Secret relationship fic where Reader gets flowers/candy/etc on Valentine’s from a “secret admirer” bc of an office-wide candygrams initiative and the team is busy trying to detective work to figure out who its from but SHE knows it’s from her BF Aaron
'secret' admirer
SO CUTESY 💌 cw; bau fem!reader, secret relationship, SO MUCH FLUFF and bau family banter <3 wc; 1k
Five pairs of eyes latched onto you the second you walked through the glass door. You couldn’t help but instantly notice the mix of curiosity and amusement in their stares.
Here we go.
"There she is." Morgan sauntered over, a shit-eating grin on his face. “So, who’s it from?”
You laughed gently, crinkling your eyebrows in confusion. As you peeled off your coat, you asked, "What's what from?"
"Finally!" Penelope was the next to hurry towards you, grabbing your hand and leading you right to your desk. Clearly, your usual pace wasn't fast enough for her. "Oh my gorgeous you just have to see."
A bouquet of the prettiest roses sat on your desk. Full, a soft blush color, layers folded in on themselves. Penelope was right, they were beautiful.
Your heart nearly leapt out of your chest at the sight of them, and - overwhelmed by emotion - you nearly let it slip that they were from Aaron. Luckily you managed to catch yourself just in the nick of time, but you wished it hadn’t been necessary. You valued your privacy, but at the same time, things like this made you want to brag about what a wonderful boyfriend you had.
"Happy Valentine's Day to you, huh?" Emily chuckled as you opened the envelope that accompanied the bouquet.
"I guess so." You grinned, reading the small card. It read: ‘Yours, always.’
Your smile widened, a faint flush warming your cheeks - utterly flattered. Aaron had always been the type to show how much you meant to him, and today was no exception.
"Isn't that the sweetest thing. Alluring. Sexy.” Penelope gushed, grabbing one of your files and using it to fan her face. "Whoever he is, he’s a romantic, that's for sure."
"You've read this already?" You laughed, playfully arching an eyebrow as you swiped the file back.
Penelope opened her mouth to speak, but stopped midway. Guilty. "No... kinda. I merely held it up to the light." You hummed in amusement and she let out a whine. "It's been there for nearly an hour. A terribly long hour. When the prettiest set of flowers show up, and the recipient is momentarily absent, you have to take matters into your own hands. Especially when your own love life is clogged down the drain and there's not a plumber in sight."
"No plans tonight, then?" Morgan teased.
"On the contrary, you and I will get up to all sorts of trouble." She quipped in return, causing him to cackle.
"Ah... Valentine's Day." Dave chimed in as he joined the huddle, Aaron with him. "Something I used to be good at."
"You have been married three times,” Aaron deadpanned, crossing his arms across his chest.
As Aaron spoke, your gaze latched onto his. His brown eyes were warm and bright, brimming with affection. No words passed, but you felt it all, the quiet pull between your hearts. The unspoken moments were something the two of you had perfected, whether on a case or just within earshot of the team. Stolen glances and subtle gestures were the best you could hope for if you wanted to keep your relationship under wraps.
Even with the team possibly - definitely - watching, you couldn’t hide the smile that spread across your face as you looked at him.
You'd thank him later, in more ways than one, but hopefully for the meantime you were able to relay how much you truly appreciated and loved the gesture. How much you loved him.
"I wonder who they could be from." Penelope thought aloud, scanning the bullpen. Ironically enough, her eyes landed on every person except for the very one it was. "Who was here early? Are they even on this floor?"
"Oh- I know." JJ chimed in, smirking in your direction. Leaning forward and crossing her arms on her desk, "Agent Carter from Homeland Security has the hots for you."
You shushed her, immediately dismissing her statement. You were well aware of Carter's feelings for you - he's only awkwardly flirted with you a handful of times. Each attempt was admittedly sweet, but obviously unsuccessful as your heart belonged elsewhere.
You shook your head. "No, I'm positive it wasn't him." You’d made it clear that you weren’t interested, and the last time he tried to sway you had ended so badly you were sure it was the last time.
"If not, I'm sure we can figure it out by lunch." Emily scoffed, clearly opposed to the idea that an agent would be so brazen. "Sending flowers to a profiler? He's practically begging to be discovered."
"If you want, I can organize data by floor, then narrow the possibilities to single men, and sort those from most to least likely candidates based on factors such as proximal age, interests, and number of conversations they’ve had with you since you started work here.” Spencer offered, his lips quirking upwards.
You gaped at him, though you really shouldn’t be surprised. "All before lunch?"
Penelope didn't miss a beat, raising a hand. "I can get you a list."
"On that note, if you’d all like to leave early today to make your evening plans, I suggest we focus on getting our work done." Aaron redirected smoothly, in a way that hardly hinted at any personal agenda behind his attempt to steer the conversation. "Roundtable in ten."
The team let out a collective sigh and drifted apart, eager to leave early. Dave returned to his office, the others to their desks. As she passed, Penelope patted Spencer on the shoulder, reiterating that she’d get him a list.
Meanwhile, you let out a soft laugh and remained near your flowers, unable to keep yourself from admiring them for just one more long moment before you got swept up in the workday. As you did so, you could sense Aaron's presence lingering behind you.
He discreetly leaned in to mumble in your ear, his amusement clear at the thought of you entertaining other dating prospects. "Carter has the hots for you?"
pairing: aaron hotchner x wife!reader
summary: aaron swears he's not the clingy type...until you show up, and suddenly it's a full blown PDA parade in the bullpen, based on this request.
warnings | an: fluff, they're so in love it makes me sick, lots of touching, hotch soothing r's stress with his credit card, i am once again spreading the suggar!daddy!hotch agenda, the team being annoying, hotch enabling r's spending habits.
word count: 2.1k
✧ masterlist
Walking through the doors of the FBI never quite feels normal. You’d think being married to the man who runs one of its top units would earn you a little immunity from the nerves, but nope. There are still plenty of tight-lipped smiles from men who clearly think you don’t belong (to be fair, you technically don’t), and those awkward elevator rides where you end up clarifying, again, that you’re just here to drop off lunch for the most handsome agent in the building. Not that you say that part out loud.
It doesn’t happen often, hardly ever, really. Aaron’s not the kind of man who forgets things, especially not lunch. Maybe twice every four months, if that. And even then, he never asks for you to bring it. He usually brushes off your offers with a quick ‘I’ll grab something from the cafeteria’ which, of course, actually means ‘I won’t eat until dinner.’
And that just won’t suffice. Especially not when he’s been filling out his shirt so nicely, lately.
So there you were, pretty shoes dragging against the dull bureau floor, lunch in one hand, cookies and your purse dangling from the other, wrist definitely starting to ache. You weren’t exactly sneaking into the bullpen, but you weren’t strutting either. Just stuck in that awkward middle space reserved for people who technically shouldn’t be there, but have the authority to show up anyway, because boss man said so.
“There she is! Hotchner’s better half,” Emily called out, spinning her chair around with a grin.
You offered a sheepish wave, trying not to drop anything. “I come bearing gifts…and mild wrist pain.”
“Oh! Are those the butterscotch ones?” Penelope squealed, jumping up from where she’d been perched on Spencer’s desk.
