#ARSON IS THE ANSWER RIGHT NOW I THINK BUT I KEEP GETTING DISCONNECTED

[monty-glasses-roxy]

First I was being kept from Ruin by waiting for a YouTuber I could actually stand to watch play it. Now I'm being kept from comment responses about the lore that's driving me up the fucking wall (I've seen one already) because my internet has decided to implode.

[squishmallow36]

It's all I wish to hear tonight, and you're all I wish to be, and this is how we all fall down - Chapter Three

Summary: Garvarioli but it's Alvar's character arc in Flashback and Legacy. Also please send help I accidentally made a character arc out of disconnected oneshots.

Word Count: 3040

TW: swearing, Alvar's troll goop illness, death

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added/removed!): @stellar-lune @faggot-friday @kamikothe1and0lny @nyxpixels @florida-preposterously @poppinspop @uni-seahorse-572 @solreefs @remember-me-in-another-time @rusted-phone-calls @when-wax-wings-melt @good-old-fashioned-lover-boy7 @dexter-dizzknees @abubble125 @hi-imgrapes @callum-hunt-is-bisexual @xanadaus @callas-pancake-tree @hi-my-name-is-awesome @katniss-elizabeth-chase @arson-anarchy-death @dizzeners @thefoxysnake @olivedumdum

And bonus Garvar tags: @tw-5 @camelspit

On Ao3 (users only because, you know, AI) or below the cut

Previous chapter :) in case you missed it

    Garwin stares up at his ceiling, watching the fan slowly rotate around. Yes, he gets blinded by the light being on at the center, but that’s preferable to reloading his Imparter screen every two seconds for an update from Alvar.

    No less than three hours ago, he got summoned by Fintan, and the last time he was gone this long, he brought back a kid. That better not happen again. 

    Garwin doesn’t have the patience to deal with a child. Or Ruy. It’s basically the same thing, but at least Ruy can scavenge for his own meals most of the time. 

    He may have developed an unhealthy habit of going to the Forbidden Cities and flexing his extensive Spanish vocabulary at least three times a week, but, hey, at least he brings food home most of the time, so Garwin can’t complain. 

    How he’s able to get food with an addler on is also questionable. As is how he acquired human money to pay for it, cause it sure as hell ain’t coming from Garwin’s extremely broke bank accounts. 

    With that thought, the sound of a correct Duolingo answer echoes through the silent room. However annoying it may be, it keeps Ruy entertained, so, once again, Garwin can’t complain. 

    But sometimes he does anyway. 

    “Have you lost your headphones again?”

    “No. I know right where they are. I just can’t move to get them with someone laying on top of me.”

    That is a valid point, which is why it should be ignored at all costs. 

    “Oh no! Whomever could that be?” Garwin asks, shifting to his side to snuggle in closer. And stare at Ruy. Both things that are very important to do. 

    He’s so pretty. 

    Garwin may very well have dozed off much to Ruy’s dismay, because the next thing he knows, the orange light of sunset is shimmering through the windows. 

    Ruy and Alvar are deep in conversation, speaking in low voices presumably not to disturb him.  

    Ruy ruffles his hair. “Good evening, mi corazón.”  

    Garwin yawns. “What did I miss?”  

    Alvar opens his mouth to explain, but Ruy beats him to it. “Your boyfriend told Finny about his batshit amnesia plan.”

    “Oh, he’s my boyfriend now? Why do I always have to deal with him when he’s being an idiot?”

    “Because you didn’t get accepted to Yale.” Ruy presses a kiss to Garwin’s temple. 

    Garwin rolls his eyes. The first time it was funny. The 8123rd time? Significantly less so. Half of those were his own self-deprecating jokes, so he does share some of the blame, but that’s less satisfying than projecting his problems onto everyone else. 

    Garwin looks at Alvar. “You do realize this is a really, really fucking bad idea, right?”

    “Alden’s hiding something. Unless you have a better plan, I’ve had more than enough of that man’s bullshit. Whatever the ‘Vacker Legacy’ entails, I’m sure it’s going to be messy, and I think the trade off is more than worth it.”

    “What if you’re fucked up irreparably? What if something goes wrong with your memories?”

    “Bold of you to assume I’m not already fucked up irreparably, and, well, I fell in love with y’all the first time. I’ll do it again if I have to.”

    That’s the exact kind of answer Garwin was hoping he wasn’t going to answer. 

    That’s the exact kind of answer that isn’t going to take any form of criticism. And once Alvar has his mind set on something, it might be possible to stop him, but Garwin hasn’t figured out how yet and it’s unlikely he ever will. 

    Garwin looks at Ruy. “Bitch, I don’t know.”

    Ruy stres into his soul, betrayal etched into every line. “Dude. You were supposed to fix him. Fix him. Make him, I don’t know, not an idiot?”

    “What do you want me to do? I can’t convince him to do shit. I can’t even convince him to give me the fucking remote.”

    This is a real, actual issue Garwin has to go through every single day. He suffers so much for it. He’s the human here, and it’s not like any of the intelligent species produce their own TV shows or movies or whatever. He’s the only one with any personal experience watching human media his entire life, and yet that isn’t enough to dictate what is and is not watched. 

    “Well, to be fair, your taste in movies is horrendous.”

    “That’s not fair. That’s not fucking fair at all. And now out of spite I am going to leave you two to your own devices.”

    He could choose to worry about Alvar, but worrying won’t accomplish anything. So might as well go along with his dumb shit because then at least you can have an idea of what he’s doing. 

    Then when he realizes he’s bad at making life choices, you can tell him I told you so.

    And then you’re the moral high ground. 

    …At least until you do something stupid. And so the cycle continues. 

   The first week without him, it’s just like he’s on a normal Neverseen mission. Well, at least normal in comparison to other things they’ve done. 

    Gisela took over again, Sophie and co. fucked up Atlantis. The usual. Actually, technically, Ruy undid the force fields and Sophie found a hydrokinetic friend to just like. Hold the water in place. Because that makes logical sense. Fluid physics definitely works like that. But Garwin chooses to blame Sophie because he can. 

    One of the very few times Garwin wishes there was some form of news or social media in the cities is when Alvar is found by the Bullshit and promptly scheduled for a tribunal. You know, completely normal shit.

