Chapter Text
Hotch always shows up early to work, it’s part of his schedule. Whether it’s five minutes before he’s meant to be in or two whole hours before anyone else gets into the building, he has yet to miss this part of his work-day routine in years.
It started when he was new to the team, the point where he was the new agent, wide eyed and just about as jumpy as a rabbit, trying to impress everyone. But it turned from a sense of impression to a comfortable habit. It always brought Hotch some form of contentment- watching from a desk when he used to be down in the bullpen, or from the dark corners of his office- to see life slowly float into the office. He liked watching his agents file in for another day of work every time each day started.
Usually, and most surprisingly, it was often Garcia who was the next in, sometimes even before he was there. She never spoke to him in those early hours, giving him a bright smile and moving wordlessly past him to her office. He appreciated it, oftentimes he had no energy to properly speak so early in the day. But seeing Garica, dressed in bright colors and glittery tassels, made his mornings a little warmer each time he saw her.
The pattern was years in the making, planning his mornings hours earlier than he needed to in order to arrive first at the office. Waking up when it was still dark, when the moonlight was bright enough to light his apartment through his window that he didn’t have to turn any lights on. Driving on near empty roads and street lights acting as an artificial sunrise, enjoying the peace of the city before it woke up and started ticking away like a frantic machine.
This trait of his was quickly caught on by the team. Everyone knew he would always be in the office before any of them, aside from Garica, and they could count on it. For years now, as Rossi has explained from Hotch’s early days on the original team, the man has always been an early riser. Very few times has he strayed from this schedule; the only times this behavior has been disrupted were times in which Hotch was ill or hurt.
So it makes it all the more concerning when it’s half an hour past the start of the day and Hotch is nowhere to be found.
Garica had been the first in and noticed that Hotch wasn’t anywhere in the office, but she had no reason to question his tardiness. She had arrived particularly early today, so maybe Hotch was simply running behind her schedule. But when Morgan came in and Hotch still wasn’t there, and then Prentiss, who was soon followed by JJ, entered with no sign of their unit chief; and even after Reid came in, there was no chief in the upper office- Hotch was not in the building.
Morgan was stressed by it, that was easy to see. With the absent chief he was drawn into the anxious cloud that hovered around him with every second that Hotch was late, getting more staticy by the minute. Prentiss was glaring at her work like it personally offended her, Reid was fidgeting with his pen as he tapped it against the desk, unable to focus on the paper in front of him. And while the others couldn’t see her, JJ was in her office, worriedly checking the clock every few minutes and wondering why Hotch picked today of all days to come in behind schedule.
It was odd enough that Hotch would be late, but the fact he was late after what had happened the day prior was just suspicious. They all know the man wouldn’t just avoid them like this, but something odd was definitely going on.
That ‘going on’ turned out to be Rossi, who they all had failed to notice was also late, too wrapped up in the mystery that was Hotch’s tardiness. Nearly an hour after the day had started and everyone had turned into the building, Rossi walked a very disheveled and worn looking Hotch out of the elevator and up the stairs to his office. Both looked stressed, Hotch more anxious and upset than worried like Rossi was, as the older agent ushered the unit chief into his office before closing the door behind him, protecting their conversation from the rest of the bullpen.
Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid, the only three on the team who worked down in the bullpen, watched with confused looks- what was that? Their confusion only grew when words, loud but too muffled to make out, started to echo about Hotch’s office. It wasn’t quite yelling, but it did get a few extra heads turning to look at the office in concern.
The noises continued for a moment, during which Garica had come marching out of her office. With a plan on bothering Morgan, who had been jittery and on edge all morning, she watched as the three agents stared up at Hotch’s office. No sooner had she stopped by the edge of her friend’s desk, just about to make some comment that was sure to have gotten written up somewhere, Rossi came storming out of Hotch’s office.
Unlike the rest of the team, Garica had no reasoning behind why the older man would be so upset. Unaware of the excitement from yesterday, to her it really only looked like Rossi had argued and got mad at their unit chief- maybe for being late? She noticed how Hotch was unnaturally late today, so maybe Rossi was upset by it.
“Who kicked his puppy?” Garcia asked, finally turning away from the upper floor after Rossi stalked off into his own office.
The frown on Morgan’s face doesn’t lighten as he turned to his friend standing beside him, if anything it gets more troubled. That’s… odd- Morgan always smiles when she shows up or makes some odd comment, what has him so upset? Looking about at the other two agents, Garica sees how ruffled they are as well. Reid is fidgeting and looks like he wants to go talk to Hotch, based on his flickering gaze that keeps drifting up to the office; Prentiss is glaring up at their chief’s door like it’s personally offended her, like the man inside has slighted her in some way.
Garcia may not be a profiler like the rest of them, but she is not blind to the signs- something has happened between their chief and the rest of the team. And if she has any guess, it has to do with why Hotch was late today.
“What happened to my babies, you all look so sad,” she asks, concern written over her face as the downed looks stay on their faces. “Did something happen? Did Hotch say something- is it about why he’s late? What did he do?”
The rapid fire questions aren’t answered immediately, but there is a collective almost-wince when the last question is blurted out. Morgan, finally letting himself relax a little and flashing a strained, tired smile up at her, responds.
“It’s not so much of what he did, it’s more of what we did. I think we maybe stressed him out a little bit.”
Ok, not vague at all, mister Derek. I wanted a real answer- “Well what did you say then?” Garica asks slowly, glancing back up at the office that Hotch was hidden in. The lights are off aside from the man’s signature amber colored lamp, the dark figure of the man hunched over his desk barely discernible from the rest of the shadows. None of them can really see him from down here, but there’s something more tired about his silhouette than normal- only Hotch would be able to work so hard that even his shadow looked tired, she supposed.
