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Reid couldn’t breathe. Hotch ‘shoe tip was repeatedly hitting him in his stomach, his ribs, his sternum, making him even incapable of thinking, pushing air out of his lungs without leaving him time to get some back. Of course, his boss wasn’t just beating him up. Reid knew that he needed to use those precious seconds. In a distant part of his mind, he knew that this was their last shot: he had to get the gun that Hotch kept in the holder hooked on his ankle before the SWAT turned that E.R. in a bloodbath, but it wasn’t that easy. Blindly, with tears streaming down his face, he reached out towards his leg, shaking hands clutching desperately his trousers, nails digging in his flash as he waited to feel the comforting coldness of the gun ‘steel brushing against his fingers.
But as he reached deeper, frantically searching and praying, he didn’t find anything. Just hot skin and the thin fabric of Hotch ‘socks. As a sense of cold uneasiness and fear settled all of a sudden in his chest, like he had just swallowed a whole rock, he tried to raise his head a bit, pained and confused eyes searching for an answer.
What he found, though, had the same effect on him as a cold shower taken naked in the middle of the winter in the open air. His hands froze and he started shivering, an atavic terror chilling every bone in his body: the face looking back at him was a mixture of pure anger and madness. Hotch’s eyes, usually so calm and inscrutable, were now burning with homicidal rage. He looked at Reid as he was the cause of every regret, every problem he had ever had, and when he met his eyes he raised an eyebrow, contorting his face into a grimace.
“What are you looking at, you useless piece of shit? Stop touching me!” Hotch shouted, kicking him again, making him whimper in pain, hands flying to his head to try to protect it as another blow hit him hard in the chest, leaving him breathless.
“You whimper like a baby girl, Spencer. Like a fucking - little - stupid - girl” he went on, every word emphasized with a hit “You’re not much of a genius when you’re on the ground, eh, Spence ? You’re pathetic! A pathetic idiot who can’t even defend himself!”
Reid was fully crying, now, sobs shaking his shoulders and burning in his throat as he curled on himself as much as he could, trying to reduce the places where Hotch could hit him. He pressed his face on the floor. It smelled like alcohol and aggressive cleaning products. It made him sick, and he felt the acre taste of bile mixing with the coppery one of blood on his tongue. Why was this happening to him? Hotch had a plan, he knew it. He was sure of it: he needed to take the gun and shoot Philip Dowd before- he couldn’t even bring himself to think about it. All those innocent people… But there was no gun. There was no gun . How was it possible? Hotch always carried two, he was sure about it. He had seen him taking that gun and putting it back in the holder a billion times. Between the pain, a thought passed through his mind: maybe he had got the wrong leg. Of course, that was the problem. He felt the specter of a terrified laugh getting stuck in his throat between a sob and another. Of course, of course , stupid Spencer, stupid. What was he even thinking? Maybe if Hotch could’ve been a bit gentler, if he could just stop telling him those horrible things, he would’ve got the right leg at the first try- but no, of course, Hotch didn’t want to hurt him. He didn’t really think that Reaid was a burden. He just had to be convincing to the sniper. It was just him who couldn’t handle a bit of pain, who was wasting that precious precious time that Hotch was so desperately giving them to act before it was too late. Pushing himself to reason through the haziness of his aching body, he tried again to reach out towards the leg of his boss.
“What are you gonna do, prodigy-boy? Are you going to run to that pathetic excuse of a mother of yours? You know she’s mad, don’t you? My mom says she’s mad as a hatter” Hotch laughed, beating him again “and that’s why you came out all wrong, Trash-er Reid”
Suddenly, an acute pain irradiated from his hand, making him scream. Hotch had stepped on his fingers, blocking him before he could get to touch him again.
He looked at his boss, his friend , eyes filled with terror as hot tears streamed down his cheeks, snot covering his nose and upper lip. He looked angry. No, he looked… disgusted. As he had just stepped on something dirty on the street. His usually composed face, that hid emotions as well as a softness that only the most keen observer could sometimes see carefully show up in his eyes, was now twisted in a cruel grin as he put more weight on Reid’s fingers, making him cry out.
“Hotch” he finally broke down, sniffling and contorting weakly, trying to get free “you’re hurting me-please, stop-please, don’t-”
His voice was nothing more than a shaky whisper, but in the dead and heavy silence of the E.R it sounded like a desperate scream.
Hotch didn’t seem to have any reaction, except for the slightest tilt of his head as he looked at Reid with cold and unmerciful eyes.