    It’s ruled that he’s going to get to go back to Everglen. Which was the goal. So that is a good thing. Even if Garwin isn’t too excited about it because Fitz is probably going to slit Alvar’s throat in his sleep. 

    Why are the elves so pretentious that they have to name their houses? Eh, whatever. It’s probably more effort to ask than it’s worth.

   At least it’ll be fun watching Mr. Golden Boy Vackerpants getting himself banished again or Exiled. Unmapped stars, that would be so fucking hilarious. 

    The real trouble with Alvar being gone is that it keeps going for literal fucking months on end. 

    Him moving in got postponed because Umber needed to practice with their shadowflux bending with actual people and, well, Sophie and Fitz were good targets. At least it can still be on schedule for the Lunar festival thing that happens during the lunar eclipse.  

    Ruy definitely didn’t have lasting damage from seeing that. Definitely. If elves are supposed to break when they see blood and/or gore, he should be so far gone he doesn’t know where he started, but maybe he’s just cool like that. Or the exilium training did that. Or the Neverseen has made him desensitized to things. 

    Or watching Sharknado every time Garwin manages to claim the remote…maybe Alvar and Ruy have a point about his choice in media to consume.

    Nah. They just don’t understand the concept of so-bad-it’s-funny. 

    The Second One--no, seriously, that’s the subtitle--in all of its horrific magnificence comes out while Alvar is notably still absent, and while it may be sacrilege to watch it without him, the sharknado is too strong and Garwin is too weak to resist temptation.    

    The Celestial Festival finally comes on October seventh and eighth because nights do that sometimes so long as google is to be trusted to know what day it is. 

    But what happens during the Celestial Festival is nowhere near according to plan, instead being filled with fucked up troll babies. 

    Garwin is assigned the job of floating around in the crowd at the festival itself because he’s a useless pathetic human, so he gets the privilege of watching both of his boyfriends risk their lives in glorious technicolor. 

    Ruy escapes unharmed aside from a bit of splatter from Umber and a shit ton of inevitable nightmares, but Alvar is another story. 

    In all of the chaos, his memories are returned, so he’s left to figure all that shit on his own while avoiding mutant trolls, both the newly hatched ones and the ones named Fitz. 

    And it turns out, the one named Fitz is the one to watch out for. Who would have thought? This would have been a great time for an I told you so if it wasn’t so fucking terrifying. 

    Garwin starts praying to every single god he can think of, from human ones to the entire fucking troll pantheon and even Ogdy of the gnomes because apparently they have their own tree god thing, not just the magic four seasons tree thing. 

    If there’s such a being that can control the fate of the universe like that, he hopes it has a sense of humor because that’s the only way out of this. 

    He ignores Gisela’s screeching and leaps to Candleshade--their pre-discussed meeting place should shit go down--because shit has most certainly gone down and begins pacing. It’s not long before Ruy arrives, but it could’ve been hours for how long it felt. 

    Hours feel like years until the first rays of dawn begin flickering across the horizon and a troll goopy Alvar-shaped mound shambles toward them. 

    Garwin won’t admit it, but tears escape his eyes when he sees Alvar and tackles him in a hug that probably was a bad idea in hindsight. 

    A shower and a hot meal can do a lot to revitalize a person. That being said, the hot meal is Kraft mac and cheese, so it’s not exactly the most homecooked of meals, but it's better than burning a kitchen down. Even if Keefe would absolutely fucking love seeing its childhood home burned to the ground, it’s much more fun when the arson is intentional. 

    There’s no way to tell how bad the reaction from the Neverseen will be or if they’re even technically members anymore after everything that’s gone down. So, being the semi-responsible one of them by comparison, Ruy figures they should stock up on food, and that means human food because the gnomes are still pissed about the whole attempted genocide thing.

    Which, in all fairness, does make sense. 

    While he’s gone, Garwin and Alvar make themselves at home by borrowing into one of the bedrooms, becoming so blanket burritoed it’s likely they’ll never be seen again. 

    Garwin cups his hand to Alvar’s cheek, whispering, “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

    Alvar presses a soft kiss to his lips. “Thanks.”

    Normally he’d be full of sarcasm, but this time it’s genuine and that scares Garwin more than he’d like to admit. 

    Because once the sardonic walls are gone, then actual emotions may have to be accessed, and that’s not fun. 

    “How are you doing? Considering everything?”

    “Great.”

    He’s fine. That means he’s fine. 

    It’s easier thought than believed though. 

    Alvar elaborates, “I mean I couldn’t really figure out why my brother hated my guts so much the entire time I had zero memories or why the fuck Darek was so hot because apparently I forgot gay was an option.”

    Garwin laughs, remembering the near-fistfight that ensued between Ruy and Alvar over which of the councillors is most fuckable and let’s just say it became a forbidden topic. And also good motivation for taking the government down because they aren’t fucksble until that stupid no relationships rule is abolished. 

    Well, technically, nothing happens so long as you don’t get caught, but that’s beside the point. 

    And for the record, Darek’s the hot one. Ruy can suck Terik’s dick but that doesn’t change the truth. 

    “Lots of confusion overall. Still trying to put the pieces back together because they are nowhere near chronological order. Also feeling a lot of emotions in this Chili’s tonight and it’s been a while since I’ve had emotions so I’m still trying to deal with that.”

    “Would you like me to go harass some other room in this place?”        

    “No!” he answers, too loud and too fast, terror shining in his eyes. 

    Garwin takes his hand, squeezing gently. 

   Alvar takes a shaky breath. “Don’t leave me alone. I don’t want--I can’t think about being in that place again. You’re a good distraction.”

    “Everglen or the Troll hive?”

    “Yes.” Alvar smirks. “Both of them have my murderous little brother, so is there really that much of a difference? Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of him for willing to do what needs to be done, but that anger can be aimed in a better direction.”

    “I feel like it would be funny if you were like ‘I lived, bitch’ and then sent him ideas of how to be more of an anarchist.”

   Alvar smiles--the first since his return. “Hey, Fitz, I know you tried to kill me but here’s a to-do list. One: realize like half your anger is just repressed queerness and you’re pissed because I have two whole boyfriends and you’ve got that probably comphet whatever the fuck is going on with Sophie. Two: fuck up that matchmaking system because damn the eugenics are strong with this one. Three: figure out how to ask out that Dex kid you were so insistent about for reasons likely related to item one. Four: profit.”

