Carlos says, “I love you” in so many different ways, and TK loves each and every one of them.
There’s one place that I call home and that’s because you’re there.
- The Birdcage (1996) dir. Mike Nichols
May 2021
Carlos says, “I love you” in so many different ways, and TK loves each and every one of them.
There’s the standard, “I love you,”; that’s the one that fills TK with so much warmth; it could help him survive a cold winter's night.
He’s particularly fond of “I made your favorite for dinner,”; that’s one that TK could hear Carlos say every single night, and he would never get sick of it.
He’s even more fond of, “This song made me think of you,”; that’s the one that makes TK realize just how lucky he is. Carlos hears a story of love and finds a way to find TK in it.
Then, there’s his favorite,“Call me when you get home.” Maybe it’s a cop-out; seeing as it might be the one TK hears him say the most.
He first heard Carlos say it the first night they met. At first, TK found it a little strange. He thought it was overkill, in a way; the night had meant nothing. They had meant nothing; nothing more than a good time and a distraction.
Regardless, TK called Carlos and told him he made it home. TK could hear the smile in Carlos’ voice when he said, “Good, I just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”
And TK, well TK didn’t really know how to respond to that. All his life, he felt like he was the one who was meant to take care of other people. Take care of them, watch over them, make sure they were, well, safe. Even if they never felt that way about him.
Having someone feel that same way about him was foreign. TK hated it, he loved it, and he hated that he loved it.
He tried to suppress that part of him that didn’t want to fall prey to this same old story, time and time again. He tried to fight it.
Eventually, he lost that fight; and every time Carlos told him to call him when he got home, he’s so glad that did.
Even after they made it official, walk hand and hand and throw around the term boyfriend like a weightless force; Carlos never stops saying it.
When he leaves, and heads back to a bed that doesn’t seem nearly as warm, Carlos will kiss him goodnight and say, “I love you, call me when you get home.”
TK feels like he was being loved twice as much.
December 2021
Carlos stares at the dinner table; set for just one. He tries not to think too much about the break-up; but he’s found that he’s made TK’s favorite for dinner once again. He looks at his front door, like he’s waiting for TK to walk through it.
He lies in bed that night; just wanting to know if TK’s safe, if he made it home. Even if that home isn’t with him.
January 2022
Carlos is convinced his heartbeat has started to fall in sync to beeping sound of TK’s heart monitor. He’s exhausted, fatigued, irritable and he knows that he’s not going anywhere.
Not until he’s sure TK is safe.
When TK wakes up, Carlos is the first person he sees and he thinks he might be dreaming. When Carlos places a hand on his cheek, TK can’t help himself. He pulls Carlos in closer, grasping onto his shirt; a way to ensure that Carlos is there. He’s still there.
In Carlos’ arms, TK feels safe. He feels like he’s home.
February 2022
Carlos is getting ready for bed, he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth and thinking about the fact it’s no longer his home; but their home. He still has yet to exhale at the thought of it; as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He hears the front door open, and waits for TK to greet him with his usual, “Hi babe.” Instead, there’s a beat of silence followed by his phone ringing. It’s TK’s favorite song.
He walks out to the bedroom and grabs his phone off the night stand. He picks it up, the caller ID reading TK Strand with a bright red heart next to it. “Babe?” He questions, knowing TK’s already in the apartment.
“Hey babe,” TK peeks his head in the bedroom doorway, the phone still next to his ear. “I made it home.”
Yet another tumblr cross-post! I hope you enjoyed <3
a 5x09 coda inspired by this post brought to us by the big beautiful brains of @strandnreyes and @tellmegoodbye <3
"What are you trying to hide?" TK asks as Carlos slows the truck down, stopping at a red light. TK goes to adjust the volume but Carlos grabs his hand in his, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.
"What do you mean trying?" Carlos asks after pulling his lips away, rubbing his thumb over the ridges.
"So you are hiding something," TK points out and his heart flutters as a flush spreads throughout his husband.
Carlos smiles to himself. He's been caught. "How about we grab a bite?"
--
"Boba is barely a bite," TK jokes before dodging Carlos' straw wrapper. "Though, I can't help but notice you brought us back to where we sat down and first talked about, "us "."
"You remember that?" Carlos asks, despite already knowing the answer. He knows this relationship has been a mix of give and take, push and pull; but he loves the moments where he learns TK was crazy about him during the early days too.
"I remember everything about you," TK explains, reaching out a hand and rubbing his thumb against the back of Carlos’ large, doting hand. Carlos wants the whorls of TK's fingertips stitched onto him. "For a moment, the memories were all I could come home to."
TK’s voice trails off at the recollection before he’s holding a steady gaze with Carlos’ brown eyes. Big, brown and beautiful, just like the night they first met and fell in love. He reminds himself, the man in front of him is coming home. He’s coming home again, and again, and again, and again.
"TK," Carlos starts, his mouth suddenly feeling very dry. There's a tremble in his heart; but it's a good one. One that he didn't place there himself, but one that's so organically innate. It's the same one he felt when he started reading his vows.
"The last time we were here, all those years ago, even then, all I could think about was how I had all of these feelings." He continues, starting to recount the day like it's not imprinted on his mind. "Feelings for you, for what I wanted us to be, for what we could have been."
For a brief moment, TK allows the past to eclipse the present. He allows himself to remember how he first felt during Carlos' confession. How he wanted to fold in on himself because he didn't think he'd earned such unadulterated adoration.
Carlos clears his throat, and reaches across the table for TK's left hand. He runs his thumb over his ring, absentmindedly. TK smiles to himself, remembering that he is worthy. Carlos always reassures him of that, even when he doesn't realize it.
"It's been years, but baby," Carlos squeezes his hand, just slightly. His eyes are cast downwards. "I still have all of these feelings. For you, for what we are," He looks up. "For what we will be."
"Baby," TK croons, squeezing Carlos' hand back. His voice is tender, affectionate, and knowing. Carlos falls back in his seat, though keeps his fingers interlocked with TK's.
"You already know what I'm going to say, don't you?" He asks with a chuckle.
"Maybe," TK teases, his plush lips pulling apart to show the gleam of his smile. "But act like I don't anyways."
Carlos smiles before it slightly dims, his thumb still rubbing over the ring; reminding him he’s real. "During my time in the hospital, I kept thinking about the day my dad died," He begins, blinking away a muted burn. "For so long, all I could think about was the day I lost him."
"It wasn't until my third cherry jello that I realized he wasn't the only one I lost that day. I lost myself, and eventually parts of us," Carlos can feel that burn return, feeling ten times stronger. "For the first time in my life, something was missing and I had to reconcile with the fact that it wasn't just you."
"Though this isn't the way I wanted to go about it," He continues. "I finally know what it feels like to have a relationship with my father; to understand what it means to be his son."
With red-rimmed eyes and watery smile, he says, "I don't want to rob Jonah of something like that."
"Oh baby," TK ushers the pet name through a loving, and devoted sigh.
"I, I know I was scared before," Carlos offers, wanting to acknowledge how they last left this. "a-and I can't fully promise that I'm not a bit scared now, but this really smart, sexy guy I know said that might just be the risk of letting love in."
"Hm, tell me more about this smart, sexy guy," TK flirtatiously jokes as he leans across the table and plants a kiss on his husband's lips.
"Oh he's the best," Carlos continues, brown eyes shining. "Kind, funny, patient, understanding."
"Sounds like he's a keeper," TK rallies, falling back into a rhythm that he's missed the sound of.
"He is," Carlos agrees with haste. He grabs both of TK's hands into his, Boba forgotten and feelings flushing through. "I know there's a lot that goes into a big change like this, but I want to make this change with you, for him."
TK is silent for a beat, but his eyes give him away. They're dancing with joy and brimming with pride. Pride for his husband, but pride for himself. For giving himself a future he never thought would be possible.
"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," TK offers. "You know that right?"
"Maybe," Carlos teases back. "But I'll always pretend like I don't if it means I get to hear you say it."
"Baby I'll tell you as many times as you want to hear it," TK promises and God, it sounds like a promise. One that's unbreakable.
Carlos smiles and kisses TK once more. He frees both of their hands and takes a sip of his drink, pushing out a sigh before saying, "We're about to be in over our heads, aren't we?"
"Oh yeah," TK agrees. "It's okay though, we make a pretty good team."
thanks for the tags @carlos-in-glasses @bonheur-cafe @chicgeekgirl89 @nancys-braids
We're back in action baby! I'm so happy my silly little comfort show is back! As usual I'm working on about 12 different things at the same time so it's hard to decide what to share, but have some
K9 handler Carlos
"Hi... uhm I'm looking for someone named Firefox? She's supposed to work here but didn't tell me her actual name..." Carlos trailed off, hoping he didn't look as awkward as he felt.
"Oh hi, that's me!" a woman yelled as she ran down the stairs before either of the paramedics he'd asked could reply. "I'm so sorry I forgot to tell you my name!" she ran up to him with an outstretched hand. "I'm Marjan."
"Carlos." he shook her hand.
"And this must be Pumpkin!" she dropped to her knees and petting and playing with the dog who loved the attention.
"Marj, you can't just pet police dogs when they're working. And you shouldn't put your face so close to a strange dog's teeth." the male paramedic with the beautiful green eyes warned her.
"It's fine..." Carlos managed to say, trying his best not to stare too much. "She's used to being manhandled by my nieces and nephews. And we're done for the day anyway."
"Oh that's great! We can brainstorm about our collab video!" Marjan said, reluctantly getting up from the floor. "Buttercup is probably napping in the bunkroom, I'll go get him so they can meet and be friends."
"Wait... what did you have in mind for the video? Some red vs blue challenge? I know it's a big thing in this city with the baseball competition and everything, but I'm not interested in any of that. I'd rather not piss off the fire department... in case I ever need them." Carlos said, checking for a reaction from the paramedic with the beautiful eyes. "And Pumpkin isn't trained for any fire related work."
"Neither is Buttercup." the man said with a smirk.
"What?" Carlos looked back and forth between him and Marjan.
"Buttercup is a pet. A lazy, big, fluffy Bernese Mountain Dog who lives for snacks and napping on my bed, and refusing to move when I want to get in it." the man explained.
"Don't listen to him." Marjan physically put herself between the beautiful man and Carlos, and he wished she'd move. "We can see how well Buttercup does with police work! Or maybe a snack challenge."
"I know which one Buttercup would prefer." the beautiful man commented. "He'd never stop eating if it was up to him."
"Pumpkin is the same. I have to watch what she eats or she won't fit her harness anymore. Especially when I'm at my parents' house when my sisters are there too. Between my mother and my niece, Pumpkin gets enough snacks to last her a whole week."
The beautiful man smiled and somehow became even more beautiful.
"That's cute." he said and turned to Marjan. "And it sounds like someone else I know."
------
I never know who to tag in these things so
Open tag +
imagine dating spencer and you come to visit or something and make him so distracted that he literally can’t info dump on something and the rest of the team is just shocked
yes yes, a hundred times yes 🤭 thank you so much!
catching a glimpse of yourself in the elevator mirror was the last thing you needed right now. you were covered in paint, your dungarees showing up every coloured streak and hand print against the light denim. you're sure there's paint in your hair but you don't have time to dwell on it, you're late
you'd got stressed, painting your boyfriends apartment on your own, lost track of time and then didn't have the time to change before running out of the apartment, just about managing to remember to grab yours and spencer's lunch on the way
"i'm so sorry i'm late," you sigh and frown as you rush through the bullpen to the collection of desks you're oh so familiar with, "please excuse the state of me,"
spencer turns at the sound of your voice, "hi sweetheart," he hums, looking up at you just as you dip to kiss him quickly before pushing the bag of food onto his lap
"hey," you smile softly at your boyfriend before turning to his colleagues, "hey guys, how are we all?" you ask, getting a mixed bunch of replies back
"how's painting?" derek laughs, looking at your appearance and the state of your clothes
you slide onto spencer's desk, pulling your legs up to sit cross legged, "standing six feet up a ladder trying to hold a tray of paint and a brush is hard, i've nearly fallen off twice," you huff,
spencer hands you the sandwich he knows is yours and then seemingly looks at you properly for the first time since you've been there, "hey," he says, almost breathlessly
"hello?" you question, head tilting slightly, "you've already said hi," you say, looking at emily and jj who just snicker and shrug their shoulders but spencer doesn't reply, "oh before i forget!"
your boyfriend watches you carefully as you produce a piece of paper from the tiny pocket on the front of your dungarees, flapping it around to unfold it, your other hand busy clutching your food
"the living room is next, i need to know how much paint to buy," you explain, handing the paper to him, "the cans are one litre or five litres, i can't figure it out"
truth be told you hadn't bothered to try and work it out, knowing spencer would be able to reel off the answer like it's nothing, naturally, he knew the exact measurements of every wall in his house
the boy stares up at you blankly, big brown eyes soft and sparkly. your cheeks heat up under his gaze, your eyebrows raising slightly, "spence?" you nudge him with your knee
he jumps ever so slightly, his head shaking a bit, "hmm?" he asks before only just registering you've handed him something, his eyes scan over it, "oh!" he blushes, turning his chair to face his desk
"what colour are you doing the living room?" jj asks while she stabs at her salad like it's offending her. you'd consulted the girls with all of the decorating developments.