Nobody answers her question, which makes something uncomfortable stir in her chest. Something has upset her team, her friends, and she wants to know what it is.
“C’mon my lovelies, don’t make me worry like this. Just tell me what happened and why you all have been watching boss man’s office like buzzards.”
Reid quickly turns away from the upper office at the comment, instead trying to focus on his paperwork; it isn’t working, not judging by how frantically the pen tapping has become. Prentiss shakes her head, turning to more fully face Garcia from where she stands beside Morgan’s desk. The glare is gone, but something tense is still settled over her.
“Maybe sit down for this, Pen?” Morgan’s voice is tense and clipped, like he doesn’t want to talk but knows he has to. Garica looks over to him, eyes wide with worry and the feeling in her chest sparking. With a shallow nod she pulls over an extra chair and sits beside her friend, intent on listening to his story.
“I’ll ask this first,” Morgan starts, “Did you hear anything weird yesterday? Yelling or anything like that?”
What-? How does that- “No, I didn’t. What does this have to do with a moody Rossi or Hotch, Morgan?”
“Just- yeah ok. So yesterday I was yelling at Rossi to come into Hotch’s office. I thought he had gotten hurt and panicked, so I called the first person I thought of.”
“Hotch was hurt?” Garica asks, voice soft and bordered with fragileness. Someone on her team was hurt and she didn’t know until the day after? But Morgan shakes his head, face twisting like he’s frustrated or confused. “Not really,” he says.
Morgan pauses, trying to collect the right words and think about how to say them. It’s a subject he doesn’t quite feel like he can just spit out, but he’s not too sure how to put all of this nicely and in a calm way. Whenever he thinks back to it- finding Hotch lying limp on the floor, lips blue as he tried to get his heart moving again- it makes his anxiety flash; how is he meant to explain that without making Penelope upset too?
“Morgan,” his friend’s voice breaks him from his too long silence after his last comment. She looks upset, bright eyes mixed with worry and face twisted into a sad look- how is he meant to tell her that he thought he found Hotch dying without making her freak out?
He doesn’t have to, it seems, because Prentiss chips into the conversation. She cuts in suddenly, not giving Morgan a chance to get the right words to more delicately describe the situation and the events that have happened.
“Hotch is a vampire and we thought he was dead yesterday because he wasn’t breathing.”
“Emily!” Morgan hisses, whipping around to face the female agent. Reid looks affronted by the words, flicking his eyes between his two female friends. Prentiss holds a steady gaze with Morgan and his bewildered look from across their desks.
“What?” She says, “She was going to be told anyways, no reason to sneak around it.”
“You could have put it more delicately than that! You’ll give Garcia a heart attack if you just say something like that. Even I had a heart attack when I saw Hotch and found out, you can’t just spring that on someone.”
“She was going to find out anyway!” Prentiss repeats, the tense atmosphere from earlier rolling back over them as the two agents start to become snappish. “There’s no reason to be slow about it- she was going to have to find out before lunch, I wasn’t going to wait until then.”
“That doesn’t mean you can-”
“Morgan,” Garcia cuts in, voice gentle, “It’s ok, there’s no need to fight about this. I’m glad Em told me but it’s very sweet you worried about me.”
The tense atmosphere melts back into something more docile, Morgan and Prentiss giving each other matching, apologetic looks. Reid, still strung as tight as a bowstring, keeps flickering his gaze about the room- from Prentiss, Morgan and Garcia, to Hotch’s door and then over to Rossi’s, back and forth between the papers on his desk and the clock. Garica shoots a worried look to her friends, ‘why is he so upset?’ the silent question being asked- neither of them have an answer.
Something uncomfortable still hangs in the air, so Garica sets about on her original plan of cheering her friends up. Carefully prying Reid away from his anxieties, she draws the other agents into an easy conversation. It’s only simple things, like how their days were, or what they were planning to do over their next days off, but it works. Even with the three agents knowing this is an intentional distraction, they happily go along with it; Morgan cracks jokes and fires back and forth comments and pet-names with Garcia that would have given the harassment seminar presenter from a week ago a stroke, Reid rambles about a new book he found and describes how on the seventh time reading through it he found some hidden meaning in a sentence that could change half the plot, and Prentiss mentions a new show she wants to watch on their next weekend off.
Slowly the tension dissipates, all the agents relaxing. Later on even JJ joins them, original plan to give Hotch some files discounted with a head shake from Morgan - “Just wait until lunch, JJ. Hotch had a rough morning, the least we can give him is some time alone.”- and sits on the edge of Emily’s desk, wrapped into their friendly conversations. For well over the time they could justify, they all sit and talk. The anxious cloud remains hovering over them, especially Reid, who still sends worried looks to the upper offices, but sitting next to each other helps.
Before they all really realize how long they’ve been talking, Rossi comes out with the tense announcement that it’s lunch time for ‘all of them, right now’ and that he would grab Hotch to join them in the conference room in five minutes. The hovering cloud suddenly comes crashing down on the profilers surrounding Garica, all her hard work in cheering them up washed away in a torrent of twisted faces and drawn up postures.
“I’m sure it’ll all be fine,” she tries to reassure them as the group heads up to the room, all wordlessly ignoring the raised voices and arguing silhouettes of the two men in an office as they pass, “You’re all worked up over something silly. Just take a break- it’s lunch time which means no bad moods.”
Her unusual trains of thought and bouncing wildly from topics brings a comforting familiarity to the group, keeping them from slipping too far into their anxious storms. They continue their conversations from before, the only one of them willing to acknowledge the fact it had been ten minutes without two certain agents showing up being Reid, who refuses to turn his gaze away from the room’s door and the hallway hidden just outside of it.
