summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?
cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius
tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat
a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff
also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks
slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack
title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift
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Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.
From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.
And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.
He was also really, really, really hot.
It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.
But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?
He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.
You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”
And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.
It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.
With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.
So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.
All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.
And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.
It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.
Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.
—
The case is going terribly.
What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.
And now she won’t stop calling.
Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.
“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“
“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“
“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”
A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“
“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”
You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.
Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.
The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.
Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.
You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.
So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.
Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.
“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”
“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”
He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.
“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“
“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”
“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.
“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”
You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”
Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.
“You don’t want to see her.”
He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.
It is a fact.
“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”
You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”
He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”
“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”
“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”
“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”
He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”
You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.
“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”
You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”
His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.
And then it’s gone.
“Of course.”
—
For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.
You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.
Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.
All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.
It’s a win because you saved the evidence.
It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.
Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.
Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.
The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.
“Hotch, I’m sorry—“
He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.
“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”
“I just thought—“
“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”
You frown. “I do follow your orders.”
He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”
That… doesn’t make any sense.
Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”
“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”
Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”
You blink. “Oh.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”
You shake your head, your world turned on its head.
He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”
You drop your head into your hands.
“And agent?”
You look up.
“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”
He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.
So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.
So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?
You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.
“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”
It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.
“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”
He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.
Oh shit.
“Sorry, what?”
His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”
You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”
“About?”
See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.
You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”
He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”
You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”
He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”
The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”
“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”
“To help people.”
“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”
“Do I even have to answer that?”
He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”
Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”
He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”
The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”
He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.
A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.
It should concern you, unnerve you.
It doesn’t.
“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”
You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.
“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”
“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”
“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”
“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”
“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”
You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.
But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.
“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”
“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”
You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”
He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”
That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.
You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.
—
You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.
“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”
You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”
Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”
You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.
You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.
You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.
“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”
“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”
“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”
To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.
“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”
“But I’m still coughing.”
“Have you given it any time to work?”
“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”
He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”
You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”
“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”
“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”
“You never joke.” JJ says.
“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.
You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”
“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“
Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”
JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”
Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”
“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”
“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“
“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”
“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”
“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”
JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”
You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”
“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”
“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”
“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”
“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”
Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.
Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.
“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”
You frown. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“
“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“
“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”
You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”
He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”
You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”
He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”
The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.
The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.
The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.
“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“
“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”
“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”
He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”
You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”
“Drink it anyway.”
You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.
You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.
With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.
“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”
Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.
“Ah, there she is.”
“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”
“Cold medicine must be working.”
There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—
You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”
“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”
Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—
“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”
You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.
You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”
“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”
“We’re both profilers.”
“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”
“I do not!”
You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.
A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”
If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.
“Who said anything about dragging?”
“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“
“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”
“They keep staring at me.”
“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”
You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”
You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”
Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.
Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?
Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.
You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.
Just for a few minutes.
—
“She out?”
“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”
A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”
A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”
A beat passes.
“You got her?”
“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”
—
When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.
Oh god you fell asleep on the table.
You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—
Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.
Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.
You slept the entire day away.
Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“
The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.
You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.
“Hotch?”
“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”
You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”
He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”
“He bet against me?”
“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”
“How long did you bet for?”
He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”
You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”
“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”
You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.
“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.
You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.
You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)
“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”
He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”
“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“
He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”
“No. Keep it.”
“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.
“I’d be fine with that.”
What. The. Fuck.
You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”
You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.
Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—
No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.
Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.
This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.
You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.
You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.
You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.
—
The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.
You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.
Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”
“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.
“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.
You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.
You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”
He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”
“This isn’t your seat.”
“We don’t have assigned seats.”
“No, but you always sit over there.”
“And now I’m sitting here.”
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.
You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”
“Is that even a thing?”
You shrug, eyes falling shut again.
After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.
He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.
The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.
—
“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”
“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”
“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”
“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”
“Ah, the joys of youth.”
A beat passes. Then another.
“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”
“Emily don’t start—“
“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”
“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”
“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”
“…No.”
Silence.
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”
—
Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.
When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
He nods. “In my office.”
You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.
He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.
“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”
He blinks. “For?”
“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”
Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.
He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.
“Do you know why I chose you?”
“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”
“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”
He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.
Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.
“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”
You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”
He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”
He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”
You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”
“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”
Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.
A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.
“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”
You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”
“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”
“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”
“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”
It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.
“You should go home.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”
“Maybe I am.”
“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”
You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”
“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”
You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.
Stupid genius co-workers.
—
The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.
Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.
Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”
He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.
“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”
“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.
You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.
Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.
The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.
You leave the mug there.
You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.
You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.
You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.
You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”
Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”
Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.
“But… the paperwork.”
“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”
You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.
He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.
“It’s cold.”
“That does tend to happen in winter.”
When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.
“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”
“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”
“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”
“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”
“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.
“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”
“How about Spencer?”
His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.
“…What rhymes with Spencer?”
“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“
“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”
“You know dis comes from—“
“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”
He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”
“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”
He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”
You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.
Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”
You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.
Smooth.
—
The next case is… really rough.
Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.
Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.
No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:
“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”
The son was killed before anyone could intervene.
Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.
A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.
Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.