“Yes, new recipe,” you said, carefully setting your things down on JJ’s desk as she kindly unhooked your overloaded purse. “I swapped out the dark brown sugar for light, added a little sea salt on top, and I may have used browned butter this time. I was feeling ambitious.”
“You browned the butter?” Penelope gasped. “You absolute kitchen goddess!”
Spencer leaned in for a closer look as you popped the lid off the container. “That actually changes the flavor quite a bit. The Maillard reaction from browning—”
“Yes, yes, science, great,” Emily cut in. “Can we eat them now, or is there a presentation we have to sit through first?”
You laughed, nudging the tin closer to everyone. “No presentations. Just cookies. Though if anyone gives them a rating out of ten that’s higher than a nine, I won’t complain.”
Morgan was the first to grab one, swiftly using it as a pointer to gesture towards Aaron, who was pushing back his chair. “Oh look, here he comes.”
You glanced up just in time to catch it—that little motion he always did, fingers brushing his tie flat against his chest as he stood. A completely innocent gesture. Totally routine. And somehow still enough to make your mouth water.
“You know,” Morgan added, mid-chew, “that’s the fastest I’ve ever seen him leave his office. Last time he moved like that, we had an active shooter in the building.”
“Alright, don’t scare her,” Rossi scolded, swatting Morgan’s bicep with a file. “She already doesn't like coming here as it is.”
“Now, that’s not true, Dave,” you corrected, grabbing Aaron’s lunch. “I love seeing you all. I just prefer doing it without all the security nuisance, badges, metal detectors and guns.”
Morgan nudged your elbow, eyes still on Aaron as he made his way over. “For a guy who claims he’s not clingy, he’s practically tripping over himself right now.”
“Oh, he’s definitely clingy,” you grinned, just as Aaron reached you, wasting zero time before leaning in and placing a swift kiss to your lips, murmuring a dreamy ‘Hi you’ before pulling away.
“Come on.” Morgan shook his head, reaching for his second cookie. “This is the same guy who made us sit through a mandatory refresher on workplace boundaries, and now look at him, breaking every single one.”
“Let them be in love,” JJ said sweetly, sipping her coffee like this was all perfectly normal.
You looked up at Aaron, eyebrows raised, trying to coax some kind of reaction to all the teasing. But he didn’t even glance at the others, just kept his eyes on you as he took the lunch bag from your hands, his fingers brushing along your wrist with just enough pressure to say thank you, I missed you, without saying anything at all.
“You didn’t have to come all this way, honey.”
“I know, but I overbaked and figured I was due for my monthly dose of shocking the system.” You glanced around the bullpen, cringing a little at the endless clacking of keyboards and constant ringing of phones. It was all starting to give you at least four different headaches. “Feels like there’s less oxygen in here somehow.”
“That’s because no one is allowed to breathe until all the paperwork is done,” Emily interjected dryly.
“Is that true, Aaron?” you asked, reaching up to fuss with his tie. “Are you working your team too hard?”
“They live to complain.”
A chorus of groans and mock-offended noises rose up around you, just as Aaron’s hand slipped to the small of your back, steering you gently towards his office.
“Blinds stay open, you two,” Morgan called after you, pointing two fingers from his eyes to yours. “We’re watching!”
“Just keep walking,” Aaron murmured into your hair, voice quiet and beguiled, giving your hip a subtle squeeze as he guided you up the stairs.
You bit back a grin, feeling far too smug—and frankly, far too giddy—for someone standing in a federal building. Inside his office, he quietly closed the door behind you and you made yourself at home by sliding into one of the chairs across from his desk.
“Think Morgan might have a point, you are getting a little reckless with the PDA. You’re going soft.”
He moved to his chair, smoothing his tie against his chest as he sat. “I’ve always been soft with you.”
That answer knocked the wind out of you in the quietest way. You blinked once, then shook your head. “Wow. Okay. That’s not even fair.”
He just looked amused, unpacking the lunch bag while sneaking glances at you like he couldn’t help himself. “You know they’ll be talking about this all afternoon.”
You waved him off and kicked his foot gently under the desk, because footsies, like true love, didn’t have an expiration date. “Let them. Let them talk about how you have a gorgeous, brilliant, amazing wife who is kind enough to hand-deliver your lunch.”
“They already know.”
“Good answer.” You nodded, satisfied, and handed him a few tissues just as he took the first bite of his sandwich. “Now, how's your day been? And don’t say ‘fine’, or I’ll start pulling out my therapist's voice and asking about your coping mechanisms.”
He chewed, giving you a dour look over the top of the sandwich like he was already reconsidering speaking at all.
“Busy. Two consults, one profile draft, and I’ve had to remind Morgan three times to finish his report.”
“So… business as usual.”
“Basically.”
He took another bite, and you used the pause to admire him. How pretty he looked. He was getting subtly more rugged with time, never quite managing the clean-shaven look, not for lack of trying, but that had always been fine by you. You loved him exactly as he was.
Your eyes wandered over his desk, taking in the meticulously organised scene in front of you. Everything was in its place, except for a single pen and one loose file slightly out of line, a tiny disruption in an otherwise perfect system. It made you smile.
He wiped his mouth, and in that moment, his wedding band caught the thin stream of light this moody building begrudgingly allowed in. As if the universe was saying, yes, look—he’s yours.
And you thanked her silently for it. Because he was.
“Want to ditch the rest of the day, fake a headache, and run away with me to somewhere that doesn’t require badge access?” you proposed, straightening the photo of you on his desk.
He tilted his head. “Tempting.”
“You’d never actually do it, though.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I’ll think about it the whole time I’m here.”
Your smile pulled a little wider. “That’s enough for me. That—and as long as I’ll have you home in time for dinner,” you said, though it came out as more of a question. Maybe even a tiny, minuscule threat.
“Don’t worry, I will,” he assured you kindly. “I know your parents are coming over tonight. I wouldn’t dream of making you face that alone. I’m guessing that’s what’s been bothering you, hence the industrial-sized cookie batch?”
You sighed, slumping back into the chair. “Am I that obvious?”
“Only to me.”
“You know they’re hard work. And I can only fake-smile and nod my way through so many stories about people I don’t remember and opinions I didn’t ask for.”
Aaron set his sandwich aside, abandoning it on the tissue you had passed him earlier. He used another to wipe his hands, then stood, taking two steps to get to you.
Before you could say anything, his hands were on either side of your chair, gently turning it to face him. He crouched down, and you instinctively parted your legs so he could slot in between them.
“Hey,” he urged softly. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through it together, and if it gets to be too much, I’m excellent at coming up with polite excuses to get them out of the house.”
“Promise?”
“I promise, sweetheart.”
And just in case his words were not confirmation enough, his hands came to cradle your face, thumbs circling your skin before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“Go to that bookstore you like,” he said next, already reaching into his pocket. “Grab your favorite coffee, roam around for a while, and try not to stress until they text you that they’re on their way, okay?”
He pulled out his wallet and fished out his card. “You’re too pretty to be stressing in this skirt.”
You raised a brow, lifting one leg and watching the flowy fabric settle back down over your knee. “It’s cute right?”
“Very.” He nodded, dead serious. “Go buy yourself another one.” He extended the card towards you like it was non-negotiable.
You laughed, giving his hand a light swat. “I’m not taking your card like some 1950s housewife.”
