#and she couldn't save him in 5x02 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

masterwords · 3 years

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Hail Mary

Summary: Set between 5x02 and 5x08, and inspired by an evil idea put into my head by @toli-a. Hotch is on a path of self-destruction when he returns to work after Foyet's attack in his apartment and Morgan is the only person who seems concerned. (Title is a football reference, not a religious reference/used in a religious way.)

Pairings: None

Warnings: stab wounds, gun shots, hospitals, depression, reckless/suicidal behavior (canon compliant)

Words: 5.8k

Tag List: @84hotpockets, @genevievedarcygranger, @crimefiqhters, @bau-gremlin, @scuttling (message or comment if you'd like to be added to my tag list)

“Hotch?” JJ asked, craning her neck to peer through his door. He stood facing the window, staring at something not there. “Is everything okay?” He was startled, like he hadn't heard her the first time, had no idea she was there. She watched the way the muscle in his jaw tightened and released before he made the faintest noise, no other movement. Whatever Strauss said behind closed doors wasn't the problem, she'd been saying it for days, weeks now. They all knew the truth swept under the rug. He hadn't really come back from Foyet's attack, he was different in ways she hadn't anticipated and asking him if everything was okay felt stupid and silly.

“Yes, fine,” he whispered, eyes downcast. He couldn't look at her, couldn't lie to her face. He could lie to just about anyone, it was so easy when he could convince himself it was for their own good, get his conscience on his side but the way JJ looked at him, the way she cared...he couldn't take it any further than he already had. “Goodnight, JJ.”

She accepted it reluctantly but he was already turning away from her in that dismissive way that said to leave it alone, he won't be saying anything else and if you ask you'll regret it. She was constantly amazed at how quickly his demeanor shifted, how fast he found those cracks in his armor and sealed them tight.

They turned away when he put on his vest, frightened at the way his face contorted briefly, twisted with the pain of still healing wounds. They turned away because they allowed themselves to get caught up in his need to save face. They needed it as badly as he did. He couldn't help it, there were still healing wounds, places infected and still open that he didn't share with them. Bandages he changed in the restroom between meetings and briefings, antibiotics and hope that he'd finally get some peace. That the wounds would close and even if they left permanent scars, the pain would be nothing but a phantom. Not there yet, it was still real and some days all consuming. They watched Reid on his crutches and they had a visible reminder of what happened to him, a reminder that he was still healing, but Hotch showed up in his tailored Italian suits and they go about their days with him, business as usual.

It was so easy to forget. To pass him right over. To make assumptions about his progress. He sat in his office with a photo of Foyet on his desk and no one seemed to pay it any mind.

The vest was cumbersome and painful, he couldn't do it and didn't care to try, not this time. It held him too tight, pressed his ribs and suddenly it was Foyet's legs pressing into his sides, knees digging in and he couldn't get it away from him fast enough. Without it, he stalked into a hostage situation, of anyone he was most equipped to deal with it regardless of safety procedures. Morgan shouted that he was going to tell Strauss, let fly more than a few curse words and Hotch stormed away from him barely registering the argument.

“He walked right into that house with no vest, Rossi,” Derek spit. Under cover of night, he appeared on Dave's doorstep, something generally reserved for poker nights and nothing more. They weren't exactly friends, buddies at best. This was not a pleasure call. Dave still didn't hesitate to pour a glass of scotch, and Derek didn't hesitate to breathe it in deep before taking a languorous sip. He pulled it into himself and felt it light his senses on fire. “What next?”

“Care to ask him?” Dave asked, setting the challenge right there on the table between them. He'd tried before, bucking up against Aaron when he'd made a questionable decision. It never ended well and Dave had learned his lesson. He loved Hotch, would lay down his life for the man without a second thought, but standing up to him was reserved for only the most dire situations.

