(no subject)
Title: Stand
Author: Becky_H
Characters/Pairing: Hotch, Reid
Genre: Gen Pre-slash.
Word Count: 4,000
Rating: PG-13. Maybe a soft R for language.
Warnings: Voluntary psychological torture and misuse of handcuffs.
Spoilers: Nameless, Faceless and 100.
Beta: Miss_Zedem
Summary: Hotch ask Reid for help, Reid agrees. Fears are faced and (psychological) demons are slain.
Author’s Notes: Flooding is a form of psychotherapy based on the principals of respondant conditioning. It’s sometimes called Prolongued Exposure therapy. You can read more about it here, if you’re so inclined, but it certainly isn’t necessary to understand the fic.
It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell. --Buddha.
____________________________
The look on Reid’s face when Hotch tells him what he wants is about what Hotch had expected: confused. Eyebrows drawn down, mouth slightly open and, at least temporarily, speechless.
Hotch drops a pair of handcuffs into Reid’s hand and walks away with a faint smirk.
Reid’s going to show up with Questions - with a capital Q. When he does, Hotch will be ready with answers. Until then, for all that it isn’t a game, Hotch can’t help but feel like he’s won and the prize is a little more time to be absolutely sure.
Of Reid, and of himself.
____________________________
Turns out that Reid waits until he’s in Hotch’s living room, perched on the arm of Hotch’s sofa with one leg dangling and the other firmly on the floor, and there‘s only one question he seems interested in the answer to.
“Are you sure this is something you want to do?”
At least it’s a question Hotch can answer with absolute confidence, and does. He looks Reid squarely in the eye and says, “Yes.”
“Are you sure this is something you want to do with me?”
It’s just a variation of a theme. A second chance to back out and change his mind, maybe. Hotch doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care.
“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have asked you.”
Hotch stays put while Reid studies him, with questions lurking, unspoken, behind his eyes.
“Let’s do it.”
Those words don’t quite sound quite right to Hotch coming from Reid. It’s probably nerves, Hotch decides. Or whatever else is responsible for keeping Reid from saying all the things he isn’t.
Hotch nods, stands and heads back to the bedroom. Reid follows along behind him.
It’s not a long walk; the place isn’t that big. Once they’re in the bedroom Reid pulls his hands out of his pockets, and holds the handcuffs out toward Hotch. The intent is obvious, but the reason behind the gesture isn’t. Hotch lifts his eyebrow even as he’s taking them.
Reid answers the question he seems to think Hotch is asking. “I can’t physically force you.”
Hotch wasn’t asking anything. “I was surprised you brought them with you,” he says, mildly. What he wants to add but doesn’t is that Reid’s inability, even more than his unwillingness, to force Hotch to do anything is a big part of the reason Reid’s here instead of Rossi.
“I thought maybe you could use an extra set.” Reid smiles at that, a little self-conscious, maybe, but mostly in a way that seems to be more response to what didn’t make it out of Hotch’s mouth than what did.
Hotch sits down on the bed, handcuffs still in hand. “You don’t have to force me, but you are going to have to help. I can‘t handcuff myself to the bed.”
“I know.”
Reid’s just standing there, hands in his pockets and looking down at him -- waiting on something. Hotch should be able to make that leap and knows it, but he just can’t. Maybe its his unease, maybe he’s just trying too hard. No matter what the cause, he’s not getting it.
“And?” he prompts, after a moment long enough to realize that he’s not going to get it.
Reid’s hands stay in his pockets but he nods toward the cuffs in Hotch’s hand. “You’re going to have to give those back if you want help.”
Hotch’s initial impulse is to ask why Reid gave them to him if Hotch was supposed to give them back, but he takes long enough to look past the obvious, and this time he does get it. Reid’s asking Hotch to make a conscious decision to trust him, and to hand over control of the situation with the handcuffs.
Hotch folds the cuffs together, catches Reid’s eyes and holds them while he offers them back.
“Thanks.” Reid takes them back with one hand, and pushes his hair out of his face with the other. “How far do you want to take this today?”
“All the way.” Slower exposure would be safer, but he isn’t interested in safe. He just wants to be done with it. He trusts Reid to figure it out rather than elaborating and explaining; the man is a genius, after all.
He’s not disappointed, and his trust in Reid isn’t misplaced. He doesn’t ask any stupid questions. “These are not the best option for restraint.”
They’re going to tear his wrists up. Hotch knows that. He also knows his fear, his physical responses, and his handcuffs. It‘s his turn to say: “I know.”
It’s all he can say. He’s shutting down, getting locked inside his head as the distance between the plan and the action decreases. He knows it‘s happening, but he can’t stop it. That’s why he’s doing this.
Reid looks like he’s going to argue, but at the last second changes his mind. “I will be right back.” He turns on his heel and walks out of the bedroom, taking Hotch’s handcuffs with him.
It doesn’t take long for curiosity to override everything else going on in his head, and curiosity gets Hotch off the bed and moving back through the hallway to figure out where Reid went and what the hell he’s up to.
Hotch finds him in the kitchen, looking cabinets. He only glances back at Hotch before he resumes the search and (sort of) explains. “I need a knife, a book and a hand towel.”
