quarter zip you’re sick, aaron’s home, you’re in his quarter zip.
you’re halfway through an episode of grey’s anatomy.
the blanket is tucked up to your chin, tea balanced carefully in your hands, steam brushing your face in soft waves. your throat aches every time you swallow. your head feels too heavy for your body.
you shift, wincing.
god, you hate being sick.
the apartment is too quiet. which is stupid, because aaron is literally down the hall.
he’d been here ten minutes ago, pressed a kiss to your forehead, murmured something about keeping hydrated, tucked the blanket around you like you might fall apart if he didn’t.
and still you feel selfish.
you reach for your phone.
aar?
pls
come
here
aaron
you stare at the screen after hitting send on those messages, lips pressing into a weak line.
you’re being dramatic.
you don’t even have to wait a full minute before you hear his office chair shift. the faint creak of the door. and then his footsteps.
you sink a little deeper into the couch.
he appears in the doorway, already looking at you like he knows exactly why you called him.
brown quarter zip. sleeves pushed just enough to show his forearms. hair slightly mussed from running his hand through it.
he softens the second he sees you.
“yes?” his voice is quiet, careful. “do you need something?”
you lift your arms toward him, blanket slipping a little. “yes. you.”
there’s the smallest flicker of a smile. barely there, but it counts.
he steps closer, stopping right in front of the couch. “i’m here.”
you pout at him, which probably looks pathetic given the situation. “not enough.”
he exhales softly through his nose, almost a laugh and reaches out, brushing the back of his hand across your forehead.
his touch is cool..
“you still feel too warm,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “how are you feeling?”
“like i got hit by a truck,” you mumble. your voice is rough, “and then reversed over for fun.”
his thumb presses lightly at your temple, gentle, testing. “headache?”
you nod, eyes slipping shut for a second. “and my throat. and everything else.”
he hums, fingers shifting to brush a strand of hair away from your face. “have you been drinking your tea?”
you lift the mug slightly in response.
“good.” his gaze lingers on you, like he’s cataloging every detail. “did you take the medicine i left out?”
“…maybe.”
he raises an eyebrow.
you groan softly. “okay, no.”
“sweetheart,” he begins, “you were supposed to take it two hours ago.”
you peek up at him. “you’re supposed to take care of me, not interrogate me.”
“i am taking care of you.” his tone dips, “that includes making sure you’re actually doing what you need to get better.”
you sigh, sinking further into the couch. “you’re mean.”
“mm.” he doesn’t sound convinced. “i think our definitions of mean are very well different, come on.”
before you can argue, he gently takes the mug from your hands and sets it on the table. then his hands are on the blanket, pulling it back just enough.
“what are you doing,” you mumble.
“adjusting,” he says simply.
and then, just as easily, he sits down, shifting until he’s settled against the arm of the couch.
you blink at him.
“come here,” he adds.
you don’t need to be told twice.
you lean into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder, your body folding into his side like it belongs there. because it does.
his arm comes around you without hesitation, hand settling warm against your upper arm, thumb brushing slow, absent lines.
you let out a small breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“better?” he asks.
“mhm,” you murmur, already melting. “way better.”
his cheek brushes lightly against the top of your head. another small, fleeting kind of affection—so him it almost hurts.
“you should try to sleep,” he says.
“don’t wanna,” you mumble, even as your eyes start to close. “missed you.”
there’s a pause.
“i was just down the hall,” he says.
“still counts,” you whisper.
his hand shifts, fingers threading gently into your hair, “if you say so,” he smiles.
you’re quiet for a while.
curled into his side, half-asleep, your fingers lazily tracing the fabric of his sleeve. the tv drones on in the background, something dramatic, someone yelling, someone crying—but it all feels far away.
your focus is him.
the warmth of him. the steady rise and fall of his chest. the soft, clean scent that clings to his clothes.
your fingers pinch lightly at the material of his quarter zip.
“god,” your voice comes out scratchy, barely above a whisper, “i love your sweater.”
he glances down at you, just slightly, brow easing.
“yes?”
you nod against him, eyes still closed, rubbing the fabric between your fingers like it’s something precious. “mhm. it’s my favorite.”
there’s a faint huff of amusement.
“i can’t believe,” he says, “you’ve managed to pick the oldest thing i own and call it your favorite.”
your eyes crack open immediately.
you tilt your head just enough to look at him, frowning. “old but gold.”
that makes him laugh.
you reach up to tug slightly at the collar. “it’s nice. it’s soft. and it smells like you.”
his hand comes up, brushing lightly over your arm. “that’s a questionable endorsement.”
you pout at him properly now, lips pushing forward, eyes heavy and glassy from being sick. “i like it.”
