Fic: One Week (on the floor of the ocean) - Crossover
Fandoms: Criminal Minds/Invasion
Characters/Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Russell Varon, Tom Underlay/Russell Varon. Implied Tom/Mariel, Russell/Larkin and Hotch/Gideon.
Rating: R
Word Count: ~5000
Spoilers: None for Criminal Minds, mild first season for Invasion.
Notes: This was written knowing full well that pretty much no one reads fic for either Criminal Minds or Invasion. Unfortunately, my brain was very, very intent on writing a crossover fic between a procedural crime show and an alien invasion story. Hopefully it's readable to those who have little knowledge of either fandom.
Summary: This is the story of how former Special Agent Aaron Hotchner became a serial killer.
- - -
This is the story of how former Special Agent Aaron Hotchner became a serial killer.
- - - -
The water swirls around the edge of the boat, muddy, half-obscured from the leaves on top of it. Motor whines rough and loud, white noise to disguise any sign that someone might be following them.
Former Special Agent Aaron Hotchner lifts the binoculars to his eyes, scanning the treeline.
“How is it?” asks his companion, Russell Varon, low, under the sound of the motor.
“Clear,” reports Hotch, letting the binoculars fall around his neck. He draws his gun, keeping it trained on the water. “Go ahead.”
Russell hops over the side, wading in the shallows. Drags the boat towards the shore.
Hotch’s palms are sweaty. Twice in the last week - it’s happened twice, the creatures in the water, and he’s barely been good enough to get the damn things before they grab hold of Russell. He suspects that they’ve found out where Russell and Hotch are taking shelter.
The boat slides ashore without incident, and Hotch steps out, holstering the gun.
“Another day, another dollar,” says Russell.
“Yeah.” Hotch scans the sky, half-alert for the noise of helicopters. It’s the fear of the hunted man, he knows. He’s seen the signs a dozen times before.
It’s still disturbingly easy, he finds, to operate entirely without a conscience.
- - - -
“One shot to the stomach,” says Morgan. “Two to the head. It breaks the pattern. The other victims were the reverse - two to the stomach, one to the head.”
“Victim was a big guy,” muses Gideon. “There’re defensive wounds, the cabinets are broken.” He shifts to his feet, from a crouch.
“So you’re saying he fought back.”
“It doesn’t seem out of the question.”
The inside of the house should be clean, orderly, spotless - the carpet is pristine white, there’s no clutter, unlike most of the other crime scenes. The décor is shattered, though, by the broken glass all over the carpet, the blood pooling over the hardwood floor.
“This seems a little weird,” says Reid. “Forensics says there were four shots fired. The first one missed, and went into the cabinet and then the wall, here,” pointing towards a gouged hole in the wood. “It’s unprofessional. The last four killings had perfect marksmanship, fast entry, fast exit.” He sits back, on his heels.
“If the bullet hit there…” Morgan traces the path the bullet must have taken, the vector from the wall to the victim. “The shots must have been fired from over by the door, here. But there was definitely a fight and it was over here.”
“Maybe the shot was fired first,” suggests Reid, “and then the guy fought back.”
“No,” says Morgan. “The blood pattern is very simple. A fight would have spread blood all on the carpet - there’d be more drips, especially here.”
Jason tilts his head, regarding the scene without expression. “You’re right,” he says, with a nod to Morgan. “There were two attackers.”
“One in the fight,” says Reid -
“And one who took the first shot,” finishes Morgan.
“Jason,” calls Elle, from the front door. “Sheriff Underlay is here.”
Of course, thinks Morgan. Exchanges a glance with Gideon, but stays silent.
“What the hell are you doing here?” asks Underlay, directed towards the FBI agents in general. Reid winces.
“We believe that this is the sixth victim in the pattern,” returns Gideon, calmly.
“The sixth-” Underlay cuts himself off, biting back whatever it was he was about to say. “Do you ever stop to think that maybe it’s you who’s making this guy kill faster? The media attention you’re bringing down on Homestead? Maybe this guy likes the attention a little too much.”
“Not even you believe that,” returns Gideon.
Gideon is right - Underlay has the look of someone trying very hard to avoid the truth. Morgan doesn’t like the man; in fact, he didn’t like him from the moment he met him. Profilers aren’t supposed to make snap judgments, and Morgan is certainly trying to keep an open mind, but Underlay’s behavior is far enough from the norm to be suspicious.
And there. Underlay’s eyes linger just a little too long on the victim.
“Did you know him?” asks Morgan, breaking into the conversation.
“Yeah,” says Underlay. “I knew him.” He doesn’t offer any more explanation - instead, turns and goes, brushing past the officers at the entrance.
“We have enough for a profile,” says Gideon.
- - - -
“Clear,” called Morgan, from the far side of the warehouse. Hotch shifted the grip on his gun; lifted a chain out of the way with his free hand.
There was a pool of water, set into the ground. Murky, and beneath the surface it looked like something was glowing.
- - - -
A few months in the Everglades, and Hotch still can’t navigate. He turns the GPS over in his hands. Almost out of battery power.
“It’s too dangerous to have it,” says Russell. “There’s only one way they can find us, and that’s if we lead them straight there.” He gestures to the GPS. “That stores the locations it goes to.”
“We don’t even know that they’re looking for us.”
Russell laughs, without humor. “Tom Underlay is looking for us,” he says. “Trust me on that one.”
“The sheriff?” asks Hotch.
“Yeah.” Russell slides down, next to him.
“You never told me about him,” says Hotch, eyes towards the fire. “You know him personally?”
“He’s one of them,” says Russell. “One of you, I mean,” with an apologetic look. “He was attacked in the water almost a decade ago.” Russell lets out a hiss of air. “And then he married my ex-wife.”
“Ah.” Hotch doesn’t press it.
- - - -
“…a sixth victim reported, as of six hours ago, this is on record as the worst killing spree this town has ever known,” says Larkin, eyes to the camera. “This is Larkin Groves, reporting live. Back to you, Samantha.”
“And we’re off,” says the cameraman. “Nice job, Larkin.”
Larkin flashes him a smile. “Thanks. - Tom!”
Sheriff Tom Underlay doesn’t slow his pace; Larkin has to jog to catch up. She catches him at the door of his car, a hand on his shoulder.
“Tom,” she repeats.
He turns, avoiding eye contact. “What do you need, Larkin?”
Larkin grits her jaw. “How about you look at me, for once?”
“I don’t have time for this.”
Larkin grabs him, harder, this time. Her new body is stronger than her old, and while she’s pretty sure that Tom could still shrug her off if he wanted to, he hesitates. Out of respect.
