take me back to the night we met

they/she 22 | INFP | comp sci student

[butyoudidthis4what]

You Might Be

Jack Abbot x F!Reader

14.7k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: hurt/comfort; worry; heavy anxiety; angst; guilt; sadness; panic; concern for partner's health; pregnancy; reference to serious and terminal illnesses; very vague comment about potential difficulty conceiving; mention of nausea and reader very briefly feeling like she could be sick; blood mention; reader gets staples (not described); reader has an IV; lots of Parker!!!!; fluff!!!!

Summary: When you end up at the Pitt in trauma one, the results of a blood test leave you and Jack in shock holding each other on a hospital gurney.

AN: Hello friends! Here is tonight's offering. It's set in the A nice bonus AU and was inspired by this prompt from the 3k celebration! I would recommend reading A nice bonus first for context. I really enjoy these two and their dynamic and rapport and I hope it still shines through even with the angsty nature that's there for a while. There's quite a bit of Parker in this, I really love Parker and her personality (and find her so hot), so hopefully I did her justice! 🙂 Thank you all for your kind words and encouragement and all of your support! It means more than I can say. I hope this is okay, and thank you so much for reading! ♥️

"Oh shit."

"It's nice to see you too, Parker," you smirk at her as the wheeled stretcher you're on slides out of the ambulance all the way.

Parker turns to who you're guessing is one of the new interns or med students Jack's told you about. "Go find Abbot and tell him he's needed in trauma one immediately. I don't care what he's doing, he needs to drop it and get to trauma one."

She looks quite confused about why Parker, an attending more than qualified and able to take care of this alone, needs Jack for a syncopal episode and scalp laceration, but doesn't question it at this point and breaks away from the stretcher once you're inside.

"He is not needed, and neither is trauma one," you huff at Parker playfully, shift the gauze you're holding against your hairline when you start to feel the blood saturating it. "You can more than handle this Dr. Ellis."

Parker gives you a look and then turns to the paramedics to get the bullet. You can't help but think about the first time you came into the Pitt on a stretcher and heard Jack give Robby and Mateo the bullet on you and how you flirted over it. You still have moments where you think you're going to wake up and realize your life with Jack has been a dream because the way you met feels cinematic, perfect for a rom com.

But it's not a dream even if your meeting was cinematic. And while the way you met might be perfect for a rom com, it's also the perfect encapsulation of you and Jack, of your relationship and your love for each other. All these years and a shared last name later and you still flirt with each other like you did that first day.

You think this whole thing is a little much but you didn't want to cause a further scene at the café. Plus, you couldn't really uber to the hospital with blood streaming down your face, and you could admit that given that you had just passed out, walking here probably wasn't a great idea either.

But still. You know that with how you've been feeling and how protective Jack is he's going to lose it a little bit, and you hate worrying him.

"Dr. Abbot?"

Jack looks up from the computer he's been charting on at the north nurses' station and raises his eyebrows at Nazely. "Hey," he greets her. He gives the slightest little upward flick of his chin. "What's up?"

Nazely almost looks confused and Jack stands up preemptively. He can just tell she needs some assistance. "Dr. Ellis asked me to come find you. She said you're needed in trauma one immediately."

It's been a long and trying shift. Jack just wants to get home and crawl into bed and sleep and wake up to you kissing his face when you're home from work. He's off this weekend, is looking forward to spending it with you so much he can't even begin to describe it. So of course they'd get some difficult trauma at 6:47 a.m. when it was looking like he'd actually get out pretty close to on time. How could he expect anything else?

Jack sighs to himself as they take off. He guesses he should prepare himself for whatever he's about to walk into. "What is it?"

Nazely shrugs shallowly as she pulls a pair of gloves from her pocket and starts putting them on. "I didn't get to hear everything but the call came in as a syncopal episode that caused a bad forehead lac. Patient is conscious, recognized Dr. Ellis. Dr. Ellis recognized her too."

Jack's eyebrows furrow. What the fuck? Why does Parker need him for that? There must be something more going on that Parker saw with the patient. Or maybe it's someone she knows and feels she can't treat.

He glances down at his watch as they approach the trauma room from the side, Nazely pushing the door open and walking in before Jack. It's kind of weird he hasn't gotten a text from you that you're at work yet, you'd texted him when you got up. Normally you always text him when you get there.

Jack is completely unprepared for what he sees when he looks up and steps into trauma one. 

It's you. 

It's you in trauma fucking one on a gurney, one side of your face and part of your shirt covered in your own blood. He freezes without thinking about it, stops mid-stride and stares at you from the end of the bed. He can’t breathe, his entire body turning to ice in a way he’s never experienced before. This can’t be real. 

Jack wasn't thinking of you at all when Nazely told him Parker and the patient recognized each other. He didn't expect to see you, much less you, bloody, with an IV and holding blood soaked gauze to your forehead.

Jack's stricken, his internal panic starting to rise so high he's sure he'll struggle to keep his hands steady right now. He’s holding himself back from a total panic attack as he looks at you, his girl, his wife, his whole entire world and reason for being, laying bloody on a trauma gurney in his ED.

Never in his entire life with you has he ever been more glad to see your beautiful eyes open and staring at him. You're conscious, breathing on your own, your heart beating on its own. The sting of tears at the back of his eyes brings him back to a little, enough so that he can shove aside his panic and shift back into doctor mode.

Or at least try to.

As he pulls out a pair of gloves and puts them on, he walks toward you and you smile at him, bright and teasing, with a reassuring edge to it that only he can see and that he appreciates but so isn't enough right now. "Good morning, Dr. Abbot."

Once he's by your side Jack takes one of your hands in his without even fully realizing he's doing it, eyes glancing up to check your vitals. They're all fine. Your blood pressure is edging toward low, but he knows it kind of always does. 

"What the fuck happened?" he asks as he focuses back on you.

You know the fuck isn't bad, isn't said out of anger or meant to make you feel like he's angry at you or blames you or is irritated you're here. You know it's because he's scared and likes to say fuck and his brain is so otherwise occupied he's not really filtering.

"Good morning to you too, my incredible, amazing, delightful, intelligent, thoughtful wife. I missed you and I love you so much and I'm so very glad to see you." Despite your teasing you squeeze his hand gently hoping it'll help ground him. "What on earth happened that made you need to come see me, my silly woman?"

Jack lets out half of a laugh through his nose and flashes you a closed lip, concerned smile. "Yes, you are all those things and gorgeous and the cutest and the funniest, and I did miss you and I do love you so much and I am so very glad to see you, but I wish it was under much different circumstances."

You bite your lip when he calls you the cutest and the funniest, what you know must be the most love sick smile pulling onto your face. "You're the sweetest, Dr. Abbot, you know that?" You always find it romantic and sweet and adorable but there's something even more heart-achingly sweet about him saying it here at the Pitt where it was said for the first time and where you first started to get to know and fall for each other.

You push your lips out for a kiss, glad you managed to avoid getting blood on them, and Jack is quick to lean in and give you one. He doesn't give a fuck that he's at work or that there are at least four other people in the room. You're in his trauma room but you're mercifully awake and stable and smiling and teasing him and being your perfect self, and a lot of people don't have that. The majority of couples who are in this room together don't have that.

Jack gives you a last quick series of kisses before he pulls back so he can take a look with Parker.

"Seriously though, Sweetheart. What happened?" Jack pulls away the fresh gauze you've been holding and silently winces to himself, exchanges a look with Parker as she examines you with him. "Scalp wounds bleed a lot, but this is pretty bad."

You grow a little more serious as you shrug. "I, um, I passed out at the coffee place while waiting for my drink and I think I caught my forehead on something as I went down."

You think. Jack doesn't like that. At all. Is that kind of amnesia common enough in syncopal episodes? Yes. But it doesn't matter. This is you. "You think Sweetheart?" he asks softly.

"I don't really remember. That's what I've heard." The last of your smile drops as you suddenly feel overwhelmingly guilty and like you could burst into tears, the mood swing catching you and Jack and everyone in the room off guard. "I'm sorry," you whisper as tears pool at your lash line.

Jack's heart shatters.

He's not sure if he's ever seen you look as sad and guilty as you do right now. The husband and partner in him is devastated by it and by the thought of contributing or causing you to feel that sad and guilty.

"Hey, hey, hey," Jack murmurs, brows furrowing together and eyes widening a little in concern as he lets Parker take over examining your laceration so he can focus on you. "You have nothing to apologize for Baby, you didn't do anything wrong. I'm not mad or upset and especially not at you. I'm so sorry if I made you feel like I was. I'm just worried about you Baby and want to know what's going on and make sure you're okay and there's nothing serious."

"No, no," you shake your head, "you didn't, I promise, you didn't make me feel like this. You've been nothing but the best Jack. It's me. Even if I didn't do it on purpose I'm still making you worry." Your chin wobbles and it's a knife to the shattered pieces of Jack's heart.

"It's not you making me worry, Baby, it's the situation. It's what happened to you." He squeezes your hand and half sits on the edge of the bed so he can lean in closer to you. "Nothing that's happened has been in your control. You didn't make yourself pass out and cut your scalp. You're not making your memories around what happened fuzzy."

"I made sure they took me here." Your eyes are so wide and almost apologetic and pleading, screaming your desperation for him to believe what you're saying. "I know I was joking and teasing like I do, and, and said you didn't need to come be in the room, but that's partially because I didn't want to worry you until we knew what was wrong even though I knew you'd come. I wanted to be here because I trust everyone and because you're here, but I'm sorry Jack, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make you worry or upset," you sniffle, voice higher pitched as a couple of tears escape.

You're well aware you're probably barely making sense, something incredibly unfortunate with the way your brain has suddenly decided explaining your feelings and reconciling your dry teasing humor upon arrival with your asking to come here is the most important thing you could ever do in life. You just can't seem to find the words no matter how hard you try. You knew it would be better for Jack, and for you honestly, if you came to the Pitt and could see him right away, even if you then tried to downplay it when you got here so that he wouldn't worry as much.

"You didn't Baby, I promise," Jack whispers, looking at you with wide, earnest eyes. "I promise you that you haven't made me worry or upset."

"Okay," you nod, trying to get yourself to believe him. "Thank you," you murmur to Nazely when she offers you a box of tissues, taking a couple and blotting at your eyes with your hand that Jack isn't holding. Something about really seeing the IV in your hand up close as you do starts to make Jack spiral even faster. He forces himself to look away from it and shoots Nazely an appreciative smile because whether she thought it might and did it deliberately or it's just a perfect side effect of her kind offer, Jack can tell she's helped distract you which is helping you start to regulate. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

Jack loves you. He loves you so god damn much he doesn't know what the fuck to do with himself. You just passed out and sliced your scalp and emotionally tanked and still you want to know who you're talking to and thanking. 

It reminds him so much of the first day you met, how you said hi to Robby and Mateo and Bridget, how you thanked him and Bridget for every little thing they did for you, how you asked him how his shift was going. It's so incredibly fucking you, his sweet, generous, kindhearted girl. He fucking adores you, loves you more than should be possible.

And that's exactly what makes this all the more scary.

He can't lose you.

"Nazely Toomarian," she tells you as she passes the box of tissues off to be set back on the counter. "I'm an intern, have only been here for a couple of weeks."

"Ah, okay, I'm sure we would've met soon, probably under better circumstances, and without me being a fucking mess, but it's good to put a face to the name. Jack talks about you. He thinks you're a great doctor and very much cut out for emergency medicine." Another round of tears escapes as you think about how Jack talks about his residents and students, how proud he can be of them at times. It’s so fucking sweet. 

"Oh my god," you almost squeak out as you quickly wipe the tears away. "I am so sorry, I don't know why I'm so fucking weepy all of the sudden. I'm not normally like this, I promise."

"It's okay." Nazely gives you a small smile. "It happens."

"Thanks Nazely," you nod at her before you turn your attention back to Jack, whose concerned hazel eyes are already on you and ready to lock with yours again. "They wanted to take me to UPMC Mercy, but I thought coming here would be better, that you'd like that better, especially with how I've been feeling, and I just wanted you. I hope that was okay."

Jack lets out a breathy laugh and shakes his head at you. "Sweetheart, you have no fucking idea how much more I like that you came here. I honestly don't think you can fathom how much more. I'd have lost my fucking mind getting that call from Mercy." 

He's pretty sure he lost his mind for a moment there when he first saw you here, but at least he was able to be with you and touching you and checking you over with his own eyes within seconds and not having to deal with getting across a bridge and to a hospital he knows would've given him minimal information at best.

"So, see?" He nods and smiles at you reassuringly. "The one thing that's happened and been in your control you used to help me." Jack brings your hand up to his lips and kisses the back of it a couple of times, a simple move he's learned helps you come down and reassures and grounds and relaxes you tremendously for some reason. You laugh together sometimes at the way you have absolutely no explanation for why it does. "You're okay and we're okay, I promise."

"Okay," you sniffle, "I love you." You start pulling yourself together as the intense sadness and guilt that had complete control of you starts to melt away, seeming to go as fast as they came. You blot away the last of your tears with your tissue and take some deep breaths.

"I love you too, Baby," Jack murmurs.

"God," you sigh at yourself and sniffle, huff an embarrassed laugh. "I don't even know where that came from, it just took over. Sorry, everyone. Carry on."

"That's okay, Sweetheart, all that matters is you're feeling at least a bit better." Jack does his best to hide just how much that rapid of a mood swing and recovery concerns him. He doesn't like this, doesn't like any of it, the way you've been having such abrupt mood swings like that recently and have had this general feeling of malaise. You haven't been completely yourself lately because you've been feeling so run down. He should've pushed more for you to go see your PCP. What if you're worse now all because he didn't push you to get looked at? He'll never forgive himself. What if he loses you-

No. He has to stop. He has to force that part of his brain to turn off right now so he can take care of you. Jack can't afford to slip into a complete fucking panic attack right now and that's exactly where those thoughts will take him if he's not careful.

Jack licks his lips and you can see it in his eyes and the way he takes a breath in before asking his next question, how the situation is starting to weigh on him more. "Did you hit your head?"

"No." You pause for a second. "Or at least I don't think so. But I guess I don't really remember," you frown at him. There's at least some level of relief that runs through you when your mood doesn't immediately swing again.

"That's okay, Baby." He looks up at Parker hoping the paramedics will have gotten more info and passed it on.

He doesn't even have to ask. Parker already knows the question. "Paramedics said they were told she was waiting by the bar to grab her coffee when she started to sway and lost consciousness, caught the corner of the upper part of the counter at the perfect angle to get a laceration and hit her head on it a little bit, but not super hard." Parker checks the bleeding of your cut and grabs a new piece of gauze. Jack can tell it's slowing at least. "She didn't hit her head on the floor though, someone was able to catch her. She was out for two-ish minutes according to bystanders. Only lost consciousness once."

"Good," Jack breathes out heavily. He doesn't love and is still quite concerned about you hitting your head on the counter, but he's incredibly relieved to hear that you didn't crack your head on the tile floor. Parker finishes giving him the rest of the bullet from the paramedics including your vitals en route and their neuro findings followed by her exam so far.

"Look straight ahead for me, please, Sweetheart," Jack asks you softly as he pulls out his pen light. He knows she just told him your pupillary response is normal but he needs to see for himself.

You can't help but find there to be something hot about the way Jack pulls out his pen light. It's in the way he moves, something about watching him really practicing medicine and being a doctor right in front of you. Sure, you see him with patients occasionally if you stop by but not up close like this. It's hot and sexy and attractive and it helps distract you.

When Jack finishes assessing your pupils you can't help but give him a playful, flirty smile. "Did I pass Dr. Abbot?"

Jack purses his lips in an amused smile and half rolls his eyes at you playfully. His reaction is sweet and of course more than enough, but it's subdued, quite subdued, and both of you know it. He's slipping further into worry and panic and his head with every passing second. "Pupils are equal, round and reactive." He knows he doesn't need to say more, that you understand he's, he hopes somewhat playfully, telling you that you passed.

A million explanations for why you passed out ranging from pretty much innocuous to easily treatable to devastating to terminal start to filter through Jack's head, especially as he adds in how off you've been feeling. He knows that realistically he should stay at the innocuous and easily treatable, but it's you and he's scared and so his brain catastrophizes and focuses on the devastating to terminal. Jack tries to keep his head above water and fight the crushing force of his thoughts trying to push and hold him under but it's getting harder and harder to do so with each second and he can feel himself starting to drown.

You can see it in the way his eyes glaze over a little. You know Jack's trying to split his mind and compartmentalize how he's feeling and how deeply this is affecting him so that he can focus on you. You tilt your head at him and give him a warm, understanding smile that reassures him but also makes him more panicky because your smile, all of your smiles, are everything to him and he can't imagine living without them. "Jack," you murmur. "I'm okay. I…"

You go to say more but stop when your mouth salivates as a heavy wave of nausea rips through you so intensely you think you might actually be sick. Jack clocks it immediately.

"What was that?" he asks as you take a couple of steadying breaths trying to get it to pass.

You swallow hard, still feel like you could be sick at any second but know yourself well enough to know you won't actually be. "I'm okay," you try to reassure him again.

Jack's eyes narrow slightly. It's not accusatory or mean or condescending or anything like that. It's truly a subconscious movement as he studies you further to try to figure out what's wrong so he can help you. It only takes him a few seconds to place the very specific way you're breathing. He's seen it before when you've been sick or feeling sick. And combined with how hard you swallowed and the way you trailed off he knows. "You're nauseous."

You look at him for a moment before replying. You're not considering whether to lie to him, you know it's pointless, he absolutely knows and would see through you. You're thinking about how much you want to downplay it even though you know he wouldn't want you to. You settle on not really downplaying it but not going into detail about how incredibly nauseous you were there for a few seconds. You still are nauseous, just not as much. "I just got hit with a wave of it, yeah."

Before Jack even has to ask Bridget, who slipped in the room the second she heard you were here, has an emesis bag in your lap just in case and Parker is catching your eye, "You want something for it?"

"No, I'm okay," you tell her with a small smile. "I feel like zofran or whatever always ends up just kind of making it worse for me, and it's not as bad as it was for a couple of seconds there. I'm sure it'll pass here quickly, it has been for the most part recently. But thank you, I appreciate you asking."

Your nausea sends Jack's brain and anxiety and panic into deeper overdrive and he needs to figure out what's going on with you now. He needs to know how bad it is and how much he fucked up by not getting you to go see your doctor and how long he has left with you and how bad the end is going to be. It doesn't matter how much the more rational and logical and controlled part of his brain tries to scream at him that it's far more likely going to be something simple and treatable and he's going to get decades more with you, the panicked and irrational and spiraling and terrified part of his brain wins.

"Do you have any other symptoms right now? Any at all?" Jack's eyes dart around your face searching for any discomfort or visual symptom or sign something is wrong before dropping down and doing a quick scan of the rest of your body. "Every little thing is important for us to know right now, Baby. Did you feel lightheaded before you passed out? Do you still feel lightheaded right now?"

"I don't feel lightheaded right now, no. Well, I guess maybe a little when I got that wave of nausea," you admit. "But I do remember feeling lightheaded before I passed out. It was quick though, I don't remember having time to really react or even try to sit down. I had the realization I was lightheaded and felt like I was going to pass out and the quick thought I needed to sit, and then I think I either went down a second later or I just don't remember the seconds leading up."

You think about what else to say for a second, the guilt you were feeling earlier creeping up on you, though not at the same intensity as during that mood swing, because you can see Jack falling apart in his head while keeping it together outwardly and you feel responsible for him struggling and suffering and panicking right now. But you know you have to be honest. "And yeah, I guess I was feeling a bit, I don't know, more off than I have been lately since I got out of bed. Just very kind of blah and gross and it's like I'm not feeling well but I couldn't even really begin to explain what feels wrong, you know?"

"Okay," Jack nods, turning over how you haven't been feeling well for a while now and how he didn't and should've pressed for you to go to the doctor harder than he did. This is his fault. The fact that it got this bad, bad enough for you to end up in his emergency room.

You watch him closely, waiting for the moment it's going to become too much and he's going to start to crack, whatever that might end up looking like. Jack is watching you closely too, studying you, looking at you like you're a patient and not his wife and lover. It's something you generally hate and will call him on, but you know he needs it right now so you let it go, let him do whatever he needs to do to reassure himself and feel better, as much as that's really possible right now.

"You haven't been feeling well?" Parker interrupts your near complete focus on Jack. "What's been going on?"

"It's been a thing where it's like come and gone and come back on repeat for I guess like… two-ish months now maybe. Some days I'm totally fine, some days it's mild, some days I really, really feel it. And I don't know, it's hard to describe." You shrug. "It's just… malaise in the purest sense I guess. It's so nondescript and I'm not even sure sometimes if I don't feel well or if I'm almost just feeling like I'm not feeling well. I know that probably doesn't make any sense. It's just kind of like a run-down feeling, I guess, maybe. I've been so fucking exhausted and a bit achey and sometimes my heart feels like it's racing. I just feel meh, and blah and gross like I said earlier. I really think I'm just stressed and a bit burnt out and need a break from work and a vacation with my husband."

You squeeze Jack's hand and give him a quick wink. "For like a year or ten, ideally, but I will more than happily take the two week vacation we have coming up in a couple of months. Sometimes I wonder if I'm just looking so forward to it that my body can't handle the waiting."

Parker chuckles at you and even Jack is able to give you the smallest amused smile and huff of a laugh as he shakes his head slightly, his eyes holding yours. You can tell he's trying to absorb as much reassurance as possible from them and the fact that they're open.

His eyes scan your face one more time before he looks up at Parker. "She needs a CT and someone needs to page neuro to come examine her. Probably independent x-rays of her skull too. I don't want to take any chances or risk delays in treatment because we took longer to order something."

"I think what we should do is start off with a full neuro exam and some labs." Parker removes the gauze from your hairline again and replaces it. "She's completely stable, has been the entire time. We only brought her to trauma one because this was the only room open when she arrived."

Jack shakes his head at her before she even finishes talking. It's not dismissive. Everyone in the room knows it, knows that it's fear. "Something might've happened when she hit the counter, even if it wasn't that hard."

"I know," Parker nods. "And if anything changes or her neuro exam even hints at something then I'll order the CT and take her there myself. We'll have neuro come down and do the exam, okay?"

You watch as Jack looks away from her and stares down where your hand is in his. He can't do this. He just can't. Seeing you here, in his ED in general, but especially in one of the trauma rooms, it's rapidly becoming far too much for him to handle. It feels like the walls are starting to close in on him as his brain cycles through every devastating thing that could be going on with you. Jack is screaming at himself to get it together and stop being dramatic and catastrophizing because compared to what he's seen in this room, he's lucky. You're awake and lucid and recognize him and haven't suffered a massive, life-threatening trauma.

"Jack," you call his name gently to get him looking at you again, something so soft and understanding and loving to the way you say it that it brings tears to his eyes that he quickly blinks away as he thinks about never hearing you say his name that way or any way ever again. You squeeze his hand that hasn't stopped holding yours this entire time even as he's evaluated your cut and checked your pupils, something painfully adorable and so incredibly Jack. 

When he looks at you again, you continue. "Let Parker do her job. She was trained by the best." You give him a small smiled smirk. "And you always talk about how smart and incredible of a doctor she is. She's more than got this."

"Oh does he now?" Neither of you have to be looking at Parker to know she's wearing a playful smirk, it's clear in her voice.

"I know," Jack whispers to you. "I know, I do, I'm just worried." He looks up at Parker and lets out a breath. "I'm sorry. I do trust you. It's just… hard."

"I know, boss, don't worry. If it was my girl I'd feel the same way even with her in your hands, and there's nobody else's hands I'd rather have her be in. I get it, I promise I do," Parker nods. "So we're all good with that plan?"

Jack nods, albeit shallowly, and looks back to you. "You good with that Baby?" he almost murmurs. "It's your body and your choice, whatever you want to do is what we'll do and I'll support you."

"I know," you nod at him. "I never doubted that for a second. But still, I want your opinion and thoughts both as a doctor and as my husband."

Jack pauses for a second, nodding slowly. "I think, I think…" He takes in a deep breath through his nose and sighs it back out at himself. "I think, well, it's not that I think. I know Parker is right. That's what I'd do for any other patient. But you're not any other patient, you know?" he shrugs. You nod, squeeze his hand again. "We should trust her." Jack finds it in himself to relax just a little. Enough to banter with you a little. "You're right afterall," he concedes, leaning in to give you a chaste kiss. "She did learn from the best."

You giggle into the kiss and for a moment everything is right and okay and good in Jack's world.

When Jack pulls away you look at Parker and nod. As Parker starts to dictate her orders to everyone Jack takes over holding the gauze to your hairline just to be safe. He slowly drags his eyes up and down your body again. He has this nagging feeling he can't get to pass.

Jack knows he's grasping at straws at least a little bit, trying to think of quick tests that could rule things out or in or give answers so that at least you guys would have something. "Let's do a hemocue." Jack's request earns him some raised eyebrows, not questioning in a bad way, just curious about why. "I just have a feeling and don't want to wait for labs."