“Hell yes,” Morgan replied, but it lacked conviction. He knew better. It wasn't that easy and he knew Hotch well enough to doubt that he could ever really ask him. What exactly would he say? And what would be the point, in the end, except to light whatever was left of their friendship on fire and watch it burn? He would only get one chance. One opportunity, a Hail Mary.

“Then by all means...” Dave smiled, raising his glass. Morgan sighed, he seemed to be the only person who didn't think this was a game.

He walked away from a shootout, turned his back on the scene and let it play out. Morgan questioned him, was met with the same dismissive grunt as usual. In the grand scheme of things it wasn't that bad, they knew who the unsubs were and had one in custody, the police had the rest under control but Morgan still watched in disgust as Hotch walked away. It was simply out of character for him. Struck him as unabashedly different from the Hotch he knew and he was struck with the sudden realization that some part of the Hotch he used to be did die in that apartment. It was abundantly clear, at least to him, that the part of Hotch that survived that attack spent his days wishing he'd bled out right there, was just trying to catch up and find its other half in the afterlife.

There was more of him now, thick raised skin screaming its story every time he took his shirt off and somehow less at the same time. More on the outside, hollow on the inside.

“Don't worry, he's okay.” Prentiss knew better, she was offering Morgan stagnant placation, the kind that worked on most people but she doubted it would work here. Hotch was not okay, she knew as well as he did but they weren't speaking. Hotch barely looked at her, avoided eye contact more with each passing day - she saw too much and the further he dug his own grave, the further he pushed everyone away. Her avoiding it all was the only defense mechanism she had left to deploy.

“He's not okay...” Morgan's retort was angry, spit through clenched teeth. He slammed his fist down on his desk and glanced up quickly at Hotch's office to make sure he didn't hear. That was the last thing he needed. She nodded.

“So say something.” Her tone was curt, clipped. It was not what he wanted to hear and she was completely done with the conversation.

He got nowhere with JJ and Reid who said they didn't know, hadn't noticed, it was just Strauss coming down on him. Garcia looked like she was going to cry when he brought it up, she was afraid he was already a ghost and couldn't bear to talk about it so he was careful there, couldn't have her tears on his head too. Making enemies left and right in his determination to put an end to Hotch's self-destruction.

“Morgan!” Hotch called, picking up the ballistic vest at his feet. He grunted at the sudden movement, the pinching, felt the paper tape pull away from his skin taking tiny hairs along with it. It hurt worse than usual today and having the vest on was about the most painful thing he could think of, pulling at his sides, pressing in so tight but he kept it on anyway because he wasn't eager to have his disregard for protocol winding up in another police report that crossed Strauss' desk, she'd just about had enough of him already. So he struggled into it, strapped it on tight and decided to just deal with it. He was handling it.

He handed out orders, said he was going in and Morgan snapped. Lost it. He ripped his vest off and threw it at Hotch's feet before rushing off toward the diner. Time for that Hail Mary, he told himself. Low probability of success, high failure rate. A lot of guns and no vest. Inside there were tables full of people crying and cowering, there were two men with guns, the scene was a powder keg waiting to explode.

“No, Hotch,” Morgan snapped without looking back. Hotch was close to overtaking him, long stride catching up with Morgan's angry footfall. He couldn't turn around, couldn't stop to confront the other man yet or his resolve would crumble. He was absolutely certain he didn't want to do what he was doing, but there was no other way to get his point across. Hotch yelled at him to stop, put on his vest, DAMMIT MORGAN STOP. He had to hold this mirror up to Hotch, if he didn't no one else would.

“It's my turn!” Morgan was shouting, maybe a little too intense and a little too loud but he wouldn't turn around. Hotch's steps were long, hurried, he tried to get out ahead to throw himself in between Morgan and the diner, threatened his career while the rest of the team and the police barricade stood back with their weapons trained on the diner.

"GET DOWN!" They heard it, but it took too long for them to register that the directive was aimed at them and their battle of wills.

