Warnings: Fluff, angst, tiny tiny tiny amount of smut. Canon is none existing. Family moments, slow-burn romance, workplace banter and teasing, grief and loss of a parent (terminal illness (not disclosed), hospice, mourning), vomiting, breakdown, hospital scenes (emergency c-section and labor complications), canon type cm cases, mental health struggles, very brief non-graphic breakup, lots of kisses, nothing directly explicit, but insinuated that they have sex (a lot), pregnancy and childbirth (but only the finding out and birth (mildly) is described)... Y/N and L/N very sparsely used when I couldn't move around it.
Summary: You and Hotch are desk neighbours in the bullpen, back in a time where Gideon was still unit chief. And the two of you were fairly new agents. Late nights turn into competitions and conversations about anything and everything, until eventually you find each other and flash forward: become the “mom and dad” of the BAU.
A/N: DANDADADAAAAAAAA!!!!! HERE IT IS!!! MY PRIDE AND JOY!! This has been one very long process and i'm so in love with the entire fic, even though I'm super duper tired and pulled way too many long nights writing.
Bon appétit!!!
Also I didn't have the strength to edit this, so hopefully my 2 a.m. writing skills haven't fucked me over completely. 🫣
Christmas came early for you this year, more precisely in September of the year 2000, when you first step into the bullpen of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. There's a lingering scent of stale coffee and freshly printed paper in the air—either it will soon be your favorite smell, or the worst, only time will tell.
There's a constant buzz and popping sounds coming from the fluorescent lights overhead, already begging to give you a migraine if the Bureau doesn't change the tubes soon. Kill me already, you think as you look around, trying to spot Agent Gideon to announce your arrival for your first day.
At twenty-eight, you're fresh out of the Academy, a psychology degree in your toolbox, and one hell of an ability to spot lies through micro expressions, which initially was the reason your attending agent fast-tracked your resume from the bottom of the food chain and straight into Gideon's inbox.
Your transfer papers still feel warm in your hands as you spot Gideon coming toward you. He gives you a quick nod and a small smile before he reaches you.
"Ms. L/N," he stops in front of you. You can already sense that Gideon is a warm person from the cadence of his voice. "Welcome to the team." He extends his hand, and you shake it—it's the kind of handshake that speaks louder than words and says 'I already trust you to keep up'.
"Follow me." And so you do, crossing the bullpen until you reach an empty desk across from a dark-haired agent, hunched over a file and surrounded by several more. His tie is barely loosened, sleeves rolled up, and hair slightly tousled as if he has been running his hands through it in frustration. "That's Agent Hotchner," Gideon says. "He joined us last year. Good man, and the best ex-prosecutor we've managed to steal from the field office in Seattle. You'll be desk neighbors for the foreseeable future."
Agent Hotchner looks up from his file at the introduction and offers you a polite smile before he stands up and extends his hand. "Hotch. Welcome to the unit." He greets.
You shake his hand, wow, his grip is firm, and his hand is warm, you note at the back of your head as you introduce yourself. Gideon's smirk is almost imperceptible as he leaves the two of you, standing at the juncture where your desks connect, hands clasped longer than strictly necessary.
You quickly learn that he's thirty-five, joined the Bureau in '95 after he figured out that he'd rather be catching the killers than prosecuting them for the rest of his life. He's ambitious and plans to one day make director if everything goes to plan, methodical, the kind of guy who color-codes his case notes by the severity of the case, who never leaves a form half-finished, or leaves the office in the middle of writing a report.
And rumor has it that the director is already eyeing him for a leadership role in another unit, despite his current lag of seniority with the Bureau.
And you, your ambitions? Right now, you're just the new kid, hungry to learn and to prove you belong with the travelling profile team, and not just behind your desk from 9-5, scratching notes in the margins of old case files as you study the serial killers the team has already caught.
Neither of you knows it yet, but the rest of your lives just started.
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The first few weeks end up being a blur of consultations, training files and videos, observing and learning the rhythm of the unit. The way they speak, the way they move, how they work, basically studying their behaviour to the best of your current training.
Gideon leads the team quietly, mostly keeping to himself in his office and letting his agents run on their own. But he's always willing to lend an ear, or answer a question in a way that is so cryptic and so provocative that it leaves you no other option but to rework your theories and learn even more about the ubsubs. AND YOU LOVE IT.
And then there's you and Hotch, trading polite 'Good mornings', first thing, bringing each other a new cup of coffee from the kitchen if either of you were getting up, and occasionally asking the other for a second pair of eyes on a particularly annoying case file.
It doesn't take long for you to realize that you're both night owls when it comes to work. Cases pile up quickly around here, and not just on your desk, but every desk around the bullpen has a minimum of ten files stacked in the inbox at all times. And while the other agents head home by no later than eight, you and Hotch linger.
You don't plan it at first. It just sort of... happens.
On a late night in October—Gideon has finally deemed you ready to climb a step higher on your case clearances—you're working on your first active serial killer case, a serial arsonist from Oregon, trying to get to the bottom of his MO, reviewing victim statements, mapping timelines, trying to get inside the unsub's head before time runs out and he kills again.
It's not until you finally look up that you realize that the bullpen is empty except for the two of you. It's past midnight, and time has completely run away from you. You rub your eyes, feeling them get heavier and heavier the longer you're looking away from the file in front of you.
Hotch leans back across from you, pulls his arms over his head, and stretches himself as far back as he can. His back is stiff and protesting the many long hours hunched over his desk.
"You know you can go home, right?" He questions, cocking his brow at you. "Gideon's not keeping score about who's here the longest."
"Right, why are you still here then? Don't you have a girlfriend at home?" You retort, you know he can take your push back.
"Touché." He chuckles with a slight huff. Hotch's eyes quickly avert, glancing up at the clock. It's already 12:47 a.m., Haley is asleep by now, and there's no use in him rushing home with a bouquet from the nearest bodega open at this hour. She's used to it by now, it'll be okay, he tells himself.
So, you both keep working. The clock keeps ticking: 1:15, 1:44, 2:13. And finally, 2:30 a.m., you yawn so hard your jaw pops, you can't help but smile as you look over at Hotch, his lips slightly upturned as he tries not to giggle at your sudden burst of noisiness.
"Fine." You mutter in defeat, shutting the Bureau-stamped manila folder. "You win tonight."
"Win?" He looks up from his own file, almost looking confused.
"Yeah! You stayed later tonight. Tomorrow the loser buys coffee—aka me." You stand up from your chair, grab your bag from its usual spot on the floor under your desk, and head for the elevator with a small 'Goodnight, Hotch' as you try to hide the grin currently inhabiting your face.
The next morning, you show up at 7:45 with two coffees in a take-out tray—how you're up and awake after getting less than four hours of sleep, is beyond your knowledge. You place his cup in front of him, black and light roast, you noticed how he took it last week. And yours, almost identical, but with a slash of milk.
"And this is the loser buying?" He raises his brow at you, clearly finding your follow-through amusing.
"Rules are rules, Agent Hotchner."
"Call me Aaron." A small smile tugs at his lips; it's truly the first real one you've seen from him since you joined the BAU.
"Okay, Aaron." You smile back at him.
That night, the game starts, and from that point on, it's on.
The bullpen becomes your battlefield, quiet battlefield that is. No one notices your harmless competition at first. Gideon leaves at five if he can, always with a 'Don't stay too late, kids' on his way past your desks. Anderson waves goodbye around six, and the rest of the agents disappear sporadically sometime between the two, leaving the two of you alone, again.
But you and Hotch? You trade glances across the desks as the team leaves, already trying to figure out which of you will cave first.
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You're working on a case from Billings: three children kidnapped in the past nine weeks, all under ten, all taken from public parks between 5:00 and 7:00 p.m. on weekdays, indicating that the unsub(s?) works a regular 9-5 job. No bodies yet, no ransom demands, no fingerprints, no witnesses who saw more than a dark sedan idling in the parking lot on all three occasions, and a single fresh bootprint near the swings from victim number two's abduction that doesn't match any of the visitors to the park during that time frame.
The photos in the file are the kind that make you feel completely hollowed out as you stare at cheerful, gap-toothed school portraits, birthday parties, one little boy in a Spider-Man costume holding his mother's hand as they went trick or treating last Halloween. And every time you look away, you feel like their eyes follow you, screaming at you, asking why you haven't found them yet.
You've been staring at the timeline from the first victim for forty minutes now, highlighter hovering slightly over the copy you made of the original, trying to force the unsub's pattern to reveal itself to you.
Your chest feels like someone parked their car on it.
It's around 11:30 p.m. when you finally blink away from the case—unable to take another glance at a freckled face with a snotty nose—you realize that Hotch hasn't turned a page in a while. He's watching you instead, elbows resting on his desk, chin resting on his steepled fingers.
He's looking at you, barely containing the fact that he's concerned about you. His eyes are soft, carefully trying to study you, find a clue, anything that can lead him to figure out what's bothering you.
"You okay?" He finally asks, coming to terms with not being able to profile you, yet.
"Just... I hate these ones." You swallow the lump in your throat, not realizing how dry your mouth has become.
Hotch nods once, slowly, understanding you perfectly. "Me too." A moment passes. "Do you want to talk through it, together?"
You do. God! Yes, you do.
You nod.
Hotch rolls his chair around the corner of the desks and straight into your space, stopping so close that your knees nearly touch under the desk. He starts spreading the evidence across the desk, moving pictures, reports, and interview logs into three distinct areas based on which victim the evidence is connected to.
"Okay," he starts, tapping the map in the middle of the desk. "All three abduction zones overlap, here." He circles the elementary school in the middle of the three parks, all exactly six miles away from it. "He has to be local."
"But the presumed comfort zone has a twenty-mile radius out from the school in each direction based on other similar cases," you counter, searching for the ruler, you know it's around here somewhere. Hotch hands it to you. You put it on the map and trace a straight line out from the school and circle the perimeter with a compass. "He's risking a lot of travel time with a live child in the car." You state, staring at the now visual preliminary comfort zone.
"Which means he's either extremely confident, or doesn't fit the regular profile for these types of cases. He most likely has a location nearby, where he holds the kids first." Hotch reaches for the highlighter at the same moment you do. You both freeze, then laugh.
"Sorry," he chuckles, but doesn't move his hand away, letting it linger for a moment as your thumbs and pointer fingers stay slightly interlocked with each other.
"By all means, Mr. Unit Chief-in-training," you tease him, letting him take the highlighter. Hotch told you last night, over a fairly sad and beige plate of leftover canteen food, that the director had approached him about becoming Unit chief of the National Security Branch. Which he had declined, arguing that, for one, he didn't feel that his time with the BAU was a closed chapter yet, and two, the commute to DC during morning rush hour was terrible, and he'd be seeing Haley even less than he already did.
Instead, the director had "offered" Hotch training courses in what it takes to be a Unit Chief—in Hotch's own words, it was more of a 'take the offer, or you're fired' kind of negotiation in the end.
"Not for years, hopefully." He snorts. Leaving it at that.
For the next two hours, the bullpen shrinks down to a tiny desk island, current inhabitants: 2.
You argue about possible stressors—job loss? Divorce? Death? It's hard to tell when a body hasn't shown up yet. You discuss whether the lack of a body could indicate that the unsub is sexually assaulting these kids, if he could be impotent, or simply isn't motivated by traditional dominance and "need" the kids for a bigger purpose—potentially trafficking.
You map possible locations within the perimeter, abandoned farms, storage unit facilities, and closed-down gyms on the edge of town, but quickly scrap those ideas, recognizing that most likely, he's keeping them trapped in a basement somewhere—or something similar.
Every time one of you hits a wall, the other is already there, ready to take over with a new angle.
At one point, you're both leaning over the same photograph of the third victim, missing for six days now, and despite your shoulders pressing together, neither of you does or seems to want to shift away from the other.
"Do you think she's still alive?" You ask, turning your head to look at him, the tips of your noses merely inches away from each other.
"I'll believe that, yes. Until we have a body, we'll keep searching for them all."
The clock on the wall ticks past 2:00 a.m. Your eyes are burning, but the fog around the profile is finally lifting, taking shape, teaching you more and more about what might drive this unsub to abduct children under ten.
You lean back in your chair, rolling your neck until it cracks.
"I can't, not tonight," you admit, mostly to yourself. "My brain's turning to mush, and I fear we're minutes away from me babbling pure nonsense." You smile at him.
Hotch looks at you for a moment, taking in the cloudy look in your eyes, the way you yawn every few minutes, the way you fiddle with the pen in your left hand, trying to keep yourself busy and awake.
He says your name softly. "You win this round." He leans back, looking exhausted, yet amused at the confusion slowly spreading across your face. "Coffee, tomorrow, on me. You take it black with a splash of milk still, right?" He questions.
You blink at him. You never told him that. And he certainly never has had to buy you coffee before.
"I pay attention." He winks before rolling back around to his own desk.
And as you get up to grab your coat, you can't help but glance back at him, still sitting at his desk, but instead of being nose deep in his own files, he's watching you as you leave, with an expression you can't quite place, but all you know, is that currently, a very taken man is making your chest feel full.
You have no idea that twenty-five years from now, this night, is still one of those you look back at with fond memories, realizing that it was the first time you let him see you vulnerable due to a case and the first time—of many—he rolled his chair over, just because you needed him close.
All you know for now is that the case still feels like it has no ending, that three children are still out there somewhere, waiting to be rescued. And for the first time all week, you finally believe that you'll bring these kids home, one way or another.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The competition between you becomes your thing. Unspoken and at times a little ridiculous, but nonetheless perfect in its own sleep-deprived kind of way.
Some nights you win—or as you've come to believe, he lets you win—he trudges in the next morning with two coffees in hand, but is met by a steaming latte waiting on his desk, with a pink sticky note stuck to it saying "Loser" in thick, sharpie lines. On those days, Hotch just huffs, raises his brows, and tries to contain his giggles as he shakes his head at you.
Most nights, he wins, and you return every single time with a black coffee, trying all the different shops along your commute until you find the one you swear you hear him slightly moan at when he takes the first sip.
On his winning days, Hotch somehow always ends up bringing you breakfast, because he knows by now that you would rather sleep thirty more minutes than get up and eat.
The 'Good mornings' no longer feel like necessary politeness, but rather like two friends greeting each other for another, looong, day at work.
The nights become yours entirely along the way, the bullpen giving way to real conversations after midnight, that aren't just: can you take a look at this? Or, do you want anything to drink?
It starts innocently enough one evening when you're both nursing the terrible vending-machine coffee, which is sour, most likely because the machine hasn't been cleaned since the day it was installed in the corridor.
The bullpen is down to the two of you again, the floor dark except for the soft glow from each of your desk lamps.
You're working together on a case for Gideon, something about his two brightest agents working together on something important, or... something ;). You're both running on empty as you keep going through crime scene statements from the field office in Oregon.
Hotch's gaze drifts up from the legal pad he's been scratching notes on all evening as you rub your temples. You hope that you somehow, within the past hour, gained the ability to massage new knowledge into your brain. Because this case feels like you're looking for a needle in a needle stack.
His eyes don't stay on you for long; instead, they glide toward the corner of your desk. And there, half-buried under a stack of fabric analysis reports, lay your battered paperback of Persuasion.
The cover is soft from years and years of rereading, the spine cracked in all the places you love most.
He reaches over without asking and carefully pries it out of the stack. Hotch turns it over in his hands, like he's weighing a pound of meat in the grocery store.
"Jane Austen? In the middle of researching a firebug?" He says, voice low and a little rough from the many long nights and too little sleep. Although his words come as questions, you don't feel like he's judging you for your choice. "That's a new one."
You lean slightly back in your chair, rolling your shoulders until they pop. You look at him, trying to figure out where his sudden fascination with your reading material comes from.
"She's my reset button," you finally say, giving in to his questions. "When everything else feels like chaos, Jane somehow manages to put the world back in order."
He nods.
"I've read this one," Hotch admits, and it almost sounds like he's surprised at his own statement. He quickly glances up at you, waiting for a reaction, before flipping it open carefully, his thumb brushing the edge of a page you've clearly read a hundred times. It's annotated with several different pens and colors, indicating each time you returned to the story.
"You've read Persuasion?" You raise a brow at him.
He nods once, slowly. "Third year of law school. I couldn't turn my brain off after a criminal law final. So, I went to the library, found the most boring-looking book I could on the shelves at two in the morning." Hotch's lips pull slightly up as he sees the—fake—disgust/hurt crossing your features as he messes with you. "I started reading it to bore myself to sleep. Ended up finishing it at sunrise instead."
You stare at him for a moment, trying to picture a younger Aaron Hotchner, tired eyes, ruffled hair, college shirt, and maybe even sweatpants, curled up in his awful dorm room bed with a two-hundred-year-old love story.
The image is so unexpectedly soft and fuzzy that it makes something warm spread through your chest.
"So the stoic prosecutor is secretly a softie for second-chance romance." You try to tease him, but your voice ends up coming out softer than you meant to. In the end, you don't really want to tease him about it, because you're in awe of the fact that a man, yes, a man‚ read a "girly" classic, without complaining.
It doesn't take long for Hotch to huff out a quiet laugh and place the book back down. He doesn't push it back across the desk right away, just gently keeps his fingers curled around the edges.
"It's not the romance," he says, eyeing the cover. "It's the waiting. The way someone can walk away and still come back when the timing finally lines up. The idea that some things are worth the years in between."
There's something in the way he speaks about the story that changes the air between you, thickens it, makes it feel like the exact moment the wind stops blowing after a storm, the exact moment the sun peaks out after the rain. The exact moment you realize that you might be catching feelings for an unavailable man.
"Yeah," you manage, swallowing the lump in your throat. "That part always gets me, too."
Hotch looks up, meets your eyes, case files forgotten, no profile, no pretense. Just the two of you and the quiet that follows as you stare into each other's eyes.
"Some people are worth the wait," he smiles, so quietly you almost miss it entirely.
Your breath catches in your throat for a split second. You don't answer him, you don't have to, not now, maybe never, but the look in his eyes tells you everything you need to know, for now.
He finally slides the book back to you, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second as you reach out to tug it fully over the line between your desks. You curl your hand around the cover, feeling the contact buzzing in your fingertips.
Neither of you opens another file for a long time.
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It's no less than a week later. The bullpen smells like soy sauce and noodles. You're sitting cross-legged on the floor opposite each other, with your backs leaning against your desk's leg and whoever owns the desk next to you. Various boxes of—none authentic—Chinese takeaway surround you, everything from deep-fried meats, rice with curry sauce, noodles with some sort of sweet and sour sauce, and so on.
The food isn't exactly the greatest, but it was the best option at this hour of the night.
The conversation has drifted from case theories to anything but.
You nudge the carton of rice toward him with your chopsticks, hoping that he will eat the last of it, because it is actually awful and you don't want to punish your taste buds with it even more than you've already done. "Come on, Hotchner. You can't hold out on me forever. Worst first date. Go!"
Hotch groans and leans his head back against the desk. He closes his eyes for a split second, praying for strength, cause he knows you won't rest the case until he has told you exactly what went down. "Fine. It's Seattle ´95. I just joined the bureau, and Haley and I decided to take a break to test our relationship. A friend of a friend swore he'd found a perfect match for me. She shows up with a three-ring binder full of pictures. Not of her, but of her cat. Mr. Whiskers—"
"—No way!" You interject.
"Yes way!! Anyway, the binder starts with kitten pictures, then moves to vacation shots from a trip to the French countryside, then..." Hotch drags a hand down his face. "She proceeded to spend forty-five minutes describing the colonoscopy he had a week prior. In detail. I'm talking diagrams, recovery timelines, medication, specialty diet he went on afterward, vet notes. Everything! I ended up timing how long I could go without making eye contact with the waiter. The record was eleven minutes."
"Stop! Please! I can't breathe." You wheeze out, trying to compose yourself, but it's to no avail, so you press your forehead to your knees, trying to quiet your laughs down.
Hotch peeks at you through his fingers, grinning, hands covering his face. "Your turn! Don't think you can get out of telling your worst one!"
"Okay, Okay!" You wipe your eyes, "It's a bar here in Quantico, two years ago. Guy says he's a 'trekkie with a capital T.' He shows up in the red command uniform. Shirt, phaser, badge, the works. Greets me with a Vulcan salute and asks if I'd like to 'boldly go where no man has ever gone before...' to Denny's at 3 in the morning. Then he tries to pay for my coffee with replicator credits he printed in his mom's basement."
Hotch drops his head and laughs. "You wine," he manages through uncontrained bursts of giggles. "At least Mr. Whiskers had personality."
"Mr. Whiskers had detailed medical records," you counter. "It's safe to say that you win this one with crazy Ms. catlady."
"Let's never speak of replicator credits or catladies ever again." Hotch points his chopstick at you before he leans over and steals the last few noodles, emptying another box.
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The child-abduction case from Billings, finally, finally, is blessedly closed. All three children were found curled up in the crawl space of the unsub's garage, dehydrated, in various states, but alive—all of them are alive. You sighed loudly and extremely heavily the second the news hit your inbox.
You've spent most of the time since the news broke searching up articles, watching videos of the police and field office agents breaking down the unsub's door, and several different news coverages, everything you can find on the ending of your first nightmare case.
It feels like the first real deep breath you've been able to take in the past two weeks.
You sit on top of your desk, cross-legged, one elbow on your knee, with your head resting in your palm, while the other hand stirs a cube of sugar into the cup of tea you're making.
Your shoes are kicked off somewhere under your desk—because you're a civilised person who doesn't put dirty footwear on the furniture.
Hotch sits across from you in his usual spot, leaning back in his chair, his head tipped back, and his eyes closed—it's been a long day.
His tie is wrapped around your head, something that happened around hour five after the team left, when you both had a sudden burst of insanity. The top button on his shirt is undone, and his sleeves are rolled as far up as he allows himself—which is to the elbow, like a normal person.
Hotch opens his eyes slightly, watching you as you lift your mug and take the first sip, burning your tongue in the process.
"They're really okay," you say, voice small and quiet in the massive expanse of the bullpen. "I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop." You admit.
He leans forward, now resting his elbows on the edge of his desk, and puts his head in his hands, looking at you. "They're okay, because we didn't stop," he says. "Because you didn't forget them, because you didn't stop."
You place the mug back down and slowly slide off the desk. It's almost as if you're thinking the same thing, because he stands up too, and you meet at the line where your desks meet and embrace each other. Needing the reassurance. Your arms wrap around his waist as his chin comes to rest on the crown of your head.
For a long time, neither of you speaks, you just stand there. Embraced.
"Thank you," you finally whisper, pulling your head out from under his chin to look up at him. "For not letting me fall apart on this one."
"You were never falling apart," his arms tighten slightly. "Everyone has that type of case that gets to them more often than not. And you tend to... feel everything. Mine are the ones about fathers and sons."
"Will you tell me about it one day?" You ask, sensing that there's something buried deep within his person, something he wants to talk about, but also something he fears will change the way people view him.
He nods. "Maybe someday."
It's not until an hour later, when you're packing up to leave, that you finally speak again.
"Why'd you really join?" You ask, unprompted.
"My dad was a lawyer," he states, stuffing the last of his things into his bag. "Old-school, 'justice is blind' type. Expected me and my brother Sean to follow him into corporate law, make partner by thirty-five, marry well, die respected." His mouth turns into a frown. "Then I watched a serial rapist walk away because his dad played golf with the judge. I was twenty-seven. Decided I wanted to stop them instead of arguing about whether they were guilty or not. That's the gist of it." He waves his hand in the air at the last part. "Your turn."
"My mom moved us to Ohio when I was a kid because her dream was to open a diner off the I-70," you pick at the label on your water bottle before packing it into your bag. "Open 5 a.m. to 10 p.m. every day, no fail except on Christmas and Thanksgiving. I saw and observed my fair share of truckers, cops, runaway teens, cheating husbands, and plotting wives, you know the works. I started waiting tables when I was twelve. Learned to read people before I even knew what algebra meant. The regulars had patterns: the way Mr. Henderson always ordered decaf after church, how Tammy, the night cook, flinched when men raised their voices. I figured out who was lying over time, who was running from something, who was one bad day away from becoming one of the very people we hunt. I thought... if I could understand why people turn into monsters, that maybe I could keep someone else from becoming the next scared person hiding in a diner bathroom, because their abuser tracked them down." You shrug, a little embarrassed. "I don't know, it sounds a little stupid when I say it out loud."
"It doesn't," he says. "It sounds like the reason we're both still here on a Thursday at 2 a.m."
Over time, you learn more and more about each other.
He tells you about summers on the James River, catching catfish with his little brother Sean, his mother's gardenias that smelled exactly like church on Sunday mornings.
You tell him about your mom teaching you to make pie crust with vodka, because it keeps it tender apparently, about the jukebox that only played Springsteen and The Beatles, because it was broken and you couldn't afford to have it fixed. About the night you caught a line cook stealing from the register and talked him into turning himself in instead of telling your mom and calling the cops.
You learn that he hates peas, but will eat them if they're hidden in a pie or casserole dish. He learns you secretly love cheesy 80's ballads and sing them in the shower like nobody's watching, cause they aren't obviously. You learn that he still has a worn copy of 'The Federalist Papers', which his father gave him when he was accepted into law school, even though they barely spoke before he died. He learns that you lost your mom in a car crash during college, but that she would send you care packages every month with your favorite homemade dishes and a note that always read: "Don't let the bastards get you down, honey."
Piece by piece, you trade small, sacred details of your lives over burnt coffee, like kids swapping baseball cards in the school yard, only these feel like they matter more.
Neither of you wants to admit it out loud, but somewhere between the midnight house, laughter, and brutal cases, your desks stop feeling like two separate entities and start feeling like shared territory.
It's not about who stays the latest anymore.
It's about who you want to stay the latest with.
By mid-December, you're both pretending to read your reports through before delivering them to Gideon's inbox and heading home, but really, you're talking about everything and nothing at all. The best pizza places in the D.C. area, whether aliens would be evil and turn into unsubs, and his terrible attempt at baking cookies last Christmas as an apology to Haley for not being home enough.
"I should go." You yawn, barely able to keep your eyes open.
He looks up. "Yeah. Me too."
Neither of you moves, neither of you wants to move.
"Truce?" You finally laugh, figuring your little competition was having a flare again.
Hotch just smiles and closes his eyes. "Truce. Coffee's on me tomorrow, though. No loser this time."
"Deal, Aaron." You grab your coat from the back of your chair and start heading home.
You've nearly made it through the first six months of your first year now.
The bullpen is once again dead quiet, and half the lights are off except for your two desk lamps that burn like two tiny campfires in the dark.
You're both still here, as usual, finishing a couple of overdue reports and sometimes even pretending to work before the silence turns into silly conversations.
You've won the last three nights in a row, meaning Hotch has shown up every morning with a coffee, exactly how you like it. But there's something about the past couple of days that has been feeling off about him. You don't know what it is, but it's not like him to leave work before 8 p.m.
Tonight, though, something's definitely off. He's been staring at the same page for twenty minutes now. Pen hasn't moved, not even jotting a tiny dot down on his pad by accident. His shoulders are rigid, and his jaw clenched like he's biting words back he doesn't want nor know how to say.
"Aaron." You say as you close your file.
He blinks, looks up from his own file, like he forgot you were there. "Yeah?"
"You've read that autopsy report four times now, and you still look like you want to set it on fire. What's going on? Talk to me." Your voice cracks slightly; you hope he didn't catch it, but you know better—he's a profiler, for Christ's sake, he notices everything.
He exhales through his nose and sets the pen down, harder than he intended to, you can tell by the slight surprise in his eyes at the sound. "I'm fine." He mutters, his words short and almost sounding clipped.
"You're the worst liar I've ever met, and we profile liars for a living, remember." You roll your chair around the corner of the desks until you're sitting beside him instead of across. Close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension around his mouth, the stubble starting to show, which is the biggest indicator that something is definitely wrong—he never neglects his grooming habits, never. "Come on. It's me."
Hotch glances at the clock.
"No one else is here. Spill." You try again.
He rubs a hand over his face, and for a long, very long, minute you think that he's about to shut you down, to tell you to keep your nose to yourself, maybe even go as far as telling you it's none of your business—Hotch would never go that far, not with you.
Then he leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. You don't know if it's a strategic move or just his subconscious way of trying to avoid confrontation.
"Haley ended it," he says, voice so low, so dead, that you almost miss it. "Last week."
Haley's name lands between the two of you like a brick being thrown through a window. You know, Haley, you've seen the framed photo he kept on his desk—come to think of it, it recently disappeared. Why didn't he say anything?—You've met Haley.
Haley, the high-school sweetheart, Haley, the prom-queen, Haley, the future-Mrs.-Hotchner.
"I'm sorry," you finally speak, because it feels too small and too big at the same time. You don't really know how to react. You're sad for Aaron, really sad, but you also know exactly how many hours he spends in the office compared to at home. So you completely get Haley.
He gives a tight shrug, trying to seem casual, but it doesn't come off that way. "We'd been together since we were sixteen. She waited while I attended George Washington, waited through law school, waited through the Academy, through Seattle. She said that she couldn't keep waiting for a life that never really started." His voice cracks, catching on the last word; he clears his throat like it never happened. "The hours here... they're worse than in the field office. Before you started with the team, I came home around 3 a.m. and left again by seven, before she even woke up. Sometimes I'd forget to call to tell her I would be home late. She said I was married to the job." Hotch lets out a laugh. "She isn't wrong."
You don't say anything, not yet; he has more he needs to get off his chest, you can tell. You watch him pick up the pen again, roll it between his fingers like he needs something to do with his hands to keep himself focused.