"Okay," Parker nods. She grabs the unit since she's closest to it and stands by the other side of your bed.

Jack isn't happy about it but he releases your hand so that she can prick a finger on your IV-less hand. The second she's done he has your hand back in his, brings it up to his lips for a kiss as he gives you a small smile. You can tell he's trying to bury down his feelings to at least some degree. You smile back at him and give his hand a little squeeze and him a reassuring nod.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Parker raise her eyebrows and tilt her head, pushing her lips out as she takes in the number. "Well, at least we probably know why you passed out now. Good call boss." She starts to offer the unit to Jack. "Hemocue's 8.5."

Jack's head snaps to Parker. There's not quite panic in Jack's voice or expression, but something edging close to it. "It's what?"

"Thank you Bridget." You smile at her as she tosses away the last few things and goes to start toward the door.

Shortly after finding out your hemocue was so low they were able to move you into a room. Labs were sent off and the results are still pending. Neuro came down and did a neuro exam and everything was perfectly normal. Once the decision that there would be no CT was made Parker numbed you and then stapled your wound closed with Bridget assisting, less because Parker necessarily needed assisting and more because Bridget has had a soft spot for you since your first visit to the Pitt.

"Yeah, thanks Bridget." It's not quite mumbled but it's far quieter than normal for Jack, a hint of distraction to it.

"You guys are welcome, just call if you need anything," Bridget smiles at you both before pulling the curtain, walking out and closing the door behind her.

Jack releases your hand and is up and pacing the room the second the door closes behind her. He hates it, hates not touching you, hates that he just let go of your hand so abruptly and somewhat walked away from you, hates himself for it. But he's desperate to burn off some of his anxiety and adrenaline, and he knows you understand because you have to do the same thing too sometimes.

He's not even sure why this is getting to him so badly. In the context of where you guys are, you're exceedingly well. He's just managed to convince himself that there is something seriously wrong with you. That his entire world is about to come crashing down around him because you do seem fine. And so something being seriously wrong would be unexpected and that's what the world wants. To make it hit him even harder.

He needs to get it the fuck together. He's being fucking absurd, he tells himself.

Jack can't pull his thoughts off all of the possibilities, though. He's trying so hard but he can't. Yes, your neuro exam was fine, but still. You passed out. You hit your head. It could still be neurological, if only in part. Your fucking hemoglobin concerns him even more. Sure, 8.5 isn't blood transfusion threshold low, but it's pretty fucking close. And some of the causes of anemia can be fucking nasty, and devastating. All of them cycle through his mind on repeat.

He can't get it to turn off.

You know how restless Jack is, it was easy for you to see as he held your hand and you and Parker chatted while she closed your wound. So you give him a little time to pace some of his adrenaline and anxiety and panic out and to try to sort things out in his head. But you don't leave him alone with his thoughts for too long. You don't want him to get past the point of return in his head and for him to have a full blown panic attack, don't want him to have to suffer through that.

"Hey," you call to Jack softly as he paces. "Jack." You wait to say anything more until he looks over at you. When he does, you give him a small smile. "Come here? Please?" You scoot over a bit and pat the edge of your hospital bed asking him to sit on the bed next to you.

When he does, the smile you give him is just as soft as your words, and it and the little teasing, pleading pout you turn it into when he doesn't react immediately make his heart ache and tears sting at his eyes and his lungs seize up like he can't breathe because he loves you so god damn much and what if he fucking lost this? What if he never saw that smile or pout again? What if he lost you?

Jack swallows thickly and nods, walks over to your bed and drops the railing. He sits on the edge of your bed facing you, his eyes dragging over your face like maybe it'll give him the answer to what's wrong and how to make you better.

"Hi," you murmur, tilt your head at him.

"Hi, Baby." Please don't go anywhere. Please don't leave me. Jack's voice shakes a little. He lets out a breath that doesn't really calm him any. "I love you." I need you. I can't face the world without you, can't survive a world you're not in.

You smile brightly at him, reach out with one hand and cup his face, brush your thumb over his slightly grown out stubble. "My scruffy man. I love you too." You push your lips out and Jack is quick to lean in and give you the kiss you're looking for. He finally lets his arms wrap around you and slip between your back and the hospital bed, holding you close.

Jack nuzzles his nose into the side of your neck on the opposite side of your laceration and breathes you in deeply, the scent of your perfume mixed with you giving him some solace. You hold him back just as tightly, free to now that your IV isn't connected to anything since Bridget unhooked you when the saline the paramedics started had finished. Your fingers of the hand you had holding Jack's face move back and scratch slowly at the nape of his neck and play in his curls there.

When you finally break apart you slide your hands down Jack's chest and hold one of his in one of yours, give it a little squeeze as you give him a cheeky smile. "You know, this is the same room."

You don't need to elaborate any further. Jack knows exactly what you mean. Just like you, he realized it as soon as he stepped in the room.

Jack gives you a small smile and a soft laugh through his nose, barely audible. He brings your left hand up to his lips and kisses the back of it, then all around your engagement and wedding rings before he ends with a lingering kiss to your palm before lowering it back into your lap and continuing to hold it. "I know. I think about you every time I come in here. It's my favorite room in the whole building."

For now.

It's sweet, and meaningful, and he loves that you remember and recognize the room. But Jack's anxiety is winning right now. All he can think is that this room where he met and started to get to know and fall for you, his soulmate and the love of his life, is about to become the room where he finds out the world is taking you back and ripping you away from him, where he finds out you're dying or that something is seriously, seriously wrong and you're incredibly sick. And so the familiarity of the scene, you on a gurney in this room and him in scrubs next to your bed, it's acrid on his tongue as much as he doesn't want it to be.

No matter how hard Jack tries to hide it all, he can't. You see it all in his eyes, every emotion, every new thought that threatens to pull him under. You hear everything he doesn't say. Especially that unspoken, completely panicked for now.

You know he's not hiding how he feels and how he's struggling because he's trying to lie to you or even really necessarily keep it from you. You know that Jack knows he can't hide it from you. Deceiving you isn't his goal. Protecting you is. He's trying to protect you from his emotions right now, from the burden he thinks his emotions and feelings and thoughts and struggles are.

"Jack, Sweetheart." You pull your hand from his but he doesn't have time to even start to pout because you take his left hand in both of yours and start to play with his fingers and wedding ring, a habit you've picked up, one you know comforts him. Your eyes look back up and find his again and you give him that deep eye contact that he loves and you know is reassuring him more than ever right now. "You don't have to be so brave when you're with me." You pause for a few seconds to let your words settle, give him time to process. "You know that, right? You can be scared and you can show it and talk about it, and you can tell me all of the things you're thinking about and worrying about and half-panicking or trying not to panic about."

"I know. I promise I know." He looks so torn and upset and distraught as he glances away for a second that your heart hurts, the urge to pull him into your lap and arms and never let him go washing over you so hard you almost tug on his hand a little. "I just…" Jack lets out a long breath and looks back at you. "I don't know. You passed out and hit your head and your hemoglobin is 8.5 and you've been so exhausted lately and feeling run down and shitty and you're not feeling well right now and you need me. And, yeah, I'm scared. I'm so fucking scared because it's you, this is you. But it's also my job. I should be able to deal with it, and I'm, I'm struggling to when you need me to be strong and not let it get to me."

"Baby, I don't need you to do your job or be strong or not let it get to you. I don't need any of that," you shake your head softly. You smile at him and bring his hand to your lips like he just did yours, kiss over his wedding ring and then hold his hand to your heart. "All I need and all I ever have needed and will ever need is you to be here with me. Just you here to take on whatever it is with me and love me through it and let me love you through it. Since we've been together you've always done that and I know and trust that you always will. But that's all I need Jack. You." You squeeze his hand and press it to your chest. "You're all I need, Jack."

Jack squeezes your hand back and nods, the smile he gives you smaller than normal and closed lipped but full of just as much love in his eyes. You're all I need, too.

"And, Baby…" You settle your and Jack's hands back in your lap, fingers starting to play with his again as you think of how to phrase what you want to say. "Being scared doesn't mean you're not strong and it doesn't mean you're not there for me. And if you need time to panic or be upset and vent and just process by talking and getting it all out, I'm not so sick or injured that you can't do that in front of or with me. I don't know that I'd ever be so sick or injured that I couldn't be there for you like that."

"You might be. Or you might be soon." The sentences fall out of his mouth before Jack can even try to filter them, perfect representations of the worry consuming him.

You nod slowly. You want him to know that you're taking him seriously and not just writing off his thoughts and feelings as overdramatic. "I know in some ways it probably feels like that's the most likely thing to happen, but I think that's pretty unlikely Baby."

"No, I know. I know, I do." He lets out a sad laugh and hangs his head for a second. "God," he groans, the distressed laugh he tries to infuse it with quickly dissolving into a terrified anxiousness. There's a kind of restless discomfort to it that you recognize all too well and has your heart aching for this man who loves you so much he's this terrified. Jack bites his lip as he brings his head back up and looks at you. He shrugs, finally just lets himself lean into how helpless and distraught he feels. "It's you though, you know? It's you."

"I know, Baby. I know it's different and that's okay." You study Jack for a minute, try to figure out what he needs and how you can give it to him most effectively. At this point in your relationship it's easy for you to spot. "I'm all ears for you."

Jack knows what that last sentence is. It's an invitation to let it all out, not, he knows, that he truly needs one. He knows you're extending it to help his brain loosen up and let him. It's you letting him know you see what he needs, that you're not going to try and solve it and make him talk about it or try to explore it more here the way you guys might at other times, in other places. It's letting him know that you know he needs you to just listen.

You had to work on it when you first got together, your instinct to immediately jump to trying to solve and fix things. He knew you were always listening, that wasn't the problem. And it didn't bother him per se, but there were times when he just needed you to listen and then let you guys move on.

Your reaction to him bringing it up and your immediate genuine effort to get better about it and to catch yourself when you slipped was one of the things that made Jack know he would ask you to marry him one day. There wasn't perfection, still isn't. But that's not what he needed. He just needed you to try and you have every day since.

He nods at you, is quiet for a moment as he watches your fingers play with his. Once he's ready he finds your eyes with his again.

"You're a patient in my ED. And you passed out and hit your head and you're anemic and haven't been feeling well and all of that together just makes my mind go places and I think about, about…" Jack shakes his head, can't even bring himself to say it even with as cowardly as that feels. Just trying to form the words makes him nauseous. "I…" his voice drops to a whisper and shakes harder than it has this entire time, "I just don’t trust the world to not take you away from me."

He takes another second and clears his throat, manages to regain enough control to steady his voice. "I see it happen to couples too often, one of them dying while the other watches and eventually gets told by one of us that it's really the end. And every time I see it I have that brief thought, what if that was you, what if I was having to watch, what if Robby or Baran or Parker or John or whoever had to have that conversation with me, tell me it's really the end." The last four words are strained, clearly forced out.

"And sometimes the thought stays longer than others and, yeah, I've gotten good at pushing it away after only seconds, not because it doesn't scare me anymore or it's easier to deal with, but because you can't live life thinking like that. But then today here you are. I walked into you on a gurney in trauma one and it made the thought so real. It's so fucking real." He presses his lips together and shakes his head once. "And no matter how hard I try I can't push it away right now."

"I know I'm, we're lucky that you're okay and awake and lucid, but I don't know. It's like that makes it almost more scary in a way right now. If you weren't and you'd been in a terrible accident or something, god forbid, there's… I don't know," he sighs, pausing to try and come up with the right string of words. "With something like that there's more of an aspect of expectation, I guess. Or, or it's easier to foresee something bad happening, the worst happening. You're almost more prepared for it because it's more in your face. You're bracing for it. It wouldn't really be a surprise."

"This isn't like that, you know? It doesn't seem so bad so it's not as in your face and something happening or getting bad news, that wouldn't be expected. It lulls you into a false sense of security almost." Jack runs his right hand through his curls. "But then I'm so aware of that lulling and how everything can turn on a dime in a split second here, and I'm thinking of everything that could be or go wrong."

"I don't know…" He's teary now, eyes glassy and mouth set in that way that tells you he's fighting back more tears and not letting them fall. "You were already here once and we got lucky it was just a broken wrist after being hit by a fucking car, and, and…. And so how many times is the universe going to let you wind up here in an ambulance and leave with me? How many times before I have to walk out of here without you? That's all I can think about. Because some people don't even get one time, much less two."

"I know that's dramatic and that I'm being dramatic, I'm just having a… hard time with this. I love you so much and you're my entire world in a way I know you think you understand, but you don't because I could never find the words to tell you as fucking cliché and cheesy is that is," he tries to laugh but the sound is half-hearted and coated in pain while still weighted with his love for you. "I can't lose you. I can't lose you and you passed out and have been feeling shitty and I didn't push for you to go see your doctor and your hemocue was a fucking 8.5 and there are so many bad, bad fucking things that could cause all of that."

"And no matter how bad or not bad the cause is I can't take it on for you, I can't take your sickness for myself so that you don't have to suffer. I can't feel shitty in your place and I can't be nauseous in your place, or pass out in your place, or go through treatment for you or feel the pain for you or whatever else, deal with side effects. I can't just make you better." He shakes his head, lips and chin trembling.

His voice drops to a whisper. "All I can do is sit and watch you go through it and hold your hand and love you through it and I'd do it all a million times over for you, but the thought of having to sit and watch you slowly die right in front of my eyes, it just….you know?"

Jack's quiet for a second before he shrugs unconvincingly, trying to play all his feelings off. "I don't know. I know I'm totally spinning out and so far ahead of the game and reality. You could just need an iron supplement or something, it could be that simple and I'm here spiraling about you dying and putting all this bullshit on you when you already feel like shit and… I'm sorry. I'm really fucking sorry," he sniffles hard, almost verging on a sob, last words choked on tears he’s determined not to let fall.

"Oh Jack, Baby," you murmur, brows furrowed and eyes round with compassion and empathy, a certain glint to them that tells him you see him, that you get it and understand and feel for him. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all. I wish you didn't feel this way because I know how hard it is for me to think about losing you and you've never been in a hospital bed in front of me. I know how fucking miserable and uncomfortable it is and I never want you to feel this way, but I can feel the love that's behind it. I know this is love. So the only thing you're putting on me right now, Jack, is your love. That's what I feel. Loved. "

"Really?" he whispers, his voice as longing as the look in his eyes.

"Really," you smile softly and nod at him. "That doesn't mean that you have to feel this way and express it in order for me to feel loved, of course. You make me feel loved in so many other ways, I promise. I just want you to know that you're not burdening me by talking to me because I know how easy it is to think that. You could never burden me by talking to me and sharing your thoughts and feelings and struggles with me."

You bring one of your hands up and run your fingers through his curls, smile to yourself at how fluffy they are from him running his hands through them all shift. "You're not being dramatic Jack, your feelings are so valid and so understandable. Thank you for telling me. I know how hard it is to share and to have to verbalize some of those thoughts and words, so thank you for telling me and letting me in."

"You're getting a bit ahead of everything, yeah, we both know that, but that's okay. You're worried and you love me and you see way the fuck too much like you said, so it makes complete sense." You huff a laugh and Jack can tell it's at yourself and whatever you're going to say next. "I don't even see any of the shit you see and you're doing about eighty thousand times better than I’d be doing if our positions were reversed. I'd probably be a mess, sobbing and panicking and unable to keep it together for long."

Jack thinks about it for a second as you pause, his eyes drifting to look over your shoulder at the wall. He speaks before you can say anything else, words airy, almost distracted in a sense but in that way that reflects their recent discovery. "And I'd feel loved." Jack looks back at you, fully present again. "I'd feel loved."

"Exactly, Baby," you murmur, squeezing his hand.

You don't say anything else, wait to see if Jack has more he needs or wants to say or if he just wants to keep talking about it all or if he just wants to move on for now. You're happy with whatever he needs. All you need is him here with you.

Jack takes your face in his hands, brushes his thumbs over your cheekbones for a few seconds. And then he leans in and kisses you. Again, and again, and again. He keeps them short and sweet, doesn't want to risk making you breathless and dizzy and have you pass out again. But he lets a few linger, lets his tongue slip into your mouth and yours into his even if only for the quickest second before he's making sure you get air.

You're biting your lip and grinning like the lovesick idiot you still are for him even after all these years once Jack pulls his lips from yours. He smiles and laughs almost silently through his nose to himself at the sight. He loves you so god damn much. Nothing can happen to you.

Jack keeps your face in his hands and presses a lingering kiss to your temple on the uninjured side. "Thank you for listening," he murmurs against your skin.

"You're welcome and I always will, Baby," you hum contentedly as Jack presses another couple of kisses there.

Jack appraises the staples Parker gave you again as he sits back how he was. "I'm going to have to help you wash your hair to keep your staples dry until they come out."

"Fuck," you sigh dramatically, infuse a fake, preemptive exhaustion into it. "I medically have to shower with my fucking incredibly hot husband. Shittiest fucking aftercare instructions I've ever heard." You click your tongue behind your teeth and grimace teasingly for a second. "I don't know if I'll be able to follow them. We might have to institute a reward system to incentivize me."

"Yeah, I'll incentivize you all right," Jack rolls his eyes at you affectionately, laughing under his breath. He smiles at you, that one that makes you feel like you're the only thing that exists for him in the moment, and shakes his head a little. "You're so ridiculous sometimes."

"Guilty as charged, Your Honor," you quip with a smile of your own, one that for some reason lets Jack finally start to really believe everything will be okay no matter what your test results show.

You take in a breath to continue but Jack beats you to it. "I do love it." He rests a hand on your far thigh and squeezes. "And you're always the cutest and the funniest."

You absolutely fucking melt. He's so good at that, bringing up your past moments together at the perfect times. "Baby," you whisper, lip pulling down in a small pout as you smile at him, eyes sparkling with your love for him and how loved he's making you feel.

"It won't be a huge routine change at least," you return to your discussion of the greatest aftercare instructions known to mankind. "Or did you forget we already shower together a lot?"

Jack gives you an oh please look. "I just had the thought, and I never said we have to shower together, just that I have to help you wash your hair. And do you seriously think that I could ever forget how frequently I have the fucking privilege of seeing you naked and wet and getting to run my hands all over your gorgeous, soapy body?" He flicks his eyebrows up at you as he asks. "Because please, please, believe me when I tell you I could never forget." Your smile turns a little bashful and Jack thinks it's pretty fucking adorable how after all these years he can still get you flustered. "I love you so much."

You beckon Jack to you by sticking your lips out to ask for a kiss. "I love you so much too." You and Jack share a few short, but languid kisses you both smile into at times before you separate.

"You know speaking of my fucking incredibly hot and handsome and sexy husband," you smirk at him, drag your eyes up and down his body, and then smooth your hands over his chest as he remains fairly close, just far enough away for you to see each other easily. "There was something about the way that you pulled your pen light out of your pocket and held it up and watching you really be a doctor and practice medicine that was really fucking doing it form me."

"Yeah, I could tell," Jack laughs. You're making him feel so much better without even trying and Jack isn't sure if you truly know it. You being your usual feisty, flirty, occasionally perfectly ridiculous and silly self and your guys' usual rapport being fully intact reassures him more than he could ever hope to explain. Especially here, in this room, where you first developed your rapport and he got his first taste of you and your personality and the light you bring to everything without trying.

Jack leans back in closer. "I adore you," he murmurs against your lips before kissing you again.

Despite you and Jack both telling Parker after she finished your staples that she could go home, and even encouraging her to do so and go get some sleep, she stays, shrugs at you both and says she'd be at home unable to sleep waiting for Jack to text her updates on your test results anyway. You stay for family, she says simply, tells you Jack would do the same for her and depending on when it was you'd be here too.

Robby and Dana come by to see you once they arrive for their shifts and learn you're here as a patient. The rest of day shift knows you're here too, obviously, but they also know better than to ask or try to snoop, just ask Robby or Dana to relay their hellos and various well wishes.

Not long after you and Jack finish talking and only an hour and a half or so since she finished your staples, Parker walks into the room, rolling a machine along with her. "Hey," she greets you. "Where's Jack?"

"Hey. He literally just stepped out to go to the bathroom. He's going to be so annoyed." You try to laugh your last sentence but it comes out hollow as anxiety spikes through you. "What's going on?"

"Iron deficiency anemia. Common and easily treatable." Despite her words Parker positions the machine next to your bed on the opposite side of where Jack was earlier. "I just want to do a quick ultrasound to check some things out, be extra safe since it's you." Your heart rate picks up. You know Parker. She doesn't just do things. "I'm going to lay you back, okay?"

"Okay," you mumble as she reclines your gurney some. You're quiet for the minute or two Jack's gone, eyes tracking Parker as she sits on the stool in front of the machine and gets it set up. You do as she asks when she requests you pull your shirt up as high as you can and move the waistband of your pants as low as possible without taking them off. They hadn't made you change into a gown, were only going to if you needed a CT.

Parker gives you what you know is meant to be a reassuring smile as she picks up the bottle of ultrasound jelly. "I won't start until Jack…" she trails off as he walks in and steps behind the curtain providing privacy from the window of the door. "Perfect timing."

Jack stops walking the second the scene comes into view for him and you can see his chest start to rise and fall more noticeably and the change in his stance, tension suddenly everywhere in his body. "Dr. Ellis," Jack starts, the faintest edge to his voice.

"It's iron deficiency anemia, Jack," Parker explains to him as she opens the bottle of jelly and holds it over your stomach. "It'll be a little cold," she nods at you. "Other than that all labs were well within normal."

"Then why are you doing an ultrasound?" Jack asks, tone carefully controlled and revealing to you just how hard he's having to work at keeping it together.

"Just to be safe." She presses the wand against your stomach and runs it over about half the gel.

Jack steps up behind her, peering at the screen over her. He's watching. He's watching this whole thing, he decides. If Parker thinks he isn't, she's sincerely mistaken. "What is it Dr. Ellis? What's wrong?" He can tell she's taking her time and running the wand over your skin rapidly so that nothing is in focus. She doesn't want him to see whatever it is. It terrifies him.

"Parker," Jack whispers, voice absolutely fraught with his fear. "Please. I’m sorry for being short with you, just please."

"Jack." The way you say his name is soft but there's an urgency to it that's enough to make him snap out of it a little and pull his eyes to yours. You sound so small and it kills him. He needs to be touching and soothing you, now. "Please come here."

He's already moving back to where he was earlier and half sitting on the bed next to you again as you ask. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." You take his left hand in both of yours again, some of your worry fading just a little simply because he's closer and you can feel him and his body heat. "Just, I want, I need you close for whatever this is. I need you up here with me and holding my hand, please."

"Yeah," he nods. "Yeah, okay, I'm sorry, I just…"

"I know, and you don't need to apologize, there's nothing to apologize for, I understand and it's okay." You squeeze his hand. "You're here," you whisper, "That's all I need."

Jack nods again and is quiet for a second, before he tilts his head at you. "I'm scared," he admits in a whisper, barely audible. "You need more imaging." No tears fall down his face but you can see the telltale glassiness start to glaze his eyes, and you can hear and feel the tears in his voice and the way he squeezes your hand back.

"I'm scared too, Sweetheart. But no matter what we have each other and we'll figure it out together even if only for a minute at a time, okay?" you whisper just as quietly. You want to promise him it'll all be okay and everything will be fine but you can't. It's so obvious to you in this moment that you can't. "I love you."

"I love you more." Jack leans in and kisses you a few times, quick kisses that both of you eagerly consume as another small bit of reassurance available to you right now.

Once you break apart Jack takes a breath and goes to say something else, but then there's the click of Parker hitting a button, a familiar and unmistakable sound filling the room and making you suddenly hyper-aware of where Parker has the transducer on you.

You and Jack look at each other, both wide eyed and holding your breaths in disbelief. Matching tears are quick to pool in your and Jack's eyes.

"Jack," you whisper after five or so seconds, voice catching in your throat. "Is that…?"

He nods slowly, tears finally spilling over and sliding down his cheeks. "That's a heartbeat," he breathes, confirming what you already knew.

Jack furrows his brows a little deeper and you read him like always, know exactly what he's asking. You nod, still almost a little dazed at the news.

He moves then, stands and turns so that he's facing across the bed giving you both a clear view of Parker. Jack hunches a little and leans on the bed a bit, one hand holding one of yours up near your chest, his other arm arced over your head with his hand on the uninjured side, gently stroking your hair every now and again, his face a few inches to the side of yours as you both stare at Parker.

She turns the screen so that all of you can see, and even though you and Jack knew what you were going to see, it still takes your breaths away all over again, shocks you both in the best way possible.

"Oh my god, Jack," you whisper through your tears that have started to fall, the words so airy they're almost not audible. But Jack hears them.

"Yeah," he sniffles, voice just as breathy as yours still as the shock continues to wash over him. He squeezes your hand tightly to let you know he's here, he promises, and he's sorry he truly cannot think of anything else to say right now.

