"When you meet your soulmate, remember that the act to bring you together was 500 years in the making"
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hello ! my name is treaz, i'ma queer 20 smth alleged writer and professional moreid shipper.
my lovely pfp was made by @themoontaxi
pretty much everything on here is gonna be criminal minds, but i do occasionaly reblog other fandoms (marvel, adventure time, muppets). i write for moreid, hotchreid, penemily, gotch, hotchgan, temily, morcia, talvez (but i'll read almost anything so please send fic request <3)
dni: pedophile/incest/abuse "shippers", dead dove, ect
feel free to send me asks or just talk to me, i love chatting with y'all !
The first time it happened, you assumed it was just what neighbors did.
You'd been wrestling with your garbage cans â the big ones, the kind with wheels that never actually worked the way they were supposed to â trying to get them to the curb before the truck came, when a pair of hands appeared from nowhere. They simply lifted both of them, one in each fist, and carried them to the street like they weighed nothing.
You turned around.
Your neighbor â the one from the brick colonial across the street, the one you'd waved at twice and spoken to exactly zero times â stood in your driveway in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking at you with an expression that was almost aggressively neutral.
"Truck comes at seven," he said. "You were going to miss it."
"I â thank you, I had itâ"
"You didn't." He looked at the cans, then back at you. "Nolan Grayson."
"I know," you said, and then immediately felt strange about it. "I mean â we've waved. I'mâ" You told him your name.
He nodded, once, like he was filing it away somewhere.
Then he went back across the street and that was that.
The second time, two weeks later, you were on a step stool in your front doorway trying to change the overhead light bulb â the tall one, the annoying one, the one you needed three extra inches of height to reach properly â when you heard footsteps on your porch.
"You're going to fall."
You squawked and grabbed the doorframe, "whatâ"Â
Nolan Grayson was standing at the bottom of your porch steps with a reusable grocery bag in one hand, looking up at you with the same unreadable expression he'd had at the garbage cans. He had, apparently, materialized from nowhere. You were beginning to think this was just something he did.
"I wasn't going to fall," you mumbled sheepishly. "I was fine."
"The stool was wobbling."
"It was notâ"
He came up the steps, held out his hand, and waited. You stared at him. He continued to wait, patient as geology. You sighed and put the bulb in his hand.
He reached up â easily, without any kind of stool â and replaced it in about four seconds.
"The fixture is loose," he stated flatly, examining it briefly. "I can fix that."
"You don't have toâ"
"It'll bother me if I don't."
You opened your mouth, before thinking better of it.
He fixed the light fixture with ease. It took him ten minutes and he used tools he produced from his car with the quiet efficiency of someone who did not believe in being unprepared. When he was done he packed up, came back to the porch, and looked at you.
"Thank you," you offered softly. "Really. Can I â do you want coffee or something, I haveâ"
"I have to get back." He paused at the top of the steps. "But another time."
Even though it was such a small thing to say, you thought about it for the rest of the day.
The third time you stopped being surprised and started being something else entirely.
The faucet under your kitchen sink had been dripping for a week. Not badly â just enough to be audible in the quiet of the house, a slow metronomic drip that you'd been meaning to call someone about and hadn't gotten around to. You'd left your front door open on a Saturday morning while you moved boxes from your car, and when you came inside Nolan Grayson was crouched under your kitchen sink.
You stood very still in your own doorway.
"The washer was worn through," he said, without looking up. "I could hear it from outside."
"You could hear itâ"
"It was bothering me."
You set your box down slowly. "Mr. Grayson. You're in my house."
"The door was open." He emerged from under the sink, standing to his full height in your kitchen, and looked at you without any apparent awareness that this was unusual behavior. He had a wrench. He had, apparently, brought his own wrench. "It's fixed. You should have called someone sooner â that kind of drip runs up the water bill."
You stared at him.
He looked back at you. Something shifted, just slightly, in his expression â not quite a smile, but adjacent to one. An awareness that he was being evaluated and a complete absence of concern about the outcome.
"Coffee," you said finally. "You're having coffee. I'm not asking."
A pause. "Alright," he agreed firmly.
He took it black, which surprised you for no logical reason.
He sat at your kitchen table like he'd sat there before, comfortable in the space, watching you move around the kitchen with that steady, unblinking attention that you were starting to recognize as just how he looked at things he found interesting. It should have been uncomfortable. Mostly it was just warm.
"How long have you lived across the street?" you asked.
"Twelve years."
"And you've never â we've never actually talked before two months ago."
"You didn't need anything before two months ago." He said it simply, no subtext offered, and wrapped both hands around his mug.
You leaned against the counter and looked at him. "Is that how it works? You only talk to people when they need something fixed?"
"Generally."
"That's a very lonely way to live."
Something moved across his face, there and gone, "It's a very efficient way to live."
"Mm." You picked up your own mug. "And you just â happened to notice my garbage cans. And my lightbulb. And my faucet."
"I pay attention to my surroundings."
"You pay attention to my surroundings."
He looked at you over the rim of his mug and said nothing, which was somehow a complete answer.
Your face felt warm. You looked out the window at the very normal and interesting backyard.
"Well," you started. "Thank you. For all of it. You didn't have to."
"I'm aware."
"So whyâ"
"You take your trash out in your socks," he stated flatly. "In October."
You blinked. "What?"
"The first morning. You came out in socks. No shoes." He set his mug down. "It was 48 degrees."
You had absolutely no response to that.
"I noticed," he said, in the same tone someone might use to report weather data, "that you do a lot of things without quite enough help."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"That'sâ" You laughed, a little helplessly. "That's either very sweet or very alarming, I genuinely can't tell."
"Probably both." And there it was â not a full smile, but the real version of that almost-smile, the one that changed the whole architecture of his face. It lasted about three seconds and then he picked up his mug again and it was gone. "The gutter on your east side is pulling away from the fascia."
"I â what?"
"I'll take care of it Saturday."
"Nolanâ"
"Unless you have plans Saturday."
He asked it like it was a practical question about scheduling. He was looking at you like it was something else completely.
"I don't have plans Saturday," you answered slowly.
He nodded, satisfied, and finished his coffee.
When he left he paused in your doorway â your fixed, properly lit doorway â and looked back at you with that steady, unhurried attention.
"Lock up," he stated. "The deadbolt, not just the handle."
"How do you know I only use the handleâ"
He was already down the porch steps.
You locked the deadbolt. You stood in your kitchen for a moment in the quiet of your fixed-faucet house and pressed your fingers to your mouth and tried very hard not to smile.
You failed.
Saturday, he arrived at eight in the morning with a ladder and fixed your gutter in forty minutes. You brought him coffee without being asked. He drank it standing in your driveway, looking up at his work with a critical eye, and then looked at you.
"The porch railing has some rot on the left post," he said.
"Of course it does."
"I canâ"
"Nolan." You held out his empty mug. "You know, most people get to know their neighbors by introducing themselves. Maybe a wave. A casserole."
"I fixed your faucet."
"You broke into my house to fix my faucet."
"The door was open."
"Nolan."
He took the mug. He was doing that not-quite-smiling thing again, the one that made it very difficult to maintain a reasonable level of composure. "There's a hardware store on fifth," he offered. "They'd have the right lumber for the post. I know the owner."
You looked at him. "Are you asking me to go to a hardware store with you."
"I'm saying I need to get the lumber anyway."
"That's not a no."
"No," he said, "it isn't."
The morning was cold and bright and your gutter was fixed and Nolan Grayson was standing in your driveway holding your coffee mug with both hands waiting for you to put your shoes on.
a joyful future fic
aaron hotchner x female!reader
(sparse she/her pronouns and female anatomy, no use of y/n)
a/n: *taps mic* how we doin out there?
co-written by @ssaic-jareau
links: masterlist | posting schedule | ao3
turn on post notifs to join the taglist!
word count: 14k
content warning(s): sexual content (oral w/ f!reader receiving, fingering, Emotional Sexâ˘, penetrative sex, beard!hotch, (discussed and safe) unprotected sex, hickies/bruises, dirty talk, a little bit of surprised dom!hotch, thigh riding, shaving as therapy and foreplay, counter fucking, really questionable boundaries), language, light drinking/alcohol use. always use a condom and stay in school, kids!
goes without saying but minors dni!
âtreat a man as he is, and he will remain as he is. treat a man as he could be, and he will become what he should be.â
ralph waldo emerson
september 22nd-28th, 2011
Aaron takes the stairs two at a time. He hasnât been back long enough for this space to feel normal again, but it doesnât feel as foreign as it did three days ago. The desk is still as pristine as the day he left, thanks to you. The note is still there, stuck to the side of his broken monitor, the photos still slipped into the frame.
Your handwriting.
His throat tightens.
Because despite everythingâdespite his absence, despite his liesâyou never erased him.
Three days ago, when he stood here, he looked at these images and let the guilt tear through him. Let himself sink into self-recrimination, into the choices that led him here. He saw them as consequences.
Now, they feel like a revelation.
Three days ago, he stared at the photo of Jack in the museum, and all he saw was his own failure. His absence. The fact that you had stepped in where he should have been. The exhaustion in your face, the weight you carried without complaint.
Now, he sees something else.
You took him. You. You chose to be there.
Even when you had every reason to wash your hands of him, of his family, of his mistakesâyou still showed up for Jack. You still loved his son, even when you were hurting.
Three days ago, he looked at Emilyâs picture and thought only of the time he spent pretending she was gone, the months of unbearable weight he forced you to carry alone.
Now, he wonders how many times you sat with that post-it, tracing the smudged ink, memorizing the location of an empty grave. Had you planned to visit? Had you already? Had you stood at that empty plot and let yourself grieve something that was never real?
His stomach twists. He swallows hard.
And thenâhe looks at the last one.
The Fourth of July.
A few days ago, he let the sight of it splinter something inside him, let it rip through his chest like shrapnel.
But nowânow itâs proof of how much time he wasted.
Had you loved him then?
Had you sat beside him on those deck steps, his arm around you, your shoulder tucked against his, smiling for JJâs camera when he wasnât watchingâhad you been feeling it, too? If you had been looking at him like that, if you had already been his before he ever leftâthen what the fuck was it all for?
Yesterday took his blinders off, thatâs for damn sure, and underneath he realized what a shitty unreliable narrator he is in the story of his own life. How embarrassing.
He thought he was doing the right thing. Thought he was being respectful, professionalâhell, for a year he tried to fill in for Jenny, to be a mentor to you, before he gave up. Thought he was holding himself back because he had to, because it was the honorable thing to do.
How foolish you two have been. Him, especially.
He exhales slowly through his nose, pushing aside whateverâs trying to surface, and starts sorting through the materials heâll need to prepare for the hearing.
He hears your voice carry up from the bullpenâwarm, familiar. The tension in his shoulders eases before he even registers the meaning behind it. He'd worked for months without your voice unadulterated by static, without your presence.
Then, Emilyâs voice.
âWhere were you last night?â
His ears sharpen. He drags his eyes up toward the doorway, taking a few steps and moving just close enough to hear without making his presence known.
The moment he catches your exasperated groan, he smothers a smile.
Oh, this is going to be good.
He leans against the wall by the door, well out of sight, notes in-hand, listening as you attempt to dodge Emilyâs line of questioning. Your protests are weak at best. Emily, naturally, doesnât buy a second of it. Penelope arrives with an unsurprising lack of discretion.
The moment Emily catches the hickey, Aaron bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep his expression neutral. The last thing he needs is to walk out there looking smug, but Christ, the thought is tempting.
âIâve been dead for ten months. The least you can do is tell me who youâve been fucking since then.â
Aaron nearly has to turn away to compose himself.
Emily Elizabeth Prentiss. Never change.
Heâs going to have to endure this conversation at some point. He knows that. But God help him, he isnât above leaving you to fend for yourself this time. Heâs earned it.
However. Your defensive, snarky response makes the decision for him. He takes pity on you, calling out for you across the bullpen in a manner he hopes is professional enough to pass.
Without another word, you abandon two of your dearest friends and take the stairs two at a time.
You shut the door behind you and exhale sharply through your nose.
âYouâre an asshole.â
His mouth twitches. Heâs still holding back a smile when he sits down, flipping open the file he abandoned.
âWas that fun? Did you enjoy that?â
He lifts his eyes to yours, schooling his face into something almost sternâbut the effort is visible. You know him too well to be intimidated. The Van Halen shirt doesnât help. He, like you, didnât think anyone would be here today.
âImmensely,â he says, pen scratching against paper.
You cross your arms. âSo, did you actually have something for me, or was that just a power move, sir?â
And thatâs when he makes the mistake of looking up at you again.
His gaze lingers just a second too long.
A flash, seared into his mindâyour eyes on him, the way you tipped your head back against the pillow last night, the sound of his name in your mouth, breathless, blissed-outâ
Itâs involuntary, the way heat lances through him.
Your eyes flicker with something when you catch the look in his.
He tilts his chin down, voice low, colored with amusement but not mistaking the weight behind it. âDonât start something you canât finish, darling.â
Your throat bobs. He watches the reaction hit, subtle but unmistakable.
Good. Noted.
Aaron moves on like nothing happened, flipping open a file, though the corner of his mouth twitches just slightly as he hands it to you. âWhen we get back, weâll have to follow up with that coroner. His report is incomplete.â
You flip through the file, setting it down. âIâll add it to the list. If we get our jobs back.â
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. âWeâll get our jobs back. We always do.â
You arch a brow. âYeah, you, maybe.â
He stands, offering you space in the box on his desk. You toss in your academic case files and statement notes for the Doyle case, then follow him down the hall and up the stairs to Straussâs office.
Aaron keeps half a step ahead of you as you turn in their credentials, always a little too conscious of how Strauss observes you, how she sees you as an extension of him. Itâs always irritated him, that assumption.
You are your own person. Your own professional.
Heâs just grateful you havenât been dragged further into his mistakes.
As you step out of her office, you fall into step beside him. You donât put space between you. That alone is more than he expected.
You stop by his office and the photos on his monitor go in the box, discarding the post-it with Emilyâs plot location. He watches as you crumple it, tossing it lightly into the trash.
Your voice is quieter when you say, âI tried not to disturb too much when I was up here.â
Something about it strikes him. Like you feel like youâve been caught. Like you think you shouldnât have touched anything at all. Like youâre worried you shouldnât have been up here, should have left his office to fall dusty and stale while he was gone.
His gaze follows the post-it where it lands. His chest tightens.
âI donât mind,â he says. He looks at you, something softer in his expression. âItâs your office, too.â
Something flickers in your features, but you donât speak.
He lets it sit between you, unspoken.
Whatâs mine is yours.
He follows half a step behind as you head down the stairs in silence.
Emilyâs in the kitchen, emptying the coffee pot. Without looking, she calls, âI am going to figure out who youâve been sleeping with.â
Aaron is almost positive youâre about to pull something to throw at her. Then, Emily turns. Sees him. Sees you.
And freezes.
âOh my God, Hotch. I didnâtââ She cuts off, her gaze darting between the two of you.
Your face betrays nothing. You take Aaronâs elbow, steering him toward the door.
Emily is still frozen in place. Aaron waits for her to speak. Waits for the inevitable. Instead, you just hold her gaze.
And on your way outâ
You flip her off.
+++
Aaron unlocks the door and lets you inside first. He watches you toe off your shoes and head straight for the bathroom off his bedroom, as if Emily is still chasing you. The second the door shuts, he exhales, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
Heâs never been happier to be home.
He takes his time in the kitchen, keeping his hands busy. The apartment is quiet, save for the distant sound of water running. He takes a sip of coffee, lingering by the counter.
You come back into the living room newly clean. Youâre wearing that same threadbare shirt from before, and a pair of jeans. Youâve only been out of his sight for fifteen minutes, but after the desert, every second is too long. He missed you.
Haleyâs voice echoes in his head. You sweet, silly man.
You flop onto the couch, and before he can stop himself, heâs already moving toward you, handing you a fresh cup of coffee before sinking onto the cushion beside you.
The second heâs settled, you scoot into his side, tucking beneath his arm like itâs second nature.
His chest goes tight.
God, I missed this.
âSo,â you say, your voice casual.
He glances down at you, raising a brow.
âI donât think itâs a good idea to change the routine we had before you left for Pakistan.â
There it is.
You say it like a fact, like itâs about practicality, but he knows what you mean. He hears the words beneath it.
I want to spend time with you. I want to be here with you and Jack.
Aaron hums, lifting his mug. âI agree. It would be hard on Jack.â Itâs a weak excuse.
You nod, but thereâs something small in your voice when you admit, âIâd miss you. And I already missed you, and Iâm sick of it.â
His chest clenches.
He doesnât let himself thinkâheâs done too much thinkingâjust presses a kiss to your temple, lingering for a second longer than he needs to.
âIâm sick of missing you, too.â He nuzzles into the space just beneath your ear, his breath warm against your skin. You used his body wash. It does something to him.
âAnd I am not done with you yet.â His fingers ghost over your hip, tapping lightly over the marks he left there last night. They did, in fact, move from little pressure marks to dark, shadowed, perfect impressions of his fingers. Heâd feel bad, maybe, if you hadnât grinned at them like a prize this morning, stretching and twisting in front of the mirror, tracing over them with your fingertips.
âOh my god, you did!â You twist, craning to see, and the sight alone nearly brings him to his knees. He watches you in the mirror, the way your brows lift in something close to delight, the way your lips part as you shift your weight, testing the ache.
Then, a slow grin as you straighten, tilting your chin up, running your hands over your skin, mapping out the places where he claimed you.
Thereâs something almost reverent in the way you touch them, the way you admire his handiwork in the mirror. A quiet appreciation that sends a pulse of heat straight through him.
You pull at the collar of his shirt, revealing your chest along with your throat. Red and purple bloom in impressive, but not worrisome, swatches. You press a fingertip to one, watching the color shift, the tender skin giving under your touch. âHoly shit.â
Aaron steps in behind you, his hands resting lightly at your waist. He bends to kiss the exposed line of your throat, just under your jaw, his voice low and amused against your skin. âSorry,â he murmurs, dragging it out. âI got excited.â
Your breath catches, but you barely hesitate, firm and authoritative. âDo not apologize.â Your voice drops, almost like youâre talking to yourself, like itâs dawning on you in real time. âThatâs so hot.â
Aaron groans. Fuck. He agrees.