“Now listen,” she says. “You were the one that took me to the water. I owe you my life, whatever, but could you stop acting like you raped me or something?”
“Larkin,” starts Tom.
“No,” snaps Larkin. “Shut up. You know what’s in common with all the victims, I know what’s in common with all the victims. How long do you think it’ll take the FBI to start doing some simple logical arithmetic, huh?”
“What am I supposed to do, Larkin?” Tom’s eyes lift to hers - shut down, frustrated as hell, and Larkin can at least sympathize with that.
Larkin shrugs. “I don’t know. Stop acting like you’re some kind of punk that’s going to bring this killer to justice the lynch-mob way.”
Tom steps so that the car door is between them, his arm resting on the curve of the top. “Go home, Larkin. Take care of the kids.”
“What, Russell’s kids?”
Tom freezes, at the mention of Russell’s name. She should have known that was what would catch his attention.
“How about your daughter?” presses Larkin. “How’s she doing, or have you and Mariel completely forgotten about her?”
“Shut up,” hisses Tom.
Larkin can’t do this anymore. Maybe Tom has gotten to the point where he’s not reachable anymore.
“Fine,” she snaps. She’ll find the news van, and she’ll go home. To the kids, to Rose and Jesse.
- - - -
Hotch stepped closer to the water, lowering his gun. The glows were moving, and he could see what looked like tentacles under the surface -
“What the hell,” he murmured, almost to himself. Their profile didn’t say anything about this. What was it, some kind of marine research facility? Were these people performing experiments on the ones they kidnapped?
He crouched by the water, to get a closer look, and completely missed the footsteps approaching behind him.
- - - -
“It’s not the same without Hotch,” says Morgan, softly, to Elle. It’s been three months, to the day, since he left the team.
“Hey,” and Elle hits Morgan, on his arm, like she just had an idea. “You think we could spend some time looking him up, here? Seeing what happened? The last time anyone saw him was on a plane to Florida.”
“I don’t think there’s a single person on the team that hasn’t already tried,” Morgan points out.
Elle’s mouth twists. “Does that mean we should give up?”
- - - -
Sheriff Tom Underlay gets home late, as usual, these days. The house is silent when he steps inside.
In the master bathroom, his wife, Mariel, is submerged underwater. Eyes closed, hair drifting around her face.
Tom leans against the doorjamb, pulling his shirt untucked. Just watches her, for a moment, because every time he sees her, she’s beautiful.
Her eyes flick open, and she sits up, out of the water.
“How long were you under?” asks Tom.
“What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty.”
“About an hour, then,” she says.
He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been doing this a lot?”
She gives him a strange glance, reaching for the towel. Wraps it around herself, stepping out of the bathtub.
“There was another body, today,” he says.
Mariel goes still. “Another hybrid.”
“Yeah.” He crosses his arms. “You think Russell is killing these people, Mariel?”
“Russell wouldn’t do that.” Her voice lacks conviction.
“Even after Larkin became a hybrid?”
“He’d think of the kids.” She brushes past him, into the bedroom.
“He’s vanished into the Everglades, leaving Larkin alone, just after her transformation,” Tom points out. “You really think the kids are top on his priority list?”
- - - -
Hotch didn’t even feel the man behind him shove him into the water. He knows there must have been an impact, that he was taken by surprise, that he may have inhaled the dirty water.
It was one of the creatures in the water that dragged him under.
- - - -
Hotch inhales, twisting awake, the half-memory of drowning dissolving in the night air.
“Hey,” murmurs Russell, nudging him through his sleeping bag. “You all right?”
“Not really.” Hotch shifts so he’s sitting - easier to breathe.
Russell props himself up on his elbow. “What kind of nightmare was it?”
Hotch half-laughs, without humor. “The kind where I’m about to be dragged underwater by a flesh-sucking monster.”
“The real kind, then.”
“Yeah,” says Hotch. “The real kind.”
“You can’t remember what happened that night. Day, whatever,” Russell points out. “It’s biologically impossible.”
“I don’t have to remember,” returns Hotch. “My imagination’s doing the work just fine.”
- - - -
“Our un-sub is an organized killer,” says Jason Gideon. “He has professional skill with firearms, and uses lethal force with economy and discrimination. Furthermore, the doors on two of the six houses were kicked in - something that suggests significant law enforcement training and experience.
“The absolutely regular frequency of the crimes, and the cookie-cutter planning that goes into the murders, the execution-style shootings, suggests that the killer is carrying out some sort of mission. He believes that he is avenging past wrongs, or bringing justice to those who deserve it.”
Tom Underlay shifts, against the desk where he’s sitting.
“On top of this,” adds Morgan, “he has an assistant, or, rather, a partner. The two of them probably work together very equally, both of them willing to risk their life for the other, and the partner also has skill in firearms, but more limited than the un-sub. Probably not a law enforcement professional.”
“Given how we’ve had no witness reports of anything unusual,” Elle cuts in, “both of them probably look very ordinary. Two buddies out for a beer, going fishing - they know how to blend in, and it’s likely that one, or both, is intimately familiar with the surrounding territory.”
“We’re looking for two white males, most likely,” says Gideon. “Thirties to fifties. The key to bringing them in is why they’re targeting these specific victims, what exactly it is they’re revenging.”
“There’s also going to be an inciting incident,” adds Elle. “A significant stressor in one or both of their lives, like the loss of a job, or a loved one. It would have happened probably in the past six months.”
The tension behind Tom Underlay’s eyes rapidly forms into a headache. Two men. A significant stressor - Tom should know that very well. After all, he was the one who took Larkin to the water, let one of the creatures have her. Duplicate her. He should have known that Russell couldn’t take the consequences.
When he looks up, one of the FBI agents - Morgan - is looking right back at him.
- - - -
Hotch woke up in the trauma center, at a local hospital.
“You were brought in via ambulance this morning,” said the doctor, shining a light into his eyes. “You were found naked, half-drowned, in the warehouse district. Do you know what happened?”
They didn’t know his name, or his status as an FBI agent. It was more than twenty-four hours after Hotch remembered walking into that warehouse with the rest of the Behavioral Analysis Unit.
- - - -
Russell parks the truck on the street, just outside the target house. Pulls the baseball cap down over his eyes and steps out, casually, onto the street. The door slams on the other side of the car; Hotch leads the way up the sidewalk.
Three raps on the door. “FBI,” calls Hotch. “Open the door, please.”
The hinges creak a few inches open. “Can I help you?” asks the woman.
“I’m with the FBI.” Hotch flashes his badge. Now, a complete lie. Hotch shouldn’t have been able to keep it. “Agent Hotchner. This is Agent Verona. May we come in?”
