Control, Criminal Minds, PG
May. 1st, 2008 09:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phantismaFandom: Criminal Minds
Title: Control
Characters/Pairings: Hotch
Rating: PG
Word Count: 362
Summary: Just some internal Hotch that came to me after talking about him and his motivations with a friend.
A/N's & Warnings: Um...angsty and stuff? I have no Hotch icons.
Hotch closed the door and leaned against it, breathing slowly . Controlled. Measured. Everything around him was neat and tidy, clean. Everything in its place. Here, in this space there was order, even if outside that door there was only chaos.
He put his briefcase on the floor by the door. Hung his coat on the empty hook. Took his suitcase to the stairs and up to his bedroom, where he emptied it, dropping the rumpled, sweaty suit into the dry cleaning bin. It was dirty, out of place, a symptom to be hidden away to preserve the illusion. Socks and underwear went into the hamper before pulling on his tie and toeing off his shoes.
It was quiet. Far too quiet.
Far too neat. Much too orderly.
As if it could keep everything else in place…if this was just perfect enough…if the towels hung just right and his shoes stood evenly under the dresser’s edge. If he could just make it all right, his world would stop the freefall that was dragging him under.
And Aaron knew the veneer wouldn’t last. Knew the chaos would find its way inside, past the protection of perfection, past the walls. It would climb inside him. It would roll around with his own demons and mate and produce and grow until he couldn’t contain it with the illusion.
He straightened the picture of Jack on the dresser, touched his face, closed his eyes.
He knew control wasn’t the answer. That control was only an illusion too.
He laid down on the bed, still fully dressed, unable to take off the armor that held the illusion in place. Naked he was vulnerable. He closed his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t find peace enough to sleep. Near morning his body’s exhaustion would drag him under and he’d dream of losing control, of letting go of the illusion.
In the morning, he’d wake, wash himself clean of the release the dream would bring and go back out into the chaos, held together, contained behind walls starting to show signs of the strain, and dig his fingers into the flesh of his own delusions for one more day.
Title: Control
Characters/Pairings: Hotch
Rating: PG
Word Count: 362
Summary: Just some internal Hotch that came to me after talking about him and his motivations with a friend.
A/N's & Warnings: Um...angsty and stuff? I have no Hotch icons.
Hotch closed the door and leaned against it, breathing slowly . Controlled. Measured. Everything around him was neat and tidy, clean. Everything in its place. Here, in this space there was order, even if outside that door there was only chaos.
He put his briefcase on the floor by the door. Hung his coat on the empty hook. Took his suitcase to the stairs and up to his bedroom, where he emptied it, dropping the rumpled, sweaty suit into the dry cleaning bin. It was dirty, out of place, a symptom to be hidden away to preserve the illusion. Socks and underwear went into the hamper before pulling on his tie and toeing off his shoes.
It was quiet. Far too quiet.
Far too neat. Much too orderly.
As if it could keep everything else in place…if this was just perfect enough…if the towels hung just right and his shoes stood evenly under the dresser’s edge. If he could just make it all right, his world would stop the freefall that was dragging him under.
And Aaron knew the veneer wouldn’t last. Knew the chaos would find its way inside, past the protection of perfection, past the walls. It would climb inside him. It would roll around with his own demons and mate and produce and grow until he couldn’t contain it with the illusion.
He straightened the picture of Jack on the dresser, touched his face, closed his eyes.
He knew control wasn’t the answer. That control was only an illusion too.
He laid down on the bed, still fully dressed, unable to take off the armor that held the illusion in place. Naked he was vulnerable. He closed his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t find peace enough to sleep. Near morning his body’s exhaustion would drag him under and he’d dream of losing control, of letting go of the illusion.
In the morning, he’d wake, wash himself clean of the release the dream would bring and go back out into the chaos, held together, contained behind walls starting to show signs of the strain, and dig his fingers into the flesh of his own delusions for one more day.
