The Photographer

RAPPAHANNOCK GENERAL HOSPITAL
Richmond, VA

Two weeks had passed since Neal had been taken in custody, almost three since Hotch had been found. The Detective was in and out of consciousness, so he remained at the hospital for the time being. Hotch, on the other hand, had made tremendous progress. He was allowed out of his bed, provided he remained in a wheel chair, and was finally eating real meals. His feet had all but completely healed, so he would walk himself around his room when the doctors were gone.

After the first two weeks, when the GSW’s had mostly healed, he’d demanded to t least be allowed to wear normal clothes. Of course, to Hotch, that mean suit pants and a dress shirt, but the medical staff agreed to his terms, even allowing him to have his gun back. Hotch needed things to be somewhat normal, and they recognized that. He was tired of being weak.

Psychologically, Hotch wasn’t doing as well. As expected, he had closed himself off and insisted he was fine. Everyone knew it was bull shit, but they couldn’t get him to open up. His jumpiness and insistence to always be able to see the door were tell-tale signs of PTSD. His thrashing nightmares had startled each and every team member who was staying with him over night, be he’d not even acknowledge he’d been dreaming once they finally woke him. Hotch had convinced himself his injuries were minimal and that the psychological trauma was as bad as it was because he was so weak. As his morphine doses decreased, his dilaudid cravings increased, though he’d never admit it. He hardly spoke to Reid anymore out of fear the young doctor would recognize the symptoms and expose him. He had to be strong.

“Morgan, I’m fine! I can dress myself!” His tone was sharp as he batted away the other agent’s helping hand. He was really feeling those cravings. Derek simply stared at the frustrated man, shocked by the emotion he heard in his usually calm voice. “Hotch, relax. I’m your friend. I’m only trying to help.” Hotch scowled as he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. He didn’t have full use of his reattached finger yet and it tended to get in the way. After about fifteen more minutes he was finally dressed, holstering his gun on his hip, and started walking around. “Hotch, the doctors –“ “Fuck them.” Derek stopped and looked at his supervisor incredulously. “What has gotten into you, man?” Aaron faced the black agent with fury in his eyes. “You. All of you. I don’t need you patronizing me. I don’t need your help.” Hotch stormed out of his room, which in his state was more of a trot, leaving a shocked Morgan alone. It was in rare moments like this one that Derek missed Gideon.

---

Hotch had made his way through the hospital unbothered, the angry look on his face and the gun at his hip helping to deter anyone that might have interfered. He was now in an unoccupied room that had yet to be cleaned up. From the look of things, the patient had gone into defib and was rushed into emergency surgery. The doctors hadn’t bothered with cleaning the medical supplies in the room in light of the dire situation.

He stood in the room motionlessly, scanning its contents until he found what he wanted: a syringe and a fresh morphine drip. Aaron pulled the syringed into his firm grasp before running his fingers over the plastic bag that contained the precious narcotic. He stood there for what felt like hours, what were only minutes in actuality. He was disgusted with himself. How could he even be considering this?

He exploded with rage as anger came over him, throwing the metal table holding the medical equipment into the wall. Hotch grabbed the sheets of the vacant bed and threw them through the room, letting them flutter to the floor dramatically. He lunged forward and grabbed the phone off the bedside table and hurled it at the mirror, cracking it in the process. Aaron pulled out his sidearm and pointed it at the mirror with fury, huffing in exhaustion. That’s when he saw his face, his rage. He saw the monster he was becoming. The cracked glass warped his face slightly, but he could still see the cuts, the anger, the fury. Aaron put his gun back as a single tear fell down his face. He realized in that moment the only person he was disappointing was himself, and only he could fix that. He needed to stop internalizing and admit what happened. He knew just the person to tell.

