Fic: "Laid to Rest" (Criminal Minds)
So I haven't posted here in like a million years, but this fic just kind of wrote itself :)
Thomas Gibson, I truly ♥ thee.
Title: 'Laid to Rest'
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Hotch + The Team + Gideon
Spoilers: Up to 5x09 '100'
Disclaimer: Just playing, nothing is mine.
Summary: They left the best of themselves in a house with The Reaper.
From the outside looking in, it was almost impossible to notice anything astray.
The team went about business as usual, subdued as ever. Serious as ever. But the man wearing the visitor's badge keeping to the shadows knew instinctively where to look. At Morgan's uncharacteristic silence. JJ's new found obsession with phoning home. Garcia's sudden embracing of dull greys and blacks.
The empty office upstairs. Morgan still hadn't moved in. On the contrary, he seemed chronically incapable of sitting in his own allocated office for more than a few minutes, preferring the safety of the team's shared space. Doing his very best to ignore the responsibilities the gold-embossed nameplate afforded him.
The visitor didn't want to interrupt them. They were on autopilot. Eyes a little too vacant and movement a little too dreamlike for any of them to be truly there. They left the best of themselves in a house with The Reaper.
Nine people died that day. Only two had been laid to rest.
* * *
His doorbell rang at least once every two days.
Morgan was first. Kind, gentle, but restrained. Impersonal. As though being the first to provide support would wipe away the stain of his decisions regarding Foyet. Hotch didn’t blame him. He couldn't. Mainly because he knew the decision had been an impossible one and partly because he knew he was doing a spectacular enough job of blaming himself.
He wanted to comfort him. To provide the forgiveness the younger agent wordlessly sought. But he found himself incapable of feeling the emotion, much less adequately passing it on.
He closed the door behind him, knowing he wouldn't be seeing the Unit Chief again for quite some time.
~
Emily came second. It was difficult to look at her; heart on her sleeve, every inch of her physical being exuding compassion. She played with Jack, shared a drink with his father and pledged her undying willingness to help them in any way possible.
She didn’t look anything like Haley, so he wasn’t sure why he made the connection, but he was suddenly overcome by an almost overwhelming urge to be held by her. Maybe it was the dark hair and snow white skin. She looked like an angel.
He wondered, not for the first time, about angels. About Heaven. If he tried hard enough, he could put aside logic and strict rationalism for just long enough to imagine his wife up there among them. Happy, smiling and safe. A whole world between her and The Reaper. Protected. By someone far stronger than him.
Prentiss promised him he was strong. That he would get through this.
He recognized the lie.
It was his job.
~
JJ and Garcia came together. Safety in numbers.
They brought food and gifts and things to keep Jack entertained for hours.
Garcia cleaned and fussed about while JJ sat with him. He had never noticed how petite she was. Exactly like Haley. If he focused really, really hard, he could see her features instead of his ex-wife's.
She knew he was looking straight through her. He could feel it. He just didn't know how to make himself care.
She never allowed him the satisfaction of guilt. Instead simply putting her hand on his arm and drawing him back into the world. Their world. Not his. He stopped recognizing it a long time ago.
She offered play dates. Said she could take his son for an afternoon. A whole night even.
He thanked her politely. Simpler than explaining why he would never be letting Jack out of his direct eye line ever again. For a whole night or even an afternoon.
~
He waited for Reid to come.
The visit was inevitable. He just had to allow a reasonable amount of time for the younger agent to convince himself he was a worthy enough intrusion on his boss' life.
But come he did. With a quiet knock on the door, so soft he thought he'd imagined it. He expected the awkwardness of being in a superior's house. The social strain of interacting with his boss outside the official constraints of the job.
He hadn't, however, been expecting the calm, lyrical retelling of the moment of Tobias Henkel’s death, or the grace with which the younger man assured him that it wasn't his fault.
