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It started on the jet. Hotch was still. Too still.
Not the calm, collected stillness that made him a great profiler.
No—this was hollow. Blank.
Rossi watched him.
Everyone was quiet. The kid—Reid—kept blinking like he was trying not to cry. Prentiss stared at the wall. Morgan was tense, shoulders coiled like springs. JJ… JJ looked like she wanted to scream.
But Hotch?
He hadn’t moved in for twenty minutes.
Not even when the turbulence hit.
Not even when Morgan asked him a question.
He blinked. Said nothing. Just stared.
That was the first sign.
Two hours earlier
The case ended with a body.
A kid’s body.
Hotch stood in the rain as they zipped her up. He could still hear her voice on the 911 call:
“Please… he’s hurting me…”
They’d been too late.
They’re always too late.
The team was silent on the jet. Reid had tears in his eyes. Prentiss looked sick. Morgan punched the wall. JJ couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze.
Hotch?
He just sat there.
Stoic.
Because if he felt, he’d break. And he couldn’t afford to break. Not until he was alone.
Later, when the team split at the airstrip, Rossi said:
“You heading home?”
Hotch just gave a grunt. The kind that means I don’t know, or maybe I don’t care.
“Hotch?” Rossi asked again.
But the man was already walking away.
No goodbye. No nod. Nothing.
Just disappeared into the shadows like a ghost.
Rossi didn’t like it.
Didn’t like the case. Didn’t like how it ended.
Didn’t like how quiet Hotch had been all week.
Didn’t like the way he flinched when Haley’s name came up in the briefing.
Didn’t like the nothingness in his eyes.
He thought about going home. About pouring a glass of wine and watching old black-and-white westerns. But something itched at him. Something primal. A gut feeling from decades of profiling and being a friend.
He got in his car.
And drove to Aaron Hotchner’s apartment.
The walls are too quiet.
Not peaceful—empty.
The kind of silence that crawls into your chest and presses down until you forget what air is supposed to taste like.
Hotch’s fingers tremble as he loosens his tie. He sits on the edge of the bed. Stares at the wall.
His hand curls into a fist. Slams into the mattress once. Then again.
"Stupid."
Again.
"Fucking useless."
His voice echoes.
He stands.
Storms into the bathroom.
Flicks the light on. Glares at his reflection.
“You let her die.”
His voice is low. Quiet.
“You let that little girl die.”
The man in the mirror looks tired. Gray. Eyes sunken. Shoulders caved in.
“You couldn’t protect her. Just like you couldn’t protect Haley. Or Jack. Or Gideon. Or the team. You don’t protect people, Aaron. You fail them.”
He slams a hand against the counter.
BANG.
The mirror shakes.
He’s breathing harder now. Vision tunneling.
“What are you even doing? Walking around like you’re some hero. You’re nothing. Just a shell. A joke. A fucking fraud.”
He opens the drawer. The razor sits there. Waiting. He picks it up. Feels the weight. Not heavy. Not light. Just enough.
The blade glints.
One clean drag across his wrist.
It stings. Burns.
A breath hitches in his chest.
It’s not fast enough. He needs more. Needs silence. Needs something to stop the noise in his skull screaming failure, failure, failure—
His knees buckle.
He slides to the floor.
Back against the tub.
Blood pools on the tile.
It’s warm.
His thoughts are messy now. Slurred.
If I die, they’re safe. Jack and Haley get to live without a target on their backs. The team moves on. No dead kids on my conscience. No more weak links. No more broken leaders.
They’ll be better without me.
They’ll be—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
He doesn’t hear it at first.
Then again.
“HOTCH!”
A voice. Familiar. Far away.
Ignore it.
“OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”
Another slam.
A crash.
Then—
Footsteps.
Rossi’s heart is in his throat as he storms through the door. He’d knocked. Waited. Yelled. No answer.
Instinct kicked in. Kick it in. Go. Now.
The bathroom door is half open. He sees the blood before he sees Hotch.
“AARON.”
His knees hit the floor hard. He grabs the blade. Tosses it across the room.
Hotch flinches.
“Go away, Dave.”
His voice is dead. Flat. Not even angry anymore—just… empty.
“No. I’m not going anywhere. What the hell did you do?”
Hotch laughs. Bitter. Hysterical.
“What does it look like, Rossi? A cry for help?”
He sneers. Blood still dripping.
“This wasn’t about attention. This was me finally doing something right.”
“You call this right?” Rossi’s voice cracks. “You think this is what anyone wants?”
“No one wants me.”
“Bullshit.”
“You saw the case,” Hotch spits, rage lighting up now. “We lost her. I lost her. Like, I lose everything. Haley. Jack. The team. Gideon. You name it—I’ve fucking ruined it!”
“You haven’t ruined anything!”
“YES, I HAVE!” Hotch’s voice breaks.
“I wake up every day knowing that Foyet is still out there. That my family’s in hiding because I couldn’t finish the job. And every time I look at my team, I wonder—who’s next? Who will I fail next?”
Rossi’s jaw tightens. He wants to argue. But Hotch isn’t done.
“You all tiptoe around me. Like I’m some cracked glass. Reid won’t even look at me some days. Morgan keeps asking if I’m okay like he’s waiting for me to explode. JJ—she pities me.”
Tears stream down his face now. Hot. Furious.
“I’m tired, Dave. I’m so fucking tired.”
He buries his face in his hands.
“I just wanted it all to stop.”
And then, softly:
“If I die, Jack and Haley get to come home.”
Rossi leans forward, gripping his shoulders.
“Aaron. Listen to me.”
Hotch doesn’t move.
“If you die, Jack grows up without a father. Sean loses his big brother. Reid loses another person he leans on. The team loses its backbone.”
Hotch shakes his head. “They’ll move on.”
“I won’t.”
That makes Hotch freeze.
Rossi’s voice breaks on the next words:
“I’m not losing another son.”
A sharp breath.
Hotch lifts his head.
“…what?”
“You think I flew to this godforsaken apartment for fun?” Rossi snaps. “You’re not just some coworker. You’re my family, Aaron. And I’ll be damned if I let you bleed out alone on the floor like you don’t fucking matter.”
Hotch blinks, stunned. “I—I didn’t—”
“You’re a profiler. Don’t play dumb. You had to know.”
Hotch’s voice is barely audible.
“I thought I was just… a burden.”
"You’re my goddamn kid, Aaron. And you don’t get to check out just because the world is hard.”
Hotch breaks.
His body folds into Rossi’s arms. Guttural sobs. Blood still seeping from the wrist, though it’s slowing. Rossi holds him like he’ll break apart otherwise.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
The next morning, the team watches as Hotch walks into the bullpen.
His steps are slower than usual.
A little tired. A little stiff.
But he’s there.
He says nothing. Just nods once. Heads to his office.
Rossi follows behind, silent. Stops at the door.
Watches him go.
He sees the bandage beneath the shirt cuff.
Knows the fight isn’t over.
But also knows this:
He’s still here.
Not healed.
But breathing.
And sometimes, that’s the win.