"a light brown i think, we have so much to hang on the walls," you pause to swallow, "so something neutral," you finish with a slight nod
a door opening to your side grabs your attention, aaron coming out of his office with his lunch. he comes down into the bullpen, sitting on the edge of emily's desk, "the paint fighting back?" he asks you, slight smile creeping over his face
you roll your eyes at him, playfully, while the other laugh at your expense, "very funny but i don't see any of you offering to help"
penelope scoffs, "actually, i did" and she was right, however her idea of getting wine drunk and decorating had been quickly shut down by spencer, the only input he's actually offered up in the whole process
giggling, you turn back to your boyfriend who's been far too quiet, "boy wonder?" you say gently, pushing your fingers through his hair, "got an answer for me?"
usually he would have an answer within seconds, his minutes of silence making you frown, he turns to you with the same frown painted across his face, "i don't know," he says
people around you gasp, loudly too, "what do you mean, you don't know?" emily almost chokes on her lunch, sitting forward to gawp at the boy
"i do not know how much paint we need" he confirms
derek scrambles, pulling his phone out of his pocket, "say it again, i need record of this moment" he pleads while garcia smacks him
"well there's a first," david says, wandering over after hearing spencer say i don't know for possibly the first time, ever
your boy stares at the paper in his hand and then up at you, confused, "i have to go and work it out, excuse me" he says, rushed, as he stands and takes off towards circle table room
after a moment of shocked silence you turn to the team who are all staring directly at you, "i'll go check on him, i wonder what's wrong?" you say to no one in particular as you hop off of the desk
"i think i know," jj sing songs and the others hum in agreement as you hop up the stairs and along the walkway into the room.
when you get into the room spencer is stood in front of the biggest whiteboard you've possibly ever seen, marker in hand though the board is still empty of his handwriting
"spence? angel?" you say quietly, staring at his back as he starts to write the measurements of the walls in his living room, "everything alright?"
he hums, not turning to look at you as he continues to work through the problem, "yeah, fine, just can't think properly when you're around," he admits, "not when you look like that," he turns slightly to look at you
"oh, do you want me to leave?" you're sad, its obvious in your voice. nervously you start fiddling with the sleeves of your sweatshirt
your boyfriend gasps, "no, no, honey that's not what i meant!" he says, holding his arm out. you slide into the space, head resting on his shoulder, "you're so beautiful and i love you so much, so so much, my brain just switches off when you’re around"
"really?" you giggle, looking up at him. he hums and nods his head, a light blush rushes up his neck before taking over his cheeks, "i love you too,"
he's taller than you, forcing you onto your tip toes to kiss him, not caring when someone, emily, whoops from the bullpen. gentle hands squeeze at your waist, while you hold his face with one hand, the other resting on his shoulder
"three litres," spencer mumbles against your mouth, you pull away with a sight hum, forgetting what you'd asked of him, "you need three but it's cheaper to just buy five and have left over, now come back" he huffs, his arm wrapping tighter around you to pull you back in for another kiss
thanks for reading! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a smooch if you do, ily!! send prompts to my ask box!
Word count: 763
Summary: rambling with Spencer after sex
Warnings: mention of sex, and that's it.
Prompt: Coffee is illegal and you have to single-handedly smuggle it into the country
A/N: I'm trying to write random blurbs to fight this awful writer's block. Wish me luck!
Masterlist
If there was a moment Spencer enjoyed with his girlfriend, was their random conversation after sex. Their pillow talks were so aimless, yet so incredibly personal and intimate, he could never get enough of them. There was something special about that time together. It wasn’t that they were naked, it wasn’t about what they had just done. It was about how they seemed to be so carefree, so happy, and so connected, that they could talk about anything or everything.
Most of his team would never believe it, but Spencer Walter Reid was one chatty fellow right after sex.
- “Ok, explain to me this: how on earth are you so freaking smart, but you still haven’t figured out cooking yet.”- (Y/N) asked her boyfriend giggling, as he walked back to bed naked with a bag of chips and two bottles of Gatorade.
- “Why are you attacking me after I made you come four times?!”- Spencer replied, chuckling, and pretending to be deeply hurt.- “This is outrageous!”
- “What is scandalous is that you feed me Gatorade and chips after all the effort I just made on my knees!”- (Y/N) argued making Spencer gasp, acting shocked and insulted.
- “What about my effort? I just made you cum four times in a little less than an hour! I deserve a treat myself, why don’t you bake me some cookies?”
He was teasing her, and she knew it. It was fun and sweet watching Spencer so relaxed and comfortable. He lay on the bed completely naked, drinking from his Gatorade bottle as his girlfriend sat next to him, playing with his hair sweetly.
- “Which is the one thing you can’t live without?”
- “Other than you?”
- “I am not a thing, Spencer Reid.”- (Y/N) stated and looked at him raising an eyebrow.
- “I know that. And I’m sure you also know the answer to that.”
- “It’s confusing actually. I wanna say coffee, but also books. So… which one is it? Which is your true love.”
- “You, always you. Forever and ever, you.”- Spencer wrapped his arms around her and moved her closer to him, kissing her cheeks several times. (Y/N) hummed happily as she let the warmth from his body wrap around her. And for a moment, the two of them stayed in silence, enjoying their moment together.
- “And coffee, of course.”- Spencer added, making (Y/N) laugh immediately.
- “Why coffee?”
- “What can I say? It keeps me going.”- Spencer explained, almost apologizing. - “I can’t read 14 books a day without my coffee. I don’t think I could make you come so many times without my daily doses of caffeine.”
- “And what would you do if coffee were illegal?”- (Y/N)’s question kept Spencer quiet for a moment. He was giving serious thought to the question.
- “Well, that would be challenging.”- he answered after a few minutes. - “I would have to get it in the black market and keep everybody in the FBI in the dark about it. I mean, I don’t wanna lose my job over a cup of coffee.”
- “Of course not.”- his girlfriend tried to hold the chuckles as she continued talking.- “And what if you can’t find coffee in the black market?”
- “Then I guess I would have to smuggle it myself.”
- “You? Spencer Reid? transferring illegal goods? I’d pay to see that!”- (Y/N) sounded impressed, amused, and shocked, at the same time. Spencer smiled and ran his fingers down her chest, teasing her as he continued talking.
- “I’d be good, trust me. These hands can do magic.”
- “Oh, believe me, I know!”- she answered chuckling.- “How would you smuggle coffee?”
- “Good questions, love. Good question.”- Spencer smiled as his fingers trailed a path from the soft space between her breast to her belly button, giving (Y/N) goosebumps.- “I guess if I have to make up a simple plan, I would go to Colombia and get the best beans in the back market. I’d hide it like a magician where no one could find them…”
- “In your luggage?”- (Y/N) raised an eyebrow as she questioned Spencer’s idea.
- “Yeah, but inside other things, like books. No one suspects books. And I usually carry a lot with me. So all my books would be filled with sweetly roasted coffee beans.”
- “You are a threat, Spencer.”- (Y/N) replied, giggling. Her boyfriend simply smiled, nodding as he leaned closer to crash her lips with his.
I am not 100% sure anymore if that was the origin of that gif but it was definitely part of the "Tarlos ties the knot" promo video for the finale that was posted on Instagram and Twitter like a day or two before the finale aired.
The scene was originally supposed to be in the finale as well but was cut.
Jade you’re always doing the boys comforting reader and I love that but maybe we could comfort hotch? Like it’s Haley’s bday or smth and you just spend a quiet day together reminiscing and comforting him! Tysm I love you!!
ty for requesting, ily ♡ fem!reader
Sometimes you worry about coming second to Haley, but mostly you feel intensely gutted for Aaron's loss. It's natural to feel inferior. He loves her even now she's gone, holding the same torch for her as when she lived. She was selfless, and gave her life for her son. You haven't ever done anything so brave.
"I get if you think this wasn't my place," you say softly, arms behind your back, hand wrapped around your elbow. "I can get rid of it all. Just wanted things to feel special for you both."
Aaron barely looks at you, his eyes flitting over the things you'd prepared. Cards for her. Two bouquets. A cake. Everything set aside immaculately. Everything as perfect as he would've done himself.
"And I didn't bring it up because I was unsure about what you'd say, but I don't have to be here today." You point at your handbag ready on the chair. "I can make myself busy. I want you and Jack to have everything you need, you know? So if that's space, you don't have to be afraid to tell me."
Aaron smiles a small smile. "You know her favourite flower?"
"You told me." He speaks of her funeral rarely. Happier memories more often —things she did as a dedicated and goofy wife, and a devoted and fun mother.
"I don't want you to leave," he says, "not unless you don't want to be here."
"Of course I want to be here. I know this is a hard day for you," you say gently.
He looks like he'd accept a hug if you offer one. You step into the reach of his arms and hang your wrists over his shoulder. Haley must have done this before, you know. You're not her. You're different in so many ways. You aren't sure if reminding him of her is a good thing or a bad thing, but right now, you're just a girlfriend trying to make her partner feel better.
"A hard life," you amend. "I get that this won't ever go away, Aaron. Tell me what you need and I'll give it to you."
"I have everything I need," he says simply.
You wrap your arms around him, hugging his face to the curve of your neck on tiptoes.
"I'm sorry she can't be here," you whisper, petting the hair at the back of his head. "I'm really sorry, Aaron."
"Me too."
You don't know how much he can handle. With a quick, closed-eyed squeeze, you pull away from him and turn back to your preparations. He stands behind you, fingertips ghosting against the small of your back.
"That ones bigger than the rest," he murmurs, gesturing to an especially beautiful flower.
"I got the nicest ones they had."
"She would've put them on the window sill in the kitchen. That way she'd see them a couple of times a day."
You put them on the window sill, where they blossom for a week. When they wilt, you press the biggest bud in an old book.
could i request teacher!reader with hotch? like maybe she’s jacks teacher
thank you for your request! fem!reader, 1.2k
You're a teacher: you're always tired. Overworked, underpaid, everybody knows how it goes. And maybe you've let yourself go because you don't have any real material hopes for the future beyond getting Macy Danish to read at a first grade level, but how were you supposed to know that Jack Hotchner's father would be so overwhelmingly attractive? It's not fair.
He's handsome though older than you'd been expecting, but that isn't the cut and dry of it. When he comes in, it's alone, in a well-fitted suit. He's tall and remarkably dark-eyed, shaking your hand without trying to impose any authority, as some of the fathers tend to do, and when you call him Mr. Hotchner, he says, "Aaron, please," but continues to call you Ms. L/N.
"Aaron," you say, pulling your skirt under your thighs as you sit down. You're dressed in nice clothes for the parent-teacher conferences, but you could've covered your sleeplessness better. "Jack is the nicest boy in class. He's actually my loveliest kid. Um…" You search through your notes for the preliminary assessment of Jack. "Sorry, two seconds."
"Take your time. I know what it's like to dig through a mountain of paperwork every day."
"Jack mentioned you work in the government, he calls you a special agent," you say, smiling. "You get the bad guys."
"I am a special agent. Supervisory." Aaron is conscientious enough to pretend he doesn't notice your surprise. "I'm chief of the behavioural analysis unit."
You can't even begin to guess what that entails. "Oh," you say breathlessly.
"I understand that it sounds fantastical."
"It sounds impressive," you say, floundering to correct yourself. Behavioural analysis? It must be obvious to him how nervous he's making you, then, and when you realise that, you get worse. "I'm so sorry about this. I should be more organised. I usually am."
"That's alright. Take your time."
Does he always speak that way? His voice is like fucking silk? Is he messing with you?
You yank the notes you made for Jack from the pile and flatten them across the desk. "Okay, sorry. Like I was saying, Jack is really the nicest kid, him and his friend Molly. They're both lovely, and teachers shouldn't have favourites, please don't tell the other parents, but they're my favourites." You smile at him quickly and return your eyes to the paper. The words swim in front of your eyes. "Jack can read better than you could ever hope for a first grader, he's immensely intelligent for his age group. He's patient. He'll explain anything to anyone if they ask him too, and he does it well."
"I'm glad to hear that," he says, again so softly.
You pick up one of your skinny biros to have something to fidget with. He's a very good looking man, but you're a good teacher. You can focus on what to say. Some parents need good things only. Some need reassurement that they're doing a good job. Aaron is harder to read, but you know what he needs, too.
"He can be lonely," you say, looking him in the eye. "I don't think that that's down to any fault. I'm sure you know better than I do why he might feel that way." You know about his mom's passing over a year ago. You've seen grief in children too many times. "He… I understand if this isn't okay with you, but he eats lunch with me sometimes. I encourage him to sit with his peers, of course, but I think he runs out of energy pretty quickly."
Aaron nods thoughtfully. His brows quirk into a furrow that you're afraid is directed at you.
"I don't think he necessarily has trouble connecting with his friends."
"What do you think?"
"I think something awful happened to your family, and Jack will feel it for the rest of his life, but that it won't stop him from being great. It already isn't. And… he clearly has a father who loves him and who he admires. You're his second favourite topic."