“I get the knife,” Hotch says, because he does - no matter how much he doesn’t want to be consciously thinking about it right now. “You lost me with the other two.”
“The towel’s to protect your wrists. The book’s to protect your brain.”
That makes two of the three make sense, at least. “My brain.”
It’s more prompt than question, but it’s enough encouragement for Reid to explain himself. He puts one hand against the counter and drums his fingers against the surface, posture slightly hipshot in deference to a knee that’s still not 100%.
There’s every signal that Reid’s about to start a long, unnecessarily complicated explanation of how flooding works, the risks involved, minimizing those risks and how doing it wrong will make everything worse. He even takes the deep breath and opens his mouth to start.
Hotch feels his expression shift to carefully neutral and his jaw set as he braces for the impact of a Reid-ramble.
By some miracle - or observation skills and the expression on Hotch’s face - Reid stops himself and boils the whole thing down to it’s simplest form. “It‘ll be better if you have something other than fear to focus on.”
Hotch accepts that, more out of gratitude at Reid for not launching into a lecture than because he thinks it’s going to make any difference. “The towels are under the bathroom sink,” he says, “knives are in the drawer just under the microwave. I’ll find a book.”
Hotch returns to the bedroom and leaves Reid alone to collect the rest of what he needs. Once he’s in front of the small bookshelf, though, he can’t focus well enough to see individual books, never mind read the titles.
Anticipation’s getting to him and not in a good way.
He realizes that he’s staring into space about the same time he hears Reid coming back. He glances back at the shelf and picks the only thing that stands out at all, and it only stands out because Reid gave it to him in the department Christmas exchange a couple of years ago.
He tosses the book on the bed and looks up just in time to see Reid in the doorway. “Can I cut this?” he asks, holding up one of the hand towels. It’s pale peach with flowers. Hotch certainly didn't buy it. That means Haley did.
“Sure,” he says.
Reid walks out again and Hotch refuses to think about what Reid’s doing, or why he’s doing it.
To distract himself as much as anything Hotch takes off his shoes and lines them up on the wall near the door. While he’s up doing that, he takes his tie off and drapes it over the corner of the dresser’s mirror and undoes the first couple of buttons at his collar.
He’s managed to get as comfortable as he’s going to get by the time Reid’s back with the cut up towel, knife, and handcuffs.
Reid puts the knife down on the dresser. “Did you find a book?”
Hotch points silently to the bed, and Reid turns to look where Hotch’s pointing. He cocks his head to the side, one hand holding his hair back from his face so he can read the title.
It only takes a second of course before Reid recognizes the book, straightens and laughs. “Good choice. Come sit on the bed for me?”
Everything’s a question now. Part of that’s just Reid being Reid, Hotch thinks, but the rest is that Reid is giving Hotch every opportunity to say no that there is. Hotch won’t flinch once he’s committed, and Reid must know that as well as he does, but there’s something fundamentally reassuring in the gesture.
Or maybe he’s imagining it all because every instinct he has is screaming to stop this. His instincts are fucked up. That’s why he’s doing this, and why he won’t take the out, no matter how many times it’s offered.
Hotch sits on the edge of the bed, and that's the only answer he gives.
Reid circles around behind to pick up the book and put it on the dresser with the knife. “Scoot back a little more - Aim for as close to the center as you can get? Falling off the bed wouldn’t be good.”
Hotch scoots back, but he doesn’t like it. Moving back means he can’t avoid thinking about what they’re doing here. It also means that he can’t just stand up to end this, or defend himself. He knows he doesn’t need to defend himself here, but he has to remind himself of that.
That train of thought comes to an abrupt end in the moment Reid puts one knee on the bed and says, “Hotch.”
He turns, looks at Reid and extends both his wrists. “I’m still here.” Not by much, maybe, but still there. It’s all the reassurance he can manage to give Reid. It’s the only thing he can honestly say, period. That he’s still there, still aware of what he’s doing and, still wants to do it.
Either that’s good enough or Reid can see how close to snapping Hotch is, because he doesn’t ask ’are you sure you want to do this?’ again. He just wraps the scrap of fabric around Hotch’s left wrist, over the cuff of his shirtsleeve, and then closes metal over it all.
The sound isn’t what gets to Hotch. It’s the feel of the cuff ratcheting down, even through the protective layers of cloth. His stomach tightens in response, and so do the muscles in his forearm. The tension travels all the way up to settle at the back of his neck and into his jaw. His urge, his immediate and primal reaction, is to lash out.
Hotch resists that impulse and Reid doesn’t push it any further than he has to.
“Lay down.” Reid’s voice isn’t loud at all, but there’s no interrogative lift at the end of it, and no room to do anything except what Reid’s telling him to do.
Or, of course, hit him and get out of here.
The conflict between instinct and intellect is getting more pronounced with every, increasingly fast, beat of his heart. Intellect’s still winning, but it isn’t winning by much right now. Hotch has to take a second to consciously remind himself again that this is what he chose, and why he chose it.