“You’re not. You’re my very independent, endlessly capable wife who I happen to love spoiling any chance I get. Now, please, take it. Call it payment for lunch…and for making you come all the way here, knowing full well how much you’d rather avoid this place.”
You pouted, eyes dancing between the card and his face. “Fine,” you relented, plucking the card from his hand. “But I’m only getting one book. Two max. The bookshelf is about to collapse.”
“Buy as many as you want.” He reached down, helping you to your feet with a gentle tug. “I’ll build you a new bookshelf.”
“You?”
“Yes, me.”
“You’ll build me a new bookshelf?”
He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear as he murmured, “With actual tools.”
“Okay, now I have to see that.”
He pulled back, straightening your cardigan, fussing without ever making it feel like fussing. “Then you better pick up a lot of books.”
You rolled your eyes, tucking the card away into your pocket. “This is enabling.”
“This is love,” he corrected, stealing a quick kiss before walking you to the door. “Text me when you get there. And if you see a ridiculous romance novel with a cheesy title, get it. I want to hear the plot.”
You grinned, poking his chest. “You just want to make fun of me.”
“No, I just like knowing what’s taking up space in that beautiful head of yours.”
“It’s mostly just you.”
He looked like he was trying not to smile too hard at that, so you saved him the trouble by leaning up and giving him one last kiss, ignoring all the hollering behind you from Morgan.
“I love you,” he promised, smoothing a hand down your arm. “Now, go before I change my mind and fake a headache just to come with you.”
summary ᰋ perks of having a girlfriend that ran hot as shit at night was that clothes were pretty much nonexistent and that gave hotch the perfect opportunity to devour you whole anytime of the day. masterlist
perks of having you as a girlfriend was that you ran hot at night, so clothes just didn’t exist in your dictionary. maybe a shirt of aaron that was way too big on you—on a good day—and nothing else.
which brings us to the second point which is that it gave hotch a pretty good easy access in the mornings to do his job as being the alarm since you were a heavy sleeper.
it’s the same routine every time. he usually wake up a little early for his morning run anyway and then he’s on you. gently getting inside the covers kissing his way down your thighs.
he shifts under the covers, the fabric a soft weight over both of you. the air is warm from your body heat, smelling faintly of your body wash and whatever body oil you’ve applied the night before. aaron’s movements are deliberate but unhurried; he has time.
he parts your thighs with a firm but gentle pressure of his hands, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin where they meet your hips. he doesn’t rush to the main event. he kisses the hollows of your hips, the crease where thigh meets torso, his stubble a delicious, rough counterpoint to the softness of his lips. he’s just breathing you in for a moment, his warm breath ghosting over you, making you twitch in your sleep.
then he leans in and gives a slow, flat lick from your entrance up to your clit. the sensation is a slow, creeping wave of heat that pulls you from the depths of sleep. a soft sigh escapes your lips as your body arches instinctively toward his mouth. you recognize him even in your sleep and he takes that as his cue, his hands coming up to grip your hips, holding you open for him.
his tongue is an instrument of pure, focused pleasure. he starts with broad, languid strokes, coating you in his saliva, getting you wet and ready. he explores every fold, every curve, learning your all over again as if it’s the first time. he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, teasing, before flattening it and giving it a firm, slow suck. your hands fly down to tangle in his hair, your hips rocking against his face as you chase the sensation.
he groans against you, the vibration sending a jolt straight through your core. he loves this. loves the taste of you, the way your body responds to him, the soft sounds you make. he doubles down, his tongue becoming more insistent, more pointed. he flicks your clit rapidly, then seals his lips around it and sucks, hard. your breath hitches, your back arching off the bed as the pleasure builds to an almost unbearable peak.
“shit,” you gasp, your voice thick with sleep and arousal.
he hums in response, his tongue never ceasing its delicious torture. he slides one hand from your hip, his fingers finding your entrance. he teases you, circling the tight ring of muscle before slowly pushing one, then two fingers inside. he curls them just so, finding that spot that makes you see stars. his mouth works your clit in tandem with his fingers, a perfect, relentless rhythm that pushes you closer and closer to the edge.
your thighs start to shake, your grip on his hair tightening. the world narrows to the feeling of his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, the coiling tension in your belly. he can feel you’re close, your body clenching around his fingers. he sucks your clit harder, his tongue flicking it in a frantic rhythm, and that’s all it takes—
that’s all it takes—except he stops.
his mouth pulls back just enough to leave you hovering, a breath away from the fall. the only point of contact is the kitten-soft flick of his tongue against your clit, a maddening, teasing rhythm designed to keep you right on the razor’s edge. your hips jerk, trying to force more pressure, but his hands hold you firm, pinning you to the mattress.
“say my name baby?” he murmurs, the words a low vibration against your soaked flesh.
“please,” you whine, the sound thin and desperate. you shove the blanket down just enough to glare at him, and the sight nearly makes you come anyway. his hair is a wreck, his lips and chin are wet and shining with you, and his eyes are dark with smug satisfaction. god, what a sight.
“mm,” is all he says, a noncommittal hum against your clit that makes your whole body clench. he’s not giving in.
“james?” you grit out, a petty, triumphant barely there smirk touching your own lips. you know exactly what you’re doing. this is the downside—no, the brilliant side—of having a girlfriend who knows exactly which buttons to push. you rail him any fucking chance you get, just to see that muscle in his jaw twitch.
can’t help it he just looks so hot when he’s annoyed.
his eyes narrow. he doesn’t say a word. instead, he pulls his hand back and delivers a sharp, stinging slap directly to your pussy. the sound is wet and loud in the quiet room, and the jolt of pleasure-pain that follows is electric. it steals the air from your lungs and sends a fresh gush of wetness against his palm.
“wrong answer,” he grits out, before his mouth is back on you, devouring you with a renewed, punishing intensity. he sucks your clit hard, his tongue working frantically, pushing you right back to the peak in seconds. just as you’re about to tumble over, he stops again.
“try again,” he commands, his voice rough.
you gasp, writhing beneath him. “fuck. you, james.”
another slap. harder this time. you cry out, your back bowing off the bed. the sting blooms into a deep, throbbing heat that makes your head spin. tears of frustration and overwhelming sensation prick at the corners of your eyes.
“one more,” he warns, his tone leaving no room for argument. his fingers replace his tongue, curling inside you, pressing mercilessly against that spot while his thumb rubs tight, fast circles on your clit. the pressure is immense, a coiling spring in your gut wound so tight it’s about to snap.
“aaron,” you sob, the name tearing from your throat as a tear finally escapes and slides down your temple. “please, fuck, it’s aaron.”
