"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 — the big ones, the kind with wheels that never actually worked the way they were supposed to — 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 — the one from the brick colonial across the street, the one you'd waved at twice and spoken to exactly zero times — 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 — thank you, I had it—"
"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 — we've waved. I'm—" 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 — the tall one, the annoying one, the one you needed three extra inches of height to reach properly — when you heard footsteps on your porch.
"You're going to fall."
You squawked and grabbed the doorframe, "what—"
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 not—"
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 — easily, without any kind of stool — 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 to—"
"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 — do you want coffee or something, I have—"
"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 — 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 it—"
"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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 why—"
"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's—" You laughed, a little helplessly. "That's either very sweet or very alarming, I genuinely can't tell."
"Probably both." And there it was — 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 — what?"
"I'll take care of it Saturday."
"Nolan—"
"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 — your fixed, properly lit doorway — 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 handle—"
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 can—"
"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 Sex™, 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!
“treat 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.”
ralph waldo emerson
september 22nd-28th, 2011
Aaron takes the stairs two at a time. He hasn’t been back long enough for this space to feel normal again, but it doesn’t 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 everything—despite his absence, despite his lies—you 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 mistakes—you still showed up for Jack. You still loved his son, even when you were hurting.
Three days ago, he looked at Emily’s 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 then—he 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 now—now it’s 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 JJ’s camera when he wasn’t watching—had you been feeling it, too? If you had been looking at him like that, if you had already been his before he ever left—then what the fuck was it all for?
Yesterday took his blinders off, that’s 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, professional—hell, 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 whatever’s trying to surface, and starts sorting through the materials he’ll need to prepare for the hearing.
He hears your voice carry up from the bullpen—warm, 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, Emily’s voice.
“Where were you last night?”
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 Emily’s line of questioning. Your protests are weak at best. Emily, naturally, doesn’t 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.
“I’ve been dead for ten months. The least you can do is tell me who you’ve been fucking since then.”
Aaron nearly has to turn away to compose himself.
Emily Elizabeth Prentiss. Never change.
He’s going to have to endure this conversation at some point. He knows that. But God help him, he isn’t above leaving you to fend for yourself this time. He’s 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.
“You’re an asshole.”
His mouth twitches. He’s still holding back a smile when he sits down, flipping open the file he abandoned.
“Was that fun? Did you enjoy that?”
He lifts his eyes to yours, schooling his face into something almost stern—but the effort is visible. You know him too well to be intimidated. The Van Halen shirt doesn’t help. He, like you, didn’t think anyone would be here today.
“Immensely,” he says, pen scratching against paper.
You cross your arms. “So, did you actually have something for me, or was that just a power move, sir?”
And that’s when he makes the mistake of looking up at you again.
His gaze lingers just a second too long.
A flash, seared into his mind—your 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-out—
It’s 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. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, darling.”
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. “When we get back, we’ll have to follow up with that coroner. His report is incomplete.”
You flip through the file, setting it down. “I’ll add it to the list. If we get our jobs back.”
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “We’ll get our jobs back. We always do.”
You arch a brow. “Yeah, you, maybe.”
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 Strauss’s 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. It’s always irritated him, that assumption.
You are your own person. Your own professional.
He’s just grateful you haven’t been dragged further into his mistakes.
As you step out of her office, you fall into step beside him. You don’t 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 Emily’s plot location. He watches as you crumple it, tossing it lightly into the trash.
Your voice is quieter when you say, “I tried not to disturb too much when I was up here.”
Something about it strikes him. Like you feel like you’ve been caught. Like you think you shouldn’t have touched anything at all. Like you’re worried you shouldn’t 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.
“I don’t mind,” he says. He looks at you, something softer in his expression. “It’s your office, too.”
Something flickers in your features, but you don’t speak.
He lets it sit between you, unspoken.
What’s mine is yours.
He follows half a step behind as you head down the stairs in silence.
Emily’s in the kitchen, emptying the coffee pot. Without looking, she calls, “I am going to figure out who you’ve been sleeping with.”
Aaron is almost positive you’re about to pull something to throw at her. Then, Emily turns. Sees him. Sees you.
And freezes.
“Oh my God, Hotch. I didn’t—” She cuts off, her gaze darting between the two of you.
Your face betrays nothing. You take Aaron’s 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 out—
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.
He’s 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. You’re wearing that same threadbare shirt from before, and a pair of jeans. You’ve only been out of his sight for fifteen minutes, but after the desert, every second is too long. He missed you.
Haley’s voice echoes in his head. You sweet, silly man.
You flop onto the couch, and before he can stop himself, he’s already moving toward you, handing you a fresh cup of coffee before sinking onto the cushion beside you.
The second he’s settled, you scoot into his side, tucking beneath his arm like it’s second nature.
His chest goes tight.
God, I missed this.
“So,” you say, your voice casual.
He glances down at you, raising a brow.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to change the routine we had before you left for Pakistan.”
There it is.
You say it like a fact, like it’s 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. “I agree. It would be hard on Jack.” It’s a weak excuse.
You nod, but there’s something small in your voice when you admit, “I’d miss you. And I already missed you, and I’m sick of it.”
His chest clenches.
He doesn’t let himself think—he’s done too much thinking—just presses a kiss to your temple, lingering for a second longer than he needs to.
“I’m sick of missing you, too.” 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.
“And I am not done with you yet.” 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. He’d feel bad, maybe, if you hadn’t grinned at them like a prize this morning, stretching and twisting in front of the mirror, tracing over them with your fingertips.
“Oh my god, you did!” 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.
There’s 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. “Holy shit.”
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. “Sorry,” he murmurs, dragging it out. “I got excited.”
Your breath catches, but you barely hesitate, firm and authoritative. “Do not apologize.” Your voice drops, almost like you’re talking to yourself, like it’s dawning on you in real time. “That’s so hot.”
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 skin—
“I could spend all day admiring my work.”
Your breath stutters, just for a second. “You should.”
His restraint fractures. Just a little.
“…And that’s convenient.” Your voice is a little rough, a little teasing. “I’m not done with you, either. And I wouldn’t want all your hard work to go to waste.”
His coffee is forgotten.
Aaron sets the mug aside, tipping your chin up with his fingers, his touch featherlight, like he’s savoring the moment before he indulges. His breath skims over your lips, the tension between you thrumming, electric, but there’s something else too—something softer, something that’s been waiting too long.
“I love you.”
Before you can respond, he closes the space.
It’s slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for questions, that lingers with the weight of everything unspoken.
And then—
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.
“Dad!”
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. Jack’s 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 might—
Jack pulls back just enough to look at him, his little hands pressing against Aaron’s cheeks. His face scrunches up immediately.
“Your beard is scratchy.”
Aaron laughs, pressing his nose to Jack’s cheek until he shrieks with laughter. “Do you like it?”
Jack wrinkles his nose in an exaggerated grimace. That’s answer enough.
But then, his attention shifts.
The moment he registers you standing nearby, his face lights up. Jack gasps, immediately squirming out of Aaron’s 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. “Dad’s beard makes him look funny.”
You suppress a smile, leaning in conspiratorially. “He doesn’t really look like himself, does he?”
Jack shakes his head, giggling.
Aaron huffs, exaggerating his betrayal. You’ve 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 it—something permanent, something real.
Jack already adores you. That much is undeniable.
You press a kiss to Jack’s 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.
It’s 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, who’s watching you, too. She’s 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 she’s his aunt, not his mother. And as much as she loves Jack, that was never her role to fill.
And then, there’s 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. He’d dismissed it at the time, not because he thought it was untrue, but because it was something he didn’t want to be true. Had it still been true, in the end? Maybe. Maybe not.
But there’s 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 yet—you have always been here. You, with your steady hands and your quick wit and your deep, unfaltering well of patience for Jack’s questions. You, your steady attendance at every soccer game and your ease in his home. You, who never once stepped into Haley’s 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 one’s for you.
God he’s an idiot. If he hadn’t been such a fool, maybe he would’ve 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 she’s anchoring him in place.
He lets himself sink into it.
It’s been too long.
She’s the closest thing he has to a sister, and he’s missed her, more than he let himself acknowledge before now.
“Welcome back,” she murmurs against his shoulder.
“Thanks, Jess.” He swallows, voice thick with something he doesn’t name. “For everything.”
She huffs a little laugh, shaking her head as she pulls back just enough to look at him. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She squeezes his arms, her touch warm and familiar. “It was so special, getting all this time with him. It flew by.”
Aaron nods, his chest tight. “It means a lot.”
Jess just scoffs, swatting at his shoulder. “Of course it does.” Her tone softens as she tips her head. “You don’t owe me anything, Aaron. You know that.”
He does.
But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to say it.
Before he can, Jack comes barreling back into the room, all but vibrating with excitement. “Dad, Dad, Dad, you missed so much!”
Aaron grins, crouching to meet him at eye level. “Yeah?” He braces himself as Jack launches forward again, throwing his arms around his father’s neck.
Jack barely gives him a second before pulling back, eyes wide with the enormity of all the things he has to tell him. “Okay, okay, so first—” He holds up a small hand, like he needs Aaron to focus. “Camp was so cool. There was a lake and a zipline and a huge bonfire and my counselor’s name was Jungle Jim—all the counselors had funny names.”
Aaron nods, completely enraptured. “Jungle Jim, huh? Sounds like a good guy.”
Jack nods so hard his honey brown hair bounces. “Yeah, and then after that, we went to the museum—the little one with all the planes on the ceiling!” He grabs Aaron’s hand like he needs him to understand. Aaron can hear your voice in his description of the Udvar-Hazy Center. It’s not like it’s a catchy name or anything.
“I got to stand under the Blackbird, Dad. The real one.”
Aaron’s throat goes tight. He knows.
Jack is still going. “And 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?”
Aaron shakes his head, smiling. “Who?”
Jack takes a dramatic pause. “Sophie.”
Aaron lifts a brow. “Sophie from soccer?”
Jack nods solemnly. “We’re friends at school now, too.”