Then, though it’s the hardest thing he’s done since burying Haley, he pivots so he’s length-ways on the bed, lies down and lifts his hands upward to give Reid the slack he needs.
Reid doesn’t waste time and doesn’t test Hotch’s rapidly fraying self-control. He threads the unattached end through the slats in the headboard, wraps the dishtowel around Hotch’s wrist and fastens the handcuff. He does it as quickly and deftly as it can be done.
If Hotch were even slightly less freaked the hell out, he’d appreciate that.
As it he’s so tense that when that knife’s placed precisely on the center of his stomach, blade pointed toward his face, that even breathing’s hard. His hands immediately curl into fists so tight that his short nails are digging into the palms or that his jaw’s clenched so hard his teeth are creaking.
Saying ‘thank you’ is the last thing on his mind.
Reid stands looking down at Hotch for a moment, eyebrows drawn down and seems to be holding his breath.
Hotch looks back for a second before he closes his eyes. He definitely doesn’t want to thank Reid in that moment; he wants to break Reid’s neck. It’s adrenaline - fight or flight. He isn’t the type to flee even if he could, so it all turns into violence and rage. Hotch knows what’s happening, even while it’s happening, but that doesn’t stop the reaction.
He keeps his eyes closed, even when Reid starts moving around in the room and Hotch’s need to keep his eyes on Reid is almost as great as his desire to hit something.
His breath is still coming hard, short, and there’s a soft growl that Hotch is only distantly aware is coming from him. When he starts imagining creative ways to kill Reid, he doesn’t fight it. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.
He *does* still know he’s there because he wants to be, and he still knows he’s not going to hurt Reid. It’s just his brain’s way of coping with being stressed right to the edge of the breaking point, Reid’s become a stand-in for Foyet, and Hotch knows that, too. Knowing is all the sanity he’s bothering to hang on to and it’s going to have to be enough because it’s all he ‘s got.
When Reid starts reading aloud, Hotch is barley aware of it. Reid’s not loud enough drown out the constant, the pounding of his heart in his ears, even if Hotch had the mental capacity to focus.
For a long time, how long exactly Hotch has no way of knowing, the only thing that changes is Hotch getting more aware of the weight of the kitchen knife on his stomach, and that it could very easily be picked up and plunged into it.
He knows exactly how that feels, and for a while the memory of that feeling -the ache, burn, pressure, and deliberately evoked violent sexuality of it- is all Hotch knows.
He doesn’t notice when he starts fighting the restraints rather than just being rigid in them, or when the knife slides off his stomach and onto the bed beside him. When Reid leans forward, moves the knife safely out of the way Hotch is only vaguely aware of motion. He barely even knows Reid’s in the room with him.
He doesn’t know how long Reid’s been trying to get his attention before a soft, “Aaron” gets through to him.
Hotch opens his eyes, turns his head and finds Reid standing half-way between the armchair he’s apparently been sitting in and the bed, book still held open in one hand. The sound Hotch makes is more grunt than articulate, but it‘s interrogative and it gets the point across.
“You’re safe. And.” Reid smiles a little, lifts his eyebrows, and puts the knife back on Hotch, careful and precise and somehow manages not to touch Hotch at all while he does it. “Try to pay attention. There might be a quiz later.”
It takes a minute (and close to a literal one) for the words to make sense. It is, without all doubt, the lamest joke Hotch has ever heard, even from Reid. It works, anyway. Hotch barely cares that the knife’s back on his stomach.
Reid watches Hotch, book held open in one hand, and waits for a reaction.
Hotch is a long way from laughing, but he takes a cleaner breath than he has in a bit, relaxes minutely and closes his eyes again.
Reid goes back to his chair and resumes reading.
Hotch is a little more aware now, a little more with it, and a little more able to focus on Reid’s voice. Putting meaning to the words and holding onto that for even the length of a sentence isn’t happening. All he’s catching is the rise, fall and rhythm of Reid’s voice. It’s enough.
He gradually realizes that he’s sweaty, he’s exhausted and that he is in pain. Not just his wrists and not just from the fight he put up against the handcuffs, but jaw, shoulders, even his stomach and thighs, are all aching from the tension he’s been holding onto right along with his terror and rage.
Letting go of that, exhausted as Hotch is, just makes sense. It doesn’t come easily and it requires enough effort that he’s still not really listening to Reid. He does, however, gradually notice that Reid isn’t just reading the words on the page. He’s going off on tangents, asking rhetorical questions, and inserting definitions, references, and hypothesis.
It’s kind of, actually, almost, cute.
That’s the real turning point.
Nothing, no one, cute could ever be any kind of stand in for Foyet.
Hotch is still tied up, there’s still a knife on his stomach and he’s still helpless. He still remembers what Foyet did to him, and what he couldn‘t stop Foyet from doing to Haley and Jack, but he also remembers that Foyet’s dead. Foyet didn’t put him here, and neither did Reid. All Reid did was help him put himself here; Reid isn’t any kind of threat to him.
There’s no moment where things are suddenly okay. He unclenches jaw first, and his fists follow shortly after. Very gradually the tension goes, until Hotch is limp. More gradually his breathing deepens and his heart slows and quietens. He finally recognizes the book, and realizes that Reid’s voice has gone hoarse from talking nonstop for god only knows how long.