The way you inhale sharply now, as his fingers trace absently over the bruises he left behind, makes his pulse jump. His grip tightens, just slightly, and he leans in, letting his lips ghost over your jaw, over the curve of your cheek, murmuring low against your skinâ
âI could spend all day admiring my work.â
Your breath stutters, just for a second. âYou should.â
His restraint fractures. Just a little.
ââŚAnd thatâs convenient.â Your voice is a little rough, a little teasing. âIâm not done with you, either. And I wouldnât want all your hard work to go to waste.â
His coffee is forgotten.
Aaron sets the mug aside, tipping your chin up with his fingers, his touch featherlight, like heâs savoring the moment before he indulges. His breath skims over your lips, the tension between you thrumming, electric, but thereâs something else tooâsomething softer, something thatâs been waiting too long.
âI love you.â
Before you can respond, he closes the space.
Itâs slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for questions, that lingers with the weight of everything unspoken.
And thenâ
The sound of keys in the lock.
You barely pull away before he chases your lips again, stealing one last kiss before sighing against your mouth and standing to his feet.
The door swings open, and Jack barrels inside, his backpack slipping from his shoulders.
âDad!â
Aaron barely has time to brace himself before Jack launches that tiny body into his arms. He lifts him effortlessly, catching him and swinging him up in one smooth motion. Jackâs arms lock around his neck, small fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
The momentum fades, but Jack clings to him just as tight. You press your fingers to your lips, still tingling, watching as Jack clings to his dad, all arms and laughter and unfiltered joy.
And Aaron holds him. Just holds him.
The relief is staggering.
For five months, he imagined this moment, feared that it might not be the same, that Jack might feel the distance, that he mightâ
Jack pulls back just enough to look at him, his little hands pressing against Aaronâs cheeks. His face scrunches up immediately.
âYour beard is scratchy.â
Aaron laughs, pressing his nose to Jackâs cheek until he shrieks with laughter. âDo you like it?â
Jack wrinkles his nose in an exaggerated grimace. Thatâs answer enough.
But then, his attention shifts.
The moment he registers you standing nearby, his face lights up. Jack gasps, immediately squirming out of Aaronâs arms before launching into yours.
Aaron watches as you catch him without hesitation, tucking him against you like he belongs there.
He does.
Jack sends his dad a wary glance. âDadâs beard makes him look funny.â
You suppress a smile, leaning in conspiratorially. âHe doesnât really look like himself, does he?â
Jack shakes his head, giggling.
Aaron huffs, exaggerating his betrayal. Youâve damn near stolen his son, and now you two are ganging up on him. But he watches the two of you, warmth curling in his chest. For a second, he lets himself picture itâsomething permanent, something real.
Jack already adores you. That much is undeniable.
You press a kiss to Jackâs head before setting him down, sending him off to put his backpack away. He watches as you collect the coffee mugs from the living room and disappear into the kitchen, giving him and Jess a moment.
Itâs another small thing, but he notices.
You do that a lot.
Give him space when he needs it, without being asked.
His gaze flicks to Jess, whoâs watching you, too. Sheâs been a lifeline, the closest thing Jack has had to a mother since Haley, steady and loving in a way Aaron will never have the words to thank her for. But sheâs his aunt, not his mother. And as much as she loves Jack, that was never her role to fill.
And then, thereâs you.
The thought sneaks up on him before he can stop it.
Jack has never looked to Emily like this. Or JJ. Or Penelope. But is that because of who they are? Or because of who he is?
Aaron swallows. His worst quality, Emily once said, was that he trusts men more than women. Heâd dismissed it at the time, not because he thought it was untrue, but because it was something he didnât want to be true. Had it still been true, in the end? Maybe. Maybe not.
But thereâs a difference between trust and expectation.
He has never expected the women in his life to raise his son. He has always expected that of himself. And yetâyou have always been here. You, with your steady hands and your quick wit and your deep, unfaltering well of patience for Jackâs questions. You, your steady attendance at every soccer game and your ease in his home. You, who never once stepped into Haleyâs space but have built your own.
His fingers flex at his sides. He lets out a slow breath.
Jack has already decided. He made his choice months ago, when he started asking for you before bed, when he ran to you first after soccer games, when he looked up from his drawings and said, This oneâs for you.
God heâs an idiot. If he hadnât been such a fool, maybe he wouldâve realized sooner.
Aaron barely has time to catch his breath and process the thought before Jess is pulling him into a tight embrace, wrapping him up like sheâs anchoring him in place.
He lets himself sink into it.
Itâs been too long.
Sheâs the closest thing he has to a sister, and heâs missed her, more than he let himself acknowledge before now.
âWelcome back,â she murmurs against his shoulder.
âThanks, Jess.â He swallows, voice thick with something he doesnât name. âFor everything.â
She huffs a little laugh, shaking her head as she pulls back just enough to look at him. âDonât be ridiculous.â She squeezes his arms, her touch warm and familiar. âIt was so special, getting all this time with him. It flew by.â
Aaron nods, his chest tight. âIt means a lot.â
Jess just scoffs, swatting at his shoulder. âOf course it does.â Her tone softens as she tips her head. âYou donât owe me anything, Aaron. You know that.â
He does.
But that doesnât mean he doesnât want to say it.
Before he can, Jack comes barreling back into the room, all but vibrating with excitement. âDad, Dad, Dad, you missed so much!â
Aaron grins, crouching to meet him at eye level. âYeah?â He braces himself as Jack launches forward again, throwing his arms around his fatherâs neck.
Jack barely gives him a second before pulling back, eyes wide with the enormity of all the things he has to tell him. âOkay, okay, so firstââ He holds up a small hand, like he needs Aaron to focus. âCamp was so cool. There was a lake and a zipline and a huge bonfire and my counselorâs name was Jungle Jimâall the counselors had funny names.â
Aaron nods, completely enraptured. âJungle Jim, huh? Sounds like a good guy.â
Jack nods so hard his honey brown hair bounces. âYeah, and then after that, we went to the museumâthe little one with all the planes on the ceiling!â He grabs Aaronâs hand like he needs him to understand. Aaron can hear your voice in his description of the Udvar-Hazy Center. Itâs not like itâs a catchy name or anything.
âI got to stand under the Blackbird, Dad. The real one.â
Aaronâs throat goes tight. He knows.
Jack is still going. âAnd then I started school, and I got to pick out my own backpack and my teacher is Ms. Vasquez, and she lets us read the big kid books if we want to, and my best friend is Colin, and guess who else is in my class?â
Aaron shakes his head, smiling. âWho?â
Jack takes a dramatic pause. âSophie.â
Aaron lifts a brow. âSophie from soccer?â
Jack nods solemnly. âWeâre friends at school now, too.â
Aaron pretends to be impressed. It is an accomplishment for a five year old. âThatâs a pretty big deal.â
Jack beams. âI know.â Then, his eyes widen again, like heâs just remembered something crucial. âOh! And I made a rocket in art class.â He twists toward Jess. âAuntie Jess, can I show him my rocket?â
She laughs. âOf course, buddy. I think we put it on the shelf in your room.â
Jack gasps. âBe right back!â
Aaron watches as he takes off down the hall, his little feet pattering against the floor.
Jess nudges his arm. âYou good?â
Aaron exhales, still looking toward the hall, the sounds of his son rustling through his things drifting back toward them.
The ache in his chest is bittersweet. Five months is a long time, especially for a five (almost six) year old. He missed so much. Jack looks different, like heâs turning into a little person, in that way children do.
But Jack is here. Heâs here, and heâs happy, and he still clings to Aaronâs hand like a lifeline. Or, at least he would, if he wasnât retrieving a rocket.
Aaron nods. âYeah,â he murmurs. âYeah, Iâm good.â
He lets himself believe it.
+++
Later, after Jack disappears into his room and Jess takes her leave, Aaron finds you in the bedroom, propped up against the headboard with your laptop.
He crosses the room, stretching out across the bed to reach you.
You glance up, startled when he cups your face in his palm and presses a soft kiss to your lips.
When he pulls back, thereâs something wide and unguarded in your gaze.
His brow furrows slightly, his lips curving just at the corner. âWhat?â
You hesitate. âI justââ Your fingers slip into his hair at his temple, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp.
A shiver runs down his spine before you even finish your thought. He is, unfortunately, touch-starved. The softest of your attentions set his nervous system alight.
âI donât usually get what I want.â
It isnât dramatic. You donât say it like youâre expecting pity. But he feels it anyway, the weight of it settling deep.
Because he knows. Because heâs never been someone to get what he wants, either.
But thisâyouâno.
You will want for nothing, he decides. Not while heâs here. Not while he can help it.
His throat works around a swallow as he takes your hand in his, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your palm. Then, with quiet certainty, he folds your fingers closed over the touch, like heâs sealing something in place.
His voice is low, steady. âWell⌠weâll work on that.â
You try not to smile.
You fail.
Aaron brushes a thumb over your knuckles before shifting, glancing toward the door. âWeâve got LEGOs in Jackâs room when youâre done here.â
You hum, fingertips trailing along his scalp. âOh, not to keep you, but while youâre hereâŚâ You draw him forward again, brushing your lips against his. âIâll make you a deal.â
His mouth is still on yours when he murmurs, âMm?â
You lean back slightly, appraising. âShave the beard to appease your son, but keep the hair long.â
His breath leaves him in a quiet huff the second your fingers wind into the shorter strands at his nape.
Then, you tug. Sharp, deliberate. Heat jolts straight down his spine, molten and immediate, like a struck match catching on kindling.
Jesus.
His jaw clenches, his grip tightening where his hand still rests on your thigh. He knew he likes being pushed around a little but this is another level. And now heâs fully, achingly hard in an instant.
You did that. So easily.
He schools his expression, but itâs a difficult endeavor. His voice is lower, rougher when he asks, âWhat did I say about starting things you canât finish?â
Instead of answering, you grin, all smug satisfaction. Then, without warning, you kiss him againâslow, filthy, all tongue, a deliberate tease against the ache you just put there. And with a pointed little shove, you push him away.
Heâs drawn back to you like a magnet, heat still thrumming under his skin, but you hold him back with a single finger in the middle of his chest.
Your voice is light. Sweet. Too swwet.
âTo not to?â
Aaron exhales through his nose, forcing restraint back into his bones. But itâs a process. His jaw shifts, his hands flex, and most inconvenient of allâheâs still fucking hard.
Fantastic. Very family friendly behavior, here.
He clenches his jaw as he stands, thinking of Virginia traffic code.
He reaches for the door.
He adjusts, subtle but necessary.
+++
By the end of the evening, Jackâs bedroom is littered with an entire fleet of LEGO vehicles. Some are perfectly intact, displayed proudly on the shelf. Others are in various states of disrepair, casualties of playtime, waiting to be rebuilt.
You sit near Jack on the floor, ankles crossed, helping Jack reassemble a downed allyâhe fell off the shelf and his wing detached. The two of you move in syncâyour voices low, easy, familiar.
With a lack of difficulty that soothed his anxieties about his age, Aaron also sat on the ground, leaning against the doorframe, feet extended, ankles crossed, just like you. His feet move from side to sideâan adaptation, as heâs unable to bounce his knee from here.
Aaron lets himself breathe.
Dinner had been a quiet affairâsandwiches and vegetables, eaten on the floor of Jackâs room. He didnât fight it. He figures heâll be a pushover for the next few days at least, making up for lost time.
And God, he has missed this. Missed home.
âAlright, bud. Time for bed.â He pushes off the doorframe, gathering the empty plates as Jack lets out an exaggerated sigh, flopping onto his back in protest.
You barely look up, your voice both light, almost sing-song, and authoritative. âWe had a deal, Jack.â
Jack grumbles, but doesnât argue. The finished LEGO creations go onto the bookshelf, the rest tucked neatly back into their bin. You donât even have to think about it. You know where everything belongs.
Aaron returns a few minutes later, wearing a soft white shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He lingers in the doorway, watching you tidy up with Jack. The way you are with him is easy.
Youâve been here. Youâve been in his space. More than thatâyouâve made it your space, too. Not in a way that replaced him. Not in a way that erased him. In a way that held him, even in his absence.
It strikes him suddenly, painfully, how much of Jackâs life heâs already missed. How many bedtimes. How many Saturday mornings. How many moments like thisâquiet and easy and full of the kind of love that doesnât need to be spoken to be understood.
Jack doesnât hesitate with you. Doesnât second-guess his place in your world. Itâs natural. Effortless.
He leaves, tearing himself away to handle the plates and tidy the kitchen a little, clearing the sink and filling the dishwasher to run overnight. He returns to his sonâs room. Youâre just shoving the lego bin under the bed, on your knees, bent at the hip, an arm bracing you. He really does his damnedest to keep his eyes off your ass. Itâs really hard.
You toss Jackâs pajamas from the drawer, and he catches them with a little smile. âGet those on, little bug. Dad will be back in to read you a chapter, okay?â
Jack nods, but before you can stand, he tugs at your hand, pulling you closer.
âAre you sleeping over?â His voice is quiet. Careful.
Aaron feels the breath catch in his chest.
Your eyes flick up to him before answering. âI think so, but Iâm not sure.â Then, with a smile just for himâjust for himâyou add, âI think we should ask Dad if thatâs alright.â
Jack immediately twists in your arms, looking at Aaron with wide, expectant eyes. âDaddy, can we have a sleepover?â
Aaronâs heart lurches.
Two sets of doe eyes look up at him from under lashes. Jackâs little body is tucked against yours, your arms wrapped around him like you belong thereâlike you always have.
And the thing isâyou do.
Aaronâs lips tug into a smile, fond and familiar. âYeah, we can have a sleepover.â
âYes!â Jack breaks free of your hold and takes off down the hall.
Aaron doesnât even have time to react before youâre moving, standing fluidly, closing the space between you.
âSleepover?â you murmur, tilting your head up at him.
His hands find your waist, settling there without thought. âMhmm.â He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering for just a moment before pulling you in fully.
And he could stay like this. He wants to stay like this.
But Jack returns in a flurry of footsteps, all energy and excitement, and you slip out of Aaronâs arms before he can protest, crouching to catch him as he launches himself at you.
The warmth in Aaronâs chest is almost unbearable.
Jack tucks himself against you, his tiny hands gripping your shirt as you pepper his cheeks with kisses. He dissolves into giggles, wiggling against you before you set him back on his feet and steer him toward the bed.
He scuttles under the covers, barely waiting for you to tuck him in before he mumbles, âI love you.â
You smile, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. âI love you, too.â
Aaron watches, something raw pulling at the edges of his heart.
He doesnât question it anymore.
With one last kiss to Jackâs forehead, you straighten and slip past Aaron, disappearing down the hall.
Aaron settles onto the bed beside his son, feeling the quiet weight of home settle into his spirit. Jack curls against his side without hesitation. Aaron picks up the bookâone he doesnât recognize. Another thing he missed.
He exhales, adjusting the weight of it in his hands, and starts to read.
Through the open door, he can hear the soft rustle of blankets, the sound of you curling up in his bed. The quiet comfort of your presence in his home.
â...âMy father thought the cat was talking just to hear itself talk.ââ Aaron reads. He moves the book so Jack can see his face. âLike Uncle Dave, maybe?â
Jack laughs.
Jackâs eyelids grow heavier with every word as Aaron continues to read the short chapter. Aaronâs voice drops into something softer, steadier, something he hopes will keep this moment here.
He flicks off the hallway light and murmurs, âSince the grown-ups donât have work in the morning, weâre all gonna sleep in.â
Jack hums sleepily turning over under his NASA comforter, the little rockets shifting on the fabric.
Yeah, sure.
The door clicks shut behind him, and for a moment, Aaron just stands there, watching you in the dark.
Youâre curled beneath his sheets, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. He doesnât want to wake you if youâve already drifted offâbut before he can slip quietly into bed, your voice reaches him through the dark.
âAaron?â
His restraint frays at the edges. Always does when you say his name like that. Like it belongs to you.
He moves without thinking, reaching for you in the dark. The second your fingers lace through his, some of the tension eases from his spine. âYeah?â
You hesitate. Then, with a sigh, you squeeze his hand, like youâre making a decision. âI still donât like it, but I understand it.â
It takes him a beat to process what you mean.
Emily.
Relief cuts through his chest, sharp and swift. You donât have to forgive himânot yet, maybe not everâbut you understand. And for now, thatâs enough.
âI hated lying to you,â he murmurs, settling onto the mattress beside you, feeling the warmth of your body just inches away. âI think it was the hardest thing I ever had to do.â He exhales, lets the honesty settle between you. âIf there had been any other wayâŚâ
He trails off. You know. Of course you know.
Then, you shift closer, tucking yourself against his chest, and fuckâhe barely holds in the sigh that threatens to leave him. The weight of you against him, the warmth of your breath against his throat, the way you fit against himâit settles something inside him. Eases something so deep he didnât even realize it was still aching.
God, he missed this.
His capacity for denial must be legendary, wrapping you up in his arms like this in the spring, rationalizing it as something friends do.
What a moron.
You sigh, your breath warm against his collarbone. âYeah,â you whisper. âI know.â
He takes a breath.
âThere will always be things I canât tell you.â His forehead brushes against yours, and you nod, understanding before he even finishes the thought. âBut I swearâI will never let you believe something like that again. If you ask me a question I canât answer, Iâll tell you. If you ask me if you know everything I know, Iâll be honest about that, too.â
It feels like a vow. Maybe it is.
Then, softer, âI will be as open as possible about the things I canât be open about.â
Your fingers drift up, brushing lightly over his jaw, tilting his face slightly so you can see him even in the dim light.
âThank you,â you whisper.
And Aaron canât help it. He kisses you.