Jack has no fucking idea how his mind went close to quite literally everywhere else and not one of the most obvious places, especially when he walked in and saw the ultrasound. You guys have been trying to get pregnant. You might be pregnant should've been one of his first thoughts but it wasn't even on his fucking radar.

"I lied. I knew who I was looking for the whole time. I'm sorry for scaring you for a minute there," Parker apologizes, her true excitement and joy for you clear in her voice. "Congratulations, mom and dad," she whispers, letting you guys have the moment.

"You're pregnant," Jack finally whispers, the words shaking and wet with his tears, voice resounding with pure and true happiness and love. You've only heard his voice sound like that on a couple of occasions, when he asked you to marry him, when he said his vows and I do, and when he called you his wife for the first time when you were finally alone together at the end of the ceremony.

"I'm pregnant." Your voice quivers just like your lips and chin as another rush of tears slips down your cheeks. "That's their heartbeat. That's our baby's heartbeat. And that's them. That's our baby. That's our baby, Jack."

"Yeah," he nods. You look at each other and feel more tears flood your eyes at the other's reaction to the news. "Yeah, it is."

You share half-sobbed laughs and then Jack leans in and you kiss again, exchange murmurs of "I love you" and nuzzle your noses together between kisses while your tears mix and the news that has so beautifully changed and expanded your life together sinks in as you listen to your baby's heartbeat.

When you both look back at the screen you bring your freehand to your mouth, covering it with a couple of your fingers as you stare at the screen with Jack and watch a tiny heart that's half you and half Jack flicker away in time with the sound. Tears stream down your and Jack's face, but you’re both hardly aware of them with all of the emotions flooding you and how fast your heads are spinning.

"They a surprise?" Parker asks, moving the wand to get a different view of the baby.

"We've been trying for a few months shy of a year," Jack tells her, his voice still enveloped in awe and thrilled disbelief.

"So kind of," you murmur. "But not really, but also very clearly yes." The three of you share a laugh, all of your eyes transfixed on the screen as Parker continues to move through different views.

She slows a bit, starts to take different measurements. "When was your last period?"

"I um, I… Fuck, I don't, I don't know…" you breathe a laugh. Jack turns his head and carefully kisses your temple and you can feel how overwhelmed with love for you he is. "I, I was getting worried it wasn't going to happen so I've kind of deliberately been trying not to pay attention or note it." You click your tongue and flash your eyebrows up, give a watery huff. "Guess I was good at that."

"That's okay. I kind of took a guess based on your hCG that we'd be able to see them on external ultrasound." She takes another couple of measurements and then goes back to that classic, perfect view of them. "With what baby's measuring at here I'd put you somewhere right around ten weeks. You agree, boss?"

Parker calls out a few measurements you don't really understand and Jack nods. "Yeah. Around ten weeks." He looks down at you and, god, he loves you so fucking much it feels like he might explode and he has no fucking idea what to do with himself. "You're ten weeks pregnant," he laughs through a sob. "Thank you. Thank you for doing this for me, for us. Carrying our baby."

"I couldn't do it with anyone else, Jack." You smile up at him, cheeks shiny from your tears. "I wouldn't want to."

"Same, Baby," he murmurs. "Same." You share another kiss before Jack touches the tip of his nose to yours. The realization that he's doing so as a stand-in for resting his forehead against yours since he can't right now almost has you finally totally losing it and properly sobbing. But Parker starting to tell you more information saves you all from that.

“Given that the rest of your labs are perfectly normal and that you're iron deficient I think it's pretty safe to say that your anemia is pregnancy related. It's very common. I'm sure your husband will be happy to explain more. Eventually. Once the news settles and he regains coherent thought and the rest of his medical knowledge," Parker looks up and smirks at you. You nod, give her a teary smile and laugh.

"This explains everything. I don't understand, I don't know how I didn't think of it, how you might be pregnant wasn't one of my first thoughts. We were trying to get pregnant and it didn't even register." He shakes his head and laughs at himself. "Not even when I saw the fucking ultrasound."

"Because she’s your wife and you were understandably at zebras and not horses," Parker says simply with a shrug. "That’s part of why we don’t treat our partners."

Jack nods at her, humming in agreement.

"Are they, are they okay?" You pose the question to whichever doctor in the room wants to answer.

"They're perfect," Jack whispers, looking at them on the screen again. He's so truly fucking awe-struck he almost feels lightheaded now. He just can't believe this. He can't believe this thing that you guys have wanted and been trying for and dreamed about has finally happened. "Absolutely perfect."

"I'm not an OB but I agree with Dr. Abbot. My niece or nephew looks pretty damn perfect." Parker moves the view again. "They're in your uterus right where they should be and have good measurements, a strong heart rate."

"They're perfect," Jack reassures you. He turns his attention back to you. "Just like their mom," he sniffles to avoid completely sobbing the words. "Thank you, Baby. Thank you so much, thank you for doing this. I love you. I love you so god damn much. I love both of you."

"Thank you, Jack." You click your tongue behind your teeth quietly as you look up at him and press your lips together hard, tilt your head to the side for a second. "I love you too." You have to pause to swallow down another sob of happiness and joy and love. "I love both of you so much, I love you so much."

Parker gives you and Jack another thirty seconds or so to look at the baby while she prints off the stills she captured for you guys. "I don't see anything that makes me feel like we need to call OB down or that you need to try and get into your OBGYN tomorrow. Just get in when you can to get established on the OB side of things and discuss the anemia."

She takes the transducer off you and Jack's quick to grab the towel she has laid out, wipes the ultrasound jelly off your skin with all the reverence and care in the world, his hand lingering over your womb. "In the meantime Dr. Abbot knows what to do for the anemia but I'll put it in your discharge instructions and talk to you about it when I come back with them, okay?" She offers you the printed strip of sonograms.

"Okay," you nod, sniffling and wiping a couple of tears away before you take the strip from her. You smile at her. There's so much you want to tell her but your brain can't find all of the right words. "Thank you Aunt Parker. I'm really glad it was you."

"Yeah, I'm really glad it was you too," Jack nods. "Thank you Aunt Parker." The two share a look between them, teacher to student, mentor to mentee, a unique blend of respect and pride and care that you know Jack takes the time to develop with all of his students. "Thank you Parker. I'm sorry for being an asshole a couple of times there."

"It's all good boss." She gives him an easy smile and nod of her head to emphasize that it's really all good and she understands. "You're both very welcome. I'll go get all the discharge bullshit done and be back as soon as I can to get you guys out of here, okay?"

You and Jack nod and Parker stands, moves the machine off to the side and leaves it in the room for now. As he moves the head of your gurney back up so you're not as reclined Jack's already creating a mental list, his mind thinking of everything you need and that the two of you can do on top of the prenatals you've been taking for the last year to help with your iron deficiency, iron supplements, good iron rich foods for you to eat and recipes that include them that he knows you like and can make for you and which of your favorite dishes from your favorite restaurants have them.

He's thinking about everything else too, of course. Books you guys need to get, how he's sure there has to be fifty thousand pregnancy related apps you could download, all of the baby things you're going need, all of the things you're going to need to make this pregnancy as comfortable as possible, how you're going to look with one of his shirts stretched over your bump, how he needs to focus more on his arms when he works out so he can hold your bump up as long as he possibly can to take some pressure off your back, how he needs to go get all of his wood working shit out of the shed in your backyard so he can start building nursery furniture, including the beautiful and comfortable rocking chair he's pictured in his mind since the day you guys started seriously talking about having a baby, how he needs to put together then nice porch swing you bought so you guys can relax on it when it’s nice outside while you’re pregnant and then when the baby is here.

Then, out of what feels like nowhere, it all flips. And now Jack's thinking about how dangerous pregnancy is, about all of the things that could go wrong and happen to you, about how he could lose you.

No.

Nope. Jack refuses to dwell there and feed into it and let it consume any more of his thoughts than it already has. He refuses to let his worries ruin these moments for him.

As soon as you hear the door close behind Parker you start to sit up and move to get out of bed.

"Hey, hey, hey." Jack's quick to get his hands on you, gently holding your upper arms to make sure you don't sway or unceremoniously crash back onto the gurney. "Where are you going? You should stay laying down for now, Sweetheart."

You look at him with the most unserious sternness he's ever seen and raise your eyebrows. "Jack Abbot I am standing up and hugging my husband properly after just learning that I'm carrying his child. That we're having a baby."

A slow smile pulls onto Jack’s face and he laughs, nods at you while you beam back at him. "Guess I can't argue with that."

You giggle at him and Jack helps you stand. You feel okay now, don't really feel particularly lightheaded but you know it makes Jack feel better and you're never going to turn down your husband's touch or his help getting you out of bed.

Once you're out of bed and standing you wrap your arms around each other as tight as you ever have, exchange teary I love yous and hold each other as you revel in the news that you're having a baby, bringing a little piece of your love into the world. You must stand there and hold each other for at least a solid three minutes, if not longer. Neither of you could even begin to guess. Time doesn't feel real right now, doesn't feel like something that even matters. The only things that matter are you, Jack, your love, and your baby.

You nuzzle your nose against Jack's neck, keep the injured side on the outside so you don't bump it. "You'd never let me fall anyway," you murmur against his skin before nibbling at him just because you can.

Jack hums contentedly in agreement, slides a hand down and squeezes your ass in playful retaliation for your nibble. "True. And I'm glad you know it."

You giggle again and pull away from him a little, earning you a noise of discontent until you push your lips out for a kiss. He's quick to lean in and give you one and then a second and a third and you lose count as you alternate kissing and nuzzling your noses carefully and kissing each other's faces.

"Come on." You turn and lower the head of the gurney a little again and then sit on it and scoot to the other edge of it laying on your side, the uninjured side of your head against the pillow. Once you're comfortable you pat the open space. "Get in."

"Baby," Jack starts to drawl in his I don't know about this voice.

"You know you want to." You flick your eyebrows up at him and smirk at him. Really there's a bit too much of an elated smile under it to truly be a smirk, but it doesn't really matter. "It's kind of perfect even if admittedly not ideal. Snuggling in a bed in this room together celebrating our baby and loving on each other… Could you ever have imagined this that day? That this is where we'd be years later?"

"No," Jack shakes his head, walks up to the edge of the bed. "You're right though, I suppose. It is pretty perfect to cuddle and celebrate our baby here where we started."

"I mean if you want to be technical it started in the middle of a crosswalk at Lockhart and Cedar," your smirk grows a little stronger, though just as affectionate.

Jack rolls his eyes at you playfully as he carefully climbs into bed and intertwines your legs as much as possible, wraps his top arm around you and pulls you close against him. "I love you. More than you will ever know and than I will ever know what to do with."

"Good job, really, isn't it?" you wink at him. "I love you that much too Jack. I really fucking do and I thank the universe every day for bringing us together and I am so, so excited to be having your baby and doing this with you."

Jack's eyes grow glassy again, but the tears you can see line his eyes don't fall. "I'm so excited too, Baby, and believe me when I tell you I thank the universe for you constantly. That's why I was so fucked up about you being here earlier.”

"I know," you murmur, rubbing your hand up and down his back before settling it in the middle of his back and scratching gently, opening and closing your hand to run your nails over his shirt.

You and Jack lay in your hospital gurney like that while you wait for Parker to bring in your discharge papers so you can leave. You hold each other and talk about the baby, wonder together about whether they'll be a boy or a girl and discuss whether you want to find out and if so how, propose baby names to each other, discuss how to tell everyone and dream out loud about them and who they'll be and what their personality will be like and who they'll look like the most. You hope it's Jack. Jack hopes it’s you.

After a brief, comfortable silence you smile at Jack a little wider. "You know, I think your favorite room just became even better."

"It sure fucking did, Baby," Jack smiles boyishly at you, nodding.

You share a few more kisses, Jack's hand running up and down your back as you bask in each other's presence and the news and your love for each other. 

You do some mental math and think back and realize that just around the time of conception, Jack switched shifts with Shen to cover for him. When you realized that meant you had the weekend off together, you and Jack spur of the moment decided Friday right after you got off work that if you could find an available lakeside cabin in Erie for Friday and Saturday nights it was meant to be, and you’d go on a quick little relaxing trip. You’d found a beautiful cabin, one that shouldn’t have been available, a last minute cancellation freeing it up for you. One that both you and Jack dreamed of taking your kid or kids to and maybe even owning one day. 

You grin at Jack, flick your eyebrows up at him. "I guess that lakeside cabin in Erie really was meant to be."

Jack puts it together immediately and laughs before leaning in to kiss you. "Yeah, I guess it was."

I hope it was okay and you enjoyed! I adore him and his worrying ways and imperfections. 😭 Thank you for all of your support and for reading, it means so much to me and I truly appreciate it and you! ♥️

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[postsatthepeakofperfection]

The word you are looking for is “selfish.” Not narcissist, not sociopath, selfish.

[miggylol]

[yujateaandpi]

Shoutout to all the educators who inspire us to love the world even more.

[monsterboyjunction]

Saw a post and decided to fix it ^^

[weevilwoodpecker]

i always reblog pro wasp propaganda to spite my phobia

[the-haiku-bot]

i always reblog

pro wasp propaganda to

spite my phobia

Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.

[twiggy-boy]

"what is this BABY doing in space!???"

-Rocky, probably

[drawnsnake]

I cried watching Project Hail Mary btw

[mtsodie]

genuinely so obsessed with this twitter post

[moodyabbott]

the townhouse on the corner

jack x shy!reader | find part two here | mdni

—

first time she pointed out the townhouse, jack didn't think much of it. he hummed in response, holding onto her smaller hand even tighter as a biker was passing them on the sidewalk.

they were walking back from their favorite coffee shop, paper cups warming their hands against the chilly pittsburgh morning.

she'd stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, staring across the street with that dreamy look she got whenever something captured her attention.

"ugh.” she swooned. “that's my favorite house," she'd said.

jack had followed her gaze.

it was a beautiful townhouse. it was about three stories of brick and black shutters with overflowing flower boxes beneath the windows. it was elegant without being flashy. it was lived-in without looking old.

he'd hummed his acknowledgment and continued walking.

that should have been the end of it.

but it wasn't.

because the next week she pointed it out again.

and the week after that… and the one after.

soon it became part of their routine.

coffee, pastries, the townhouse.

every single saturday morning and every single time they passed it, her pace slowed.

sometimes she'd admire the little balcony on the second floor, or the iron railings, even the huge windows that flooded the interior with sunlight. and other times she would just smile at it quietly before continuing down the block.

jack never teased her about it.

he just listened the way he always listened.

collecting and gathering every detail she offered without her realizing it.

it was like he was storing them away somewhere safe.

—

months later, she was standing in front of the pastry display at the coffee shop when jack casually mentioned the open house.

she looked up immediately.

"what.. really?" she said in disbelief. “i didn’t see a sign, though. are you sure?” she said in the middle of taking a bite of her banana loaf.

"yeah they’re showing the townhouse today.” he repeated with that signature sideways smile. “it’s a private showing.” he shrugged.

the excitement that lit her face was instant and for a moment, jack almost felt guilty because she had absolutely no idea…

when they arrived, the house was somehow even more beautiful inside.

sunlight spilled through oversized windows, warming polished hardwood floors and pale walls.

the entire place felt bright, open and comfortable.

it was a place that people built lives together and they could feel the warmth of a loved and cherished home.

jack spent most of the tour watching her instead of the house.

watching her wander into every room with wide eyes, watching her run her fingertips along the bathroom countertops.

watching her stand in front of windows and imagine things.

he knew she was imagining things because she'd always done that. her imagination was everything that made her into the dreamer that she was.

even in their tiny conversations, or while walking down the street.

she saw dreams everywhere and a beautifully bright future in every empty space.

"this kitchen is incredible." she mused, as she rounded the kitchen island and peered out the windows that rested right above the kitchen sink.

her voice echoed softly through the room as jack leaned against the doorway.

her shoulders sank as she peered into the lush backyard garden.

"It is." he said as he watched her in quiet awe.

she moved toward one of the windows, sunlight caught her hair. the sight of her standing there nearly stole the breath from his lungs.

because she looked like she belonged there.. with him. he nearly groaned at the sight of her. her hair falling behind her shoulders while she playfully pretended to wash the dishes.

he smiled wildly as she looked behind her at him and wiggled her eyebrows, causing them both to giggle.

it looked like she wasn’t visiting.

or imagining.

she was just belonging.

as if the house had been waiting for her this whole entire time.

the realtor eventually left them alone to explore.

that was when the trouble started.

because the more she saw, the more she fell in love with it.

and the more she fell in love with it, the more impossible it became for her to hide her disappointment.

by the time they reached the living room again, she was trying very hard to be realistic.

jack knew that look it was the one where she talked herself out of wanting something.

“it's okay," she said softly.

nobody had even asked a question.

jack raised an eyebrow as she laughed a little sadly.

"this place is just..." her gaze drifted toward the windows.

the fireplace.

the staircase.

everything.

"it's perfect." she hummed as jack placed his hand on the back of her small back. her words came out as barely more than a whisper as she looked up at him.

jack felt something squeeze painfully inside his chest.

because she wasn't being dramatic.

or materialistic, or unrealistic, she just genuinely loved this place.

the same way she loved old bookstores and small coffee shops and rainy afternoons cuddled with a good book.

she loved things completely, with her whole heart.

"a girl can dream, right?" she said softly to him. her smile small.

jack stared at her for a long moment— long enough that she did a double take when she wanted to pull him out and go back home.

"w-what?" she looked at him in confusion.

his hands slipped into his pockets, a nervous habit which was one she rarely ever saw.

then he nodded toward the room around them.

"good thing you don't have to." he nodded earnestly.

confusion flickered across her face. she laughed his name, "what are you talking about?"

"you don't have to dream about it, baby."

the silence that followed stretched before he finally said it.

"i bought it."

she blinked…once…twice.

the words clearly didn't fully register and he wanted to kiss her stupid as she gave him a look of pure confusion.

"i bought the townhouse, baby.” he said stalking closer to her, his shoes echoing throughout the room.

still nothing.

her mouth opened slightly.

closed it.

opened again.

jack fought back a smile because for someone so smart, she looked completely lost.

"you..." her voice disappeared.

jack nodded trying to get it out of her.

"i bought it." he said cocooning her into his arms as if to block her away from the rest of the world.

another heartbeat passed.

then another.

finally her eyes widened.

not a little.

a lot.

the kind of realization that arrives all at once. it was sudden and overwhelming and her heart was beating so fast she could have sworn that he could hear it.

"f-for us?" the question cracked in the middle.

jack's expression softened immediately.

"yeah." his voice was gentle, “so we can have somewhere that's ours."

the tears arrived instantly.

jack sighed.

because of course they did.

she slapped both hands over her face.

which somehow made it worse.

"sweetheart—"

"you bought me a house?”

his laugh filled the room. "i bought us a house."

"a whole house, jack."

"technically it's a townhouse." he teased causing her to let out a watery laugh.

then immediately started crying harder.

“i want you to decorate it however you want and i’m gonna help you.” he said softly, moving her hair behind her shoulders as she looked up at him. “we’re gonna make it ours.”

the next thing jack knew, she was throwing her arms around his neck as he wrapped his strong arms around her small frame.

of course he caught her automatically.

strong freckled arms wrapping around her waist as she buried her face against his chest.

the familiar scent of coffee and aftershave surrounded her instantly.

safe, comforting, home.

kack rested his chin on top of her head, holding her tightly. neither of them spoke for a while.

they just stood there in the middle of their future living room as the sunlight poured in around them.

the house quiet and waiting.

finally she tilted her head back enough to look at him.

her eyes were red and her cheeks damp.

beautiful.

"you remembered." the words were tiny they made jack frown.

"remembered what?" he wanted to know, as he wiped his thumb against her wet cheeks.

she laughed softly. "the windows."

his expression immediately melted because of course that's what she was talking about.

not the price, or the size and not even the investment of it all.

the windows.

the thing she'd mentioned months ago during a random walk.

"the balcony." her voice trembled.

"the flower boxes."

jack brushed his thumb against her bottom lip as it quivered.

"i remember everything you tell me." he mused.

and judging by the way her face crumpled, that might have been the most emotional thing he'd said all day.

—

later, after the realtor returned and paperwork was discussed and the reality of it all slowly settled around them, they found themselves standing on the little front patio.

the one she'd always admired and pointed out dozens of times.

jack handed her the key, simple and unassuming. yet somehow heavier than anything she'd ever held before.

she stared at it in her palm, then up at him, then back at the house.

their house. their future.

their home.

jack leaned down and kissed her forehead softly before giving her the smile that destroyed her every single time because it was the kind of smile he reserved only for her.

"what do you say we go back and start to unpack" he hummed.

and this time, when she looked at the townhouse, she didn't have to imagine anymore.

because it was already hers.

[theartofmadeline]

happy pride to the gay people in my computer <3

[shamebats]

"it's just stress" oh thank god, it's just the silent killer that slowly kills you, perfectly harmless, no need to worry

[poltergeist-404]

Based on this tweet!

[sharkfiinn]

whatever go my little rainbow weird kid rock

[crowdedimagines]

Home Front

Aaron Hotchner x reader

Summary: You have been Aaron Hotchner's nanny, taking care of Jack, for over a year when someone looking for revenge breaks into the house while Aaron is away on a case. 5.3 K nanny!reader Warnings: break in, attack, stalking, blood, violence

-

Most days being Aaron Hotchner’s nanny were simple. Get Jack to school, using the occasional cereal bribery. Make sure all of his homework was done and in his backpack. Keep the house from looking like Aaron wasn’t actually gone half the month for cases. Answer the occasional late night call while he’s away so he can hear about his son’s day. 

You had taken over the guest room, half of your apartment has made its way over at this point. Any time Aaron was pulled away on a case you would stay at the house. It helped Jack have as normal of a routine as possible. Aaron would deny it if anyone asked, but he liked seeing your things around the house. 

You’ve been with them for just over a year now. It only took a few months for it to feel a lot less like work and dangerously close to home. The two Hotchner men had quickly taken over your world and you wouldn’t change a thing. 

Jack liked you right away. Somewhere between the dramatic lightsaber battle and the joke about transformers and he was sold. 

Aaron, on the other hand, had taken longer. He was always polite and respectful, but he was also rigid. He moved like he was always bracing for impact. He trusted carefully in measured doses, and time and time again you proved yourself. 

“You’re still awake.” His voice comes through right after you hit answer. 

You smile and bite back the yawn you’ve been fighting. 

“So are you.” You comment, “That’s not good.” 

“No, it isn’t.” 

“You’re profiling a serial killer, and I’m trying to profile whether Jack actually brushed his teeth or not.” 

He lets out an exhale that is as close to a laugh as you can get while he’s on a case. You know there’s a small smile with it too. 

“Something like that.” 

“Jack informed me when you get back he needs you to know dinosaurs would definitely beat sharks in a fight.” 

He hums, “So he came to a conclusion?”

“He said sharks lose because they can’t climb stairs.” 

“Solid logic.” 

You snort out a laugh. 

“Thank you.” He says softly after your laughter has slowed. 

“For what?” You ask. 

“For this. For being there.” 

Your chest tightens in the way it always did when Aaron let the walls slip a little. 

“You don’t have to thank me, Aaron.” 

A pause. 

“I know.” 

You hear a soft unmistakable click of the back door in the kitchen. You straighten instantly, sucking in a breath of air. Aaron notices the change immediately. 

“What is it?” 

You slowly stand from the couch and take quiet steps back towards the stairs. 

“I-I think someone’s in the house.” You whisper. 

Silence. 

Aaron breaks it with no trace of softness left. 

“Y/n, get to Jack and lock yourselves in his room. Right now.” 

You grip the phone tighter in your hand, your heart racing. Your instincts are screaming at you, but part of you wonders if you really heard it. Did your mind make it up? The house has been silent ever since. 

“I-” You hesitate. 

“No,” His voice turning sharp before you can hear him shout to someone close by, “Garcia get the police to my house immediately. Someone’s in the house and Y/n and Jack are there.”

Your eyes are laser focused on the kitchen, taking a half step back toward the stairs. Then a shadow moves and your stomach drops. 

“Aaron-” 

A man lunges forward and you race for the stairs. You make it up the first three before his hand catches your shoulder. It sends the phone clattering against the hardwood floor. 

Aaron is hundreds of miles away, forced to listen. The sound of the phone hitting the floor echoes like a gunshot. 

“Y/n!” Aaron shouts your name, pacing the conference room of the Tennessee police department. Against his true desires, he puts it on speaker so the rest of the team can hear this and understand what’s going on. 

His voice tears through the line, but it’s useless and frantic. He could hear everything. Furniture scraping violently against the hardwood. Your cries and sharp gasps. The sickening sound of someone being thrown down on the stairs. Aaron’s entire body went cold. 

“Garcia, how far away is the unit?” Aaron asks, clutching the table in front of him. The sounds just continue to go on. 