“i can tell,” he murmurs.
your fingers don’t stop fidgeting with it. absent, needy, a little clingy in a way you won’t acknowledge later.
you sink closer, pressing into him.
“m cold,” you add after a second, voice small.
he stills.
then he leans back just enough to look at you properly, one brow lifting. he knows your goal. one moment you’re talking about his zipper and then you’re suddenly cold.”
“still? even with those three blankets and the hot water bottle?”
you nod, “freezing.”
he studies you for a moment to check if you’re over exaggerating
you blink up at him, stubborn.
he exhales quietly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.
“of course you are.”
you watch as he shifts, already reaching for the hem of his quarter zip. he pulls it over his head, leaving him in a black shirt.
“arms up,” he instructs.
there’s no room to argue. not that you would.
you lift your arms, he slides it over your head carefully, mindful, tugging it down over your arms, smoothing it into place like it matters.
it’s too big on you. sleeves falling past your hands, collar loose around your neck.
it’s warm.
it smells exactly like him.
you melt instantly, shoulders dropping, eyes closing as you sink into it.
“thank you,” you mumble, voice muffled slightly by the fabric.
“of course, honey.”
you curl right back into him, pressing your face briefly into the sleeve.
“i only ever think my clothes look good when you’re the one wearing them,” he says, “it’s ridiculous.”
“aww,” you rasp, “baby.”
he blushes. then his hand comes up again, brushing your hair back from your face, fingers lingering at your temple.
“you’re burning up,” he murmurs, “and you’re insisting you’re cold.”
“both can happen,” you mumble.
“mm.” his thumb traces lightly along your cheekbone. “i’m aware.”
you tilt your head into his hand without thinking.
then his gaze drops to your mouth, then back up to your eyes.
“you’re beautiful.”
you blink, caught off guard.
“i look like i’m dying.”
“you don’t,” he answers, “you look tired. but you’re still beautiful.”
your face warms—fever, maybe. maybe not.
“you’re biased,” you whisper.
“i’m observant.”
and then he leans in.
it’s not rushed. not careless. just gentle—his hand shifting to cup your jaw, thumb resting just under your ear as he presses his lips to yours.
brief, but enough to make your chest ache in a different way.
you hum quietly against him, chasing it for half a second before he pulls back.
“aaron,” you murmur.
“yes?”
you tuck your face into his shoulder again, hiding a little. “again.”
there’s a quiet exhale.
you pull back just enough to look at him, frowning.
he holds your gaze for a second.
“if i give you one more will you take your medicine?”
you pretend to think, “three more and we have a deal,” you grin.
aaron cups your cheeks and grins, “can’t believe i’m negotiating about this.”
he leans in, one hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb resting just under your ear.
the first kiss is soft. slow. lingering just enough to make your chest ache.
he pulls back barely an inch.
the second is gentler somehow—shorter, but warmer, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheek as he does.
you hum quietly, chasing him a little.
he doesn’t let you.
the third—he hesitates for the briefest second before pressing his lips to yours again, just a touch firmer, like he’s making sure you feel it.
and then he pulls back.
“there,” he murmurs.
you’re smiling before you can stop yourself. cheeks warm, eyes soft.
he watches you for a second, something in his expression easing, just a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“happy?” he asks.
you nod, small. “very.”
“good.” his thumb brushes once more along your cheek before he lets his hand fall. “stay here.”
you make a quiet noise of protest anyway as he stands, fingers slipping from his sweater.
“i’ll be right back,” he says, already moving toward the kitchen.
you sink into the couch, pulling the sleeves over your hands again, face half-buried in the fabric. it still smells like him.
it helps.
you’re staring at nothing in particular when he comes back.
water in one hand. pills in the other.
you groan the second you see them. “ugh.”
he sits down beside you again, close enough that your knee presses into his thigh.
“i know,” he says, “they’re not great.”
“they’re awful,” you correct, squinting at the pills like they’ve personally wronged you.
“and they’re going to help,” he replies, already holding the glass out to you.
you sigh dramatically, but you take it.
he doesn’t rush you.
just sits there, solid and patient, one hand resting lightly against your arm like a quiet reminder he’s there.
“…you owe me after this,” you mumble.
“do i? i thought we made a deal already?”
“still,” you roll your eyes, “i get girlfriend extras.”