The warmth of your kiss spreads between them, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier. His fingers trace down your spine, his body pressing closer, seeking you without thought.
Then, you break apart, foreheads still pressed together, panting slightly in the darkness.
Torture.
Aaron closes his eyes, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. A promise. A prayer.
âWhat do you want?â His voice is rough, low, loaded. He doesnât need to ask. He already knows. But he wants to hear you say it.
He drops down to your throat, dragging his lips along your skin, sucking just under your jaw. Your breath catchesâthen you roll your center against his thigh, slotted between your legs.
His fingers dig into your hip.
Fuck.
He wasnât expecting that.
Your lower lip disappears into your mouth, and your body shifts again, dragging your core over his thigh.
âFuck.â Itâs a whisper, but it wrecks him.
His eyes darken, his fingers tightening their grip before he shoves up into you, his thigh pressing right thereâhe feels the heat of you even through the fabric. Your body shudders.
His voice is pure gravel. âWhatââ He grips your ass roughly, increasing the pressure as you grind down onto him, panting into his skin. ââdo you want?â
He already knows the answer.
But, God, he needs to hear you beg for it.
You could probably come just like this. He can feel it, the way your body rocks in smooth, deliberate rhythm, the way your slick soaks through your underwear onto his sweatpants, marking him. But thatâs not enough. Not yet.
Your voice is tight, near breathless. âI need you.â
He doesnât stop guiding your hips against him, doesnât let you slow. He lets you use him, lets you chase it, watching as your breath stutters every time your clit drags against him just right.
âI think Iâll keep you right here,â he mutters, his voice thick, possessive. His grip tightens at your hips, a sharp tug in time with his leg rising just enoughâ
You gasp, biting your lip to hold back the cry. And he grins. âUntil youâre begging for my cock.â
Jesus. Whereâd that one come from?
Never in his life has he been so bossy or crass in bed. Maybe you just bring it out of him.
He feels your breath hitch, feels the way you clench around nothing at the words alone.
It worked. Noted.
âAaron, please.â Itâs a whisper, but itâs shattered. You drop your head to his shoulder, grinding harder against him, desperate for more.
With every pass, your own thigh brushes the hard line of his cock. He inhales sharply, his jaw locked, barely keeping himself from rutting up into you like a desperate man.
Youâre so wetâhe can feel you through the fabric, soaking him, making a mess of him.
His own restraint is slipping.
He presses down with his hands, up with his thigh, watching as you writhe against him, lost in it. The sounds youâre makingâstifled whimpers against his collarboneâfuck. He canât get enough.
âI need you,â you gasp, your fingers threading into his hair, your hips rolling fast and even.
He exhales a rough laugh, breath hot against your skin. âYouâre gonna have to do better than that.â
Your body jolts as his lips brush your ear, breath hot, teasing. His voice drops, thick and sinful.
âI want to watch you come right here.â He slows his movements, just slightly, and you whine. âI want you to know I donât even have to touch you to make you feel good.â
Your fingers tighten in his hair, your panting breath loud in his ear. âI already know that,â you tell him, breathless. âYouâre the only one whoâs gotten me off almost every night for the last four years.â
His whole body freezes.
Youâre shitting me.
A sharp roll of your hips. âAnd you didnât lay a hand on me until last night.â
Fuck.
Something feral slams through him, something raw and consuming.
How many nights had you been thinking of him? How many times had you slipped your fingers between your legs, touched yourself, had you fallen apart with his name on your lips?
And heâd been suffering all alone, unaware that you had wanted him just as much.
His grip bruises at your waist. His restraint fractures.
âFuck, I love you,â he breathes, kissing your forehead, his lips at your temple, at your cheek. He needs to consume you, needs to make up for every second. âI love you.â
Youâre close. He knows it. Feels it. Instead of letting you have it, he slowsâjust to watch you break.
You freeze.
Your breath catches. Your lips part. Your eyes meet his in the dark, pupils blown.
And thenâyour body shudders.
Your orgasm snaps through you, your muscles locking up, your breath leaving you in a silent cry. The sight of you like this, undone and desperate in his arms, is the most beautiful thing heâs ever seen.
Aaron watches. Burns it into his mind.
Before youâve even caught your breath, he rolls, pinning you beneath him, devouring your lips in a slow, lazy kiss.
Your whole body trembles. He relishes it.
His hands slide up your torso, tugging your shirt up and over your head, leaving you bare beneath him.
Then, his gaze drops lower.
The dark, wet spot on his sweatpants. Your arousal. Soaking him.
His brows pull together, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He swearsâhis cock twitches.
You start to shift away, reaching for your discarded shirt, but noâheâs not letting you go anywhere.
His hands drag you across the bed, pulling you flush against his hips. He feels the heat of you, feels your arousal against his skin as he presses into you from behind.
You barely muffle a gasp behind your hand as he grinds against you, his touch smoothing over your spine, your lower back, before finding your nipples.
He rolls them between his fingers, slow, knowing, drinking in every shudder, every gasp.
âPlease,â you whimper.
He leans down, his chest flush against your back, his breath hot at your ear. You roll your hips, seeking him, needing him, but he resists.
His fingers trace lower, finally slipping between your legs. And when he feels how wet you are, how readyâhe groans, his forehead pressing to your shoulder.
Youâre practically dripping for him.
He swears he whispers your name. Maybe heâs not even aware of it. Your body answers before your lips doâyou tip your head back, offering yourself up.
He takes your jaw in his hand, guiding you upright, his lips grazing your ear. âWhat do you want?â
Your breath shudders. âI want you inside me.â
He inhales sharply. âAre you sure?â His lips trail along your throat, teasing, savoring, while his other hand palms your breast, kneading, rolling.
âYes. Please.â You huff, realizing too lateâheâs made you beg for it after all. âFuck me, Aaron. Goddamn you.â
His lips curve into a smirk against your skin. âBe nice.â
His fingers part you, guiding his cock between your pussy lips, teasing. Your breath catches, sharp and wanting.
His jaw tightens. The urge to sink into you all at once, to take, to claim, is nearly unbearable.
You spread your legs further, desperate, and he releases his grip on your jaw. The second he does, you fold forward onto your forearms, pushing back against himâimpatient.
Aaron exhales through his nose, fighting the heat rushing through him.
He drags the head of his cock through your arousal, watching the way you tremble, feeling every desperate shift of your hips, every sharp breath, the way your body reacts to every little movement.
Heâs never had this extreme of an effect on anyone before. You are so wet, so warm, so ready. His restraint is already in shreds, and you havenât even taken him yet.
You shift, offering, pleading without words. You drop even more, the curve in your spine deepening, pressing your chest to the mattress.
Youâre waiting for him.
Needing him.
The base of his spine tightens, heat licking up his nerves. He presses the thick head of his cock against your entrance, just barely sinking in. You shudderâjust the barest stretch, and youâre already trembling.
The air leaves his lungs in a single, wrecked breath as he sinks into you, slow and deliberate, savoring every second of it. Youâre hot, tight, gripping him like you never want to let go.
You muffle your moan into the duvet, twisting the sheets between your fingers, and his stomach clenches at the sight. His fingers tighten on your hips.
Control. Hold it.
He moves shallowly at first, letting you adjust, dragging out the stretch, the burn. One hand sweeps down your spine, tracing the curve of you, the arch of your back. Youâre soft beneath his touch, so goddamn perfect.
âAaron.â Itâs a demand.
You push back against him, taking him all the way, all at once, until your ass meets his thighs.
His jaw locks as your body clenches around him, drawing him impossibly deeper as he instinctively opposes your push with his own. Your breath catches, breaking into a quiet cry, and the sound alone is enough to push him to the edge.
Jesus. Jesus.
He barely holds back the desperate thrust that burns through him, every nerve ending screaming for more.
You whimper. âPlease. I need you.â
Fuck.
He snaps.
His hips slam into yours, a sharp, perfect rhythm. Each stroke pulls a helpless sound from your throat. Heâs relentless, snapping forward with enough force to drive you into the mattress, holding you exactly where he wants you.
Mine.
The slick, obscene sound of you taking him is nearly enough to finish him then and there.
âYou feel so good.â His voice is ruined, torn at the edges. âYou take me so well. Youâre perfect.â
Bracing yourself, you reach between your legs. He beats you there, circling your clit with his middle finger, already slick. You rest your hand on top of his, guiding his touch.
Your belly tightens, pleasure coiling low. He groans when he feels you clench around him.
âYouâre gonna make me come again,â you gasp, breathless, laughing through it.
His pace doesnât falter. âGood.â
Youâre already closeâhe can feel it in the way you tighten around him, in the way your legs shake, barely able to hold yourself up.
Your body seizes around him, walls fluttering as you break apart beneath him, coming so hard you canât even make a sound, fucking yourself on him as he meets you in the middle.
God, youâre beautiful.
Aaron watches you shudder, watches you lose yourself, and he knowsâthis is it. Heâs never coming back from this.
From this angle, he can see everythingâthe way you arch, the way your cum coats his cock, gathering at the base. The visual alone is almost too much. It is too much.
Jesus. Canât keep that up.
He pulls out and you somehow surprise him againâthough why he expects you to do anything else at this point is beyond him. You turn, rising to your knees, capturing his mouth in a kiss so devastating, so shattered, it nearly brings him to his knees.
Aaron falls back on his heels, and you follow, straddling him, sinking down with a satisfied sigh.
His fingers dig into your hips as you roll against him, and fuck, he canât hold back anymore. He meets every slow, deliberate grind of your hips with a sharp thrust, pushing deeper, deeper, as deep as youâll let him go.
Your hands frame his face, breath shared between parted lips.
âIâfuckâI need you,â he groans. âPlease.â
You tilt your forehead against his, meeting his gaze, voice thick with something unshakable.
âYou have me.â Your movements shift, slow and deliberate, rolling your hips in a way that sends his head spinning.
âYouâve always had me.â Thenâyou tip his chin up, tugging at his hair, whispering against his throatâ âTake whatâs yours, Aaron.â
Fuck.
Aaron has spent years keeping a tight grip on his thoughts, regulating, controlling, stuffing them down into places where they couldnât hurt him. Couldnât betray him. Couldnât leave him open and bleeding for you to see.
Now, youâre speaking to him like youâve crawled into his head and made a home there.
Take whatâs yours, Aaron.
The words couldâve come from his own goddamn mind. The nights he forced himself to be content with just the sound of your voice over the phone, with the ghost of you in the space beside him, with the ache that never fully went away.
Like you already knew. Like youâve known all along.
A shudder rips through him.
His fingers curl tighter against your skin, reverent, possessive, like heâs trying to imprint this moment into his memory.
Heâs still half-convinced heâs dreaming.
But if he isâthen fuck it. Let him. Because in this dream, youâre looking at him like heâs the only thing youâve ever wanted.
Youâre in his arms, around him, over him, guiding him home with your hands in his hair, your lips against his throat, your body wrapped around him like you were made for this, like you were made for him.
âYouâve always had me.â
His breath stutters.
Christ.
He thought he was being watched before, but this? This is like youâre reaching inside him and dragging out every thought heâs ever had, every desire heâs ever buried, every single miserable, lovesick fantasy heâs ever tried to convince himself wasnât real.
Something in his chest breaksâsharp, clean, final.
He doesnât even realize heâs moving until your back hits the mattress, until heâs over you, inside you, surrounding you.
He sinks into you again, deeper this time, his forehead pressed to yours. Your body welcomes him, clings to him, takes him like he belongs to you.
He locks an arm around your lower back, cradling you, holding you against him. He moves slow, steady, deep, like heâs memorizing the feel of you, like heâs savoring every second. Desperate sounds spill between you. You breathe together, perfect, in sync.
He kisses you, but neither one of you can keep it up for long, too breathless, too lost. His voice breaks against your skin. âCan you come again?â
You nod, frantic, already teetering on the edge.
His hand slips between you, thumb circling your clit with perfect, practiced precision. Heâs been paying attentionâhe knows exactly what you need.
âCan I cum inside you?â The question rips out of him before he can stop it, raw, desperate, betraying just how far gone he is.
You donât hesitate. You donât tease, donât hold back, donât make him suffer for it. You just kiss him, like the answer was never in question, like it was always his to take.
"I told you to take whatâs yours, didnât I?"
It hits him harder than the first time.
Because if there was even a fraction of him still holding back, still clinging to the fear, still thinking he needed to askâ
You just took that last piece of resistance and shattered it. He chokes out a groan, gripping you tight, his fingers digging into your hips, his vision blurring at the edges.
Do you even realize what youâve done? Do you know what it means?
How long heâs wanted thisâwanted youâhow many times heâs had to bite down on his own desires, force himself to be careful, to be restrained, to keep his hands off what he thought wasnât his?
But youâre telling him otherwise. Youâre telling him he never had to hold back. That you belong to him, that you always have.
And fuckâhe can feel it, feel it in the way your body clenches around him, pulling him deeper, like your body is demanding he give you everything, all of him.
He doesnât stand a chance.
âYouâre mine,â he growls, his voice ruined, and itâs not a question, not a request, Itâs a claim.
Your eyes lock with his, and thenâyou shatter. Your body locks up, then breaks apart around him, dragging him under with you.
His vision whites out. His breath stops. Heâs spilling inside you, filling you, his body seizing, his name caught somewhere between your lips and a sigh.
Itâs perfect. He never stood a chance.
You sigh into the corner of his mouth, your fingers trailing gently down his spine. âYours.â
Aaron groans softly, pressing his face to your neck, catching his breath.
You whisper it again, and this timeâthis time, it doesnât feel like an echo. âAll yours.â
+++
september 23rd, 2011
Jack, ever the gift, sleeps late the next morning, so Aaron has more time than he expected.
Youâre draped over him, warm and pliant, the soft weight of your body grounding him in a way he never realized he needed. His fingers trace slow, absentminded circles on your back. He listens to your breathing, the small shifts of your body as you settle deeper into him, and he thinksâ
This is what he was missing.
This right here.
Not the sex. Not the intimacy of last night, though Christ, that was something. But this. The weight of you against him, the simplicity of waking up together, the comfort of shared space. The easy silence.
He missed it, and he didnât even know how much.
He exhales, deciding if he keeps putting it off, he won't do it. âCan I tell you something?â
You hum, lazy and content, your fingers mapping out the scars scattered across his chest, tracing each ridge and valley. âOf course.â
Aaron pauses, his thumb sweeping over your spine. âI canât believe youâre not more upset with me over Emily.â
Thereâs a beat of silence. He feels the shift in your breathing before you answer.
âI just understand it, you know?â you say, your voice soft. âYou explained yourself rather elegantly, and now Iâm over the initial shock of it, Iâm fine. Also,â you add, tilting your head to look at him, âitâs a rule, right? If you have a secret, keep it to yourself. Second best, tell one other person. There is no third best.â
His brow lifts, a small, almost-smile tugging at his mouth. "Jenny got to you."
There's something fond in his voice, something aching. He misses her, more than he lets himself acknowledge most of the time. A colleague, a friend, someone he'd worked with and respected deeply, someone he once shielded from danger. The invocation of her ruleâGibbsâs ruleâmoves him in a way he wasnât expecting, a bittersweet echo of a friendship lost too soon.
You tip your head in an admission of guilt.
That easy flicker of humor fades as you sit up, shifting just enough to meet his eyes fully. The warmth remains, but your expression turns serious. âItâs the Pakistan bullshit that got to me.â
His throat bobs as he swallows. "Yeah." He presses a kiss to your temple, but his jaw tightens almost immediately. He debates, just for a moment, whether to leave it at that. Whether to let it sit, let it dissolve into the quiet of the morning, now that you're not shutting him out anymore.
But that would be dishonest. And he owes you more than that.
So he exhales, slow and deliberate, and admits, "I still don't feel great about that."
Neither do you, if the way you burrow into his neck is anything to go by. He feels your breath against his skin, your fingers flexing slightly where they rest against his chest. He almost wishes youâd yell at him, rather than soften against him like this.
âWhy didnât you tell us?â
Your voice isnât harsh, but it isnât gentle, either. Itâs careful. Measured. The way you are when you want the truth, when you need to hear it plainly. You've heard it with local law enforcement, with witnesses, with unsubs. Hell, you've even turned it on Derek.
He better understands why people tend to answer you promptly.
Aaron sighs, his hand tightening against your back. Heâs rehearsed this conversation a dozen times, sitting alone in various desert locales, running through every possible way he could explain himself. But now that youâre here, warm and real in his arms, none of it feels right. He canât give you something practiced, something mechanicalâhe has to be honest, completely and utterly, or he risks losing you for good.
âThere wasnât a good time to tell you when I found out I got the assignment,â he starts, carefully, deliberately. âAnd then I kept putting it off and putting it off. The longer I waited, the more difficult it became.â His jaw tightens. âIt was selfish of me. I couldnât face telling you, especially when I didnât know how long I would be gone.â
You shift again, tilting your head, and Aaron already knows youâre about to press deeper.
âGot itâŚor chose it?â
Aaron releases you to drag a hand down his face, sighing. Itâs humiliating, to lay it out like this, to admit he deliberately chose to put an ocean between you because he couldnât bear to look you in the eye and lie. He could justify it, sureâhe just did, he willâbut he still feels like a coward. "God, Iâm an idiot."
âSoâŚyou chose it?â
He nods, stiff and wildly uncomfortable.
Thereâs silence for a second, but he doesnât let it linger. He needs you to know, to understand why he did what he did, why, in his mind, the only way to atone was to suffer the way you did. Why he thought distance was the answer, when all it really did was make everything worse.
âWhen I got the list of options, for all of us,â he starts, his voice quieter now, âit had been two months since Emily. It was so fresh, and I couldnât mourn with youâshare it in the same way.â He pauses. âI didnât know how long it would take to find Doyle, and I knew I couldnât keep up the lie when I had to look you in the eye every day.â
You study him, quiet for a moment. Then, understanding. âYou needed an out.â
Aaron nods, relief threading through his chest at how quickly you seem to understandâhow you seem to get why he made the decision, as flawed as it was in theory and practice at the time. âI needed an out.â
You let that sit between you, but it isnât long before your face twists slightly. ââŚPakistan?â You pull a face.
