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Blind Rage

Warnings? I don't know. Jack punches a kid in the mouth and Hotch has a concussion but honestly it's nothing compared to my normal stuff

3,338 words so not very long but I wrote this down in one sitting. redbull is a powerful drug

I don't know if it's like the best thing I've ever written but I did write it so...

Jack didn’t know any better than to just assume his dad was the patent normal. He didn’t imagine a factory but he certainly assumed his father, like all fathers, had simply always been forty-years-old with tricky aches – dents from the rough travel of getting here to Jack. How else would a dad be other than how his is?

“Shit.” Milk splashes onto the table, missing Jack’s glass. Hotch’s own explicative and the milk on the table startle him, he is unable to think past the hammering of his own heart. The milk jug in his hands starts to ache with weight, his muscles straining, tense. “S-Sorry,” Hotch blinks and shakes his head, moving awkwardly forward before realizing he needs to put the milk in the fridge. Each step comes back to him a little too slow – put milk away, grab paper towel, clean mess.

Shit, the milk’s lid

He turns back for the table, cursing himself for being so out of it. “Sorry, buddy.” Hotch apologizes again, reaching out with his unoccupied hand to cup Jack's head, giving his hair a rustle. “I’m just all over the place this morning. Aunt Jess tell you I hit my head?” He knows she did, nearly immediately after he’d told Jessica, she had found a way to relay it to Jack. A reasonable enough lie, Jess told him that Hotch smacked his head on a low entry way. Jack had seen Hotch do this before, Jess had sent Hotch down to her basement to get a mousetrap and Jack stood on the stairs eager to be near but not actually inside the basement. Hotch had found the poor thing and held it out from himself, turning to come back and nearly knocked himself out, bouncing his head off of a low plank. “Yeah,” Hotch agrees as Jack giggles. Smiling at the pleasant sound.

Jack had thought it was funny to watch his aunt dump his father on the couch with an ice pack, his vision hadn’t cleared yet and it’d taken a very dramatic and careful fight to get him back up the stairs. Jessica had told him to stop moaning about his head and he’d realized that Jessica felt worse for the poor dead mouse than him.

Jack had remembered this too when Jessica told him Hotch got hurt. Of course, Hotch hadn’t run into another low beam. The floor gave out beneath them in the middle of a scene and Hotch (and Emily quickly after) had fallen through the floor down into the basement. Earned them both a concussion, a few cracked ribs, and one broken wrist. Emily had chosen to make her cast black.

Normally, he wouldn’t bring this sort of thing up again. Jack knows to be careful of his aches but they’re safe for the most part, Jack isn’t all that excitable and even when he is he’s mindful. But the contentious pounding in his head, tells him this foggy film over his thoughts doesn’t have any plans of leaving soon.

“There, all good.” Hotch finally slumps into his kitchen chair, his coffee splashing over the rim, his eyes find the spot but he’s beyond any reaction above a forfeiting grunt. He takes a bite of his toast, corner soggy with butter. It’s a white bread toast and coffee sort of morning and all he can do is pray his son is catching that same vibe from the heavy rain clouds outside. When he looks up he’s not met with a mischievous little grin, Jack’s brain conjuring up the idea of a fort he thinks he’ll have to beg to build, Hotch is met with something knowing. “What?” he asks, caught between alarmed and amused.

Jack giggles and tilts his cereal bowl for Hotch to see inside, “you’re silly daddy.”

Hotch leans forward, not sure what he’s seeing. Jack’s got his fruity pebbles, orange juice, and milk. It’s been his kick lately and Hotch is really having the sort of week where he’s taking Jack’s interest in something with the name fruit as a success. “What?” he asks again, eyes darting around the bowl quicker now as Jack keeps giggling. “I don’t–” fruity pebbles, orange juice, and milk. His face falls immediately as what he’s done clicks. His toast falls out his hands and he pulls in a big breath, the end catching on the tears gathering in his eyes. “I’m sorry, buddy,” he rushes out. Voice and hands shaking. “I’m just –” he shakes his head and shuts his mouth. He swallows down against the swollen knot in his throat, blinks his tears away. “Dad’s just, yeah, I’m just losing it this morning, huh?”