You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“
“Are you okay?”
You blink. “What?”
“Are you alright?” He asks again.
“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”
Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.
“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”
You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.
You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.
You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.
If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.
You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.
You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.
Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.
Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.
You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.
The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.
You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—
“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”
“I’m fi—“
“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”
Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”
“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”
He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.
You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.
Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.
A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.
“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“
“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”
You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.
“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“
“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”
He says the last part a little desperate.
You sniff. “Okay.”
You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.
“Let’s go home.”
He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.
He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.
He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.
It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.
He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”
You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”
“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”
You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“
“Please let me do this for you.”
The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.
He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.
“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”
“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”
The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.
You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.
You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.
When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.
You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”
“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”
He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!
You really do tear up then.
He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“
You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”
His face softens. “Oh, honey.”
He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.
Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.
After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.
He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”
You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”
“That’s why we invented washing machines.”
He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.
Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.
When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.
“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”
He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.
He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”
You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”
He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.
The muscles in his jaw work.
“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“
You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.
He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.
You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”
He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”
“Crying and sad?”
“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”
You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“
“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”
“Just?”
“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”
He presses a kiss to your forehead.
“And this,”
He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.
“But mostly this.”
He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.
“Really?”
“Really.”
It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.
“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”
“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”
“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”
You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:
“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”
He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.
You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:
“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”
જ⁀➴
EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)
EDIT TWO: THE SEQUEL IS UP !! It is linked at the top of this post under “next” :)
an// YOU GUYS! Y’all crushed Showtime so much, I had to write a lil extra of the team figuring it all out! Truly thank you to everyone who enjoyed it, I cannot remember the last time I had a fic get so much support! TY 💐
-
It was hard for you and Aaron to go back to being at odds after being undercover. It's been weeks, but it’s taking some time for that mask to go completely back on at work. The team kicked it all back off again with a joke the second you sit down for a briefing.
“Thanks for joining us, Mrs. Hayes.” Morgan smirks, turning in his chair back and forth.
You roll your eyes while Emily sits down next to you and asks him, “You’re still stuck on that?”
“We watched them kiss how many times? You’ve moved on?”
You flip open your file, “You’re welcome for the obsession.”
Hotch doesn’t look up, “Focus, please.”
You look up and glance around at everyone in the room. Rossi’s eyes are already studying you with a small smile.
He taps his fingers on the table before speaking, “Let’s profile a hypothetical.”
The team begins looking between you and Aaron in a curious way.
Emily laughs, “No way. Not with this unit. Impossible.”
“Is it?” Rossi questions.
Hotch doesn’t look up from his file, and you take a sip of your coffee. No reaction.
JJ leans forward, joining their hypothetical, “Okay, so what was the trigger event?”
“Undercover assignment that required intimacy.” Rossi gestures between you two.
Morgan grins, “And boom, they’re both suddenly very convincing.”
“We’re right here.” You finally set down your file.
“Yes,” Garcia grins, “That’s what makes this fun!”
“That level of physical ease doesn’t come overnight.”
You don’t dare cut a look to Aaron, that would not go unnoticed right now. They go back and forth continuing to debate if Hotch was faking uncomfortability the first day undercover or if he was just uncomfortable under their eyes.
“At the risk of my job,” Garcia meekly raises her hand, “After the Flagstaff case I did look into their schedules-”
“Garcia!” Hotch warns.
She unsurprisingly barrels on anyway, “Their access badges have had the same arrival time since Halloween.”
“Lots of people arrive at the same time.”
“Y/n and Hotch also leave within three minutes of each other on non-field days.” Spencer states.
Hotch finally exhales one through his nose. You look up to the ceiling and fight the urge to just close your eyes.
“And they have the same gym sessions blocked out every Tuesday and Thursday, but their badges are never scanned in.”
“Oh my god!” JJ gasps.
Rossi squints, “Why are you so calm right now?”
“Because,” You keep your voice even, “this is entertaining.”
Emily’s eyes widen and she smacks your shoulder, “Oh my god.”
You look over to Aaron finally, the corner of his mouth twitching up barely.
“Hotch.” Morgan notices it too and calls him out.
No denial. Just silence.
Morgan leans back slowly, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
The realization sinks in over the rest of the team. They no longer shout their ideas and evidence over each other, instead they look between you two eagerly. Chomping at the bit for any and every detail.
“You aren’t denying it.” Emily is practically shaking your shoulders now.
You laugh while shrugging her away, “You’re profilers. Profile.”
“Oh, that is so confirmation!” Garcia squeals.
Morgan suddenly stands from his chair, “Months! This has been going on for months?”
Rossi smiles, still just looking between you at Hotch, “Minimum.”
“I feel betrayed,” Emily groans, “How many girls nights out have we had?”
“You let me make undercover kiss jokes for weeks.” Morgan chuckles, shaking his head in pure disbelief.
You can’t help but grin, “You seemed happy.”
“This is the most controlled long-con relationship in BAU history.” Spencer points out.
Hotch meets their eyes. No apology. Just a quiet and quick acknowledgement.
“Yes.”
Rossi claps one, “Well done. Both of you.”
“You realize that we’re never letting this go, right?”
