Chapter Twenty One: I Want All The Tears Back That I Cried
Opening the house door, it is pitch black but you know someone is in your presence. You gently close the door behind you, shifting your attention to the dark silhouette sitting in a kitchen chair, a glass in front of them. There was impeccable authority that came with how Hotch carried himself and you couldn't help but stand by the door in fear of moving. You allowed your head the rest against the mahogany wood with a thud.
Something is placed on the kitchen island, presumably a bottle of fine scotch or whisky. You bite the inside of your cheek— something that occurs way to often as you run your tongue over the imprints made in your mouth.
"I didn't expect you to be home," you whispered. You knew he would be home, but you didn't know what else to say.
"I could say the same for you," he says gruffly while he swirls the bitter liquid in his mouth. "I told you that you shouldn't be doing this anymore."
You take in his tone, the demand and disappointment laced inside of his words. Still too scared to move, you slid your back down the door until you hit the bottom.
"I learned what Axel did to her you know? It took some time but I did it," you explain. "You were wrong."
"Excuse me?"
"You were wrong about the fact it wouldn't bring me closure but it did in a way. Knowing what he did to her made me feel lucky."
"Tate was moved into foster care," Hotch murmured, "Just for now, until we can find her a permanent home and deem Axel unfit."
You sucked in a breath, already feeling unsteady. "She went into a corrupt system, I don't know which is worse— them or Axel."
You looked over at the man, taking in the open dress shirt untucked from his slacks. The air was thick and suffocating but you pushed through it, opting to run your hands against your pants to ease the feeling. Slowly, you pushed off the floor, sliding off your shoes along the way, and walk over to him. You stood on the other side of the island, hands braced on the marble countertop while your head hung low.
"You can't compare the two," he sighs, running a hand through his hair.
"Yeah," you scoffed in disbelief, going to grip the bottle of liquor in front of him. There was another glass near, you picked that up as well. "It just isn't fair."
Hotch watches you quietly, attempting to make out your actions. You didn't drink unless under extreme stress because you knew what it did to your father. Drinking on occasion was the equivalent to a habit— that's the only way you could see it, though you knew it wasn't true.
"It won't ever be, you know that Y/N. I tried to talk Strauss and the board out of foster care but I couldn't, the law still withstands." Hotch explains darkly.
You chuckle dryly, pouring the amber liquid into the glass. Deep down your heart was beating so quickly you thought it would fall out of your chest. Shakily, you grip the glass— bringing it to your lips and taking a sip. Tonight reminded you of your first night here, nervous and on edge— aware, yet blindsided.
"I don't understand, Aaron," you gulp, "You don't want me on this case but you tell me about Tate?"
"I tell you what I want you to know," he admits. The clock ticks in the background as a distraction for your brain.
"And that's where you're wrong," you say, "You don't get to pick what you protect me from."
"I don't follow," he says, leaning back on the chair.
You swirl the butter liquid in your mouth, grimacing at the taste but thankfully the darkness covers it. "You opened the envelope already," you began.
Hotch groans under his breath, only a sense of disappointment filling the air, but not in you— in himself.
So you continued, "I wondered why every time I wanted to open it, you would tell me I needed a break, but that's when I realized the coffee stain in the corner wasn't there anymore, you know?"
Before you left the BAU, you stopped by his office to grab your coat you left last time, that's when you saw it. The white envelope wasn't so worn anymore. You walked over to his desk and picked it up, only the notice the paper was brand new but the contents was presumably the same. There was no coffee cup ring on it, or address, but the feel of pictures was still there.
See it was the same, but it wasn't. So you grabbed it before you left and stuffed it into your jacket. Up until now, it had been burning at your side and when Hotch didn't make an effort to contradict your theory, you knew it was true: he had already opened it and was protecting you.
You reach down into your pocket and pull out the envelope, throwing it onto the island with a thud. "So I decided that I would see what it was finally since you were so persistent on me not knowing. I wondered if it would hurt me more than help."
"Why do you believe I want to hurt you?" Hotch asked solely.
"Oh, I don't," you smile tightly, "I just believe that you're really doing more harm than good, even if you don't think so."
After a moment of contemplation, he speaks, "I did open it."