"What's his first?" he asks.
"He's really into Fruity Fridays," you say with a laugh. "I bring in fruits you don't get often in America. Someone would've had to sign a form."
"No, I remember signing it. He likes that?" His smile is golden. "I can't get him to try new things."
"He had all the leftover gold kiwi last week." You rub your lips together. Time is ticking. You have nearly thirty parents to see tonight, but talking to Mr. Hotchner has been so normal. He's a regular person in a sea of inattentive helicopter narcissists. It's a relief and a half to meet him and know a kid as gentle as Jack is in good hands. "Mr. Hotchner, I have to tell you, I'm really relieved to meet you."
"Aaron," he corrects.
Your tone drops too low. "Aaron."
"I'm more than relieved," he says. "I knew that this year would be harder for him. I didn't know… I'm grateful to you, for being so kind with him."
You look down at your notes, flushed from head to toe despite your airy skirt. Crossing your legs, you shake your head. "It's my job."
"To let him take up the only break you get all day?" he asks.
"It's not like that. Jack doesn't bother me." You fold your notes in half. "I can see his role model measures up."
"I could say the same thing."
The next time you see Jack, bright and early Monday mooring shepherded by his aunt Jessica, he's very happy to see you. You offer him a hug and pat his back when he wraps his arms around your hips. "Hello, Jack. Was your dad pleased with your drawings?"
Jack smiles at you. "I have a note for you."
"You do? Can I see? Where is it, honey?"
Jack takes off his backpack and pulls out the note and a tupperware container. "Oh, wow, did you make treats for the class? Jack, that's so nice!"
"No. Dad said those are for you. He said you should have nice for nice, or something," Jack informs you.
"You'll share with me, though? I can't eat them all by myself," you whisper.
He nods with enthusiasm and runs off to put his backpack in his cubby and his coat on the hook. You look down at the cookies and note, which is actually an envelope.
You open it with your thumbnail. The writing is Aaron's usual tight cursive.
Dear Miss L/N,
I hoped to thank you again in person, but work makes that hard. I appreciate everything you do for Jack. There are teachers who work, and there are teachers who go above and beyond. I can feel confident anywhere in the country knowing Jack is being taught by the latter.
Gratefully yours,
Aaron Hotchner.
P.S. Please don't feed Jack too many cookies. They're not for him.
You keep the letter even if it's lame to do so. When is the next parent teacher conference, anyways?
maybe hotch and reader are expecting a little bambino and nobody else knows until someone points out reader's belly? (i feel like it'd be absolutely hilarious if it was spencer that pointed it out 💀💀)
thank u for ur request! fem!pregnant!reader
"Can I ask you something?" Spencer asks.
You smile at him gently. "Always, Spence."
He seems cagey despite your assurance, lowering his voice and stepping closer to you. "Do you think maybe you need more fibre in your diet?"
You've been friends, best friends, with Spencer for so long you genuinely can't remember a time in your life where you didn't love him, but you have no idea what to say to that. It's the weirdest thing he's ever said unprompted. That's saying something.
"Is there… a reason that you're asking me?"
"There's three," he says. He waits for you to nod before laying them out. "For a few weeks now you've been more tired than usual. You're hungry all the time, and your stomach is bloated. I know that can feel painful, you could eat a handful of chia seeds in the morning and it would help."
You feel like someone's dropped an ice cube down the back of your t-shirt. Disarmed, you turn to Hotch where he's standing at the whiteboard, your hand moving automatically to your stomach. He gives you a similarly perturbed look. Derek's head shoots up at the list of symptoms, and Emily covers her mouth at your protective hand where it's poised. Fucking profilers.
"I've actually been taking vitamins," you say, wondering if you can still save it.
Emily is the first to break. "Wait, are you–?" She doesn't let herself finish.
Spencer shakes his head, brown curls bouncing at the base of his neck. "What?" he asks, his lips twisting into a trademark pout.
"Spence," you murmur, taking his wrists into your hands. "I want you to know that I was going to tell you first. This weekend, genuinely. I didn't think you'd notice so soon, is all."
He looks at Hotch, then you, then Hotch again. You press your lips together. "Please don't be upset," you say.
It clicks. There and then, you witness the cogs turning. "You're pregnant?" he asks breathlessly.
"On purpose," you joke.
Spencer tackles you. His arms fly around your waist, a tight, brotherly squeeze of a hug that makes you feel like you're gonna burst. "You're kidding!"
You're barraged by hugs. Emily, Derek, JJ. Rossi shakes Hotch's hand and pats his back in congratulations, which is so old-man style you find yourself laughing under JJ's arm. "How do you know it's his?" you ask Rossi.
Hotch laughs as Derek moves in for a similar bro-hug, nothing but love in his eyes as he smiles at you from over Derek's shoulder. You smile back, amazed and ecstatic at their happy reactions, until Spencer forces JJ aside with more gusto than he likely should to hug you again. You're blinded by his wild hair.
"I don't think you can fix this with a cup of chia seeds," Derek says.
"We couldn't be happier," Hotch assures him.
"On purpose, huh? When were you going to tell us?" Emily asks, her face a picture of surprise, a hint of disappointment in her thin brows. "I had no idea you wanted another one!"
"Jack wants a brother," Hotch says. "You know she can't say no to him. And he's perfect–"
"But there's nothing wrong with wanting more," Rossi finishes, his eyes gleaming.
"I thought it might be a little awkward to emphasise that we were trying," you say, patting Spencer's shoulders.
Emily winces. "Gotcha."
"Let's see the bump, mama," Derek says.
You step back from Spencer's side to turn, holding your shirt flat to the underside of your baby bump. It got bigger quicker than you thought it would, and now that it's been pointed out, it's obvious.
Derek shakes his head in disbelief. "That's–"
"Amazing," Hotch says. You beam at him.
There's a second round of hugs. Delight thrums in the air like a charge, laughter buoyant. Hotch parts the sea of excitement to kiss your cheek and hug your shoulder proudly, turning his head away from everyone. You know what he's thinking —this is going to be a really special time for you both. Your team will make sure of it.
"Um?" Penelope asks, elbowing open the door with a weighty laptop in her hands. "Did I miss something?"
Penelope, predictably, screams down the house at the presenting of your bump. Then she cries, and for a while you're all unashamedly teary-eyed.
Baby blurb with Aaron where he is so protective of reader and their unborn child while out on a case and the team tease him about it
thank you for your request! ♥︎ hotch x pregnant!reader
Aaron doesn't patronise you by insisting you don't work out in the field but you know there's a part of him that must want to deep down.
He constantly has a hand extended toward you. Toward the small of your back when you're climbing out of cars and elevators. Toward your hand when you're close by, his pinky an inch from yours. Toward your stomach, your small bump. He lets himself touch your baby bump on very rare occasions. It's the one thing he can't hold back.
"You're sure you're feeling alright?" he asks you, face to face in the middle of a police precinct's conference room.
You're careful not to breathe on him, though hopefully your breath smells of toothpaste and antacid rather than throw up. "Aaron, I'm used to it now, you know that."
"It's not about getting used to it. If I could take this from you–"
You pat his pale cheek. "It's just sick. You're stressed and it's making you worry too much, that's all it is. I'm perfectly fine." You lower your voice to a whisper, "We're perfectly fine."
His knuckles brush your bump.
"You can ask me how I'm doing if you want, Hotch. I'll answer more honestly," Morgan says.
You and Aaron ease away from one another. His professionalism falls into place. You love Morgan almost as much as you love Aaron, so you beam at him when you probably shouldn't.
"How are you, Derek?" you ask.
"Whole lot better than you, mama bear. Little brat's kicking your ass today, huh?" He leans back in his chair, tossing the pen in his hands into the air and catching it lacksidisaically.
"The baby," Aaron says sternly, clearly not appreciating Morgan's choice of descriptor, "is behaving unfortunately."
"The baby likely isn't doing anything," Spencer corrects, wearing a smile unlike himself. "Research suggests that morning sickness is caused by a hormone made in the placenta created as a byproduct during pregnancy. So, if anything–"
"It's Aaron's fault," Rossi concludes.
You're surprised Aaron doesn't pinch the bridge of his nose.
"It's alright, boss, I forgive you–" you begin.
"We've talked about you calling me 'boss'–"
"–for getting me pregnant. After all, I asked–"
"Did you?" Prentiss asks, surprised.
"–and I have a funny feeling I'll be happy with the end product." You rub your stomach affectionately. It's a show, a drama to make your friends laugh in an otherwise dismal situation, but you feel something stirring beneath your skin. You bring your second hand to your bump and close your eyes. "Oh, she's moving."
"No way!" JJ says happily.
There's a gap where nobody talks. You try to hide your amazed smile, heat blooming behind your eyes. You've felt her move before, mostly at night when you're lying in bed. Every time is a flashing reminder of what's really happening.
"Hotch," Morgan says. "We all know you want to."
"We have things we need to be doing."
"They can wait another ten seconds," you say softly. "Please."
It doesn't take anymore convincing. Aaron crosses the room and you take his hand, sliding it against the swollen hill of your stomach until you find the place you'd felt your baby moving. You aren't sure if Aaron will be able to feel it —it isn't a kick, just a stirring of limbs— but she moves, and his lips part with a sigh.
The team pretend they aren't watching, besides Rossi, who laughs. "The miracle of life," he says.
You snort at his cheesiness if you weren't busy trying to take a snap-shot of Aaron's face where awe, reverence, and love all work to turn his lips up in an earnest grin.
hotch baby blurb! can we pls have some domestic hotch... breakfast on the kitchsn counter just the two of them (i imagine this is in a world where they're married w/ more kids after Jack so like. run down tired parents vibes)
thank you for your request! ♥︎ fem!mom!reader 1k
The problem that morning is that the kitchen table is covered one end to the other. Toys, coats, Aaron's briefcase, your laptop, your notebook and pencil case, Jack's AP history project. So despite your good intentions of wanting to sit down with Aaron and have a romantic Sunday breakfast, there's nowhere for you to sit.
"You should've waited for me," he says, as if summoned by your troubled thoughts. He's good at that.
"I wanted to do it before Janey wakes up."
Jane is three years old, which is currently your favourite age she's ever been, but makes breakfast hard.
Aaron nods and holds out his hands. You brace yourself on instinct and try not to squeal too loudly when he starts to lift you, hopping so he can set you on the counter.
"What are you doing?" you ask through laughter.
"The table's a mess," he says.
"I'm sorry–"
"You will be if you apologise for something that isn't your fault," he threatens.
Aaron is unsurprisingly an amazing partner. He always carries his weight. And though his job gets in the way sometimes, you can't lie: he's a dreamboat, and he makes being married with two kids feel as easy as it can.
Which, regretfully, isn't easy at all. But still. Go Aaron.
You wrap your arms around his neck and almost give him whiplash pulling him back.
"I'm just grabbing plates," he says, confused.
"No, sorry, can I have you for two seconds? Sorry."
He stands between your legs, waiting patiently for you to do whatever it is you're planning. He's used to your over apologising and your sudden fits of affection. They drive him insane for different reasons. He looks content now if slightly flummoxed, his unkempt hair bordering his brow, his sleep shirt rolled at the neckline from a deep sleep. You should know, you'd spent the night nestled against it.
"You can have me as long as you want me."
"We both know that's not true."
He smells like toothpaste. You pull his face to yours, resting your cheek against the side of his chin. Your arms curl around the nape of his neck, trying to hide him from everything.
"I wish I could make the world stop spinning," you confess. "For me and you."
"I can definitely arrange that, honey," Aaron says. You love his at-home voice. He talks to you in a register that's sweet and soft and low, like there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be, and nobody in it he'd rather speak with. "You know I'd do anything you wanted."
"You wouldn't let me give you a massage last night," you complain.
He laughs, almost giggles in your ear. "Listen to me. You think I don't know you, but I do. I know exactly what kind of massage you wanted to give me."
"Then why'd you say no?" you whine, not truly offended.
He's of course entitled to reject your advances for any reason at all, but you already know why he'd said no. Jack had likely been awake down the hall. You wouldn't have really done anything so salacious for that exact reason yourself, but it's fun to joke with Aaron like this, and hear his words broken up by a scandalised laugh.
"Because you're a minx," he says, fingers pressing hard into your side. You love the pressure of a good squeeze and he knows that. "My neck's a little stiff right now, if you're still offering."
You end up with a plate of French toast in your lap, Aaron's hips between your knees. You press at the notches in his neck and he feeds you bites of sugared fruit. It's not the romantic breakfast you'd envisioned, but you like this better, anyways.
"There?" you ask, listening for a rift in his breathing.
"You're really good at this."
"I've given you enough of them, Hotchner," you say, digging your fingertips into the knot that's giving him trouble. He leans forward into your touch, and for a while everything's quiet.
When you feel like the knot's been defeated you start the cool down, rubbing your hands over his abused skin slowly. This part doesn't really do anything. It's an excuse to be close to him and nothing more.
"How's that?" you ask gently.
He drags a hand over your face. Heavy-handed but with kind intentions. His thumb slides from the skin beside your nose to the delicate skin under your eye, where he strokes a lazy back and forth.
