Hi, I just wanted to say your writing is absolutely beautiful. AJF is just one of the many beautifully written stories I’ve ever had the pleasure to experience. It’s been a while since I’ve last read it, and even though it’s been a hot minute, I’m still able to recall the excitement I had when I first read the series. That’s how poignant your writing is.
Your ability to create such beautiful, and at times, tense moments without overdramatizing it is truly amazing. You’re really able to convince the reader that we’re part of the story, and invoke emotions that the reader may not have even been expecting to feel when they first began to read the story. I was absolutely blown away by AJF when I first read it - I’ve read probably over 3x at this point, from start to finish lol.
Thank you for sharing AJF with the world. It’s obvious you put an immense amount of thought and care into the creation and organization of AJF. Thank you for especially leaving it up for us to relive or enjoy for the first time.
I hope you’re doing well! Sorry for the long message, but you’re appreciated! Thank you for AJF and your wonderful work! You’re awesome! :)
Anon it’s taken me forever to answer this but I am just so touched that I couldn’t figure out how to appropriately respond to tell you how much this means to me. I know I’ve been a bit slow lately with the updates, but it’s so heartening and exciting to hear AJF has had such an impact on your life.
I would be remiss, since you mentioned organization, if I neglected to mention @ssaic-jareau, who truly has a better grasp of the AJF continuity details than I do. I couldn’t write without Aimz.
a/n: just a little gift to apologize for being late for four
co-written by @ssaic-jareau
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word count: 1.3k
content warning(s): mutual pining, aaron_hotchner_tie_trope.gif
“there is no time, sir, at which ties do not matter”
p. g. wodehouse
february 15th, 2011
+++
Aaron’s tie is off. Folded once, draped across his desk like a flag of surrender.
You’re across from him, knees drawn up in your chair, flipping absently through the joint analysis you’re working through, eyes drifting like they always do. He knows you’re not focused. He’s not either. Maybe he’s thinking of last night, sitting alone. Maybe you are.
Or, more accurately, trying not to think about it.
His collar’s still open.
You glance up. “Your tie’s suffering today.”
He doesn’t look at it. “So am I.”
You laugh. That soft, surprised kind of sound that always knocks something loose in his chest.
And then—like you’re not throwing a grenade into the space between you—you say, “I’ve never learned to tie one.”
He looks at you. Really looks.
You’ve shared a bed. Slept wrapped around each other like it was allowed. You almost kissed on Christmas Eve. You haven’t talked about it since.
He should say no. Should fix it himself and tell you it doesn’t matter. That the knot isn’t important. That proximity isn’t safe.
But—
Fuck it.
“Come here,” he says.
You unfold and step around the desk, leaning on the surface in front of him, your socked feet between his dress shoes. Closer than you ever should be in daylight, in this office, with the blinds open and the door unlocked. The tie changes custody as he lays the fabric across your hands.
He watches you, ducking his head a little as you drape the tie around his neck with careful fingers. Watches the way your lower lip catches between your teeth when you try to remember how it starts.
You’re not going to get it. So he reaches for your hands.
Fuck it.
His palms cover yours, guiding.
“Start here,” he says, voice low. “Wide end over the narrow.”
You follow, quiet, obedient (for once) in a way that makes his breath catch.
“Now under. Back around.”
Your fingers tremble—so slightly he might be imagining it. But he doesn’t let go.
“Up through the loop. Pull tight.”
He feels the brush of your knuckles against his chest. The way your breath hitches as the knot forms, awkward and imprecise, right over his heart.
It’s not about the tie.
It never was.
Your hands are still in his.
Don’t do it, a voice in his head warns. It’s too close. Too much.
But your eyes are on the knot like it matters. Like the act of tying it is something special. Like the space between you means something.
“I’m going to forget tomorrow,” you tell him, a small smile on your face.
He hears himself say, “Then I’ll show you again.”
He lets go of your hands. Doesn’t look at your face. If he does, he might do something insane.
Something real.
You straighten, slow. Measured. Like you know you’ve crossed something neither of you is willing to name. You return to your chair, feet tucking up under you.
The space between you pulses.
Aaron fixes the knot with surgical precision and doesn’t speak for the rest of the hour.
+++
The apartment is quiet.
Too quiet.
Jack’s at Jess’s for the night, which means the place feels hollow in a way Aaron can never quite adjust to. Like all the breath has been sucked out of the walls. Like the silence has weight.
He turns on a single lamp in the corner of the living room. Doesn’t bother with anything else.
His tie’s still looped neatly around his neck. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t taken it off yet.
He stands in front of the hall mirror, loosening the knot—your knot—with slow fingers. It’s crooked. A little messy. A touch too tight. Truthfully, he didn’t want to fix it as thoroughly as he usually would.
He stares at it as he tugs it loose.
And suddenly he’s back there—your fingers under his collar, your hands guided by his, your voice low and a little nervous when you said, “I’ll forget by tomorrow.”
He told you he’d show you again.
He meant it.
Aaron hangs the tie over the hook by the door. Straightens it. Smooths it with a hand that lingers too long.
Get a grip.
It was nothing. It had to be nothing.
Just a moment. Just muscle memory and proximity and the normal kind of charged silence that happens when two people are pretending a bed never happened. When two people are still pretending a kiss didn’t almost happen on Christmas Eve. That you probably read him better than anyone, except maybe Dave. Pretending that you don’t sleep at his place. That you didn’t sit beside him on the couch in his office earlier today with your knee pressed to his while reviewing a profile you both could’ve read with your eyes closed.
He pinches the bridge of his nose.
He shouldn’t have said come here.
He shouldn’t have touched your hands.
He definitely shouldn’t be thinking about doing it again.
But God—he is.
He’s already halfway through the mental calculus: could he pretend to forget how to tie it himself? Claim a hand injury? Ask you to do it for a future court appearance, just to see if you’d press that close again?
He exhales sharply. Disgusted with himself.
You’d never—
You wouldn’t want that. Not from him. Not unless it was a joke, a fluke, a half-step toward something you’d never let fully materialize. It’s not like you meant anything by it. Not like you leaned in the way he thinks you did.
Get it together, Hotchner.
He moves to the kitchen. Opens a beer. Doesn’t drink it.
His tie—your knot—is still hanging by the door.
And no matter how many times he tells himself it didn’t mean anything, he knows he’s lying.
Because when he closes his eyes, your hands are still in his.
+++
You shouldn’t have said anything.
Of course you shouldn’t have said anything.
You were just sitting there, knees tucked under you in his office, the two of you tossing ideas back and forth like you always do, the comfort of it so routine you didn’t even notice until he took his tie off. And then it was like—like your brain was hijacked. Like something cracked open under your ribs and something stupid crawled out.
“I’ve never learned to tie one.”
What kind of schoolgirl bullshit is that?
What, were you hoping he’d… what? Offer? Teach you?
(He did.)
You press the heels of your hands to your face and groan. Out loud. Because you deserve to feel the full brunt of how mortifying that moment was.
And then, he invited you closer.
He sat right there in front of you, tie in hand, eyes soft in a way they shouldn’t be, and said, Come here.
And you went.
God. You stood there with your fingers curled around his collar like you were helping him get ready for work in the morning. Like it was intimate. Like it was yours.
And then he took your hands in his.
Just—like it was normal. Like it was nothing.
You open the fridge, close it again. You’re not hungry. You’re not anything except embarrassed. And you keep trying to convince yourself that it didn’t mean anything. That he was being polite. That he saw right through you and decided to humor your moment of idiocy the same way he humors Penelope’s wardrobe commentary or Spencer’s unsolicited trivia.
He was just being kind.
That’s what he does.
That’s all it was.
…Except he told you he’d show you again.
And he fixed the knot afterward, sure. He didn’t even say thank you. Just did it, clinical and efficient and like he was trying to make it not linger.
co-written by @ssaic-jareau
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word count: 1.8k
content warning(s): canon typical discussions of injury, rehashing foyet, soft and fluffy aaron content
“it has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' i do not agree. the wounds remain. in time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. but it is never gone.”
rose fitzgerald kennedy
november 20th, 2011
+++
The room is still.
Your legs are tangled under the sheet, warm and bare and resting comfortably against his. The lamp on the nightstand is turned low—enough light to see him by, but not enough to startle—and the quiet hum of the street through the window is the only sound between you for a while.
He’s lying on his back, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting lightly on your hip.
And you’re watching him.
Or more specifically—studying him.
Your fingertips trace the scar that bisects his side. The deep one, the worst of the internal damage, but a smoother healing process than some of the others. He flinches—barely—but not from pain. From habit. You pause. Then trace it again, gentler this time.
He exhales. “What are you doing?”
“I just need to know they’ve healed,” you say, your thumb brushing the edge of a raised scar. Your voice doesn’t shake, not anymore.
He blinks, opens his eyes. You don’t look up yet. You’re focused.
“I need to know that you’re okay.” Your voice drops to a very honest whisper. “That you made it.”
He goes very still beneath you.
And maybe it should surprise him, how easily you say it. How calmly. But it doesn’t. Not really.
He watches your face instead. The way your fingers move with care, not fear. Like he’s not made of something broken. Like he’s not fragile. Like he’s worth touching, worth learning by hand.
Your fingers stop at the one just under his collarbone—the worst of them, aesthetically speaking.
It’s jagged and more raised than the rest, an angry, twisted line that still hasn’t calmed after all these years. The scar is gnarled, extending far deeper than you can see.
“This one,” you whisper, “was the one they were worried about long-term.”
He nods. “The most nerve damage. I couldn’t feel anything around it for weeks. There are still numb spots.”
You don’t flinch. You press your palm flat over it. Like you’re grounding it. Like you’re taking it into yourself.
He watches you in silence.
You move lower, shifting the blanket to trace another.
“I’ve never seen this one,” you murmur, fingers ghosting over the thin, raised scar between his ribs on the right side.
“Slotted right through,” he says. “Didn’t hit anything vital. Barely.”
You lean in and press a kiss to it.
Your hands move again, lower, reverent. The one just under his ribs makes you pause. You run your fingers over it, feeling the knotted scar tissue underneath.
From where Foyet dug.
You can feel the anger, the hatred for the man who met his righteous end at Aaron’s hand.
He sees it on your face and answers before you can ask.
“That one was from the second hit. I was already down.”
Your throat tightens, but you say nothing.
Not yet.
There’s another, just to the left of his belly button. Smaller. Cleaner. But still angry. Still personal.
