Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bullpen hummed with the soft clatter of keyboards clicking, low conversation, and the quiet shuffle of papers being sorted. From the glass confines of his office, Hotch caught the movement without even meaning to. Reid, seated at his desk, one hand flipping through a case file while the other drifted almost unconsciously to his neck. Again.

Hotch narrowed his eyes. He'd seen it a few times now—Reid’s fingers ghosting over the spot just under his jawline, where the scar was faint now after almost a month, but still there. Sometimes he rubbed at it like it itched, other times it was more deliberate, like he was trying to ease something deeper. And every time, he’d stop if anyone got too close.

Hotch stepped out of his office. He didn’t go directly to Reid. Instead, he took a slow route, checking in with JJ, asking Morgan for a file update. Just enough to get close without bringing it to Reid’s attention.

Finally, he stopped next to Reid’s desk.

“You alright?” Hotch asked lightly.

Reid blinked up at him, caught off guard. “Yeah. Just reviewing the bank surveillance for that robbery out of Philly. Trying to line up the timestamps with the witness statements—some of them are off.”

Hotch nodded once, but didn’t move. Then Reid, sensing the silence hanging a little too long, added, “I’m fine. Just... residual stuff.”

“Does it hurt?”

Reid hesitated just enough for Hotch to pick up on it. “It’s nothing. Sometimes it just... twinges. The doctors said that might happen.”

“And if it was more than that?”

Reid offered a thin smile. “Then I’d tell you.”

Hotch didn’t believe him, at least not entirely. He knew how Reid was—how all of them were.

Reid’s jaw tightened. “It’s not interfering with my work,” he defended weakly.

“That’s not the only thing I care about,” Hotch replied, his tone a bit softer. Reid broke Hotch’s gaze.

“I know it’s been a while,” he admitted finally, his voice quieter. “And it’s not like the original injury still hurts—not all the time. But it... flares. It’ll pass.”

Hotch sighed quietly. “Take a break,” he instructed. “Ten minutes. Walk around, grab some water, anything. That’s an order.”

Reid blinked. “Hotch—”

“I’m not asking. You’re not a machine, Reid. Take a few minutes.”

With a sigh and a slight flicker of appreciation behind his eyes, Reid finally nodded and stood. “Ten minutes,” he muttered.

Hotch watched him go, still weary. He’d keep an eye on him for a little longer.

Later that afternoon, Hotch stood near the coffee station, sipping from a lukewarm cup of whatever passed for caffeine in the break room. His eyes flicked toward Reid’s desk, now empty. His youngest agent had obediently taken another “ordered” ten-minute break. Across the bullpen, Morgan was finishing up a call, eyes scanning a folder as he hung up. Hotch walked over.

“Got a second?” he asked, but his tone indicated that he wasn’t really asking.

Morgan glanced up. “Yeah. Everything okay?”

Hotch folded his arms. “Have you noticed Reid… rubbing at his neck lately?”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Neck?”

“Where he got hit last month. Just... have you seen it?”

Morgan nodded slowly, setting the file down. “Yeah, a few times. Usually, when he doesn’t think anyone’s looking. Why?”

Hotch shrugged like it was nothing, but his tone was just serious enough to say otherwise. “I asked him about it. He says it’s normal, but it’s been a while, and it seems like it’s still bothering him more than it should.”

Morgan leaned back in his chair. “He got shot, Hotch. And it was bad. Took a while for him to even move his neck without looking like he had a board strapped to it. You don’t just bounce back from that.”

“I know.”

Morgan softened. “Look. Reid’s tough, but he’s not the type to pretend something doesn’t hurt if it’s serious. He’s smarter than that. If he’s downplaying it, I don’t think it’s about hiding an injury. He probably just figures this is the price of getting hit.”

Hotch nodded slowly. “He said as much. I just don’t want him brushing something off that needs attention.”

Morgan gave a short laugh. “Well, he’d join the list of brushing off injuries along with the rest of us.”

Hotch cracked the faintest smile. “God help me.”

Morgan’s grin faded just a bit. “If it helps, I’ve kept an eye out too. I haven’t seen him stumble or miss anything—mentally or physically.”

Hotch nodded. “Alright.”