"I didn't want an admission of guilt Aaron," you sneer. "I don't even care why you did it now. All we can agree on is that this has dragged on way too long."
"It has," he bows his head in agreement, "Open it."
Quickly, you down the rest of the liquid in one swing, welcoming the burn that comes with it. You slam the glass in the counter, picking up the paper.
"Second times a charm right?"
"You're more persistent than most of my agents Y/N, I find it remarkable,"
"Don't sweet talk me," you say, "I don't want your praise, though, I suppose that's what you think I find ambition in."
He shakes his head disappointingly, "I didn't-"
"Just save it okay? We'll talk about it later," you grumble, rubbing a hand down your face. "I'm not waiting any longer."
"Go ahead," he motions with his hand.
A slight buzz of warmth swarms you from the whiskey as your hands shake slightly. You run your finger under the tight seal, ripping the paper at its seam. There is silence casting a shadow between the two of you, a flicker of unknown darkness that isn't just the lighting, but the tension. As the paper fully opens, a peak of neatly stacked pictures sit in the center.
Trying not to think too much, you grab them out quickly, the streetlights giving just enough light to see from the windows. You hold your breath as you look at the first photo and can't help but bite your tongue.
Your father stood there, an arm wrapped around Lesly, a cigar hanging off both of their lips. A shiver runs up your back. Tears prick the back of your eyes but you blink them away. Your hand slides against the glossy finish, moving it to the back. The next one was Lesly a wad of cash up to his ear like a phone, your father laughing in the background.
"What is this?" you whisper quietly— painfully even. Hotch doesn't answer, allowing you to continue.
A few pictures pass, some taken at a bar, some at football games. None of which have your mother or Axels family, just the two of them. It felt like your throat was constructed, tears slowly down your cheeks but you pay no mind. The air seem to be a blanket of cold, wrapping you— suffocating you.
Your dad knew Lesly, they were best friends for that matter and you never knew.
You grab large glass holding all the whisky and pour some more into your tumbler. A tremor racked your body, Hotch watched you carefully.
There wasn't an ounce of truth in your childhood. Not when your dad had been keeping this from you. Let one Lesly. He would look at you like his own daughter. You were disgusted with the look now looking back. They lied for so long, and to want extent. There wasn't a reason to be lied to as a child. Why were you just finding this out now?
A bile rose up in your throat with the last picture.
They were standing around a fire, one in the backyard of your childhood home, smiles dancing across their faces. Without even thinking, you flipped it over to the back to see the date.
After seeing the numbers it was as though your body went numb. It all made sense. From the moment you stepped into Axels life to the moment you left. You realized the hatred, the unobtrusive look of disgust your father gave you the night you told him about Axel Jacobs.
Your uncle, the uncle who killed your family. The uncle who left you with millions because of his son. The fucking uncle who said the money would make up for his despicable son that loved you.
"Oh, my God," you sobbed, wrapped a hand around your mouth as you take a step back. "He killed my-,"
You didn't even want to finish the sentence. The small tick of the clock was the only thing you could hear. You stared down at the picture, gripping the edge of the counter so tightly your knuckles turned white. Something inside Lesly's eyes showed they were just trying to have fun that night. But there was no fun was there?
You finally saw why your dad carried so much guilt. He knew his families murderer, partook in the actions. Such harmless intentions turned into Hell reincarnated. Beats were in their hands like it was a simply guys night, one were the kids didn't even know what was happening, or with who. God, all Samantha wanted to do was bake muffins.
Your little sisters life was stolen for some, fun. Nothing was ever fair was it? No. No it wasn't because everyone is selfish. Even the firefighters that night showed up late and refused to do anything to help. After the house burnt into a pile of ash along with your mother and sister, you had nothing because of them.
Your legs give out, buckling under their own weight but a strong pair of arms wrap around you. Your body completely shuts down.
"It's okay Y/N," Hotch says but you barely hear him while he slowly lowers the both of you onto the ground.
"I don't-" you hyperventilate desperately trying to get words out, "He killed them."
Hotch cradles your head into his chest, a strong grip securing you as you sob into his bare chest, clutching to his sides of his dress shirt.
"We didn't know," Hotch voice cracked on its own despite his efforts. Your shaking body pressed against his was a knife to his chest, even if he was partially at fault. "We didn't know Y/N."
