Do you think Sam was always fated for a fuckass bob or do you think its just a coincidence his hair keeps going thereo
it’s genetics…. back in the 60’s my father-in-law had the most fucked in the ass bob you ever did see. the day he turned forty it all fell out… just as it will for sam
i skid into the parking lot of my sons’ elementary school creating a plume of dust and gravel behind my truck (#mytruck) so big an entire class of fourth graders is buried alive and they have to call in one of those saint bernard mountain dogs that finds people stuck in avalanches. tucking and rolling out of my truck (#mytruck) which is still moving, i leap through a window and into the english class where i have been called to a parent teacher conference. using my keen senses and hunter’s instinct, i realize i am at the wrong school. i crash back through the broken window and dive past the pickup lane monitor and back into my truck (#mytruck) before speeding off into the sunset. my son calls me from a pay phone two states away. i ignore it
The motel room was bathed in the amber glow of a single lamp, its light fighting against the encroaching darkness of the evening. Dean stood with his arms crossed, his jaw set in that particular way that meant he was about to argue a point he knew he'd lose. Sam sat on the edge of the bed, a thick lore book balanced on his knees, his brow furrowed in concentration. And you were sprawled out beside your brother, your own book resting on your stomach, your eyes growing heavier with each passing minute.
Castiel stood near the window, his presence a quiet anomaly in the cramped space. His head was tilted slightly, that perpetual expression of divine confusion painted across his features as he listened to Dean's latest protests.
"The seal is in St. Louis," Dean was saying, pacing now. "We've got maybe three days before Lilith tries something. We need to mov-—"
"Move where?" Sam interrupted, not looking up from his book. "We don't even know what the seal is yet, Dean. You want to just wander around Missouri until something happens?"
"Better than sitting here reading-"
"I'm hungry." you announced suddenly, your voice cutting through the tension like a warm knife through butter. You stretched, your spine cracking pleasantly as you set your book aside.
Dean's entire demeanor shifted. The argument drained from his shoulders as he turned toward you, and Castiel watched the transformation with muted fascination. It was remarkable, really, how quickly Dean's focus could pivot from divine missions to his little sister's stomach.
"Your sandwich is in my bag," Dean said, jerking his thumb toward his duffel bag near the door. "From lunch. Should still be good."
Sam's head snapped up, his expression shifting from focused hunter to concerned older brother in the span of a heartbeat. "Wait, you didn't eat lunch?"
"She said she wasn't hungry," Dean defended, already moving toward his duffel bag. "What was I supposed to do, force-feed her?"
"Yes!" Sam's voice rose just as he did from the bed, frustration bleeding through. "Yes, Dean, that's exactly what you're supposed to do! How many times do I have to tell you? She needs to eat three meals a day. Three. Not two, not one and a half—three!" He counted, holding out a finger for each number.
"Hey, I offered it! She refused!"
"She needs to eat! She's a growing girl, Dean! Do you have any idea-"
"She's sixteen, Sam, I think she's grown enough to know when she's-"
"Her body is still developing! And with her condition-"
"I know about the condition! I was there-"
"It doesn't seem like you were there if you're letting her skip-"
"You're blaming me for this? She's the one who-"
Castiel's head swiveled between them, like a viewer on a tennis match watching the ball go from player a to player b, his vessel's brow creasing deeper with each exchange. This was… strange. He understood conflict, of course. He had witnessed millennia of wars, battles, arguments between celestial beings that had shaken the very foundations of Heaven. But this was different. This was born not of anger or pride or any of the other sins that typically fueled discord among humans. This seemed to spring from something else entirely. Something soft and warm that had twisted itself into sharp edges.
Care. They were fighting because they cared.
It was one of those human paradoxes that continued to baffle him.
You, meanwhile, had reached Dean's duffel bag and were rummaging through it with the single-minded determination of a very hungry teenager. You found the sandwich—wrapped in slightly squashed foil—and straightened up with a triumphant noise.
"See? Found it. Crisis solv-... ed.."
You froze.
The words died in your throat. The sandwich slipped from your fingers and landed on the floor with a soft thud. Your eyes went wide, unfocused, and your hand reached out blindly as if searching for something solid to anchor yourself.
Castiel saw it happen in fragments. The way your body suddenly went still. The way your weight shifted unevenly on your feet. The way your expression crumpled into confusion, like you weren't quite sure where you were anymore.
And then Dean was moving.
Castiel barely registered the motion. One moment Dean was halfway across the room, and the next he was right beside you, his hands closing around your arms with practiced efficiency.
"Sam," Dean said, his voice a low command. "It's happening again."
Sam was already there, his book abandoned, his earlier frustration transformed into something sharp and focused. "I see her. Dean, get her down."
"Right, I know how to do this, I've done it before-"
"Then stop talking and do it!"
Dean's hands tightened on your arms. "Hey, sweetheart, he, I've got you. We're just going to go down nice and slow, okay? Just like we practiced."
Your knees buckled.
Dean caught you fully, now your whole weight resting on his arms, easing you down to the floor with an expertise born of experience. But by the time your back touched the ratty motel carpet, your eyes were closed, your body limp in his arms.
"Damnit, Dean! I told you-"
"I know what you told me! She wasn't hungry!"
"She's never hungry!"
"Forgive me for not wanting to shove a sandwich down her throath!"
Castiel had not moved.
He stood frozen by the window, his blue eyes wide and fixed on the scene before him. The angel, who had faced demons and monsters and the very wrath of Heaven itself, was utterly paralyzed. His vessel's heart—a human heart that had been beating steadily for decades—now hammered against his ribs with alarming speed.
Because from his perspective, from the divine lens through which he viewed the world, something had just gone horribly wrong.
One of his charges. One of the fragile humans he had been tasked with watching over. The youngest one. The one who was smaller than her brothers, softer, more in need of protection.
She had simply… stopped.
She had been standing, speaking, living, and then she had stopped.
Her vessel had collapsed, her consciousness had flickered, and Castiel had felt something that he had not experienced in the long eons of his existence. Something that was not quite fear and not quite terror and not quite grief but hovered somewhere in the space between all three.
"The child," he said, and his voice came out strange. Thicker than usual. Rougher. "She is—"
"She's fine, Cas." Dean was already shifting, trying to make you more comfortable on the floor. "She's just passed out. It happens."
"It happens?" Castiel's head snapped toward Dean, and the hunter actually recoiled slightly at the intensity of the angel's gaze. "You mean this is a common occurence?"
"Uh… yeah?" Dean looked at Sam, who nodded grimly. "I mean, not all the time. But every now and then-"
"And you did not think to inform me of this vulnerability?"
"Man, it's not a vulnerability, it's just—it's a medical thing." Dean waved a hand vaguely. "It's not like she's dying or anything."
Castiel didn't wait for further explanation. He was already moving, crossing the room and dropping to his knees beside you with none of the grace that usually accompanied angelic movements. His hands hovered over your prone form, and a low sound of distress escaped his lips.
"Something is wrong with her body." Castiel's eyes were darting over your form, cataloging, analyzing. "Her vessel is not functioning properly. I can sense a deficiency. A lack. But I cannot identify-"
"Cas, calm down—"
"DO NOT TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!" Castiel's voice boomed through the motel room, and for just a moment, the lights flickered, just shy of exploding into a cascade of sparks. Dean and Sam both flinched back, their hands raised in instinctive surrender.
Castiel's chest was heaving. His hands were trembling. He looked down at them, those hands that had smote demons and healed wounds and once held the very fabric of time, and found them shaking.
This was wrong. This was all wrong.
"Her vessel is flawed.." he said, his voice dropping to something quieter, more horrified. "There is something.. wrong.. with her blood. I can sense it. Her blood is… thin. Inadequate. It lacks something essential."
"Alright, that's actually pretty accurate." Sam said cautiously. "She has iron deficiency anemia. Her body doesn't store enough iron. It makes her-"
"Iron deficiency?" Castiel repeated the words like they were foreign.
"Uh…" Sam looked at Dean, who shrugged helplessly. "Yeah, um, Iron. It's a mineral? It's in food. You need it to make hemoglobin, which carries oxygen in your blood."
"Oxygen," Castiel repeated. His eyes had gone very wide again. "Her blood lacks oxygen?"
"Not exactly—"
"You mean to tell me." Castiel's voice had become dangerously quiet. "That this human has been walking through this world with blood that is starved of oxygen?"
"Technically, yeah, but-"
"And you have allowed this?" Castiel rounded on Dean, his eyes blazing with a fury that made both hunters flinch. "You allowed your charge to develop such a deficiency? You did not feed her sufficient iron?"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa-" Dean held up both hands. "First of all, I didn't allow anything. She's had this since she was a kid. Since before I even knew-"
"Since childhood? This affliction has persisted since childhood?"
Dean realized he was lowkey making everything worse the more he opened his mouth.
"Yeah, but we've got her on supplements now. She takes them every day. Sam makes sure of it."
"Clearly not effectively enough!" Castiel gestured toward your limp form. "She passed out. Her vessel shut down. Because she did not consume this- this iron you speak of."
"Man, it's not like I forgot to give her food. She just wasn't hungry. And if she doesn't want to eat, I can't force her-"
"Forgive me for my bluntness, Dean Winchester, but you clearly can." Castiel's voice had an edge of something that might have been panic. "If the alternative is her vessel shutting down, then yes, you must force her. You ensure she consumes whatever her body requires to remain functional. This is not a difficult concept."
Castiel lifted his eyes from your body and realized Sam looked like he was trying very hard not to smile and Dean looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
He looked between them with growing frustration.
"Something about this situation is humorous to you?"
"No, no, man, it's just-" Dean's composure cracked, and he let out a short bark of laughter. "You're really freaked out about this, aren't you?"
"Of course I'm freaked out!" Castiel's voice had risen again. "One of my charges just lost consciousness in the middle of a completely non-dangerous activity! She was standing. She was speaking. And then she was not. And you are not concerned?"
"We are concerned." Sam said, his voice gentle. "But we've been dealing with this for a while now. We know what to do. She'll wake up in a few minutes, and then we'll make her eat her sandwich, and she'll be fine."
"Make her eat her sandwich." Castiel repeated slowly. "You are certain this will restore her?"
"As long as she keeps up with her supplements, yeah. It's a manageable condition, Cas. It's not going to kill her."
Castiel stared at Sam for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, very slowly, he turned back to look at you.
You were still unconscious, your face peaceful in a way that was somehow more alarming than if you had been grimacing in pain. Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Your skin, Castiel noticed, was pale. Paler than it should be. Paler than it had been just moments ago, before—
Before you had dropped like a stone.
"You must teach me." Castiel said suddenly.
Sam blinked. "Teach you what?"
"How to ensure she consumes enough sustainance. I will… I will make certain she eats. Every day. Multiple times per day. She will not skip meals. She will not- she will not collapse again."
It was such a practical, logical solution that Castiel could not understand why Sam was looking at him with that strange expression. And Dean—Dean was definitely laughing now, though he was at least trying to hide it behind his hand.
"Cas," Sam said, and there was a warmth in his voice that Castiel did not quite understand. "You want me to teach you how to make sandwiches?"
"I want you to teach me how to make anything that prevents this situation." Castiel's brow furrowed. "If the deficiency is caused by a lack of this mineral in her diet, then the solution is simple. I will ensure she consumes it in adequate quantities. I will monitor her intake. I will-"
"Cas." Sam's voice was soft. "You know you don't have to do that, right? We've got it handled."
"You clearly do not." Castiel's voice was flat, deadpan as can be. "She collapsed. Under your watch. She collapsed because you did not feed her appropriately."
"Ouch," Dean muttered. "Right in the ego, man."
"You are not listening to me." Castiel was growing more agitated, his vessel's heart still racing, his grace pulsing with anxiety. "I have a duty. I have a purpose. Which is keeping the Winchester Sibiligns alive, Heaven's orders. And if that purpose involves standing guard over a fragile human child to ensure she consumes the necessary nutrients to maintain her vessel, then that is what I will do."
He turned back to you, and something in his expression softened.
"She is so small," he said, almost to himself. "So fragile. You twoy are also fragile, but she is… she is younger. Younger and smaller and more vulnerable. And she has been walking through this world with oxygen-starved blood for years. How is that possible? How has she survived?"
"Adaptation," Sam said. "Kids are resilient. Her body just kind of… adjusted to it."
"It should not have had to adjust." Castiel's voice was fierce. "She should have been cared for. Protected. FED."
"Yeah, well, our dad was kind of—" Dean made a vague gesture that conveyed about a thousand words of frustration. "..He wasn't exactly the nurturing type."
"Then it falls to you." Castiel's eyes met Dean's. "And it falls to me."
Dean's expression had shifted. The amusement had faded, replaced by something more serious. More appraising.
"You really care about her, don't you?" he said quietly.
Castiel hesitated.
The question was not one he had expected. Care was a human concept, a human emotion. Angels did not feel things the way humans did. They existed in a state of divine purpose, of celestial duty, of-
And yet.