    “Is the Dex kid the strawberry blond that’s for some reason friends with the Sophie?”

    “Good job, you remembered one person’s name. I’m proud of you.”

    He’s only at three-quarters the normal sarcasm level, which is, once again, honest-to-god terrifying. 

    He just needs time. Everything will be fine. He’s had a long day. He’ll be his usual asshole self in no time. 

    It’s just hard to not worry when he’s been gone for so incredibly fucking long. 

    What if something during that time has messed him up? He doesn’t seem to care that his brother literally tried to kill him, but what if he’s simply in denial? What will it be like when it becomes real?

    What if Alden’s presence made him regress back into the closet? Nah. He seems just as gay as ever. That’s the only thing Garwin has any confidence in. 

    What about the council? They kept him in their prison for weeks on end and there’s no telling how many violations of the Geneva convention they could’ve committed, even despite the elves’ supposed inability to process violence. 

    Those councillors could’ve just wiped their own memories afterwards, and no one would be the wiser. Or used Goblins. And if Alvar chose to come forward about it--which seems unlikely now that he has his memories, he’d instead use it as fuel for his villain backstory--it would be his word against theirs, a surefire way to lose a legal battle. 

    “Hey, don’t hurt yourself. Think any harder and you might have smoke coming out your ears.”

    See? Right there? He’s fine. But, once again, easier thought than believed. 

    He was fine after Dimitar’s torture, he’ll be fine after this. That’s what Garwin has to convince himself. Because he can’t let himself imagine what it means otherwise.

    Alvar drifts off to sleep, and Garwin spends a long time studying his face, etching every last detail into his mind. His long eyelashes, his unusually unkempt hair, the stubble that’s just barely starting to make itself visible. His shamkniv scars. 

    He’s been through more shit than elves are supposed to be able to go through, but he’s still here. 

    And the cherry on top: he’s still an ass. 

    He is all right, at first. He’s all right for weeks. Some may argue that he’s even more insufferable than usual, but that could just be because both Ruy and Alvar became used to not having to deal with his snark every day. 

    Although, to be fair, they have had to tolerate each other, so it wasn’t that much of a break. It’s just funny when Alvar drops some deranged bullshit that’s a direct consequence of growing up with Alden. Like his stories of traveling in the human world. Man’s a fucking professional con artist to feed his caffeine addiction. 

    And then he starts to slow down, unnoticeably at first but accelerating faster than anyone would like to admit, taking more time to climb up the stars, his appetite going to shit, having a normal sleep schedule for once in his life. The occasional nap. 

    Garwin can see in Ruy’s eyes that he’s noticed the same things, but maybe if they don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist.

    By the time Sophie and Keefe come crashing over to look for god knows what, Alvar is barely strong enough to light leap. How he doesn’t completely fade away is anyone’s guess. 

     Garwin wishes he could just duct tape all of Alvar’s particles-cells-molecules-quarks together, but apparently that’s not how that works. Also duct tape probably wouldn’t be a safe choice for keeping an organic lifeform’s parts together, but that’s less of a concern. 

    And they’ve all simply agreed to not talk about it via the lack of talking about it because they’re all firmly in the first stage of grief and not going anywhere anytime soon. 

    To someone who hasn’t gone through losing a whole ton of people in his life, Garwin can’t help but draw parallels to when his grandfather passed away about a year before he came to the lost cities. 

    Three weeks in the hospital. 

    The day-to-day details are fuzzy, even having hope most of the time, unlike with Alvar. But Garwin never went to see his grandfather. His parents wanted to protect him or something. But that���s a luxury he can’t afford this time, watching Alvar slowly decay like a zombie in front of his eyes. 

    There has to be a cure or a treatment or something we can do. This is elvin medicine for fuck’s sake! They always advertize how advanced they are compared to humans, but they can’t fucking fix this so what’s the point? 

    I’d give anything for him to be alright. I don’t care what it takes. 

    I got a lot of people I can blame. 

    And Sophie, you better believe you aren’t going to fucking take anything else from me. 

[whump-town]

A Matter of Trust

I do really hate this fic but but it’s whatever and I’m tired of looking at it. I have homework to do so it just is what it is. This probably takes place pre-season one.

Here’s the Derek and Hotch fic:

“Derek!”

Morgan stops dead in his tracks, spinning on his heel to see who it is jogging down the hall after him. JJ with her blond hair tied back in a messy ponytail is hurrying towards him. He watches it swish back and forth over her shoulders. Pressed to her chest is an assortment of papers, only some bound by the traditional manila folders their work is found in. She puffs out a breath, slightly winded, as she nears him. “What can I do for you?” he asks.

She extends the pile of papers, “can you take these to Agent Hotchner?”

He bottles the immediate frustration he experiences. Mostly because he’s not frustrated with her and Gideon is always riding his ass about his “displacement” of emotions. To which, Morgan really wants to suggest Gideon take his Freudian ideology and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. Yet, he knows this would be falling directly into the displacement Gideon is talking about. Besides, JJ is a saint and a little scary (if he’s honest), and keeping himself on her good side is ideal.

So, he accepts the papers. “Sure,” he says with a smile. “That’s no problem. Anything else?”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “No,” she answers, simply. “Not unless you can call the Washington branch and explain, again, that we are not needed in their arson case.” She rubs at her forehead, fingers creating the stress wrinkles she’s certainly feeling. “Agent Hotchner sent them a profile last week but they really want him to come down there.”

Morgan hums, nodding. He’s aware of that particular issue. Everyone wants them somewhere and they never want just the profile being offered, they always want someone down there. Which, until JJ was hired, was a problem Hotch had taken on. He devoted time to explain that they didn’t have the agents or the time to send someone out for every minor issue. There are three profiles in the entire unit. The sexism that JJ faces with this now as her job is infuriating and Morgan finds himself blaming Hotch for that.

The man has been doing that job for years, why hasn’t he warned her better? Taken to feeling some of the calls himself to throw a little bit of that temper at them?

Then there’s the issue of this “Agent Hotchner” nonsense. No one, not a single agent that Morgan knows, calls Hotch anything but Hotch. Hell, a good fifty percent of the time, Gideon calls him by his first name. So, where does Hotch get off on having JJ call him Agent Hotchner?