That you lose yourself in light of trauma. That even when you pull the trigger or bludgeon a man with your bare fists, you aren't necessarily condemning yourself to an afterlife in The Reaper's kingdom.
He put forward a good argument. But none of his carefully thought out, chronologically presented points made Haley materialize in his living room.
But he had stopped waiting for that days ago.
Hours ago.
Minutes.
He sensed Reid's frustration. He knew he should give him something, a crumb. He would take it personally if he couldn’t break through his boss' emotional veneer. His every expression screamed "It's only made of bloody glass. Why can't I crack it"?
He was overcome with the same feeling Prentiss brought out of him - but in reverse. He wanted to wrap his arms around Spencer and promise him that it wasn’t his fault. That there was nothing he could do different. That it was OK. That his failures would be forgiven.
Or maybe he was just projecting...
~
When he was sure the rest of the team had paid their dues, Agent Rossi appeared on his doorstep.
The older man was nothing if not predictable. Letting the BAU's best and finest soften him up before taking his shot at the bloody, broken carcass which remained. One tiny pinprick. That's all it would take before the gates would crack and unleash the flood.
Hotch wished he had the strength to steel himself against the gentle onslaught, but he found numbness a surprisingly effective alternative.
Rossi opened with "It wasn't your fault".
First mistake.
He felt nothing. Those words had lost all meaning somewhere between "Are you sure we're in danger?" and "He needs to know you weren't always so serious, Aaron".
Rossi had killed his marriages.
Hotch had killed his wife.
What the hell did he know about blame?
Rossi could see the hatches battening down and tried his best to pry the corners back open with his bare hands. But he was failing and he knew it. Still, he was a good enough friend to not simply leave.
After 45 minutes of silence, Hotch finally tested the waters.
"Everything I could have done wrong... I did wrong".
Rossi sighed.
"Aaron, that's just not true, and you know it".
Hotch picked up his glass and downed the rest of his drink.
His old friend was a worse liar than Prentiss. He hadn't seen that coming.
~
The team had come and gone. Hotch knew he had a good few days to himself before the cycle began again.
Still, he listened for the door when he played with Jack. When he made him dinner. While they were watching TV. After his son had gone to sleep, leaving him with remnants of the silence that had haunted his past few months. Waiting... for the knock he somehow knew would come.
When it finally did, he poured two glasses of red wine before answering the door. He took his time, knowing he would be afforded that luxury from the most patient man in the world.
He gently turned the handle and pulled back the wooden frame.
He wasn't expecting the lump in his throat that formed the minute he saw Jason Gideon, but it materialized nonetheless.
Gideon saw it. He could always just see it. The first incarnation of the BAU went to great lengths to dispel the myths equating profilers to psychics. But every time he was subjected to Jason Gideon's gaze, he really had to wonder.
There was no awkwardness, no pity, no futile attempts to make things better. Just simply -
"I'm so sorry Aaron."
And he lost it.
The tears didn’t quite fall, but they stung, harsh and unforgiving. His breathing became shallow, labored, imperceptible to anyone other than himself and the only other person on the planet with the power to truly read him.
"Everything I could have done wrong, I did wrong", he stated carefully, his voice almost even.
Gideon stared at him, hard. There was a long, drawn out silence before he finally spoke.
"You stepped down as Unit Chief to cut the timeframe in half. If he thought he was winning, it'd draw him out sooner. It'd be over sooner".
"Yes".
"The minute you had his number, you were on the phone to him. Keeping him talking. Because if he was talking to you, he wouldn't be touching them".
"Yes". His voice wavered.
Gideon hesitated. Proceeded very carefully.
"But if he didn’t think he was winning, he would have waited until he was. Could have been years".
Hotch couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
"And if you hadn’t called him..."
Hotch felt his entire body begin to tremble.
"If he didn't have you on the phone, his rapt audience..."
"Jason... please".
"...He wouldn't have killed her".
It came out like a cross between a groan and a strangled cry. He leaned against the kitchen counter for support as his knees buckled, but Gideon was at his side instantly, guiding him into a chair.