"She wanted kids," he continues, this time quieter. "A house with a yard and a dog. Normal things, really. And I kept telling her soon, soon, soon, after the next case, after I make supervisor, after, after, after." He finally looks at you, his eyes glaze over in a way you've never seen before. He's always so strong; you're usually the one on the brink of tears. "Turns out 'after' never comes."
Your chest aches for you. You reach out without thinking and cover his hand with yours on the desk. He flinches, just barely, stops rolling the pen, and lets your fingers stay, your thumb gently brushing the back of his hand in a, hopefully, calming motion.
"You're allowed to be upset, Aaron."
"I'm not upset, I'm angry," he admits. "At her for giving up on us, at myself for—" he trails off, "for letting it happen. For choosing this over my partner." He gestures vaguely at the files, at the bullpen, at the life. You know he isn't referring to you, but it stings a little as he says it, knowing that you're a part of this. "I don't know how to be anything... anyone else anymore."
"You're not alone in that," you say, exhaling softly. "Half this unit is allergic to normal. Doesn't mean it makes us broken and unlovable. Just... a little complicated."
Hotch huffs out a tiny laugh; it doesn't quite reach his eyes, but at least he didn't look sad for a split second. "Complicated. Right."
Silence settles between you. Your thumb brushes a last time across the back of his hand before you pull away, rolling your chair backward toward your side of the desks.
He clears his throat, which stops you in your tracks, and sits up straighter. "Anyway. That's... that's why I've been..." He waves at his untouched—now cold—cup of coffee and the unread pages of the autopsy report.
"Thank you for telling me."
"You're easy to talk to. Dangerously easy, do you drug my coffee in the mornings or something?" He jokes, meeting your eyes, finally letting the real Aaron break through.
"Dangerous is my middle name," you deadpan before sending a quick wink in his direction. He bursts out laughing, and you follow quickly after.
When you both come back down to reality, Hotch glances at the clock. "You should go home. Get some sleep."
"So should you."
"Truce?" A asks after a beat.
"Truce," you agree.
You both start packing up, very slowly, neither of you wants to leave, not yet. When you reach the elevators, he holds the door open for you.
"Hey," you smile, turning to him as the doors slide shut. "Tomorrow, the coffee's on me."
He looks at you for a moment before softening with a grateful expression.
"I'd like that," he says.
And just like that, as the elevator starts its descent, you and Hotch leave the office before midnight for the first time since your first day sitting across from him.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
You make it all the way to the women's restroom on the fifth floor—the one no one uses and especially not after 5 p.m.—before you crack.
The door swings behind you before shutting completely—you definitely pushed it open too hard—and the fluorescent tube lights flicker once as the automatic censor turns them on.
You take the stall farthest back and lock yourself inside, hang your bag on the hook, close the seat, and crawl onto the toilet. You draw your knees to your chest, praying that if anyone actually comes in, they won't notice your hiding spot.
And that's when everything hits, all at once.
The hospice doctor's voicemail from earlier, the one you didn't get to listen to until now, two hours later, because you were in a meeting.
"We need to talk about whether your father qualifies for continuous care still... costs could increase significantly..."
The email from their accounting department lay untouched in your inbox, because you're already hemorrhaging your savings on uncovered medications and day rates on his room alone.
The consult file on your desk that's due tomorrow, but you haven't touched yet, because every time you try to read the victimology, your eyes fill and the words blur, leaving you unable to map the profile.
The way your dad didn't recognize you for a full ten minutes yesterday when you went for a visit, he just stared at the ceiling and called you "Linda,"—his sister's name, who died in 1987. Most days, he remembers you, but the days he doesn't hurt, hurt more than you want to admit.
Your chest starts hitching before you can stop it, and you press the heels of your hands into your eyes, like it's physically possible to shove the tears back in. Still, they come anyway—hot, messy, silent at first, but then end with those awful choked noises you can't swallow, the ones when you've been crying too long and can't catch your breath.
You're terrified that you're going to lose your job if anyone finds out how badly you're drowning. That you won't be able to finish another profile or report ever again.
You're terrified of losing your dad, terrified of not being there with him when it happens, terrified of being alone, orphaned. You're not ready, and you'll never be.
You're terrified that the last real thing he said to you, before he started slipping, was 'Don't spend all your savings on me, honey,' and you lied and told him you wouldn't.
You cry until your throat is raw and your sleeves are soaked and your ribs hurt from trying to keep it quiet as physically possible. You count the ceiling tiles—twenty-seven—and try those Bureau-recommended breathing exercises that were attached to your welcome package. But they don't work when the bad thing is real life, and not a case you can close and happily forget.
Eventually, the storm passes—somewhat—leaving you shaky and hollowed out, barely able to stand on your legs—Great, Bambi, it is for the rest of the day, you think. You exit the stall and splash cold water on your face. Your eyes are swollen, nose red and running. You look like you have the wildest case of seasonal allergies... or like someone who's been crying in a federal building—which is exactly what you have.
You rummage around your bag and dig concealer out, dab it under your eyes, praying it'll cover the worst of it. You tell yourself you can do this. You're a profiler—in-training. You can compartmentalize. You work with cool people, people who've stared down serial killers at gunpoint; you can survive one more day of pretending everything is fine.
You practice a smile in the mirror, but end up looking like a corpse pretending to be alive.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket as you're about to push the door open and emerge back into reality. You almost ignore it, but something feels weird, which makes you answer.
"(Y/N)? It's Dr. Singh. I'm sorry to call so late. Your father's asking for you, and I promised to relay the message. He's lucid tonight. If you can come–"
"—I'll be there in thirty." You cut her off, your voice only wobbles a little. You hike your bag further up your shoulder and head out, walking out of the bathroom, slightly hurried, but as if nothing happened.
You don't see Hotch standing at the far end of the hallway, half-hidden by the vending machines, holding two fresh—awful—coffees he came up to deliver, worried about you, when he noticed you'd been gone a little too long.
He watches the restroom door swing shut behind you, watches you swipe under your nose one last time before you enter the elevator with a spine that is entirely too straight and with a smile too bright for you to be okay.
He makes it his mission to figure out what's going on with you, the same you kept 'pestering' him about his bad day.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
A few weeks later, the hospice parking lot is still dark when you pull in. The sky is just starting to fade into that bruised-purple color it gets before sunrise.
You sit in your car for a minute, gripping the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, telling yourself you can do this. You've done this before. You've done it every morning for weeks.
One more time. You can do it one more time. You tell it to yourself every morning before work.
Inside, the night nurse gives you a small smile and waves you through as she's doing the handover to the next shift.
The hallway always smells the same—antiseptic, instant oatmeal, and something faintly sweet that you've decided is hopelessness trying to be kind to you, but is definitely spilled orange juice that died before it got mobbed up completely.
Room 214 is dim; the bedside table lamp is turned on. Your dad is awake, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like he's waiting, waiting for something you can't see.
You pull the chair next to his bed closer and take his hand in yours. It's cold. Lighter than yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Every day, you never expect how much his health has declined compared to the day before.
"Morning, Dad." You greet softly.
He turns his head slowly, and for one heartbreaking second, his eyes focus on you—really focus. Not like usual, when he's there, but not really there at all.
"There's my girl," he rasps, voice shaky and lower than a whisper. A small smile tugs at his cracked lips. "You're too pretty to be up this early, honey."
You laugh, it sounds a little wet, but thankfully, he doesn't seem to notice. "Had to beat the awful D.C traffic," you joke. "How'd you sleep?"
"Like a dead man," he says, then winces, seeing the pained expression crawl into your eyes. "Bad joke. Sorry, kiddo."
"Don't be sorry. If anything, you're allowed bad jokes, dad." You squeeze his fingers, hoping it comes off as reassuring and not pitying.
You talk about nothing important, because everything important hurts too much right now. You tell him the Reds won last night—they didn't, but he won't know, and what's a little white lie when you're putting a smile on a dying man's lips.
You tell him about the stray cat that keeps visiting the dumpster behind your apartment, the one you've considered adopting, but can't bring you to, because you're never home.
He tells you the nurses have started sneaking him extra Jell-O and that the ceiling tiles above his bed look exactly like the 1965 Mustang he and your mom still drove when you were born.
You pretend his breathing isn't getting shallower with every passing minute.
At 6:45 a.m., he starts to drift off, eyes fluttering shut, fighting to stay awake. You lean in and kiss his forehead, tasting salt and the lingering aroma of the hospice soap. "I love you, dad," you whisper, trying not to wake him up. "I'll be back tonight, okay? We'll watch that awful game show you really like."
He manages a barely there nod, already half asleep.
You stand in the doorway to his room for a moment longer, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest under the thin blanket, barely keeping him warm. Then you force yourself to turn away, needing to get to work.
Dr. Singh is waiting by the nurses' station, arms folded, expression trying to stay gentle, but you sense the seriousness in her stance. She touches your elbow as you pass. "Can we talk for a minute?"
Your heart drops straight through the floor. You already know what's coming, but you follow her into the family room anyway—the one with the faded couch and the box of tissues that never seems to empty.
She closes the door behind her and sits down in a chair opposite you. "I'm sorry to do this when you're on your way out."
"It's okay," you lie.
She's close enough that you can smell the coffee on her breath and the hand sanitizer she reapplies after every patient she visits. "The latest labs came back overnight," she folds her hands and leans slightly forward. "His kidneys are failing faster than we expected. The infection isn't responding to anything we have left." She pauses, lets the information settle. "Realistically, we're looking at days. Maybe three to five if we're lucky. A week would be... optimistic at best."
The words land exactly like you knew they would, but hearing them spoken out loud still knocks the air out of you.
Days.
You stare at your hands resting in your lap, watching them slightly begin to shake. You twist the silver ring he gave you when you graduated college, the one that used to belong to your mother.
"Is he... suffering?" You question, voice coming out small and on the brink of tears.
"We've increased the morphine. He's comfortable. Most of the time he's not in any pain at all—he's just... slipping away peacefully, if that makes sense to you." She reaches over and covers your hands with hers. "You've done everything right. He knows you're here; he talks about you every time he's awake." She smiles, trying to reassure you.
You nod, because speaking feels absolutely impossible. Tears blur your vision now, turning the room into watercolor streaks.
"Call anyone who needs to be here to say goodbye," she says softly. "And take care of yourself, too. You've done so much for him; you don't have to be strong every second you're here. It's okay to not be okay." She reassures.
You wipe your eyes with the tips of your fingers. "Thank you."
She walks you to the door. "We'll call if anything changes, day or night. No matter what it is."
You step out into the hallway, pull your coat tighter around you, almost as if it alone can hold you together. The morning sun is finally breaking through the windows. You stand in the hallway for a long time, breathing in the antiseptic air as you try to make the world feel solid beneath your feet once again.
Then, you take one last deep breath, square your shoulders, and walk out to your car. You start the drive to the Academy—because right now, putting one foot in front of the other is the only thing you know how to do, the only thing that seems easy to do right now.
You badge yourself in on autopilot, through the several security checkpoints, until you sit down at your desk. It feels like it takes an hour alone just to make it to the bullpen, the bullpen who's already half-alive—phones ringing, printers printing, Anderson probably running another errand for section chief Strauss... because of course he is, he's the biggest teacher's pet you've ever met.
Your desk is exactly how you left it last night, except there's a fresh coffee waiting in front of your monitor with a post-it note stuck to the to-go cup in Hotch's neat block handwriting:
Latte, two sugars, thought you could use something a little sweet.
— A
You drop your back beneath your desk and sink into your chair before you wrap both hands around the cup like it's the only thing able to warm your cold, cold soul.
The coffee tastes like nothing—Which probably isn't true, but to you, you taste nothing.
Hotch looks up from his desk, eyes flick over you once, twice, cataloging everything your body language tells him: red-rimmed eyes, trembling fingers, the way you're sitting too slouched as if you've given up, like you'll shatter if anyone as much as blinks at you the wrong way.
"Morning," he says softly, tempted to ask questions, but sensing that you need time, how long he doesn't know, but you need time to just be.
"Morning." Your voice is gravel-rough.
He waits, giving you an opening to talk, giving you the opening you always take, to tell him what's going on. But you don't take it. You just open the first file in the pile stacking up in your inbox, and stare at the words. Although they refuse to form any coherent sentences in your head right now.
By eight, Gideon stops by your desk to drop off the Atlanta consult you worked on last week, asking for a few revisions to the profile with a: "Need these by noon."
You nod.
He hesitates, too, sensing that something is up. He glances at Hotch, with a subtle shrug and a look that's asking all the questions Hotch doesn't have the answers to.
Hotch just nods back, signalling that he has it under control—he doesn't. Gideon lets the two of you be.
Later in the morning, you're proofreading the same paragraph over and over when Hotch's chair rolls from his own side of the desks and into your peripheral vision.
"Hey," he whispers, keeping his voice so low that no one outside of your desk bubble had any chance of catching the conversation. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." It comes out snappier than intended, but honestly, you have very little control over your emotions lately, and Hotch is so... so comfortable to be around that you can't help it.
"You don't look fine."
"I look how I look. I'm here, I'm working. I'm fine!" You flip to the next page harder than necessary, your emotions getting the better of you.
He doesn't move. "You missed the staff meeting."
"I was in the restroom," technically true; you were hiding in a stall trying not to hyperventilate. "Is that illegal now?"
He leans his side over your desk, face popping into your field of vision. He doesn't take your hand, but you can tell he wants to, that he wants to squeeze it, to reassure you, to let you know that everything will be okay, even though he doesn't know what's going on. "Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about." The words come out like venom. You barely manage to soften as you turn your attention completely to your file. "I just need to get this done."
"You're shaking." He states, studying you.
You glance down, your left hand is indeer trembling around the pen. You drop it on the desk, curl your fingers into a fist, and crack your knuckles. "I said. I'm fine, Agent Hotchner." You spit at him.
His eyebrows shoot up at the use of his last name. You never call him anything but his name anymore; you rarely use Hotch, only when mentioning him around the other team members.
He lowers his voice further. "Whatever it is, you don't have to carry it alone. I'm here to lend an ear if you need it."
Something inside you snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight.
"I'm not some victim you need to profile, okay?" It comes out loud enough that the agents at the cluster of desks right next to yours glance over, confused that Batman and Robin apparently are 'fighting'.
You drop your volume but not the edge. "I don't need rescuing. I need to finish this damn consult before Gideon decides I'm useless, not cut out for the job. So please! Just. Back. Off."
The bullpen goes quieter than it has any right to at nine-thirty in the morning.
Hotch's face doesn't change, but something appears to shudder behind his eyes. He gives a single, tight nod. "Understood." He says and rolls his chair back to his desk.
He doesn't look at you again for the rest of the day.
The rest of the day is a special kind of hell. Its own kind of nightmare that you can't seem to wake from.
You power through the consult revisions, finally feeling like you're making progress—if that's what you can call it. Every keystroke feels like dragging nails across your own skin. You skip lunch, because the thought of food makes you nauseous. You drink more coffee that tastes like nothing. Answers a few emails in short, brittle sentences.
When Agent Damien asks if you want to join the afternoon run to the food trucks, you bite out "Can't" so harshly that he, for once, doesn't try to pester you into joining. He just leaves you be.
The floor has mostly cleared out by six. You, too, are packing up, movements jerky when Hotch appears again, coat draped over his arm.
"I'm heading out," he says, his tone neutral. "You need a ride?"
"I have a car." Your voice is flat.
He nods, like that was the answer he had expected. "Just... text me when you get home, please."
"I don't need a babysitter, Aaron."
"I'm not offering to babysit," his voice is concerningly calm, but there's still an edge of steel underneath it. "I'm asking you to let me know that you made it home safely, because you're clearly upset, and I don't want to read your name in the headlines tomorrow morning. Humor me, please."
You want to snap again. Instead, the fight drains out of you all at once, leaving you swaying for a bit, not really knowing what to say.
"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know." He cuts you off, steps closer, and lowers his voice so it feels more intimate. "Whatever happened this morning, whenever you're ready. I'm here. No judgement. No profiling. Just... here. But ripping my head off won't make you feel any better; it'll only delay whatever explosion you clearly need to have."
Your eyes start to burn. You nod once, faster than intended, before the tears can fall in front of him. You don't want to cry in front of him, don't want him to view you any differently.
He hesitates, then reaches out and squeezes your shoulder before walking toward the elevators.
You watch him leave, throat tight, guilt and grief tangled together so thoroughly that you can't tell which is which and which of them you're feeling the strongest right now.
You wait for a moment, then grab your bag, shut off your desk lamp, and head down to the parking lot through the back stairs.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The bullpen is a ghost town, and it's just you and Hotch once again. The case files in front of you blur into meaningless ink on paper as your thoughts drift toward your father.
You're both quieter than usual tonight, the tension from your snap three days ago still lingers like a bruise neither of you wants to touch. He hasn't pushed the matter since, and you know that he isn't holding a grudge, but you keep catching him watching you when he thinks you're not looking, trying to read you, trying to figure out what's going on.
You're not ready to tell him, tell anybody—maybe never.
Your phone vibrates under a few scattered files, and when you finally find it, the words: HOSPICE, slap you straight in the face. It feels like your heart stops, then lurches into your throat, all the while a pit is forming in your stomach.
You grab the phone and stand so fast that you nearly tip your chair over. Hotch looks up at the sudden noise.
"I'll be right back," you mutter, already halfway out the door.
Hotch just nods, eyes narrowing slightly, but he doesn't say anything.
You make it to the hallway and lean against the wall by the vending machines, the ones out of sight from the glass doors into the bullpen, before you answer with a voice you barely recognize as your own. "Hello?"
"Hi (Y/N), this is Dr. Singh." Her tone is soft, a little too soft, you think, it's the kind of soft that can only mean bad news, really, really bad news, so you brace yourself, crossing your fingers. "I'm so sorry," she starts. "Your father passed about ten minutes ago. It was very peaceful, he was sleeping and his heart just... stopped." You can tell she's trying to lessen the blow by her phrasing.
But the world still tilts, everything blurs, and it feels like you've had your skull bashed in with a sledgehammer. You slide down the wall to a crouch, phone still pressed to your ear. You hear the words, but not really processing them.
Passed. Peaceful. Stopped.
They play on loop.
"Are you there?" Dr. Singh asks gently when you don't answer her.
"Yeah," you croak out after another few silent seconds. "I... thank you for calling." You blink back tears, trying to keep yourself composed enough to get through the rest of this call.
"Do you want to come in now? We can talk about next steps—"
"—I'll... I'll call back later. I need a minute." You cut her off."
"Of course. Take your time. I'm on the night shift, so you can send me a message if you'll be stopping by tonight." She reassures.
You don't answer her, just hang up. The phone slips from your hand and clatters on the tile. You don't bother looking at your screen—it's probably cracked from the fall.
Your stomach churns, acid burning up your throat, and before you know it, you stumble to your feet and lurch toward the bathroom down the hall. You barely make it to a stall before you're retching into the bowl. Whatever comes up mostly consists of bile and the very healthy diet you've had the past twenty-four hours, of coffee, and the skins of the few grapes you managed to keep down.
Your hands shake so hard that you have to grip the porcelain to keep yourself from collapsing headfirst into the bowl.
When you finally stop, you sink back and slide to the floor, knees pulled to your chest, back against the stall wall. The sobs come fast and violent, tearing out of you like something wild.
You press your forehead to your knees, trying to muffle the sound, but it's no use. You're breaking, and there's no one here to see it, and somehow that makes it all feel ten times worse.
You don't know how long you're sitting in the stall—minutes, maybe ten, maybe twenty, maybe an hour. The tiles are cold through your slacks, cold enough that your shivers now come from the cold and not from your emotional outburst. Your throat is raw, eyes swollen shut, and burning. You don't hear the footsteps outside until there's a soft knock on the door into the bathroom.
"Hey," you hear Hotch's voice call out, low and steady, like he's cooing at a scared animal. "You in there? I saw your phone on the ground and—"
"—Go away," you sob, the words coming out muffled against your knees. "Please, Aaron. Just go."
He doesn't. The door creaks open, and you hear the click of his shoes on the tile as he comes closer and closer to the stall you're in. Then he stops. You don't look, but you know he's there, that he's standing just outside the stall, and if he were to push the door open, that he'd see you curled into yourself, face streaked with tears, shaking as if it's physically impossible for you to stop.
You don't want him to see you like this.
"Talk to me," he says quietly, so quietly it almost sounds like he's... begging? "What happened?"
"I said, go away!" It comes out half-scream, half-whimper.
Hotch ignores your request once again. You hear his palm as it touches the door, pushing it slowly open. You curse yourself for not taking the time to lock it while you were face deep in the toilet bowl. You peek at him from behind your knees as he crouches down in the opening once the door is fully open. The jacket of his suit brushes the probably filthy and germ-ridden floor. He lays his hands, palms up, on his knees, like he wants to grab your hands and hold them, but isn't sure if he should, or if he's allowed to.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says. "Not when you're in this state. Not until you tell me what's going on."
You shake your head at him, tears flowing silently down your cheeks faster and faster. "You can't fix this, Aaron."
"Maybe I don't need to try to fix it. Maybe I just want to be here, because my friend is hurt and too stubborn to ask for help."
You choke on a sob, press your hand over your mouth, trying to hold it all in. He waits, silent, patient, waiting for you to make this next move. His presence is so solid in the stall that it almost feels unbearable.
Finally, the words claw their way out.
"My dad died." Your voice breaks on the last words. "His doctor at the hospice called. He's gone.
Hotch's face softens, grief and understanding in his eyes. He doesn't say 'I'm sorry' or any of the useless things people say when you're grieving. Because in truth, it's bullshitt, and none of it works when you're in such a deep state of pain, that the only thing you feel is misery.
Instead, he shifts to sit beside you on the floor, shoulder barely touching yours, trying his best to ground you without crowding.
"Tell me," he says. "Everything or nothing at all. Just... talk, please."
And you do. It spills out like blood for a stab wound: How you've been drowning in hospice bills and the guilt of feeling like you're not visiting him enough. How you've been terrified every day this week of getting that call. How you're not ready to be alone in the world without the man who taught you how to tie your shoes and believed you could be anything you set your heart on.
You tell him about the doctor's warning three days ago, the days-to-a-week timeline, how you thought you'd have more time—prayed... begged ...for more time. You tell him you're falling apart, and you've been hiding it because you're supposed to be strong, supposed to be a profiler, not a complete mess who throws up in the bathroom stalls at work.
He listens, doesn't interrupt, doesn't flinch when your voice cracks and breaks or raises when you get angry with yourself, or when you start crying again halfway through.
When you're done, you're shaking even harder, so hard your teeth chatter.
He reaches out then, slowly, giving you time to pull away if you aren't ready yet. You don't. His hand finds yours, gently unwrapping your curled form; he's warm, and he pulls you into him. You let him, collapsing against his chest, your face pressed into his shirt as fresh sobs rip through you.
His arms come around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, pushing you closer to him, the other rubbing slow circles on your back.
"I've got you," he murmurs into the crown of your head, over and over, until the words start to sound real to you. "You're not alone. You don't have to be alone. "I've got you."
You don't know how long you stay like that, him holding you together on a bathroom floor, his tie is probably ruined from all your tears, your hands are fisted in his jacket like it's the only connection keeping you from falling apart completely.
Eventually, your breathing evens out, and the sobs slow to hiccups.
"I don't know what to do," you whisper, uncurling one of your hands to wipe your eyes.
"You don't have to know right now," he says. "You just have to let yourself grieve right now. And when you're ready, we'll figure out the next steps. Together."
You pull back, just enough to look at him. His eyes are warm, no trace of judgment. "Why are you doing this?" It comes out as a whisper.
"Because I know you'd do the same for me," he says, simple as that. "And because I care about you."
The words hit harder than they should've. You nod, wipe your face with the back of your hand on instinct, before letting him help you to your feet. You sway, dizzy from the crying. Hotch keeps a hand on your elbow and the other around your hips, steadying you.
"Do you want me to drive you to the hospice?" He asks. "You shouldn't be alone tonight."
You feel the need to argue, to tell him that you need to do it alone, that this is your war to fight, but the fight's gone out of you. "Okay."
You make your way back toward the elevators, Hotch pops into the bullpen quickly—leaving you in the hallway with a blank and emotionless stare in your eyes—he grabs your coat and bag, and slings it over his shoulder before meeting you and calling for the elevator.
The drive to the hospice is quiet, not even the radio is turned on.
Hotch keeps one hand on the wheel, while the other rests on the console between you, palm up, in case you need something to hold. You don't take it, but you steal glances at it the whole way there.
When you walk into Room 214, the lights are dimmed to almost darkness. Your father is still in his bed, sheet pulled up to his chest, and his hands folded, like he's simply resting. Someone has brushed his hair and turned his head so he's staring toward the ceiling. It feels unnatural because he always sleeps on his side.
You stop in the doorway, legs unwilling to move, to walk up to him, to acknowledge that this is, in fact, real. Hotch rests his hand gently on your shoulder, giving it the smallest of squeezes.
"Remember, I'm right here," he murmurs close to your ear.
You take the first step slowly and carefully cross the room until you reach his bedside. The chair is still pulled close to the bed from when you moved it this morning. You sink into it and reach for your dad's hand—it's so cold now, no give in his fingers as rigor mortis has started by now, and worst of all, no answering squeeze.
The reality slams into you all over again.
"Daddy," you whimper, the word breaks in half as your whole world feels like it is crumbling around you.
You fold forward, forehead pressing to the back of his hand, shoulders shaking so hard that you hear the bed rail rattling. The sobs are loud, animalistic, and nothing like the tears that flowed earlier in the bathroom.
You curl over him, like you can shield him from what's already happened, like if you hold onto him tight enough, that you can pull his soul back into his body, that you can warm him back to life again. Your tears soak the sheet, forming a small puddle where your head is resting. Your fingers clutch his like you're drowning, and he's the life ring keeping you afloat.
Hotch moves to stand behind you, one hand resting lightly on your back, letting you know that he's there. He doesn't try to hush or fix you. Doesn't tell you that you'll be okay. He just stays.
After a while—minutes, maybe even an hour—your cries turn to ragged breathing. You stay hunched over your dad, cheek against his knuckles, afraid that if you let go, he'll vanish in a puff of smoke. Instead, you turn your head and stare up at him—he looks peaceful, like he's sleeping, you think.
Dr. Singh appears in the doorway, quietly and apologetic. She grabs Hotch's attention and gestures for him to follow her into the hallways. He hesitates, looks at you, and then leans down.
"I'll be just outside the door," he says softly. "I'm not leaving."
You don't speak, just nod against your dad's hand.
In the hallway, Dr. Singh keeps her voice low. "I know this is an awful time, but there are some decisions we need tonight or first thing tomorrow morning: funeral home arrangements, whether he'll be transported, clothing, personal effects..." She glances at you through the open door to the room, still bent over the bed. "She's in no shape to handle any of this right now."
Hotch nods, throat a little tight as he too glances into the room.
"Technically protocol says next-of-kin only," Dr Singh continues, "but as her boyfriend, if you can sign for—"
Hotch's ears go hot.
"—Uh, no, we're not..." he stops and clears his throat, cheeks slightly flushing. "We're not together. Just... colleagues. Friends. Close friends."
"Oh! I'm so sorry, I assumed..." Dr. Singh's eyes widen, and she winces slightly at her mistake. "You came in together, and the way you appear to know what she needs in a time like this... I shouldn't have—"
"It's fine," Hotch says quickly, maybe a little too quickly. "Really. I'm happy to help however I can. If there's anything I'm legally allowed to sign for her tonight to take pressure off her, I will."
"Thank you! There are a few consent forms for the release of the body and property. They only need a responsible adult, not necessarily kin. After that, I can try to work around the rest until she's ready." She exhales, relieved that she doesn't have to put any more stress on you for now.
"I'll sign whatever you need."
Dr. Singh gives him a tired, but grateful smile. "You're a good man, Mr. Hotchner." Hotch knows he should've been concerned at the use of his name, but on the other hand, he did have to sign the two of you in, in the visitor's log, so perhaps the doctor just looked at his signature.
He glances back through the door. You're still folded over your dad, completely still, and he hopes that you're sleeping.
"I'm just trying to be the person she needs tonight," he says, still glancing at you.
He goes back into the room, kneels beside your chair, and rests his hand carefully on the back of the chair and the other on your thigh. "Hey," he whispers. "I'm going to take care of some paperwork so you don't have to think about it right now. Okay?"
You don't answer him, but you turn your face just enough that he can see the glassiness in your eyes. It's the smallest movement, but it's enough for him to understand that you trust him with this.
Hotch checks his clock at 2:17 a.m. and decides you no longer can stay bent over your father's body. At least not for your own sake.
Your breathing has gone slow and slightly even, forehead still pressed to his hand—he's impossibly cold now. You're not crying anymore, you're just... gone, exhausted, stuck to the vinyl chair.
Hotch crouches beside you and brushes a strand away from your damp cheek. "Hey," he whispers. "Sweetheart, we have to go." You know you should react to the nickname, and he knows he shouldn't have said it. But it felt so right.
You don't move.
He tries again, this time softer. "You need sleep. Real sleep."
A tiny, broken sound escapes you. You shake your head violently, a choked 'No' ripping out of you as you curl closer over the bed, arms locking around your dad’s still hand.
He hates this part. He's seen it done enough times on cases to know it won't go down easily. Hotch slides one arm behind your shoulder, the other under your knees, and gently starts to lift you away from the chair and bed. You start thrashing, although weak, frantic, and grief-fueled, you manage to knock your elbow against the bed rail with a metallic clang; your shoe scrapes the floor as you try to plant your feet.