Aaron pretends to be impressed. It is an accomplishment for a five year old. “That’s a pretty big deal.”
Jack beams. “I know.” Then, his eyes widen again, like he’s just remembered something crucial. “Oh! And I made a rocket in art class.” He twists toward Jess. “Auntie Jess, can I show him my rocket?”
She laughs. “Of course, buddy. I think we put it on the shelf in your room.”
Jack gasps. “Be right back!”
Aaron watches as he takes off down the hall, his little feet pattering against the floor.
Jess nudges his arm. “You good?”
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 he’s turning into a little person, in that way children do.
But Jack is here. He’s here, and he’s happy, and he still clings to Aaron’s hand like a lifeline. Or, at least he would, if he wasn’t retrieving a rocket.
Aaron nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I’m good.”
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, there’s something wide and unguarded in your gaze.
His brow furrows slightly, his lips curving just at the corner. “What?”
You hesitate. “I just—” 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.
“I don’t usually get what I want.”
It isn’t dramatic. You don’t say it like you’re expecting pity. But he feels it anyway, the weight of it settling deep.
Because he knows. Because he’s never been someone to get what he wants, either.
But this—you—no.
You will want for nothing, he decides. Not while he’s 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 he’s sealing something in place.
His voice is low, steady. “Well… we’ll work on that.”
You try not to smile.
You fail.
Aaron brushes a thumb over your knuckles before shifting, glancing toward the door. “We’ve got LEGOs in Jack’s room when you’re done here.”
You hum, fingertips trailing along his scalp. “Oh, not to keep you, but while you’re here…” You draw him forward again, brushing your lips against his. “I’ll make you a deal.”
His mouth is still on yours when he murmurs, “Mm?”
You lean back slightly, appraising. “Shave the beard to appease your son, but keep the hair long.”
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 he’s fully, achingly hard in an instant.
You did that. So easily.
He schools his expression, but it’s a difficult endeavor. His voice is lower, rougher when he asks, “What did I say about starting things you can’t finish?”
Instead of answering, you grin, all smug satisfaction. Then, without warning, you kiss him again—slow, filthy, all tongue, a deliberate tease against the ache you just put there. And with a pointed little shove, you push him away.
He’s 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.
“To not to?”
Aaron exhales through his nose, forcing restraint back into his bones. But it’s a process. His jaw shifts, his hands flex, and most inconvenient of all—he’s 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, Jack’s 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 ally—he fell off the shelf and his wing detached. The two of you move in sync—your 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 side—an adaptation, as he’s unable to bounce his knee from here.
Aaron lets himself breathe.
Dinner had been a quiet affair—sandwiches and vegetables, eaten on the floor of Jack’s room. He didn’t fight it. He figures he’ll be a pushover for the next few days at least, making up for lost time.
And God, he has missed this. Missed home.
“Alright, bud. Time for bed.” 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. “We had a deal, Jack.”
Jack grumbles, but doesn’t argue. The finished LEGO creations go onto the bookshelf, the rest tucked neatly back into their bin. You don’t 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.
You’ve been here. You’ve been in his space. More than that—you’ve 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 Jack’s life he’s already missed. How many bedtimes. How many Saturday mornings. How many moments like this—quiet and easy and full of the kind of love that doesn’t need to be spoken to be understood.
Jack doesn’t hesitate with you. Doesn’t second-guess his place in your world. It’s 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 son’s room. You’re 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. It’s really hard.
You toss Jack’s pajamas from the drawer, and he catches them with a little smile. “Get those on, little bug. Dad will be back in to read you a chapter, okay?”
Jack nods, but before you can stand, he tugs at your hand, pulling you closer.
“Are you sleeping over?” His voice is quiet. Careful.
Aaron feels the breath catch in his chest.
Your eyes flick up to him before answering. “I think so, but I’m not sure.” Then, with a smile just for him—just for him—you add, “I think we should ask Dad if that’s alright.”
Jack immediately twists in your arms, looking at Aaron with wide, expectant eyes. “Daddy, can we have a sleepover?”
Aaron’s heart lurches.
Two sets of doe eyes look up at him from under lashes. Jack’s little body is tucked against yours, your arms wrapped around him like you belong there—like you always have.
And the thing is—you do.
Aaron’s lips tug into a smile, fond and familiar. “Yeah, we can have a sleepover.”
“Yes!” Jack breaks free of your hold and takes off down the hall.
Aaron doesn’t even have time to react before you’re moving, standing fluidly, closing the space between you.
“Sleepover?” you murmur, tilting your head up at him.
His hands find your waist, settling there without thought. “Mhmm.” 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 Aaron’s arms before he can protest, crouching to catch him as he launches himself at you.
The warmth in Aaron’s 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, “I love you.”
You smile, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “I love you, too.”
Aaron watches, something raw pulling at the edges of his heart.
He doesn’t question it anymore.
With one last kiss to Jack’s 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 book—one he doesn’t 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.
“...’My father thought the cat was talking just to hear itself talk.’” Aaron reads. He moves the book so Jack can see his face. “Like Uncle Dave, maybe?”
Jack laughs.
Jack’s eyelids grow heavier with every word as Aaron continues to read the short chapter. Aaron’s voice drops into something softer, steadier, something he hopes will keep this moment here.
He flicks off the hallway light and murmurs, “Since the grown-ups don’t have work in the morning, we’re all gonna sleep in.”
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.
You’re curled beneath his sheets, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. He doesn’t want to wake you if you’ve already drifted off—but before he can slip quietly into bed, your voice reaches him through the dark.
“Aaron?”
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. “Yeah?”
You hesitate. Then, with a sigh, you squeeze his hand, like you’re making a decision. “I still don’t like it, but I understand it.”
It takes him a beat to process what you mean.
Emily.
Relief cuts through his chest, sharp and swift. You don’t have to forgive him—not yet, maybe not ever—but you understand. And for now, that’s enough.
“I hated lying to you,” he murmurs, settling onto the mattress beside you, feeling the warmth of your body just inches away. “I think it was the hardest thing I ever had to do.” He exhales, lets the honesty settle between you. “If there had been any other way…”
He trails off. You know. Of course you know.
Then, you shift closer, tucking yourself against his chest, and fuck—he 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 him—it settles something inside him. Eases something so deep he didn’t 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. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I know.”
He takes a breath.
“There will always be things I can’t tell you.” His forehead brushes against yours, and you nod, understanding before he even finishes the thought. “But I swear—I will never let you believe something like that again. If you ask me a question I can’t answer, I’ll tell you. If you ask me if you know everything I know, I’ll be honest about that, too.”
It feels like a vow. Maybe it is.
Then, softer, “I will be as open as possible about the things I can’t be open about.”
Your fingers drift up, brushing lightly over his jaw, tilting his face slightly so you can see him even in the dim light.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
And Aaron can’t 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.
“What do you want?” His voice is rough, low, loaded. He doesn’t 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 catches—then you roll your center against his thigh, slotted between your legs.
His fingers dig into your hip.
Fuck.
He wasn’t expecting that.
Your lower lip disappears into your mouth, and your body shifts again, dragging your core over his thigh.
“Fuck.” It’s a whisper, but it wrecks him.
His eyes darken, his fingers tightening their grip before he shoves up into you, his thigh pressing right there—he feels the heat of you even through the fabric. Your body shudders.
His voice is pure gravel. “What—” He grips your ass roughly, increasing the pressure as you grind down onto him, panting into his skin. “—do you want?”
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 that’s not enough. Not yet.
Your voice is tight, near breathless. “I need you.”
He doesn’t stop guiding your hips against him, doesn’t 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.
“I think I’ll keep you right here,” he mutters, his voice thick, possessive. His grip tightens at your hips, a sharp tug in time with his leg rising just enough—
You gasp, biting your lip to hold back the cry. And he grins. “Until you’re begging for my cock.”
Jesus. Where’d 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.
“Aaron, please.” It’s a whisper, but it’s 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.
You’re so wet—he 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 you’re making—stifled whimpers against his collarbone—fuck. He can’t get enough.
“I need you,” you gasp, your fingers threading into his hair, your hips rolling fast and even.
He exhales a rough laugh, breath hot against your skin. “You’re gonna have to do better than that.”
Your body jolts as his lips brush your ear, breath hot, teasing. His voice drops, thick and sinful.
“I want to watch you come right here.” He slows his movements, just slightly, and you whine. “I want you to know I don’t even have to touch you to make you feel good.”
Your fingers tighten in his hair, your panting breath loud in his ear. “I already know that,” you tell him, breathless. “You’re the only one who’s gotten me off almost every night for the last four years.”
His whole body freezes.
You’re shitting me.
A sharp roll of your hips. “And you didn’t lay a hand on me until last night.”
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 he’d been suffering all alone, unaware that you had wanted him just as much.
His grip bruises at your waist. His restraint fractures.
“Fuck, I love you,” 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. “I love you.”
You’re close. He knows it. Feels it. Instead of letting you have it, he slows—just to watch you break.
You freeze.
Your breath catches. Your lips part. Your eyes meet his in the dark, pupils blown.
And then—your 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 he’s ever seen.
Aaron watches. Burns it into his mind.
Before you’ve 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 swears—his cock twitches.
You start to shift away, reaching for your discarded shirt, but no—he’s 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.
“Please,” 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 ready—he groans, his forehead pressing to your shoulder.
You’re practically dripping for him.
He swears he whispers your name. Maybe he’s not even aware of it. Your body answers before your lips do—you tip your head back, offering yourself up.
He takes your jaw in his hand, guiding you upright, his lips grazing your ear. “What do you want?”
Your breath shudders. “I want you inside me.”
He inhales sharply. “Are you sure?” His lips trail along your throat, teasing, savoring, while his other hand palms your breast, kneading, rolling.
“Yes. Please.” You huff, realizing too late—he’s made you beg for it after all. “Fuck me, Aaron. Goddamn you.”
His lips curve into a smirk against your skin. “Be nice.”
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 him—impatient.
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.