“Sure.” She opens the door, cautiously.
Hotch follows her a few steps inside, then draws his gun. Two shots to the chest, and she falls like a stone. One last one, to the forehead, and he turns, re-holstering the gun, brushing past Russell and back outside.
Russell feels a sick triumph curl inside his stomach.
Judging by his expression, Hotch feels nothing.
- - - -
“I might have something,” says Morgan. “It looks like at least four of the victims were members of this survivor’s group, a church thing.”
Gideon takes the list from Morgan’s hands. “What kind of survivors?”
“It has something to do with hurricanes,” says Morgan. “They have a meeting in - half an hour. Go check it out?”
“Take Elle,” says Gideon.
- - - -
“It’s for those of us who have suffered a special kind of near-death experience,” says the priest. “We use the group as a way to bond, to come together as a community and celebrate our continuing life. God has given us a gift, and it’s up to us not to throw it away.”
Elle crosses her arms. “Father, members of this group are dying. Can you think of anyone who might want to seek revenge against you, any reason someone would believe that people here needed to die?”
The priest looks so helpless at the very thought that Elle relents.
“There’s something he’s not telling us,” says Morgan, back in the car.
“No kidding,” says Elle.
- - - -
“It’s a miracle that you survived,” said Gideon. “The tank inside the warehouse fed directly into the ocean.”
“I don’t remember much,” said Hotch. “I wish I did,” lied Hotch. “It’s good to see you,” and on that point, Hotch couldn’t actually tell whether he was lying or not. That should have been the first sign that something was badly wrong.
- - - -
As soon as they’re back to the tent, Hotch drags Russell inside, kissing him like he wants to climb into Russell’s skin, intent, even desperate - maybe a reaffirmation of life, after he snuffed someone out with no preamble, no ritual, just three bullets.
Russell seems just as intent, though, stripping off Hotch’s shirt, pressing him down into the sleeping bags.
This is what happens, Hotch knows, when your entire world narrows to just one other person.
He stops Russell - “How can you want this?” he asks, with haunted desperation. “How can you possibly-” He means the alien flesh, the alien bones, the body that was never his to begin with. Just a consolation prize, after his flesh was slashed open by a glowing, ocean-dwelling creature the likes of which the world has never seen.
He disgusts himself.
Russell just soothes him, coaxes him back. Never answers the question.
Hotch has the feeling, the horrible feeling, that they’re making mistakes. Seven so far, left in pools of their own blood, lives that could have done something, could have meant something. He wonders if this is what a ghost would feel like, because the murder he’s taking revenge for is his own.
- - - -
“You said you were looking for information on the survivor’s group,” says Mariel Underlay, holding her purse.
Morgan leans back in his chair. “Yes, of course, Ms…?”
“Mrs,” corrects Mariel. “Mariel Underlay.”
Morgan pauses, partway through the handshake. “Underlay as in…”
“The Sheriff is my husband,” admits Mariel.
“All right,” says Morgan. “Nice to meet you.”
A few minutes later, in an interview room, Mariel leans forward across the table. “There are incidents,” she says. “No one really likes to talk about them, but sometimes it seems like everyone in the survivor’s group is - well - against those who aren’t. There was a man who was beaten half to death on the church steps, because he wanted to take away a girl, one of the survivors. He could have died, but I -” She stops, and steels herself to go on. “I stopped them. I got him to the hospital.”
“Do you have any idea,” says Morgan, “who might bear a grudge against this group?”
Mariel hesitates, her expression torn.
“Yes,” says Tom Underlay, from the doorway. “She does.”
- - - -
Hotch didn’t love his wife anymore. He felt nothing, when he looked in her eyes. When he looked on their son. And the very frustration that came from that scared him, because he genuinely, honestly believed that he might hurt them.
Gideon watched him, then, at work. Like he knew Hotch was inches away from breaking.
This lasted two weeks.
- - - -
“Guys,” says Reid, to the room. “I have some - news.” He waves a folder. “The blood taken from the crime scene with the fight was analyzed, and one of the spatters wasn’t the victim’s DNA.”
“So it was the attacker’s blood,” says Morgan. “From a nosebleed or something?”
“Yeah,” says Reid. “And there’s a hit in the database.”
Morgan grabs at the file - Reid lets it go, reluctantly. And Morgan stops dead at the photo inside, his heart skipping a beat.
“What?” asks Elle. “Who is it?”
Morgan hands her the file, without a word.
“It’s Aaron Hotchner,” says Reid. “Our ex-boss, Aaron Hotchner.”
- - - -
The two suspects are side-by-side, on the board. Russell Varon; Aaron Hotchner.
“Is there any way we can find this Varon?” asks Gideon.
“He used to be a Parks ranger,” says Tom. “He knows the Everglades, and he knows how to disappear in the Everglades. If he does not want to be found, he won’t be.” He studies the pictures, then, “So, what was Hotchner’s inciting incident?”
Two of the FBI agents exchange glances. “He almost drowned,” says Elle.
Tom sits up straight. “Excuse me?”
“He got pushed into a tank,” says Morgan, “and he nearly drowned. Acted weird ever since.”
“That’s impossible.”
Morgan crosses his arms. “You know something we don’t?”
Tom’s mind is working at a thousand miles per hour - that means that Hotchner is a hybrid. He’s one of them. Why on Earth would he go on a killing spree against his own kind? Unless he didn’t realize it was his own kind - no, that’s impossible, Russell would have told him.
If Russell is his accomplice. Which isn’t definitive, from the evidence, though it seems pretty fucking likely.
“The survivor’s group is mostly those who survived drowning,” Mariel jumps in, rescuing Tom. She sends him a sharp glance.
- - - -
Reid found Hotch packing his desk into boxes. Ready to leave as soon as possible.
“What are you doing?” asked Reed, frozen in the doorway.
“Quitting my job,” said Hotch.
“Quitting your job?” asked Reed. “You love this job.”
“Let’s just say I got a better offer,” returned Hotch. “Let it be, Reid.”
- - - -
Larkin is with the press, seated in the lobby of the sheriff’s department. “This is impossible,” she says, flat-out, when she sees the press release. “This is impossible. My Russell would never do this.”
“Excuse me.” Tom shrugs between the two reporters next to Larkin. He pauses, for a moment, and then realizes that the two of them are still there. “Beat it,” he snaps, and they scatter to the four winds. “Larkin.”
Larkin’s head is in her hands.
“We’ll find them.” He crouches, in front of her. “We’ll find them, I promise.”
She slaps him. “I want my husband back, not some murdering bastard!” in a sob, more than anything else. She cries into the crook of his neck, her arms around his back, her body shaking in grief.