"He left me money," you cried, "He thought he could fix it, I didn't listen,"
His hand runs through your knotted hair. Your teeth run against themselves. You've never felt so cold, so broken. Even with Lesly gone, the Jacobs family still seemed to take from you. You wanted to put yourself in your fathers shoes, seeing as how much resentment he must've he felt, how the alcohol numbed it all.
"None of this could've been seen, do you hear me?" Hotch bites, his voice was laced with so much terror. "Y/N you survived okay?"
"At what cost?" you breathed, "My father sat back and watched me and I didn't catch on,"
His grip grows tighter on you, a protective shield, "You chased after the truth, that is what you find ambition in, I was wrong."
"I-I went back to the family that ruined our own," you whispered in disbelief, tears still violently escaping. "I took their money, I believed that my dad was just bitter because they had more than us,"
"You were blindsided."
"No," you shook your head, "I knew something was wrong, I watched it unravel. The way Lesly said he would make up from everything— staying with Axel, killing Mom and Samantha,"
You sobbed quietly, gasping for air. You were completely curled into his chest on the kitchen floor. When he didn't respond, you continued.
"While Axel got Celia pregnant and I thought I was getting the blunt of it. God, he took Harmony. How could I be so naïve?"
"Sweetheart you weren't naïve, you were surviving for yourself, no one else," he mumbled.
"I could've done something, all the signs were there, signs I'm supposed to be trained to looked for,"
Several tears roll down Hotchs cheeks as your words hit a little too close to home. He remembered beating himself over not realizing Axel was abusing you sooner. After all it was what he was trained for. He knew exactly how it felt to be so broken, so culpable. Seeing you in his arms so vulnerable tore his chest in half, he held you so tightly that he was afraid you'd break with anymore pressure.
"You can't blame yourself for that."
"I can't make it go away," you sobbed, gripping your arms, digging your nails into your skin. You wanted to pull at your hair but you couldn't. "I can't make that feeling go away."
"I know, sweetheart," Hotch whispers, pressing his face into your hair to catch his tears.
A broken cry leaves your lips, "I'm scared Aaron, I'm so scared."
"Of what?"
"Of what this will do to me," you admit, "I'm scared I won't be able to move past this. I'm scared that I'll never be able to listen to those protecting me. I'm scared Axel will come back— of everything."
"I won't let you do that to yourself," he says, "Axel won't come near you again, I promise you that Y/N."
"That's a broad promise, he's already has Harmony to watch over us," you say quietly, relaxing your body into his.
"I don't break my promises."
"You never do," you agree.
Your body felt like a million bricks was laid upon it, weighing down all your limbs as you went numb once again. The tears didn't stop though, only the pain. You knew the slight relief was temporary, that it would hit twice as hard a few days from now. You soaked in the feeling of numbness, allowing your eyes to close.
"I'm so tired Aaron." You sigh. The whiskey was making your tongue light.
"Go to sleep, I got you," he soothes.
Those were the last words before you fell under the spell of dreamless rest.
• • •
Five days had passed. Five days of you laying in bed, clutching your stomach. Five days of constant hair pulling. Five days of constant sorrow. Occasionally, Hotch would bring gifts from the team. They knew the whole story now and were apparently on the hunt for Axel and Harmony. Once they were found all of this would be over and you couldn't feel more relived that you didn't have to dwell over it anymore.
Your tattoo was healing well and Hotch said he liked it. Jack insisted on staying with Jessica because she had cooler toys so the house was silent when Hotch was gone. You laid in his bed for those five days.
At night you'd curl into his chest and wait until he fell asleep to cry into the blanket. It wasn't the healthiest thing but you always felt good after you let it all out.
Today in particular, Hotch looked especially happy when he open the bedroom door. The windows were completely closed as always and you couldn't remember the last time you went to the bathroom. Only a sliver of light peaks through the crack in the door.
When he shuts the door behind him, darkness consumes you again. You screw your eyes shut and attempt to slow your breathing.
Finally after a moment he speaks, "Today was first snow fall."
"I didn't know," you coaxed out. "I've been tired, I'm sorry."