You smile softly now, “We never never expected you would.”
“Human resources have been aware since the relationship started.” Hotch states.
“Which was when exactly?” JJ raises her brows.
You know that Hotch has a lot he wants to reassure the team about. The power imbalance. The age-gap. All of them are completely valid concerns.
Hotch finally closes his file and sets it back on the table. It’s clear they aren’t going to start this briefing anytime soon.
-
Towards the end of the day everyone is reviewing their reports at their desks, trying to get their work done to head home for the weekend. The bullpen is still riding the high of the new revelation, the energy still bouncing off of everyone. You contemplated working in the lair to get away from everyone’s teasing comments, but you know being trapped one on one with Garcia is far more dangerous than everyone else.
The elevator dings.
JJ looks up first, “Hey, Jack’s here.”
Hotch looks up immediately, coming to stand at the top of the stairs by the door to his office. His whole expression softens when Jack trots in with his backpack on and a paper in hand. He makes a beeline for his dad, but detours halfway. Straight to you.
You roll back from your desk in time for a big hug.
“Hi.”
You smile down at him and instinctively brush his hair back, “Hey, you.”
Morgan freezes mid sip and Emily’s brows raise a couple degrees.
JJ whispers, “Oh this is going to be good.”
Hotch clears his throat lightly, “Jack.”
He turns to look up at his dad, “What?”
“You wanna show me what you brought?” Hotch nods down to the piece of paper he has protectively in his hand.
“In a second,” He turns back to you, “Are you still coming over tonight?”
The bullpen goes totally silent.
You don’t miss a beat, “That depends. Did you do your chores already?”
“Yeah, Dad said we should do it before you came over this weekend.”
“Jack…” Hotch warns.
You can tell he’s just getting started.
“Look!” He finally presents the piece of paper he had been holding. It’s a drawing of three stick figures all standing together holding hands. It isn’t labeled with names, but the details make it’s clear who he drew. Jack, Aaron, and you. One of many drawings.
“This is a good one!” You smile softly and lean down to press a kiss to the top of his head, “Go show your dad.”
He launches off of you to chase up the stairs to his dad.
“We built a full behavioral timeline and Garcia hacked into numerous FBI databases when we could’ve just asked the witness.” Rossi shakes his head.
“Always ask the child.” JJ nods.
“Thanks, buddy.” Hotch takes the drawing from him and bends down to scoop him up in a hug.
“I know you said we’re not supposed to tell people at work-”
“It’s okay, buddy.” Aaron reassures.
“Weeks of deduction.” Morgan shakes his head.
“Hell, you should hire him.” Rossi chuckles, “He’s a natural.”
Jack looks confused, “Y/n said that honesty matters.”
You laugh, “Yes, I did. It does matter.”
You hear Emily huff an ‘mhm’ somewhere behind you. You’re sure the whole team just rolled their eyes.
Morgan walks up to Jack and offers him a fist bump, “You closed the case faster than all of us.”
Jack beams, “Does that mean I get a badge?”
“Okay,” Emily leans against the edge of her desk and asks, “Details, Agent.”
Jack nods seriously, “She sleeps over a lot.”
“Jack.”
Hotch’s warning to his son does nothing to stop the red that takes over your face. Your elbows are resting on your desk when you put your head down in your hands.
“What? Honesty matters.”
“Define ‘a lot’.” Morgan continues.
You look up and make eye contact with Aaron. Wordlessly, still holding each other’s gaze while letting them continue asking Jack a plethora of questions. You smile, quiet teasing with a shake of your head, “Rookie mistake.”
Aaron gives you a look. Warm and unguarded. His smile is real, full of life and tender. The expression that is totally foreign to the team on his face, but they now know it belongs to you.
summary: Hotch is sick and refuses to go home and take care of himself, so the team decides you’re the best person to handle it. Or, handle him. It turns out your boss isn’t the only Hotchner sick today.
word count: 5.3 K FLUFF OMFG
-
The team was already placing bets on who was going to bite the bullet and tell Hotch to go home. All heads would end up turning to you.
“Why me?” You huff.
“You’re the only one who is going to make it a foot past the door and you know it.” Emily bites the end of her pen, spinning around in her chair to face you.
“Statistically, Y/n would be able to get the furthest into the office before Hotch kicks her out.”
“Pretty boy,” Morgan shakes his head while sitting on the edge of his desk, “He does not kick Pretty Girl out.”
You shake your head, still not even bothering to give them your attention. You continue writing your report, feeling multiple sets of eyes boring into you. Another sneeze can be heard from the office upstairs, you have to fight the urge to look up at his window.
It didn’t take a genius to know that Hotch was sick, it was apparent the second he walked in this morning. Coat buttoned up to his chin on a warm April morning. Red nose and a faint rasp in his voice.
“He’s pale.” JJ comments, “Like hospital pale.”
That has your attention. Your head snaps up to look up at the windows where your boss is sat at his desk working. They’re right, he does not look good.
“So, who’s feeling brave?” Rossi asks, walking out of his office and gesturing to Hotch. “I already tried earlier this morning.”
Rossi’s eyes fall to you.
“No.”