“I’ll keep watching,” Morgan added. “I’ll let you know if you spot anything, but so far, he seems okay.”

Hotch offered a quiet “thanks” and turned back toward his office, catching a glimpse of Reid returning from his break. The younger man gave a small nod in his direction. He was tired, maybe, but functioning.

Still, Hotch couldn’t shake the thought: how much pain does someone put up with before they start calling it normal?

***

It was the end of the day. Once the clock hit 5 pm, the team saw the bullpen empty out fast from the other departments. Some stayed, like the BAU team, who didn’t have that classic 9-5 workday luxury. Technically, when they weren’t on an active case, they could leave traditionally, but it was easier just to get everything done before the end of the day.

Reid sat at his desk, staring down at a case report. He had been reading the same sentence for two minutes. He wasn’t even sure what it said anymore. Something about psychological profiles in cases involving long-term stressors—ironic.

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed the side of his neck. The ache that had settled behind his right eye about an hour ago hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had crept down his temple and toward the base of his skull, hugging the still-tender muscles in his neck like a vice. He blinked a few times, reached for his coffee, and took a sip. It was lukewarm. Fantastic.

Across the bullpen, JJ grabbed her bag, and Garcia popped in just to announce she’d be bringing cinnamon rolls tomorrow as a reward for surviving a Monday.

Reid smiled faintly. Mondays. Right.

About forty minutes later, Emily and Morgan headed towards the elevators. Morgan tossed his hair on the way past his desk, and Reid had to hold in the flinch at Morgan’s touch until he passed.

About an hour later, Hotch emerged from his office, glancing toward Reid’s desk as he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves.

“Are you finishing that tonight?” he asked casually.

Reid nodded, though he didn’t move to close the file. “Yeah, I just... got a little sidetracked.”

Hotch gave him a once-over. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah,” Reid replied quickly. “Just a headache. Long day.”

Hotch nodded, but not before his eyes flicked briefly to the angle of Reid’s hand at his neck.

“Alright,” Hotch said slowly. “Try to rest tonight.”

“I will,” Reid said, lying through his teeth.

Hotch gave him a look that said I know, then turned toward the exit.

Reid worked for another thirty minutes or so, or at least tried to. When he couldn’t focus on the words anymore, he gave up on the file for the night. Then he stood too fast, and had to steady himself with a hand on the desk. He blinked through the momentary blur. It passed. He grabbed his satchel and coat, pushing past the tension in his shoulders.

It was just a headache. A long day. That was all.

***

The next day, Reid tried again with the file. His eyes moved across the pages, but it was taking longer than usual to process anything. The dull ache behind his right eye was back. Not worse than yesterday, but it hadn’t let up either, and that was starting to wear him thin.

He shifted in his chair, rolled his shoulders back, then forward again, trying to release the knot that had formed somewhere between his neck and the top of his spine. It didn’t help. The pressure was still there—mild, persistent, and irritatingly stubborn. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, glancing around the bullpen.

JJ and Emily were conferring over something at the whiteboard in the other room. Morgan was typing one-handed while drinking a smoothie the color of moss. Hotch was in his office on a call, posture rigid as always.

Reid blinked at his screen, then quietly closed the file he’d been trying to read. He stood, stretched, and walked to the break room. Maybe movement would help.

He poured himself a third cup of coffee, took a sip, and winced. The temperature was fine, but the sharp, momentary throb that hit him behind the eye as he tilted his head was not.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple with the heel of his hand. “It’s been almost four weeks.”

“Talking to yourself now, pretty boy?” Morgan’s voice drifted in as he strolled toward the fridge.

Reid straightened. “I’m formulating a counterargument to the coffee machine.”

Morgan smirked. “Let me know when it talks back.”

He snagged a yogurt, clapped Reid on the shoulder, and left. Reid took another sip and didn’t wince this time.

‘Just a headache,’ He repeated to himself. He wasn’t going to mention it to the team, he decided. They’d just worry, and he was secretly worried enough.

***

The bullpen had emptied slowly over the past hour. JJ had gone first—something about Henry. Emily left about twenty minutes later. Morgan hung back longer, finishing up some paperwork and waiting for Reid, like he sometimes did.