He was sure he was taking deep, fast breaths, but no air was reaching his lungs. He was choking. Dying. Finally.
"Aaron?"
He could hear him, but blinded by tears couldn't see him. He couldn't look up. Couldn't meet his eyes. If only he could sink down through the floor and land on an express train to where he belonged. Jason would take care of Jack. He would no doubt be a better father...
"Aaron! Listen to me. I haven't read the case file. Do you know how I know exactly what happened? Exactly what you did?"
Hunched over in his chair, he managed to control the shaking long enough to properly hear the voice in his ear.
"Because it's exactly what I would have done".
Hotch looked slowly up at Gideon. The older man put his hand on his shoulder. He didn't know how he withstood the contact.
"It’s exactly what any of us would have done".
Hotch was sure he felt the world stop. Time itself come to a standstill in tandem with his personal paralysis. When he finally spoke, he could barely hear his own words.
"It was my fault".
"Only because you’re human. Do you think you can forgive yourself that?"
The tears began to fall again. Softer this time. Gentler.
"I’m so sorry," he whispered, to no one in particular.
Gideon pulled up a chair and they sat together in silence; Hotch's whispered apology repeated quietly over and over, every so often, until both men fell asleep.
~
Hotch's eyes opened to the sun peeking through the curtains. He studied the man beside him. Still sleeping. Carefully pulling himself into a standing position and stretching stiff muscles, he began moving towards Jack's bedroom when he heard Gideon’s voice. He looked over. The older man's eyes were still closed.
"You need to forgive Morgan. I'm not sure what his part was in all of this, but I can tell you he needs it".
Jack suddenly appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes, all crumpled PJs and bed hair. Hotch lifted him off the ground and wrapped him up in a big hug.
"I think maybe they all do," he said softly.
Gideon opened his eyes and watched his friend cradling his son. Rocking him gently, kissing him on the forehead, light as a feather; looking suspiciously like a man on his way to finding peace.
He smiled.
♥ ♥ ♥
Thomas Gibson, I truly ♥ thee.
Title: 'Laid to Rest'
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Hotch + The Team + Gideon
Spoilers: Up to 5x09 '100'
Disclaimer: Just playing, nothing is mine.
Summary: They left the best of themselves in a house with The Reaper.
From the outside looking in, it was almost impossible to notice anything astray.
The team went about business as usual, subdued as ever. Serious as ever. But the man wearing the visitor's badge keeping to the shadows knew instinctively where to look. At Morgan's uncharacteristic silence. JJ's new found obsession with phoning home. Garcia's sudden embracing of dull greys and blacks.
The empty office upstairs. Morgan still hadn't moved in. On the contrary, he seemed chronically incapable of sitting in his own allocated office for more than a few minutes, preferring the safety of the team's shared space. Doing his very best to ignore the responsibilities the gold-embossed nameplate afforded him.
The visitor didn't want to interrupt them. They were on autopilot. Eyes a little too vacant and movement a little too dreamlike for any of them to be truly there. They left the best of themselves in a house with The Reaper.
Nine people died that day. Only two had been laid to rest.
* * *
His doorbell rang at least once every two days.
Morgan was first. Kind, gentle, but restrained. Impersonal. As though being the first to provide support would wipe away the stain of his decisions regarding Foyet. Hotch didn’t blame him. He couldn't. Mainly because he knew the decision had been an impossible one and partly because he knew he was doing a spectacular enough job of blaming himself.
He wanted to comfort him. To provide the forgiveness the younger agent wordlessly sought. But he found himself incapable of feeling the emotion, much less adequately passing it on.
He closed the door behind him, knowing he wouldn't be seeing the Unit Chief again for quite some time.
~
Emily came second. It was difficult to look at her; heart on her sleeve, every inch of her physical being exuding compassion. She played with Jack, shared a drink with his father and pledged her undying willingness to help them in any way possible.
