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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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Published:
2020-11-05
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1,720
Chapters:
1/1
Kudos:
17
Hits:
1,073

September

Summary:

He thinks about Grace Harrison and her pretty hair, and wonders what she’d say about him now. Spoilers for the s5 premiere "Nameless, Faceless"; Hotch character study.

Work Text:

When Aaron was nine, he broke his wrist swinging from the lowest tree limb in the backyard. His mom had told him not to so many times he could hear her voice in his sleep:

Sweetie, all I’m trying to tell you is that if you’re not careful—if you’re not safe—you’re going to get hurt.

He knew his mom was right. It wasn’t a question of wit, of who was right or wrong; it was a question of dependence. The other boys on the street were allowed to ride their bikes down the road by themselves while their moms stayed inside and watched daytime soaps. The other boys were allowed to play in the backyard at night. The other boys could stay up until ten and watch those scary movies with all of the body parts and the monsters who always found you.

At first, hanging from the limb had been uncomfortable. The bark was rough and bit into the sweaty flesh of his palms, and he had to keep shifting around and flexing his hands, because the limb was too thick and he was too heavy and his hands were too small. It was a strain to hold himself there, dangling in the air, but he thought about Hank Beaumont in the next house over, with his pink trimmed shutters and his golden retriever Lady and his shiny model airplanes and how he got to have a real baseball bat, one made out of metal, because he was a big boy—and Aaron couldn’t let go of the limb, he had to hold on.

As he started swinging back and forth, he had a moment of panic where he thought he was going to fly off, because when he pitched forward and his feet flopped around in the air like fish out of water, his hands slid down the limb just a little and he was barely hanging on by his fingers. But then he swung back, and his hands caught a firmer grip and he was able to pull himself up a little. It went like that, for however long he wasn’t too sure, but even if it had been an eternity he wouldn’t have cared because it was perfect. The cool breeze on his skin, the thrill of almost falling and then not, the red rawness on his hands, the joy of his body flinging around mindlessly in the air—it was all so natural, so basic. It felt freeing.

And then he swung forward one more time, and to this day he still doesn’t know if maybe he swung too hard, or didn’t have a good enough grip, but he swung forward and suddenly there wasn’t roughness under his palms or sharp bark biting his skin and rubbing it sore. There was infinite space, the wind whipping against his body, the fleeting feeling of euphoria, and then the all too steadying force of harsh ground and scratchy grass.

For a minute, Aaron wasn’t too sure about much of anything other than the fact that the peace and the happiness were gone. The reverie was shattered when his mother came running out of the house faster than he’d ever seen her move, screaming and waving her arms about and crying. She was touching his face, brushing at his hair and trembling; and Aaron was just so confused. His right arm felt weird, like it was vibrating or just really tingly. He didn’t know.

She carried him inside, tears still running down her face and her hair sticking wetly to her cheeks. His dad immerged from the living room, saw the condition of his mom and Aaron’s wrist, and promptly crossed to the refrigerator to pull out a beer.

He’s your son, Abby. I’m not dealing with him since he obviously can’t listen to a thing you say anyway.

When his dad ambled back into the living room, his mom leaned in close and whispered to him, Don’t you worry about him, baby, we’re going to fix you right up. Everything’s going to be okay.

Later that night, she tucked him into bed and placed a glass of water and a couple of pain pills on his bedside table. Kissed his forehead goodnight, stroked his cheek and then left.

Aaron’s wrist ached, his heart felt heavy and he was pretty sure that the peace and happiness were never going to come back.

***

Years later, and Hotch still looks back on his mom’s words as a clutch for when things happen that are too big for him to handle.

When Foyet breaks into his apartment, Hotch is calm. He doesn’t show him fear, because that would be giving up. It would be giving Foyet what he wants, and if he’s going to die tonight, then he’s going to die with dignity and with the smug satisfaction that he didn’t let the Reaper get control of him.

They can never take anything away from you so long as you’re still willing to fight.