Reid had been restless. He’d shifted in his chair too many times. Stood up quickly, then sat down again. He’d walked to the break room and came back without anything in hand. Finally, Morgan gave him a look across the desks.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Reid said quickly. “I just... I think the lights in here are slightly misaligned. It’s triggering a low-level tension headache.”

Morgan stared at him for a beat. “You gonna be here all night to make it worse?”

Reid cracked a smile. “Just… finishing up.”

Morgan rolled his eyes and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “Don’t overthink it.”

“You can go, I’ll be a little longer.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Morgan clapped him on the back lightly. “Go home soon, alright?”

“Yeah. I will.”

Morgan walked off toward the elevators. Ten minutes later, the bullpen was silent.

Reid sat slouched in his chair, pressing his fingers to the back of his neck, trying to ease the pressure that had slowly crept into his upper spine and behind his eyes over the course of the day. It was a constant ache by this point, like someone had turned the pain up half a notch every hour and never brought it back down. He closed his eyes, just for a second.

Reid didn’t hear Hotch’s office door open or hear the soft footfalls on the stairs.

Hotch stopped halfway down the steps and watched for a moment. Reid hadn’t seen him. He was sitting at his desk, his head bowed, one hand cradling the base of his skull, the other gripping the edge of the desk. Hotch’s eyes narrowed, concern flickering across his face. He cleared his throat softly.

Reid startled, sat upright, blinking like he was trying to recalibrate.

“Oh—hey, Hotch,” he said quickly. Hotch saw Reid’s hand release from where he had been holding the base of his head and neck.

“Reid, what are you still doing here?” Hotch asked lightly.

Reid straightened a stack of files on his desk. “Just wrapping a few things up. I’m heading out in a minute.”

Hotch gave a small nod, his gaze lingering on Reid a little longer than necessary. “Alright,” he said eventually, knowing Reid wasn’t about to share anything. “Don’t stay too late.”

He passed Reid’s desk a fraction slower than usual, as if gauging just how much tightness was still sitting in the younger man’s shoulders.

Reid didn’t look up again, but Hotch clocked the pain he was hiding. He always did.

Chapter Text

Reid kicked the door closed behind him to his apartment and dropped his bag just inside the entry. His apartment was quiet and still, but it wasn’t peaceful with his head still pounding. He moved slowly, rolling his shoulders as he went, like it might loosen something in his spine that still refused to budge. The ache had deepened on the ride home, radiating from the base of his neck and spreading in slow, dull waves through the back of his head.

He tried to ignore it as best he could. He changed out of his work clothes, grabbed a book, and made tea, but didn’t end up drinking it. He lay down on the couch with the book in hand, thinking maybe the distraction would help, but the words swam. After about twenty minutes of trying, he blinked hard and closed the book.

Reid sighed, rubbing at his eyes, then the side of his neck. The skin there was still tender. He pressed gently and flinched.

"Great," he muttered under his breath. “It’s fine. It’s probably just... inflammation. Tension. Stress-induced muscle tightness."

The way he said it sounded like he was quoting a textbook, but the pain wasn’t going away, and facts were his comfort zone when faced with the unknown.

Reid got up and paced around the living room before trying to lie down for a while, but he couldn’t get comfortable. At one point, around 2:00 am, he sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, eyes squeezed shut, and tried to breathe through it.

The pain was still sharp and persistent, strong enough to keep him half-awake, on edge, and now very aware of how long it had been since the pain started in the first place.

Just one more day, he told himself. Maybe two. Then it’ll fade.

With that thought, he fell into an uneasy sleep.

Reid was unusually quiet during the morning briefing the next day.

He still offered input when prompted, shooting off stats and theories that clicked into place like muscle memory, but his usual enthusiasm and spark in his eyes weren’t there. Everything was muted.

Morgan noticed first. He kept glancing across the table like he was waiting for Reid to jump in more, add something offbeat, correct him with a smug little smile. But it didn’t happen.

Hotch noticed, too.

He didn’t say anything at the table, just made another mental note. This was two days in a row that Reid looked pale and tired under the fluorescents. Not quite sick, but off.

Then, as everyone started to leave the conference room, Hotch caught the way Reid moved his hand, pressing his fingers to the side of his neck like it might keep the pain at bay.