He reaches out for the bowl, hoping Jack just gives it to him without a fight, and he finds a moment later to cry about it later. But Jack just giggles and scoops a spoonful into his mouth. “It’s okay,” he chirps, nodding his little head along. He uses his sleeve to wipe his mouth but Hotch doesn’t comment.

“Are you sure?” Tears are threatening to fall. His head couldn’t possibly hurt more than it does now. “You don’t have to eat it, buddy. I’ll make you a new bowl.” He’s not even sure his knees will lift him up to do that.

Jack shrugs and takes another bite, “it’s good.” He eats the entire bowl which isn’t normal for him. He always leaves just enough cereal to cover the top of the milk so that when Hotch washes the bowl he has to touch soggy cereal. And because he’s Jack and he always knows how to drive that last nail in the coffin, he looks up at Hotch with the biggest smile (a fruity pebble stuck to his tooth) and says, “you did the bestest job. This is the bestest thing you’ve ever did made.”

He cries and Jack sits there swinging his little legs and eating his orange juice and fruity pebbles breakfast. His head hurts and he hasn’t slept well which will be the official downplay if anyone asks about his puffy red eyes but he really cries because Jack’s growing up too quickly. And because he’s terrified he isn’t doing this right. That he’ll fuck up everything that Haley did. That Jack won’t be this sweet kid in five years – when Hotch has had as many years doing the single parent thing as Haley.

Derek shows up before lunch and gives Hotch a much needed break. He almost hopes a blood vessel pops in his head when he answers the door and Derek kisses him very sweetly in the greeting. The kiss is nice, even if they’re still too much in the hall for Hotch’s liking and within eyesight of anyone who comes out into the hall. Jack comes running, stands at Hotch’s heels and impatiently sticks his head between Hotch’s knees so he can talk to Derek. Impatient that his fathe is in the way of Jack talking to his best friend. He huffs a dramatic sigh, fills his chest with a lungful of air and shakes his head. Rolls his eyes like he’s seen them do a thousand times before as he informs Derek, “he’s being a handful”.

Derek chuckles and smirks up at Hotch.

Hotch groans, “Jack please–”

Jack gives Derek a look, a see what I’m saying?

Derek’s smile doesn’t waver, “you think he needs a N-A-P?”

Jack frowns, trying to work out those letters in his head. Then his face hardens and he nods his head solemnly.

Hotch does need a nap but it’s not nearly as rewarding when a five-year-old says you’re being moody and need to go to sleep. It’s both patronizing and sweet that they lead him back to his room. “You can go watch your movie,” he grumbles, grouchy now that Derek’s here and pulling back the covers for him. “I’m fine.” He can pull down the parent-guard. Derek’s got things for a few hours.

Derek smirks but says nothing.

“I’ll tuck him in,” Jack says, “I know how to do it.” Hotch always packs the blankets around Jack’s legs extra tight and it makes him giggle because it jostles him around. Jack mimics the motions with a serious scowl that mimics Hotch’s, all his attention on this task.

“Alright,” Derek chuckles, plucking Jack up from the bed.

“Wait!” Jack demands, “he can sleep without a g’night kiss!”

Hotch clenches his jaw, holds his breath as Derek holds Jack over him. It’s a strange feeling. It’s unfamiliar but not unwanted, he’s just not sure how to deal with these moments of vulnerability. He has to suck it up, he has to let Jack be sweet and gentle. He has to mimic that himself. It’s just not what he’s been shown most of his life. His father didn’t tuck him into bed. Or read him bedtime stories. So to have someone else meet his weakness with kindness and love…

“I’ll be right back,” Derek promises. He kisses the top of Hotch’s head.

He just doesn't know what to do with that.

Derek comes in only ten minutes later. He bickers with Jack in the living room about which movie they should watch. Jack sticks with Toy Story but Derek’s going to lose his mind if he has to watch that fucking cartoon Sheriff one more time. They settle with Monsters Inc. and Derek makes them popcorn.

