Retribution, A Spencer Reid/Criminal Minds Fanfic

Chapter 15. In the House of Hotchner

Hotch had been uncharacteristically obedient in Morgan’s opinion. Although grateful for the lack of opposition, he was suspicious and a little concerned.

When ten minutes passed and Hotch didn’t reappear, Morgan went upstairs in search of him. He found his boss trying to struggle his way out of his torn, blood-encrusted pants. The large swathe of gauze taped over the bullet wound in his thigh kept getting in the way. Morgan watched, giving his friend a chance to succeed in undressing himself. When it became apparent that the task was too much for him in his present condition, Morgan stepped in.

“Lean on me, Hotch.” He worked the ruined fabric away from the injury and pulled it down in careful, gentle increments.

Relieved of his pants, Hotch was much more comfortable. He gave the ragged remains a regretful look, reflecting that it was one more suit down the drain. Dressing to what he considered proper FBI code could be an expensive proposition. Morgan let the pants drop and cast a discerning eye on the next layer.

“Boxers off next?”

Hotch looked down at himself as best he could and shook his head. “I think they’re okay. I’ll leave them for now.”

Morgan chuckled. “Man, if it’d been me in that sicko’s sights and I’d heard him pull the trigger, I would’ve needed all kinds of clean underwear.”

Hotch managed a weak laugh, but the pain in his upper torso truncated it, turning it into a groan as he hunched his shoulders, trying to move away from the agony.

“Aw, Jeez. C’mon. Lemme see.” Morgan sat Hotch on the edge of his bed and removed the rest of his clothes, trying to minimize the discomfort each movement caused. When the undershirt had finally joined everything else in a pile on the floor, Morgan bent to inspect the damage.

It never ceased to amaze him how much worse bruises looked on skin as pale as Hotch’s. The same injury of course would have been just as painful, but, on Morgan’s tawny coloring, it would have looked much less grotesque. It was something for which he was eternally grateful every time he was the one who suffered wounds. As he noted the blackened, purple-rimmed patch of flesh covering half of the left pectoral muscle and extending down and across Hotch’s midriff and ribs, Morgan decided not to make the Unit Chief come downstairs again.

“You need help in the bathroom?”

Hotch shook his head. “No, thanks. Maybe some help getting there?”

“Sure.” The acquiescence and acceptance of aid wasn’t typical. Morgan’s wariness increased.

After supporting Hotch to the bathroom, Morgan went downstairs. He raided the fridge and, by the time Hotch had cleaned himself up and had gimped his way back to his bedroom, Morgan was waiting with a couple of sandwiches, a beer for himself and a glass of water for his leader. He also had the bag from the pharmacy they’d visited on the way home.

He expected at least some token argument when he settled Hotch in bed, propping him against his headboard and placing one of the sandwiches in his hand. His discomfiture increased even more when all the injured man did was stare at the food, glassy-eyed, and then begin to work his way through consuming it with dogged, if unenthusiastic, determination. He only managed to make it halfway, but Morgan had to concede he’d made a worthy effort.

The matter of the bag from the pharmacy brought back a spark of the old, resistant Hotch. Morgan uncapped the bottle of pills, shook one out and, palm extended, offered it to his friend. Hotch’s nostrils flared, as they always did when pills were involved…especially those whose aim was to manage pain. Morgan was prepared this time.