“good girl,” he praises, and the relief is so immediate it’s dizzying. he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, his fingers pumping into you with a perfect, relentless rhythm. he doesn’t tease anymore. he takes what he wants, giving you exactly what you need. the orgasm that hits you is violent, explosive. it rips through you, stealing your vision and your breath, leaving you a shaking, sobbing, boneless mess. he works you through every aftershock, his touch softening as you come down, until you’re nothing but a pliant, trembling form beneath the sheets.
see? he’s so sweet when you corporate.
only then does he crawl up your body, kissing a trail over your stomach and tits until he reaches your lips. he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
“need to leave in 10, i’ll be back before you know it,” he murmurs against your lips, a rare, soft smile in his voice when he sees your dazed expression.
warnings/contents: in love with each other and everyone can see it (even them). friends to lovers. reader is implied to be younger than hotch. insecure reader. reader swears like a sailor. derek and emily being the goats. a bit of violence - reader is a badass and she kicks ass. mentions of death, guns, shots, injuries. hotch has a love confession that is bridgerton coded. humour. they make -out. sexual happenings but no smut. let me know what y'all think!
song inspo earrings - malcolm todd
word count: 6.0k+
masterlist | ask
hotch masterlist
There was an unspoken thing between you and Hotch. One that everyone that could pick up on, regardless of whether you’ve worked with them before or not. Even if everyone knew about it, it was just between the two of you. Your relationship was built in the rare quietness that working in the BAU allowed.
The late nights in his office, talking about nothing and everything while you helped him with paperwork. The late nights in the hotel room where one of you ended up in each other’s room.
You never placed a word for what was between you. Never defined it, and never needed to. The moments between the two of you, the unspoken gestures, the brief glances and touches were enough.
And you were happy with that. Until now. Until her.
She was new. Doing rotations around the different departments, see which one she fit in. Something that you did when you were a new recruit in the FBI.
Madeleine was like the calm in the storm, you could sense Hotch being at ease in her presence. She was kind, never talked back unlike you now. She followed orders to a T, and whether that was because she was new, or her personality, you didn’t particularly care to find out.
She reminded you of you, in the early days of the BAU. Before you became comfortable in your skin, and knew who you were. The one that Hotch gravitated towards.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” Emily scoffed into her drinks as she watched you throw daggers at Hotch and Madeleine.
“I’m not,” you stubbornly murmured, your eyes still finding the two. She was way too near, way too bold for a shiny-eyed recruit in the face of someone who was her superior, and who had the reputation of a hard-ass.
But here he was. Not being the Hotch that you knew. He was smiling down at her, and he never smiles at anyone. Well, that was false. He smiled at you, and sometimes Rossi, but mostly at you. He never directed it to anyone else.
“Please, Hotch is like a lovesick puppy when he’s with you,” Emily rolled her eyes.
“I mean, maybe she’s good for him, you know?” You started, a frown on your pretty face. “She’s calm, she’s nice, she’s quiet and she doesn’t backtalk to him, or undermine him when he sends out orders,” you gulped. “He deserves something good.”
Derek flicked your head causing you to rub your head in pain. “Derek, what the fuck?”
“Don’t ever sell yourself short like that, kid,” Derek warned, his finger pointed at you. “If anything, Hotch is lucky that you’re looking at him.”
“Hear, hear,” Emily agreed. “You are a bombshell, and he’s,” Emily looked towards Hotch, “just a man.”
“You’re the best thing for him,” Derek said softly. “I’ve never seen him this happy.”
You smiled at the kind words thrown by them, it was nice to have it wash over you until you looked over to the cause of your pain. She was touching his arm now, practically on top of him. He never allowed the team to touch him, minus you.
“I’m gonna head out to lunch before everyone takes the brisket again,” you removed yourself from the group and heading towards the cafeteria.
You were too in your head that you didn’t realise that Spencer called out your name, pouting slightly when you didn’t respond. “Don’t take it personally, kid,” Derek clapped his hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “She thinks that Hotch is in love with the new recruit.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Spencer replied, confusion in his tone. “Everyone knows that Hotch is in love with her.”
“Well,” Derek stretched out the word and looked at Hotch and Madeleine. “Can you blame her though?”
“It’s probably not what it looks like,” Spencer frowned. “Maybe she just has daddy issues and Hotch is fulfilling that role.”
Derek barked out a laugh, while Emily grinned in amusement. “Don’t think that helps the scene, kid.”
The conversation naturally died down as Hotch approached the table, Madeleine in tow. Emily couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Sure, Canavan was a nice kid. A bit too nice for Emily’s liking, a bit too fake and green-eyed, but maybe she was biased. She was fond of you afterall.
“She’s gone,” Emily provided, not looking up from her book and before Hotch could ask the question. “To lunch.”
All she received was a frown from Hotch. Taking out his phone, he looked at the screen before humming and excused himself before leaving in the same direction that you did.
“Oh no, kid, don’t even think about it,” Derek stopped Madeleine from following Hotch. “That’s their time. I would not interrupt that. And I would not get in between them.”
“Yeah, one time I did and not that Hotch would ever admit it, but I think he hated me at that moment,” Spencer smiled tightly, looking at Madeleine.
“Are they together?”
“Worse.”
“Worse?” She repeated, not quite getting the obvious inside joke between the team.
“They’re practically in love but too them to say anything,” Emily snarked, looking at the girl in front of her. Narrowing her eyes briefly, she saw the despondent look on the other girl’s face.
“Oh.”
“So, don’t think about it,” Derek warned. “As nice as you are, those two only ever revolve around each other.”
-
“There you are,” Hotch said, a smile appearing on his face as he saw you. “Brisket?” He nodded towards the food in your hand.
Grinning you nodded, “Finally managed to grab some before DT grabbed everything. Got you some,” you tapped the tupperware next to you.
“Thank you, honey,” placing a soft kiss on your head, he sat down next to you. “Are you okay?”
You took a beat to say anything, just chewing your food and thinking. Maybe now was the right time to bring it up, everything that you were feeling. The insecurity and jealousy that’s been brewing inside of you. That for the first time since this started between you and Hotch, you felt that you were on unsteady ground. That you didn’t know where you fit into his life.
However, as you looked around, you realised that bringing this up during work was not something you could do.
And if Hotch said the worst things that your brain could conjure up, there’s no place to run or hide from him. You still had a good six hours until you clocked off. Plus, the embarrassment, there was no way you were getting embarrassed at work due to a man.
“Just tired,” you eventually landed on. Which wasn’t a lie, technically. But you still needed a few days to figure out what you were going to say to him.
Hotch looked at you, and as much as he didn’t want unprofessional feelings in the workplace, he couldn’t help it. You were mesmerising. Everything you did managed to leave him in awe. As if whatever you were doing was the first time he was seeing it.
“Do I have sauce on my face?” You asked, your free hand tapping your face softly.
Hotch shook his head, a small fond smile on his face, “You’re beautiful.”
You softened, your foot tapping his, “I know.”
Chuckling he couldn’t help but lean and kiss your forehead again.
-
You watched, arms crossed as Hotch delegated the tasks, eyes flicking towards you every now and then. You gave him an encouraging nod as he began to shift his attention to the local police department.
You waited for the orders, everyone pairing off. You perked up as you heard your name, and his, along with two others. Clenching your jaw as you saw her bound up to Hotch, too happy in this context, you turned your head to search for the other person in your little team.
“Price,” the man held out his hand which you gladly took. It was rare that the local pd respected any of you, let alone the women. Introducing yourself, you both began to exchange information.
Hotch and Canavan moved to where the two of you were, heads bent together as you discussed the different entrances that the warehouse had. “I’ve got your back, if you have mine,” Price looked to you, and for a moment you were lost in his blue eyes.
If you met him two years ago, maybe you would have taken him out for a drink after the case, maybe you would have exchanged numbers. However, it was now, and a gentle hand on your back brought you out of your reverie, you looked towards the culprit who barely acknowledged his tender touch.