He’s 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 haven’t 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.
You’re 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 shudder—just the barest stretch, and you’re 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. You’re 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. You’re soft beneath his touch, so goddamn perfect.
“Aaron.” It’s 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. “Please. I need you.”
Fuck.
He snaps.
His hips slam into yours, a sharp, perfect rhythm. Each stroke pulls a helpless sound from your throat. He’s 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.
“You feel so good.” His voice is ruined, torn at the edges. “You take me so well. You’re perfect.”
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.
“You’re gonna make me come again,” you gasp, breathless, laughing through it.
His pace doesn’t falter. “Good.”
You’re already close—he 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 can’t even make a sound, fucking yourself on him as he meets you in the middle.
God, you’re beautiful.
Aaron watches you shudder, watches you lose yourself, and he knows—this is it. He’s never coming back from this.
From this angle, he can see everything—the 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. Can’t keep that up.
He pulls out and you somehow surprise him again—though 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 can’t hold back anymore. He meets every slow, deliberate grind of your hips with a sharp thrust, pushing deeper, deeper, as deep as you’ll let him go.
Your hands frame his face, breath shared between parted lips.
“I—fuck—I need you,” he groans. “Please.”
You tilt your forehead against his, meeting his gaze, voice thick with something unshakable.
“You have me.” Your movements shift, slow and deliberate, rolling your hips in a way that sends his head spinning.
“You’ve always had me.” Then—you tip his chin up, tugging at his hair, whispering against his throat— “Take what’s yours, Aaron.”
Fuck.
Aaron has spent years keeping a tight grip on his thoughts, regulating, controlling, stuffing them down into places where they couldn’t hurt him. Couldn’t betray him. Couldn’t leave him open and bleeding for you to see.
Now, you’re speaking to him like you’ve crawled into his head and made a home there.
Take what’s yours, Aaron.
The words could’ve 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 you’ve known all along.
A shudder rips through him.
His fingers curl tighter against your skin, reverent, possessive, like he’s trying to imprint this moment into his memory.
He’s still half-convinced he’s dreaming.
But if he is—then fuck it. Let him. Because in this dream, you’re looking at him like he’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted.
You’re 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.
“You’ve always had me.”
His breath stutters.
Christ.
He thought he was being watched before, but this? This is like you’re reaching inside him and dragging out every thought he’s ever had, every desire he’s ever buried, every single miserable, lovesick fantasy he’s ever tried to convince himself wasn’t real.
Something in his chest breaks—sharp, clean, final.
He doesn’t even realize he’s moving until your back hits the mattress, until he’s 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 he’s memorizing the feel of you, like he’s 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. “Can you come again?”
You nod, frantic, already teetering on the edge.
His hand slips between you, thumb circling your clit with perfect, practiced precision. He’s been paying attention—he knows exactly what you need.
“Can I cum inside you?” The question rips out of him before he can stop it, raw, desperate, betraying just how far gone he is.
You don’t hesitate. You don’t tease, don’t hold back, don’t 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 what’s yours, didn’t 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 ask—
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 you’ve done? Do you know what it means?
How long he’s wanted this—wanted you—how many times he’s had to bite down on his own desires, force himself to be careful, to be restrained, to keep his hands off what he thought wasn’t his?
But you’re telling him otherwise. You’re telling him he never had to hold back. That you belong to him, that you always have.
And fuck—he 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 doesn’t stand a chance.
“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice ruined, and it’s not a question, not a request, It’s a claim.
Your eyes lock with his, and then—you shatter. Your body locks up, then breaks apart around him, dragging him under with you.
His vision whites out. His breath stops. He’s spilling inside you, filling you, his body seizing, his name caught somewhere between your lips and a sigh.
It’s perfect. He never stood a chance.
You sigh into the corner of his mouth, your fingers trailing gently down his spine. “Yours.”
Aaron groans softly, pressing his face to your neck, catching his breath.
You whisper it again, and this time—this time, it doesn’t feel like an echo. “All yours.”
+++
september 23rd, 2011
Jack, ever the gift, sleeps late the next morning, so Aaron has more time than he expected.
You’re 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 thinks—
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 didn’t even know how much.
He exhales, deciding if he keeps putting it off, he won't do it. “Can I tell you something?”
You hum, lazy and content, your fingers mapping out the scars scattered across his chest, tracing each ridge and valley. “Of course.”
Aaron pauses, his thumb sweeping over your spine. “I can’t believe you’re not more upset with me over Emily.”
There’s a beat of silence. He feels the shift in your breathing before you answer.
“I just understand it, you know?” you say, your voice soft. “You explained yourself rather elegantly, and now I’m over the initial shock of it, I’m fine. Also,” you add, tilting your head to look at him, “it’s a rule, right? If you have a secret, keep it to yourself. Second best, tell one other person. There is no third best.”
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 rule—Gibbs’s rule—moves him in a way he wasn’t 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. “It’s the Pakistan bullshit that got to me.”
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 you’d yell at him, rather than soften against him like this.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Your voice isn’t harsh, but it isn’t gentle, either. It’s 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. He’s rehearsed this conversation a dozen times, sitting alone in various desert locales, running through every possible way he could explain himself. But now that you’re here, warm and real in his arms, none of it feels right. He can’t give you something practiced, something mechanical—he has to be honest, completely and utterly, or he risks losing you for good.
“There wasn’t a good time to tell you when I found out I got the assignment,” he starts, carefully, deliberately. “And then I kept putting it off and putting it off. The longer I waited, the more difficult it became.” His jaw tightens. “It was selfish of me. I couldn’t face telling you, especially when I didn’t know how long I would be gone.”
You shift again, tilting your head, and Aaron already knows you’re about to press deeper.
“Got it…or chose it?”
Aaron releases you to drag a hand down his face, sighing. It’s humiliating, to lay it out like this, to admit he deliberately chose to put an ocean between you because he couldn’t bear to look you in the eye and lie. He could justify it, sure—he just did, he will—but he still feels like a coward. "God, I’m an idiot."
“So…you chose it?”
He nods, stiff and wildly uncomfortable.
There’s silence for a second, but he doesn’t 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.
“When I got the list of options, for all of us,” he starts, his voice quieter now, “it had been two months since Emily. It was so fresh, and I couldn’t mourn with you—share it in the same way.” He pauses. “I didn’t know how long it would take to find Doyle, and I knew I couldn’t keep up the lie when I had to look you in the eye every day.”
You study him, quiet for a moment. Then, understanding. “You needed an out.”
Aaron nods, relief threading through his chest at how quickly you seem to understand—how you seem to get why he made the decision, as flawed as it was in theory and practice at the time. “I needed an out.”
You let that sit between you, but it isn’t long before your face twists slightly. “…Pakistan?” You pull a face.
He almost smiles at your incredulity—Pakistan? Like he had his pick of cushy field office assignments and went out of his way to choose the hardest, most isolating option. And, well—he kind of did. But it wasn’t that simple.
Effectively reading his mind, you continue. “Not… Atlanta, or Chicago, or…” You grasp at field offices. “…San Francisco? Like, rural Pakistan isn’t hell, but you can see it from there.”
“You could say the same about San Francisco,” he mutters. He knows it’s 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 wasn’t just distance. He needed to be somewhere out of reach, somewhere he couldn’t be pulled back from easily. And yet, he also needed to be somewhere he could leave at a moment’s notice if Doyle resurfaced. Pakistan checked both boxes.
“Distance was a necessity,” he starts, voice low, measured. “But so was accessibility. Pakistan was an option that was both distant and inaccessible.” He pauses, knowing there’s more, but debating whether to say it.
"And the per diem and hazard stipend didn’t hurt,” he adds, glancing down at you. “Jack has quite a bit from the settlement for Haley, but I was able to pad it.” It’s not a particularly romantic thing to say, but he trusts you with it—trusts you with all of it.
Money is usually a tasteless topic, but in his mind, there’s an inevitability to this conversation, to all conversations like this. One day—God willing—you’ll be inextricably involved in his life, his family, his home. His finances. The future he pictures always has you in it. So why shouldn’t 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. “I felt like—I felt like I could—”
“—Provide?” you finish for him.
He nods, swallowing. “Exactly.” It had been a way to justify the decision, another factor to make it seem rational, selfless, necessary. “I could justify it.”
And yet, even now, saying it out loud, it feels like an excuse.
For a moment, he thinks that’s the end of it. That you’ll 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 you’re not done.
“You told Derek you were coming home,” you say. There’s no accusation in your voice, just quiet observation. But it makes his stomach sink all the same. “You talked… to Derek.”
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 you’re standing, that he talked to Morgan about coming home—someone with whom he has a wildly complicated relationship, and by no means a communicative one, typically—and didn’t tell you. He also didn’t 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 couldn’t 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.
There’s another stab of guilt. Hopefully you weren’t too upset with your dearest friend.
You press on, softer now, more careful. “And you and I had our calls, too, of course. Scheduled. Predictable. I know you tried, Aaron. I know you did.” You swallow, and when you look at him, there’s something raw and unguarded in your gaze that makes his throat go tight. “But it wasn’t enough, and I don’t think I even knew why at the time.”
He doesn’t speak. He can’t, not yet. He just listens, his chest tightening with every word.
“Every time I had that phone, it was an echo of you, but you weren’t really there,” you say, voice quieter now. “I could ask how you were, but I knew you couldn’t tell me.” You sigh, like you’re steadying yourself. “I could hear your voice, but I couldn’t feel you. It was like I was watching you walk across that tarmac all over again, every time we said goodbye.”
He remembers the first call you had after he left. How your voice had sounded the same—familiar, warm—but 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, ‘generally fine,’ you’d be okay. You’d both be okay.
Aaron shifts you on his lap, his hold instinctive, steadying. He needs you close for this—for 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.
“And that’s not really fair to you,” you say, your voice softer now, but no less firm. “I can’t imagine what it was like to be out there alone. I knew they were monitoring the calls. You were following protocol with everything.” Your mouth twists, something bitter catching in your expression. “But 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.”