Morgan feels for her but mostly, he feels anger.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with that,” Morgan says, shaking his own head. “Come get me if you need me to shake them up a little?”

JJ smiles because she appreciates the gesture but shakes her head, denying the offer. “Don’t worry about it,” she assures him. “It’s being handled.”

What Morgan doesn’t know is that Hotch is calling Washington and JJ doesn’t need both of them calling up to chew out the branch. The way that Morgan feels is not unwarranted and it’s protective… really, it’s sweet. He’s known Hotch for years and he’s willing to toss all of the trust he has in his partner out the door for a woman he’s known for about a month. Mostly because he grew up with two sisters and he knows how men in power can be.

(And, in part, because it seems unrealistic that Hotch is as nice and forgiving as he always seems to be).

“Oh!” JJ cringes, wincing as she realizes that she has forgotten something. “Heads up,” she offers, “I think you guys are heading out for a case.”

Morgan sighs but nods, “okay.” Great, he thinks, a case is the last thing he wants to deal with right now. If there’s one thing he’s learned on this job it’s that there is no such thing as a break.

And sure enough…

“We’re going to Arlington.”

Arlington? That’s only about an hour’s drive from the offices.

Hotch hands Gideon and Morgan both a file, stepping backflip his own open. He flips through it, never even flinching at the pictures his eyes scan over. “They have a serial arsonist,” he mumbles, allowing them just enough time to come to this conclusion on their own. “He’s not escalating but there are no clear signs of remorse or a cooling-off period.”

Gideon hums at this, thoughtfully examining the pictures himself. His lack of comment is an agreeance.

“It’s all women,” Morgan notes with a frown, looking up with Hotch. “Arson-Homicide cases with a death caused by burns and fire is… it’s not actually-- Statistically speaking, arson-related deaths caused by direct burns wounds, and fire are averagely male. The fact that all these women died of direct wounds like this, all of them, that’s strange.”

Gideon hums, leaning back in his chair as he shifts around. “There are no defense wounds either,” he pulls his glasses up. “If you want to talk statistics,” Gideon says, glancing over to Morgan. “Most women are wounded or killed and then burned. To get rid of evidence or as a means of disposal. That is not what he’s doing here.”

Most are killed with bladed weapons but Morgan doesn’t feel the need to add that. It does add to the strangeness but he’s certain if he goes on too much about that Gideon will no longer be amused with his knowledge. So he looks to Hotch, waiting for him to guide them a little more.

“I think Morgan and I can handle this.”

Morgan glares at him. That sounds like an awful idea.

Gideon looks up, though he says nothing, he’s thinking the same thing. For a different reason than Morgan. Gideon knows how Morgan is. He’s a brilliant agent but just like Hotch their aspects of him that need to be worked on. Ironed out. Hotch’s temper is getting there and his need to keep everyone at arm’s length. Morgan has that pesky trust. It’s always trust. Especially his trust in Hotch. Gideon watches their relationship. The way the two men push and pull-- Hotch hesitant to let Morgan near and Morgan just waiting for Hotch to shatter his fragile relationship.

“Go,” Gideon finally decides. “I’m sure I can hold the fort down without you.”

Hotch nods and Morgan just… stares. This is such a bad idea.

Gideon smacks the table, standing with a nod. “Good luck and… best behavior, okay?”

They work well together but not when Morgan’s looking for something to pick apart.

-------------

Fuck Arlington and fuck Hotch.

His best behavior is all he can manage. Reasonably, Morgan knows that if all of his searching turns up nothing then that should lead to the explanation that there is nothing wrong with Hotch. However, the part of him hurt time and time again by men that he trusted… he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Which path will Hotch take?

“Derek!” Hotch knows, more or less, that he’s currently being tested. On what, he’s not certain but he doesn’t try to figure it out. Whatever it, he’s sure he and Morgan will be fine. He smiles, softly and hardly there, and nods his head towards their SUV. “You wanna drive?”

Morgan catches the keys against his chest. Bastard, he thinks. He’s starting to feel bad about the strength of distrust, hate, and pain he’s been to Hotch. He’s not even been helpful to the investigation. If Hotch were anyone else, he’d have pulled Morgan off this case and sent him home.

Morgan doesn’t want to unpack that too much.

“Sheriff, if you and your deputy take the back door, Agent Morgan and I can cover the front.”

And just like that, they’re partnered off and storming into the Unsub’s home. It was an easy enough case. Not too demanding so… naturally, things can’t be that easy. Something has to go wrong.

Hotch sees it first. It has nothing to do with who has more training or who was paying more attention. There’s just this raise the hairs on the back of your arms type of fear that digs into the nerves shooting down his back. A twist in his stomach and this very instinctual, primal knowledge. The type he grew up perfecting. He knows with certainty that the room is bad, dangerous. The same way he could step into his childhood home and feel his father’s drunken belligerence from the door.

“Out!”

Morgan jumps, flinching at the sudden order. For a stunning moment, all he can do is stare back at Hotch.

“Get out!” Hotch reaches out, grabbing Morgan by his shoulders and pushing.

He’s stronger than he looks and Morgan nearly falls with the force. He stumbles, dumbly as he takes a few steps towards the door. All he can see is the sun’s blinding rays right in his eyes, eating the hole of the door like a ring of fire. It’s blinding. The pitch of the ground is purely his imagination. The world keeps spinning and he remains in spot, watching and being herded with the other agents. A cop smashes into his shoulder and all he can hear is Hotch’s voice. Repeating himself he pushes them. Commands they leave.

He lands heavily on the grass, two hands pushing at his back, and he watches-- eyes wide and confused-- as the entire compound goes up.

“No!” He’s disconnected, his mouth open and he can hear his scream tear from his throat, but he doesn’t feel it. Nothing. Just the arms wrapping around his hips and pulling him off his feet, stopping him from blindly throwing himself back towards the fire. The heat of which, even from the distance he’d managed put between them, he can feel painfully licking up his face. “No,” he throws himself like a child in every direction that he can. “No! Aaron! Hotch! Hotch!”