He almost smiles at your incredulityâPakistan? Like he had his pick of cushy field office assignments and went out of his way to choose the hardest, most isolating option. And, wellâhe kind of did. But it wasnât that simple.
Effectively reading his mind, you continue. âNot⌠Atlanta, or Chicago, orâŚâ You grasp at field offices. ââŚSan Francisco? Like, rural Pakistan isnât hell, but you can see it from there.â
âYou could say the same about San Francisco,â he mutters. He knows itâs a bad joke before the words even finish leaving his mouth. "Sorry."
He takes another breath, forcing himself to sort through his reasoning the way he had back then. It felt so logical at the time. The distance was necessary. But it wasnât just distance. He needed to be somewhere out of reach, somewhere he couldnât be pulled back from easily. And yet, he also needed to be somewhere he could leave at a momentâs notice if Doyle resurfaced. Pakistan checked both boxes.
âDistance was a necessity,â he starts, voice low, measured. âBut so was accessibility. Pakistan was an option that was both distant and inaccessible.â He pauses, knowing thereâs more, but debating whether to say it.
"And the per diem and hazard stipend didnât hurt,â he adds, glancing down at you. âJack has quite a bit from the settlement for Haley, but I was able to pad it.â Itâs not a particularly romantic thing to say, but he trusts you with itâtrusts you with all of it.
Money is usually a tasteless topic, but in his mind, thereâs an inevitability to this conversation, to all conversations like this. One dayâGod willingâyouâll be inextricably involved in his life, his family, his home. His finances. The future he pictures always has you in it. So why shouldnât he tell you the truth?
Hazard pay and deployment stipends are tax-free. And 2.5% of his salary. Every day.
He more than doubled his income for the year in the four months he was gone.
He continues. âI felt likeâI felt like I couldââ
ââProvide?â you finish for him.
He nods, swallowing. âExactly.â It had been a way to justify the decision, another factor to make it seem rational, selfless, necessary. âI could justify it.â
And yet, even now, saying it out loud, it feels like an excuse.
For a moment, he thinks thatâs the end of it. That youâll let it settle and move on, that you understand enough now to put it to rest.
But you lift your head, eyes fixed on the scar under his collarbone rather than his face, and he knows youâre not done.
âYou told Derek you were coming home,â you say. Thereâs no accusation in your voice, just quiet observation. But it makes his stomach sink all the same. âYou talked⌠to Derek.â
He should have seen this one coming. His fingers stutter against your back, for the briefest moments.
There is a certain insult to injury, from where youâre standing, that he talked to Morgan about coming homeâsomeone with whom he has a wildly complicated relationship, and by no means a communicative one, typicallyâand didnât tell you. He also didnât explicitly direct Morgan to tell you, to warn you.
In hindsight, Morgan would have been the best option to break the news, to prepare for the shock of it. He loves how close you are to Derek. He couldnât have handpicked a better ally, a more steadfast companion, a more committed protector. Failing to purposefully and explicitly direct Morgan prohibited him from sharing anything that could endanger OPSEC, including his trip home, put both of them in a tough spot.
Thereâs another stab of guilt. Hopefully you werenât too upset with your dearest friend.
You press on, softer now, more careful. âAnd you and I had our calls, too, of course. Scheduled. Predictable. I know you tried, Aaron. I know you did.â You swallow, and when you look at him, thereâs something raw and unguarded in your gaze that makes his throat go tight. âBut it wasnât enough, and I donât think I even knew why at the time.â
He doesnât speak. He canât, not yet. He just listens, his chest tightening with every word.
âEvery time I had that phone, it was an echo of you, but you werenât really there,â you say, voice quieter now. âI could ask how you were, but I knew you couldnât tell me.â You sigh, like youâre steadying yourself. âI could hear your voice, but I couldnât feel you. It was like I was watching you walk across that tarmac all over again, every time we said goodbye.â
He remembers the first call you had after he left. How your voice had sounded the sameâfamiliar, warmâbut something about it had felt off, like a song played at the wrong tempo. He thought he could adjust, could fix it somehow. That if he stayed steady, if he was just consistent, âgenerally fine,â youâd be okay. Youâd both be okay.
Aaron shifts you on his lap, his hold instinctive, steadying. He needs you close for thisâfor you to hear him, to see him. His hand settles on your thigh, thumb smoothing back and forth in an unconscious attempt to soothe, to ground.
âAnd thatâs not really fair to you,â you say, your voice softer now, but no less firm. âI canât imagine what it was like to be out there alone. I knew they were monitoring the calls. You were following protocol with everything.â Your mouth twists, something bitter catching in your expression. âBut you never⌠you never said anything about it. You never told me you were coming home. Derek could have told me you were coming home.â
Aaron inhales sharply, measured and slow. He flexes his fingers against your skin before tightening his grip, his body going just a little tenser beneath you. âIt was need to know.â
The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they wonât land the way he wants them to.
Your stare is sharp, unrelenting.
He doesnât hold your gaze. Canât. Instead, his eyes drop, his focus shifting to the space between you, to his lap, anywhere but you.
Thereâs no fight left in him. He knows youâre right.
But youâre not done. He knows youâre not done.
âI kept waiting for you to mention it,â you continue, voice quieter now, though it only makes it worse. âOr validate it, orââ You pause, like youâre bracing yourself. âI wanted you to acknowledge how much it sucked. I kept waiting for you to tell me it was killing you, too.â
Aaronâs throat goes tight. His chest aches.
You drop your gaze, but he can still see the mist in your eyes, the way you blink a little too fast. âBut you didnât. I was alone in it.â You swallow hard, and when you speak again, your voice is barely above a whisper. âYou just let me miss you.â
Aaron tips his head back against the headboard, the thunk of it grounding, almost jarring. He closes his eyes.
He doesnât know what he thought this conversation would be. He rehearsed a hundred versions of it in his head, but none of them accounted for thisâfor the sheer weight of what heâd done. The damage he didnât even realize he was causing at the time.
His voice is rough, stripped bare. âI did.â He keeps his eyes away from you, cowardice winning over his desire to punish himself.
âAnd I shouldnât have.â
He takes another breath, slow and measured, but it doesnât help. His pulse is too fast, his chest tight, and before he can even process it, you press your palm flat against his sternum.
Your head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing just a little. âDid you take your meds?â
He blinks rapidly, caught completely off guard. He hadnât even realized just how fast his heart was racing until you pressed your hand against his chest. The concern in your voice throws himâknocks him sideways. Not because youâre asking, but because you know to ask.
Because you remember. Because even after everything, after five months apart, after every mile and mistake between you, youâre still paying attention to him.
He blinks, rapidly, caught off guard. âIâumââ His voice comes out unsteady, and he clears his throat. âI take them with breakfast,â he says quickly.
âRight.â You nod, your expression softening slightly. âSorry.â
He waves you off, searching once again for his train of thought.
The pause stretches between you, heavy and thick, before he clears his throat again. His voice is still rough when he finally speaks. âI thought about it every time we hung up.â He swallows, eyes lifting toward the ceiling as if it might help him find the words. âI wanted to tell youâto tell you how much I missed you, how much I hated being so far from youâfrom all of youââ He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, breath hitching. âI hated it.â
Your voice is small, stunned and demanding. âWhy didnât you say anything?â
He looks at you then, finally, and the regret in his eyes is something deep and unshakable. âI didnât want you to worry.â
And for the first time in a long time, Aaron Hotchner realizes how badly he miscalculated. Heâs known the whole time that he fucked up, sure, but the magnitude of his incorrect assumptions hit him like a brick to the face.
He exhales, slow and steady, trying to collect himself. âIt was already hard,â he admits, his voice quieter now. âI thought ifâif you didnât know how hard it was for me, it would be easier for you.â
His hands find your face, cradling you gently, grounding himself in the warmth of your skin. âThe last thing I wanted to do was make you feel alone. I thought about you and Jack constantly, missed you the second I woke up to the minute I fell asleep.â
And yet, he had left you alone anyway.
The thought strikes him like a hammer, reverberating in his chest. You were alone. And he was the one who left.
Your gaze searches his, and he feels stripped bare beneath it. Youâve seen the guilt and remorse in him for days now, but thereâs something different in your expression this time. You see it nowânot just the regret, but the recognition.
The confession leaves you in a whisper. âI just needed you to miss me out loud.â
Aaronâs breath catches.
Fuck.
Youâre embarrassed by saying itâhe can see it in the way you hesitate, in the thin, almost self-conscious smile you offer as if you expect him to think less of you for it. But God, if anything, itâs the opposite.
Because this is what he should have understood all along. This is what he failed to see while he was drowning in his own self-recrimination, too preoccupied with his own failings to realize that you never doubted him. Not once.
You pause, as if trying to lighten the weight of it. âAnd you suffered for nothingâI worried about you anyway.â
Aaron closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours, forcing himself to breathe through the sudden tightness in his chest. âIt broke meâthe way you looked at me when I came back, like you didnât know if you should hit me or run.â
You hadnât yelled at him. You hadnât told him off, hadnât demanded an explanation. That would have been easier, in a way. Instead, you had just looked at himâfurious, devastated, waryâlike you had braced yourself for disappointment, like you were trying to reconcile the person in front of you with the person you thought you knew.
And now, now, he realizes that it wasnât just about Emily. It wasnât about the lie, or the mission, or the months of isolation.
It was about him.
He had chosen to go, but you had stayed. You could have taken a transfer, could have left with Ashley, left when the team halved, could have moved on.
But you didnât.
And the weight of thatâof realizing that you were stronger than him in this way, that you had believed in the foundation of the team, believed in him, more than he hadâit wrecks him.
His hand moves to your cheek, his thumb sweeping back and forth over your skin. He watches you carefully, searching for something, though heâs not sure what. Maybe confirmation. Maybe absolution. His thumb sweeps over your lips. He knows what they feel like now, against his own. He canât believe how lucky he is, how kind you are, how forgiving.
A saint.
âI thought Iâd lost you,â he admits, his voice raw, stripped of every ounce of composure.
Your breath stutters. You werenât expecting that.
He swallows, his throat working around the words. He hadnât realized, back then, just how much hope he was hanging on seeing you again. It had been a mirage in the desert, the thing that kept him upright when everything else in him wanted to collapse.
âI thought about it all the time when I was out there,â he continues, his voice barely holding steady. âWhat it would be like to see you again.â He exhales, pausing. âIâŚneglected to account for how rightfully angry you would be. I told Dave I wasnât sure if you would ever speak to me again, that maybe youâyouâd take that transfer to LA after all.â
Saying it aloud makes it sound so stupid, but at the time, it felt inevitable. It felt like justice. Because why wouldnât you leave him? Why would you stay after everything? Heâd convinced himself youâd leave, because that was what he deserved. Because in the end, he relied on his own self-destruction more than he trusted you.
Something in you shifts, some unseen wound beginning to heal. You had spent weeks drowning in his absence, trying to keep your head above water, trying not to let your fury consume you. You had every right to be done with him.
But instead, you shake your head.
âI wanted to hate you,â you whisper. âI tried.â
His breath stills. âBut you donât,â he confirms. Itâs less a confirmation, if heâs honest, and more of a request for reassurance.
And thenâthen you say it, the thing that makes his heart seize in his chest, the thing that turns this moment from painful into something earth-shattering.
âNo.â You press your forehead to his, letting your breath mingle with his. Your hands find his jaw, steadying him, holding him together when he feels like he might splinter apart. âDespite my best efforts, I couldnât.â
It shatters him. It should be a relief. It is a relief. But itâs also the worst thing heâs ever heard. Because he knows what it means. Because you should hate himâand you donât. Apparently, youâre not even capable of it.
You never would have left. And he should have known that. Should have trusted you. Should have trusted the foundation you built together instead of running from it like a coward.
His hands tighten on you, clinging to you like a man grasping for something solid in the wreckage. When he kisses youâsoft, reverent, hesitantâitâs not because he thinks he deserves it. Itâs because, for the first time, he understands that it was never something he had to earn.
He presses closer, your hands slipping into his hair, grounding him, anchoring him.
âPromise me you wonât run from us again,â you whisper against his mouth.
Itâs not a request. Itâs a plea. Itâs a demand. And this time, the weight of it hits different.
Because thatâs what he thought he was doing. Not running from you, but from the situation. From himself. And now, sitting here with you, feeling your hands in his hair, your breath against his skin, your heart beating against hisâhe knows.
He should have trusted in the foundation you built together, even if he couldnât tell you the truth. Should have believed in you, the way you always believed in him. Should have trusted that, no matter how much distance, no matter how much time, you would still be here.
So when he leans back just enough to press a kiss to your cheek, when he pulls you closer and feels you hook your chin over his shoulder, your arms locked tight around his backâ
This time, when he says it, he knows itâs true.
âI donât have a reason to, anymore.â
+++
Itâs almost a reliefâto rid himself of the last vestiges of the desert, of this painful chapter. The beard has been a constant reminder of where heâs been, what heâs done, what he left behind. Shaving it means closing the door on that part of his life, returning to himself, to something familiar. To home.
But itâs not that simple.
Itâs the beard his son hates, sure. The one Jack has scrunched his nose at, declaring with all the conviction of a six-year-old that itâs scratchy and weird and not Dad. The one thatâs made Aaron feel like a man in disguise, like someone occupying space in his own life rather than living it.
But itâs also the beard you loveâthe one you clung to, fingers digging into his skin as you kissed him, as you pulled him closer, as you took him in every way possible. The one that scraped the soft inside of your thighs. The one held between your palms while you looked at him with the kindest, softest, most forgiving eyes.
Itâs been his in a way nothing else has these past few months, marking the time he lost and the time heâs trying to reclaim. It made him feel human in the desert, but here, under your hands, it makes him feel wantedâbeyond obligation, beyond duty, beyond responsibility.
And now, heâs washing it away.
Heâs in the bathroom with shaving cream and a razor, halfway through lathering his face, when he hears you approach. He doesnât have to turn to know youâre there; he can feel itâthe shift in the air, the awareness of you.
âWhat do you think youâre doing?â You ask, your voice full of mock offense.
He glances at you in the mirror, already half-smiling at your tone. âShaving? As requested?â Itâs meant to be dry, but it comes out as more of a question.
You shake your head and hold up a finger. He watches you disappear toward the bedroom, your movements purposeful and focused. His curiosity deepens when you return with a small cloth bag in your hands, unzipping it as you hop up onto the counter beside him.
The marble is cold under your skin, but you donât seem to mind. Youâre wearing one of his shirts, with only a sliver of your underwear peeking out where the fabric rides up your thighs. It should be distractingâit is distractingâbut then you pull out a straight razor and unfold it with a practiced flick of your wrist.
His breath catches.
âMay I?â
His eyes flick from the blade to you. He can feel his pulse hammering before he even registers the tension winding through his shoulders.
The air in the room shifts.
His jaw clenches, and itâs involuntary. His breath picks up just slightly. Itâs not the request itself, not you, but the gleam of the blade, the angle of it, the way the light catches on its edge. He forces himself to exhaleâslow, measured, deliberateâbut it doesnât stop the way his fingers flex against the counter, the way he has to think about keeping his body relaxed.
âDo you have to use that one?â His voice is even, but his lean against the counter turns from casual to purposeful, like heâs keeping himself upright. Like heâs holding himself back. His thumb begins its track, split between the knuckles on the inside of his index and middle fingers.
You donât answer right away. Instead, you reach for him, your fingers curling gently around his arm, guiding him toward you. He follows without thinking, moving between your knees before realizing that heâs let you do itâthat heâs allowing himself to be guided.
You tilt your head, gaze unwavering. âDo you trust me?â
The answer is instinctive. Immediate. âOf course.â
But itâs too fastâtoo reflexive, like an automatic response instead of something heâs actually considered. He hears it, and you hear it, too.
He swallows. âItâs just⌠I justââ
âKnife shit.â You say it casually, but the softness in your voice tugs at something in his chest. Thereâs no pity in your expression, no hesitation. Just understanding. Just you.
The memory of it flickersâbrief, visceral. The cold bite of a blade, the pressure, the pain. Blood slipping down his side, onto the floor. Warm and pooling in the hollow of his throat.
He nods, stiffly.
And then, without hesitation, you fold the blade closed and push it away. The motion is so casual, so decisive, that it almost startles him. It skitters across the counter and lands somewhere out of reach, discarded like it was never a real factor to begin with.
You donât let him dwell. Instead, your hands come up to his face, gentle but insistent, shaving cream be damned. You touch him like youâve done it a thousand times, like youâve mapped him out in your sleep. Your forehead presses to his, and the pressure alone makes his eyes fall closed.
âHe canât hurt you anymore.â Your thumbs smooth over his cheekbones, pressing warmth into the sharp angles of his face. âHeâs gone. And youâre here. With me.â
He exhales, and some of the weight shiftsâsome of it. Not all.
And then, softly, you kiss him.
Itâs not asking for anything, not demanding or suggestive. Just a kiss. Just this. A quiet anchor in the middle of all the noise in his head. His hands find your thighs, gripping onto you like you might steady him hold him up, like maybe you already have.
When you pull back, he blinks. He lifts a thumb, wiping at a stray patch of foam on your cheek.
You hold his gaze, steady and patient. âCan I do this for you?â
He hesitates. Not because he doesnât trust youâGod, noâbut because he trusts you too much. To his detriment. Heâd follow you into hell. Heâd lead you out.
If he lets you do this, itâs surrender. Itâs letting you see him in a way no one else has.
And thatâs okay.
Another breath leaves him, shaky at the edges. His fingers tighten where they press into your thighs. âYeah.â He swallows. Then, softer, more determined: âYes.â
âIf you need to stop, just put your hand on my waist, okay?â Your voice is soft but sure, unwavering. âWe can stop anytime, and I can leave you alone, and you can shave this beautiful thing off your face yourself and rob me of my grieving process.â
It makes him laughâactual, real laughter, breaking through the tension in his chest like sunlight after a storm.