“No, please, don’t make me, I’m not ready, I’m not—” The words fracture into raw sobs.
He has to use his full strength to lift you away. You fight harder than he thought possible for someone so hollowed out, fingers clawing for the sheet, legs kicking once, nearly hitting him, body arching back toward the bed with a desperate, broken cry the moment the contact breaks.
Your head lolls against his chest only because exhaustion finally wins, but you still reach a trembling hand toward your father even as Hotch pulls you fully into his arms.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, over and over, voice cracking as he cradles you tight against him, carrying you out past the nurses’ station like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Dr. Singh meets his eyes, gives him a sad, grateful nod. Your face is buried in his neck, fists clenched in his shirt, the fight gone out of you, but the sobs still tearing free in waves.
In the parking lot, the air is cold enough to bite, although it's April and should be warming up. He settles you into the passenger seat of his car and buckles you in—it somehow feels too intimate and not intimate enough. He tucks your coat around you like a blanket, hoping it'll keep you warm. You're asleep before he even starts the engine.
When he pulls up outside your building, you stir, but don't wake up. And he's happy that you don't, because explaining how he grabbed your address from your file after he first noticed something being off with you is a lot harder than just carrying you upstairs.
He comes around and lifts you into his arms. Hotch carries you up the three flights of stairs because the elevator is still broken, despite your landlord promising all of the tenants that it would be fixed within a month—it's now month three. Your keys are in your coat pocket. He fiddles around for them, trying to keep you up with one arm, and when he finally finds them and unlocks the door, he shoulders the door open and steps inside.
The apartment is exactly what he expected, and yet it's also much, much worse.
Take-out boxes are stacked on the coffee table. Unopened mail is in teetering piles around the living room and kitchen. Laundry spilling out of the hamper, like it's trying to escape. A week's worth of coffee mugs stacked in the sink, probably on the verge of growing mold.
The air smells stale, like windows haven't been opened in over a month. It's not you, you're not like this, it's the physical evidence of someone who's been barely surviving, while fighting to keep someone else alive.
He doesn't flinch at the mess. He just carries you past it, through the living room, and into your bedroom. Hotch lays you on the bed and kneels to tug off your shoes, careful not to wake you up. You curl onto your side almost immediately, knees to your chest in a fetal position, still fully dressed.
Hotch pulls the quilt at the foot of your bed up and over you, brushes your hair back, and whispers, "Sleep." And your face smoothes into something almost peaceful.
He stands in the doorway for a long moment, observing you, watching the rise and fall of your shoulder, then closes the door halfway—so he can hear you if you wake—and turns back to the disaster zone that is the rest of your apartment.
He can't leave it like this. Not tonight.
He starts quietly by tying up the trash, placing the first bag near the door. Then he continues with the kitchen, rinses and washes the mugs, placing them on a dry tea towel to dry the rest of the way, and wipes down the counters.
He finds a laundry basket of clean clothes and folds them along with the clothes that never made it off the drying rack and stacks them on the dining table.
He opens the window a few inches to let in some air to chase out the staleness. And every so often, he pauses outside your door, listening to make sure you're still asleep.
By 4:45 a.m., the place isn’t perfect, it's far from it, but it’s livable. Trash is waiting by the door—three bags it turned into—dishes are clean and drying, and mail is in one neat pile while all the colorful advertisements are in recycling, ready to be taken out too.
The couch is clear except for a single throw blanket and a few pillows.
He sits down just to rest his eyes for a minute.
You wake slowly, the way you do when your body has forgotten how to rest properly. The room is dim, curtains still drawn, but the light that sneaks around the edges is soft and golden.
Your eyes are swollen and your throat raw from all the crying yesterday, your chest aching like someone parked a truck on it overnight.
And for one terrifying second, you forget exactly why you feel like you've been run over and then backed right back over.
Then it slams back into you, the call, the bathroom floor, your dad’s cold hand, Hotch carrying you out like you weighed nothing to him.
You sit up a little too fast, and the room starts to tilt. You’re still in yesterday’s clothes, shoes off, quilt tucked around you, but you don’t remember going to bed last night.
The apartment is quiet. A little too quiet.
You shuffle to the bedroom door and push the cracked door open further.
The first thing you notice when you emerge from the bedroom is the smell. No gross and sour take-out stench, no stale coffee. Just the faint smell of dish soap and the smell of cold air.
You step into the living room and stop dead in your tracks.
It's so... clean?
Not spotless—Hotch clearly didn't have the energy to scrub baseboards at four in the morning, but there's no doubt that he would've done it if he had. Every surface is clear, trash gone, dishes done, laundry folded with a post-it note slapped on top saying 'clean :)' in his handwriting.
Even the throw pillows are straightened.
And then you see him.
Hotch is asleep on your couch, clearly too long to lie comfortably on the two-seater. His shirt is a little rumpled, tie loosened, and half-hanging off his neck like a limp snake. One of his arms is flung over his eyes, while the other is dangling off the edge. Shoes are lined up neatly next to the couch, like he had meant to leave, but got too tired and simply couldn't. You notice the faint shadow of stubble starting to grow along his jaw as he lets out the softest snore you've ever heard.
Something warm flutters awake in your chest, right beneath the crushing weight of grief. It’s not happiness—Oh, God no. You don't know if you'll ever be happy again—but it’s close to peace.
Gratitude so sharp it almost hurts.
You stand in the doorway for a long time—just looking—blanket wrapped around your shoulders, watching him breathe. He cleaned up your chaos while you slept. He stayed when he didn’t have to. He held you together when you shattered. He's done so much for you these past twenty-four hours, and you feel like you haven't done anything in return for him at all.
The flutter grows, spreads, becomes a quiet ache behind your ribs that feels a lot like falling—slow, inevitable, and terrifyingly falling.
You pad across the room on bare feet, careful not to wake him, and crouch beside the couch. Up close, you can see the faint tear tracks dried on his own cheeks—he cried too, sometime during the night, when he thought no one would know that he too felt your pain.
You reach out for him, hesitate, then brush the back of your fingers lightly across his cheekbone. Just once, barely there, needing to feel him, to know that this man is real.
“Thank you,” you whisper to the sleeping room.
His breathing hitches, eyes fluttering but not quite opening. You stay crouched there a moment longer, memorizing the way the light falls across his face, the way safety feels when it’s shaped like Aaron Hotchner asleep on your couch after the worst night of your life.
Eventually, you stand, pull the throw blanket from the floor—you recon that he must have dropped it during the night—and drape it carefully over him. He sighs in his sleep, shifts onto his side, and settles again.
You linger another heartbeat, then head to the kitchen to start coffee—two mugs, black for him and one with a splash of milk for you, two sugars for you—because the least you can do is make sure he wakes up to something a lot nicer than how you've been treating him the past couple of weeks.
The flutter is still rooted deep in your chest, like the first tiny green thing pushing through the earth after a long and harsh winter.
By summertime, the bullpen is like a hotbox, and every time someone opens the glass doors, waves of hot air drift through, making it miserable to work.
Gideon is gone more than he's there these days, and whispers about a leave of absence are circling like smoke around the office. The team is in shambles lately, most of the travel team is suspended for misconduct during their last case, morale is down, and everyone looks like they hate their jobs.
But the work keeps coming, and the team keeps working despite everyone's lackluster enthusiasm to finish their cases in a timely manner.
You, somehow, are... lighter.
Not healed—because some holes never heal, and this one will never heal—but grief has settled from a constant jabbing pain, into a dull, manageable ache, and it gets better week by week. You feel like you can breathe without doing counting exercises. You can laugh at Anderson's terrible knock-knock jokes without feeling guilty five seconds later.
And Hotch, Hotch has been the constant you needed through it all.
He still brings you coffee every morning, even though the 'who stays latest' competition officially ended last month. You still find sticky notes on your files in his handwriting—"Victim #3's timeline is off by six hours, check page 14"—when he notices new things in M.O. and victimology, or gives you a second pair of eyes when you ask for help. Or on the mornings, when grief over your dad's death creeps too close, he simply tells you to take a moment for yourself and that he'll hold the fort down while you're gone.
He never mentions the night he cleaned your apartment, or the fact that you cried into his shirt until there was nothing left for you to cry out. He just… shows up. Every day. Without fail.
Tonight is a Thursday, almost midnight. The rest of the floor is dark. You’re both still here, because of course you are.
You’re cross-legged in your chair, hair twisted up with a pencil, eating cold lo mein straight from the carton. Hotch is across from you, jacket off, sleeves rolled high, tie abandoned hours ago. There’s a smear of highlighter on his cheek that he hasn’t noticed. And you're not planning on telling him, because he looks way too cute when he's a little messy.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” you say, waving your chopsticks at the geographic profile spread between you. “But the comfort zone is shifting north. He’s getting bolder.”
He leans forward, elbows on his desk, studying the map like it owes him money. “You’re not wrong. Look at the dump-site-to-victim-residence distance. First two were under four miles apart. Last one was eight. Either he’s escalating, or he moved.”
“Or both,” you say, mouth half-full. You're not exactly charming, and your mother would roll over in her grave if she heard you speak with food in your mouth. But he looks up and smiles, before he reaches over, plucking the carton from your hand to steal a bite.
You let him.
You always let him now. Sharing food feels like nothing after he had to wrangle you off a dead body like one of those working dogs resource guarding their dead handlers.
Somewhere in the last few months, the boundaries blurred between you. You touch his arm when you pass him files. He brushes imaginary lint off your shoulder during briefings when you sit next to each other. You hang out together on days off, fall asleep on each other's couches after working on cases together at home, and wake up with blankets draped over you.
He keeps a spare toothbrush in your bathroom 'just in case,' and you keep one in his. You have an extra tie of his folded in your desk drawer because he spilled coffee on his favorite one during a stakeout, and forgot it in your car when you drove him home.
No one in the unit has said anything yet, but everyone's eyebrows climb into their hairlines on a near-daily basis as they observe your desk island.
Tonight, the air conditioning is struggling, badly. You fan yourself with a case folder. “It’s a million degrees in here.” You complain
Hotch stands, stretches, and shrugs out of his jacket. “Rooftop?”
You’re already moving as the words leave his mouth.
The rooftop door sticks—it always does—and he has to shoulder it open for you.
The evening air is warm but better than the stale office. D.C. glitters slightly in the distance, barely visible, but there. You both lean against the ledge, shoulders almost, but not quite touching.
For a while, you just breathe. Enjoying the faint chirping of crickets, the wind rustling, and natural silence.
“Thank you,” you finally say quietly.
He glances over. “For what?”
“For the last three months. For… everything.” You pick at the label on your water bottle. “I don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t—”
“—Hey.” He bumps your shoulder with his, gently. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
Your heart does a slow, traitorous flip. You tell yourself it’s just gratitude, gratitude that he helped you through the worst time in your life, gratitude that you have a friend to turn to when in need—despite being an asshole about it in the beginning (but let's not talk about that).
He keeps talking. “Besides, you’ve been pulling me out of my own head since the day you beat me three nights in a row last November. Fair’s fair.”
You laugh, softly. “I still say you let me win night two. Ain't no way your brother called you for help at nine p.m. to move an antique wardrobe he found in the newspaper.”
“I absolutely did not,” he says, mock-offended, but he’s smiling that full smile now—the one that reaches his eyes and makes tiny lines appear at the corners. You’ve started cataloging those smiles like they're evidence in an unsolved case—which technically they are, because you still haven't locked down the answer to why Aaron Hotchner rarely smiles.
Silence settles between you; it feels comfortable and familiar.
Fireflies blink lazily over the parking lot below. You shiver a little in the breeze. And without a word, he shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.
It smells like him. You love the smell of him.
You pull it tighter. “You’re going to freeze.”
“I run hot,” he says, and the way he says it—quiet, matter-of-fact, eyes on the skyline as if it's no big deal—makes heat pool low in your stomach for reasons you refuse to examine.
You stand there like that for a long time, city lights flickering, his jacket warm around you, the space between your bodies shrinking inch by inch until your pinky brushes his against the railing.
Neither of you moves away.
Neither of you names it yet.
But something tender and inevitable is growing in the quiet spaces. In the way he always saves you the last sip of coffee in the pot, in the way you know exactly how he takes his tea when he’s sick, in the way your hands find excuses to touch and linger.
It’s still just friendship, you both tell yourselves.
For now.
You've been with the BAU for nearly a year now.
The bullpen is almost empty, save for a few agents still complaining about paperwork due that they could've finished hours ago if they didn't stand at the damn coffee machine and chat all day. But they quickly leave.
Gideon has been locked in his office all evening, door cracked just enough for the occasional frustrated sigh to leak out.
You and Hotch are the last ones standing—as usual.
You’re both on the floor now, backs against the front of your desks, case files spread around you like a thick crime-scene carpet. You’ve been arguing good-naturedly for forty minutes about whether the unsub is devolving or just getting sloppy.
“He’s devolving,” you insist, flicking a photograph toward Hotch. “Look at the overkill on the last victim. That’s rage, not control, in the way we saw on victims one through five.” You point out, gesturing at the pictures of the other victims lying in a half circle in front of you.
Hotch catches the photo mid-air and sets it down carefully next to the other victims. “Rage can be controlled. He staged the body perfectly. That takes discipline.”
His knee is touching yours. Has been for the last twenty minutes. Neither of you has moved away.
You reach for the same file at the same moment. Your fingers collide, stay there, overlapping on the manila folder. The air between you goes suddenly, electrically still.
He doesn’t pull back. You don’t either.
You’re close enough to count the flecks of gold in his irises, close enough to see the tiny scar on his upper lip you’ve never noticed before. His gaze drops to your mouth for half a heartbeat—so fast you almost miss it—then flicks back up, something unreadable flaring behind his eyes.
Your breath catches.
The moment stretches, until the door to Gideon’s office bangs open so hard the hinges bounce it back off the wall.
Gideon strides out, coat half-on, briefcase in hand, clearly intending to leave without a word. He stops dead when he sees the two of you on the floor, hands still touching, faces inches apart, the entire room vibrating with something neither of you has said out loud yet.
He stares for three full seconds.
Then he throws his head back and groans like a man who has reached the end of his patience with the entire universe.
“Oh, for the love of God, just kiss already!”
You jerk apart like teenagers caught behind the bleachers. Hotch's ears go scarlet, and you feel your own face ignite.
Gideon points a finger between the two of you, coat flapping dramatically. “I have watched you two moon over each other for months. Months! I am old. I am tired. I have unsubs writing manifestos in blood, and I do not have time for this level of sexual tension in my bullpen. Kiss, date, do whatever it is you children do these days... just stop making it everyone else’s problem!”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Just spins on his heel, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “finally” under his breath, and storms out.
The glass doors swing shut behind him, and you hear the ding of the elevator.
Then... silence.
You risk a glance at Hotch. He’s staring at the floor, jaw working like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or die of embarrassment. His hand is still halfway reaching for the file you both abandoned.
You start laughing first, mortified and unstoppable. He follows half a second later, the low, surprised sound he makes when something actually catches him off-guard.
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, pressing both hands over your burning face. “He did not just—”
You peek through your fingers. He’s looking at you now, something soft and stunned and hopeful in his expression.
The laughter fades, but the air stays as charged as ever.
You swallow. “So… Gideon’s not subtle.”
“No,” Hotch agrees, quieter. “He really isn’t.”
Another beat. Your heart is hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it.
He shifts, just slightly, closing the small distance Gideon’s outburst created. His voice drops to almost a whisper.
“Would it be… completely inappropriate if I took his advice?”
Your breath stalls. The world narrows to the few inches between you, the warmth radiating off him, the way his eyes search yours for permission.
You manage the tiniest shake, giving him the go-ahead.
He leans in slowly and carefully, giving you every possible second to change your mind.
You don’t.
The first brush of his lips is barely there, warm, trembling just enough for you to feel it against your lips.
He smells faintly of coffee and the soap he always uses.
The second is surer, his lips settling over yours with certainty, the softest pressure that makes your breath catch in your throat. You taste the lingering trace of peppermint on his tongue when your mouth parts under his, feel the faint rasp of growing stubble along your upper lip, the warmth of his exhale mingling with yours.
His hand cups your cheek, thumb sweeping slowly across your skin, calloused thumb stroking once along your cheekbone; his other hand threads into your hair, fingers spreading at the nape of your neck like he’s anchoring himself to you. The kiss deepens just enough for the world to tilt, your pulse roaring in your ears, your toes curling hard inside your shoes, every nerve lighting up at the gentle, deliberate slide of his mouth against yours.
When you ease apart, it’s only a breath. Foreheads still pressed together, noses brushing, the air between you warm and a little shaky. The lines are definitely blurred beyond return.
When you open your eyes, he’s smiling, happier than you’ve ever seen him.
“Hi,” he whispers, voice rough.
“Hi,” you whisper back, grinning like a complete idiot.
From somewhere down the hallway, you’re both almost certain you hear Gideon’s ghost mutter 'about damn time'.
You start laughing again, muffled against Hotch's shoulder this time as you lean forward into his chest, and he laughs too, arms wrapping fully around you, holding you close on the bullpen floor like he never wants to let go.
And he doesn’t.
Not for a very long time.
That first kiss doesn’t fix anything, but it changes everything.
After Gideon’s dramatic exit, you and Hotch ended up staying on the bullpen floor another hour, kissing slowly and carefully like teenagers who’ve just discovered the concept, talking in whispers, laughing every time one of you remembers Gideon’s exact phrasing. When you finally stand up, knees stiff, files forgotten, he walks you to your car with his hand at the small of your back like it always belonged there.
You date quietly at first, almost secretly, because neither of you trusts the Bureau rumor mill and because the newness feels too precious to share with anyone but the two of you.
He picks you up on Saturdays when you’re both off rotation. You go to tiny diners outside the Beltway where no one knows your names, or to the Smithsonian after closing because one of the night guards owes him a favor from back in his prosecutor days.
You sit on benches in front of the Hope Diamond and argue about whether it’s cursed. He brings you coffee in bed on Sunday mornings and reads the parts of the newspaper aloud while you steal the comics section and draw little hearts in the margins next to his name when he’s mentioned in an article.
You learn the small, sacred things about him:
He hates surprises but loves planning them for you.
He keeps a spare tie in your glove compartment now—officially 'in case of emergencies'.
When he’s exhausted, he falls asleep with his head on your chest and one arm locked around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
He says your name differently when you’re alone, much softer, almost like a whimper.
December brings the first snow, and the first time he says “I love you.”
You’re in his apartment, stringing popcorn for a tiny, lopsided Christmas tree because neither of you had time to get one before all but the small apartment-friendly ones were the only option left.
You’re on the couch, legs tangled, the Muppet Christmas carol crooning in the background.
You prick your finger on a needle and mutter a curse. He takes your hand, kisses the tiny drop of blood away, and just says it, as natural as breathing: “I love you.”
You freeze, popcorn garland half-finished in your lap. He looks suddenly terrified, like he’s broken some unspoken rule in the relationship guide.
You tug the garland carefully aside, crawl into his lap, and kiss him until neither of you can breathe.
“I love you too,” you whisper against his mouth. “So much it scares me.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that fear in for months and tightens his arms around you. “Good. We can be scared together then.”
January of 2002 is brutal, back-to-back cases, forty-eight-hour consult marathons, but you survive it the way you survive everything now: together.
You fall asleep on each other more often than not, steal kisses in the elevator when no one’s looking, and leave each other notes in case files.
“Meet me on the rooftop at midnight. Bring the good coffee. –A”
“Only if you bring the blanket. –Y/N”
Valentine's Day falls on a Thursday. You both have to work, but he leaves a single red rose on your desk with a sticky note: Dinner. 8 p.m. Wear the black dress. Trust me.
You do.
He takes you to a hole-in-the-wall Italian place in Alexandria you’ve never noticed before. Halfway through tiramisu, he slides a small velvet box across the table.
Your heart stops, and you panic slightly.
He sees your face and actually laughs a tiny chuckle. “Relax. It’s not that. Yet.”
Inside is a delicate silver key.
“To my place,” he says quietly. “I want you to have it. I want… I want this to be official. You and me. No more pretending we’re just really good friends who occasionally make out in the parking garage and have sex in our time off.”
You stare at the key like it’s made of large sparkly diamonds.
“Aaron…”
“If it’s too fast—”
“—It’s not,” you cut in, voice cracking. You lean across the tiny table and kiss him in front of the entire restaurant. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”
He smiles against your mouth, relieved and giddy and so in love it shows on every line of his face.
Later, back at his apartment—well, kind of your apartment now, too, in every way that matters at least—you hang your coat next to his on the rack, put your hairbrush next to the comb in the drawer, and fall asleep tangled together under the same blanket that used to live on your couch, the one he slept with the first night he saw your apartment.
Outside, snow falls softly and quietly over Virginia, covering the city in a hush that feels like the world permitting you to finally be happy again.
You are a couple now—no, almosts, no, hesitations.
Just you and Hotch against the world, desk neighbors turned lovers, building something together.
And you both start to feel like coming home at night isn't something so terrible to do at all.
The years blur in the best way possible.
September 2002
The inn’s garden is small and perfect, and the late-summer roses still cling to the trellises; the air is warm enough to carry the scent of honeysuckle and fresh-cut grass.
Forty white chairs are set in uneven rows on the lawn; fairy lights are already strung even though the sun won’t set for hours. Someone’s old jazz standard drifts from hidden speakers; it’s Ella Fitzgerald, the song you and Hotch danced to in his apartment the first night you ended up admitting you were in love.
You wait in the bridal suite upstairs, heart hammering so hard you’re sure it’s visible through the lace bodice of your dress. Your mother’s veil—now shortened—falls in soft waves over your shoulders.
And when you catch your reflection, you almost don’t recognize yourself: eyes bright and cheeks flushed. You look so... happy.
Downstairs, Hotch stands beneath the arbor in a charcoal suit that fits him like it was invented for his shoulders (A/N: to the people who get this reference, I love you).
His hands are clasped behind his back to hide the slight tremor, but you can see it from the window, the way he keeps rocking forward on the balls of his feet, the way he can’t stop staring at the inn door like the moment you appear might be a dream he’s terrified of waking from.
Gideon—wearing an actual suit and tie for once—clears his throat at the head of the aisle, after your walk, and begins.
His voice is steadier than anyone expected until Hotch repeats “in sickness and in health,” and it cracks on the last word. Gideon’s eyes go glassy instantly; he has to pause, press his lips together, and fan himself with the printed vows like a southern belle.
A ripple of soft laughter moves through the guests, but no one’s eyes are left dry.
You reach for Hotch, and he takes your hands like they’re made of glass. His palms are warm, trembling just slightly, and the stunned, luminous smile never leaves his face during the entire night.
When Gideon finally says, 'You may kiss your bride,' Hotch doesn’t wait for the words to finish. He cups your face with both hands, rushing closer, thumbs brushing the corners of your mouth, and kisses you like he’s been starving for it.
It goes on long enough that his friend Rossi—you've met him once and heard the stories of the few cases the two had together before Rossi retired from the BAU—lets out a low, appreciative whistle.
And Andi Swan, the newest BAU agent, fans herself dramatically with her program, and Gideon throws his hands in the air with a triumphant “I told them to kiss eighteen months ago! You’re welcome, people!” And you know that that will be his go-to line when it comes to tales about the relationship he 'basically made possible'.
Hotch finally pulls back, but only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His eyes are shining.
“Hi, Mrs. Hotchner," he whispers against your lips.
"Hi, Mr. Hotchner," you whisper back, and the grin that breaks across his face is the same one he’ll wear in every photograph for the rest of your lives.
Behind you, forty people cheer, Ella keeps singing, and the mountains hold their breath, and you know—without a single doubt—that this is the moment every late-night bullpen, every shared highlighter, every quiet 'I’ve got you' was leading to all along.
You’re married.
And Aaron still looks like he can’t quite believe you said yes to him when he proposed.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
2003
Fairfax, Virginia
The search takes four months, forty-three open houses, and one near-breakup—not really, you were both being dramatic—over whether 'good bones' is real-estate speak for 'you’ll be sanding floors until you’re sixty.'
You’re both stubborn, both exhausted from cases—both promoted to the travel team one month apart—and both secretly terrified of choosing wrong, because this will be your sanctuary away from serial killers and psychopaths.
Then the realtor unlocks the gate at 127 Oakridge Lane, and you know the second the gravel crunches under your shoes, that this is it.
It’s a 1930s red-brick colonial set back from the street, white trim peeling just enough to feel loved instead of neglected. The wrap-around porch creaks under your weight in the most comforting way; a massive, hundred-year-old oak spreads its branches over the front yard like it’s been waiting for children who haven’t been born, yet.
Inside, the hardwood floors glow honey-gold in the late-afternoon, the fireplace still smells faintly of the last family’s Christmases, and the kitchen—God, the kitchen—has windows on three sides that turn the whole room into a sunlit heaven every morning.
You stand at the farmhouse sink—hands braced on the porcelain as you look into the backyard, imagining growing old here—when Hotch comes up behind you, arms sliding around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
“This one?” he asks quietly, like he’s afraid to jinx it.
You nod, throat tight. “This one.”
You close on a Thursday in May, sky so blue it hurts to look at. The moving truck is late, so the house is mostly echoing emptiness and stacked boxes labeled in Hotch's neat block letters and your chaotic scrawl.
Sunlight pours through the bare windows of your now-empty apartment, dust motes dancing like confetti.
Hotch scoops you up without warning, one arm under your knees, the other behind your back, and carries you over the threshold bridal style, even though your jeans are streaked with paint, and you’re both laughing too hard for it to be dignified.
The front door swings shut behind you with a solid, final click that feels like the house exhaling in welcome.
You don’t make it past the foyer before he’s kissing you against the wall, hands already tugging at the hem of your T-shirt, your legs wrapping around his waist like muscle memory.
Boxes topple somewhere down the hall; neither of you cares.
That night, you christen the kitchen island while the pizza you ordered goes cold on the porch, because you "forgot" to open the door when the delivery guy knocked.
The next morning, the sun wakes you in the master bedroom, pouring through east-facing windows you didn’t bother to curtain yet, and you make love on your mattress on the hardwood floor because the bed frame is still in pieces.
By Sunday, you’ve claimed the wide-plank stairs... twice, the claw-foot tub, the window seat in the library that overlooks the oak, and the backporch swing that squeaks in the most perfect rhythm.
Somewhere between the third and fourth room, Hotch starts laughing into your neck, breathless and delirious. “We’re going to need to buy furniture eventually,” he gasps.
You bite his shoulder, grinning. “Later. Much, much later.”
By the end of the first week, the house smells like coffee, fresh paint, and sex; every corner holds the echo of laughter and the imprint of two people finally, finally being home.
The oak tree shades the front yard like it’s keeping your secret, and every morning the kitchen windows flood the room with light.
You hang your mother’s lace curtains in the dining room first, just so the house knows it’s loved.
And every night, when Hotch pulls you into his chest in whatever room you’ve ended up in, he whispers the same thing against your hair:
“Welcome home, Mrs. Hotchner.”
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
2004 - 2005
The BAU is still small enough that every new face feels like it rearranges the gravity in the room.
Derek Morgan arrives first, in the spring of 2004, all swagger and leather jacket, straight from the Chicago PD. He shakes Hotch's hand a little too hard, like he’s testing whether the stories about the grumpy agent are true.
Gideon waits exactly one week before dragging him to the coffee station and launching into the tale of how he's the reason you're married today: the empty bullpen, the unbearable tension, the night he finally lost patience and bellowed, “Just kiss already.” And after that day, Morgan’s go-to greeting becomes a cheeky “Morning, Mama Hotch,” usually followed by him ducking whatever office supply you lob at the rascal's head.
Penelope Garcia blows in that summer like a glitter bomb, pink boa trailing behind her after Hotch manages to snatch the black queen away from the web of hackers interfering with government websites, and onto the team. Gideon barely lets her set down her bedazzled laptop in her tech cave before he’s steering her toward the round-table room, eyes gleaming.
Ten minutes later, she bursts out, finds you at your desk, and squeals so loudly the windows nearly rattle. “You’re the desk-neighbor soulmates! The sacred ‘kiss already’ origin story! I have shipped you since the academy rumor mill got to me a few weeks ago!” She throws her arms around you, then, without hesitation, around Hotch too, who's emerged from his—new—office next to Gideon's. He freezes mid-sentence, arms half-raised, before awkwardly patting her sequined shoulder. From that day on, she declares herself your joint fairy godmother and threatens to make couple T-shirts if she doesn't see you kiss, just once, before the year is over.
Thankfully, she does—although it's by hacking into the bullpen cameras and watching tape from the night before when you were both staying late, again.
Fall brings Spencer Reid and Jennifer Jareau within weeks of each other. Spencer is drowning in a cardigan two sizes too big, clutching three PhDs and the conviction that Gideon can read minds.
JJ is calm on the outside and vibrating on the inside, terrified of choosing the wrong photograph for the press packet. Gideon corners them together in the hallway on their very first day, blocking escape with his whole body, and delivers the performance of his life: sweeping gestures, pregnant pauses, the whole thing.
Spencer turns the color of a ripe tomato and starts reciting workplace-romance statistics under his breath. JJ just laughs, delighted, and by the end of the month, she’s slipping you lists of baby names “for future reference” with a perfectly straight face, because to her, babies are the most wonderful thing in the world.