"I love you."
You lean into his hand. "I love you, too."
"Oh, gross," Jack says.
Aaron steps away from you and you smile at your baby. Jack isn't yours but you'll always love him like he is, more and more for every impossible inch that he grows, and you're delighted to see Janey hugged to his chest.
"Hi, my loves," you say. "Sorry, your dad's just harassing me again. You know how it is."
Aaron snorts, shovelling French toast and fruit onto a new plate for Jack. "You know how it is," he echoes.
"Did you sleep okay?" you ask Jack.
You've been asking him the same question every morning for years. Every morning, he says, "The same as yesterday."
You assume it to be a good thing.
"Swap with me, buddy," Aaron says, offering Jack breakfast to steal a floppy looking Janey in exchange.
They swap, though Jack isn't eager. He's cool now he's in middle school, too cool to hug his dad most of the time, and nearly too cool to tell you he loves you when you drop him off, but he's never too cool to dote on his baby sister.
"She's worth more than a plate of toast, dad, come on."
You smile around a mouthful as they argue for your girl. She tips her head back and gives a small, happy smile that's a hundred percent Aaron when she sees you. You decide you love breakfast time.
You learn how to be someone’s girlfriend. Or, 5 times Hotch raises your expectations (+1 time you raise his).
7k words, new established relationship to established relationship, lots of fluff and some small angst, hurt/comfort, fem!reader, civilian!reader, calls him aaron, basically hotch treating you well
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1. Soup.
"Are you hungry?" Aaron asks, hands at the neck of his shirt as he loosens his tie.
You've never seen him do that. It's a lot to take in.
"A little, are you?" He's lucky that you remember to answer.
His smile lights you up inside and out, a warm, casual quirk. "Famished."
"Should we make something?"
He turns from the doorway and moves into the kitchen. You have to twist on his couch to see his movements.
"No need. I should've asked if you like it, but I made vegetable soup. The kind with mini dumplings."
You look down at your legs and squeeze your thighs together until your knees tap. You're too shy to go and meet him where he's standing, but perhaps sitting and having him wait on you is arrogant. And awkward.
The couch is plush under your hands as you stand. You'd slipped off your shoes at the door, and your socked-feet slide over the tiled floor of the kitchen as you make your way to his side. Aaron lights the stove, atop which stands a tall cooking pot.
"When did you have time to make that?" you ask, soft with awe.
"I knew you'd be coming over. I started it this morning."
"And if I didn't like it?"
He turns his gaze to yours, pot lid held aloft. "Then I would've ordered in for us. You're sure this is okay?"
You've never had somebody cook for you before. Homemade, fresh ingredients, and the intricacy of the dumplings too, it all impresses and amazes you. You feel very special. Like you're worth all the effort.
"I'm sure. More sure if you let me try it."
His laugh startles you for its rarity. "Okay. It's not done," he warns.
"Just to taste it."
He stirs the warming soup with a big spoon for half a minute, the heat on high, before scooping up some broth and holding it above a cupped palm. "It's probably not very hot," he says.
Oh, you think, excited and sick with nerves at once. He's going to feed the soup to me.
Something out of a movie, something you didn't know people actually did for their significant others, Aaron waits for you to open your mouth and offers the spoon. You slurp and feel heat rise to your cheeks at the clumsy sound.
"Aaron," you say, soft and obsessed after you've swallowed, "it's really nice. You made that yourself?"
"I can cook," he says defensively.
You lick your lips, giggling. "I can tell. That was really good. Though it was definitely too cold."
"Mm. It has to cook through some more. Reduce. Do you want to shower?" He puts down his wooden spoon, head tilting to one side gently. He assesses your expression, and brings a curved hand to settle over your cheek. The tip of his index finger kisses the delicate skin under your eye. "No, maybe not. You look tired."
You probably shouldn't say something like that to your brand new girlfriend (you scream internally at the word, every single time since he asked you a week ago) but Aaron speaks factually. You don't think for a second that there's any malice there, any hidden critique. His words shine with concern.
"It's Friday. I'm always tired at the end of the week."
His hand falls to your shoulder. "I can imagine."
"You can go shower, if you like. I'll watch the soup."
"I need one, huh?"
He must know how well-kept he looks even now. You're not sure you've ever seen him dishevelled.
"Definitely need one," you try to tease. It comes out murmur-quiet, and Aaron takes pity and kisses your cheek.
He leaves to shower and you 'watch' the soup — you stand at the stovetop and soak in it's emanating warmth, stirring it every now and then to prevent the bottom from burning. The shower runs muffled from the bathroom, and your mind wanders as it tends to do. It's an undeniable fact that Aaron is naked right now, the thought opening an avenue of images you've been trying not to think about all day. It's your very first time spending the night after a couple of weeks of dating, and now you're together, if Aaron wants to have sex tonight you'll say yes. He's handsome, and his build suggests a certain… tenacity.
His hands would convince you alone. Big hands.
You look down into the simmering pot of soup and smile harder than you have any right to smile. He's done everything right, all the romance; he'd asked you out clearly with no doubt of his intentions, which had shocked you; he'd brought you a bouquet of flowers on your first date, which had delighted you; and he hadn't tried to take you home, which had surprised you.
Modern romance often doesn't feel very romantic. Things with Aaron are different.
Hell, he's so sweet he probably won't make a move unless you make one yourself.
You'd prefer to be squeaky clean tonight, you've decided, just in case. When he gets out of the shower, you'll tell him you've changed your mind.
The shower shuts off. He appears a little bit after that, in new clothes, towel around his neck and feet either side of your own as he sidles in for a damp and quick cheek kiss.
"Sorry I took so long. Are you ready to eat?" he asks, taking the spoon from your hand to give the soup a big, gran stir.
"Actually, could I shower?"
If he's surprised at your changed mind he says nothing, only turns down the heat of the stove. "Of course you can. Come on, I'll show you how it all works."
His 'come on' is accompanied with a guiding hand at the small of your back. You let yourself be guided. The heat of his touch fills your stomach and doesn't abate, no matter how cold you run the spray.
2. Phone calls.
It's the week after that when you're supposed to be spending the night again. You're excited for two reasons, the first and smallest being that he had been what you thought and more in bed, that itself an expectation raised, and it had felt like connection at its brightest — he'd been sweet, and he'd been rough but never, not ever once cruel. A perfect night. The second, and biggest, is that he's honestly just the nicest person you've ever met. He's your boyfriend, a phrase you don't say in front of him because he's admittedly older than you, and you can't imagine he calls you his girlfriend. Partner might be more apt. He's your boyfriend and he's openly fond of you. Openly more than that. It's new to be doted on as ardently as he dotes on you.
He touches you like he can't believe he's touching you. He talks to you like you're gold dust, all smiles and laughs heavy with admiration, and he listens. You've never felt listened to in the way you do when you're with him.
So many conversations are just one party waiting for the other to stop talking until it's their turn. You think, maybe, Aaron would let you talk for hours. He would listen the whole time.
In summary, you're basically thrumming with excitement to see him again. You've missed him some, but mostly you've spent the week bouncing off of walls waiting for the next time you get to talk to him.
His text is disheartening, to say the least.
Hey, honey. I have to cancel our plans tonight. I'm sorry, and I'll explain as soon as I get the chance. Please take care of yourself for me until I can.
It doesn't make you mad. While it is extremely short notice, and your heart hurts to the point of frustrated tears, you know it isn't his fault. He's been clear about his job at the FBI and what that means for you both. How it will without a doubt pull him away from you during dates, the middle of the night, special occasions, the works — this had been after a small disclosure about his commitment to his son, Jack, and how he's a father first — and how it will definitely cause some strain.
"But," he'd said, "I want you, and I want this to work. So if you can be patient with me, I'll try to make it worth it."
He's been successful every time. After he'd cancelled your third date, he'd quickly rearranged it and apologised with a modest but beautiful bouquet of flowers.
Somewhere between the fifth and sixth date, you hadn't seen him for two whole weeks, and every worry you'd had about his intentions had been abated by a steady stream of encouraging text messages and the occasional photograph. Nothing crazy, but sweet things, like the cookies he and Jack had made that night, captioned, I'd save one for you if I thought Jack would let me, or a sunrise in a different state, captioned, This looks like the dress you wore to Lemaira.
Later that night, you're unhappy and frowning still, a small carton of ice cream freezing your fingers to the cardboard and a spoon in your mouth when your phone starts to ring.
You aren't expecting it to be Aaron. You aren't in the habit of calling one another, even though you'd secretly wished he would while he's away beforehand.
It's nearing eight o'clock.
"What time do you call this?" you joke, smiling despite yourself. Again, the excitement that comes with talking to him wells at the surface.
"I know, I'm sorry," he says, sounding very tired.
You slouch down into your couch cushions, ice cream on the armrest, remote for the TV on your chest. You click the volume button down, down, down until the TV's near silent.
"I'm kidding, mostly. Are you okay? I've been a little worried."
Understatement of the century. You know sudden cases of violence often draw him away from Virginia, but this had been sudden sudden. The lack of information had made you think the worst, worse than serial killer and bombers and hostage situations. You'd thought Aaron was in danger himself, and then you'd tried to suffocate that thought. He'd never worry you like that even if he were.
"I'm fine. Sorry to miss you tonight."
"I'm sorry to miss you too," you say, voice disjointed, too earnest. You scramble to hide the depth of your feelings. "Where are you?"
"I'm in St. Louis. Where are you?"
You laugh, curling onto your side with the phone pressed up against your ear. "Where am I? I'm at home."
"What are you doing?"
"I was watching TV."
"Yeah? Did you eat anything yet?"
You think to the takeout you'd bought and shoved in the microwave, not hungry at the time but knowing knowing would be. "Not yet. Why are you asking?"
"I want to know."
"I told you in my text I would take care, Aaron."
"Honey," he says, pet name like a warm palm over your heart, "my definition of taking care and your definition are very different. Promise me you'll eat something."
"Of course I will. Easy promise." You scratch the couch fabric absent-mindedly. "Have you eaten?"
"Yes," he says, the sound of a closing window in the background. "It's awful how much take out I eat. All these cases, there's never any time to cook real food."
"Why, what did you have? And surely there's some uber healthy options out there, like, a chickpea salad-"
"That costs thirty dollars? I'm not struggling, honey, but we both know that's obscene."
You're laughter takes on a giddy quality as you cross your leg over the other, picturing his smile as his laughter echoes breathily down the line. You really, really wish he were here right now and that you were having this conversation face to face. You know he'd smile and try to hide how smug he feels at making you laugh. His hand would reach over any gap to touch some silly part of you, forearm or collar or the skin under your ribcage.
"Are you okay?" You say his name to drive the point home. Your voice is quiet — you're hesitant to offer, worried you're crossing a boundary. "Aaron, I know you don't like bringing it home, but you aren't home, so… I'm here."
"I know. It's nothing I want you to worry about, there's an ongoing situation here, bomb threats coming in quicker than the local P.D can handle. They need us to vet them and figure out if any of them are real."
You think about it for a few seconds, the silence small but not uncomfortable. If you were under that kind of pressure, you'd be hurting. Chest pains, anxiety shakes, a migraine.
"You'll be safe?" you ask.
"Always. I'm not in any danger. And I need to get home, I owe you a Friday."
"You do," you mumble.
There's the creak of a box spring mattress, and the sound of a lamp being clicked. On or off, you don't know. When Aaron speaks, his tone is dulcet and hushed but distinct. You feel it in your chest.
"Tell me about your day," he murmurs.
You lay it all out for him in detail. He can barely reply when you hang up, sleep thickening his affectionate, "Goodnight, honey."
3. His bleeding heart.
"What kind of kid were you?" he asks.
You look up from your notebook, surprised. Aaron has been silent for what feels like an hour now, laid out on the picnic blanket with your sweater bundled up under his head while the sun warms your skin.
"I was…" You let your pen roll into the centre of your notebook and close it. He's laid his paperback flat across his chest. You think he might be very interested in the answer. "It was a long time ago, but I think I was lonely."
He nods like this is what he'd been expecting. "Me too."
It's a gorgeous day out. The sky is a light, bright blue with few clouds. They block the sun occasionally, providing a short and bittersweet shield from the heat. The grass surrounding is shockingly green, rippling in the breeze.
"You were?" you ask. "What were you like?"
"I was quiet."
"That's not surprising," you say mildly.
"No, I guess not."
You abandon your notebook and lay down beside him. Worrying what you look like from this angle, you cover your jaw with your hand and turn toward him ever so slightly to show you're listening.
"I liked affection. I remember my mom used to say I was a siphon for it. I'd be all over her, and she'd have nothing left to give anyone else."
"That's not true," you deny. Every ounce of affection that you given him, he has returned tenfold, and that's inspired a lot of kindness in you, for him and for the world. "You're like an amplifier, if anything."
He smiles to himself and turns his gaze skyward. "I wish we'd met before."
"Me too," you say, leaving little room for debate.
"You're so kind," — he adorns you with each word like a gift, a tiny star of praise — "I think you're the kindest person I've ever met."