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. “It was need to know.”
The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they won’t land the way he wants them to.
Your stare is sharp, unrelenting.
He doesn’t hold your gaze. Can’t. Instead, his eyes drop, his focus shifting to the space between you, to his lap, anywhere but you.
There’s no fight left in him. He knows you’re right.
But you’re not done. He knows you’re not done.
“I kept waiting for you to mention it,” you continue, voice quieter now, though it only makes it worse. “Or validate it, or—” You pause, like you’re bracing yourself. “I wanted you to acknowledge how much it sucked. I kept waiting for you to tell me it was killing you, too.”
Aaron’s 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. “But you didn’t. I was alone in it.” You swallow hard, and when you speak again, your voice is barely above a whisper. “You just let me miss you.”
Aaron tips his head back against the headboard, the thunk of it grounding, almost jarring. He closes his eyes.
He doesn’t know what he thought this conversation would be. He rehearsed a hundred versions of it in his head, but none of them accounted for this—for the sheer weight of what he’d done. The damage he didn’t even realize he was causing at the time.
His voice is rough, stripped bare. “I did.” He keeps his eyes away from you, cowardice winning over his desire to punish himself.
“And I shouldn’t have.”
He takes another breath, slow and measured, but it doesn’t 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. “Did you take your meds?”
He blinks rapidly, caught completely off guard. He hadn’t even realized just how fast his heart was racing until you pressed your hand against his chest. The concern in your voice throws him—knocks him sideways. Not because you’re 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, you’re still paying attention to him.
He blinks, rapidly, caught off guard. “I—um—” His voice comes out unsteady, and he clears his throat. “I take them with breakfast,” he says quickly.
“Right.” You nod, your expression softening slightly. “Sorry.”
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. “I thought about it every time we hung up.” He swallows, eyes lifting toward the ceiling as if it might help him find the words. “I wanted to tell you—to tell you how much I missed you, how much I hated being so far from you—from all of you—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, breath hitching. “I hated it.”
Your voice is small, stunned and demanding. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
He looks at you then, finally, and the regret in his eyes is something deep and unshakable. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
And for the first time in a long time, Aaron Hotchner realizes how badly he miscalculated. He’s 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. “It was already hard,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “I thought if—if you didn’t know how hard it was for me, it would be easier for you.”
His hands find your face, cradling you gently, grounding himself in the warmth of your skin. “The 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.”
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. You’ve seen the guilt and remorse in him for days now, but there’s something different in your expression this time. You see it now—not just the regret, but the recognition.
The confession leaves you in a whisper. “I just needed you to miss me out loud.”
Aaron’s breath catches.
Fuck.
You’re embarrassed by saying it—he 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, it’s 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. “And you suffered for nothing—I worried about you anyway.”
Aaron closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours, forcing himself to breathe through the sudden tightness in his chest. “It broke me—the way you looked at me when I came back, like you didn’t know if you should hit me or run.”
You hadn’t yelled at him. You hadn’t told him off, hadn’t demanded an explanation. That would have been easier, in a way. Instead, you had just looked at him—furious, devastated, wary—like 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 wasn’t just about Emily. It wasn’t 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 didn’t.
And the weight of that—of 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 had—it 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 he’s not sure what. Maybe confirmation. Maybe absolution. His thumb sweeps over your lips. He knows what they feel like now, against his own. He can’t believe how lucky he is, how kind you are, how forgiving.
A saint.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he admits, his voice raw, stripped of every ounce of composure.
Your breath stutters. You weren’t expecting that.
He swallows, his throat working around the words. He hadn’t 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.
“I thought about it all the time when I was out there,” he continues, his voice barely holding steady. “What it would be like to see you again.” He exhales, pausing. “I…neglected to account for how rightfully angry you would be. I told Dave I wasn’t sure if you would ever speak to me again, that maybe you—you’d take that transfer to LA after all.”
Saying it aloud makes it sound so stupid, but at the time, it felt inevitable. It felt like justice. Because why wouldn’t you leave him? Why would you stay after everything? He’d convinced himself you’d 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.
“I wanted to hate you,” you whisper. “I tried.”
His breath stills. “But you don’t,” he confirms. It’s less a confirmation, if he’s honest, and more of a request for reassurance.
And then—then 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.
“No.” 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. “Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t.”
It shatters him. It should be a relief. It is a relief. But it’s also the worst thing he’s ever heard. Because he knows what it means. Because you should hate him—and you don’t. Apparently, you’re 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 you—soft, reverent, hesitant—it’s not because he thinks he deserves it. It’s 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.
“Promise me you won’t run from us again,” you whisper against his mouth.
It’s not a request. It’s a plea. It’s a demand. And this time, the weight of it hits different.
Because that’s 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 his—he knows.
He should have trusted in the foundation you built together, even if he couldn’t 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 back—
This time, when he says it, he knows it’s true.
“I don’t have a reason to, anymore.”
+++
It’s almost a relief—to rid himself of the last vestiges of the desert, of this painful chapter. The beard has been a constant reminder of where he’s been, what he’s 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 it’s not that simple.
It’s 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 it’s scratchy and weird and not Dad. The one that’s made Aaron feel like a man in disguise, like someone occupying space in his own life rather than living it.
But it’s also the beard you love—the 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.
It’s been his in a way nothing else has these past few months, marking the time he lost and the time he’s trying to reclaim. It made him feel human in the desert, but here, under your hands, it makes him feel wanted—beyond obligation, beyond duty, beyond responsibility.
And now, he’s washing it away.
He’s in the bathroom with shaving cream and a razor, halfway through lathering his face, when he hears you approach. He doesn’t have to turn to know you’re there; he can feel it—the shift in the air, the awareness of you.
“What do you think you’re doing?” You ask, your voice full of mock offense.
He glances at you in the mirror, already half-smiling at your tone. “Shaving? As requested?” It’s 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 don’t seem to mind. You’re wearing one of his shirts, with only a sliver of your underwear peeking out where the fabric rides up your thighs. It should be distracting—it is distracting—but then you pull out a straight razor and unfold it with a practiced flick of your wrist.
His breath catches.
“May I?”
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 it’s involuntary. His breath picks up just slightly. It’s 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 exhale—slow, measured, deliberate—but it doesn’t stop the way his fingers flex against the counter, the way he has to think about keeping his body relaxed.
“Do you have to use that one?” His voice is even, but his lean against the counter turns from casual to purposeful, like he’s keeping himself upright. Like he’s holding himself back. His thumb begins its track, split between the knuckles on the inside of his index and middle fingers.
You don’t 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 he’s let you do it—that he’s allowing himself to be guided.
You tilt your head, gaze unwavering. “Do you trust me?”
The answer is instinctive. Immediate. “Of course.”
But it’s too fast—too reflexive, like an automatic response instead of something he’s actually considered. He hears it, and you hear it, too.
He swallows. “It’s just… I just—”
“Knife shit.” You say it casually, but the softness in your voice tugs at something in his chest. There’s no pity in your expression, no hesitation. Just understanding. Just you.
The memory of it flickers—brief, 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 don’t let him dwell. Instead, your hands come up to his face, gentle but insistent, shaving cream be damned. You touch him like you’ve done it a thousand times, like you’ve mapped him out in your sleep. Your forehead presses to his, and the pressure alone makes his eyes fall closed.
“He can’t hurt you anymore.” Your thumbs smooth over his cheekbones, pressing warmth into the sharp angles of his face. “He’s gone. And you’re here. With me.”
He exhales, and some of the weight shifts—some of it. Not all.
And then, softly, you kiss him.
It’s 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. “Can I do this for you?”
He hesitates. Not because he doesn’t trust you—God, no—but because he trusts you too much. To his detriment. He’d follow you into hell. He’d lead you out.
If he lets you do this, it’s surrender. It’s letting you see him in a way no one else has.
And that’s okay.
Another breath leaves him, shaky at the edges. His fingers tighten where they press into your thighs. “Yeah.” He swallows. Then, softer, more determined: “Yes.”
“If you need to stop, just put your hand on my waist, okay?” Your voice is soft but sure, unwavering. “We 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.”
It makes him laugh—actual, real laughter, breaking through the tension in his chest like sunlight after a storm.
“Okay,” 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. “Really?”
You just shrug.
He exhales, shaking his head and watching as you pick up the razor.
And then he flinches. Not a lot—just enough for you to see. His breath hitches, nostrils flaring slightly as he steadies himself.
You don’t 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 realizes—oh. He’s okay. He’s here. It’s just you. You smooth your thumb along his freshly-shaven skin.
“Breathe, Aaron.”
His eyes stay locked on yours, steady, unwavering. You check in every few seconds, searching for hesitation, but there’s 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. “You’re okay, Aaron.” Your lips brush just beneath his ear. “Just me. Remember?”
His breath shudders out, long and slow. “It’s harder when I can’t see you.”
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 you’re the only thing tethering him to the present.
“You can feel me,” you murmur, your breath warm against his temple. “I’m right here.”
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.
“Does that help?” Your whisper is almost a breath.
He can’t bite back his smile. “Yeah, that works.” His hands wander to your hips, his thumbs running over the fading marks still lingering. He’ll have to rectify that later.
“Hold still.”
When you tip his chin again, he doesn’t 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 it’s 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 there’s not a nick or cut on him at all.
That’s talent.
You smile, smoothing your thumb along his cheek.
“There you are.”
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.
“Here I am.”
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.
It’s ridiculous, really, how quickly you unravel him.
“Jack will be home soon,” 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. “Henry’s soccer game doesn’t end for another twenty minutes, and you know Will will take them for ice cream after.”
His hum is thoughtful, like he’s considering it, like he doesn’t already know exactly where this is going. He tilts his head, studying you, his eyes narrowing.
Your lips curve with amusement. “What?”
“I’m just trying to figure out why I can’t get enough of you.”