“‘Course, Price,” you gave him a soft smile.
“Officer Price,” Hotch interrupted your conversation, “if you could show Agent Canavan the layout of the warehouse,” he nodded to the woman standing next to him, looking a bit distraught as he sent her off.
“He’s awfully happy to be partnered with you,” Hotch stated as he kept the man in his line of sight, his hand still on the small of your back, absentmindedly rubbing small circles.
“You partnered us, remember?” You quipped back. “Price and I can take the inside of the warehouse, if you and Canavan want to go around the perimeter,” you suggested, already forming a plan in your head. That would be the easiest and most logical.
“I’ll go with Price, stay with Maddy,” Hotch amended. “It would do her well to be with someone like you. I trust you to keep her safe.”
“Maddy,” you mocked quietly, but not quiet enough as Hotch heard you. At his questioning look, “Nicknames, already?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Gonna start calling her honey as well?” You accused, envy embedding itself in every nerve you had. You stepped out of his hold and you watched as his hand stayed in the air for a moment, and then dropping to his side, a small clench of his fist.
It was a standstill for a moment between the two of you, you too in your head that you didn’t notice the way that Hotch was studying you. The concentrated look that he only ever has when he’s trying to piece together a particularly frustrating puzzle.
“As much as I want to listen to this telenovela, we have a case,” Rossi interrupted as he looked between the two of you. “Lives are at stake, remember?”
You nodded, ashamed in your brief outburst. Rossi was right. This was an active case. People were dead and will die if you didn’t stop acting like a jealous, hormonal teenager.
Hotch watched you leave as Rossi studied him, a knowing look on his face. “What, Dave?” Hotch exhaled.
“Do you seriously not see it?”
“See what?”
Rossi made a noise and smiled tightly at him, “You know, for a brilliant profiler, you’re very stupid.” At Hotch’s glare, Rossi held up his hands. “All I’m saying is, how do you not realise why (Y/N) is mad at you.”
--
“Canavan, stay back!” You ordered, shoving your hand in front of her. “Fucking, don’t go charging in there, we know he’s armed and he has accomplices, that may or may not be in there with him. So stay the fuck back.”
“They have the victims in there!” She pointed to the room at the end of the hall.
“We wait for back-up,” you commanded. “We don’t know if they have the victims in there, and again we don’t know if he’s alone.”
“The victims are in there,” she all but growled, finding the strength to kick your leg and push you out of the way.
“Son of a fucking bitch,” you angrily followed her, gun held to your side. “Canavan,” you whispered angrily, trying to keep up with her. “Fuck, Canavan!” You saw her getting yanked inside, screaming as she went.
Without another thought, you ran towards her, from your memory, this was a big room. There were plenty of craters that you could hide behind, but it was far too dark to really see anything. If shots were fired and you didn’t know where it came from, you were screwed. But you had to try.
As best as you could, you hid yourself behind a crater, as vicious as the unsubs were, they were stupid. Ego the gods could envy, they didn’t bother hiding when they were trying to shoot.
Seeing your chance, you quickly straightened, once your eyes were on him, you shot two bullets into his chest. Running quickly, you took his gun and confirmed that he was dead. Suddenly you felt yourself being shoved into the wall, your head banging harshly against the concrete. Fumbling with your knife, you quickly pulled it out and lodged it in his ribs causing the unsub to groan and throw another punch at your face.
Twisting the knife as much as you could, the man screamed in agony as he swayed back away from you, allowing yourself to stand up. Grabbing the metal, you tried to swing down at the man when he came up, grabbing it and directing a punch underneath your rib, causing you to drop to the ground. Taking the pipe from your hand, you saw the man grin as he raised it up, poised to hit you until you heard two gunshots.
“Unsub down,” you could hear Derek tell the walkie talkie. “There were two,” you could vaguely hear Derek describe the scene, the ground in front of you suddenly the most appealing thing to look at.
You could hear voices in your earpiece, vaguely hearing your last name, then your name, each call getting more panicked when you didn’t answer.
“Shit, Hotch,” Derek ran over to you, “she’s down, unsub hit her.”
“Canavan,” you muttered, trying to point to where you saw her last. “Knocked out.”
Derek looked towards the girl, conscious and now slouched over by the corner of the room. Briefly glancing at her and seeing no visible injuries, he turned his attention back to you. “Alright, mama,” helping you up, Derek looked at your wounds.
You saw the rest of the team run in, Hotch at the helm. He partially looked at Canavan, then nodded to Emily and headed straight to you.
“What were you thinking?” Hotch started as he looked at you. The words coming out sharper than he intended as he saw the state of your injuries.
“Hotch, man, back off,” Derek stood between the two of you. “We all heard that it was Canavan that came charging in. If there was anyone at fault,” he looked towards the girl who was now in Emily’s arms, eyes trained on Hotch.
“Shit,” you wiped the blood from your nose and grimaced as you felt more blood gush down. The throbbing in your head escalated as the room became louder. You felt overstimulated as everyone gathered in the room, lights suddenly on and you felt like throwing up.
You slapped his hand away, “I’m fucking fine, Hotch,” you groaned as you stood up. “Derek,” you handed off the unsubs gun, and he took it with a nod. Holstering your own gun, you began walking to the medic.
“Where are you going?” Hotch walked with you, the team forgotten behind.
“Medic,” was all you said. Gritting your teeth as you felt the throbbing underneath your ribs.
“I thought you said you were fine,” Hotch commented, a worrying frown on his face as he took notice of you holding your ribs. He ignored the woman who called his name, his attention all on you.
“Yeah, well, I know it’s going to cause a shitstorm if I don’t get it checked out,” you clenched your jaw as pain shot through your body due to the uneven ground. “Fucking,” you cursed under your breath as you felt Hotch catch your body, causing you tense momentarily.
“Easy,” Hotch mumbled softly.
“I’m fine,” you tried your best to shove yourself off him, you could see the ambulances now, just a few feet away. “Fuck off,” you cursed at him.
“What is going on with you?” Hotch narrowed his eyes, refusing to abandon you.
You turned back to him, and you didn’t know if it was the frustration that’s been building up, your new injuries or the fact that everything was just too loud and too bright, you exploded. “Why don’t you go back to your girlfriend?” You spat the word out as if it offended you personally. As if it wasn’t what you’ve been wanting from him.
Hotch briefly took a step back as if you’ve just slapped him, your eyes instantly zeroing on the hurt that flashed across his face. “What are you talking about?”
Opening your mouth, you gritted your teeth as pain began to worsen in your head.
“Forget about it,” grumbling, you walked away from Hotch, slowly making your way to the ambulances.
--
“She has some injuries, but you’re fine, well as much as you can be,” the medic finished taping up your wound. “She shouldn’t be alone, just in case.”
“She’ll stay with me,” Hotch announced, eyes trained intently on you.
“Jesus Christ, give me a break,” you mumbled under your breath, earning a breathy laugh from the medic beside you, which quickly stopped as he saw the look that Hotch gave him.
“Thanks,” nodding to the medic, you slowly jumped off the edge and began walking to the team that was now outside.
“Morgan!” You called out, “Need someone to supervise me tonight.”
Grabbing your elbow lightly, Hotch pulled you towards him, “She’s fine, Morgan. I’m looking after her.”
