(Untitled)

[ssa_dr_reid]

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

Comments

[anchor_on_heart]

It was no laughing matter that out of all the members of the team, Reid seemed to be particularly cursed-- and in that way the two of them were silently linked, though for completely different reasons. For Hotch, it had always been the weigh of command that put him most at risk.

"Unfortunately we can't pick and choose what stands out the most. On the bright side you've saved hundreds of lives since then, and, really who else but you would be lucky enough to be shot guarding a trauma surgeon?"

It had been one of the smaller ironies, the day after his own admittance to the same hospital, to see Reid wheeling himself into Hotch's hospital room two floors down from his own. As humorless as he'd been at the time, he'd still managed to look at Reid and deadpan: "What are you doing here?" At least Doctor Barton and his son were safe by that time.

"I think he misses being able to get out of bed more. His...nightmares have been coming back, too." Hotch said warily. It was something else the three of them had in common. "Mine haven't exactly been quiet either." He'd long since stopped waking up expecting Haley to be there, but every once and a while a dream would linger into waking, and a hand would smooth over an empty side of the bed in sleepy longing. "They never really...go away...just out of focus for a while."

[ssa_dr_reid]

"Sixty-seven cases. Sixty-eight if you count the Riley Jenkins case, though that wasn't official." He drank some more of the over-sweetened coffee and managed a small smile. "It helped that I was actually on the phone with Emily when he started shooting, and she was able to call the paramedics there right away. Not to mention Morgan, Rossi, and JJ were already on their way."

Actually, of all the medical leave he'd taken since joining the BAU, the time spent at St. Sebastian's--he'd insisted on the transfer--was probably the most restful. Between physical therapy sessions, he'd sat in a wheelchair in Hotch's room, playing chess with himself or cards with the older man while they listened to books on tape and tried to forget how much it hurt. (And he tried to avoid the nurses from his floor; between the instructions not to give him narcotics and being extra pale and emaciated from his bout of anthrax, they believed him to be a junkie.)

Nightmares came with the job, and with trauma. "Mine too." Lately though, they'd been less straightforward. The dreams used to involve seeing graphic details of cases, mixed up with finding the body of a child behind the washing machine in a basement. Last night, he'd seen Tobias Hankle talking to Adam Jackson, before Foyet appeared, gun--Reid's revolver--in hand. Even in the dream, he knew it was impossible, but that hadn't stopped him from waking in a cold sweat. "I'm really glad I don't believe in dream analysis."

[anchor_on_heart]

"Official or not," Hotch ventured, taking a sip of coffee and pausing thoughtfully, "you did well. Although, for as much time we spend around prostitutes I'd think you'd know how to spot one." He couldn't help the gentle ribbing--this from the man who was subject of the very...strange machinations of a professional call-girl-gone-killer.

He tried not to snort at Reid's opinion of dream analysis--how much was there to analyze when it was just the same scenes, over and over again? "At least you know they're just dreams; that they can't really hurt you." It was what they evoked that hurt, though, and as Reid's hand twitched once more, he frowned remembering a time when the movement had caught his eye every time it happened. "Have you been to the clinic at all, to see about it?" Aaron asked, nodding towards Reid's leg.