By noon, Reid was tucked at his desk, trying to drown himself in paperwork. He wasn’t reading most of it, just moving through it for the sake of a distraction. His head throbbed with that same slow-building pressure, creeping from the base of his neck up behind his eyes.

It was worse today. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, loosening it around his neck slightly, and willed the tension to back off.

It didn’t.

He caught Morgan watching him from across the bullpen.

Reid glanced down quickly, focusing on his paperwork like that would hide the fact that his posture had turned inward and defensive. Like that would stop Morgan from clocking him just the same.

Morgan leaned on the edge of his desk a minute later.

“You good, Pretty Boy?”

“Yeah,” Reid said quietly. “Just that headache.”

Morgan raised a brow, skeptical. “Still?”

Reid nodded once. “It’s fine. It’s just... persistent.”

Morgan didn’t push him, but his gaze lingered on him longer than it should have before he turned back to his own desk.

***

The bullpen had started to thin around 6:00 pm. A few agents were still finishing up paperwork, but the air had settled into the usual quiet that came before closing down for the night. 

Reid sat at his desk, his posture a little too still as he squinted at the same page in his file for what had to be ten minutes.

Hotch watched him from the railing above. He wasn’t hovering, not exactly. But when you’ve worked with someone for years, the patterns become clear. And Reid had been in enough pain over the last few days for Hotch to feel the need to keep an eye on him. Hotch turned from the railing and headed back into his office, closing the door behind him.

He moved straight to a locked cabinet in the corner, pulling out a manila folder that had Reid’s name neatly typed on the label. It contained medical history, including the recent post-shooting reports. Nothing intrusive, just the paperwork every agent had logged, especially after injuries. Hotch flipped through it, quiet and methodical. The prognosis had looked clean at the time. Reid had gotten lucky, yes, but he’d had a good response at the hospital. No lasting damage, allegedly. But that had been over three weeks ago, going on a month. Reid was still touching the entry point of the bullet, still wincing from time to time, and still clearly bothered.

A knock jostled Hotch’s thoughts. He looked up from Reid’s file, already expecting it. Morgan leaned in, raising an eyebrow as he took in the folder still in Hotch’s hands.

“Just checking in,” Morgan said casually. “You too, huh?”

Hotch closed the folder but didn’t bother denying it. “You’ve noticed.”

Morgan stepped further in, voice lower now. “Yeah. Yesterday, he looked like he had a headache from hell. And today he seemed a little off-balance. Nothing huge, but it's not like him.”

Hotch nodded. “I’d like to think it could still be normal. He’s healing.”

“Yeah,” Morgan agreed. “Or he’s brushing it off, thinking it’ll pass, and we both know how that typically goes.”

They shared a look. Or rather, a full, silent conversation in five seconds flat.

Hotch sighed and put the folder away. “Not yet,” he said, more to himself than Morgan. “Let’s give it another day.”

Morgan didn’t argue. “You’ll talk to him if you need to.”

“I always do,” Hotch said quietly. “Eventually.”

Morgan gave him a half-grin. “Well, for now, I’ll keep watch down there,” he said, gesturing to the bullpen.

“And I’ll keep watch from up here,” Hotch concluded.

Later that evening, Reid sat on the edge of his bed, pressing his knuckles lightly to his temple, thumb tucked behind his ear as if the pressure might soothe the throbbing behind his eyes.

He exhaled sharply through his nose after a few minutes with no ease.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, voice barely audible. “Let’s just think about this for a second. No need to panic.”

His eyes were glassy and unfocused, but he forced them to lock on the bookshelf across the room. Something familiar. Something constant.

“You were shot in the neck,” he said to himself. “That’s trauma to the carotid triangle. There could be referred nerve pain and muscle tension from that. Maybe post-concussion symptoms.” He blinked slowly, his breathing shallow.

“You’ve been sleeping… less than you should. Caffeine intake is up, hydration down.” He paused. “Classic migraine triggers.”

His breath caught in his throat for a second as he tried to talk himself down from panicking.

“You’re not dizzy,” he whispered, even though that wasn’t entirely true. “You’re not slurring. No numbness. No nausea. You’re okay.”