Somehow, despite his wrinkled clothes and his flushed face, he still looked uncannily composed, in his tailored suit and perfect posture, standing before him as the time seemed to have stopped altogether. It was already late. It was too late. What were they even waiting for? Where was the SWAT? Reid quickly glanced at the door where terrified hostages were sitting, back against the entrance. Somehow, their faces seemed all too similar, like he was looking at stock pictures instead of real people. Their bodies were dressed, but clothes hung strangely on their rigid limbs. They looked like mannequins, like ragged dolls, like… corpses.
Somehow, they were already dead. How was it even possible? No, it wasn’t right. He could save them, he wanted to, he needed to.
Desperately, he threw his free arm towards Hotch’s ankle, grabbing it, frantically looking for the gun. This time, the blow hit him so hard in his stomach that he felt like he was going to throw up on the spot. With a groan, he let go of his trousers to try to shield himself.
“You fucking brat, don’t you dare touching me” his boss spitted out, gritting his teeth. Then, something that had nothing to do with a smile curled up the corners of his lips.
“What are you looking for, Reid?” he asked, slowly crouching down to have a better view of his bloody and tear-stained face. The shift put even more pressure on his already aching hand, and a pained shriek left his throat.
“Hotch please, I- stop please. It hurts, p-please-” he stuttered through ragged breath, pitifully writhing on the floor.
The other seemed to be completely unaware of his words as he showed him a gun that he was holding firmly. Panic surged in Spencer as he turned his head in an unnatural angle to look at the sniper, to see if he was aware that Hotch had a gun. But where Philip Dowd was supposed to stand, he saw only a scarecrow, dressed like him, the rifle hanging loosely on his back.
Confused, he looked back to his boss, who was still holding the gun in front of his eyes.
“Are you looking for this, Reid?” he mocked “You are pathetic. A pathetic piece of shit who can’t pass his firearm qualification test even if I have neglected my own child to teach you. And now you want to be the hero. You ungrateful fucker. Do you really think I would let you take this gun when you can’t even shoot a stationary tag? That I’d let the lives of these people in your hands when I know you can’t hit something that stays still in front of you? I thought you were supposed to be a genius, Reid!”
“I’m sorry” he tried, sobbing softly, but Hotch just shook his head.
“I don’t care if you’re sorry, Reid” he said, straightening up “And before we all die because of you, it would be my pleasure to personally free my life from the burden of your existence”
Before Reid could do anything, he aimed for his chest and he shot.
—
Reid woke up screaming, clutching the soft fabric on his chest. He had pulled himself up, but still it took him a moment to realize he was in his room, in his bed, and not on the hospital floor being beaten up. After a moment of frantically looking around hyperventilating, his breathing started to even a little while his eyes brought into focus the familiar shapes of his own furniture. The blinds were open, and the pale rays of a feeble dawn were slightly lightening the room, letting him know that it was still awfully early. But at least, it wasn’t dark anymore. Reid sighed, letting go of the fist he had made gripping his nightclothes. His hands were shaking, phantom pain still lingering in his fingers, and he was slowly becoming aware of the fact that he was indeed aching all over.
“You kick like a nine-years-old girl” he had said, still high on adrenaline. Now, after a night of uneasy rest, he knew that he was completely wrong. Sure, Hotch kicked like a nine-years-old girl… if girls that age wore boots made of iron.
Thinking about his boss made him feel a bit… nauseous and an uncomfortable sensation stirred in the center of his chest. Maybe it was because he still had to shake off the remains of his nightmare, maybe because for the first time in his life he was dreading the idea of going back to work, but he didn’t really want to think about Aaron Hotchner right now.
Anyway, he needed to get up. The clock on his nightstand told him that it was 6:00 am. Still early, yes, but there was no use in getting back to sleep. Especially because he was drenched in cold sweat, shivering, and he definitely needed a shower before going to work. Or before he could catch pneumonia, that was.
He tried to stretch a bit, to ease the soreness that was running deep in every muscle and bone of his body, but the only result was that he found himself whining pitifully in pain, fighting back the instinct to curl up in a ball underneath the messy covers.
Shit.
It took him a while - a long moment of breathing in and out slowly, focusing on the air expanding his lungs before making his way out from his mouth - to get out of bed and drag himself in his tiny bathroom, every step a painful recollection of the events. He undressed at a painstakingly slow pace, letting the clothes land unceremoniously on the cold but rather clean floor. When he looked up, the reflection he met staring back from the mirror made him cry out a strangled horrified sound.