Finally, nearly fifteen minutes after they all had gathered at the rounded table, the door swings open. Much like that morning, it’s Rossi who is first in line to enter, and Hotch, who looks like a half drowned kitten with his sad face, follows behind him. The older agent doesn’t say anything, moving to his seat and settling down. When he sees that Hotch hasn’t moved from the doorway, he frowns.
“It’s not like you need permission to enter,” Rossi says, tense and with hard-edged humor in his tone, “Come in here and sit down.”
Hotch’s face twitches, like he doesn’t like the hint of the joke made, but does reluctantly come forward. Without saying anything, or looking at any of the agents sitting around the table, the unit chief comes to sit in his chair. It’s not his normal seat, instead of sitting beside Rossi like he usually does he’s now sitting across from him- off to one side. None of them need to be profilers to know he’s trying to avoid the other man looking at him; none of them say anything about it either.
There’s a few moments of tense silence before Rossi clears his throat. “I’m sure you all have questions about Hotch? Why don’t we get started,” the man says, leaning back in his seat, getting comfortable for the predictably long conversation that’s about to happen.
“Are you really sure we should be doing this?” Morgan asks, face concerned as he looks over to their unit chief, who is staring at the light reflecting on the table top; Rossi frowns and shrugs. “Why not,” he counters, “You were promised answers today, I doubt you all think Hotch is one to break promises, right?”
“Rossi!” Morgan hisses out, “Look at him! Look at Hotch, he’s not gonna be able to make it through one question like-”
“I’m fine,” Hotch interrupts, voice flat and monotone. There’s no conviction behind the statement, there is no wavering edge or desperation to be believed, no anger at having been questioned; it’s just words that are being vocalized- it’s off putting
“See?” Rossi says with the faintest hints of frustration, “He’s fine, now go on with your questions.”
The team hesitates, some of them torn between staring worriedly at Hotch, who still looks robotically blank, and glaring at Rossi and his laid back, if not provoking, attitude about the whole thing. But with not many other choices, Prentiss decides to reluctantly ask a question.
“Hotch?”
“Yes,” the man replies, lifting his head to look at the female agent. She refuses to wince at the blank look he holds when he does so.
“What made you stop breathing yesterday?”
There's a few seconds before Hotch blinks and answers the question. “I was low on,” there’s a faint pause, “energy. When that happens, combined with too low temperatures, I fall into a hibernative state. That makes me breathing slow or stop completely, if it gets to that point.”
Prentiss nods, she already knew that information thanks to Reid from yesterday when it all went down, but hearing it from Hotch just acts as a confirmation. There’s another bout of quiet that falls over the group. It feels like they’re all strangers, not knowing what to say or how to approach a conversation with one another. But another question is eventually risen, this time from Garcia- they all had practically forgotten she was there.
“Are you really sure you’re ok, Hotch?” She asks, voice concerned as she leans slightly forward in her seat.
Hotch almost seems startled, like awareness has flooded him with the voice of Garcia and her concerns. It doesn’t completely wash away the empty look, but it scrubs some of it away from their unit chief’s face.
“I- yes, I’m sure Penelope.” Hotch hesitates on his words again before asking, “The team told you?”
“Yes,” Garica says without missing a beat. Had they all not been so preoccupied with Hotch, there would have been plenty of questions about how she was handling the news so well- but those would have to wait for another, less hectic time.
Morgan, who finally turns away from his silent, furious glaring match with Rossi, faces Hotch. The two men are sitting almost across from each other, so Hotch can’t escape Morgan’s sharp gaze when it lands on him.
“Does what happened, the whole not breathing thing, have any lasting effects? And how can you- or with our help- avoid it again?”
“It doesn’t have any lasting effects, and there’s nothing that-”
“That’s not true.”
“Bullshit, Aaron!”
Reid and Rossi speak at the same time, although one of the agents is easily more angered by the half finished answer. The younger agent looks hurt by the words, like he’s so tightly wound up on what Hotch is apparently lying about he’s going to snap. Rossi looks furious, but there’s something desperate in his eyes when he sits forward and turns to face Hotch.
“That’s bullshit and we both know it- even Reid knows it. Don’t lie to them, not about this.”
Hotch looks like he’s been struck, he looks like a kid torn between lying to protect himself or risk getting hurt. They all know their unit chief has had a rough life as a kid, so they always find some silent, unspoken joy when Hotch does manage to show some more child-like side of himself. Right now though, as he stares at Rossi with wide, glassy eyes, it’s an agreement- however unspoken- that right now isn’t one of those good times for Hotch to look like a kid.
Hotch stares for a second more before swallowing, turning away and looking like he’s burning himself when he forces his eyes to meet Morgan’s again.
“There are lasting effects to this state as it is only used as a last resort- a defense tactic by those with,” another hesitation, just as vivid and painful as the others, stutters the man’s words, “-similar…biology to me. I can have symptoms similar to a concussion, internal bleeding or similar internal pain, and can go into shock if not treated properly.”
The team, even Rossi, who they all know has knowledge of this topic and situation already, sit shocked. It feels like Hotch has just confessed to murder- none of them know how to say anything, what can they say? What could they respond to when Hotch just told them that?
“Hotch…” Morgan says, worried and unsure of how to continue. He doesn’t, and the room falls back into a tense silence. Reid, still looking endlessly worried and concerned, breaks it this time.
“You said biology,” he says in a quiet, hesitant voice, “Why?”
“Because that’s what-” Hotch starts, but is interrupted by Reid and a raising voice that’s edged with desperation.
“Why do you keep doing that? You’re purposely distancing yourself from what you are- a vampire.”