A shot rang out, ripped through Morgan before they could even register where it had come from. He dropped to the ground, collapsed in a heap in the dusty parking lot. Hotch whipped around to look for the direction of the shot and felt a second bullet whip past him, grazing his outstretched forearm. He dropped the ballistics vest on top of Morgan and lay on top of him, hand finding the open wound and pressing hard. He could feel the rush of Morgan's blood, hot and thick against his palm and he buried his face in the other man's neck, eyes squeezed shut against the assault. If they died in a spray of bullets, at least he tried. Using his body as a shield he laid there and listened to the firefight over the top of them. Bullets, shattered glass, shouting. Pure chaos, and all he could hear was the ragged sound of Morgan's panicked breaths. He whispered in Morgan's ear, hot breath against his cheek.

“Don't you dare die on me...”

“Why?” Morgan gasped, eyes closed. Hotch felt so warm against him but there was a deep cold spreading. “Because you wanted to go first? Fuck you.”

A rush of red and white, swirling lights, the sound was gone. Everything had gone silent, Hotch's ears were ringing painfully as they forced him onto a stretcher and strapped him in for the ride, hands covered in Morgan's blood and his own. His arm was numb, cold from the elbow down. Morgan rode in a separate ambulance, it left first and he could hear the scream of the siren through the ringing. He knew it meant there was still a life to save inside. With the remaining breath in his lungs he asked if they could leave their own sirens off, he wanted to hear Morgan's siren.

“Please,” he whispered. He just needed to hear the other ambulance, to know they were still fighting to save a life. The driver conceded, said he'd do his best if he could stay behind them and traffic cooperated, could just use his flashing lights but if they got separated the sirens had to be used. It was a quiet night, no one else on the roads anyway, no one to alert to an emergency. He focused on the sound as they poked at his arm and he thought it burned, it hurt different now but once the stitches were in place it would feel just like all of the others. What's one more? His body nothing but a map of crashing and burning, wreckage for the scrap heap. The ambulance lurched to a stop and instinctively he braces himself for the moment they pull him out, the bump as the gurney hit the ground and pulled him into the fluorescent nightmares he weaved when he should have been sleeping. He closed his eyes the moment they crashed through the door, inciting an energetic response.

“Agent Hotchner,” they asked, as if he'd passed out, lost consciousness. He nodded.

“Too bright,” he mumbled. They were confused, nothing had indicated a head injury and he wouldn't elaborate as they pushed him through the waiting area. He really didn't think he needed this treatment but it got him into the hospital and he could keep tabs on Morgan better from this vantage point, he would have some leverage with Strauss if he played by the rules. They cut his shirt off and were surprised at what they found, fresh pink skin, gauze covering stitched wounds some red and swollen with infection still attacking his system. He wouldn't meet their eyes as they discussed it over the top of him, found other things to look at, closed his eyes. The stitches in his arm were tight, packed gauze and paper tape an almost comforting feeling there where he'd only just healed. They changed his old bandages and started an IV of antibiotics after getting hold of his medical file, told him he'd need to stay in observation for an hour or two and as long as he tolerated the medication he'd be free to go. He closed his eyes, sank into the papery pillows propped up behind him and thought about the sound of the sirens screaming.

“You have a visitor,” she said. A nurse, a kind older woman in pink scrubs peeking behind his curtain. “Would you like me to bring him in?” Rossi, it had to be Rossi. No one else would dare, not after the way things happened. He shook his head.

“No,” he said softly. “Tell him to go and see Agent Morgan.” The room bore no resemblance to his room after Foyet, this one was nothing but a bed and a curtain that separated him and his IV from at least ten other people being quickly treated and released. He could hear the beeping of the machines faint in the distance, the course of the drugs through his system, the intense pain like his insides had been shredded beneath numb skin. He knew he was not there, with his eyes open he knew it - he was sitting with a change of clothes on the chair beside him thanks to Dave, alone and watching the clock for his imminent release. He wasn't dying and it wasn't the same, closing his eyes meant reliving it over and over anyway.

