Chapter Text
J.J. drops a pamphlet on Hotch’s desk. He’s seen it before: the bright orange letters in abhorrent font. It’s grief counseling for children. The pamphlet J.J. gives out whenever they have a case where a child loses their loved one. It just so happens that this child is now Jack.
Hotch sighs. “He’s talking to someone.”
J.J. has her own sigh to combat his. “These guys are trained specifically in helping children cope with their grief in a child-friendly way. You mentioned Jack was still having nightmares, still sleeping in your room, and still wetting the bed.”
“He's been going to his current counselor for the past eight months,” Hotch says. “I can’t change his routine on him.”
“So add to it. These counselors will work with his current one to get a good rapport going. I think this could really be good for him.”
Hotch goes home with the pamphlet in his bag. It isn’t until Jack wakes up from yet another nightmare that he actually decides to call.
-
Eden Counselling is a well-known place in Hotch’s line of work. He’s never been inside, though, so he’s surprised at the fuzzy orange carpet and overflow of toys in random sized bins. There’s a train printed rug on the floor, and beanbags instead of chairs.
For an FBI funded building, it’s chaos.
Hotch signs his name at the front desk. He lets Jack grab a toy while he checks his phone for emails. The speakers overhead are playing some song from the nineties, and it brings some wave of nostalgia into Hotch’s chest. Like a wave, it suddenly knocks him over, leaving him to fight this new feeling while standing perfectly still in a waiting room.
The door to the back rooms opens, and someone steps out.
You're younger than him, but not too much. Hotch notices your obnoxiously green sweater covered in a pattern of daisies. It’s happy and bright and way too exciting for grief counseling.
“Jack Hotchner?” you call, eyes already on the boy in question.
Jack turns at his name and holds up the plastic dinosaur he’s already found in one of the bins. “Can I take this with me?”
“You may, thank you for asking,” you reply. “Let’s go to my office so I can ask you and your dad some questions.”
Hotch averts his eyes when you look at him, and focuses on Jack. “Let’s go, Buddy.”
If he thought your sweater was too bright, your office is even worse. It’s got a neutral grey carpet, but it’s mostly covered by a plush purple sofa and a coffee table with rounded edges.
In addition, there are muted green shelves with things like plushies, bead mazes, and picture books. Jack silently points to one of the plushies, and you tells him its name. The walls are covered in drawings and academic certificates.
Hotch sits on the sofa. There are throw pillows that look like flowers, and Jack crawls onto the sofa and hands one to Hotch.
“Okay,” Your hands together softly, your charm bracelet jingling. “My name is ___. I’m here to talk about your feelings.” You’re addressing Jack, squatting down and maintaining eye contact with him.
It’s actually a lot more than his usual counselors do, and Hotch wonders why this small action makes him feel like Jack is in good hands.
“Can I color?” Jack points to the bright markers sitting in a mason jar on the coffee table.
You grab a blank sheet of paper out of one of your drawers and place it on the table. “Of course, Buddy. Maybe you can draw what makes you happy! I’m going to talk to your dad, okay?”
Jack nods, already picking out a red marker.
You sit in your chair and turn to Hotch, Jack’s file now in your hand. “So… he’s had counselling at Reyna’s Center for about, uh, seven months, now?”
“Eight,” Hotch corrects. “He goes every Friday after school.”
“Eight…” You make a correction in your notes and continue to read down. “So is that not working out for him? That’s quite a long rapport to switch up.”
“Agent Jareau recommended you guys,” Hotch says. “Jack’s behavior at night isn’t getting better and she thought you might be able to help.”
“Could you let me know what is abnormal about his behavior?”
“Since my wife’s death…” Hotch licks his lips and wrings his fingers. “He has been having nightmares and wetting the bed. He’ll come and sleep with me sometimes, because that’s what he did right after Haley died. It doesn’t seem to be getting better, and his current counselor is suggesting refusing to let him sleep with me when he asks, but I don’t want to leave him alone if he needs me.”
Hotch realizes he’s talking about himself now, so he shuts up. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Your voice is gentle, and you look over to see Jack coloring in the sun. “It’s pretty common, considering what the two of you went through, that you would both fear being alone. My concern is the nightmares. It’s a symptom of PTSD, and I’m afraid he’s reliving the moment over and over. His counselors should’ve been on this a long time ago.”
Hotch feels like he’s been chastised, and he opens his mouth to defend himself, but you beat him to it.