Hotch flinches, flinches, at the word like Reid has struck him. Something like a mix of long suffering sorrow and panic fills Hotch’s expression. He turns quickly over to Rossi- seeming to momentarily forget his earlier argument and aggression from the man- like he’s begging to be saved. The older agent just stares back, eyes sad and knowing but not making any move to defend Hotch or his choice of words.
“Hotch,” Morgan calls again, somehow more worried than before, “Tell us what Reid means.”
There is another beat of silence again- JJ, Garica and Prentiss are all shooting each other worried, frantic looks across the table; Reid is flicking between looking at Hotch and glaring down at the table, Morgan and Rossi are watching the unit chief like hawks. When the man being questioned doesn’t answer, Morgan starts again.
“Hotc-”
“Because I hate myself,” Hotch suddenly blurts out- not really; he says it with the same, near monotone voice he’s been using the whole conversation. It almost hurts more that there’s no emotion in the statement, the man in front of them all acts like he’s been completely gutted and they don’t know how to help.
“You don’t really mean that,” Garica ventures, voice wavering with sadness- they all know what that answer is going to be.
“I do,” Hotch replies, having given up the attempts to hold eye contact and staring back down at the table.
“Why? Why do you think that, Hotch?” JJ asks, talking for the first time in the whirlwind conversation. She’s hesitant, letting Hotch know that he doesn’t have to answer the question through her tone and body language, but the man either doesn’t see, doesn’t care, or feels too obligated to answer their questions to take the easy out.
“I’m not a human, like you all are. I’m not right,” Hotch says- god, that toneless voice hurts like a stab to the heart with each word that comes out with it.
The whole team, like they’ve all been personally offended, jerk forward. Garcia appears absolutely horrified by what Hotch has said, Prentiss and Morgan share looks of anger- not at the man, but at his words and what he apparently believes about himself; Reid and JJ both have their mouths open, like they’re about to rebuke what Hotch has said. All of them stop, however, when Rossi raises his hand- it’s a silent signal; ‘let him talk’, the older agent is telling them.
They all, with tense postures and hesitation to follow the unspoken order waving off them, sit back in their seats. But true to what Rossi predicted, Hotch keeps up his talking and furthers his explanation.
“I’m not human,” he reiterates, “And I act wrong and make odd sounds and I don’t- I drink blood. I’m a monster, it’s a simple fact- I shouldn’t even be leading this team, or be part of it at all. I’m sorry.”
Through the process of what seems to be a painful admittance, Hotch raises his voice to a painful pitch. The man’s voice breaks at various points, like the words being spoken are made of glass shards that cut his soul with their razor edges. It hurts, like they’re all being physically attacked, with how much pain and hollowed out, long ago accepted sorrow is seeping from Hotch’s words.
Hotch looks two seconds away from dying, and they all know that it isn’t really a joke with him. His skin, already pale- not as much as yesterday, it had gained some color back since when Hotch left the office last night and came in that morning- has become completely washed of what color it had managed to regain. His hands are trembling, and if he weren’t so good at hiding it they would have been shaking wildly.
The team, all watching him from their seats, feel like they’re watching a dying animal- helpless and wounded as it bleeds out. Reid, however much he resents the jokes or comments thrown his way about it, looks exactly what he is- the youngest in the team. He looks at their breaking unit chief like he wants to comfort him but is too lost to know how. He may be one of, if not the most, intelligent person on this team, but no matter how good he is, nothing can fix what is happening to Hotch.
The silence is so suffocating and thick that it only makes Hotch’s slightly stuttered breath even more painful. It’s somewhere near a minute or so later, even if it feels like years, before someone speaks again.
“Another question,” Hotch says, voice finally gaining some kind of emotion- desperation, the need for a reply.
“Hotch,” Morgan ventures quietly, “I don’t really think we should-”
“I haven’t killed anyone,” Hotch answers the question that was never asked. “I’ve felt like biting people and I’ve done it before. I don’t want to, but it still happens and I hurt people.”
Everyone at the table shoots each other looks- what do we do?- but none of them are quite sure how to stop what seems to be the start of a steep spiral. Hotch’s breaths are becoming shallow, more frantic and airy. The color in his face is still pale and his hands are shaking worse now; their unit chief’s eyes hold a resigned look, like he knows he’s been condemned.
Morgan sends a lingering, pointed look at Rossi before turning back to Hotch. He makes sure to keep his voice calm, patient and slow as he speaks. It almost sounds like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal- none of the team like that comparison when it pops in their heads.
“Hotch, man, listen. We know you wouldn’t hurt anyone-”
“I’ve attacked Rossi, I hurt him,” the answer completely ignores the agent’s words and flattens them without consideration. Hotch, it seems, is in another world right now, and he’s going to be answering his own questions from now on.
“I didn’t mean to, I didn’t want to. But I’m a monster and I hurt people. I shouldn’t be here-” Hotch starts to almost ramble.
Yesterday, when they all thought he had almost died, their minds were preoccupied. The incredibly odd behavior from their unit chief- wide eyes, the whispers of an accent seeping through his words, sluggish and slurred speech, allowing himself to be helped and cared for- was brushed off. But today, while they all sit here at the table, staring at him, it feels unreal.
The Hotch they know, however fantasized the idea is, never breaks. He’s smart and hard working and wouldn’t break down- never. He’s made of something else entirely, to the team; Hotch is meant to be the strongest of them.
But reality has a way of checking people so harshly it sends their beliefs crashing to the ground like glass. This is the team’s wake up to see that no matter how much of a front, or how good he is at making it seem otherwise, Hotch is so painfully broken. Hotch is not perfect and does feel things, he breaks under the pressure of the burdens he carries and it’s showing now, in front of the whole team.