She didn’t look anything like Haley, so he wasn’t sure why he made the connection, but he was suddenly overcome by an almost overwhelming urge to be held by her. Maybe it was the dark hair and snow white skin. She looked like an angel.
He wondered, not for the first time, about angels. About Heaven. If he tried hard enough, he could put aside logic and strict rationalism for just long enough to imagine his wife up there among them. Happy, smiling and safe. A whole world between her and The Reaper. Protected. By someone far stronger than him.
Prentiss promised him he was strong. That he would get through this.
He recognized the lie.
It was his job.
~
JJ and Garcia came together. Safety in numbers.
They brought food and gifts and things to keep Jack entertained for hours.
Garcia cleaned and fussed about while JJ sat with him. He had never noticed how petite she was. Exactly like Haley. If he focused really, really hard, he could see her features instead of his ex-wife's.
She knew he was looking straight through her. He could feel it. He just didn't know how to make himself care.
She never allowed him the satisfaction of guilt. Instead simply putting her hand on his arm and drawing him back into the world. Their world. Not his. He stopped recognizing it a long time ago.
She offered play dates. Said she could take his son for an afternoon. A whole night even.
He thanked her politely. Simpler than explaining why he would never be letting Jack out of his direct eye line ever again. For a whole night or even an afternoon.
~
He waited for Reid to come.
The visit was inevitable. He just had to allow a reasonable amount of time for the younger agent to convince himself he was a worthy enough intrusion on his boss' life.
But come he did. With a quiet knock on the door, so soft he thought he'd imagined it. He expected the awkwardness of being in a superior's house. The social strain of interacting with his boss outside the official constraints of the job.
He hadn't, however, been expecting the calm, lyrical retelling of the moment of Tobias Henkel’s death, or the grace with which the younger man assured him that it wasn't his fault.
That you lose yourself in light of trauma. That even when you pull the trigger or bludgeon a man with your bare fists, you aren't necessarily condemning yourself to an afterlife in The Reaper's kingdom.
He put forward a good argument. But none of his carefully thought out, chronologically presented points made Haley materialize in his living room.
But he had stopped waiting for that days ago.
Hours ago.
Minutes.
He sensed Reid's frustration. He knew he should give him something, a crumb. He would take it personally if he couldn’t break through his boss' emotional veneer. His every expression screamed "It's only made of bloody glass. Why can't I crack it"?
He was overcome with the same feeling Prentiss brought out of him - but in reverse. He wanted to wrap his arms around Spencer and promise him that it wasn’t his fault. That there was nothing he could do different. That it was OK. That his failures would be forgiven.
Or maybe he was just projecting...
~
When he was sure the rest of the team had paid their dues, Agent Rossi appeared on his doorstep.
The older man was nothing if not predictable. Letting the BAU's best and finest soften him up before taking his shot at the bloody, broken carcass which remained. One tiny pinprick. That's all it would take before the gates would crack and unleash the flood.
Hotch wished he had the strength to steel himself against the gentle onslaught, but he found numbness a surprisingly effective alternative.
Rossi opened with "It wasn't your fault".
First mistake.
He felt nothing. Those words had lost all meaning somewhere between "Are you sure we're in danger?" and "He needs to know you weren't always so serious, Aaron".
Rossi had killed his marriages.
Hotch had killed his wife.
What the hell did he know about blame?
Rossi could see the hatches battening down and tried his best to pry the corners back open with his bare hands. But he was failing and he knew it. Still, he was a good enough friend to not simply leave.
After 45 minutes of silence, Hotch finally tested the waters.
"Everything I could have done wrong... I did wrong".
Rossi sighed.
"Aaron, that's just not true, and you know it".
Hotch picked up his glass and downed the rest of his drink.
His old friend was a worse liar than Prentiss. He hadn't seen that coming.
~
The team had come and gone. Hotch knew he had a good few days to himself before the cycle began again.
