Title: Broken
Author: nebula99
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Rating: FRAO/NC-17
Type: Slash
Word Count: 5426
Pairing: Hotch/Reid
Summary: "Don't. Profile. Me." The words were sharply spoken, each syllable punctuating the air.
Prompt: Fight for cm_hotch_reid
A/N: Beta reading and cheerleading from the ever generous slash_girl

***

The hottest love has the coldest end.
Socrates

"Was that the last one?" asked Hotch, turning the DVD case over in his hand.

Reid nodded. "Mmm, on that disk anyway. Why - have you had enough for one night?"

Hotch gave a shrug. "I think four episodes is plenty for one evening."

"So," grinned Reid. "Convinced yet?"

"It's okay," said Hotch carefully. "I think I like the guy with the robot girlfriend the best. Not sure about Gwen."

Reid pursed his lips and nodded. "Everybody hates Gwen, I think." He gave Hotch a sly smile. "But you like Ianto, yeah? And Jack?"

Hotch sighed. "I'm getting there. I still think "The Wire" is better."

"You're not comparing like with like," groaned Reid. He got up from the couch and stretched, reaching long arms into the air. "You have to make comparisons in the appropriate genre. "Torchwood" comes from a long history of British science fiction while "The Wire" is draws on real events and real people. It's like putting "Star Wars" and "One Day in September" next to each other and choosing which is the best one."

Hotch chuckled and then stood up, wrapping his arms around his lover. "But "One Day in September" beats the "Phantom Menace" any day."

Reid extricated himself from the hug with mock indignation. "When I say "Star Wars", obviously I mean the original trilogy. The prequels are nothing but an abomination conjured up by George Lucas to make millions out of horrible merchandise."

"Agreed," nodded Hotch. "And I promise never to let Jack watch them."

"Good," said Reid lightly. "He needs a proper cinematic education, not filling his mind with crap like that."

Hotch looked at his watch. "Ready for bed or do you want another drink?"

Reid smiled at him. "It's only ten o'clock, Aaron and barring emergencies, we don't have work tomorrow. I'm going to vote for a glass of wine."

"Okay," said Hotch. "I'll open that bottle we got the other day."

Reid's hand flew to his forehead. "Damn - I left it in the car," he said. "Hold on and I'll run down and get it."

Shaking his head, Hotch said, "It's raining, Spencer. We could leave it."

"No, it's fine," called Reid as he grabbed Hotch's car keys and made for the door. "I'm not made of sugar - I won't melt!"

The apartment door thudded shut behind him and Hotch smiled to himself. He took the disk out of the DVD player and slotted it back into the case before picking up the box and walking over to Reid's bookshelf to replace it.

As he jiggled the DVDs to make room to slot the box back on the overcrowded shelf, he felt the entire unit shift. Hotch put out a hand to steady it, knocking a large hard backed notebook to the floor as he did so.

The book landed open at Hotch's feet and he crouched down to pick it up. As he lifted it up, he looked at the open pages, curious to see them covered in Reid's scrawling handwriting.

Almost without thinking, Hotch bent his head for a closer look and began to read what was written there.

The page was marked into a table, each row having a date written on it. The columns were entitled: Delusions, HallucinationsDisorganised speech/thoughts, Disorganised/catatonic behaviour, Alogia, Affective flattening, Avolition, Social Isolation and Concentration/Memory.

Underneath that table was another one, entitled "PTSD symptoms", with columns headed: Hypervigilance, Dissociation, Flashbacks, Avoidance and Work/Social activities.

Concerned and also fascinated, Hotch started to read through the entries, seeing how Reid had written either "none" or a short description of behaviour under each column heading.

At first he didn't understand what Reid was making notes about. Then he thought more carefully about the dates and felt a sudden chill go through him. He flipped through the pages with mounting anxiety, noting that Reid was making entries on a pretty regular weekly basis.

He was monitoring his own mental health, faithfully recording each potential symptom of madness.

Hotch swallowed hard, hearing the sound echo around the tiny apartment. He thumbed through the pages to the most recent entries, knowing that he shouldn't be reading this, but somehow unable to stop himself. Reid had last filled in the table two days ago, writing "feeling unconnected with co-workers" under Social Isolation and "difficulties in concentrating while watching TV drama (see PTSD table)" in the final column.

Hotch quickly scanned down to the lower table, engrossed in what he was reading and feeling a mounting sense of discomfort. Under Flashbacks, he had written "unable to continue watching TV due to flashbacks triggered by hostage scene". Hotch let his eyes close for a moment, feeling a mixture of despair and anxiety. How had he missed that Reid had become this obsessed?

"What are you doing?" Reid's voice was dry and husky.

