Characters: Hotch, Foyet
Rating: R (warnings for violence and blood)
Word Count: 250 (exactly)
Don't cry your thistledown tears
The flood and the fire will both run clear
The time to wrestle the angel is here
And night is quickly passing
He’s in pain, losing blood and lapsing in and out of consciousness. He’s only distantly aware of what’s happening to him. Any knowledge of the profile or ability to apply it is gone. Profiler, FBI, Supervisory Special Agent, Unit Chief -- they have no meaning, no weight, do not apply to him, now.
The only things that do, right here and right now, are human, hurting, and fighting for his life.
When the knife moves toward his face, Hotch lifts his arms and gets sliced across both. It’s a weak, clumsy, instinctive, reaction. In the dim recesses of his addled brain he thinks ‘defensive wounds'.
Far from it making him feel like a victim, the thought, however unfocused, rouses him. It becomes the most important thing in the world that, when his body is found, his team know that he fought, and see proof of that fight in his skin.
That’s the point Foyet loses control of the situation.
He curses because those slashes on Hotchner’s arms are causing a lot more blood loss than he’d planned, at least this early in the game, and his only options are to let Hotchner die peacefully, kill him quickly, or dump him off at an Emergency Room and try again later.
There’s no decision to make.
He wants Hotchner destroyed. He can’t destroy a dead man. Dead, Agent Hotchner has the control. Dead, Agent Hotchner wins.
Foyet isn’t going to let that happen.
He puts the knife away. “We’ll finish this later.”