“Bella!” He praises, walking down the steps to come closer to your desk, “Kid, you’ve got the right way with people.”
“And you’re his favorite.” Morgan adds, you flip him off over your shoulder.
From behind you, Reid mutters, “Statistically speaking, the likelihood of him allowing any of us to question his well-being without consequences is extremely low. Y/n, however is-”
“Enough.” You roll your eyes and get up from your desk. You hate that this worked.
Everyone was quick to celebrate their success until you look over at them after climbing up the stairs, the bullpen going silent. You knock on the doorframe as gently as possible.
“Sir?”
He waits for a second or two before looking up from his computer, his eyes still sharp but glossier than normal. His cheeks look flushed, and now that you’re this close you can see that he’s sweating. He’s too warm, and it looks like he’s holding himself up with sheer will.
“You’re sick.”
“I’m functional.” His fingers still hover over the keys.
“That is not the same thing.” You lean against the frame now, you can feel the focus of everyone coming from behind you.
The corner of his mouth twitches, “What are they saying out there?”
“That you’re stubborn. And a workaholic. And that you’re going to pass out dramatically if we don’t get you home.”
“That last part sounds like Morgan.”
You cut him a look that shows you aren’t going to let him change the subject.
“I’m fine-” A sneeze cuts him off before he can finish whatever reason he was about to sell you for why he’s fine to stay.
“You were saying?” You raise your brows with an unimpressed look.
“You need rest.” You add quietly, taking a step into his office. Your fingers hover over the edge of his desk.
“We have a briefing and new case loads-”
“You need rest.” You repeat, “You have an entire team to delegate this to. Go home for the day.”
“Are you telling me what to do?” You can tell he’s using his energy to show you an entertained face.
“Highly suggesting.” You quip.
Your eyes hold on each other, something unspoken passing between you two. It feels warm and familiar. Every time you two are alone it turns to this eventually. The tension burns past all forms of professionalism.
He exhales eventually, “Fine. One day.”
Your smile was immediate.
“I’ll walk you out.”
Hotch pushes back his chair and stands, instantly swaying.
“Hotch-” you reach out. He stabilizes himself on the desk, bracing himself.
“I-uh-I’m fine.” He says it more like a reflex rather than actually expecting you to believe him.
“You’re really not.”
His knees buckle for a half second, “Morgan!”
You reach out a hand to help Hotch stay up, Morgan was quick to get to you.
“Can you help him down to my car?” You ask, looking directly at Morgan, “I’m gonna pack up his stuff and then I’ll drive him home.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Morgan reaches out an arm under Hotch’s. He hesitantly takes it and they slowly walk out of the office together. You close his laptop and grab all of his current and upcoming case files.
Rossi tilted his head toward Hotch and Morgan “You driving?”
You answer while walking out of his office before Hotch could, “No.”
“He almost passed out while standing up, he’s not driving.” You go over to your own desk and grab your things. “I’ll keep my phone on.”
JJ smiles softly at you, “Text us when you get there.”
You nod and walk ahead of Hotch and Morgan to hit the button for the elevator. Your car was thankfully not too far away in the garage. Morgan managed to get a sneaky ‘favorite’ in before you pulled out of the garage, him waving at you both.
The drive was quiet at first. Hotch was leaning back in the passenger seat, one hand bracing his temples and blocking his face. He can’t even keep his eyes open at this point.
“You should’ve told someone sooner.” Your voice soft, breaking the silence.
“I didn’t want to disrupt the team.” His voice still full of gravel.
You look over at him, “Hotch, you are the team.”
He didn’t even bother trying to fight you on that one. The car went back to the silence until you were nearly halfway to the Hotchner residence. His phone ringing loudly from the pocket of his briefcase.
“It’s school.” He straightens immediately in his chair and answers, “Hotchner.”
“Mr. Hotchner? This is the school nurse, Jack is running a fever and isn’t feeling well. We need someone to come pick him up. I know his Aunt Jessica is out of town for the next three days.”
His face fell instantly, “I can be there in twenty minutes.”
You turn around hearing all of this, you know you already passed the school.
“Y/n, you don’t have to do this.”
“You’re sick.” You smile, “He’s sick.”
“I can take care of my son.” His voice is tight, but it isn’t defensive.
“Hotch, I know you can. But what are you going to do?” You ask, raising your brows with genuine concern. You don’t want to outright tell him he can barely take care of himself, how does he expect to take care of an eight year old.
He studies your face, looking for signs of pity or judgement. All he can find is care and concern.
He nods, “Thank you.”
You don’t say anything back, you don’t need to. You simply smile and keep on driving.
-
Hotch looked steadier walking down the hall than he did back at the office. If you had to guess, it would be purely parental adrenaline fueling him. In the nurses office Jack is sitting on a cot, his cheeks are flushed to match his dad.
“Hey, buddy.” Hotch’s voice is softer than you typically hear.
“Hi, Dad.”
Jack sat up a little straighter, looking over his dad’s shoulder to spot you. His expression froze still before a surprised grin graces his face.
“Y/n!”
You smile and take a few more steps into the nurses office to crouch down to his level.
“Hey, Jack. I heard you aren’t feeling too well.”