And yet, when he looked at you.. he felt something that was not quite duty. Not quite purpose. Something that made his vessel's heart beat faster and his grace thrum with a need to protect.
"Yes," he said finally. "I suppose I do."
Sam was smiling now, a soft, almost fond expression that Castiel did not quite know what to do with.
"Alright," Sam said. "I'll teach you how to make her favourite sandwiches. And I'll show you the supplements she needs to take. And you can help make sure she doesn't skip meals."
"I would appreciate that," Castiel said, and his voice was steadier now. "I would appreciate that very much."
Dean was grinning now, slapping Castiel on the shoulder with a force that would have staggered a normal man. "Look at you, Cas. A regular mother hen."
"I do not appreciate that comparison." Castiel said flatly.
starring: Rossi!reader, Spencer Reid, Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan [735 words]
featuring: Emily Prentiss, David Rossi, Jennifer Jareau, Aaron Hotchner
synopsis: before the team dives into their latest case, Penelope has a question.
CW: bau!reader, no gender markers used for reader, 'threat' of murder-suicide, mention of cannibalism, worms, this fic is really just silly! reader is Rossi's adult child. there's no ship? per se? so you can pretend it's anyone tbh
A/N: this was inspired by that post that had been circulating a while back about being turned into a worm
Penelope lets out a languorous sigh as she leans back in her desk chair, her arms above her head to make grabby hands at Derek as he goes to walk past – no doubt to take the seat right next to her – forcing him to come to a stop.
“I am in desperate, desperate need of some sugar. And you, you sweet, sweet hunk of a man, are my dealer. My only hope. My sanctuary and solace.”
Derek chuckles as he places a coffee in front of her.
“Tell me what you want to hear, baby girl; I promise to deliver.”
You let out a dismissive huff at the pair as you flip to a new page of your magazine, Emily offering a fond roll of her eyes as Spencer’s face stays glued to the book he’s currently working on.
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” Penelope asks, syrupy sweet as her brightly painted lips smile upside down at him.
You let your magazine fall to the desk as you make a theatrical gagging sound, but you’re not given the chance to formally complain when Spencer’s head pops up.
“Did you know that some believe there’s actually a word to describe the process of being turned into a worm?” Reid asks the room, carrying on to explain without waiting for anyone to answer. “Some people attribute the early 17th century word vermiculation to explain such a progress, though the word can actually also refer to a pattern resembling worm tracks or the state of being infested or consumed by worms.”
You make a much more realistic gagging sound then and the rest of the team turn to look as you use your closed magazine to fan your face and blink away tears.
“Would you stop!?” You actually beg.
Spencer, either ignorant to your current state or in spite of it, continues unperturbed. “It’s interesting, really; the term comes from the Latin noun vermiculatio or the verb vermiculari. The closest modern equivalent in English is to vermiculate which is to move like a worm.”
“Spencer,” you let out lowly, the most solemn expression on your face that any member of the team can remember seeing from the likes of you, “you are so smart and very pretty but I will take us both out in the most phenomenal murder-suicide the United States of America has ever seen if you do not stop talking about worms right now.”
Spencer’s confusion doubles. “But…I’m not talking about worms, I’m talking about turning into a worm.”
“Eugh, who’s talking about worms?” Your father asks in disgust as he walks in, Hotch and JJ trailing close behind before the former closes the door to the conference room behind them.
“Spencer is!” You tattle quickly, pointing at him accusingly with your magazine.
Spencer’s mouth drops open in betrayal, a helpless sound escaping his lips before he points accusingly at Penelope. “They started it!”
“Then finish it.” Hotch says, stern gaze flickering between Penelope and Derek who has yet to sit down.
Penelope brightens up, smiling as Derek takes the seat beside her. “So? Would you still love me if I was a worm?”
You and your father shudder in unison.
Derek, for his part, nods definitively. “‘Course. I’d get you a little terrarium and decorate it like a miniature, dirt version of your lair.”
“Oh, the king of my heart.” Penelope croons.
“Disgusting.” You huff as you flip open the case file in front of you as though the promise of murder or depravity might save you from this conversation.
“Let’s move on, shall we?” Dave agrees with a sage nod.
“Right,” JJ starts, clicking on the projector where headshots of the latest victims take over the screen, “we have a three missing women in Boulder, Colorado, though there is talk that it’s connected to a string of disappearances spanning over the last six months. Cooldown time between the kidnappings is shrinking, and findings of dismembered bodies and many still missing pieces has led to discussions of cannibalism.”
You don’t bother responding – not when time is of the essence and Hotch looks like he’s currently considering reducing the team’s numbers by half – but despite the fact that the question was directed at you, the glare both you and your father send him clearly articulates yes, much better.
Loved your Emily x teenage daughter reader! Can you do another one where she starts feeling pressure to start having sex because a bunch of her friends are and Emily finds out so she talks with her about it
Hey, anon! I got two super similar requests back-to-back, so this is kind of a two-for-one, but I hope it's what you're looking for! – illdowhatiwantthanks
The World's Largest Box of Condoms
Emily Prentiss x daughter!reader
Warnings: discussions about sex, safe sex, genitalia, etc., so much secondhand embarrassment, explicit language (let me know if I've missed anything!)
Word count: 1.7k
Summary: When your mom, Emily, finds your quickly-hidden box of condoms in the bathroom, you know you're in for one hell of a conversation.
“Honey!” your mom called from the bathroom, loud enough that you could hear her through your headphones. You pulled them off and listened for a moment before yelling back.
“What!?”
“Can you come in here, please!?”
You shrugged. Whatever it was, at least it’d be a nice break from your trigonometry homework. You tossed your pencil and headphones on top of your textbook and sauntered down the hall to the bathroom.
“What, Mom?” you asked, but your breath caught in your throat when you saw what she had sitting on the counter. It was condoms. So many condoms. The embarrassingly gigantic box of condoms you’d ordered on Amazon and hid behind the toilet paper. Which, in hindsight, was a stupid place to hide them. Your face flushed beet red.
She looked at you, stern, eyebrows raised. “You want to tell me why you’ve got a thousand condoms? I mean, Jesus, honey, I don’t know that I’ve used a thousand condoms in my life.”
“Mom, I–” You were floundering, sputtering, your stomach in your throat. “I can explain, I… Please don’t be mad.” You stared at the ground, face flaming.
To your surprise, your mom just laughed. You glanced up and found her rubbing her forehead, staring at the box. “A thousand condoms,” she chuckled, more to herself than you. “Oh, honey.” She threw an arm around your shoulder and kissed the top of your head. “I’m not mad. I just wish you'd talked to me before spending your life’s savings on the world’s largest box of condoms.”
“Y–you’re not mad?” you said, stumbling through your words, a cold sweat on the back of your neck.
She shook her head. “Nope. We do need to have a very frank discussion now, though.”
“Oh, god, Mom,” you protested.
“Look, I don’t know what they teach you in sex ed, but I can assure you in my day it was not enough.” She grabbed the box of condoms and moved toward the living room. “And I’ll be damned if my kid doesn’t know what they’re getting into. Come on, Y/N.”
You groaned, but followed her, sitting uncomfortably on the couch across from where your mom lounged in an armchair.
“Look, I understand this might feel awkward,” she started. “It’s not the most comfortable conversation I’ve ever had either. But I want you to know you can talk to me about this even if it’s awkward. And, above all, I want you to have all the information and resources you need to be safe. Okay?”
“Okay,” you said quietly.
Your mom exhaled heavily, then looked at you. “Alright, first things first, are you sexually active?”
You thought your face might be permanently flushed at this point. “No. Not… not yet. It’s not what you think, I just… my friends all are and I– I wanted to be ready I guess.”
She nodded. “Okay. That’s okay. When you’re ready and who that’s with, those are your decisions, okay? But I want you to keep in mind when you get into those situations to think about how you’re feeling.”
“Like… what kind of feelings?”
“Well,” your mom shrugged. “I mean, for starters, does it feel good?”
“Oh my god, Mom!” you squealed, burying your face in a pillow.
“Sorry! But, as I’m sure you know, sex is supposed to feel good! I’ve had sex that felt great and sex that felt like shit, and sometimes I didn’t realize that “not feeling good” was a good enough reason to stop.”
You groaned into the pillow. You did not want to hear about your mom’s sex life. You knew she was just trying to educate you and help you and she was but… ugh! Why’d it have to be so awkward?!
She was in full mom mode now, her voice stern like a teacher’s. “When you’re in a situation where you’re thinking about having sex, you need to ask yourself, Do I feel safe? Do I feel good? Do I want to do this because I want to do it or because someone else wants me to?”
You nodded, exhaling slowly.
“And anytime you decide you want to stop, any time it doesn’t feel good or safe, the other person stops. Always. If they don’t, that is abusive behavior and you can call for help or do whatever you need to do to get safe.”
“I know all this already, Mom,” you needled. “Consent is king, blah, blah, blah.”
“And that goes for you, too,” she added, pointing at you. “If someone you’re with gives you anything less than wholehearted consent, or if they decide they want to stop, you stop. If they’re drunk or high, stop. If you’re drunk or high, stop.”
“Of course,” you said, throwing your hands up. “I would never, Mom. You know that.”
“I know, but…” She took a long sip of her wine. “It bears repeating.” She patted her leg. “Alright, now we get down to the dirty details.”
“Mom!” You were terrified. Exactly what kind of dirty details needed to be gotten down to!?
She cracked a smile. “I’ll try not to make it too hard on you, honey. Now, are you on birth control?”
You shook your head and gestured toward the box of condoms. “I mean, I was gonna be safe, though…”
Your mom shook her head and pulled out her phone. “Condoms aren’t 100% effective. I’ll make an appointment for you this week so we can get you on it. I will ask you not to engage in any sexual activity until after your birth control becomes effective, though, okay?”
“Yeah, of course,” you mumbled.
“Now, are you planning on having sex with women at all?”
“I–” Your voice caught in your throat. “No, I mean… I don’t think so.”
“Okay, well, just in case…” she said, holding up her hands defensively. “If you have sex with a woman, you still need to be cautious about STDs. Just be open with one another about your sexual history. I’m happy to take you to get an STD screening anytime you want. I have some dental dams around here somewhere, too, if you want them, but I think STD screenings are more effective with women.”
Suddenly, you were looking at your mom with new eyes. “You know a lot about being with women…” you observed.
Your mom gave you a look of equal parts love and equal parts pity. “Oh, honey. Why do you think your babysitters always stayed the night after I got back from working cases?”
Your jaw dropped. “You– what!?”
“The only people I trusted you with for that long were girlfriends, honey.” She took another swig of wine.
“You’re bi!?’
“Honey, we’ve talked about this,” your mom insisted. “When we first started talking about sex in elementary school, remember? I told you 99% of the time I liked women better.”
You felt like you were losing your mind. “You just said that you had better connections with women! Not that you sleep with women!”
“Is that right?” Emily said, wincing. “Yikes. My bad, sweetheart. I guess I just assumed you would have put two and two together by now.”
“Okay, well, I guess I’m just fucking dumb,” you grumbled, still shaken.
“You’re not dumb.” Your mom sighed.” I should have been more up front. We had pride flags and everything, though! We even went to Pride!”
You shrugged. “I just thought you were a really passionate ally.”
You looked up and your mom’s shoulders were shaking with laughter, and you couldn’t help but laugh with her. When you both finally calmed down, she exhaled sharply.
“Alright, just a few more things. I promise!” she added when you groaned.
She looked at the ceiling, as if trying to summon all of her advice about sex.
“If a guy doesn’t want to wear a condom, do not sleep with him. They’ll try to say it doesn’t feel the same and maybe it doesn’t. I don’t give a fuck personally. The risk of getting pregnant is way more concerning to me than the risk of him having a slightly less great sexual experience. Always use a condom with a man.”
You nodded.
“The good news is, you’ll always have enough,” your mom grinned, pointing to the box.
You blushed and giggled.
"In all seriousness, though, condoms do expire. They last... three to five years, I think? But don't use an expired condom, it breaks down more easily."
She exhaled heavily. "Now, this last part is the most important, okay?” Your mom set her wine down, stood, and moved to sit next to you, taking your hand in hers. You avoided her eyes, cheeks red.
“If you ever feel in danger or in trouble, if you ever get pregnant, if you ever need help, you call me.”
She squeezed your hand, and you squeezed hers back. No matter how excruciatingly awkward this conversation had been, no matter how much you kind of wished you were anywhere else, you knew your mom would be there for you. You were glad to have a mom who wasn’t judgy, one who helped you be safe and trusted you to make good decisions. One who would help you even if you didn’t make good decisions.
“Alright?” she prompted. “You call me. And you be safe.”
And it was only then when you looked at your mom that you realized that as hard as this conversation had been for you, it might have been harder for her. She was a protective woman, your mom, an FBI agent. She’d literally kill someone before letting you get hurt. It was hard for her to let you go, probably. Hard for her to let you grow up.