The body he saw - his body - was covered in purple and yellow bruises, tracing a chaotic and nonsensical path from his right clavicle to his left hip. Under his ribs, a particularly bluish mark was vividly contrasting with his fairly pale skin. Looking at it made his stomach revolt, and he hurried himself to turn around and get in the shower, turning it hot enough to almost boil himself alive, in the hope that the heat would help shoot the ache and prevent the stiffness he already felt setting in his sore body.
He tried to wash himself as delicately as possible, focusing on the familiar smell of his shower gel. It was a light scent, not floreal enough to be sweet but not sufficiently fresh to be manly as Derek’s or Hotch’s.
Hotch. Thinking about him made him shiver despite the water’s temperature. And it was so stupid, really. In the light of the day it was supposed to be easy to rationalize his nightmare, to profile himself out of his own mind.
Of course, Hotch didn’t want to hurt him. He found no interest nor pleasure in saying those things, in beating him up. Despite his bad dreams, in reality he had meant him to take the gun and he did. And, most importantly, he saved those people. They saved those people. Together, they got themselves out of a potential massacre, with only one corpse and a couple of injured people. And that was counting himself in those two.
Given the rough experience, his mind had simply mixed up prior stressful events to the re-enactment of the still not elaborated trauma, creating in his oneiric world a distorted and fear-based recall of the events.
It was perfectly logical. And very much scientifically explainable.
Yet, Reid couldn’t shake off the sense of nausea that he felt every time his brain lingered a tad too long on his boss.
Still, he needed to get out of the shower and get ready. Setting aside every thought useless to the tasks ahead of him, he let himself be guided in his movement out of habits.
He shut off the boiling water, and he reached for his towel - a soft one, pale green, that had really nothing to do with the small bathroom interior. He wiped himself dry and tried - rather unsuccessfully - to comb his hair before using the old hairdryer. When he was fairly sure that he didn’t look like he’d just been electrocuted, he moved to his room, carefully avoiding looking in the mirror again. In the back part of his mind he was aware of the aching creeping back into his body, of the pain accompanying every movement, every stretching and bending while he got his perfectly folded clothes out his wardrobe to carefully put them on.
He chose the outfit merely by muscle memory - shirt, vest, trousers, belt, socks - and without taking any further notice of their colors and shapes. It wasn’t important. After all, he knew that his wardrobe was thoughtfully put together for him to be able to pick things almost by chance and still be able to put together a decent outfit. Not fashionable or colorful like Garcia’s, or so casually looking-so-good-on-me as Morgan’s, but professional and neat enough to be considered acceptable for the BAU.
After that, he put on his shoes, his glasses, his coat and took his usual brown and kinda worn out bag.
Only then he dared to take a quick look at his own reflection. Much to his own surprise, he found a rather usual mirrored image of Spencer Reid looking back at him. Without taking into account a slightly sickly pallor and the dark circles that indicated a troubled sleep, he didn’t show anything out of ordinary.
Just his slender, too-young-to-be-a-federal-agent, usual self.
Every sign of the prior day was hidden beneath the fabric, and he wished he could trick himself into believing that nothing had happened at all. He couldn’t, thought. Now that he had stopped for a moment, his mind kept lingering back to the nightmare, to the pungent smell of the floor, to Hotch’s face as he hit him again, and again and-
At last, giving up any idea of having breakfast, he shook his head and he quickly headed out, replacing the overlapping images with the map of the subway and every station that he needed to pass to get to work.
It wasn’t interesting, but at least it was something else.
—
“Reid. Hey. Reid. Oi, pretty boy!”
Reid jolted out of his statue-like state, focusing his gaze toward Morgan’s puzzled - and kinda worried - face.
“Earth to Dr. Reid” said his colleague, waving his hand in front of his eyes “You there?”
Reid found himself looking quickly around. It wasn’t without embarrassment that he saw that Derek wasn’t the only one staring. Elle and JJ were also waiting for him to say something and he carefully avoided to watch Hotch’s face as he lowered his eyes, flushing creeping out of the collar of his shirt towards his neck and face. He didn’t even think to look at Gideon at all.
He had avoided looking at him as much as he could that day, and when JJ had summoned them for the meeting he had carefully fixated his gaze on the pictures of the victim first and then on the table right in front of him.
He cleared his throat, nervously fidgeting with the pen clutched between his fingers.