Lying on the floor, with Foyet teetering above him leering and taunting, Hotch thinks about Grace Harrison and her white ’88 Chevrolet Cavalier. He thinks about how her hair was blonde and the texture of corn silk. How her skin was just a shade too pink and her lips were always a little too red. How she framed her eyes with too much make-up and she could never quite cover up the little zits on her temple close to her hairline. More importantly, he thinks about June 22nd, 1988 and how she wore her navy blue over-the-shoulder sweater and those god-awful white leggings.

Hotch remembers the way her red nail polish was chipped and every so often she’d bring up her hand to nervously bite at her fingernails. The way her voice lilted when she laughed and carried when she pouted. How she fidgeted a lot, couldn’t keep her legs still, and how she always managed to look him in the eye and smile at just the right moment.

He remembers how the moon was blue on her skin and the lamppost reflected light in her eyes.

She took his hand and squeezed it with her own tiny frail one.

You’re going to be a great man someday, Aar. You’re gonna do good things and find love and be loved.

When Foyet slowly—achingly slowly—slid the blade in Hotch’s skin for the first time, he thought about how Grace looked like Rudolph when it came winter time. He thought about bad 80’s music and vinyl dashboards. He also thought about leather seats and sneaking out way too late at night just to sit in the park and philosophize about life.

You’re going to be someone’s hero.

Foyet stabbed him nine times, and each time Hotch is taken back to a different moment in his life. When Foyet slides the blade in for the last time, Hotch remembers that warm autumn day in 1981 when he fell off a tree limb and broke his wrist. He remembers the condensation that rolled down his father’s beer, the tears on his mom’s face and the way she wouldn’t quit touching his hair. He feels rough bark biting into his palms and a raw ache in his fingers.

Foyet stands up, looms over him and smiles. Drops the blade down somewhere to Hotch’s left but he can’t turn his head so he doesn’t see it fall. Foyet’s talking to him but Hotch can’t hear him and doesn’t bother to try. Everything is different, more lethargic and less sharp. The colours aren’t nearly as vibrant as they used to be and it feels like life is trickling down through his body and pooling somewhere low in the dip of his back. He thinks he might be a bit clammy but he can’t raise his hands to check and for some reason he’s becoming sluggish. For a reason even more unknown, Hotch finds he doesn’t really care.

It’s while he’s laying there, boneless on the floor, that Hotch muses he never really gave any thought to how he’d die.

He closes his eyes so that the last image he sees isn’t the Reaper’s face or the bland, fading colour of his ceiling.

Hotch thinks about how there isn’t anything he can reflect back on from his childhood that could serve as a catharsis for this moment. His mother never talked to him about death. He thinks about how mad Haley’s going to be when she hears about how he left her, and how much blame she’s going to throw at the team because they weren’t in time to stop Foyet. He thinks about how she’s going to shelter Jack for as long as he lives with her, about how she probably won’t talk about him much to their son because Haley’s never really been to keen with him ever since the divorce.

Hotch thinks about the last time he saw his son, and about the smile on his face when he told his Daddy goodbye. He thinks about how he won’t get to take Jack out for ice cream or run around the house playing Cowboys and Indians. He thinks about how he and Jack won’t get to sing along obnoxiously to Veggie Tales songs in the car and how he can’t be forced into episodes of Scooby Doo late at night when Jack should be in bed. He thinks about how he won’t get to watch his little boy grow up and become a man, and all of the times he’s not going to get to be there to support his son when he needs Hotch the most.

He thinks about Grace Harrison and her pretty hair, and wonders what she’d say about him now.

The last couple of breaths he takes are harsh, stuttering and wispy. He barely has time to wonder if this is what the end feels like, if it all happens this fast, if it’s supposed to come to a crashing halt at the blink of an eye; if dying is like a roller coaster ride. There are lots of stops he still wants to make, memories he wants to revisit and things he wants to get off his conscience before his time is up, but the attendant is pulling the brake on this ride and he’s in the front cart.

When death comes, it feels like autumn winds against his skin, unabridged laughter in the air and a tingle of peace and happiness that was long since forgotten.