(no subject)
Who: Hotch and Reid
When: 8:24 pm Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Where: The Hotchner's apartment
Rating: M for messed-up memories, missed meetings, and Mom!Hotch
Status: Incomplete
Reid let himself into the Hotchners' apartment, dutifully locking the door behind him. Hotch had given him the spare key--and more than once, the permission to use it--and he really needed to talk to him.
In an hour and fourteen minutes, it would be three years to the moment from when he'd shot Tobias Hankle. At this exact moment, he'd been clean for two years, seven months, twenty-six days, ten hours and eleven minutes (or, alternatively, nine hundred seventy six days, ten hours, and eleven minutes.) When they'd moved to Aternaville, he'd looked up when and where addiction meetings were held, but the nearest one that met on Wednesdays was two towns away, and he'd rather talk to Hotch than to strangers.
Reid poured himself a cup of coffee from the still-hot carafe. (FBI agents were the only people he knew who still kept coffee brewing after eight at night.) He dumped in some sugar, and tried to ignore the scene that was playing out in his head.
He kneeled in that half-dug grave, his palms torn by the shovel. Through the fog and the woods, he could see lights. Flashlights? Could they be there already? He wanted to check his watch, to see if enough time had passed since he'd given them that last message. But he didn't even know how far away he was, and Hankle (Charles at this point) was watching him. "Dig faster, boy. " He tried, in the way that people try to dig their own graves faster, which was not very. He might have been imagining it, but he could have sworn he heard Gideon calling. Or Hotch, maybe? (Would Hotch be calling for him? He chose him to die; he marked him. But the chances of the next chamber in the revolver holding the bullet was 50% and he couldn't risk it again.)
Reid gulped down the scalding coffee, trying to pull himself out of the flashback.
When: 8:24 pm Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Where: The Hotchner's apartment
Rating: M for messed-up memories, missed meetings, and Mom!Hotch
Status: Incomplete
Reid let himself into the Hotchners' apartment, dutifully locking the door behind him. Hotch had given him the spare key--and more than once, the permission to use it--and he really needed to talk to him.
In an hour and fourteen minutes, it would be three years to the moment from when he'd shot Tobias Hankle. At this exact moment, he'd been clean for two years, seven months, twenty-six days, ten hours and eleven minutes (or, alternatively, nine hundred seventy six days, ten hours, and eleven minutes.) When they'd moved to Aternaville, he'd looked up when and where addiction meetings were held, but the nearest one that met on Wednesdays was two towns away, and he'd rather talk to Hotch than to strangers.
Reid poured himself a cup of coffee from the still-hot carafe. (FBI agents were the only people he knew who still kept coffee brewing after eight at night.) He dumped in some sugar, and tried to ignore the scene that was playing out in his head.
He kneeled in that half-dug grave, his palms torn by the shovel. Through the fog and the woods, he could see lights. Flashlights? Could they be there already? He wanted to check his watch, to see if enough time had passed since he'd given them that last message. But he didn't even know how far away he was, and Hankle (Charles at this point) was watching him. "Dig faster, boy. " He tried, in the way that people try to dig their own graves faster, which was not very. He might have been imagining it, but he could have sworn he heard Gideon calling. Or Hotch, maybe? (Would Hotch be calling for him? He chose him to die; he marked him. But the chances of the next chamber in the revolver holding the bullet was 50% and he couldn't risk it again.)
Reid gulped down the scalding coffee, trying to pull himself out of the flashback.