He repeated that last part.

“You’re okay.”

But his hands were trembling slightly, just enough that he had to curl them into fists against his knees. His eyes drifted shut, jaw tightening as a sharper pulse of pain flared at the base of his skull.

Maybe it was getting worse.

Reid leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs, trying to ride it out. He stayed that way for another hour, listing facts in his head like a prayer, trying to out-think something he didn’t want to name yet.

The next day, the bullpen was unusually quiet for a Thursday morning. Reid liked that. He was in earlier than usual, which he could already tell was a mistake. His steps weren’t steady, exactly, but they were practiced as he made his way into the bullpen. He moved with the careful intention of someone who’d been up most of the night and was doing his best to make it look like he hadn’t.

At his desk, he lowered himself into his chair gingerly. His hands shook when he reached for the coffee he shouldn’t have, so he waited, pretending he was distracted by the papers in front of him. It felt like someone had buried a railroad spike just behind his right eye.

He blinked slowly. Twice.

Across the bullpen, Morgan walked in, said something to JJ — Reid didn’t really hear it. There was too much noise and pressure in his head, sounds that weren’t quite sounds.

“You’re okay,” he told himself under his breath.

“You’re okay,” he repeated.

From the balcony above, Hotch leaned on the railing again. He’d seen Reid come in and instantly noticed the pause at the doorway and the way his shoulders tensed on every third step like he was walking through molasses. It wasn’t just soreness anymore.

Morgan glanced up at Hotch and caught his eye. Hotch nodded.

At his desk, Reid rubbed at his temple like he could physically push the pain back into place. He didn’t look up once. And when JJ passed him a case file, he tried to smile, but his eyes were a little too glassy, a little too delayed in focus. They were all paying attention now, but Reid was still trying to pretend none of them noticed.

Until Reid decided to say something, it was still a normal day. The team gathered in the conference room for a briefing at noon. Garcia clicked through slides while Morgan tossed out a few observations. Emily filled in victimology, and Rossi made a few sharp observations that edged closer to the unsub’s profile. Reid, when prompted, cleared his throat.

“The... the spatial patterning between the third and fifth victim suggests an attempt at a personal ritual... um—likely rooted in obsessive-compulsive conditioning rather than compulsion alone...”

His voice trailed off mid-sentence as his hand drifted up to his neck, fingers pressing just beneath his jaw as if trying to anchor the words back into place. The silence was a little too long.

“Reid?” Emily offered gently, concern evident in her voice.

Reid flinched like she’d snapped him out of a dream. “Sorry. I—I just need a minute.” He left his tablet behind as he all but stumbled out of the conference room.

Hotch stood still for a beat, jaw tight, his gaze flicking to Morgan. One look was all it took to see the concern and worry in Morgan’s expression, along with the rest of the team, as Hotch looked around at the others discreetly.

Hotch turned on his heel and followed Reid out of the conference room.

As he scanned over the bullpen, he spotted movement in the break room out of the corner of his eye.

The break room had never looked more like a place to hide.

The lights were off, and one of the blinds was only half-pulled, casting a jagged line of sunlight across the table. Reid sat hunched forward in the corner, his arms folded tight across his stomach, jaw clenched as he leaned his head into the heel of one hand.

Hotch didn’t knock. Just opened the door, stepped inside, and shut it behind him.

“I shouldn’t have to come looking for you,” he said calmly, but the edge was there. “If you’re in that much pain, you need to tell someone.”

Reid flinched but didn’t look up. “Sorry. It’s not that bad, I just… need a minute.”

Hotch folded his arms, standing just inside the room. “Reid, you left the briefing without saying more than three sentences. You’ve barely been sleeping, and every time someone looks at you, you’re rubbing your neck or trying not to wince. Everyone sees it.”

Reid pressed his palm harder into his forehead. “It’s normal, after everything.”

“It’s been a month as of today,” Hotch countered.

“Probably normal, then.”

Hotch sighed, stepping closer. “You’re not doing anyone any favors by pushing through this. If you’d told me days ago how bad this was, we could’ve done something about it.”

Reid still wouldn’t look at him.