Hotch opens his eyes again and finds Reid. He’s sitting folded sideways into his chair, with one of his legs bent up at an angle that should look awkward but somehow doesn’t, focused on the book and slowing himself down enough to be able to speak the words.
He could have, Hotch realizes, read the entire thing a dozen or more times in the space he’s spent reading a couple of chapters aloud for his benefit, and it’s a book Reid’s already read, and therefore has no choice but to remember word for word.
Reid looks up, either because Hotch is quieter, he can sense Hotch looking at him, or he’s just been checking on him periodically. Regardless of the cause he notices Hotch watching him and gives Hotch a smile that makes Reid look almost as exhausted as Hotch feels.
“Hey.” Reid’s voice matches his smile. Both are warm enough, but both are absolutely worn out. So, probably, is Reid.
“Hey,” Hotch returns, and his voice isn’t exactly silky smooth either. “Why don’t you go get a glass of water?”
“You sure?” Reid asks, still holding the book but folding it closed with his index finger marking the spot.
“Yeah. I’m sure. Get one for me while you’re in there.”
Reid un-tucks himself from the chair and stands, twisting enough to let him put the book down while he does it He looks back at Hotch as he slowly and with some stiffness, straightens up. He’s been curled up in that chair for a while.
“You want me to....” Reid doesn’t trail off so much as he replaces those last words with a gesture toward the headboard and handcuffs.
Hotch closes his eyes again briefly, because he’s developing what feels an awful lot like a hangover and says, “When you get back.”
If Hotch were even slightly less exhausted, he’d be surprised to find he means that. What he does have, even dead tired, sore as hell and with a growing headache, is a sense of accomplishment and something closer to peace than he’s had for a while.
Reid studies Hotch for a bit, probably trying to decide if he believes Hotch or not, before he says “All right, then.”
Hotch watches him go and closes his eyes again. This time he keeps them closed, in deference to weariness and the throbbing in his temples. He keeps listening, though. He hears the fading footsteps, the sound of a cabinet door creaking when it’s opened and then water running.
He’s not aware he’s drifting off, but he must have been because he wakes up to a glass of water already on the dresser and Reid moving the knife He jumps a little, startled but not panicked.
“Sorry.” Reid puts the knife out of the way and on the dresser. “I. Didn’t realize you were asleep. I probably should have.”
“Its fine,” Hotch says, and watches Reid search his pockets for the handcuff key. “Tell me you didn’t lose the key.”
“I didn’t lose the key,” Reid echoes, utterly deadpan.
For a second Hotch is actually worried about it, lifts his head and pins Reid with a look that’s more disbelief than anger. He keeps looking at Reid with exactly that expression until Reid holds up the handcuff key and lifts both of his eyebrows pointedly. Hotch groans and lets his head fall back to the bed.
“Lost the key? Really?” Reid asks, while fitting the tiny key into the lock and freeing Hotch’s wrist. “That’s like… something from a bad movie.”
“So,” Hotch tells him dryly, “is my life.”
Hotch takes advantage of the slack and pulls both his arms down, though he’s still wearing the second cuff, and pulls the (now damp with sweat) scrap of terrycloth from around his wrist. Reid leaves him alone that long then grabs the other wrist so he can unlock it, and effectively keeps Hotch from sitting up yet.
“Give yourself a second. That was a pretty sustained adrenaline rush and you’ve been down a while.” Reid’s still being fairly quiet, the questioning lilt is just starting to creep back into his voice.
Hotch thinks about arguing with him, anyway, but decides to take the indirect route to reestablishing his independence instead. He stays down, rubs his (bruised, in spite of the padding) wrists. “Hand me the water, please.”
Reid rolls his eyes, mutters something about alpha males under his breath and takes the couple of steps necessary to reach the glass of water.
Hotch lets the muttering go - it just doesn’t matter. He focuses, instead, on rolling onto his side and propping up on his elbow so he can take the glass of water when Reid comes back with it. “Thanks.”
Reid gives control of the glass over without complaint and puts his hands in his pockets, but he doesn't move away from the bed while Hotch drinks. “You really need to sleep, Hotch.”
If Reid’s expecting an argument, Hotch isn’t going to give it to him. He does need sleep and he is that tired. He finishes his water, and twists further forward to put the empty glass safely on the floor. “I know,” he says. “I’m going to.”
“So what do you want me to...?” Reid looks confused, and sounds uncertain.
He doesn’t, Hotch realizes wearily, have a damn clue what to do next.
And Hotch isn’t going to tell him.
“Turn off the light.” Hotch answers before the question’s completely out of Reid’s mouth. He stretches out, folds his arm under his head and closes his eyes.
Hotch can feel Reid move away, hears the click of the light switch and the darkness behind his eyelids deepens. He stays still, stays quiet, and falls into sleep with Reid still hesitating just inside the doorway.
Stay or go. There’s no wrong decision, not for Hotch. He’ll be interested in seeing what Reid does with the choice, though.
Just as soon as he wakes up.