“I will, Mom. I promise,” you assured her.
She exhaled deeply and kissed the top of your head, then gave you a light whack on the arm. “Alright. That’s all I’ve got. You can get back to your… geometry or whatever you’re working on.”
“Trig,” you corrected.
She nodded, sinking back into the armchair with her glass of wine, seemingly relieved the conversation was over.
“Oh, Y/N?” she called just as you stepped into the hallway. You turned to look at her, then blushed as she held your jumbo box of condoms up to you.
“Don’t forget your condoms, honey,” she chuckled.
You snatched them from her blushing, but smiled as you turned back to your room. When you thought about it, you really did have a cool mom.
do you know about the tiktoks where there’s a baby named azai (he’s soooooo cute!) who loves to say hi to people at target?! would you be willing to write something like that with Hotchner!reader?!? but she does it whenever he has to take her to work? ☺️❤️
Social Butterfly
Aaron Hotchner x Daughter!Reader
Summary: When your dad takes you to work you can’t help but say hi to everyone that walks past.
———
You were back at work with Aaron, not surprising since you always seemed to be able to wriggle out of going to daycare. There was a bunch of sicknesses going around your daycare and Aaron preferred you to not be at risk of getting sick because he knew from experience how weak your immune system was.
You were standing in the elevator, your tiny hand in Aaron’s. He looked down at you and sighed. “Alright, you know what I’m going to say. Don’t say hi to every person you see, okay?”
You chucked your tiny thumb up and grinned, your pacifier still in between your lips. “Okay!”
Aaron gave you a little smile and picked you up under your arms to set you on his hip. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Aaron walked out of the elevator with you, immediately there were other FBI agents around. You grinned and waved excitedly. “Hi! Hi!”
You didn’t know this agent, and neither did Aaron but you didn’t care, you just wanted to say hi. The agent turned to you and smiled. “Hey there, sweetheart! Are you here with your dad?”
You nodded your little head, patting Aaron on the shoulder. “Daddy. He FBI!”
The agent chuckled and nodded, giving you a little high-five. “That’s so cool! I hope you have fun. I’m in the FBI too!”
You gasped and smiled, you thought it was so crazy that someone else was part of the FBI like your dad. “Both!”
The agent nodded and showed you his badge. “Yeah, we’re both in the FBI! Did you know that everyone in this building is in the FBI?”
Your little jaw dropped, your pacifier almost falling out of your mouth. “Daddy! Everyone here FBI!”
Aaron nodded and pushed your pacifier back into your mouth. “That’s right, everyone here is part of the FBI.”
The agent gave you a wave goodbye and one last high-five. You giggled and Aaron kept walking. He was secretly amused that you couldn’t help but say hi to everyone you saw. You saw another agent walk past and you immediately waved again.
“Hi! Hi!” You giggled as the agent waved back but kept walking. You loved going to work with your dad and seeing everyone.
Aaron shook his head with a small smile, gently rubbing your back. “What have I said about talking to strangers?”
You shook your head and giggled, eagerly waving to another person passing by. “Hi!” You turned back to Aaron and smiled. “Daddy’s friends.”
Aaron shook his head and kissed your cheek. “Y/N, I don’t know these people. Neither do you.”
You giggled and waved to another person. “I friendly.”
Aaron nodded in agreement, fixing the soft hair that had fallen out of your tiny hair tie. “Yes, you are.”
Aaron eventually made it to the bullpen and he pointed to all his team members. “N/N, these are Daddy’s friends, okay? You know them, but you don’t know the random people walking by.”
You nodded your head, looking around at everyone. You excitedly waved at them. “Hi, Aunty JJ! Hi! Aunty Emily! Uncle Spencer! Hi, hi, hi! Uncle Derek! Hi!”
Aaron chuckled and put you down, letting you run over to everyone and say hi to them. He watched as you gave everyone a hug and a wave, repeatedly saying hi to them. He would have to keep working on stranger danger with you but he’d let you keep being friendly to everyone for the time being.
hi idk if you’re in the mood to write criminal minds but I’ve been thinking about the whole “Steve hears that all the time and still goes in” and big dick Harrington being confirmed and I can’t help but think it would be hilarious and also work decently well for Spencer and/or Hotch. Feel free to disregard tho if you’re not writing for them anymore! Love u!
hahaa this request made me laugh immediately when reading. i couldn't really make this very long or detailed but i hope i did it justice! <3
Aaron Hotchner x Rossi!reader who is toeing the line [769 words]
CW: dirty jokes, Rossi's adult daughter works for the BAU [mother unknown], crack/humour
You are very, very good at your job, there’s no two ways about it. You wouldn’t be working at the BAU if you were anything less than extraordinary.
But…if there was one member of the team who could be considered a personality hire, it would probably be you.
Your dad might come close, but being one of the founding fathers of the unit means he’s a little too well-ingrained in the bureaucracy to truly be worthy of the title.
Perhaps it's only because you are so good at your job that you can get away with half of the shit you pull. Still, you think you might be toeing the line.
You count your blessings that this one happens outside of working hours.
“And it’s made to scale,” your dad announces proudly, either ignorant to or ignoring the way Hotch narrows his eyes at him.
“Why?” is all your unit chief manages to ask.
“Because my favourite, honorary godson only turns seven once, and I aim to please.”
“He would’ve been happy with a train set, Rossi,” Emily laughs.
“No one would be happy with a train set, Prentiss,” he counters.
Spencer’s brows furrow. “I would’ve been happy with a train set.”
“Perfect,” you drawl, shooting a wink at the genius. “Now I know what to get you for your birthday.”
“Where do you even buy a life size storm trooper and Darth Vader?” Derek asks with a smarmy grin, clearly loving how this is ruffling Hotch’s feathers. You have no complaints; he looks particularly handsome when ruffled.
“Online auction.”
“And where am I supposed to store these things?” Hotch finally asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“That’s sort of not my problem, Aaron,” your dad replies with a smile.
”Wait? How’d you get it here?” Spencer chimes in.
Your dad swallows his sip of wine before responding. “It’s being delivered.”
“Delivered how?”
Your dad furrows his brows at him. “By a delivery service?”
Spencer sighs. “No, I mean, how is it going to get in here?”
You all share a look.
“Spencer, I’m not sure how beautiful, super model genius doctors move through life, but most of us enter homes through doors,” you supply as you pop a grape in your mouth.
“That won’t work for the Darth Vader and storm trooper statues,” he continues, apparently unaffected by your wiles.
“Why not?” Hotch asks, arms crossed in front of his chest which defines his muscles beautifully. You think he should wear those polos to work; he’s formidable as ever in his well-pressed suits, but the local police might actually balk if they could only see his forearms.
Spencer jumps into an explanation, excitement at knowing and being listened to evident in the way he blooms in his seat.
“Both statues come with a large platform to keep them stable; Rossi said he bought it pre-assembled which means the platform is likely already secured to the statue. The storm trooper might manage, but it stands at approximately seven feet tall and weighs anywhere from 40 to 120 pounds, depending on the quality of the material they’re made from. Darth Vader will be taller at almost eight feet tall, and his lightsaber and cape will cause extra issues. Hotch’s front door is approximately 36 inches wide and 80 inches tall.”
Everyone shares another look.
“Okay, so, let's try that again in English this time,” Derek says.
Spencer’s brows furrow. “That…was in English.”
”Dumb it down for us,” Prentiss translates.
He considers his next words carefully. “It’s too big. It won’t fit.”
You seize the moment. “Hotch hears that all the time and goes in anyway, don’t you, Hotch?”
Emily chokes on her sip, Derek breaks out into loud laughter, JJ looks over her shoulder to ensure the kids didn’t hear your nonsense, and your father mutters who raised you? into his wine glass.
And Hotch? Hotch glares at you. Except it’s not a very good glare; the tips of his ears are red and you swear you notice a twinkle of humour shining in his deep, dark eyes.
“Why are you the way that you are?” he asks you.
“Are you complaining, sir?”
“Yes,” he deadpans. “Constantly. HR won’t do a thing.”
“Is it because-”
“You have seniority?” He finishes for you, a smirk finally dancing on his lips. “It has to be.”
You hum in acknowledgement, slipping off the kitchen stool and brushing up behind him on your way to refill your wine glass. “Better luck next time, chief.”
Hotch lets out a great, heaving sigh like you’re the bane of his existence.
could you write something about this? rossi having a teenage daughter who is just as smart as spencer, and them meeting each other and discovering the similarity, is something different but i think it could be fun to read! 🫶🏻
spencer reid x fem!rossi!reader
warnings: nothing, pure fluff
a/n: this is so cute omg thx for sending it! btw i didn’t realize it said “teenage” until now i’m so sorry 😭☹️ i hope that doesn’t bother you too much, she’s spencer’s age!
Rossi had invited everyone to dinner at his house. It was something “simple.” In quotes because, come on, for Rossi nothing was simple.
“Come in, if you break something, I’ll tell Hotch to cut half of your salary.” He gave a fake smile as he let them in.
“Aww, you’re so kind.” Emily returned the fake smile, which made everyone laugh.
“Take a seat, how about some wine?” Rossi offered, and everyone graciously accepted.
Except Spencer. “No, thanks— I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Of course you don’t, kid.” Rossi rolled his eyes. “What would you like? Orange juice? Fruit puree?” Rossi teased him.
“I’m fine, thanks.” Spencer smiled a little.
“Dad, do you know where the library is—” You came down the stairs quickly before noticing the team in the living room. “Oh— Hello.” You lowered your voice, a bit shy.
“Hey you, I forgot to mention it.”
“You definitely did.” You said, shrinking into your spot.
“Look, this is my work team.” He pointed to each person as they greeted you. “And this is my daughter.” He introduced you by name to the team.
“Nice to meet you.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m going to… head upstairs. Excuse me.”
“Are you kidding? Stay.” Your dad encouraged you.
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“Don’t say that, sweetie. You’d never be a bother.” Garcia spoke up.
“And if it does bother them, they can leave, it’s my house.” Rossi joked, and everyone laughed a bit.
“It’s fine, really,” Hotch said.
“Okay, thank you.” You finished coming down the stairs, a bit nervous.
Now, you weren’t thaaaat shy (just a little), but come on, it was your dad’s entire work team. How could you not be?
“I didn’t know you lived with your daughter.” Morgan smiled, taking a sip of his wine.
“I don’t, she’s visiting.” Rossi gave you a look to encourage some small talk.
“I live in England, I’m in university.”
“Oh, where?” Spencer asked, intrigued.
“Oxford.” You smiled shyly.
Morgan whistled. “That’s fancy.”
“It’s not as grand as it sounds.” You shook your head.
“Oxford, along with Cambridge, is the elite of education in England. One of the two always appears in the top rankings of the country, as well as the list of the ten best universities in the world.” Spencer looked at you. “I think it is as grand as it sounds.”
You narrowed your eyes a bit at his response.
Spencer, the genius of the BAU, you knew a little about him.
Your dad used to talk about him and said you two would probably get along, but he said that about everyone, so you didn’t pay it much attention.
“Cambridge is better than Oxford.”
“Depends on the field.” He replied.
“No, it doesn’t. In general statistics, it’s better.”
“You can’t rely on general statistics.”
“Said the profiler.”
Everyone chuckled at your little exchange, which made you smile a bit.
From then on, everyone started their own conversations, and you noticed Spencer sitting there, staring at his glass of water.
“Anyway, I chose Oxford for a reason, so you’re not completely wrong.” You sat next to him.
“You got into Cambridge?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Mhm.” You nodded. “Want me to be honest?”
“Of course.” He looked at you intently.
“Maybe the fact that Oxford looks like Hogwarts influenced my decision a bit.”
Spencer laughed. “That’s fair.”
“And you? Where did you go? I’ve heard you have several PhDs.”
“I went to the MIT.” He smiled nervously.
“That sounds amazing.”
“Not as amazing as yours.” He looked at you.
“Sure, yours wasn’t run by Dumbledore.” You joked.
“You really like it, huh?”
“Are you kidding? I love it! It’s my favorite series.” You got excited talking about Harry Potter.
“I’m more of a Star Wars fan.” You grimaced at that. “What’s wrong? You don’t like it?” He raised his eyebrows.
“I’ve never seen them,” you admitted.
Spencer’s eyes widened. “No way!”
“Seriously! They just don’t appeal to me, sorry.” You apologized through laughter.
“Well, what else do you like then?”
“Hmm.” You looked at the ceiling, thinking. “I like magic.”
“Really? I love magic.” Spencer smiled.
“Yeah? What can you do?” You playfully challenged him with a smile.
“Uhhh.” He looked around, searching for something to show you.
“Nothing?” You smiled.
“I guess not…” He shrugged. “Unless…” He made a small gesture for you to check behind your ear.
You gave him a confused look and reached behind your ear like he did. You pulled out a little piece of paper.
You gasped in surprise. “How did you do that?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Come on! That’s amazing!”