“You’re the smartest one in the room—you know how this goes,” Hotch pushed. “If this were one of us, you’d be the first one insisting we take it seriously.”

Reid didn’t answer. His breathing had gone unsteady, quiet little catches in his throat. His fingers curled tighter into his sleeve.

Hotch exhaled, frustrated. “You need to let someone know when it gets to this point.”

Still no answer. Hotch’s expression shifted slightly as he watched Reid for another second.

“…Reid.”

Reid swallowed, and when he finally lifted his head, Hotch saw his eyes were red and glassy. Hotch’s tone changed in an instant—low, soft, steady.

“Reid,” he said again, gentler this time. “Okay. Okay—just relax for a minute.”

Reid shook his head just slightly and looked away, jaw clenched like he hated being seen like this. Hotch crouched down beside him, slower this time.

“I’m not mad,” he said, his voice quieter. “I’m worried.”

Hotch stayed low, one knee to the floor now, like he was grounding himself there just as much as he was anchoring Reid. “I need you to sit back for a second,” he said gently. “Just lean against the chair.”

Reid didn’t respond right away, but he listened, slowly easing back. His hands trembled as he let go of the table. His jaw was tight, a soft wince pulling at the corners of his mouth. Hotch moved slowly, hands steady as he took stock. He rested one hand lightly against Reid’s forearm.

“Can I take a look? I don’t want to hurt you,” Hotch said, his voice low.

Reid gave a shaky nod. Hotch started at the base of Reid’s skull, fingers feather-light as he worked his way down along the curve of his neck. Reid stiffened instantly, his shoulders twitching away from the contact.

Hotch paused. “Sorry. I know it’s sore.”

He didn’t pull his hand away completely, just adjusted the angle. “Try to relax,” he murmured.

Reid nodded again, but his eyes were shut tight now, and his breathing was shallow. Hotch tried again—this time pressing lower, just along the side of his cervical spine. Reid jerked, the reaction so sharp and immediate that he nearly came out of the chair.

“God—” he gasped, hand shooting up like he could block the pain.

“Okay. That’s it.” Hotch eased back instantly, both hands raised. “Sorry. That’s enough.”

He took a second, watching Reid’s chest rise and fall as he calmed himself down. His fingers were digging into the edge of the chair.

“You’re pulling away from light pressure,” Hotch said quietly, his voice calmer than he felt. “That’s not just muscle soreness, Reid. Or just a headache.”

“I don’t know what this is anymore,” Reid whispered, trying not to touch where Hotch had unintentionally made his neck stiff. His breathing was still shaky, and his shoulders sagged like just sitting upright was taking effort. Hotch gave his shoulder a light squeeze.

“You’re not going back in there,” he said. “We’re done for the day.”

Reid opened his mouth, probably to argue.

Hotch beat him to it. “This isn’t a debate,” he said more firmly.

When Reid didn’t fight it—just nodded slightly, his eyes still watery and distant—Hotch’s concern deepened. He straightened up slightly, keeping a hand on the back of Reid’s chair.

“You did the right thing, coming in here. Taking a break. That’s what kept this from getting worse.”

Reid looked down. “Still feels like it’s just getting worse,” he whispered.

Hotch watched him for a second, like he was debating what the right call was.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said eventually, still watching Reid closely. “I’m going to get your things—just what you need to bring home, nothing else.”

Reid looked like he wanted to object again, but Hotch held up a hand.

“Please don’t make this any harder for yourself,” Hotch warned, but that undercurrent of gentleness was still evident in his tone. “You cannot function like this.”

After a moment, Reid nodded weakly, his eyes still unfocused from the pain.

Hotch crouched a little again to get to eye level. “I’ll drive you. You’re not driving yourself, that’s not even on the table.”

Reid didn’t argue this time; he didn’t have the energy anymore. He was exhausted.

“And while I get your bag,” Hotch continued, his voice dipping lower, “you’re going to stay right here. Keep your head down if it helps, and try to breathe steady.”

Reid blinked slowly. “Okay,” he murmured. It was barely audible, but it was something.

Hotch gave a small nod. “Good.”

He started to stand, but Reid reached out faintly, brushing Hotch’s sleeve. Hotch turned back.

“Hotch…”

“Yeah?”