“I’m so sorry Rossi, I- I didn’t mean to. It was an accident- I’d never do that to any of them,” Hotch’s rambling cuts through the reality check the team is going through. He sounds so heartbreakingly desperate, like he has to be heard and believed if he’s going to be able to take his next breath.
The team is torn between looking at Hotch and Rossi, both men looking immensely upset- Hotch looks desperate while the older agent looks heartbroken. It takes a second before either of them make a move, but eventually Rossi sits up and leans further forward to look at the unit chief.
“Aaron,” he says, using his privilege of being one of the only ones who gets to call Hotch that, “it’s ok, I know that. The team knows that- you’d never hurt any-”
Hotch shakes his head and turns to face Morgan again. The agent would say it’s a good thing, to have eye contact during a conversation. It’s easy to read people from their eyes, not many people realize how expressive they are with their gazes. But with Hotch, right now in this room, it feels like Morgan is invading- he feels like he’s forced his way into the vulnerability that his unit chief is showing them all right now.
“I’ve hurt people before,” Hotch tells him, ignoring the quiet attempts from Rossi to stop him, “And I’ve been this way for years. Ever since I was nine, my father- he came home one night and he-”
Rossi all but leaps from his seat and rushes over to Hotch’s seat. He uses the advantage of swiveling chairs to forcibly turn Hotch away from his desperate staring contest with Morgan and make the man face him. The usual hesitancy about initiating touch- only Rossi does that, none of them, even for all the profilers they are, never caught onto it- is forgoed as he puts his hands on Hotch’s shoulders.
“Aaron, don’t do that- it's ok,” Rossi stresses through drawn out words. He’s staring down Hotch like if he looks away the man will break, none of them want to test and see he actually will. “Whatever is going on in your head, you need to stop. If you really can’t do this then don’t.”
“All the questions, Dave. I- I need to answer the questions,” Hotch argues back, but there’s no real fight in the words. He’s too tired to try anymore, the resignation is flooding his system like a tidal wave that he’s helpless to fight against.
“They’re not asking those questions, Hotch. You’re doing this to yourself and you need to take a second, breathe, and stop what you’re doing- you don’t have to force yourself to do this.”
It was more odd to see Hotch so emotional- a rather toxic thought, yes, but they were all so used to the man being the stoic, stern leader- and on the verge of crying. Almost more so than finding out the man they’re been working for and with, for all these years as a blood drinking creature of the night. It maybe says something- a lot- that the news of their boss being a vampire is less world tilting than seeing the man crying, but right now it wasn’t the biggest issue.
Rossi and Hotch are quiet now, ignoring the rest of the room to have what seems to be a silent argument between their eyes. It’s impressive, really, how easily the two are able to communicate through small facial movements and their eyes. But seeing as the two worked with each other longer than anyone else on the team had, it was kind of to be expected.
When whatever argument the two men were having seems to come to a conclusion, Rossi moves back to his seat. He’s not as stiff as the first time he came into the room to sit down, but there’s still something off about his usual open and friendly posture.
Hotch clears his throat and makes an odd swallowing motion- Prentiss really wants to ask him what that’s about, he’s been doing it the whole time they’ve been in here- before drawing himself up and into a more upright position.
“I apologize for my… outburst. My emotions got the better of me.”
“You don’t have to apologize boss man,” Garica says while smiling; it’s a fragile thing, like she wants to be sad, but for the sake of their unit chief, she’ll wait until later to grieve the broken man that’s been hiding under the facade Hotch has put up. “We love you, no matter what you are,” she assures.
“Exactly,” Prentiss agrees, her response getting an echo of agreement from the rest of the agents at the table.
“Thank you,” Hotch says with a fragile voice, “really. That means a lot from you all.”
However often it manages to happen, a small bout of silence befalls them all yet again. This episode isn’t as heavy as the others, there’s still something tense about it, but it feels like someone’s opened a window and let most of the smoke out- it’s less suffocating.
“I assume you all still have questions?” Hotch asks, sounding wary but determined.
This statement is met with immediate outrage-
“Absolutely not Aaron!”
“You really think after all of that-?”
“Hotch, man, you can’t be serious-”
“I highly doubt you’d be able to answer any questions in your current state-”
JJ, the only one who doesn’t join in the outcry leans forward, “All of you! Stop it- you’re being a bit overwhelming.”
Instantly, all of them back off with guilty looks; Hotch sends his agent a grateful look for getting all the others to step back. She sends a small, warm smile his way before turning back to the team. She gives them all meaningful looks as she does so, letting them all know she’s serious.
“Let’s avoid jumping over each other- if Hotch wants to answer some more questions, then we’ll let him.”
There isn’t a silence this time, but more of gathering of words and preparing questions as the team all lean back in their seats. Eventually it’s Morgan, who seems to be the most intent on getting as many health related answers as he can, that asks a question.
“I’m not the only one who caught onto your very specific wording, Hotch.” The man winces, knowing he’s been caught, but Morgan carries on. “When you told Prentiss it was about your energy levels earlier, what did you really mean?”
Hotch face twists, like he’s bitten into something sour or he’s just gotten his socks wet. Morgan almost tells the other man to neglect his question if answering makes him uncomfortable, but Hotch just makes that subtle, odd swallowing motion before clearing his throat again.
“Blood,” he says, “I meant blood. If v-” he cuts off at the first letter of the word they all knew he was going to say. Hotch’s face twists further, but Reid decides to step in and save the man from having to explain it himself.
“Vampires get their blood from others, along with the purpose of nutrients. They need it for their own circulatory systems. If a vampire does not get enough blood in their system and it gets too cold- as I’ve explained before- the body will shut down in an attempt to save itself from completely failing.”