“I’m on it, I’m on it!” She stutters, clearly distracted by the other phone on the line, “The closest patrol is three minutes away.” 

Might as well be three hours away. 

Aaron could still hear you fighting. 

“Get the hell off of me!” You shout, the unsub snarls something the phone doesn’t quite pick up. 

Then suddenly footsteps running upstairs. 

“No!” You shout. 

Because Jack is upstairs. You knew it and he knew it too. Everyone can hear the pure desperation in the way you shout. There’s more crashing, following by the awful sound of bodies colliding. You manage to throw yourself at him, taking both of you down to the bottom of the stairs. 

Aaron’s grip on the table grows so tight his knuckles start to burn. He could hear the sharp cry when the unsub yanked you back down to the floor hard enough to make JJ physically flinch. But you’re fighting like hell, kicking and scratching, anything purely for survival at this point. 

A small voice from far away calls out. 

“Y/n?” 

Everything stopped. 

You look up to the top of the stairs and see Jack standing there in his pajamas. He has one hand on the bannister, but his eyes widen with fear when he sees the reality of what’s going on. 

“Jack!” You cry, “Hide! Run!”

Your voice is clear and cuts through the chaos like a whip. 

“Now!” 

Aaron could hear the shift. The moment you started to fight harder, you could feel it too. The fear was gone, now you’re running off of protective fury. A sharp kick connects hard enough for the unsub to curse loudly and roll over onto his side on the floor. 

You pull yourself toward the stairs, managing to stand after using the railing for leverage. The unsub groans, slowly rising from the floor. You try to move faster, but he drags you back down again. You scream again but never stop fighting. 

Sudden sirens take over the neighborhood. Loud and close, the bright red and blue lights shining in the living room windows. The unsub freezes. He shoves you back again, hard, before taking off for the kitchen and you hear the back door again.

You crawl up the stairs to where Jack is hiding somewhere. 

“Jack?” You call, “It’s okay! He’s gone, the police are here.” 

Your voice is shaking now, pain starting to catch up to the adrenaline. Small footsteps bound down the hall, you sit on the top step unable to move any closer. You hold your arms open for him and he collapses into you instantly. 

“It’s okay, I’m here.” You sigh, running your hand over the back of his head, “We’re okay.” 

You repeat it over and over until the police break down the front door.

“They’re safe, Hotch.” Morgan places a cautious hand on his shoulder. 

Aaron can’t answer. He can’t answer because you’re hundreds of miles away, helpless and terrified, and all he could do was listen. Again. 

-

The jet was silent. It was heavy in a way that only happened when something was personal. This was a direct attack in Aaron’s home against you and his son. 

“Garcia said the officers think the unsub knew the house layout.” 

Hotch stares straight ahead. 

“He did.”

He didn’t need the officer's report to know that. 

“He knew where the backdoor was and he moved like he had been there before. He went upstairs.”

Toward Jack. No one said it, no one had to. 

Rossi leans closer, “We’ll find him.”

Hotch gives him one short nod, but his expression remains the same. 

The unsub isn’t the only thing weighing on his mind, he can’t get over the guilt pulling at this throat. Heavy and sharp. He heard it all happen, he listened to you fight for his son while he was useless. And you had nearly been killed because of it. 

The jet landed just after dawn and no one bothered with going home, they just went straight to the hospital. Garcia had already texted that she was in the waiting room and would stay until they got there. 

She jumps up from her chair when she sees them walking together down the hall and walks straight up to Hotch. 

“She has a dislocated shoulder, bruised ribs, stitches along her hairline, and enough bruising to make everyone working this floor visibly wince when they leave her room.” Penelope spits the words out quickly, Aaron’s face remaining the same. 

They slow as they approach your room, through the open door they can all see you. You’re asleep and carefully propped against white pillows. Bruises in ugly shades of purple and blue litter you, with one arm secured in a sling. The other arm is wrapped around Jack and resting on his back. He’s tucked against your side, out cold. 

Morgan swore quietly under his breath and JJ had to look away. Rossi, who has seen enough violence for ten lifetimes, stood there without speaking.

It was undeniable and written all over your body that you had but yourself between danger and Jack without hesitation and fought like hell. Aaron stood in the doorway like the air had been knocked out of him. 

Rossi gives him one firm nod before stepping back, “We’ve got the rest. Go be here.”

Aaron stepped into the room alone, shutting the door halfway. For a long moment he just stood there and watched the two of you taking steady breaths. He pulls a chair close to your bedside, sitting carefully like a sudden moment would have you both jump. Maybe it would. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes where he just enjoys the consistent sound of your breathing. Long enough that he notices the second it changes and you shift a little. Your eyes open slowly, heavy with pain medication and exhaustion. 

“Aaron?” Your voice comes out rough. 

He nods first because it takes him a second to trust his own voice. 

“Hi.” 

A small smile curls on the edge of your mouth. 

“You look terrible.”

A surprised laugh escapes him. 

“It's okay, I look terrible too. I think my face scared Jack earlier. But he’s used to having you around, so he managed.”

You try to lighten the mood, anything to ease the deep frown and heaviness all over his face. You’ve seen him after some terrible cases, but you’ve never seen him like this. He looks defeated. 

Silence settles between the two of you. You glance down at Jack, sleeping soundly against your side. 

“He finally crashed a little bit ago. He refused to leave.” 

Aaron looks over his son, then back to you. 

“He stayed because he knew you were safe.”

You swallow.

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes widen with surprise, “For what?”

“For not stopping it sooner, for scaring Jack-”

“Y/n.” He interrupts, his voice cracking. That actually makes you stop. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped tight like he had to physically hold himself together. 

“You have absolutely nothing to apologize for.” He shakes his head, “You protected my son.” 

The next words were lower and less steady. 

“You put yourself between him and a man you knew could kill you, and you're apologizing?”

Tears flood your vision, but you still can’t pull your gaze from Aaron’s. 

“I couldn’t let him get to Jack.” 

“I know.” 

His voice was softer now. 

“I heard it. I heard it all.”

He heard it all. You had forgotten he was on the phone when the stranger broke in, which is likely what saved you. He got police to you within minutes. Everything could have been so different if you hadn’t stayed up waiting for his call. But he had heard it all. The fight. The fear. Jack. 

You lift your hand carefully from Jack’s back and reach out for Aaron to take. He looks at it for a second before using both of his hands to completely envelope yours. He stares at them for a minute while he gathers his thoughts. 

“I was on the other end of that phone listening to someone hurt you, and I couldn’t do anything about it.” 

“Aaron” You start. 

“I’ve only felt that helpless once before, and I never wanted to feel like this again.” 

His hands tighten around yours. 

“Aaron.” Your voice calm, pulling his focus back on you, “You got the police to us in minutes, Jack is okay, and I’m okay. You don’t get to carry blame or guilt over a man choosing to do something horrible.” 

He wants to look away, but he knows he won’t get away with that. Jack shifts, mumbling something in his sleep and both of you instinctively look down at him. The room stays quiet like that for a few minutes before Aaron looks back again. 

There’s something in his expression now that had been there for months but neither of them had dared to touch. It was also part of why you waited for your late night call. They had started as a way for him to say goodnight to his son, but had evolved to at least twenty minutes with you each night. 

“I don’t know what I would do without you.” He admits and your breath catches. 

Aaron Hotchner does not say things he doesn’t mean. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

-

By late afternoon, the hospital had reluctantly signed discharge papers. Aaron was given strict instructions to follow for three different pain medications and that you can’t lift anything heavier than a pillow. Hotch nodded along like he was taking an oath. 

You borrowed extra sweats from Aaron’s emergency overnight bag, and were entirely unimpressed with the mandatory wheelchair escort all the way to the car. The car ride to the house was quiet, Jack hardly making a peep as they got closer to the house. 

Aaron parks in the driveway and from here you can see the caution tape over the door. The wood is splintered where they kicked down the front door to get to you. You don’t make a move to get out of the car and neither does Jack. Aaron turns from the driver’s seat to face you. 

“The two of you wait in the car. I’m gonna run in and get our stuff, we’re not staying here.’

You blink, “We’re not?”

“It’s not safe to stay here until we know who we’re looking for. We’re going to go in to Quantico.”

“The BAU?”

“It’s secure. Garcia’s there and JJ is bringing enough snacks for Jack to qualify as a federal offence. Until we know who did this, I’m not leaving either of you alone. I’m sorry.”

You frown, “Don’t apologize for that.” 

He looks back at Jack and he gives him a thumbs up. Aaron gets out quickly and races inside, it doesn’t take him long to pack go bags for all three of you. 

“I get to see Uncle Reid!” Jack says excitedly. 

“Agent Reid.” Hotch corrects. 

“No,” Jack shakes his head, “Uncle Reid.” 

Aaron sighs, “Apparently I’ve lost control of professional boundaries.” 

You dare a smirk. 

“Long ago.”

For the first time since the attack you see the ghost of a real smile from him. 

The team was waiting when you arrived, Garcia launching herself at you before remembering your injuries. She settles for a cautious hug that you hide a wince for. 

“Oh my god, look at your face!” 

“I’m okay.” You laugh softly. 

Rossi leans in next to press a careful kiss on your cheek, “He’s gonna give you a really good raise after this.”

You laugh and look back at Aaron. You missed it, but Rossi gives Aaron a look behind your back that says ‘you’re in love with your nanny and everyone knows it’. Aaron ignores him with practiced precision. 

They set you up in the conference room with ice packs and coffee, Garcia is watching Jack in Aaron’s office. Everyone is sitting around the table, far from their typical victim interview but this was far from a typical case. 

This was personal. 

The hospital did pull DNA from under your fingernails, but whoever the unsub was, he wasn't in the system so it turned up nothing.

“Start from the beginning. Anything you remember matters, even if it’s small.” Hotch manages to keep his voice steady, staring directly at you. 

You nod slowly, setting down your coffee down on the table. 

“The back door first. The house was quiet, but I heard the click. He knew how to get in without making much noise.” 

Reid starts taking notes. 

“How tall was he?” Morgan asks.

“At least a head taller than me. Strong. He knew exactly where he was going, he didn’t hesitate.” 

You swallow. 

“He never looked around, he moved like he already knew the house.” 

The room fell to a still. Reid’s pen stopped moving and everyone looked up. 

“He was there for Jack.” Aaron states. 

You nod, agreeing with the theory. 

“And for you.” Rossi nods toward you. 

You look at him, “What?”

“People who target families like this aren’t improvising. It’s personal. They want fear, and they want the message to last.” 

“He could’ve killed me if he really wanted to.” You shake your head, “He kept trying for the stairs for Jack-”

“He probably wanted you to be scared.” Morgan clears his throat, “He was getting off on your fear.” 

The stuns you into silence.

Emily sets down her pen, “Did he say anything to you?”

You frown again, “He said…’He should know what it feels like’.” 

Aaron’s jaw tightens instantly because that isn’t random at all. That sounds like revenge, which confirms his biggest fear. Yet again his job is putting the people he cares most about in harm's way. 

-

The team had scattered to run more leads, but you stayed in the conference room. You find yourself standing in front of the evidence board for the case. Crime scene shots, the staircase, the broken bannister. Your blood on the hardwood. The photographs from the hospital that are so clinical and detached you don’t even recognize yourself. 

The woman in the picture looks like someone else. 

“You really shouldn’t do that.” 

You turn and see JJ in the doorway. 

“I know.”

She steps into the room and stands next to you, turning her attention to the same photographs. For a solid minute neither of you speak. Finally, you exhale. 

“It just feels like if I stop trying to remember something that’ll actually help… like he’s winning somehow.” 

JJ nods, “I get that.” 

“I hate that I’m scared of his house. That his house is crime scene photos again.” 

You know that this isn’t the same house he had with Haley, but it’s still been his home with Jack for years now. 

“Y/n, you were attacked. Being scared doesn’t make you weak.” JJ insists. 

“It feels like it does.” 

“No,” Her voice firm now, “what you did was beyond brave. You kept Jack safe and saved yourself.” 

You blink, “I was terrified.” 

“Exactly.” She finally smiles, “And you still did it. Bravery typically looks like that.” 

That hits you harder than you had expected. JJ softens even more when she realizes none of this has done anything to ease your concern. 

“For what it’s worth, Aaron is barely functioning.” She smiles knowingly, “He’s trying very hard to look like Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, but the rest of us have eyes.” 

You let out a warm laugh. 

“He cares about you. A lot, honestly. I think he’s been trying not to for months.” 

Her words make you go completely still, eyes darting to his office on the other side of the room. JJ simply shrugs. 

“We all see the way he looks for you first when he walks in, and the way Jack talks about you. Hotch hasn’t been the same since you came into his life, and I mean that as a good thing.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” You look back at her finally. 

“Because I don’t like wasting time. Or seeing people I care about hurt without each other.” She reaches out a hand carefully for your shoulder before leaving the room. 

Maybe JJ is right. Maybe everyone already knew. 

-

You softly knock on the doorframe before letting yourself into Aaron’s office. He looks up from his desk instantly. You're wearing a spare FBI hoodie, but you're still wearing his sweats that are too long. You look as cozy as you can while wearing an arm sling. 

Jack peeks his eyes open, he had been faking sleep over on the couch for nearly a half an hour. 

“There you are!” He sits up. 

You smile at Hotch before making your way over to him. You sit on the edge of the couch and smooth a hand over his hair, gentle and automatic. Jack shifted so you had more room and he could tuck himself against your side. Within minutes, his breathing slowed. Sleep finally won. 

“He couldn’t sleep without you.” Aaron says softly, unable to take his eyes off the two of you. 

Eventually you look up, daring to meet his gaze. The bullpen is still a blur, but it’s warm and quiet here in the office. Safe. 

“He’s scared you’ll leave again.” 

His eyes dart down to his son. 

“I know.” 

“He doesn’t blame you,” You continue, “he is so proud of what you do. He just knows something bad happened when you were gone.” 

“Again.” He answers, “Something bad happened when I was gone, again. I’m supposed to be the person who keeps him safe.” 

You frown, “You are.”

“I wasn’t there.” 

The guilt is still there. How could he not still feel guilty? Here you are trapped at the FBI for your safety, covered in bruises, and he’s sure you still can’t take a full breath with your ribs.

“You got the police to us immediately and came home.” You offer a teary smile, “He knows you love him so much.” 

“Sometimes that doesn’t feel like enough.” 

You shake your head. 

“It's enough.” You disagree, “And you can’t blame yourself for something some lunatic decided to do.” 

He leans back in his chair, you can finally see the exhaustion that JJ was talking about. He looks tired in a way that sleep can’t even fix. 

“I can’t get it out of my head.” You shake your head, mostly saying it to yourself but Aaron is hanging on every word, “Who is capable of doing that to a family?”

Aaron’s eyes flash with recognition. 

“What?” You question, seeing the idea that just hit him. 

He steps out to the bullpen where the team is still there. You ease yourself carefully off the couch not to wake Jack and lean against the door frame. You watch him go down the steps toward the desks. 

“Garcia, look into Karl Arnold’s recent activity. I want to know everything that has gone on at his prison, any of his visitors, and all of his mail.” 

Morgan’s head snaps up, “The Fox?”

“On it, sir!” She begins rapidly typing on her laptop and you’re just as puzzled as you were thirty seconds ago. 

“Who is Karl Arnold?” You ask, pulling all eyes on you. Everyone hesitates in their answer, save for the youngest member of the team. 

“Karl Arnold killed entire families-”

“Reid.” Emily warns, effectively cutting him off. 

“He fixated on me during the case.” Aaron explains, “Personal resentment and control issues. He blamed law enforcement for his capture.”

“You think it’s connected?” Rossi asks. 

Aaron nods, “The one and only time I’ve seen him since then he was passing along a message for Foyet.” 

Garcia starts typing even faster at this realization. 

“Okay, digging into everyone’s favorite horrifying family annihilator. Prison records, visitor logs, and communications, give me… uh oh.” 

“What?” Aaron stops in his tracks. 

“Karl Arnold has had the same visitor for the past three months. Every Tuesday, his younger brother Daniel Arnold.”

Morgan crosses his arms, and Garcia connects her laptop with the big screen. A large picture of a white man in his mid-forties pops up. Your grip in the doorframe tightens to steady yourself. The second you see the picture, all of the color drains from your face. 

“That’s him.” 

No one moved right away. 

“He wasn’t just sending a message, he was trying to continue the work.” Morgan’s voice is low and careful.

You’re unable to pull your gaze from the screen. The same dark eyes from last night staring right back at you through the screen. 

“If he’s following Karl’s methodology, he was watching the house for weeks.” 

That makes you sick to your stomach, you slowly turn back into Aaron’s office and settle carefully back onto the couch with Jack. You don’t want to hear the rest. 

The bullpen was still moving fast, Garcia discovered Daniel has a storage unit in the area and a rental car that has been reported missing for nearly five weeks. 

“Okay, Mr. Creepy Brother also has a very concerning purchase history including lock picks and burner phones, because apparently subtlety is dead.” Garcia’s typing doesn’t falter for a second. 

Morgan checks his weapon, the rest of the team gearing up. 

“Got an address, mama?” Morgan looks at her. 

“There’s an apartment in Arlington.”

“Split up.” Aaron instructs, “Morgan, JJ, and Reid go to the storage unit. Prentiss and Rossi go to the apartment. Bring Anderson too.” 

He looks over the team one more time. 

“I’m not going.” 

“What?” Garcia blinks. 

Morgan looks up too, surprised. Rossi simply nods and pats his shoulder before walking toward the elevator. Rossi understood first, but the rest were not far behind. Family first. 

"We've got this." Emily nods, following the rest of them out.

The bullpen felt quieter immediately with the team gone and Garcia returning to the lair. You flinch when Aaron opens his office door, not expecting anyone to be here. 

“You’re not going?” You ask softly, glancing down at Jack once more before looking up at Aaron. He doesn’t move back toward his desk, he just takes slow heavy steps and lands in the chair right next to the couch. 

“No.” he sighs, “You were right.”

You frown, “About what?”

He looks down at Jack before coming back to you. 

“You said he’s scared I’ll leave again.” 

“Aaron…”

“I spend so much time trying to protect him by doing that job that sometimes I forget he also needs me to stay.” 

The honesty makes your chest ache. 

“I need to be here when he wakes up.” 

A beat passes while he studies you. You hate that. The advantage he has to every conversation and moment. You’ve gotten good at reading him over the past year, but it was nowhere near his capabilities. 

“You don’t need to be out there with your team?” You question carefully. 

“Everything I need is right there.” He reaches out to take your hand in his. It’s warm. 

“Really?” You smile. 

“Mhm.” He barely cracks a grin. 

“You know, for a profiler, you’re being surprisingly unclear.” 

That actually earned you a quiet laugh. 

“Probably because I’m very aware I’m saying this to the woman who was attacked in my house while protecting my son twenty-four hours ago.” 

You squeeze his hand. 

“Yeah, probably not your smoothest timing.” 

“Definitely not.” 

You look down at Jack again for a second, then back up. 

“I care about him.” 

Aaron nods once. 

“I know.”

“And I care about you.”

It was out there. No taking it back. 

You bite back a nervous smile, “See? Very brave of me. Your turn.”

His thumb starts to stroke back and forth on the back of your hand. You can tell he’s being extremely careful, like it all truly mattered to him. 

“I care about you too,” He swallows, “More than I should have let myself.”

Your breath catches. 

“But I did anyway, and I don’t regret it.” 

“Good.” You whisper. 

“Good.” He agrees. 

You sit up, letting him pull you closer to him. His kiss is soft, still careful but it still feels like relief for both of you. Like coming home. 

A mischievous giggle escapes from behind you on the couch. You both pull away and turn to Jack. He has one eye squinting shut, like he could still be asleep. 

“Hey!” You tease, turning on him to tickle at his sides. 

His giggles start instantly and Aaron is quick to jump up and join in. Jack’s laughs only get louder. 

“Okay! Okay!” Jack sits up, out of breath from his laughter. Aaron sits in the space it opens, all three of you squeezing together.

You’re confident neither of you wanted him to know about this quite yet. Maybe a trial run before letting the eight year old know that they liked each other. 

“I saw you kiss Y/n.” Jack grins. 

“I did.” Aaron admits, eyes checking in on you for a second before focusing back on his son, “What do you think about that?”

“Would you be home more?” Jack turns to look at you. 

You nod, “Yeah, it would be more time with your dad and I both at home. At the same time.” 

He nods eagerly, causing both of you to chuckle. Aaron’s phone rings on his desk, causing all three of you to look at it. He gets up to answer it, pausing for a second before saying ‘Hotchner’. 

He looks up after a few seconds, his eyes narrowing on you. He replies with ‘okay’ several times before ending the call with a ‘Good work. Thanks, Morgan’ and sets the phone back down. He turns to face the two of you. 

“Morgan has Daniel in custody.” 

You let out a breath of relief and it’s visible in your shoulders. You close your eyes briefly, it’s finally over. Aaron comes back to the couch, pulling the two of you closer to him. Jack sits on his lap, and you lean against his side. 

For the first time in days, the danger was gone and there was a new future ahead for each of you. It finally feels like everything really could be okay. 

-

an// ok kind of cheesy ending but you guys why did i lowkey scare myself while writing this LMAO?! I should’ve waited for my roommates to get home… it was 11pm when I was setting up the break in and it had me shaking in my own boots! But seriously I loved writing nanny!reader so I might have to do that again. Please let me know your thoughts!!

[goorgeousz]

about time | aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader summary: it was long since you stopped being just aaron’s plaything, even though he refused to acknowledge it. but everything changes when, after a mass shooting, he almost loses you. content/tw: mass shooting, hostage situation, deaths, r is taken hostage, age gap, situationship (?), criminal minds level of violence, lmk what else, sugarbaby/daddy relationship  (barely mentioned) word count: 4k a/n: based on this request! it always takes me so long to write because my brain is fucking broken and i’m apparently incapable of writing something without giving 1-2k of backstory and i end up taking to damn long to finish... i hope this is good, rn i’m kinda hating myself, ngl. anyways enough with the pity party let’s love and make love! speaking of it, i LOVE you all 💗🪽💗🪽 dividers @uzmacchiato

masterlist

“Did you find something to eat? -A.H”

“barely. idk if 200 dollars will do the trick next time”

“All that sass won’t get you far. -A.H.”

“will it get you to finally admit how crazy you are about me?”

As expected, you didn’t get a text back after that.

Your relationship with Aaron was… not conventional. Late night calls, secret dinner dates, hurried sex, expensive gifts and no space for emotional connection.

At least, that’s how he would describe it. He was a busy man, almost twice your age and a big job with even bigger responsibilities than your younger-aged mind couldn’t handle yet – his words.

You saw right through him. He was indeed a busy man, and the age gap wasn’t something one could argue. But his job and responsibilities had absolutely nothing to do with his emotional unavailability. Instead, it had everything to do with him being scared.

Being scared of what it would mean to be in love, to care about someone like that again. It was a kind of fear that only someone who’s had that kind of happiness once just for it to be taken out of them could understand. He couldn’t let himself fall for it again. It was a bait, a trick. A mousetrap from the universe to check if he would dare to be happy again.

Spoiler alert: he wouldn’t.

Sometimes you would feel him getting too interested in what you had to say. Laughing about your jokes. Asking about things you mentioned once and thought he would bother to remember — like the hanging the last episode of your favorite tv show left you on, or that one friend who kept throwing passive-aggressive comments at you and you swore you’d do something about it.

You’d see the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t seeing. You’d feel the feather-like kisses he gave you when he thought you were asleep. You’d hear the words that he so stubbornly refused to let slip out of his mouth. He’s the profiler, true, but you’re not blind.

For that reason you tried, subtly at first, to get him to admit how he truly felt about you. But he always got impatient about not understanding your hints, and discretion was never one of your qualities. Then, you moved to being blunt. Just straight up calling him out, demanding an explanation. That ended up being worse, with him always panicking and leaving you alone, ghosting your texts and declining your calls until you ended up knocking on his door, wearing nothing but a trench coat and ready to take whatever breadcrumb he was willing to give.

So, you settled on a – not so – happy medium, giving him space to swallow his feelings, but always letting him know you wouldn’t be okay with this forever. Usually with a flirty text, or a mock threat, and sometimes even with half-hearted jokes. To which he’d always react with a huff and a roll of his eyes, – and if he was feeling particularly happy, a chuckle.

That morning was one of them. The two of you slept through his first alarm, only getting up too late for him to cook you breakfast – which he insisted had nothing to do with love, just good mannerisms. So, as he dropped you to your campus on his way to Quantico, he slipped two folded dollar bills on your bag as you gave him a goodbye-blowjob right at the library parking lot, and warned you to get something to eat.

Only when you were at the cafeteria across the street did you notice that they were one-hundred-dollar bills each, and you made sure to spend it, just how he’d like.

Trying to stop the twitch of his lips as he read your texts, even though no one was watching him, he put away his phone before he got too distracted by your words, and focused solemnly at the massive stock of reports on his desk.