It’s a genuine thought. A quiet confession wrapped in playful teasing. A truth that’s been settling into him for days, weeks, years—one 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 it’s 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 you—soft, breathless, needy—makes his head spin. Your breath catches as he grinds against you, and God, it’s torture. He drags his nose along your jaw, breathing you in like he’s trying to memorize the exact way you smell, like he needs it in his lungs to breathe.
“I could be inside you all day and still want more.”
It’s not an exaggeration. It’s the truth—one 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.
“Aaron…”
Nobody calls him that.
Not at work. Not in passing. Dave, rarely. He’s ‘Hotch’ to nearly everyone, has been for years. Even Jack, bright-eyed and beaming, calls him ‘Dad.’ But you—
You call him Aaron.
You’ve 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 he’s 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 don’t hesitate—you pull him in, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. You’re pressed so close to him, your breath warm against his mouth, and he can feel your heart beating against his chest.
“You know,” he murmurs against your lips, voice dark and teasing, “we haven’t christened the counter yet.”
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, catching the wicked glint in them. “Aaron Hotchner, are you suggesting what I think you are?”
“I’m not suggesting anything.” He pushes his hips into you. “I’m informing you I would love nothing more than to fuck you right here. On this counter.”
You melt. He feels it—the heat that rushes through you, the way your breath stutters, the way your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling just slightly. It’s 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. “Would that be alright?”
Your breath is shaky, uneven. Your answer is immediate. “Yes. Yes, please.”
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 slightly—but it’s not intentional. He’s 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. It’s almost painful.
And fuck, he needs you, too.
He finally rocks into you, shallow at first, giving your body time to adjust. You’re 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 doesn’t look away. He can’t.
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 that’s been building all morning.
He could have you every night, every morning, every hour of the day, and it wouldn’t 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 jaw—anywhere he can reach.
He doesn’t think about anything else—doesn’t want to think about anything else. Just you. Just this. Just home.
When you come undone, it’s 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 is—where 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 alcohol—high 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.
It’s not suggestive—Derek 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 Aaron’s 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, fuck—" you choke out. You shake your head, still wincing. "That is awful—Jesus 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, that’s illegal."
You laugh even harder, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand. “That burns. What is wrong with you?”
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 can’t 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, you’re avoiding his eyes just for fun, just to play.
And just like that, the rush of affection that overtakes him is suffocating.
You’re here, eating moonshine cherries and laughing like he never broke your heart.
He takes a sip of his beer, hoping it’ll settle something in his chest. It doesn’t.
Derek disappears, probably for another drink. Was that four Hennessys? Or five?
A moment barely passes before Emily’s voice cuts through the din. "Alright," she announces, setting her drink down with a thud. "We’re playing a game."
You shoot her a wary glance. "That sounds dangerous."
“I’m serious.” Emily wiggles her eyebrows suggestively and bumps you with her shoulder. “...and I’m just drunk enough to ask the good questions.”
You laugh, taking a sip of your water, deflecting. “Yeah, and I’m sober enough to not answer them.”
Aaron doesn’t 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 you’re about to indulge them.
"Fine," you relent. "Five vague questions. No names, no identifying details. Five."
“Each?” Garcia’s eyebrows raise, but immediately fall into a scowl when you reply -
“Total.”
It’s 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 you’re deflecting, knows when you’re playing a part, knows exactly what you’re 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 Emily’s 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. “Someone has some kind of magical, elusive, possibly-imaginary fuck-buddy, and we have been granted five vague answers to five vague questions.”
“That’s some good news,” Derek says, raising a brow. "Lord knows we need it."
Aaron notes the tension in Derek’s posture. The extra drink in his hand.
He doesn’t 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 you’ve built.
It’s delicious.
And it’s dangerous.
Penelope reviews the previous two questions in rapid fire. “We only have vague information, but the metrics are impressive and someone is very well taken-care of, apparently.”
You smile a little and shrug, as if it’s a given.
Maybe it’s because he’s a profiler. Maybe it’s because he knows you. But he can tell—every single choice is intentional. Every movement, every flutter of your eyelashes, every easy stolen sip of Penelope’s drink through her straw. Even the way your jaw drops at something outrageous Emily says—it’s just close enough to the way you look when he first pushes inside you. He knows it’s 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. “Record?”
“For?”
“How many times has he managed to get you off in one night? Or do you have to do it yourself?”
You pretend to think for a moment. “Do you actually mean one night, or just in one round?”
Penelope’s jaw drops, and you try not to laugh out loud.
“Um…” Emily’s caught off guard a little. “One night—wait, are you sure you’re dating a man-person?”
A laugh escapes you. “Yes, I’m sure he’s a man, we’re not dating, and to answer your first question, I would conservatively estimate six, but it could be more if you count consecutives.” You pause, looking inconvenienced. “I’m honestly not sure. I don’t usually keep count. He might, though, so I’ll have to ask him.”
Aaron can feel the way his body reacts to that. Christ. He takes another sip of his beer.
Derek’s brow furrows. "Where did you meet this guy?"
“I refuse to answer on the grounds of specificity.”
"Alright, fine." He amends. "Rank? Where are we on the roster?"
"I don’t have a roster, Derek." You roll your eyes. "But—if I did—" your chin tips up just slightly, lips curling like you know exactly what you’re doing. "First." You sip your water, pausing for effect. “Ten out of ten. Five stars. Would recommend to a friend.”
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… don’t indict me."
Derek goes still beside him. Aaron knows Derek resents him being here. Knows he hasn’t forgiven him yet. He accepts that. He expects that.
"Okay, last one," Emily announces. "It’s gotta be good and I’m really gonna put you on the spot.” She points at you. "Do you like him?"
You stuff a smile. Emily pounces.
“Oh 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 it’s meant for Emily, but Aaron knows better.
“I think he’s got a really decent shot,” you say, voice careful, measured. "If he plays his cards right."
Aaron's chest tightens.
Derek lifts his glass. “I’ll drink to that.” His tone is pointed. “To one lucky motherfucker, wherever he may be.” 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.
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
“it'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.”
f. scott fitzgerald
september 20th - 21st, 2011
7x01 “it takes a village”
+++
september 20th, 2011
“Did Hotch say anything during your call last week?” 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. “Any idea when he’s coming back?”
If he’s coming back?
Derek shrugs, watching the monitors. “I briefed him, and he said we should take the shot if we have it.” He redirects to overwatch, pinching the mic on his chest. “Got any movement?”
“Negative,” your overwatch replies. “No movement detected.”
JJ’s eyes stray to Derek. Often. Eventually, she speaks. “That’s all Hotch said, ‘Take the shot?’”
Derek looks a little cagey, but tips his head to confirm. “Yeah, but he’s pissed.”
Join the club.
You choose not to address the fact that Derek didn’t answer your second question. Probably the same answer you got earlier in the week - still lots of activity, border disputes, etc. You sigh. “Surveillance authorization?”
Derek nods.
You cringe. “I figured that might be an issue.”
JJ’s phone rings. She picks up within two rings. “Hey, Spence…What do you mean you can’t find him?”
You squeeze your eyes shut. This might be the worst case scenario, or nothing at all. You’re desperately hoping it’s nothing at all.
“...Okay, call for backup and go to the house…Do you see the agents?...What–no–Reid!” She lets out a frustrated huff as Reid hangs up.
“Are we going or what?” 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.
“I got something,” you tell them, snapping pictures of Doyle as he checks out the window.
JJ nods. “He’s in there.”
“Let’s go,” 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.
“He’s going to the roof,” Derek says. “You two, cover the back stairs.”
You do as you're told, but it’s over fast. Derek gets Doyle into custody and you all head back to the federal building. You’ve 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. There’s something different about her, something harder and sharper, but she’s 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.
“How long has Agent Morgan been looking for Doyle?” Strauss asks.
“Since Doyle killed Prentiss in Boston,” JJ replies “Morgan refused to believe Doyle just vanished.”
“He’s been investigating Doyle for seven months?” Strauss turns to you, sounding incredulous. “And you knew about this?”
“I… somewhat recently became aware of it,” you say, a little vague. She shoots you a look and you shrug. “Yes, I knew about it. Not the whole time, but I knew Morgan was hunting.”
She looks a little alarmed, still looking at you. “Does Agent Hotchner know?”
“Broad strokes.” You nod slowly, still watching Doyle.
JJ asks, “Why? Are you surprised?”
Given this team’s 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 it’s all-hands until it’s handled .
Derek reached that point. He asked. You were there.
“He seems genuine,” JJ says, watching Doyle on the monitors. You back her up, watching through the one-way mirror.
“Of course he does,” Erin scoffs. “He’s a master manipulator.”
“See his carotid?” JJ asks. “His heart started racing when Morgan told him about Declan. The tightness in his forehead, his darting eyes are signs of real concern.”
Maybe JJ has picked up more than you thought.
Erin softens. “Well, if he didn’t take his son, who did?”
“We’ll find out.”
+++
september 21st, 2011
Hours later, you’re back in observation after your briefing with Rossi and Spencer. There’s more to profile and you’ve started a new board entirely for Declan’s kidnapping, scrapping everything related to Doyle. It’s 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 time–in fairness, you were distracted—and you’re not about to spend months you don’t 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.
“He didn’t do it,“ Strauss says.
“No,” Dave replies.
Strauss huffs. “What the hell is going on here?”
There’s something a little off, a little disproportionate, in her outburst. You’re not the only one who thinks so, apparently. Dave looks at her critically while your eyes track over her from the back.
“What?” she says.
There’s a moment of silence. “Nothing,” 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 can’t see him, your back to the rest of the bullpen.
It’s the first time he’s laid eyes on you in months. He deeply understands the phrase ‘sight for sore eyes’ 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 you’ve constructed. You crossly unpin a few items, moving them.
He smiles a little when you turn your head, seeing thumbtacks between your teeth.
There’s 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. It’s time for a nap. Fresh eyes never hurt anyone.
You drag yourself down to Derek’s office, where there’s less traffic. Your eyes stay ahead of you, mostly so you don’t trip in your exhaustion, but you’ve long since stopped looking up at Aaron’s office. It was cruel to your body, cruel to your mind, to look up, hoping to see him there.