“we’ll discuss it,” he smiles.
you take the pills one by one, making a face after each.
aaron waits until you’ve swallowed the last pill.
really waits, eyes on you, quiet, making sure you don’t try to fake it.
only when you give him a weak, “done,” does he take the glass from your hands.
“good job,” he murmurs.
and then he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek.
“yeah?” you say, trying to tease him, “am i your good girl now?”
there’s a beat.
and then he snorts.
he shakes his head, "don’t push it.”
you turn your face slightly into it without thinking.
“do you want to lie down now?” he asks.
you blink at him, already shifting closer.
“…with you?”
there’s a pause.
“i need to finish a couple reports,” he says, brushing his hand over yours, “case summaries and victimology notes from the last consult. i’ve already pushed them once.”
you pout immediately.
he sees it coming. of course he does.
“please,” you add, quieter this time. “just until i fall asleep.”
he studies you.
he notices the way your shoulders have slumped, the way your eyes keep drifting shut, the way you’re still half-buried in his sweater like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
his jaw shifts slightly.
“you’re not going to sleep on your own, are you?“
you shake your head.
“no.”
he sighs but nevertheless gives you a smile.
“okay.”
you perk up instantly. “okay?”
“just until you fall asleep,” he clarifies, already shifting. “then i’m going back to work.”
“deal,” you say quickly, like you might lose the chance.
there’s the faintest hint of a smile at that.
“finish your tea,” he adds.
you make a face, but you reach for it anyway, taking a few small sips while he adjusts the pillows behind you, tugging the blanket straighter, making space.
“ugh, i hate being sick,” you mumble after a minute, handing the mug off to him.
he sets it aside, then tries his best to settle his body behind you.
“i know. i’m sorry you still feel so bad,” he opens his arms for you.
you don’t hesitate.
you scoot closer, then closer still, until you’re practically climbing into his lap.
“honey,” he chuckles, one hand coming to rest on your back.
you ignore him completely.
you swing a leg over his, shifting until you’re half on top of him, your head finding its place against his chest like it belongs there.
your legs tangle with his.
you sigh, deep and content, the sound soft against him.
“are you comfortable?” he asks.
“mhm,” you hum. “don’t move.”
“i wasn’t planning on it.”
you curl your fingers lightly into his shirt beneath the sweater, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear.
it’s calming and grounding.
your eyes are already slipping closed.
“i love you,” you mumble against him.
his hand stills for just a second at your back.
his chin dips slightly, resting against the top of your head.
“i love you too,“ he smiles.
you smile into his chest.
while his thumb strokes soothing circles against your back his other is brushing your hair away.
my angel summary: aaron loves to fluster you with his sweet talk cw: 18+mdni, f!ngering, oral (f receiving), aaron coming in his pants
aaron’s jacket is draped over the back of the chair where you left it for him, his tie folded with careful precision beside it.
you’re curled up on the couch now, legs stretched across his lap, socked feet warm against his thigh. he’s leaned back, one arm resting along the back of the couch, the other absentmindedly cradling your ankle. his thumb presses slow, thoughtful circles into the arch of your foot as if it’s something he needs to focus on to stay present.
“thank you, sweetheart,” he says quietly, voice rough in that end-of-day way. “for dinner. especially this late.”
you glance up at him, catching the softened lines of his face, the way his shoulders have finally dropped now that he’s home. “i love doing that, it wasn’t a big deal.”
“it was,” he says gently. “to me.”
his thumb squeezes your foot once, a little firmer, affectionate. he leans forward then, careful not to jostle you, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.
“i’m really happy to be home,” he adds, quieter now.
you smile, something warm blooming in your chest. “i can tell.”
you’d just finished talking about the case, well, as much as he ever talks about them. the couch feels like neutral ground now, safe again. he exhales, deep and slow, eyes drifting somewhere past you for a moment.
“today,” he says, after a pause, “we were out near a field. it was a rural property which was overgrown.” his thumb stills, then resumes its slow movement. “there were jade vines climbing along the fence line.”
you perk up immediately. “really?”
he nods. “they were everywhere.” his mouth curves, faint but unmistakable. “i thought about how much you like them. how you stop every time you see one.”
heat creeps into your cheeks before you can stop it. “aaron…”
he looks at you then, really looks, eyes warm, intent. his hand leaves your foot, coming up to cup your face, thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone.
“i think about you all the time,” he says. “even when i don’t say it. even when i don’t show it the way i should.”
your lips part, something small and breathless escaping you. you lean forward instinctively, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. he hums against it, smiling, and kisses you back.
when you pull back, you’re pouting just a little, and he notices. of course he does.