The next time Aaron looked up from the papers was when Garcia straight up barged into his office, leading him to stop whatever he was doing and look at her. His colleague had a tendency to drama, but she would never barge in like that if it wasn't serious, he knew that. If that wasn’t enough of a tell, the horrified look on her face sure enough did the trick.

“Garcia.”

“Sir, mass shooting. It just happened. Hostage situation, right now. We need to–” he held his hand, already standing up and walking closer to her, gripping her shoulders and just then he noticed they were shaking.

“Penelope, breathe.” he ordered, urging her to calm down in that authoritative tone of his that always gets things done. As a proof, Garcia nodded, breathing slowly until her words stopped sounding slurred. “Where was it?” 

“George Washington, at the lecture hall. There are 2 dead there we know of, but no one knows precisely since the building is on lockdown…” and it feels like everything else is on mute, because Garcia said the words.

George Washington, where he got his degree from. To where he was called to give a speech for the students a few months ago. Where he met you. Where he dropped you off this morning. 

Where he was going to lose you.

On autopilot he walked away from his office, Penelope trailing right behind him debriefing the case.

“I want all the team there, get the cars ready. We leave in ten. You debrief the rest of them on the ride.” he snaps, not giving space to complaints. 

During all seven minutes in which he took off his suit jacket and adjusted the velcro in his kevlar vest, he’s trying to call your phone. Touching your name shining in his screen and placing it on speaker, watching as the selfie you chose for your contact – against his will – blinks until the call falls.

He repeats the cycle all the way down the elevators, his scowl and the death grip he has on his phone being as effective as a shining outdoor in neon letters with a “stay away!” written in capital letters.

As the infamous beeps of his call not being picked up ring in his ear, he tries to calm himself down. He thinks you probably wouldn’t be there. The campus is huge, there was a high chance you weren’t there, exactly. You’d probably be in class right now, with your phone on silent. Maybe you're not in class, but just ignoring his calls as a way of punishing him for not admitting his feelings. 

After not having any of his calls answered, while he’s on the passenger seat coordinating with other units, his mind wonders. 

Then, he tries to negotiate. If you’re not there, he will admit. If you’re just messing with him and call him back in five minutes, he will give you a tiny lecture, but then will confess his feelings. He swears, he promises, he begs. Nonetheless, you don’t call back.

“What do you got?” Aaron asks the chief of the precinct who first got there, as soon as he gets within earshot. The man held out his hands, introducing himself with a polite nod. “Hothcner. How many dead?” he snaps, clearly not wanting to waste time. Behind him, Reid and Morgan exchange a hesitant look.

The captain stops for just a second, but soon is walking him to the FBI equipped van “Witness counted 5 deaths. We heard other shots since they locked themselves. We were only able to identify 3 of the bodies. 1 of them was sent to the Coroner's office.”

“The rest?” Morgan asked. He stops on his tracks, facing each of the members of the BAU with a dark expression.

“Still in there.”

“The other two.” Reid asks “Do we have their name?”

“Over there.” he points to another van “They’re talking to the witness too.”

Before the officer manages to get the words out, Hotch is already heading to said van. There were too many people. More than 30 students, about 15 employees. Professors and cleaning staff. None of them were you.

“We don’t have the time to speak to all of them.” JJ said, sighing. Hotch frowns, his eyes scanning them.

“We have to.” he says dryly, moving to coordinate the officers in order to get as many depositions as possible, instructing them to go directly at him if they have information that could help build the profile.

Time was flying by, but they got something. One of the witnesses, the only one who managed to get out of the lecture hall before they locked themselves out, saw it. Two shooters, covered up and down. One of them was taller, broader. The other was smaller, thinner and curvier. They thought it was a girl, but that was just guess work.

More than ten of the witnesses agreed that the taller unsub was the head of the operation. They were armed to their teeth, backpacks and machine-guns, two each. None of them saw their faces which was a good sign – As good as something could be in this situation.

If they didn’t want to be seen, they wanted to escape. If they wanted to escape, they needed to negotiate. And if they wanted to negotiate, it was just a matter of time for them to make contact.

Then, they waited.

For a lack of a better word, it was torture.

Aaron felt his limbs go numb, he was close to getting tendinitis from the position of his thumb, hovering over your contact, calling from time to time just to see if you’d pick up. He hoped you’d wake up from a nap, hoarse and amused voice calling him a psychopath for all the missed calls, and would tease him at how obsessed he was. This time, he would agree.

But it never happened, and every time his call went to voicemail, he got even more bitter.

It was safe to say, no one on the team was immune to his snapping. From being ignored and interrupted to straight up yelled at, Emily was the one who stepped up to say something first.

“Hotch, what’s going on?”

“You don’t get it.” he said bluntly, his eyes glued to the last shots of the surveillance camera before the unsubs cut the power of the building.

“Yeah, we do. It’s our…”

“No. No, you don’t.” he snaps at Morgan this time, turning to see the confused and exasperated face of the team, eyeing him like he was a maniac. They were probably right.

Before any of them could say anything, the phone started ringing. Not his, the one from their van. The FBI one, from the number they gave the unsubs through the megaphone from outside.

Everyone rushed there, Garcia ready to trace it and try to get their name.

Hotch was the one who picked it up.

“Hey, there.” the unsub started, his voice syrupy from the other end of the line.

“Aaron Hotchner, I’m with the FBI.” he started, his voice much calmer than he truly was.

“Hmm, fancy.” the unsub mocked “Who else is over there?”

He glanced at the other members, watching if they were paying attention too “SWAT, HRT.”

They giggled “Oh, wow. And the media?”

Hotch sighed “Yes, on live. You have some people there with you, right? Want to let them go, so we can solve this racionally?” he offered, his voice soft and polite.

“Not really, no.” the unsub hummed, his voice carefree. Hotch bit the inside of his cheek to keep the composure.

“They’re innocent people. We shouldn’t let them get hurt, don’t you think?” he tried again. From the other line, they clicked their teeth.

“Not innocent, but I suppose I understand why you’d think that.”

Hotch’s ear perked up, immediately analysing their words “I don’t have all the facts. Why don’t you tell me?”.

“You’re right, you don’t.” the unsub snapped “So don’t get in my way.”

“I can’t do that.” he answered matter-of-factly.

“Worth a try.” the unsub chuckled “I want to negotiate. Is that the correct word? Just kidding, I know it is.”

“Perfect, let’s negotiate.”

“I want to leave, and I don’t want anyone following me. I want you to send all those fancy officers home, and I want to live.”

“That’s understandable.” he hums, trying to sound as open as possible “But I need you to release those hostages.”

“Do you think I’m dumb?” they yelled, and Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes in fear.

“Worth a try.” he muttered, and the call went quiet. Aaron looks at the team, confused. Just before he speaks again, he hears something. A laugh. A loud, humorous laugh.

“You quoted me, man. You’re funny. I fuck with you.”

Aaron’s eyebrows are arched so high they’re almost reaching his hairline.

“Since I like you so much, I’ll tell you what. Make another offer, a reasonable one. And I’ll hear it.”

“Give me the name of the ones you killed. And give me proof the rest of them are alive.”

“Hm.” quiet again “Counter offer, I tell you how many were killed and then, I’ll give you a proof of life.”

A minute passes with the call on mute. Garcia traced it, it’s one of the hostage’s phones. One of the witnesses recalls seeing them.

“Agent Hotchner.” a voice sings, and Hotch unmutes the call. Dozens of people surround him, trying to listen to the information closely.

“I’m right here.”

“So, before anything, do you want to take a guess?”

“Not really.” Hotch says between gritted teeth, patience hanging by a thread. The unsub laughs, again. “Fine by me. Here we go: we have 7 casualties.”

The room stands still, looking at each other. It’s more than what they thought. If anyone saw Hotch’s fingers starting to shake, no one made a comment.

“Now the other part.” Hotch says quietly.

“Fine.” the unsub says, and they hear a few thuds, something falling and a loud cry. Aaron wants to interrupt, but he knows better.

“H-Hi. I’m Meghan.” a lady says between sobs, and she sounds young.

“Meghan, I’m Aaron Hotchner. I’m with the FBI. You’re going to be okay.”

“I’m scared. Please, hurry.”

“Meghan, listen. This is really important, do you recognize them?” he urges, controlling his voice to sound reassurance.

“Time’s up!” the previous voice sounds from afar, and the next thing they hear is the sound of shooting, and for what Hotch could count, they emptied their clip. “That was number 8.” the unsub speaks, clearly amused.

“How is that proof of life?” Aaron snapped, not caring if he sounded angry.

“Can’t you hear it?” they asked, and only then he paid attention: echoing through the call there were cries, sobs, screaming. He couldn’t count how many people, but a good amount.

“Every 5 minutes you deny what I want, I’ll shoot another one. Toodle-oo.”

And it was then, right before the call ended, that he heard it.

It was muffled, distant, but for him it was clear as the day: your voice. Even through the robotic sound of the phone call, he would be able to recognize you. At first he thought it was his name, a cry for help. But it was only when the call was hung up that he managed to figure it out.

“Ethan, don’t!” 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It took them little to no time to realize that Ehan was the unsub, not a hostage. Garcia runs his name and records, finding out he was kicked out of college for assaulting students. He was in one of your classes, and if he were still a student, he would’ve been in that lecture hall as well. Though in the end it didn’t really matter, because he ended up there anyway.

The other unsub was girlfriend, Keira, and they refer to each other as partners in crime. She felt her boyfriend’s expulsion personally, and by breaking into their private chats, Penelope read that they planned to take revenge on everyone who contributed to it. Which, by their means, meant everyone who didn’t help Ethan.

Ethan had violent and narcissistic traits, including sex crimes records. Keira, on the other hand,  matched the profile by her devoted submission to Ethan, aggressive posts on social media  and the  fact that, growing up, she was the main suspect of the mysterious deaths of the pets in her neighborhood. It wasn’t confirmed, but she moved out shortly after that.

“We have to make them turn against each other.” JJ asked. The team gathered to discuss their plan quickly, not wanting to dare to have more deaths.

“There’s something wrong.” Reid said, interrupting them.

“What is it?”

“She recognized them, Hotch.” he said, quietly. “She saw their faces. You know what that means.”

He did know.

With a shaky breath, he answered “We’ve dealt with that before.”

“Let me talk to them. One last time.”

“Reid…” Rossi warned. They all catched on: Hotch knew you. But under those circumstances, no one dared to ask him the nature of your relationship. Spencer and David exchanged a glance, silently weighing their risks. It could make things worse, but right now there wasn’t another scenario. Especially with the minutes passing, sooner or later the number of deaths would rise.

“Hotch.” Reid insisted, firmly this time. Aaron was helpless, and his eyes showed it as he looked at the youngest member, trying to see a hint of uncertainty. Not finding any of it – or at least not enough for him to be untrustworthy –, he agreed with a sharp nod.

They gathered around the phone, and dialed the same phone number that called them. The phone rang only about 3 times before a voice answered.

“Just in time.” Ethan said, his voice condescending “Want to hear number 9?”

 “No.” Reid said bluntly, looking Hotch in the eyes “The coast is clear, you can leave now. Leave the hostages there, don’t kill anyone else.” he spat fastly. The whole team widened their eyes, confusedly murmuring. Reid held his fingers high, warning them to listen.

On the other end of the line, Ethan panicked. He stuttered, sighed, and tried to play it off. Before anything else could happen, Spencer turned off the call, rising to his feet in a minute.

“It was a trap, they’re not planning on escaping.” he explained, moving with the team on his tail closer to the school.

After that it all happened fast, they coordinated with SWAT to burst into the building, the snipers on spot ready to shoot them. They’ve seen it before, something like that. The unsubs didn’t actually consider surrendering. The negotiating was nothing more than a strategy, to win time and to play with the authorities. To give them a sense of power, just to rip it off their hands.

They offered exchanging the hostages for their freedom, knowing no one would give them that. They would kill them all, and it would be the authorities fault. Contributory negligence.

Getting the unsubs by surprise, they managed to eliminate them without any other casualties. Reid’s theory proved right after they barged in. Almost 40 alive, 12 dead. They lied, planning to kill all of the hostages before the police came in.

Aaron wasn’t looking at any of them.

He scanned the crowd quickly, it took him less than 5 seconds to analyse the scene, to count the bodies laying on the ground. His subconscious registered the whole picture, but he was only looking for you. Amongst their faces of fear, the amount of people crumpled on the small stage, like a horror play you were all part of. He wasn’t ready to look for your body, not yet.

It took you little to no time to stand out, your face pale and your eyes blank, whole body in shock as you made your way out of the hostages piled up. He saw you walking, his legs working faster than everything else, making their way to find you.

The second you heard his voice calling your name, it was like you were taken out of a trance, blinking confusedly and only having time to look him in the eyes before your body crashed against his. Hotch wrapped your arms around you, his whole torso covering you up like a human blanket. His hands were on your head, your shoulders, your face.

You had blood all over your face, but it wasn’t yours. He held you in his arms, kissing your temples and shutting his eyes close as he felt your body shaking as you sobbed. He hated that he was hearing you cry, but he loved that he was hearing you at all.

Unfortunately, as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t just stand there in the middle of everything, hugging you close until all the panic left his body. He was on duty, after all.

But there was no way he would just leave you by yourself too. Instead, he helped the victims, guiding them out and taking them to paramedics. He coordinated the officers, the forensic team and the other FBI members at the scene. All that with you right under his arm, shielding you against everything and everyone. 

The only time Aaron let go of you, was for the paramedics to check out on you. And even then, he didn’t leave your side.

After all the rush eased down, and all of the more injured victims were taken to hospitals, Rossi walked by, giving you a sympathetic look before patting Hotch on the shoulder.

“I got this. Go rest.”

Just another proof of how shaken he was, Aaron just nodded thankfully, agreeing without a fight to let things go for the night. He glanced at his team, making sure they were okay. Apart from the teasing glances, they seemed happy and relieved. With a small smile, he waved at them, turning his attention back to you and only you.

As the sun began to set, the headlights of the police cars and the streets shone against your face, and he frowned at the dried blood on the left side of your face.

“I thought I was going to lose you.” he said quietly, wiping your forehead with a piece of wet cloth from the van.

“Almost.” you tried to joke, but your voice sounded weak and wobbly. He gulped, his eyes solemnly focused on getting you cleaned.

“You took a serious risk by yelling his name.”

“I thought it was going to help.”

“You shouldn’t have.” he scolded.

“Did it help?”

“Yes.” he answered, because he realized that you needed to hear it. And because it was true “But don’t ever do that again.”

“I don’t plan to.” you joke again. Again, it doesn’t land.

“Why didn’t they shoot you?” he asked, this time quieter than the others, and looking you straight in the eye.

“He was going to, I was the next. You got there first. You saved me, Aaron.” you explained. Aaron nodded once, then twice. Then a third time, and he kept nodding like he wanted to confirm, he wanted to engrave it in his brain that he did save you, you were safe. Safe and sound and in his arms again. He wanted his mind to believe it, and his body too.

You saw the moment it settled: the threat was gone, you were alive. His stoic and stone expression melted, giving space to raw emotion. He was angry, and he was happy, and sad and relieved, and above everything he was in love.

‘Love’ was written in bold shining letters in his eyes. He grabbed your now clean – barely – face with his hand, cupping your cheeks and bringing his lips onto yours. He kissed you like his life depended on it, and on some levels it did. His tongue was on yours, he tasted like coffee and salt and life.

You kissed him back, his hands roaming all over your torso, your hands planted on his chest. It felt like the whole word stopped the moment you felt him whispering your name against your lips, urging you to never leave his side, ever again.

He kissed you, and you tasted your tears as he did. You smiled as his team wolf whistled in the back, and you giggled as he smiled too. It was traumatic, and it was sad. But you needed that, you needed that thread of life you found with him. You had the right to do so. You were alive, and you were his, and for now, it was all that mattered.

taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma @marina468 all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna @bernelflo @pastelpinkflowerlife

[goorgeousz]

girl crush | aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader summary: beth is coming back from hong kong and you feel like hotch’s feelings are slipping away, so you decide to do it first. content/tw: brace yourself, it’s a long one! established relationship, beth’s coming back, jealous!reader, oblivious!hotch, dave being a father figure (love him), very angsty (at least my attempt), alcohol consuming (barely), lots of crying, happy ending, lmk if i missed something! word count: 7.3k (stfu challenge level impossible) a/n: based on this request! this one goes for my people who feel like they have to remove themselves from the situation for things to be okay. know that you are important, wanted and loved! if you ever had a girl crush, sending you an extra hug and much love! hope you like this one💗🪽 dividers by @uzmacchiato

masterlist

The smell of bacon and toast fills the air even before you step into the kitchen. 

Aaron is there, scrambling eggs with his shirt still unbuttoned and his hair damp from the shower. He glances up when you step in, already dressed up “Didn’t have time to make coffee.” he explains, nodding to the empty coffee pot plugged on the counter behind him. You shake your head, squinting your eyes at his face.

“Aren’t you at least a little bit embarrassed?” you tease, already starting to brew the coffee beans. It has been almost a year since he bought it – following your suggestion – and he never even cared to learn how to use it. Not that he needed to, really. You were always there to do it for him.

He pressed his lips together in a mocking reflective expression, just to shrug his shoulders “Not really, no.” you just chuckle as the two of you move in sync to finish preparing breakfast.

Just as the eggs were ready, his phone rang all the way to his bedroom. As an old man who still hadn’t created the urge to be glued to his phone 24/7, you took over the bacon pan as he faded into the hallway to pick up.

You were so focused on your task you didn’t realize he was taking too long. It wasn’t until you filled both of your plates and mugs that you noticed he didn’t come back. Your first reaction was too tense, to go after him and check what was wrong, but soon after you heard his laugh, loud and strong, making its way towards you. So, no emergencies.

Sensing it was probably Sean, your boyfriend’s brother, or maybe Rossi with a gossip – something you learnt after you started dating Hotch: the two older men at the BAU were gossipers. Penelope Garcia level gossiper – you stayed back, giving them privacy to chat. Ignoring all the etiquette lessons you had, you started eating alone. At least one of you should enjoy the warm food.

Just when you took the last bite you heard him stepping back into the kitchen, a ghost of a smile still present on his face “Hey, you chatty” you teased. He chuckled, sitting beside you on the stoll and drinking a sip of coffee “Who was it?” your curiosity got the best of you, even though you knew he was going to tell you either way.

“Beth!”

Oh.

“Oh”

“Yeah.” he agrees, taking a bite of the toast, completely oblivious to the gut wrenching feeling taking over your senses “She called me to say she’s coming back. From Hong Kong.”

Oh (but harder).

“That’s… good?”

“It’s great! She got to transfer back for a promotion, with a higher salary and getting to be close to her family.” he explains, sounding way too pleased with himself.

“She rocks.” you cringe immediately, not knowing what the hell you meant by that.

“Right?” fortunately – or not, that’s up to the eye of the beholder – he remained completely clueless to your awkwardness. “Jack’s going to lose it when he hears it.” he said, chuckling to himself.

You hate how hearing this makes you twice as jealous.

“Y’think Jack remembers her?” you wonder, pretending to be unbothered as you wash your dishes in a way to distract yourself. He stays silent for a second, and you hope he’s not picking up on your selfish rotting for the worse.

“He does. Last time she face-timed me, Jack took over half the call.” he says, his voice suddenly closer to you. He takes the dishes from your hand, gently pushing you to the side “That’s on me.” he points kindly, taking over the dishes. You step away, hoping he didn’t feel the sound of your heart breaking.

They face-time each other? Is Jack a part of this? By the way he said it, it seems like a frequent occurrence. Where were you all those times? How could you miss that?

Is this cheating? Objectively speaking, if it was cheating he probably wouldn’t be so blunt about it. And he’s probably the most loyal person you know.

So why does it feel like cheating? Why do you feel betrayed? Why do you feel so jealous?

Trying to take a hold of the situation, you fight to appear normal, trying your best to hide your anxiousness and all of self-doubt, at least while you figure your feelings out. Otherwise you’d probably end up locked in a mental asylum.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It turned out the mental asylum would probably be a nicer place to be than your own head right now.

As the day passed by, you started to notice how excited Aaron was for Beth’s arrival. If you missed their calls before, you definitely weren’t now. Every other day you stumbled on him somewhere in the house, his phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear while he finished a task.

When it wasn’t the calls, it was the texting. He would send her pictures about things she liked and places she missed. She would always send a picture of everything that was different over there, ask silly questions about the job or about Jack. 

And Jack was a whole other problem. Not a problem, actually. But his obvious adoration towards the woman made you bitter. You found yourself losing your appetite more often than not every time Jack asked about her in the middle of dinner or lunch. Which was a horror on its own, but it was even worse because every time he did it, soon after the meal ended Hotch would call her to tell her about it.

You felt like an outsider.

The worst part was that it wasn’t even their fault. Everytime you walked by him, he asked you to join the call, pulling you to sit with him and chat with the woman on the other side of the screen. She would ask about you, about your likes and dislikes. She would joke about Hotch, about his sleep myoclonus, about his ability to fall asleep in the first few minutes of a movie.  You laughed with her, making fun of his antic habits as if sharing that with her didn’t feel like a knife in your gut. 

When she finally came back, it was, somehow, worse.

Hotch insisted that you’d tag along on their catching ups, you hang with them as she went out with the team. You had playdates with her and Jack.

It was now safe to say: you hated Beth. And you were completely obsessed with her.

You watched the way she spoke, the way she dressed. How she smiled, how she laughed. The exact color of her lipstick, her haircut. 

When her nails were perfectly made. She was so elegant. You started doing your nails weekly.

Next time you saw her, her nails were chipped and two of them were broken. She was so carefree. You cancelled your membership at the nail salon.

One would think Beth was a frequent character in Hotch's life. She really wasn’t. With all the cases, Jack and his relationship with you, he barely had time to actually hang out with Beth. But there was no point, and the damage was made.

Ever since he took that call, she made her way into your head, building her own little house with a balcony and a white fence. Even if she wasn’t around, your mind made sure to think about her. You hated hearing her name, but you secretly hoped it would come up in the middle of the conversation.

When his phone rang, you braced yourself, preparing for that gut wrenching pain you were oh, so familiar with. 9 out of 10 times, it wasn’t her. But 1 out of ten times, it was. And when you hear him calling her name, smiling easily at the speaker like she was seeing him, you felt your world fall apart, and what a comforting sensation that was.

You had no idea how you could crave someone as much as you craved her.

You wanted her gone.

The thought came to you out of nowhere, in the middle of the night. You were sleeping on his bed – almost yours by now – and his body involuntarily jerked. And there it was: another sleepless night. You were reminded of her, and now you were cursed to spend the rest of the evening wondering if she slept on the same side of the bed you were in, on how she would react. Would she laugh? Would she wake him? Would she pretend she didn’t see it?

It was maddening. It had to stop.

It wasn’t going to stop. You had to get out of this.

When the thought came, it stayed. You haven’t thought about it before, but you knew it. It had to be done. There was no way you would survive this. There was no way you could compete with this, with her. They understood each other to a degree you could never. They were the same age, and had the same references. They were both divorced, they had experiences you still haven’t had. You hated being outside of their inside jokes, even if said jokes were whatever was fashion in the 70’s.

Truth to be told, you wouldn’t even be with him if she hadn’t moved out of the country. And now she was back, reclaiming her old apartment, her athletic habits and his heart.

You weren’t dumb. You could see he loved you. But he loved her too. And you wouldn’t settle for half. Even if it killed you inside.

Besides being younger than Aaron – and Beth – you were very mature. Mature enough to understand that you shouldn’t make a big deal out of this. You knew, usually, the right thing to do was to talk about your feelings. To explain where you were coming from and make changes in order to keep the relationship alive.

But how could you go to the man you loved and beg him to not fall back in love with his ex? What exactly do you want to achieve by talking to him about it? He wasn’t doing anything wrong, you know that much. He would probably just stop talking to her ‘if it meant not making you insecure’, but you know very well how that would turn out. You didn’t want it to end with a fight, and you didn’t want to feel like you had to put up a fight to keep the man you love. You didn’t deserve that, and neither did him.

So, piece by piece, you started to make your way out of Aaron’s life.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You usually spent the majority of your time in his place. And you started to change that, slowly starting to spend more time in your rented apartment than in his. Piece by piece, you started to move back your clothes. First a blouse, then a pajama. Evolving to your dresses, shoes, and your products.

It was going by unnoticed, until after you moved almost all the products on your side of his bathroom’s cabinet. A wednesday morning, while getting ready to work, you opened it to find everything back where they belonged.

You stayed there, shocked for a few seconds, your heart racing. The toothbrush inside your mouth is frozen, the minty foam starting to burn your gums. Aaron stepped on the bathroom behind you, fixing his cufflinks and looking at you through the mirror.