Heavy footsteps sound before the bed dips next to you, "It reminded me of the ice cream parlor," a hint of smile in his voice, "And I imagined with your snow angle would look like— if it would suffice."
A soft laugh escapes your lips though it sounds broken, "I thought the ice cream parlor was overrated?"
Your eyes adjusted better to the light. You reach over to turn on the lamp, his face lighting your view.
"I just didn't want to admit I was old," he smiles softly.
Heat warms your heart as you look at him. This was the most light you've seen in days and you wouldn't have anything else in your vision. His hand rests in your knee covered by blanket.
"I knew you'd come around some day," you say, "I was just waiting for the moment to finally show itself."
"Well it's here, I needed to be humbled," he says, "Is that what you kids say?"
You gasp in shock, "I'm not a kid!"
"Keep telling yourself that," he teases, patting your leg before getting up.
You follow his body while he steps into the closet. "What are you doing?" you asked.
Hotch runs his hands over the hangers, brushing them aside. There was a little section for your clothes that he insisted you have. It wasn't large and didn't take up much of anything, but you knew that when he pulled out a long, thick coat, you'd be dragged out of bed soon.
"I want to see if your snow angel would suffice," Hotch explains, still looking through your clothes. "I'd never imagine finding an outfit would be this hard considering all of your clothes."
You fake offense, sitting up straighter, "I don't have that many clothes, most of them can go into multiple outfits."
"See that is the problem, things begin to pile up."
Deep down you knew he was only teasing you because when you saw him hold up a shirt to his chest as though he was trying it on, you couldn't help but breathe a laugh. He did it with little tops, looking in the body mirror on the wall.
"What are you doing, Aaron?"
"I'm imagining how you look getting ready in the morning," he said, popping a hip to the side, placing a hand over top. "Am I doing well?"
"Not at all," you say, throwing the covers off of you and walking over to him. "I don't know where you got that impression."
"I used to watch you get ready in here when you thought I was sleeping," he paused to place his hands on your hips, "And then you would grumble some curses and sit on the floor while looking over everything."
"How long have you been doing this?"
"Anytime you stay in my room, so seven times?" Hotch explains, "It's quite entertaining."
You roll your eyes and take in the way his room looks after your five days of misery. The bedsheets were rumpled and there was a single water bottle on the bedside table. Definitely doesn't look like you wept in here for days. Not even a single tissue occupied the space.
"Okay, okay," you say defensively, "Do you want to see my snow angel or not? I'm tired."
A look of relief crosses his face before he hands you the clothes he picked out and watches you trail to the bathroom.
Once you were done, you exited the bathroom and followed Hotch outside. The icy air bit at your skin causing a shiver to crawl up your spine. Red coated your nose and cheeks from the weather. White blankets of snow covered the whole front yard. Since his house was slightly remote, there weren't any neighbors around to watch the two of you.
Snowflakes fell onto your jacket, each one of different design and you breathed in the frosty air. You'd been bottled up in that room on your own free will and yet you can't help but feel angry at yourself for doing it. You didn't even stop to consider how Hotch felt these days.
"You know snow absorbs sound," you whisper.
Hotch turns his attention to you with a puzzled expression, "No I didn't ."
"Growing up I loved reading while it snowed, especially at night. It felt like I was in some Twilight movie," you explain softly.
"Why'd you stop?"
"Stop what?"
"Reading," he says.
"Oh," you sigh. You lift a shoulder up in a shrug, "I wanted to escape from reality. It used to be right to drown myself in characters but it became so much more. It wasn't an outlet when it wasn't saving me."
Though it was a slightly depressing answer, it was so painfully true. When you moved into the Virginia mansion, the love for books faded while the abuse was crashing over you. They couldn't save you like when you were a teen because you knew evidently that it wasn't how the real world worked.
Ironically, romance was your favorite genre. You believed you would find something like that one day. That there would be a stranger waiting for you on a park bench and you would sit there after a long day and fall in love. That wasn't like that at all. You hated the unrealistic expectations set for love when truthfully all it did was take. It took until you couldn't feel anything but an empty void.
You clasp your hands together and push a smile, "So what about these snow angels?"
-
A/N-
I'm sorry this took forever to put out, honestly I've been trying mkay. Your girl is holding onto her sanity by a thread.