“what?” he asks.
“you always say things like that so calmly,” you murmur. “like you’re not completely undoing me.”
his brow lifts, amused. “am i?”
you lean forward suddenly, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, hiding there. his arm comes around you immediately, protective. you can feel his smile against your hair.
“angel,” he murmurs, and the word hits exactly where he knows it will.
you groan softly and burrow closer, mortified and flustered all at once.
he chuckles, “you were scolding me just the other day,” he reminds you. “you said i needed to ‘love on you more.’” his hand rubs soothingly along your back. “and now you’re hiding?”
“…well,” you mutter. “yes.”
he shifts slightly, just enough to tilt your chin up, coaxing you to look at him.
“look at me, angel,” he says softly.
you do, heart thudding, and he leans in to rest his forehead against yours.
“i’m grateful,” he says, “to be with someone like you. to come home to this. to you.”
your answer is another kiss, your legs tightening just a little in his lap as he smiles into it, completely, unmistakably at ease.
you take a moment to really look at him, like you always do when he finally lets himself be still.
the first few buttons of his white shirt are undone now, collar relaxed, the sharp line of him softened just enough to feel private. his hair has fallen flatter without the gel, darker at the temples, a little unruly in a way that feels earned. he looks tired, yes- but gorgeous in that quiet, devastating way that makes your chest ache.
your hand drifts up, fingers brushing the open edge of his shirt as you lean in again. you kiss him like you’re memorizing him. he hums softly against your mouth, a sound that never fails to make your stomach flutter.
“the picture you sent of yourself,” he murmurs between kisses, lips barely leaving yours. “while you were out for a run-“
you pull back just enough to look at him, amused. his eyes are darker now, focused, his hand warm at your waist.
he smiles, “believe me when i tell you they were more than just a bit distracting.”
your eyebrow arches. “oh yeah?” you tease. “because you only replied with a ‘look at you. how was it?’”
he exhales a quiet laugh, thumb brushing lightly over your lower lip. “yes,” he says calmly. “i couldn’t indulge more than that. i know you.” his gaze flicks to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “you like to cross lines.”
you smirk, unrepentant.
“and i was busy,” he continues, “but that doesn’t mean i didn’t think about you in a more specific way, honey.”
you tilt your head, pretending to consider it. “mm. i don’t know.”
his brows lift slightly. “you don’t believe me?”
you shrug.
he reaches up then, brushing your hair back from your face with such care it almost makes you ache. his fingers linger at your temple, his palm warm against your cheek.
“why don’t you show me,” you murmur softly, eyes flicking down to his mouth and back up again, “what you thought about?”
his breath stutters, just barely. it’s subtle, but you catch it.
aaron leans in, resting his forehead against yours. “you have no idea how dangerous of a question that is.”
his hand tightens at your waist as he kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s answering without words, like he always does.
“but whatever my girl wants, she gets.”
you thread your hands into his hair, tugging him close again, your mouth open, warm with want, nibbling softly at his lower lip as you kiss him, tasting like salt and surrender.
"you looked so pretty, just as you do now," aaron murmurs, pulling back just enough to take you in. he lets his hands glide down the length of your sides, his palms broad and steady.
"i thought about taking this off, despite how good you look in it, " he whispers, “will you allow me to take it off?” and you nod as he pinches the hem of your skin tight tank top, peeling it up, revealing more and more of you to the quiet room.
“you too,” you murmur, your hands finding its way to the other buttons, “let’s keep this fair.”
aaron smiles and helps you and when you finally managed to unbutton every single one you slide the dress shirt off his upper body.
your hands find his chest instantly, fingertips diving into the thick, wiry hair there. he shivers.
"ughh, you’re so hot," you mumble.
he lets out a breath of disbelief, smiling faintly, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. he bends down to kiss you again, slower now, deeper. his tongue slips past your lips, mapping the shape of your mouth, memorizing it. he licks every part he can reach, wanting more and more. then his mouth begins to drift, trailing wet, reverent kisses down the line of your jaw, along your throat, until he reaches the edge of your bra.
his fingers find the straps, easing them down your shoulders with aching care. he watches your eyes as he does it, sees the way your breath deepens and your pupils darken, your lips parting as you pant. he pulls the cups down, slow and steady, until your breasts spill free.
"look at you," he says, more to himself, and then he is lowering his mouth, pulling one nipple between his lips, tugging gently with his teeth. “you see, this is unfair, sweetheart. how good you look like this.”
your jaw drops, a quiet sound catching in your throat as your hands flow to his hair, holding him there. your eyes are going heavy-lidded as you watch him.