---

The room showed no sign of life other than the steady beeping of a heart monitor attached to a bloody and broken man. Detective Neal had yet to gain consciousness for more than five minutes before drifting off. Security had left almost a week ago and the round-the-clock doctors stopped coming just two days prior. In all honesty, most everyone in the building hoped he wouldn’t wake up. Ever. The man had caused so much pain and terror in the city of Richmond that he didn’t deserve to be cared for.

Stillness was interrupted by an erratic beep on the CT scan that went unnoticed by everyone else. Another erratic beep and another. Neal was waking. He blinked his eyes several times, trying to focus on the intricate painting pattern on the ceiling. It looked like a muted camouflage pattern. He slowly turned his head to the side, analyzing the machines whirring next to him. Everything that had happened in the past few weeks rushed back to him, his fists clenching in fury. “Hotchner.” His voice was but a whisper as his voice box felt almost rusty.

Neal went to move his hands so he could stretch but quickly found he had been restrained. Fuck. He laid his head back and sighed in defeat. He would have to be smart about this. He’d only have one chance to escape. It was time to plan.

---

Jason,

I realize now why you had to leave. I see how the mental trauma can become too much and how the physical pain can break more than bones. How the UnSub becomes more than someone to bring to justice when they harm someone you love. What I don’t understand is how you left.

I was stabbed nine times in my own home by a man who later killed Haley. I was held hostage by an UnSub with an agent who had just failed his weapon’s qualifications. I was locked in an interrogation room with a man on death row intent on killing me. I was assaulted and strangled within an inch of my life by a man who made killing an art of his own.

I was framed by an UnSub who later kidnapped, torture, and attempted to murder me. He ripped my toenails off, drugged me, electrocuted me, cut my finger off, and shot me twice. I was dead for fifteen minutes, but I still could never leave the BAU, even though I should. My son needs at least one parent, but how do you leave the only family you’ve ever had?

Maybe I don’t want to know how. Maybe if I knew, it’ll lead to my departure. Maybe I’m not meant to know. And what would I tell them if I did leave? How can I expect Morgan to lead if the UnSubs scared me away? How can I tell Rossi to trust the team if I’m keeping secrets? How can I insist Reid fight his addiction when I succumb to mine? How can I teach Prentiss to keep going if I give up so easily? How can I show JJ that we can make a difference when I leave the job undone? How can I remind Garcia that there are people out there who care when I’m turning my back on everyone? And Jack. How can I teach Jack to persevere, show him how to lead, remind him to love, expect him to be honest, tell him to believe in the good in people, and insist he find his own path when I can’t even hold myself together? How do you do this job and not fail? I’ve not been able to figure that out in the year since Foyet came back.

I guess the answer depends on me. On whether or not I can keep pushing. Keep sight of my reasons and of justice.

Whether or not I can be Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I guess what I am trying to say is thanks. Thanks for showing me there’s always a choice, and thanks for showing me why I always pick the hard one. Thank you.

-Hotch

Aaron put the pen on the hospital bed he was laying on once again before rereading the letter to ensure he hadn’t missed anything. He had no intention of sending the letter to Gideon; he had no idea where the man was. Of course, he could easily find the ex-agent if he wanted to, but he didn’t want to do that to the man. Gideon had left this life long ago. He didn’t need to be dragged back in.

He folded up the letter and placed it into a plain envelope before putting it on the bedside table. The solidarity in his room was nice. He hadn’t been alone in over a month, so a moment to think was needed. As it would figure, his moment was ended abruptly when Morgan carefully entered. Hotch looked at Morgan determinedly. “Look, Derek, about earlier…” Morgan raised a dismissive hand. “I already know.” Hotch gave him a slight smile which Derek returned warmly. “The team is having a movie and s’mores night with Jack. They’re watching Toy Story. I thought you might enjoy Gladiator. No s’mores, though.” Derek put the DVD into the player and kicked his feet up on the edge of Hotch’s bed.

Hotch knew he didn’t need to say anything. Derek could read the appreciation for a normal night on his supervisor’s face like a book. A night for him to take his mind off things. A night to be Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit.