Aaron Hotchner; 2013
The ding that signified the elevator doors were about to open seemed to reverberate through Hotch’s skull as loud as any gunshot. The creaking as they actually opened nearly seemed worse, and he briskly walked through the still-deserted bullpen to his office. It was barely seven in the morning, but an urgent consultation request from the NYPD was forcing him to be in work hours before he wished to be.
With a raging hangover.
Last night’s karaoke antics at Rossi’s favourite bar were certainly fun in the moment, but there were not enough words in the English language to describe how much he regretted it right now. With Jack being away on a Boy Scout’s camping trip, last night seemed a perfect opportunity to unwind without any consequences. It had been years since he had been even slightly tipsy, and he was just now remembering why he never drank midweek, either.
Through the blinds in his office he could see the other BAU members stumble in, one by one.
Morgan was the next one in, looking slightly rougher than usual, but generally okay. On the complete other end of the spectrum was Garcia, who was wearing dark sunglasses and holding a flask of coffee in either hand. Predictable as ever, she did manage to muster the strength to flirt with Morgan for a few minutes before retreating to her lair.
JJ and Dave arrived at about the same time, both sporting the sunglasses and coffee look as well. Hotch vaguely recalled JJ mentioning that Will had brought Henry down to Louisiana to visit his grandmother, which would explain the level of her drinking last night. Blake, like Morgan, seemed only marginally more tired than usual when she came in a few minutes later, and Hotch envied their ability to hold their drink.
Reid was the last to turn up, having stopped at a local café to get a round of coffee for his very hungover teammates. Through his office window Hotch stared momentarily at the kid in utter confusion. He looked even more upbeat than normal, openly laughing with Morgan at JJ’s dishevelled state. Of course, Hotch suddenly remembered. Kid doesn’t really drink. Once again in envy of a less frazzled teammate, Hotch slowly walked out to the railing overlooking the bullpen.
“BAU Team, consultation case in the briefing room. Now, please.” He called, before walking to the left to knock loudly on Dave’s door.
“Go away, Aaron.”
Hotch allowed himself a moment to chuckle quietly before pushing open Rossi’s door, to find the man in question slumped over his desk, blinds closed to avoid any and all light.
“It’s only a consultation case.”
“I don’t care. I’m retiring again.”
He made this threat at least fifteen times a week. The team have collectively decided to ignore him.
“Sure you are. Hurry up.”
With that Hotch left, letting the door slam shut for good measure, which he immediately regretted as it aggravated his own headache as well as Dave’s.
Entering into the briefing room he saw nearly all of his agents, apart from Rossi and Garcia who had not yet arrived, and Reid who was annoyingly perky, looking in a state of misery. Blake and Morgan looked to be dozing with chins resting on their hands while JJ had fully fallen asleep with blonde hair spread all across the round table.
“Where’s Garcia?” Hotch asked Reid, knowing he was the only one capable of giving a coherent answer at this stage.
“She got an alert from the NYPD and is going through it in her office. Is this case relating to the string of home invasions that we heard about last week? If so, the geographic profile really is fascinating. Historically, regarding this type of MO in conjunction with the high-density housing in that area of New York, one would be led to believe that-“
“Spencer. I am begging you to shut up.”
Ah. Here Dave was, then.
He continued to grumble as he sat in his seat, glaring at anything and anyone he saw. Morgan raised his eyebrows in amusement and Hotch rolled his eyes in response. The closing of Dave’s favourite bar, one that contained so many memories, was bound to hit him hard. Despite the joy of last night, he was allowed to be feeling down this morning. Although the constant grumbling was beginning to get on everyone’s nerves.
Lucking, Garcia decided to bound through the doors at that moment before someone would say something they ended up regretting. She looked far livelier than she did a mere few minutes ago, and for that Hotch was grateful, even if her bright clothes made his eyes hurt.
“Hello my superheroes! Oh God, that greeting was too loud even for me. Inside voice, Penelope.” She took a moment to compose herself, rubbing softly at her temple. “Ok! So, the NYPD have contacted me to say that there actually aren’t any murder victims.”
That seemed to wake everyone up a bit. A mumble of confusion echoed through the room before she continued.
“Basically the unsub is suspected to be the same one involved in the home invasions that’ve been taking place-“
Reid interjected with a soft “Knew it!”, but Hotch ignored him. He was too invested in the peculiarities of the case.
“-the NYPD are practically convinced of it. But get this: The unsub is only invading homes that have dead bodies in them already. The main theory is that the unsub’s a home nurse and has knowledge of say, elderly patients who have passed away. He then robs their house before stabbing them post-mortem. The pictures are on your tablets. I haven’t looked at them and I don’t want to.”
Hotch knew that although the hangovers were making work uncomfortable for everyone this morning, the crime scene photos did a good job of focusing the brain. No matter how many years you spend looking at victim’s bodies, it never gets any easier to stomach it. It does, however, force your brain to become more analytical and temporarily push the horrified thoughts that rise to the surface down again. Once everyone had gotten a good look at the files that Garcia had brought, Hotch spoke again.
“Okay. I know no-one is at their best this morning, but there is still an unsub that we need to assist in catching. JJ, Blake, I want you along with Garcia to do a deep dive into the victim’s families and medical records. Dave, Morgan, you focus on the police reports of the home invasions. Reid, you know the drill, geographic profile. I’m going to be on the phone with lead detective, I’m expecting a call any seco-“
Before he could even finish his sentence, his cell phone was buzzing.
“Okay team. Get to work.”
Hotch answered his phone while walking out of the door, but it was over by the time he reached his office desk. The NYPD had managed to catch the unsub without the assistance of an FBI profile. Hotch was simultaneously relieved and utterly amazed. Nearly 20 years of work in the BAU didn’t leave him with an entirely positive impression of the capabilities of local law enforcement. Still, it meant that there was no need for anyone to kill themselves with work today. The headache that was pulsing behind his eyes subsided slightly. Maybe he would just call it a day, despite it being barely half eight in the morning. They had only come home from their last case yesterday and the drinking didn’t help. Being Unit Chief did come with some perks, and that included the power to declare a day off after cases.
He spent a few minutes typing up a report of the morning’s activities so that no one could claim that any paperwork was incomplete. Soon he was striding back towards the briefing room, ready to deliver the good news. He stopped in the doorway, however, staring at his team in action.
Garcia was hunched over her laptop typing furiously as JJ and Blake stared over her shoulders. They were spitting out theories and suggestions at lightning speed, working in tandem, like a finely oiled machine. This was predictable for JJ and Garcia, who have spent the better part of 10 years working together. Hotch was glad to see Blake so involved as well. She had been struggling with guilt over the Zugzwang affair last year; between the tragic murder of Reid’s Maeve, and then Erin Strauss’ death. Hotch was thankful that this year seemed to be quieter. Well, as quiet as this job can get.
Dave and Morgan were talking in low tones, theorising amongst themselves. Hotch remembered first joining the BAU, and following Rossi around like an eager student, desperate to learn the ins and outs of this department. He also remembers when Morgan first joined and expected him to be the same. But Morgan arrived with a sense of confidence bordering on arrogance. Although he certainly respected Hotch, there was no doubt that he was more of a lone wolf. Hotch smiles as he looks at Morgan now, over a decade later. There was still the trademark confidence, but where he may once have been stubbornly independent, he was now the epitome of a team player, and a natural leader. He really could be the future of the BAU.
Hotch’s gaze shifted over to Reid, who was drawing lines on the map of Manhattan that meant nothing to anyone but himself. His intellect still staggered Hotch sometimes, but what impressed him more was the resilience that the young man possessed. Their situations weren’t directly comparable, but Hotch couldn’t help but draw parallels between Haley’s death, and Maeve’s. Reid had mourned as he did. Had cried in guilt and pain and despair. And now he stood on his two feet, not even tempted to self-medicate last night, and was working on the geo-profile.
He was proud of Reid. Of Morgan. Of JJ, Blake, and Garcia. He thinks to when he was a junior profiler, hoping that David Rossi would be proud of him. Now, he thinks, they’re proud of each other.
“Sir?” Garcia’s voice broke him out of his thoughts.
“NYPD have caught him. Jason Harrington, age 32, nurse. He’s pleading guilty to all charges. Head home guys, sleep off the hangovers, see you tomorrow.”
With that Hotch turned on his heel and walked back to his office to gather his briefcase and paperwork, smiling slightly at the ruckus he could hear occurring behind him.
”I came in at 7am! And they caught him already?”
”I’m gonna sleep for 17 hours.”
”No one call me. If you do, I’ll kill you. My head ACHES.”
”Jesus Christ. I’m falling asleep right here. Wake me if there’s an actual case.”
By the time Hotch had collected all his belongings, the briefing room was deserted (Despite Dave’s claim that he was sleeping there). Hotch took the elevator down to the car park, but before he made his way to his car, he heard Morgan and Reid conversing on the other side of a jeep. He was obscured from view and didn’t mean to eavesdrop; it just seemed to accidently naturally happen.
“Pretty Boy, come on. I can give you a lift home.”
“I’m fine. I actually have plans now that work’s cancelled. It’s Saturday, after all.”
Hotch could nearly picture Morgan’s wide smile and curious eyes.
“Plans? With a girl?”
Maeve’s death was still slightly raw, but everyone wanted Reid to move on (at his own pace, of course). The kid deserved to be happy.
“Something like that.”
“Well, I can still give you a lift. Where to?”
Hotch could hear Reid sigh, a sign that Morgan had won their little pseudo-argument.
“The National Museum of Natural History. We’re meeting there.”
“No problem, playa!”
“Ugh, please stop.”
“Not until I get a name.”
“Morgan-“
“Come on, man. Or else I’ll have Garcia stalk you.”
“Garcia looked half dead on her feet this morning.”
“Kid-“
“Thomas. His name is Thomas. It’s a first date.”
Hotch felt slightly bad for eavesdropping. This was obviously something private for Reid. But there was a large part of him that was glad he overheard. Reid was so closed off sometimes, so hard to reach. He was glad that he trusted Morgan enough to confide in him.
“Well, let’s not keep Thomas waiting.”
As the two profilers walked towards the other end of the carpark, Hotch saw Morgan ruffle Reid’s hair softly, and pull him into a side-hug.
Not that he would ever tell anyone about this, but Hotch nearly found himself tearing up at the sight.
They’d all come so far in the past few years, for better or for worse.
But mostly for better.