____________________________
Story continues in Beyond Fear
Author: Becky_H
Characters/Pairing: Hotch, Reid
Genre: Gen Pre-slash.
Word Count: 4,000
Rating: PG-13. Maybe a soft R for language.
Warnings: Voluntary psychological torture and misuse of handcuffs.
Spoilers: Nameless, Faceless and 100.
Beta: Miss_Zedem
Summary: Hotch ask Reid for help, Reid agrees. Fears are faced and (psychological) demons are slain.
Author’s Notes: Flooding is a form of psychotherapy based on the principals of respondant conditioning. It’s sometimes called Prolongued Exposure therapy. You can read more about it here, if you’re so inclined, but it certainly isn’t necessary to understand the fic.
It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell. --Buddha.
____________________________
The look on Reid’s face when Hotch tells him what he wants is about what Hotch had expected: confused. Eyebrows drawn down, mouth slightly open and, at least temporarily, speechless.
Hotch drops a pair of handcuffs into Reid’s hand and walks away with a faint smirk.
Reid’s going to show up with Questions - with a capital Q. When he does, Hotch will be ready with answers. Until then, for all that it isn’t a game, Hotch can’t help but feel like he’s won and the prize is a little more time to be absolutely sure.
Of Reid, and of himself.
____________________________
Turns out that Reid waits until he’s in Hotch’s living room, perched on the arm of Hotch’s sofa with one leg dangling and the other firmly on the floor, and there‘s only one question he seems interested in the answer to.
“Are you sure this is something you want to do?”
At least it’s a question Hotch can answer with absolute confidence, and does. He looks Reid squarely in the eye and says, “Yes.”
“Are you sure this is something you want to do with me?”
It’s just a variation of a theme. A second chance to back out and change his mind, maybe. Hotch doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care.
“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have asked you.”
Hotch stays put while Reid studies him, with questions lurking, unspoken, behind his eyes.
“Let’s do it.”
Those words don’t quite sound quite right to Hotch coming from Reid. It’s probably nerves, Hotch decides. Or whatever else is responsible for keeping Reid from saying all the things he isn’t.
Hotch nods, stands and heads back to the bedroom. Reid follows along behind him.
It’s not a long walk; the place isn’t that big. Once they’re in the bedroom Reid pulls his hands out of his pockets, and holds the handcuffs out toward Hotch. The intent is obvious, but the reason behind the gesture isn’t. Hotch lifts his eyebrow even as he’s taking them.
Reid answers the question he seems to think Hotch is asking. “I can’t physically force you.”
Hotch wasn’t asking anything. “I was surprised you brought them with you,” he says, mildly. What he wants to add but doesn’t is that Reid’s inability, even more than his unwillingness, to force Hotch to do anything is a big part of the reason Reid’s here instead of Rossi.
“I thought maybe you could use an extra set.” Reid smiles at that, a little self-conscious, maybe, but mostly in a way that seems to be more response to what didn’t make it out of Hotch’s mouth than what did.
Hotch sits down on the bed, handcuffs still in hand. “You don’t have to force me, but you are going to have to help. I can‘t handcuff myself to the bed.”
“I know.”
Reid’s just standing there, hands in his pockets and looking down at him -- waiting on something. Hotch should be able to make that leap and knows it, but he just can’t. Maybe its his unease, maybe he’s just trying too hard. No matter what the cause, he’s not getting it.
“And?” he prompts, after a moment long enough to realize that he’s not going to get it.
Reid’s hands stay in his pockets but he nods toward the cuffs in Hotch’s hand. “You’re going to have to give those back if you want help.”
Hotch’s initial impulse is to ask why Reid gave them to him if Hotch was supposed to give them back, but he takes long enough to look past the obvious, and this time he does get it. Reid’s asking Hotch to make a conscious decision to trust him, and to hand over control of the situation with the handcuffs.
Hotch folds the cuffs together, catches Reid’s eyes and holds them while he offers them back.
“Thanks.” Reid takes them back with one hand, and pushes his hair out of his face with the other. “How far do you want to take this today?”
“All the way.” Slower exposure would be safer, but he isn’t interested in safe. He just wants to be done with it. He trusts Reid to figure it out rather than elaborating and explaining; the man is a genius, after all.
He’s not disappointed, and his trust in Reid isn’t misplaced. He doesn’t ask any stupid questions. “These are not the best option for restraint.”
They’re going to tear his wrists up. Hotch knows that. He also knows his fear, his physical responses, and his handcuffs. It‘s his turn to say: “I know.”
It’s all he can say. He’s shutting down, getting locked inside his head as the distance between the plan and the action decreases. He knows it‘s happening, but he can’t stop it. That’s why he’s doing this.
Reid looks like he’s going to argue, but at the last second changes his mind. “I will be right back.” He turns on his heel and walks out of the bedroom, taking Hotch’s handcuffs with him.
It doesn’t take long for curiosity to override everything else going on in his head, and curiosity gets Hotch off the bed and moving back through the hallway to figure out where Reid went and what the hell he’s up to.
Hotch finds him in the kitchen, looking cabinets. He only glances back at Hotch before he resumes the search and (sort of) explains. “I need a knife, a book and a hand towel.”