Tom understands how she feels.
- - - -
“We’re living a contradiction,” says Hotch, in the grey light of morning. “You can’t fuck me like that and pretend you feel nothing.”
“I do feel something.” Russell shrugs. “So what?”
“So if I’m a person, if I’m Aaron Hotchner, then we’re killing people, not replicas, not hybrids. People.”
“They killed a person to exist,” says Russell. “The very fact of their life means someone else is gone. Just look at the number of people who kicked out their families after the change, left their friends - the same person doesn’t come out of the water as went in.”
“If they deserve to die, then I deserve to die.” He presses his gun into Russell’s hands, handle first, and pulls up Russell’s wrist until the tip of the gun is digging into his temple. “So kill me.”
Russell tugs away. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because-!” Russell stands, running his hands through his hair.
Hotch closes his eyes.
“What are we going to do?” asks Russell, his voice shaking.
“We have to stop,” says Hotch. But he knows it’s already too late.
- - - -
“I hear you almost drowned a few weeks ago.”
Hotch turned, holding the grocery cart with one hand. The man who’d addressed him had his arms crossed, eyes calculating.
“Where’d you hear that?” asked Hotch.
“I look for people like you.” He stepped closer. “My name’s Russell, and I think I might be able to give you some answers about what happened.”
- - - -
They - Elle and Reid - catch Hotch at the gas station, refueling Russell’s truck.
Hotch doesn’t run. Running might lead them to the docks, and to the boat, which is far too risky. He does draw his gun, though.
“Put down the gun, Hotch,” warns Elle.
Hotch aims, straight and steady, at Reid. “Why should I?”
“I will shoot you,” snaps Elle.
“I doubt it,” says Hotch, soft and clear. “I don’t think any of you have the stomach to shoot me. I, on the other hand, am one hundred percent sure that I have the stomach to shoot you. Since you’ve undoubtedly seen my work, then I’m sure you know too. No, I’m not putting down my gun, but you’re sure as hell putting down yours.”
Reid takes a breath. “Hotch-”
“Aaron Hotchner died four months ago,” says Hotch. “He was murdered. What you’re looking at now is the thing that took his memories and his face and his life. And believe me, I will take out one of you before you can drop me. Either of you care to make the choice?”
“How about me?”
Hotch grits his teeth, at the new voice. Jason Gideon lets the door to the convenience store fall shut behind him. He must have been in the car with the other two -
“Go ahead,” says Gideon. “Kill me. Two in the chest, one in the head, that’s how it goes, isn’t it?”
“I don’t particularly want to kill anyone.”
“Anyone,” says Gideon. “Does that category include your seven victims?”
“They weren’t people.”
“A justification straight out of the 1930s,” counters Gideon.
Hotch shakes his head -
“I know what you’re going through feels real,” says Gideon, “but you know the signs of a dissociative disorder the same as I do.”
Hotch laughs at that. He actually laughs. “It feels real because it is real. You don’t know half of what’s going on in this town. And now I’ll give you five seconds to put down your gun.”
“Hotch.”
“Five,” says Hotch. “Four.”
“Think about this.”
“Three. Two.”
Gideon places the gun on the floor; Elle and Reid follow suit.
“You can’t run forever,” says Gideon.
“I’d hoped you wouldn’t get this case,” says Hotch. Not an answer.
“You’re not past saving.”
“I’m not worth saving.” Hotch slips out the back, as the police sirens wail around to the front.
- - - -
Tom Underlay doesn’t mention to the FBI agents that Russell’s daughter Rose plays soccer. Nor does he mention that the biggest game of the season is that day, in one of the numerous parks around Homestead. No, he slips away very quietly, hoping that they don’t notice, and watches the game, half-behind a tree. Waiting for Russell to show up.
Larkin is on the sidelines, cheering Rose on. Tom crosses his arms, hand near his holster, waiting. Because he doubts that Russell is really going to miss this.
He believes he’s alert, paying attention to everything around him - but the warm gunmetal that presses into the back of his neck tells a different story.
“Tom,” greets Russell.
“Russell,” returns Tom, through gritted teeth.
Russell reaches in, and divests Tom of his gun. Shoves him against the tree. “You waiting for me?”
“I had this instinct that you might show up.”
“Yeah, well.” Russell steps back. “You know me.”
“I do.” And Tom’s words contain a wealth of meaning - he doesn’t just mean that he can predict Russell’s behavior. Because he remembers how Russell breathes, when he’s so turned on he can barely think, and he knows how Russell’s hands felt on his skin, and the way Russell held on -
“Tom.” Russell’s voice breaks, a little. He looks away, like he can’t quite go on.
“Why you killing my people, Russ?” asks Tom, softly.
“Because every one of your people means that a human being is dead,” says Russell. “Eye for an eye.”
“You don’t need to inflict your revenge on bystanders.”
“You ever stop and think that this might not be about you?”
“No,” says Tom, in perfect honesty. “Because it is.”
Russell doesn’t contradict him. - his gun is down by his side, no threat, and Tom could make a move against him right now. Only he doesn’t, he can’t, because Russell touches him, fingertips to Tom’s chest, barely there through the fabric of his shirt.
“I’m sorry, Tom,” says Russell.
- - - -
The first time Hotch had sex with Russell was in DC. They fell into bed so fast Hotch couldn’t really believe what was happening; and then Russell went straight for his navel, for some reason, digging into the flesh just above it.
It was the most intensely sexual sensation Hotch had ever experienced. Like there was some other organ, lurking under the skin, something he’d never discovered before. It was something related to the change, he realized, related to the drowning - he knew instinctively, before Russell ever told him.
After Russell told him, he only had one question.
“Have you had sex with a hybrid before?”
“Yes,” said Russell. “I have.”
- - - -
“Tell me why Russell Varon and Aaron Hotchner are killing these people,” says Gideon, an order, not a request. “I know you know, and I know you’re inclined not to tell me, but I think this ridiculous game has gone on long enough. I want to bring these people in. Alive.”
Tom Underlay steels himself, and he tells the truth.
- - - -
“You going to turn yourself in?” asks Russell.
Hotch finishes coiling the rope, tossing it in the bottom of the boat. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I respect those people too much to let them know that the person who went on a killing rampage was the same as their former boss.” He straightens. “It’s better that they think I’m different now. It’ll make them believe in themselves.”
“An us against them kind of thing? Cops and killers?”
“Yeah,” says Hotch. “Exactly.”
Russell leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. “What do we do now?”
“Live until tomorrow,” says Hotch.
“And tomorrow?”
“How about we cross that bridge when we come to it?”