The explanation gives everyone another jolt of shock- so Hotch was actually dying yesterday? He had so little blood his body was shutting down? Reid seems to realize this at the same time the rest of them do, his own words catching up to him. Once it seems to hit, his face twists and he quickly whirls around to stare right at Hotch.
Reid has his quirks- incredibly endearing ones, if you’d ask about anyone on the team- and one of those is eye contact. It’s an off and on thing that the younger agent deals with. Some days he avoids it like the plague, keeping his eyes carefully avoidant of any others. Other days he’s able to stare so intently it feels like he’s digging into your soul- the others don’t really know it, but Reid definitely learned that from Gideon; that man has a stare like no other.
It seems like today is one of those soul breaking days, because Hotch almost feels like shrinking under his young agent’s gaze.
“When was the last time you ate anything Hotch,” Reid questions, voice serious and stern- another thing he’s learned from Gideon.
Today seems to want to keep playing wild cards, because Hotch, the unit chief of the BAU, their boss, starts sputtering and attempting to dodge the question from their youngest. Only Morgan- who has kept his gaze always flitting about between Hotch and Rossi- sees the oldest agent in their group smile, increasingly entertained by Hotch’s reactions.
“It wasn’t really that long- honestly I’m surprised it even happened,” Hotch tries, but seeing as Reid has had time to learn from both Gideon and Hotch himself, he knows better than to let the unit chief slip out of the question.
“Hotch,” the agent says, “when was the last time you ate.”
The unit chief hesitates, obviously debating his answer. Something flashes over his face, it looks almost conspiratorial- contemplative. They all know he’s going to try something, especially with that odd swallowing- they’ve all figured equates to nervousness by now- makes Hotch’s throat bob.
“Tuesday night,” he replies, voice taking on what is most certainly an edge of sterness that’s being used to mask some sort of lie.
Well isn’t that something- it’s currently Thursday, which means their boss hasn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. It’s definitely concerning news, just another issue on the ‘things we need to help Hotch with’ list, but Reid seems to think something else. The serious look on his face doesn’t completely melt under the flash of concern that crosses it, if anything it gets stronger.
“I’ll rephrase and ask, when’s the last time you ate any blood?”
Rossi frowns, clearly already knowing the answer and not being happy about it; Hotch lets his eyes flicker to the door for a moment- ‘looking for an escape, he feels trapped and doesn’t want to answer,’ the profiler in all their minds whisper at once- before settling back on Reid. The man looks almost shy, like he doesn’t want to say whatever he’s about to admit.
“Sometime last week, maybe Sunday,” Hotch tries, but Reid only frowns further. There’s a quiet bout of wide eyed staring from one agent to another, the odd swallowing motion results in a barely audible clicking- he’s been avoiding making the sound then.
“Stop doing that, it will hurt your throat,” Reid orders, and then, “Is that the truth?”
“Probably closer to Saturday, if not late Friday,” Hotch admits, making both Reid and Rossi’s frowns deepen. But they’re the only two who understand what the admittance means, the rest of the team sits confused. Prentiss ventures with the question, “How often do vampires need blood?”
“Everyday,” Reid and Rossi say at the same time, but the younger agent further elaborates. “At least every other day, and that’s depending on if it’s a recommended amount or not.”
Despite how often it’s been happening over the past few days, the team still is shocked. It leaves them in a frozen state than a more vocal, outraged one like the last times. There’s a question all of them want an answer to, but Prentiss is the first one to say it outloud.
“And what’s the recommended amount?”
Rossi scoffs, humor and exhaustion leaking into one when he answers, “Not as much as Hotch has been having.”
“Basing it off of a three meal system like a human, and how the average body holds roughly one-hundred-ninety ounces of blood, with the danger levels of low blood in vampires being around sixty ounces- I can’t be sure what levels Hotch is at now without an examination or seeing how much he eats usually-”
“Reid,” Morgan cuts into the younger man’s rambling. The words cut short, and Reid quickly reorganizes himself.
“Sorry,” he quickly says before continuing, “If you go off of a three meal a day schedule a healthy vampire would need at least seventeen ounces for each meal- about an average water bottle’s worth.”
Everyone turns to Hotch in a silent judgement, knowing that whatever amount Reid has just given them is definitely not the amount Hotch has been having. And with the knowledge that the last time he ate was last week- not counting the fact he hasn’t eaten any food for over a day- arms them with enough to pin Hotch on the spot with their fierce, worried gazes.
Hotch gulps, trying to choke down another click, but Reid catches the motions and glares sharply at him. The man looks away guilty, but does allow the sound to quietly climb from his throat. It seems to satisfy the younger man as he nods and lets his glare fall away.
Morgan, voice stern and prying, asks Hotch, “So why haven’t you been eating then, Hotch?”
“Technically,” Hotch sounds too much like Reid, it seems he’s had the time to learn from others as well, “I don’t need that much food. My metabolism is different- much slower than any of you. I can survive off of-”
“Hotch,” Rossi and Reid cut in at the same time, both of them equally as tired with the attempts to sneak out of a real answer. Hotch frowns, closing his mouth with a click that makes his throat bob. Had they all not been told Hotch is pretty much starving himself, the team- particularly Prentiss, who is never one to pass up a chance to have something to hold over someone else’s head- would have found the quiet noise endearing. It sounded like a mix between a cat chirping and a baby chicken’s clucking. It wasn’t quite like any normal animal sound, but it was the closest comparison they have.
Morgan, realizing that Hotch is going to try lying his way out of a real answer, turns to face Reid. The younger agent meets his gaze readily, obviously knowing he’s about to be asked some list of questions.
“How much do you think Hotch has been eating?” Morgan asks, to which Reid lights up, cogs in his brain happily kicking into gear. It’s near opposite to Hotch, who is scowling at the younger man - probably an attempt to wade him off from answering the question; it doesn’t work.