Hotch jumped to his feet and turned around. Reid was standing next to the couch, clutching a bottle of wine in both hands. He had gotten wet in the rain, accentuating the natural curl of his hair. The water gave his skin a pallid sheen and his eyes looked wide and hurt.

"I'm sorry," said Hotch hastily. "It fell down when I was putting the DVD away."

"And so you decided to read a private journal?" Reid's tone was suspicious.

Hotch shook his head. "I didn't mean to," he said. He shrugged, trying to act as though this was no big deal.

Reid placed the wine carefully on the table. "Is this what you do, the first chance you get? Go searching through my stuff?" Damp hair had fallen into his eyes and he pushed it away with annoyance. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Spencer," said Hotch. "It was an accident. I wasn't looking for anything." He paused, wanting Reid's expression to soften but it didn't. "I shouldn't have read it - I'm sorry."

"Damn right you shouldn't have," snapped Reid.

"Do you want to talk about it?" asked Hotch. "What you've written down?"

"If I wanted to talk to you about my mental health, Aaron, I would have," said Reid coldly.

Hotch sighed. "I think it's only natural that with your mother's condition you should be concerned. But don't you think this is a little over the top? I know you like to keep records but-"

"Don't. Profile. Me." The words were sharply spoken, each syllable punctuating the air.

Hotch frowned. "Spencer, I'm not," he said, reaching out a hand. "I wasn't. I was just-"

"Save it," snapped Reid. He snatched the notebook from Hotch's hand. "I'm not crazy."

Hotch tried appeasement. He nodded and smiled at Reid. "I know that," he said. "Nobody thinks you're crazy."

Reid folded his arms across his chest, his face defiant. "Oh really?" Then, softer. "I think you should go."

Surprise flared on Hotch's face, then he nodded and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. "Okay," he said. "We can talk in the morning."

Reid's reaction was to fling the notebook onto the couch - so hard that it bounced off the cushions and onto the floor. "No," he said, his voice louder, "We won't talk in the morning. I don't need to talk to you or to anybody else about this. Don't you listen, Aaron? I'm not crazy."

Almost unconsciously, Hotch widened his stance and placed his hands on his hips. "Spencer, please don't speak to me like that."

Backing away like a cornered animal, Reid's voice twisted into a snarl. "You're not my boss here," he said. "Don't tell me what to do." His shoulders hunched over defensively and Hotch could see his fingers drumming on his arms.

Sighing, Hotch ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not," he replied. "I'm just asking you to be polite."

"Polite?" asked Reid, his tone venomous. "Oh, it's really polite to go snooping through someone else's stuff, isn't it?"

"I wasn't-"

"But you're the Unit Chief, so I have to be polite," continued Reid. "And meanwhile, you are profiling me - in my own home. What's next, Aaron? A mandatory psych eval?"

"No!" replied Hotch. "My relationship with you has nothing to do with our professional life."

"Bullshit!" shouted Reid. "You can't stop being the boss and I know you're going to be watching me now - waiting for the first signs that I'm losing it."

Hotch moved closer to him. "Of course I'm not going to do that." He was irritated now. Reid was being overdramatic and he knew there was no point in trying to talk to him in this state. He wanted to go home and let them both calm down. He reached out to give Reid a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Just sleep on it and we'll both feel better tomorrow."

Reid slapped his hand away. "Don't fucking patronise me, Hotch."

Hotch flinched at Reid's choice of words. He needed to get out of here now - he had had enough of Reid's temper for one day. "I'm not patronising you and I'm tired of this now." He turned to go to the door.

"Oh, you're not patronising me, but you're just going to walk out anyway because you're tired of it?" Reid's voice was harsh and angry. "You're full of shit. Your job means more to you than anybody else and it's always going to be that way."

Hotch paused, his back to Reid. "Spencer," he said tightly. "Do not go there."

"Truth hurts?" asked Reid, speaking more rapidly now. "I thought Haley was wrong about you, but maybe she wasn't. You're watching me all the time, wondering if I'm using again, profiling me - you can't fucking switch it off, can you?"

Spinning around on his heel, Hotch glared at him. He could feel his heart pounding and the tension buzzing through him. "Stop it," he said and it was a direct order.

"You're not my boss here," spat Reid. "You don't tell me what to do. I won't have you waiting for me to screw up so you can get me fixed."

Hotch felt his hands curl into fists. "You are not being fair," he said in a clipped tone.

"It isn't fucking fair," replied Reid, his voice rising to a shout. "I need to trust the man I'm sleeping with and I can't trust you now."

"I'm not going to listen to this," replied Hotch, turning his body to reach for the door handle.

"Elle trusted you," shouted Reid. "She thought you were her friend and look what happened. I won't let you do the same-"

Almost without realising what he was doing, Hotch suddenly strode forwards and grabbed Reid's arms, shoving him against the wall. "Don't you dare," he hissed.