âOkay,â he says, still smiling.
You wet your hands and lather him up properly, rubbing circles into his skin with gentle fingers. He watches you, the little crease between your brows as you concentrate, the way your lips press together in thought.
When you dot his forehead with foam, his nose crinkles. âReally?â
You just shrug.
He exhales, shaking his head and watching as you pick up the razor.
And then he flinches. Not a lotâjust enough for you to see. His breath hitches, nostrils flaring slightly as he steadies himself.
You donât call attention to it. You just lay your free hand over his heart, grounding him in the warmth of your palm.
He exhales through his nose. Slower this time.
The blade whispers over his skin, and for a moment, everything stills.
His pulse jumps under your fingertips, just slightly, but it evens out when he realizesâoh. Heâs okay. Heâs here. Itâs just you. You smooth your thumb along his freshly-shaven skin.
âBreathe, Aaron.â
His eyes stay locked on yours, steady, unwavering. You check in every few seconds, searching for hesitation, but thereâs none. By the seventh stroke, his body has yielded completely under your hands. His fingers trace nonsense patterns against your thigh, his shoulders soft, loose.
He lets you tip his chin up, his throat bobbing beneath your touch.
You place a hand at the back of his head, tangling your fingers in his hair. âYouâre okay, Aaron.â Your lips brush just beneath his ear. âJust me. Remember?â
His breath shudders out, long and slow. âItâs harder when I canât see you.â
The confession startles even him.
You pause, considering. And then, in one fluid motion, you set the razor aside and wrap your legs around him, tugging him flush against the counter, pressing your chest to his. His hands flex, gripping onto you like youâre the only thing tethering him to the present.
âYou can feel me,â you murmur, your breath warm against his temple. âIâm right here.â
His muscles slacken. His breathing slows. He closes his eyes, just for a second, and lets himself believe you. Your head drops, pressing a kiss just below his ear.
âDoes that help?â Your whisper is almost a breath.
He canât bite back his smile. âYeah, that works.â His hands wander to your hips, his thumbs running over the fading marks still lingering. Heâll have to rectify that later.
âHold still.â
When you tip his chin again, he doesnât tense at all.
You shave the last of his beard with slow, careful precision, pausing only to press kisses to every newly bared inch of skin.
When itâs done, when the blade is rinsed and the shaving cream is gone, you take a warm washcloth and press it to his face. The heat seeps into his skin, and with it, every last bit of tension drains from his body. A profound feeling of safety washes over him. With a little bit of a start, he realizes thereâs not a nick or cut on him at all.
Thatâs talent.
You smile, smoothing your thumb along his cheek.
âThere you are.â
For the first time since he stepped into that round table room, he feels like himself.
He studies you, memorizing this moment, this feeling, capturing it like something precious.
âHere I am.â
Your heel sneaks up the back of his leg, dragging slow and deliberate, and fuck, his jaw clenches. His breath hitches, his body tensing, a pathetic attempt to hold back the groan rising in his throat.
Itâs ridiculous, really, how quickly you unravel him.
âJack will be home soon,â he warns, weak at best. He knows it, you know it. His grip on your thighs tightens reflexively, as if holding you still will keep him from losing himself completely.
You barely glance at the clock. âHenryâs soccer game doesnât end for another twenty minutes, and you know Will will take them for ice cream after.â
His hum is thoughtful, like heâs considering it, like he doesnât already know exactly where this is going. He tilts his head, studying you, his eyes narrowing.
Your lips curve with amusement. âWhat?â
âIâm just trying to figure out why I canât get enough of you.â
Itâs a genuine thought. A quiet confession wrapped in playful teasing. A truth thatâs been settling into him for days, weeks, yearsâone that surfaces every time he touches you, every time he has you beneath him, wrapped around him, tangled in his sheets, tangled in him.
He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You sigh, your hands rising to his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp, and itâs all the encouragement he needs. His hands find your back, dragging you closer, pressing you against him so you can feel how much he wants you.
The sound that escapes youâsoft, breathless, needyâmakes his head spin. Your breath catches as he grinds against you, and God, itâs torture. He drags his nose along your jaw, breathing you in like heâs trying to memorize the exact way you smell, like he needs it in his lungs to breathe.
âI could be inside you all day and still want more.â
Itâs not an exaggeration. Itâs the truthâone that hits him over and over again, every time he comes back to you. Every time you let him have you like this, open and warm and his.
âAaronâŚâ
Nobody calls him that.
Not at work. Not in passing. Dave, rarely. Heâs âHotchâ to nearly everyone, has been for years. Even Jack, bright-eyed and beaming, calls him âDad.â But youâ
You call him Aaron.
Youâve only called him Aaron, here, at home.
Your head tips back against the wall as his lips move, slow and deliberate, wandering from the corner of your mouth to your neck, down to your collarbones. His hands sweep over your skin, mapping you, knowing you, learning you all over again.
When heâs inside you, Aaron. When his mouth is on you, Aaron. When you fall over the edge, holding onto the sheets or his hair or his shoulder or his hands, Aaron.
He returns to your lips, and you donât hesitateâyou pull him in, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. Youâre pressed so close to him, your breath warm against his mouth, and he can feel your heart beating against his chest.
âYou know,â he murmurs against your lips, voice dark and teasing, âwe havenât christened the counter yet.â
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, catching the wicked glint in them. âAaron Hotchner, are you suggesting what I think you are?â
âIâm not suggesting anything.â He pushes his hips into you. âIâm informing you I would love nothing more than to fuck you right here. On this counter.â
You melt. He feels itâthe heat that rushes through you, the way your breath stutters, the way your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling just slightly. Itâs enough to send a jolt down his spine.
He dips back to your neck, lips brushing just below your ear, just like you did to him earlier. âWould that be alright?â
Your breath is shaky, uneven. Your answer is immediate. âYes. Yes, please.â
He groans at that, low and quiet. His fingers hook in your underwear, dragging them down, leaving you bare against the counter. He reaches for himself, freeing his cock, running the tip through your pussy, teasing just slightlyâbut itâs not intentional. Heâs watching, entranced, lost in the sight, lost in the way you tremble beneath him, lost in the feeling of you so warm and wet against him.
Your lower lip disappears between your teeth. You need him. He can see it, feel it. Itâs almost painful.
And fuck, he needs you, too.
He finally rocks into you, shallow at first, giving your body time to adjust. Youâre already so ready for him, already clenching around him, already drawing him in. He fights to keep eye contact, to watch you as he sinks deeper, as he fills you completely, as your body takes him.
You suck in a sharp breath, lips parting, gaze locked on his. He doesnât look away. He canât.
Slow. Leisurely. Neither of you in a rush, neither of you needing to chase anything but this. He rocks into you, dragging against you, easing the ache thatâs been building all morning.
He could have you every night, every morning, every hour of the day, and it wouldnât be enough. It would never be enough.
The arm holding your knee shifts, wrapping around the middle of your back, opening you wider, pressing you closer. Your head falls back again, and he takes advantage, kissing your throat, your collarbones, your jawâanywhere he can reach.
He doesnât think about anything elseâdoesnât want to think about anything else. Just you. Just this. Just home.
When you come undone, itâs slow and rolling, washing over you in waves, taking him with you. Your bodies stay locked together, limbs tangled, pulses thrumming in sync.
Your name on his lips is a plea; his on yours is a prayer.
Aaron.
He holds you close, breathing you in, and stays right where he isâwhere he belongs.
+++
september 28th, 2011
Aaron watches as Derek plucks a cherry from the jar, the stem dripping with what is absolutely an illegal amount of alcoholâhigh proof, highly questionable.
"Come on, sweetness, live a little," Morgan teases, holding it by the stem over your lips.
Morgan, if only you knew.
"It'll put hair on your chest."
You roll your eyes but tip your chin up anyway, opening your mouth just enough to take the it between your teeth. Aaron doesn't miss the way Derek's fingers linger on your jaw, just for a second, before he lets go, watching as your lips close around the fruit.
Itâs not suggestiveâDerek flirts with everyone, and you take it like you always do, an easy grin, a flicker of amusement in your eyes. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of place.
Still, Aaron waits for the twinge of something.
Jealousy, maybe. Possessiveness. Something sharp in his ribs.
But it never comes.
And he knows you. And he knows Morgan. And he knows better.
And then your whole face scrunches up, like you just bit into a lemon made of fire, and all of Aaronâs focus zeroes in on you.
Your shoulders jerk first, then the full-body shudder rolls through you, a violent shiver as the cherry burns its way down. Your hands slap the table as you squeeze your eyes shut, laughing even as your face contorts in horror.
"Oh, fuckâ" you choke out. You shake your head, still wincing. "That is awfulâJesus Christ, Derek, what the hell is that?"
Derek throws his head back, laughing, before tossing one into his own mouth. He grimaces, groaning through gritted teeth. "Oh, thatâs illegal."
You laugh even harder, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand. âThat burns. What is wrong with you?â
Aaron watches you, watches the way your shoulders shake, the way your nose scrunches when you laugh that hard, the way your tongue peeks out to lick the excess liquor from your lip without thinking.
And fuck, there it is. That thing that he still canât quite wrap his head around.
The way you let him in. The way you forgave him. The way you laugh like that, bright and open, sitting across from him when not long ago you could barely look at him. Now, youâre avoiding his eyes just for fun, just to play.
And just like that, the rush of affection that overtakes him is suffocating.
Youâre here, eating moonshine cherries and laughing like he never broke your heart.
He takes a sip of his beer, hoping itâll settle something in his chest. It doesnât.
Derek disappears, probably for another drink. Was that four Hennessys? Or five?
A moment barely passes before Emilyâs voice cuts through the din. "Alright," she announces, setting her drink down with a thud. "Weâre playing a game."
You shoot her a wary glance. "That sounds dangerous."
âIâm serious.â Emily wiggles her eyebrows suggestively and bumps you with her shoulder. â...and Iâm just drunk enough to ask the good questions.â
You laugh, taking a sip of your water, deflecting. âYeah, and Iâm sober enough to not answer them.â
Aaron doesnât miss the way your shoulders square just slightly. Preparing. Bracing for impact.
"Oh, come on," Penelope whines. "At least give us something."
You sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, and Aaron knows youâre about to indulge them.
"Fine," you relent. "Five vague questions. No names, no identifying details. Five."
âEach?â Garciaâs eyebrows raise, but immediately fall into a scowl when you reply -
âTotal.â
Itâs a show, really. A performance, and a brilliant one at that. You give just enough, reveal just enough, to keep them entertained, but never enough to land yourself in trouble. Five questions. Vague answers. The illusion of revelation without an ounce of true confession.
But Aaron knows you. He knows when youâre deflecting, knows when youâre playing a part, knows exactly what youâre doing when you pointedly refuse to look at him across the table.
And so, he lets you sweat.
Lets you work for it.
Lets you answer Emilyâs too-bold, too-loud questions with the kind of cool confidence that makes his blood run hot.
"Impressive."
"Exceedingly impressive."
"What are we talking about?" Derek slides in behind Emily, planting a kiss to her cheek before tossing back another shot. Aaron gives him space, shifting to the other side of Penelope. He can see you better from here, anyway.
Emily gestures at you. âSomeone has some kind of magical, elusive, possibly-imaginary fuck-buddy, and we have been granted five vague answers to five vague questions.â
âThatâs some good news,â Derek says, raising a brow. "Lord knows we need it."
Aaron notes the tension in Derekâs posture. The extra drink in his hand.
He doesnât so much as flinch. Just lifts his beer to his lips and watches you over the rim of the bottle, watches the way you carefully toe the line between truth and amusement, watches as you dig yourself deeper and deeper into the corner youâve built.
Itâs delicious.
And itâs dangerous.
Penelope reviews the previous two questions in rapid fire. âWe only have vague information, but the metrics are impressive and someone is very well taken-care of, apparently.â
You smile a little and shrug, as if itâs a given.
Maybe itâs because heâs a profiler. Maybe itâs because he knows you. But he can tellâevery single choice is intentional. Every movement, every flutter of your eyelashes, every easy stolen sip of Penelopeâs drink through her straw. Even the way your jaw drops at something outrageous Emily saysâitâs just close enough to the way you look when he first pushes inside you. He knows itâs nothing but coincidence, but it still lights something low in his spine, something that has no business existing in a bar full of your colleagues.
Another question.
Emily ponders for a minute. âRecord?â
âFor?â
âHow many times has he managed to get you off in one night? Or do you have to do it yourself?â
You pretend to think for a moment. âDo you actually mean one night, or just in one round?â
Penelopeâs jaw drops, and you try not to laugh out loud.
âUmâŚâ Emilyâs caught off guard a little. âOne nightâwait, are you sure youâre dating a man-person?â
A laugh escapes you. âYes, Iâm sure heâs a man, weâre not dating, and to answer your first question, I would conservatively estimate six, but it could be more if you count consecutives.â You pause, looking inconvenienced. âIâm honestly not sure. I donât usually keep count. He might, though, so Iâll have to ask him.â
Aaron can feel the way his body reacts to that. Christ. He takes another sip of his beer.
Derekâs brow furrows. "Where did you meet this guy?"
âI refuse to answer on the grounds of specificity.â
"Alright, fine." He amends. "Rank? Where are we on the roster?"
"I donât have a roster, Derek." You roll your eyes. "Butâif I didâ" your chin tips up just slightly, lips curling like you know exactly what youâre doing. "First." You sip your water, pausing for effect. âTen out of ten. Five stars. Would recommend to a friend.â
And then, finally, you glance at him. A single wink. A flash of mischief.
Aaron rolls his eyes, barely suppressing a smirk. Unbelievable.
"Hotch," Emily turns, grinning. "Do you have a question?"
Aaron waves her off, taking another sip of his beer. He hesitates. "Don't⌠donât indict me."
Derek goes still beside him. Aaron knows Derek resents him being here. Knows he hasnât forgiven him yet. He accepts that. He expects that.
"Okay, last one," Emily announces. "Itâs gotta be good and Iâm really gonna put you on the spot.â She points at you. "Do you like him?"
You stuff a smile. Emily pounces.
âOh my god. Do you love him? Is he gonna be here for a while?"
You take a deep breath. Aaron can feel the moment stretching, tensing, like a wire pulled too tight. And then, a slow smile curves your lips. One that looks like itâs meant for Emily, but Aaron knows better.
âI think heâs got a really decent shot,â you say, voice careful, measured. "If he plays his cards right."
Aaron's chest tightens.
Derek lifts his glass. âIâll drink to that.â His tone is pointed. âTo one lucky motherfucker, wherever he may be.â A challenge. A warning.
Aaron doesn't flinch. Across the table, your gaze flickers back to him. Just for a second. Just enough for him to catch it.
His brows liftâsmall, imperceptible. You mean it?
a joyful future fic
aaron hotchner x gender neutral reader
a/n: this is a brand new chapter!! so excited to share it with you!!
cowritten by @ssaic-jareau
links: masterlist | posting schedule | ao3 | turn on post notifs!
word count: 6.8k
content warning(s): canon typical discussions and description of violence
âit's a funny thing coming home. nothing changes. everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. you realize what's changed is you.â
f. scott fitzgerald
september 20th - 21st, 2011
7x01 âit takes a villageâ
+++
september 20th, 2011
âDid Hotch say anything during your call last week?â You ask, the camera viewfinder to your eye. With the telephoto lens, you can almost see the embroidered detail on the curtains, but nothing from Doyle. âAny idea when heâs coming back?â
If heâs coming back?
Derek shrugs, watching the monitors. âI briefed him, and he said we should take the shot if we have it.â He redirects to overwatch, pinching the mic on his chest. âGot any movement?â
âNegative,â your overwatch replies. âNo movement detected.â
JJâs eyes stray to Derek. Often. Eventually, she speaks. âThatâs all Hotch said, âTake the shot?ââ
Derek looks a little cagey, but tips his head to confirm. âYeah, but heâs pissed.â
Join the club.
You choose not to address the fact that Derek didnât answer your second question. Probably the same answer you got earlier in the week - still lots of activity, border disputes, etc. You sigh. âSurveillance authorization?â
Derek nods.
You cringe. âI figured that might be an issue.â
JJâs phone rings. She picks up within two rings. âHey, SpenceâŚWhat do you mean you canât find him?â
You squeeze your eyes shut. This might be the worst case scenario, or nothing at all. Youâre desperately hoping itâs nothing at all.
â...Okay, call for backup and go to the houseâŚDo you see the agents?...WhatânoâReid!â She lets out a frustrated huff as Reid hangs up.
âAre we going or what?â You ask, bringing the camera back up to your eye. Still no movement.
Suddenly, a car rounds the corner, flying down the quiet residential street. Sirens follow. You keep your lens on the window, laser-focused.
âI got something,â you tell them, snapping pictures of Doyle as he checks out the window.
JJ nods. âHeâs in there.â
âLetâs go,â Derek says.
Everything happens quickly after that. You all leave the surveillance van through the passenger side, checking and double-checking your loadout.
You follow JJ and Derek into the apartment building, up the stairs, and breach the unit. Doyle is nowhere to be found. Derek and JJ reach the bedroom and you fall in with them as they open the closet, finding a duct. It sounds like Doyle is already up there, two steps ahead of you.
Damn.
âHeâs going to the roof,â Derek says. âYou two, cover the back stairs.â
You do as you're told, but itâs over fast. Derek gets Doyle into custody and you all head back to the federal building. Youâve only clocked about eight hours of sleep total in the last three days, between surveillance and helping Jess and doing paperwork.
The relief when JJ arrived to provide some coverage was palpable. Thereâs something different about her, something harder and sharper, but sheâs an asset.
+++
You yawn in observation with JJ and Strauss, covering it with your hand.
Doyle insists he has no idea where Declan is, and he looks genuinely distressed. You look at JJ, who meets your eyes. You shake your head, just slightly. She nods.
âHow long has Agent Morgan been looking for Doyle?â Strauss asks.