He laughs. It's a catching sound, contagious as anything. You giggle with him and shift closer. Your arms touch, your hips.
"Baby," you murmur, almost lamenting, "d'you ever think your ability to see the good in people is- It's indicative of the good in you... You've given more of your life than most to keep other people safe. That's the kindest thing a person can do."
He tangles your hand with his where it had been resting on your stomach. You're pretty sure you can feel every line of every fingerprint as he works your fingers together, a snug fit like one of those wooden brain teaser puzzles: How do you pull these two pieces apart? From the outside, it looks impossible!
"I think I'd be different, if I'd met you before. I'd be kinder," he says.
You can't agree with him. It's obvious who he is. You know more about him now than you ever have before. His late wife, how she'd been the best mother they ever made. His son, and how he moulds Aaron everyday into a better man. His friends, who trust him, who adore him. All these people have a hand in who Aaron is now, and while you wish you'd been around from the start, now will have to do.
"You're plenty kind," you say. Understatement of the century.
"Sorry," he says with a laugh, "With you-" He cuts himself off, head-shaking from side to side as he pulls your joined hands up slowly.
Your arm bends and then turns as he pulls it toward his face. He unlinks your fingers to steer your forearm, aligning it flat over his lips. The first kiss is a surprise, light like the feathered edge of a flower petal, and the second isn't dissimilar.
The third melts you, veritably, the parting of his lips emphasised by the dull scratch of teeth against your pulse, the wet heat of his tongue. Three becomes four, and a final fifth, crescent moons pressed into your skin like he's trying to tell you something.
You've no clue what. You likely couldn't say which way the world turns, not when he's kissing you. Not like this.
Aaron has an acute ability to talk without talking. Hello's and thank you's and I care about you's woven into quick kisses, the swift squeeze of his hand over the slope of your shoulder.
These ones say something you don't want to speak aloud, lest you jinx it.
The sunlight fades. A big grey cloud covers the sun.
"I think it's gonna rain," you say.
A raindrop splashes in Aaron's eye.
"Fuck," he says, which is hilarious, because he never swears in front of you. You hadn't known he cussed at all.
The downpour is slow and then sudden, spitting rain dotting over you both like a fine mist as you stand, a thicker, faster outpouring chasing your heels as you hurry to the car. You realise you can't outrun it even if you sprint, and so you stop, Aaron's hand in yours tugged like a rubber band. He bounces back into your chest with the picnic blanket under his arm, your books tucked somewhere inside.
He doesn't ask what you're doing. He's made the same deduction as you, or maybe he trusts you, or maybe he's indulging you.
"Your hair," he laments.
"Doesn't matter," you say.
You lift your chin up for a kiss. Aaron ducks down to give you one. A raindrop runs down the bridge of his nose to the tip of yours.
4. In sickness.
You insist that it wasn't the rain that made you sick, but honestly there's no way to tell. You'd kissed for slightly too long, and the rain had been surprisingly cold. Now you aren't very well, and you have to cancel Aaron's sleepover.
You hold out as long as you can, but come Friday afternoon it's clear you aren't getting better. You wake to a text from Aaron, two texts, and it makes you smile through shivery coughs.
I can't wait to see you tonight. Do you need anything before I get there? Miss you. Sent 6.26AM.
Is everything okay? Sent 9.17AM.
Usually you'd have answer his morning text within the hour.
Hi, I miss you too, so much, but I don't think we'll be able to see each other tonight. I've got the flu :( I'm sorry. And sorry I couldn't answer your message until now, I was sleeping.
It's another hour before he answers. You rouse from your gross snotty stupor to squint at the phone. It's surprisingly long.
I'm sorry it's taking me so long to get back to you, things are tense here right now. You don't have to be sorry for either, I'm glad to hear you're resting. You could have told me you were sick. Is it okay if I come and see you tonight anyways? I would love to check on you. Don't rush to answer, and call me if you can.
You call him with reservations.
"Is this a good time?" you ask weakly, forgoing a hello.
It takes him a little while to speak. You assume he's leaving a room, closing a door. "Now's fine. How are you?"
"My throat hurts and it's a little hard to breathe, but I'm sure I'll live."
"You've been to see a doctor?"
"It's not that bad."
He sighs. "You sound tired. And sore. Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"
"You don't have to baby me, I'm really okay."
"Have you considered that I'd like to baby you?"
Not really. You can't imagine anyone would want to deal with you. You're a mess, you look awful, you don't smell great, and you're not good company. You can't think of a single reason Aaron would want to be anywhere near you right now.
"No," you say, "I hadn't."
"I'd love to look after you."
"You could be doing something fun with your Friday. You could see Jack."
"Jack's going to Kings Dominion. And Fridays are our day, you being sick doesn't make me want to see you less."
You hadn't said that, but he'd inferred it. Of course he had.
You and Aaron decide that your sleepover will go ahead after all. Or, he persuades you very gently. You spend three hours doing tasks that should only take one. You shower, you clean your room, and you do the dishes. By the end of it you're sweating enough to need another shower but you aren't a quitter, so you open the freezer and stick your head in, hands braced against the refrigerator door.
You're excited to see him. You always are. Too bad you look so wiped out.
It's almost 6.30 when you hear his knock on the door. You'd been waiting for him and started dozing at the kitchen table, your neck a mess of twisted nerves, your hand numb from supporting your head. You shake it out and open the door, sheepish.
"Hi," you croak out.
He has a lot of stuff with him. His familiar overnight bag, a briefcase, two grocery bags, and a bouquet.
"Aaron, why," you moan, covering your face with one hand as you move back down the hall to let him in.
"Not the greeting I'd hoped for."
"I can't greet you, I'll make you sick."
You get all the way to the kitchen and think, triumphantly, that you've escaped his 'greeting'. He puts the flowers down carefully on the kitchen counter as you try to come up with a thank you that doesn't make your eyes burn. The grocery bags are placed without ceremony on the floor, and his overnight bag falls onto the kitchen chair. You watch him unbutton his rain spattered coat, and your triumph fades when he peels out of it and instantly reaches for you.
"Aaron," you mumble, stepping into his arms. He knows you can't say no to a hug, not after a week of not seeing him.
"I missed you," he says, arms around your back, lips at your temple. "You're running a temperature."
"It's not that bad. 101."
"Honey, 101 is bad."
"Not as bad as 102."
"Not as bad as 102," he concedes. You can hear his voice rumbling in his throat, and feel it in his chest and yours.
He takes as much of your weight as he can, leaning back so you're forced to arc forward. Your face slips into his neck, and you're thinking, this is what it's like? To be held, sick, with nothing to give? It feels good.
"Please tell me the next time you're sick," he murmurs.
You definitely will. If this is what it's like, roaming, cautious hands over your shoulder blades, a strong nose stroking lines against your warm forehead.
"Thank you for the flowers."
It's squished against his skin but he hears it. "You're welcome. Do you want me to put them in a vase?"
"I can do it."
"I think that might defeat the purpose. They're a gift, not an extra chore."
"Nobody ever got me flowers before you, so it doesn't feel like a chore at all."
He encourages your face back enough to look at you. You have to mouth breath on him because your nose is all stuffed up, and it is not something you're happy to do. You look down so he can't feel it.
"I'm gonna do something really cheesy, and you can tease me about it later, okay?"
You look at him from under your lashes. "'Kay."
"Close your eyes," he whispers.
You let your eyes shut. Aaron cradles your face in both hands and pulls your face toward his chin, in your rough approximation.
Heat fans against your eyes. He kisses your eyelids, the left and then the right, the most gentle press of his lips you've ever felt.
"It's killing me to see you like this," he says, and you're grateful for the pinch of humour behind it. "Couch or bed?"
"Couch. I wanna watch a movie with you."
"Good. I wanna watch a movie with you, too."
Aaron does everything. You're too tired to notice, but when you're better, you'll add it all up. He makes you dinner and breakfast and lunch and enough for the day after that, too. He trims down all your flowers and places them in a vase on your window sill. He recleans your room, cleans your bathroom, and plays nursemaid diligently. He makes you take your temperature in front of him, and then he fawns and makes you hug an ice pack, stays the night again when he's supposed to go home.
It sucks, but your temperature falls, and when your insides stop cooking themselves you start to feel better. On Sunday morning, when he has to leave, you feel the strange pang of being cared for unconditionally like the wind being knocked out of you. He'd done all of that because he cares about you. He'd wanted to see you fed and well and happy, and he hadn't gotten anything out of it in return.
5. The test-drive.
"Hi, Jack," you mumble, rubbing wetness out of your sleep-heavy eyes. "Good morning."
"Good morning," he says cheerfully, of his father's disposition.
"Did you," — you yawn wide and turn your face so neither of them can see — "sleep well?"
"Yeah, thank you. Why are you so tired?"
Aaron's standing at the stovetop making oatmeal. You stand at the counter beside it, hips touching but facing opposite ways. "I'm still getting used to your dad's bed."
It's true. There's something about someone else's mattress that makes you ache.
"What is it about my mattress you can't get along with?" Aaron asks in good humour, adding a generous pinch of salt to the saucepan.
"It's more comfortable than mine," you say with a self-satisfied laugh.
Aaron pecks your damp cheek and skirts around you to fill three identical bowls of oatmeal next to three identical glasses of orange juice. Jack cheers when his portions are placed in front of him, and he digs in even though it's ridiculously hot.
Aaron had explained once that he's basically trained Jack to eat it scorchingly hot by accident. Years of oatmeal straight off of the hob versus a growing boy with no patience. You watch in awe as Jack scarfs it down.
You and Aaron are doing this thing. You've called it the test-drive in your head. He wants to see how well you and Jack get along, likely, and how well you handle living together, too. (Though you absolutely don't think you'll be moving in together quite this soon.) That's your working theory. He'd asked you if you'd be interested in staying for the week a month ago, and you had, and it had been a dream. This is week two, and it seems to be going just as well as the first.
It's definitely revealing. To see each other's routines. And an adjustment. You have to see all the gross stuff, no avoiding it.
Though stuff you might consider gross he enjoys. Like watching you put on body lotion, he'd loved that more than words could express. And watching him shave, you'd loved that more than you'd thought you would. You'd sat on the lip of the tub and he'd listened to your morning murmurings, half asleep and excited as always to talk to him about everything.
Getting to know Jack more has been a joy, too. You've met him nowhere near as many times as you would've liked and done family things: bowling, pizza places, the movies, a baseball game.
Eating breakfast together is way more fun. Especially because Jack likes you.
As soon as you sit down he starts to tell you about school. You listen, sipping your orange juice while you wait for the oatmeal to cool from lava.
After breakfast, the three of you head back to your respective bedrooms to get dressed.
That's something else you adore, you and Aaron undressing and redressing together in the space in front of his closet, the intimacy of casual nudity, and the way his hand closes around your hip to move you out of the way of his shirts.
You're pretty much inseperable until you get to the car park. A firm believer in kids receiving as much love as they can from everybody, you offer Jack a hug before you part ways everytime. Sometimes he says yes, though most times he says, "Thank you, Miss Y/N, but my hug quota is full."
Today, he squeezes your waist really hard and says, "Have a good day bye," like it's one word.
"Have a good day, baby," you tell him, laughing as he jettisons into the passenger seat of Aaron's car.
Aaron usually gives you a swift kiss and goodbye like his son. Today, he brings his hand to your neck. You stare him straight in his dark eyes as he does, marvelling the shock of straight lashes outlining each one, and the permanent wrinkle between his brow from frowning.
Placing two hands on either shoulder, you use his frame to rise on tiptoes and kiss it.
"Don't frown too much today, okay, handsome? Have a good day."
He cups your face in both hands as your heels touch the ground. His hands are warm, kind as he pushes both palms over your cheeks and your ears. He covers them, and your heartbeat amplifies, a thumping sound fighting his skin. Then he slips his fingers behind your ears and the roaring fades.
"I love you," he says.
You beam at him. "Really?"
"Really. I love you, honey. Have a good day."
As if. If he thinks he can walk away after dropping that on you he's got another thing coming.
You throw your arms around his neck and all your weight into his front, almost barrelling him over. You have to stop yourself from wrapping your thighs around him, 'cause then he really might fall over.
You dig your face into his neck, searching for something, for the perfect place to rest your cheek. "I love you, Aaron."
There isn't a chance in hell he didn't already know it.
"I got you something," he says.
You laugh in surprise and tighten your hold on him. "Why? This is gift enough." He loves you. It bounces around in your chest.
"Because I'm not stupid enough to miss what I have right in front of me."
You lean back so you can kiss him, ignoring his hand as it reaches into his pocket.
"Baby," you say, a hair's width from his lips. You kiss him again for a second, thrilled, but curiosity pulls you back. "You have it now?"
He takes a step away from you and reveals the box in his pocket, long and thin. It clicks open on a silver hinge, and inside velveteen lies a simple chain.
"Is that a diamond?" you ask, breathless. The stone at the end of the chain shines like nothing you've ever seen before.
You don't know a thing about them other than that they're expensive. You can't see Aaron Hotchner of all people buying a fake.
"A small one," he says modestly.