"oh," you breathe.
aaron groans softly at the sound, the vibrations humming through his chest. he suckles you gently, unhurried and savoring and letting the soft weight of your breast fill his mouth as his tongue swirls lazy circles over the sensitive peak.
he moves to the other, brushing the soft underside with his nose before taking you in, mouthing at the tender skin.
his palm smoothes up your side, fingertips brushing the swell of your ribs, holding the shape of you close.
"how are you doing, honey?" he murmurs between kisses, letting his mouth drag up the center of your chest.
“perfect,” you say, your breath shuddering as your hands travel his body, delicate fingers feeling his shoulders, his arms, his wrists and fingers.
"i like it when you talk," you whisper, like he doesn’t already know you.
he huffs a breath against your sternum. "is that right?”
you nod, eyes still hooded low and pupils blown wide as he looks at you.
"mhm, makes me feel..." you trail off.
"yes? tell me," he urges softly.
"makes me feel so good," you say, your voice barely above a whisper, “s’just so hot.”
he smiles at you lightly, kissing down your belly now, your skin trembling as he descends your body.
"i’m glad you feel that way," he assures you, tongue dipping into your navel, making you giggle.
when he reaches the waistband of your shorts, he looks up at you, hand already undoing the buckle.
you squirm, fingers flying to help.
"hey, don’t rush me," he grounds out, voice like gravel, a teased warning. you huff but obey, hands retreating to trace over his knuckles as he drags the zipper down. he kisses between the open denim, right where the little bow on your panties peek out. that single spot makes his mouth water.
“i was gone for so long- too long, let me savor this.”
he shifts down more, his shoulders bumping your thighs, pulling your shorts down. he kneels over the side of the sofa to give you room and in one slow, reverent movement, he leaves you bare beneath him.
he groans out a sound from deep in his throat before he can stop himself.
“i thought about you exactly like this,” he says while keeping his eyes on you, “you look like an angel.”
“aaron-“
he knows you were about to object, “don’t you dare say anything different about yourself. i wish you could see yourself from my eyes.”
you smile bashfully at him, your finger going to your mouth, holding your nail between your teeth as your knees bump together. your glistening puffy lips push together between your legs, until he gently nudges them apart, opening you.
"fuck," he says, kissing the skin of your knee, your inner thigh, leaning his cheek against it, “you’re gorgeous.”
his fingers come up, pressing into the apex of your thighs, collecting your arousal and spreading it. you gasp something blasphemous as he touches you, as he lets his finger gently circle your shining little clit.
“i wish to have you like this every day,” he confesses. you do, you think, but you don’t say that because he’d object due to his job.
he feels like he is drooling, his jaw slackening as he watches his fingers play with you. you look so warm and wet and inviting, clenching and pulsing.
“aar-" you beg.
"i know," he cooes, his eyes, black as yours, finding your gaze, "i know.”
you moan and squirm again, and he pulls his hand away to taste you even as you whine at the loss. his eyes roll back at the taste of you, hunger flashing hot through his body. he can’t hold back any longer. he dives into you, head first, tongue hungry, all need and no hesitation. he eats you with slow, dragging strokes, his tongue flattening and curling to catch every drop of you.
your back arches in a perfect curve, your soaked pussy covering his face. he moans against you, and you answer with breathy little sounds, each one sweeter than the last, like music pressing into his skin.
"you sound so pretty, honey," he mumbles into your cunt, lips wrapping around your clit, sucking gently.
"oh fuck-!" you gasp, one hand fisting in his hair. he moves to bring his fingers up, prodding you with just one. he slides it in with ease, feeling you squeeze around him with a hiss.
"oh my-" your eyes roll back as he looks up at you, “fuck.”
"i will never get tired of your reaction," he chuckles, kissing the skin of your thigh, "after all this time you’re still not used to it?”"
"s- fuck, just feels so good.”
“mhm,” he hums, “i can tell.”
he’s aching now. his cock heavy and stiff in his jeans, throbbing at the sight of you spread out and pliant-so ready, so damn pretty, and all his.
his mouth finds you again, letting his teeth graze your clit as he slides in a second finger. his eyes never leaves your face. he watches as sweat beads at your temples, your mouth parts in a perfect wayS
"aaron- fuck, don’t stop.”
“i won’t, you don’t have to worry.”
you clench around him, your pussy fluttering as he feels your walls pulse and draw him in deeper. he moans into you, licking firmly, then suckling your clit between his lips, rolling it steadily with his tongue. your head falls back, the long line of your throat catching in the light, letting out the prettiest yelp of pleasure.
