gut feeling

four: hotch

Spencer listened to Hotch's interrogation with his ear against the thin dirt wall. He knew if he was just slightly stronger, he could probably dig a hole through it with a branch, or even kick it through, possibly.  But he wasn't slightly stronger: he was exhausted and only getting weaker with the dehydration. So, Spencer could only listen and try to catch on to every word Hotch spoke.

There weren't many words being said, however. It seemed that Harvey's tactic was to scare people into talking-- and so naturally, being a materialistic man, he used physical pain as a motivator. The closest Hotch had gotten to talking in three full minutes was a moan of pain that he just wasn't able to hold back anymore. How much longer could he hold out, and would he even be able to answer questions at the end?

Spencer was pulled out of his trance as he heard Hotch start talking. He was saying something about how he wasn't as prominent as he seemed, and that he was slowly losing his high ranking and good reputation in the FBI because of some mistakes he had made. 

"I wouldn't know anything about this case because I'm not the one who researches and chooses which ones to help with. My whole team gets to decide together so they're more motivated--"

Spencer listened to the lie with growing trepidation. Where was Hotch going with this? They would kill him if he didn't know anything...

"--to work as best as they can. I supervise and go on field with them, and sometimes I get a good idea and help solve the case. I'm not the mastermind behind this team."

"Then who is?" Harvey responded.

"David Rossi. He's a senior profiler, he does much more than I do and helped research the case we were working. He would know more than I would, and if there was any FBI level trouble from your gang, I wouldn't be told-- Rossi would. I can't give you what you need."

Spencer bit his lip so hard that bitter blood dribbled down his chin. Hotch had practically just thrown Rossi into the torture chamber. Spencer wiped his mouth and pressed his ear harder against the dirt. 

A few quiet minutes passed, and the trapdoor opened. A shaking Hotch was pushed down into the dirt cellar. 

"Hotch, are you okay?" Spencer crawled to meet him. "What did he do? How can I help?" He stopped himself from asking any more questions, the loudest one Spencer had thrown to the back of his mind. There had to be a better answer to the question than Hotch not being able to take any more torture. Why did Hotch put throw it all on Rossi?

"Spencer," Hotch choked out. "You have to know what's going on for this to work. Listen closely."

Spencer pulled Hotch into a sitting position and began to inspect the wounds. 

Hotch continued. "Please tell me you heard what happened."

"Yeah, I did. I was wondering..." Spencer trailed off.

"Good. I told them about Rossi because he's the least likely to be hurt too badly. When we were researching Harvey and Queenie, Garcia found that they had a close relationship with an older man. I can't recall his name, I know Garcia would. Queenie and Harvey lived with him for a while and helped pay for a child they adopted, but the child and grandfather were killed in an accident. They take most pity on seniors and children, and Rossi's the closest we have to that."

Spencer nodded. "That was really smart, Hotch. Do we have any idea what we should do until then?"

But Hotch had passed out. 

It had been three days since Hotch had been questioned, and nothing much had changed.

Rossi was constantly being questioned (Spencer listened in on all of it) and was keeping of a steady stream of good lies. He had somehow created a consistent and elaborate case that was taking days to tell. Things were going to stay peaceful until Rossi ran out of  fake information. 

The team had begun communicating by talking quietly through the wall. This is how Spencer had gotten all of Rossi's story across the whole team. He listened in on the interrogations and then passed the new information through to the cellar containing JJ and Morgan, who would then pass it to Emily and Penelope (who would also be told by Rossi after, in case their game of telephone garbled the events too badly). This way, when they began actually questioning the other team members, everyone would have the same story to tell. 

Hotch's health was rapidly declining and there was nothing Spencer could do. He continued using bits of his own sweater to wrap up a slash in Hotch's side, but it wouldn't stop bleeding, and it seemed to be developing an infection. He also had a fever, and Spencer had been pretending to drink some of their rationed water so Hotch wouldn't force Spencer not to use it all to fight his leering sickness. Hotch felt weighed down, even the air around him felt heavy, and he was dissociating. When he wasn't thinking, when he let himself just forget, he was at his happiest, his calmest, his best. 

He wondered if he would be at his best if he just let go. 

Spencer knew exactly what Hotch was thinking. Although he prayed Hotch wouldn't give in, he couldn't help but notice their situation, and how many times he himself had been in it. He would finally become comfortable, finally trust his team again, trust sleep, trust himself, and then he would be thrown into another thing that he could, at best, only pretend he recovered from. He couldn't help but wonder the same things. After all, things didn't seem to get better.

Maybe death really was the best option. And if it was, they were lucky: it seemed to be waiting for them.