Your eyes burn. You're happy to the point of tears but you refuse to cry.
"And it's for me?" you ask.
He laughs and you laugh too, the sound slightly sniffly.
"Of course. Do you want to wear it?"
"Now? Yes, more than anything," you say, smiling hard, cheeks appled and aching. "Are you serious?"
"More than anything."
Corny, you think desperately. Do not cry, that's so cheesy.
"Are you sure you don't want to wait until my birthday?"
He gestures for you to turn around, the chain hanging from his finger. You turn, feel his hands brushing against your neck as he lays it across your chest and pulls it together behind your nape.
"Your birthday gift is better than this."
Better? You could burst.
The clasp closes and he rubs his hands down the backs of your shoulders.
You turn back around, face dipped to your chest in efforts to see the necklace. It's short but long enough to spot the diamond hanging under your collar.
"I've never had a diamond, before," you mumble, hands pressed to your chest. Your heart bumps under your hand.
"Thank you," you say, looking up, "baby, you didn't have to. You don't have to get me stuff like this, it's a lot."
"I don't think it's too much. You give gifts when you're grateful. I'm grateful to love you."
He's expecting you this time, unwavering when your arms slide over his shoulders. You breathe in the smell of his skin and he does the same, his face pressed to the top of your head.
Jack is late for school that day. You apologise to Aaron more times than you can count, and every time he only smiles and says, "It's okay. I love you."
+1
Aaron misses your first anniversary.
It's a very important date to miss, and you have a right to be upset.
But.
You always knew from the very first date that this was something that could, unfortunately, happen. You'd been lucky to get him for your birthday, luckier still to see him on his own and treat him with the delights he deserved. You'd figured eventually something would happen to throw a spanner in the works.
What you aren't expecting is the lack of anger.
You aren't mad at him, not one bit. It would be okay if you were, even though it's not his fault, because this is so big. You're celebrating the best year of your life alone, and that's no fun. You and Aaron had planned to go away, two days in a fancy hotel, Jack with Jessica and no worries.
He can't ignore a bomb threat in the capital, and he wouldn't want to.
You know a missed anniversary is a lesser weight than innocent people dead. You know Aaron wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he didn't go. You know he regrets leaving you on such an important day.
Maybe one day, you'll be angry with him. Today, you only miss him.
I love you. I'm sorry. I'll be back very soon. Happy anniversary.
He sends that after a grovelling, short phone call, in which you assure him that it's fine. Your voice is tight with tears, you miss him like crazy, and he hears it though you try to hide it.
I will make it up to you.
You don't have any doubts.
You feel a little sorry for yourself, and then you send him a text of your own.
I love you, so don't be sorry. Get back safe and sound and consider yourself forgiven. Happy anniversary, my love.
Followed with what's likely too many hearts for good measure.
Still, still, he doesn't believe it's okay. You know he's human, and he loves you, and that makes it easy to predict how he's feeling — worried that you're angry, worried that you'll leave him, worried this won't work for you.
And you're only human yourself. You can't say how you'll feel in another year, or two, or five. You can't imagine how depressing it might be to miss the holidays and birthdays and anniversaries with him year after year, but you want to be patient. You want to forgive him for the things he has no hand in, and you do.
You get a visitors pass for his office once you're cleared and take the elevator up, checking your text messages for the fifth time, just to make sure.
I'll be home in a couple of hours, the plane touches down in two. Love you. Sent 4.53PM.
It's the day after your anniversary, a Monday, and it's nearly 7PM. You smile at people you've seen in passing the few times you've visited his office before and don't bother trying to sit in Aaron's office, knowing it's locked while he's away. You travel the spare steps and sit at the top of the landing, hands clutching the neck of the bunch of flowers you're holding nervously. The cellophane crinkles.
You hadn't answered him. It was cruel to leave him hanging, but you didn't expect him to come home so soon. He's too damn good at his job.
The elevator doors open in the quiet. Barely anybody lingers now in the late hour, and the voices of the BAU echo.
Spencer sees you first. Morgan second. They stop at the beginning of the office.
Aaron sees you third.
You spring to stand up on your feet, and then you feel very tall and very seen and descend the steps rather than draw more attention.
"You said seven," you say, not sure what else to say, not with people watching you. "This is definitely closer to eight."
Aaron thankfully isn't too proud to speed walk to you. Your heart skips as you meet him, flowers crushed half to death as he gets his arm behind your neck, hooking your head in the crook of his elbow.
He kisses you roughly. Heat floods every inch of skin, your breath rushes out of your nose with a sigh.
He pulls back.
"Happy anniversary," you say quietly, smiling at the sheer relief in his eyes.
"It was yesterday," he says, quiet too.
"Happy one year and one day, then." You push him away from you gently. "Don't suffocate your roses."
"You got me flowers."
"You get people gifts when you're grateful," you parrot.
He takes a step back and accepts the flowers. On the message card, you've written, bashful and clumsy and adoring, I'm grateful to love you. One year and more.
He moves the bouquet into one hand and wraps you up in another huh, firm-armed, chin over the top of your head, though he intersperses his embrace with dainty kisses pecked from one temple to another.
"You aren't mad?" he asks, worried about the answer.
"No," you say honestly. "Not mad. Missed you like crazy yesterday, but I get you today. I can make it work."
When you break apart a second time, you both buckle under the weight of his colleagues watching.
"Thank you," Rossi speaks up, grand and wry, "we thought we'd have to endure his moping for at least a week. Your understanding spares us all."
"Nice, Dave," Aaron says.
"I've got your paperwork, Hotch," Morgan offers.
Aaron has the good sense to accept it before Morgan can change his mind. His friends say goodbye, and Aaron pulls you by the hand back to the elevator bank. You couldn't wipe the smile off of his face if you tried.
The elevator doors have barely closed when he's leaning down to kiss you again.
"Thank you," he says.
"You really don't have to say thank you," you murmur, bumping your shoulder with his. "You got home safe. That's all that matters."
His next kiss is bruising. The sound of cellophane crushed between you makes you laugh. He kisses you through it, his smile pressed feverishly to yours, over and over and over.
༺༻
thank you for reading! if you enjoyed please consider reblogging, i promise it makes a difference to me <3
❀ 𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: Y/N, a team member of the BAU, faces her past during a challenging case. Struggling to cope, Y/N's impulsive actions strain her relationship with Hotch.
❀ 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 5.5k
❀ 𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕣’𝕤 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖: Hi everyone, I finally caved in and wrote something on my own. This is my first fic, so let me know what you think
❀ 𝕞𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕒𝕔𝕔: @iyv-ray24
On Ao3
Normally, Y/N was one of the last people to board the jet after a case. Not this time though. She didn't wait for the team and drove straight from the sheriff's station to the airport once the case was wrapping up. It had been a couple of stressful days, and everyone was exhausted. However, Y/N was not only exhausted but also very, very pissed – pissed at the team, pissed at herself, but most importantly, at Hotch.
This case was not easy for any of them. Three girls between the ages of 9 and 13 were abducted, horribly abused, and killed before their bodies were dumped in different local parks in the city. The BAU was called in when the third child was missing, but unfortunately, they arrived way too late. Now, the fourth girl, Casandra Johnson, an 11-year-old, was missing.
Most of the times, Y/N wouldn't have problems with distancing herself emotionally from cases, but this one just hit too close to home. Her little baby sister was abducted from their front porch when she was 9. Y/N herself was only a teenager at that time, and she was the one babysitting her sister. Just a couple of minutes of distraction, and her baby sister was gone forever. They found her body a week later, and the man who killed her luckily got caught, but Y/N never forgave herself and lived every day with the guilt of letting her sister down.
Yep, the team knew all about this stuff. They were familiar with each other's messed-up pasts and traumas; they were like a close-knit family, after all. So, when Penelope started laying out all the details about the case, she could feel her teammates' eyes on her. Sure, it wasn't easy to stare at pictures of innocent little girls and remember what happened to her own sister, but that wasn't going to stop her from getting her job done. She was a pro at this, and as far as she was concerned, this was just another case.
She found herself in the tiny kitchenette of the jet, pouring a cup of coffee, when Hotch walked over.
"Hey, want some coffee?" she offered, but he just shook his head.
"You doing okay?" he asked, standing close because the kitchenette was so darn small.
"Why wouldn't I be?" she replied, knowing exactly why, but she wasn't about to show her feelings to him.
"You could sit this one out, you know.”
"Hotch, no way! Please don't even suggest that! These girls deserve justice, and I've got to see it through."
"I get it, but if things start getting too heavy and overwhelming, promise me you'll give me a heads-up," he said gently.
"You bet," she nodded.
They hung there for a few more seconds. Hotch's presence always had a calming effect on her, and she felt more grounded when he was around. He saw the tension on her face and he probably wanted to reach out and offer comfort, but he held back. So, he turned around and went back to his seat. She watched Hotch walk away and caught eyes with Emily, who gave her a knowing look. She was the only one on the team who knew how Y/N felt about Hotch. To this day, she regretted telling Emily, on a drunken night, that she had a crush on their boss. Emily had persistently encouraged her on more than a few occasions to confess her feelings, but she had consistently declined, fearing the potential embarrassment and awkwardness it could create between them. Emily smirked at her, but she only mouthed "Don't" before also returning to her seat.
The case was progressing as usual – examining the crime scene, talking to victims' relatives and potential eyewitnesses, and creating the unsub profile. Throughout the investigation, the team noticed Y/N becoming increasingly agitated. However, things took a sharp downward turn after Casandra was kidnapped. Y/N grew moody, neglected sleep and food, and immersed herself in reexamining the same files and evidence over and over again.
Y/N and Spencer found themselves back at the last crime scene, as Y/N insisted on revisiting it, when new information arose. Penelope added them to the group call and informed everyone that her research had led her to a man fitting the unsub's profile. She sent over his last registered address.
"We're nearby. It's not far from the last crime scene," Y/N informed the team.
"We'll meet you guys there," Derek said before they ended the call. Y/N and Spencer then drove to the address.
They parked in front of the house and awaited the team's arrival when Y/N spotted movement inside. She immediately called Hotch.
"Hotch, there's someone in the house. Maybe he's holding the girl in there. We need to go in. Now!"
"We'll be there shortly. You can't go in there without backup," Hotch cautioned.
"Spencer is here too."
"Agent Y/L/N, I said wait. That's an order!" Hotch's tone was stern.
"I'm sorry, I have to," Y/N replied, and with that, she exited the car and headed toward the front door of the house. Hotch heard Spencer shouting after Y/N before the call ended. Cursing under his breath, he instructed Derek to speed up.
In under 5 minutes, the team reached the unsub's address. The front door had been kicked open, and the team could hear Y/N yelling at someone.
"Where is he? Tell me! Where is your brother?" She was shouting, pinning a young man facedown on the carpet. Y/N's knee was pressed into his back, immobilizing him as she held his hands behind his back.
"Agent Y/L/N, that's enough!" Hotch's order rang out, and he turned to Emily, gesturing for her to take over. Emily walked over, cuffed the man's hands, and assisted him to his feet. The officers and the team exited the house. As they were leaving, Hotch turned to Y/N and said, "We will discuss this later."
Upon arriving at the station, Hotch instructed Derek and Rossi to interrogate the suspect's brother regarding the unsub's whereabouts. He told the team, except for Y/N, to leave the room the sheriff assigned to the BAU upon their arrival. Facing her, Hotch clenched his jaw, in order to stay calm.
"You are off the case," he stated in an unwavering voice.
"Hotch, no, I'm—"
"You. Are. Off. The case. Agent Y/L/N."
"That's not fair. We have the guy's brother."
"That's not fair? That's not fair? Are you really talking back right now?" Hotch's anger escalated.
"I said I'm sorry! But what if we would have lost our chance? That guy had his things packed; he was leaving!"
"I don't care if he was leaving or not! You can't act on your own in situations like this! You put yourself and Spencer in danger."
"We're fine!"
"Yeah, luckily! But you didn't know what awaited you behind that door. Both of you could have been injured or worse. Your actions were selfish and unprofessional. I don't want you anywhere near anything related to this case until we're back in Quantico. Do you understand?"
Y/N didn't even respond; she simply stormed out of the room. She headed straight to the bathroom, seeking some privacy to calm down. Splashing her face with ice-cold water, she leaned over the sink, taking deep breaths while still seething with anger. Just then, JJ entered the restroom. Like everyone else at the station, she had heard the heated exchange between Hotch and Y/N and came to check on her.
"Hey, are you alright?"
"I'm off the case."
"Maybe it's for the best, don't you think?"
"Not you too, JJ," Y/N replied, releasing a heavy sigh as she dried her hands and face. She walked past JJ and left the restroom, unwilling to argue with her as well. Although she was banned from anything related to the case, Hotch hadn't instructed her to leave the station entirely or return to the hotel, so she remained. In the breakroom, she sat, observing and straining to catch any updates. She watched as Derek and Rossi emerged from the interrogation room, but they refused to share information due to Hotch's orders. Naturally, Spencer and Emily also followed Hotch's directives, all for Y/N's own well-being.