He shrugs you off, trying to play it cool. “I’m okay.”
You reach a hand out to brush his hair off his forehead, “You’re pretty warm, bud.”
Jack closes his eyes and leans into the touch. Hotch notices, of course he did.
“You came with Dad?”
“Yeah, I drove him.”
You vaguely hear the nurse telling Hotch about how his fever was still rising. She insists on taking his temp one more time before leaving.
“Any chance you can do him next?” You ask, nodding your head to where Hotch stands with his arms crossed.
Hotch cuts you a glance that reminds you he’s your boss.
“Kidding.”
“Are you feeling sick as well?” The nurse turns her focus back on Hotch.
“Yeah, it would seem the family is coming down with it.” He sighs, reaching out his arm to check the time on his watch.
“Well, hopefully you aren't the next one, honey!” She winks at you and turns back to the paperwork on the counter behind her. Hotch doesn’t bother to correct her, not the time. He’s lacking enough energy to explain the dynamic and who you actually are to them.
“Dad, you’re sick too?” A worried expression takes over Jack’s face. His eyes are wide with concern. You beat Hotch to the punch.
“Just a little bit.” You answer, “Don’t worry, we’re gonna take care of him and you. Teams take care of each other.”
He nods and mutters a quiet ‘that’s good’. You can see how tired the little guy is, his eyes are watery.
“Ready to go home, buddy?” Hotch asks.
He nods again, getting up and slowly walking out. You follow both of the sick boys, as they lazily walk out to the car. The drive is quiet, you have the radio playing softly. Jack is curled up in his seat in the backseat, you can see him fighting to stay awake. He watches you in the mirror, and pretends he isn’t. Hotch catches him a few times too.
“Are you staying?” he asks at one point.
You glance over at Hotch before answering him, “If that’s okay with your dad.”
Jack looks at his dad. He looks back at him, his expression turns sweet when looking at his son.
“Yeah, she’s helping us today.”
Jack visibly relaxed back into his chair.
“Cool.”
You bite back a chuckle, focusing on the road ahead of you. By the time you’re pulling into the driveway, it’s not even noon. The neighborhood is quiet. It’s the middle of the day during the work week, most people aren’t home right now. Hotch is never at home right now.
“Alright,” You turn around to face Hotch from your seat still, “Operation Get Better starts now.”
Jack perks up, “Is there soup involved?”
Hotch huffs out a quiet laugh that turns into a cough. You turn back to look at him, cutting him a concerned face.
“I’m fine.” He mutters.
“Mhm.”
You all moved into the house together, Jack close to your side. Hotch was grateful the house was actually in a fairly clean state. Jack kicks off his shoes at the door and plants himself on the couch with a groan.
“We just need fluids, rest, and probably cartoons.” You continue walking past the living room to the kitchen.
Jack nods, “Doctors say cartoons help?”
“Of course! Ask Spencer the next time you see him.”
Hotch is sure you’re banking on Jack forgetting by the time he sees Spencer next, unless he actually has unleashed some cartoon fact on you already. He tries to ignore a wave of dizziness that rolls through him. You clock it instantly.
“Sit.” You insist.
“Y/n-”
“You don’t get to argue today.”
Jack looks between you two, “Dad, you should listen.”
He looks defeated as he stares back at his son. You would be concerned for how you’re ordering your boss around if it weren’t for his cute rosy cheeks. He is far from your boss right now and you both know it. Defeated, he sits down.
You let out a satisfied ‘hmph’ before turning back toward the kitchen to see if Hotch actually has what you need to make soup. Thankfully, he’s well stocked and you’re able to navigate yourself around the kitchen as if you had done it a hundred times. Every once and a while you catch Hotch looking over the back of the couch and watching you work.
“She’s pretty cool.” Jack whispers loud enough for only his dad to hear.
You continue stirring obliviously at the stove, your sleeves pushed up while humming along to something that he’s sure played in the car earlier.
“Yes.” He quietly agrees, “Yes, she is.”
-
The smell of chicken noodle soup has completely taken over the house. Hotch and Jack were sitting at the counter now that you were nearly finished.
“Do you cook like this often?” Hotch asks.
You don’t look up from the pot, “Always, I love to cook.”
After pulling down two bowls, you bring one over to Jack first.
“Careful, it’s hot.” You warn.
Jack pulls it closer with both hands. You grab the other bowl and put it in front of Hotch and then just lean against the edge of the counter facing them. Jack takes the first cautious bite after blowing on his spoon.
“This is… really good!”
You gasp dramatically, “Is it?”
“Mhm!” He nods eagerly.
You turn to Hotch who is watching both you and Jack, so you raise an unimpressed brow.
“Eat.”
“I am not eight years old.” He reminds.
“Correct.” You smile, “Which means I shouldn’t have to tell you.”
He raises a brow to match yours. You can barely see it, but the corner of his mouth that is typically in a frown wavers which tells you he’s hiding his amusement. It’s moments like these, looking into his warm brown eyes, that you get confused on what you mean to each other. It’s clear to see the care, and warmth right on each other's face.
He pauses, before taking a sip of his own.
“... This is very good.”
You beam, “Did you hear that Jack?”