Hotch is already asleep by the time he gets back there with water and a Tyenol. He’s too out of it to fight the medication. It’s Derek sitting on the edge of his bed. Derek is tipping the glass so he drinks more water. His guard is too low with Derek. He trusts him more than he wants to and less than he does at the same time. He’s torn in half between the way he thinks they should be and what he’s capable of. He wants to tell Derek everything – the good things and the bad things, all together like there isn’t a difference. He wants to give him everything but he still holds back. He pulls himself away because he can’t be that reckless. That’s not fair. Jack loves Derek and he won’t spoil that with everything that’s dogshit in his life.

He’s fitfully napping when he hears the front door slam shut, Derek and Jack’s voices loud but not in the excited way they typically speak. Not in the way that means Hotch will pull himself out of bed and find the two of them splitting a carton of ice cream or smiling over a box of pizza. They’re loud and angry.

“Why would you do that?” Derek demands.

Hotch’s heart feels like it’s coming out of his chest. He’s afraid and he can’t really say why. His hands shake and his knees feel weak, his entire body pulsing with the hard beats of his heart. His vision is unsteady, he stands too quickly and pushes through it.

“You can’t hit other people, Jack.”

There are tears in Jack’s eyes. That’s the first thing that Hotch sees. It’s not Jack’s first time being scolded and not even the first time he’s been yelled at. Hotch tries his best. He tries to be mindful of the fact that he’s dangerously large. And that the only thing he fears nearly as much as becoming his father is other people thinking he’s like his father. But he loses it sometimes.

There are tears in Jack’s eyes as he crosses his arms over his chest and looks away from Derek. “He said something bad.” Two tears fall down his cheeks but Jack remains stoic. Unwaveringly certain that he’s done anything wrong.

“It doesn’t matter–”

“It does!” Jack never raises his voice. He rarely pitches a fit about much. He had tantrums as a toddler but that just comes with the complications of that age. The language barrier. Not now, though. He’s a calm kid. A normal kid.

“Jack–” Derek suddenly remembers Hotch sleeping and his goal switches from scolding to calming Jack down. They’re quickly approaching something bad, he can tell. Aaron’s not in the state to be dealing with this right now and Jack’s getting too emotional to handle it. The last thing they need is to wake him up on top of this. Let him sleep. Have dinner. Bring it up again.

Jack holds back a sob, sucking in quickly in a way that Derek knows means the waterworks are about to come hard. “They say mean things…” his lower lip trembles. “About – About you and about Daddy. And – And about–” he rubs angrily at his face with his fist. Getting too agitated to speak now, crying too hard to get his words out.

Derek can’t stand those tears, the kids gonna make him cry. “Alright, alright,” he caves, sinks down to his knees and Jack goes right to him. “Come here,” he holds Jack to him. “You can’t hit other people, alright?” He’s never sure where he’s allowed to be in these instances. His placement in this house is becoming more permanent and Hotch has started giving him the side-eye. Making him be the bad guy, a dad who scolds as much as he plays. This isn’t the fun part of the job for sure. He’s in the dark.

Hotch comes from down the hall and finds them on the couch. It takes him ten minutes to compose himself enough to be able to stand and get down the hall, to be in the mindset to have a conversation. “Wha’ happened?” His head is pounding, enough to start to make his stomach cramp up. But he sinks down on the couch beside them, a smile trying to tug at his lips at the way Jack sleeps against Derek’s chest. Derek’s got him nearly swaddled, a blanket tucked up around him.

Derek pulls in a deep breath, shakes his head. “It stopped raining so I sent him outside.” There’s only a little bit of yard for the kids to play in but it’s better than staying cooped up inside. Derek only left him for a second, just to run in and get him some water. And when he came back two of the mother’s had Jack and another little boy. The other boy’s lip was busted up pretty good. Jack had socked him right in the mouth. “He was–” Derek’s not sure how to say it.

Hotch is very aware that everyone in the building knows what happened in this apartment. The little kids whisper about it. People avoid him and the kids always act a little more stiffly in line when Hotch is outside watching them. They’re afraid of him. They talk about Hotch the same way they talked about the masked man. Like both are ghosts that phase through the walls. Both walk through the complex, watching and waiting to jump out from the shadows. Either could snatch you from your bed. Hotch suspects some of the mother’s tell their children just that, use him as a boogey man to make their children behave.