Elle Greenaway is last, late 2005, striding in like she already owns the bullpen and everyone in it after helping the team on the Seattle strangler case. Gideon waits until she’s halfway through her first official BAU case file, then plants himself on the edge of her desk and launches into the now-legendary retelling—complete with slow-motion reenactment of his dramatic exit and a claim that the overhead lights flickered for cinematic effect.
Elle listens with one eyebrow arched, arms folded, then looks across the room at you and Hotch—who are pretending, very badly, not to hear any of this—and deadpans, “So your entire marriage is because an old man lost his patience?” Hotch mutters “Don’t encourage him” into his coffee, but the corner of his mouth betrays him.
By the third round, with every new hire, the story has grown mythic: wind machines that definitely do not exist, a single heroic tear rolling down Gideon’s cheek, the faint sound of angels singing when your lips finally met.
Each time he tells it, you and Hotch trade the same long-suffering glance across wherever you're standing together—the one that says we will never live this down and we don’t actually mind. Gideon catches the look every single time, grins like a proud, meddling father who knows exactly what he did, and keeps talking anyway.
Because the day he stops telling the story is the day he admits the team has outgrown him, and none of you—no one—is ready for that yet.
So you let him have it. You let them all have it. The whistles, the teasing, the running slideshow Garcia keeps threatening to present at the next holiday party.
You and Hotch just reach for the same highlighter—on purpose—like you’ve done for years, fingers brushing, and smile the tiny, secret smile of two people who know the real story is quieter, slower, and infinitely better than any legend Gideon could invent.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
September 2006
Exactly six years after you join the BAU. You’re both still raw from Oregon, a case that ended with a twelve-year-old girl alive and a father who will never come home.
You come back to your home hollow-eyed and quiet, sleeping in snatches, waking from nightmares you don’t talk about.
Two weeks later, you’re late. Not just late; late enough that your body feels foreign, breasts tender, exhaustion bone-deep in a way no case has ever managed.
You buy the test on your lunch break, hide it in your purse like contraband, and take it in the restroom on the third floor because you can’t wait the fifteen minutes to get home.
You sit on the closed toilet lid, timer on your phone ticking down three endless minutes, and when the second pink line appears, and you feel the world tilt sideways.
You drive home in a daze. Hotch is already there. He took the afternoon off after you texted, “Can you be home early?” with no explanation, worried that something was terribly wrong.
He’s in the kitchen in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, making coffee like it’s any other Tuesday.
You walk straight into his arms without a word. He stiffens for half a second, sensing the tremor in you, then folds you in tight.
“What is it?” he asks against your hair, voice low and treading carefully.
You pull the test from your pocket and press it into his hand.
He looks down. The little plastic window is face-up, two unmistakable lines staring back at him. His breath stops. You watch the color drain from his face, then flood back in a rush. He stares so long you start to worry.
“Aaron?”
He drops slowly, like someone cut his strings. One knee hits the tile, then the other, until he’s kneeling in front of you. His hands find your hips, tentative, reverent, and he presses his forehead to your stomach. The first sound he makes is half-laugh, half-sob, muffled against your shirt. Then the tears come, the same tears you saw the night he asked you to marry him, and the morning you said “I do.” He wraps his arms fully around your waist and holds on like you’re the only solid thing in the universe.
“We’re having a baby,” he whispers, voice cracking on every word. “We’re… God, we’re having a baby.”
You thread your fingers through his hair and let your own tears fall into it.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
May 23, 2007, 3:14 a.m.
Thirty-one hours of labor, twenty-eight of them back labor that leaves you sobbing into Hotch's shoulder, certain you can’t do this. He never leaves your side, phone turned off so the world can't disturb this perfect moment in his life, and never stops whispering “You’re so strong, I’ve got you, just one more,” even when his voice is hoarse, and his shirt is soaked with your sweat and tears.
At 2:56, the doctor says, “One more big push,” and you find strength you didn’t know you had. And Grace Hotchner comes out screaming, red-faced and perfect, a shock of dark hair plastered to her tiny head, your nose already visible in miniature form.
The nurse lifts her onto your chest, and Hotch's hands shake so violently that he almost can’t hold the scissors. When he finally cuts the cord, the snip sounds like the loudest thing in the world.
They place her on your chest; she's so, so small. She stops crying the instant she hears your heartbeat, tiny fist curling against your skin with a grip the nurse actually gasps at. “That’s the strongest newborn grasp I’ve ever felt,” she laughs, a little teary-eyed herself.
Hotch is crying openly now, leaning over the bed rail, one hand cradling your head, the other resting on Grace’s back like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go. His forehead presses to yours, tears mingling with yours.
“Hi, Gracie,” he whispers, voice raw. “Hi, baby girl.”
She blinks up at him with unfocused eyes and squeezes his index finger with that iron grip. Something in his face breaks open—wonder, terror, love, you can't pinpoint which it is, or if it's all at once. All you know is that you feel the exact same.
He doesn’t let go of either of you for the next forty-eight hours. He sleeps in the vinyl chair with Grace on his bare chest, skin-to-skin, her tiny breaths syncing with his.
When the nurses try to take her for routine checks, he follows, hovering like a Secret Service agent. He changes the first diaper with the concentration of someone who only just learned what a diaper is and cries again when she falls asleep on him mid-burp, mouth open, one fist tangled in his collar.
You watch them from the bed, exhausted and euphoric, and think: this is what the Oregon case took from that little girl’s father, and this is what we get to keep.
Grace Hotchner, eight pounds three ounces, the strongest grip in Fairfax County, and already wrapped impossibly tight around both your hearts.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
2010
You’re thirty-eight, and Hotch is forty-five. Grace is two weeks shy of three, obsessed with dinosaurs and convinced she’s going to be a paleontologist-slash-princess when she grows up.
One Sunday night, you’re both in the kitchen cleaning after she's been put to bed, you washing sippy cups, Hotch drying, the house quiet except for the soft hum of the dishwasher.
You catch him watching you over the rim of his coffee mug, as he pauses to take a sip, that familiar, thoughtful look in his eyes.
“We should give her a sibling,” you say, before you lose your nerve.
He sets the mug down very carefully. “You sure?”
“I’m sure I don’t want her to be an only child. And I’m sure I want another one who looks like you.”
He crosses the kitchen in two strides, cups your face, and kisses you like the conversation is already settled.
It is.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
In late 2010, labor starts... politely... at least for the first twelve hours, then turns vicious.
Contractions come hard and all over the place, and progress stalls at seven centimeters.
Grace had been fast; this baby is stubborn as hell. Thirty hours in, your blood pressure spikes, the fetal heart monitor starts its frantic dance on the monitor, and the room fills with quiet and urgent voices.
The OB says the words no one wants to hear: emergency C-section.
They wheel you down the hall under the bright hospital lights that make your head spin. Hotch walks beside the gurney in paper scrubs, one hand wrapped around yours so tightly your fingers go numb.
His face is pale, jaw locked, but his voice never wavers as he keeps reassuring you, even though you can tell he's terrified. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart. I’ve got you. We’re almost there.” He chants it over and over, like a prayer.
In the OR, the spinal takes forever to kick in; you’re shaking, terrified, tears leaking sideways into your hair. Hotch sits by your head, forehead pressed to yours behind the drape, still whispering the same words against your temple.
When the pressure starts, it feels strange, impersonal, like someone rummaging in your insides, without you feeling anything at all. His grip tightens, and he counts every second out loud with the anesthesiologist.
At 3:19 a.m., you hear it: the thin, furious wail of a newborn who is deeply offended by the cold sterility of the OR. The doctor lifts him over the curtain. He's tiny, red, fists pumping like he’s ready to fight the world already.
Benjamin Hotchner, seven pounds eleven ounces, a shock of black hair sticking straight up, just like his sister, and lungs that clearly work perfectly.
They clean him, swaddle him, and place him on your chest while they’re still stitching you up. He’s warm and a little slippery.
His eyes blink open and fix on you with startling intensity—just like his dad staring down an unsub, you think to yourself.
You start crying so hard that the nurse has to steady him in your arms.
Hotch leans over both of you, taking over for the nurse standing beside you, one big hand cradling Ben’s entire back, the other stroking your hair. His voice is wrecked. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known,” he whispers against your temple, lips brushing the skin there again and again as he kisses you, like he can’t stop. “Thank you. God, thank you. For giving me so much!”
In the afternoon, the hospital room is quiet except for the soft beep of monitors and the squeak of your bed when you shift. Hotch is asleep in the recliner pulled up next to your bedside, still in his scrubs, Ben is asleep on your chest under the hospital blanket, tiny fist curled around the necklace Hotch gifted you after Grace was born—You kept telling him that he didn't have to, that it was way too expensive, but he had insisted that not even diamonds could do justice telling you just how much he loves you.
The door creaks open slowly. Grace pads in, wearing her dinosaur pajamas and light-up sneakers with Garcia in tow, hair a wild halo from hanging out with the entire team, and most likely sleeping, flopped against them like a lazy little cat.
She climbs up the bed rail like a monkey, eyes huge.
You brace for jealousy, for tears, for anything, not knowing how a child should react to no longer being an only child.
Instead, she leans over, studies her brother with grave three-year-old seriousness, then looks at you.
“He’s cute,” she announces in her bossiest big-sister voice. “Can we keep him?”
Hotch wakes at the sound, and his daughter bracing her feet on his thigh to lean even further over the bedside. His eyes are bleary and soft as he comes to.
You meet his gaze over Grace’s head, both of you starting to laugh, tears streaming again because the relief is too big to fit inside normal emotions.
“Yeah, baby,” Hotch says, voice thick from sleep. He reaches out with the arm closest to Grace and pulls her into his arms. “We’re keeping him.”
Grace lays her head on his shoulder, sticks her—slightly sticky, you never get used to how quickly kids get sticky—hand out for you while curled into her dad's side. You take it at the same time as Ben stretches his tiny arms with a yawn too big for a newborn body.
And just like that, your family of three becomes four. One exhausted, stitched-up mom, one slightly stunned and besotted dad, one very proud big sister, and one brand-new human who already has all of you wrapped around his perfect, furious little fist.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
Life settles into a rhythm, as the kids grow older, so steady it almost feels unreal.
5:45 a.m.
The alarm never gets the chance to go off. Hotch is already sliding out of bed, careful not to jostle you, pressing a kiss to your temple, forehead, whatever part of your face is closest to his lips as he wakes.
He’s done it every morning without fail since Grace was born.
You hear the soft pad of his feet down the hall, the creak of the third stair, the low hiss of the coffee maker starting, before he comes back upstairs to get dressed. Ten minutes later, the scent of coffee drifts upstairs, and you smile into the pillow because it means the day has officially begun, and he’s still taking care of you first.
6:30 a.m.
The peace lasts exactly forty-five minutes. Then the thundering of small feet announces Hurricane Grace. She bursts through the bedroom door like her only mission is to create a Grace-shaped hole in the middle, hair wild from sleep, wearing mismatched princess pajamas—because she can never decide which pair to wear.
“MOM!!!!! I need triceratops pancakes, and I need them NOW.” Ben is half a step behind, dragging his—once blue—stuffed elephant that Auntie JJ gave him, it's now gray and threadbare by one ear, rubbing his eyes with a chubby fist.
Hotch emerges from the hallway and scoops them both up in one motion, one under each arm, and carries them downstairs, pretending to be a caveman who just found his next meal, while they squeal and kick.
You follow more slowly, tying your robe, already smiling at the chaos.
The kitchen is pure chaos.
Hotch is at the stove, flipping dinosaur-shaped pancakes you once made the mistake of buying from the frozen aisle in the grocery store, and now is the only breakfast food the kids will eat.
Grace is perched on the counter, “helping” by pouring half a bag of chocolate chips directly onto the pan—she's chocolate coating them, if you ask her.
Ben stands on a chair, banging the spatula like it’s a drum solo in between Hotch needing it to flip the pancakes. There are banana chunks on the floor. There’s syrup in someone’s hair. And Hotch meets your eyes over the chaos and mouths 'coffee' or 'Help me'; somehow, the two look dangerously similar when mouthed from afar.
You hand him a mug with one hand and steal a kiss with the other.
7:15 a.m.
Shoes, backpacks, lunchboxes, the eternal hunt for the left sparkly sneaker.
You and Hotch move like a well-oiled SWAT team. He buckles Ben into the car seat while you braid Grace’s hair in the driveway, both of you trading kids mid-sentence:
'Don’t forget show-and-tell!'
'He has swim diapers in the blue bag!'.
Drop-offs are a blur. Grace sprints into school, shouting goodbye without looking back; Ben clings to Hotch's leg until the preschool teacher peels him off with promises of play-dough.
You watch Hotch crouch to Ben’s level, smooth his hair, kiss the top of his head, and something in your chest still flips every single time.
Then it’s the two of you in the car, Quantico-bound, hands linked over the console, debriefing the morning like it’s your version of foreplay now—which honestly, it's starting to be.
Who has the 9:00 a.m. consult, who’s picking up dry cleaning, whether Garcia can babysit Friday night so you can finally have some mommy and daddy time.
He still traces idle circles on the inside of your wrist at red lights.
You still feel it everywhere.
Evenings
Soccer fields, dance studios, and the occasional emergency room visit for split chins or swallowed Lego pieces.
You sit shoulder-to-shoulder on tiny bleachers as often as you can—which is nearly a perfect score still, except for one game where you were on a case.
Hotch's arm drapes along the back of your seat, fingers playing with the ends of your hair while Grace scores her first goal and Ben cheers so loud he falls off the bottom row.
Recitals mean Hotch in a suit outside of work with glitter in his hair because Grace insisted on doing his makeup backstage. You keep the photo on your desk forever.
The kids love every time he's "forced" to wear a suit outside of work, because he looks so sad, they once told you. Which, first of all... evil. And second, you love, because the tiny demons don't know that he's pretending to be miserable and secretly loves dressing up for stuff with them.
After bedtime—two stories, three drinks of water, one monster check under the bed—the house finally quiets. You spread case files across the kitchen table like you once spread them across bullpen desks and floors, only now there are crayon drawings mixed in with crime-scene photos and a half-eaten dinosaur pancake on a plate nearby.
Hotch sits beside you, tie gone, sleeves rolled, reading glasses low on his nose. His hand finds your knee under the table, the same way it has since 2001.
Sometimes you work until 2 a.m.; sometimes you abandon the files entirely and end up slow-dancing in sock feet to whatever’s playing in the radio, foreheads pressed together, swaying more than dancing.
The team folds into your life like they were always meant to be there.
Penelope shows up on Saturday mornings with rainbow sprinkles and her laptop, teaching eight-year-old Grace how to code her own choose-your-own-adventure game while you and Hotch sneak a nap on the couch.
Morgan spends an entire blistering July weekend in your backyard building Ben the most elaborate treehouse known to man—complete with a tire swing and a rope ladder.
He teaches Ben to throw a perfect spiral, and you later try to teach him to stop aiming at Morgan’s head.
Reid reads bedtime stories in English, Spanish, and—once, memorably—Latin, when Ben requests “the dragon one with the big words.”
He still blushes every Thanksgiving when Gideon—retired now, but omnipresent in your lives—launches into the “kiss already” saga with new embellishments like a crazy old man; lightning flashes, swelling orchestral music, the whole works.
Reid hides behind his pie; Grace and Ben chant “Tell it again, Grandpa Gideon!” until Hotch threatens to revoke pie privileges for the entire table.
Years later, when the kids are old enough to ask why Uncle Spencer turns red every holiday, you’ll just smile and say, “Ask your father—he was there.”
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
2015
Mateo Cruz accepts the Deputy Director position on a Wednesday. By Friday afternoon, the Director’s office has made it official: you’re the new Section Chief.
The announcement email goes out at 4:17 p.m.; the bullpen erupts in cheers loud enough to rattle the windows. Hotch pretends to scowl from his office doorway, arms folded, muttering, 'Great, now I have to salute my own wife,' but the corner of his mouth keeps betraying him, because he couldn't be prouder of you.
You stay late for the ceremonial handover, shaking hands, signing the last of the paperwork that makes it real. And when you finally pull the car into the garage, it’s past 10:00 p.m., the house is dark except for the porch light, which Grace still insists on leaving for the 'porch fairies'—you'd hoped she would outgrow it by not, because it brings the electrical bill up by unnecessary amounts.
Hotch is waiting just inside the mudroom door, jacket off, sleeves rolled high, tie already loosened like he’s been pacing, not caring to change out of his work clothes yet.
The second the door clicks shut behind you, he’s on you.
One step, two, a lot of steps, and your back meets the bedroom door before you even realize you made it upstairs.
The new brass nameplate on your credentials folder digs into your palm; he plucks it from your fingers and tosses it onto the dresser without looking.
His hands slide up your sides, under your blazer, pushing it off your shoulders and letting it drop to the floor.
“Section Chief Hotchner,” he says, voice low and rough, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to say that?”
You start to laugh, but it turns into a gasp when he presses you harder against the door, mouth finding the spot just below your jaw that still makes your knees weak after all these years.
His stubble scrapes; his fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head back so he can kiss down the column of your throat he’s mapped a thousand times and somehow never gets tired of.
“Aaron... the kids—”
"They're with Will and JJ," he quickly answers before he continues. "My boss,” he growls against your pulse point, and the possessive, reverent way he says it sends heat flooding straight through you. “Say it.”
You’re already breathless. “I outrank you now, Unit Chief.”
He makes a sound that’s half-laugh, half-groan and kisses you properly then. His tongue slides against yours like he’s been thinking about this all day. One hand splays across the small of your back, the other cups your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheekbone with that same stunned tenderness he had the night he proposed.
You fist your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left, until the only thing in the universe is the heat of his body and the way he keeps murmuring “my boss, my boss” like a prayer between kisses.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and curved in a grin that’s pure mischief and pride.
“Bed! Section Chief,” he says, voice gravel-rough. “That’s an order from your subordinate.”
You laugh and let him push you down on the bed.
Turns out outranking one Agent Hotchner has some very compelling perks.
And he spends the entire night proving he’s more than happy to follow your orders.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The team has made it official without ever actually voting.
You are Mom.
Hotch is Dad.
There is no escaping it.
It starts small.
Penelope bursts into the bullpen at 2 a.m. with new surveillance footage and yells, “Mom, Dad, you’re gonna want to see this!” She freezes, horrified, but you and Hotch are too tired to correct her, so you just wave her over.
From that day on, the nicknames stuck.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
Grace is thirteen, all long limbs and sarcasm and her father’s intense eyes. Ben is ten, fearless, missing two front teeth, and convinced Uncle Spencer can actually talk to aliens.
The house is loud and messy and perfect: drawings taped to the fridge next to family photos, Hotch's running shoes by the door next to Grace’s cleats, your wedding photo on the mantel between Ben’s first-grade portrait and a framed newspaper clipping of your promotion with the headline “BAU Power Couple Still Unstoppable.”
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
Reid skids into your office holding two mugs. “Mom, I made you coffee exactly the way you like it because Dad said if I didn’t, he’d make me redo all the geographic profiles from the last ten cases.”
You take the coffee without looking up from the budget report you’re murdering. “Tell Dad his threat worked.”
JJ corners Hotch in the hallway. “Dad, Grace texted me—she got accepted early decision to Georgetown. She wanted you to hear it from family first.” Hotch's eyes instantly go soft and watery; JJ pats his arm like she’s done this a hundred times—she has.
Tara is presenting when Luke raises his hand.
“Question for Mom: Can we get approval for the extra surveillance hours?”
You don’t even blink anymore. “Ask Dad, he controls the budget this quarter.”
Hotch, without looking up from his tablet: “Approved, but only if you two stop calling us that in front of the Director.”
Everyone, in perfect unison: “Yes, Dad.”
Emily—who swore she would never—slips once on a case in Kansas City: “Dad, the ME’s office is stonewalling us.”
Aaron just sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I will call them. Again.”
Garcia over comms during a tense takedown: “Be careful, children, Mom and Dad are watching, and we do NOT want the lecture if someone gets shot.”
You and Hotch exchange the weary, fond look of parents whose kids just said “shit” in front of the neighbors.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
Some nights, when the kids are asleep and the house is quiet, you and Hotch sit on the porch swing you installed the year Ben was born. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulls you into his side, and you watch the stars come out over the same oak tree that shaded your first family photos.
“Still think Gideon was right to yell at us?” you ask, tracing the wedding ring you’ve worn for eighteen years now.
Hotch laughs and presses a kiss to your temple.
“Best thing he ever did.”
And you sit there, two kids asleep inside, careers that have saved lives countless of times and broken your hearts in equal measure, a house that always smells faintly of coffee and children, and you know—without doubt, without hesitation—that every late night, every loss, every terrifying leap brought you exactly here.
Home.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
Grace and Ben think the whole mom and dad thing is hilarious.
Grace, now eighteen, texts the BAU group chat from college: “Tell Dad that Grandpa Rossi's carbonara recipe is trending on TikTok and people are calling Dad the ‘Hot FBI Dad’.”
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The team is sprawled across their desks after closing another case, this one a little too brutal, even for them.
You and Hotch are the last to pack up, as always.
Penelope yawns, slings her bag over her shoulder, and calls out: “Night, Mom. Night, Dad. Don’t stay too late making out on the conference table.”
Morgan, Reid, Tara, Luke, and JJ chorus “Night, Mom and Dad!” as they file out.
Hotch waits until the elevator doors close, then looks over at you, deadpan.
“We’re never living this down, are we?”
You hook your arm through his, lean your head on his shoulder as you walk toward the elevators.
“Nope. And honestly? I kinda love it.”
He presses the down button, then drops a kiss to the top of your head.
“Me too... Mom.”
You elbow him in the ribs. He laughs and pulls you into the elevator.
The doors close on the two of you, Section Chief and Unit Chief, Mom and Dad, twenty-four years after Gideon yelled at you to kiss already, still stupidly and perfectly in love.
Mal's Note: She's baaaaaaaaack!!! Lmao, for real though, life has been insane. So, sorry to have abandoned you all for a month and a half... shit happens. This will be the start of a series. I don't know how many parts it will be, or how often I'll post new parts, because it'll really just be something I write on when I have a kinky idea with no real plot to back it up. Though I get the feeling you horny motherfuckers will enjoy that. 🥰🥰 I'm so glad to be posting again, I have several other fics close to being completed so I hope I'll be back again later this week! Also please note that this was completed at 4 am and was not proof read, I hadn't the fucks to give.
Love,
Mal 🩷
Pairing: Divorced!Hotch x Prosecutor!Reader (Reader is fem, has also been divorced)
Warnings: 18+ from this point on, MDNI (I'll block you, don't test me if you like my fluffy content) Okay, they've been warned, now for the good stuff, Alcohol use but not abuse, vaginal fingering, oral Fem receiving, p in v sex unprotected (he pulls out, but don't be silly, wrap your willy!), squirting (Hotch really likes that), Male ejaculation decribed a little creatively, playful spanking, Hotch is an ass man (Hotch is a whatever he can get his hands on man, lets be real), Lots of flirting, and sexual tension in the beginning, Haley Hotchner mentioned, Aaron and Haley are divorced but she's still alive, discussion of failed marriages, I think that's everything, please tell me if I missed something important so I can add it!
WC: 6.4k
AO3
Mal's Masterlist
You never imagined that Aaron Hotchner could get any hotter than he had been when you’d dated him for all three years of law school. Not a single part of you thought that was even remotely possible, he’d been fine as hell. A near perfect ten.
But here he was.
Having aged like the finest wine over the last fifteen years, and though things hadn’t worked out between you then… you found yourself glancing at his left hand trying to glimpse his ring finger.
No ring.
How he was still single at his age, you’d never understand. He was only a year or so older than you, and you were pushing forty.
He was saying… something? You had no idea what… your brain had short circuited as soon as he’d shook your hand and you’d noticed his sleeves were rolled up.
Something about needing your signature for the plea deal… you thought.
You were the District Attorney in the county he was currently working a case in.
You hadn’t known he was here, not having kept up with him when you’d gone your separate ways. The case was horrible and you’d been monitoring it closely… from a distance. You trusted the local leos to do their jobs and when they’d said they were calling in the FBI you hadn’t questioned it.
But you hadn’t been expecting Aaron Motherfucking Hotchner to come marching into your office with a plea deal agreement in hand.
As far as you’d been concerned, he was practicing in D.C., kicking ass just like he had in every class you’d shared.
Apparently not.
He was leaning against a table in your office—same ole Aaron, he’d always choose to lean on something instead of sitting in a chair like a normal human being—with his arms folded over his chest and his legs crossed at his ankles.
This case must have been rough for him, he was practically indecent compared to how you always remembered him dressing in a professional setting. His top two buttons were undone, not a tie in sight, and his sleeves—as previously mentioned—were rolled up almost to his elbows.
How slutty of him.
Had he gotten broader in the shoulders and chest? Was that possible?
The way his chest tapered down to his waist was way too eyecatching for your sanity. His thighs were so muscular that you could tell he was flexing them through his slacks…
Jesus…
He was fucking gorgeous.
And as you trailed your eyes back up to his face you realized he was smirking at you as he spoke… What was he saying?
“Then the purple monkey stole my Aston Martin and took it for a joy ride with the pink hippopotamus and they wrecked it on The Beltway.” He said wryly.
Fuck. Busted. Try to play it off.
“What?” You blinked, shaking your head in confusion. “Sorry, I was… distracted.”
“Yes, I could see that.” He said smugly. “Are you done undressing me with your eyes or should I let you finish before I start over?”
Oh so he’s going there… nice play Hotchner… too bad you forgot who your opponent was.
You smirked.
“Give me two more minutes.” You joked, “I wasn’t done, only made it to your thighs.”
He laughed and it was exactly how you remembered it.
“My thighs?” He raised a brow at you.
“Yeah, actually if you could just turn around that’d be great.” You smirked back teasingly. He actually flushed a little when you said, “I just can’t get a good look at your ass from this angle, seriously Aaron… you look good. Have you been working out?”
He shook his head and smiled softly.
“I knew better than to try and embarrass you… you don’t know what embarrassment is.” He chuckled.
You winked at him, smiling softly.
“Really though, that was unprofessional of me, I apologize.” You offered, “What were you saying?”
He chuckled and shook his head, before giving you the run down on the plea deal he wanted you to sign—for the second time—as he handed it to you across your desk.
His fingers brushed yours and it was like electricity coursed through you.
The chemistry is still there then…
When he was done, you bit your lip and sighed.
“You know I can’t sign that for you, I didn’t know you were the lead on this case, so I’ll have to recuse myself.” You reminded him. “We have history and as bad as this case is, we can’t allow any conflict of interest.”
“I agree… So who would you reassign it to? Because I need this deal today.” He frowned, not really at you, but at the possibility that the deal might fall apart and he wouldn’t get his confession.
“My A.D.A. is down the hall, last door on the left, tell his aide I sent you and she’ll let you in.” You smiled, and pointed down the hall.
“Thank you.” He said sincerely. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you since we… broke up after graduation.”
And why had you done that again??
Looking at him right now it seemed like the stupidest decision you’d ever made. You’d been a power couple in law school, professors even had a hard time winning an argument against the both of you. You thought as though you shared a brain, and you were a menace in mock trials. So much so, that your classmates had started calling you The Sharks, Tiger and Bull. Instead of getting offended, you’d started calling each other by those nicknames affectionately.
You wondered if he remembered.
“Uh, I- I’ve been good, mostly…” You said vaguely. “I’ve been a DA here for about five years now.”
“That’s great!” he praised, with a—thigh clenchingly—gorgeous smile.
“And you?”
“I’m the unit chief over the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico.” He shrugged, as if that wasn’t impressive, apparently having learned some humility over the years. “Have been for about seven years now.”
Seven? You only graduated law school fifteen years ago… had he only practised for a few years??
“That’s amazing, Aaron!” You smiled at him, “What made you decide to switch careers?”
He chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.
“After about two years, I decided that by the time the cases got to my desk… It felt too late, like I wasn’t doing enough… so I went to the academy and–” He was interrupted by his phone ringing, he pulled it out and looked up at you. “I have to take this.”
He looked so apologetic about it.
“Of course.” You murmured with an encouraging smile.
“Hotchner.” He said into the phone.
The conversation lasted all of thirty seconds before he was hanging up.
“I have to get back down to the station, so I better go get this deal signed.” He murmured, his brows drawn in concern, “But you and I should catch up when this is over. Maybe over drinks?”
He looked so hopeful, and you wouldn't mind seeing where a few drinks with him would lead.
“That sounds fun!” and it really did, you would love to catch up with him. Things hadn’t ended badly, it had been a mutual decision to choose careers over each other, and neither of you had seemed to regret it. You knew you hadn’t, until maybe today.
Though you wouldn’t mind reminiscing… for old times sake.
“Pick a place and let me know!” He said, “I’m not familiar with this area.”
“Oh I don’t live here, I commute!” You told him, “I’m actually pretty close to Quantico!”
“Perfect!” He smiled. “In that case I know the perfect place.”
“Great!” You smiled back, “Can’t wait.”
“Me too.” He said as he stood and headed toward the door, he stopped on the threshold and looked back with a genuine smile. “It really is good to see you Tiger, I mean it.”
The nickname stole the breath from your lungs.
“You too, Bull.” You said softly, “Call me?”
“Count on it.”
He turned then, and walked down the hall away from your office. As he disappeared from sight you saw a card laying on the table he’d been leaning on.
It was his business card, with his personal number written on the back.
You couldn’t help yourself as you texted the number immediately.
You were definitely gonna fuck this man. He may have been your ex… but you were ready to reconnect.
The flirtatious texting continued over the next forty eight hours that it took Aaron and his team to wrap up the case, until he finally texted you one evening just as you were getting off work.