Today is no different.
Maybe you’ll get two hours of uninterrupted sleep, for once. Derek is in with Doyle, so if there’s anything new, Dave will come get you. He’ll either look here or in Aaron’s office first.
You’ve 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. You’re 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 wasn’t 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, you’re half asleep when you hear JJ. You know you’re asleep–a relief to have it confirmed, honestly–when you hear Aaron’s voice.
“It’s time,” he says. He says something else, but you slip away before you can parse it out.
It feels like only seconds later, there’s a hand on your shoulder and you open your eyes. “Derek?”
“Yeah, kid. We gotta get up to the conference room. You gonna make it?” He looks over you carefully, as if he’s monitoring for any signs of permanent damage.
You straighten and stretch, reaching to the sky with an unintentional squeak. “I’ll rally.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” 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.
He’s never felt so helpless in his life, watching you step out of Derek’s 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.
“This yours?” Spencer asks, looking over your board.
You nod and cover another yawn. “Yep. Thought I’d make myself useful.”
“Looks good.”
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?
“Get anywhere with Doyle?” Spencer asks.
“Doyle doesn’t think Gerace has the guts to take him on,” Derek replies.
Penelope sighs, taking a seat. “But that’s definitely Gerace on the tape.”
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. He’s here.
“Welcome back.” You almost miss Derek’s 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 water—a sharp shock, a rush of raw, bleeding embarrassment. The cold erupts into something hot and mean in your chest.
It’s 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 it…
The overwhelming physical reaction to seeing him again.
“Thanks,” 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 don’t blink. Don’t breathe. Just stare at him like you’re trying to confirm he’s 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.
He’ll give you and Aaron a couple of hours.
Then he’ll do what he always does.
Step in. Set Aaron straight.
And try—against all odds—to keep the two of you from tearing each other apart before either of you admits what this is really about.
+++
“Everybody have a seat,”
You sit.
You’ve never been stiffer. You’re wound so tight you’re surprised you aren’t shattering. You can feel the trembling as your exhausted muscles protest.
It’s uncomfortable. You hate it.
Professionalism feels like an impossibility now. You know you’re being childish, sitting here and staring him down with your jaw locked, arms folded.
You don’t care.
“Why?” 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. “What’s going on?” He presses. “Is everything alright?”
“Seven months ago,” Aaron says. Something’s wrong. It sounds rehearsed. “I made a decision that affected this team.” You notice, brow furrowed, that JJ shifts to stand beside Hotch like an ally.
“As you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle.”
No.
“The doctors were able to stabilize her. She was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under a covert exfiltration.”
No.
“Her 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.”
No.
No. No. No.
There’s silence, and you can’t tear your eyes from Aaron.
Penelope and Spencer speak, but their words rush past you, muted, like they’re 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 grieve–watched all of you grieve.
And then he left.
“As I said, I take full responsibility for the decision. If anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me.” 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 that’s not even the worst part.
He left. He missed Jack’s first day of school. He was gone for five months.
He left us.
"Any issues?" Derek’s disbelief is edged with anger, but underneath, there’s something raw. Hurt. "Yeah, I got issues."
Penelope’s breath catches, her wide-eyed gaze fixed on the doorway.
You don’t move. Can’t. You’ve 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.
She’s real. She’s 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 lips—a choked, strangled thing.
“Emily.”
She’s so real and solid and so painfully here.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I’m so so sorry.”
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 herself—juniper, cedar, something clean, like cashmere, or outside.
You don’t remember letting her go.
She says something else, but you can’t hear her. Derek hasn’t moved at all. Not a flinch. Not a sound. His eyes, unblinking, stay locked on her like she’s 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 doesn’t 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 won’t let himself blink.
Too soon, it’s 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 doesn’t. You can see it in Derek’s shoulder, tight with barely-contained fury. You’re sure, now–absolutely sure–that you’re 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 you’re 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.
“He was on assignment overseas.”
Who?
“But he’s alright?” JJ asks.
“Yes,” Emily replies. “He got a call from Declan, he called me, and when I landed, Hotch told me you had Doyle in custody.”
Aaron’s voice startles you when he speaks again, this time from beside your chair. “And because of Tom’s line of work–”
Tom! Right.
“– you enrolled Declan in boarding school.”
Emily nods, talking with her hands. “That’s why I made sure only he, Louise, and I were the only ones allowed to take him off campus.”
“Louise took him home last night because he was sick,” Spencer says.
“Food poisoning.” You’re surprised your voice still works.
Spencer continues. “A few of the kids had it apparently. So whoever did this got to him on campus. They knew they only had one chance.”
“Current suspect is Richard Gerace,” JJ tells her. “He’s the most recent arrival into the states. We’ve been tracking his progress across the city but came up empty.”
“We know it’s Gerace because he has the scar,” Penelope says.
Emily shakes her head. “That doesn’t make sense. Gerace gave up on Doyle a long time ago.”
“He said you were the only one who knew Gerace,” Rossi says.
“Which is why I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have the balls to pull this off.” She pauses. “There was no forced entry at the house?” She sounds skeptical.
“I had two agents working security,” Derek says. You’re devastated to hear how broken, how quiet his voice has become, but you can’t dwell on it.
If you think of anything devastating right now, you’ll break. And you can’t break. You harden.
“We think Gerace and his partner posed as the next shift,” Spencer starts.
You add pertinent detail. “One of the agents was a woman.”
“She’s the alpha,” Emily confirms.
The power of your compartmentalization has defrosted you a bit and you lean forward, your elbows on the table. You’d stand, but you don’t trust your knees to hold you up right now.
“So,” JJ says. “We’re looking for a woman who’s getting back at Doyle.”
Emily’s mouth twists. “And our suspect list just got a whole lot longer.”
+++
You hear his footsteps behind you, his stride long as he catches up to you. Aaron’s 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.
“No.” You don’t turn. Your eyes remain fixed on Dave’s window ahead of you, your jaw clenched, teetering on the brink of an emotional tsunami. Your lungs are tight, ribs locked like they’re bracing for impact. You should breathe. You don’t. It’s ruining your equilibrium. “I can’t talk to you right now.”
You keep walking and you don’t really care that he doesn’t try to stop you. The white hot poker that has taken up residence in your chest could melt all the sand in Pakistan, you’re 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. You’ve been upset with him before, but not like this.
Maybe this was a bridge too far, Hotchner; you’re out of rope. Pick a metaphor, but it’s the end of the line.
Dave stops beside him, a hand on his shoulder. “One thing at a time. Let’s finish this, then you can deal with that.”
Aaron swallows heavily, shoving down anything and everything he’s feeling. “Right.”
The guilt is written all over him. He knows it. He just doesn’t know how to stop it. He’s pretty sure he’ll 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 he’s broken your trust. And you won’t even look at him again to see it.
He wasn’t sure why he thought your moratorium on fighting the morning before he left would extend to his return.
Maybe he’s 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 dream—one more thing he should’ve known better than to hope for.
+++
You know for a fact that this wouldn’t hurt so badly if you didn’t 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, badly—that he hurt you, that you were angry with him, that he lied—to keep from launching yourself into his arms.
It’s 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 it’s his. It’s his bruised monstrosity of a heart. You think it might still be beating, but you haven’t checked recently.
You tell yourself that you’ll never trust him again. That you’ll worry, deep down, that he’ll 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 that’s even before you get to Emily.
You haven’t even processed her apparent resurrection, the deception that allowed such a miracle, or the implication thereof.
Just add it to the list.
Right now, there’s a boy who needs you to focus.
You split from Derek and into Aaron’s office, grabbing your bag and the random files off his desk you’ve worked on in there. Your own desk hasn’t 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 it’s easy to identify and move your things, rather than disturb Aaron’s. 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 silent—haunting 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 didn’t expect you to be here. Somehow, it’s 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 left—his 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. It’s 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 it’s his fault.
He could say something. He should say something. But his throat locks up, the words trapped in the tightness of his chest. He’s 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. He’s not sure he’ll 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 that’s what it would take, he’d do it.
Haley’s gone, but that’s definitive, unchanging. This? This is worse, he decides. He doesn’t even know what he’s 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 he’s 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 doesn’t mind getting burned.
Your face pinches as you descend the stairs, but you recover quickly.
Declan. Declan. Focus.
You haven’t even touched him yet. He’s 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 won’t be everything!!!
It’s written like a joke. But now, in the wreckage of all that’s 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 “Benjamin” (unlikely). Maybe it’s 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, it’s 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 wasn’t 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. It’s 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. There’s 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 Dave’s 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 camera—soft, indulgent— 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 isn’t just that—it’s a rupture, jagged and raw, splitting him apart from the inside out.
+++
Emily’s presence does wonders, inspiring Doyle to talk without issue. You have a name–Chloe 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. He’s 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.
“She brought tainted cupcakes to the boarding school and just walked right in,” Derek says.
Penelope pulls a face. “Oh, that is creepy.”
“We thought Doyle was bad. Check her out.” Dave passes you her rap sheet and your eyebrows climb your forehead as JJ runs through her history.
You drop the list, almost impressed. “Distribution and trafficking, manufacturing, possession, weapons charges?”
“Went away for three years,” Derek confirms.
You snort. “That's it?”
“She hardly seems like the mothering type,” JJ says. “Why would she take Declan?”
Aaron shakes his head. “It isn't love.” 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.
Emily’s alive. She’s alive. Okay.
She was in danger–she’s still in danger as long as Doyle is alive.
…Was that really the only way?
You mechanically prepare the grounds, the filter, the water. It’s meditative, in a way, letting your hands move while your mind keeps going.
There’s 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 doesn’t trust you, but it’s 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. It’s 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 memory–
“Oh, you know how Aaron is.” She smiled fondly, responding kindly to some idle frustration you had a couple weeks after joining the team. “People say he’s 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.”
She laughed. “So, I give him a pass on the annoying self-righteousness, most of the time.”