Reid was flinched but remained defiant. "Your job is all that matters, isn't it? I'm never going to mean as much to you as that badge and -"

The rage was sudden and all consuming. Hotch had pulled back his fist before he even realised it. "Shut up!" he yelled, slamming his fist into the picture frame on the wall by Reid's head.

There was a loud cracking sound as the frame clattered against the wall, and then jagged pieces of glass tumbled to the floor.

Reid let out a choked noise as the glass smashed. He cringed away from Hotch's upraised hand, his face washed with fear. "Stop," he whispered. The anger had dropped out of his voice and now he just sounded scared.

Hotch stared at him for a moment, one hand still gripping Reid's upper arm and the other hand balled into a fist, held aloft and ready to strike. Slowly he brought his arm back down to his side before letting go of Reid with the other.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. He was panting, his chest heaving as he fought to control himself.

Reid crossed his arms across his chest, hugging himself as he twisted his body towards the wall and away from Hotch. "You were going to hit me," he said, his voice so soft that Hotch could only just hear him.

Hotch swallowed. "No," he replied. "I would never hit you." He stood awkwardly, unsure what to do with his hands. He placed them on his hips and then let them drop to hang uselessly by his sides. There was no other sound in the apartment but the rapid breathing of both men.

"Spencer," said Hotch, moving to embrace him. "I'm sorry."

Reid's response was to shrink away from him. "Don't touch me," he said, quietly, firmly.

Realising that pushing the issue was only going to make it worse, Hotch moved back towards the door. "I shouldn't have done that," he said. "I really am sorry." He was apologising again, as if repeating the words would make the last few minutes disappear. The fight had been ugly enough, but arguments could be mended with apologies, he was sure of that. He wasn't so sure if the violence that had burst out of him was quite so fixable.

Reid had dipped his head, his face curtained by his hair which hung in still damp locks. "Get out of my apartment," he said. His words were clipped and emotionless.

Hotch felt a jolt go through him through him. "I'll call you later," he said, trying, and failing, to sound calm and reassuring.

Reid shook his head. "Don't," he said, his voice cracking. "Just . . . just go."

"Spencer, please."

Reid's head snapped up. "Just get out!" he yelled, "Get out now." His eyes were shining and he rapidly covered his face with his hands.

Hotch straightened his back and squared his shoulders. "If that's what you want." He took a deep breath before opening the door and walking out of the apartment. He moved slowly and directly to his car, almost oblivious to the rain lashing down on him.

Fumbling slightly for his keys, he unlocked the doors and then got into the car. Droplets of water fell from his hair onto his lap. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared unseeing through the windshield. Inhaling and exhaling loudly, Hotch felt his fingers curl tighter around the leather steering wheel, grasping it until his knuckles whitened. Then he let go abruptly and slammed his palms against the middle of the wheel.

"Goddamnit!" he shouted, hitting the cold unyielding surface with every syllable. Then his voice dropped and he whispered "Fuck."

Hotch sat in his car, staring out at the street through rainwater that coursed down the windshield. He stayed there until a sudden flash of lightening brought him out of his almost stupefied state. Then he drove home, forcing himself to concentrate on the road and the traffic around him.

Once inside the apartment, he poured himself a large measure of whisky and sat down at the kitchen table in his soaking wet jeans, listening to the storm lashing at the windows.



After Hotch had gone, Reid locked the door and slid both bolts across. He leaned back against the door and, feeling suddenly light headed, he slid down until he was sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chin. Hugging his knees tightly, Reid let his forehead drop and breathed loudly in and out until his eyes were no longer wet.

When he felt able to move, Reid got up and lifted the shattered picture down from the wall. He slid the photograph out of the frame before dropping the frame into the trash can. Then he fetched a dustpan and brush from the kitchen and carefully swept up the broken glass, emptying the shards into the trash.

The photograph itself wasn't damaged. It was a large picture of Mount Potosi at sunset that had been a wedding present to his parents. He had always loved that picture and had hung it in every place that he had lived since moving away from the family home in Las Vegas. His mother had taken it down after his father left and Reid had hidden it in his bedroom so that he could keep it safe. From a wedding present for a doomed marriage, it seemed horribly fitting that it should play a part in the end of his relationship with Hotch.

Reid placed the picture gently on the table and then he picked up his notebook and replaced it in the correct spot on the shelf. When that was done, exhaustion hit him and he dropped onto the couch.

Reid put his head in his hands again. It was over, all over and he wasn't even sure why. The anger and pain had drained out of him, to be replaced by an overwhelming sense of despair. He felt tears well up in his eyes and then trickle down his face. He let them fall in silence, making no sound as he cried.

He had broken the best thing in his life and he had no idea how to mend it.

You don't die of a broken heart, you only wish you did.
Marilyn Peterson

***

Next story in series - Figured It Out.