âSince Doyle killed Prentiss in Boston,â JJ replies âMorgan refused to believe Doyle just vanished.â
âHeâs been investigating Doyle for seven months?â Strauss turns to you, sounding incredulous. âAnd you knew about this?â
âI⌠somewhat recently became aware of it,â you say, a little vague. She shoots you a look and you shrug. âYes, I knew about it. Not the whole time, but I knew Morgan was hunting.â
She looks a little alarmed, still looking at you. âDoes Agent Hotchner know?â
âBroad strokes.â You nod slowly, still watching Doyle.
JJ asks, âWhy? Are you surprised?â
Given this teamâs track record, you really have no idea why Erin would be shocked by this revelation. Aaron nearly drove himself insane hunting Foyet with you right there in the trenches with him. Everyone fights their own battles until they need help. Then itâs all-hands until itâs handled .
Derek reached that point. He asked. You were there.
âHe seems genuine,â JJ says, watching Doyle on the monitors. You back her up, watching through the one-way mirror.
âOf course he does,â Erin scoffs. âHeâs a master manipulator.â
âSee his carotid?â JJ asks. âHis heart started racing when Morgan told him about Declan. The tightness in his forehead, his darting eyes are signs of real concern.â
Maybe JJ has picked up more than you thought.
Erin softens. âWell, if he didnât take his son, who did?â
âWeâll find out.â
+++
september 21st, 2011
Hours later, youâre back in observation after your briefing with Rossi and Spencer. Thereâs more to profile and youâve started a new board entirely for Declanâs kidnapping, scrapping everything related to Doyle. Itâs half-done, waiting for you in the round table room.
Doyle attempts to convince Derek that the best thing to do is let him look for his son himself.
Which would require⌠letting you leave custody? Absolutely not.
It took months to find him the first timeâin fairness, you were distractedâand youâre not about to spend months you donât have now.
You cross your arms, feeling lighter and more focused on a second (third? fourth?) wind. Dave steps up to Strauss, on her other side.
âHe didnât do it,â Strauss says.
âNo,â Dave replies.
Strauss huffs. âWhat the hell is going on here?â
Thereâs something a little off, a little disproportionate, in her outburst. Youâre not the only one who thinks so, apparently. Dave looks at her critically while your eyes track over her from the back.
âWhat?â she says.
Thereâs a moment of silence. âNothing,â Dave replies. He nods at you and you see yourself out.
Back to the board.
You work for a while, taping and pinning and running back to the doorway to look at the bigger picture, literally and metaphorically. Declan is at the center, but there are so few links to him you almost want to tear your hair out.
+++
Aaron stops on the bridge, seeing you in the doorway, your arms crossed and head tilted. From here, you canât see him, your back to the rest of the bullpen.
Itâs the first time heâs laid eyes on you in months. He deeply understands the phrase âsight for sore eyesâ now, because you absolutely are. You heave a breath, lacing your hands on the top of your head. He hears you let out a frustrated, exhausted groan, and return to the board youâve constructed. You crossly unpin a few items, moving them.
He smiles a little when you turn your head, seeing thumbtacks between your teeth.
Thereâs something that holds him back from approaching you. If possible, he wants to do this the right way, to apologize, before⌠well.
Just before.
+++
A nap. Itâs time for a nap. Fresh eyes never hurt anyone.
You drag yourself down to Derekâs office, where thereâs less traffic. Your eyes stay ahead of you, mostly so you donât trip in your exhaustion, but youâve long since stopped looking up at Aaronâs office. It was cruel to your body, cruel to your mind, to look up, hoping to see him there.
Today is no different.
Maybe youâll get two hours of uninterrupted sleep, for once. Derek is in with Doyle, so if thereâs anything new, Dave will come get you. Heâll either look here or in Aaronâs office first.
Youâve all established your little haunts in the last few months.
+++
Aaron watches you leave the round table room through the back steps, through the kitchen, and through the glass doors. Youâre putting on a good show, but he can tell every neuron is exhausted, every muscle tight and sore.
He can relate. The AC-130 transport wasnât all that comfortable, but at least he slept for a little bit in a cargo net.
+++
You doze. As you doze, you dream.
Same fare as usual when you sleep in this building, a mix of confusing smash cuts of nauseating crime scenes mixed with moments of peace - in this office, in the office upstairs.
Curled up on the couch, youâre half asleep when you hear JJ. You know youâre asleepâa relief to have it confirmed, honestlyâwhen you hear Aaronâs voice.
âItâs time,â he says. He says something else, but you slip away before you can parse it out.
It feels like only seconds later, thereâs a hand on your shoulder and you open your eyes. âDerek?â
âYeah, kid. We gotta get up to the conference room. You gonna make it?â He looks over you carefully, as if heâs monitoring for any signs of permanent damage.
You straighten and stretch, reaching to the sky with an unintentional squeak. âIâll rally.â
âThatâs what I like to hear,â he says, grabbing your hand and squeezing, letting it fall as he walks away.
+++
He tries. He really does. He wants to catch you, wants to pull you aside for a moment before your world crumbles, to warn you. To soften the blow.
Heâs never felt so helpless in his life, watching you step out of Derekâs office, closing the door behind you. You pass him.
He lets you.
+++
You hop up to the roundtable room, taking the back stairs two at a time.
âThis yours?â Spencer asks, looking over your board.
You nod and cover another yawn. âYep. Thought Iâd make myself useful.â
âLooks good.â
Derek arrives, JJ and Dave on his heels. Their energy is off. Small glances, too-casual, forced movement. This is a kind of stillness that means something is coming.
But what?
âGet anywhere with Doyle?â Spencer asks.
âDoyle doesnât think Gerace has the guts to take him on,â Derek replies.
Penelope sighs, taking a seat. âBut thatâs definitely Gerace on the tape.â
Footsteps. Too heavy.
A shiver crawls up your spine. Some instinct, something deep, buried in your body reacts before your brain catches up. Your pulse kicks, hard as a figure appears in the doorway.
Aaron.
Aaron.
Your brain stutters to a halt for a second before going into overdrive, reconciling the image before you with the information you have. Your eyes narrow critically.
Wednesday. You spoke to him Wednesday, four days ago. He said a few more weeks.
Friday. Morgan talked to him Friday.
Now. Heâs here.
âWelcome back.â You almost miss Derekâs voice over the rush in your ears. Your head whips toward him.
Morgan. Morgan knew.
Unbelievable.
JJ, Penelope, and Dave all avoid your eyes.
They all knew.
It hits you like ice waterâa sharp shock, a rush of raw, bleeding embarrassment. The cold erupts into something hot and mean in your chest.
Itâs a tiny, stupid thing, the knowing, but you feel it anyway. The punch of being left out, the knot of hot metal taking root in your chest. And underneath itâŚ
The overwhelming physical reaction to seeing him again.
âThanks,â Aaron says. His voice sounds the same as it always does, in reality, in your subconscious.
Your heart slams against your ribs. You set your jaw.
Fine.
+++
From across the room, Dave clocks the way your shoulders stiffen the second Aaron walks in.
You donât blink. Donât breathe. Just stare at him like youâre trying to confirm heâs actually real.
Then your arms cross, your expression thunderous.
So much for not leading with anger.
Dave takes a sip of his coffee, like that might save him from the headache he knows is coming.
Heâll give you and Aaron a couple of hours.
Then heâll do what he always does.
Step in. Set Aaron straight.
And tryâagainst all oddsâto keep the two of you from tearing each other apart before either of you admits what this is really about.
+++
âEverybody have a seat,â
You sit.
Youâve never been stiffer. Youâre wound so tight youâre surprised you arenât shattering. You can feel the trembling as your exhausted muscles protest.
Itâs uncomfortable. You hate it.
Professionalism feels like an impossibility now. You know youâre being childish, sitting here and staring him down with your jaw locked, arms folded.
You donât care.
âWhy?â Derek asks. This time, his voice cuts through the noise. He sounds concerned. Not suspicious, not angry. Just confused.
Your anger cools a little bit, but only in his direction⌠Derek doesn't actually know anything. âWhatâs going on?â He presses. âIs everything alright?â
âSeven months ago,â Aaron says. Somethingâs wrong. It sounds rehearsed. âI made a decision that affected this team.â You notice, brow furrowed, that JJ shifts to stand beside Hotch like an ally.
âAs you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle.â
No.
âThe doctors were able to stabilize her. She was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under a covert exfiltration.â
No.
âHer identity was strictly need-to-know. She stayed there until she was well enough to travel. She was reassigned to Paris, where she was given several identities, none of which we had access to for her security.â
No.
No. No. No.
Thereâs silence, and you canât tear your eyes from Aaron.
Penelope and Spencer speak, but their words rush past you, muted, like theyâre on the other side of a glass pane.
You feel much like you did in the waiting room on that horrible, horrible night seven months ago.
Seven months ago, when you sat in the hospital and lost someone you loved. And Aaron knows. He watched you grieveâwatched all of you grieve.
And then he left.
âAs I said, I take full responsibility for the decision. If anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me.â He has the nerve to sound ashamed, his eyes cast downward.
His eyes finally (finally!) meet yours. Your vision blurs. You blink hard. Once. Twice.
Your thoughts run together, overlapping.
This was a necessary lie.
You go into this business expecting to be lied to.
Not by Aaron.
But thatâs not even the worst part.
He left. He missed Jackâs first day of school. He was gone for five months.
He left us.
"Any issues?" Derekâs disbelief is edged with anger, but underneath, thereâs something raw. Hurt. "Yeah, I got issues."
Penelopeâs breath catches, her wide-eyed gaze fixed on the doorway.
You donât move. Canât. Youâve been yanked out of time, leaving you stuck in this chair, in this moment, in the previous version of reality where Emily Prentiss has been dead for seven months.
Emily touches your shoulder.
Sheâs real. Sheâs alive.
Your body lurches back to life and you throw yourself into her arms. She staggers and grips you back just as tight. Her name leaves your lipsâa choked, strangled thing.
âEmily.â
Sheâs so real and solid and so painfully here.
âIâm so sorry,â she says. âIâm so so sorry.â
Your arms are around her, but you can barely feel them. Your senses have yet to catch up with the overwhelming knowledge that she is here, she is real, she is not in the ground. She even smells like herselfâjuniper, cedar, something clean, like cashmere, or outside.
You donât remember letting her go.
She says something else, but you canât hear her. Derek hasnât moved at all. Not a flinch. Not a sound. His eyes, unblinking, stay locked on her like sheâs going to disappear at any moment.
Emily wraps her arms around him, tucking her chin over his shoulder and holding him tight. She approached him like she would a scared animal. He doesnât move. The silence is unbearable. Then, finally, his hand moves, his palm rising to her shoulder, tentative at first, then he leans into her. His cheek meets the side of her head, his eyes still open. He wonât let himself blink.
Too soon, itâs over. The moment is severed as Emily approaches the screen. The staggering return to business is so sudden it makes your stomach turn. You sit. The never-ending bucket of cold water should numb it, but it doesnât. You can see it in Derekâs shoulder, tight with barely-contained fury. Youâre sure, nowâabsolutely sureâthat youâre not the only one in the room ready to kill Aaron Hotchner where he stands.
Derek and Aaron stare at each other while Spencer starts asking questions. Aaron remains composed, his voice steady. His eyes give him away. They flicker to you, and youâre almost offended by the anguish, the guilt in them. You can only bear to meet his eyes for a moment.
You turn your attention pointedly to Emily, shutting down everything except your intellectual processing.
âHe was on assignment overseas.â
Who?
âBut heâs alright?â JJ asks.
âYes,â Emily replies. âHe got a call from Declan, he called me, and when I landed, Hotch told me you had Doyle in custody.â
Aaronâs voice startles you when he speaks again, this time from beside your chair. âAnd because of Tomâs line of workââ
Tom! Right.
ââ you enrolled Declan in boarding school.â
Emily nods, talking with her hands. âThatâs why I made sure only he, Louise, and I were the only ones allowed to take him off campus.â
âLouise took him home last night because he was sick,â Spencer says.
âFood poisoning.â Youâre surprised your voice still works.
Spencer continues. âA few of the kids had it apparently. So whoever did this got to him on campus. They knew they only had one chance.â
âCurrent suspect is Richard Gerace,â JJ tells her. âHeâs the most recent arrival into the states. Weâve been tracking his progress across the city but came up empty.â
âWe know itâs Gerace because he has the scar,â Penelope says.
Emily shakes her head. âThat doesnât make sense. Gerace gave up on Doyle a long time ago.â
âHe said you were the only one who knew Gerace,â Rossi says.
âWhich is why Iâm pretty sure he doesnât have the balls to pull this off.â She pauses. âThere was no forced entry at the house?â She sounds skeptical.
âI had two agents working security,â Derek says. Youâre devastated to hear how broken, how quiet his voice has become, but you canât dwell on it.
If you think of anything devastating right now, youâll break. And you canât break. You harden.
âWe think Gerace and his partner posed as the next shift,â Spencer starts.
You add pertinent detail. âOne of the agents was a woman.â
âSheâs the alpha,â Emily confirms.
The power of your compartmentalization has defrosted you a bit and you lean forward, your elbows on the table. Youâd stand, but you donât trust your knees to hold you up right now.
âSo,â JJ says. âWeâre looking for a woman whoâs getting back at Doyle.â
Emilyâs mouth twists. âAnd our suspect list just got a whole lot longer.â
+++
You hear his footsteps behind you, his stride long as he catches up to you. Aaronâs fingers find your arm. Light. Hesitant. You rip it free like it burns, with extreme prejudice.
The reverence and fervor that coats your name in his plea hardly moves you.
âNo.â You donât turn. Your eyes remain fixed on Daveâs window ahead of you, your jaw clenched, teetering on the brink of an emotional tsunami. Your lungs are tight, ribs locked like theyâre bracing for impact. You should breathe. You donât. Itâs ruining your equilibrium. âI canât talk to you right now.â
You keep walking and you donât really care that he doesnât try to stop you. The white hot poker that has taken up residence in your chest could melt all the sand in Pakistan, youâre pretty sure. It would make a lovely glass arrangement.
Derek walks ahead of you and you half-jog to catch up with him. He anticipates you, opening up his arm and you duck under it, letting him glue you together by the shoulders, using him as armor. You might be holding him together, too.
+++
Aaron is glued to the ground, frozen by the outright rejection of his olive branch. Youâve been upset with him before, but not like this.
Maybe this was a bridge too far, Hotchner; youâre out of rope. Pick a metaphor, but itâs the end of the line.
Dave stops beside him, a hand on his shoulder. âOne thing at a time. Letâs finish this, then you can deal with that.â
Aaron swallows heavily, shoving down anything and everything heâs feeling. âRight.â
The guilt is written all over him. He knows it. He just doesnât know how to stop it. Heâs pretty sure heâll have the image of you, sitting and staring him down with your arms crossed - grief, fury, and betrayal warring on your face - seared onto the back of his eyelids for the rest of his life. Every time he blinks, there it is. Fresh. Unrelenting. The crushing weight of knowing heâs broken your trust. And you wonât even look at him again to see it.
He wasnât sure why he thought your moratorium on fighting the morning before he left would extend to his return.
Maybe heâs embarrassed now, to admit he imagined you dropping everything, running to him, landing in his arms, letting him tuck his face into your neck. Maybe he played it over and over, the details changing, but one thing constant.
In all of his imaginings, alone in the desert, you were happy, relieved, to see him.
Maybe that was just another foolish dreamâone more thing he shouldâve known better than to hope for.
+++
You know for a fact that this wouldnât hurt so badly if you didnât love him so much. Half your anger is due to the part of you that leapt toward him when he walked into the room, the pleasant shock of seeing him in one piece momentarily overriding everything else. You hated that you had to actively remind yourself that he fucked up, badlyâthat he hurt you, that you were angry with him, that he liedâto keep from launching yourself into his arms.
Itâs infuriating, the desire to welcome him home properly and curl up beside him and play house and all that crap you dreamed of before he left, the desire to comfort him and love him and soothe his pain that still undercuts every single bit of your hurt, the desire that compels you to hand him your bleeding, broken heart, ripped from your chest. Because itâs his. Itâs his bruised monstrosity of a heart. You think it might still be beating, but you havenât checked recently.
You tell yourself that youâll never trust him again. That youâll worry, deep down, that heâll leave you. You say it over and over, but it never sticks. Because the second he walked in that room, your heart leapt. You know better. And you hate yourself for it.
And thatâs even before you get to Emily.
You havenât even processed her apparent resurrection, the deception that allowed such a miracle, or the implication thereof.
Just add it to the list.
Right now, thereâs a boy who needs you to focus.
You split from Derek and into Aaronâs office, grabbing your bag and the random files off his desk youâve worked on in there. Your own desk hasnât seen use in months. With only four of you on the team over the summer, Spencer was the only one that spent any meaningful time in the bullpen, when he was here at all.
Everything is just where you left it, so itâs easy to identify and move your things, rather than disturb Aaronâs. The only new addition since your last visit is the thrashed go bag on the couch.
You keep your eyes on the floor. On the papers. On your bag. Anywhere but him. He stands in the doorway, still and silentâhaunting the room like something dead, waiting for absolution.
+++
Aaron stands still in the doorway to his office, stopped short when he saw you. If he was a weaker man, he would have startled. He didnât expect you to be here. Somehow, itâs worse than being ignored from your desk downstairs, or even walking in and finding evidence of you everywhere.
You move with smooth, comfortable confidence in his space, gathering your things. You lean over his desk, snagging a couple more papers and your office blanket off the back of the chair, tossing it over your arm.
You used to look at him over this desk, teasing, laughing, tossing out some offhand remark just to get a reaction. Countless hours in this office, a sanctuary for both of you. Now? Nothing. Your expression is carefully placid and impassive, like a glassy lake on the verge of freezing.
Another wave of guilt and self-loathing crashes over him as he realizes you took refuge in here when he was gone. Your desk in the bullpen is completely bare, empty and dusty with disuse.