Russell nods. “I can live with that.”
Characters/Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Russell Varon, Tom Underlay/Russell Varon. Implied Tom/Mariel, Russell/Larkin and Hotch/Gideon.
Rating: R
Word Count: ~5000
Spoilers: None for Criminal Minds, mild first season for Invasion.
Notes: This was written knowing full well that pretty much no one reads fic for either Criminal Minds or Invasion. Unfortunately, my brain was very, very intent on writing a crossover fic between a procedural crime show and an alien invasion story. Hopefully it's readable to those who have little knowledge of either fandom.
Summary: This is the story of how former Special Agent Aaron Hotchner became a serial killer.
- - -
This is the story of how former Special Agent Aaron Hotchner became a serial killer.
- - - -
The water swirls around the edge of the boat, muddy, half-obscured from the leaves on top of it. Motor whines rough and loud, white noise to disguise any sign that someone might be following them.
Former Special Agent Aaron Hotchner lifts the binoculars to his eyes, scanning the treeline.
“How is it?” asks his companion, Russell Varon, low, under the sound of the motor.
“Clear,” reports Hotch, letting the binoculars fall around his neck. He draws his gun, keeping it trained on the water. “Go ahead.”
Russell hops over the side, wading in the shallows. Drags the boat towards the shore.
Hotch’s palms are sweaty. Twice in the last week - it’s happened twice, the creatures in the water, and he’s barely been good enough to get the damn things before they grab hold of Russell. He suspects that they’ve found out where Russell and Hotch are taking shelter.
The boat slides ashore without incident, and Hotch steps out, holstering the gun.
“Another day, another dollar,” says Russell.
“Yeah.” Hotch scans the sky, half-alert for the noise of helicopters. It’s the fear of the hunted man, he knows. He’s seen the signs a dozen times before.
It’s still disturbingly easy, he finds, to operate entirely without a conscience.
- - - -
“One shot to the stomach,” says Morgan. “Two to the head. It breaks the pattern. The other victims were the reverse - two to the stomach, one to the head.”
“Victim was a big guy,” muses Gideon. “There’re defensive wounds, the cabinets are broken.” He shifts to his feet, from a crouch.
“So you’re saying he fought back.”
“It doesn’t seem out of the question.”
The inside of the house should be clean, orderly, spotless - the carpet is pristine white, there’s no clutter, unlike most of the other crime scenes. The décor is shattered, though, by the broken glass all over the carpet, the blood pooling over the hardwood floor.
“This seems a little weird,” says Reid. “Forensics says there were four shots fired. The first one missed, and went into the cabinet and then the wall, here,” pointing towards a gouged hole in the wood. “It’s unprofessional. The last four killings had perfect marksmanship, fast entry, fast exit.” He sits back, on his heels.
“If the bullet hit there…” Morgan traces the path the bullet must have taken, the vector from the wall to the victim. “The shots must have been fired from over by the door, here. But there was definitely a fight and it was over here.”
“Maybe the shot was fired first,” suggests Reid, “and then the guy fought back.”
“No,” says Morgan. “The blood pattern is very simple. A fight would have spread blood all on the carpet - there’d be more drips, especially here.”
Jason tilts his head, regarding the scene without expression. “You’re right,” he says, with a nod to Morgan. “There were two attackers.”
“One in the fight,” says Reid -
“And one who took the first shot,” finishes Morgan.
“Jason,” calls Elle, from the front door. “Sheriff Underlay is here.”
Of course, thinks Morgan. Exchanges a glance with Gideon, but stays silent.
“What the hell are you doing here?” asks Underlay, directed towards the FBI agents in general. Reid winces.
“We believe that this is the sixth victim in the pattern,” returns Gideon, calmly.
“The sixth-” Underlay cuts himself off, biting back whatever it was he was about to say. “Do you ever stop to think that maybe it’s you who’s making this guy kill faster? The media attention you’re bringing down on Homestead? Maybe this guy likes the attention a little too much.”
“Not even you believe that,” returns Gideon.
Gideon is right - Underlay has the look of someone trying very hard to avoid the truth. Morgan doesn’t like the man; in fact, he didn’t like him from the moment he met him. Profilers aren’t supposed to make snap judgments, and Morgan is certainly trying to keep an open mind, but Underlay’s behavior is far enough from the norm to be suspicious.
And there. Underlay’s eyes linger just a little too long on the victim.
“Did you know him?” asks Morgan, breaking into the conversation.
“Yeah,” says Underlay. “I knew him.” He doesn’t offer any more explanation - instead, turns and goes, brushing past the officers at the entrance.
“We have enough for a profile,” says Gideon.
- - - -
“Clear,” called Morgan, from the far side of the warehouse. Hotch shifted the grip on his gun; lifted a chain out of the way with his free hand.
There was a pool of water, set into the ground. Murky, and beneath the surface it looked like something was glowing.
- - - -
A few months in the Everglades, and Hotch still can’t navigate. He turns the GPS over in his hands. Almost out of battery power.
“It’s too dangerous to have it,” says Russell. “There’s only one way they can find us, and that’s if we lead them straight there.” He gestures to the GPS. “That stores the locations it goes to.”
“We don’t even know that they’re looking for us.”
Russell laughs, without humor. “Tom Underlay is looking for us,” he says. “Trust me on that one.”
“The sheriff?” asks Hotch.
“Yeah.” Russell slides down, next to him.
“You never told me about him,” says Hotch, eyes towards the fire. “You know him personally?”
“He’s one of them,” says Russell. “One of you, I mean,” with an apologetic look. “He was attacked in the water almost a decade ago.” Russell lets out a hiss of air. “And then he married my ex-wife.”
“Ah.” Hotch doesn’t press it.
- - - -
“…a sixth victim reported, as of six hours ago, this is on record as the worst killing spree this town has ever known,” says Larkin, eyes to the camera. “This is Larkin Groves, reporting live. Back to you, Samantha.”
“And we’re off,” says the cameraman. “Nice job, Larkin.”
Larkin flashes him a smile. “Thanks. - Tom!”
Sheriff Tom Underlay doesn’t slow his pace; Larkin has to jog to catch up. She catches him at the door of his car, a hand on his shoulder.
“Tom,” she repeats.
He turns, avoiding eye contact. “What do you need, Larkin?”
Larkin grits her jaw. “How about you look at me, for once?”
“I don’t have time for this.”
Larkin grabs him, harder, this time. Her new body is stronger than her old, and while she’s pretty sure that Tom could still shrug her off if he wanted to, he hesitates. Out of respect.
“Now listen,” she says. “You were the one that took me to the water. I owe you my life, whatever, but could you stop acting like you raped me or something?”