“I get the knife,” Hotch says, because he does - no matter how much he doesn’t want to be consciously thinking about it right now. “You lost me with the other two.”
“The towel’s to protect your wrists. The book’s to protect your brain.”
That makes two of the three make sense, at least. “My brain.”
It’s more prompt than question, but it’s enough encouragement for Reid to explain himself. He puts one hand against the counter and drums his fingers against the surface, posture slightly hipshot in deference to a knee that’s still not 100%.
There’s every signal that Reid’s about to start a long, unnecessarily complicated explanation of how flooding works, the risks involved, minimizing those risks and how doing it wrong will make everything worse. He even takes the deep breath and opens his mouth to start.
Hotch feels his expression shift to carefully neutral and his jaw set as he braces for the impact of a Reid-ramble.
By some miracle - or observation skills and the expression on Hotch’s face - Reid stops himself and boils the whole thing down to it’s simplest form. “It‘ll be better if you have something other than fear to focus on.”
Hotch accepts that, more out of gratitude at Reid for not launching into a lecture than because he thinks it’s going to make any difference. “The towels are under the bathroom sink,” he says, “knives are in the drawer just under the microwave. I’ll find a book.”
Hotch returns to the bedroom and leaves Reid alone to collect the rest of what he needs. Once he’s in front of the small bookshelf, though, he can’t focus well enough to see individual books, never mind read the titles.
Anticipation’s getting to him and not in a good way.
He realizes that he’s staring into space about the same time he hears Reid coming back. He glances back at the shelf and picks the only thing that stands out at all, and it only stands out because Reid gave it to him in the department Christmas exchange a couple of years ago.
He tosses the book on the bed and looks up just in time to see Reid in the doorway. “Can I cut this?” he asks, holding up one of the hand towels. It’s pale peach with flowers. Hotch certainly didn't buy it. That means Haley did.
“Sure,” he says.
Reid walks out again and Hotch refuses to think about what Reid’s doing, or why he’s doing it.
To distract himself as much as anything Hotch takes off his shoes and lines them up on the wall near the door. While he’s up doing that, he takes his tie off and drapes it over the corner of the dresser’s mirror and undoes the first couple of buttons at his collar.
He’s managed to get as comfortable as he’s going to get by the time Reid’s back with the cut up towel, knife, and handcuffs.
Reid puts the knife down on the dresser. “Did you find a book?”
Hotch points silently to the bed, and Reid turns to look where Hotch’s pointing. He cocks his head to the side, one hand holding his hair back from his face so he can read the title.
It only takes a second of course before Reid recognizes the book, straightens and laughs. “Good choice. Come sit on the bed for me?”
Everything’s a question now. Part of that’s just Reid being Reid, Hotch thinks, but the rest is that Reid is giving Hotch every opportunity to say no that there is. Hotch won’t flinch once he’s committed, and Reid must know that as well as he does, but there’s something fundamentally reassuring in the gesture.
Or maybe he’s imagining it all because every instinct he has is screaming to stop this. His instincts are fucked up. That’s why he’s doing this, and why he won’t take the out, no matter how many times it’s offered.
Hotch sits on the edge of the bed, and that's the only answer he gives.
Reid circles around behind to pick up the book and put it on the dresser with the knife. “Scoot back a little more - Aim for as close to the center as you can get? Falling off the bed wouldn’t be good.”
Hotch scoots back, but he doesn’t like it. Moving back means he can’t avoid thinking about what they’re doing here. It also means that he can’t just stand up to end this, or defend himself. He knows he doesn’t need to defend himself here, but he has to remind himself of that.
That train of thought comes to an abrupt end in the moment Reid puts one knee on the bed and says, “Hotch.”
He turns, looks at Reid and extends both his wrists. “I’m still here.” Not by much, maybe, but still there. It’s all the reassurance he can manage to give Reid. It’s the only thing he can honestly say, period. That he’s still there, still aware of what he’s doing and, still wants to do it.
Either that’s good enough or Reid can see how close to snapping Hotch is, because he doesn’t ask ’are you sure you want to do this?’ again. He just wraps the scrap of fabric around Hotch’s left wrist, over the cuff of his shirtsleeve, and then closes metal over it all.
The sound isn’t what gets to Hotch. It’s the feel of the cuff ratcheting down, even through the protective layers of cloth. His stomach tightens in response, and so do the muscles in his forearm. The tension travels all the way up to settle at the back of his neck and into his jaw. His urge, his immediate and primal reaction, is to lash out.
Hotch resists that impulse and Reid doesn’t push it any further than he has to.
“Lay down.” Reid’s voice isn’t loud at all, but there’s no interrogative lift at the end of it, and no room to do anything except what Reid’s telling him to do.
Or, of course, hit him and get out of here.
The conflict between instinct and intellect is getting more pronounced with every, increasingly fast, beat of his heart. Intellect’s still winning, but it isn’t winning by much right now. Hotch has to take a second to consciously remind himself again that this is what he chose, and why he chose it.