Suddenly, there was movement as the team geared up, putting on their vests. Clearly, they had a new lead. Y/N swiftly rose, walking toward the team to grab her own vest, but Hotch halted her immediately.
"I told you that you're not allowed anything related to the case."
"Hotch, come on! Punish me with paperwork or anything else, but not like this, please!"
"No."
"Hotch, maybe you should—" Derek attempted to intervene.
"I said no!" Hotch's tone was firm as he locked eyes with Y/N. He could see the anger in her eyes and how she was holding back tears of frustration. With Hotch's final words, the team exited the station and drove away. Unable to hold back, Y/N retreated to the bathroom, shedding a few tears of anger. She knew she had made a mistake and was in the wrong, but the frustration and sense of being left behind lingered. Hotch should have been the first to understand the weight of guilt from not saving a loved one. Yet, he treated her as the issue, disregarding the missing child who might require the help of every agent for her rescue.
She let out a deep breath, a release that felt like she had been holding it in for days, as the team returned to the station with the little girl in Emily's arms. Y/N's gaze remained fixed on the heartwarming scene of the girl reuniting with her parents, embraces and kisses shared all around.
Mistiness gathered in Y/N's eyes once more, her mind drifting to how it might have felt to get her own little sister back all those years ago. Lifting her eyes from the heartwarming family reunion, her gaze locked with Hotch's, and it was as if he could read her thoughts. He took a step towards her, but she promptly spun around and walked away.
Hotch was not surprised by her reaction; he didn't even know why he had attempted to approach her. He did know, deep down, but he wasn't ready to admit it to himself, especially not at this moment. A few minutes later, he noticed Y/N storming out of the station, her bag slung over her shoulder.
"She said she'll be waiting by the jet," JJ informed Hotch as they both watched Y/N leave.
That was why she found herself being the first to arrive at the jet, a rarity. Normally, she'd take the seat in front of Hotch, and they'd dive into their paperwork during the flight back home. It was an opportunity to talk and maybe even steal glances at his handsome face. But now, she didn’t even want to hear his voice.
Instead, she settled onto the broad couch, the same one where Spencer often napped, and attempted to drift into sleep. Exhaustion from the past days quickly pulled her into slumber. She faintly registered the team entering the jet and briefly woke at takeoff, but she promptly turned away and slipped back into sleep, determined to avoid everyone, especially Hotch.
The jet's interior was dimly lit, and most of the team dozed off in their seats. Hotch occupied a couple of seats away from the couch where Y/N was deeply asleep, while Rossi sat directly in front of him. He observed her for a moment, noticing her curling up into a ball – she must be cold. The realization prompted Hotch to stand up promptly. He opened one of the jet's cupboards and retrieved a blanket. Quietly, he approached Y/N and draped the blanket over her, observing as she snuggled into the soft fabric. With the exception of Rossi, everyone else was already asleep, so his actions would likely go unquestioned by the team. Besides, he was merely helping a colleague, right? He lingered by her side for longer than necessary; her relaxed face was undeniably beautiful, and he wanted – no, needed – to savour it for just a little while longer. He was painfully aware that the only expression he'd encounter in her eyes when she woke would be resentment toward him. He would give anything to reach out and caress her cheek at this very moment. Eventually, he returned to his seat, and Rossi's gaze immediately landed on him.
"You're hopeless, Aaron," Rossi chuckled.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Hotch replied, his gaze shifting to the files before him.
"You know, she kind of has the right to be angry at you."
"You can't seriously think that what she did was right."
"No, I do not. It was actually really fucking dumb, but you're sort of being a hypocrite here."
"How so?"
"Well, yes, she made a mistake barging into that house on her own, and she acted impulsively. But so did you. Every one of us has made stupid mistakes at some point, and hers at least helped us locate the unsub. If it were any other agent, you would have let them join the rescue and handed them a pile of paperwork as punishment later. But because you have an emotional attachment to her and feelings for her, you were afraid she'd act recklessly again. You couldn't risk her getting hurt, like, say, jumping in front of a bullet – which we both know she would have. So, you left her behind. Not to mention, you understood why she acted the way she did. This case was deeply personal to her. Needless to say, you both acted like idiots."
Hotch leans back in his seat and lets out a sigh. He knows Rossi's right, though sometimes he hates working with profilers.
"We all want to protect the people we love, Aaron. But remember, she's still an agent, and this is her job," Rossi adds before returning to his files.
Hotch glances over at her and ponders Rossi's words. He realizes he definitely overreacted because it was you who put yourself in danger. He knows she's a great agent and can take care of herself in these dangerous situations, but just the thought of something happening to her makes his stomach drops.
It had been a couple of days since the team had returned to Quantico, and as Hotch expected, Y/N was avoiding him at all costs. She submitted her reports well before the deadlines, left the office earlier than usual – a rarity for her, as she was typically one of the last agents to leave. Hotch even noticed her falling silent whenever he entered the break room or the bullpen, and she seemed to find excuses to distance herself from him. This avoidance was starting to irritate him more and more. He missed the late nights spent doing paperwork together in his office after everyone else had gone home. He longed to hear her laughter and engage in conversations with her. He just missed her. While she appeared to be getting along fine with the rest of the team, her anger toward Hotch still lingered. He knew he needed to talk to her and explain his actions; he hoped that she might understand once he did.
So, as soon as he arrived at the office the following day, he made it a priority. Upon entering his office, he noticed Y/N's completed report on his desk, finished once again before deadline. He was aware that she was completing her work ahead of time to avoid any interaction with Hotch about the report. Without even glancing at the report, he stepped back out of his office.
"Agent Y/L/N, a word, please," he said, his tone possibly more agitated than he had intended. The rest of the team exchanged questioning looks as Y/N ascended the few stairs to his office. She knocked on the door, even though it was already open, and announced herself before entering.
"Close the door," Hotch ordered, his voice firm as he removed his jacket.
He had initially only wanted to apologize and explain his decision on the case, but seeing that finished report again ignited a kind of anger within him. Particularly because he knew how much she despised working on it in the first place. Now, she stood in front of him, alone for the first time in days, yet she didn't even glance at his face.
"You finished your work early again, Agent Y/L/N?"
"Yes, sir." Sir... she never called him 'sir.' He really wanted to hear his name from her. He tried to catch her eyes, but she purposely looked away. There was a brief silence before she finally spoke up, "Is there something wrong with it, sir?"
His emotions were getting the better of him due to her distant tone, possibly amplified by the frustration that had built up over the past few days. So, he responded with unnecessary sharpness.
"Yeah, there's something wrong with it. Do it again," he snapped, tossing the file onto the desk closer to her. For the first time in days, she met his eyes, her brows furrowed in irritation, though her voice remained calm.
"May I ask what was wrong with it, sir?" she inquired, striving to sound neutral.
"You may not, Agent! Get back to your work," he replied, his voice unintentionally louder than he intended.
Y/N stormed out of the room, doing her best to restrain herself from slamming the door behind her. She settled back at her desk, aware of her colleagues' watchful eyes on her, though no one said a word. In his office, Hotch couldn't help but curse under his breath. "Why did I do that?" he wondered. This kind of pettiness was uncharacteristic of him, yet there was something about her that could evoke such strong emotions from him, both positive and negative.
He struggled throughout the remaining day to focus on his work, his mind repeatedly drifting to thoughts of her. Glancing at the clock, he realized that the workday was drawing to a close. He had planned to talk to her today, and he was determined to do it before she left, especially since she tended to head out before the others. Stepping out of his office and peering down into the bullpen, he noticed Spencer packing up while Y/N and Emily waited. Derek and Penelope were already on their way to the elevator, and Rossi had left hours ago due to personal matters.
"Y/L/N, to my office, please," he called out in his strong voice from the top of the stairs before returning back into his office. Spencer and Emily exchanged glances, and while Y/N was clearly displeased, it was inevitable that she had to have a conversation with Hotch.
"You guys go ahead. Don't wait for me. I'll see you tomorrow," she said, placing her bag back on her desk before making her way up to Hotch's office.
"Sit down," Hotch says as she enters his office, gesturing to the free chair in front of his desk.
"For how much longer do you plan to keep this up?" Hotch asks in a plain tone.
"I don't know what you're talking about, sir."
Hotch rubs his face and lets out a sigh before continuing. "Cut it out! This whole 'sir' thing. You haven't spoken to me in days. It's affecting the work environment."
"I don't think it's affecting anything. I've been working efficiently, and my reports are always on time."
"I don't give a damn about your reports, Y/N!" Hotch exclaims, standing up and slamming his hands on the table as he leans toward her.
She stands abruptly. "Then there's no reason for me to be here if this isn't work-related," she nearly yells, matching Hotch's intensity. She starts to turn around, indicating her intention to leave.
"You're not leaving before we talk about what happened and clear this up!", he said and walked around his desk to now stand infront of her.
"There's nothing to clear up!"
"How is there nothing to clear up? You've been avoiding me since we got back from the case. You won't talk to me, you won't look at me—hell, you leave the room when I walk in."
Hotch's frustration was palpable as he stepped closer to her. "You think you can just avoid me and everything will be fine? You think you can act like nothing happened?"
Y/N's voice trembled with anger. "I'm doing my job, just like I always have."
"Your job? This is more than just about your damn job. We're a team, and that means communication and trust."
Y/N shot back, her voice rising. "Trust? Is that what you call it? You completely shut me out during the case. You made me feel like I can't make decisions, like I'm incapable."
Hotch's eyes blazed with frustration. "I made a decision to protect you, to keep you safe!"
"By treating me like a child? By belittling me in front of the team?" Y/N's cheeks were flushed, her anger evident.
"You were reckless, Y/N! You put yourself and Spencer in danger!"
"I had a lead, I had a chance to save that girl!"
"By charging into a potentially dangerous situation without backup? You're lucky nothing worse happened."
Y/N's fists clenched at her sides. "You don't understand. You never understand."
"Oh, I understand more than you realize," Hotch retorted, his voice dripping with frustration.
The room seemed to crackle with tension as their argument escalated. Each word was a jab, a release of the pent-up emotions they had been harboring. The distance between them had grown from physical to emotional, and they were both struggling to bridge the gap.
Suddenly, a knock echoed through the room, and JJ's head appeared in the doorway. "Oh, sorry for disturbing. I just wanted to say goodbye before I leave. Don't let me interrupt," she said, sensing the tension in the room, and then closed the door behind her. Throughout JJ's brief interaction, Y/N and Hotch's eyes remained locked on each other.
JJ's interruption seemed to inject a moment of calm into the charged atmosphere, allowing a slight easing of the tension in the room.
Hotch's voice broke the silence once again, this time with a calmer and more composed tone. "Believe me, I understand why this case held such significance for you. The entire team recognised that. However, that doesn't justify putting yourself in harm's way."
Y/N's voice softened, her frustration mingling with a touch of vulnerability. "I know it was reckless to charge in without waiting, and I've already apologized for that—I'm still sorry. But what you did was unfair. You left me behind. Aren't we supposed to be a team? How could you make that decision, Hotch?" Her eyes misted over, a mixture of hurt and confusion in her gaze.
Hotch's gaze softened as he heard the hurt in her voice. He took a step closer, closing the physical distance between them, and rested his hands on his hips. "Y/N, it's not about whether you apologized or not. It's about the fact that you charged into a dangerous situation without considering the consequences. In this line of work, we can't afford to act on emotions alone. We have to think logically, strategically. Acting solely on emotion can get people killed."
Y/N's eyes welled up with tears as his words sank in. She looked down at her hands, her voice choked with emotion. "I know that, Hotch. I do. But in that moment, all I could think about was finding that girl, saving her. It was like... I couldn't control myself."
Hotch took another step forward, his presence a comforting presence in front of her. He reached out and gently lifted her chin, guiding her gaze to meet his. His touch was tender, his thumb caressing her cheek. "Y/N, I get it. I do. But I was scared. Scared of losing you, of seeing you hurt. I couldn't bear the thought of something happening to you."
She looked up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. His touch was a lifeline, grounding her in this vulnerable moment. "I... I couldn't save my sister," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I was supposed to be watching her, and I let her down."
Hotch's grip on her chin tightened ever so slightly, his eyes locking onto hers. He leaned in closer, his voice tender. "Y/N, what happened to your sister wasn't your fault. You were just a child yourself. You couldn't have known."
A sob escaped Y/N's lips as she leaned into his touch, her tears falling freely now. Hotch gently wiped away her tears with his thumb, his touch soothing. "It's okay to feel the pain, Y/N. But you can't let it dictate your actions now. You have so much strength, so much potential. I just want to keep you safe."
She let out a shaky breath, her emotions raw and exposed. Hotch's presence and his words were a balm to her wounded heart. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice filled with remorse.
Hotch shook his head softly, his eyes never leaving hers. "There's no need to apologize. I should have handled things differently too. We both made mistakes."
They stood there for a moment, their gazes locked, and the air around them seemed to shift. Hotch took a step forward, his hand moving from her chin to her cheek, his touch gentle and caring.
"Y/N, we're a team. And I promise you, I'll always have your back. But I need you to promise me that you'll think before you act, that you'll prioritize your safety."
