Walking through the threshold of his empty house, tossing the pair of keys into an fruit bowl Hotch let's out a deep sigh.
Filled with exhaustion and relief.
Jess has Jack tonight, the two of them agreed he would take Jack every other day and every weekend, if he had time.
Dark bags lay dug out into his face, cheek bones prominent. Dimples that once showed every hour of the day, grown to rest permanently in place. Eyes that once were filled with the reflection of Haley and Jack show nothing but the horrors of his job, the job that cost him the love of his life, his best friend.
Her smile is painfully seared into his head, all the pictures that litter their house, and Jack, all constantly remind him of his failure. He's a failure. The one vow he promised her, to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health to love and cherish... he broke.
It's his fault.
No matter how many times Rossi tells him it's not. He must live with himself. He finds that harder and harder to do each day, with knowing he can't please anyone.
Wondering over to the deep mahogany cabinet of liquor, frequently visited on the days Jack isn't with him. Aaron gazes aimlessly at the bottles of wine, his eyes landing on the bottle he and Haley were going to share with Jack on his 21st birthday the always trusty classic Pinot noir. Damn it. He curses to himself.
Reaching his hand past it he grabs a bottle of Makers Mark whiskey. Trudging into the kitchen, he pours himself a generous serving. The amber liquid burning down his throat. Eliciting a twist of his neck and face contorting at the 70 prof. of pure alcohol sloshing it's way into his liver. What are you doing you idiot. A voice in his head reprimands him of his stupidity. Shut up, he huffs out.
The hours pass by. Ending up splayed out on the couch, coat jacket resting on the back of an old armchair, tie tossed on the coffee table. 10:43.
Waking up from his nap, still slightly buzzed Aaron wipes the sleep from his eyes and gathers his things to head up stairs for the night. Thank god it's a Friday. Not having work tomorrow was a blessing, it was an excuse he gave himself, for allowing himself to get drunk alone. Wallow around in self pity.
Sauntering into his bedroom, and throwing his tie into the back of his closet he takes off his white dress shirt. Wrinkles on his face match the worn out shirt. While pulling the wifebeater over his head he stands in the master bathroom.
Not working out everyday is noticeable, just a little bit. Not a lot, just a little. Still retaining a flat stomach and a defined chest curly black hair decorates his lower belly. The scars still there as always. Your weak. Shut up, he tells himself. Turning on the shower to heat up, he pulls the rest of his clothes off, letting them pile in the floor.
Examining himself in the mirror, he picks himself apart. Every imperfection visible. The mirror fogging tells him to get in the shower.
The boiling water washes over his broad shoulders, down his back. Hands. He imagines hands, running the path of the water, down his back. Massaging his shoulders and neck. His pain washing down the drain.
The fingers curl into his hair, leaning his head back, allowing the hands to wash his hair.
Groaning at the missed touch of someone, it feels so real. Is it real. Haley? Opening his eyes and spinning around to expect his late wife there with him he's greeted by a marble wall. Did you really think she was there. That's sad Aaron. Pull yourself together. He doesn't speak back to that voice.
Please tell me if you like this story. It's a little dark. 10/19/20