Then, though it’s the hardest thing he’s done since burying Haley, he pivots so he’s length-ways on the bed, lies down and lifts his hands upward to give Reid the slack he needs.
Reid doesn’t waste time and doesn’t test Hotch’s rapidly fraying self-control. He threads the unattached end through the slats in the headboard, wraps the dishtowel around Hotch’s wrist and fastens the handcuff. He does it as quickly and deftly as it can be done.
If Hotch were even slightly less freaked the hell out, he’d appreciate that.
As it he’s so tense that when that knife’s placed precisely on the center of his stomach, blade pointed toward his face, that even breathing’s hard. His hands immediately curl into fists so tight that his short nails are digging into the palms or that his jaw’s clenched so hard his teeth are creaking.
Saying ‘thank you’ is the last thing on his mind.
Reid stands looking down at Hotch for a moment, eyebrows drawn down and seems to be holding his breath.
Hotch looks back for a second before he closes his eyes. He definitely doesn’t want to thank Reid in that moment; he wants to break Reid’s neck. It’s adrenaline - fight or flight. He isn’t the type to flee even if he could, so it all turns into violence and rage. Hotch knows what’s happening, even while it’s happening, but that doesn’t stop the reaction.
He keeps his eyes closed, even when Reid starts moving around in the room and Hotch’s need to keep his eyes on Reid is almost as great as his desire to hit something.
His breath is still coming hard, short, and there’s a soft growl that Hotch is only distantly aware is coming from him. When he starts imagining creative ways to kill Reid, he doesn’t fight it. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.
He *does* still know he’s there because he wants to be, and he still knows he’s not going to hurt Reid. It’s just his brain’s way of coping with being stressed right to the edge of the breaking point, Reid’s become a stand-in for Foyet, and Hotch knows that, too. Knowing is all the sanity he’s bothering to hang on to and it’s going to have to be enough because it’s all he ‘s got.
When Reid starts reading aloud, Hotch is barley aware of it. Reid’s not loud enough drown out the constant, the pounding of his heart in his ears, even if Hotch had the mental capacity to focus.
For a long time, how long exactly Hotch has no way of knowing, the only thing that changes is Hotch getting more aware of the weight of the kitchen knife on his stomach, and that it could very easily be picked up and plunged into it.
He knows exactly how that feels, and for a while the memory of that feeling -the ache, burn, pressure, and deliberately evoked violent sexuality of it- is all Hotch knows.
He doesn’t notice when he starts fighting the restraints rather than just being rigid in them, or when the knife slides off his stomach and onto the bed beside him. When Reid leans forward, moves the knife safely out of the way Hotch is only vaguely aware of motion. He barely even knows Reid’s in the room with him.
He doesn’t know how long Reid’s been trying to get his attention before a soft, “Aaron” gets through to him.
Hotch opens his eyes, turns his head and finds Reid standing half-way between the armchair he’s apparently been sitting in and the bed, book still held open in one hand. The sound Hotch makes is more grunt than articulate, but it‘s interrogative and it gets the point across.
“You’re safe. And.” Reid smiles a little, lifts his eyebrows, and puts the knife back on Hotch, careful and precise and somehow manages not to touch Hotch at all while he does it. “Try to pay attention. There might be a quiz later.”
It takes a minute (and close to a literal one) for the words to make sense. It is, without all doubt, the lamest joke Hotch has ever heard, even from Reid. It works, anyway. Hotch barely cares that the knife’s back on his stomach.
Reid watches Hotch, book held open in one hand, and waits for a reaction.
Hotch is a long way from laughing, but he takes a cleaner breath than he has in a bit, relaxes minutely and closes his eyes again.
Reid goes back to his chair and resumes reading.
Hotch is a little more aware now, a little more with it, and a little more able to focus on Reid’s voice. Putting meaning to the words and holding onto that for even the length of a sentence isn’t happening. All he’s catching is the rise, fall and rhythm of Reid’s voice. It’s enough.
He gradually realizes that he’s sweaty, he’s exhausted and that he is in pain. Not just his wrists and not just from the fight he put up against the handcuffs, but jaw, shoulders, even his stomach and thighs, are all aching from the tension he’s been holding onto right along with his terror and rage.
Letting go of that, exhausted as Hotch is, just makes sense. It doesn’t come easily and it requires enough effort that he’s still not really listening to Reid. He does, however, gradually notice that Reid isn’t just reading the words on the page. He’s going off on tangents, asking rhetorical questions, and inserting definitions, references, and hypothesis.
It’s kind of, actually, almost, cute.
That’s the real turning point.
Nothing, no one, cute could ever be any kind of stand in for Foyet.
Hotch is still tied up, there’s still a knife on his stomach and he’s still helpless. He still remembers what Foyet did to him, and what he couldn‘t stop Foyet from doing to Haley and Jack, but he also remembers that Foyet’s dead. Foyet didn’t put him here, and neither did Reid. All Reid did was help him put himself here; Reid isn’t any kind of threat to him.
There’s no moment where things are suddenly okay. He unclenches jaw first, and his fists follow shortly after. Very gradually the tension goes, until Hotch is limp. More gradually his breathing deepens and his heart slows and quietens. He finally recognizes the book, and realizes that Reid’s voice has gone hoarse from talking nonstop for god only knows how long.