She nodded, her tears slowing as a small smile tugged at her lips. "I promise."
And in that moment, with their bodies close and their gazes intertwined, they found a connection that went beyond words—a connection forged in vulnerability, understanding, and the unspoken bond of a team that had weathered the storm together.
Y/N closes the distance between them and wraps her arms around Hotch in a tight embrace. Her face is buried in his chest, and he holds her close, his hand caressing her hair with utmost tenderness. In this vulnerable embrace, their walls begin to crumble, and the weight of unspoken emotions hangs heavily in the air.
Hotch's voice is barely above a whisper as he presses his lips to her ear, letting all the truths he had been holding back spill forth. "I was so scared, Y/N... scared to lose you. I can't bear the thought of ever losing you. Please, don't ever put yourself in that kind of danger again."
His words are a mixture of desperation and genuine concern, a heartfelt confession that had been weighing on him for far too long. He holds her tighter, his grip on her waist firm yet gentle. "I don't know what I would do without you. You've become such an important part of my life."
His voice quivers with emotion, each word carrying the weight of his feelings. "I missed talking to you, missed hearing your laugh. Even the complaints about paperwork, I missed those too. You mean so much to me, Y/N, more than you might realize."
Y/N's grip on him tightens, her tears soaking into his shirt as she listens to his heartfelt words. It's a moment of vulnerability, of raw honesty that they had both been avoiding. Hotch's whispers in her ear are like a soothing melody, erasing the tension that had been building between them.
Their embrace lingers, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken bond that ties them together. Hotch continues to caress her hair, his touch a silent reassurance of his feelings. In this moment, surrounded by their shared emotions and the warmth of their connection, they find solace in each other's arms.
Y/N pulls away slightly, creating enough space to look up at him, her eyes glistening with sincerity. She takes a deep breath before speaking, her voice a mix of vulnerability and determination. "Hotch, Aaron... I became so upset about this situation because it was you who was disappointed in me. You mean the world to me. Your opinion, your feelings, they matter more than I can even express. Not just as my boss, but as a friend and... and maybe, just maybe, even more."
Her cheeks flush with a soft hue of pink as she admits her feelings, her gaze dropping to the floor as if overwhelmed by the weight of her confession. She's both relieved and terrified to have finally voiced her emotions, unsure of how he'll react despite his previous words of comfort.
Hotch's breath catches in his throat as he absorbs her words. His heart races, and a mixture of surprise, hope, and affection blooms in his chest. He reaches out to gently lift her chin, his thumb brushing against her skin as he tilts her face up to meet his gaze. His expression is a mixture of tenderness and warmth, his eyes reflecting the depth of his feelings.
"Y/N..." Hotch's voice is soft, carrying a mix of emotions that mirror her own. He searches her eyes, his thumb tracing over her cheekbone, his touch both soothing and electrifying. "I've been struggling with my own feelings, with the fear of crossing a line. But I want you to know... you're important to me too. More than I can put into words."
A gentle smile tugs at the corners of his lips, his gaze locked onto hers. "I never wanted to push you away or make you feel like your actions don't matter. They do, because you matter. And I'm sorry if I made you think otherwise."
Y/N's heart swells with his words, and the warmth of his touch resonates deep within her. Her eyes well up with tears, but this time they're tears of relief and joy. Her lips tremble into a soft smile as she meets his gaze with renewed hope.
"I'm glad we talked," she whispers, her voice filled with sincerity. "I don't want to avoid you, Aaron. I want us to be honest with each other, no matter what happens."
Hotch's thumb continues to caress her cheek, his touch grounding her in this moment of emotional intimacy. "I feel the same way," he admits, his voice a mere breath against her lips. "And I promise, from now on, we'll face things together."
Their proximity becomes charged with a newfound understanding, their unspoken connection now verbalized. And as they stand there, gazing into each other's eyes, they both know that this conversation is just the beginning of a deeper and more meaningful journey ahead.
As the weight of their emotions lingers in the air, Y/N takes a small step closer, her heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and vulnerability. Hotch's gaze softens even further, and in that moment, they both feel the pull of an unspoken desire.
Without any more hesitation, Y/N tilts her head slightly, her lips brushing against his in a tentative yet gentle kiss. It's a kiss filled with the tenderness of their shared feelings, a silent promise of everything they've both been longing for.
Hotch's arms instinctively wrap around her, pulling her closer as he deepens the kiss with a mixture of longing and affection. His lips move against hers with a slow and deliberate rhythm, their connection intensifying as their bodies press against each other.
The air between them grows warmer, their shared emotions igniting a spark of passion. Y/N's fingers thread through his hair, holding him close as the kiss becomes more heated, a reflection of the desires they've kept hidden for so long.
Their breath mingles, the world around them fading as they lose themselves in the intoxicating sensation of their lips moving together. The kiss becomes a dance of emotions, each movement a declaration of their feelings.
Finally, they break apart, their lips still lingering just millimeters away. Their breaths come in ragged gasps, their eyes locked in a heated gaze filled with a mixture of surprise and bliss.
A soft, love-drunk smile tugs at Y/N's lips, and she brushes her thumb against his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her touch. Hotch's fingers continue to caress her back, his touch a silent affirmation of his feelings.
"Wow," Y/N breathes, her voice barely above a whisper, her heart still racing from the intensity of their kiss.
Hotch chuckles softly, his forehead resting against hers. "Yeah, wow," he replies, his voice filled with a mixture of wonder and contentment.
Their smiles mirror each other's, and in that moment, they both realize that this is just the beginning of their journey together. The walls that once kept their feelings hidden have crumbled, replaced by a newfound connection that's deeper and more meaningful.
As they stand there, breathless and gazing into each other's eyes, they know that they're embarking on a path of honesty, vulnerability, and love. And with their lips still tingling from their kiss, they share a quiet understanding that whatever challenges lie ahead, they'll face them together.
Ok this sentence from your hotch fic "You're so busy, I could never," you say, shaking your head.
got me thinking what about a lil story about a non bau gf being very upset but trying to hide it from hotch bc he’s busy and she doesn’t want to add to his plate
hope this is ok!! —hotch assures you he's never too busy to listen if you've been upset by something, 1k♡
You're doing the dishes when it starts to come back. It's weird that the nature of the things that hurt us is their ability to come back, to metastasise while we're unaware; you think you're doing a good job at moving forward and the claws of it sink into your back, your chest. One talon at a time.
You ignore it, focusing instead on Aaron behind you at the dinner table. The sound of papers fluttering across each other as he turns a page, the click and drag of his pen as he writes. You can picture his cursive, and the frown he wears as he works.
You're dying to tell him about what's hurting you, but beyond feeling small in the eye of the storm that is his job, he's been busy, evidenced by paper work at home and a yawning gap of communication. This is the first time you've seen him all week. You dread filling the time (wasting it, even) with something that doesn't concern him. It barely concerned you, someone else's unresolved issues turned to a bad mood and all the fallout on your shoulders.
"Is something wrong?" Aaron asks.
He's like a shark for emotions, your tiny sniffle a drop of blood in the water. You wipe your nose with a soapy hand and shrug casually.
"Nothing's wrong. Are you nearly done? Maybe we can watch a movie."
Aaron stands up. You stiffen at the sound, but relax when his hand squeezes your shoulder. He braces his hands on the countertop and leans forward, looking at you. You meet his eyes. Usually so serious, softened slightly by worry.
"You stancing up on me?" you tease.
He doesn't buy into your jokes. You clear your throat, wondering what you might be able to change the subject to. You've been thinking about asking him if he wants to get a pet fish with you, an aquarium—
"You're upset by something," he says. "I think it's best if you tell me."
"You think?"
"Please, honey."
You set the last dish on the drying rack and dry your hands slowly, buying time. Aaron indulges your behaviour though he undoubtedly knows what you're doing.
"You're really busy, Aaron, I don't want to put more water in your levy."
You've barely stopped talking when he begins. "If this is about my being busy, put it out of your mind. You know better than anyone that things have to wait sometimes, regretfully, when I'm working, but I'm here now." He fixes you with a fond smile.
"Exactly, you're here, so let's not waste time on silly stuff that's bothering me."
Aaron bears his weight on his hip against the countertop, taking your water-warmed hands into his, tacky skin sticking as he rubs your knuckles. Easing your forward with a gentle pull, one of his hands runs up your arm until his fingertips are nudging under your sleeve. An encapsulating hold, it says, I'm right here. Not too busy. Nothing too silly.
And still, he says aloud, "Time talking about how you feel isn't wasted, even if you're upset by something small."
You frown then, nose aching, eyes burning, because it doesn't feel small at all. "Are you sure you're not too busy?" you ask weakly, a high pitch attempt to salvage it and keep hiding how upset you are, but a simultaneous giving-in.
"No," he says softly, all empathy as you descend into tears, "of course I'm not too busy."
He hugs you close right there in the kitchen. Words won't come out and your shoulders shake under his hands with every attempt to explain it to him, not just that something bad happened to you, but that it's been really heavy to carry alone, and that weight being taken from you —by him, and so easily— is a moving relief.
He pulls it out of you, an explanation made of fits and starts, and he gets mad on your behalf, but he pushes it aside to talk you through it. When you can cry without nearly choking yourself on breathlessness, he sways you minutely from side to side.
"I knew something was upsetting you," he says, still so gently, "but I didn't know it was this bad. I need you to let me know. I'm sorry, honey, but I need you to tell me when it's bad like this if I miss it."
You shudder in a breath. "It's not that bad."
You both know it's a lie. Aaron pulls you in for another good hug, hand at the small of your back rubbing a dedicated circle. Your shirt bunches up and he takes a handful of your naked skin, thumb tracking around, his cheek pressed to the top of your head. "It's okay," he murmurs. "Take a deep breath. I will always be here for you, you know that?"
It's odd to hear him strung like that. You take a deep breath like he asked you to, arms clasped behind his, your face too hot in his neck.
"Even if I'm busy, I'm here at the end of the day. I promise. If I'm sitting at the table with you, that means I'm waiting for you." He cracks a small smile, his hand at the nape of your neck encouraging your head back. The other hand, dedicated to the patch of skin just above your coccyx, rubs upward. It releases a little of the tension building in your spine. "I love you, honey, I'm busy, but never too busy to hear what's wrong. Never."
"You'll make me cry worse," you whine, letting him tip your head further back again, hand at your cheek now giving a soft squeeze. You blow a warm breath out at his thumb.
Aaron kisses you lightly, lips only half-touching.
He pulls away. "Let me make you something to drink, hm?"
Thus begins a night of adoring pampering and over the top doting. You pretend it's too much, but it's really, really perfect.
First off, I absolutely adore your writing! It’s sooo nice to read writing from someone the same age as me!
I was wondering if you could do Hotch x Reader where they’re dating and he comes over to reader’s apartment. They’re eating like a struggle meal and he’s just like absolutely not we’re getting you real food.
Totally take all the time you need, thank you! :)
hi thanks so much!! we're twins omg <3
--
Aaron was given a key to your apartment a long time ago, but you spend so much time at his that he barely uses it. He also typically texts you when he's coming over, which is why you're so bewildered when he comes through the door at close to nine at night.
You've got a mouthful of cold tortilla, butter spread in a thin layer over the dough. It's rolled to make it less of a mess to eat, but that makes it look like less food than it is, and it's already not a five course meal.
There's a bowl of sliced cucumbers resting on the plate you'd used for the tortilla, the last vegetable in your fridge. You'd had to forgo half of it for the wrinkles that had run up its side, but the half you cut up looks and tastes safe to eat.
Aaron freezes in a similar manner to yourself when he registers what you're eating, briefcase still in hand as he pauses with his back to the closed door.
"Is that a tortilla?"
"Mhm." You mumble around the food, "And, uh- with butter."
"A tortilla with butter." Aaron repeats, squinting, "And... cucumber?"
"It's all I have," You conclude drearily, "The grocery store is closed."
He narrows his eyes, then presses, "Is this your dinner?"
"Yes, Aaron," You huff, tired of his judgmental gaze, "I told you, the store is closed, and I ran out of things to eat, and I had a really long day so I just want to get in bed, and-"
"Okay, okay," He soothes, a hand out in front of him to placate you, "I'm sorry. I'm not judging you. Okay? I'm just saying it's not the best meal in the world. Why don't we go out and get something real, honey?"
"I don't feel like leaving," You grumble, tearing off another bite of tortilla, "It's fine, Aaron, I'll shop tomorrow."
"It's not fine," He insists gently, pulling his phone from his pocket, "I'll order something in, okay? What are you in the mood for - Thai? Chinese? Italian?"
"Pizza," You blurt grouchily, fueled by hunger and exhaustion, "I want pizza."
"Pizza it is," Aaron smiles, tapping away at his phone screen, "Medium? Your usual?"
"Large," You plead, and Aaron's clicked the button before you even try explaining yourself, "That way we can have leftovers for a while."
"Good idea," Aaron hums, finishing the order with his pre-loaded card number and leaning down to kiss you on your slightly butter-stained lips, "If you ever find yourself eating a cold tortilla again, please tell me? I think that counts as neglect if I don't buy you some real food."
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