“That one was from the smaller knife,” he says, almost too softly. “It wasn’t serrated. Easier to heal.”
Your hand shakes. You steady it. He’s never talked about this with you, never talked about the attack, not really.
You look at him. “Thank you for telling me.”
His eyes are wet. “You don’t need to know all this.”
You shake your head. “I do. Because I was there. Maybe not in the room. But I was there.”
He reaches up, cups your cheek.
“You were,” he says. “I remember your voice. In the hospital. It was the first thing I really registered.”
You blink fast. Press your lips to the center of his chest—over his heart. The one that’s still bruised, still vulnerable. Still fighting.
“You let me take care of you,” you whisper. “And then you shut the door.”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“I know,” you say, voice steady. “But I didn’t need protection. I needed you.”
He closes his eyes, breath catching.
“I want to know all of it,” you add. “Not because it’s easy. But because it’s you.”
There’s something unbearable in his face when he opens his eyes again. Not grief. Not shame. But something almost like awe.
“You’re not afraid,” he says.
“I am,” you reply. “But not of you.”
He draws you down to him—carefully, gently—and you settle over his chest, still tracing every mark. Every piece of him that once broke open and healed under his own relentless will.
You glance up at him. “Do they still hurt?”
“Sometimes,” he admits. “Not sharp. Just… stiff. Tight.”
Your palm shifts slightly, following the curve beneath his ribs.
“Is there… permanent nerve damage?” you ask. “Are you still on medication? For your heart?”
His gaze sharpens—not defensive, just startled. He nods, once. “Beta-blocker. Low dose. And yeah. There’s numbness. Some phantom pain. Mostly in my ribs, but there are other parts I still can’t feel at all.”
“Where?”
He takes your hand and presses it to his side, under his arm, where his vest velcros together. “Here. I can’t feel this at all.” His hand guides yours to tap, to prod. You spread your fingers over his skin, the pads of your fingers bridging the scar tracing the curve of his ribs.
“The scar tissue is beyond saving,” he says, pulling your hand to another healed wound under his sternum. “I can’t feel any of it beyond the psychosomatic itch.”
“How much is internal?” Your fingers trace the scar, this one preternaturally smooth, no ridges or imperfections at all on its surface.
He shrugs. “They’re not sure. They checked it on ultrasounds on my last follow up to clear me for Pakistan but they’d really need a contrast MRI for all of it.”
You hum. Understanding.
“I’m okay,” he says.
Physically, you believe him.
Your fingers return to his collarbone, remembering the internal stitches. There’s a companion on the other side of his chest, a relatively shallow slice on his pec. That one has healed pale and smooth.
His shoulder has a thin, aged line bisecting the curve of it, interrupting the canvas of lean muscle. You look up with a question.
“Coat hanger. I was twelve.”
That doesn’t really answer your question. You keep your eyes on him.
“My father was…” He pauses, his jaw working. “He had a temper.“
You take a breath, passing over the scars, the new and the old, with your thumb.
You’re not cataloging weaknesses. You’re asking about his life. The one you share. The one he’s lucky enough to live.
You press a soft kiss to the scar beneath his sternum. Not to soothe. To see him.
“Okay,” you murmur, laying your cheek just over the spot you kissed. You can feel the steady thump beneath your skin. “I just wanted to know.”
His fingers brush your temple, his thumb tracing under your eye, slow and grateful. “You already do.”
But he realizes—he hadn’t thought about it like this before.
About the way you carry it. That night. That aftermath.
You weren’t there. But you felt it all. You watched him stagger back from the brink. And you never looked away.
So when you shift—when you rise up slowly onto your elbows and then your knees, straddling him with quiet reverence—he watches you like he’s seeing something holy.
You’re not rushing. Not trying to fix anything.
You just want to be close.
You curl your fingers into the shirt you wear—his, one he loaned you ages ago that somehow stayed yours—and push it up over your chest, then higher, over your head. And when you lean in, you press your lips to each wound, one by one, deliberate, your skin against his.
He shudders.
Not because it hurts.
Because it doesn’t.
Because there is nothing clinical about your touch. Because you’re not reducing him to the pain. You’re honoring it. Reframing it. Offering something back.
When you finally look up, your voice is almost a whisper. “Let me take care of you.”
He’s already breathless. He nods.
Not because he needs it.
Because he wants it.
Because your offer doesn’t feel like pity.
It feels like truth.
You kiss him again—this time at the hollow of his throat—and his breath catches.
There’s nothing hurried about it. No frantic need, no sharp edges. Only presence. Only the warm, quiet urgency of here, now, still. Your mouth brushes the underside of his jaw, and his hand slides from your hip to your waist, grounding himself in the feel of you.
“You’re so gentle with me,” he murmurs, like it’s the strangest miracle in the world.
You look at him, half-smiling. “Of course I am.”
You stay like that for a while, skin to skin. Still wrapped around each other, but the intimate heat between you has cooled into something quieter. Not less intense—never that—but steadier. Like embers instead of flames. Like something that lasts.
Your cheek rests against his shoulder, and his arm curls around your back. His breathing has slowed. So has yours.
Neither of you speak.
It’s not silence. Not really. It’s something softer. Like the space between words when you already understand each other.
His hand strokes slowly up and down your spine, not for your benefit or his—just because. Because you’re here. Because he is. Because the world went on turning, and you both made it back.
Eventually, you lift your head.
Not far. Just enough to look at him. His hair is a little messy. His lips have a little color. There’s a furrow between his brows that hasn’t smoothed entirely, like he’s still afraid this might vanish if he looks too closely.
You touch his face. Thumb across his cheek. Feather-light.
“You okay?” you ask, quiet.
He blinks. Nods. “I’m—” He stops. Tries again. “Yeah. I am.”
You raise an eyebrow. He sighs.
“I don’t always know how to believe that this is real,” he says. “That you’re here. That we’re allowed to be like this. After everything.”
“You don’t have to believe it,” you murmur. “You just have to feel it.”
He closes his eyes. Presses his forehead to yours.
“I do,” he says. “More than I ever thought I could.”
Your fingers curl in the space just above his heart. His hand covers yours.
His voice is rough. “You were the only part of it that ever made sense.”
You don’t answer. You just lean in and kiss him—soft, lingering. Nothing more than the press of lips, the exhale between two people who understand each other down to the bone.
When you pull back, you’re smiling. So is he.
You both shift—still tangled up, but comfortable now. Content.
And later, when sleep begins to pull you under, you tuck your face against his neck and whisper, “You’re not alone anymore.”
if you’re feeling kind this week go ahead and ask @duchesschameleon and @ssaic-jareau if they still think being a bridesmaid is fun after I changed the color palette today after literally making a “final” decision yesterday lmao
co-written by @ssaic-jareau
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word count: 1.5k content warning(s): none!
nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.
mary wollstonecraft shelley, frankenstein
november 14th, 2011
+++
The late afternoon light cuts through the office blinds in soft lines, catching the edge of Aaron’s jaw as he flips through a file. He looks tired but steady, his posture loose in a way that’s become more common since these weeks of suspension. You’re both getting better at this, at being in each other’s space without giving yourselves away.
You knock lightly on the open doorframe anyway.
He glances up, the corner of his mouth tipping up when he sees you. “Hey.”
“Hey.” You step into his office, your cup of tragically mediocre coffee still warm in your hands. “You got a minute?”
He closes the file and leans back. “For you? Always.”
You raise a brow. “Careful. I might start asking for favors.”
His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. His eyes dart out his window, and back to you before he speaks. “I think we’re well past ‘favors,’ don’t you?”
“Maybe,” you hedge playfully, stepping closer. You take a breath. “I think I’m going home—to mine—after we’re done today.”
Aaron’s brows lift, just a fraction, and he sits back a little. Not surprised, exactly. Just… not what he wanted to hear.
“Just for tonight,” you add, keeping your tone light. “I need to refresh my go bag, and I have a mountain of laundry that’s threatening to unionize. And—honestly—I’ve been a terrible landlord to myself. It’s time to make sure the fridge hasn’t turned into a crime scene.”
That gets a smile out of him, but it’s the kind he hides behind his hand, his knuckle brushing his mouth as he nods. “Makes sense,” he says. Then, quieter, “Still. That’s going to be a weirdly empty bed.”
You pause in the doorway, caught a little off guard by how much that hits you.
“I know,” you say, gentler now. “I’m already kind of regretting it.”
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask you to stay. Just watches you with a softness that says he understands even if he doesn’t like it. “Call me when you get in?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “I’ll call.”
There’s a quiet beat where neither of you moves.
It’s just a night. A little reset.
His eyes trace you, up and down. You feel it like a touch and you desperately wish you weren’t at work right now.
Finally, he meets your eyes. “Don’t let your fridge kill you.”
You laugh. “No promises.”
+++
The lock sticks the same way it always has. You really should call the locksmith about that.
The joys of home ownership…
You shoulder the door open with a little grunt, balancing your dry cleaning in one hand and go bag in the other, full of dirty clothes. You already know the lights won’t be on—your place doesn’t greet you the way Aaron’s does. No lamp left lit for ambiance, no faint smell of dinner, no Lego minefield in the hallway.
But still. It’s yours.
You kick door closed behind you with your foot and set the dry cleaning over the back of the couch, the plastic crackling as it settles. Your eyes catch on the shirts near the back—two of Aaron’s, pressed and perfect. You don’t remember offering, exactly. Just noticed them hanging in the back of the car and said you were headed to the cleaners anyway. He’d smiled at you like you were handing him something priceless.
You pull your phone from your back pocket and sit on the arm of the couch, thumbing open your messages. One new text.
Messages
Alpha Bravo Hotel (1)
7:02pm Let me know when you get in.
You hit call instead of replying.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you echo, softer than you mean to. You look around the house like it’s something you’re seeing for the first time. “I’m home.”
“How’s it look?”
You let out a breath through your nose. “Mildly abandoned.”
Aaron chuckles. “You’ll whip it back into shape. You always do.”
“I don’t know about always,” you tease, but he’s not wrong. You’ve been meaning to do this for a while—handle your business. It just… took a little extra inertia to actually leave. Aaron has been almost too accommodating, but you’ve been washing and wearing the same clothes for like two weeks now.
“I put two of your dress shirts over the back of the couch,” you add. “They survived my dry cleaning ladies.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“I know.” You smile at the wall. “It’s fine. They were already on the hanger.”
“Thank you,” he says, low and earnest.
There’s a small beat of silence. Not uncomfortable, just… full.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say, and this time, you mean it. “I need the night. It’s overdue.”
“I figured,” he murmurs. “You’ll let me know if you need anything.”
You nod, then realize he can’t see you. “I will. Kiss Jack for me?”
“Already down, but I’ll tell him you said goodnight.”
Your chest tightens, just a little. “Okay.”
You end the call with one of those soft little goodbyes that doesn’t feel like a goodbye at all, and then you stand, hands on your hips, scanning the room.
Right. Mission mode.
You head for the bedroom, tossing your go bag onto the bed to dig through later. You start sorting the mess in your hamper—field clothes, civilian stuff, the stuff that lives in the gray space between—and build a neat pile of everything that needs laundering. You already know the work boots are by the door, caked with Virginia clay. You’ll scrub those down last.
Halfway through your first load of laundry, you crack open a beverage, and start loading the dishwasher. You wipe down the counters. You clean out the fridge and take out the scary trash. You make a mental list of groceries and strike the ones that will rot in less than a week. You hum to yourself as you fold throw blankets and stack your mail and paperwork into a “deal with it later” pile.
It feels good. Like ownership. Like competence. Like stepping off a cloud and getting your shit together, one tidy domestic act at a time.
Still, when the last load spins up and the apartment finally starts to smell like something pleasant and warm, you drift back to the couch and tap open your phone.
No new texts. You draft one.
10:23pm Mission accomplished.
He replies right away.
10:23pm Any insurgents in the fridge?
You smile.
10:24pm Some horrifyingly militant leftovers. Handled with extreme prejudice.
The TV is still on—some movie you half-watched for background noise now rolling into late-night cable filler. You squint at the screen and don’t bother reaching for the remote. It’s white noise now.
You sit there in the blue wash of it, one leg tucked up under you, your phone resting loosely in your hand.
You miss him.
Not in the sharp, gut-pulling way you used to, back when every goodbye felt like an open-ended question. Not like when he was in Pakistan. This is different. Softer. Less lonely, but still hollow around the edges.
Just a night, you remind yourself. A reset.
This should be a once weekly thing, you figure. A calibration.
Still—your home feels too quiet without the sound of him turning pages beside you. Without the clink of his glass on the nightstand. Without the soft weight of his arm sliding around your waist sometime around 3am.
You glance at your phone again when it buzzes.
11:16pm Still awake?
You smile. He’ll probably get after you if you fall asleep on the couch out here.
11:17pm Barely.
11:17pm Couch?
You huff. Predictable.
11:18pm Guilty. I’ll move.
There’s a pause. Then—
11:20pm You don’t have to.
11:20pm Just don’t let it break your neck.
You laugh quietly.
11:21pm You’ll owe me a shoulder rub if it does.
11:21pm Deal.
You reply fast, without thinking.
11:21pm I miss you.
The breath you draw feels bigger than you expected. Like your lungs forgot how much room they honestly can take up.
You curl further into yourself, the edge of the throw blanket tucked beneath your chin.
11:22pm I miss you too.
The little dot bubbles appear for a second. Then then they vanish.
But right now, this—the quiet, the stillness, the soft virtual thread connecting you across two different spaces—is enough.
You don’t need him to say anything else. He already has. You make your way to the bedroom. Tuck yourself in. Try not to feel too cold without your human space heater.
The hum of the dryer fades. You let your eyes drift closed.
You’ll see him tomorrow.
You let it hold you.
And finally, you sleep.
+++
The house is quiet. Jack’s been asleep for over two hours and appears to be staying asleep.
Aaron is on top of the covers, reading glasses pushed into his hair, one hand resting absently on the page of a book he hasn’t touched in fifteen minutes.
Your side of the bed is empty.
He’d thought it might be nice—just one night. A chance to sleep diagonally. Stretch out. Catch up on rest without worrying about kicking you in his sleep.
But now that the house has settled and there’s nothing left to do, he misses you with a quiet sort of ache.
Not a wound. Just… an absence.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Messages
Second (1)
10:23pm Mission accomplished.
He smiles before he even opens it. He replies promptly.
10:23pm Any insurgents in the fridge?
You answer immediately. Of course you do.
10:24pm Some horrifyingly militant leftovers. Handled with extreme prejudice.
Aaron huffs a soft laugh, thumb hovering. He could say more. Could ask if you folded the throw blanket like you always do or if you left it in a pile on the couch. Could ask if you opened the window like you used to, even though the house always runs cold. Could ask if you miss him too.
He forces himself to put the phone down before his thumbs enable something stupid. He picks up the team midpoint evals again. He asked Dave to take yours, Reid’s, and Morgan’s, as he missed anything of merit over the summer.
The added repetition of “conflict of interest” clanging around in his skull doesn’t help. At least his absence is a good enough excuse to avoid evaluating you for now.
He can’t focus on JJ’s written input, as tidy as it is, distracted by the silence. He gets up and wanders to the kitchen. He putters around, straightening random items and generally stalling, unwilling to go back to the lifeless stillness of his bedroom without you in it.
Soon enough, he runs out of things to mess around with, to organize, to clean out of the fridge.
Is there anything else he can reset while you’re gone…?
It doesn’t look that way.
He returns to the bedroom, feeling more than a little silly that his evening has been so thoroughly derailed by one night away from you.
He looks at his phone. Picks it up. Looks at your contact photo. Feels silly.
He types.
11:16pm Still awake?
He stares at it. He’s suddenly thrilled they didn’t have texting when he was in school. He would have been in deep shit.
11:17pm Barely.
His lips quirk in a smile.
11:17pm Couch?
11:18pm Guilty. I’ll move.
He pictures you for a moment, in your comfiest clothes, watching something inane or interesting enough to be background noise, but not so interesting that it will keep you up. You do better than he does on the couch, but that bar isn’t high.
11:20pm You don’t have to.
11:20pm Just don’t let it break your neck.
11:21pm You’ll owe me a shoulder rub if it does.
11:21pm Deal.
11:21pm I miss you.
11:22pm I miss you too.
He starts to type—something about seeing you tomorrow, something about how the house always feels off when you’re not in it. But then he stops.
Because you already know.
You know what he’d say. And more importantly, you know the part of him that wouldn’t.
So instead, Aaron sets the phone down, turns out the light, and closes his eyes.
You’re not here tonight. But you’re in every piece of his quiet, every pocket of stillness he used to fill with silence and now fills with you.
co-written by @ssaic-jareau
links: masterlist | posting schedule | ao3
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word count: 1.5k
content warning(s): literally nothing its pure fluff
you've got to know when to hold 'em / know when to fold 'em / know when to walk away / and know when to run.
kenny rogers, the gambler
november 10th, 2011
+++
You tap the steering wheel as you drive home, singing along quietly.
…Goodbye stranger / It’s been nice / Hope you find your paradise…
Your tendency to switch between 70s on 7 and 80s on 8 for the last month or so has leached all the way into your radio at work. You’ve already admitted Aaron has warped your taste, but you don’t mind. You’ve learned the words to some of the more obscure stuff, but of course Supertramp isn’t all that obscure.
“Hey, kid?” Derek asks.
“Hm?” You keep your eyes on the road.
You see him eye you from the passenger seat. “Care to read me into the changes to your music taste?”
Your brows knit together, knowing exactly what he’s talking about. “What changes?”
“Uh…c’mon. Supertramp?”
You snort. “I happen to like Supertramp.”
“This album came out in 1979.”
“And? People do listen to music that came out before they were born, you know.” You can hear the touch of playful defensiveness in your voice. Unfortunately, so does Derek.
“No,” he replies, and his tone can only mean one thing: he’s going in for the kill. “- people listen to their parents’ music because they’re raised on it. Or they listen to whatever was on the radio when they were in high school. Reid told me the music, like, imprints on your psyche or something, I don’t know.” He pauses. “This is neither.”
He’s got you there. It’s not even conscious at this point. You hadn't even realized how natural it was to turn on his music until Derek pointed it out. It’s just... what you do now. You sigh, trying to find a plausible reason you’re listening to undeniably Hotch-coded music and actually enjoying it. You decide to split the difference between truth and obscurity.
“It’s the guy,” you tell him, folding in a kind of embarrassed ruefulness to your admission. “He likes 70s and 80s music, so I’ve just gotten used to having it in the car.”
You shrug, not bothering to hide your smile. He’s not wrong. If you butter Derek up before he finds out ‘this guy’ is Hotch, maybe he won’t be so hard on him. “Maybe.”
You let him change the station to 90s old school and settle in for the rest of the drive.
+++
You get out of the car when you get into fleet parking at Quantico, spotting the rest of the team on the sidewalk.
“Hotch!” Derek calls. You startle a little.
I’ve been made.
Your whole body goes stiff for the briefest moment before you force yourself to move, to exhale, to pretend your cover isn’t about to be completely blown. You’re hoping your short-circuit wasn’t obvious to anyone else, but it’s not like it matters now anyway.
Aaron’s head turns, his gaze flicking between you and Derek, clocking the shifty look on your face in a split second before schooling his expression into something unreadable. But you catch it—that tiny glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He knows exactly what’s happening. And he’s going to let you sweat.
Derek’s voice is raised, carrying across the lot. “There’s someone else with questionable taste in music.” He throws a thumb back at you. “I had to endure Supertramp on the way home just now. Singing along, too.”
Thank God. That was way too close.
Emily’s expression turns smug as you join the little group. “Oh, really?” She sings. “Is your not-boyfriend a Supertramp fan? How old is he anyway? Supertramp even pushes my limits.”
You sigh, playing at exhaustion. “Give it up, would you?”
“Never!”
You roll your eyes, smiling good-naturedly.
It would be normal for you to look at Aaron, right? Let’s go with yes.
When you turn your smile on him, there’s a small, amused look on his face. “I’m not sure I’d call Supertramp questionable, but…” He shrugs. “I’m biased.”
Derek scoffs. “Of course you’d say that. You’re the target demographic.” He claps you on the shoulder, his face breaking into a megawatt smile again. “Look at you, so happy.”
You roll your eyes again. “I’m always happy,” you tell him without a hint of irony.
He shakes his head. He knows better. “Yeah, but look at that!” He pokes at one of your cheeks, pulled up in a smile. “That's a real one. Haven’t seen one of those in a while.”
“Derek!” You push his hand away and duck, inadvertently getting closer to Aaron, your back still to him.
“That’s not fair - you can’t hide behind Hotch.”
“Can’t I?” You ask, looking over your shoulder at the man in question.
Aaron just shakes his head fondly at the both of you. “That’s enough. Let’s get these reports started and head home.”
“Traitor,” you mumble under your breath as you pass him.
You hear his amused huff behind you and you can almost feel the eye roll. You have half a mind to tell him if he keeps doing that, his face will get stuck that way, but you refrain.
+++
“Were you really listening to my music in the car?” He asks. He lounges on the end of the bed, his head propped by a hand.
You stay on your path, shoving your jeans back into your semi-permanent duffle bag on what has become your side of the bed. “Maybe.” You shrug, cheeky in the extreme. “Maybe I like it. Maybe it reminds me of you.”
He watches you with an ineffable fondness in his eyes and the curve of his mouth. ”You threaded that needle very nicely today.”
“Oh, which one?” You ask, straightening. “The one where I didn’t call you old or the one where I didn’t say anything damning.”
He laughs and pats the comforter next to him. You lay out next to him, your feet hanging off the side. You mirror and face him, propping your chin on your hand. When he speaks, his eyes have dropped to your lips. “The second one.”
You hmm sagely in agreement, considering him with a mock-critical air. You lean in, close enough that your breath grazes his skin, and he meets you halfway—only for you to pull back at the last second, inviting him to chase you.
He follows, but you’ve set the trap too well. With no leverage left, he loses balance, catching himself with a quiet laugh before settling onto his elbow once more.
"Tease," he says, his smile lingering at the edges of his breath.
"Yours, though."
And just like that, he melts. The humor in his expression softens into something unbearably gentle. It’s a gift to see him like this—unguarded, full of quiet smiles, his feelings written plainly across his face. His gaze traces over you, drinking you in. It doesn’t take much, you’ve found, to find the little soft bits hiding under the armor.
You just have to love him out loud. Which, turns out, isn’t hard at all.
Slowly, his free hand finds your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek, his fingers warm where they nearly reach the back of your neck.
“What?” You ask, nearly soundless.
He shakes his head, taking a breath before he speaks. “Non sequitur, maybe.”
“Shoot,” you prompt. He makes one more pass with his thumb, letting his hand fall back to the linen once more.
“I was thinking about how the songs Something and Layla were both written about the same woman--“
“Patty Boyd,” you interject.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Very good.” He grins at you, and you glow at the praise. “It is no surprise to me, knowing you, that one person inspired two of, in my opinion, the greatest love songs of all time.” The easy confidence with which he delivers this insight draws a deep breath from you, as if to make more space in your chest.
That aside, you’re unwilling to fully process the extent of that compliment. “Too bad Clapton only liked the chase.”
“His loss.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “Holding onto what you were chasing is the best part.”
Your face heats, and you find yourself unable to look him in the eye. The duvet is suddenly the most interesting piece of fabric you’ve ever seen. He says it like he’s been holding onto you from the moment you let him.
His knuckle taps the underside of your chin, coaxing your gaze back to him. You can feel his breath against your lips, the warmth of his palm ghosting over your skin.
"I love that you listen to my stupid music in the car."
"It’s not stupid," you say, barely above a whisper, your eyes half-lidded, distracted.
He’s waiting. Holding the moment between you, letting it breathe and take up space. Giving you the chance to close the distance first. But you don’t. Because you want him to chase you.
And he does. His hand slides to the back of your head, and then he pulls you in, closing the space with the kind of certainty that makes your breath catch.
when you write fanfic, you have the power of the entire universe in your hands. write whatever you want. there're no limits. it is your creation, your universe
a/n: aaaaaand we're back! i hope this one was worth the wait. let me know what you think!
co-written by @ssaic-jareau
links: masterlist | posting schedule | ao3
turn on post notifs to join the taglist!
word count: 6.4k
content warning(s): wasp-y passive aggression and snide remarkes, innuendo instigated by someone's mother, aaron acting like a 14 year old, sean hotchner mention
“southern women can say more with a cut of their eyes than a whole debate club’s worth of speeches.” --allison glock
october 8th, 2011
jack’s 6th birthday
+++
“Roy’s decided he’s coming tomorrow.”
You glance up. “Your dad?”
Jess nods, arms crossed now. “And my mom. But she’s not the problem.” She pauses. “Usually.”
You wait. She lets the silence marinate for a moment.
“Dad was never more pleased than when Haley moved out,” Jess says finally. “Swear to God, I think he opened a bottle of wine.”
You blink. “Seriously?”
“Oh yeah. He made it weird, actually. Haley was actually kind of offended by how fast he took her side. I think he said ‘That’s great, Princess. I’m proud of you.” She shakes her head, a little rueful, a little mournful. “Haley was always his little princess.”
You lean back against the sink, facing her. “Aaron’s never said much.”
“He wouldn’t.” Jess shifts her weight, jaw tight. “But it’s always been bad. There was a question of whether he’d come to the wedding. Skipped Jack’s baptism. The closest he ever got to a compliment was saying Aaron’s suits looked expensive and he probably worked hard for the money to buy them, which is kind of backhanded, and he didn’t even say that to his face.”
“Jesus,” you mutter.
“Aaron was a problem teenager, by all accounts,” Jess admits. “Little too smart, little too angry, little too rough around the edges. You know the type.”
You raise your eyebrows.
She smirks. “Oh, please. You know exactly the type and you can definitely imagine it.”
You smile despite yourself.
You can, in fact, imagine it. Aaron, developing that patented scowl, double lines between his brows, shaggy hair, downturned mouth. Scruffy, scruffy, scruffy. A far cry from your buttoned up lover writing FY12 budget notes in his office.
Jess shrugs. “I didn’t always get Aaron or agree with him, but he tried. He showed up. He did the work. He was good to my baby sister, even when they didn’t see eye-to-eye.” She throws up her hands. “I mean, they were good together for like 20 years. He’s practically a brother to me. And still, nothing was ever good enough for my dad.”
She sets the dish towel down, then adds, “I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me when Haley started seeing Joseph, and Dad was thrilled.”
Your brow furrows.
“I mean,” she continues, voice lowering, “it was pretty obvious it started before they split. But Dad didn’t care. If anything, he looked relieved. Like that made it easier to cast Aaron as the villain—like it gave him permission to stop pretending he’d ever wanted it to work or that there were two sides to the divorce.”
You stare at her for a second. “Does he still feel that way?”
Jess laughs, dry. “It got worse. He couldn’t wrap his head around witness protection. Hated that no one could call her, was absolutely incensed that Haley’s call to Mom had to reset her protection and anonymity. He thought, and I still don’t know if it was a joke, that the Bureau was lying to him, like Aaron personally ordered her disappearance. Even implied some things that didn’t age so well after—well.” Her mouth twists. You cringe.
Jesus.
Roy Brooks, in all his sanctimonious grief and confusion, even suggested witness protection was a cover story—that Aaron had somehow orchestrated his own ex-wife’s murder and hidden it under federal authority…
Aaron’s been shouldering that kind of venom in silence. That’s suddenly a thousand times more infuriating.
You swallow the heat crawling up your throat.
If Aaron ever said one unkind thing about that man, you’d understand it now.
But he hadn’t.
“Didn’t send a card while Aaron was recovering, just kept asking when Haley was coming home. Like it was an extended business trip she could control.”
You blink. “He really hated him that much?”
Jess picks up her wine again. “He needed to. Otherwise, he’d have to admit Haley made her own choices—and that some of them were wrong. Dad likes his villains clean. And Aaron was always easy to blame. It’s not like he’d argue with him.” She shrugs. “And Haley could do no wrong.”
You snort. “It’s not like Aaron disagrees that it’s his fault.”
Jess’s mouth twists again.
You let out a slow breath. “What about your mom—Kathleen right?”
Jess nods and shrugs. “Mom never liked him, but she kept it to herself. Mostly.”
“And Aaron’s mom?”
“She can’t stand them,” Jess says bluntly. “But Evelyn loved Haley, despite everything. She was always polite to my folks, at least on the surface.” She sighs, waving a hand. “They’re super old school, so even the Catholic-Protestant thing was an issue.”
You nod. “So tomorrow might get…tense.”
Jess laughs, dry. “If we’re lucky, it’ll stay at tense.”
You nod again, more solemn now.
Jess glances over. “Aaron’s gonna be okay. But he’s gonna be… quiet. He’ll swallow a lot of shit that he shouldn’t have to, because it’s Jack’s day. And because he still thinks he has to make up for everything. He knows it’s impossible but he’s going to try.”
You don’t speak.
She takes a sip of her wine. “So if you see him slipping into that old ‘stand up straight and show me some respect boy’ mode, maybe remind him he doesn’t have to perform anymore. Not with you and me. And it’s bad for Jack.”
You nod. “I will.”
Jess presses a hand to your shoulder. “Thank you.”
She rinses her wine glass and sets it gently in the drying rack. The kitchen’s quiet again, just the soft tick of the old clock above the door. She grabs her coat off the back of the chair and shrugs it on with practiced ease.
“I’ll see you at Dave’s tomorrow,” she says, adjusting the strap of her purse.
You nod, walking her to the front door. “Thanks again for talking through everything.”
Jess smiles, small but sincere. “Thanks for listening.”
She opens the door, hesitates, then turns back just long enough to pull you into a tight hug.
“Love you,” you say against her shoulder.
“Love you too.” She squeezes once more before stepping back onto the hallway. “You staying here tonight?”
You glance back into the apartment, toward the soft light spilling from the crack beneath Aaron’s bedroom door. “Might as well. I’ll be here early anyway.”
Jess adopts a familiar look—sardonic, fond, just the edge of knowing.
“Remember our chat this summer?”
You groan. “Shut up.”
She grins. “Alright. Tell me you’re sleeping in the guest room and I’ll stop.”
You narrow your eyes. “Goodnight, Jess.”
She backs down the hall, waving with wiggly fingers. “That’s what I thought.”
You close the door behind her, lock it, and lean your forehead against the wood for just a second. With a sigh, you lean back, set the alarm, and head toward the bedroom.
When the door closes, Aaron asks, turned on his side in bed, already under the covers. “Do I want to know what that was about?”
You shake your head with a light, humorless laugh, leaning against the door. “No.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Jess teasing you again?”
You give him a look. “You know she’s got a sixth sense for it.”
Aaron smiles faintly. “She’s not wrong.”
You roll your eyes, push off the frame, and start pulling off your sweater. “That’s enough.”
He watches you for a beat. The playfulness fades. “Something’s bothering you.”
You don’t answer right away. Just slide your jeans off, fold them over the chair. The silence stretches too long.
Aaron speaks again, quieter this time. “It’s about tomorrow.”
“It’s not nice to profile me at home, you know.”
You exhale. Sit on the edge of the bed, back to him, the humor fizzling out of you. “Jess told me some things.”
“About Roy?”
You nod. “About what he’s said. About Joseph and Haley and you.”
Aaron doesn’t respond. Not at first. Then, “He’s not wrong.”
You freeze.
Aaron’s voice is steady, but it’s too even. “If I’d quit the BAU, if I’d stayed home more, if I’d been a better husband and father… Haley might still be alive. Jack wouldn’t have nightmares. You and his last remaining daughter wouldn’t be picking up pieces. So yeah, maybe Roy’s an asshole, but he’s not wrong.”
You move to him before he can sink any further. He turns toward you under the covers, a matter-of-fact pull nagging at the side of his mouth.
You don’t say anything at first. Just climb into bed and slide into his space. You cup his jaw in one hand and press your forehead to his, close, firm.
“Don’t,” you say, voice steady. “Don’t do that.”
His breath catches, almost startled by your tenacity.
You press your other hand to his chest, over his heart, the heel of your palm warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
“You didn’t deserve any of it,” you whisper. “They’re entitled to a little bit of upset given the circumstances, but what I just heard is absolute bullshit.”
He leans into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him out of the mental boxing ring.
Your thumb drags gently over his cheekbone, and when you brush his hair back from his forehead, he closes his eyes—like that’s the part that guts him. The way you touch him like he isn’t breakable, or like it’s okay if he is.
“I don’t think I know how to stop blaming myself,” he admits. “I’ve never really tried.”
You shift, pull him into your arms the way he’s pulled you into his so many times before. “I know.”
His head drops to your shoulder, and you run your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle.
He’s quiet. His arms around your waist are tight, like maybe if he lets go, he’ll float away.
“You’re safe,” you murmur into his hair. “You’re not alone. You’re here with me.”
He breathes out against your collarbone, a shudder of air that ghosts across your collar.
You shift again and guide him down so he’s half curled into your chest, your hand tracing soothing patterns across the plane of his back. It’s muscle memory, sure, but it’s also a promise.
No one’s going to hurt you here.
“I’ve got you,” you say. “I’ll have your back tomorrow.”
His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, his voice so quiet it barely disturbs the air.
“I know.”
You press a kiss to the crown of his head.
“I’m always gonna be there,” you murmur, voice low against his hair. “To hold you up, to bail you out, to distract and deflect,” you continue with a wry smile, “and to keep you from decking your ex-father-in-law in front of our friends and family.”
Aaron makes a noise that’s almost a laugh, half-asleep. “Appreciated.”
“But,” you add, “I might need your help tomorrow.”
He lifts his head just enough to look at you, brow furrowed. “Why?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Because after everything you just said, if he so much as looks at you wrong, there’s a very real chance I’ll do something that gets me cited in a professional conduct review. Or get the cops called. That would be bad press, probably.”
That gets a real, quiet laugh out of him. He leans up, presses his forehead to yours.
“Don’t,” he says gently. “You’re more important to Jack than my ego.”
You smirk. “Fine. But if he tries anything, you better stand behind me.”
+++
The smell of garlic and something roasted hits you the second you step through the front door. It’s comforting, over-the-top, and deeply Rossi. The man never hosts anything without attempting to feed twenty-five people with the energy of a Sicilian grandmother possessed.
You and Aaron are carrying bags—cake boxes, favor bags, juice pouches for the kids, a bottle of red for Dave, because of course.
“Rossi!” you sing.
Dave turns from the stove, flicking a towel over his shoulder, already smiling. “There you are.”
You step up and kiss his cheek. “Thank you for hosting. Again.”
He waves a hand like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Please. Any excuse to feed my beloved children carbs.”
You grin. “You ready for an entire class of kindergartners to descend on your backyard like locusts?”
He lifts a hand to his temple, mock-solemn. “I’m sure Vietnam was quieter.”
Aaron sets the cake box down on the counter and raises an eyebrow. “You know you don’t have to go all in, right?”
Rossi shrugs, already pulling out a tray of tiny meatballs from the oven. “Maybe not. But what’s the point of having a house this size if you’re not using it to make people feel at home?”
You glance around the kitchen—the spread already forming, the balloons bobbing in the dining room, the open sliding doors framing the backyard.
“Mission accomplished,” you say.
Dave shoots you a wink. “Wait ‘til you see what I did with the bounce house.”
Aaron groans softly behind you.
“Where should I put these?” You do your best to hold up a finger with your gift bag hanging on it.
Dave points with his nose at a table in the corner of the dining room. “Over there. Spencer and Emily dropped theirs off yesterday.”
That catches your attention. You pause, looking at Dave with a question in your eyebrows. He shakes you off, and you decide it’s not all that important, after all.
+++
You find Aaron standing just inside the door, straightening the cuff of his quarter zip like he’s preparing for court. His posture’s already gone stiff. Composed.
You ease up beside him, careful not to crowd.
“First group of parents are here,” you say gently.
He nods but doesn’t look at you.
You watch him for a second, mindful of the merry, nosey band of profilers outside on the deck. “You ready?”
He exhales through his nose. “As much as I ever am.”
You fold your arms loosely. “You don’t have to perform for me, you know.”
“I’m not.”
You tilt your head.
Aaron smiles—tired, thin. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
You take a breath, watching the way his shoulders square like armor. “You can be the grieving ex-husband today. You can be the Unit Chief. You can be whoever the hell you need to be out there. But underneath that, I want you to remember this: You’re Jack’s dad. Jack is happy. He’s thriving. And that’s because of you.”
His mouth tics, just slightly. “Because of you, too.”
You shake your head. “You’ve been his foundation since day one. You’re his father. And a damn good one.”
Aaron looks at you then. Really looks at you.
You step closer. Lower your voice. “Let them say what they want. You’re doing your job and he wants for nothing.”
His throat moves as he swallows. “Thank you.”
You bump his elbow lightly. “We’re gonna get through this.”
He nods. “Together.”
You offer a smile. “Now let’s go celebrate that weird little kid.”
Aaron huffs a real laugh. He opens the door for you. “After you.”
+++
You’re handing out paper plates when you catch sight of the sedan pulling into the driveway. The tires crunch across Rossi’s immaculate gravel. You glance over your shoulder—Aaron’s by the grill with Dave, but the line of his spine has gone straight, tension humming off him like static.
Before you can move, Jess notices too. She sets down the plate of watermelon with a small, resigned sigh. Wipes her hands quickly on a dish towel.
“I’ve got it,” she says under her breath, and you nod, letting her go.
She crosses the yard as Roy and Kathleen climb out of the car. Kathleen carries a gift bag. Roy looks like he’s bracing for a blow.
Jess meets them halfway down the walk, her face smoothing into something polite. Not warm exactly—but familiar.
A familiar mask for parents…
“Hey,” she says, taking the gift bags, keeping it casual. “Thanks for coming.”
Kathleen smiles first—tentative, a little too careful. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Roy’s nod is short. Barely there.
Jess presses on, stepping in to give her mother a quick, perfunctory hug. “Jack’s been counting down for weeks. He’s gonna lose his mind when he sees you.”
Kathleen brightens. “He’s such a sweet boy.”
Jess smiles. It’s genuine—but there’s something guarded in it too.
You stay on the porch, watching, waiting, letting Jess do this on her terms.
She turns slightly, gesturing back toward the house. “Come on in. Everyone’s out back. Cake’s in about twenty minutes if we can get them out of the bounce house.”
Roy snorts quietly, almost like it’s beneath him to find that funny.
Kathleen murmurs something about how nice Dave’s house is as they pass through the gate to the backyard. Jess holds the latch for them, waits until they’ve made their way inside, then lingers a beat before following.
You catch Aaron’s eyes across the patio. He lifts his chin once—subtle. A question.
You nod back. Handled.
+++
You’re still on the deck when a second car pulls into the driveway—a practical, smart navy SUV. Aaron, beside you now, stiffens for half a second before letting out a breath.
You follow his gaze.
A woman steps out, pulling her purse over her shoulder. She's striking and tall-ish—in her late sixties or early seventies, thick, dark grey and brown hair pinned back neatly, familiar warm brown eyes sharp as a scalpel. There's grace in her movements, something careful but utterly unselfconscious and confident. She opens the back door of the car, moving and balancing a big, wrapped box.
It’s odd, but her manner of approaching objects and interacting with the world is instantly recognizable.
You don't need to ask.
You can see it—the unmistakable resemblance between her and Aaron. The jawline, the brow, the set of her shoulders, the brown in her eyes and hair.
You head down the steps before Aaron can move, meeting her halfway across the drive.
“You must be the one I've heard so much about,” she says, voice conspiratorial and textured with humor. She offers a hand, still balancing her gift. “Evelyn West-Hotchner.”
You introduce yourself in kind.
Her handshake is firm, her smile small but not cold. There's weight behind it, like she's assessing you, but not in a cruel way, just... carefully. Even though his father was the lawyer, Evelyn clearly established some habits that bled into Aaron’s temperament.
Aaron steps forward, the faintest smile on his face.
“Mom,” he says, and it’s softer than anything you've heard from him all day. Almost boyish. “This is—” he hesitates, stumbling over your name, “—my work partner.”
Evelyn glances between the two of you. Her gaze sharpens—and then softens, all in one breath. There’s something knowing in her look that makes heat crawl up the back of your neck.
“Work partner,” she says. “Right.”
She winks, lightning fast.
Suddenly you feel... exposed.
She pats Aaron’s cheek once, fondly, before reaching up to wrap him in a full-bodied hug that crumples the last of the tension in his posture. He leans into it like he’s wanted to for hours.
You look away, giving him the privacy of it, but not before catching the ghost of a smile on his face—the real kind.
When they part, Aaron clears his throat, straightens his jacket unnecessarily. You’re half-tempted to elbow him in the ribs.
Evelyn chuckles and links her arm through Aaron’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Alright. Let me see my grandson.”
+++
The party is in full swing. Jack is somewhere in the yard wielding a foam sword. Derek’s helping tie balloons to the fence. Dave is doing…something you’ll probably have to address later.
You’re refilling your drink at the patio table when you catch it—a shift in the air that’s almost imperceptible, unless you’re already looking for it.
And you’re looking for everything.
Kathleen steps onto the deck, cradling her glass of lemonade. You can see the resemblance between her and Jess in the thin autumn sunshine, the features the two women shared with Haley.
Evelyn stands by the railing, looking like a Chico’s catalog model, her hand resting lightly on Aaron’s shoulder before he drifts off to check on Jack. She says something you don’t catch, warm and encouraging.
The two women clock each other immediately.
You hover near the snack table with your plate, pretending to be very interested in an assortment of celery sticks and carrots.
“Evelyn,” Kathleen says, smiling just a little too hard. “It’s been so long.”
Evelyn turns slowly, her own smile sharp as a tack. “Kathleen. How good to see you. You’re looking... well.”
There’s a fractional pause before Kathleen replies, syrupy sweet, “Well, you know how it is. It’s all smoke and mirrors after a certain age.”
Evelyn’s eyes twinkle dangerously. “Of course. But some of us hold up better than others, don’t we?”
You blink. Holy shit.
Kathleen tips her head like she’s accepting a compliment. “Well, you know. Healthy habits and all that. I do my best to stay away from alcohol, you know. Good for the skin.”
You tense. This is outright verbal warfare, couched in plausible deniability and pleasant tones.
Kathleen continues. “I’m sure it’s so good to see Jack after so long between visits.” She sips her lemonade like she’s just mentioning the weather.
Evelyn doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course! I try to get over here as often as he’ll let me. He’s such a good boy. And so resilient. You know, it really makes a difference—having a stable, loving home.”
You almost choke on a baby carrot.
Kathleen’s smile freezes, cracks at the edges. “Yes. I imagine it must.”
There’s so much verbal gunpowder in the air you’re amazed the grill hasn’t spontaneously exploded.
You glance down at your plate. Stay quiet. Stay still.
Blend into the vegetables.
Evelyn tilts her head, voice dropping just enough to feel like velvet and a blade at the same time. It’s weird hearing that tone leave her mouth, when you’ve heard it from her son so often. “It’s good for children, I think. Having people around them who don’t need to be reminded what love looks like.”
Kathleen’s grip tightens minutely around her glass. “That’s certainly one way to look at it.”
Evelyn hums, noncommittal. “I suppose we all live with the choices we make.”
Kathleen’s lips flatten, but she recovers smoothly. “Yes. Some of us more comfortably than others.”
Before anything else can detonate, Jack shrieks from across the yard, waving his foam sword, and Aaron’s laugh floats over the patio, pulling Evelyn’s attention away.
You watch her glide toward Jack like she hadn’t just verbally eviscerated another grown woman with the poise and grace of a state-trained assassin.
Kathleen retreats toward the drink table with a polite, brittle smile plastered across her face, the cracks in it visible if you know where to look.
Aaron materializes beside you after a moment, hands tucked into his pockets, face schooled into neutrality. Still, when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, you catch the glint of deep, private amusement.
You murmur, low enough that only he can hear, “They are insanely good at that. Holy shit.”
Aaron’s mouth twitches like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.
“Told you,” he says under his breath. “You can’t teach it. You have to survive it. Southern women, and all that.”
You glance at him, wide-eyed. “And she raised you?”
He shrugs, the movement dry and unbothered. “She did, yes. Does that surprise you?”
“No,” you say, laughter in it. “Not at all.”
After a beat, he adds, voice even drier, “She also raised Sean. So do with that what you will.”
You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing out loud. Aaron’s expression is almost smug. You’re just happy he’s not outwardly anxious.
You bump his hip lightly with yours. “I like you both, so I guess I’ll take the favor.”
The moment between you and Aaron lingers for another heartbeat, then gently dissolves as Jack lets out another shriek, tearing across the lawn with Derek in hot pursuit, laughing.
Aaron steps down into the yard with Dave, both of them corralling kids toward the cake table.
You start to follow when Derek peels off from the chaos, falling into step beside you, hands stuffed into his pockets, posture almost relaxed.
“Got a second?”
You glance at him, instantly suspicious of the tone. “Depends. Am I about to regret giving you one?”
He grins. “Nah. Just curious.”
You tilt your head. “Dangerous.”
He chuckles, but his gaze flickers toward the patio—toward Evelyn standing coolly by the door, and Kathleen stiff by the drinks table, and Roy sitting with arms crossed and a face like he’s been sucking lemons for three days.
“Anything I should know about this very chilly Hotchner–Brooks weather system?” he asks, voice still casual, but his eyes sharp.
You exhale slowly, adjusting the plate of cupcakes in your hands. “Short version? It’s not new.”
Derek nods. “Figured.”
“They’ve never liked Aaron,” you say, voice lower now. “Not really. Not even before... everything.”
Derek’s mouth tightens a little. “Got that much.”
“They think he ruined Haley’s life and she didn’t deserve him and his family is new money Catholic trash blah blah blah.” You wave your hand dismissively, adding with a lighthearted, “I mean sure, but don’t be rude about it.” You sober up. “Then, when she died...” You shake your head. “There wasn’t a lot of grace left over.”
Derek hums under his breath, something low and dark. “Man never stood a chance.”
You smile tightly. “Not with them, no.”
He walks a few steps with you in silence, letting the weight of it settle.
Then, a little lighter, nudging you with his elbow, “You doing okay?”
You glance at him. “Yeah,” you say honestly. “It’s Jack’s day. That’s what matters.”
Derek grins, bright and conspiratorial. Something, though, is hidden behind it. “Damn right.”
You both pause for a second.
He continues, a little softer, sincere beneath the humor. “You’re doing great with this. With the suspension and with Jack, you know. Really.”
You reach out, softly pushing your fist against his shoulder. “Thanks, Derek.”
He smiles. After a moment, he jogs off after Jack, and you follow a few steps behind, weaving through the thicket of kids and parents gathering around the cake table.
You catch up to him near the drinks cooler, nudging him lightly with your elbow. You’re not done yet.
He glances at you, arching an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
You lower your voice a little. “You okay?”
Derek shrugs, casual. Too casual. “Yeah. I’m here, aren’t I?”
You watch him for a second. The set of his jaw. The way his hand tightens briefly on the neck of his beer bottle.
He sighs. “Look. I’m still not thrilled with some people right now.”
He doesn’t have to say it. Aaron. JJ.
“But today’s not about that,” he says. “It’s Jack’s birthday, and it’ll be Henry’s in a month. And you’re here. So... I’m here.”
You nod, the truth of it settling between you without needing a lot of words.
“And,” Derek adds, his voice softening a little, “earlier this week was good.”
You tilt your head. “Yeah?”
He smiles—a real one this time. “Yeah. Dinner. Talking. You... reminding me not everything’s broken just ‘cause it feels like it.”
You bump his shoulder lightly. “We do what we can.”
+++
“This is lovely,” Kathleen says, glancing around the yard. “You’ve put so much care into it.”
You offer a small smile. “Jack deserves a good birthday and a little fun treat for doing so well in his first month of school. And the decorating is all Dave. He’s been a lovely host. Jack loves it here.”
Kathleen nods. “He seems happy.”
“He is,” you say simply. “He’s surrounded by people who love him.”
A pause. Then, in a careful voice, she says, “That matters a great deal. Especially now.”
You nod, taking notes from Evelyn to keep your face mindfully placid. “It does.”
Kathleen lets her gaze linger on the yard. “I sometimes wonder what Haley would think—seeing all of this. How things have turned out.”
You study her expression for a moment. It’s not exactly accusatory, but it’s loaded with something—grief, maybe, or something a little less flattering.
You offer her something honest. Call it a show of good faith.
“I was lucky enough to be close to her after we met a few years ago.” You fold your hands in front of you, looking down at them. “We talked a lot. I know the divorce was difficult for her, and I know Aaron wishes it had gone differently.”
You can’t really help yourself. For better or worse, it’s always your instinct to defend and give him credit with people who don’t like him all that much.
Derek comes to mind…
Kathleen’s mouth tenses slightly. You don’t press. You don’t need to. The silence does the work for you.
After a beat, she murmurs, “She didn’t always open up easily.”
You nod once. “When she did, she was…” You search for a word. “…very clear.”
There’s another beat of quiet. Kathleen doesn’t ask what Haley said. Maybe she doesn’t want to know.
She glances back toward the yard. “Well,” she says finally. “It’s a beautiful day. You’ve made Jack’s birthday very special.”
You smile gently. “That was the goal.”
She nods, then drifts back toward the drink table, her expression unreadable.
+++
Evelyn takes a sip of her tea, delicately readjusting her barrette with her other hand. “Denial is unbecoming of you, Aaron.”
He snorts. “We’re well past that, thank you.”
“You are so welcome.”
“Mhm.”
…”So when’s the last time she spent a night at her place?”
“Mom!”
“What?” She looks convincingly shocked. “We’re all adults here. We can have sex with other consenting adults.” She crosses herself. ”It’s not like you had a white wedding the first time, God bless you.”
Aaron puts a hand over his eyes. “We are not having this conversation.”
“I think it’s remarkable,” she says, unbothered, “that you’re treating this exactly as you did when you were seventeen. That’s something.”
Aaron huffs a sigh and ignores her. “Thank you, Mother. Very insightful.”
“I’ll leave you alone, now.”
Aaron raises his eyebrows and tips his head, his mouth tight. “All I ask.”
As luck would have it, you approach with a smile and a laugh. “Evelyn, I really hope you’re getting your digs in.”
“Oh, I always have some sage advice for my oldest, most beloved, responsible, and level-headed child.” She leans in as if to ruffle Aaron’s hair, and he ducks out of the way in a move that’s more seventeen than forty-three.
“Jesus—Mom, please.”
“Not Jesus,” she says lightly, straightening her barrette again. “Just me.”
Aaron mutters something about the grill and heads off, a little too quickly to be casual. You watch him go, amused, while Evelyn takes another sip of her tea.
“I thought he’d grow out of the brooding silence thing,” she says, almost to herself. “Guess not.”
You smile. “Yeah, I’ve picked up on that.”
Her eyes flick toward you, steady and kind. “You’re good with it. Better than most.”
“Some days,” you admit. “Other days, I think about throwing something at him.”
That earns you a soft laugh. “Good. He needs that. He’s not nearly as mysterious as he pretends to be.”
You glance toward the grill, where Aaron’s already leaning in like he’s debriefing Rossi instead of checking on burgers. “I figured,” you say.
Evelyn hums. “I know my son. He’ll withdraw, he’ll sulk, he’ll convince himself he’s a burden.” She waves her hand dismissively. “But he listens to you. He told me so.”
Your throat tightens at that, though you cover it with a smile. “I try not to let him get away with too much.”
“Keep it that way,” she says simply, and there’s a spark of approval in her eyes.
+++
Jack darts up, sword in hand. “Grandpa, did you see? Uncle Derek says I’m the fastest knight in the yard!”
Roy chuckles, ruffles Jack’s hair, then glances past him to Aaron. “Well, you always did like playing soldier.”
“And such a brave knight you are, Jack,” Aaron says, a smile on his face.
Roy takes a slow sip, eyes sharp. “Gets that from Haley. She was always quick on her feet. Knew how to take care of herself.”
Aaron hums, noncommittal.
“Funny thing,” Roy adds, like he’s reminiscing. “Haley always said she was raising two kids. One of them just happened to wear a suit to work.”
+++
You and Jess step out onto the deck.
“…Haley always said she was raising two kids. One of them just happened to wear a suit to work.”
Aaron doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. His shoulders sit tighter, his silence the only answer.
Roy tips the bottle toward him, almost like a toast. “Guess she didn’t know how right she was until the end.”
Aaron’s face is neutral, but you’ve been around him long enough to know how much force it takes to keep it that way.
Jess doesn’t hesitate. “Dad,” she says, bright and breezy, cutting across the tension like a knife through butter. She hooks her hand through his arm before he can press the point further. “Come meet the Holts—they’ve been dying to hear your take on Nationals' playoff roster.”
Roy blinks, caught off guard, but she’s already steering him toward the crowd.
You move in the opposite direction, brushing your hand against Aaron’s elbow. Your voice is pitched casually, for him alone. “Dave says the grill’s getting away from him. You should go check.”
Aaron exhales, long and quiet, then gives the faintest nod. His brown eyes are warm and full of gratitude when he looks back at you.
You wink at him, lightning fast.
+++
Aaron slips back to your side, past the chaos, to where you’re stacking paper plates at the buffet.
“Hey,” he says, voice low.
You glance up. “Hey.”
He lingers, posture half-relaxed, half-braced. “Thanks. For earlier.”
You raise a brow. “For what? Being functional and polite?”
He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “For… running interference.”
“Yeah, literally, actually zero problem,” you say, blunt as ever. “I don’t know why it would be a problem.”
Something like relief tugs at his dimple. “Mostly I’m just happy you don’t want to kill me anymore.”
You give him a flat look. “I don’t want to kill you anymore… right now. It’s still on the table, please don’t misunderstand me.”
Aaron nods, the faint smile still threatening at the corner of his mouth. “Got it.”
From across the yard, Dave leans against the deck railing, arms crossed, sipping his wine like he’s watching a play. His eyes flick between you and Aaron, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
+++
The yard is a disaster—the bounce house half-collapsed as it deflates, streamers and balloons wilting off the fence and deck railing, decorative lettuce looking similarly limp on the table.
Evelyn and Aaron work together, getting the gifts and leftover party favors into the trunk of Aaron’s SUV.
The view is only a little inspiring as you sit back with Jack in one of Dave’s Adirondack chairs, the birthday boy melted entirely to your chest, his head on your shoulder and breath sticky against your collar. His little hand rests on your bare upper arm, fingers twitching a little as he dreams (just like his dad).
You close your eyes against the waning sunshine for what feels like the briefest of moments before you’re startled by a shadow.
Evelyn Mae West-Hotchner. A formidable shadow, indeed.
She crouches beside you and you’re impressed by the lack of cracking in her knees. She has her son beat, there. Her hand rises, fingers gently raking through Jack’s hair.
“He doesn’t let just anyone touch his kid, you know.”
“Hm?”
“You both think you’re very cool and subtle.” She tips her head in a startlingly familiar manner. “Trust me. I know.”
You stare at her placidly, your eyebrows rising only a touch.
“Mom.” Aaron’s flat, halfhearted chastizing doesn’t make it very far.
Evelyn sighs, long-suffering, and stands, brushing her hands on her pants. “Yes, darling?”
“Stop harassing my friends, please.”
She looks back at you with an eyeroll.. Get a load of this guy. “Friend. Right.”
“Mom.”
Your head lolls to the side. “Aaron, it really is incredible how you can sound 30 years younger with one single syllable.”
You can almost hear him swallow something snarky.
“Can you get Jack in his car seat please?”
“Mhmm.” You straighten gingerly, supporting Jack’s head as you stand, Evelyn’s hand at your elbow. You turn to her, briefly. “Thank you.”
“Please don’t encourage her,” Aaron says.
You snort, passing him with the lightest of shoulder checks. “Be nice.”
His response is hardly louder than a breath and dripping with sarcasm. “No.”
Reaching the car, you pour Jack into his booster seat and get him buckled. He stirs a bit and you dip down into his eye line.
“Did you have a good birthday, bud?”
He nods, sleepy. “Thank you for the party.”
You bite back a smile, opting for something crooked and small. “Of course.”
+++
“Alright, baby. It’s just you and me,” Evelyn says as she watches you disappear behind the car. “What is the deal? Actually.”
Aaron sighs.
“Uh oh.”
The sigh turns into an annoyed huff. “We’re friends.”
“Right. And I’m the Attorney General.”
“Dad got close, once.”
“Yeah. And so am I. So fess up.”
Aaron’s mouth twists. “I’m being very patient,” he says, finally, clipped and precise.
“...About?”
“I… made…. several mistakes. So, I’m being patient.”
She chews on that for a second. “That’s good. It builds character.”
“I’ve done plenty of character-building, thank you Mother.”
“Clearly not enough, if you’re making so many… meaningful mistakes.”
Aaron bites his tongue. “Fair.”
She pats his arm and reaches up to kiss his cheek. He doesn’t move.
“Okay, be good. Please keep me updated when your patience is rewarded or runs dry.”
“Goodbye,” he replies, dry. “Drive safely.”
“You too,” she says, sliding into her car. She rolls down her window as the door shuts. “Be good, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You join him as Evelyn backs out of the driveway, waving as she disappears around the hedge.
updated: october 13th, 2025
scheduled through: december 23rd, 2025
**like many usamericans, i have been impacted by the govt shutdown and furloughed from my job. i didn't anticipate the shutdown would impact the normal functioning of ajf, but alas! the ao3 curse strikes again. i appreciate your patience while i get back on track!**
wednesday, october 15th - schoolyard politics: part i
sunday, october 19th - schoolyard politics: part ii (7x01)
wednesday, october 22nd - as you like it (7x01)
sunday, october 26th - reinstated
wednesday, october 29th - the bubble (nsfw)
sunday, november 2nd - 43rd (nsfw)
wednesday, november 5th - recollection
sunday, november 9th - goodbye stranger
wednesday, november 12th - space: the final frontier
wednesday, november 19th - healed
wednesday, november 26th - command presence
wednesday, december 3rd - bear arms
sunday, december 7th - let me (nsfw)
wednesday, december 10th - observations
wednesday, december 17th - friendly fire (7x09)
saturday, december 20th - just because (nsfw)
tuesday, december 23rd - soft spot (7x10)
spam my inbox (18+) if you want any of the five (5) little (18+) treats outside of the posting schedule, which are not at all plot relevant and very much smut. did i mention 18+?
a/n: i left you all without a note last week! i missed you! i'm sorry! there are a lot of new conversations in this era as they sort of figure out the new circumstances and get to know each other in this brand new fun way!! how exciting!
co-written by @ssaic-jareau
links: masterlist | posting schedule | ao3
turn on post notifs to join the taglist!
word count: 1k
content warning(s): if making out requires a content warning, here it is!
“falling in love is easy. falling in love with the same person repeatedly is extraordinary.” -- crystal woods, write like no one is reading
october 4th, 2011
“I was thinking about something,” you murmur.
You’re curled against Aaron’s side on the couch, your head resting comfortably in the crook of his shoulder. His arm is around you, fingers tracing gentle, lazy circles along your upper arm. You close your eyes, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat through his shirt, steady beneath your palm.
He tips his head slightly toward yours, speaking softly. “Yeah?”
You pause, gathering yourself. You shift a little so you can see him better, lifting your head from his shoulder. His fingers still briefly, giving you space.
“I realized something a while ago,” you begin. “Something about us.”
Aaron watches you carefully, patient and attentive. His hand settles warmly at your waist, thumb gently brushing the soft fabric of your shirt. You’ve had a lot of these conversations, lately, catching up on years of repression and inside thoughts that can now find their voice.
“I fell in love with you twice,” you say quietly, meeting his eyes with steady sincerity. “Once before Haley died. And once after.”
His breathing stills for a brief moment. “Twice?”
You smile, faintly. “Twice.”
He’s quiet, processing. You can feel him working through it, the weight of your words settling between you. His thumb resumes its gentle motion.
You continue softly, holding his gaze. “I know… a part of you died with her. I know it made you different.” You lift a hand, tracing the line of his collar absently, fingertips brushing the warmth of his neck. “I wanted to know the Aaron that came back to us. The Aaron who was left and rebuilding right in front of me.”
His throat moves as he swallows. He lifts his hand, gently cupping your jaw, thumb stroking lightly along your cheekbone. “I wasn’t sure who that was for a long time. Still feel like I’m trying to figure it out most days.”
“I know,” you whisper. Your eyes soften, meeting his steady gaze. “And you don’t have to know. But I wanted to. And when I did…” You breathe out slowly, thumb brushing softly over the side of his throat. “I fell again. Maybe harder, definitely deeper. More permanently.”
Aaron tilts your chin gently upward, leaning down to kiss you softly. It’s tender, brief, yet somehow impossibly full. When he pulls back, his eyes search yours carefully. “Most people would’ve given up after the first time.”
You lean into his palm, smiling slightly. “No one’s ever accused me of being reasonable.”
He chuckles softly, pressing another lingering kiss to your forehead. “Fair point.”
You’re quiet for a long, comfortable minute, absorbing each other’s warmth.
Aaron’s voice is softer when he finally speaks. “Did you like me better before or after?”
You glance up, teasing gently. “Fishing?”
He smiles faintly, dipping his head in acknowledgment. “Maybe.”