“you’re doing so good, sweetheart, just let it happen. come for me.”
"oh fuck!" you cry out, thighs trembling as you come hard around his fingers. he keeps going, groaning against you, taking in every last second.
“there you go, you are perfect.”
when you come back down to earth, gulping in gasps of air, he is still kissing your clit, gentler now.
his fingers slip out of you slowly, careful not to jolt you.
you reach for him with both hands, cupping his face.
"come here," you say softly. he follows you, letting you pull him up and kiss you hard. you moan into his mouth, tasting yourself as his swollen lips and tongue claim you there.
“that’s what i mostly thought about,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb beneath your eye.
you grin, dazed, still floating, and he chuckles under his breath at the look on your face.
“mhmm,” you whisper. “you should let me know more often.”
he reaches for your panties then, careful, unhurried, helping you back into them like it’s something sacred instead of casual. the gentleness of it makes your chest tighten.
“aaron-“ you start, blinking up at him. “but… you?”
he stills for half a second.
then he shakes his head, just barely, jaw tightening. “i-“ his cheeks color faintly, betraying him. “i’m fine.”
it clicks all at once.
your eyes widen. “oh my god.” you take a glance at his pants, his crotch obviously stained with a dark patch.
his ears go red instantly. “sweetheart, i’m sorr-“
you laugh softly, breathless, leaning up to kiss him again. “that’s so hot, aaron.”
he exhales, half-embarrassed, half-helplessly fond, resting his forehead against yours. “you’re impossible.”
he helps you into your pants next, steadying you when you sway, then slips his dress shirt over your shoulders, buttoning it halfway without thinking. it smells like him.
“there,” he murmurs, “my pretty girl.”
you curl into his chest, wrapped in him, and he holds you like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
coming home summary: aaron comes home to you with bruises and scratches
the clock on the wall says 12:03, which feels personal somehow. you press pause on your series, even though the laugh track has already died mid-breath, the room freezing around a joke you weren’t really listening to.
you’d been listening for the keys.
your phone is face down on the coffee table, the last text still burning behind your eyes — i’m leaving the office now.
the couch creaks when you stand. you don’t bother fixing the blanket you’d been pretending not to clutch.
keys, finally. metal on metal. the lock turning.
you’re already halfway across the living room when the door opens.
aaron steps in with his head down, suit jacket still on, tie loosened just enough to suggest someone else had tugged at it hours ago. his shoulders sag in that way you’ve learned means he’s past tired and running on something sharper.
you say his name before you can stop yourself.
“aaron.”
he looks up.
and he smiles.
it’s small. automatic. tired down to the bone. the kind he keeps for you even when he has nothing left to give.
"hi, sweetheart. how was your night?”
you don’t answer.
you just look at him. really look.
his face is flushed, an angry red beneath the overhead light. there’s a split on his lower lip, crusted dark. a bruise blooming along his cheekbone, already turning that ugly mix of purple and yellow. another cut near his brow, shallow but fresh.
your stomach drops somewhere near your feet.
“aaron,” you say again, softer this time, like volume might change what you’re seeing. “what happened? are you alright?”
he nods immediately, like he’s been trained to. like it’s muscle memory.
“i’m fine.”
he steps inside fully, nudging the door closed with his foot. hangs his jacket on the hook by the door with careful precision, as if this is any other night. as if you didn’t just watch your heart stutter.
“aaron,” you try again, and this time it breaks a little. “you’re bleeding.”
“it looks worse than it is,“ he says it gently. reassuring. practiced.
you don’t let him get any farther.
you cross the space between you and cup his face carefully with both hands before he can think to dodge. your thumbs brush his cheeks, and you feel it, the heat, the tightness. the way his jaw locks just slightly under your palms.
his breath hitches.
just once. there it is.
his eyes close for half a second, and when they open again, something is held carefully behind them. pain, leashed and contained through sheer will.
you swallow.
“babe,” you whisper. “you are not fine.“
“the paramedics took a look,” he says. “on scene. they cleared me.”
“on scene,” you echo, stunned. “aaron-"
“i didn’t need to go in.”
“you have blood on your mouth.”
“it’s not mine.”
that doesn’t help. somehow, it makes it worse.
your hands are still on his face. you don’t move them. you’re afraid if you do, he’ll fall apart, or you will.
“sit down,” you say.
it’s not a request.
he hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, stern boss instincts flaring out of habit. then he softens, because it’s you, and because he’s exhausted, and because the room smells like home.