Hotch opens his eyes again and finds Reid. He’s sitting folded sideways into his chair, with one of his legs bent up at an angle that should look awkward but somehow doesn’t, focused on the book and slowing himself down enough to be able to speak the words.
He could have, Hotch realizes, read the entire thing a dozen or more times in the space he’s spent reading a couple of chapters aloud for his benefit, and it’s a book Reid’s already read, and therefore has no choice but to remember word for word.
Reid looks up, either because Hotch is quieter, he can sense Hotch looking at him, or he’s just been checking on him periodically. Regardless of the cause he notices Hotch watching him and gives Hotch a smile that makes Reid look almost as exhausted as Hotch feels.
“Hey.” Reid’s voice matches his smile. Both are warm enough, but both are absolutely worn out. So, probably, is Reid.
“Hey,” Hotch returns, and his voice isn’t exactly silky smooth either. “Why don’t you go get a glass of water?”
“You sure?” Reid asks, still holding the book but folding it closed with his index finger marking the spot.
“Yeah. I’m sure. Get one for me while you’re in there.”
Reid un-tucks himself from the chair and stands, twisting enough to let him put the book down while he does it He looks back at Hotch as he slowly and with some stiffness, straightens up. He’s been curled up in that chair for a while.
“You want me to....” Reid doesn’t trail off so much as he replaces those last words with a gesture toward the headboard and handcuffs.
Hotch closes his eyes again briefly, because he’s developing what feels an awful lot like a hangover and says, “When you get back.”
If Hotch were even slightly less exhausted, he’d be surprised to find he means that. What he does have, even dead tired, sore as hell and with a growing headache, is a sense of accomplishment and something closer to peace than he’s had for a while.
Reid studies Hotch for a bit, probably trying to decide if he believes Hotch or not, before he says “All right, then.”
Hotch watches him go and closes his eyes again. This time he keeps them closed, in deference to weariness and the throbbing in his temples. He keeps listening, though. He hears the fading footsteps, the sound of a cabinet door creaking when it’s opened and then water running.
He’s not aware he’s drifting off, but he must have been because he wakes up to a glass of water already on the dresser and Reid moving the knife He jumps a little, startled but not panicked.
“Sorry.” Reid puts the knife out of the way and on the dresser. “I. Didn’t realize you were asleep. I probably should have.”
“Its fine,” Hotch says, and watches Reid search his pockets for the handcuff key. “Tell me you didn’t lose the key.”
“I didn’t lose the key,” Reid echoes, utterly deadpan.
For a second Hotch is actually worried about it, lifts his head and pins Reid with a look that’s more disbelief than anger. He keeps looking at Reid with exactly that expression until Reid holds up the handcuff key and lifts both of his eyebrows pointedly. Hotch groans and lets his head fall back to the bed.
“Lost the key? Really?” Reid asks, while fitting the tiny key into the lock and freeing Hotch’s wrist. “That’s like… something from a bad movie.”
“So,” Hotch tells him dryly, “is my life.”
Hotch takes advantage of the slack and pulls both his arms down, though he’s still wearing the second cuff, and pulls the (now damp with sweat) scrap of terrycloth from around his wrist. Reid leaves him alone that long then grabs the other wrist so he can unlock it, and effectively keeps Hotch from sitting up yet.
“Give yourself a second. That was a pretty sustained adrenaline rush and you’ve been down a while.” Reid’s still being fairly quiet, the questioning lilt is just starting to creep back into his voice.
Hotch thinks about arguing with him, anyway, but decides to take the indirect route to reestablishing his independence instead. He stays down, rubs his (bruised, in spite of the padding) wrists. “Hand me the water, please.”
Reid rolls his eyes, mutters something about alpha males under his breath and takes the couple of steps necessary to reach the glass of water.
Hotch lets the muttering go - it just doesn’t matter. He focuses, instead, on rolling onto his side and propping up on his elbow so he can take the glass of water when Reid comes back with it. “Thanks.”
Reid gives control of the glass over without complaint and puts his hands in his pockets, but he doesn't move away from the bed while Hotch drinks. “You really need to sleep, Hotch.”
If Reid’s expecting an argument, Hotch isn’t going to give it to him. He does need sleep and he is that tired. He finishes his water, and twists further forward to put the empty glass safely on the floor. “I know,” he says. “I’m going to.”
“So what do you want me to...?” Reid looks confused, and sounds uncertain.
He doesn’t, Hotch realizes wearily, have a damn clue what to do next.
And Hotch isn’t going to tell him.
“Turn off the light.” Hotch answers before the question’s completely out of Reid’s mouth. He stretches out, folds his arm under his head and closes his eyes.
Hotch can feel Reid move away, hears the click of the light switch and the darkness behind his eyelids deepens. He stays still, stays quiet, and falls into sleep with Reid still hesitating just inside the doorway.
Stay or go. There’s no wrong decision, not for Hotch. He’ll be interested in seeing what Reid does with the choice, though.
Just as soon as he wakes up.
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Story continues in Beyond Fear