He held his arm against his midsection, it felt too numb and heavy hanging at his side, fingers alight with tiny sparks they assured him would pass sooner rather than later. No significant damage, nothing to worry about.

“I'd like you all to leave,” he announced, moments after entering. They all went quiet, eyes trained on him, a little frightened of his demeanor.

"Are you okay?" Reid asked, collecting his crutches and pulling himself upright. Hotch didn't respond, stared straight ahead at Morgan on the bed and Reid took that as all the answer he needed. It was shocking to all of them, Hotch could usually find some warmth for Reid and when he didn't, when there was only cold, they all understood. Morgan met his eyes with defiance and said nothing.

“I need to talk to Morgan in private,” he said it with a little more decorum, his words had softened betraying the scowl set in stone. JJ could chalk it up to pain, she could tell his arm hurt, the way he held it against himself and she would convince herself that was all it was. Reid could tell himself that Hotch was just worried about Morgan, mad at him for risking his life, they could both explain it away so easily as anything other than a deep rift between the two of them. A rift getting larger by the minute, more dangerous. Rossi stood back, taking in the situation and playing potential outcomes over in his mind, and finally it was Prentiss who had the nerve to take a stab at his unmitigated superiority.

“Can't this at least wait until he's not in a hospital bed?” She got nose to nose with him, the only person not currently in a hospital bed who had the nerve and she could feel the heat radiating from his anger. A spark in his eyes that told her to back up, he wasn't above fighting dirty, he had so little left to lose and he stood to gain even less. That wasn't Hotch in those cold, calculating eyes and she couldn't talk to whatever phantom it was haunting his mind.

He didn't bother to answer, just scowled at her and she was wise enough to know when to fight and when to back down with him. This was not a fight she could win. Rossi scooted her past, rested his hand on Hotch's shoulder a moment and told him to take it easy. Hotch bristled beneath the touch and shrugged it off. No eye contact. He closed the door, watched them linger just outside ready to jump in and defend Morgan if need be and he couldn't say he blamed them.

Morgan was the only one under the gun and the only one who seemed not even a little concerned. Didn't flinch or cower as Hotch approached his bed. He was more or less hoping not to have to deal with it, like he might have shocked it right out of him. He was lucky, they said, the bullet missed all major arteries and organs, he'd be released in the morning with crutches and a care plan but right now he was very happily enjoying a night on the best painkillers money could buy. The constant supply of popsicles and jello wasn't so bad either.

“What you did...” Hotch began, but Morgan in his pain medication induced haze interrupted him before he could get any further.

"Was exactly what you've been doing. Stupid? Yeah...yeah sure it was stupid." He grunted and huffed as he sat himself upright, half expected to find Hotch's hands at his side either pushing him back down or helping him up. Hotch did neither, just remained firm where he was standing and Morgan can see that he was trying to hide as much of himself behind that scowl as he could, hide his worry and frustration and fear back there behind spitting anger. As much as it hurt to move, he refused to let Hotch hover over him, have the upper hand. He'd meet him as close to eye to eye as he could, and if Hotch didn't back down he'd get out of the bed and get closer.

“Morgan,” Hotch tried to get the conversation back onto the track he'd intended but only found a brick wall. Morgan had already prepared himself for this next step, the moment he realized he was going to survive his own stupidity. Plenty of time to rehearse, work up some bravado.

“You wanna kill yourself, fine. Do it, but don't you dare make us watch. I've invested too many damn years of my life into this this team, this job, into you, for you to just throw it all away in the parking lot of some scuzzy roadside diner. You do that on your own damn time.”

Hotch was speechless, and Morgan could feel his opening. He'd derailed Hotch to the point of introspection, put words to something everyone had been tiptoeing around for weeks now. A moment of confusion, weakness was the opening he'd needed to get through to the other man. Slowly, he slid out of bed. Shaky on legs still coming back to life, pain in the fleshy place just above his hip where a tiny metal projectile tore through only hours before but he was okay, he could do this. He leaned against the bed, kept one hand firm on the rail as he leveled his glare at Hotch and refused to cease his assault.