Whatever smartass comment Derek wanted to say was stopped by the stern look on Hotch’s faces, and the grip he had on you. Moving you towards the car, he helped you up and placed your seatbelt. “I’m not a child,” you frowned, yanking the seatbelt from him and clicking it yourself. All you got was an exhausted huff.
“Are we going to talk about this now or are you going to wait until we get back to the room?” Hotch asked, as he got into the car, and when you didn’t respond, he let out a sigh and began driving.
--
“Why are you being so stubborn?” Hotch asked as the two of you walked into his hotel room. “I can get your stuff or you can wear mine, I know that you feel more comfortable in them sometimes.”
Ignoring his question, you rolled your eyes, tired from the night, from the case, from the situation that you found yourself in with Hotch and the trainee. You were a grown woman, and here you were feeling the same things and doing the same things you were doing when you were sixteen.
“Why are you here?”
“This is my room,” Hotch stated dumbly, and for the umpteenth time that night, you rolled your eyes.
Exhausted, you stared at him, and exhaled loudly. “I mean why are you here with me, when your precious Canavan is also injured and needing to be looked after.”
“I want to make sure you’re okay,” Hotch said softly, taking a step forward but stopping when he saw you taking one back. “I frankly don’t care about her right now.”
“That’s not a very Unit Chief thing to say,” you quipped, removing your jacket, wincing as you stretched your arm too much.
“Honey,” Hotch started, moving towards you, hands out ready to help.
“Don’t,” you snapped, finally removing your jacket. You moved towards his bathroom, intending to shower until you heard him shuffle behind you.
You exhaled loudly, turning to face him, exhaustion on your face, “What do you want, Hotch and if you say it’s because you want to make sure I’m fine, I’m going to castrate you in your sleep.”
Hotch couldn’t help but chuckle at your retort, even when you were injured and in pain, you still managed to be so you.
“You heard the medic, I just need some rest,” you waved him off and began to remove your trousers. “If that’s all,” you gestured to the bathroom door.
“That isn’t all.” You looked at him expectantly, “You’ve been ignoring me.”
Scoffing you paused your movements and ran your hand through your hair, “And? In case you haven’t noticed we’ve been on a case.”
“Don’t be naive,” Hotch chided. “We’ve been different,” at the solemn look on his face, a small part of you softened. “We have been for a while,” Hotch confessed softly. What he won’t tell you was he was racking his brain, trying to think of anything that he could have possibly done to make you drift away from him.
Did you finally realise that you were too good for him? That he was a damaged old man and you deserved someone who could keep up with you? That you deserve someone good?
“I wonder why that is,” you commented under your breath.
“What?”
You scoffed, exasperated by everything and especially at the man in front of you. “Hotch, why don’t you just do us both a favour and just go relieve Morgan from his duty of taking care of Canavan. We both know you want to be in her room anyway,” you moved to close the bathroom door, a growl practically escaping you when he moved to block it.
“Why would I go into her room?” By the narrowness of Hotch’s eyes and animosity in his voice, you knew that you had to tread carefully.
“I’m sure she needs the big boss to comfort her after the big night she had,” you mocked and you felt like a bitch. Again, you wouldn’t feel this way, you normally wouldn’t say things like this, if it wasn’t for everything. You knew she was probably scared, it was one of her first times on the field and she got attacked. You closed your eyes at the guilt you felt.
“What the fuck?” It wasn’t the first time you heard Hotch curse, you were one of the few he allowed to hear him like that, but the tone severity of his tone took you back. “Why would I go into her room?” He repeated again, this time enclosing in your space. “Why do you keep bringing her up when I don’t care about her outside of work?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, were you and her not eye fucking the entire case?” You laughed bitterly. “For weeks, ever since I came back, all I can see are the two of you practically humping each other whenever you were in the same vicinity. I had to watch you laugh with her, Hotch!”
“Is this why you’ve been such a pain the last few weeks?” Hotch frowned, but there was an underlying tone of teasing that you didn’t like.
“Fuck you,” you spat at him, you shoved him from your space and stomped back to the bedroom. “Guess since I’m not the youngest, I lost my shine, eh?” You mockingly winked at him, venom in your tone. “She’s new, young, probably your type. Like I was once upon a time,” you almost regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth. You bravely stared at Hotch, ignoring the fluttering in your chest and the churn of your stomach.
Hotch hissed your name in warning. “Do not,” Hotch warned. “Look at me,” he directed you.
There was something in his tone and his demeanor that made you keep your eyes on him. He was breathing heavier, his face flushed in anger. At you? At the situation? You didn’t know.
“I’m in love with you,” Hotch said seriously, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve been in love with you since the first day that I saw you, and I fall in love more every single day I talk to you.”
Standing there in shock at the confession, you didn’t know what to say. It was the first time that either of you put anything to what you were feeling. What this was between the two of you. Your shoulders sagged a bit, a small bit of the fight leaving you, but a big part of you who’s been on the edge of crashing out needed this fight.
“You never did anything to tell her that you were taken!”
“What did you want me to do? We’ve never talked about this!” Hotch raised his voice, eyebrows to his hairline. “I didn’t want to put words into your mouth in case you didn’t feel the same way.”
Never felt the same way? You thought bitterly. Is he an idiot?
“You never stopped her! You instigated things, Hotch. Don’t think I don’t have eyes,” you bit out. “Is it because I was away for a week? That suddenly you forgot me and she appeared.”
“Do not insult me with the thought that my feelings are that fickle,” Hotch snapped. “That all it takes to forget my love for you is some woman throwing herself at me,” walking towards you, Hotch kept his gaze on you. Every step, every word was deliberate. “I didn’t realise what you saw, what you perceived was me eye fucking her, or practically humping her, when those actions are only ever reserved for you.”
“I was being nice, I’m her boss,” he explained, more gently this time but still a firmness in his tone that isn’t usually directed to you. “This job is already hard, you’ve told me plenty of times that I need to be kinder, put myself in their shoes, to not be a hardass,” at that you couldn’t help but chuckle, Hotch mirrored it with his own smile. “I want to be kinder for you. You make me want to do that.”
“I’m sorry for not stopping it, I’m sorry for allowing her to think that there was ever a possibility of me being into her when all I think of is you,” he moved forward now, internally elated when he saw you stay put. “I’m sorry for making you believe that I don’t live for you.”
Hotch was frustrated to say the least, not at you but at himself. For not seeing what Canavan was trying to do. The hurt that you felt all because of him, because he was being an idiot. All he could do was hope that you gave him a fighting chance. That he wouldn’t lose you because of this stupid, careless misunderstanding.
You briefly looked at him, you knew that he wasn’t lying. If there was one thing that Hotch would never do to you, it was to lie. You watched as he went through the different emotions, eventually landing on something that he only wore around you.
Walking towards you, he took the risk of gently placing his hands on your neck, “I’m in love with you and I’m sorry. You are the only thing that makes me sane, the one that actually makes me want to come to work because I can see you,” he admitted. “Please don’t let me not know what it’s like to see you first thing in the morning, or what kind of furniture you want for our home.”
And you wanted that. You wanted that with him. You wanted everything with Hotch, the good, the bad and the ugly. You wanted to know what kind of pots he preferred, if he liked multiple blankets on the bed. You wanted the laughs, the fights and bickering. You didn’t want that with anyone else.