“Nope, sorry.”
“Aww.” You pouted.
“Thank you all so much.” You heard someone behind you saying goodbye.
“Oh—I think I have to go.” Spencer stood up from his seat.
“Yes, of course—” You stood up as well to say goodbye to the others.
A little later, after everyone had left, you were helping your dad clean the kitchen while he was tidying up the living room.
“What’s this?” He asked, showing you the little piece of paper you had pulled from behind your ear earlier.
“Oh, I don’t know, it’s just a magic trick. You can throw it away.” You laughed while washing the glasses.
“Are you sure?” He said, walking over to you. “It has a number.”
“What!?” You dropped the glasses in the sink and quickly dried your hands. “Let me see!” You rushed over to your dad and snatched the paper from him.
“That kid was trying to hit on you?” He rolled his eyes while looking at you.
“Oh my God, yes!” You smiled, excited.
Then you remembered your dad worked with him, and your smile dropped.
“I mean— maybe, probably not— it doesn’t matter.” You shrugged and casually slipped the paper into the back pocket of your pants.
“Sure, it doesn’t.” He narrowed his eyes and started heading up the stairs. “Remind him you live 7,588 kilometers away!” He shouted from afar.
You smiled a little and gave a small jump of excitement in the quiet of your living room.
Pairing: father figure!Aaron Hotchner x reader
Summary: 5 times Aaron remembers that you're not his kid (+1 time he knows that you are).
Warnings: r is a teenager (around 16 at the start), abusive family, child neglect, allusions to aaron's abuse, haley and hotch divorce arc, mentions of the s3 suspension, reference to 3x02, r is anxious, violence, bullying, inaccurate legal info (don't ask me ab logistics bc hotch is a lawyer who does magic), hotch is such a dad
Words: 6.4K
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1.
The sound of the door opening was almost so light that he didn't hear it, but your footsteps made it obvious to Aaron that you were there.
He knew it was bad practice to leave his door unlocked when he was an FBI agent. He knew that, which is why you had a key. He still left the door unlocked, anyway.
"Hey, Mr. H."
He gave you a brief nod of acknowledgement, busy gathering his files for his briefcase. He had half a mind to correct you, It's Aaron or you can call me Hotch, but Mr. H might be as informal as you'd ever get. He should know—he tried.
Though he didn't look up at you, he still spoke. "I'm really sorry to call you in on a Friday night. I know you must have other plans." Now he looked up, seeing you standing there, fiddling with the strap of your bag. You must've come straight from school, he thought.
How late are they keeping them at school nowadays?
"I, uh—" you shook your head. "No, I don't have any other plans." He hoped you weren't just saying that for his sake.
He drove his point home. "Regardless, I apologize. I was supposed to have the night off, but this meeting was called last minute." You opened your mouth to interrupt, but he didn't let you offer the assurances he knew you'd give. You were a teenager. Of course, you had better ways to spend your Friday night than with his kid. "And Haley is out of town with Jessica."
"Really, Mr. Hotchner." You pursed your lips into what he assumed was meant to be a smile. It looked more... nervous (and maybe even painful) than anything. But you tried. "It's fine."
He resisted the urge to sigh, both at the return of the moniker and your quick dismissal. You did that often, he noticed. Dismissing yourself. He wished you would stop.
You were a good kid.
He sometimes wondered if you knew that.
He chose not to worry you anymore with the conversation. He didn't want to make you feel like you had to smile. It was almost as bad as the way you cocooned into yourself, trying not to take up space. Opening the door quietly as to not disrupt. Making yourself smaller despite his efforts to let you know that there was enough room for you here.
He was running late, anyway.
He picked up his bag. "Alright then. Jack is in his room. I should be home by," he checked his watch, "nine. Maybe ten or eleven at the latest."
You nodded absentmindedly as he made his way to the door. Just as he was about to turn the knob, another thought crossed his mind.
He quickly turned around, perhaps too quick. He barely caught it. If he'd have blinked, he would've missed it. A flinch, sudden and reflexive, before you could stop it. You collected yourself within the same second.
His brows furrowed, but he didn't mention it. Don't read into it, he told himself. (He was already reading into it).
Instead, he just went with his original question. "I forgot to ask earlier, but your parents are okay with you staying out this late, right?"
Again, it was almost too fast for him make out. If he wasn't a profiler. But he was, and he could see the look that passed over your face clear as day. Surprise. Discomfort. Embarrassm—
Stop profiling her.
(He was already profiling you).
"Oh, yeah." You waved a hand in the air. "They're totally cool with it. Don't worry about it, Mr. H." The weird smile was back on your face. Nervous.
He'd be more content that you were back to "Mr. H" if it weren't for the fact that you were trying to placate him. For what, he wasn't sure.
His attempts not to profile had failed. A preliminary profile had already built in his head, filled with bullet points and question marks. He tried to shake it off.
He was late.
He nodded to you. "Okay." He made a mental note to ask you about it later, but right now he had somewhere to be and other promises to keep.
He was out the door before the "bye" could leave your lips.
—
When Aaron got home, he wasn't expecting you to be asleep. He wasn't sure why: you were a kid, and it was normal for kids to be tired at the end of the week.
Maybe because you had never fallen asleep there before, not once in the year that you'd been Jack's babysitter.
You were curled up on the couch, the TV still running in front of you. He should wake you up. He was home, and you deserved to be home, too. Your parents were probably wondering where you were.
It was only then that he realized you were completely still. Not twiddling your fingers or awkwardly trying to find the right way to stand when he was in the room. You were just... there. And because of that, he could now see the bags under your eyes clearly.
His shoulders fell. You were tired. He wanted to let you sleep.
But responsibility won his internal turmoil. He lightly shook your shoulder. "Y/N?"
Your eyes fluttered open slowly, disoriented. "Hm?"
"My meeting ended."
It took you a few seconds to understand. When you did, you bolted up, his hand falling in the process. Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head. "Oh, um—" you ran a hand through your hair. "Jack went to bed a while ago after I fed him dinner. I didn't mean to fall asleep, too. I'm sorry."
His brows knitted together more prominently this time. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I told you, when you're here, you can treat this place as your own." It almost sounded like a scolding.
You winced. "Right. Sorry, Mr. Ho—"
He cut you off, "Hotch." He couldn't help it. You looked confused, so he elaborated, "You can call me Hotch. Or Aaron. Either or."
"Okay... Aaron?" Your voice lifted at the end like you were testing yourself. He gave you a reassuring nod.
He thought he was done, but he added, "And you don't need to apologize for everything, Y/N. You've done nothing wrong." He tried to make eye contact with you so that you'd know he was being earnest, but you avoided it.
"Sorry—" you screwed your eyes shut, very obviously kicking yourself. "Sorry."
He sighed. This was progress. In... some way.
"It's fine." Because he didn't want to make you feel bad about it, he switched the subject. "I can walk you home. It's dark out." You lived right down the street, but he'd seen too many horror stories of young girls who walked home alone and never made it there.
Your mouth opened and closed and opened and then closed again. You looked like you were scanning your brain for something to say. Your profile was brought right back to the forefront of his mind.
"That's okay, Mr— Aaron," you corrected yourself. "I'll be fine." You were already standing up and grabbing your things.
"Y/N—"
"I'll text you when I'm home safely. Good night."
You practically sped out of the house. The door closed a little louder behind you this time. Not a slam, but not the controlled quiet it normally was.
Aaron was left standing in the middle of the living room. He looked to the couch and then to the door. In a flash, you were there, and then you were gone. He didn't even get the chance to pay you.
Any worries he had that he was overthinking had disappeared. He'd never seen you react like that, let alone cut him off.
You were... skittish. You always watched what you said. You were tired. Maybe overly tired. And your parents. Hotch hadn't ever spoken with your parents. You seemed anxious when he brought them up.
He was worried about you. It was easy to be worried about you. You were so quiet, and in many ways, too independent. In some ways, you reminded him of a younger version of himself of himself. And that scared him.
Aaron knew what he was like when he was a kid, and he also knew why.
His phone dinged, pulling him from his thoughts. He took it out of his pocket, checking the notification.
Y/N (babysitter): Made it home.
A bit of relief flooded his chest. At least you made it home safe. He just hoped you stayed safe.
He prayed his suspicions were wrong.
But, deep down, he knew they weren't.
2.
It was a weekend. For the first time in a while, the Hotchner house was full. Aaron was playing with Jack. They didn't often get to do this together, so he tried to seize these opportunities whenever he could.
"Hey, buddy, I'm gonna go check on mom real quick, okay? I'll be right back."
Jack nodded without looking at him, too immersed in his toys. Aaron was glad.
It wasn't totally a ruse. He was checking on Haley. Maybe that wasn't the full reason, but it was true.
He walked into their shared bedroom, finding her folding laundry on the bed. She looked up, a smile crossing her face. "Aaron," she playfully teased. His lips quirked up in response, a stark contrast to how things had been between them recently.
"Hi, honey." He kissed her cheek, taking a seat across from her on the bed. "I've been wanting to talk to you about something." She raised a brow, so he added, "It's about Y/N."
Her face twisted in confusion, then concern. "Y/N? Why, has something happened to her?" She fully sat up, angling her body toward him. The clothes in her hands were long forgotten.
He didn't reply as quickly. He didn't have the answer she wanted. He wasn't sure if he had the answer he wanted. What he knew was that something was happening to you. He just didn't know what.
Some foolish part of him didn't want to know.
Some part of him already did.
Finally, he responded, "I think that... something may be happening with her parents." He didn't have to say another thing. A look of understanding dawned her face, and he knew she knew what he meant.
He watched as her eyes softened. She set the clothes aside entirely, cupping his cheek in her hand. "Oh, baby." She understood. Too well.
Haley was there for him in high school. She didn't know everything, but she knew enough. She knew that sometimes his ribs hurt just as much as his heart. She knew enough.
He wanted to lean into her but resisted. This wasn't about him. This was about you.
She removed her hand of her own volition. "Aaron, I think that if you think something, then it's probably true. I mean, if... if you have reason to believe something's wrong..." she trailed off. And Aaron knew what he had to do.
He proposed his idea to Haley, being met with her agreement. He kissed her softly, knowing his sweet wife hadn't seen what he'd seen but that she was just as cautious. Cautious and kind.
He hoped he could extend that kindness to you.
—
"Y/N, come in."
Aaron surprised you by waiting at the door this time. You were used to entering silently, but there he was, waiting.
"Thanks, Aaron."
He let you walk into the house, guiding you to the couch. "Here, take a seat."
You hesitated. He could see you taking in his attire—not work clothes—and listening in to hear the quiet of the house. You sat down in spite of whatever you were noticing, but you swallowed. "Is— did I do something wrong?"
His brows furrowed. He took a seat across from you. "No, Y/N. You did nothing wrong," he assured you.
"Are you firing me?"
He wondered why you kept jumping to the worst conclusions, but his profile told him exactly why. It wasn't so often that he hoped his profiles were wrong. "No, I'm not firing you."
"Okay, so," you wrung your hands together, "what's wrong then?"
Aaron didn't say anything for a moment, just staring at you. He noted the long-sleeve sweater, even though it wasn't that cold yet. "Is there something wrong?" he prompted.
You stammered, "I— I don't understand." Your hands wouldn't stop moving.
He glanced down at them before making full eye-contact with you. Softly, he said, "Y/N, I don't like to assume things. But I'm afraid that's what I'm paid to do."
Another swallow. "I'm really not sure what you mean."
Hotch had seen tens of kids like you at work. Children of unsubs, victims, and witnesses alike. He saw you whenever he looked at old photo albums of himself as a child, too.
He was hoping he was wrong.
But he wasn't.
He paused, trying to find a way to go about this without causing you to curl into yourself. "Your parents... do they ever hurt you?"
Your eyes widened. "What?"
He repeated himself. "Do they hurt you? Do they leave you home alone for stretches at a time? Are you in that house alone?" Hotch's questions were starting to sound less like questions and more like statements.
Because you both knew everything he was saying was true.
"I—" he watched you get defensive, looking more frustrated than he'd ever seen you—more frustrated than you'd ever allowed yourself to be seen. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" He leaned forward, trying to catch your eyes. "Y/N, I can help you—"
Finally, you broke, and Aaron felt guilty for wanting that outcome. "How?" Tears welled in your eyes. You blinked and one went racing down your cheek. "How can you help me, Mr. Hotchner? Are you— are you gonna alert the authorities and then have me sent to some foster family?" You shook your head. "I— I know you think I'm a kid, but I'm not stupid."
"Y/N, you are a kid." He needed you to believe that. But he needed you to believe what he was going to say next even more. "And you are not alone. You deserve to be supported, just like any kid does."
You sniffled. "And how is that gonna happen?"
Aaron felt a little piece of his heart break. He didn't know how long you'd been in this situation, but it was clear you'd gotten yourself to believe there was no way out of it.
Not if he could help it.
"What if I could get you out and you wouldn't have to go to a foster family?" he proposed. "You could come stay with us."
Now, your eyes widened more than ever. You rapidly declined, shaking your head fervently. "No— no, I couldn't."
Aaron didn't move to touch you at all, too worried he'd overstep a boundary. But he did get closer. "Yes, you could. You wouldn't be imposing. You already help out so much with Jack. It would be fine."
You met his eyes directly, and Aaron could tell that you were at least considering it. "How would you be able to even pull it off?"
"I used to be a lawyer," he reasoned, shrugging. He wanted to be as relaxed as possible so that you knew this wasn't any trouble for him. "I'm confident I can do it."
You wiped your eyes, crossing your arms. Still defensive, but he knew he made it somewhere because you said, "You can try. But— but nothing's going to happen."
He would certainly try. Because Aaron Hotchner wasn't the type of man who just "tried" things.
He got them done.
3.
Aaron insisted on carrying in your box, despite your protests. It was a single box, a little heavy, and it was quite literally the only thing you had. In his mental checklist of things to do for you, he added: Buy her new clothes.
You had a distinctive style hiding beneath your appearance. Another mental note: Introduce her to Garcia.
He set the box down in your room. It had always been your room, just in case you needed to stay over. Now, it was permanent.
Just as you were entering the room, his phone chimed. He pulled it from his back pocket, seeing a message from JJ. He didn't have to read it to know what it would say.
It seemed you knew what that meant, too, because you were looking up at him expectantly. Still nervous. Another note (a recurring note): Work on that.
"Sorry, honey. I have a case." It slipped out before he could stop it. Work on that.
You nodded like you didn't notice it at all, perking up just slightly. "That's okay! I can watch Jack for you." If he didn't know any better, he'd say you were happy to see him go. (He knew better).
Work on that.
Still, he felt guilt seeping into his veins. He was pulling out his wallet automatically while simultaneously watching your face drop. "Here," he pulled out a crisp hundred dollar bill, holding it out to you. "Buy yourselves something to eat and then keep the rest."
Your mouth opened and closed, sputtering, "Mr. Ho— sorry— no, not sorry. Aaron. I can't take that."
He raised a brow. "I don't see why not."
"You—" you gestured to him then to the rest of the room, "you're already giving me a place to stay. I can't just take your money."
He found your reasoning ridiculous, but he tried not to show it on his face. You were still all too nervous. Instead, he gently reached for your hand and enclosed it around the paper. "Think of it as an allowance." Parents do that for their kids, he wanted to add. But you weren't his kid, even if it felt like that now more than ever.
Work on that.
"An allowance?" you echoed, breathing a laugh. "You're giving me an allowance even though you're already doing so much for me?"
"You deserve it," he said, still gentle but now a touch firmer. The kind of voice you couldn't quite argue with. "Haley will be home soon. And I promise I'll try to be back as soon as possible."
You nodded, a soft "Okay" leaving your lips. He went to go say goodbye to Jack right after.
It felt like leaving his children. He had to remind himself that he only had one child.
He was working on it.
4.
"Hey, kids, are we feeling like it's a superhero night or an animal night?" Aaron shouted, holding DVDs of Spiderman and Madagascar in alternate hands.
From the kitchen, Jack shouted back, "Episode III!"
Aaron turned to you and gave you a funny look, making you laugh. "Jack, buddy," he groaned, "we watched Episode III the other night."
Jack didn't seem to care, repeating, "Episode III!" as he ran in the living room. Behind him, Haley came running, picking him up and contradictorily scolding him, "Jack! No running in the house. You could get hurt."
She took her seat next to you on the couch, giving you a little smile before looking to Aaron. The smile became a little more exasperated. "Aaron. Don't we think that Star Wars is a little too mature?"
Aaron, for lack of a better word, looked sheepish. For a lawyer, he didn't have much of a rebuttal, and you—taking pity on him—pitched in. "If it makes you feel better, Haley, I was watching much worse when I was his age."
Hotch could tell by the look on her face that it didn't make her feel better, but she still upturned her lips nonetheless. A sigh of defeat left her. "Okay. I suppose Episode III, it is."
Jack cheered while you giggled. Aaron watched the two of you contentedly. His kids. His kid and the kid that wasn't his kid (but felt like it, anyway). It warmed his chest to know that you felt more comfortable participating in family discussions now. And as he stared at you, Jack, and Haley sitting on the couch, that's what this felt like. A family.
He got rid of his initial choices and picked up Episode III, taking the disc out of the casing. He always handled it by the edges with careful fingers, but it was still scratched from previous use. He'd deal with the buffering, though, if it made Jack happy.
The best thing about the suspension from Strauss were these movie nights. Time chasing killers turned into time watching his family grow.
He turned off the lamp and sat down as the opening credits started rolling. Amidst the darkness, Haley's eyes met his. A wordless conversation took place, but he was enough of a profiler and enough of a husband to tell what she was saying. The tilt of her head. The soft quirk of her lips.
See? Isn't this better? Spending more time with your family instead of being halfway across the country?
A small feeling of guilt crept up his spine, knowing there were other things he was missing. He tried not think about them.
Instead, he nodded back to her, and then turned to the TV, watching a movie he'd all but seen countless times.
When he got back to the BAU, he would put in for a transfer to a desk job. It was what was best for his family.
—
Yeah, well, make sure you give your son a kiss before you leave.
Hotch closed his eyes tightly, reaching a red light. Haley's words had been echoing throughout his head the entire time he was in Milwaukee. Time had passed since he last saw her, but the conversation still played through his head on a loop.
I can't just switch off my loyalty, Haley.
Who are you being loyal to?
He didn't know how to balance it. How to be the husband and father his family needed and a leader for his team. He was trying. He wanted to make it right—he needed to make it right.
He pulled into his driveway, quickly slinging his bag across his shoulder and beelining for the door. All the lights in the house were off except for the kitchen, so he hoped Haley was still awake and that he could talk to her. That he could make it right.
But when he walked into the kitchen and found you sitting at the dining table, his confident step halted. "Y/N?"
When you looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, he nearly forgot what he was doing in the first place.
He dropped his go-bag to the ground, rushing to the seat next to you. "Hey, hey, hey, what's wrong?"
His hands found your forearms effortlessly, like comforting you was an evolutionary instinct he couldn't control. And, truthfully, he couldn't.
His mind was already running a mile a minute, doing mental calculations to tell how long you'd been sitting here, alone, crying to yourself. He started to wonder where Haley was, but then—
You sniffled, "Aaron, I'm so sorry." You couldn't get through saying his name without your voice breaking.
Aaron's left hand moved to wipe a tear as it fell. "Sh, sweet girl," he whispered, wiping away another tear like he'd been caring for you his whole life. "What could you possibly need to be sorry about?"
"I— I couldn't stop her. I tried." You shook your head lightly. "But I couldn't stop her."
Suddenly, Aaron understood exactly what you were saying, no matter the wobble of your voice. His heart dropped into his stomach.
Make sure you give your son a kiss before you leave.
He knew what happened, but, if not just to torture himself, he asked, "They're gone?" It wasn't a question.
Slowly, you nodded. He blew a breath through his lips. They're gone.
He was halfway through processing it when you spoke up. "Aaron, I am so sorry. I swear, I can leave—"
He was pulled out of his trance by your apology, making him pinch his brows together and cut you off. "Y/N." He faced you head-on; you didn't look away. That was good, because he needed you to hear what he was saying. In the same manner he talked to his team, he firmly said, "This is not your fault."
You didn't look convinced, protesting immediately, "No, I showed up and then look what happened—"
"Y/N." He re-positioned his hands so they rested on your shoulders. Then, he repeated himself. "This did not happen because of you. Haley and I had an argument about my work. This is my fault, not yours."
The dam in your eyes broke despite what he said. "I'm sorry."
He engulfed you in his arms without a second thought, and you quickly returned the embrace. Your cries tugged on his heartstrings like you were a musician and he was a guitar. He shushed you, wanting to make this terrible song end. "Sh, you have nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart."
He didn't know if you believed him. He rubbed your back hoping you would understand that he was telling the truth. But the truth was simple.
You still believed you had to apologize for your existence. His act of leaving to join the case had set you back months in confidence.
And it set him and Haley back years in their marriage.
But he just kept rubbing your back, kept holding you, in hopes that he could keep at least one part of his family.
5.
It'd been a few months since Haley left. Aaron had been working through divorce proceedings with her. They agreed that she should have full custody of Jack, who was too young and deserved a kind of stability that the unit chief of the BAU couldn't provide. You, on the other hand, stayed with Hotch. You asked to stay with him, so you did.
There were some undeniable facts of your relationship with Aaron, including the fact that you would be leaving for university sometime soon. Haley believed you shouldn't be moved around so often, so she let Aaron keep the house. At least for the time being.
"What about Georgetown?" he suggested. "I went there for my undergrad before GWU."
The two of you were sat at the dinner table yet again. The difference this time was that college pamphlets were scattered across the table.
"Or, if you don't want to be in DC, I have a colleague who vouches for Yale tremendously. Another for CalTech, but you haven't mentioned anything about technology, so I assumed—" he glanced away from the pamphlets momentarily, seeing you wringing your hands nervously. He turned his full attention. "Hey, are you okay?"
You opened your mouth, but then it looked like you swallowed the words. He waited patiently for you to be able to express what was wrong. Finally, you said, "Aaron, I don't think I can go to any of these schools you're talking about."
He furrowed his brows, confused as ever. "Why not? You have the grades to do it. I've read your report card." Your senior grades had improved immensely since you started living with the Hotchners. You qualified for all the advanced classes you wished to take. You just took the SAT. In his mind, you could make it anywhere.
You opened and closed your mouth again. This time, he knew you had the words, but you were clearly reluctant to share them. "It's not about that."
He tilted his head. "Then what is it about?"
All the telltale signs of a flush appeared on your face, signalling that you were embarrassed. He was even more confused, but you explained, "I don't... I don't have the money for Georgetown or Yale, or... anywhere, really."
Realization dawned on him. "Y/N—"
"I mean, I'm not a super-athlete, so I can't really get any major scholarships, and financial aid won't pay nearly enough—"
He called your name a second time. "Y/N." You stopped rambling, choosing to gnaw at your bottom lip instead. And, for what felt like the thousandth time, Aaron felt his heart snap in half at the look on your face.
He wasn't your dad. He wasn't. But you felt like you didn't have any parent to turn to at all, and that caused a burning in his chest that nothing could get rid of.
He maintained eye contact with you and tried to keep his voice steady, despite the lump growing in the back of his throat. "You don't ever have to worry about that. You can go wherever and do whatever you want. Let me take care of the money." That's what parents do for their kids.
You chuckled the same way you did whenever he gave you money. Only this time, you were discussing a lot more than a hundred dollars. But to Aaron, the dollar value didn't matter.
You were worth every penny.
"You can't keep spending all this money on me—"
"I have the money," he interrupted. He tried to lighten the mood by adding, "You're not going to put a dent in my wallet, I promise."
It clearly worked, because your lips curved up into a smile. Albeit, it was bittersweet, but you were smiling, nonetheless. "Aaron, you have a kid who's probably going to go to college, too—"
"Don't worry about that," he said. "Just let me take care of this." Let me take care of you.
You bowed your head down, and he knew he had you. Still, you insisted, "I will get a part-time job, and I will help pay."
He smiled one of his rare smiles. They were never rare around you. "Sure, sweetheart." He picked back up the first pamphlet he saw. "Now, what about UPenn?"
He didn't say You're my kid, too. But somehow, he hoped you heard it.
+1
Hotch sat at his desk, reading over reports from his team. He skimmed them, checking everything was correct before he signed his name in black ink. 30 minutes in, and the stack on his desk still stood tall.
He was halfway through signing when the telephone rang. He picked it up without lifting the pen from paper. "Hotchner."
"Uh, hi, sir." He raised a brow at the sound of Anderson's voice, already moving onto the next file. "There's a kid here to see you."
He paused, the file still mid-air. "A kid?"
"Yeah, says her name's Y/N." Aaron dropped the file onto his desk; it would have to wait until later. It wasn't even noon yet—you were supposed to be in school. "She's not listed on any log, so they called me down to verify—"
"Bring her up," Aaron ordered. He hung up the phone and stood up in the same breath, heading for the door. His gut churned with something intuitive, knowing you wouldn't be here if something wasn't wrong. He'd meet you at the elevator.
He took the steps down from his office two at a time, finding Rossi at the bottom. With a coffee cup in cand, the greying man raised his brows. "Case?"
Aaron's response was automatic. He said it without thinking about the implications or the weight his words held. "No, it's my daughter."
He didn't wait around to see the way Rossi's brows raised even higher. He didn't even wait to process what he said himself. He strode toward the elevator with his heart thumping louder by the second.
He got there just as the doors were opening. As soon as your face was in view, he could've sworn his heart stopped.
Because, even though it was faint, he could see the unmistakable beginnings of a black eye.
He got his bearings, racing to you. Anderson seemed to get the memo, stepping away while Aaron wrapped his arms around you. He barely gave you the chance to hug back before he was pulling away, holding onto your shoulders. "Sweetheart, what happened?"
You gave him a pained smile—pained because you were nervous and because it looked like it was actually hurting you to do. "We should probably get out the elevator before I dive into the details," you joked.
Through profiling Through living with you, Aaron had learned that you didn't take your trauma seriously. You liked to joke about things or deny that they ever happened. But considering that you were there, giving him a heart attack, he figured that you did plan on telling him.
Trying to calm his heart, he stepped out of the elevator, his hand on your back. He nodded to Anderson, telling him in no words to go away.
He turned back to you, his eyes practically gluing themselves to your bruise. He all but demanded, "What happened?"
You sighed. "Don't freak out."
He might as well have just blown a fuse. "Honey, I'm not sure if you're aware, but I'm kind of already freaking out."
You took a deep breath, and then you let the words speed out of your mouth. "I got into Georgetown, but Stephanie didn't, and it was her dream school, and she hates me, so she hit me, but don't worry, it doesn't even hurt!"
Aaron blinked, trying to process everything you just said. Then, a smile spread across his face. "You got into Georgetown?'
You let out another sigh—of relief, this time—and you reciprocated his expression. "Yes."
You weren't even finished enunciating before Aaron was engulfing you into his arms again, making you squeal as your feet lifted off the ground. He knew by now that agents must've turned in your direction, but he couldn't find the will to care about anything but the fact that you into university and—
His eyes narrowed, and he set you down. "Who is this Stephanie girl?"
You screwed your eyes shut, then opened them again because it likely hurt. "I thought the whole Georgetown part trumped the Stephanie part."
"It did. Momentarily. Now, who is she?" He crossed his arms together, slipping back into his work persona almost seamlessly. "I can have Garcia find her. I'll make sure she doesn't get into any university on grounds of violence toward another student—"
You stopped him, putting your hands on his arms. "Dad. I'm fine, I promise." It took you a few seconds to realize what you said, but Aaron realized instantly.
Dad.
You called him dad.
If his heart didn't stop before, it certainly stopped now.
You slapped your hands on your mouth, your eyes going wide. "Oh, my gosh, I'm so—"
He didn't let you finish whatever apology you were going to spout, opting to give you his third hug of the day. You shut up immediately.
With wet eyes, he muttered, "I told you, Y/N. You don't need to apologize for everything."
"I'm s— right. You're right."
He huffed a small laugh. You were the most endearing person he'd ever met. He'd even forget about Stephanie—momentarily—so that he could be here, with you.
He kissed your temple and didn't hesitate before he told you, "I love you, kid."
You went stiff for a moment, and he almost got worried, but you soon relaxed, hugging him even tighter. "I love you, too, dad."
And in that moment, Aaron knew that, no matter your blood, you were his kid through and through.
He would never reject the thought ever again.
Double Bonus!
Inside the bullpen, the BAU had ceased pretending to do work. Their paperwork lied exactly where they left it as they crowded around Spencer's desk, peeking out to the glass doors where their boss stood with a girl with a black eye in front of the elevators.
"Look, he's hugging her again!" Emily whisper-yelled, smacking Spencer's arm.
"Ow," he muttered, but no one paid him any mind.
"Do you think she's his girlfriend? Ooh, or a long, lost niece!" Garcia guessed.
Morgan made a face. "Ew. She looks like a kid. I doubt Hotch would ever go that young." He shuddered at the thought, despite having no idea how old you were. He nudged Reid on his other shoulder. "Reid, c'mon, pretty boy. Read those lips. What are they saying out there?"
"I'm trying!" he defended. "The girl was talking too fast for me to tell what she was saying." He spun around in his chair, facing his colleagues. "Given his behaviour, though, I would say she has to be some form of close family. She's far too young for her and Hotch to be romantically involved. There are around 439 teenagers in the immediate Quantico area. If you include the rest of the Washington Metropolitan Area, where Hotch lives, that's 819,578—"
This time, Garcia pushed him. "Shut up, nerd, they're talking again!"
Reid turned back around, his eyes squinting and flying over your lips to see what you were saying. "She's talking about someone named Stephanie."
"Stephanie?" Prentiss echoed. "Who's Stephanie?"
"I don't know," he answered, watching as your lips stopped moving. "I think Hotch's is saying something now. I don't—" he cut himself off, his eyes widening.
"What? What, pretty boy, what is it?"
"I—" Reid was having a hard time jumpstarting his brain again, stuck in shock. "She just called him dad."
"What?" Garcia screeched.
Emily followed up with, "No way. She's like seventeen!"
"How the hell is that possible?" Derek asked. "He's never said anything." At the sight of Rossi passing by with what looked like his second coffee of the day, Derek called to him. "Hey, Rossi!"
Rossi stopped walking, turning to them with an all-too-smug and all-too-knowing look on his face. He looked them up and down. "What do you nosy kids want?"
"What's this about Hotch having a daughter?" Morgan interrogated, crossing his arms.
Rossi glanced out to the elevators then turned back to the team. A smirk grew on his face. "It's true." He shrugged, already starting to walk away. In a sing-song voice, he confirmed, "She's his kid."
With those three simple words, chaos erupted in the bullpen.
pairings / jack abbot x daughter!reader, the pitt x abbot!reader (platonic)
summary / jack abbot trusted his daughter; significantly so. when she is out with her friends and doesn't answer her phone, however? he can't help but think he should've been a bit more protective.
Jack Abbot wasn't a strict dad by any means — After losing his leg; after losing his wife, it felt unfair to beg for anything more than for his daughter to be happy, healthy, and — most importantly — safe. Her safety was the one non-negotiable that he had set in place when raising her. She had driven to a party and drank anyway? She called him and he would pick her up, no lecture given. She felt unsafe at any given point, no matter because of who or what? She told him or a trusted adult (the list was short of the adults he trusted — Robby, Dana, Shen and Ellis) and they would take care of it.
"Hey, Grumpy! Haven't seen the kid around in a few? Where's Tiny?" Parker Ellis grinned as she slid up next to Jack at the nurses station, head tilting at him as she saw the way he just starred intensely at his phone.
Hey, you OK? was the message starring back at him menacingly, the timestamp next to it reading two hours earlier. He blinked blearily at the tiny Send beneath it, willing it to change into a Seen.
"Abbot?" Ellis called out again, her grin slowly melting into a concerned frown.
Jack's head snapped up, dropping the hand holding the phone "Hm? Oh, uh, she had exams this week. 's out with her friends tonight to celebrate their newfound freedom."
"Oh— I see how it is!" Ellis hummed thoughtfully, the grin reappearing, "Grumpy Abbot has a hard time letting go."
Jack shook his head ever so slightly "It isn't like that."
It really wasn't like that. Jack trusted his daughter — more than anyone, probably. He had raised her — all on his own ever since she was a three years old toddler that threw tantrums when served broccoli for dinner and asked When is mommy coming home? while dangling her legs from a swing — and he knew he had given her every single ressource to make smart decisions and to know that, even if she had a crashout (whatever that meant; Jack had long given up trying to understand the way she spoke) he was there to pick it up, piece by piece.
In simple terms; he had raised her to be his best friend.
Jack didn't trust anyone else — Not with his daughter. Certainly not with his daughter.
His fingers moved swiftly over the screen again, Ellis' laughter barely audible over the ringing in his ears. Call me when you get this please. Love you. He send the text, mentally chastising himself for opting out of sharing locations with her in fear of coming off to overbearing.
The doors to the pitt slid open, a trauma being wheeled in fast and steady, effectively pulling Jack back into the chaos of the ER and — after the brief panic that it could be her had subsided — he was by the gurney, sharp and focused, the worry over his daughter only a distant pain in his chest.
The trauma took a lot longer than Jack had thought — MVA, three victims; a family. The daughter, only six years, had died after Jack spend 47 minutes perched over her chest, doing chest compressions until the sweat dripped down his forehead and now he was sprawled out in a chair at the nurses station, too exhausted to even think about making the way up to the roof.
"That was a rough one." Shen sighed, leaning up against the hub across from Jack, hands fiddling with the straw in his Dunkin Donuts cup.
"The child ones always are. Always makes you wonder..." Lena trailed off with a frown, noticing the tight set of Jack's jaw. Everyone at the PTMC knew about Jack Abbot's daughter — Tiny Abbot as Shen and Ellis always proclaimed so lovingly when she once again spend one of Jack's night shifts, huddled up in a seat next to Lena, head stuck in a book. By now they had also all noticed, that Jack seemed to be on edge that night, hands and eyes trained to react at the slight buzz of his phone. Shen furrowed his eyesbrows, mulling over whether it was safe to ask or if Jack would rip his head off for just as much as suggesting that something was amiss when the ringtone Jack had specifically set for his daughter made his body jerk into action.
"Kiddo, hey!" Jack breathed, all the air escaping him in one as he registered her name in bold letters on his screen. The relief was short-lived, however, when the line crackled; a tiny whimper cutting through the jumbling noise.
"Dad? Dad, I— I'm sorry. My friends— They left me. I'm drunk, I don't know— They kept saying I should loosen up and I should drink more and then they just left me! I'm scared, I—"
The sirens in Jack's head were blaring two times over as he listened to his daughter's babbling and blubbering "Hey, baby. Baby, it's okay—" he cooed, jumping up to his feet against the strain it put on his prosthesis. "Yeah, it's okay. I'm at work but send me your location, okay?" he turned over, eyes wide with a panic that was entirely unusual for the always so stoic doctor "Lena, call Robby. Kiddo's in trouble, I need him to pick her up."
Lena nodded, hands already grabbing for the red phone — hospital emergencies only policy be damned. Tiny Abbot was one of PTMC's own; a staple in the dysfunctional family that was the night shift and, most importantly, the one thing to bring Jack Abbot from the dark every single time.
"Dad, I'm sorry." Tiny sniffled and she sounded so sad Jack had a hard time not ditching work to pick her up himself. His head spun to string together the worst images it could muster — The idea of his daughter sitting on a curb somewhere far out of his reach, only a dim street lamp as company as she tried to keep herself warm (She never took a jacket with her; no matter how much Jack nagged).
He let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a sigh, scrubbing his free hand over his face to get rid of the haunting images "You've got absolutely nothing to apologize for. You hear me, kiddo? Nothing." he soothed desperately, shooting a look at Lena "Send me your location and I'll have Robby pick you up and bring you here, okay?" he added after Lena gave him a nod and a brief thumbs up.
53 minutes — That's how long it took from the moment his daughter had hung up the phone to call Robby ("uncwe Wobby" as she used to call him all those years ago) to the doors of the ER sliding open to reveal a worried-looking Robby — an usual sight; dressed in sweatpants and a faded band tee — arm wrapped around Jack's daugher. She looked even more sad than she had sounded; Robby had brought her one of his hoodies and a pair of one of her sweatpants that were always flying around at his place to change into in the car and, mixed with the smudged make-up Jack had watched her put on mere hours ago, she looked like a lost little lamb brought to the slaughter.
"Tiny Abbot..." Shen frowned, as he appeared next to them, holding out a fresh Dunkin Donuts' iced coffee "Grumpy Abbot told us what happened so I immediately got your favorite. Donuts are in the break room."
"Thank you, Johnnie." she sniffled, giving him a watery smile, that had Shen's frown deepening, as she took the cup tentatively "Where's dad?"
Shen grimaced "Still with a patient, kiddo. He should be out soon— C'mon let's get you seated. You need something?"
She shook her head, letting Robby and Shen guide her over to a chair at the safety of the nurses station. All she wanted was a hug from her dad — letting him wrap her up in his arms and keeping her safe from all the bad things like he did when she had a nightmare as a kid.
It took seven minutes — seven agonising minutes for Jack, who'd been told that his daughter had arrived safely — for him to finally dismiss himself from the room; eyes seeking out his daughter's form immediately.
She was still sitting at the hub, legs pulled up to her chest with Robby keeping watch over her from his place leaned up against hub across from her. Her eyes were cast down to her fingers fiddling with the straw from her iced coffee but as soon as she recognised the sound of his uneven gait her head was flying up, relief melting her body into a slumped form as she found his gaze.
"Hey, kiddo." he breathed out, pulling her up to her feet and crushing her against his chest with no hesitation "Are you okay?" he murmured, pressing a tender kiss to her head.
She hummed, nodding against his scrub top "'m okay, just... sad, I guess." she shrugged. Jack nodded wordlessly — He had had his suspicions about her friends for a while now; they always seemed nice enough during the few moments they spend at their place. Every now and then, however, Jack heard the quiet comments — He heard the insults, cowardly slipped into a passing comment over a snack at their dinner table, saw the glances and smirks shared when his daughter wasn't looked but he'd kept quiet about it; had smiled at his daughter when she came home all giddy and giggly and had told her how happy he was that she did have finally found friends, after all.
Now he loathed himself for never saying anything.
He pressed another kiss to her head, one heavy hand moving towards her back to trace absentminded circles. Jack had always been good at fixing injuries or sickness — He knew what to do when she fell and scraped her knee and he knew how to take care of her when the flu once again caught up to her, but he always struggled with the emotional side of parenting. Years and years of therapy had helped; he was better at being emotionally present now, the words of comfort came easier to him now, but — every now and then; just like now — he had a hard time figuring out what to say.
"Are you good to go home?" he asked instead as he pulled back, eyebrows furrowed together in almost paralysing worry "Robby's gonna drive you and stay with you until shift change."
"Okay, okay..." she muttered quietly, rubbing her eyes with a muffled sniffle, before bringing herself back against her dad's chest; head flush against his broad chest "'m sorry, dad."
She didn't know what she was apologising for — For worrying him? For drinking? For losing friends? Again? Surely, he didn't think it was cute for his sixteen years old to say that her dad was her best friend.
Jack shook his head vehemently, shifting his stance so she could lean all her weight on him without his prosthesis hurting "Kiddo. You are not at fault here — Absolutely not; in no way. People who do that? Who guilt-trip you into getting drunk and then abandoning you? These people are not your friends and they never were."
His daughter cried something in his chest and it took a beat for Jack to understand that she had said, that she just wanted to belong.
"You belong, baby." Jack spoke firmly, slipping a finger underneath her chin to look into her eyes "You belong with me. You belong in this life. You belong."
She sniffed again, more tears spilling over but yet she nodded, rubbing her head against his chest one last time before taking a final step back. Robby was there immediately, his arm coming up to wrap itself around her shoulder again "Let's get you home, kiddo, hm?"
She nodded tentatively and — after a last hug and a long kiss to her forehead — Jack had to watch his best friend guide his daughter out into the dark night that awaited them outside of the hectic walls of the pitt.
The remaining two hours of his shift dragged on for seemingly forever — All he wanted was to get home to his daughter, maybe stop by the breakfast place they frequented at every Saturday morning and get her one of the cinnamon buns she loved, and put on her favorite movie in the living room where he could keep an eye on her.
Jack Abbot may not be a man of emotional loaded words, but, what he was was a man of actions.
By the time he finally stepped into the townhouse he and his daughter had been living in for the past fifteen years the sun had long risen behind the horizon "Kiddo? I'm home." he called out softly as he closed the front door with one hand, the other one clutching a bakery bag, the sweet smell of cinnamon following him.
Jack had spend the last two hours berating himself for never saying anything — He'd spend ten minutes in between patients, doing the breathing exercises his therapist always spoke off and Lena still called him out for looking brooding — and the cinnamon buns felt like a kind of peace offering now; an apology of sorts for failing her.
"Dad?" a voice breathed. Jack's head whipped around and, for the first time, Jack understood why everyone at the PTMC called her Tiny. His daughter was standing in the doorway to their living room, her favorite fluffy blanket wrapped around bony shoulders and a stuffed rabbit Robby had gotten her when she was younger and refused to go to sleep every time her dad was on night shift clutched to her chest.
She looked like a little kid, all over again.
"Hey, baby." Jack swallowed down every heavy feeling, forcing the corners of his lips into a soft, weary smile as he held up the bag. "I have cinnamon buns."
Her face twitched into something akin to a smile despite the tears brimming hot and heavy behind her waterline. "Robby already helped me move all the blankets and pillows to the sofa."
"Hot chocolate and Princess Diaries?" Jack grinned.
"You always know how to cheer me up, old man."
Jack huffed out a laugh at the old man, dismissing his go-back carelessly by the door as he moved to wrap an arm around her. With a tender kiss to her head he began guiding her towards the sofa, turning off the police scanner while he was at it — He didn't need that today.
Today was all about her.
Taglist ⋮ @sommywithluv @suntello (special thanks to this one for being my biggest supporter in writing this <33)
I love all ur fics especially Hotch and his adult daughter ones. They are just brilliant<3 Can u please write something with Hotch being worried about his daughter as faints or get injured? Thank you!
thank you for requesting! <3 fem, 2k
There are silver-linings to your concussion. Not many, and he’d much prefer you were better, but silver linings all the same.
You, unable to look after yourself with on-again off-again dizziness and shortness of breath, have no choice but to stay at Aaron’s house. (Well, you could’ve stayed home, and he could’ve come to visit you a few times a day while your mother worked, but this is easier on his gas tank and his heart.)
The silver lining is that he actually gets to spend time with you, large swaths of it, and that he gets to see you without your smart formalwear for the first time since you’d met all but four months ago. It will never not be strange to have a daughter and to be her acquaintance, but Aaron feels that this time is perfect to get to know you beyond two hour dinners and texts.
It is admittedly occasionally awkward, but he doesn’t expect it to be easy. He doesn’t need you to pretend that you’re more comfortable with him than you are, or that he’s been there for you as you deserved. He wishes he was, and he can’t forgive your mother for keeping you a secret, but he can understand her reasoning (to some extent), and he can try to give you what you deserve, because it is about you. You’re a young woman who deserves a father and has one now. He’s determined to prove that it isn’t too late.
You curl on the family couch with a new pillow under your head. You wear pyjamas he bought you, socks you’ve borrowed, and a big blanket covers your legs. Jack sits on your feet eating grapes from a bowl.
You look younger without makeup. Aaron can almost see you as a kid.
“You want another grape?” Jack asks you.
“Please, buddy,” you whisper, holding out your hand.
You’re trying not to talk or move too much, as movement hurts your nose, which was broken. Aaron still can’t believe someone hurt you —you were assaulted in the subway during a city riot and passed out as result, where you hit your head, and ended up where you are now with post concussive syndrome.
A bad fall can do such great harm, he can’t imagine how awful it would’ve been to have met you and had you stolen from him that swiftly. He’s a lucky man.
Aaron almost hadn’t answered when you called, about to change into Kevlar and prepare the BAU for an anti-terroism strike that Strauss shoved into their laps. He’d smiled briefly at your contact photo and thought of the phone call he’d have with you later to apologise for missing the first, but then he got a strange feeling. What could it hurt for him to make sure you weren’t in the centre of it?
“Do you want water?” Jack asks.
You hold out your hand again, searching for Jack’s. You find it and give his fingers a squeeze. “No thank you. You don’t have to worry about me, I just want you to watch your movie.”
“I’ve seen it a hundred– hundred times,” he says, taking his hand back to eat another grape. After a moment, he lays his cheek against your legs where you have them bunched up.
“Don’t choke on your grapes,” you say.
“Don’t worry,” he says.
You laugh quietly. “I won’t.”
Aaron closes his laptop, having failed to work from home in the armchair beside you both. He might need some help to get back to a functioning place when he returns to the office, but his hands itch with a different need today. He checks his watch.
“Time for another dose, if you want it?” he asks you.
“Please.”
It’s only anti-nausea and painkillers, but you’re quite dependent on them. He’s staying on top of them, because on your second morning here, you’d woken up and forgotten the anti-nausea. Being sick with a broken nose is agony. He doesn’t wanna see you crying again. (Though again, that had made you closer. To get to rub your back, and promise it wasn’t too disgusting, he could deal with it no problem.)
Haley hums in the kitchen. She’s happy to have her way, which is to have him home, if vaguely bitter that it’s for you. He understands her annoyance, but it’s different. If Jack were attacked and recovering, of course Aaron would be home with him, as he’s home with you, but he won’t stay home for much less and lately, it's been a point of great contention between them.
Still, she’s a good woman who looks after everyone the best that she can. Your pills are waiting on the counter with a glass of apple juice and a muffin, and your laundry is being folded from the dyer next to Jack’s.
Aaron ushers her in for a grateful hug, a kiss pressed to her soft cheek. “Thank you, honey.”
“You’re welcome. She shouldn’t take so much tylenol when she’s barely eating. You’re gonna have to convince her.”
“I will. I was thinking I’d make soup. You know, my mom’s split pea. What do you think?”
“Does she like split pea soup?”
“I don’t know.”
“Just ask, Aaron,” she says, not without sympathy.
“I was going to.”
Haley gives a long sigh. “I’m sorry.”
He rubs her arm. They’ve been very far apart lately, so far that he’s wondered if they’re not going to make it work, but for today they seem back in sync.
“Don’t be sorry,” he says.
“No, I am. I know it’s impossible, but I keep imagining how I would feel if it happened to me.” She wipes lint or maybe nothing from his collar. “What if I had a baby out there and I knew nothing about her? It’s not… not fair on either of you.”
“Worse things have happened, Hale.” Because it really is awful, but he doesn’t need anyone to feel sorry for him. You, yes. Poor girl, your poor nose. Aaron gives Haley a quick kiss. “We’ll be okay. Don’t worry about it, hm?”
“Okay, honey. Well, find out what she wants for dinner.”
“I’m gonna make it.”
“I can make it.” She moves back to her pile of laundry. “I don’t have much to do, with you home. It’s nice.”
He winces, grabbing your pills, your juice, and the muffin. Aaron has no qualms sharing duties, but he can’t have this conversation again. Of course it’s nice to be home, that’s not the issue.
You and Jack are exactly where he left you eating grapes and watching TV, but you’ve shifted upward a little to make more room for him, the blanket now over his legs.
“Are you looking after your big sister?” Aaron asks. He can’t help himself.
Jack grins at him. “Yeah, dad. We need more grapes.”
“Yeah?” Aaron walks around the couch to pass you the few pills into your hand. He crouches in front of you. It hasn’t stopped feeling alien, suddenly having two kids, but it has started to feel right. “It’s dinner time soon, Jack, can you wait? I don’t want you to have a full tummy.”
“What’s for dinner?” he asks.
Aaron passes you the glass of juice for you to wash down the pills. “I was thinking we’d let Y/N choose…” He taps your knee gently. “Do you have a craving for anything?”
“I can’t choose,” you say.
His hand turns to cup your knee, hoping it isn’t too much. “Sure you can. Jack chooses dinner all the time.”
“I’ll eat whatever.”
“You’ve barely eaten all day, isn’t there something you love? Something soft?”
You look like him when you’re not happy. Unsure, you look to Jack. “Can’t Jack pick, please?”
“It’s your turn,” Jack says.
Aaron puts the muffin he’d been given for you on your knee. “Honey, just think about it. There’s no rush. You and Jack can live off grapes for the rest of the night.”
“Mean,” you murmur.
Jack slips off of the couch with his bowl. He makes for the kitchen, his wobbly declarations of love cute and ringing when he sees his mom. “Hi, mommy. You’re pretty. Can I have grapes?”
“Hi baby.”
You smile, fingertip playing with the muffin’s paper casing. “He’s so lovely.”
“I know.”
“It’s okay, right?”
Aaron holds your gaze. Not commanding, but listening intently. “What’s okay?”
“For us to– you know. To cuddle.”
“Yes, it’s okay. Jack makes his own mind up about things, and if he wants to cuddle with you, he will. If you don’t want him to cuddle, you can ask him for space.”
“It’s strange,” you say, laying your face against your pillow, muffin ignored, “to have a brother now.”
“Bad strange?” he asks.
You smile. Almost hopeful. “No.”
Aaron does know what you’re thinking. He has four months of evidence on your behaviour, and you aren’t dishonest, so he believes his frame of reference to be correct. Right now, you’re feeling unwell, maybe the pain in your face is flaring or your concussion is giving you grief, but you seem to already love your little brother. If not love, then to be very fond of him. You have similar feelings about Aaron, but you’re shy about showing it.
He understands that you might not feel very close to him so soon, he understands that you’re practically still strangers, but he loves you. Maybe it’s something innate in being your father, but he really does love you.
It’s like being passed your baby —you don’t know your baby, they’re a baby, but you love them. Aaron doesn’t know if you like vegetable soup more than French onion, if you like buttered bread or a dinner roll or toasted baguette on the side, but he’ll learn.
“I’ll make you anything you want for dinner,” he says softly, looking for your hand in the blankets, and taking it with similar care. “You just have to tell me what you like.”
You look down at his hand.
“Sorry for making things difficult.”
“You’re not making anything difficult.” His thumb rubs your hand of its own accord. “You aren’t difficult. You’re remarkably easy to look after.”
“Thank you.”
“If you could just pick what you wanted for dinner…”
You both laugh at one another, and you wince at the soreness in your nose. Aaron stands from his crouch with aching legs to pat you on the shoulder.
“I’ll figure something out,” he says. “I’m a good guess, usually.”
“Okay. Thank you, Aaron,” you say, resting with a sore squint back against your nest.
In the kitchen, Jack sits in Haley’s lap, his bowl filled again with more grapes. She’s chewing on one when he comes back. “Hey, did she decide?”
Hi, I’ve never actually sent a request before so hopefully this is okay, but maybe Hotch’s adult daughter calling him dad for the first time when she’s in trouble or hurt which could also open up an opportunity for Hotch to see her mother for the first time since he found out about her
You’re gonna throw your pants in the trash when you get home. The blouse is a loss —getting blood out of champagne material is a pipe dream. But the pants were unscathed until now.