“Yes sorry err…” he tried to quickly recall his scattered thoughts, in order to say something that showed that he was actually listening to the briefing about the killer that they were supposed to start profiling. Thankfully, a part of his brain seemed to have focused on the topic unconsciously and he managed to stutter out a kinda reasonable response, even if it definitely sounded less brilliant then the usual ones.
He felt ashamed: not only he had incredibly menaged to be late despite his early awakening, but he had also shown what may seem a lack of interest in his colleagues and his own work. And what he hated the most was the fact that he never, ever , behaved like that so it didn’t really take one of the most efficient FBI profilers to guess that something was wrong. Yet, he was sharing the room with five of them, so.
What goes around comes around, Spencer.
It wasn’t even the first time that day that he had found himself getting lost in his own mind, spacing out until some sudden noise had brought him back. This time, tough, someone had actually noticed. Everyone had noticed.
Luckily for him the meeting ended just some minutes after he had spoken, and before he could even realize what he was doing he caught himself basically sprinting out of the room, much to everyone’s disbelief.
He overheard JJ calling his name, a faint and worried “Hey, Spence, wait-” followed by the sound of her shoes coming after him, but before she could reach him and ask questions he didn’t really want to answer, he quickly detoured towards the men’s restroom.
When the door closed behind his shoulder he found himself reaching out for the board of the cold washbasin, clutching it forcefully, knuckles turning white.
He only then realized that he was starting to hyperventilate, and that was definitely not good.
With trembling hands he took off his glasses and turned on the water, setting it on cold.
He hurried himself to splash his face with it, without paying any attention to the shirt collar and sleeves, kinda soaking them in the process.
The icy water on his overheated face was barely enough to pull him out of his own head, thoughts still slowly spiraling out of control, and so he left his wrists limply resting under the water jet*, focusing on his breathing instead.
He hasn't felt this bad since… well, since highschool, actually. He had almost forgotten how it felt to try to hold himself together when his brain appeared to be collapsing on itself, and his skin seemed to be itching underneath the epidermis, where even scratching until drawing blood wouldn’t bring any type of relief.
He pressed his eyelids firmly together, shaking his head slightly. He tried to ignore the constant ache of his body, which had only grown stronger during the day.
Get yourself under control, Reid. You’re not twelve anymore.
After what seemed like eternity his heart stopped reverberating in his ears and he felt safe enough to open his eyes to start to compose himself before going back to work.
He would tell the others that he’s not feeling well and they’ll excuse him and everything would go back to normal, yes. That was what he was going to do.
But what happened was that he found himself almost passing out on the spot, for as soon as he opened his eyes he saw in the mirror in front of him his reflection and, behind his back, the one of Hotch’s himself, quietly waiting.
Reid hadn’t heard him coming in, and he stumbled on his own feet as he quickly turned around, hand flying blindly towards his belt by unconditional reflex before he caught himself and he stopped in the middle of the movement.
He stared at his boss, who had now put his hands up, in what he presumed to be a reassuring gesture.
“Spencer” he said, breaking the heavy silence that lingered between them “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to make sure that you’re ok”
He spoke in his usual calm and soft tone, face showing no emotions except for the almost microscopic lifting of his eyebrows, who could be read as either astonishment or concern.
It took Reid a moment to process his words, and to react to them. Then, he lowered his hand, still comically suspended mid-air, and Hotch slowly mimicked him, returning in a more neutral pose. He didn’t miss the use of his name.
“I…” Spencer started, before clearing his dry throat “No, yes, I am fine. Sorry. Everything’s fine. I just… uh…”
His brain scrambled to find an excuse, any excuse, to explain his behavior, but as his eyes stopped darting around the room to finally meet Hotch’s, words died in his mouth before they could even reach the point of his tongue.
For it was pretty clear that Hotch knew that something wasn’t right, and he could lie as much as he wanted to, but he wasn’t going to fool anyone, especially not someone working in the BAU.
Not Aaron Hotchner, for sure.
He swallowed, fingers clutching the fabric of his trousers. Hotch didn’t move.
Now that he was kinda forced by the circumstances to look at him, Reid found himself almost unable to stop staring.
Hotch’s face was almost unreadable, even for him. His muscles were relaxed in a neutral expression, his eyes the only thing that showed some kind of internal turmoil as he studied Reid’s face carefully.
The youngest was aware of what his body language was saying. Unlike his boss, he was clearly on edge: tensed shoulders, clenched jaw, hands closed in tight fists and stiff posture. Everything in his way of standing combined with his pale and disheveled look spoke of fear, of someone who had put his defenses up and was feeling uneasy in the current situation.