“Foyet again.”

Derek nods. He can’t even voice how much that enrages him. Let him hear them saying that shit… but maybe that’s why Jack did what he did… “And one of the boys,” Derek adds softly, “said something about us.”

Hotch already knows what that something is. He shouldn’t have to explain to his five-year-old the bigorty of grown adults. Grown men shouldn’t talk to children the way that they do. One of the boys has already said something to Jack about Hotch and Derek. Taunted and teased. Used words he’d heard his father say, repeated his father’s opinion about them.

“He’s got your left-hook,” Derek offers, tries to be humorous but it falls short.

Hotch just stares ahead. He couldn’t speak if he even knew what to say.

“He was protecting you.”

He knows and that’s the thing. Tears gather against his will. His head hurts too much to be thinking this hard and this fast about all the things that hurt him. All the wrong things to dwell on. His voice is thick when he does manage to speak, his tears hardly held off. “That’s not his job, Derek.”

Derek wants to reach out and pull Hotch down against him. He wants to be squished in the middle of his Hotchners but he’s not certain that Hotch needs physical comfort yet. So he keeps his distance. He resists the urge to touch him. Hold his hand or hug him. “No,” Derek agrees. “But you protect him. And he worries about you. He wants to be big and strong like his dad.” Derek knows what that’s like. Those feelings flood him too everytime he has to watch another UNSUB get the drop on Hotch. Everytime he walks away with even just a bruise, a scratch. The fury and pain that floods him more intensely than he knows what to do with. The blind rage.

Hotch chuckles? He makes a sound Derek can’t quiet make out, he smiles but it’s more of a scoff than anything. When he looks to Derek his eyes are red and he looks physically pained.

“Come here,” Derek finally caves. He stand this any longer. He pulls Hotch down against him, his head down on his chest.

“What am I gonna do with him?”

Derke shrugs, “I think it’s probably too late to return him.” The joke words this time and Hotch lets out that scoff sounding chuckle. There are tears coming down his face but he’s smiling. “Besides,” Derek says, “this one’s already potty-trained and when you get a new one you have to run through all that old stuff again.”

Hotch rolls his eyes and moves himself around a little more, gets his head placed on Derek’s chest somewhere that hurts the least. He sniffles, wipes at his nose with the back of his hand.

Derek moves his head to rest his chin atop Hotch’s head, squeezes his shoulders. “He’s a good kid,” Derek whispers. “We’ll figure this out and one day we might laugh about it.” Hell his mom laughs now about the first kid who’s mouth he bloodied. Some stupid little prick that said something about one of his siters. Derek can’t even remember. His mother had thought the world was coming apart. His father had just died and Derek was acting out.

Hotch hums. He doubts this could ever be something that won’t be devastating. That isn’t proof that he’s unfit for parenthood.

“It’s not like he punched a saint,” Derek goes on. He knows exactly which kid it was. He’s seen that kid do all kinds of shit. “It’ll be fine,” Derek’s certain. “He’s too much like you, that's all. Thinks he’s got to protect everyone.”

Hotch doesn’t know about that. The rage that it must have taken Jack to act like that, yeah that’s him. He knows exactly what that is.

“We should order pizza,” Derek hums. He’s already moving on. They’ll talk about this again later but Derek knows it’s still too fresh and harsh for either Hotch or Jack to talk about. Hotch’s concussion needs to clear up a bit. That’s making everything worse. “Are you up for take-out?” Then he hums again but not the pleased hum from a second ago. “Or is this one of those things where it’s like if we get pizza we reward the behavior?” Parenting stresses Derek out. “I don’t understand this stuff.”

Hotch sits up. Maybe it’s not the most sensitive thing but he likes to see Derek squirm. He’s so calm and collected all the time, but he’s terrified of messing things up with Jack. It’s different than he fears messing things up with Jack. It’s lighter and pleasant. Hotch wishes he could be like that but he settles for seeing it with Derek. It makes him smile. “We can get pizza.”

Derek narrows his eyes, “you’re sure?”

Hotch manages a real laugh. Not that strangled, harsh scoff. A laugh. “Pizza is fine, Derek.”

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