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Hotch could tell when Reid had a migraine or when one was just about to come around. The normally extremely focused genius would become unfocused and trail off mid sentences, and not in the way where he’s come across a revelation. He would repeat himself a couple of times, as if he’d forgotten what he just said. He would be increasingly more irritated by little things. His left eyelid would twitch every so slightly, and any sort of lights, especially bright ones, made him wince horribly.
This time, Hotch noticed the photophobia first and then the irritated streak first when they woke up and he immediately made his way to the kitchen. He and Reid had the house to themselves for the weekend as Rossi had taken Jack on a fishing trip. The BAU was on a two week vacation per Chief Strauss, barring any major incidents happening that required them. Hotch and Reid had planned to take full advantage of the break. Unfortunately, Reid’s migraine decided to intervene.
Hotch put the kettle on and poured a glass of orange juice (no pulp, and definitely not Sunny D) for Reid. He knew that his lover would prefer coffee but coffee tended to make Reid nauseated during a migraine and he wasn’t going to inflict that kind of hell on his boyfriend.
While he waited for the water in the kettle to boil, Hotch put some bread in the toaster, fed their cat Artemis, and selected The Prince and the Discourses from their bookshelves to read. Hotch wasn’t particularly looking forward to reading Machiavelli, but after Reid’s last migraine, Hotch was going to stay as far away from Hugo as humanly possible, and he abhorred Dickens after college English classes. While he could stomach Tolstoy, Reid’s copies of War and Peace and Anna Karenina were in Russian, as if he expected his lover to have anything else. To add a slightly easier read into the mix, and because King Arthur was always a win with his lover, Hotch also grabbed Le Mort d’Arthur just as the kettle whistled loudly.
He headed over to the kitchen poured the boiling into a mug that had a bag of green tea in it. He grabbed the toast and put it on a plate. He piled everything onto a tray and Hotch then headed back into the bedroom.
Reid was curled up under the blankets, obviously hiding from any and all sources of light. He chestnut hair was covering his face. Hotch pulled it back to kiss him sweetly, gently.
“Hey, baby,” he murmured. “Can you sit up for me a little? I have tea, dry toast, and OJ for you.”
Reid groaned and sat up a little bit, rubbing his eyes and squinting at Hotch. “I hate migraines,” he murmured softly as he grabbed a piece of toast. “I know they’re not fun,” Hotch agreed. “Do you want anything for it?”
Reid shook his head. “It’s a mild one so far,” he said softly. “I’ll be fine after this and some more sleep.”
Hotch nodded and climbed back into bed. Artemis mrowled and jumped up into the bed, purring softly.
Reid gave a small smile and leaned into Hotch, taking a look at the books Hotch brought in. “You don’t like Machiavelli,” he whispered.
“Spencer,” Hotch murmured softly. “I love you dearly, but if I have to read one more line about the Parisian sewers, you would be a single father.”
That got a soft chuckle from the younger profiler and Reid curled more into Hotch a little. “You can read Mallory,” he said. “It’s been a while.”
“Start with where Lancelot du Lac makes his appearance?” Hotch asked teasingly.
“Aaron,” Reid laughed weakly, “I’m a Sir Galahad or Sir Percival lover, not Lancelot.
Hotch laughed with him and kissed his hair. “I’ll read, you drink your drinks, eat your toast, and rest,” he said gently. He grabbed Le Mort d’Arthur and opened it up at the beginning before he started to read.
Reid curled up closer and rested, eating his toast and drinking his tea. The OJ could wait. He loved hearing Hotch read to him. The soft Southern accent that the Unit Chief of the BAU had grown up speaking with was in full force then, and it would linger for a while afterwards, up to about 72 hours afterwards (at last length). It often soothed Reid to hear Hotch say “Spencah” as much as it excited him. Hotch always was embarrassed by the accent, but Reid adored it. He always felt privileged that very few people got to hear Hotch’s accent, and that he was one of those special few people.
The tea was finished and the toast was eaten in short order and Reid gingerly set the glass of juice aside before he curled up again, laying his head on Hotch’s thigh. His head throbbed and he closed his eyes tightly, concentrating on the lilt of Hotch’s voice and the fingers in his hair.
By the time that Arthur was pulling Excalibur out of the stone, Reid was asleep.
Hotch read a page or two more before switching off the bedside lamp. Carefully, being sure not to wake up Reid, he laid down, keeping his arms wrapped around his afflicted lover and allowed sleep to drag him back under.
They had two weeks to rekindle their sex life.