“Don't you dare make me watch.” He was fighting tears at the ad admission of his own fear and he thought for a minute he saw his own emotion mirrored in Hotch's eyes. They'd gone from stormy slits to wide, shiny, sad. Tears, that's all he saw, his own, Hotch's, it didn't matter. In a sudden shift, he came close to apologizing for being too gruff, attacking too hard - he hadn't been prepared for the crush of what it would feel like to watch a man like Hotch crumble beneath the weight of something he said, something he felt.

Morgan took a step, bare foot sliding along the floor, dragging the other leg painfully behind him. He grabbed Hotch by the wrist and he glared into his eyes, blinking tears unabashedly from his eyes.

“What happened to you is fucked up and no one expects you to just...be okay. But this bullshit stops now. You tell me what you need and I'll help you, I'll do anything I can to make it better Hotch but you gotta stop all of this. I need your head in this game or I will go to Strauss, I'll tell her firsthand that you can't do this job. All those guys out there, they're fine with assuming you'll just come around but I'm done. I won't stand by and watch you kill yourself, Aaron.” He laid it all out and watched as Hotch in all his high mighty superiority deflated before his eyes. He let go of Hotch's wrist and sat back down, having made his point.

It took everything in him to keep standing as Morgan sat, adjusting the bed beneath him. He liked to play with the buttons.

“Excuse me,” he muttered and put his head down as he ducked out of the room, made his way for his car as quickly as he could. He knew Garcia brought it, she texted to let him know exactly where he'd find it before she went to visit Morgan. He saw her in the mess of his team outside of Morgan's door just waiting to go in and fix whatever it was Hotch had done behind the closed door. Garcia called to him, said hi on his way past and he didn't even look at her.

Behind the steering wheel he lost it, panicked breathing giving way to detonation. The shadows cast over the garage were ominous, long in the dead of night beneath harsh yellow light. Around him echoed the hum of engines, the scream of tires and brakes as cars came and went in the garage. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, pressed his forehead hard against the cold leather of the steering wheel to steady the involuntary shaking of his entire body. His heart hammered against his rib cage, reverberated up into his throat and he thought for a moment he might be sick. The world floated in and out of focus, sound was too pure too loud and then his ears popped and silence flooded his senses.

His phone rang in his pocket and with one hand shaking violently he pulled it out, tried to focus on the words dancing across the bright screen.

MORGAN CALLING

He threw it onto the dashboard and listened to the vibrating continue. It would cease momentarily only to start again and again. Texts began flying across the screen intermittently.

ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE

DAMMIT HOTCH

The team milled around in his room, Prentiss stretched out over the top of a chair like a lounging cat, Reid sitting on the doctor's stool, the rest either leaning against his bed or a wall. It was busy and full of excited talk, all too full of adrenaline from the night to go home and sleep it off. Morgan ignored it all, furiously typing and calling over and over. All caps, angry grunt, send. Repeat because eventually he'd answer and tell him to fuck off, right? Garcia reached up and ran her hand over his head, told him Hotch was okay, he was just upset - no one liked being called out, she reminded him.

"He's going through a hard time right now," she said, as if he didn't know that. He'd been pretty sure, over the last few weeks, that he was the only one who gave it any thought.

"Garcia," he grunted, hitting send on another angry message. "You think I don't know that?"

"Sorry, I'm just...you were shot. Can we just worry about that for a minute?"

ANSWER ME HOTCH. I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU GO AND DO SOMETHING STUPID...

“Honey, he's fine, Rossi's going to go check on him.”

A knock at the window startled him and he squinted, peered into too bright lights and too dark shadows. Everything looked wrong, even Rossi looked wrong. He was gasping for air while Rossi watched him like a fish in a bow, tapping endlessly at the window.