“Does he have anything special he sleeps with?”
“He used to sleep with one of his mom’s t-shirts. His counselor told me to try a few nights without it, but that seems to make him worse.”
You frown. “Yeah, that’s weird. It’s not hurting him, so I don’t know why they told you to do that.”
He leaves with a list of things that oppose Jack’s current counselor’s instructions. It’s a huge change, and Hotch isn’t sure it’s going to work, but he’s willing to take a chance.
-
Your apartment is so lack-luster. You’d think after five years of living here, you would’ve added a poster or two. Truth is, you feel your personality is expressed better in your office than in your home. Other than your well-loved sci-fi novels and your taffeta blankets from the eighties, it’s not exactly home-y.
Still, you try to make it a safe space for your clients. Especially in your line of work, you have a lot of kids and teens struggling to find their way after the death of their parent, or parents.
So your guest room is essentially a hotel room, because you’ve opened your home to a lot of the kids you help out. You’d rather they go to you than get lost on the streets.
It’s quite comfy, with muted blue sheets and a television with Netflix already logged in. There are assorted plushies and a basket of granola bars and chips. There’s also water bottles, and pads, and toothbrushes, and anything else they might need.
It’s only happened once or twice, but each night is another child safe, so it’s worth the effort. As long as you report it to your superiors and get permission from the parents, you let them stay.
You didn’t expect fourteen-year-old Tina Barkley to be at your door when you arrived home from work, but here she is, standing in your living room, and you want to apologize for how stoic it seems.
“I don’t have time to decorate,” you try to excuse yourself, as if you need to prove yourself to the young teen. “How about you go get a shower? I’ll make dinner, and we can talk about everything then.”
The purple-haired girl nods, still not talking, and lets you lead her into the guest bedroom.
As soon as the water starts running, and you have a pizza in the oven, you dial the number of your friend.
“Agent Jareau.”
“It’s me, ___.” You wipe someone tomato sauce off of the counter. “I’ve got Tina Barkley with me. I assume she didn’t tell her dad where she went?”
“Oh, Thank God,” J.J. breathes out. “I’m going to put you on speaker.”
“Okay.”
“This is Agent Morgan. Can you bring her in as soon as possible?”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” you say, biting your lip.
“Excuse me?” Morgan’s voice is deep and intimidating, but you know your client.
You lean your hip bone against the counter. “She has a history of running away. Along with the grief she’s still processing, I think it’d be best to let me keep her for the night. She’s safe, I’ll have a little session with her, and I’ll call you guys tomorrow when she’s ready to be picked up.”
“You sound pretty confident,” It’s Agent Hotchner, you recognize his voice.
“It’s my job to figure out these kids’ next moves,” you say. “She came to me, she wants to talk.”
“Whoever killed her mother is still out there. What she did was dangerous and stupid,” Hotchner finally says. “We’ll have a car pick her up at eight in the morning.”
“Got it,” you say. You’re not sure why he’s so upset. You both work for the FBI, and it’s not like you aren’t trained to keep these kids safe. You work with victims and kids in witness protection.
When Tina comes out of the shower, ranting and raving about how protective her father has gotten all of a sudden, you listen. You try to keep the harsh voice of the agent out of your mind.
-
“I’m sorry for snapping at you last night. We’re no closer to catching this unsub, and having Tina out of our sight could’ve been fatal.” Hotchner is staring at Tina as she sips coffee with her father in the break room. They’re laughing about something, and it makes your heart clench. You’ve never had that sort of relationship with your dad. Sometimes this job is a painful reminder of that.
“It’s okay,” you say. “I knew you just wanted to keep her safe. She needed a night to breathe. She wasn’t angry or upset, she just felt stifled. When one parent is gone, the other tends to make up for it by becoming overly affectionate. Sometimes that can smother the child. If I forced her back to her dad, she might’ve run away to somewhere dangerous, and then we’d really be in trouble.”
Hotchner nods. It’s silent for a moment, and then, “Your suggestions worked, by the way. He had one nightmare the other night, but he’s been sleeping in his own bed after I gave him back the t-shirt. I’ve been… Well, this might be weird… but I’ve been taking a hot water bottle and wrapping the shirt around it.”
“That’s a great idea,” You turn to him, voice lifting before you can stop yourself. “Giving him something warm to hold close must bring him a lot of comfort.”
“I hope so,” Hotchner trails off, staring at the family. “You know, I think I‘m ready to make another appointment for Jack.”