𝐔𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐬 | 𝐀𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫 (2)

Chapter 16

My throat was painfully dry, my whole body sore. It felt like the morning after a brutal physical FBI training session. Except instead of feeling the usual satisfaction that came with the muscle ache, I just felt exhausted. There was something warm and clammy in my palm —another hand. I ran my thumb over his knuckles absentmindedly, distracted by the harsh smell of laundry detergent and excessive antiseptic. The air felt stifling and sterile.

I didn't want to open my eyes but the bright artificial lighting priced them open. When I did, I realised with a start that I was in hospital. I should have recognised the cling of crisp sheets sooner. Panic rose like bile in my chest but I regained control, taking a deep breath. My fear instantly subsided when I recognised the figure in the chair beside my bed. Hotch was slumped defeatedly, resting his elbows on my bed. His tired eyes were bloodshot and fixed straight ahead, staring at the wall and seemingly lost deep in thought. His hair was unkempt and stuck up defiantly in places. It was clear, from the bags under his eyes and the stubble on his cheeks that Aaron hadn't slept in some time. My baby, I thought.

When you loved someone so deeply, it sometimes hit you in waves. In that way, it reminded me of grief. A premature grief, in anticipation for the loss of it. Because beautiful things often had the most violent of ends. But, looking at his hand in mine and feeling his pulse against my own I felt overwhelmed with gratitude. Gratitude that I was alive and breathing and that Hotch was there by my side when I needed him most.

I remembered everything which, although distressing, offered me some comfort. My body might have been damaged but my mind was intact. I tried to speak to get Hotch's attention but no sound came out, only a shaky breath of hot air. I was terrified that I had not emerged unscathed from my accident —had I lost my voice? It seemed impossible to go through that and not lose anything. I needed to know what had happened after. After I had lost consciousness. Had they caught the unsub? Was the baby I resuscitated okay? It was those questions that gave me the strength to move, despite every bone in my body protesting. With a slight tremble to my hands, I reached to tap Hotch's arm. Even the gentle gesture elicited a hiss of pain.

His head snapped up to face me and he stood quickly, pushing back his chair with a scrape, "You're awake —you're alright," he spoke softly, his voice weathered by fatigue.

The relief that flooded his features was instant and it made my heart hurt. I couldn't imagine what I'd do if it was me in his place. I don't think I'd have been able to breathe.

My hand patted his urgently, as I tried desperately to get his attention. "Your throat's going to be sore, you might not be able to talk just yet,' he explained.

He retrieved a pen from the nightstand and his pocket notebook from his blazer. He placed the pen in my palm and positioned my hand over the paper. Hurriedly, I scrawled down my questions, unsub? Baby?

"We caught him," Hotch reassured, "We talked to Ben Green, Mrs Green's son. We asked if there was a particular member of staff that he confided in recently and he proposed the Janitor, Norman Stevenson."

I breathed a sigh of short-lived relief before frantically circling my pen around the second question.

"She's doing well," he smiled, "See those flowers?" He nodded his head towards the violets on my bedside table, "May's mother dropped by: she's very thankful for what you did." He smiled proudly, taking the pen from my hand.

"I'm going to sit you up, alright?" he located the remote for the bed and, as a low whirring sound filled the room, I was slowly brought upright.

He handed me a glass of water and it was then that I realised how thirsty I actually was. I knew from the drip attached to my arm that I was hydrated but it was clear, from the burn and insatiable itch of my throat, that water had not passed my lips for quite some time. I drank it all, relishing in the soothing sensation of it travelling down my irritated throat. I experimented with my voice, letting out a low whisper.