“You let her touch you,” was all you could say. Thoughts running a mile per minute. You cringed inwardly as your behaviour from the past couple of weeks bombarded your brain. Were you really that petulant? That juvenile? You could feel the tears of embarrassment line your lashes. “And you’re an idiot for not seeing that she wanted to jump you.”
“And for that I’m sorry. I promise that you’ll be the only one that gets to touch me.”
“Good,” you said defiantly, and you watched as the left side of his lips tilted up. Raising your hands, you placed them on his chest. “Because I swear, if that ever happens again, Aaron,” you threatened.
“I know, honey,” Aaron nodded solemnly. He knew that if anything like this happened, you would be gone. Whatever future he wanted with you would be gone.
“You know though right?” You said softly, hoping to convey what was caught in your throat. You followed Hotch as he sat down on the bed and pulled you to him.
“Know what?” He teased, wrapping his hands around your waist.
“You’re being annoying and I’m injured,” you whined, your arms slowly falling to his shoulders. “You’re annoying,” you spoke as you slowly sat down in his lap.
“Baby, say it,” he hovered his hands around your waist, being extra careful of your injured side.
“I’m kinda in love with you,” you rolled your eyes playfully, “and baby? Really?” You arched a brow.
“Kind of?” Aaron smiled up at you. “I wanted to try something new,” he shrugged. “Weird?”
“No,” you shook your head. “Just different. I love it.”
“Oh, so you love that, but you’re kind of in love with me,” Hotch teased, fingers drumming against your waist.
“It’s because you’re being annoying,” you supplied. “But ask me tomorrow morning and it may change.” Leaning down, you smiled at him, the tension and anger washing away as you looked down into his eyes. “Now kiss,” you pouted and bent down, slotting your lips slowly to his.
It was soft and slow, like you had all the time in the world, and for the moment, you did. You grinned as you felt his stubble graze your skin. Placing one hand on the small of your back and the other on your thigh, Aaron pushed you closer to him, opening his mouth to allow your tongue to slide in.
Tracing the inside of his mouth, you felt his tongue slowly try to dominate yours, allowing him, you let out a moan as you felt Aaron’s hand drift down to your ass. He squeezed once, eliciting another moan into his mouth as you pushed yourself closer, hips flushed together.
“You’re beautiful,” Aaron whispered against your lips, as he pulled away from you. “My beautiful girl.” And there was no lie in what he said. You are beautiful, on top of him, slightly panting and face flushed. “I love you.”
“I’m kinda in love with you, Aaron Hotchner,” you grinned before kissing him again. Pushing him down, you began to slowly grind against him, hands grasping his shirt.
“Honey, you’re injured,” Hotch smiled against your cheek, as he sat up. Kissing from your cheek to the path to your ear, Aaron gave your lobe a kiss before he whispered, “Once you’ve got the all clear from your doctor-,”
“Pound town?” You finished for him, arching one brow. You flinched a bit as a bellowed laugh came out of Aaron.
Smiling largely at you, you couldn’t help but be entranced by the dimples of his cheeks and the light in his eyes. “Yes, honey. Pound town.”
--
You woke up to someone shuffling around the room, grimacing as you felt the telltale of a headache. “You okay, honey?” You felt the bed dip next to you. Opening your eyes, you were met with the beautiful sight of one Aaron Hotchner, wet hair and a towel wrapped around his hips. Before you could even truly appreciate the scene, a stabbing pain erupted behind your eye.
“Headache,” you groaned and closed your eyes.
Aaron tutted and moved around the room, opening his bag and running the tap. “Here, honey.”
“Thanks, love you,” you automatically said Aaron handed over some meds and water.
You didn’t see the lovestruck look on Aaron’s face, “Kinda in love with me or love me love me?”
“You’re more annoying in the morning,” you chided, handing him over the empty glass. “But love you, love you.”
Leaning down, he kissed you lightly, “Once this headache is gone, prepare for some serious smoochin’,” you warned. “Now come back, we have two more hours before we meet the others.”
“You want breakfast?” He asked as he climbed into bed with you, towel forgotten on the floor. “Fruit might help you with your headache.”
“Do you think they have scones?” You wrapped yourself around him, enjoying the warmth his body brought. “You smell good,” you placed a kiss on his neck, hand slowly drifting down.
“Honey,” he warned. “You’re injured, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m not going to do anything strenuous,” you rolled your eyes, “yet,” cuddling closer to him, you couldn’t help the noise of content you let out. “I have three weeks of touching you to make up for, Aaron Hotchner.”
--
“What’s gonna happen to Canavan?” You asked as you traced nonsensical patterns on his forearm. Breakfast in front of the two of you, and Hotch was right (not that you’d ever say it) about the fruit helping with your headache.
Hotch made a noise above you, shifting a bit to allow his back to be more comfortable. “Discipline from the board, I assume. Then they’ll have to look at her files, she may get kicked out of the academy if they deem her unsuitable. She’s out of the BAU, though,” Hotch commented. He didn’t wish any harm on people, but he came very close when he found out she was the reason you went into that room. The reason why you got injured.
“She’s a good kid,” you muttered.
“I thought you hated her,” Hotch asked, leaning your body so he could look at you.
“I hated how she made me feel but I don’t hate her. I’m pretty sure that I would have done the exact same thing when I was her age,” you shrugged. “But she’s a good agent. Maybe not for the BAU, but somewhere else.”
It was silent for a little while, too long for your liking so you turned your head and realised that Aaron had been staring at you. “What? Did I say something wrong?”
“You’re something, you know that?” Hotch said quietly. “You’re wonderful and I love you.”
--
“Finally!” Spencer exclaimed as he saw the two of you walk into the jet. He grinned as he saw Hotch’s arm around you. “I knew it!”
“Reid, please try to keep it down,” Aaron cautioned, as his grip tightened on you.
“So it only takes for (Y/L/N) to get beat up for you to confess you’re in love with each other,” JJ teased as she gave you a hug and once over to make sure you’re okay.
“You guys couldn’t have become a couple like normal people?” Emily asked, as she raided her wallet and handed Rossi a fifty.
“I told you,” Rossi waved his money and winked at the two of you.
“Come on, honey,” Hotch guided you to your usual seat, hand drifting down too close to your ass.
“Honey!” Derek chortled as he and Emily shared a look.
“I’m sorry that you only have your hand to go home to, Derek,” you sniped, a grin on your face. Derek rolled his eyes as Hotch followed you with a knowing smile.
“I booked my appointment with Doctor Mohan,” you told Hotch, as you put your phone on top of the table. “She should give me the all clear today, if we land on time.”
“Not today,” Hotch chuckled lightly, his hand landing on your thigh and giving it a squeeze.
“You said, and I quote, ‘once you’ve got the all clear from your doctor’,” you stared Aaron down. “Don’t tell me you’re a liar.”
The rest of the team, minus Canavan, who was holed up in her own seat, watched as the two of you bickered.
“So, kid, how long do you think they’ll take before he pops the question,” Derek questioned, opening up his notepad.
“Six months,” Rossi instantly piped up.
“You say that as if you know something,” JJ looked at Rossi who all but shrugged.