“Larkin,” starts Tom.
“No,” snaps Larkin. “Shut up. You know what’s in common with all the victims, I know what’s in common with all the victims. How long do you think it’ll take the FBI to start doing some simple logical arithmetic, huh?”
“What am I supposed to do, Larkin?” Tom’s eyes lift to hers - shut down, frustrated as hell, and Larkin can at least sympathize with that.
Larkin shrugs. “I don’t know. Stop acting like you’re some kind of punk that’s going to bring this killer to justice the lynch-mob way.”
Tom steps so that the car door is between them, his arm resting on the curve of the top. “Go home, Larkin. Take care of the kids.”
“What, Russell’s kids?”
Tom freezes, at the mention of Russell’s name. She should have known that was what would catch his attention.
“How about your daughter?” presses Larkin. “How’s she doing, or have you and Mariel completely forgotten about her?”
“Shut up,” hisses Tom.
Larkin can’t do this anymore. Maybe Tom has gotten to the point where he’s not reachable anymore.
“Fine,” she snaps. She’ll find the news van, and she’ll go home. To the kids, to Rose and Jesse.
- - - -
Hotch stepped closer to the water, lowering his gun. The glows were moving, and he could see what looked like tentacles under the surface -
“What the hell,” he murmured, almost to himself. Their profile didn’t say anything about this. What was it, some kind of marine research facility? Were these people performing experiments on the ones they kidnapped?
He crouched by the water, to get a closer look, and completely missed the footsteps approaching behind him.
- - - -
“It’s not the same without Hotch,” says Morgan, softly, to Elle. It’s been three months, to the day, since he left the team.
“Hey,” and Elle hits Morgan, on his arm, like she just had an idea. “You think we could spend some time looking him up, here? Seeing what happened? The last time anyone saw him was on a plane to Florida.”
“I don’t think there’s a single person on the team that hasn’t already tried,” Morgan points out.
Elle’s mouth twists. “Does that mean we should give up?”
- - - -
Sheriff Tom Underlay gets home late, as usual, these days. The house is silent when he steps inside.
In the master bathroom, his wife, Mariel, is submerged underwater. Eyes closed, hair drifting around her face.
Tom leans against the doorjamb, pulling his shirt untucked. Just watches her, for a moment, because every time he sees her, she’s beautiful.
Her eyes flick open, and she sits up, out of the water.
“How long were you under?” asks Tom.
“What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty.”
“About an hour, then,” she says.
He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been doing this a lot?”
She gives him a strange glance, reaching for the towel. Wraps it around herself, stepping out of the bathtub.
“There was another body, today,” he says.
Mariel goes still. “Another hybrid.”
“Yeah.” He crosses his arms. “You think Russell is killing these people, Mariel?”
“Russell wouldn’t do that.” Her voice lacks conviction.
“Even after Larkin became a hybrid?”
“He’d think of the kids.” She brushes past him, into the bedroom.
“He’s vanished into the Everglades, leaving Larkin alone, just after her transformation,” Tom points out. “You really think the kids are top on his priority list?”
- - - -
Hotch didn’t even feel the man behind him shove him into the water. He knows there must have been an impact, that he was taken by surprise, that he may have inhaled the dirty water.
It was one of the creatures in the water that dragged him under.
- - - -
Hotch inhales, twisting awake, the half-memory of drowning dissolving in the night air.
“Hey,” murmurs Russell, nudging him through his sleeping bag. “You all right?”
“Not really.” Hotch shifts so he’s sitting - easier to breathe.
Russell props himself up on his elbow. “What kind of nightmare was it?”
Hotch half-laughs, without humor. “The kind where I’m about to be dragged underwater by a flesh-sucking monster.”
“The real kind, then.”
“Yeah,” says Hotch. “The real kind.”
“You can’t remember what happened that night. Day, whatever,” Russell points out. “It’s biologically impossible.”
“I don’t have to remember,” returns Hotch. “My imagination’s doing the work just fine.”
- - - -
“Our un-sub is an organized killer,” says Jason Gideon. “He has professional skill with firearms, and uses lethal force with economy and discrimination. Furthermore, the doors on two of the six houses were kicked in - something that suggests significant law enforcement training and experience.
“The absolutely regular frequency of the crimes, and the cookie-cutter planning that goes into the murders, the execution-style shootings, suggests that the killer is carrying out some sort of mission. He believes that he is avenging past wrongs, or bringing justice to those who deserve it.”
Tom Underlay shifts, against the desk where he’s sitting.
“On top of this,” adds Morgan, “he has an assistant, or, rather, a partner. The two of them probably work together very equally, both of them willing to risk their life for the other, and the partner also has skill in firearms, but more limited than the un-sub. Probably not a law enforcement professional.”
“Given how we’ve had no witness reports of anything unusual,” Elle cuts in, “both of them probably look very ordinary. Two buddies out for a beer, going fishing - they know how to blend in, and it’s likely that one, or both, is intimately familiar with the surrounding territory.”
“We’re looking for two white males, most likely,” says Gideon. “Thirties to fifties. The key to bringing them in is why they’re targeting these specific victims, what exactly it is they’re revenging.”
“There’s also going to be an inciting incident,” adds Elle. “A significant stressor in one or both of their lives, like the loss of a job, or a loved one. It would have happened probably in the past six months.”
The tension behind Tom Underlay’s eyes rapidly forms into a headache. Two men. A significant stressor - Tom should know that very well. After all, he was the one who took Larkin to the water, let one of the creatures have her. Duplicate her. He should have known that Russell couldn’t take the consequences.
When he looks up, one of the FBI agents - Morgan - is looking right back at him.
- - - -
Hotch woke up in the trauma center, at a local hospital.
“You were brought in via ambulance this morning,” said the doctor, shining a light into his eyes. “You were found naked, half-drowned, in the warehouse district. Do you know what happened?”
They didn’t know his name, or his status as an FBI agent. It was more than twenty-four hours after Hotch remembered walking into that warehouse with the rest of the Behavioral Analysis Unit.
- - - -
Russell parks the truck on the street, just outside the target house. Pulls the baseball cap down over his eyes and steps out, casually, onto the street. The door slams on the other side of the car; Hotch leads the way up the sidewalk.
Three raps on the door. “FBI,” calls Hotch. “Open the door, please.”
The hinges creak a few inches open. “Can I help you?” asks the woman.
“I’m with the FBI.” Hotch flashes his badge. Now, a complete lie. Hotch shouldn’t have been able to keep it. “Agent Hotchner. This is Agent Verona. May we come in?”