You sent him your address, then made the thirty minute drive home.
You were probably three or four glasses of wine in, and the conversation was flowing. Aaron had only had a glass of whiskey that he was still nursing, as responsible as always, he would make sure he was capable of safely driving you home.
“What I have been dying to know is how you’re still single at almost forty, looking like that!?” You finally blurted out when he’d finished telling you about how he’d risen to unit chief so quickly.
His smile dropped away for a moment and you froze, you hadn’t meant to upset him, or offend him.
“Aaron I-” You started to back pedal, but he put his hand over yours on the bar.
“It’s okay,” He assured you, then sighed, “I was married for 12 years, she left me and we got divorced a little over a year ago. We have a son, his name is Jack, he’s almost four.”
Oh shit.
“I’m sorry…” You murmured, “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I spent more time on the job than I did on our marriage. She was home alone with a newborn and then a toddler… and we just fell apart. I could’ve fixed it, transferred to a new unit and had a regular nine to five… but I’m selfish. I didn’t wanna leave my team.” He explains. “I had more loyalty to them than I did to my wife. So she left me, and I don’t blame her. What about you? As amazing as you are, someone didn’t put a ring on your hand?”
You chuckled softly and gave him a commiserating glance.
“Same song, different verse I’m afraid…” You muttered, “We were married for six years, and then I won the case that made my career, and I got promoted to ADA, the hours were the same, but the case load was huge, I would stay late to work and it got to the point where we were never home at the same time. Then he accused me of cheating, which is a whole other thing, but yeah… we split pretty quickly after that. I had a glow up and got another promotion, so I can’t really say that I miss him.”
“He accused you of cheating?” Aaron asked, with an incredulous look on his face. “When would you have had the time?”
“Exactly!” You exclaimed, throwing your hands up in the air, “I don’t have the time for a real relationship, much less a secret affair! Fuck, I don’t even remember the last time I got laid! I think I might’ve slept with some clerk from one of the judges offices after the divorce was finalized—to celebrate—but it wasn’t memorable enough to be sure it even happened because I was so drunk that night. I’ve had my nose to the grindstone ever since, and there’s no time for much else. I do miss sex though. I think I’d be much less stressed—and a lot less bitchy—if I had someone that I could just text, ‘Hey come fuck my brains out,’ and they would and it would be great! Then they’d leave until I needed them again! Do people still do that at forty? What did we call it in college? Fuck buddies? Yeah… I need a fuck buddy.”
He was giving you that smile, the one that used to turn you inside out and make you wet just looking at him. It still worked apparently.
“I believe the adult term for that arrangement is ‘Friends With Benefits,’ I’m pretty sure they made a whole movie about it.” He teased, his eyes sparkling the way they always did when you were entertaining him.
“They did, two of them, actually! I’ve seen them both, I prefer the Mila Kunis one to be honest. But, I think I’ll stick with the term ‘fuck buddies’ it feels more mutual that way, and less committal.” You thought aloud, and then looked over at him again. “Yes, I think an emotional support fuck buddy is exactly what I need.”
He laughed, tipping his gorgeous head back, and letting the sound roll off his lips. He was so goddamn sexy.
“I was right, Tiger,” he said through a chuckle, “you haven’t changed a bit.”
You smiled back at him and studied him thoroughly.
“Well, you did get hotter, I stand by that,” you observed, and earned a soft snort from him in response, “but I think you’re more stern now, more serious. Like you forgot how to have fun.”
“I’m having fun right now.” He pointed out, smirking at you softly.
“Yeah, but it’s impossible not to have fun with me.” You returned teasingly. “I’m too crazy not to be fun.”
“That’s true.” He admitted, with a tilt of his head and a raise of his brows, biting back a smile.
“You’re not supposed to agree with that, asshole!” You exclaimed, laughing as you slapped his bicep playfully.
Holy shit he’s got nice biceps… Would he just take a hint and fuck you already?!
You were fairly certain you were being beyond obvious, and you didn’t remember him being this thick headed when you initiated sex while you were together. Granted that was fifteen years ago…
The conversation carried on for nearly ten more minutes, until you’d both finished your drinks—your fifth glass of wine to his one and only glass of whiskey—then he pulled out his wallet, and gave you a look when you tried to open your purse.
“Are you ready to go, Tiger?” He asked, after he settled the tab with the bar tender.
“I’m ready if you are, Bull.” You said back teasingly, it felt good to just be friends with him again, even if you wanted to jump his bones… desperately. That’s how your relationship had started after all, as friends.
The ride back to your place was filled with idle chatter—mostly yours—but as you got closer and closer to your destination, you got more and more nervous. So you talked more, and he started to talk less and less.
Until he pulled up to the curb outside your house. He didn’t say anything, he just got out of the car and came around to your side. As you gathered your purse and slipped on your coat, he opened the door for you, offering you a hand to help you out of his mid sized SUV. A range rover, which you now recognized as a dad car, granted a very sexy dad car.
He guided you to your door with a hand on your back and kept it there—almost protectively—as you unlocked your front door. He didn’t remove it until you opened the door and stepped over the threshold. He leaned against the door staying firmly outside, but making no move to leave, or say goodbye, he just waited as you took off your coat and hung it up.
“Are you waiting for something?” You asked him teasingly.
“I’m just waiting for you to either invite me in or say goodnight.” He shrugged, smirking at you with a slight wrinkle between his brows.
“What are you, a vampire?” You joked with a giggle, “Get in here Hotchner, I’ll give you the house tour and we can have another drink.”
He stepped up into the house, took off his own coat, and waited for you to shut the door, but when you turned around to face him…
He pinned you to it.
One hand on your waist, the other against the door, just over your head and to the right.
“The house tour can wait, I wanna re-familiarize myself with you first.” He murmured, almost against your lips, his nose just brushing yours. “Unless you’re opposed to that, of course.”
You couldn’t fucking breathe, his eyes were burning into yours, his breath on your lips made it impossible to think of a response, and his hand on your waist was like a brand.
“No objections here.” You whispered, breathlessly, then closed the short distance between his lips and yours. Draping your arms on his shoulders and wrapping your leg around the back of his.
He wasted no time, lifting you up off the ground by the backs of your thighs—never breaking the kiss that had quickly become rushed and messy—your legs wrapped around his waist like it was still second nature, your dress riding up your thighs to your hips. Which he took full advantage of, gripping your ass firmly to hold you aloft as he kept your back pressed against the door.
He started trailing kisses across your jaw and down the side of your neck, nipping, licking and sucking gently as he went.
“God, I thought you were never gonna take a hint…” You panted, your hands threaded through his hair, your head thrown back to give him better access.
His answering chuckle rumbled through his chest and into yours, making your pussy clench around nothing. You were gonna need him to get this show on the road.
“Sweetheart, I’ve had your intentions figured out since the thorough eye fucking you gave me in your office.” He murmured against your neck, between kisses and gentle bites. “You’ve never been subtle, Tiger. You were always an open book to me.”
Hearing that nickname from his lips, in this context, was enough to pull a moan from yours, and he laughed softly at the sound.
“Where’s your bedroom, pretty girl?” He asked, pulling back to look at you, with your cheeks flushed and breath shaky. “God you’re beautiful.”
Then he was kissing your lips again before you could answer.
If you had been capable of higher thoughts, you would have said something like, ‘should’ve been patient enough for the house tour,’ or even just, ‘up the stairs, last door on the right.’
Unfortunately, you couldn’t tell up from down—not with his tongue caressing yours like that—much less think coherently enough to give him understandable instructions.
Yes, it’d been that long, and yes, you were that desperate. Who were you to judge yourself?
“The bedroom's too far, take me to the couch.” You whimpered against his lips instead, and you didn’t have the wherewithal to be embarrassed about it either.
He pulled his head back just enough to take a look around, easily spying the couch in question, in the living room, just off to the left of the entryway. Then he pulled you away from the wall, carried you the ten or fifteen feet of space to the couch, sat you gently on the edge of it, and got on his knees between your legs. His hands ran up your thighs to the lace of your panties, he hooked his fingers into the waist of them, tugging them down as you leaned back and lifted your hips up so he could get them off.
You didn’t know where they went after that, you weren’t paying attention, because then he took his hands and spread your thighs even wider…
Just so he could look at you, spread wide for him.
You knew what he’d find, you’d been wet for hours, and now that he was actually touching you…
“You’re absolutely dripping for me, aren’t you?” He asked, so smugly rhetorical, with a smirk that had you clenching.
“Obviously, so why don’t you shut up and do something about it already?” You said impatiently, to cover the fact that you were crazed and desperate.
“As you wish, your highness.” He joked sarcastically, then he picked up your legs, pressing a kiss to the inside of both knees and draped them over his shoulders.
He slowly worked his way up your thighs, kissing and sucking marks, with the occasional well placed bite. His hands slid up your thighs to your ass the closer his mouth got to your pussy, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. The way he was taking his blessed sweet time had you squirming before you could even feel his breath against where you wanted him, and the smug set of his brows told you that he knew it.
“Aaron, please…” You whimpered as he hovered, breath fanning over your aching cunt.
“You must want it really bad if you’re using pretty words like please,” He teased, looking up at you with a wicked gleam in his eyes, “huh, Tiger?”
“Aaron.”
You’d been trying to sound stern, but it came out a strangled plea because right at that moment, he chose to stop teasing.
His mouth on your pussy felt nearly hot enough to burn as he licked a stripe up you, adding to your wetness. When his tongue flattened against your clit, you thought there were stars dancing in your vision.
Your hands found his hair and pulled until he groaned, then he rolled his tongue so that the tip of it flicked your clit perfectly, before he finally closed his mouth around it, sucking lightly.
“Fuck, Aaron!” You cried out, back arching up off the couch, and his soft laughter seemed to sink into your skin and make that ball of pressure in your core even tighter.
Then he slowly slipped a thick finger inside you, curling it just enough to work the pad of it against your g-spot, drawing a ridiculously needy moan from your lips. His eyes met yours as he kept his mouth on your clit, there was amusement in them, but you could see the desire that was quickly overtaking it.
The way his finger was dragging against your inner walls in tandem with the suction he was giving your clit was nearly enough to have you sobbing, pushing you closer and closer with every passing second. You were aware that you were overly sensitive due to being pent up for so long, but you hadn’t gotten head this good since…
Fuck, since Aaron last had his head between your legs… and he’d only gotten better at it.
How you’d ever forgotten about this man’s skill with his tongue… you did not know.
“Holy fucking hell, Aaron!” You whined, as he added a second finger, increasing the intense pressure in your core that much more, until you felt like the slightest bit more would send you into orbit.
“Are you okay?” He murmured, checking in, but barely stopping before he was putting suction on your clit again.
“Yes, please keep going…” You whimpered, and he hummed in satisfied agreement. Which sent vibrations through your clit, that—combined with the suction and his fingers—sent you screaming over the edge.
You felt the warmth as it ran down your cunt to your ass, your eyes—that you hadn’t even realized you’d closed—snapped down to his hand, still between your legs.
The cuff of his sleeve was soaked.
You’d squirted… a lot.
Your eyes met his, and your heart raced as your cheeks burned bright red you were certain. You opened your mouth to start apologizing, but he didn’t let you get a word out.
“Don’t you dare apologize for that, Tiger.” He warned you, “I’ll make you do it again if you do… Fuck, I might anyway… That was so hot, sweetheart.”
“It was?” You asked, still panting and shaking from your orgasm.
The way he was looking at you… it gave you flashbacks to situations just like this one, from years ago. Which made you remember that he had always loved it when you’d squirted as you finished.
“Mm hmm, I’ve been wondering all week if I could still make you squirt like that for me…” He smirked up at you, as he slowly removed his fingers from your cunt, sending a few aftershocks through your body as they skimmed your g-spot on the way out. Making you whimper in response. Then he slowly started to unbutton his shirt and slip it off his shoulders, wadding it up in a ball and tossing it toward the entryway. You took in his bare chest with wide eyes as he stood and tapped your thigh. “Get up on your knees for me, baby. Hold onto the back of the couch.”
You were too stunned to say anything. A, because he was gorgeous, and B, you hadn’t regained control of your brain after coming so hard.
So you just did as you were told, sitting up and climbing to your knees, as you faced the back of the couch, and the large picture window on the far wall.
The curtains were wide open.
Well, the thick, colored curtains were anyway… the sheer, white, gauzy curtains were closed, but with the lights on… you knew anyone out on the street could see in. The view would be blurry, but if someone was watching, they’d know exactly what was happening.
You heard his belt jingle, then his zipper coming down, the rustle of his pants as they hit the floor, and the scuff of them against the carpet as he kicked them away. Next you felt the warmth of his hands, one tapping your thighs apart, the other gripping your hip and pulling it back, then pushing down on your back gently with the first. The heat and hardness of his cock as he lined up at your entrance was enough to have you shivering in anticipation…
But the window…
“Aaron.” You murmured, and he paused at the slight trepidation in your tone.
“What’s wrong, pretty girl?” He murmured back, stroking your thigh and running his tip up and down your slit, gathering wetness onto it.
“The window.” You whispered, looking over your shoulder at him and biting your lip nervously.
“What about it?” He asked, with a smirk that told you he already knew exactly what you’d realized.
“Somebody might see…” You worried, furrowing your brows, but he just chuckled.
“Why do you think I left your dress on?” He asked, raising a brow at you, “If anyone is feeling a little voyeuristic tonight, all they’ll see are two blurry figures, who may or may not be fucking on a couch… Does that bother you?”
Then you recalled a time, when he had fucked you—naked—against your third story, apartment window… and you remembered that Aaron was a bit of an exhibitionist. Of course he didn’t actually want anyone else but him to see you naked, but the small chance that they might see him fucking you excited him a little…
Which in turn… excited you.
“Not at all.” You whispered, licking your lips and giving him a brief smile as you faced the window again. “Was just making sure you knew we were visible.”
“Oh… I knew…” He assured you, and the barely restrained rumble in his voice made your knees a little weaker. His cock lined back up with your entrance and you clenched in anticipation. “Are you ready, baby?”
“Mm hmm.” You hummed, unable to keep from wiggling impatiently.
“Hold still.” He scolded through an amused chuckle, playfully swatting your ass, the sting of it immediately melting into pleasure. Then he slowly pushed the head of his cock inside you. “Relax, pretty girl, let me in…”
His gentle, coaxing tone was meant to be soothing, but it was sexy as hell and only made you clench around him tighter, making him groan. “I really don’t wanna hurt you, sweetheart. Relax for me…”
“I’m trying…” You whimpered, and you really were, but you wanted him so bad that the mere thought of it was making you tense more and more.
He slipped a hand around your waist and between your thighs, easily finding your clit again with his fingertips. As he circled it with perfect precision and pressure, your body had no choice but to relax for him.
He always knew how to make your body bend to his whims.
Why had you broken up with him again?
Your question went unanswered, however, because he filled your aching pussy in one full thrust as soon as you were ready to take it, and your mind went blank.
“Fuck…” You moaned, letting your forehead fall forward to rest on the back of the couch.
He was so deep at this angle, you thought you could feel him in your diaphragm, and he hadn’t even started moving yet. Instead, letting you adjust to his size—which was very considerable—before he began thrusting.
“Ready?” He murmured, his voice strained, wavering as though he could barely speak through the urge to move.
“So ready, let me have it, Aaron.” You encouraged, giving him your best, ‘fuck me hard, please,’ eyes over your shoulder. For good measure, you even whimpered, “Please!”
Which seemed to be all the permission he need to pull back and thrust into you again, harder than before.
“Three pleases in 20 minutes…” He chuckled softly, running his free hand up your back, under your dress, and unhooking your bra deftly, as though he’d done it a thousand times. “You really are pent up, aren’t you sweetheart?”
Before you could decide whether or not to dignify that question with a response, his hand slipped from your back to your chest, beneath the cup of your bra, where he palmed your breast. Squeezing it gently, before finding your nipple with his thumb and rubbing it in a circle, drawing a whine from your throat.
“Shhh, it’s okay pretty girl, I’ve got you.” He cooed, almost condescendingly, as he thrusted into you a little harder.
You knew he was warming you up to rail the absolute fuck out of you, you remembered how he had always started out so gently with you, but by the end… you’d have—well earned and appreciated—bruises.
The thought made you moan, and that only urged him on. Sliding in and out of you at a rapidly increasing pace, his hands both returned to your hips.
“Fuck, sweetheart you’re so wet for me, I can feel it running down my cock.” He growled, squeezing your hips with near bruising strength.
The tone of his voice had you clenching around him, and he reacted… groaning low in his throat, then fucked into you like he no longer had any of his famous self restraint left. The pace would’ve been brutal if you hadn’t wanted it so badly. You could feel him hitting your goddamn cervix with every stroke, your knuckles were white with the force of your grip on the couch. You had to hold on that tightly…
Just to stay up right.
Otherwise you would’ve been bent over the back of the couch. Which didn’t sound horrible, but you didn’t think that angle would feel as amazing as this one.
You could feel yourself careening toward that edge again, the pressure growing and growing to the point of near pain. Your cunt tightening around his cock as it clenched involuntarily, starting that tell tale flutter.
“Aaron I- I’m- oh fuck…” You moaned, feeling your entire body begin to tense and tremble.
“I know, pretty girl, I know, give it to me.” He soothed, no, pleaded, “Let me feel you come on my cock, baby.”
You shattered.
Your body legs shook until they couldn’t hold you up anymore, and his arm wrapped around your waist. Pulling you up and back against his chest, his other hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding you there.
Any restraint he might have had left was obliterated.
He fucked you through your orgasm, so hard you thought you’d still be able to feel it next week, and that didn’t even seem like an exaggeration.
“Such a good girl,” he rasped against the skin just behind your ear, “coming so hard for me, twice in one night. Making me feel like this… you’re such a good girl…”
You’d always be such a sucker for praise, and you’d always liked the possessive side of Aaron… especially since it only extended to the bedroom.
You hadn’t experienced three orgasms back to back—given to you by a man instead of a vibrator—in well, ever actually. Not even with Aaron all those years ago, that you could remember.
But here you were, with the second rolling into an even stronger third, your pussy nearly squeezing the life out of him.
His hips stuttered and suddenly you found yourself bent over the back of the couch, your dress nearly under your armpits, as he pulled out of you in one fluid motion.
Then he came on your ass and back, with your name on his lips. The hot ropes of his orgasm landing on your skin had another moan wrenching free of your mouth, it cooled quickly and sent shivers up your spine as it ran down your ass cheeks.
Neither of you said anything for a moment, both panting and trying to catch your breath.
“Shit, Tiger, I’m sorry.” He muttered after a minute.
You looked over your shoulder at him like he’d lost his damn mind.
“What on earth could you possibly have to be sorry for?!” You demanded, with an incredulous laugh. “I just came three times. I’d worship the ground you’re standing on if my legs were capable of moving from this position.”
He huffed a nervous laugh, shaking his head, but his eyes were still apologetic as he explained, “I got cum on your dress…”
You laughed for real then, resting your head on the back of the couch.
“It’s okay, Aaron, it'll wash out.” You smiled up at him. “It’s not like this is designer or anything. It’s just a dress, besides, I squirted on your shirt and you told me if I apologized you would make me do it again. So I think we’re even.”
He laughed earnestly then, then patted your thigh affectionately.
“Be still so it doesn’t drip on the couch, I’ll go get something to clean you up with.” He said, and the. He crossed the entryway to the kitchen.
The sink was in plain sight of the couch, so obviously you ogled him the whole time, as he got some damp paper towels and some dry ones, then brought them back to clean you up.
“Fuck, I forgot how spectacular your ass is.” He murmured almost to himself, as he wiped away the evidence of what the two of you had just done. “How could I ever forget an ass like this?”
You laughed, content to lie there and let him look at you, and not sure you had much of a choice…
Your legs were still weak as fuck.
Don’t judge, anyone’s would be after getting dicked down like that…
“I don’t know, I’m wondering how I forgot that you’re this good in bed…” You joked, as he finished up. “Seriously, that was the best sex I’ve had… probably since the last time I had sex with you.”
He chuckled, the sound a deep rumble in his throat, and he squeezed your ass playfully.
“I wouldn’t mind reminding you how good at it I am a little more thoroughly this weekend… if you’re up for that?” He said it so casually, you would’ve missed the nervous undertone if you hadn’t been looking at him.
He may have been the profiler in the room, but you’d been a lawyer for just as long, and body language was nearly as important to your career as it was to his.
“What are you proposing, Bull?” You asked him, with a smirk that you hoped would hide your own hopeful anxiousness. “We both know neither of us have time for anything more than casual sex.”
“Just sex,” He murmured, “and friendship, someone to talk to, but no emotional commitment.”
Your smile grew so wide your cheeks ached.
“Aww Bull, are you offering to be my emotional support fuck buddy?” You teased, but inside you were freaking out.
You’d hoped that he’d want to before you’d slept with him, but now that he’d absolutely blown your mind… you were desperate for him to agree.
You didn’t want a relationship, you knew your ambition and drive didn’t leave room for one, but sex like that… it was hard to come by.
That was a poor choice of words, but you knew what you meant.
“Do we have to call it that?” He groaned, but you saw the slight twitching at the corners of his mouth.
“You think it’s cute and you know it…” You laughed, and he smacked your ass playfully in retaliation.
“Fine.” He sighed, “Yes, Tiger, I am offering to be your ‘emotional support fuck buddy’ and if you don’t get up, you may get a round two of my job interview.”
You laughed and gave your ass a flirty little wiggle, watching his eyes darken.
Your stomach did a little flip, but you smirked confidently anyway and said, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
He smirked and hauled you up off the couch, and to your feet.
“You’re ridiculous,” he mumbled with an affectionate smile, “and insatiable, but I could get used to that again.”
You just giggled and pressed a kiss to his cheek, then turned away from him.
“I know, but could you help me get out of this dress? Someone made a real mess of it.” You teased, shooting a flirty grin at him over your shoulder. “I’ll throw your clothes in the wash with it so they’ll be clean when you’re ready to leave in the morning.”
“You’re not kicking me out then?” He asked with a smirk, as he stepped closer and his fingers found the zipper of your dress. “I thought fuck buddies didn’t do sleepovers?”
“They don’t…” You shrugged, smiling at the wall in front of you. “But like you said, I’m ridiculously insatiable, and I still haven’t shown you my bedroom.”
“That’s not what I said.” He scoffed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he pushed the straps of your dress down your arms, and watched it pool around your feet. “But if you wanna show me your bedroom, pretty girl, I’m more than willing to follow you to it.”
“You say that now…” You warned him, turning to face him and letting the bra he’d unhooked earlier fall to the floor. “But when I’m done with you, you’ll be begging me to let you rest.”
His eyes shone with something nearly primal as he said, “We’ll see who does the most begging…”
AN: After 10 million years, please enjoy the wedding!
The Ties That Bind Master List
You’re in the middle of making sub plans in preparation for being off Thursday and Friday. It was Wednesday now, and since your wedding dress wouldn’t be ready for at least another month, you had to go find something to get married in on Friday. You were just going to wear one of your regular dresses, but when you had said that Aaron, Jack, Jess, and Spencer had thrown a fit.
You’re heading down to the work room, to print out what will be needed while you’re gone, when you hear the tell tale signs of heels against the floor. Your eyebrows shoot up at the sight of Penny, Will, and Jess coming down the hall, led by your principal.
“Ms. Reed.”
You smile and greet her, “Ms. Preston.”
“I hear the wedding has been moved up.”
“Yes ma’am.”
She gives you a gentle smile, “Your friends told me why, and it’s time for you to go.”
You wince, “I still have a few things to finish.”
“Nonsense. Send me everything in an email, and I’ll handle it from there.”
Penny shoots you a thumbs up, and you nod, “Alright. Thank you.”
She laughs, and waves off your thanks, “I hope you have an amazing wedding.”
“Thank you.”
Ms. Preston nods and heads off. You look at your friends, “Thank you.”
Penny giggles and takes your hands, “Come on. We have shopping to do!”
You laugh, “I have to get my stuff first.”
You lead them to your classroom. You let them look around while you send the email to Ms. Preston, and then you start packing up your things. The four of you head out in Will’s car. Penny talks the entire way there, “Okay, so I have no idea what your actual wedding dress looks like. You know since I didn’t get to tag along.”
Jess shoots you a look. Penny hadn’t been mad that you’d gone without her, but she had been bugging you for details ever since. You still intended to wear that dress for your wedding ceremony.
You laugh, “It was spur of the moment Penny, and you were working a case.”
“Well I’m thinking we should go for fun. Maybe a tea length dress? Or? Ohhhh! A wedding pant suit.”
You laugh. To be honest you’re more than a little tired. The last few days have been a whirlwind. You’ve been busy preparing Aaron to ship out to Pakistan, trying to help Jack work through his emotions and prepare him for going months without his father, and you’ve had everyday life. It’s sweet that they want to make this special for you, but you really plan on keeping this simple and waiting for the big ceremony. However, if this really makes them happy, you’re happy to do it.
You live to regret those words when Penny drags you to no less than ten stores. You’re not even sure how she manages it. You end up at stores waaay after closing in a few cases, but everyone seems more than happy to be open for you. You suppose Penny really does know everyone, and everyone really does love Penny.
Still, when it hits ten o’clock, you’re done. Thankfully you aren’t the only one who feels that way. Will, who is next to you, watching Penny and Jess argue over a certain dress, leans in and says, “I think you were smart to just take Jess and Jack the first time.”
“I think Aaron and I better damn well stay married, because a divorce and new marriage might just kill me, and I’m not talking emotionally.” Will laughs.
You head home without a dress, and Penny tells you to be ready first thing in the morning to try again. You and Will whimper. Luckily Aaron is waiting for you. Jack has long gone to bed, but Aaron is on the couch, with a tumbler of what looks like whiskey. It’s barely been touched. He takes one look at you, and opens his arms.
You go to him and snuggle in. It makes you want to cry, because you know you won’t be able to snuggle with him for much longer . . . for a long time. He kisses the top of your head. “I love you.”
You yawn, “Love you too.” And with that the two of you head to bed.
True to word Penny and Jess arrive early the next morning with a very sleepy and grumpy Will. Aaron puts travel mugs with very strong coffee into your hands, and another into Will’s. Will looks like he could kiss your fiance. Penny tugs the two of you out before that can happen.
****
While you are wedding dress shopping Aaron is trying to take care of other things. He has the appointment made at city hall, and he’s in the process of trying to make a reservation at a nice restaurant, but it’s hard when it’s last minute.
He’s on the phone with a restaurant he’s taken you to a few times, when there’s a knock on the door. He opens it up and finds Dave, Morgan, and Spencer storm in. He lets out a groan, when the restaurant says there’s no room for Friday.
He hangs up. “What are you all doing here?”
Dave smiles, “We have come to help out. Flowers will be delivered shortly, along with our suits. I have also made a reservation at a fabulous restaurant for your wedding after party.”
Aaron raises an eyebrow, “How did you manage that?”
“I’m rich Aaron.”
He glances at Spencer and Morgan. Morgan is smart enough to not say anything, Spencer on the other hand, “That seems like a fairly obvious conclusion.”
He just barely resists slapping the back of his soon to be brother’s head.
Dave carries on, “The only bad thing is, we have to put the boutonnieres and bouquets together.”
Aaron can’t resist, “What happened to being rich?”
Dave waves it off, “They wanted a ridiculous amount of money to put them together on short notice. I’m rich not stupid. And how hard can it be to put together some flowers?”
There’s a moment of silence before Spencer says, “I believe that is what people call, famous last words.”
****
You listen as Jess and Penny argue at the front of a small vintage store. Will is following you around as you look through the dresses on the hanger. That’s when you find it. You smile to yourself as you pull it from the hanger. You look at Will, and he grins.
“Try it on, and if that’s the dress, don’t let Penny or Jess see you in it.”
You stare at him, “Feeling a little evil?”
“Twenty seven stores. They’ve dragged us to twenty seven stores, and that was after making me try on nineteen different suits in order to find the right one for Aaron and Jack and the others. And then I had to watch as they tried on bridesmaid dresses. I’m ready to conquer the world.”
You bite back a laugh, and head into the dressing room. The dress looks amazing on you. It gives you the same feeling as the other. You quickly show Will who gives his stamp of approval, and you change.
You sneak back up while Will makes a distraction, and check out. You come up behind Jess and Penny as they fuss at Will for something. You clear your throat, “I’m ready to go.”
They both spin and look at the hanging bag you’re holding. Both of their mouths drop open, but neither says anything for a moment. Finally, Penny says, “You still need shoes.”
Will curses, and then says, “You have got to be kidding me!”
You smile, and head home. You give the dress to Will who takes it and hides it from Penny and Jess. He promises to hide it from JJ too.
You enter the apartment to find Aaron and a crying Jack.
You head to Jack’s room, where Aaron is holding him. You can just make out his words. “I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay.”
You settle on the bed next to them, and place your hand on Jack’s back. You rub up and down and then sandwich him between you and Aaron. Eventually, Jack calms down and you try to reassure him, “We are going to skype with daddy, every day. And I promise I’m going to be here the entire time, and Aunt Jess too. And we’ll spend time with Uncle Dave and Uncle Spencer.”
A teary eyed Jack nods snuggles into the both of you.
*******
You get married at eleven in the morning. You’re in a last minute dress, and you’d gotten ready in the courthouse bathroom with the rest of the girls. It’s nothing like you expected, and yet you don’t regret it.
Spencer is waiting for you as your group of girls, plus Will, step out of the bathroom. He smiles at the sight of you. The others go on ahead, leaving you and your brother alone.