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 can’t 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. “Ian Doyle murdered Jimmy McDermott, but his younger brother Lachlan owns an import company.”
“Do they ship internationally?” Aaron asks.
“You know it,” Penelope says. “He has three warehouses, once of which is slated to be demolished.”
Aaron already has his phone out. “Where?”
“Inner Harbor, Baltimore.”
“Let’s go.”
+++
You stick close to Derek’s six as you arrive at the warehouse, your flashlight moving fast as you clear corners and keep pushing.
“Over here!” JJ calls.
You keep your gun out, only holstering it when the corners are accounted for. Gerace’s body is on the ground, shot in the temple.
“Doyle said Chloe would clean house,” Derek says.
Dave looks up. “So what the hell is she doing now?”
“She's getting out of the country.” It’s simple to you, and you’re feeling unsentimental in the extreme. “Gerace was dead weight.”
“She thinks she's gonna get more for the kid without him,” Aaron says.
For the first time, you wish he wouldn’t finish your thoughts.
+++
Aaron follows Derek’s 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, but…
Would you ask for a transfer? There is, after all, a job waiting for you in Southern California, where it’s balmy and warm year-round.
Would you leave, like he did?
He doesn’t 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.
“Lachlan Mcdermott and Chloe Donaghy, this is the FBI.”
You breathe in slow through your nose, still infuriated by how attuned you are to him.
“We know you have Declan. To ensure his safety, we would like to trade.” He pauses. “We will give you Ian Doyle and you send us the boy.”
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 don’t look, only focused on your target, as Emily and Spencer bring Doyle forward, into No Man’s Land.
“Hotch,” Derek says into his comm. “Are we really going to do this?”
“No one leaves here.” It’s said with the kind of certainty you–
No. Nope.
You’re glad you’re paying attention.
Chloe appears at the top of the stairs.
“Gun!” you shout, firing on her immediately. You land a hit to her chest, double tapping for good measure.
Center of mass, 30…..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, You’re only a little out of breath.
+++
“Agent Hotchner,” you call, crisp and curt, looking over your shoulder. “The coroner needs to speak with you.”
If your use of his formal title surprises or alarms him, it doesn’t show on his face.
Derek looks at Dave. “Whoa,” he says, short, flat.
“That’s a new one.” Dave’s 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. He’s just another agent to you today, another moving piece.
“He knows he’s in deep shit, right? With all of us?” Derek asks.
“Yeah,” Dave replies. “There’s your canary, and he knows we’re in a coal mine.” 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. It’s a little unsettling.
+++
“What now?” Dave asks, leaning back in his chair, the picture of centered peace. He’s the foil to Aaron, who paces, thumbing his phone like a worry stone.
“I’ll go home and stand judgment. Grovel. Beg. Repeat.” His lips press together briefly before he adds, dryly, “Not that I don’t deserve it.”
“Home?” Dave asks, ignoring the self-deprecation, his eyebrows raised.
Aaron shrugs one shoulder. “Figured someone should have a key after Foyet.”
In truth, he gave it to you before then. Dave probably knows it, too.
Dave watches him for a second, unreadable. Then, “Right… someone.” He lets it hang, gives Aaron the chance to correct him—not that he expects him to. He pushes past it. “It may not be as bad as you think.”
Aaron shakes his head, at a loss, continuing as if Dave said nothing at all. He can’t consider the possibility, can’t give himself room to hope. “I don’t know if we’ll be on speaking terms, after this. I don’t know how much damage I did.”
“Is that LA transfer still on the table?” Dave knows you turned it down, but does Aaron know?
Aaron nods wordlessly. A beat. “I was thinking about that.”
“We can burn that bridge when we get to it,” Dave says simply, with the confidence of one who knows it’s not a problem. He laces his fingers together. “But now you’re stalling.”
Aaron huffs, looking out the window, avoidant. Dave’s right. He looks back. Sober. Grave.
“How bad was it?”
“It wasn’t good,” Dave says, tipping his head. “But unrecoverable?” He makes a skeptical noise. “I don’t think so. People have an incredible capacity for forgiveness, with the right incentive.”
Dave is unfortunately far more perceptive than he lets on, except when he’s being smug.
He’s being smug.
Aaron refuses to meet his eyes. “I hope you’re right.” There’s a pause before he exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “No chance of another case dropping in the next ten minutes, is there?”
Dave huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Not one that’ll save you.” When Aaron doesn’t move, Dave leans forward even further. “Go.”
+++
JJ, being the only person left who will speak to him, offers to give him a ride home.
They drive in silence.
“Happy to be back?” She asks, about halfway through the drive.
Aaron keeps his eyes forward. “Not sure yet.”
“I saw that.” You know she’s referring to you, how cold and detached you were at the crime scene. “You nervous?”
He laughs, toneless and humorless. “I’m terrified.”
He can see her raise a skeptical eyebrow out of the corner of his eye. “Really? Even after Pakistan?”
“Especially after Pakistan.”
+++
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.
“Did you forget your key?” He asks. He does his best to be gentle, but he’s bone-tired and he can already tell he’s in for it.
🌹 from a chapter you’re very eager to share bc y’know it’ll cause chaos (up to you if that’s good or bad chaos *evil laugh*)
under a cut because we’re rocking with some smutty bits!
send me a 🌹 for a line (or four) from a wip or unreleased chapter! (nsfw up for grabs as well!)
You hum, teasing, sinful. “Y’know,” you murmur, wrapping your fingers around the base and stroking him once, slow, “it probably says something about me—not sure if it’s good or bad—that I’d get on my knees and let my boss fuck my mouth after a 14 hour work day… knowing I don’t want a damn thing out of it but the pleasure of his company.”
Aaron’s chest rises sharply, his jaw flexing. “Jesus,” 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: “le vrai est trop simple, il faut y arriver toujours par le compliqué." ("the truth is too simple: one must always get there by a complicated route.") — 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. You’re 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.
“Good night,” he says, voice low.
“Good night,” 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, “Thank you.”
You turn your head on the pillow. “You already said that.”
“I meant it both times.”
You smile to yourself in the dark. “You’re welcome. Both times.”
Another pause. Then, quieter, he says, “You startled me a little.”
You glance toward the faint shape of him. “At the house?”
“At the cemetery,” he clarifies. “When it got loud. When I—” He doesn’t finish it.
You do. “Folded.”
A beat. “Yeah.”
You nod against the pillow. “You can still hear. That’s what matters.”
You hear him shift slightly. The creak of sheets. Then nothing.
Eventually, he murmurs, “Thank you. I didn’t expect you to do that.”
You’re still. Not because you’re surprised. But because you know it feels like a huge risk to say it out loud. “I didn’t think,” you assure him. “I just...did it.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s why.”
The silence after that is longer. Fuller.
You breathe in once, slow. Out again. And you say the only thing you can. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He doesn’t 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 again—barely audible. “Sleep well.”
“You too.”
And this time, you both mean it.
+++
It’s a rare thing, waking up warm and rested. The sheets are cheap and over-bleached, the bed isn’t yours, and the window unit hums like it’s been running since 1997. But none of that seems to matter. Your body feels like it slept—all 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. He’s already awake. You can tell by the shape of his breathing. Slow, steady. Quietly observant.
You don’t say anything.
You just sit up and stretch, rubbing your eyes. He shifts slightly, and the mattress creaks.
“Morning,” you murmur.
He nods once. “Morning.”
There’s a peaceful silence, and then, from your side of the room, “I slept like the dead.”
That gets a real sound out of him—something between a laugh and a hum. “Me too.”
You look at him. “Seriously?”
He sits up, slow, presses a hand to the back of his neck. “That hasn’t happened in...months.”
You can’t 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. “Me either.”
It’s 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 it’s warm and quiet. A rack of individually wrapped muffins sits beside a plastic bin of apples that all look a little bruised. There’s one waffle maker.
Aaron hands you a styrofoam cup and lifts a brow. Coffee?
You nod. “Absolutely.”
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 he’s 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. “Do you think it’s suspicious when breakfast is served exclusively in plastic and foil?”
Aaron raises his cup. “Only if you’re expecting it to be good.”
You grin. “Fair.”
He takes a bite of an oatmeal bar and watches you for a beat, quiet. Thoughtful.
“You seem better today,” he says. “Less stressed.”
You nod, surprised by the honesty of your answer. “I feel better today.”
He tilts his head. “Because it’s over?”
“Because you let me keep you company.”
He blinks. Not because he’s startled—but because he’s processing it, letting it settle where it belongs.
“You’re not used to people saying that,” you note.
“I’m not used to people meaning it,” he says.
You shrug. “Well. Get used to it.”
+++
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.
“You good?”
You fasten your seatbelt. “Better than good.”
He nods. Puts the car in drive. And you pull out of the lot like you didn’t just sleep the sleep of the dead across from the man you trust with your whole life.
Because today’s a driving day.
But it doesn’t 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 sleeve’s rolled up. Neither of you’s said much since you left the last gas station, and it hasn’t felt strange at all.
Aaron’s left hand rests loosely at the top of the wheel. His sunglasses are on, but you can tell he’s not focused entirely on the road. Not distracted—just thinking.
You glance over. “Talk to me.”
He doesn’t look at you, but he does speak. “You ever have one of those days where your body’s tired, but your brain’s finally...quiet?”
You hum. “Yeah. That feels rare.”
He nods once. “That’s what today feels like.”
The next pull-off comes up fast—a 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. “Didn’t have you pegged for a scenic overlook kind of guy.”
He finally looks at you. “I don’t stop enough.”
You smile. “We’ll work on that.”
+++
The gravel crunches beneath your boots as you step out. It’s warm, but not hot—the 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. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
He raises an eyebrow. “That you’re going to dent the government vehicle?”
You hop up lightly, settling near the edge of the hood with your legs crossed. “Please. This thing’s seen worse.”
He hesitates for half a second—then joins you, moving slowly, his placement careful and purposeful. But he ends up next to you, his sneakers resting on the front bumper.