The flames don’t die but whoever is holding him back caves and he’s released. The second that his feet hit the ground he’s tearing off in the direction of the flames. Moving around scattered debris. “Hotch!” He’s searching through the mess. “Hotch, say something, man!” There’s nothing. Just dirt, fire, and soot. Until-- “Fuck!” Morgan tears through the wreckage. One hand raised palm up and that stupid white starched shirt. “Hotch?”

He falls roughly to his knees, kicking up dirt as he does so. His fingers pry at the metal roofing laying across Hotch. Hissing at the heat that blisters his skin and where the warped edge cuts into his fingers. He manages to move it with a loud curse, paying it no more attention. He freezes for a moment-- everything he’s ever learned about first aid is screaming through his head. Hissing out and pouring down his ears. Not a bit of it is any damn good.

“H--Hotch?” With a shaking hand, Morgan presses his fingers under Hotch’s chin, startlingly back when Hotch’s eyes blink open. They’re unfocused, darting as he struggles to keep them open and direct them to a single, solid thing. “Hey, hey,” Morgan greets, shifting so he can lean closer beside him. He presses his palm to Hotch’s cheek, smiling when Hotch’s eyes slowly land on him. “You scared me there for a second,” Morgan whispers, breathlessly, shaking his head.

Pinching his eyes, Hotch groans, turning his head as he writhes in place. He whimpers, a soft sob tearing from his paling lips. Morgan blanches in horror, unable to move, unable to think as Hotch coughs up blood. An alarming amount of blood just pouring out of his mouth. All over the crisp, starched white of his dress shirt. Weak, hardly controlled movement turns frantic and Morgan is frozen in fear as he watches.

Bloodied and an angry red, Hotch’s hands raise to his throat-- hand, while the right scratches deep contusions into the tender skin on his neck the left remains limply pale and unresponsive on the ground. Morgan pulls Hotch’s hand away, working his own finger between the collar of Hotch’s shirt. He’s shaking, terrified. His own hands are uncoordinated and he struggles with the tiny button keeping Hotch’s shirt so tightly pinned.

“Okay, okay,” Morgan pulls Hotch up-- the last thing on his mind the array of spinal related injuries he might be fucking up worse by pulling Hotch up. He pins Hotch to his chest, keeping him from pitching forward as he coughs up large globs of blood. Blood laden drool falling out of his parted blue lips.

Morgan runs his hand across Hotch’s chin, wiping the blood off and then onto his ruined jeans.

“Derek?”

Morgan looks over his shoulder, scanning the field behind him for any sign of help.

“Derek.”

Morgan turns back, “what?”

The dark circles under Hotch’s eyes are made startlingly apparent by the pale, colorless tone of his face. Looking down, Hotch guides Morgan’s gaze to his bloodied right hand, slowly he moves his hands away from his stomach and reveals a thick, crimson stain.

“Fuck.”

Hotch swallows audibly and Morgan can see the haze falling over Hotch’s eyes. Eyelids drooping. Morgan pulls Hotch to his shoulder, letting him rest his cheek there. Unmercifully, Morgan presses into the wound and apologies profusely when Hotch weakly fights against him. Crying softly at the pain. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Morgan tries to shut out his thoughts but it’s futile. All he can think about is how hard Hotch is shaking. His body cool to the touch. Morgan's aware of how naturally cold Hotch runs but his hand-- Hotch’s right limply laying against where Morgan’s keeping pressure on his stomach-- is cold. Like he’s been out in the cold too long.

“Morgan?” Hotch slurs his name out, moving himself slowly like he’s trying to get up.

Morgan effortlessly wraps him back up and pulls him down. Using his own legs to pin Hotch’s hips. An old wrestling trick he’d learned years and years ago on his sisters. At twelves discovering that move had been eye-opening and he’d have no idea that he’d be using it some twenty years later. “Stay still,” Morgan hushes.

“What happened?”

Morgan freezes… “There was an explosion,” he explains, trying to prompt Hotch into remembering. “You got us out, you remember, right? You saw it.”

Hotch doesn’t remember but that confession takes the back burner as paramedics swarm them.

Morgan tries not to panic when Hotch is guided out of his arms and strapped down to the stretcher. They secure his body with straps and Morgan wants to stop them but he knows this is not’ within his control. “It’s okay,” Morgan soothes. Hotch’s eyes are darting madly to keep up with all the changes, his breathing becoming distressed.

The paramedics hoist him up and Morgan follows quickly on shaking legs.

“Easy, Hotch. They’re just trying to help.”

Whimpering Hotch tries to protect his head, knees curling up towards his bruised ribs. His eyes pinched shut, he tries to move away from the EMTs attaching leads to his chest and pushing sedatives into the line they’d started. The hand that Morgan pushes into Hotch’s shoulder, the only thing keeping him from writhing himself off the stretcher, steadies him just the faintest.

“D--Derek?”

Morgan leans down near Hotch, watching the EMT strap his hips down to the stretcher, not liking how squirmy Hotch is getting. “I’m right here,” he promises. He soothes a hand through Hotch’s sweat-soaked hair. Not surprised to find the faintest resistance of dried blood in the strands. “You’re okay, Hotch. We’re taking you to the hospital to get you checked over, okay?”

Hotch’s eyes dart, taking in everything and seemingly nothing. “Don’t,” he pleads softly. “I don’t want to go back--” his sentence is cut off by his strangled cry. His entire body tenses, both hands clutching at his head.

“Agent Hotchner,” one of the paramedics calls. “You’re experiencing some anxiety and mild discomfort. It’s causing your oxygen and blood pressure to elevate so I’m going to give you something to calm you down, okay? It’s going to be much easier to breathe.”

Morgan watches the liquid descend into the IV. Jumping when Hotch growls, shouting hoarsely as it enters his body. He sobs, kicking out as much as he can given his limited freedoms. Morgan is frozen in fear and uncertainty, having no idea what he can do to help. He’s forced to watch Hotch’s fighting die. His breathing deepening from his short pants. His eyelids flutter.

Slowly, his legs fall back down on the stretcher, limply turned outwards. His hand flexes once, twice before his anxious grip on Morgan’s hand falls still.

The paramedic places a mask over Hotch’s face.

Morgan wants to cry as Hotch’s eyes slide over to look at him, no sound leaving his parted lips. Just watching Morgan, silently pleading. “I’m sorry,” he offers.