Still, he listened for the door when he played with Jack. When he made him dinner. While they were watching TV. After his son had gone to sleep, leaving him with remnants of the silence that had haunted his past few months. Waiting... for the knock he somehow knew would come.
When it finally did, he poured two glasses of red wine before answering the door. He took his time, knowing he would be afforded that luxury from the most patient man in the world.
He gently turned the handle and pulled back the wooden frame.
He wasn't expecting the lump in his throat that formed the minute he saw Jason Gideon, but it materialized nonetheless.
Gideon saw it. He could always just see it. The first incarnation of the BAU went to great lengths to dispel the myths equating profilers to psychics. But every time he was subjected to Jason Gideon's gaze, he really had to wonder.
There was no awkwardness, no pity, no futile attempts to make things better. Just simply -
"I'm so sorry Aaron."
And he lost it.
The tears didn’t quite fall, but they stung, harsh and unforgiving. His breathing became shallow, labored, imperceptible to anyone other than himself and the only other person on the planet with the power to truly read him.
"Everything I could have done wrong, I did wrong", he stated carefully, his voice almost even.
Gideon stared at him, hard. There was a long, drawn out silence before he finally spoke.
"You stepped down as Unit Chief to cut the timeframe in half. If he thought he was winning, it'd draw him out sooner. It'd be over sooner".
"Yes".
"The minute you had his number, you were on the phone to him. Keeping him talking. Because if he was talking to you, he wouldn't be touching them".
"Yes". His voice wavered.
Gideon hesitated. Proceeded very carefully.
"But if he didn’t think he was winning, he would have waited until he was. Could have been years".
Hotch couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
"And if you hadn’t called him..."
Hotch felt his entire body begin to tremble.
"If he didn't have you on the phone, his rapt audience..."
"Jason... please".
"...He wouldn't have killed her".
It came out like a cross between a groan and a strangled cry. He leaned against the kitchen counter for support as his knees buckled, but Gideon was at his side instantly, guiding him into a chair.
He was sure he was taking deep, fast breaths, but no air was reaching his lungs. He was choking. Dying. Finally.
"Aaron?"
He could hear him, but blinded by tears couldn't see him. He couldn't look up. Couldn't meet his eyes. If only he could sink down through the floor and land on an express train to where he belonged. Jason would take care of Jack. He would no doubt be a better father...
"Aaron! Listen to me. I haven't read the case file. Do you know how I know exactly what happened? Exactly what you did?"
Hunched over in his chair, he managed to control the shaking long enough to properly hear the voice in his ear.
"Because it's exactly what I would have done".
Hotch looked slowly up at Gideon. The older man put his hand on his shoulder. He didn't know how he withstood the contact.
"It’s exactly what any of us would have done".
Hotch was sure he felt the world stop. Time itself come to a standstill in tandem with his personal paralysis. When he finally spoke, he could barely hear his own words.
"It was my fault".
"Only because you’re human. Do you think you can forgive yourself that?"
The tears began to fall again. Softer this time. Gentler.
"I’m so sorry," he whispered, to no one in particular.
Gideon pulled up a chair and they sat together in silence; Hotch's whispered apology repeated quietly over and over, every so often, until both men fell asleep.
~
Hotch's eyes opened to the sun peeking through the curtains. He studied the man beside him. Still sleeping. Carefully pulling himself into a standing position and stretching stiff muscles, he began moving towards Jack's bedroom when he heard Gideon’s voice. He looked over. The older man's eyes were still closed.
"You need to forgive Morgan. I'm not sure what his part was in all of this, but I can tell you he needs it".
Jack suddenly appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes, all crumpled PJs and bed hair. Hotch lifted him off the ground and wrapped him up in a big hug.
"I think maybe they all do," he said softly.
Gideon opened his eyes and watched his friend cradling his son. Rocking him gently, kissing him on the forehead, light as a feather; looking suspiciously like a man on his way to finding peace.
He smiled.
♥ ♥ ♥