The sun’s on your skin. It’s so quiet.
You tilt your face to the sky. “This is what I want more of.”
Aaron glances sideways. “Sunshine?”
You shake your head. “Stillness.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment.
Then, softly, “Yeah.”
You study his profile. “You said you and Haley used to come out here?”
He nods. “Once or twice. Before Jack. Haley packed this huge picnic. Way too much food. She said, ‘It’s not about what we need, it’s about what we might want.’”
You smile. “That sounds like her.”
He looks down. “She was lighter. Back then.”
You nudge him gently with your shoulder. “I hear you were, too.”
He huffs. “Do you now?”
You nod. “I think so. I see it sometimes. Sneaks in.”
His voice goes quiet. “I’d like to be that way. When I can.”
You both go quiet again. The wind picks up. A bird calls out somewhere in the trees.
After a while, you say, “You’re really different outside the office.”
He turns to you, a dimple appearing. “So are you.”
You shrug. “We wear masks. At least in the beginning.”
“Still?”
You meet his gaze. “Less now. No longer on my best behavior, and all that.”
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 it’s something you haven’t felt in months. Aaron’s still beside you, sitting straighter, elbows on his knees, hands folded loosely in front of him.
You don’t 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 water—damp soil and ferns.
Eventually, he says, “I don’t think I’ve done this since Jack was a baby.”
You tilt your head, looking over. “What? Sat still?”
He almost smiles. “Stopped somewhere without a plan.”
You hum. “Well. Technically, this is federal land. So we’re still on the clock.”
That gets a low, genuine laugh out of him. It surprises you—not because he doesn’t laugh, but because it’s so real. So easy. You glance at him from the corner of your eye.
He’s looking at the horizon. But then, slowly, his gaze shifts.
To you.
You’re still angled toward the sun, eyes closed now, lips parted just slightly, like the day has melted your guard a little. There’s a calm on your face he’s 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.
There’s something about the curve of your cheek in the sunlight. The way your lashes catch it. The way your foot brushes the bumper like you’re fully settled here, like you’ve belonged in this moment all along and he’s 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. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Sorry.”
You nudge his knee with yours. “Liar.”
He gives a slow shrug. “Just... thinking.”
You don’t 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.
“I like this version of you,” you say.
He glances sideways.
You add, with a smile, “The one that takes the detour.”
+++
Eventually, the light shifts. The shadows grow long across the gravel. You both know it’s time to keep moving, but neither of you rush it. You didn’t expect to sit out here all afternoon. You’ve practically meditated the whole time.
Aaron’s 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, you’re back on the road and Aaron’s telling you about his first argument in federal court.
“He tried to have me removed from the courtroom.”
“Who did? The judge?” you ask, crinkling your granola wrapper.
“Defense counsel. Claimed I hadn’t passed the bar. Thought I was the intern.”
You blink. “What did the judge say?”
“She looked at him, then at me, then said, ‘Mr. Hotchner has made more convincing arguments on paper than you have in person, counselor. Proceed.’”
You’re laughing now. “Oh my God. Can I embroider that on a pillow for you?”
“Not if you plan on giving it to anyone else.”
+++
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.
“Guy represented himself,” he says instead. “Securities fraud. Called himself a patriot. Said he was liberating the funds. Swore the Founding Fathers would’ve laundered money too. Cited the Constitution and Declaration of Independence several times.”
You blink at him.
“The jury bought it,” he says. “Acquitted him. He hugged the bailiff on his way out.”
You let out an incredulous bark of a laugh. “Ah. I see. You’ve been chasing justice ever since.”
“Chasing sanity,” he corrects. “Justice is a bonus.”
+++
One more story, just before the Sperryville exits.
“This reminds me of the case I tried near here,” he says. “I decided to use a PowerPoint. Thought it would help the jury follow the case law.”
You raise a brow.
He sighs. “The projector broke. Half the jury couldn’t see it. The other half fell asleep.”
You smile. “You PowerPointed them into a coma.”
“I was twenty-seven and very committed to clean design.” He pauses. “It was, however, the nineties and Microsoft Office left something to be desired.”
You lean back in your seat, still laughing. “Hotch, you’re perfect.”
He shakes his head, but he’s 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." —cormac mccarthy. december 24th–26th, 2010
ajf masterlist (under construction) | sideblog under construction | what do you want to see next?
The party ends like all the best ones do—slowly, reluctantly, and with too many hugs at the door.
Penelope’s glitter trail fades down the hallway. Emily’s SUV engine kicks over just as Dave mutters something about Italian wine being better than Italian judgment.
You’re still holding your mug.
You should’ve left twenty minutes ago. Spencer caught your eye on the way out and gave you a look—not teasing, just curious. Like he wasn’t sure why you hadn’t 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 Jack’s brief cameo before Jess picked him up for a Brooks-side thing.
You and Aaron are alone now.
He’s in the kitchen, rinsing the same glass twice. You’re in the doorway, trying not to overthink the fact that you’re still here.
“Thanks for hosting,” you say, just because it’s something to say.
He nods. “Sure.”
“Everyone seemed happy,” you offer, like it matters.
Aaron hums. Noncommittal.
He doesn’t have to tell you this is his second Christmas without Haley.
He doesn’t have to tell you the first one didn’t feel real. That last year, he didn’t decorate. Didn’t cook. Didn’t breathe, really. He spent the morning letting Jack unwrap presents and the evening staring at the bottom of a glass.
He didn’t 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 you’ve survived chaos. Until he realized he didn’t know where Haley ordered the Christmas cards.
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.
“You’re not staying over tonight?” It comes out sharper than he means. Less invitation, more... alarm.
You blink. “Should I?” Your voice is soft, teasing, maybe. He can’t tell.
His gaze dips to your mouth before he can stop it.
Don’t.
His eyes flick back up to yours. “I just thought maybe you had somewhere else to be.”
“Tomorrow, maybe,” you say. He gets the acute sense you’re hedging your bets. “Not tonight.”
He nods.
You step away first. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
Aaron doesn’t stop you. Not right away. But then—
“Stay.”
You stop. Half-turned. He sees your shoulders lift, slow and uncertain.
“You don’t have to,” he adds quickly. “I just—don’t want you to go if you don’t want to.”
Your mouth tips up at the corner. Not quite a smile. Not quite relief.
“Okay.”
+++
He doesn’t breathe until you sit beside him on the couch.
The movie is some forgettable holiday comedy. You’re not watching it.
The lights are off.
Except for the tree.
Tiny bulbs blink lazily across the living room—reds, 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 that’s 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 shin—absentminded, 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 he’s holding himself together with duct tape and hope.
And you’re not doing much better.
“I used to think,” you start, your voice barely more than a breath, “that Christmas would always feel like it did when I was little.”
Aaron’s head tilts, not enough to look at you. Just to show he’s listening.
“Not the presents. Not even the family part. Just that feeling—like the world was softer. Like it could pause for a second.” You smile a little. “Now it just feels like we’re holding our breath.”
A beat.
“Maybe we are,” he says.
You glance up. The tree lights catch his profile. His eyes are on the window, not the TV, but you don’t think he’s looking at anything out there.
The light catches the scar on his nose, the one Foyet gave him. There’s another, fainter one under his chin—childhood bike accident, if you remember correctly.
You should say something. Ask if he’s okay. Ask what he meant. You look away.
Instead, you reach down and tug the blanket tighter over both your legs. His hand settles back over your shin like it never left.
He’s 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 don’t look at him on purpose, but you do. He’s already looking at you.
The breath catches in your throat. His eyes are soft. Quiet. But they’re searching.
You shift.
You hear the subtle change in his breathing. Feel the way his whole body goes still.
It’s comforting.
It’s also unbearable.
You see his pulse thrum at his throat. Quick. Hard.
You’re 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.
There’s a fraction of a second where you’re both leaning in. You don’t know who starts it. You’ll never know. But you do know what stops it.
Fear.
Not the kind you’re 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 can’t get it back. The fear that one kiss could end it all, or change it so irrevocably that nothing is safe anymore. That there’s no room to pretend it’s 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 then—
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.
You don’t speak.
Fuck.
+++
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 Jack’s bathroom—your toothbrush has its own cup now (you try not to think too hard about that). There’s a cup of coffee waiting for you on the counter—already poured, just the way you like it, and still hot.
Aaron doesn’t say a word when you walk in.
Jack’s back from Roy and Kathleen’s , 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 says—short, 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 he’s not purposefully icing you out.
He’s just protecting himself.
His self-preservation instincts have always been better than yours.
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 wasn’t the scene of a slow-motion undoing.
Aaron watches you do it.
You both pretend it’s just a blanket.
+++
On Boxing Day (a holiday Penelope insists on honoring despite its unpatriotic British origins) Dave’s house smells like rosemary and caramelized onions and something else vaguely Italian that Dave refuses to name until dinner is served.
Spencer sits cross-legged on the floor helping his godson with a puzzle. Henry’s doing his best and to Spencer’s credit, he narrates his every move (for language development, of course).
Penelope is making spiked hot chocolate for everyone but insists it’s ‘medicinal’, and Emily is on her third glass of wine and definitely snooping through Dave’s record collection, crouched by the cabinet. JJ loosely supervises, watching Spencer and Henry on the floor with a soft look on her face. Will’s on duty today. You all promised to set aside a plate for him.
You’re 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.
It’s loud. Warm. Safe.
It’s the perfect place to hide.
Aaron hasn’t spoken to you since he handed you coffee yesterday morning.
He hasn’t not spoken to you either.
Which is worse.
You’re good at playing normal. You’ve had years of practice. But every time you move, your senses stretch for him. And every time you look over—he’s 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. He’s warm. His hair smells like cinnamon. When he looks up at you, he’s grinning.
“Wanna see the secret compartment?”
You smile back, genuine. “Obviously.”
Aaron’s watching.
You know he is.
You don’t look at him.
Later, when the kids have bundled up and play outside in the yard, you’re 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 didn’t mean to— or I wanted to—
But he doesn’t.
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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