Hotch’s eyes slip shut, he turns his head away.

“Stay with us Agent Hotchner.”

There’s a loud banging on the side of the ambulance and the doors are thrown open.

“Agent Hotchner approximately mid-thirties, experiancing some mild tachycardia a possible--”

Morgan is following numbly along when two hands plant themselves on his chest. Stopping him in his progression. “I--I--”

The nurse shakes her head, “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m going to need you to sit in the waiting room. We’ll call you when you can come back.”

Right.

Right.

Morgan sits down in the waiting room and pulls out his phone. He’s got to call Gideon and Haley… Oh, God. Haley.

Eventually, they do call him back to see Hotch. It’s nearly four hours later and surrounded by the meager remains of the team and Haley Morgan doesn’t go back. Haley and Gideon do, though Haley does try to get him to come back.

“I’m-- I’m good.”

-------------

“You can’t avoid him forever.”

Derek Morgan is flipping through a magazine in the waiting room of Saint Sebastian's hospital. Without looking up, he knows it’s Haley standing just a few feet away from him. Her body leaned against the opposite wall and arms wrapped around her chest. He doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t pay her any more mind than he has to. “Avoiding who?’ he asks.

Hotch.

Haley pushes herself off the wall and takes the chair beside him. Her trust in him is unwavering and her understanding of him is scarily accurate. “He knows,” she tells Morgan. “He knows that you’re avoiding him and that you’re out here blaming yourself.” She tucks her arms around her chest and leans back in the chair. “It bothers him. Mostly, I think, because he can’t do anything about it.”

She starts to pick at her nails. It’s not just an observation, she knows that’s how he feels. Since most of the sedatives have been lifted, Hotch has been antsy. Easy to work up and harder to calm down. Stuck there in that room, anxiety through the roof, and Derek out of sight-- it’s starting to get to him. They’re steadily working to a point where she’s certain the doctors are going to start sedating him again. Anything to keep him from moving around and getting so worked up.

The nightmares are bad enough.

“It shouldn’t,” is Morgan’s simple reply. “I’m not avoiding him.”

Haley hums. How did she get surrounded by such hard-heads? Her silly husband and the mischief he attracts… Pushing herself up out of the chair, she yawns into her fist. She’s pulled the night shift with Hotch all week. There when he wakes up thrashing and confused from nightmares and still there when he’s hit with insomnia and stairs at the ceiling all night. She’s his only comfort. The first person he cries out for and she sees that look in the other’s eyes.

She knows that not a single one of them wants their names to be yelled. And it is hard to see him like this. So confused and lacking any of the authorities and shields that typically drive him so distant. She lets it go knowing that they will step up in their own turn, they just need time.

“Well,” she rubs her eyes and sighs. “Either way, avoiding him or not. He’s in his room. I’m leaving. No one’s going to be in there for at least two hours.” This is the nail in the coffin: she knows Morgan can’t stand by and do nothing-- “You don’t have to but he hates being alone, won’t admit but it’s true. I’m sure he’ll be relieved if you go in there and sit with him.”

Derek glares at her back.

“Have a good afternoon, Derek.”

Derek Morgan is not avoiding Hotch. He isn’t.

Really.

He isn’t.

He just… can’t go in there.

Hovering just outside the door, fingers brushing against the paper labeling the room as Hotch’s, Morgan stands. He can hear the machines snaking in and out of his friend from here. That heart monitor tracking the pace of his heart and the hiss of the IV line and oxygen canal. Morgan hasn’t even seen Hotch since they were separated in the emergency room. He doubts too much as changed.

Stepping into the room takes an abhorrent amount of courage. It takes, even more, to keep going.

Tired eyes crack open, darting along the room as Hotch struggles to identify the new movement in the room. Seeing Morgan he calms, instantly sinking back into the pillows and the alarm in his eyes calming. Eyelids sliding back into a hazed, sleepy state.  “Morgan,” his voice cracks, hoarse from disuse.

He’s got the worst case of bed head Morgan has seen on a human being. His normally gelled into place closely cropped hair is loosely laying wherever it wants on his head. It reminds Morgan of how young Hotch really is. In his prime for a family, no grey hair in sight. Too young to die.

“Hey man.” A little awkward, Morgan takes the seat by his bed. Sitting so his back is against the plastic-- putting as much room as possible between himself and Hotch without it being painfully obvious.

Hotch grunts, clearly disoriented, but not caving to his screaming body. Morgan’s here now and he needs to find it within himself to have this conversation. He just--

Biting down against his pained whimper, Hotch writhes at the pain eating its way through his body. Blinded for too many seconds and only aware of the heat and his body desperately trying to move away from the source of pain. Stiffening and rigid, he can feel his grasp on the situation rapidly dwindling. He holds his breath to try and abate the pain, more of a half-conscious decision that makes his eyes roll back into his head and--

“Hotch!” Morgan looks frantically between Hotch’s limp body and the howling monitors. “Hotch!”

A nurse steps in, stethoscope already making its way to her ears. “Sir, I’m going to need you to leave.” She doesn’t wait for Morgan to listen before hooking her finger in Hotch’s ill-fitting gown top. Pulling it from his torso so she can guide the end of the instrument along his chest.

Hotch’s eyes flutter back open, his breathing hitching at the feeling of the cold metal touching his aching chest. “N-No,” he rasps, trying and failing to get away. He’s too weak, too disoriented to push his body from the nurses. But to him, there is no nurse. Just pain and metal and -- and then…

“Hotch.” Morgan.

His eyes focus slowly. The rest of the world is sinking in. Morgan’s hand on his face and the other gripping his gown sleeve tightly.

“Hey,” Morgan greets, head shaking. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Blinking dumbly, Hotch just looks back at him. The pain is still throbbing. Just behind his ears, this stabbing feeling. As he blinks, the light beaming down at him, he can hardly force his eyes on Morgan. Hardly open them at all. His mouth is dry but he still parts his chapped lips and forces himself to stay here a moment longer. “You… been gone.” He slurs, turning his head he looks around the room. “Couldn’t… couldn’t find you.”

Morgan tries not to let that hit him like a ton of bricks. “I was just…” avoiding you. “I was out thinking. Walking.”

One of those bloodshot eyes is peeled open, a boyish, crooked grin pulling one half of his face up. “Didn’t know you did that,” Hotch whispers, “thinking.”