“okay.“
you guide him to the couch, fingers never leaving his skin. he sits, careful, back straight despite the way his shoulders tremble when he exhales. you kneel in front of him without thinking, your knees pressing into the rug.
you tilt his chin up gently.
“this hurts,” you say, brushing the cut near his lip.
he winces despite himself.
“a little.”
you give him a look.
“fine,” he amends. “more than a little.”
you stand abruptly, heading for the bathroom. you hear him start to protest behind you.
“it’s late, honey. i‘m sure you’re as exhausted as i am, you don’t have to-"
“i do.”
you’re back in seconds with a damp cloth and the first aid kit you keep stocked because loving aaron hotchner means planning for impact.
you clean him slowly. carefully. he goes still under your hands, eyes tracking your face like he’s anchoring himself there.
“talk to me,” you murmur.
“he was torturing me,” he says after a moment. “we needed him to think he was in control.”
your mouth presses into a thin line.
“looks like he was.”
a ghost of a smile touches his mouth and immediately fades.
you finish cleaning the cut and sit back on your heels, really seeing him now. the lines around his eyes, deeper tonight. the way his hands rest on his knees, clenched just enough to betray the calm he’s trying to project.
“you scared me,” you say quietly.
“i’m sorry. you know i never want to scare you.“
it’s genuine. it always is. and it always makes your chest ache.
you lean forward, pressing your forehead to his.
“i don’t like it when you pretend you’re not hurt at all,” you whisper.
his breath stutters against yours.
he sits still while you work, which you know takes effort. aaron hotchner is many things, patient is not usually one of them when he’s the one being tended to.
your thumb traces the edge of the bruise along his cheekbone.
“my gorgeous face,” you murmur, lips pushed into a small pout.
he huffs a quiet laugh despite himself. it pulls at the cut on his lip and he stills again, but his eyes soften when he looks at you.
“is it not gorgeous anymore?” he asks, trying to bring light into this situation.
“don’t flatter yourself,” you reply automatically, but your fingers are gentle as you tilt his chin. you open the small tube you grabbed from the cabinet. “okay. i’m going to put this on your lip. it’ll burn.”
he nods once. bracing. trusting.
you dab the ointment carefully along the split, watching his jaw tighten. his breath hisses out through his teeth, just barely audible.
“sorry,” you whisper.
“don’t be,” he says. “it’s fine.”
you’re screwing the cap back on when your eyes drop.
and stop.
his hands rest loosely on his thighs, palms down, but you can see enough. the skin across his knuckles is split, swollen. blood dried into the creases. the bones beneath already blooming blue and purple, angry and deep.
your chest tightens hard enough it steals the air from your lungs.
“…aaron hotchner.”
the full name. the warning bell.
his shoulders tense before you even touch him.
you take his hands anyway, turning them gently, like they’re something fragile instead of the weapons they’ve always been. your thumbs hover, not daring to press.
“jesus,” you breathe.
he looks away.
“he took my gun at some point,” he says quietly.
your head snaps up. “what.”
“there was a struggle,” he continues, calm and methodical, like he’s briefing you instead of confessing. “radio signal got sent. backup was minutes out. i had to keep him down.”
“so you punched him,” you say flatly.
“among other things.”
your throat burns.
you guide his hands into your lap, already reaching for gauze, antiseptic, tape. you clean the cuts as best you can, dabbing instead of wiping. he watches you this time, eyes intent, like memorizing your face is grounding him.
you wrap his knuckles carefully, one hand at a time, layers of white bandage slowly hiding the damage.
“it will heal,” he says, “i’ve had worse.”
you swallow hard. “you always say that.”
he doesn’t argue.
when you finish, you hold his wrapped hands for a second longer than necessary.
“okay,” you say, forcing a breath. you look up at him. “what else?”
it was supposed to be a joke. a weak attempt at levity.
aaron’s lips press into a thin line.
the room goes very quiet.
he studies you for a long moment, like weighing something. then he nods, once.
“i’m not hiding anything from you,” he says. “i just… don’t want you to feel bad. because i know you do.”
your heart sinks.
he reaches for the buttons of his shirt.
“aaron,” you warn, “no.”
“i’m used to this,” he says gently. “but i know you’re not.”
he unbuttons the first. then the second.
when he slips the shirt off his shoulders, your breath catches so sharply it almost hurts.
bruises line his ribs, dark and mottled, fingerprints pressed into skin like accusations. his abdomen is worse, deep purples, sickly yellows already forming beneath. evidence of boots, knees, blunt force. the kind of damage that doesn’t come from a fall.
your eyes burn.