He nods, but it doesn’t take long for his cough to pick up. You rub soothing circles on his back that do nothing.
“Alright,” You huff and begin walking down the hallway toward the stairs, “Where would I find medicine?”
“Bathroom cabinet.” He calls after you.
You make your way to the guest bathroom and find a thermometer, fever reducer, and kids medicine. No adult medicine. You peek your head outside to the hallway, as if Hotch was going to catch you. You know he’s in no state to be running upstairs, so it’s safe to check his bathroom. Which means going into his bedroom.
You’ve never been in his room before, even with all the times you’ve been here. There’s never been a reason. Unsurprisingly everything is in perfect order, including adult cold medicine. You also grab a couple wash cloths before bounding back down the stairs.
“I hate medicine.” Jack whines dramatically.
“Everybody hates medicine, but we can make your dad go first.”
You snort at Jack’s grin, pointing at his dad with his own laugh. Hotch does a good job going first, taking the small cup from your hand after you measured it out. You do the same for Jack after.
“Temp check.”
You take Jack’s temperature, the same as it was at the nurses office. You move onto Hotch, who huffs before complying.
“Higher?”
“Managable.”
You all make your way back to the living room, Jack was visibly fading away with exhaustion. You and Jack take the couch and Hotch takes the armchair. Jack’s eyelids droop between the cartoons, he slowly shifts closer to you.
“You okay, Jack?” You reach out a hand to press his hair back off his forehead.
Half-gone, “Just sleepy.”
“Come here.”
You help him pull his blanket up over his shoulders while he settles his head in your lap. You freeze for a second, your hand hovering over him before it feels natural. You run your hand over his hair, after a few minutes his breathing evens out. Hotch is watching you both from the armchair, unable to look away.
“You’re very good with him.” His voice is low enough for Jack to sleep through.
You look down at him, “He makes it easy.”
“Jack doesn’t trust people easily.” He reminds.
“I know.”
It gets quiet in the room again, the house faintly humming with life. The refrigerator cycling, TV cartoons, wind brushing against the windows, and Jack’s deep sleep breaths. You finally look up at Hotch, his eyes already on you.
“You should really rest too.”
“I’m fine.”
“You have a fever and you’re sitting upright.”
He doesn’t deny it.
He looks around the room, his eyes falling on Jack. You absentmindedly trace circles over Jack’s back, everything feels so calm.
“The house feels..” He pauses, looking for the words.
You wait.
“..warm. It feels right.”
Your chest tightens immediately. You’re sure if Jack’s head wasn’t in your lap right now, your body would force you to stand up.
“I don’t want to sleep away a minute of it.” He continues.
“You won’t.”
You keep your voice as soft as possible. He meets your eyes.
“I’ll still be here when you wake up.”
Something in his face shifts, you think it's a relief. Maybe something deeper. Maybe something too dangerous for either of you to admit or put a name to.
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I know.” You reply.
Jack stirs slightly before burrowing in closer to your lap. You smile and pull the blanket up a little closer. Hotch watches for another long moment, then he decides to recline the chair. He closes his eyes, but doesn’t fall asleep right away. He just rests, letting the sound of Jack breathing and your quiet presence anchor him.
The house stays warm.
-
Jack stirred first. It started with a cough that became restless and ended up with him looking at you with a disoriented look while he rubbed his eyes.
“Hey, buddy.”
His voice comes out gravely like Hotch’s did this morning, “I’m hot.”
“I know,” You gently guide him upright, “Let’s cool you down a bit.”
You look over at Hotch and are thankful to see that he’s still out cold. The tension in his shoulders finally dropped, replaced instead with the kind of exhaustion that is built up on days of no sleep. Maybe even years of it.
“Come on, let’s get you upstairs.”
Jack nods, and he takes your hand as you both walk upstairs together. You get him a cool wash cloth and place it on his forehead after tucking him in. You negotiated another round of medicine as it’s been hours and it’s wearing off.
“Cold!” he mumbles the second it makes contact
“Sorry, it’s a necessary evil.” you whisper.
“Are you staying?” He’s already drifting back again.
“I’m just gonna be right downstairs.” You promise, “I’ll check in on you, and you just call my name if you need anything.”
“Okay.” He murmurs, eyelids fluttering closed.
Within minutes, he was asleep again.
-
When Hotch wakes up, it’s darker out now. Evening is settling around them, the TV is off and a new scent takes over the house.
You move quietly around the kitchen, cooking some fresh vegetables and rice to add to leftovers and make them stretch a little longer. Something comforting and warm enough to fill the house with the smell of home.
Currently you have Garcia on speaker while working through a sinkful of dishes.
“- yet you’re still there?” She practically shrieks, you immediately dry your hands to turn your volume down.
“I’m making sure that two people I care about don’t starve or pass out.”
Garcia hums knowingly, “Mhm, that’s what you’re calling it now.”
“I actually called to ask you about the cases, but you’re the one that keeps circling back.” You huff, rinsing another dish.
“Yes, yes, crime fighting and moral obligations,” You can hear her typing away, “I gave Rossi the stuff you sent over earlier and he said it was good. The team is very curious-”
“Garcia.” You warn.