He kisses your cheek, and then you pull him into a hug. Quietly you whisper, “Who knew?”
Spencer pulls back, “Who knew what?”
“Who knew, that all those years ago, when mom brought you home, that you would be one of the best things to ever happen, and that you would lead me to other amazing things.”
Spencer smiles, “I had to pay you back for raising me, and taking care of me, and everything else.”
“That was my pleasure.”
“I love you, sis.”
You hug him again, “Love you too.”
With those words he offers his arm, and walks you to the very small aisle in the justice of the peace’s office. The moment you lock eyes with Aaron, you feel a feeling of completion fall over you. You’re ready for the future.
Series Sypnosis: You're a former profiler who returns to the BAU after years in academia, reigniting a charged and complicated dynamic with Aaron Hotchner. Bold, brazen, and unafraid to push his buttons, you challenge Hotch's usual control and professionalism, making him confront emotions he’s long buried. What begins as playful banter escalates into something deeper, as the chemistry between you simmers just beneath the surface. As you both tackle high-stakes cases, the tension intensifies, blurring the lines between personal and professional, forcing both of you to confront the undeniable connection you’ve been avoiding for years.
Part I. It’s strange what desire will make foolish people do**^
Part II. And I never dreamed that I’d lose somebody like you**^
Reverence - Hotch x colonel!reader by @hoe4hotchner
New to work - shy!reader x Hotch by @sincerelybubbles
At Rossi's - shy!reader x Hotch by @sincerelybubbles
Five times you were shy around Aaron Hotchner because of your underlying feelings for him + one time, Aaron Hotchner was shy around you because of his underlying feelings for you by @kiwriteswords
Survival Instincts by @ssahotchnerr
Falling asleep by @greg-montgomery
Unknowingly,hers by @mysindividual
Unknowingly, he admits by @mysindividual
Unknowingly, his by @mysindividual
Vows of Rivalry by @reidsbookclub
In sickness and secrets by @kiwriteswords
S A M W I N C H E S T E R
“Did you just hiss at me?” - Sam x reader by @thegirlwhorunswithwinchesters
“Of all the people to get trapped in an elevator with, it had to be you.” - Sam x reader by @thegirlwhorunswithwinchesters
S P E N C E R R E I D
He holds your hands while arguing by @sincerelybubbles
(lack of) convenience by @pathologicalreid
Goads and goats by @pathologicalreid
Spencer being cute and not getting girls are flirting with him by @mandarinmoons
Okay, big brown eyes, whatever you say by @anniebeemine
Three, Two, One by @spencerrreiddd
Three, Two, One—chapter 2 by @spencerrreiddd
B A U
Fisher King ep rewrite by @fallingfavourites - platonic
Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader
Genre: fluff
Summary: Reid and Morgan attend your lecture, curious about your mysterious connection to Hotch, and are quickly outplayed by your keen instincts. During the lecture, you seamlessly blend psychological concepts with philosophical insights, leaving them impressed. Afterward, Hotch, unaware of your return, is stunned when he finally sees you, the bond between you two immediately apparent. The team watches in awe as you and Hotch exchange playful banter, the deep connection between you two undeniable.
Warnings: CM-style graphic case descriptions, Reid and Morgan being oblivious
Word Count: 10k
Dado's Corner: Try not to say mommy challenge. You will all miserably fail. Y/N is a savage, I love her, the more confident version of her is so fun to write.
previous chapter ; masterlist
Later that day, Morgan and Reid found themselves seated in the middle of a packed lecture hall at the Academy. It wasn’t exactly protocol for the two of them to be there -especially not together - but the team had orchestrated this “mission” carefully: it was a case file day, which meant there was a low chance of being called out, but leaving the bullpen entirely would have raised suspicion. Especially if they wanted to keep their operation secret from Hotch and Gideon, both clueless of what was about to unfold.
The mystery surrounding you - why Hotch never had spoken about you - had quickly become a quiet fascination within the team, escalating over the course of just a few hours. It wasn’t just curiosity about a former colleague; there was an unspoken sense that your departure had left an impact that went far beyond a routine job change. Intrigued by the potential layers to the situation, the team knew they needed to investigate, and they chose Reid and Morgan as the perfect pair for this undercover operation.
Reid’s youth and sharp intellect made him blend in effortlessly with the students, but it was his deep academic curiosity that truly set him apart. In preparation for the lecture, Reid had spent the afternoon poring over all of your published work, and he quickly became captivated by your ability to seamlessly interlace psychology, culture, and philosophy in ways few could manage. The depth of your insights, the connections you drew between human behavior and broader cultural forces, sparked something in him - a rare sense of admiration.
For Reid, this mission wasn’t just about gathering intelligence; it was an opportunity to engage with a mind he respected. Your ideas, complex yet accessible, offered an intellectual challenge he was eager to dive into. He wanted to hear your thoughts firsthand, not just to uncover the truth about your past with Hotch, but because he truly respected the brilliance of your work.
Morgan, on the other hand, had entirely different motivations for being there. His cop’s instinct told him something wasn’t adding up, and that gnawing curiosity wouldn’t let him rest. A particular photo he’d seen back in Garcia’s lair - of you and Hotch, caught in a candid moment of shared laughter - had stuck with him ever since.
Hotch didn’t laugh like that anymore.
There was something about you that had unlocked a side of their otherwise stoic unit chief, a version of Hotch that Morgan had never seen before, and it bothered him. That rare glimpse of joy on his boss’s face hinted at a deeper story, one that Hotch had kept carefully hidden. Morgan was determined to figure out what had really happened between you two, to uncover why Hotch never spoke of you and why your departure still seemed to hang in the air like unfinished business.
Unlike Reid, who could slip into the crowd with his youthful look and scholarly demeanor, Morgan stood out. His broad shoulders and confident stance made him look more like a security detail than a student. His sharp gaze constantly swept the room, not in casual curiosity, but in the way of someone who was trained to assess for threats, even in the seemingly safe confines of a lecture hall. Morgan wasn’t here to blend in; he was here to find answers.
“Man, these kids are young,” Morgan muttered under his breath, taking in the sea of eager, fresh faces around them.
Reid, already scribbling notes, glanced up with a slight smirk. “It’s the Academy. They’re supposed to be young. You’ll survive.”
Morgan rolled his eyes but didn’t reply, his thoughts still caught between the mission at hand and the uneasy feeling he couldn’t shake. There was something more in the air, something heavier than just academic interest.
“Just remember,” Morgan whispered, leaning closer to Reid, “we’re not here for the lesson. We’re here to figure out what Hotch isn’t telling us.”
Reid glanced up, clearly torn between his genuine academic excitement and the need to stick to the plan. “I can do both, you know.”
Morgan smirked. “Sure you can, kid. Just don’t get lost in the lecture.”
Just then, the door at the front of the lecture hall swung open, and you walked in with an air of quiet confidence that silenced the room instantly. The soft shuffle of papers and whispered conversations died down as you made your way to the podium, a stack of notes in hand. Reid and Morgan immediately locked onto you, and though Reid had never met you in person, he instantly recognized you from the photo Garcia had shown them earlier.
You looked strikingly similar to how you had in that picture: poised, elegant, with that same calm authority that demanded attention without effort. But now, in this academic environment, there was a subtle difference. Reid noted how much more relaxed you seemed, despite the structured setting. There was a lightness to you, as if shedding the rigid confines of the BAU had allowed you to embrace something more natural, more authentic.
Your hair, worn in its natural texture, was a stark contrast to the sleek, pin-straight style you had sported back when you were chasing down criminals. It made you seem more yourself, more at ease, as though time had allowed you to settle into a version of you that didn’t need to conform to the high-pressure world of profiling. And yet, despite these differences, Reid could see the parts of you that hadn’t changed at all.
You still wore your signature all-black suit, sharply tailored and immaculate. The only splash of color was your light blue shirt, buttoned all the way to the top but hidden beneath a fitted black vest. It was a subtle uniform, one that spoke of your meticulous attention to detail, just as Reid had expected from the person whose work he had admired.
As you set your notes down on the podium, there was no need to ask for the students' attention. Your presence alone commanded it, radiating a quiet authority that both Reid and Morgan could feel from across the room.
Morgan leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes studying you intently. The way you moved, the way you carried yourself, it was almost uncanny. You had the same presence as Hotch, the same quiet yet commanding energy that made people listen before you even spoke. The way you walked to the podium, the slight tilt of your head as you scanned the room, the controlled yet effortless manner in which you handled your materials, it was all too familiar.
Morgan couldn’t shake the feeling that it didn’t make sense to him how you could still carry such a striking similarity to Hotch after all these years. You had only worked together for three years, and it had been six since you’d last seen each other, yet those brief moments watching you confirmed that there was an unspoken bond, a shared approach to leadership and presence that ran far deeper than the passage of time could diminish.
What stood out to him even more was how mature you seemed, not just in your authority but in the quiet confidence you exuded. You were four years younger than him, only five older than Reid, but there was something about the way you carried yourself that made you feel more seasoned, like you’d lived a life beyond your years. And yet, your warmth was undeniable. Your smile was far more approachable than Hotch’s, inviting curiosity and dialogue, yet it carried the same weight of experience and intellect.
What truly set you apart, though, was the care you showed to the students. Even though this was just a guest lecture, and you had no prior connection to any of them, there was a gentleness in the way you treated them, as if each one mattered individually. Rather than pointing out sections of a textbook or directing them to impersonal reading assignments, you handed out your very own notes. Pages written in your careful, flowing handwriting, offering glimpses into your thought process. The act of giving them your personal materials made everyone in the room feel seen and taken care of, as if they were receiving something more than just information, they were receiving a piece of you.
As you approached Reid and Morgan’s row, handing out the notes, your instincts kicked in almost instantly. Something in their body language - Morgan's guarded posture, the way Reid’s eyes darted over every detail - gave them away. They weren’t students, not with that level of awareness. Your instincts, finely honed from years in the field, told you immediately they were agents, not here for the lecture but for something more. You paused for only a fraction of a second as you handed Reid his copy, then Morgan’s, but in that brief exchange, everything clicked into place.
You knew exactly who they were, they weren’t just agents.
They were Hotch’s agents.
Even without having seen their pictures, Hotch’s letters over the years had painted such vivid portraits of his team that recognition came as naturally as breathing. Reid’s intense curiosity, the way his mind seemed to be running a mile a minute as he absorbed every detail of the room, was exactly as Hotch had described. And Morgan - sharp, ever-watchful, his presence commanding without a word - fit the description perfectly. Hotch had done more than just mention them; he'd crafted a detailed profile of each one, and in that moment, you were impressed by how well his words had aligned with reality.
But despite recognizing them, you gave nothing away. No raised brow, no startled reaction - just a slight, knowing smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you handed them their notes with the same care and warmth you extended to the rest of the class. It was as if, in that brief moment, you acknowledged the deeper connection between all of you but chose to let it remain unspoken, just as you had done with so many things in your life.
You decided you would let them continue their undercover game, but in your mind, you were already several steps ahead. You knew their plan. You understood the intrigue. And while you didn’t mind playing along for now, you knew this encounter would unfold on your terms, not theirs.
Reid’s eyes lingered on the notes you handed him, immediately captivated by the intricate, handwritten connections sprawling across the page. The blue ink, fluid and purposeful, revealed a map of your mind - each word carefully placed to weave together psychological phenomena, historical events, and philosophical insights with stunning clarity. The structure, the flow, the careful attention to detail - it was all there.
Morgan’s attention, however, was pulled elsewhere. As you handed him his notes, he caught the glint of something he hadn’t expected. The engagement ring. His eyes locked on it for a moment longer than they should have, the band gleaming on your left hand as you moved past him. There it was, a piece of the puzzle he hadn’t accounted for. Whoever you were now, you weren’t just Hotch’s former partner. You had a life, a future, and someone waiting for you.
Morgan glanced over at Reid, whose eyes were still glued to your notes, clearly fascinated by the web of ideas you had laid out. But when Reid noticed Morgan’s gaze, the flicker of recognition passed between them. The mission just got a lot more complicated.
As you moved back to the podium and began your lecture, Morgan couldn’t help but continue noticing the subtle echoes of Hotch’s body language. The way you paused before speaking, the careful consideration in your words, it was all too familiar. Reid, ever the observer of patterns, was clearly noticing it too. The way you stood at the podium, hands placed just so, the deliberate pacing as you spoke. It was eerily reminiscent of Hotch, and yet there was something different. Where Hotch exuded strict efficiency, you brought warmth, a sense of curiosity that made people lean in, eager to hear more.
“I came here today because they told me to discuss the phenomenon of folie à deux,” you began, your voice calm yet authoritative, “and its implications not just in psychology but in philosophy and culture.”
The room stilled as you spoke, your presence effortlessly commanding attention. Morgan and Reid exchanged a quick glance, fully engaged now in the way you were weaving complex psychological concepts with larger, philosophical questions. There was something magnetic about the way you approached the topic, pulling in the room with every word.
“Folie à deux is a rare psychological phenomenon,” you continued, “where two or more individuals, typically in a close relationship, share the same delusion. It’s often seen in couples, siblings, or very close friends. The dominant partner transmits their delusion to the other, creating a shared reality.”
You paused, letting the weight of the concept settle over the room. “This raises profound philosophical questions. Take Kant’s idea, for instance. He believed that we don’t perceive the world as it truly is, but instead, we experience the world through the lens of our minds. In other words, our reality is shaped by how our minds organize and interpret what we see, hear, and feel.”
You let that thought settle before continuing. “Now, if two people share the same delusion, for them, that becomes their reality. Even though it's false to us, it’s their truth, because their minds are filtering and organizing information to fit that shared belief. In Kant’s terms, it challenges the very idea of ‘objective reality’ - because what we think is real might just be how we’re perceiving it, not how it actually exists outside of our minds.”
You smiled warmly at the class. “So, in a way, our subjective experiences - what we believe, what we feel - shape the world we live in. And when two people share the same distorted view, that shared perception becomes their reality, no matter how far it drifts from the truth.”
Reid leaned forward, his pen flying across the page as he absorbed every word. He was captivated, not just by the subject matter, but by the way you framed it, how you elevated the psychological disorder into a philosophical discussion about the nature of truth and perception. You made complex ideas seem simple yet profound, interconnecting psychology and philosophy into one seamless, thought-provoking narrative.
Morgan, though less academically driven, found himself equally drawn in. The way you spoke made even the most abstract concepts accessible, your words carrying weight not just in their content but in how you delivered them, with a clarity that left no room for misunderstanding, yet a depth that left room for reflection.
You began to explain a specific case you had worked on during your time at the BAU, a case that had stayed with you due to its sheer brutality and the disturbing dynamic between the killers. “I worked on a case a few years ago involving a series of brutal murders. The victims were found hanging from the ceilings of abandoned warehouses, their bodies mutilated in ways that suggested not just violence, but performance.”
The room grew eerily still as you spoke, your voice taking on a darker tone. “The killers were a couple, completely lost in their shared delusion. They believed that by killing their victims in such a specific, ritualistic manner, they were cementing their bond, as if the act of murder itself was an expression of their twisted love.”
You paced slowly across the front of the room, your words heavy with implication, and the students hung on every word. “The crime scenes were brutal, but what stood out most were the patterns - blood splattered in what appeared to be a deliberate, almost choreographed way. It wasn’t random violence; it was as if they were performing a ritual.”
Reid’s pen scratched furiously against his notebook, his brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to capture every detail. Morgan, meanwhile, glanced around the room, feeling the palpable tension you were building with your story.
“The first victim, a 21-year-old student, was found suspended from the ceiling of a derelict warehouse. Her body had been methodically sliced, the cuts precise, deep, but not immediately fatal. The killers had taken their time, savoring each wound, letting her bleed out slowly. The scene was a nightmare: blood splattered everywhere, but not haphazardly. It seemed purposeful, like an abstract painting.”
You paused, gauging the room’s reactions. The students sat frozen, entranced, and even Reid, who had seen his share of brutal cases, seemed visibly affected.
“The second victim, a 36-year-old plumber, was found in a nearly identical state in another warehouse. Another body, another grotesque dance of violence. His blood, like the first victim’s, had been splattered across the room in swirling patterns, as if the killers were moving in deliberate, controlled steps. It was clear this wasn’t about the victims themselves, but about the act. They weren’t just killing, they were performing.”
You nodded at the young woman’s question, already anticipating the curiosity it sparked. “At first glance, the victims appeared unconnected - different ages, different backgrounds. But the killers didn’t choose them at random. The victims were symbolic, representations of the killers’ own internal dynamics. One victim reflected the youth and innocence of one partner, while the other embodied the experience, the world-weariness, of the other. In a twisted sense, they weren’t killing strangers - they were killing versions of themselves, surrogates, to solidify their bond through these acts.”
Reid’s hand shot up, his mind clearly racing with the case details. “Did your team profile them as a couple right away?”
You nodded, already expecting Reid’s instinctive question. “Yes, very early on, we suspected it was a folie à deux. The crime scenes told us as much. The way the blood was deliberately splattered, almost choreographed, was a shared act of performance. The footprints intertwined, moving in tandem, telling a story of two people completely absorbed in their collective delusion. It was clear that this wasn’t just violence, it was ritual, a form of communication between them.”
Here, you paused, adding a layer of deeper reflection. “Philosophically, it raises an interesting point about identity and connection. In cases like this, the delusion becomes more than just shared, it defines them. Think of Hegel’s concept of the dialectic. Two opposing forces interact, shaping and defining each other through their opposition. These killers were engaged in that process, only instead of a philosophical exchange of ideas, their connection was expressed through violence. They became more themselves through their shared acts, solidifying their identities through the bond of their crimes.”
Morgan shifted in his seat, slightly unsettled by the complexity of the killers' psychology and the patience it must have taken to unravel their twisted connection. He didn’t often think of criminals in such philosophical terms, he saw them through the lens of the law, of right and wrong.
“And then,” you said, your voice growing quieter, more deliberate, “there was the dance.”
The air in the room grew heavier, as if everyone collectively held their breath. “Each crime scene had one distinctive feature,” you continued, “the footprints left in the blood. They weren’t random or chaotic - they moved in deliberate loops and turns, forming a grotesque choreography. This was no ordinary crime - it was ritualistic, deeply personal. The killers were reliving a significant moment between them, reenacting their bond through this macabre dance.”
You paused, letting the students absorb the gravity of what you were saying. “And here’s where we dive deeper - into the philosophy of ritual. Durkheim talks about how rituals are essential to the creation of social bonds, how shared rituals bring people closer, giving them a sense of identity and belonging. For these two, the act of murder became their ritual. It was how they maintained their connection, how they affirmed to each other that their shared reality - their delusion - was true. The blood on the floor wasn’t just evidence. It was a testament to their bond, a mark of their unity.”
You let the silence hang, watching as the weight of those words sank in. Reid was furiously scribbling notes, his brows furrowed in concentration, clearly processing the philosophical layers you were laying down. Morgan, on the other hand, glanced around the room, sensing the discomfort among the students, while he himself struggled to imagine how such a deep connection could manifest in something so horrific.
A student’s hand shot up from the middle of the room. “How did you catch them?”
You paused for a moment, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips, holding back the laughter threatening to escape at the memory. “It wasn’t easy,” you began, your voice steady and measured. “My partner and I had to go undercover to a dance event where we suspected the unsubs would be. We spent an entire night - and the following day -perfecting a slow dance routine just to blend in, hoping to draw them out.”
There was a ripple of interest across the room, but Morgan and Reid exchanged a glance that held more weight than simple curiosity. Morgan’s brow furrowed, his lips quirking in disbelief. He leaned toward Reid, whispering, “Hotch? Dancing?”
Reid, always serious, blinked in surprise, his pen frozen mid-air. “Hotch? Dancing?” he echoed, as if the concept itself was too far-fetched to be real.
Morgan’s disbelief quickly morphed into amusement. He leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming mischievously as he pulled out his phone, keeping it low under the desk. Without missing a beat, he sent a quick message to Garcia.
To Garcia:
Find footage of Hotch dancing. ASAP.
You caught the exchange from the corner of your eye, and the flash of recognition in your gaze wasn’t lost on either of them. You knew what they were up to. You’d seen it before - agents who thought they could outmaneuver you. It didn’t bother you. In fact, a touch of mischief tugged at your own lips as you pressed on with the story.
“We had to immerse ourselves completely in the role,” you continued smoothly, not missing a beat. “Everything had to be perfect - our interactions with the other dancers, the timing of our steps. We had to give the appearance of just being another couple enjoying the evening.”
You paused, letting your words settle in, and your eyes - sharp and assessing - swept over the room, briefly lingering on Reid and Morgan. They thought they were here undercover, sizing you up, but you were already several steps ahead.
“As you can imagine,” you said, your tone casual but laced with intent, “undercover work is about blending in. It’s about becoming invisible until you’re ready to act. One of the worst things you can do is stand out before you have what you need.”
Morgan’s posture stiffened. He exchanged a subtle glance with Reid, who was still scribbling furiously, caught up in the lesson. But Morgan, with his instincts sharpened by years in the field, noticed the change in your tone. Reid, still oblivious, looked up, blinking in confusion as he tried to catch the thread.
“For example,” you continued, now pacing ever so slightly in front of the room, “if you’re attending a lecture and trying to blend in, you wouldn’t want to sit right in the middle, where everyone can see you. You’d want to sit somewhere unobtrusive - close enough to observe, but not so obvious that you stand out.”
Reid’s pen stilled. He blinked rapidly, glancing down at his notes as if unsure how to respond. Morgan, on the other hand, shifted in his seat, straightening up. He could feel the eyes of the room on them now. This wasn’t just a lecture anymore. You had them in your sights.
“And of course,” you added, with a sly smile barely visible at the corners of your lips, “you’d want to keep steady eye contact with the people you’re observing. Avoiding eye contact is a classic tell that you’re hiding something.”
Reid’s head snapped up, wide-eyed, and he finally caught on. His gaze flicked nervously between you and Morgan, his face flushing a deep shade of red. Morgan, meanwhile, smirked, the game now fully exposed. He chuckled under his breath, turning to Reid with a playful glint in his eye.
“I think we’ve been made,” Morgan whispered, leaning closer.
Reid’s response came in a low mutter, “I think she’s profiling us.”
You didn’t miss the exchange, though you pretended not to hear. The game was laid bare, and now it was time to pull back the curtain. “The key to any good undercover operation,” you continued, eyes still fixed on them even as you addressed the entire class, “is to stay in character, no matter what happens. And when someone mentions having to learn a choreographed number to catch unsubs, you definitely don’t text your technical analyst to hunt down footage because the man in question happens to be your emotionless, overworked Unit Chief.”
Both Morgan and Reid’s jaws dropped, their reactions a perfect mirror of disbelief and embarrassment. Reid blushed furiously, stammering as he attempted to regain his composure. Morgan bit back laughter, his shoulders shaking as he slid his phone into his pocket. You were right, of course. There was no getting around it, they’d been caught red-handed.
Garcia, no doubt, would be on the receiving end of Morgan’s follow-up text telling her to drop the hunt for footage.
You let the silence linger for a beat, allowing the full weight of the moment to sink in. The rest of the class sat transfixed, watching what they believed was just a masterclass in teaching. Little did they know the game of cat-and-mouse unfolding between you and the two agents in the back.
You took a breath, your voice resuming its measured cadence. “Undercover work,” you continued, “is about subtleties. It’s about knowing how to blend in, how to observe without drawing attention. It’s about choosing the right moment to act and making sure you’re invisible until the exact second you need to be seen.”
Your gaze lingered on Reid and Morgan just a moment longer, a soft smile tugging at your lips. They thought they were here to gather information on you, to figure out who you were and why Hotch had never spoken of you. But in reality, they had only gotten a taste of your true skill, the ability to read people long before they ever realized they were being seen.
Reid, his face still flushed with embarrassment, leaned over to Morgan. “She just pulled a Hotch on us.”
Morgan grinned, shaking his head in admiration. “She’s good. Really good. No wonder Hotch never talks about her… he’s probably still recovering.”
The tension in the room eased, but you knew that whatever questions Morgan and Reid had come with were far from answered. They had expected to size you up, maybe catch you off guard, but instead, you’d turned the tables on them.
You continued with your lecture, now fully in control of the room. “And that’s what we did with the case,” you concluded. “We chose the right moment, and when we did, we caught them in their own delusion, wrapped in their performance. They never saw it coming.”
Reid’s pen resumed its frantic scribbling, while Morgan, arms crossed, watched you with a new sense of respect. Whatever answers they sought, they knew now that you wouldn’t be easy to read. And that was exactly how you liked it.
You finished your lecture smoothly, returning to the details of the case and the eventual capture of the unsubs, weaving in philosophical insights about reality, perception, and the power of shared beliefs. But throughout it all, you never lost that air of quiet confidence, knowing you had just outplayed two of the best profilers in the FBI.
As the lecture came to a close and students began to file out of the room, Morgan and Reid remained in their seats, waiting for the others to leave. When the room had finally emptied, you approached them with a knowing smile tugging at your lips.
“Well,” you began, your tone light but teasing, “I hope you two learned something.”
Reid blushed deeply, looking down at his notebook as if it could somehow shield him from the embarrassment. Morgan, on the other hand, held out his hand with a wide grin, unfazed by the fact that they had been caught. “I’ll give it to you - you got us. I haven’t been outplayed like that in a long time.”
You laughed softly, shaking his hand. “I recognized you both the moment I walked in, Hotch talks about his team all the time. But I appreciate the effort, you blended in better than most.”
Reid finally found his voice, still fidgeting with his satchel as if to ground himself. “I-I just wanted to say I’ve read your work on geographical profiling. It’s... groundbreaking.” His voice held genuine admiration, the kind that went beyond the mission they were on.
Your warm smile softened further, and you nodded appreciatively. “Thank you, Dr. Reid. That means a lot, especially coming from you.” You could see the boyish pride flash across his face at the compliment.
Morgan, ever the protector, chuckled and nudged Reid with his elbow. “See? You two are cut from the same cloth. A couple of geniuses.”
You turned to Morgan, raising a brow with amusement. “And you’re Derek Morgan, the infamous charmer. Hotch warned me about you.”
Morgan smirked, flashing a look of mock offense. “Warned you, huh? Well, I’m flattered, but he probably undersold me.” His teasing grin was infectious, but beneath the bravado, you could see the respect he held for you.
You shook your head, still laughing. “He’s actually spoken about your loyalty more than anything else. I can see why.”
Morgan, momentarily caught off guard by the sincerity in your words, gave a small nod of appreciation. Then, ever the flirt, he added with a playful glint in his eye, “Now I get why Hotch never talks about you. You’ve probably got him all figured out.”
The smile faltered for just a moment, a soft wave of nostalgia passing over you. “Hotch is... the best partner I’ve ever had,” you said quietly, your tone laced with something deeper. “And a good friend.”
Before the conversation could turn more personal, the door creaked open, and all three of you turned toward the sound of footsteps. Both Morgan and Reid stiffened, instinctively straightening in their seats. You followed their gaze toward the door, where none other than Jason Gideon appeared. His familiar, warm presence filled the room immediately, his keen eyes scanning the scene before him.
Gideon’s gaze first landed on Reid and Morgan, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before a knowing look settled in. He shook his head slightly, clearly imagining how Hotch would react when he found out his agents had gone rogue for this unsanctioned mission. But then his eyes found you, and his expression softened into something else - pride.
“Y/N,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of all the years and experiences you’d shared. “Who would have thought? Not even a decade ago, you were sitting in these very desks, and now you’re traveling the world, revolutionizing our entire approach to behavioral analysis. You’ve become a legend.”
His words, spoken with genuine pride, struck something deep within you. Despite yourself, a wave of emotion surged in your chest, and for a moment, you were the young student again, sitting across from him in that same room. You stepped forward and embraced him, the gesture spontaneous but full of meaning. The hug was brief but genuine, and you pulled back slightly, your eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“Thank you, Gideon,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion you hadn’t expected. “I owe all of this to you. I still feel like I’m only scratching the surface compared to what you’ve accomplished.”
He stepped back, his hands gently resting on your shoulders as he met your eyes. His gaze was as steady as ever, filled with a deep affection and respect. “You’ve done more than you realize,” he said quietly. “You’ve surpassed every expectation I had, but I always knew you would. From the moment you walked into the BAU, I knew you were going to change everything.”
A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you shook your head slightly, trying to brush off the weight of his praise. “Well, I’ve certainly made a few changes.”
Gideon’s eyes sparkled with nostalgia as he looked at you. “You’ve changed too,” he said softly, his voice brimming with fondness. “No more straight hair.” He smiled, clearly remembering the younger version of you who had tried so hard to project confidence. “You used to work so hard to make sure no one underestimated you.”
You laughed, though the sound was a little choked with the emotions you were trying to keep in check. “I stopped worrying about that a long time ago,” you admitted, feeling the gravity of your journey settle in your chest. “Letting people underestimate you can be a real advantage.”
Gideon chuckled, nodding as if he had always known you’d figure that out on your own. “I always knew you would,” he said with quiet pride. “You’ve grown into yourself. More than that, you’ve become someone people look up to.”
You grinned, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. “And you haven’t changed a bit,” you teased, though your voice betrayed the depth of the connection you still felt with him.
Gideon’s smile was soft, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he took in the sight of you. “I have,” he said, his voice gentle but knowing. “But that’s how it’s supposed to be. Time changes us all, but I’m proud of you, Y/N. Truly.”