Morgan rolls his eyes, knowing that if anyone else had said that he would have slugged them in the shoulder. But he’s never once done that to Hotch, not even when he deserved it. Which is really because that’s crossing a line. A playful hit is nothing to the likes of the other men in the office. He might even get by doing it to Garcia or JJ but Hotch is… It’s different. He knows, though he’s not supposed to profile amidst the team, that if he moves too quickly, if he coils back, Hotch will flinch.

Not… it’s just, he doesn’t know how to explain it. He just knows the way Hotch flinches back is different and after observing that the first time, Morgan’s never done it again.

“Shut up,” Morgan grumbles. Softly, he takes Hotch’s right hand, eyes glances to that limp, braced and wrapped left one, before swallowing thickly. “Get some rest, man. I’ll--” the words are coming out so quickly he doesn’t even think about it.  “I’ll be here when you wake up, okay? We can talk more.”

Hotch nods, pale lips still cracked open. Drowsily he mumbles, “won’t… won’t go running off on me?”

Morgan squeezes his hand, “no. No, I’ll stay.”

“...k…”

-------------

Morgan wakes and immediately blushes hard at the state of the room. His only comfort is that Hotch is also sleeping but even then, Hotch is drugged and injured. Morgan clears his throat as he sits up, looking around the room. Watching the other’s seemingly unaware of him. Which is also a relief. It’s unnerving to be asleep in a room full of awake people.

“I brought everyone tea,” JJ offers softly. She’s got the cups in a cardboard holder, shyly showing them. “I got Agent Hotchner Earl Grey,” she tells Haley. “It’s probably too hot for him to have and I don’t even know if he can--”

Haley stands, there’s this ease about her that Morgan has always been in awe of. She’s so gentle, effortlessly. The kind of hospitality and love that makes anyone near her calm and Morgan has always easily understood exactly what it is that draws a man like Hotch to her. Hotch is just six feet of pent up nerves. Morgan’s always enjoyed being privy to their relationship. To see Haley’s instinctual grounding of Hotch.

“He hates it when you call him Agent Hotchner,” Haley chides softly. She presses her hand into JJ’s arm, a simple comforting gesture. “And I’m sure he’ll appreciate the tea.”

Morgan feels a knot form in his throat. He’d stupidly assumed Hotch had asked JJ to call him Agent Hotchner and what a silly thing to think. God, why has he been so keen to find something to hate about Hotch? Why does he want to start something so bad with him?

“Tea?”

Morgan looks up and JJ’s tilting the box his way, offering him the last remaining one. He takes the tea with the nod of his head, rubbing his eye with the other. “Sure, thanks.”

“Is Hotch gonna be alright?” Garcia asks.

Morgan gets transfixed in watching Garcia scratch at the cup. Her brightly painted nails against the brown of the cup. Again, he’d accused Hotch, in his head, of misogyny. This idea that Hotch might unequally treat JJ and Garcia than him and Gideon but… Was it not Hotch who bought Garcia that exact shade of neon pink on her nails, right now?

He’d showed it to Morgan that morning in the office. The day before the director had commented on Garcia’s attire and implied that it would be considered unprofessional. She’d looked heartbroken and Hotch shattered just to see that but she’d changed. And the next day had come in slacks and a button up shirt that just looked… so unlike her. So Hotch had gone out on his lunch break in search of something, anything to make her look more like herself.

And it’s Hotch who despite Gideon warning him against it, has been fighting everyday since to allow Garcia to wear what she wants. Together, she’s acquired the perfect little style that walks the line. She’s professionally dressed just brightly so.

Morgan’s so enraptured that he misses that the room’s attention has mostly turned to beside him. He sits up, attentively taking in Hotch’s appearance. His head is turned, looking at Haley. Watching her and listening to whatever it is that she’s whispering. Morgan’s heart pounds in his chest when he hears Hotch rasp his name.

“He’s right beside you,” Haley promises, brushing her fingers through her husband’s hair. “He’s right here, Aaron. He didn’t go anywhere.”

Hotch turns, eyes moving over Gideon, JJ, and Garcia. “You stayed,” he smiles when he sees Morgan.

Hotch is looking back at him, far more there than he had been some few hours ago. He’s still beaten to hell and Morgan can’t fathom why it is that he’d just assume that Hotch would magically heal with a few hours sleep. “I promised, didn’t I?” he manages.

Hotch raises an eyebrow and hums in agreeance and Morgan is glad for that minimal interaction. The first real proof that the real Hotch is back.

“Want some tea?” Haley offers.

Hotch shakes his head. He clears his throat and pushes at the blanket pulled up to his chest. “Gotta use the bathroom.”

Morgan stands up, numbly falling into the same pattern as everyone else. Gideon moves the chairs in between the bed from the bathroom. JJ helping Haley pull the blankets out of his way. Morgan pulls down the guardrail.

“Easy,” Haley whispers. She uses her own hands to brace his body as Hotch sits up. Slowly, they work his legs over the side and he just needs to stand up. “Do you want me or--”

“Morgan,” Hotch whispers, smally. He looks up vulnerably and Morgan doesn't hesitate to slide in beside him.

Morgan wraps his arm around Hotch’s hip, holding tightly to the wrist Hotch has over his shoulder. “Alright,” Morgan whispers to himself. “Are you sure?”

Hotch nods, “I trust you.”

Morgan stops. He swallows thickly and glances up at Hotch before nodding. “Okay.” I trust you. “One step at a time,” Morgan assures. Though, he’s not sure if he’s talking to himself or Hotch. One step at a time. Morgan’s not so sure but Hotch is confident that eventually the two of them will be alright. Trust is hard but it has to be earned and Hotch is willing to do anything to earn Morgan’s trust.

“Almost there.”

[chronic-ghost]

Au where kate is a police officer but she falls in love with Seth despite knowing he is a criminal

(what, she wrote something that’s not a bazillion unnecessary words long? who is this?)

              “Lights up!”

A brilliant glare lit up thesmall concrete room beyond the glass and the six figures along the wall blinkedagainst the harsh beam. Unconsciously, her eyes fell down the line to numberfive. He was still scowling into the light, his clothes rumpled and his hairmussed. Kate bit her tongue and hid the blooming smirk behind her Styrofoam cupof burnt coffee.