“Aaron, let me in,” he said, tapping until Hotch hit the lock button. He couldn't fight it, Rossi could break into his car if he forced his hand, they both knew it. Sliding into the passenger seat, Rossi reached out and grabbed at the phone still lighting up endlessly. Hotch would rather he didn't but he couldn't speak, couldn't summon his voice.

“I've got him,” Rossi announced, pressing Hotch's phone to his ear. "He's in his car, he's okay. You didn't do anything. Morgan, please. I'll handle it.” Hotch could hear Morgan's voice on the other end of the line, couldn't make out words but the fear and desperation in his frantic shouting was clear as day.

“I'm okay, Dave,” Hotch whispered, his forehead still resting heavily against the steering wheel. He was breathing again, he had to or Rossi would never leave and all he wanted to do was go home. Rossi hung up the phone and set it back on the dash, didn't say a word as he folded his hands gently in his lap. He radiated an infuriating calm for someone sent on a mission to potentially stop his best friend from hurting himself, if Morgan's fear was to be trusted.

“Are you finished?” he asked quietly and Hotch nodded, leaned heavily back against the seat. “Good. Now listen to me. That kid up there thinks he's just pushed you over the edge...is he right?”

“No,” Hotch whispered through tear soaked lips, nose stuffed up miserably by his body's betrayal. Rossi nodded solemnly, tried to maintain his composure.

“Didn't think so. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

“Fair enough. Do you want to tell him about it?” Him, of course, meaning Morgan. The man who had approached each member of the team separately, worried about Hotch's dangerously volatile state of mind. Each of them turning him away, shrugging it off as just Hotch.

He regarded the question seriously, he didn't know any of that of course but he could feel it in Rossi's pointed words. Admitting that Morgan could see him was hard. Admitting that the Hotch he saw was the real Hotch, not the false man with the mask everyone else seemed to accept, more for their own comfort than his. The way Morgan cared for him was painful, the way he came running after him and dared to stand on the ledge with him, most often at great personal cost. Maybe he was also willing to push, sometimes, it came with the territory. Tonight he'd pushed.

“He's right upstairs waiting...”

“Not now,” he forced the words out through quaking vocal chords. He wasn't able to have a conversation, not with Rossi, not with anyone. It seemed to placate Rossi, cease the inquisition. “I'll do better,” he said and it was almost childlike, his walls were down and he was suddenly afraid everyone was upset with him. As their boss, giving orders that they didn't like didn't bother him in the least but when he considered them friends, when he walked that dangerous path, the idea that they might be disappointed in him or angry with him came as a crushing blow.

“Go home and get some sleep, Aaron.”

He didn't. Try as he might, he couldn't sleep, just curled up in his bed and spent more time diving in and out of fluorescent antiseptic nightmares. Nothing good could come of being in his apartment. Throwing on a hooded sweatshirt over his pajamas, he found himself in the hospital again. No suit and tie, no pinched scowl. Morgan was asleep in his bed, Garcia curled up beside him, room filled with balloons and flowers and love even for such a short stay. He closed his eyes, let the bright colors sink into him – his room was so different, cold and silent, lonely. Pale gray and muted sounds, pity seeped into all of the empty spaces when visitors came. There was no pity here.

“Sir?” He'd been standing there so long, eyes closed lost in some other place, some other time. He opened his eyes to the sight of Garcia in pajamas, smiling sweetly before him. “What are you doing here?”

“Couldn't sleep,” he replied, as if that really explained it. Somehow she accepted it. She saw Morgan's texts, watched him hang up and dial over and over, nearly throw his phone across the room and get out of bed to storm out after him. She wasn't entirely sure what was going on, a battle of wills between two intensely private men, but the fury was palpable and more than a little frightening in its severity. No one on the team had ever fought like this before.