The moment felt heavy with unspoken words, the bond between you and your mentor palpable. Reid and Morgan, watching from the side, felt the significance of it. Reid, always the observer, took mental note of the exchange, while Morgan could see how deeply you and Gideon were connected.
Gideon looked around the room, then turned back to you with a small, knowing smile. “It’s good to have you back,” he said, his voice softer, full of the warmth that only a mentor could offer. "Why don’t you come with me to the BAU? I know Hotch would want to see you.” His tone softened further, the words deliberate, as if he sensed the emotional weight they carried. “You’re not an ocean away anymore. You’re just a moment away.”
The mention of Hotch’s name sent a wave of emotions crashing over you. Your heart skipped a beat, your breath catching in your chest as the reality of it settled.
Six years.
Six long years since you’d last stood face to face with him, since you’d held his gaze and heard the familiar, steady tone of his voice. The prospect of seeing him again stirred something deep inside you - not just nostalgia, but the weight of everything you’d shared. You’d still felt the connection in every letter exchanged over the years, every small piece of your old selves that you shared across time zones.
But letters were safe, written words couldn’t fully capture the presence Hotch carried, the way he could fill a room with just his silence, how his quiet, intense gaze could ground you when everything else was chaotic. That was what you missed most: the steady, unspoken understanding that had defined your partnership.
You tried to steady yourself, but the memories came rushing back: the late nights in his office, where neither of you needed to speak to understand one another. The silent communication born out of years of working cases together, where you could anticipate his thoughts, his moves, before a word was uttered. He had been more than just a partner in the field - he had been your anchor in the storm of the BAU, a constant presence that you trusted with your life.
And in that trust, without even realizing it at the time, you had also given him your heart.
But time had changed things. In the six years since you left, you had found love with Peter, now your fiancé, someone who brought light and stability into your life in ways you hadn’t thought possible after the intensity of working at the BAU. Peter had followed you to Europe, and together you had built a new chapter - one full of love, shared adventures, and a future that felt secure. Meanwhile, Hotch had built his own family, raising Jack and finding his happiness with Haley.
Both of you had moved forward, creating lives apart from each other, but the bond you shared, that deep-rooted partnership, had never faded.
It had evolved. What once might have been an unspoken attraction had transformed into something deeper – the most profound friendship built on mutual respect and care for each other. Hotch had been there for you in ways no one else had, and even though life had taken you on different paths, that connection would always be there. He was still your partner, and you knew that no matter what, you would always have care for each other.
Gideon, ever perceptive, seemed to sense the emotions you were bottling up. He turned toward Morgan and Reid, who were standing awkwardly at the back, clearly feeling guilty for sneaking into your class during work hours.
“I think the two of you owe Y/N a proper introduction to the team,” Gideon said, his voice carrying that familiar mentor-like authority, though there was a teasing note beneath it. He knew exactly what he was doing—giving you a little more time to gather your thoughts.
Morgan, for once, looked slightly unnerved, and Reid fidgeted with his bag, clearly realizing that their undercover mission might get them into more trouble than they had anticipated. The thought of Hotch finding out they’d been snooping on his old partner without permission seemed to hit them both at the same time.
“Yeah, uh… about that,” Morgan began, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “Hotch is not gonna be happy when he finds out we snuck out to come here.”
Reid nodded fervently, his fingers tapping nervously against his satchel. “If he finds out,” he muttered, clearly hoping that somehow Hotch wouldn’t discover their little operation.
You couldn’t help but smile at the two of them, their dynamic so familiar, reminiscent of how you and Hotch used to move in sync. It was strange, seeing this new generation of agents, people who had become extensions of the world you had left behind. But even in that strangeness, there was a comfort, a sense of continuity.
The BAU had changed, but the bond between partners, the loyalty, was still the same.
The thought of seeing Hotch again made your breath catch in your throat. Six years was a long time, but the way your heart quickened at the idea of hearing his voice, standing in front of him, told you that the connection between you two hadn’t faded. You had built a life with Peter, and Hotch had built his family, yet there was still something between you that transcended time and distance. It wasn’t romantic, not anymore, but it was profound. He was still everything that mattered.
You swallowed hard, pushing aside the rush of emotions as you nodded, a soft, almost tentative smile tugging at your lips. “I’d love to.”
Morgan, catching the momentary hesitation in your voice, smirked, his profiling instincts kicking in immediately. “You didn’t tell Hotch you were coming back, did you?”
You grinned, a flicker of mischief lighting your eyes. “Of course not. I wanted to catch him off guard. I think you know better than I do how much he hates surprises.”
Reid blinked, clearly taken aback by the casual ease with which you spoke about Hotch. “You planned to surprise him… just to annoy him?”
Your smile widened, the playfulness evident. “Exactly. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?”
Morgan chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “Man, Hotch is in for a rude awakening. I almost feel sorry for him.”
“Almost,” you teased, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “But let’s be honest, you’re just as curious to see his reaction as I am.”
.
The elevator ride up to the BAU felt like an eternity. Every passing floor seemed to stretch time longer, and the soft ding of each level only heightened your anticipation. Gideon stood beside you, calm and composed as always, offering a reassuring presence without a word. Reid and Morgan’s casual chatter about the last case floated around you, but their words didn’t register.
Your mind was consumed by a thousand different thoughts, scenarios of how this reunion might go, and the heart-pounding reality that, in just a few moments, you would see him again.
Would Hotch be angry? Would he be surprised? Or had too much time passed for him to feel anything at all?
When the elevator doors finally slid open onto the familiar floor of the BAU, your breath caught in your throat. The bullpen, once your daily world, hummed with activity. Agents moved briskly between desks, their voices blending with the ringing phones and the hum of printers.
Everything looked so familiar and yet subtly different. More desks, new faces, an expanded workspace. But it wasn’t the changes that struck you - it was the energy, the same sense of family that had always made this place feel like home.
Your eyes wandered, scanning the room until they landed on two desks right in the center of the bullpen, still facing each other after all these years.
Your desk and Hotch’s - just as they’d been before.
A memory stirred, flooding you with images of late nights ande early mornings spent side by side, the sound of rustling papers and quiet conversations exchanged in the dim glow of desk lamps. The thought of those quiet moments made your heart ache with a bittersweet familiarity.
Suddenly, a voice snapped you out of your thoughts.
“Oh my God,” JJ gasped, her eyes wide with shock as she spotted you from across the room. She walked quickly toward you, her excitement barely contained. “You’re the profiler Hotch never talks about, aren’t you?”. You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “So I’ve heard.”
Before you could say more, the blur of pink and sparkles that was Penelope Garcia appeared at your side, practically bouncing on her toes with enthusiasm. “You’re *real*!” she squealed. “Twenty-six languages, three master’s degrees… you’re like a myth come to life!”
Her joy was infectious, and you couldn’t help but laugh, the warmth of it spreading through your chest. “It’s twenty-eight now,” you corrected with a grin. “But who’s counting?”
Garcia gasped dramatically, her eyes wide in amazement. “Twenty-eight?! Oh, honey, we have so much to talk about!”
Prentiss approached next, arms crossed but a warm smile on her face. “Well, well,” she said, appraising you with a glint of admiration. “Didn’t think I’d ever meet the one who kept Hotch on his toes all those years. Welcome back.”
You smiled back at her, feeling the weight of the years melt away as these new members of the team welcomed you with such ease. It was as if no time had passed at all, yet everything had changed. Each word, each gesture reminded you of the family you had left behind. And as you stood there, catching up with them, you realized how much you had missed this.
But even as they asked about your time in Europe, about the classes you’d taught and the cases you’d worked on, your gaze kept drifting upward, toward the glass-walled office above the bullpen. And there he was.
Aaron Hotchner, sitting at his desk, oblivious to the commotion below. His head was down, focused intently on the file in front of him, his expression as serious and stoic as ever. Your heart clenched painfully at the sight of him.
He looked the same, almost unchanged from the day you left - strong, composed, but with a heaviness in his posture that hadn’t been there before, as if the weight of the years had settled on his shoulders.
You barely registered the questions from the team as your eyes locked onto him. It was as if the world had narrowed down to just the sight of him, and suddenly, all the anticipation, all the nervous energy that had been building inside you, rushed to the surface.
Just then, as if sensing the weight of your stare, Hotch lifted his head. His eyes scanned the bullpen, narrowing slightly as he noticed the entire team gathered in one spot. His brow furrowed in confusion as he stood from his desk, closing the file in front of him. But from where he stood, he couldn’t see you yet. You were still hidden among the team, your presence shielded by the circle of agents eagerly chatting around you.
With his familiar, quiet precision, Hotch began descending the stairs. Each step echoed in your chest, your heartbeat quickening with every moment that brought him closer. The room seemed to fall silent, your attention fixed on the sound of his approaching footsteps. You hadn’t heard his voice in six long years, and now, in just a moment, you would.
“What’s going on here?” Hotch’s deep, steady voice cut through the air, commanding attention as it always had.
Everything inside you stilled.
The team parted slightly, giving Hotch a clear view of the person they’d all been gathered around. And when his gaze finally fell on you, the air seemed to shift - heavy with the weight of unspoken words, shared history, and all the time that had passed.
Hotch’s usually composed expression faltered for just a split second. His eyes widened ever so slightly, the surprise flickering across his face before he quickly regained his composure.
But you saw it, the momentary break, the shock of seeing you standing there, as real and unexpected as a ghost from the past.
He stopped mid-step, his breath catching as his gaze locked with yours.
The bullpen fell silent around you, the rest of the team fading into the background as you stood there, face-to-face with the man you hadn’t seen in six years. The man who had been more than just your partner, the man who had been your anchor, your confidant, your best friend.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. It was as if time had stopped, and all the years, all the distance, dissolved in that single moment.Then his eyes found you. For a moment, he didn’t move. His expression froze, shock rippling across his normally stoic features. His mouth parted slightly as though he was about to say something but couldn’t find the words.
Hotch stood there, frozen for what felt like an eternity, his sharp eyes locked onto yours. The bullpen, the agents, the noise - it all faded into the background, leaving only the two of you suspended in the heavy silence of six years apart.
Your heart raced as you took him in, noting every detail. He looked the same, and yet different. His hair had a touch more gray, the lines around his eyes slightly deeper, but his presence - strong, steady, and commanding - was unchanged. But there was something else too, something that only you could sense. A heaviness in his eyes, the kind that spoke of burdens carried silently, of long nights and sleepless hours. It hit you like a wave: time hadn’t been kind to him, but it hadn’t eroded that fundamental part of him either.
"Aaron" you finally breathed, breaking the silence between you, your voice softer than you had intended.
His name hung in the air, delicate, almost tentative. The warmth in your tone - familiar, tender - made something flicker in his expression, something that went beyond surprise. His mouth twitched, like he was trying to speak but couldn’t quite find the words. He took a slow step forward, his movements careful, measured.
“Partner...” he said at last, his deep voice rougher than you remembered, as though your name had been lodged somewhere in his chest for too long.
Without thinking, you rushed toward him, your legs moving on instinct alone. And as you closed the distance, he did the same, meeting you halfway. The second your arms wrapped around him, it was like the dam broke. His grip on you was tight, desperate, as if he was afraid you might vanish if he let go. And for the first time in years, you felt truly home.
He buried his face in your shoulder, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The years apart, the distance, the longing, it all disappeared in that one embrace. His breath was warm against your hair, and when he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were filled with a depth of emotion that you had never seen in him before.
It was a mixture of disbelief, relief, and something far more profound, an unspoken bond that transcended words. His usually stoic, unreadable face had softened into something vulnerable, raw. He looked at you like he was seeing a ghost, like he was trying to convince himself that you were real, that this wasn’t some dream he might wake from.
“I… I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Hotch whispered, his voice thick with emotion. The disbelief in his tone almost broke you.
Your own breath trembled as you smiled up at him, blinking back the tears that were threatening to fall. “Surprise.”
His hand tightened slightly on your arm as though grounding himself in the moment, ensuring you weren’t about to disappear. He let out a soft, almost incredulous laugh, a sound you hadn’t heard from him in so long. His gaze swept over your face, memorizing every detail as if he was afraid this might be the last time.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low, full of the weight of the years between you.
You glanced at the team, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Well, I heard there was a class that needed a guest lecturer. Thought I’d pop in, see how the new generation of agents is shaping up.” You took a step closer, your voice growing more serious. “It’s good to see you, Aaron.”
His lips parted, but before he could speak, you caught the flicker of emotion that passed through his eyes. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you saw it.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” he said quietly, his gaze searching yours. “You really didn’t warn anyone.”
You shrugged, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “I wanted to catch you off guard. Thought I’d remind you what it’s like not to be in control of everything for once.”
A small smile played on Hotch’s lips, and for a brief second, you saw a flash of the old Aaron, the man you had spent countless nights with, the one who could let his guard down when it was just the two of you.
The team, meanwhile, stood frozen in stunned silence. Morgan, who was rarely lost for words, finally found his voice, though it came out as more of a disbelieving mutter. “Did - did Hotch just chuckled? Like, a real laugh?”
Garcia, standing beside him, clutched her chest dramatically. “Not just a laugh, Derek. He’s smiling - with teeth! This is… I mean, someone pinch me, because this is a miracle!”
Reid blinked rapidly, looking as though he had just witnessed a phenomenon that defied all logic. “I’ve never seen him like this,” he whispered, his eyes wide as he tried to process what he was seeing. “This is… wow.”
Prentiss, who had been quietly observing from the sidelines, finally stepped forward with a small, teasing grin. “Well, Hotch, it’s nice to see you actually have emotions.”
You chuckled at that, turning to face the team, but Hotch’s hand never left your arm, as if he still wasn’t ready to let go. There was a softness in his expression that lingered, something none of them had ever seen before. His usual composure was cracked, but in a way that made him more human, more real.
Gideon, never one to let anything slide, reported the undercover mission of the two agents to Hotch with a sly smile. “It seems someone else was very eager to see her.”
Hotch's expression instantly shifted back to the familiar frown you remembered all too well, the one that usually followed when he was about to reprimand someone. His stern gaze turned toward Reid and Morgan, and he wasted no time. “Morgan, Reid, we’ll talk about this in my office in ten minutes. What on earth were you thinking?”
Morgan scratched the back of his neck, offering a sheepish grin, clearly bracing for the scolding. “She outplayed us, Hotch. We tried to sneak in, but she caught us the moment she walked into the room.”
Before Hotch could dive deeper into his reprimand, you stepped forward, raising a hand to intervene with a teasing smile. “Oh, come on, Unit Chief. Don’t be too hard on them. I just embarrassed them in front of my entire class. Give them a break, would you?”
The team chuckled quietly, sensing the playful tension between you and Hotch. He looked at you, his frown softening just slightly, though he kept his stern tone. “I hope this bravado isn’t something I’ll have to address again.”
You met his gaze, a playful challenge in your eyes as you raised an eyebrow. “It’s always a pleasure keeping up with your humor, Hotch.”
For a split second, the corner of Hotch's mouth twitched as if fighting back a smile, but he quickly composed himself. “We’ll see about that,” he said, his voice carrying the hint of affection he couldn’t quite hide.
“Hotch, you have a lot of explaining to do,” JJ said, stepping forward with a wide smile. “I mean, Hotch has never said a word about you. It’s like you’re this mystery we’ve all been trying to solve.”
You shook your head with a playful smirk, glancing up at Hotch. “Is that so? You’ve been keeping secrets? Well, don’t be mad if I’m the one pulling surprises, then”
Hotch’s gaze flickered to his team briefly, but then his attention returned to you. His eyes softened at the sight of your playful smirk. “I should’ve known you’d find a way to keep me on my toes. You haven’t changed.”
"Neither have you," you teased, though your eyes reflected something deeper, more sincere. "Except maybe a little grayer around the edges."
Hotch let out a brief soft chuckle, running a hand through his raven hair, and for a second, you caught that familiar crease between his brows - the one that appeared when he was genuinely trying to figure out if you were serious. “Yeah, well… the job does that.”
"Oh, not just your hair," you said, your tone playfully mischievous. His expression was puzzled, and the fact that he wasn’t catching on immediately made it even sweeter to make fun of him. You leaned in slightly, narrowing your eyes as if studying him closely. Then, with the precision of a detective pointing out evidence, you motioned toward his face. "Partner, you have a white eyelash - here, left eye."
Hotch blinked, genuinely surprised. He clearly hadn’t noticed it before, and his reaction was one of almost childlike disbelief. “A white eyelash? I didn’t even know that was possible.”
You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. "You’re getting older, partner. It happens to the best of us."
There was a moment of stunned silence in the bullpen as Hotch - stoic, serious Hotch -stood there with the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips. And then, in the most unexpected twist of events, he actually laughed, the kind of sound that was so rare it felt almost sacred. The sound of it sent a ripple through the bullpen, where agents who were usually laser-focused on their tasks couldn’t help but turn their heads in disbelief.
Garcia, who had been standing nearby, looked like she might faint. Her hands fluttered toward her heart as if she couldn’t physically take much more. “Am I hearing things?” she whispered, her voice barely above a squeak.
Morgan, standing next to Reid, leaned in, eyes wide in astonishment. “Is this actually happening?” he whispered, glancing around as if waiting for the universe to correct itself. "Did she just-"
"Yes," Reid responded before Morgan could finish, his voice full of fascination, almost as if he were observing a rare natural phenomenon. "She did."
Hotch raised an eyebrow at you, amused by how easily you’d disarmed him in front of his own team. “A white eyelash, huh? You’ve been away for six years and the first thing you do is point out my aging process?”
You grinned. “Someone has to keep you humble.”
His eyes softened as he looked at you, and for a moment, the noise of the bullpen seemed to fade into the background. “I see you haven’t lost your touch either.”
“Neither have you," you said, more seriously now. "You’re still the same Hotch I knew, grayer hair and rogue eyelashes included."
The air between you settled into something familiar and comfortable, the kind of ease that comes with a partnership that ran deeper than time or distance. The team exchanged glances, clearly picking up on the history, the quiet connection between the two of you that they hadn’t been privy to before now.
Garcia looked like she might faint, her hands fluttering toward her heart as if she couldn’t take much more. Morgan leaned in toward Reid, whispering in disbelief, “Is this actually happening?”
Reid nodded slowly, still trying to process it all. “It’s happening,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “It’s really happening.”
Prentiss couldn’t help but laugh at their reactions. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Hotch is human after all.”
Hotch shot her a mock-glare, though there was no real bite to it. He was still too caught up in the moment, the reality of your return sinking in. “Watch it, Prentiss,” he warned, though his tone was light. He glanced back at you, his eyes softening again. “It’s good to have you back.”
Your heart clenched at the warmth in his voice, and for a moment, the years of separation seemed to melt away. “It’s good to be back,” you whispered, feeling the weight of the emotion behind those words.
As you and Hotch stood side by side, the team watched in stunned silence, the banter between you two flowing so naturally, as if no time had passed at all. The bond between you and Hotch was palpable, and though the team had only just met you, they could sense that this was something rare. This was more than friendship, more than partnership, it was a connection forged through years of trust, loyalty, and something even deeper.
JJ, sensing the depth of the moment, exchanged a glance with Morgan and quietly asked, “So… what were they, really?”
Morgan, still in awe of the connection between you and Hotch, could only shrug. “I don’t know, but whatever it is… it’s real.”
Gideon, who had been watching the entire interaction with quiet satisfaction, stepped forward, his gaze flickering between you and Hotch with a knowing smile.
“Soulmates,” he said simply, the word carrying a depth of meaning that everyone felt but couldn’t quite explain.
The bullpen fell silent again, the word hanging in the air like a truth that had finally been spoken aloud.
Soulmates.
Soulmates in the way that two people could understand each other so completely, so thoroughly, that it transcended words. You and Hotch had always been that for each other: partners, confidants, the steady presence in each other’s lives no matter how far apart you were.
You looked up at Hotch, your heart full, and smiled. “I guess we never really lost each other, did we?”
Hotch’s eyes softened as he looked down at you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “No,” he said quietly, the weight of the years in his voice. “We never did.”
And with that, everything felt right again.
The BAU was a family. And now, it felt like it was whole again.
Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader
Genre: heartbreaking slow burn
Summary: You watched Aaron, the man you loved silently and selflessly, marry Haley, knowing you had pushed him toward the happiness he deserved but could never find with you. In your heartfelt speech, you spoke of love, resilience, and the myth of two halves finding each other. Despite your pain, you hid your unrequited feelings behind support and encouragement.
Warnings: Heartbreak incoming.
Word Count: 8.1k
Dado's Corner: No words, just tears.
previous chapter ; masterlist
You lingered at the back, tucked away behind the crowd of guests, clutching your champagne flute like a lifeline. The laughter and chatter around you felt distant, muffled, as if you were listening through glass.
Your eyes were fixed on Aaron, the center of it all, his every movement pulling you deeper into a familiar ache. He looked more at ease than you had ever seen him, shoulders relaxed, eyes bright, his smile unrestrained in a way that was both beautiful and painful - and when he looked at Haley, it was as if the world had shrunk to just the two of them.
It was the kind of love that you had seen from afar but never up close, the kind you had never been able to hold in your hands. The kind of love you had convinced yourself he needed. The kind you thought you couldn’t give.
Your chest tightened as you watched him lean in, his forehead brushing against Haley’s, the world around them fading into nothing. You could almost hear the steady beat of his heart, could almost feel the warmth of the happiness that radiated from him, happiness that felt just out of your reach. Your own heart ached with the weight of a choice you had made long ago, a decision that had seemed selfless at the time but now felt like the cruelest kind of betrayal.
.
The hotel room was dimly lit, with only the small lamp on the nightstand casting a warm, golden glow across the space. You were exhausted, the weight of the case settling heavily on your shoulders, but there was comfort in these quiet routines you and Hotch had fallen into. This had become your sanctuary after hours: sitting in silence, each absorbed in a book, allowing the world to melt away just for a little while.
You stretched, feeling the tightness in your muscles release as you let out a long sigh. Hotch glanced up from his own work, and you caught the subtle shift in his expression - concern, a softness reserved only for these moments when his stoic mask slipped away.
His gaze lingered on you, a hint of something deeper flashing behind his dark eyes, before he reached into his bag and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped package.
“Here,” he said, tossing it toward you with the kind of casual ease that belied the thoughtfulness behind the gesture. “Thought you might need a little distraction.”
You caught it mid-air, feeling the warmth of his attention settle around you like a blanket. He always had a way of noticing the small things: your exhaustion, the way your shoulders slumped when the day had been particularly rough, and now, this little gift.
You tore open the paper with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, revealing a book: Coin Collecting for Beginners. The cover showed neatly organized rows of shiny, historical coins, their intricate details reflecting the soft light.
You blinked at the book, then looked up at him, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “Coin collecting, Hotch?” you said, tilting your head in disbelief, unable to hide the affection behind your teasing tone. “This is... unexpected.”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I used to collect coins when I was a kid. Figured it might be something you’d enjoy after you subjected me to Hegel for Dummies a few months ago.”
You burst out laughing, recalling the moment you’d handed him that book, his initial look of quiet horror, quickly replaced by begrudging curiosity. You had meant it as half a joke, half a genuine attempt to bring him closer to your world of philosophy, hoping to share a piece of yourself with him. “So this is payback? You’re trying to teach me the fine art of coin collecting in return for a deep dive into German philosophy?”
“Something like that,” he replied, his amusement deepening as he watched your reaction. “It’s a bit easier on the brain, at least. Less… existential dread.”
“Easy, huh?” you grinned, flipping through the book, feeling the pages beneath your fingers. It was such a Hotch move - thoughtful, a little surprising, and wrapped in just the right amount of sincerity and humor. “Okay, I’ll give it a shot. Maybe I’ll become an expert and give you a run for your money, no pun intended.”
But as you continued flipping through the pages, your grin faded into confusion. The words on the pages weren’t what you expected, they weren’t even in English. You squinted at the unfamiliar text, your brows knitting together in surprise.
“Wait a second… Swedish?” you said, your voice filled with disbelief as you stared at the incomprehensible words. “Hotch, this entire book is in Swedish!”
He barely suppressed a grin, clearly relishing in your reaction. “Oh, is it? Must have been a mix-up at the bookstore.”
You shot him an incredulous look, your amusement bubbling back up as you realized this was no innocent mistake. “A mix-up? Really?” You held the book up, waving it slightly in mock accusation. “You bought me a book in Swedish?”
“Well,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his voice taking on that teasing edge that always made your heart flutter, “about a month ago, you mentioned you were learning Swedish. Something about expanding your ‘already impressive enough linguistic repertoire,’ if I remember correctly.”
You stared at him, genuinely surprised. That had been a late-night conversation, one of those quiet moments where you were both so wrapped up in work that anything you said felt like a confession shared in secret. “You remember that? I barely remember saying it, it was like one in the morning. I was half asleep.”
Hotch shrugged, but there was something undeniably tender in his gaze, an unspoken care that made your pulse quicken. “Of course I remembered. You don’t have to say something more than once for me to pick up on it. Besides,” he added, his voice dropping a little lower, just enough to make your breath hitch, “you’re my partner. It’s kind of my job to know these things.”
The word “partner” hung in the air, rich with a meaning that went far beyond the job. The way he always said it felt like a promise, like he was telling you that he saw you - really saw you - and that he was paying attention, even when you didn’t think he was. It made your heart skip a beat, a familiar rush of warmth flooding your chest as you tried to keep the growing smile from spreading too far.
You tried to play it off, giving him a teasing smile that you hoped masked the way he made your heart race. “So this is your grand plan? Testing me to see if I’m really learning Swedish?”
Hotch leaned forward slightly, the mischievous glint in his eyes becoming more pronounced as he watched your reaction. “Exactly. I figured this would be a good way to track your progress. Plus, it’s more fun than flashcards, don’t you think?”
You laughed, shaking your head, trying to ignore how his attention made you feel, seen, valued. “You really thought this through, didn’t you?”
“Always a few steps ahead,” he replied, his voice laced with that familiar confidence. But there was something else there too, something softer, as his gaze lingered on you just a second longer than necessary, a flicker of something unspoken passing between you.
You glanced down at the book in your hands, flipping through the pages again, the Swedish text taunting you with its complexity. “So how am I supposed to read this if I’m still barely past the basics?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Hotch said, his voice dropping into that low, teasing tone that always made your cheeks warm. “I’ll help. I’m planning to quiz you on the first chapter in… let’s say, twenty minutes.”
Your eyes widened, and you shot him a look of mock indignation. “Twenty minutes? You can’t be serious.”
He raised an eyebrow, the smirk on his lips unmistakable. “I’m very serious. If you’re learning Swedish, you better prove it. Think of this as motivation.”
“Oh, I see how it is,” you said, shaking your head, laughing despite yourself. “You’re just looking for an excuse to make me suffer.”
He chuckled, and the sound sent a shiver down your spine, his laughter rich and warm, like the rarest of rewards. “Not suffer, learn. Big difference.”
“And how exactly are you going to quiz me if you don’t speak Swedish either?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you leaned forward, closing the space between you ever so slightly.
He paused, his smirk widening as his eyes met yours, that familiar spark of playfulness lighting up his expression. “Simple. I’ll make you translate it out loud. That way, I can see if you’re telling the truth.”
You couldn’t help but grin at the absurdity of it all, the way he always seemed to know how to push just the right buttons. “You’re really going to put me on the spot like that?”
“You did give me Hegel, Hegel for Dummies, but still Hegel” he countered, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous light that sent butterflies swirling in your stomach. “Consider this payback.”
Your heart fluttered as you watched him, the flush creeping up your neck as you tried to keep your voice light. “Alright, fine. But don’t be surprised when I start throwing Swedish insults your way.”
Hotch leaned forward again, his eyes locked on yours in that way that always made your breath catch, like he was daring you to cross a line neither of you had fully acknowledged. “I’m looking forward to it.”
The air between you crackled, the playful teasing only serving to underscore the deeper connection that had grown between you over the months. It wasn’t just the words, it was the way he looked at you, the way his gaze lingered, warm and attentive, like you were the only person in the room. It was the way his smile softened when you laughed, and the way he seemed to remember every little thing you said, even in the quiet moments when you thought no one was listening.
As you picked up the Swedish book again, flipping through the pages with renewed determination, you couldn’t help but glance over at Hotch, your heart fluttering as his soft smile lingered in your mind. The air between you had settled into a comfortable quiet, a kind of sanctuary you both retreated to after the chaos of the day. But something was different.
You noticed a heaviness in the way Hotch’s shoulders slumped, the slight tension in his brow as he stared blankly at the file in front of him. He was present, but his mind was miles away, lost in thoughts you couldn’t quite reach.
“Hotch,” you said softly, breaking the stillness between you, your voice gentle but probing. “Is everything okay?”
He looked up at you, and for a moment, the confident, composed Aaron Hotchner you knew so well seemed to flicker, replaced by something raw and uncertain. His eyes, usually so steady, were clouded with doubt. He hesitated, as if weighing his words carefully, and you could see the struggle playing out in his expression.
“It’s… Haley,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual, laced with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. “She reached out to me recently. We’ve been talking, catching up on our lives. And today, she told me she wants to try again with us. She said she never stopped loving me.”
The room seemed to tilt slightly, the weight of his confession hanging heavy in the air. You felt your stomach drop, a sinking, twisting feeling that left you momentarily breathless.
You had known that Haley was always a part of him, that their bond was something deep and unbreakable, but hearing it spoken aloud made it feel so much more real. The quiet hope you’d harbored - foolish and unspoken - crumbled in an instant, leaving you with nothing but the sharp sting of reality.