Her partner fortunately didn’tsee this.

              “Alright, Mr. Vakesh, take your time,” Kisa said, herarms crossed, standing near the fuming shop owner. “Look at every face, try andremember what he—,”

              “The man had a ski-mask! I told you this before!” Hewaved, frustrated, at the mirror. “They are all the same!”

How Kisa managed to look thisawake and ready to arrest the devil himself at five thirty in the morning was amystery Kate had long ago stopped attempting to answer. After three yearsworking the Houston beat together, Kisa’s most consistent response was herpreference as a night owl. Kate shook her head and tried to muster the strengthto continue the office swill.

              “That’s fine, Mr. Vakesh, but do you remember his height?His build? Anything he said.”

The shop-owner rubbed hisstubble along his chin and glared across the wide space. “He was … nervous.Fidgeting with the gun. He had a big gut.”

Kate took a sip, a smalleyebrow raised. Well, that eliminated several of the perps on this particularlineup, especially number five. Seth Gecko was many things and fidgety with agun was not one of them.

Mr. Vakesh of the local OneStop’s spent another twenty minutes peering through the light and into each ofthe faces. The overseeing officer had the lineup turn this way and that andjust after six, Mr. Vakesh identified number three as the man who robbed hisliquor store and the entire backroom breathed a silent sigh of relief.Robberies tended to consist of a lot of paperwork, knocking on doors, and mostof them ended here at a lineup. Tied up with a bow, nice and easy.

The man identified was CarlosVasquez, a well-known occasional errand boy for the local mob and life-time pothead.Kate supposed Seth could have been mistaken for Vasquez, if Seth was aboutfifteen years older with the body of a fry cook.

Kate chunked the now-chilledcup of caffeine-flavored oil into the trash can and smiled at Kisa as a uniformled Mr. Vakesh out of the room to take a follow-up statement.

              “Great line up you found there,” Kate said and noddedas the rest of the five slowly meandered out of the concrete room.

Seth was rubbing his eyeswith his palms as he shuffled after a short man who was falling asleep on hisfeet.

              “Any particular reason you chose to put it togetherbefore even the birds are up?”

Kisa shrugged as she watchedwith a small smile on her face as she watched the overseeing officer clap ironson Vasquez.

              “Less of a fight if they’re half-asleep.”

Kate shrugged. “I see your point. Speaking of which … I’m not even going to ask if you want a cup ofcoffee.”

              “Good you caught on.”

Kate rolled her eyes, knowingthe bite was entirely perfunctory. She opened the door and tossed her braidover her shoulder, tiredness growing into a knot behind her eyes. Weaving inbetween uniforms and witnesses and reports on desks, Kate went out to the lobbywhere the coffee was incrementally better. Plus, there was more sugar.

The machine started hissingthe moment she turned it on but given that it was barely six, and the sun wasstill a pale pink streak in the sky, she was willing to risk the explosion.

Her head resting against thewall, her eyes began to fall closed.

She heard the rustling of thecups and she opened one eye to see number five tear open his own sugar packet.

              “You know that’s not for those fingered for liquorstore robberies?”

              “I’ve never robbed a liquor store in my life,” Sethsaid as he filled up the cup with black sludge. “And I resent the implication.”

              “Don’t blame me because you look like an out-of-shapedrug dealer.”

He cut his eyes over the rimas she filled up her own cup. “Is this because of the run-around last week overwhat-his-face?”

              “Robert Millhouse, a convicted arsonist, was on therun and you and your brother wasted the time of over three officers for morethan four hours, running them around, on a ‘hunch’—,”

              “Hmm, arson, such a messy profession—,”

              “Because armed robbery is such an in-and-out process—,”

              “It is if you do it right. Besides, I served my time.”

Kate rolled her eyes.

And promptly realized theywere standing inches from each other. His smirk was antagonistic.

She stepped back and a sip ofthe sludge, too hot in the back of her throat. She blamed that for the warmblush over her cheeks.

              “You look tired.”

              “Okay, Paunch Burger, that’s enough for the day—,”

              “I’m serious, Kate, are you sleeping enough?”

He leaned against the metalcart and frowned. Oh, he was a talented liar, feigning concern, she had to giveit to him.

              “I’d sleep better knowing the bad guys are where theydeserve to be.” She let a little ice flow into her words, but Seth only shrugged.

              “Which why makes you so good at your job, I’d imagine.”Seth’s scowl darkened after another taste of coffee. “Alright, you wanna getout of here?”

Kate’s heart disconnected andflipped backwards in her chest. “What?”

If he knew the affect he hadon her, he didn’t show. Seth tossed the half-empty cup into the trash. “Yourboys yanked me out of Jack’s just as we were closing, but Richie being fuckingRichie, I’m sure the son of a bitch is already opening up the doors again. Wantto grab breakfast?”

He was too casual, as thoughthere wasn’t this power disjunction between them. As though she hadn’t arrested him two years before, and consistently went to him for information on the seedy Houston criminal underbelly. Detectives didn’t makefriends with convicted criminals, and boy howdy, how her father disapprove ofhis Katie hanging out with anyone who even remotely looked like Seth Gecko.

              “First stack of pancakes is only half-off because Igot dragged down here at the ass-crack of dawn and I know you had something todo with it.” His mouth tugged up in the corners, and Kate could hear thewarning bells as clear as day. “But the coffee’s gonna be free because you’rejust so pretty.”

              “So you’re going legit? Working with your brother athis bar?”

Seth grinned, not missing hermisdirection. “Pay’s shit, but food’s better on the outside.” He reached intohis wallet and took out a card, as if she didn’t know exactly where to findhim. But on the back was his direct number.

              “Are you serious?” She gaped.

He shrugged. “Life’s a bitch,then you die. Too short to pretend I don’t like you.”

              “You’re a liar.”

              “You don’t think I like you?”

              “You’d double charge me for the coffee.”

Seth bit the corner of hismouth to prevent the smile from exploding across his face. “See you around,Katie-cakes.”

Kate watched him saunter outof the precinct, hands in his pockets and whistling a tune, into thebreaking dawn. She bit her nail, his card in her hand, and promised herself tokeep it far, far away from any bad drunk decisions.

Well, maybe not too far.