“Oh, I saw you ran out of them.” he explained, casually pointing at the new stack of products, completely unaware of your mind short circuiting “You didn’t restock, but I remembered them from last time. I had to go to the drugstore anyway.” he shrugged, reaching for his cologne and stepping out like he didn’t just shatter your whole world.

Later, when your tears smudged your mascara, you just said you choked with the mouthwash.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After a while, you’d spent so much time on your own place that Aaron started to miss you. Not only that, he questioned it. One specific morning, you were in the shared kitchen in the BAU mixing a bowl of yogurt with cereals and fruits when you felt a pair of large hands clinging to your hips. Yelping in surprise, you turned to face your boyfriend.

“Hey, you scared me.” you chuckled, picking up the bowl to put something between the two of you.

“I miss you.” he said, simply. He wasn’t whining, or complaining, or even trying to talk you out of your devious plan – not that he knew about it. He was just stating a fact, as clear as the day, the same way and tone he announced a profile or call a meeting.

Not knowing what to answer without breaking into tears, you stuffed a spoon full of greek yogurt, granola and strawberries into your mouth. While you did it, you mumbled something he couldn’t comprehend. Figuring you said you missed him too, he just moved on, leaning over your head to reach for the cabinet.

“Can I take you out for dinner tonight?” he asked, grabbing the freshly made coffee and filing his mug “It’s been a while since we left the house.”

You swoon at him, taking a deep breath before answering “It has. But I have plans.” you grimaced “Girls night.” you explained, chewing on the granola for longer than needed.

Aaron stopped for a second, his steaming mug already halfway to his lips. “Oh.” He wasn’t the kind of boyfriend to be in the way of your life, but he usually was aware of your plans. Not in a controlling way, but by knowing you, talking to you. And he was just realizing how it felt not knowing. He hated it. Not being a man to give up, he quickly came up with another idea “I can make you that BLT you like while you get ready.” not seeing you immediately jump with joy – as you usually do when BLT is mentioned – he suggested “Or we can stop at McDonalds drive-thru when I pick you up later.” 

Your heart did a backflip and shattered in a thousand pieces with the sight of his puppy eyes, expectantly looking at you.

“Oh that sounds lovely. But the bar we’re heading it’s the one across the street from my building. We’re walking there.” you explain, placing a hand on his chest gently, fixing the lapels of his suit. He looked down at your hands, fighting the urge to pull you by his arms and lock you in there. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but his gut knew something didn’t sit right.

“Text me when you get there. And when you get home.” he says, more a statement than a request. Your safety was not negotiable. You nodded, stepping closer to him and giving him a quick peck on the side of his jaw.

“I promise!” and you meant it, winking at him as you move to leave the kitchen.

Just as you step outside the perimeter, you almost bump into Rossi, who’s just standing there with his hands buried in his pockets and his eyebrow raised so high it was almost blending his hairline. Not ready to handle his piercing gaze – knowing you’d crumble at the first couple minutes –, you just nodded and gave him one of your best polite smiles, speeding your pace all the way to your desk.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After you knocked twice on the office door, you stared at the words “David Rossi” engraved on the metal platter in its center as you waited for him to open.

When he did, you were surprised to see his office drowned in low light coming from the lamp on his desk and the moonlight peeking through the widow.

“You wanted to see me?” it meant as a statement: he did ask to see you. At first, you were sure it had something to do with the case you were consulting, the topic you and him were talking about during dinner. What confused you was that the setting looked anything but professional, if the expensive bourbon bottle and the two glasses sitting on the table wasn’t enough of a tell.

“Yes. Come in.” he said, waiting for you to walk into the office to close the door. You stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for him to take the lead. Unaware – or, most probably, choosing to ignore – your startled state, he slowly made his way to the couch on the back of the room, filling up both glasses before sitting comfortably.

Taking one of the glasses, you sat beside him, pressing your lips together and trying not to bounce your leg to ease the tension.

“How was girls night?” Rossi asks, raising his glass to his lips. He didn’t even look at you as he waited for your answer, his tone almost mocking you.

Having absolutely no idea what he was going with this, you decided to play along “It was fun.”

He nodded “I see.” You took a sip of your drink, trying to keep your posture. It didn’t work. As soon as the burning liquid settled in your stomach, you turned to face him. Terrible idea.

“Dave, what’s going on? What is this?”

“You know,” he started, completely ignoring your question “People may think about profiling as a criminal study. They think we have to learn about psychopaths, stressors, geography, and criminal patterns. That it’s about getting in the mind of crazy people and figuring them out.”

“And it isn’t?” you blinked, drowned by his speech.

“Oh, definitely. But it’s not just that. It’s about studying people. Feelings, motivations. Learning, understanding their behaviour and using it to figure out their intentions.”

And that’s when it hit you: he knew.

“We have an unspoken policy in the BAU: not profiling each other.” he began, turning his body to face you.

“So why are you profiling me?” you asked, voice edging and uneasy, desperately trying to stop him from putting into words. He ignored it.

“You’re breaking up with him.” Not a question, not a suggestion, and definitely not a doubt. “I know what this is about. Who this is about.” your chewed on your bottom lip, deciding on what to say.

“Please, don’t try to talk me out of it.” you beg, hating how weak your own voice sounds. He took another long and lazy sip, and you watched as the liquid clinged to his lips, the wet reflecting the low light of the lamp.

“I won’t.” he stared at you, his eyes squinting slightly “I’m here to encourage you.”

You frowned, your eyebrows pinching together “What?”

“Yes. You really should break up with him. You know, if you’re in such an unbearable relationship.” You roll your eyes, tilting your head back.

“Stop.”

“No, seriously. Do you think he’s what? Cheating on you with Beth?”

“What? That’s not what this is about. I know he’s not cheating.” you defend yourself, cringing at the topic of the discussion.

“Then what is it?”

“I’m just…” your eyes burn with tears harder than the liquid on your throat when you down the rest of the bourbon before continuing “I’m not her.”

“You sure? Under this specific light I could’ve swore…”

“Dave!” you whine, and he chuckles.

“Yes, you’re not Beth.” you grimace at her name, not bothering to hide your feelings anymore “Why are you saying this as a bad thing?”

“Because it is. She’s back now and…” you feel a tear striking down your cheek as you gesticulate “She just fits. She gets him.”

“And you don’t?”

You sigh “You must think I sound really stupid.”

“Oh, you sound absolutely ridiculous.” you look at him, looking at a smirk on his face. Before you realize it, you’re laughing as well, but in a weak and depressed way “Love does this to us. Make us blind to the obvious. Clouds our judgement and turns us into…” he gesticulates towards you. You roll your eyes, but you’re not crying anymore “I have three divorces, so you’d think I know one thing or two about failed relationships. And let me tell you: yours isn’t one of them.”

“You’re just saying this because you’re his best friend.”

“I’m saying this because I love you.” he stated bluntly, and you widened your eyes in surprise, not expecting this. “And it'll kill me to see you do something I know you’ll regret later.” he leaned closer, looking at you with a paternal love that made you uneasy “Hotch loves you, kid. Don’t try to assume things. Let him know.”

“It’s hard.”

“I know it is. It has to be, don’t you think?” he smiles, the wrinkle on the corner of his eyes enhancing his passion towards the subject “Or else is not worth it. But talk to him. You know him more than I do, but I’m pretty sure you’re seeing things out of a place of hurt, probably past experiences.” he nod his head in a knowing gesture “From what I see, you’re out of your mind if you think that Hotch would ever consider living his life away from you.”

You only notice the tear streaming down your cheeks like a waterfall when his fingers gently wipe them away.

“Sorry.” you mumble, and he shakes his head.

“Listen, if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t. It’ll be fine too. You’ll be fine. But just don’t let it all go to waste before at least giving him a chance.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It got to a point where you had to stop for a second to wipe the sweat out of your eyelids to see. By the time you reached your – Aaron’s – front door, your heartbeat had lowered to a normal rhythm and your skin was now cold rather than wet. You spent almost the entire night awake, tossing and turning on the bed. The night went so late it was almost morning, so you figured it made more sense to just get up and do something other than to lay in the dark with nothing but your loud and torturous mind.

Running, these past few weeks, were your loyal ally to your early mornings. That specific day, you just got back from an over two hour long run, finally feeling your limbs hurting more than your heart. As you walked in, you were surprised to find Aaron pacing around the living room, something crumpled up on one of his fist, a piece of paper in the other.

When he looked at you, his face was everything but stoic: he looked panicked, tortured, confused and, overall, hurting. “We need to talk” he said, quietly. If you listened closely, you could hear the way his voice wobbled in the middle of the sentence, like he didn’t actually want to talk. Like he wanted you to just be confused, and just ask what he meant by that, and that you weren’t being distant, he was just paranoid. Anything that could prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that you weren’t, in fact, leaving.

Despite all his silent wishes you just nodded, making your way to the couch “Yeah, we do.”

Hoping the sound of his heart shattering wasn't loud enough for you to hear, he made his way to the couch in front of you, distant enough for him to think clearly – as much as possible, under the circumstances. For a minute you just stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid so heavy it could suffocate.

You glanced down at his hands, still not managing to understand what he was holding so tight on his fist. On the other hand, you could finally see what it was. Before you left the house that morning, already planning on staying out for long, you wrote him a note with the steps to use the coffee pot.

“Before we start,” he began, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat before continuing “I already know. So there’s no need to lie.” you gulp, shifting in your seat. You never lied to him before, but it was fair of him to point it  out. You weren’t being exactly honest. And even though you knew what he was talking about, it still surprised you when he finally said it out loud “When exactly you were planning on breaking up with me?”

Your breath hitched, panic rushing through your veins. It didn’t matter that you still weren't sure about what to do, there was no point in lying. Not anymore. It hurt you to think about it, but actually admitting to him was a whole other level of pain.

“I don’t know.” you answer weakly.

He blinks. And then chuckles.

When he dips his head down, you stare at him confused. The only thing you catch is the way his head shakes slightly, his fists flexing but never letting go of your note and the other white soft – looks fluffy? Is it a stress relief ball? – thing. Aaron tilts his head up and his eyes are full of tears. They are shiny and reddish, and you want nothing more than to make it all go away.

“Hotch,” you try, because just watching him crumble in front of you is not an option.

“Jesus! Stop calling me that.” he spat, frowning.

“Your name?”

“That’s not my name. Not to you. Not in here.” he adverts, the pain muffling the anger in his tone.

You chew on your bottom lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to fall from your eyes. Sniffing as quietly as possible, you look at him “Do you think this is easy for me?”

“It must be!” he says, barely containing himself, “You’re doing it all behind my back, vanishing from my life little by little, until all I have left is an empty drawer with nothing but this shirt and a coffee pot I don't know how to use.” and you finally understand what he was holding on so tightly. It’s a plain silky pajama shirt. It’s the only piece of clothing because it’s matching short you – he – ended up tearing it in half on the first night you wore it.

“I left you instructions.” you point to the paper in his other hand.

“I don’t want to learn.” he looks disgusted at the paper, like it personally offended him “I’m not learning how to use it.” he emphasizes.

You try again “It’s not that hard.”

“I won’t.” 

That discussion was pointless, anyway. It is something to cling onto while avoiding the main issue. Sighing deeply in order to avoid crying, you change the subject “Listen, it’s nothing with you. It’s me.” you snort at that, because it’s that old cheesy and shitty excuse. But it’s the truth. “I’m just…” it’s all you manage to say before the tears blur your vision and you have to dip your head down to try and wipe them away.

His voice filled your ears, making you glance up to face him again. “I noticed that you weren’t being yourself, but I figured you’d tell me. It was something from work, or your family. I didn’t think it was this. It was us.” his voice weakens, and he has to gulp before continuing “Aren’t you happy anymore?” 

“I… there’s a lot going on.”  you feel your nose burning, and you stop caring if he sees the tears streaming down your face.

“Tell me what I did.” his demeanor changes, and he doesn’t look sad and confused anymore. He sounds energetic, urgent, demanding and begging all together “Tell me where I got it wrong, i can change it. I’ll do it right. I’ll do it better.”

Hearing this, combined with the raw desperation on his voice, so opposite from his usual calm and steady behavior, only makes you cry harder, and you don’t even try to wipe them away.

“You did nothing wrong. Nothing. I don’t want you to change. I just…” a strangled hiccup interrupted your speech, and you feel ridiculous, weak, dramatic and lonely. You want this to end, but also you want this to have never happened. “I shouldn’t feel this way in a relationship.”

He nodded, thinking. When Aaron speaks again, his voice is much calmer. Resignated, even. “So that’s it, then? You have your mind made up? Nothing I say will change it.” and it’s not a question anymore.

“I’m doing this for you, I want nothing more than what’s best for you.”

“Bullshit.”  he snapped, his words startling you “Why are you doing this? Is it the job? You said it’s not me. Is it Jack? Is this life too much for you? The responsibility of…”

“What? Of course not!” your heart aches thinking about it. It hurts that he thinks this, but you have no one but yourself to blame “I love Jack. I love our… this life.” 

He stays silent for a second, as if analyzing your explanation — or lack thereof. “Is it someone else?” you stop, and blinks. This is it. You won’t lie straight to his face. He stiffens, and it doesn’t need another word from you to understand. “Who is him?”

“Him?” you frown in the middle of your tears, so confused you stopped crying. “What do you mean?” 

“You said there was someone else.” he squinted his eyes at you.

“I didn’t, you did.” 

“You didn’t deny it. Who is he?” he insisted, his jaw tensed.

“Who do you think I am?” you asked, actually aggravated at his accusations “I would  never…” 

“Who is he?” he interrupts you, his eyes burning holes in your head.

“There's no he. It’s Beth.” 

Hotch’s jaw is immediately unlocked at that, the anger and betrayal completely subsided by complete shock and confusion. “What? You and… Beth?”

“Huh?” you were the one left in confusion now. How did he get to that conclusion? For a second, you didn’t feel the excruciating pain and humiliation from admitting your feelings to him “No. You and Beth.”

“What do I have to do with this?” he asks, his confusion turning to aggravation once again “You don’t like our friendship? That’s why you're breaking up with me?”

Now, said excruciating pain and humiliation were back on its full force. You ignored the lump on your throat, taking a deep breath and explaining the situation in the most sober and objective way possible. “I realized you and her fit more together than me and you, and…” your voice faltered as you saw his outrageous expression “...the two of you only broke up because she moved away. You’re all happy that she’s coming back. I just figured…”

“What?” he interrupted, his voice sharp and edgy “That i’d break up with you to be with her?” asking like it was a ridiculous thought. You stayed silent, because that was exactly what you thought. He huffed an incredulous laugh through his nose “Jesus. Did I ever give you a reason to question me? Or my loyalty?” he accused, his voice showing more worry than anger.

“No. Actually I don't know if you’d break up with me. That’s why I saved you the trouble.” you shrugged, trying not to show how much it hurt you to say it.

“Jesus fucking christ.” he muttered, pintching the bridge of his noise “Are you even hearing yourself?”

“Stop talking like I'm insane.” you snapped, losing your patience “You’re the one making phone calls, facetiming and going on dates with your ex girlfriend. I saw you when the two of you broke up. I was there. You were in pain. How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to handle this? How am I supposed to compete with this? Explain to me, Aaron. Because I have no fucking clue.”

The moment you stopped speaking, you realized you were almost yelling. It was the first time you let out your anger, your hurt. All the time you kept saying you were doing the best: for Aaron, for Jack, for Beth… Not once you stopped to think how much it sucked to be you, to deal with all of that. Yes, you could’ve talked to him sooner. But you shouldn’t have felt like that. No one should. 

When you asked him to explain, to tell you what to do, it wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t sass. You were actually asking, begging for him, for someone, to tell you how to feel. It didn’t make sense, none of this made sense to you. It was too overwhelming, and you just wanted it to be gone. You wanted to disappear.

You noticed too late you were crying, fully sobbing now, with one hand clutched to your chest, as if you tried to rip your heart out, and the other resting against your throat, trying to soothe the pain from talking so loud. You didn’t see how his expression softened, his anger melting into pure sorrow. He couldn’t believe he did that to you, that he, of all people, made you feel this way.

A few minutes had passed when he finally made a move. He got up from his couch and crossed the room, sitting right by your side. His knees were pressed against your thighs, his eyes filled with tears. His body and his soul were completely in surrender to yours. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “I should’ve seen it before. I shouldn't have acted like this. Or at least, talked to you about it. I’m not trying to make any excuses for the way I acted, but I need to explain.” he cleared, his eyes scanning your face every 10 seconds, trying to find any hint of chance in your stance “The thought of someone other than you, in a romantic way, is so out of my reality that I didn’t even considered her a ‘threat’. Not that she, or anyone, is a threat. But I really didn’t see the situation as something that could’ve hurt you. And that was my first mistake.”

“She knows you in a way that I can’t.”

“You know me in a way no one can.” he argued “You were my subordinate, then my work colleague, my friend. Now you’re my best friend and my family. You’re the woman I love.” he gulped, flinching at his own words and feeling the hot streak of a lonely tear falling from his eye. The one he couldn’t hold back. “I don’t want you going back to being less than that.”

Your posture didn’t show any kind of surrender. But he didn’t see resistance either, and when you turned to face him, he noticed that you didn’t keep arguing and just waited to listen. Taking it as a good (the best yet) sign, he pressed further.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Beth. She happened to be the first friend I’ve had outside of the job for a long time, that’s all. I don’t know if it will help to hear this,” he tried, hesitantly “...but her leaving wasn’t the only reason why we broke up.” seeing your questioning expression, he kept going “We came to the realization we worked better as friends anyway, and it was just a matter of time for us to end things. The moving just happened first.” he shrugged.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he anticipated your argument “Yes, I did suffer. It was a change in scenario, how could I not? But as I said, we knew it was happening. So what it hurt the most was actually Jack. I felt like the worst parent from giving another sort of mother figure just to take it away from his life. Again.”

Before you could think properly, your hand reached out to his, squeezing in a silent reassurance. He always doubted his parental skills, and you were always making sure to remind him how amazing he was. Even now, with your heart broken and your relationship hanging by a thread, you still found a way to comfort him. 

How could he lose something like this? Someone like this? How could he let you go? How could he make you feel that way? He had to press his lips together in a thin line to keep them from trembling, and to hold back the force of his grip when he squeezed your hand back, making sure he wasn’t hurting you as he not so subtly tried to hold on to you. To keep you from leaving.

“Honey,” he started, not even caring about his voice cracking. He couldn’t wait any longer, or lose any more chances. This was it. “I love you so much. I know this isn’t ideal, and I hate myself for ever making you feel this way. If not being with me will make you happier, then…” he gulped “...I’ll let you go. But if this situation is the only reason, please, don’t go. Please, give me a chance to show you how you’re the only one I want.”

You feel your tears running freely from your face, and you choke up a sob before speaking, your voice so weak it was barely hearable “I feel really immature.”

He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of you. It sounds like he’s gone completely mad, like your admission was the water bottle after two days in the desert. It gave him hope.

“No.” he denied firmly, not letting go of your hand even for a second “Now that I think about it, if the tables were turned, I might’ve murdered your ex.” he whispered like a secret. It was so unexpected and so out of character of him that you laughed, surprising both you and him. He smiled from ear to ear at the sound of it. “I’m really sorry, I should’ve been more careful with the situation.”

“I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.” you smiled apologetically. He ignores your attempt, looking deep into your eyes and calling your name with such a raw expectation that if you weren’t already seated, you would’ve fell.

“Did you change your mind?” you hesitate for a second, and he sees right through you “Tell me you have. I know you want to, I can feel it.” His voice is quiet, his words so soft spoken it feels like a spell. Only you know that you do want to be with him, now that is all cleared. “Please, give me a chance to make things right.”

You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes fill with tears again “I feel stupid.” you admit, and he wants nothing more than to cry his eyes out.

“Don’t say that ever again.” he leans in hesitantly, and when you don’t flinch or pull back, he wipes the tears from your face with the pad of his thumb. The other hand is still holding yours firmly “You were protecting yourself, as you should’ve. Thank you.”

“What for?” you snort between tears, not understanding what he could possibly be thankful for in this situation.

“Thank you for protecting and taking such good care of someone I love so much. Especially when I was too damn blind to see that she needed it.”

After that, there was no point of dragging this any further: you were completely and undeniably his.

He didn’t see it coming, his body jerking in surprise when you literally jumped to his lap, hugging him tightly and burying your face on his neck, sobbing and muttering apologies on repeat. His lips were glued to the crown of your head, kissing you repeatedly. His hands were all over you, touching from your feet to the strands of your hair, as if his body needed to feel you there, to make sure you were with him, for his mind to completely wrap up around the fact that you weren’t going anywhere.

Ignoring your words, he whispered his own, “Don’t you ever apologize. I should be the one apologizing. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” and it’s the only moment his lips leave your skin “I’m sorry. I will never make you feel this way. If I ever hurt you like that again, and I won’t, I want you…”

“Don’t say it.” you cut him off. He ignores, once again.

“...to just shoot me in the face. Kill me.”

You chuckle weakly, lifting your head from his chest to face him properly “Dude, you gotta stop with the murder threats.” he arches his eyebrow at you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk.

“Dude? Who do you think you’re talking to?” he asks, and his finger tickles your sides as the stubble on his beard tickles your neck. Your body jerks and twitches on top of his while you laugh loudly, but never moving away from his.

When he finally feels you learned your lessons, his hands rested comfortably around your waist in its rightful place. You sigh, looking at him.

“Promise me that you will always talk to me, and be honest about your feelings. No matter how ugly you think they are.”

“I promise.” you say as you wipe the wet off his face, and it’s just then that he realizes he’d been crying all along “Promise me that if your feelings for me change, you’ll communicate.” he rolls his eyes so hard it feels like they’ll hit the back of his head “Promise.” you insist.

“I promise.” he says, seriously. When you relax, he starts again. “Matter of fact, my feelings just changed.” you squint your eyes at his playful tone “A few minutes ago I wanted to stop by your place to get back the clothes you took. But now, I’ve decided you’ll be spending the rest of the weekend with nothing to wear but that shirt.” he says, leaning – without moving you away from his lap – to grab the piece of fabric he left on the center table.

“I have to get at least underwear.” you argue.

“If you behave, I’ll let you borrow a couple boxers.”

“Jack will see it.”

“He’s a kid. And they’re the exact same size of what you call your casual shorts so I doubt he’ll notice the difference.” he points seriously and you squeal, slapping his chest slightly.

“That’s rude. And humiliating.”

“That’s what you get for stealing.”

Your mouth hangs open for a second “I didn’t steal! I didn’t take anything from your house but my clothes.”

“This house is ours.” he stares at you deeply, waiting for his statement to sink in before continuing “So is everything in it. From the bedroom to the coffee pot and, therefore, your clothes. So, basically, you stole from us.” he shrugged, like he made a perfect point. You just laugh, choosing to accept it.

“I’m sorry for stealing.” he nodded politely and you dive back into his embrace, sighing happily “Can we stay like this forever?” Aaron tight his arms around you, his whole body answering before any words came out.

“I’ll think about it. But before that, we have to eat. You're probably on the verge of dehydration right now.” he points, standing up with you still in his arms, and makes his way toward the kitchen. He settles you in one of the stools and hands you your shirt “Go change while I make us breakfast. Now that I’ve learnt how to use the coffee pot.”

You gasp, widening your eyes in a mock-threat. Jumping out of the stool with your shirt already crumpled on your hands, you stomp your way to where he stands behind the stove, pointing your finger to his chest. “You can cook whatever you want, but don't you dare touch the coffee pot, Aaron Hotchner.”

Aaron does just as you said, beaming while frying the bacon even when you’re upstairs in his shower. Your shower. And both of you know, somehow, you’ll be okay.

taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna

[geminiwritten]

── profiled ; aaron hotchner

summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detached—while quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.

notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchner—so here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!

warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (i’m so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.

word count: 19001

MONDAY 9:25AM

Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.

Not because your colleagues are nosy—no, they’re just… perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesn’t work on all of them—you glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a book—at least it works on most of them.

At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.

Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.

Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. “You’re wearing a skirt.”

You cross your legs and lean back. “Excellent observation, Reid.”

“It’s impractical,” he says simply. “Especially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. You’re significantly more likely to trip while running.”

You roll your eyes. “Good thing I’m not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.”

“Ignore boy genius, baby girl,” Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. “You look good.”

You flash him a grin. “See? Somebody appreciates me.”

Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. “Interesting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotch’s proximity.”

Your stomach flips. “Spence.”

He lifts one shoulder. “What? He’s not listening.”

You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.

“That’s not the point, Spencer,” you mutter, turning back to him. “You need to—”

The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks in—files tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.

“Morning,” he says, dropping the files on the table. “Hope everyone had a good weekend.”

Morgan snorts. “What weekend?”

“Yeah,” Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. “I was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.”

“That’s because you alphabetise your paperwork,” you point out.

She gives you a look. “I enjoy being proficient.”