He was hers. He always had been. And you, for all your quiet moments and lingering glances, would never be more than his partner, the one who stood beside him but never crossed the line. You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing a smile that you hoped would disguise the hurt.
“How do you feel about that?” you asked, your voice soft and careful, though each word felt like it was slicing through you.
Hotch ran a hand through his hair, the gesture full of frustration and uncertainty. “I don’t know. Part of me wants to believe it could work, that maybe this time it could be different. But I’m afraid - afraid of messing it up again. She deserves more than what I can give her. I’m still the same man I was back then, always chasing monsters across the country. She deserves someone who can be there, who doesn’t have one foot always out the door.”
He looked away, his gaze distant and pained. “And now, with Rossi gone, the responsibilities are piling up. The team needs me more than ever, and I can’t keep pretending that I’m someone I’m not. I don’t know if I can be the man she needs me to be. And what scares me most… I don’t even know if I can be happy.”
The confession hit you hard, deeper than you expected.
Here he was, this strong, resilient man who had faced the darkest parts of humanity, admitting that he didn’t know how to let himself be happy. It broke something in you, because in that moment, you saw how much he carried alone: the guilt, the doubt, the endless chase for something he couldn’t quite grasp. And you couldn’t help but feel that same restlessness in yourself, that yearning for a peace that always seemed just out of reach.
You hesitated, feeling the sting of your own emotions threatening to overwhelm you, but you knew you had to say something. Despite the ache in your chest, you couldn’t let him drown in his own fears. You took a breath, steadying yourself, and leaned forward, your voice gentle but firm.
“Aaron, you deserve to be happy,” you said, your words laced with a quiet urgency. “I know you’re afraid. I know you’re scared of making the same mistakes. But you’re not the same person you were back then. When things ended with Haley, you were still working as a DA, buried in your ambition, trying to prove yourself. You were driven, relentless. But look at where you are now. You’re not just chasing your career, you’ve built something. You’ve made it.”
He listened, his eyes locked onto yours, and you could see the flicker of doubt mixed with something else - hope, maybe, or the desperate need to believe in what you were saying. You continued, feeling the weight of each word as it passed your lips.
“You’re a lead profiler, Aaron. You’ve achieved everything you set out to do, and you’re doing it better than anyone ever could. You’ve worked so hard, and you’re finally in a place where you can allow yourself to take a breath. You’ve earned it. And you’re so close to that promotion, to being Unit Chief. You’ve proved to everyone, including yourself, that you’re more than capable.”
You paused, searching his face for any sign that your words were getting through to him, but his expression remained conflicted, his eyes shadowed with years of unspoken fears. “Aaron, you’re allowed to be satisfied. You’re allowed to find happiness outside of work. It doesn’t make you any less dedicated. You’re not the man you were back then. You’re better.”
He looked down, the smallest smile tugging at his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I wish it were that simple. I want to believe you, but I keep feeling like… I’m never satisfied. No matter how much I achieve, no matter how far I go, it never feels like enough.”
Your heart clenched at his admission, and you knew, instinctively, that he wasn’t just talking about his work. There was a part of you that wanted to reach out, to tell him that maybe his restlessness was a sign that he was meant for something more, something beyond the life he was clinging to out of fear. But your own insecurities held you back, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say the words.
Instead, you tried to offer him the one thing you could, your unwavering belief in him. “Aaron, happiness isn’t a destination. It’s not something you can chase down like a criminal or lock away like a case file. It’s messy and imperfect, and sometimes, it’s just allowing yourself to be enough. It’s letting go of the ‘what ifs’ and the regrets. You have a chance to rebuild something with Haley, to find that piece of your life you thought you’d lost. Why not take it?”
His gaze lingered on you, his eyes searching yours as if trying to find the answers he so desperately needed. And in that moment, you saw something you hadn’t expected - vulnerability, a quiet plea for reassurance. It was like he was asking you, without words, if you thought he could be happy, if you believed in him enough to push him toward the life he deserved.
“You always know what to say,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You cut through all the noise in my head and make it sound so simple. How do you do that?”
You gave him a small, bittersweet smile, your own heart aching with the unspoken truth that you wished you could tell him. “I just know you, Aaron. I know how much you’ve sacrificed, how hard you’ve worked. And I believe that you deserve to let yourself have something good. To be happy.”
He nodded slowly, his expression softening, but there was still a shadow of doubt in his eyes. “And you? Are you happy?”
The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. You wanted to tell him that happiness was a fleeting thing for you, something that came in brief moments - like the way he looked at you when you made him laugh, or the quiet nights when you worked side by side in companionable silence. But you knew that your happiness was tied to him in a way that could never be spoken aloud, and admitting it now would only complicate things.
You took a breath, your smile tinged with sadness. “I’m… I’m working on it. But that’s okay. I think sometimes, the pursuit of happiness is just as important as finding it. And I think you’re closer than you realize.”
He gave you a long, searching look, his eyes filled with an unspoken understanding that hung between you like a fragile thread. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, and the familiar banter slipped back into his voice, though softer, edged with something vulnerable.
“You should write a book,” he teased, his smile warm but weary. “Something about the philosophy of happiness. I’d read it.”
You laughed, though it was tinged with the bittersweet realization that even in these moments, the lines between you would always remain. “I’d call it ‘How to Be Satisfied: A Guide for Stubborn FBI Agents.’ It’d be a bestseller, not like the crap that Rossi seems to be writing now.”
He chuckled, the sound low and comforting, and for a brief second, it felt like you were back to the way things always were - teasing, pushing, but never quite touching the truth. But there was an undercurrent now, something deeper, a shared understanding that you were both too afraid to voice.
Hotch watched you, his expression softening into something almost tender. “You’re the best partner I could ask for,” he said, his voice quiet but sincere. “I hope you know that,” he repeated softly, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. For a fleeting moment, it felt like he was reaching out, like he wanted to say something more but didn’t quite know how.
You forced a smile, trying to keep the emotions at bay. “I’m just doing my job,” you said lightly, though your voice wavered, betraying the quiet ache beneath your words. “Keeping you out of trouble and making sure you don’t forget to take care of yourself in the process. Somebody’s gotta do it.”
Hotch’s smile was small, tinged with a sadness that mirrored your own. “You do a lot more than that,” he said quietly. “More than you know.”
There was a weight in his gaze, something unsaid that hung heavy between you, and you found yourself wondering if he felt it too, the pull, the unspoken longing that neither of you dared to acknowledge. You wanted to ask him, to push just a little further and see if there was a chance, however slim, that he felt the same way. But you knew that wasn’t fair, not to him, not to the partnership that had kept you both anchored when everything else seemed to fall apart.
So instead, you leaned back, letting the silence stretch, filled with all the things you couldn’t bring yourself to say. “You know,” you started, trying to find your footing again, “I think happiness is a lot like those coins you used to collect. You spend your whole life searching for the rare ones, the ones that seem impossible to find. But sometimes, the ones that mean the most are the ones you didn’t expect, the ones you stumble upon when you’re not even looking.”
Hotch watched you closely, his expression softening as your words sank in. “Is that how you see it?” he asked, his voice tinged with something almost hopeful, as if he were searching for meaning in your metaphor.
You nodded, your smile bittersweet. “I think happiness is something you can’t chase down. You have to let it find you, in the quiet moments, the unexpected ones. It’s not about being perfect or having everything figured out. It’s about letting yourself feel whatever it is you feel, without guilt or fear. It’s messy and complicated, and it’s never what you think it will be. But that’s what makes it worth it.”
He looked down, his fingers tracing the edge of the book on his lap, as if he were trying to gather his thoughts. When he looked back up at you, there was a softness in his eyes, a vulnerability that made your chest tighten. “You make it sound so easy,” he said, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “I wish I could see it the way you do.”
You reached out, hesitating for just a moment before placing your hand gently on his. It was a small gesture, but it felt monumental, like crossing a line you’d both been dancing around for too long.
“It’s not easy,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But you deserve it, Aaron. You deserve to find the kind of happiness that doesn’t come with strings attached, that doesn’t make you feel like you’re constantly running.”
His gaze fell to where your hands touched, his thumb brushing yours in a subtle, lingering movement that sent a shiver through you. There was a depth in his eyes that you couldn’t quite read, a mixture of gratitude and something more, something that felt dangerously close to the way you’d been feeling for him all along.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve always been the one keeping me steady, reminding me why I do this. You make it bearable.”
You squeezed his hand gently, feeling the weight of his words settle over you like a warm, heavy blanket. It was everything you’d ever wanted to hear from him and yet not enough, because it was tinged with the painful truth that you could never be more than this, his partner, his confidant, the one who steadied him without ever asking for anything in return.
“I’ll always be here,” you said, your voice trembling with the effort to keep your emotions in check. “No matter what. Even when it’s hard, even when you feel like you don’t deserve it. I’ll be here.”
Hotch nodded, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, and for a moment, it felt like he might say something, something that would change everything. But he hesitated, the unspoken fears holding him back, and you knew then that whatever he was feeling would remain locked away, just like yours.
He pulled his hand back gently, the warmth of his touch lingering on your skin. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “For everything.”
You nodded, trying to keep your composure, but the sadness of the moment was like a tidal wave crashing over you, pulling you under. You picked up the Swedish book again, using it as a shield against the rising tide of emotions, but the words on the page blurred as tears welled up in your eyes. You couldn’t let him see how much it hurt, how deeply you wished things could be different.
As the silence between you grew, you stole a glance at him, watching as he stared at the wall, lost in thought. You knew that his heart was torn between what he wanted and what he thought he deserved, and all you could do was hope that he would find his way, whatever that looked like.
“Aaron,” you said quietly, your voice breaking through the stillness. “I know it’s scary, but you’ve been through worse. And if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you don’t give up. Not on the people you care about, and not on yourself. So maybe… maybe it’s time to stop punishing yourself for things that are out of your control. Maybe it’s time to let go of the guilt and let yourself be happy.”
He turned to you, his eyes filled with a raw, unspoken gratitude that made your heart ache. “How do you always manage to pull me out of my head?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re the voice of reason I never knew I needed.”
You smiled, the tears finally spilling over as you tried to laugh through the pain. “Well, somebody has to keep you from spiraling into existential dread. And who better than your favorite philosopher?”
He chuckled, a soft, heartfelt sound that eased some of the tension between you, and for a moment, it was like you were back to the familiar rhythm of your banter, the safety of your partnership holding you together. But beneath it all, the truth remained, a quiet, unspoken longing that neither of you could bring yourself to say aloud.
As the night wore on, you both retreated back into your books, the silence between you comfortable yet tinged with the bittersweet knowledge of everything that would never be. And though the room was dimly lit, filled with the soft hum of the night, the warmth of Hotch’s presence beside you felt like the only light you needed, even if it wasn’t quite enough.
Because as much as you loved him, and as much as he seemed to love having you by his side, there would always be a line you couldn’t cross. And so you would stay here, in this quiet corner of his life, offering what you could, even if it meant letting go of what you wanted most.
For now, you were content to be his anchor, his voice of reason, his silent supporter in the moments when he needed it most. And though your heart ached with the knowledge that he would never truly be yours, you took solace in the fact that, in some small way, you were his.
.
But now, watching him stand before her, so sure and so full of hope, you were forced to confront the painful reality: you were the very reason he was here.
You had pushed him right into her arms.
The realization tore through you, a sharp and bitter reminder of the unspoken sacrifices you had made. You loved him, but you had buried those feelings, convinced yourself that your partnership was too important to jeopardize, that he needed Haley more than he could ever need you. And now, standing here, you couldn’t deny the truth: you had done the right thing, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.
As the ceremony concluded, the guests erupted into applause, and you clapped along, though the sound felt distant, muffled by the weight of your own thoughts. Aaron and Haley kissed, sealing their vows with a promise of forever, and the room filled with the warmth of their shared joy.
You watched, your smile tight and forced, trying to keep the ache from showing on your face. This was their moment, and you wouldn’t let your own pain ruin it.
The reception began, and you found yourself moving on autopilot, mingling with guests, offering polite smiles and congratulations. But your mind was elsewhere, trapped in the moments leading up to today.
The sleepless nights spent writing and rewriting the speech Aaron had asked you to give, the way your heart had clenched every time you tried to put into words how much he meant to you. You had used the pen he had given you years ago - engraved with the number “200,” a small reminder of that friendly rivalry that had started it all. That pen had been your constant companion, a quiet symbol of the bond you shared, and as you sat alone in your room, writing the speech that would let him go, it had been your only comfort.
But as you reached the final lines, the ink had run out, sputtering and fading just as you tried to finish. You had watched, helpless, as the words disappeared, the pen leaving nothing but a faint, ghostly impression on the page. It had felt like a cruel metaphor for your love for Aaron, something beautiful but ultimately doomed to run dry. It was as if the universe was telling you that this was the end, that it was time to let go.
Now, standing before the crowd, holding the faded notes in your trembling hands, you felt the weight of that moment all over again. You had written the speech with every ounce of love and heartbreak you had left, and now you had to deliver it with a smile, pretending that you weren’t saying goodbye to the one person who had meant more to you than you ever dared to admit.
As you approached the microphone, you took a deep breath, trying to steady the trembling in your voice. Aaron and Haley were watching you, their expressions warm and expectant, and you forced yourself to meet his gaze, even as your heart twisted painfully.
“When Aaron asked me to speak today,” you began, your voice steady but lined with the cracks of unspoken emotion, “I was honored - and a little terrified. Because, well, how do you find the right words for someone who’s meant so much to you? How do you sum up what makes a person like Aaron so special in just a few minutes? But Aaron has always had a way of asking more of me than I think I can give, and somehow, he makes me want to rise to the occasion every single time.”
You glanced at him, your eyes lingering on his smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, full of pride and gratitude. It was the look he always gave you when you did something he thought was impossible, when you pushed yourself beyond what anyone else expected. And for a fleeting moment, it felt like you were back in those quiet moments, just the two of you against the world.
“Aaron is one of those rare people who loves deeply, even if he doesn’t always show it,” you continued, your voice softening as you spoke the words that had been weighing on your heart.
“He’s the kind of person who cares quietly, in ways that are often unseen. He remembers the small things, the details most people miss. He listens, really listens, and he makes you feel like you’re the most important person in the room. His love is not about grand gestures or dramatic declarations, it’s in the way he stays, the way he shows up, even when it’s hard.”
You saw Haley’s smile grow as she looked at Aaron, and your chest tightened with the bittersweetness of it all. You had fallen for him in those very moments - the nights when he stayed late just to make sure you weren’t alone, the mornings when he brought you coffee without you ever asking, the quiet, unspoken ways he showed he cared. But now, those moments were no longer yours to hold onto. They were hers, as they had always been.
“I remember when Aaron first told me about Haley,” you said, glancing at her with a warm smile that you hoped hid the ache in your chest. “It was like he was talking about the other half of his soul, this person who knew him better than anyone, who saw him completely, flaws and all, and loved him anyway. Haley, you’ve been his light in the darkest times, the constant he could always rely on. And you never gave up on him, even when things were hard. That kind of love… it’s rare, and it’s worth fighting for.”
You took a shaky breath, feeling the tears prick at the corners of your eyes. It was so hard to stand here, to speak about the man you loved and the woman he belonged with, knowing that your place in his life was always destined to be on the outside. But you couldn’t let your own pain show, not here, not today.
“Aaron, you’ve always been the one to carry so much on your shoulders,” you continued, your voice trembling slightly. “You’ve faced things that would break most people, and yet, you keep going. You keep fighting. And you’ve earned the right to be happy, to have the life you’ve always wanted. You deserve to let yourself be loved, fully and without hesitation.”
You glanced down at the notes in your hands, the faded ink barely visible now, and you felt the full weight of your own words - the words that had run out just as you tried to say what was in your heart.
“There’s a story I’ve always found beautiful,” you began, your voice soft but steady, though you could feel the tremble in your hands. “It’s from Plato’s Symposium, a dialogue about love. In it, the playwright Aristophanes tells a myth about the origins of human beings. He says that, long ago, humans were not like we are now. We were whole - complete, with two faces, four arms, and four legs, perfectly self-sufficient, rolling around the earth like spheres. We were powerful, so powerful, in fact, that the gods grew jealous and fearful of our strength, worried that we might challenge them.”
You glanced at the crowd, seeing faces lit with curiosity and confusion, but your eyes found their way back to Aaron. He was watching you intently, his expression soft, his attention unwavering. There was a flicker of something in his eyes that made your heart ache, a recognition of the story you were telling, of the deeper meaning that threaded through your words.
“To prevent us from becoming too strong, Zeus decided to split us in half,” you continued, your voice tightening as the weight of the myth pressed down on you, as if it were more than a story but a mirror of your own silent struggle. “We were cut apart, left incomplete, forever searching for the other half that made us whole. And ever since, humans have been wandering the world, driven by this aching desire to find that missing part of themselves - their other half, their true soulmate.”
You paused, your gaze flicking between Aaron and Haley, who were standing side by side, their fingers intertwined, as if to prove that they had already found what the rest of the world was still searching for. The sight of them - so connected, so complete - sent a pang of bittersweet recognition through you. They were each other’s missing pieces, brought back together by time, by fate, by love.
“It’s a beautiful metaphor,” you said, your voice quivering with the weight of your own unspoken emotions. “Aristophanes tells us that when two halves find each other, there is a recognition, a knowing. It’s not just attraction or desire - it’s a profound sense of homecoming, of finally feeling whole. It’s that quiet understanding that you’ve found the person who completes you, who sees you for exactly who you are, and loves you anyway.”
You looked at Aaron, your eyes locking with his, and for a moment, it was as if the entire room had fallen away. All you could see was him, the man you had watched from the sidelines, the man you had loved in secret, the man you had pushed toward his happiness, even when it meant breaking your own heart.
He was Haley’s missing half, just as she was his, and you were simply the bystander, the one who had helped them find their way back to each other.
“Aaron and Haley,” you continued, your voice thick with emotion, “you are living proof of that myth. You found each other once, were torn apart by life and circumstance, and yet, here you are again, standing side by side. You’ve overcome so much, and through it all, you’ve never stopped searching for one another. That’s what makes your love so extraordinary. It’s not about perfection; it’s about resilience, about holding on even when it’s hard.”
Your throat tightened as you thought about how Aaron had told you he was afraid, how he had doubted himself, worried that he would never be enough. You had seen his fears up close, the way he carried the weight of his responsibilities, his guilt, his longing for something that always seemed just out of reach. But today, he stood before everyone, willing to try again, to let himself be vulnerable and open to the possibility of happiness.
“I believe that when two people are meant to be, nothing - not time, not distance, not even the hardest challenges - can keep them apart,” you said, your voice breaking slightly. “That’s what Aristophanes wanted us to understand: that love is not a straight path. It’s messy and complicated, full of twists and turns, but if you’re lucky enough to find that missing piece, it’s worth every moment.”
You swallowed hard, your eyes misting over as you forced yourself to continue. “Aaron and Haley, you are each other’s missing halves. You are each other’s home. And today, you stand before us, not as two separate people, but as a whole, as something that the world tried to keep apart but couldn’t. You’ve found your way back to each other, just like you were always meant to.”
“And that’s my wish for you both,” you finished, your voice trembling with the effort to hold back your tears. “That no matter what life brings, no matter how difficult things get, you always find your way back to each other. Because that’s what love is. It’s the quiet recognition of your other half, the person who makes you feel whole, even when the rest of the world feels broken.”
You looked down at your notes, the faded ink barely visible on the page, and you felt the full weight of everything you had given up - every silent hope, every unspoken confession, every small piece of your heart that you had handed over to him without ever asking for anything in return.
“May you always be satisfied.” you whispered, barely able to get the words out, knowing that they were as much a wish for him as they were a farewell to the dreams you had kept hidden.
You stepped down, your heart heavy but resolute, and as the applause swelled around you, you felt the bittersweet satisfaction of knowing that you had done what you came here to do. You had given him everything - your support, your guidance, your quiet, unspoken love - and now it was time to let him go.
As you sat back down, the applause was a distant, muffled roar, the noise of celebration barely cutting through the fog of your thoughts. The room was filled with the sounds of joy - laughter, clinking glasses, the faint strains of music in the background - but all you could feel was the ache that had settled deep in your chest, heavy and relentless.
You had poured your heart into that speech, laid bare every piece of your love for him in words that you could never say directly, and now it was done. You had done your duty, fulfilled the role you’d been playing for so long: the loyal friend, the steadfast confidant, the silent lover who never asked for anything in return.
Aaron and Haley stood at the center of the room, surrounded by well-wishers, their smiles wide and radiant. Aaron looked lighter than you’d seen him in years, the weight that usually hung on his shoulders lifted, even if just for this day. He was happy.
You could see it in every gesture, every smile, every soft look he gave Haley. This was what you had pushed him toward, the happiness you had convinced him he deserved. But now, watching them together, it felt like your heart was being slowly, quietly torn apart.
You were lost in your thoughts, trying to swallow back the rising tide of tears, when you noticed Aaron making his way toward you. He moved through the crowd with that calm, steady grace that was so distinctly his, the kind that made everyone step aside as if drawn by his presence. And suddenly, there he was, standing before you, his expression open and soft in a way that made it hard to keep your composure.
“Aaron,” you said, your voice cracking as you tried to mask the raw emotion you could no longer contain. You quickly wiped away a tear, forcing a smile that felt far too fragile to hold back the pain. But Aaron saw right through it, he always did.
He sat down beside you, closer than you expected, his presence both a comfort and an agony. He looked at you with eyes that were full of gratitude, a quiet intensity that made your heart ache with the weight of everything you’d never told him. It was the look he saved for moments of deep sincerity, when he let his guard down just enough for you to glimpse the man beneath all the layers.
“I knew you’d do a great job,” he said, his voice warm and low, laced with a depth of feeling that you hadn’t expected. “But what you said up there… you outdid yourself. You made today feel like it was always supposed to happen, like it was all meant to be.”
His words were too kind, each one slicing through you like a knife. You looked away, unable to bear the warmth in his gaze, the quiet gratitude that you knew was undeserved. “I just… I wanted it to be perfect for you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You deserve this, Aaron. You deserve to be happy.”
Aaron’s expression softened, his eyes filled with a tenderness that you had come to know so well. “I wouldn’t be here without you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve been there for me through everything. When I didn’t know how to move forward, you were the one who kept me going. You’ve been my rock, my anchor. I don’t even know how to begin to thank you.”
But at what cost? You had stayed by his side, helped him rebuild, guided him back to Haley, all the while knowing that your own feelings would never be returned
“You don’t owe me anything, Aaron,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “The truth was always inside of you. I just… helped you find it, simple maieutics.”
He looked at you, his brow furrowing slightly, the familiar look of confusion that always made you want to explain everything in a way that would make sense to him. And then, as if trying to lighten the heaviness of the moment, he offered a small, sad smile. “I knew, you would find a way to lecture me on philosophy, even on my wedding day.”
You forced a laugh, though it came out shaky, the sound breaking under the weight of everything you were holding back. “Yeah, well, old habits die hard,” you said, trying to keep your tone light, even as your heart splintered. “You know, Socrates believed that the answers weren’t given to us by others - they were already within us, just waiting to be drawn out. That’s what maieutics is. I didn’t teach you anything you didn’t already know. I just helped you remember.”
Aaron’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, it was as if the rest of the world had fallen away. He looked at you with such deep, unspoken gratitude, his eyes glistening with the emotion he rarely let show. “I wish I had your wisdom,” he said softly, his voice thick with something that felt dangerously close to regret. “You have always known exactly what to say. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough.”
You tried to smile, but it faltered, your breath catching as you felt the full weight of his words. You had always been the one to lift him up, to give him the strength he didn’t realize he had, but you knew that what he saw as wisdom was just your way of coping - your way of making sense of the unrequited love that had shaped so much of your relationship with him. You had given him everything, and now you had to find a way to live with the empty space he left behind.
“I just wanted you to find what you were looking for,” you said, your voice breaking as the tears finally spilled over. “I wanted you to be happy, Aaron.”
His hand found yours, warm and solid, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles in a gesture so tender it nearly undid you. He held on, just for a moment, as if grounding himself in your presence, and the intimacy of that touch felt like a quiet, painful goodbye to everything that could never be.
“You’ve done so much for me,” he said, his voice cracking slightly as he squeezed your hand. “More than I think you’ll ever know. You’ve always been there, and I… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
You nodded, unable to speak, your throat too tight with the tears you couldn’t stop. You had been there, you had given him all the pieces of yourself that you could spare, and now you had to watch him walk away, back into a life that didn’t have room for you in the way you had once dreamed.
As Aaron stood, his eyes lingering on you for just a moment longer, but then he was gone, walking back to Haley, his hand slipping into hers as if it had always belonged there.
You sat there, alone in the crowd, feeling the quiet devastation of everything you had lost.
And as you looked down at your lap, at the faded speech you had written with the last of the ink from the pen he’d given you, you realized that it was over. But you knew, deep down, that you had done the right thing. You had given him the push he needed, helped him remember the truths that were buried inside, and now he was free.
He was free to be the man he wanted to be, to find the happiness you had always wished for him. And though it hurt more than you could ever put into words, you found some solace in the knowledge that, in some small way, you had been part of his story, even if your role was never meant to be the one you had longed for.
in which you end up with an injured nose at girl’s night and aaron takes care of you
warnings: bloody nose (surprise), r is tipsy, sweet aaron again 🫶🏻
`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹
This is the probably the last way you would have imagined your day to end up like. This being sitting in the passenger seat of Hotch's car with an ice pack against your very much painful bloody nose.
It's funny to think that working in the fbi wasn't what gave you an injurie but falling against Emily's coffee table sure was. It was definitely quite a fight between you, one of Sergio's toys on the floor and the corner of the table. You just didn't happen to win it, leaving your nose bruised and bloody.
You felt utterly embarrassed for having to call him to pick you up, but you couldn't drive after two cups of wine and didn't want to ruin girl's night. You're sure there's better things for him to do on his day off, specially at midnight.
Though he doesn't seem bothered by it the slightest, his hand resting on your thigh for the whole ride home and stealing worried glances at you once in a while.
"You okay?" He asks once he opens the door, helping you out of your seatbelt.
You're quiet and that worries him. He knows pretty well you're not one to be quite when alcohol is running in your system.
"Mhm. Sorry for this, again." It's probably your fourth apology tonight and he doesn't like that one bit.
"Stop saying sorry." His tone is almost stern but you can feel the affection sweeping through it. "I missed you today, was glad you called." He's too sweet even when you're sure you ripped him out of bed, his crooked quarter zip that's thrown over his sleeping shirt proving you right.
You smile softly at him, regretting it immediately as your nose stings.
Aaron hushes you inside the house, immediately leading you to the bathroom and sitting you on the counter.
He rummages through the cabinets for a moment, pulling out a few cottons and other things you're too dozy too look properly at.
"Oh, sweet girl..." It's only now that he takes the ice pack from your nose that he realizes how painful it must be. There's dried blood right outside your nostrils and the bridge of your nose look another shade.
"That bad, uh?" You mock, holding back a chuckle at his reprehending stare.
Aaron starts cleaning your nose with a wet cotton, mumbling out gentle sorries when you hiss in pain.
You take the time to look at him through half closed eyes. His dishevelled hair, his concentrated expression and most of all his quarter zip paired with stripped pyjama pants. It makes you feel both giddy and guilty that he probably came running to get you once you called.
"You're pretty." You say it before getting to actually think about it. But the fact that you're still tipsy helps you say things shamelessly.
"Thank you, honey. You're very pretty too." He answers with a smile bigger than he intended, just happy that you're finally acting like you normally would while tipsy.
Once the blood is cleaned and the arnica is applied, he reaches for the small band aid box. They all have some kind of cartoon in them, Jack's influence.
"Which one?" He questions with fake seriousness, displaying all the different band aids.
You point to the spider-man themed one, probably Jack's influence as well.
"Very good choice." Aaron pulls it open, carefully applying it over the small cut on the bridge of your nose before pressing a tiny kiss there.
He tells you to wait for a moment before dissapearing into the bedroom, coming back a few seconds later with a large hoodie and one pair of stripped pyjama pants - both his.
You let out a relaxed sigh once you're in them, his scent comforting and similar to what you would call home.
"Gimme a kiss?" You mumble nasally, a chuckle bubbling out of him at the way it sounds more like 'kith'.
"I'll hurt your nose."
"No, it'll heal magically from your kiss." You do little in trying to persuade him, but it's more than enough for him.
Aaron tucks a few strands of hair behind your ears, cupping your warm cheeks and leaning in to place a gentle peck on your lips.
"Better, sweet girl?" It's not really a question, as he knows the answer. His lips trail from your cheek to your temple, lingering there for a moment before pulling to hold your face once more.
"Mhm, much better." You lean into his hands almost involuntarily.
His hands reach under your thighs, picking you up before you can even process it. You let out a surprised gasp, smacking his chest lightly when he laughs.
"You know, my nose is hurt. Not my legs, Aaron." You mumble against his neck, smiling at the way he shivers at the contact.
"Just let me spoil you, yeah?" He shushes you, arms comfortable around you as he enters the bedroom.
Once you're tucked inside the blankets in his so familiar bed, Aaron pulls out his quarter zip. Throwing it on top of the armchair in the corner before rushing to lay beside you.
Almost immediately, your arms find place around his waist. Your fingers trace incoherent shapes on his stomach and your head lays against his chest, his heartbeat lulling you to a sleepy state almost immediately.
"Thank you." It's barely a whisper, but he hears it just fine.
He hums, squeezing his arms around you before pressing a kiss to your hair one last time. "My sweet girl."