He looked as if he was ready to fight or fly, and neither of them seemed possible or typical of someone who was supposed to be fine. Truth be told, Spencer couldn’t even tell himself what was most likely to happen.
They both waited, looking at each other in complete silence, until Hotch decided to make the first move and he took a step towards him.
Apparently the answer was actually freeze, because he found himself pressing his back against the hard surface behind him, stiffening even more as he weakly held out a trembling hand to stop him from coming forward - or maybe to protect himself.
“Please, don’t” he whispered with a shaky voice, drawing in a panicked breath “Don’t… touch me please-”
Hotch stopped altogether, stilling in front of him.
Again, silence fell heavy on them. And once again, Hotch was the one that broke it.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Spencer, I promise” he said quietly, but in his voice Reid could recognise the faintest trace of… guilt. Pain. Regret. Suddenly, a wave of shame hit him hard.
He was being ridiculous and he knew it. There, holed up in the BAU bathroom, trembling in front of his boss who was also kind of a friend and yet- yet he couldn’t shake off that uneasiness that was squeezing his chest tight, making it hard to breathe.
Hotch, though, didn’t seem angry at him. He didn’t try to get closer again, but he went on speaking.
“I’m sorry if I scared you so much, Reid. And I get I’m the last person you wish to see right now. But I want… I need to make sure you know that I’ll never, ever, hurt you on purpose. What I did was purely because it was needed. I needed you to take that gun and to do so I needed him to believe me but-”
“I know” Reid hurried to say, shaking his head a bit “I know, Hotch, and i’m-”
He fell silent again as the other raised his hand to demand him to let him finish.
“I know you know, Spencer. Nonetheless, you - we, endured a traumatic experience and what we do know logically doesn’t always match what we’re feeling. And personally, I feel the need to say, once again, that I’m sorry for the things I told you. I didn’t go easy on you and if this hit a nerve and resurfaced bad memories it’s my responsibility. Mine the decision, mine the fault. And I apologize for that. What I really want to say is…” Hotch seemed to hesitate for a brief second. Then, he resumed his speech, looking at him. And there it was again, in his eyes, that softness that only sometimes Hotch let through.
“You’re not a burden, Spencer. I am not angry at you for not passing the exam. Not only because I don’t have any right to be, but also because in that E.R. you showed me you’re perfectly capable of using a gun, even and especially in a stressful situation. You responded to danger correctly, you understood what I was trying to do and you helped save all those people. And that’s more than enough for me. Training is important, but even the most experienced and prepared agent can sometimes fall under the pressure of a situation as dangerous as the one we went through. But you didn’t. And You saved us Reid. All of us”
Then, something that seemed a specter of the saddest and tiniest smile appeared on his lips.
“For what’s worth, Spencer… I care about you. And I hope you will still be able to trust me after all of this”
Spencer didn’t even realize he had started to cry, hot tears streaming down his face, before he found himself wiping them frantically with the hem of his shirt.
It seemed ridiculous, but at Hotch’s word an enormous sense of relief had started to bloom in the center of his chest, easing the tightness that was there, melting the tension in his shoulders and back, his hands finally relaxing.
Somehow, hearing from Hotch’s mouth that he wasn’t a burden, that he trusted him, was exactly what he needed, and he seemed to know it. Hotch cared for him. He always did and he was doing it now, following him and making sure he heard those words from himself directly. Steadying him, freeing him from the unconscious doubt that had been gnawing at him since the day before.
“I’m-s-sorry” he sobbed,unable to stop, anxiety and fear pouring out of his frame with every shake of his bony shoulders.
“It’s ok” Hotch said softly, slowly coming closer. This time, Reid left him. “You have nothing to be sorry for”
Gently, Hotch’s hands reached out for him, coming to rest ever so kindly on his forearm. Even in his state, a part of Reid's brain registered that he was touching him where he knew there were probably no bruises. Even then, Hotch was true to his word: he was careful not to hurt him.
Spencer found himself leaning toward him, forehead almost naturally falling to rest on his chest as he kept weeping. He could smell the faint cologne he was wearing, the warmth of his body beneath his tailored suit all too comforting after that horrible nightmare where everything felt cold and dreadful.
“It’s ok Spencer. You’ve nothing to be scared of” the other muttered softly, stroking gently his arms “You’re safe now”
And that time, Spencer did believe it.