“Sure.” She opens the door, cautiously.
Hotch follows her a few steps inside, then draws his gun. Two shots to the chest, and she falls like a stone. One last one, to the forehead, and he turns, re-holstering the gun, brushing past Russell and back outside.
Russell feels a sick triumph curl inside his stomach.
Judging by his expression, Hotch feels nothing.
- - - -
“I might have something,” says Morgan. “It looks like at least four of the victims were members of this survivor’s group, a church thing.”
Gideon takes the list from Morgan’s hands. “What kind of survivors?”
“It has something to do with hurricanes,” says Morgan. “They have a meeting in - half an hour. Go check it out?”
“Take Elle,” says Gideon.
- - - -
“It’s for those of us who have suffered a special kind of near-death experience,” says the priest. “We use the group as a way to bond, to come together as a community and celebrate our continuing life. God has given us a gift, and it’s up to us not to throw it away.”
Elle crosses her arms. “Father, members of this group are dying. Can you think of anyone who might want to seek revenge against you, any reason someone would believe that people here needed to die?”
The priest looks so helpless at the very thought that Elle relents.
“There’s something he’s not telling us,” says Morgan, back in the car.
“No kidding,” says Elle.
- - - -
“It’s a miracle that you survived,” said Gideon. “The tank inside the warehouse fed directly into the ocean.”
“I don’t remember much,” said Hotch. “I wish I did,” lied Hotch. “It’s good to see you,” and on that point, Hotch couldn’t actually tell whether he was lying or not. That should have been the first sign that something was badly wrong.
- - - -
As soon as they’re back to the tent, Hotch drags Russell inside, kissing him like he wants to climb into Russell’s skin, intent, even desperate - maybe a reaffirmation of life, after he snuffed someone out with no preamble, no ritual, just three bullets.
Russell seems just as intent, though, stripping off Hotch’s shirt, pressing him down into the sleeping bags.
This is what happens, Hotch knows, when your entire world narrows to just one other person.
He stops Russell - “How can you want this?” he asks, with haunted desperation. “How can you possibly-” He means the alien flesh, the alien bones, the body that was never his to begin with. Just a consolation prize, after his flesh was slashed open by a glowing, ocean-dwelling creature the likes of which the world has never seen.
He disgusts himself.
Russell just soothes him, coaxes him back. Never answers the question.
Hotch has the feeling, the horrible feeling, that they’re making mistakes. Seven so far, left in pools of their own blood, lives that could have done something, could have meant something. He wonders if this is what a ghost would feel like, because the murder he’s taking revenge for is his own.
- - - -
“You said you were looking for information on the survivor’s group,” says Mariel Underlay, holding her purse.
Morgan leans back in his chair. “Yes, of course, Ms…?”
“Mrs,” corrects Mariel. “Mariel Underlay.”
Morgan pauses, partway through the handshake. “Underlay as in…”
“The Sheriff is my husband,” admits Mariel.
“All right,” says Morgan. “Nice to meet you.”
A few minutes later, in an interview room, Mariel leans forward across the table. “There are incidents,” she says. “No one really likes to talk about them, but sometimes it seems like everyone in the survivor’s group is - well - against those who aren’t. There was a man who was beaten half to death on the church steps, because he wanted to take away a girl, one of the survivors. He could have died, but I -” She stops, and steels herself to go on. “I stopped them. I got him to the hospital.”
“Do you have any idea,” says Morgan, “who might bear a grudge against this group?”
Mariel hesitates, her expression torn.
“Yes,” says Tom Underlay, from the doorway. “She does.”
- - - -
Hotch didn’t love his wife anymore. He felt nothing, when he looked in her eyes. When he looked on their son. And the very frustration that came from that scared him, because he genuinely, honestly believed that he might hurt them.
Gideon watched him, then, at work. Like he knew Hotch was inches away from breaking.
This lasted two weeks.
- - - -
“Guys,” says Reid, to the room. “I have some - news.” He waves a folder. “The blood taken from the crime scene with the fight was analyzed, and one of the spatters wasn’t the victim’s DNA.”
“So it was the attacker’s blood,” says Morgan. “From a nosebleed or something?”
“Yeah,” says Reid. “And there’s a hit in the database.”
Morgan grabs at the file - Reid lets it go, reluctantly. And Morgan stops dead at the photo inside, his heart skipping a beat.
“What?” asks Elle. “Who is it?”
Morgan hands her the file, without a word.
“It’s Aaron Hotchner,” says Reid. “Our ex-boss, Aaron Hotchner.”
- - - -
The two suspects are side-by-side, on the board. Russell Varon; Aaron Hotchner.
“Is there any way we can find this Varon?” asks Gideon.
“He used to be a Parks ranger,” says Tom. “He knows the Everglades, and he knows how to disappear in the Everglades. If he does not want to be found, he won’t be.” He studies the pictures, then, “So, what was Hotchner’s inciting incident?”
Two of the FBI agents exchange glances. “He almost drowned,” says Elle.
Tom sits up straight. “Excuse me?”
“He got pushed into a tank,” says Morgan, “and he nearly drowned. Acted weird ever since.”
“That’s impossible.”
Morgan crosses his arms. “You know something we don’t?”
Tom’s mind is working at a thousand miles per hour - that means that Hotchner is a hybrid. He’s one of them. Why on Earth would he go on a killing spree against his own kind? Unless he didn’t realize it was his own kind - no, that’s impossible, Russell would have told him.
If Russell is his accomplice. Which isn’t definitive, from the evidence, though it seems pretty fucking likely.
“The survivor’s group is mostly those who survived drowning,” Mariel jumps in, rescuing Tom. She sends him a sharp glance.
- - - -
Reid found Hotch packing his desk into boxes. Ready to leave as soon as possible.
“What are you doing?” asked Reed, frozen in the doorway.
“Quitting my job,” said Hotch.
“Quitting your job?” asked Reed. “You love this job.”
“Let’s just say I got a better offer,” returned Hotch. “Let it be, Reid.”
- - - -
Larkin is with the press, seated in the lobby of the sheriff’s department. “This is impossible,” she says, flat-out, when she sees the press release. “This is impossible. My Russell would never do this.”
“Excuse me.” Tom shrugs between the two reporters next to Larkin. He pauses, for a moment, and then realizes that the two of them are still there. “Beat it,” he snaps, and they scatter to the four winds. “Larkin.”
Larkin’s head is in her hands.
“We’ll find them.” He crouches, in front of her. “We’ll find them, I promise.”
She slaps him. “I want my husband back, not some murdering bastard!” in a sob, more than anything else. She cries into the crook of his neck, her arms around his back, her body shaking in grief.