Your fingertips lightly trace the back of his hand, thoughtful. “I loved the version I met—the husband, the father, the leader. You were steadier, more sure of yourself. But I think it’s fuller now, deeper.” Your voice lowers, sincere and gentle. “You’re more… real now. More vulnerable. I had to fight harder for you, felt like I had to protect you sometimes, in some ways. It made it stick.”
He nods slowly, eyes dropping to your joined hands. “I didn’t make it easy, did I?”
You shift slightly to kiss his jaw. “Not even a little.”
He exhales, leaning into your touch. “Thank you for staying.”
You pull back just enough to catch his gaze again, voice firm. “I never even considered leaving.”
Aaron hesitates, eyes deep with memory. “I thought about telling you to. To go to LA and never look back.”
Your fingers brush through the hair at his temple, gently, carefully. “I know. But you didn’t, and it didn’t work out anyway.”
“I couldn’t,” he murmurs, leaning closer. He brushes a soft kiss against your cheek, then another at the corner of your mouth. “Even when I thought I should, I never could.”
“Good,” you whisper against his lips, pressing softly into another slow, deep kiss. It’s warm, sure, and grounding. When you finally pull away just enough to breathe, you rest your forehead lightly against his. “Good news for both of us.”
Aaron lets out a quiet laugh, warm breath fanning across your cheek. “Very.”
You settle closer again, head back on his shoulder, feeling his arms slide around you with a familiar ease. You take a slow, quiet breath, focusing on the warmth of his embrace, the steady, quiet strength in it. Aaron’s arms aren’t bulky, but they’re solid—muscle and tendon wrapped neatly beneath the soft cotton of his sleeves. There's a wiry resilience to him, a lean strength forged by a decade and a half of unending vigilance.
You close your eyes, letting yourself linger there, memorizing how it feels to be held exactly this way. There's warmth, yes, but it’s more than that—it’s safe. It feels like stepping inside after standing too long in a hard rain, or clean air and cold water after a run. The privilege of being close to him is a new phenomenon, a welcome one, but new nevertheless.
His thumb traces a gentle, absent-minded arc against your shoulder blade, and you shift slightly, pressing closer, needing the quiet comfort more deeply than you anticipated.
Aaron’s touch is careful, always careful, but never hesitant. You know the weight of his arms, the steady strength he offers so willingly, and you’ve learned to trust it. Being held by him feels like coming home. You’re allowed here, you’re welcomed, sheltered by this quiet, steady man whose gentleness is all the more profound for how sparingly he shows it. In these quiet moments, he lets you have all of it.
Eventually, Aaron breaks the silence, thoughtful and quiet. “Twice, huh?”
“At least,” you murmur into his shoulder, smiling.
He chuckles softly, squeezing you gently. “Guess I’ll have to keep being interesting.”
a/n:
co-written by @ssaic-jareau l
inks: masterlist | posting schedule | ao3
turn on post notifs to join the taglist!
word count: 14k
content warning(s):
“gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. it turns what we have into enough, and more. it turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. it can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today and creates a vision for tomorrow.”
melody beattie
october 1st, 2011
+++
He’s running his hand slowly along your thigh—absent, content. You’re both quiet.
“How did we resist this for so long?”
Aaron’s hand stills.
“I ask myself that at least once a day now,” he says, brushing your knee with his thumb.
You look up at him. “Was it really that complicated?”
He tilts his head like he’s thinking about it. “Not always. I think it was just fear.”
That makes you laugh—soft, surprised. “You too?”
He glances at you, amused. “You think I wasn’t scared?”
You nudge him. “You’re scary. You’re not supposed to be scared.”
“Only on paper. I’m always scared.”
You rest your cheek back against his chest. “We waited too long.”
Aaron’s hand stills where it rests on your thigh. He lets out a soft breath. “I almost did something about it,” he says, “before Haley died.”
That pulls your gaze. He’s not looking at you, but he’s not avoiding you. He’s just… somewhere else, reaching back.
“It was just a flicker,” he says. “Something I pushed aside before it could turn into something I—well. I thought… maybe it would pass. Maybe it was projection, or loneliness, or transferrence. I wanted to be sure it wasn’t, and I never quite got there.”
You stay quiet, fingers lightly curled around the edge of the throw blanket.
“Then after she died,” he says, “there wasn’t space for anything else. Not if I wanted to do it right. I couldn’t give you that. Not then.”
You nod. You remember.
“And then almost as soon as I could think about anything else, I wasn’t brave. Then, we had to handle Emily,” he says, quieter now. “I almost said something.”
“But you didn’t,” you murmur.
He shakes his head. “And then I left.”
Silence stretches. You don’t fill it.
“The timing was never right,” he says. “There was always something we were waiting on, trying to get through, maybe.”
You tilt your head against his shoulder, watching his profile in the soft light. “But you thought about it.”
His voice catches just slightly. “Always.”
You run your fingers down the length of his arm. “So, was it just self-doubt? Because that was always my hangup.”
He looks at you, finally. There’s no shame in it—just truth.
“I didn’t just lose her,” he says. You know he’s talking about Haley. “I lost the blueprint. I didn’t know who I was supposed to be.”
You wait. He doesn’t need prompting. He just needs space.
“There’s no manual for what comes after,” he says. “Going from near-absent parent to single dad. From ex-husband to widower. I grew into adulthood with Haley; we left childhood together. I didn’t know how to grieve someone I’d already let go of once. I hadn’t seen Jack in months, except in the videos Sam sent.”
You brush your fingers across his hand, let them settle there.
“I didn’t know how to keep going, either,” he says. “There was bereavement leave, then I was working. Trying to be a father. Trying not to fall apart in front of him. And I was failing at all of it.”
Your voice is soft. “You weren’t failing.”
He shakes his head, not to argue, but to go on. “But you were there.”
You blink. “What do you mean?”
He looks at your hand resting on his. “You came by with takeout. From wherever the team had been. You didn’t hover. You didn’t ask for anything. You just dropped it off and left. Or stayed, if Jack asked.”
You remember those nights. The silence, the way he never said more than two words, and you never expected him to.
“You and JJ came over one Saturday when I was on leave,” he says. “Cleaned out the fridge, restocked it. Spencer reorganized the bookshelf and made a game of it for Jack. You straightened the pillows on the couch and did two loads of laundry. I had clean sheets for the first time in two weeks.”
You smile, just barely. “We wanted to help.”
“I didn’t see it then,” he says. “Not really. I couldn’t. I was underwater.”
“I know,” you say.
“But I do now,” he murmurs. “You kept us human.”
“It was the right thing to do.”
His eyes go soft.
“You didn’t have to know how to do any of it,” you add. “You just had to make it to the next day. That was enough.”
“I used to think,” he says, “that if I stopped and looked too closely at anything, I’d break apart.”
“Even if you do, I’m not going anywhere,” you say.
Aaron kisses the side of your head. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I already want you in all of it.”
There’s a long silence after that.
You breathe with him, tucked in, steady. And then, because it’s you, and because the moment feels just vulnerable enough to crack open a smile—
You shift slightly in his arms and say, light, casual, “So… do I live up to the hype?”
Aaron doesn’t even blink.
“You’re fishing,” he says immediately, deadpan.
“Are you going to indulge me?”
“I might.”
You wait, lifting an eyebrow. He watches you for a second like he’s not sure whether to be exasperated or amused.
Then, without looking away, “You’re steady, even more than I thought you were,” he says. “Smart, the same. Better with Jack than I am, more than half the time. You make everything easier without making it feel like I’m being managed. And you make me feel like I’m still myself, even on the days I don’t quite know who that is.”
You blink. It’s more than you expected—but exactly what you wanted out of any answer.
Then he adds, with a wry twist of his mouth, “And you’re irritatingly right about most things.”
You grin. “Now that I believe.”
He hums. “Figures.”
Your smile gentles and you look at him some kind of way. A little puzzled, a little disbelieving, like you’re still catching up to the reality of it all.
He clocks it immediately. “What?”
You shake your head, voice soft. “It’s just… it hasn’t quite sunk in yet that I can kiss you whenever I want.”
Aaron’s hand slides up your side—slow, familiar—settling gently along your jaw. His thumb strokes just under your cheekbone.
“That’s true,” he says, warm.
You lean into his touch. “Are you having as hard a time as I am with that or—”
He kisses you. Slow and hot and sure, completely indulgent.
When he finally pulls back, he lingers close enough to feel your breath on his mouth.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low. “I am.”
Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, anchoring yourself as his hand slips beneath the hem of yours, warm against your skin.
It’s charged.
His fingers skim your ribs and it feels both completely known and entirely foreign—like your body recognizes him before your mind can catch up to the fact that you’re allowed to want this now. That it’s real. That it’s yours.
His mouth drags down to your jaw, then your throat, open-mouthed and slow, and it makes you tremble—just a little.
He notices.
“What is it?” he asks, breath brushing your skin.
You shake your head, laughing a little. “Is it weird that you still make me nervous even though you’ve literally seen me naked and been in me and eaten me out?”
Aaron laughs, genuine, low in his chest. “No,” he says, “not weird.” He leans back just enough to meet your eyes. “Why nervous, though?”
You bite the inside of your cheek. Shrug. “You’re you.”
Aaron doesn’t respond right away. His hand shifts, fingers dragging lightly along the side of your neck, thumb pressing under your jaw, finding your pulse.
“You’ve always inspired butterflies,” you say again, softer this time. “Even when I didn’t want you to. Especially when I didn’t want you to.”
He watches you—eyes dark, unreadable for a moment. Then his voice drops low, intimate, a little rough around the edges.
“I used to sit across from you on the plane,” he says, “and make myself look at the case file just to avoid staring at your mouth when you chewed your pen cap.”
You blink. “What?”
He shrugs, a little guilty, a little smug. “You always did it when you were thinking hard. You’d chew the side of it, then prop it against your lip.”
You’re speechless for a second. And then you laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” he says, all mock solemnity. “It was… distracting.”
You bury your face in his chest, laughing into his shirt. “God. You.”
“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, mouth close to your ear now, “you don’t exactly have a monopoly on butterflies.”
You glance up. “Yeah?”
Aaron leans in until your noses brush. “Yeah.”
This time when he kisses you, it’s slower. Like he’s letting himself sink into it. Into you. Like this has been building for years and finally has somewhere to go.
(It has.)
You sigh into the kiss, fingers twisted tight in the collar of his shirt.
When you finally pull back, breathless and flushed, your forehead rests against his.
“I think,” you whisper, “this is going to kind of fuck me up permanently.”
Aaron watches you for a beat, thumb brushing lightly along your jaw.