“Morgan is starting a pool-”
“I’m hanging up.” You groan.
“Wait!” She yells loudly, “How is he?”
You dry your hands with the kitchen towel, “He’s resting. He’ll be okay.”
“And Jack?”
“The same. His fever is going down.”
A pause.
Garcia awes, “You’re good for them, you know.”
You don’t answer.
“Okay.” Garcia’s voice is gentle, “I’ll let you go, call if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
“Night, Mama Bear.”
You sigh, “Goodnight, Garcia.”
You shake your head and turn around to lean against the sink, nearly jumping out of your skin when you see Hotch leaning against the doorway. He looks way too charming in a casual hoodie and sweatpants, a small smirk on his face. Sleep is still lingering in his eyes, but he looks better.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear Garcia call you mama bear.”
“Yeah, she’s been pretty insufferable since she found out I was still here.”
He steps into the kitchen slowly, still a little disoriented from sleep.
“I just checked on Jack.” Your voice is soft, “He’s asleep upstairs. The fever is still there, but it’s lower.”
He nods, relief flashing across his face, “Thank you.”
Hotch says it in a way that carries weight. Gratitude layered with something deeper. Something warmer. He leans across the counter from you, studying your face in the kitchen light.
“You didn’t have to stay all day.”
He heard you going over your case notes with Garcia and making sure the team was still pushing through all their work without him there.
“I know.”
“You had paperwork. Your own life. Your own-”
“Aaron.” You cut him off sweetly.
The use of his first name hung between them. Rare. Careful. Intentional.
“I stayed because I wanted to.”
Silence takes over the kitchen, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It was charged in that simmering way you both had ignored for months.
“You step into chaos like it’s second nature.” He finally breaks the silence, “At work. Here. With Jack. With me.”
You smile, “It feels right.”
“You make me feel safe.”
Your hands still, no longer twisting the kitchen towel you’ve been holding since you were doing the dishes. His eyes are looking over you while he searches for the words.
“I try to keep a distance. It’s part of leading the team. It’s part of protecting the team.”
“I know.”
“But with you-” He exhales slowly, “It’s harder.”
Your heart went from skipping to beating erratically.
“This thing between us?” You ask quietly.
He nods, his eyes refusing to leave yours.
“It’s not one sided.” You admit.
The air in the house shifts. Neither of you move closer together. Neither of you move away.
“I worry about what it means,” He says honestly, “For the team. For Jack. For you.”
“All valid concerns.” You agree.
“And yet, today felt…”
“...right.” You finish for him.
He nods, and takes a half step closer to you. He reaches out his hand for yours and you take it, letting him pull you into his side. You melt into him while he wraps his arm around you.
“What would this look like?” You ask after a moment.
“I would say slow, but you already fit in so well.” He confesses, “I’m already going to have a hard time letting you leave.”
“Then maybe we just… start dating.” You reply.
The simplicity of it made something in Aaron’s chest lighten. He hadn’t felt like this in years.
“Casually.” he agrees.
“Casually.” You echo.
You sway together in the kitchen, some of his weight on you as the time passes and his strength weakens.
“You need more cold medicine.” You mumble into his chest.
He exhales a laugh, “You got it.”
You step away to grab the bottle and pour some for him.
The corners of his mouth lift, “Are you staying?”
You meet his gaze, steady and calm.
“For a little while longer, if that’s okay.”
His answer is immediate, “It is.”
-
Jack was groggy when you went upstairs, his sheets tangled around his legs in bed.
“Dinner time, bud.”
He blinks up at you, “Soup?”
“Not this time.”
You help him out of bed and together walk downstairs and join Aaron at the table.
“How’re you feeling, buddy?” He asks right away.
“M’okay.” He looks between you two, “Did something happen?”
“What do you mean?” You ask, while passing out food onto their plates.
“Daddy won’t stop looking at you.”
Aaron’s face immediately goes into his hands, his elbows resting on the table. You can see the red peeking through his fingers. You clear your throat to let him take this one.
“Uh-” Aaron coughs, something tells you it has nothing to do with his cold, “Y/n and I are seeing each other. Like really good friends. She’s gonna hang out with us more.”
“Cool.”
Jack picks up his fork and begins shoveling in the food in front of him. You and Aaron both exchange surprised looks.
“How do you feel about that, Jack?” You ask.
He shrugs, “You both take care of people, and you both save people from the bad guys.”
“That’s true.” Aaron nods.
“And,” Jack continues, “You both worry about each other a lot.”
Your chest tightens, and you smile fondly at him. This kid is smart.
“You wouldn’t be upset?” Aaron asks, caution still in his voice.
He shook his head instantly, “I think we’d be a good team!”
His words land heavier than an eight year old could have ever intended. You reach over to brush his hair off his forehead again.
“That’s a pretty great way to think about it.”
Dinner was lighter even with the heavy eyes and exhausted bodies. Jack managed to clean his plate before his blinks started to slow. You barely touched your food, a headache setting in. You wince after grabbing all the plates. Aaron notices. Of course.
“You okay?” He asks.
“Fine.” Your answer is automatic, “Just tired.”
Jack squinty, getting his second wind, “You sound like dad did this morning.”