“Based on how long I guess Hotch was out for yesterday, and with how cold it was, I’d say not even a quarter of the amount he’s meant to be having.”
Everyone turns to shoot Hotch looks, which he returns with reverence- he’s not backing down, he’s too stubborn. The scowl on his face fades though, when he meets Rossi’s eyes and sees the disappointed look on the older man’s face. It makes the team laugh a little inside- seeing Hotch melt under Rossi’s gaze never stops being a little funny.
Reid continues his explanation, either not caring about or not noticing the stare down he’s sparked the team to give their unit chief.
“It wasn’t really all that cold yesterday, the thermostat said it was only forty degrees in the office when we walked in. Vampires can handle twenty degrees comfortably, so that means Hotch was really low on blood at the time, maybe something around sixty to sixty-five ounces was in his system. But vampires can also run on low levels even in colder climates, so I’d say it’s more accurate to say thirty to forty ounces.”
“Hotch,” JJ says, sounding like the perfect mix of disappointed and worried. “What’s going on, why aren’t you taking care of yourself?”
With the most recent question answered, the team can all focus one hundred percent of their attention on the unit chief. Hotch shifts slightly, suppressing another click- Reid is visibly bothered by it, but seems to realize the suppression is more a habit by now and he’s not going to be able to break the habit in a day, so he avoids doing anything other than frowning- and clears his throat. The man sits up straighter, looking the most put together and aware he has the whole time this conversation.
“I have,” there's a pause and they all know Hotch is avoiding saying the word issues, “situations that lead to me forgetting to eat or avoiding meals. It’s become a habit that I can’t break easily so I compromise.”
“What exactly does ‘compromising’ mean then, Hotch? Go on and tell them,” Rossi asks, voice far too sweet to not be mocking- he knows the answer and wants Hotch to tell them, probably because they’ll all readily agree with the older agent’s concerns. Hotch frowns, knowing what the man is doing, but answers anyway.
“If I’m not hungry then I won’t eat,” Hotch says, but Rossi keeps up his countering. “And what exactly did you tell me ‘being hungry’ felt like, Hotch?”
The unit chief looks back and forth between each of his agents. They all have the same attentive and worried look on their faces, and he knows they’re all about to turn into sharp looks again with what he’s about to say. He can already feel the exclamations from his overprotective team echoing in his ears before he even says anything.
“When I start shaking or my stomach hurts too much to comfortably ignore,” he admits quietly, wincing at the expected outcry from the rest of the table. Not even JJ, who seemed to have been playing team mediator before, stops herself from making a concerned comment on Hotch’s words.
After a moment, and when the team has calmed slightly, Reid turns to fully face the unit chief. He has what Rossi and Hotch secretly call the ‘mini-Gideon’ look on his face, and Hotch can already tell he’s about to be pressured into some other self-incriminating answer about his health.
“Have you eaten today?”
Rossi frowns and Hotch gets a flash of panic crossing his face, but both expressions are gone within a second and schooled back into something less readable. The older agent shakes his head, leaning back in his seat and turning his chair to face Reid.
“He has, but definitely not enough- especially not after the whole thing yesterday.”
Reid hums, but doesn’t turn to properly acknowledge the older agent. He keeps his eyes trained on Hotch; he feels like the agent is looking into his soul and picking out each one of his lies to bring them to light. Sometimes Hotch forgets how scary Reid can be, with how observant the young man is.
“You’re still shaking, and your skin is too pale even for a vampire,” Reid announces, sounding much too like a doctor speaking to a sick child, “How much have you had today so far?”
Hotch glances over to Rossi with wide eyes- the whole time those two have been sending so many signals that mixed together into some undesirable mess that the team knows they’ve been arguing about this exact topic, but they’re still missing a piece and it’s infuriating- but when the other man doesn’t answer for him, he clears his throat.
“About half a cup, maybe?” Hotch tries, hoping that the topic is dropped. Reid frowns, but seems to notice that this isn’t a topic he should push the man to answer in front of so many people.
“I think you should go home for the day,” Reid tells the unit chief, cutting past the instant arguments saying otherwise that comes from the man, “You’re probably still- no, I know you’re still feeling adverse effects from yesterday, both from the shut down and whatever bruises you have from Morgan’s CPR. You haven’t had enough blood today, or this week- your whole life if I’m assuming this is a pattern of yours?”
“Unfortunately it is,” Rossi confirms the younger agent’s assumption as he stands from his chair. The man walks over to Hotch’s chair, gently tapping at the other man’s shoulder until he reluctantly stands. “But I agree with the doctor-” Reid frowns briefly at the nickname and knowing that Rossi is mocking both him and Hotch, “-and say you should go home.”
Hotch looks at the agents sitting around the table, carefully inspecting their expressions. He’s…not really sure what he expects. Anger for lying to them? Disappointment for going home early? Disgust at him not being human like all of them? Whatever he had expected to see isn’t there, replaced entirely with concern and worried eyes. All of them care about him, whether he wants to acknowledge that or not; sometimes Hotch thinks his team is too good for him.
He must take too long to respond or make any move to listen to Rossi, who’s trying to gently usher him out the door, because Garcia looks up at him, bright eyes and smiling.
“Go home Hotch, we’ll be fine. You deserve a break,” she tells him.
Hotch stares down at her, heart twisting happily- his team really are too good for him sometimes. The echoes of Penelope’s words are spread by the rest of the team- Morgan, JJ, and Prentiss- with sincerity. Reid gives him a small, encouraging smile as Rossi nags him further, now gently but insistently pushing him towards the door.
“Thank you,” Hotch tells them, because he is. He’s so happy and relieved that his team don’t care what he is and that they love him anyway. “You’re all too good for me.”