“Well,” you say lightly, leaning back in your chair “some of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.”

Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. “Ooh, look at you. Was there a man involved?”

You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. “I’m choosing to plead the fifth.”

Morgan points across the table. “That means yes.”

“Or,” Reid says without looking up from his book, “it means she enjoys making people speculate.”

“Aw, Spence,” you tease. “Don’t sound so bitter.”

He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threatening—because he knows what you’re doing. It’s what you always do. It’s how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.

You perform.

You swipe through dating apps, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the team—Reid more than the rest, because he’s your scapegoat... and your best friend.

He’s the only one who can see through the charade. Not because he’s emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:

Hotch is the secret you’re trying so hard to hide.

Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanation—harmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attention—they won’t notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.

Hotch clears his throat. “Well, lucky for all of you, it’s a quiet week.”

Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.

“No active cases as of this morning,” Hotch continues. “Which means we’ll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyone’s apparently been neglecting.”

His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.

“I’m bored already,” Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.

Hotch ignores him. “We’ve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, I’ll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.”

Rossi nods once. “You’ll have them.”

“Garcia,” Hotch continues, “the Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.”

Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. “But I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasn’t supposed to be due for another fortnight.”

Morgan blinks. “You colour-code your schedule?”

“Obviously,” Garcia says. “How else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?”

Reid straightens. “Technically, organising information activates the same reward pathways as—”

“Don’t,” Prentiss says immediately.

Reid frowns slightly. “I was just going to say gambling.”

You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.

Not the team. You.

Your stomach twists.

That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. You’re on the receiving end of it often enough—whenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.

Yet somehow, you still feel like you can’t breathe until his gaze finally shifts.

“Moving on,” he says evenly, “JJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.”

He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focused—but it’s hard. It’s hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.

His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what he’s actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when you—

“The briefing ended three minutes ago,” Reid says.

You blink hard. “What?”

He closes his notebook with a sigh. “The meeting’s over. You can stop internally monologuing now.”

You frown. “I’m not—”

He gives you a look.

“Ugh,” you groan. “You’re so annoying.”

You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but you’re not surprised that he’s right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.

Everyone else is already settled at their desks—keyboards clicking, pens scribbling—and there’s a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12–18. – Hotch.

You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.

Reid snorts. “You know most people throw those away, right?”

You glance sideways at him. “I don’t want to forget the page numbers.”

He hums. “Sure.”

“You know,” you say, turning your chair to properly face him, “you’re being particularly judgemental today. What’s your problem?”

He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.

“I’m experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,” he says plainly. “And repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well—you’re increasing my irritability.”

He nods. “Good.”

You frown.

“I’m attempting corrective behavioural conditioning.”

Your eyes narrow. “By being annoying?”

“Exactly,” he says, already turning back to his computer.

You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comeback—but your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for what’s shaping up to be a very boring Monday.

The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviour—until forty-eight hours before her death.

In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars she’d never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollars’ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.

To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdown—an impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you can’t come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled woman—checking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.

Only there isn’t enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.

You sigh. “Reid.”

“Hm?”

“Tell me if I’m overthinking this.”

Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesn’t stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files you’ve got carefully laid out.

“Oops,” he says absently, pushing the pens aside.

You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.

“The behavioural shift feels manufactured,” you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. “But there’s enough legitimate stressors here that I can’t tell if I’m forcing a pattern because it’s too clean.”

Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.

“You’re focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,” he says. “Stress explains escalation. It doesn’t explain inconsistency.”

You frown slightly.

“She suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.” He taps the timeline. “She still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isn’t usually selective.”

Your brows lift. “So, I’m right?”

Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. “You’re right.”

“What’s she right about?”

You nearly jump at the sound of Hotch’s voice—low and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.

“She thinks the behavioural shift is staged,” Reid says. “And I agree.”

He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thigh—and suddenly, you can’t breathe.

He’s close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.

“It’s too compartmentalised,” Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. “Real behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a person’s routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawal—something.”

Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongue—then flips the page.

Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too small—but you can’t move. Not with Hotch’s hand still on the back of your chair.

“But this is curated,” Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. “The impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.”

Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. “You caught that?”

You clear your throat. “I just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.”

“Her behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,” Reid says. “I can’t find a flaw in it.”

Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.

“Good girl,” he says absently.

Your entire nervous system short-circuits.

“Keep it up,” he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.

You don’t say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldn’t even if you wanted to.

Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “the age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.”

You finally blink. “What?”

“Because the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraint—especially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.”

You frown. “What are you—”

“But the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you don’t actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.”

Your eyes go wide. “Spencer—”

“You have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.”

“Reid.”

“For example,” he goes on, ignoring you completely, “you spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotch—which likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.”

You freeze. “Reid, I swear to—”

“You don’t react this strongly to older men generally,” he continues. “You react strongly to Hotch because he’s emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, and—”

He pauses, tilting his head.

“Very obviously your type.”

You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.

Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report he’s typing. JJ’s desk is empty, as usual—she’s probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.

Your gaze cuts back to Reid. “You are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t matter if they did.”

Your brows pull together. “What’s that mean?”

“You’re good at redirecting attention,” he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. “You’re less good at hiding physiological responses.”

Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.

“Whatever,” you mutter. “It’s warm in here.”

Reid glances around the bullpen. “It’s sixty-eight degrees.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.

You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, there’s a brand-new stack of files on your desk—only this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.

“Hotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,” Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. “Said he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.”

“Great,” you mutter, dropping into your chair.

Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.

You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath it—written quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. – Hotch.

Your stomach flips.

God. That’s pathetic.

You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.

The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJ’s the first to head out—not long after five—taking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that he’s got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.

Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, who’s been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.

“You coming?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.

You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.

“Not yet,” you reply, blinking tiredly. “Hotch needs these by morning.”

Reid tilts his head. “Want me to wait?”

You wave a hand. “Nah, go ahead. I’ll get security to walk me to my car.”

“Alright,” he says, already turning away. “Just remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.”

You glare at his back. “I’m reporting you to HR.”

“You’d have to explain the context,” he calls over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.

With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didn’t miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired state—but you’re used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.

You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotch’s note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.

And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.

Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologne—enough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.

You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.

There’s still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater he’d been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly he’d been called away.

It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.

You adjust the files until they’re perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind you—the way it’d been before you stepped inside.

It doesn’t take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until you’re safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.

Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leia—your cat, who’s very unimpressed by your late arrival—take a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but you’ve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you don’t get to them soon, you’ll start to feel guilty.

You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldn’t have set up your own profile if you’d really wanted to.

No—this profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.

One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while you’d been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.

Hotch hadn’t contributed to the conversation, but you’d known he was listening.

That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.

The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.

Twelve notifications.

You click on the ‘messages’ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and you’ve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messages—ones you’d seen pop up on your phone but couldn’t be bothered to engage with over the weekend.

After all, you’re not actually looking to date anyone.

But one of the messages catches your eye.

DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person who’s either very funny or very mean. I’m willing to risk it.

You snort, then type out a reply.

You: Unfortunately for you, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive.

Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.

“Hey, sassy girl,” you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.

Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.

You roll your eyes. “Alright. Sorry for loving you.”

You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.

Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.

DCRunner00: That’s probably the best possible answer you could’ve given. DCRunner00: So what’s your worst personality trait? I feel like that’s more interesting than hobbies.

That answer comes a little too easily.

You: Workaholic. You? DCRunner00: I get bored easily. DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment. You: Sounds like a public safety issue. DCRunner00: Depends who you ask. DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. It’s late.

You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.

You shake your head, typing quickly.

You: Yeah, I should. You: Night, Running Man.

Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.

TUESDAY 9:50AM

“Morgan, you’re with me at district court this afternoon,” Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. “The defence attorney’s pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so we’ll need to review our timeline before the hearing.”

He’s wearing a grey suit today.

You can never think straight when he’s wearing a grey suit.

Morgan sighs dramatically. “Nothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.”

Hotch ignores him completely.

“JJ, I want the media requests filtered through Strauss’s office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when you’re done.”

He glances once around the table.

“If anything urgent comes in, you’ll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.”

Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.

The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you don’t quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, who’s watching the screen with quiet concentration.

Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your boss’ ass as he walks out of the room.

“You should probably blink.”

Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. “I’ll blink when I want to blink.”

He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know he’s fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviour—but thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.

Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app they’re both obsessed with.

You’re just about to pass Hotch’s office door when—you hear your name.

You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.

Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotch’s office.

You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. “Sir?”

“How late were you here last night?” he asks.

You lift a shoulder. “About ten.”

His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. “That’s late.”

“Morgan said you needed them done by the morning.”

“I didn’t mean first thing,” he says, smoothing the end of his tie. “You could’ve finished the rest before lunch.”

You blink. “Oh.”

His gaze holds yours for a second too long.

“You don’t need to stay late to impress me.”

Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. “Oh—uh—good to know.”

He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.

“Still,” he says, lower this time. “I appreciated it. The files, and… everything else.”

Your breath catches softly in your throat.

“Anytime, sir,” you manage.

He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.

You don’t need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he won’t admit it because he doesn’t want the team to think he’s shutting them out. He’s just more comfortable in private—it helps him focus.

By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.

You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.

Two new messages from DCRunner00.

DCRunner00: Running Man? DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.

You can’t help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.

You: Better than ‘Workaholic’. You: You read Stephen King?

“Hey, you busy?”

You glance over at Reid. “Aren’t we all?”

He tilts his head. “You’re on your phone.”

“I could be working.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Good,” he says, shuffling the files on his desk. “Hotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.”

You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. “And by ‘us’ you mean...?”

“I could use your help.”

“Fine,” you mutter, setting your phone down.

He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossi’s few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and maps—everything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.

“Where do you want to start?”

“I’m trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,” he says, “but half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns don’t align.”

You nod. “Okay, walk me through where it stops making sense.”

Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. You’ve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?

“It’s physically impossible,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.

Reid hums quietly beside you. “Not necessarily.”

You stare at him. “Care to elaborate?”

“Well, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. “If you know so much, then why can’t you figure this out?”

He still doesn’t turn away from his screen. “I will. Eventually.”

You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.

“No, listen to me carefully.”

Both you and Reid glance up automatically.

Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.

“You don’t need to explain the problem again,” he says evenly. “You need to tell me how you’re fixing it.”

He pauses briefly beside Reid’s desk, listening.

“Then prioritise the transfer first,” he says. “If the paperwork isn’t filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.”

He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.

“No,” he says after a moment, voice lower now. “I’m not asking you to stay late. I’m telling you this needs to be finished tonight.”

Your stomach flips.

This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.

“Good,” he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. “Call me when it’s done.”

Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.

You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. “Do you think he talks you through it?”

“Probably,” Reid says, turning back to his screen. “High-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.”

You go still. You hadn’t actually expected an answer.

“Someone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,” Reid continues. “The immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.”

Your face heats.

“Especially because he’s not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. He’d want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.”

Oh my God.

“And honestly,” Reid goes on, “people with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investment—” He pauses briefly. “Which means he’d probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking he’d—”

He stops.

Then slowly turns toward you.

“...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didn’t I?”

You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. “Just a couple.”

He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.

You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now you’re hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throat—

Fortunately, it doesn’t take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what he’s saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.

You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. It’s a thousand times better than break room coffee.

When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. You’re not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.

DCRunner00: I’ve read a few. DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?

You type your reply as you step out of the building.

You: Work, mostly. You: And sleep.

By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messages—but you can’t reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.

“Thanks, pretty girl,” Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.

You smile back. “Anything for you, gorgeous.”

Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.

DCRunner00: What’s your schedule even like? DCRunner00: You strike me as an “answers emails at midnight” type of person. You: Nah. That’s my boss. You: My schedule is chaos, though.

“Thanks,” Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.

You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotch’s office. You can see through the window that he’s not on the phone—for once—so you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.

He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “But it’s almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didn’t answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldn’t, by the way.”

He straightens, brows drawing tighter.

“And I know you’ve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and you’re going to try to leave early, but someone’s definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so you’ll only have enough time to get to the courthouse—not enough time to stop for coffee.”

You set the cup down in front of him.

“So,” you tilt your head, “coffee.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.

“That’s some pretty solid profiling, Agent.”

Your face heats instantly.

“Well,” you say, backing slowly toward the door, “maybe now you owe me two.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but it’s enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You can’t help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.

You spend the rest of the day at Reid’s desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they won’t be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossi—then you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.

Which is also when you finally check your messages again.

DCRunner00: Chaos how?

You type a quick reply while you wait for your car’s AC to warm up.

You: Long hours. You: Weird hours. You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.

Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.

Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. She’s always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry food—but apparently that isn’t good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.

You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.

DCRunner00: Ah. So you’re one of those people. You: Rude.

He replies almost immediately.

DCRunner00: Accurate, though? You: Unfortunately.

You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.

Ping!

DCRunner00: What do you actually do?

You hesitate. It’s not like you can just say you’re in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents can’t just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. It’s dangerous.

You: Mostly admin. You: Governmental stuff.

You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.

You’re not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.

DCRunner00: Sounds boring. DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?

You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.

You: Sort of. You: But if my boss calls, I answer.

He replies instantly again.

DCRunner00: I’m starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked. You: I think I’d get bored otherwise.

You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.

DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy. You: Probably. What about you? What do you do?

You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. There’s nothing you’re really interested in watching—since you don’t usually have the time to keep up with any shows—so you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.

He’s already replied by the time you log in.

DCRunner00: Run. DCRunner00: Read. DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally. You: That sounds made up.

You open your protein bar.

DCRunner00: It mostly is. DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?

You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogs—whatever makes them seem interesting—but this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.

You type out a vague response.

You: Sometimes. You: Occupational hazard, I guess. DCRunner00: And you always answer? You: Pretty much. You: He’d only call if it mattered.

His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.

DCRunner00: Hm. DCRunner00: I’m starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.

You almost choke on your tea.

That’s... weird.

Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but he’s the one asking all the questions about your job. It’s a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around him—in more ways than you care to admit.

You: Jealous already, Running Man? DCRunner00: Should I be?

You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.

You: I think you’re spending too much time talking to strangers online. DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: You still replied, though.

“Okay,” you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. “That’s enough.”

You: I’m going to sleep. You: Try not to spiral while I’m gone.

His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.

DCRunner00: No promises.

WEDNESDAY 8:10AM

“Come on,” you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.

You’re a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didn’t even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messages—and decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.

“Hey—woah.” Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. “You’re early.”

You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.

“Is Garcia in yet?”

He frowns slightly. “I think so. Why?”

You pull your laptop out of your bag.

“I just—I need her.”

You’re already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. You’re just about to round the corner toward the elevators when—

“Hey—” Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. “Slow down. You alright?”

His hand is hovering near your waist—not quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.

You blink up at him. “Sorry. Yeah. Uh—totally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.”

His brows pull together slightly.

“Alright, well, Garcia’s not going anywhere,” he says evenly. “Take a breath.”

You nod slowly, already stepping around him.

“Right,” you mutter. “Breathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.”

You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth lift—but then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.

It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garcia’s lair and burst through the door without warning.

She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. “Sweet mother of encryption, knock first!”

“Sorry,” you say, breathless. “I need you.”

“Well, obviously,” she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. “I’m the backbone of this entire operation.”

You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.

“You cannot judge me for what I’m about to show you.”

She glances up, brows lifting. “Oh. So this is serious?”

You grimace. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Slightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me what’s happened.”

You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.

“You remember the dating profile you set up for me?”

She nods.

“Alright, so, I won’t lie, I haven’t really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When I’ve got time, you know? And I don’t have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldn’t reply all that quickly, but he didn’t seem to mind.”

You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.

“Nothing really felt out of place until—well, he wouldn’t talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, or—I guess—lack of schedule.”

You wince.

“So now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I don’t know.”

You hesitate.

“But then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.”

She squints at the screen.

DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.

“Mmm. Nope. Don’t love that,” she says, shaking her head. “That is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.”

You sink back in your chair. “That’s what I thought.”

She starts scrolling back through the messages.

“Have you told Hotch?”

“Nope.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “You answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.”

“Because the answer is no,” you say firmly, leaning forward again.

“Mm-hm.” She keeps scrolling. “Okay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.”

You groan, dragging both hands over your face.

“You do mention Hotch kind of a lot.”

Your head snaps up. “He’s my boss.”

Garcia gives you a long look.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”

“Garcia.”

“I’m just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, we’d all be making faces.”

You point at the screen. “Focus.”

“Right. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.”

Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.

“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Don’t block him yet.”

You sigh. “I don’t love that idea.”

“Neither do I, babycakes, but if he’s routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.”

You frown. “In English?”

She gives you another look. “Timestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips up—basic digital stalking fun.”

“Oh, of course,” you say sarcastically. “Normal stuff.”

“For me, it is normal.” She points toward the laptop. “Now reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.”

Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.

You: I thought I told you not to spiral.

He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.

DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke. DCRunner00: Mostly.

She stares at the screen. “Okay, I officially don’t like him.”

You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. “I feel sick.”

Garcia’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe you should tell—”

“No.”

She sighs quietly. “Okay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?”

You nod.

“Good. Don’t overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.” Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. “I’ll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.”

You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.

“You’re the best, Pen.”

“I know.” She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. “Now go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.”

By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboard—too anxious to have it with you during the meeting—then quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.

Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.

“Hey,” you mutter as you drop down next to him.

His brows pull together. “Everything alright?”

You nod. “Yeah. Fine. I’ll explain later.”

Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterday’s court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.

You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. You’re pretty sure it’s the first briefing in years where you haven’t spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notes—and when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.

“Okay, now I’m concerned,” he says.

You glance at him. “Why?”

“You didn’t look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.”

You roll your eyes. “Spence—”

“Something must be seriously wrong.”

You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.

“Okay,” you say quietly, turning back to Reid. “I’m having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.”

His brows shoot up. “A guy—”

“Online,” you add quickly.

He tilts his head. “I’m confused again.”

You sigh. “Remember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?”

“You mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?”

You glare at him. “Yes. That one.”

“Then yes, I remember it very clearly.”

“Well,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now it’s gotten... weird. So, I’m getting Garcia to look into it.”

His forehead creases. “Have you told—”

“No.”

“Maybe you should—”

“I said no.”

“Alright.” He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. I’m dropping it. It’s just…”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“Well, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions don’t escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.”

You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.

“However,” he adds, “cyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.”

You stare at him.

“In cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.”

He pauses, frowning faintly.

“That was supposed to be reassuring.”

“…Thanks, Reid,” you mutter, turning away from him slowly. “Now I feel so much better.”

When you get back to your desk, you decide it’s time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to type—knowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.

You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.

You: You’re weird.

He replies just as fast as usual.

DCRunner00: You disappear a lot. You: Workaholic, remember. You: I told you my schedule was chaos.

You’re about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops up—from Garcia.

Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why you’re still single.

You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.

You: Trust me, that’s not the reason. Garcia: So there IS a reason? You: Shh. I’m working. Garcia: Boo!

You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.

It doesn’t work.

Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notification—but there’s nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if he’s ever gone quiet on you before—but he hasn’t. Not really. So you type another message.

You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?

It’s a calculated move. If he’s paying attention to response patterns—and at this point you’re pretty sure he is—then following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think you’re pulling away.

If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.

An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesn’t feel right—which keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, you’ve got three notifications.

One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.

DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me? DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.

Your stomach drops. “Oh my God.”

You immediately call Garcia back.

She answers on half a ring. “Are you wearing blue?”

“You saw me this morning.”

“I can’t remember,” she says. “Are you?”

You drag a hand through your hair. “Yes.”

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “You’ve got to tell—”

“No.”

“Are you insane?”

“Maybe, but—” You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “Okay, just—hear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. It’s a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.”

Garcia goes quiet for a second.

“And does this unsub know you work in a government building?”

“Don’t call him that,” you snap. “And—well, kind of. I didn’t tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.”

“I swear to God,” she mutters, “if I have to identify your body next week, I’m going to kill you.”

You press your free hand against your forehead.

“You won’t,” you say firmly. “Alright? We’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

Garcia scoffs loudly.

“Seriously,” you insist. “It could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.”

The line goes quiet again—then she sighs.

“Why are you so against telling Hotch?”

“Because I don’t want to bother him,” you say quickly. “We’ve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I don’t want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.”

She sighs again, louder this time. “Fine. I won’t go to Hotch.”

Your shoulders sag. “Thank you.”

“On one condition,” she adds. “I’m sleeping over tonight.”

You nearly choke. “What?”

“Non-negotiable.”

“Penelope, that’s insane.”

“No,” Garcia says firmly, “what’s insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.”

“He is not stalking me,” you protest, keeping your voice low.

“Mm-hm.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“And yet,” Garcia says, “if you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.”

You frown. “…Morally complicit?”

“Accessory to murder-adjacent,” she corrects. “And my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. We’re having a slumber party.”

You let out a long sigh. “Okay. Fine.”

She hums, satisfied.

“I need to reply to him again.”

“Well, don’t ask me,” she mutters. “You’re the one who’s apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Thanks, Pen.”

“Mm-hm. And just so we’re clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.”

“I was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.”

“Absolutely not.”

You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. Romantic comedies it is.”

“Good,” Garcia says firmly. “Now hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotch’s office myself.”

You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You don’t have to think too hard about what to type. You don’t want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.

You: Lucky guess.

The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.

At about three o’clock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while she’s stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory he’s working through out loud—which means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotch’s voice through the wall.

When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them off—and for the first time in God knows how long, you don’t stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.

By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.

At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Pack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.”

You snort softly. “Alright. I’ll see you soon.”

You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.

“See who soon?” Reid asks.

You glance at him. “Garcia.”

He tilts his head.

“She’s staying over tonight.”

His brows lift. “Because of your stalk—”

“Girl’s night,” you interrupt, eyes widening. “That’s all.”

His gaze narrows. “Should I be worried?”

You scoff. “About me? Never.”

You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.

“Really?” Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. “Because you’ve spent most of the day staring at your phone like it’s a bomb, you spent most of Rossi’s profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.”

You pause mid-motion.

“Also,” he continues, “you usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerning—”

“Okay!” you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Good talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.”

He doesn’t say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. You’re just about to press the button for the elevator when—

“Agent.”

You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isn’t frustrated or disapproving—it’s curious.

You force a small smile. “Sir.”

His eyes move over your face briefly. “You alright?”

You nod once. “Of course.”

He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. “You sure?”

Your breath catches.

He’s close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.

“You’ve seemed distracted today,” he says.

You swallow hard. “Uh—no. No. Sorry, I just—I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else—press harder, maybe—but then seems to think better of it.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Get some rest tonight.”

Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.

You don’t move immediately. You can’t. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.

“Hello?” Garcia calls from behind you. “I cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.”

You shake your head. “Shit. Sorry.”

You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then—

“So, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason you’re still single…”

You shut your eyes. “Penelope.”

“I’m just saying,” she continues lightly, “unless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, I’m starting to develop theories.”

You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then it’s only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.

And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until they’ve pulled it apart completely.

The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat she’s ever met that doesn’t like her.

“Leia hates everyone,” you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. “Even me.”

Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.

Once she’s satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.

“Have you seen his latest messages?” she asks.

You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. “No.”

She opens your laptop and logs into the dating site—because apparently she knows your password now.

DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: Or maybe you’re just easier to read than you think.

You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like you’re overanalysing this.

You: Or maybe I’m just not trying so hard to be mysterious.

Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far she’s managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still can’t lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she can’t—apparently that part would actually be pretty easy—but because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isn’t an official investigation.

“The second I start pulling the fun federal strings,” Garcia says, typing furiously, “there’s paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.”

You lean against the counter. “We don’t want that.”

“Not yet.” Her expression sharpens slightly. “Also, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, there’s always a chance he’s monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someone’s looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.”

Your stomach twists. “Or escalate.”

You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.

DCRunner00: Refreshing DCRunner00: Most people hide too much. You: Depends what they’re trying to hide. DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide? You: Besides the fact that I’m exhausted? Nothing. DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight. You: Long day. DCRunner00: I noticed. You: How was yours?

You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.

Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.

“Night, Pen,” you murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Thanks again... for everything.”

“Night, gorgeous,” she calls, peering over the back of the couch. “Wake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides it’s my time.”

You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.

THURSDAY 6:45AM

You’re not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasn’t gone quiet for this long before—but if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... it’s not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.

Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.

The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last night—which is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his mother’s basement, stalking women online.

Garcia isn’t entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAU’s next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until you’re both back at the office.

“Hey,” Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. “You haven’t been murdered.”

You frown slightly. “Good morning to you too, Spence.”

Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. “Uh—why are we getting murdered?”

Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. “Because she’s potentially being cyberstalked by a—”

“Oh, wow, look at the time,” you interrupt, glaring at Reid. “Wouldn’t it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.”

Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. “Cyberstalked?”

“Nobody is cyberstalking anybody,” you say as you drop into your chair. “And nobody’s getting murdered—but great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.”