You sneeze before anyone else can say anything else. You whip around after to look at them at the table.
“Oh no.”
“Y/n is sick!” Jack shouts.
“Yeah, I should probably head out.” You clear your throat which is starting to feel scratchy. Aaron gets up from the table to walk you to the door.
“No.” Jack’s voice firm, still at the table, “Y/n, you said that teams take care of each other.”
You turn to Aaron, quietly muttering ‘this kid is good’.
“He’s so going to the BAU.”
“God, I hope not.”
You both turn back to Jack who is looking at you with wide concerned eyes.
“You don’t have to-”
“We do have the guest room. Extra blankets and medicine. Amazing soup leftovers.” Aaron grins.
“You make a very good point.” You sigh.
Jack pumps a sleepy fist in the air to celebrate, followed by a yawn and a coughing fit. You immediately crouch down and rub his back, Aaron places a hand on your shoulder in silent thanks.
It didn’t take much to get Jack to go to bed for the night after that. One cartoon and snuggle with you were negotiated, and the promise that you would be here in the morning. After that, both you and Aaron followed him up the stairs to tuck him in. One last round of meds before bed, slowly pulling his door shut.
You lean against the door, Aaron leans against the wall opposite you. A shiver runs down your spine, you rub the goosebumps on your arms.
“You’re getting worse.” he comments.
“I’m fine.” You can’t even ignore how bad your voice sounds when you speak.
“C’mon,” He takes your hand in his and leads you through his room to the bathroom, “You need medicine.”
“Yes, sir.” You tease weakly.
He hands you a fever reducer and some cold medicine without comment.
“You know,” You hold the pills in your hand, “this feels a little like karma.”
“For?”
“Bossing you around all afternoon.” You smirk.
A wide smile stretches across his face, “You’re still taking them.”
You eye him for a moment, before rolling your eyes and throwing them back and chasing it with some water. He doesn’t step away, instead boxing you in against the bathroom counter, making sure you stay upright.
You aren’t that sick, yet. Instead his care charges the moment with the close contact. Neither of you back away, still just drinking each other in.
“You know,” Your voice hushed, “I can’t get you sick back yet since you’re still sick.”
His mouth twitches. He knows what you’re doing.
“You’re sick.”
“So are you.” You counter.
“That isn’t responsible-”
“But what’s the harm?” You innocently raise your brow, but the way you bite down on your bottom lip is far from fair.
He exhales, he’s close enough that it fans across your face. Months of almost moments that have bounced between you two. Lingering glances and quiet conversations.
His voice is low and strained when he finally speaks, “I’ve thought about this,”
“Me too.” You interrupt.
“More than I probably should.”
You nod, “Same.”
You chuckle and he reaches a hand forward to brush his thumb across your cheekbone.
“This is a terrible idea.” He continues.
“Yet, you’re still pressing me into this counter.”
He hadn’t even realized he was doing it, but he is pressed against you now. Your ass meeting the edge of the counter.
“And even if this is a terrible idea, I’m willing to risk it.”
His breath caught at that. For a moment he studied your face like he was memorizing every inch. His touch is warm, careful in a way that makes you ache. You lean into his hand.
“You’re sure?”
You know this is him trying to give you an out. A safe exit away from a future relationship with your boss and his son that you already care too much for.
“I’ve been sure for months.”
That is all he needed to hear.
The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant from both of you. As if you were both desperately afraid of breaking the other, but when his hand shifted to cradle the back of your neck you took the opportunity to card your fingers through his hair. All the months of restraint breaking while the kiss deepens. Warm and searching each other in a way that is long overdue.
You exhale softly against him, he pulls you closer by wrapping his arm around your waist to hold you both steady. When you both can’t catch your breath, you pull away and rest your forehead against his.
Bitter cherry flavored cold medicine has never tasted so good.
“So worth the risk.”
He let out a rare loud surprised laugh, the sound erupts butterflies within you at how warm and unguarded he is right now.
“Definitely.” He agrees, “We’re going to have to be very careful at work.”
“Absolutely,” You nod, “I plan to be extremely professional while secretly thinking such naughty things about you.”
“That sounds distracting.”
You slide your hands around his torso, “You’ll survive.”
You tilt your head up to capture his lips in another quick kiss. And another. And another. You only pull away to turn to the side and sneeze loudly, shaking you both in your spot.
“I’m so sorry we got you sick.”
“It was worth it.”
AN// goddddd i love needy hotch! and sweet lil jack 🥹 also i developed a cold this week while writing this (which i did not have at the start of writing this) which did feel like a form of karma for something… anyway i hope you enjoyed 💋
I was figuring out lights and darks before continuing this, and forgot if I put it here or not. This is WIP from 2024/3 that still hasn't been finished! ty @orfeoarte for helping me with it, one day i will complete it
Morrowind is just having to deal with your former reincarnations shitty polycule breakup It’s so annoying you land in Tamriel’s most homosexual province and immediately get spam emails from the corpse of your dead lover from your past life. You try and get shit done but your wife from like 9 lifetimes ago makes you run errands for her. Vivec is there
2087
turnnoffyourmind
tangentwithtanner
izzy806
prguitarman