Tom understands how she feels.
- - - -
“We’re living a contradiction,” says Hotch, in the grey light of morning. “You can’t fuck me like that and pretend you feel nothing.”
“I do feel something.” Russell shrugs. “So what?”
“So if I’m a person, if I’m Aaron Hotchner, then we’re killing people, not replicas, not hybrids. People.”
“They killed a person to exist,” says Russell. “The very fact of their life means someone else is gone. Just look at the number of people who kicked out their families after the change, left their friends - the same person doesn’t come out of the water as went in.”
“If they deserve to die, then I deserve to die.” He presses his gun into Russell’s hands, handle first, and pulls up Russell’s wrist until the tip of the gun is digging into his temple. “So kill me.”
Russell tugs away. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because-!” Russell stands, running his hands through his hair.
Hotch closes his eyes.
“What are we going to do?” asks Russell, his voice shaking.
“We have to stop,” says Hotch. But he knows it’s already too late.
- - - -
“I hear you almost drowned a few weeks ago.”
Hotch turned, holding the grocery cart with one hand. The man who’d addressed him had his arms crossed, eyes calculating.
“Where’d you hear that?” asked Hotch.
“I look for people like you.” He stepped closer. “My name’s Russell, and I think I might be able to give you some answers about what happened.”
- - - -
They - Elle and Reid - catch Hotch at the gas station, refueling Russell’s truck.
Hotch doesn’t run. Running might lead them to the docks, and to the boat, which is far too risky. He does draw his gun, though.
“Put down the gun, Hotch,” warns Elle.
Hotch aims, straight and steady, at Reid. “Why should I?”
“I will shoot you,” snaps Elle.
“I doubt it,” says Hotch, soft and clear. “I don’t think any of you have the stomach to shoot me. I, on the other hand, am one hundred percent sure that I have the stomach to shoot you. Since you’ve undoubtedly seen my work, then I’m sure you know too. No, I’m not putting down my gun, but you’re sure as hell putting down yours.”
Reid takes a breath. “Hotch-”
“Aaron Hotchner died four months ago,” says Hotch. “He was murdered. What you’re looking at now is the thing that took his memories and his face and his life. And believe me, I will take out one of you before you can drop me. Either of you care to make the choice?”
“How about me?”
Hotch grits his teeth, at the new voice. Jason Gideon lets the door to the convenience store fall shut behind him. He must have been in the car with the other two -
“Go ahead,” says Gideon. “Kill me. Two in the chest, one in the head, that’s how it goes, isn’t it?”
“I don’t particularly want to kill anyone.”
“Anyone,” says Gideon. “Does that category include your seven victims?”
“They weren’t people.”
“A justification straight out of the 1930s,” counters Gideon.
Hotch shakes his head -
“I know what you’re going through feels real,” says Gideon, “but you know the signs of a dissociative disorder the same as I do.”
Hotch laughs at that. He actually laughs. “It feels real because it is real. You don’t know half of what’s going on in this town. And now I’ll give you five seconds to put down your gun.”
“Hotch.”
“Five,” says Hotch. “Four.”
“Think about this.”
“Three. Two.”
Gideon places the gun on the floor; Elle and Reid follow suit.
“You can’t run forever,” says Gideon.
“I’d hoped you wouldn’t get this case,” says Hotch. Not an answer.
“You’re not past saving.”
“I’m not worth saving.” Hotch slips out the back, as the police sirens wail around to the front.
- - - -
Tom Underlay doesn’t mention to the FBI agents that Russell’s daughter Rose plays soccer. Nor does he mention that the biggest game of the season is that day, in one of the numerous parks around Homestead. No, he slips away very quietly, hoping that they don’t notice, and watches the game, half-behind a tree. Waiting for Russell to show up.
Larkin is on the sidelines, cheering Rose on. Tom crosses his arms, hand near his holster, waiting. Because he doubts that Russell is really going to miss this.
He believes he’s alert, paying attention to everything around him - but the warm gunmetal that presses into the back of his neck tells a different story.
“Tom,” greets Russell.
“Russell,” returns Tom, through gritted teeth.
Russell reaches in, and divests Tom of his gun. Shoves him against the tree. “You waiting for me?”
“I had this instinct that you might show up.”
“Yeah, well.” Russell steps back. “You know me.”
“I do.” And Tom’s words contain a wealth of meaning - he doesn’t just mean that he can predict Russell’s behavior. Because he remembers how Russell breathes, when he’s so turned on he can barely think, and he knows how Russell’s hands felt on his skin, and the way Russell held on -
“Tom.” Russell’s voice breaks, a little. He looks away, like he can’t quite go on.
“Why you killing my people, Russ?” asks Tom, softly.
“Because every one of your people means that a human being is dead,” says Russell. “Eye for an eye.”
“You don’t need to inflict your revenge on bystanders.”
“You ever stop and think that this might not be about you?”
“No,” says Tom, in perfect honesty. “Because it is.”
Russell doesn’t contradict him. - his gun is down by his side, no threat, and Tom could make a move against him right now. Only he doesn’t, he can’t, because Russell touches him, fingertips to Tom’s chest, barely there through the fabric of his shirt.
“I’m sorry, Tom,” says Russell.
- - - -
The first time Hotch had sex with Russell was in DC. They fell into bed so fast Hotch couldn’t really believe what was happening; and then Russell went straight for his navel, for some reason, digging into the flesh just above it.
It was the most intensely sexual sensation Hotch had ever experienced. Like there was some other organ, lurking under the skin, something he’d never discovered before. It was something related to the change, he realized, related to the drowning - he knew instinctively, before Russell ever told him.
After Russell told him, he only had one question.
“Have you had sex with a hybrid before?”
“Yes,” said Russell. “I have.”
- - - -
“Tell me why Russell Varon and Aaron Hotchner are killing these people,” says Gideon, an order, not a request. “I know you know, and I know you’re inclined not to tell me, but I think this ridiculous game has gone on long enough. I want to bring these people in. Alive.”
Tom Underlay steels himself, and he tells the truth.
- - - -
“You going to turn yourself in?” asks Russell.
Hotch finishes coiling the rope, tossing it in the bottom of the boat. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I respect those people too much to let them know that the person who went on a killing rampage was the same as their former boss.” He straightens. “It’s better that they think I’m different now. It’ll make them believe in themselves.”
“An us against them kind of thing? Cops and killers?”
“Yeah,” says Hotch. “Exactly.”
Russell leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. “What do we do now?”
“Live until tomorrow,” says Hotch.
“And tomorrow?”
“How about we cross that bridge when we come to it?”
Russell nods. “I can live with that.”