Chapter Text
Reid thinks that he could never get over that time when Hotch taught him how to shoot: The curling of all ten fingers, the lifted arms, the tightly locked eyes, and finally, the one bending of the index finger…And Hotch was there, right behind him, arms lifted as if parallels, and the body, aged by the 16 years between them, enveloped Reid like a shadow. Yet this test he must pass, which was the purest and the most violent murderous art, was yet so tender that it feels like the clasped hands of lovers leading to a beautiful kiss.
And shadow is very much needed in the deserts, in Vegas. Reid remembered walking home from school on a hot summer day, his water bottle broken by someone. He’s got suspects, he could prove the suspicions, but all that proofs and confirmations could only lead to another beating, so he just chose to endure the loss in silence. He also remembered that his mother had a lesson on Chaucer that day so she couldn’t pick him up. And the reason why he had needed a pickup, was that someone - what’s his name again? - had locked him in the equip room so he had missed the school bus. The boys used to throw stones at him walking home, while in his heart he silently recited that, he that is without sin among you let him first cast a stone at…
The stones didn’t disappear, nor did the pain.
He had to walk a very, very long way before finally finding rest under a palm tree. But O her shadow, so gentle, so tender, so safe and serene, just like this shooting room of pleasant 24 Celsius degree temperature he’s in, Hotch’s right behind him, he can smell the cologne, he has several possible brands and ingredients in mind, but what will the proofs and confirmations lead him to this time? So Reid just leans back into Hotch’s embrace, lifts his arms so theirs in parallel, bends his index finger.
But the sound didn’t come. Mom, his mom, showed up covered in Vegas dirts and sands and still holding a copy of the Canterbury Tales in her left arm. She bent down to him with concern.
Spencer, dear, why are you sleeping here? Come, go home, let’s go home together…
Mom, he replied softly, …I can’t.
What, are your legs getting numb? She smiled in a manner so familiar yet so far away, reaching out to him, saying come on, Spence, as if encouraging her newborn child to take his first step. The family video tape which recorded him toddling away from giggling parents and nearly fell to the ground was carved into eidetic memory, and comes to him every night and day, in the most bittersweet of dreams.
Okay. She said, pulling out a handkerchief from her purse, spreading it on the ground before she sat down next to him. She opened her book, and cheerfully started reading to him the verses.
He fell asleep by the tendre croppes and the yonge sonne, then woke up to the cozy smell of both. Still in a confused drowsiness, he hears Hotch saying, “I’m about to wake you up.”
“I-I fell asleep.”
“I see.” Hotch smiles, “Was it good?”
“…What?”
“I saw you smiling, so I thought it might be a good dream.” Hotch says, then these simultaneous words turns into some light electricity creeping up his spine, un-ingnorably reminding him of the stupid things he just said. “Forget it.” He adds quickly, “Just a terrible small talk attempt.”
“Oh.” Reid replies softly, “It was.”
He says, “I mean, it was not typically a good dream, but I’d love to have that dream again. I dreamed about my bullies back in LA, but that was when I was eight. They were like, seventeen. And the dirty equip room they locked me in. I missed the school bus, my mom’s got a lecture that day, so she couldn’t pick me up - but she still showed up. Which never actually happened, because I was good at hiding. She never found me bruised and sleeping under a palm tree. So it was good, generally.”
Then he comments, “And you are, uh, actually good at…talking, Hotch.”
“I have to say that not really -”
“You always are.”Reid interrupts, as in a hurry. His mind travels a million miles in a second, words fleeing his lips to chase it. Again as in similar circumstances he flushes, for saying something unthoughtful or stupid.
“Well, thank you then.” Hotch smiles at the smile he evokes on Reid’s lips, “Maybe we should get back to practice.”
Maybe it’s him trying to avoid any further conversation; maybe he’s really bad at this; or maybe Reid is not the person for him to make that effort. While practicing, Hotch says he’s been making progress as in encouragement, yet Reid finds himself shamelessly disappointed by the sincere happiness, since he won’t be able to share this shooting range moment with his boss once he passes the test, and he knows that Hotch doesn’t morbidly cherish this as he does - which is the right thing to do. Hotch has been the incarnation of every word sharing this root in his whole life, and it makes Reid feel guilty to even imagine him the most slightly diverted, if not opposite.
He hopes his heart were beating fast in shame.