“Sir, if I may...” she said quietly and he clammed up, whispered that he was sorry for intruding, it was a mistake. “Aaron,” she grabbed his hand. “Stay. He's been worried about you all night.”

“All the more reason for me to go,” he whispered sadly. "He needs rest." He shouldn't have come. It wasn't right, whatever this was that he was doing. She shook her head, dragged him into the room. She was emboldened there in the middle of the night, forcing him to sit down. He looked so soft in his sweatshirt and track pants, not quite pajamas but not dressed for work, floating somewhere in between.

"Would you like some tea? I'd like some tea..." She didn't wait for his reply before leaving him to sit beside Morgan's bed, listening to the humming of the blood pressure cuff inflating and deflating, the sounds of the nursing staff chatting over midnight coffee in the hallway.

“You should have taken more time off...” Morgan whispered, his words slurred by drugs and sleep. “34 days wasn't long enough.”

“What good would it have done?” Hotch asked, pressing his face into his hands. He'd known the minute she left, Morgan would talk, he could feel the way the other man shifted, pretended to sleep because it was easier for her. Morgan considered the question thoughtfully, he wasn't sure, not really. Maybe he'd been over simplifying a much more complex issue. “34 days. 60 days. 90 days. Foyet's still out there and I'm still...” Alone, he wanted to say but he couldn't make the word form on his lips. He was alone at home, he had a family when he was at work and that was the long and short of it. He wouldn't admit to it, not out loud, but Morgan knew exactly what he meant.

“Well...you would at least be able to put on your damn vest...” he muttered, one eye peeking open now. Hotch smirked.

“I'll be more mindful of my behavior in the field,” Hotch relented, finally, and Morgan smiled. It was as close to an admission of guilt as he was bound to get, and he was not going to push for more. He reached out, let one hand fall off the side of the bed, palm up waiting.

A passive invitation.

Hotch took it, gave it a small squeeze, a silent promise.

When Garcia returned with two paper cups of hot water ready to receive fancy tea bags right out of her bag of wonders, the room was quiet and Morgan was once more lying with his eyes closed. Hotch looked less troubled, she noted, and when she handed him the tea he accepted it gratefully. Almost smiled at her.

“I'm glad you came,” she said and he nodded, agreeing in silence. He focused on the heat from the cup in his hands and she frowns at his reluctance to speak, to open up. Not sure really what she'd expected, except that it was the middle of the night and she sat with two men licked by bullets earlier that night - a few words seemed like an easy sacrifice. They sipped their tea in silence and Morgan tried to sleep through it, listening to whisper thin conversation and warm silence.

“I'll see you in a couple of days, Penelope. Take care of him.”

“He loves you,” she called out after him, and she waited, watched him pause in the doorway like he might turn around and admit he loved Morgan too. Admit that they were friends, not just colleagues, not just partners in the field. She was certain Hotch needed to hear that they were his friends, now more than ever. He felt a tightness in his chest that propelled him further out of the room, faster. Garcia stood to follow, to continue, to over explain what she meant by her outburst but Morgan's hand looped around her wrist, pulled her back toward him.

“Let him go,” Morgan whispered. He was smiling.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked, horrified. “I just...I just...told him...and he...” Morgan didn't budge, he wouldn't say why he was suddenly overcome with a sense of peace between them. His presence, the idea that he charged through shadowy streets because he “couldn't sleep” and found his way to Morgan's bed side was all the apology, all the explanation, all the admission of friendship he needed. Whatever their hushed conversation said or didn't say, they'd both laid their chips on the table. It had gone better than Morgan had anticipated, from the moment he decided to charge that diner without his vest. Most of the time a Hail Mary failed, bombed, but he got lucky this time.

“No worries mama. It's all good. C'mere, give me some sugar.” He scooted over and pulled her into the bed with him, wrapped his arms around her and continued smiling as he fell fast asleep.

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #jennifer jj jareau #penelope garcia #emily prentiss #david rossi #criminal minds fanfiction

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