“and you want to tell me,” you say, voice shaking now, “that you didn’t have to go to the hospital?”
he nods.
“they checked me,” he says. “no internal bleeding. no fractures. they gave me something for the pain.”
you stare at him, incredulous.
“and you’re just… here.”
“i told them i have the exact same pain meds at home,” he adds quietly, like that makes it better. like a well-supplied medicine cabinet is a substitute for observation.
you press your palm flat against his chest, careful to avoid the worst of it. his heart beats steady beneath your hand.
“aaron,” you whisper. “this is the worst you’ve ever looked.”
his hand comes up to cover yours.
“i’m here,” he says. “that’s what matters.”
your lips tremble.
“i hate this,” you admit. “i hate that you come home broken and tell me it’s normal.”
he leans forward and cups your cheek with his now bandaged hand.
“i know,” he murmurs. “i’m sorry.”
you shake your head, a tear finally spilling over.
“honey, please don’t cry,” he wipes your tears as he speaks, “i don’t like to be the reason.”
“i’m scared for you,” you say, finally. it rushes out of you, raw and unfiltered. “every time you come home like this — or don’t come home yet — i’m scared. i keep thinking one day you won’t walk through that door.”
his jaw tightens. he doesn’t interrupt you. he never does when it matters.
“i know,” he says quietly after a moment. “and i wish i could tell you it’ll stop.”
you shake your head. “it’s your job.”
it’s not an accusation. just the truth.
he exhales slowly. “it is.”
there’s no defense in his voice. no authority. just acceptance.
“but i hear you,” he adds. “and i’m sorry you carry that fear.”
his hands slide to the back of your neck, grounding, steady. his thumbs brush your jawline like he’s memorizing you.
“you did a good job fixing me,” he says softly, trying to lighten it just enough. “you always do.”
you sniff, pressing your forehead into his chest for a second.
“i try.”
he huffs a quiet laugh.
you pull back just enough to look at him. really look. even with the bruises, the bandages, the exhaustion carved into his face, he’s still him. still yours.
he leans in and kisses you, slow and unhurried. it’s not hungry. it’s reassurance. his lips linger against yours like he’s trying to communicate something words won’t cover.
“i love you,” he murmurs against your mouth.
your chest tightens all over again. “i love you.”
you hesitate, “are you hungry? i made dinner earlier, or do you want to lie down?”
his eyes flick toward the hallway, then back to you. that tired smile returns.
“i’d very much like to be in bed with you,” he says.
you help him up from the couch. he moves carefully, but when he straightens fully, you see it, the brief wince he can’t quite hide. it flashes across his face and is gone just as fast.
you shake your head, already reaching for him. “you’re impossible.”
he squeezes your hand.
you walk him to the bedroom together, slower than usual. the lights stay dim, soft shadows along the walls. everything feels quieter in here, like the world knows to give him a break.
when he slides into bed in just his boxers, he exhales deeply, like the mattress itself is permission to finally let go.
you linger at your side of the bed, uncertain.
“i wish i could do something to make you feel better,” you say quietly.
he reaches for you immediately, fingers wrapping around your wrist.
“you already did,” he says. “being with you — that’s what helps.”
you climb in beside him, stiff with caution, not sure how much pressure he can take. you hover like you’re afraid to bruise him further.
he notices, of course.
“come here,” he murmurs.
you ease closer, laying your head gently on his chest. his arm comes around you at once, secure and instinctive, pulling you into him just enough.
his heartbeat is steady beneath your ear.
his fingers move through your hair in slow, repetitive strokes. over and over. grounding both of you. he presses a kiss to your forehead, then your temple.
you let out a long breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
“you don’t have to be careful with me,” he says quietly. “i’ve got you.”
you tilt your head slightly, listening to his breathing.
“does this hurt?” you ask.
“no,” he answers honestly. “this helps.”
you go still, settling your weight just right. his hand continues its slow path through your hair, nails lightly grazing your scalp in a way that makes your body finally unclench.
minutes pass. maybe longer. time softens around you.
“thank you,” he says suddenly.
you lift your head just enough to look at him. “for what?”
“for not asking me to be someone else,” he says. “for letting me come home like this.”
your throat tightens.
“you don’t have to earn your place here,” you whisper. “you already belong.”
his eyes close. his grip tightens just a fraction.
he kisses your forehead again. “get some sleep,” he murmurs.
this time, when you close your eyes, you believe him.
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