How many hours, days, weeks did you spend here? Sitting in his chair, using his pens, reading by the soft warm light of the lamp by the couch? His pen cup is still on the leftâhis preference. He can easily picture you working in this room, answering emails amongst his legal volumes, behind his nameplate, looking up and smiling at passersby in that warm, professional way you do in this building.
An unreasonable and irrational possessiveness, primal and base, rears in him. He wants you to use his things, to be comfortable in his space. Itâs everything he has, in one place.
Maybe that ugly, primal possessiveness applied before, but certainly not now. You are not, nor will you ever be, his. And itâs his fault.
He could say something. He should say something. But his throat locks up, the words trapped in the tightness of his chest. Heâs never been a coward, but right now, he feels like one.
When you walk toward the door, your eyes fixed to the space over his shoulder, he steps out of your way. He can hear your breath catch as you pass him.
He closes his eyes as the air behind you leaves a wake of aching familiarity. The heady, comforting cocktail of scents that mark your presence pervade his office, and no doubt his home as well. Heâs not sure heâll ever get the privilege of that comfort again.
He wishes there was something he could do to fix it, to smooth this over and cover his chasm of mistakes. If he bent the knee, if he fell at your feet, if he groveled until his hands bled, if thatâs what it would take, heâd do it.
Haleyâs gone, but thatâs definitive, unchanging. This? This is worse, he decides. He doesnât even know what heâs mourning, yet.
+++
Your resolve almost breaks as you pass him.
He silently clears your path so you can pass uninhibited, like he always does, like heâs always done. Everything in you reaches out for him, rattling the cage of your good sense and better judgement. Your anger makes the bars hot, but whatever that thing is doesnât mind getting burned.
Your face pinches as you descend the stairs, but you recover quickly.
Declan. Declan. Focus.
You havenât even touched him yet. Heâs right there, within your reach for the first time in months. You held a woman you believed to be dead no more than a couple hours ago, but -
Focus.
+++
Aaron steps deeper into his office for the first time in months. He sits in his chair, looking around at his freshly-pristine desk.
You missed a note, a green post-it.
He picks it up, his thumb passing over your handwriting.
AH sat call - Fri 2200 :) Sub for Derek
Firing range w/ SR - Weds lunch (1300?)
Consult - Seattle PD, GA staties
Then, another one, underneath it, with a little reminder at the bottom.
Jack Fall Dates
Soccer Camp - 8/14-8/20
Adventure Camp - 8/29-9/2
Soccer Season Start - 9/7
SCHOOL! (First Day!!!!) - 9/12
That last one is underlined twice.
Then, underneath it, clearly written on another day with another pen:
Do what you can. It wonât be everything!!!
Itâs written like a joke. But now, in the wreckage of all thatâs left between you, it reads like a prophecy. His fingers trace over the letters, solid evidence of your care for his son. Not that he needed it.
It guts him.
His full name is scrawled on the corner of a legal pad, also underlined twice. You must have written it absently. Maybe you forgot how to spell âBenjaminâ (unlikely). Maybe itâs from a phone call. He wants to rip the corner and keep it.
There are three new photos on his desk, held by the frame of his (still broken) second computer monitor. Of course, itâs too much to ask to come back to a new one after months away.
One is from the small corollary to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum in Chantilly, VA, with you crouched beside Jack, who holds up a tiny model version of the SR-71 Blackbird in front of its real-life counterpart. Aaron wasnât there. But you were. Jack is smiling. You are too, but he notices how drawn, how tired you look, despite putting your sturdiest foot forward for his son.
The one in the middle is Emily during golden hour, staring out the window of the jet. Itâs one of those rare, unguarded moments before she died (before he let them bury her). Her head rests on her hand. A white rose petal from her service is tucked into the frame. Thereâs a small post-it, sideways on the corner, with the address of the cemetery and plot location of her (empty) grave. The ink is smudged, like you ran your thumb over it, like you sat with it too long in your hands.
The last one is you and Aaron on the steps of Daveâs deck. It was Fourth of July, the summer before everything got complicated, the summer before Berry Hill and Emily. His arm is around your shoulders, fingers lazily curled around the hem of your short sleeve, easy and natural, like it belongs there. You smile at the cameraâsoft, indulgentâ while he looks off to the side with the attentive smile on his face reserved exclusively for children. The next picture, he remembers, he looked at the camera. JJ took about a thousand pictures of everyone, that day.
His fingers tighten around the edge of the desk. His vision tunnels. The crack in his chest isnât just thatâitâs a rupture, jagged and raw, splitting him apart from the inside out.
+++
Emilyâs presence does wonders, inspiring Doyle to talk without issue. You have a nameâChloe Donaghy.
You sit beside Penelope, searching for any kind of buffer between you and Aaron. A little coil of resentment heats in your chest as he works, completely unaffected since you left him in his office. Heâs so controlled, so goddamn neutral and indifferent, about everything! It feels like your feelings are written all over your face in Sharpie.
Penelope runs through the school security footage, showing Chloe walk in without issue.
âShe brought tainted cupcakes to the boarding school and just walked right in,â Derek says.
Penelope pulls a face. âOh, that is creepy.â
âWe thought Doyle was bad. Check her out.â Dave passes you her rap sheet and your eyebrows climb your forehead as JJ runs through her history.
You drop the list, almost impressed. âDistribution and trafficking, manufacturing, possession, weapons charges?â
âWent away for three years,â Derek confirms.
You snort. âThat's it?â
âShe hardly seems like the mothering type,â JJ says. âWhy would she take Declan?â
Aaron shakes his head. âIt isn't love.â He glances at you when he looks back and you rise almost immediately.
Your stated mission? Get Derek a new coffee. Your actual mission? Be anywhere else.
Thoughts whirling, you make it down to the kitchen.
Emilyâs alive. Sheâs alive. Okay.
She was in dangerâsheâs still in danger as long as Doyle is alive.
âŚWas that really the only way?
You mechanically prepare the grounds, the filter, the water. Itâs meditative, in a way, letting your hands move while your mind keeps going.
Thereâs a tiny part of you, pounding its fist against the door, that is exhausted by being angry, by being tired, by coming up with new and creative ways to hate him to cover up how badly you missed him.
Could he have told me? Would I have kept the secret?
Yes, of course.
The irrational part of you (similar to the part beating the door down) is upset that he doesnât trust you, but itâs not about that, is it?
If you have a secret, keep it to yourself. Second best, tell one other person. There is no third best. Rule 4.
Aaron. JJ. One. Two.
There is no third best.
You sigh as the coffee percolates. Itâs been years, but sometimes you crave the simple pleasure of going over to that god-awful orange office at the Navy Yard and letting Jenny talk some sense into you. What would she say now? Your mind offers a memoryâ
âOh, you know how Aaron is.â She smiled fondly, responding kindly to some idle frustration you had a couple weeks after joining the team. âPeople say heâs proud, but I disagree. His moral sturdiness comes from his innate desire to always do the right thing, to choose the right path, the right answer. And he usually succeeds.â
She laughed. âSo, I give him a pass on the annoying self-righteousness, most of the time.â
Surely the shock of Emily would wear off, once you were sure she really is here, alive, with you. That is a lie you can reconcile.
But Pakistan?
You canât see how that was the right choice, in either direction. To go at all, and then to keep it from you.
Moral sturdiness, my dick.
Your anger grows cold, detached.
Compartmentalizing gets easier, after that.
You hand Derek his coffee and sit down at his back.
It almost feels normal to think aloud, to narrow parameters for Garcia, to find more and more avenues that guide you to an answer, any answer, that gets you closer to Declan.
And away from here.
Penelope types, and you hear promising noises from the laptop. âIan Doyle murdered Jimmy McDermott, but his younger brother Lachlan owns an import company.â
âDo they ship internationally?â Aaron asks.
âYou know it,â Penelope says. âHe has three warehouses, once of which is slated to be demolished.â
Aaron already has his phone out. âWhere?â
âInner Harbor, Baltimore.â
âLetâs go.â
+++
You stick close to Derekâs six as you arrive at the warehouse, your flashlight moving fast as you clear corners and keep pushing.
âOver here!â JJ calls.
You keep your gun out, only holstering it when the corners are accounted for. Geraceâs body is on the ground, shot in the temple.
âDoyle said Chloe would clean house,â Derek says.
Dave looks up. âSo what the hell is she doing now?â
âShe's getting out of the country.â Itâs simple to you, and youâre feeling unsentimental in the extreme. âGerace was dead weight.â
âShe thinks she's gonna get more for the kid without him,â Aaron says.
For the first time, you wish he wouldnât finish your thoughts.
+++
Aaron follows Derekâs SUV, keeping pace with the other fleet vehicles that join your convoy. He does his damnedest to keep his mind on the task at hand, butâŚ
Would you ask for a transfer? There is, after all, a job waiting for you in Southern California, where itâs balmy and warm year-round.
Would you leave, like he did?
He doesnât have the right to ask you to stay, but he wants to.
+++
You reach the airfield and you place your hand on your holster, your other ready to open the door as soon as the car stops. Derek comes to a screaming halt and you get out, using the car for cover as you line up your sights.
Aaron gets out of the car, measured and steady. He raises the bullhorn.
âLachlan Mcdermott and Chloe Donaghy, this is the FBI.â
You breathe in slow through your nose, still infuriated by how attuned you are to him.
âWe know you have Declan. To ensure his safety, we would like to trade.â He pauses. âWe will give you Ian Doyle and you send us the boy.â
The door drops, the stairs appearing. You can see Aaron glance at you out of the corner of your eye.
Your form is perfect, using the hood as a brace to steady your aim. You stare down the sight with both eyes, your shoulders locked and ready for recoil.
You donât look, only focused on your target, as Emily and Spencer bring Doyle forward, into No Manâs Land.
âHotch,â Derek says into his comm. âAre we really going to do this?â
âNo one leaves here.â Itâs said with the kind of certainty youâ
No. Nope.
Youâre glad youâre paying attention.
Chloe appears at the top of the stairs.
âGun!â you shout, firing on her immediately. You land a hit to her chest, double tapping for good measure.
Center of mass, 30âŚ..2? Yards. Not bad.
Shots ring out, overlapping, from both sides. Doyle falls, Lachlan falls, then Chloe collapses down the steps.
That was fast.
Emily rushes forward to Declan, who appears to be unharmed.
You pick yourself up, holstering your weapon, Youâre only a little out of breath.
+++
âAgent Hotchner,â you call, crisp and curt, looking over your shoulder. âThe coroner needs to speak with you.â
If your use of his formal title surprises or alarms him, it doesnât show on his face.
Derek looks at Dave. âWhoa,â he says, short, flat.
âThatâs a new one.â Daveâs eyes follow as Aaron walks over with purposeful strides.
You turn your head away from him as he arrives, busying yourself with something, placing him outside your periphery. He stops beside you, close.
Adjusting your earpiece, you pivot smoothly over your shoulder, without so much as a glance. Heâs just another agent to you today, another moving piece.
âHe knows heâs in deep shit, right? With all of us?â Derek asks.
âYeah,â Dave replies. âThereâs your canary, and he knows weâre in a coal mine.â He tips his head toward you, listening to one of the other agents on scene. The look on your face is deliberately neutral, like a machine, your gaze impassive, eyes flat, as you stare at the bodies. Itâs a little unsettling.
+++
âWhat now?â Dave asks, leaning back in his chair, the picture of centered peace. Heâs the foil to Aaron, who paces, thumbing his phone like a worry stone.
âIâll go home and stand judgment. Grovel. Beg. Repeat.â His lips press together briefly before he adds, dryly, âNot that I donât deserve it.â
âHome?â Dave asks, ignoring the self-deprecation, his eyebrows raised.
Aaron shrugs one shoulder. âFigured someone should have a key after Foyet.â
In truth, he gave it to you before then. Dave probably knows it, too.
Dave watches him for a second, unreadable. Then, âRight⌠someone.â He lets it hang, gives Aaron the chance to correct himânot that he expects him to. He pushes past it. âIt may not be as bad as you think.â
Aaron shakes his head, at a loss, continuing as if Dave said nothing at all. He canât consider the possibility, canât give himself room to hope. âI donât know if weâll be on speaking terms, after this. I donât know how much damage I did.â
âIs that LA transfer still on the table?â Dave knows you turned it down, but does Aaron know?
Aaron nods wordlessly. A beat. âI was thinking about that.â
âWe can burn that bridge when we get to it,â Dave says simply, with the confidence of one who knows itâs not a problem. He laces his fingers together. âBut now youâre stalling.â
Aaron huffs, looking out the window, avoidant. Daveâs right. He looks back. Sober. Grave.
âHow bad was it?â
âIt wasnât good,â Dave says, tipping his head. âBut unrecoverable?â He makes a skeptical noise. âI donât think so. People have an incredible capacity for forgiveness, with the right incentive.â
Dave is unfortunately far more perceptive than he lets on, except when heâs being smug.
Heâs being smug.
Aaron refuses to meet his eyes. âI hope youâre right.â Thereâs a pause before he exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. âNo chance of another case dropping in the next ten minutes, is there?â
Dave huffs a laugh, shaking his head. âNot one thatâll save you.â When Aaron doesnât move, Dave leans forward even further. âGo.â
+++
JJ, being the only person left who will speak to him, offers to give him a ride home.
They drive in silence.
âHappy to be back?â She asks, about halfway through the drive.
Aaron keeps his eyes forward. âNot sure yet.â
âI saw that.â You know sheâs referring to you, how cold and detached you were at the crime scene. âYou nervous?â
He laughs, toneless and humorless. âIâm terrified.â
He can see her raise a skeptical eyebrow out of the corner of his eye. âReally? Even after Pakistan?â
âEspecially after Pakistan.â
+++
He finds you sitting by his door in the hallway, on the floor, one leg extended, your other arm resting on your bent knee. You stare through carpet as he approaches.
âDid you forget your key?â He asks. He does his best to be gentle, but heâs bone-tired and he can already tell heâs in for it.
đš from a chapter youâre very eager to share bc yâknow itâll cause chaos (up to you if thatâs good or bad chaos *evil laugh*)
under a cut because weâre rocking with some smutty bits!
send me a đš for a line (or four) from a wip or unreleased chapter! (nsfw up for grabs as well!)
You hum, teasing, sinful. âYâknow,â you murmur, wrapping your fingers around the base and stroking him once, slow, âit probably says something about meânot sure if itâs good or badâthat Iâd get on my knees and let my boss fuck my mouth after a 14 hour work day⌠knowing I donât want a damn thing out of it but the pleasure of his company.â
Aaronâs chest rises sharply, his jaw flexing. âJesus,â he breathes.
a/n: happy thursday!! love love love the idea of aaron driving home from the angel maker case, and i know lots of you wanted to see some early years stuff! some of you may have also caught this on ao3!
word count: 2.9k
warnings: none!
co-written by @ssaic-jareau, without whom none of this would be possible
summary: âle vrai est trop simple, il faut y arriver toujours par le compliquĂŠ." ("the truth is too simple: one must always get there by a complicated route.") â george sand, correspondence. june 30th, 2008
ao3 | taglist | masterlist currently under construction!
+++
The beds are across from each other, not too far. Just enough space to make it feel deliberate, even in this tiny room. Youâre tucked into the far one, the lamp clicked off with a satisfying snap, leaving only the dim gold of the bathroom night light spilling through the cracked door.
Aaron's already lying down. One arm folded under his head. His body still.
âGood night,â he says, voice low.
âGood night,â you echo.
The silence is immediate. Whole. Like something settling between you rather than stretching.
You stare at the ceiling. It would be easy to fall asleep like this. Safe. Steady. Tired down to the bones. But neither of you does. Not yet.
A minute passes. Maybe more.
Then, softly, âThank you.â
You turn your head on the pillow. âYou already said that.â
âI meant it both times.â
You smile to yourself in the dark. âYouâre welcome. Both times.â
Another pause. Then, quieter, he says, âYou startled me a little.â
You glance toward the faint shape of him. âAt the house?â
âAt the cemetery,â he clarifies. âWhen it got loud. When Iââ He doesnât finish it.
You do. âFolded.â
A beat. âYeah.â
You nod against the pillow. âYou can still hear. Thatâs what matters.â
You hear him shift slightly. The creak of sheets. Then nothing.
Eventually, he murmurs, âThank you. I didnât expect you to do that.â
Youâre still. Not because youâre surprised. But because you know it feels like a huge risk to say it out loud. âI didnât think,â you assure him. âI just...did it.â
âI know,â he says. âThatâs why.â
The silence after that is longer. Fuller.
You breathe in once, slow. Out again. And you say the only thing you can. âIâm not going anywhere.â
He doesnât answer right away. But you feel the weight of his agreement in the dark.
Not a vow. Not a confession. Just a shared truth, resting between two beds.
And then, finally, his voice againâbarely audible. âSleep well.â
âYou too.â
And this time, you both mean it.
+++
Itâs a rare thing, waking up warm and rested. The sheets are cheap and over-bleached, the bed isnât yours, and the window unit hums like itâs been running since 1997. But none of that seems to matter. Your body feels like it sleptâall the way through, no jolts, no middle-of-the-night startles.
Across the room, Aaron is still in bed, one arm folded under his head, the blanket askew. Heâs already awake. You can tell by the shape of his breathing. Slow, steady. Quietly observant.
You donât say anything.
You just sit up and stretch, rubbing your eyes. He shifts slightly, and the mattress creaks.
âMorning,â you murmur.
He nods once. âMorning.â
Thereâs a peaceful silence, and then, from your side of the room, âI slept like the dead.â
That gets a real sound out of himâsomething between a laugh and a hum. âMe too.â
You look at him. âSeriously?â
He sits up, slow, presses a hand to the back of his neck. âThat hasnât happened in...months.â
You canât help but watch him in the streaky light from the window, only half-covered by the curtain. His hair is floppy, the t-shirt he wears rounding out an entirely foreign sight.
You shake your head. âMe either.â
Itâs a simple thing, but it feels like a win. Something unremarkable and quietly extraordinary.
+++
The motel lobby smells like burnt coffee and powdered eggs, but itâs warm and quiet. A rack of individually wrapped muffins sits beside a plastic bin of apples that all look a little bruised. Thereâs one waffle maker.