“Can you look at me?”
You lift your pounding head. The EMT cups your cheek, her lips quirked into a deep frown as she raises a small flashlight to your eyes. “Just gonna check your pupils again,” she murmurs, shining the light in your eye.
Each flash has a heated knife of pain slamming into your brain. You moan in pain and tip your head forward, wanting more than anything to lay down.
“What can I do to make you more comfortable?” the EMT asks.
“I want to go to the hospital,” you say. Surely they can fix the carving agony behind your face.
“I know. As soon as the ruckus upstairs is clear, we’re going to take you there.”
“I don’t want to sit here.” You grimace at the clammy stone under your legs. The subway is not a good place to touch things.
“It’ll be over soon. There’s a heavy police presence. You’ll be okay.”
“Got blood on my shirt,” you mumble.
“I’m sure someone will wash it for you.”
“My dad,” you say without thinking.
If you asked, Aaron would wash the blood from your shirt. He could buy you a whole new wardrobe and he would if you let him, but he would just as happily stand at the sink scrubbing away your stains.
“Ah, Mr. Hotchner,” the EMT says. “I’ve heard about him, I think we all have. He’s a very important man.”
“He’s just my dad,” you whisper.
You’re not really talking to her anymore, the thumping pain behind your eyes a wave you can’t get past. It hurts with every breath. When you hold out your hand, the EMT knows without asking that you’re going to throw up.
She’s more alarmed after that. “Okay, I’m gonna take you upstairs now, okay? I’m sorry there’s no gurney, but we just have to get to the top of the stairs.”
Each step sucks. You taste blood and vomit alike on your tongue, the daylight is too bright as you ascend the steps, and the EMT isn’t taking enough of your weight. You moan something incomprehensible even to yourself on the second to last step and cover your eyes, aware of the sirens, the roaring crowds, glass shattering at your feet.
“Shit,” the EMT says.
You search for your phone blindly, your hand lost in a pocket full of gum wrappers and tissue. “I don’t have my bag... I want my phone. Need to call my dad.”
“It’s okay,” she says, giving you an encouraging jostle to look out at the clearing sidewalk. “I can see him.”
Aaron is speed-walking through the crowd. He’s surrounded by people in Kevlar vests, but he himself wears nothing more than his usual suit and tie. His face changes when he sees you from glaring to a strange flitting panic.
“Are you all right?” he asks, jogging those last few metres to take you by the elbows. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”
Your eyes are tired. “Somebody hit me,” you say.
“I know.” His sympathy is warm, his hand smoothing up your arm as he turns on the spot. “Morgan, can we get better access down this street?”
One of the Kevlar vests doubles back the way they came. You’re trying to make sense of who you’re seeing, and what’s happening, but the confusion since you got hurt is enthusiastic. You can’t make sense of anything but the splitting pain in your head.
Aaron’s talking five miles a second and ushering you up those last few steps, a gentleness to his touch that’s absent in his barked commands.
You’ve never heard him shout like that. You can’t help staring at him.
“This is an attempted insurrection. The aggression is only going to get worse. JJ, see if you can coordinate with metro PD, make sure there aren’t any other injured civilians in the subway. Dave, I need you to run the operation while I go with her.”
“Aaron,” you say, watching his frown deepen.
“Reid, you’re with JJ. Prentiss, I want you to find who laid hands on her–”
“Aaron,” you say again, shocked.
He gives your arm a placating squeeze.
“They could still be here.” Everything he says is unarguable. He’s suddenly a monolith, and he’s freaking you out, and you’re no closer to being in the back of the ambulance than you had been ten minutes ago. “Have Garcia pull the security footage–”
“Dad,” you say in a short breath, your hand grasping weakly at his arm.
He falls silent for a moment. The agent you’re unfamiliar with becomes the man who brings you teddy bears at dinner and sends encouraging missives in the morning.
“What, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he asks. Not gentle, but hushed.
“I think I’m gonna be sick again.”
The EMT passes you a paper bag.
—
You could hear a pin drop in your hospital room. Your broken nose has its own heartbeat, but that’s a feeling, rather than a sound. Aaron hasn’t spoken in a long time, he just sits there with his hand on your arm, waiting for a cue you don’t give. You’re so embarrassed about calling him dad you’ve decided to never speak to him again.
His hand occasionally comes to life, giving your arm a soft up and down.
It’s strange to suddenly have a father, but not bad. His paternal caring is a comfort with all the pain, and it doesn’t feel stilted. With Aaron it never has, he found out you were his and he immediately began to act like it, though you suppose you’ll never know how he would’ve loved you as an adult if he’d known you as a child. This feels genuine. Careful, but genuine.
“Time to take it off,” he says.
You meet his eyes.
“The ice pack,” he explains.
You drop it onto your leg, and he takes it and sets it on the rollover table instead.
“You can come and stay with me for a few days,” he suggests quietly.
“I’ll be okay.”
“Your mom’s working. I can take the time off.”
You give him a dubious look. “And then you’ll get called away and it’ll be just me and Haley in the house. That won’t be awkward at all.”
He shakes his head. “You’re hurt. You’re gonna feel dizzy for at least another day, and that’s not thinking about how hard it’s gonna be to breathe for a while. I’ll stay home, and you can get familiar with my guest room.”
“You don’t have to look after me.”
“But I want to.” He holds your wrist. “I know we aren’t a conventional father and daughter…” His brow furrows, and he looks at your hand just below his rather than your face. “I want the chance to look after you. How many times were you sick as a kid? Hundreds of times. Mostly colds, a runny nose. Maybe you– maybe you broke your arm, I don’t know. But I wish I did. I owe it to you to take care of you now.”
You give him a small smile as he raises his head.
“Just think about it,” he says, “we’ll be here all night anyways.”
“You can go home.”
“Don’t be difficult,” he says, his sincerity swapped for teasing as he stand. “I have to go find you something to eat.”
He stoops to give you a warm hug across your shoulders. You should want it to be over quickly, you smell like blood and sick and sweat, your clothes are ruined, and you’re not used to him seeing you like this, but let the feeling of his hand on your back persuade you into closing your sore eyes.
“Okay?” he asks.
“I’m okay.”
“Okay. I need to do a lap before your mother gets here anyhow. I might… be more unkind than I plan on being, otherwise.”
You laugh at his half-joke and hurt your face. He is very sorry.
Hii, I absolutely love your Hotch fics in which he meets his adult daughter. Could we get one in which she is feeling down about something and he helps/reassures her?💕💕
It’s difficult to foster a relationship with someone when you don’t get to see them. Even harder when the relationship is with your father who didn’t know you existed for over two decades, and who works as a Special Agent in the FBI, spending half of his life in other states.
Lately it feels impossible.
He’s just never home. When he is, he can't make it to dinner. You start to feel exactly as you had before you knew him, alone again, working hard to keep up in class, drained from your part time job, and always tired.
You should stay home and sleep, but tonight, your dad is free for dinner.
You wait on the corner of the street in the golden light of the restaurant. It’s chilly out, and the sky is slowly darkening. You watch the road for the shape and bulk of Aaron’s SUV, relieved to see him on the way past. He parks in the parking lot, making a small stop into the trunk of the car before he makes his way toward you.
He’s carrying a little white teddy bear wrapped in pink heart cellophane.
You know it’s for you, but it’s still sweet enough to surprise you when he smiles at you and encourages it into your hands. “Hello,” he says, wrapping one arm around you quickly as he kisses your cheek.
It’s always a shock, but never unwelcome.
“Hi, Aaron.”
“Let’s go in, yes?” he asks. “It’s too cold to stay out here. Were you waiting a long time?”
You let him walk you to the entrance, where he gives his name to the hostess for the reservation, and together you follow her to a small table near a bay window. The trees outside are strung with tea lights. The restaurant smells like nutty chocolate ganache. You mentioned that you liked the desserts here the first time he brought you, and he’s continued to bring you here ever since.
You are undoubtedly getting to know one another. You’ve met Haley three times, and Jack five. You had dinner together only two weeks ago where he tried to show you how to keep spaghetti on your fork while failing to manage it himself. He was sweet, and Aaron was really good with him.
You’d been jealous.
“What’s the bear for?” you ask.
“I’m trying to buy your forgiveness. Is it working?”
You laugh without thinking. “My forgiveness?”
“Sometimes, when I don’t see Jack for a long time, he gets frosty with me. I know it’s poor parenting but I’ll bring home a souvenir in the hopes he won’t stay mad.”
“This is a souvenir?” you ask.
He sits with good posture, but his face is ducked apologetically. It’s a kind sort of look, like he really is sorry. “I think I owe you more than that.”
This regret he’s expressed before. You truly believe that he wishes he could go back in time and be there for you, which might be why it aches to think about it in detail. He wanted to be the loving, doting father. He just didn’t get the chance.
“It sort of… breaks my heart sometimes, when I see you,” you say.
It’s a lot. You haven’t even ordered your drinks.
“It does?” he asks gently.
“I wish…” You bite the inside of your cheek. Shake your head when you can’t finish.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I think about it a lot. I resent your mother.”
She’s your mother, but yes. “I do, too.”
You listen to the clatter of the kitchen somewhere deep in the building and the indistinguishable chatter of other families and dates where they sit around you. Your hand closes tightly on a napkin.
“Are you okay? You look tired, honey.”
“Must be a Hotchner thing,” you say.
He laughs like you haven’t just slighted him. “It definitely is. I’m getting the sense that you’re upset about more than your mother, though.”
“How would you know?” you ask genuinely.
It’s his party trick. You’re expecting a rundown: your hand moves a quarter inch to the left and shows your upset, or your nose twitches to betray your true feelings. But he doesn’t need to use his special set of agent skills on you tonight.
“You won’t look at me for very long. It’s exactly like your brother.”
You sniff ineffectually. “It is?”
He looks especially solemn, then. “I wish we didn’t miss out on so much with each other, but I’m here now, if you want me. You can tell me what’s bothering you. I promise I’ll listen.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve always heard worse.” He manages a smile. “Not that what you’re feeling isn’t important.”
“Well, I… it’s mostly the little things. You know school is hard.”
“At GWU? It’s gruelling.”
“It’s awful. I probably need a tutor.” You laugh. “Maybe. It’s not so bad, and once this year is over, I’m done, but I have my internship lined up for the summer, so I’m trying very hard to– to work as much as I can now. But working and studying all the time makes me tired.” Your cheeks heat at having spilled it all without finesse. “Sorry, I know you work twenty three hours a day.”
“How many hours are you working a week?” he asks.
“Uh, usually twenty-four. I try to do three shifts a week. Sometimes they want me after school, so it’s more like twenty-nine or thirty-four.” Or forty-four.
“And you’re studying–”
“Every spare minute.”
He nods thoughtfully. “I’m sorry. It sounds hard…”
“What?” you ask.
“I’m just thinking about something.” He licks his lips. “And you’ve always worked? Since high school?”
Your flush worsens. “Yeah. I have to pay for school somehow, and to eat.” You quieten.
“What if you didn’t have to work, honey?”
You shake your head vehemently. “Aaron.”
“I’m serious. What if you didn’t have to do so much? You need time to do nothing. Overworking yourself will give you an ulcer, trust me, and that’s the last thing I want. I could–”
“I can’t take your money–”
“It’s not just my money. Does Jack ‘take’ my money?”
“You signed up for Jack–”
“And I’m signed up for you. I want to be here for you, and this is what father’s do, okay? If they can, and I can.”
“Unnecessary brag.”
He ignores your joke. “Even if I could just pay for GWU. I know those textbooks are burning a hole in your pocket.”
You refuse. Aaron promises to return to the subject when you aren’t exhausted, and maybe you’ll let him. It would be beautiful to wake up on a Saturday with nothing to do.
It would be nice not to miss your dad. You’ve done it your whole life, but now he’s real, and he seems to really care about you. When he hugs you after he’s paid for dinner, you want to be allowed to cling, and, as he tightens his hold, you realise you are.
“It’s so good to see you,” he says, rubbing your upper arm.
“Yeah,” you mumble.
“Can I see you tomorrow?”
You ease back. “Really?” Because you hadn’t mentioned that you missed him, but he already knows.
He pats your arm. “You know I’d see you every day, if I could? I’ve missed out on enough already. We’ll take Jack to Olive Garden again and you can think a bit more on what I proposed.”
“I can’t take your money,” you repeat quietly.
“Not that, though you should. You can tell me anything, okay?”
You breathe out as he steps away. “Okay.”
He touches your cheek briefly. “Okay. I’m proud of you. You’re doing great.”
“Thanks, Aaron.”
“You’re welcome. Text me when you get home safe, all right?”
You look at him for too long. “Thank you,” you say again, moving in for another hug.
He props his head atop yours carefully. “You’re welcome, honey.”
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