Morgan chuckles quietly. “Damn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.”

Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.

“Technically,” Reid says, “she only implied it by refusing to answer Garcia’s question during Monday morning’s briefing.”

“Ah.” Morgan leans back in his chair. “I knew this was a drought issue.”

You scowl at him. “A drought issue?”

“Statistically speaking,” Reid adds, “people experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.”

Morgan looks at him. “Man, just say she needs to get laid.”

“Oh my God,” you snap. “I do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very much—and frankly I think it’s deeply inappropriate that you’re all this invested in whether or not I’m orgasming regularly.”

Reid tilts his head. “You’re having sex?”

Morgan’s brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him when—

Someone clears their throat behind you.

Heat crawls violently up your neck—but you don’t turn around. You can’t.

“Briefing room. Five minutes,” Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. “JJ’s got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.”

Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, trying—and failing—to smother the strangled sound of laughter.

Very slowly, you turn in your chair.

Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it—something suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.

“Be right there, sir,” you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.

Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.

You want to die.

The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.

“Oh, you are never recovering from that,” Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.

Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Baby girl, that was painful to watch.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“You somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,” Reid says thoughtfully.

“I hate you all,” you mumble into your palms.

You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.

Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperative—which Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.

It’s not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to pick the sociopath’s brains. One hour with him feels dangerously short—that is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.

“We don’t have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,” Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. “I’ll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.”

Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the room—but you don’t move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You don’t even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.

But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.

“You alright?” Reid asks, lingering beside you.

You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. “Yep. Just thinking about how I’ll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.”

He shrugs. “Hotch probably isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”

You glance up at him hopefully.

“Morgan definitely is, though.”

You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.

The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then there’s a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.

It isn’t until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, there’s one new notification in your inbox.

From: Aaron Hotchner Subject: Wallace Interview You’re with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.

Your stomach flips.

“Wow,” Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. “He picked you pretty quickly.”

You shoot him a warning look. “Spence.”

“I’m just saying, he usually deliberates longer.”

You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.

“You and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,” Reid adds.

You turn back to him, frowning.

He tilts his head. “That sounded more suggestive than I intended.”

You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful he’s being when your phone buzzes twice against your desk—like it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.

You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.

Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.

You open the message thread—and your stomach drops.

DCRunner00: [Image attachment] DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?

The image is of your apartment building. It’s grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the street—but your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.

Ice floods your bloodstream.

You stop breathing.

“Is that... your apartment?” Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.

You don’t answer him. You can’t.

The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.

Until—

“I’m done!” Garcia’s voice cuts through the static. “I can’t do this anymore!”

She’s marching right toward you, your laptop—that she’d still been monitoring—tucked under one arm.

Reid gasps. “Wait. Is that—”

Morgan straightens in his chair. “What’s happening?”

“Hotch’s office,” Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. “Now.”

You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.

Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.

“What’s going on?”

His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when he’s trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to you—and something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.

“What happened?” he asks, sharper now.

Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.

Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.

Then he looks back up—right at you—and something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.

“Who sent this?”

Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.

It’s funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to you—something real—that’s when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe it’s because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides they’re emotionally invested in you.

Or maybe it’s just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didn’t do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourself—and your friend—in danger.

“Get everyone in the briefing room,” Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. “Now.”

Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reid’s wrist—making a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.

Hotch’s eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.

“Reid,” he says. “Print the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachments—all of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.”

You swallow hard. “The—the entire message history?”

“Yes,” Hotch says simply. “Every message.”

Could this day get any worse?

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.

“Okay,” Prentiss says. “Where do we start?”

“Victimology,” Morgan answers immediately—then he glances at you. “Sorry, baby girl.”

You wave him off. “Reid’s been profiling me all week. Go for it.”

There’s a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. He’s sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like he’s trying very hard not to look directly at you.

“We need to be careful building a victimology this early,” he says evenly. “Especially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.”

Reid tilts his head. “Normally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.” He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. “Statistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.”

You grimace. “Fantastic.”

“Most victims also know their stalkers,” Reid continues. “Approximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.”

“Okay,” JJ says carefully, looking toward you. “Is there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified against—anything like that?”

You snort quietly. “Does every criminal I’ve ever interviewed count?”

The room goes still for half a second.

“Wait,” Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. “Actually, that makes sense.”

Hotch’s eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.

“This escalation happened fast. Less than a week. That’s not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratch—that’s somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.”

“Or angry,” Morgan adds.

“Exactly,” Prentiss says. “He doesn’t lash out until she has Garcia over. That’s jealousy. Possessiveness.”

You sink lower in your chair.

“And he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,” Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. “That’s territorial behaviour. He’s fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.”

“Not the only one fixating on him,” Reid murmurs beside you.

You elbow him immediately.

“Ow.”

Hotch glances up sharply. “Something to add, Reid?”

Reid straightens. “Uh—no. No, I think Rossi covered it.”

Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly, like he knows there’s something he’s missing, but he lets it go.

“Garcia,” he says instead, “tell me you found something useful.”

“Oh, I found things,” Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. “Deeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.”

Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing ‘internet goblin’ across the table to JJ.

“Okay, so—profile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.”

Hotch leans forward slightly. “How sloppy?”

“Sloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,” she says. “And before anybody asks, yes, I’m already pulling traffic cams.”

Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.

“Morgan, Prentiss—start canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if there’ve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaints—anything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.”

Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.

“I want to help,” you say suddenly. “This is my mess, let me fix it.”

“You can help,” he says evenly, “by going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

You open your mouth to argue.

“I mean it,” he adds, voice low.

“I’ll take her,” Reid offers immediately.

“No,” Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. “You go with Morgan and Prentiss.”

Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.

“I’m taking her home.”

The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.

Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, who’s already in full FBI investigation mode—her screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender you’ve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions you’d long since filed away as routine.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isn’t until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.

Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his office—files in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.

“Ready?” he asks, stopping beside your desk.

You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.

“Yep,” you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.

Hotch drives. You don’t even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. It’s not like you haven’t been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.

Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadn’t asked for directions the whole way here.

“Wait,” he mutters before climbing out of the car.

He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbelt—your hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzy—but once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.

He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, you’ve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.

“I—uh—wasn’t really expecting company,” you say as you push the door open. “Sorry.”

The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trill—probably wondering why you’re home before dark for the first time in years.

Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. “You have a cat.”

You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. “Is that really the most surprising thing you’ve learned about me today?”

He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. “It’s unexpected.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.

Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinner—until she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.

Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.

“Oh, she doesn’t really like people,” you say quickly. “So don’t take it personally if she—”

Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.

Your eyes go wide.

Traitor.

Hotch’s mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.

Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?

He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.

You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances briefly—thank God—into your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.

The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. You’ve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different ways—just not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.

Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.

If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, he’s going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, he’s going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, he’s going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstand—and then you’ll actually have to fake your own death.

Because you’ve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. It’s easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.

But this?

This feels dangerously close to being found out.

The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.

Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isn’t unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.

Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you can’t really help it. You’re strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.

And Leia, unfortunately—but not unsurprisingly—remains no help whatsoever.

By seven o’clock she’s fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotch’s lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you haven’t been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.

“Are you hungry?” you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.

Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leia’s back while she purrs in his lap.

“I’m fine.”

You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “Any updates?”

He glances back down at his screen. “Garcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should have—Morgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossi’s pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who might’ve had access to your name outside the official reports.”

You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.

“Are you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?”

His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.

“You think this is nothing?”

His voice stays calm, but there’s something firmer underneath it now.

“You’ve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still haven’t identified,” he says. “Morgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossi’s pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garcia’s been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“My job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,” he says quietly. “Let me do that.”

Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasn’t said anything unusual at all.

Which, to him, maybe he hasn’t.

He’s just doing his job. Looking out for his team. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because someone threatened one of his agents.

That’s all.

You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. “I’m—uh—I’m just going to shower quickly. If that’s alright.”

He nods once. “Want me to clear the—”

“No,” you say immediately. “God, no. No. It’s fine. Totally fine.”

His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.

Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while you’re dripping wet and completely naked.

You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isn’t totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, they’re just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least they’re not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.

If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.

“No, wait for Morgan before you approach,” Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. “If the registration’s fake, I don’t want you making contact until we know exactly who’s inside.”

He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.

“Alright. Keep me updated.”

He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emerged—and for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. It’s only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.

“Garcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,” he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. “The driver’s been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldn’t pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.”

Your stomach tightens.

“The name on the reservation was fake,” he continues, “but the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.”

The name hits you immediately.

“Ethan Mercer’s brother,” you say quietly.

Hotch nods. “Rossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.”

You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.

“Ethan barely spoke during the trial,” you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. “I don’t think I ever even met his brother.”

“You wouldn’t need to,” Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. “People build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when they’re looking for someone to blame.”

Your skin prickles. “You really think it’s him?”

“It fits,” Hotch replies evenly. “Established emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.”

He straightens, turning back toward you—and for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.

He clears his throat. “This probably isn’t something he’s done before. But his brother has.”

The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.

“Well,” you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. “On the bright side, I still think I’ve dated worse.”

The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always do—easy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.

Except this time Hotch does pause.

“Why do you do that?”

You frown. “Do what?”

“Deflect.” He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. “Every time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.”

You lift a shoulder. “Maybe I’m just charming.”

“No.” His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. “No, because it changes depending on the situation.”

Your pulse stutters.

“With Morgan it’s competitive,” he continues, setting the papers back on the table. “You tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.”

“Wow,” you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. “Starting to feel a little attacked here.”

But Hotch doesn’t seem to hear you.

“The dating profile doesn’t fit,” he says, almost to himself. “Neither does the apartment.”

Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.

“You project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.” His eyes flick back toward you again. “You live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.”

“Leave Leia out of this.”

“She doesn’t like strangers.”

“She likes you.”

The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.

“You keep people at a distance,” he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. “Even the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.” He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Except Reid.”

Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.

“You trust him,” Hotch says. “Not just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when you’re stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.” He pauses, watching you carefully now. “And earlier you said he’d been profiling you all week.”

Oh God.

“Which means Reid already noticed the pattern.”

He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few months—years—in real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought you’d hidden quickly enough.

“You track me.”

The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like he’s still realising them.

“You know my routines,” he continues slowly. “You anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you can’t see me.” He steps closer again. “You know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.”

Your breath stutters.

And Hotch notices immediately.

His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.

“Your breathing changes when I get too close to you,” he says quietly.

He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.

“You stop fidgeting,” he continues. “You go completely still.” His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. “Like you’re afraid movement alone is going to give you away.”

Your heart is beating so hard now you’re half-convinced he can hear it.

“You lose verbal fluency,” he says, voice lower now. “You trip over words you normally wouldn’t. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing it—”

His eyes lock onto yours.

“You redirect.”

You can barely breathe now.

He’s standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where you’re perched on the counter.

And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus he’d bring to an unsub—except this time the thing he’s slowly uncovering is the fact that you’ve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.

You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.

“Figured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?” you ask softly.

He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.

The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.

His throat shifts slightly.

And then—

His phone rings.

He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.

“Hotchner,” he says, pressing his phone against his ear.

You don’t hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morgan’s muffled voice, but you can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.

Because holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

What the hell just happened?

“They got him.”

Your head snaps up. “They what?”

Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.

“It was him. Daniel Mercer,” he says. “Morgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.”

“Oh.”

“Local PD recovered notebooks too,” he continues. “Names, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercer’s conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.”

A cold shiver slips down your spine.

“Garcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,” Hotch adds. “Once Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. He’d been building the grievance for months.”

He pauses, then looks at you.

“But they got him.”

“Good,” you say quietly.

Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.

“Local PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,” he says, sliding the papers into his bag. “Garcia’s already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.”

You nod. “Okay.”

Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.

“There’ll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,” he says. “And if you don’t want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.”

“I’ll be fine,” you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. “You can stop babysitting me now.”

Hotch stills.

Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.

“Babysitting?” he repeats.

“You know what I mean.”

He steps toward you, brows drawn. “I don’t think I do.”

“You solved the case,” you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. “You profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktail—” You let out a short, humourless laugh. “You can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.”

He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise he’s moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where he’d been when you asked him if he’d figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.

“You’re being deliberately provocative now because you’re embarrassed,” he says. “But embarrassment isn’t actually your primary response here.”

His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.

“If it was,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t still be looking at me like that.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.

But you can’t.

All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt you’ve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.

You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.

Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.

His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isn’t entirely sure he has permission yet.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like he’s still holding himself back even now.

But the restraint doesn’t last long.

Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.

Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—and somehow that’s what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.

His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip it’s deliberate, measured—a sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere you’ve been starving for him.

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing he’s making sure of.

Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.

“Aaron—”

“Bedroom,” he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. “Now.”

FRIDAY 6:15AM

Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakes—

Oh God.

The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.

Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowly—so slowly—toward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.

Your stomach swoops.

You slept with your boss last night.

With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.

You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.

“Do you really get up this early?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Most days.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Why?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “Because my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.”

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.

“Sounds like a terrible boss,” he murmurs.

Then he tugs on your sweater again—hard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.

“Yeah,” you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. “He’s awful. Very demanding.”

He hums, breath warm against your skin.

“He’s really hot, though,” you add, smiling despite yourself. “So I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.”

“Oh, he notices.”

Your stomach flips. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

His arm tightens around your waist. “He notices the skirts.”

Heat floods your face. “Aaron—”

“He notices the tights.” His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. “The ones with the seam up the back.”

“Oh my God.”

You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.

“And the red bra,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

“Noticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.”

You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but it’s no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.

“My washing machine broke that week,” you whine. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Mm, sure.”

You twist around immediately. “I’m not lying.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesn’t quite believe you, but before you can protest again—he kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.

“Careful,” you murmur, breathless against his mouth. “Don’t want to be late.”

You feel his lips curve.

“Good thing I’m the boss.”

10:35AM

You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a ‘What Now?’ conversation—that ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadn’t even hesitated when you’d finally asked what happens next. In fact, he’d answered a little too quickly.

The first thing he’d asked was whether you’d be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because he’s worried about the team finding out—he trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point he’d even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureau’s fraternisation policies before making any moves.

That was when you kissed him—effectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.

Because he’d clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, he’d already known exactly what he was getting himself into.

“Alright, gorgeous,” Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. “They’ll be ready for you downstairs in ten.”

You glance up at him, brows drawn—and it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what he’s talking about.

“Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah, I’ll head down soon. Thanks.”

Prentiss looks over from her desk. “You gonna be okay?”

You lift a shoulder. “Sure. What’s another case report?”

Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. “It’s not exactly every day you’re the victim, baby girl.”

“Yeah, but nothing really happened.”

Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.

“Because of the team,” you add quickly. “You guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.” You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.

“You’re in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,” he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.

You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. “Maybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.”

Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.

You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutes—when a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.

“Rossi’s taking Wallace with you next week,” Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.

You blink up at him. “I thought you were leading the interview.”

“I was.”

Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.

“Wallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,” he says. “Especially women.”

You frown. “Hotch, I—”

“And if he says something to you in that room,” he continues evenly, “or looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.”

Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yours—steady, intense, devastatingly honest.

“Right now,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure that’s me.”

Then he’s gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasn’t just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if you’d been focused on it at all in the first place.

“…Huh.”

You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity he’d been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.

He tilts his head.

Then—

“Oh my God.”

You close your eyes. “Spencer… don’t.”

© 2026 geminiwritten

[pencil-n-pen]

HANDLE WITH CARE

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hotch x fem! reader

masterlist | kofi

summary: spending the night at aaron’s usually puts you at ease, but not tonight. A broken mug brings up old memories, but he still has a way of soothing away old hurts.

cw: implied/referenced past abuse

a/n: honestly idk i just wanted to write hotch comfort. this has been in my drafts since like day 1 of this acc

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⊹ .

It’s really stupid, in hindsight.

In the moment though, it was really, really scary.

It was late. This is mistake number one.

You were trying to quietly make tea and whatever odd hour it was. You can’t check the oven timer. It just keeps flashing 12:00.

Making tea quietly is hard, though. Every sound seems to echo and all the shadows seem to crawl. You’re this close to closing the living room curtains you can see from the corner of your eye. You don’t, though. Not being able to see would be worse.

Anyway. You’re trying to make tea quietly. You’re staying over at Hotch’s —Aaron’s, as he insists you call him when you’re alone— Jack is away at a sleepover. It’s just the two of you.

You couldn’t sleep. Usually, being with Hotch is the strongest sleep aid in the world. You tend to conk out the second your arms find his in bed.

But not tonight.

Tonight you slept in fitful bursts. Your skin prickled and crawled with restless anticipation- of what, you’re not sure.

Not wanting to disturb his sleep on such a rare day off, you got up. Tried to do what you did when you had nights like these before him. Only watching tv is too loud and you don’t have any books here.

Thus: tea.

It started raining a little while after you got up. The pattering of the droplets against the roof and the windows helps drown out the racket you’re making.

You’re not really making a racket, you tell yourself. It just sounds like you are because it’s night. This would all sound normal in the daylight.

It’s the mantra that keeps you going on nights like these. You’ll feel normal in the daylight. It’ll go away in the daylight. You won’t feel so haunted in the daylight.

In the daylight, in the daylight, in the daylight.

You get lost in your thoughts. It happens fairly often on nights like these.

Only Aaron’s stove is newer than yours. It heats up faster.

The teapot lets out a terrible, wailing hiss, shattering the fragile silence.

You lunge for the kettle, hands moving too quickly and too clumsily to move it off the burner. Your fingers slip. The side of the kettle slams into your forearm, and you don’t quite manage to stamp down the pained yelp that rips its way from your throat the second the searing pain registers.

Your nervous system reacts before you do. It jerks your arm to the right, away from the kettle.

And into your empty mug.

You watch in horrified slow-motion as the cup is swiped off the counter, falling to the floor in an explosion of porcelain.

Your arm is screaming in pain. There is boiling water and a hot tea kettle on the floor. There are shards of mug everywhere.

You hear a thump. The creak of a door opening that signifies Aaron coming out of the bedroom, Aaron being awake, Aaron coming to you.

For a moment, your brain just… catches. Sort of like it gets stuck in this web of fear-induced indecision.

The footsteps sound rushed. They come closer.

To compensate for the momentary freeze, your brain kicks into its highest gear.

You drop to your knees on the floor of the kitchen so quickly they crack on the linoleum. You can’t tell if the sting is from the fall or the boiling water. Would it still be hot? Is it still hot?

The footsteps stop. You scramble to get a hold of the pieces of the mug, shaking fingers grabbing, grabbing, grabbing. They’re clutched tight in your palm when you speak, words rushed and tumbling out of your mouth.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, please go to bed, I’ll clean this all up—“

A hand reaches out for yours and you flinch. Not a full body one. Just like what happened with the burn. Your nervous system reacts before your brain can process. Takes your hand away from the threat.

Only the hand stills. Stops, right where it is, and your entire body feels funny, and something doesn’t seem right.

Then you stop too. You don’t move. You don’t grab more pieces of the mug, but you don’t drop the ones you have either. Your knees are throbbing. Your arm is burning, stabs of stinging pain pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

The hand retreats and the person crouches down, and you recognize those pajama pants, that hand, those feet.

“Honey?”

You keep your eyes trained on the mess. On the wreckage.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracks over the words.

“Shh,” He hums, and the hand reaches out again, slower, closes over your wrist and turns your hand over. A second hand pries your fingers apart and gently shakes your hand, the mug shards dropping to the floor, tinged scarlet. They mix with the spilled water, washing the kitchen floor a kaleidoscope of linoleum and sharp edges and pinky-red water.

He gently pulls you up to your feet, strong arm going around your waist. It doesn’t cage you, doesn’t box you in. Another hand turns your head away from the kitchen floor and all at once a switch flicks in your brain, and you remember. Where you are, who you’re with.

If Aaron notices your sharp intake of breath, he doesn’t say anything. He leads you to the bathroom, sits you on the toilet lid, and pulls out the extensive first aid kit he keeps under the sink.

“Can I see your arm?”

You hold it out to him, looking at his face only when he’s not looking at you.

He doesn’t look mad. You still have the vague urge to run.

He examines it carefully. “It’s only first degree, but it’s fairly big. We’ll need to run it under cool water for at least ten minutes, and then apply some burn cream and bandage it.”

He’s telling you exactly what he’s going to do. Talking you through all the steps. So you won’t be caught off guard by anything.

“Sweetheart,” He crouches down in front of you again, and you feel bad for his knees, “I’m going to need some sort of confirmation.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah,” Your voice is raw, “I think I bruised my knees when I— when I fell.”

Your pajamas consist of an oversized shirt —one of his— and a pair of pajama shorts. It’s helpful because he doesn’t have to roll up any pant legs to check your knees. It’s unhelpful because in the adrenaline crash, the bathroom is cold, and so is the toilet lid.

Your shivers of fear are replaced with ones of cold. A small but marked improvement.

He examines your knees, thumbs brushing deftly over the skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Looks like you might’ve cut one of them on one of the pieces. It’s not too big, though. Better than your hands.”

You wince at the mention.

He stands, pulling you up with him.

“What hurts the worst?”

“Burn.”

“We’ll take care of it first.”

He turns the sink tap on, checking and double checking the temperature is to his approval before gently guiding your arm under the water. It stings on first contact, and you bite your lip through the pain. You’re sure you’ve made enough noise for the night. The pain mellows, relief following hot on its heels.

Aaron stands behind you, his presence a solid weight. One hand holds your arm in place under the water, the other hovers over the faucet, ready to make any adjustments to the temperature at your word.

You don’t make any.

You’re tired, abruptly. Your hand still stings and your knees ache, but without the sharp stabbing of the pain in your arm, the exhaustion of the past five minutes rushes into you all at once and you sag, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Aaron catches you, hand over the faucet leaving to place a steady hand on your waist.

“You’re not going to hit me. Or yell at me.”

He presses his face into the back of your neck, not so much as kissing your nape as just pressing his lips against the skin there.

“I’m not.”

“I know that,” you say, going for confident but tripping and falling into desperate, “I know that. I was just. I forgot. In the moment, and I got scared.”

The hand on your waist squeezes once.

“I was scared too, you know.”

“Why?”

“Because you were scared,” You can feel his chest vibrate as he speaks, “And you were hurt. And for just a moment, I didn’t know how to help you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing to be sorry for. I was scared for you.”

“I know, I’m just. I know how rare days off are for you, and I was trying to be quiet, so you could sleep but I—“

“Hey, hey. Slow down. Don’t work yourself up.”

He moves your arm back and forth under the water, slowly working the angles of the burn so it all gets evenly cooled.

“Sorry,” You say again, both for lack of anything else to say and just to make sure he knows that you are. Guilt pulses and pounds to the same beat as your heart, to the same rhythm as the pain in your knees and your hands.

“I know you are,” He murmurs, voice a gentle wash of concern and something tender. He always knows just the right thing to say, especially when you’re like this. “But you don’t have to be. I’m not upset.”

“I know,” You answer, and this time he doesn’t respond. He probably knows that your words weren’t for him.

He works methodically through applying the cream and bandages, and then as he fixes up your hands and knees. You’re careful to keep your eyes trained on his, focusing on the feel of his hands and not the fear that jackrabbits in your chest every time your focus slips.

Once finished, he guides you to your feet, and there’s still concern etched in the lines of his face, right in between his brows. That’s where he always keeps it— his worry.

“Do you want to go back to bed?”

You could. You should. He’s tired. He deserves to sleep in and you should be able to fall asleep again, because he’ll be there, and everything is fine, and you are fine.

But there’s still pieces of mug on the floor and you feel like there’s pieces of you stuck there too, and your mouth goes dry, and you never did drink that tea, and what’ll happen to the mess? What will things look like in the daylight?

Foolish? A foolish girl, yes— always overreacting.

“Honey?” He says for the second time tonight.

Your face crumples. “I’m sorry.”

He folds himself around you again, easily. His arms slot into place like a puzzle piece- always the right angle, the right feel, the right amount of pressure. He holds you together as you cry, frustrated and tired and all the things you’d tried so desperately not to let show.

“You’re okay,” He whispers, hand smoothing over your neck, your back. All those vulnerable places that itch. “You’re okay.”

He repeats the words as your cries quiet to sniffles, as you start to think he might be right.

You pull away, wiping your hands across your face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what— I’m okay now, I think.”

His eyes search your face, looking for any signs that isn’t true. “It’s okay if you’re not.”

“I know,” You say, and you really do believe it this time, “I just… it’s frustrating. That this still happens. That you still need to do this. It happened so long ago, and I don’t even think about it anymore, really. It’s weird, it’s just- the mug. It broke and I just… I don’t know.”

Aaron listens attentively to your rambles, no sign of being annoyed or exasperated or anything. “I understand. Healing isn’t linear, sweetheart. There are things that happened to me many years ago that I still think about.”

He dips down, pressing his lips to your forehead. “And I will always do this. Always.”

For the first time tonight, you believe him, fully.

You’ll be okay. Maybe not now, but you will be.

۫ ꣑ৎ