“Sometimes they really are,” Rosi grumbles sarcastically as he keeps trying to move Hotch towards the door. The man finally complies, stepping away from the prodding hands and walking towards the exit on his own. The older agent smiles, happy he’s gotten the compliance he was after, and trails after the man- no doubt his ride home.
“I’ll be going to,” Rossi tells them, pausing just within the doorway to face the team. “Got to make sure someone takes care of himself.”
They all smile when they see Hotch’s scowl from beyond the doorway, having heard Rossi’s comment. He looks like a kid who knows their parent is making fun of them but doesn’t get the joke- not terribly far from the truth, really. Morgan waves the men off with a shooing motion, grinning as Rossi and Hotch start to walk away again.
“Go ahead Rossi, I’m sure we can handle a day in the office without you two.”
Rossi smiles and nods, turning back around walks towards Hotch, who is a few paces down the hall. They’re both quietly talking to one another as they make it toward the stairs and down into the bullpen. The team watches as the two men walk away; once they’re both out of earshot Prentiss leans forward.
“So are none of us going to mention that Hotch can purr?”
Hotch, who is almost halfway across the bullpen to the elevator, whips around, complete shock and embarrassment written across his face. ‘Oh,’ Prentiss realizes, ‘He’s got super hearing.’
Everyone in the room seems to get caught on the humor at the same time, all snickering as they watch Hotch flip back around and start wildly gesturing at Rossi. From what they can see before the men make it into the elevator and the door closes is Rossi laughing, trying to reach up to pet Hotch's hair while the other man swats his hand away.
---
The click of the apartment door closing echoes through the previously empty living room.
Hotch sighs, shuffling over to his couch and lets himself flop onto the worn fabric dramatically. Behind him, somewhere in the kitchen, he hears Rossi snort, amused by his antics. He huffs in response, lifting his head up to look over the back of the couch to glare at the other man but can’t see him from his spot.
“What are you laughing at, Dave,” Hotch questions. Something is moving around in the kitchen, Rossi’s opening and closing cabinets and the fridge- when the man makes a happy sound and the sound of something pouring dribbles faintly through the room. After a moment the other man comes around the corner, holding two cups. “You, of course,” Rossi tells him, smiling widely.
When one of the cups is extended to him, Hotch begrudgingly sits up right and takes the offering. He lifts the cup to his face, grimacing when the thick, sweetly smell of blood floods his nose. It was expected that Rossi would give him some, he heard the fridge open and he assumed as much, but it doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.
Rossi sits on the edge of the couch that remains mostly empty, aside from Hotch’s feet- even curling his knees up and leaning against the other arm of the couch he’s too tall- and holds his own cup. It matches Hotch’s, tall, somewhat thin and a solid green color. Only when held up to the light could you see there was anything inside the cup, and even then it would be impossible to tell the color of the contents- Rossi’s done this on purpose.
The older man knows Hotch caught onto his cup trick and smiles. He swirls his cup around like it’s a full wine glass, fingers stretched out and all.
“I got us matching cups,” he says happily, smiling a little too wide to not be mocking. Hotch thins his glare, holding his own cup closer to his chest. He frowns ever so slightly when he tells Rossi, “I’m not sure we’re drinking the same thing, Dave.”
Rossi grins even wider, turning away to grab the remote to the TV sitting on the nearby lamp table. He flicks it on, getting up from his seat to go kneel by the stand and opening the small door on the cabinet. Grabbing a movie, he stands and puts the movie into the DVD player before reclaiming his seat.
“How would you know?” Rossi fires back, smiling as he gets comfortable in his seat again.
“I doubt yours has blood in it,” Hotch says, fighting to keep the disdain for the statement from his words. He knows he doesn’t quite manage it, not fully, but the other man seems amused anyway.
“Yours doesn’t either,” Rossi says, sounding suspiciously smug. Hotch decides to humor him anyway, “Then what’s in our cups?”
With a much too smug smile, the man replies- had Hotch thought about it he would have realized what he just walked himself into.
“Cranberry juice.”
Hotch groans and shakes his head as Rossi cackles, far too amused by his referencing joke. It’s been years, since some time before Rossi originally retired and left the team and yet he still manages to make jokes about that day.
“It wasn’t really that funny, Dave,” Hotch grumbles, turning away to face the TV. Rossi sighs, trying to calm his laughter and breathe normally again. “It will always be to me,” he responds.
The movie screen pops up, presenting a title screen and a small set of options. Hotch instantly recognizes the movie, it’s one of his favorites. The memory attached to this one is much less embarrassing than the cranberry one, so he gives Rossi a small smile and quiet ‘nice pick’.
The movie starts, Rossi having calmed his laughing and huffs and pressing the button over the play options. The starting credits start to play, the first scenes following after a car that swivels around the streets as it heads to its destination.
Just as the man steps out of his car, having pulled into a gas station, and drops the first of many cigarettes to grind into the ground, Rossi speaks up. Hotch will later complain he interrupted his favorite scene, but at the moment it’s more important than what’s on screen.
“You know the team loves you right? No matter what you are.”
It’s a simple question with a not so simple answer. But thinking about how the team looked at him makes him think it could be easier than he once thought it was; Morgan looked so happy to see him moving around again, Reid smiled at him with the shy look of his. JJ gave him a considerate look, Garcia nudged his mind the right way with her reassurances, Prentiss asked questions without feeling like she was prying for information.
They all looked at him like they loved him. And now, sitting on his couch watching his favorite movie- the title had just shown on screen, reading in bright letters, Loaded Weapon 1- with Rossi beside him, both of them with their childish like ‘matching cups’ and passing jokes, he thinks for the first time in a while the answer to that question comes easy.
“I know.”