Reid looked up at him, eyes rimmed red, voice small and raw. “Thanks.”

Hotch reached down, gave Reid’s shoulder a quiet squeeze, and nodded.

“I’ll be right back.”

***

Hotch closed the door to the break room most of the way behind him, hoping it would help keep anyone out, so Reid could take a moment to calm himself down. He moved quickly into the bullpen and headed straight for Reid’s desk. It wasn’t a rush, but it was purposeful, the same way he moved when a case turned critical.

Morgan spotted Hotch rummaging around for Reid’s bag from his desk.

“Everything okay?”

Hotch didn’t look up right away as he pulled Reid’s bag out from beneath the desk and slung it over his shoulder.

“Reid’s done for the day,” Hotch said calmly. “I’m taking him home.”

Morgan was already pushing back from his desk. “What happened?”

Hotch gave him a brief look. “He’s hurting more than he let on.”

“Bad?”

Hotch’s silence was answer enough.

“I’ll let the others know,” Morgan said, already moving towards the conference room, where the others were still gathered. “You need anything?”

Hotch shook his head. “Just cover things for the rest of the afternoon.”

He turned on his heel and walked briskly back towards the break room.

When Hotch pushed the door open, he saw Reid in the same position he had left him in—slumped in the hard plastic chair with his head cradled in his hand. Reid lifted his head slightly when he heard Hotch come back in.

“How’re you feeling?” Hotch asked, coming around the chair to crouch in front of Reid again.

Reid shrugged as an answer. When Hotch got a good look at him, he could see that Reid’s eyes were glassy and red from the pain, but at least Reid was able to focus on him.

That’s good, Hotch thought to himself. He’s still aware. He’s not going to stand up and pass out on me.

“Think we can get you up?” Hotch asked after a minute.

“Yeah,” Reid said quietly. His lack of movement contradicted that answer.

“You need help?”

“Nonono,” Reid mumbled quickly. “It just… hurts.”

“I know,” Hotch said quietly. He gave Reid another minute before placing his hand on Reid’s shoulder.

“Let me help you,” Hotch repeated gently. He increased the pressure for a second on Reid’s shoulder before dropping his hand and holding it out, beckoning Reid to stand.

“Come on.”

It was the uncharacteristic worry hidden behind the calm exterior of Hotch’s words that finally did it for Reid.

Plus, he knew Hotch wouldn’t let him sit in this chair forever.

Reid sighed and gingerly lifted his head from his hand. Pushing himself up, he took Hotch’s offered hand for balance as the room shifted slightly.

Reid felt rather than saw Hotch steady him.

“There you go. Easy.”

Reid hummed in response, his eyes closed again. Once the room stopped spinning from the change of position, he forced his eyes open to meet Hotch’s concerned ones.

“Alright?” Hotch asked, loosening his grip on Reid’s arm to let him test his balance.

At Reid’s barely-there nod, Hotch reluctantly let go of Reid’s arm, but kept a protective hand hovering near his back as they walked out of the break room.

“Alright. We’ll go slow.”

***

Getting Reid outside and into the car was a surprisingly easy task, all things considered.

Reid was quiet in the passenger seat, his head tilted back against the headrest, with his eyes half-closed within seconds.

Hotch slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and let it idle for a minute.

“I’m taking you home,” he said. “Unless you tell me otherwise.”

Reid shifted slightly. “Not the hospital?”

Hotch glanced at him. “Do you think we need to?”

Reid hesitated. “No,” he said softly, but the hesitation in his voice was enough to tell Hotch he wasn’t confident in that answer.

But Hotch also knew Reid, and knew that if Reid were thinking straight, the hospital would be the last thing he’d want right now.

“I’ll take you home for now,” Hotch concluded. “If this gets worse, we’ll reconsider our options.”

Reid didn’t argue, which told Hotch all he needed to know. He only heard a faint sound from Reid that might have been “m’kay” before Hotch saw his eyes slide fully shut in the rearview mirror. 

Hotch sighed, the carefully concealed concern tightening in his chest with every passing mile. Whatever was going on, they’d figure it out; they always did.

But some part of him already knew—this wasn’t going to be just as simple as a headache. With Reid, it never was.