that’s impressive.” She’d never understood why parents are inclined to pick one letter of the alphabet and name all their children by its guide. 

Without looking away from the fireplace Hotch adds, “Abel the good shepherd, Abraham the obedient, and Abigail cause of joy.” The old woman smiles and Hotch looks away. Gideon had called him a divining rod, the kindest way to say traumatized. Adapted. He always knew which family members would be helpful when investigating. Which fathers would curl their lips when questioned and which mothers would weep, would come undone and spell out generations of just the way things are done. Always knew just what to say. 

Once she’s done giggling, prideful of his knowledge, the old woman asks, “you said your name was Agent Hotchner? You any kin to the Hotchner’s over thataway?” 

Hotch steadies his attention and keeps his eyes on the older woman so he won’t glance at JJ. “No,” he lies, smoothly. Smiles too wide. Too much. Too forced. “I’m afraid it’s a very common last name where I’m from. More Northern.” He glances at JJ, shying from her gaze. His eyes aimed back at the creaking floorboards below. 

The old woman shakes her head, “I’ll be damned if you don’t look exactly like that family, though. Could fit right in. Exactly like the daddy of that bunch, spitting image.” She shakes her head and turns to JJ. “Meaner than a snake, that ol’ bastard. ‘Bout beat the skin off his oldest more than once. Why if I had–”

Hotch clears his throat, and suddenly his collar is too tight. “Sorry,” he apologizes immediately. Old habits die hard. Sorrywas the first word he ever learned. “Did your boys know them?” He already knows the answers. Against his better judgment, despite everything he knows, he takes a sip of the sweet tea she poured him. Tries to wet his mouth. “You said that – You’ve been in the area for a while. Could they be involved?”

Heobviously knows the answer. Her sons are younger than Sean and no one knew anything more about Sean in this town than they did about him. The entire town decided the Hotchner boys were the only things to fear in those woods. Drugs and alcohol and screams. Besides, no one lives in that old house anymore. 

“No, no,” the old woman says, decisively. Without a shred of doubt, he doesn’t ask for further proof. Doesn’t need to. “Them boys… I couldn’t tell you what they’re up to. Likely prison.” She shakes her head, looks at JJ again. They share a kinship of motherhood and she suspects JJ will agree with her. As if one of those boys isn’t staring a hole into the floor beneath their feet, avoiding her eye contact. 

Prison makes the skin on Hotch’s arms stand. He thinks of Sean. 

The bails he’s paid off. 

The law he’s practiced long after his license expired. 

The rehab stays. 

“Neither one of them was worth a damn.” The old woman looks remorseful, shakes her head. “Not that their daddy ever let ‘em have the chance.” She looks off to the side, wistful. Imagines the thin, inky black-haired boy standing at the edge of her property. Picking blackberries tell his fingers bled with the juice. 

Hotch takes another drink from his sweet tea and sits it down with an air of finality, a southern sort of dismissal. “Thank you,” he manages, “your hospitality has been welcoming but Agent Jareau and I really should get back to the station.” He extends JJ the same smile, never reaching his eyes, “JJ can leave you with a card to contact us.” 

Aaron would be the final puzzle piece. His business card would be the damning piece of evidence and that’s a distracting conversation to have. It would destroy the relationship they’ve just built. She’d known in an instant. He is that little Hotchner boy, not worth a damn. 

The air is not nearly that humid but it stirs his vision dangerously the second they step out onto the porch. JJ is right behind him, having another goodbye, so she doesn’t see his miss-step. She doesn’t see the man standing in the woods either. 

“Who is that?”

The old woman said her oldest son had moved out of the county two years ago and started a family. Her daughter had done the same. The only kids who stay here are caught, if you know what’s good for you, you leave so Hotch hadn’t considered she’d lie. 

“JJ!” 

Shotgun pellets. His side stings. 

“Go!” JJ has the old woman pinned to the house’s wall. “Go! I’ve got this!” 

Abel and Cain. Guess he should have seen that one coming. A biblical retelling. All the wrong characters, the story jumbled. Close but not right. 

It suddenly makes too much sense. Hotch wonders what they’d find in Abel’s house. He’d only heard stories, awful, crass retellings of the sort of things recovered in the bedrooms of men and women in fitful delusions. Mostly, he just gets twisted up. Abel killed Abraham. Dave will eat this up, it’s perfect book material. The twisted biblical stories. Not right but intricate and interesting. 

Another shot is fired, this one aimed at his head. He falls down in the driveway, scrapes his knees up but doesn’t get shot. “Abel!” he shouts, following the back of the man in front of him. The bushes at the mouth of the woods have been beaten into a path of sorts, thistles pushed aside. They reach for his pants, tear at his clothing. “FBI! Abel, you need to stop running!” 

His side pulses, hot and angry, and he comes to a fumbled stop. He searches the woods for a moment, hearing nothing but the sound of his breath. Then white-hot pain blossoms across the back of his head. He falls back, sticks and rocks digging into his back. 

“I did what was asked of me!” Hotch pitches forward, gasping and spitting up vomit. His vision swims dangerously until his head is suddenly grabbed. Two hands hold his face still, forcing his eyes to meet the man in front of him. “I did what was asked of me,” Abel repeats. “You must understand. Who am I to disobey God?” A second time, more frantically, he repeats, “God!” 

Hotch tries to open his mouth, to encourage Abel to let him go or to find the right thing to say. But he just can’t think of any words. He just can’t feel anything. His eyes roll back into his head, his lips meeting in a soundless last attempt to stay alive.