Aaron hands you a styrofoam cup and lifts a brow. Coffee?
You nod. âAbsolutely.â
You sit across from each other at a two-top tucked into the corner of the room. His hair is still damp from a quick shower, and heâs wearing a soft long-sleeve shirt and jeans that make him look more like a dad on a road trip than your unit chief.
You poke at your yogurt container. âDo you think itâs suspicious when breakfast is served exclusively in plastic and foil?â
Aaron raises his cup. âOnly if youâre expecting it to be good.â
You grin. âFair.â
He takes a bite of an oatmeal bar and watches you for a beat, quiet. Thoughtful.
âYou seem better today,â he says. âLess stressed.â
You nod, surprised by the honesty of your answer. âI feel better today.â
He tilts his head. âBecause itâs over?â
âBecause you let me keep you company.â
He blinks. Not because heâs startledâbut because heâs processing it, letting it settle where it belongs.
âYouâre not used to people saying that,â you note.
âIâm not used to people meaning it,â he says.
You shrug. âWell. Get used to it.â
+++
You refill your coffee before heading out. He warms up the car. You stand beside him at the trunk, go bags tossed back in place. The morning, mountain air is crisp, even in the summer sunshine.
When you slide into the passenger seat, he starts the engine. Glances at you.
âYou good?â
You fasten your seatbelt. âBetter than good.â
He nods. Puts the car in drive. And you pull out of the lot like you didnât just sleep the sleep of the dead across from the man you trust with your whole life.
Because todayâs a driving day.
But it doesnât feel like a return to the real world.
Not yet.
Not with the road ahead still quiet and open.
+++
The windows are down. The road curves gently, climbing along the ridge, and the air smells like pine and sunlight. His sleeveâs rolled up. Neither of youâs said much since you left the last gas station, and it hasnât felt strange at all.
Aaronâs left hand rests loosely at the top of the wheel. His sunglasses are on, but you can tell heâs not focused entirely on the road. Not distractedâjust thinking.
You glance over. âTalk to me.â
He doesnât look at you, but he does speak. âYou ever have one of those days where your bodyâs tired, but your brainâs finally...quiet?â
You hum. âYeah. That feels rare.â
He nods once. âThatâs what today feels like.â
The next pull-off comes up fastâa gravel arc jutting out from the road, with a narrow view down into the valley and a sky so blue, the clouds so wispy, it almost looks painted.
Aaron signals without thinking and turns off.
You wait until he cuts the engine before speaking. âDidnât have you pegged for a scenic overlook kind of guy.â
He finally looks at you. âI donât stop enough.â
You smile. âWeâll work on that.â
+++
The gravel crunches beneath your boots as you step out. Itâs warm, but not hotâthe kind of mountain summer day that feels earned. Like the reward for surviving a cold winter and a wet spring.
Aaron circles around to the front of the SUV, glancing over the ridge, then back at the hood.
You eye it too. âYou thinking what Iâm thinking?â
He raises an eyebrow. âThat youâre going to dent the government vehicle?â
You hop up lightly, settling near the edge of the hood with your legs crossed. âPlease. This thingâs seen worse.â
He hesitates for half a secondâthen joins you, moving slowly, his placement careful and purposeful. But he ends up next to you, his sneakers resting on the front bumper.
The sunâs on your skin. Itâs so quiet.
You tilt your face to the sky. âThis is what I want more of.â
Aaron glances sideways. âSunshine?â
You shake your head. âStillness.â
He doesnât say anything for a moment.
Then, softly, âYeah.â
You study his profile. âYou said you and Haley used to come out here?â
He nods. âOnce or twice. Before Jack. Haley packed this huge picnic. Way too much food. She said, âItâs not about what we need, itâs about what we might want.ââ
You smile. âThat sounds like her.â
He looks down. âShe was lighter. Back then.â
You nudge him gently with your shoulder. âI hear you were, too.â
He huffs. âDo you now?â
You nod. âI think so. I see it sometimes. Sneaks in.â
His voice goes quiet. âIâd like to be that way. When I can.â
You both go quiet again. The wind picks up. A bird calls out somewhere in the trees.
After a while, you say, âYouâre really different outside the office.â
He turns to you, a dimple appearing. âSo are you.â
You shrug. âWe wear masks. At least in the beginning.â
âStill?â
You meet his gaze. âLess now. No longer on my best behavior, and all that.â
Aaron looks out over the mountains again, his dimple deeper than before.
+++
You stay like that for a while. Quiet. Sun-warmed. Open in a way neither of you usually are.
And somewhere between minute fifteen and twenty, the distance between colleagues who must trust each other and people who care gets just a little bit smaller.
The heat of the hood bleeds through the fabric of your jeans as you lean back on your palms, soaking in the sun like itâs something you havenât felt in months. Aaronâs still beside you, sitting straighter, elbows on his knees, hands folded loosely in front of him.
You donât speak for a long time.
The birds are busy in the trees below. A hawk cuts silently across the sky. The wind smells like pine needles and distant running waterâdamp soil and ferns.
Eventually, he says, âI donât think Iâve done this since Jack was a baby.â
You tilt your head, looking over. âWhat? Sat still?â
He almost smiles. âStopped somewhere without a plan.â
You hum. âWell. Technically, this is federal land. So weâre still on the clock.â
That gets a low, genuine laugh out of him. It surprises youânot because he doesnât laugh, but because itâs so real. So easy. You glance at him from the corner of your eye.
Heâs looking at the horizon. But then, slowly, his gaze shifts.
To you.
Youâre still angled toward the sun, eyes closed now, lips parted just slightly, like the day has melted your guard a little. Thereâs a calm on your face heâs never seen at Quantico. Not in a briefing room. Not on a jet. This version of you belongs only to the open road and the heat of the hood and the sky that never seems to end.
Aaron watches you for just a second longer than he should.
Thereâs something about the curve of your cheek in the sunlight. The way your lashes catch it. The way your foot brushes the bumper like youâre fully settled here, like youâve belonged in this moment all along and heâs just lucky to have caught it.
He looks away before you open your eyes.
But you catch it. Or maybe just feel it.
You look over at him, smiling, a little squint in your eyes from the glare. âWhat?â
He shakes his head. âNothing. Sorry.â
You nudge his knee with yours. âLiar.â
He gives a slow shrug. âJust... thinking.â
You donât press him. You never do.
But you do keep your eyes on him a little longer than necessary before tilting your face back to the sky.
âI like this version of you,â you say.
He glances sideways.
You add, with a smile, âThe one that takes the detour.â
+++
Eventually, the light shifts. The shadows grow long across the gravel. You both know itâs time to keep moving, but neither of you rush it. You didnât expect to sit out here all afternoon. Youâve practically meditated the whole time.
Aaronâs the first to slide off the hood, his boots crunching softly as he lands. He offers you a hand.
You take it without hesitation, fingers curling into his, your weight in his hand only until your feet hit the ground.
+++
Later, after a pit stop and a granola bar from a gas station, youâre back on the road and Aaronâs telling you about his first argument in federal court.
âHe tried to have me removed from the courtroom.â
âWho did? The judge?â you ask, crinkling your granola wrapper.
âDefense counsel. Claimed I hadnât passed the bar. Thought I was the intern.â
You blink. âWhat did the judge say?â
âShe looked at him, then at me, then said, âMr. Hotchner has made more convincing arguments on paper than you have in person, counselor. Proceed.ââ
Youâre laughing now. âOh my God. Can I embroider that on a pillow for you?â
âNot if you plan on giving it to anyone else.â
+++
Later still, with the sun starting to shift golden behind your visors and the trees, he tells you about his first lost case. You ask what happened, expecting a mistake. A misread. Something painful.
âGuy represented himself,â he says instead. âSecurities fraud. Called himself a patriot. Said he was liberating the funds. Swore the Founding Fathers wouldâve laundered money too. Cited the Constitution and Declaration of Independence several times.â
You blink at him.
âThe jury bought it,â he says. âAcquitted him. He hugged the bailiff on his way out.â
You let out an incredulous bark of a laugh. âAh. I see. Youâve been chasing justice ever since.â
âChasing sanity,â he corrects. âJustice is a bonus.â
+++
One more story, just before the Sperryville exits.
âThis reminds me of the case I tried near here,â he says. âI decided to use a PowerPoint. Thought it would help the jury follow the case law.â
You raise a brow.
He sighs. âThe projector broke. Half the jury couldnât see it. The other half fell asleep.â
You smile. âYou PowerPointed them into a coma.â
âI was twenty-seven and very committed to clean design.â He pauses. âIt was, however, the nineties and Microsoft Office left something to be desired.â
You lean back in your seat, still laughing. âHotch, youâre perfect.â
He shakes his head, but heâs smiling. Really smiling.
And not for the first time, you realize how rare that is.
+++
i no longer have a taglist. follow the ajf blog for updates and turn on post notifications! @ajoyfulfuture
a/n: welcome back to our regularly scheduled programming after several delays--I've decided to post this before the sideblog is ready because you've all been so patient!
words: 1.7k
content advisories: PINING. so much pining its painful
summary: "you forget what you want to remember, and you remember what you want to forget." âcormac mccarthy. december 24thâ26th, 2010
ajf masterlist (under construction) | sideblog under construction | what do you want to see next?
The party ends like all the best ones doâslowly, reluctantly, and with too many hugs at the door.
Penelopeâs glitter trail fades down the hallway. Emilyâs SUV engine kicks over just as Dave mutters something about Italian wine being better than Italian judgment.
Youâre still holding your mug.
You shouldâve left twenty minutes ago. Spencer caught your eye on the way out and gave you a lookânot teasing, just curious. Like he wasnât sure why you hadnât moved yet.
The apartment is warm in the way lived-in spaces get after too many bodies and too much sugar. The tree glows soft and quiet. A few stray snowflake crafts litter the coffee table, evidence of Jackâs brief cameo before Jess picked him up for a Brooks-side thing.
You and Aaron are alone now.
Heâs in the kitchen, rinsing the same glass twice. Youâre in the doorway, trying not to overthink the fact that youâre still here.
âThanks for hosting,â you say, just because itâs something to say.
He nods. âSure.â
âEveryone seemed happy,â you offer, like it matters.
Aaron hums. Noncommittal.
He doesnât have to tell you this is his second Christmas without Haley.
He doesnât have to tell you the first one didnât feel real. That last year, he didnât decorate. Didnât cook. Didnât breathe, really. He spent the morning letting Jack unwrap presents and the evening staring at the bottom of a glass.
He didnât feel the weight of it until this year.
Until the tree was up again. Until Jack drew a family picture and only drew two people. Until he realized how deeply silence cuts when youâve survived chaos. Until he realized he didnât know where Haley ordered the Christmas cards.Â
You shift your weight on the kitchen tile.
Aaron folds the towel with unnecessary precision. His hands are steady, but his pulse is loud in his ears.
âYouâre not staying over tonight?â It comes out sharper than he means. Less invitation, more... alarm.
You blink. âShould I?â Your voice is soft, teasing, maybe. He canât tell.
His gaze dips to your mouth before he can stop it.
Donât.
His eyes flick back up to yours. âI just thought maybe you had somewhere else to be.â
âTomorrow, maybe,â you say. He gets the acute sense youâre hedging your bets. âNot tonight.â
He nods.
You step away first. âIâll get out of your hair.â
Aaron doesnât stop you. Not right away. But thenâ
âStay.â
You stop. Half-turned. He sees your shoulders lift, slow and uncertain.
âYou donât have to,â he adds quickly. âI justâdonât want you to go if you donât want to.â
Your mouth tips up at the corner. Not quite a smile. Not quite relief.
âOkay.â
+++
He doesnât breathe until you sit beside him on the couch.
The movie is some forgettable holiday comedy. Youâre not watching it.
The lights are off.
Except for the tree.
Tiny bulbs blink lazily across the living roomâreds, golds, soft white stars casting a sleepy glow over everything. They reflect off the glass ornaments, scattering glimmers of color onto the ceiling, the walls, the blanket pooled over both of your legs. The room smells like pine, like clove-studded oranges, like a home thatâs been lived in, like the candle burning on the coffee table.
Neither one of you has spoken in a while.
Your head is on his shoulder, your legs tucked under the afghan, one of his hands resting over your shinâabsentminded, not possessive. Just there. His thumb moves in soft, unconscious circles. You can feel the way his breathing changes with yours, how still he goes every time you shift. You could swear heâs holding himself together with duct tape and hope.
And youâre not doing much better.
âI used to think,â you start, your voice barely more than a breath, âthat Christmas would always feel like it did when I was little.â
Aaronâs head tilts, not enough to look at you. Just to show heâs listening.
âNot the presents. Not even the family part. Just that feelingâlike the world was softer. Like it could pause for a second.â You smile a little. âNow it just feels like weâre holding our breath.â
A beat.
âMaybe we are,â he says.Â
You glance up. The tree lights catch his profile. His eyes are on the window, not the TV, but you donât think heâs looking at anything out there.
The light catches the scar on his nose, the one Foyet gave him. Thereâs another, fainter one under his chinâchildhood bike accident, if you remember correctly.
You should say something. Ask if heâs okay. Ask what he meant. You look away.Â
Instead, you reach down and tug the blanket tighter over both your legs. His hand settles back over your shin like it never left.
Heâs so warm. Stupidly warm. His shoulder is firm beneath your cheek, and his sweatshirt smells like him. You want to tuck yourself closer. You want to crawl inside the space between his ribs and stay there until January.
You donât look at him on purpose, but you do. Heâs already looking at you.
The breath catches in your throat. His eyes are soft. Quiet. But theyâre searching.
You shift.
You hear the subtle change in his breathing. Feel the way his whole body goes still.
Itâs comforting.
Itâs also unbearable.
You see his pulse thrum at his throat. Quick. Hard.
Youâre a profiler. You know what adrenaline looks like.
Aaron can feel your breath against his neck. The scent of your shampoo. The weight of your body leaning into his like you were made to fit there.
Thereâs a fraction of a second where youâre both leaning in. You donât know who starts it. Youâll never know. But you do know what stops it.
Fear.
Not the kind youâre trained for. Not knives-in-the-dark fear. Not even heartbreak.
This is worse.
This is the fear of breaking what you already have. The fear of crossing into something so big you canât get it back. The fear that one kiss could end it all, or change it so irrevocably that nothing is safe anymore. That thereâs no room to pretend itâs platonic. No way to wake up tomorrow and call it anything less than what it is.
Your lips part.
So do his.
You both lean in. Barely.
And thenâ
You duck.
Not far. Just enough to hide in his chest.
His breath halts. But his arm comes around you without hesitation. He tucks you close, chin on your head. Protective. Resigned. Maybe relieved.Â
You donât speak.
Fuck.Â
+++
You wake up to the smell of cinnamon and the distant sound of clinking kitchenware.
When you get up, you splash water on your face and brush your teeth in Jackâs bathroomâyour toothbrush has its own cup now (you try not to think too hard about that). Thereâs a cup of coffee waiting for you on the counterâalready poured, just the way you like it, and still hot.
Aaron doesnât say a word when you walk in.
Jackâs back from Roy and Kathleenâs , tearing into a new Lego set on the living room floor.
You sit beside him, bare feet on the carpet. Aaron takes the armchair. Not the couch. Not beside you.
Jack talks enough for all three of you.
You laugh once at something he saysâshort, bright. Aaron looks up at the sound. You meet his eyes. For a fraction of a second, it cracks something open.
He looks away first. You get the acute sense that heâs not purposefully icing you out.
Heâs just protecting himself.Â
His self-preservation instincts have always been better than yours.Â
The day goes on. Wrapping paper piles up. Coffee cools. Aaron reads the instructions while Jack builds.
You fold the blanket before you leave. Smooth it. Set it on the back of the couch like it wasnât the scene of a slow-motion undoing.
Aaron watches you do it.
You both pretend itâs just a blanket.
+++
On Boxing Day (a holiday Penelope insists on honoring despite its unpatriotic British origins) Daveâs house smells like rosemary and caramelized onions and something else vaguely Italian that Dave refuses to name until dinner is served.Â
Spencer sits cross-legged on the floor helping his godson with a puzzle. Henryâs doing his best and to Spencerâs credit, he narrates his every move (for language development, of course).Â
Penelope is making spiked hot chocolate for everyone but insists itâs âmedicinalâ, and Emily is on her third glass of wine and definitely snooping through Daveâs record collection, crouched by the cabinet. JJ loosely supervises, watching Spencer and Henry on the floor with a soft look on her face. Willâs on duty today. You all promised to set aside a plate for him.Â
Youâre sitting on the edge of the couch, laughing at something Derek said but not really hearing it. Jack is curled into your side, showing you the Lego starship he and Aaron finished that morning.
Itâs loud. Warm. Safe.
Itâs the perfect place to hide.
Aaron hasnât spoken to you since he handed you coffee yesterday morning.
He hasnât not spoken to you either.
Which is worse.
Youâre good at playing normal. Youâve had years of practice. But every time you move, your senses stretch for him. And every time you look overâheâs already watching you.
Never long enough to call it staring. Always just a second too short to make you sure.
Jack shifts in your lap. You adjust him automatically, arms tightening around his middle. Heâs warm. His hair smells like cinnamon. When he looks up at you, heâs grinning.
âWanna see the secret compartment?â
You smile back, genuine. âObviously.â
Aaronâs watching.
You know he is.
You donât look at him.
Later, when the kids have bundled up and play outside in the yard, youâre still sitting on the couch, doing your best to slouch and relax without thinking too much about it.
You feel him before you hear him.
He sits beside you, not quite close enough to touch.
Neither one of you says anything.
You think, for a second, he might speak. That he might say thank you for staying. Or I didnât mean toâ or I wanted toâ
But he doesnât.
He just exhales.
So do you.
The front door creaks open. The kids come back in, tracking snow and laughter. Noise floods the room.
my favorite part about them being profilers is that they KNOW they got it bad and just refuse to verbally acknowledge it. they literally never stood a chance
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