“Maybe I have a bit of insider knowledge,” Rossi smirked, as he put himself down for a hundred.
summary: finally on the jet ride back home, aaron watches the little nighttime vlog you and jack have filmed for him, allowing him to witness a special moment between the two of you despite being thousands of miles away
wc: 1.6k+
cw: reader and jack being adorbs, aaron gets baby fever
The phone falls face down on the covers the second the video begins, darkness engulfing the screen of his phone, and Aaron’s ears are instantly filled with the beautiful sound of Jack’s loud giggles. Through the screen, he hears you mumble something under your breath, and Jack replies with “You made it fall”, as though you hadn’t realised the obvious.
You lift the phone up, steadying it back on some pillows, and even through the dim lighting of your bedroom, Aaron can clearly see that you and Jack are laying stomach down on a very unmade bed. He grins widely, pressing on his phone screen to pause the video you had sent him — hours ago now — to plug in his earphones. He doesn’t want to disturb any of his sleepy teammates on the jet ride home.
“Okay,” You begin with a smile, glancing over to Jack, who’s staring at you through the front camera on your phone. “Hi Aaron-”
“Hi daddy!”
Aaron feels his heart swell as you and Jack giggle between you. “We know it’s a little past Jack’s bedtime. But we just remembered that we promised you a little video message every night that you’re away. And tonight can’t be the night that promise is broken after we’ve done so well.”
It’s true. Ever since you were introduced into Aaron’s life, as his girlfriend, fiancée, one of Jack’s legal guardians, you had changed what it meant fore Aaron to be away on cases. No longer did Aaron have to try and catch you every second of the day for you to know he cares — a mutual understanding that schedules might crash, and that’s okay. But for the past year, every night he’s been away on a case, he has received a nighttime vlog from you and Jack, telling him about your day, about your feelings.
Aaron always watched these videos in the lonely bed of his motel room, a smile on his face. Sometimes these videos were a minute long, quick goodbyes from a tired child and his best friend, and sometimes — like tonight — they lasted closer to twenty minutes.
“Daddy, today me and y/n went to the park and we played football! And I won!”
“He scored so many goals against me.” You add, a hand reaching up to brush through Jack’s blond hair as he thinks of what to tell his dad next. “And then we sat on the grass for a little bit,” Jack is interrupted by his own elated giggles.
“And we saw a cloud that looked like a tyrannosaurus rex!”
“We did, yeah. And one that looked like a bunny too, right?”
“Yeah. All of the other ones were just blobs.”
Aaron can’t help but laugh quietly as Jack gestures widely with his hands. From the seat across him, Dave glances up from his book, eyebrows raised in amusement.
Jack suddenly sits up on the bed, and you shift to lay down on your side to watch as Jack points to the new set of pyjamas he’s wearing, talking animatedly about them. “But I only wore them after dinner.” He tells his dad through your phone.
“Tell him what you did today. In the kitchen.” You encourage, and Jack immediately grins wider, as though just remembering the events that occurred a couple of hours ago. “I helped y/n make dinner! Come, let’s show him, y/n!” Jack tells you, leaning over to grab your hand, and tugging you with him.
You bring the phone with you as Jack slides off the bed, leading you to the kitchen. You take the time to glance down at the phone, imagining Aaron looking back at you, and say “He chopped some coriander all by himself — with a plastic, kid-friendly knife, obviously. And he also squeezed a lemon.” Aaron didn’t know you owned plastic, kid-friendly knives.
Once in the kitchen, you place the phone on the counter, and Jack carries the bowl of salsa you had prepared together. He huffs when he can’t see the phone atop the counter, and places the bowl down, making grabby hands up at you. He ignores the stool he had previously used to help reach better, instead calling “Up please, Mom.”
Aaron’s eyes instantly go wide at Jack’s words, fingers stiffening around his phone, but it seems as though past you still hasn’t processed what Jack called you, picking him up and resting him on your hip. Only then, once Jack’s fully in the camera frame, does Aaron see your eyes go slightly wide as you hand Jack the bowl of salsa so he can display it proudly for his dad.
“Daddy, this is called pico de gallo, and it’s so yummy.” You instantly snap back into your role, nodding along to Jack’s words and he puts the bowl on the counter again. “And I wanted chicken nuggets all day, and mommy said she could make me some for dinner. And she made them from-she made them from the beginning of them.” Jack swings his legs happily, reaching over to the folded up bag of chips to open the bag and steal a chip.
Jack offers you one, and you take it. Aaron smiles fondly as you both go silent for a few seconds, munching on tortilla chips.
You glance down at Jack, asking “Anything else, buddy?” Jack goes silent, resting his head on your shoulder. He watches you fold up the bag again, blinking slowly. Grabbing the phone, you mumble to Aaron “If you come home tonight, there’s leftover salsa and chicken nuggets for you in the fridge.”
Aaron sighs as you place the phone down again, carrying the bowl of pico de gallo into the fridge. It shuts softly behind you, and you move your eyes down to Jack, who’s nearly asleep. “Bedtime, Jack?”
Jack nods sleepily, and you turn your focus to the phone again, saying “Goodnight, Aaron. I love you.” Jack turns his head to face the phone, cheek smushed against your shoulder as he repeats the words, encouraged by you. “’Night daddy. I love you.”
You snatch the phone from the counter, turning the light off in the kitchen as you make your way to Jack’s bedroom. Aaron doesn’t think you’re aware the camera is still recording as you press a kiss to Jack’s forehead, adding quietly “And I love you, Jack. I needed a strong, handsome man to help squeeze those lemons, and who better to help me than you?”
Jack giggles tiredly at your words. You toss your phone onto his bedsheets so you can use both hands to gently place him in his bed. You crouch beside him, fingers brushing his cheeks. “I’m so grateful for your help today, Jack. And for your help every day.”
“I like to help you.” He admits, cozying up underneath his blanket. “Kiss, mommy.” You lean down, pressing your lips to Jack’s forehead. He smiles, reaching up to press a kiss to your cheek. You bring your hands down to tuck him in properly, and tears are almost brought to your eyes when Jack speaks again, asking “Who’s gonna kiss daddy goodnight?”
Aaron swallows thickly through the screen, staring at the ceiling of his own home from the way the phone is facing upwards, only catching a bit of colourful bedsheets from the corner of the screen, but he listens to every word you and Jack are saying to each other. He only hears himself breathing now, and the scuffle of sheets moving around, awaiting your response. “When daddy comes home, we’ll give him all the kisses to make up for the ones he missed, okay?”
“Okay. I love you mommy.”
“I love you too, Jack.”
You stay there for a moment longer before picking up your phone and leaving the room. You leave Jack’s bedroom door wide open — yours too. You lift the phone up to your face, and Aaron sees you have tears gathered along your waterline. “Oh. I didn’t realise this was still on.” Aaron hears you laugh quietly, and you bring your voice down to a whisper, bringing your face closer to the phone screen as you say, “Aaron, he called me mom! Oh my god, I’m feeling so many things right now. Okay, wait, let me send-”
The video cuts off just then, and Aaron instantly drags his finger across the screen, setting the video back to the very beginning. He notices the time of the video sent on the screen that says '8:03 pm.' It it now 2:54am. He’s just about to press play again when he hears Derek’s teasing voice call out in the quiet jet. “Hey, what’s got you crying over there, boss man?”
Aaron takes out his earphones, shaking his head silently. Derek had passed behind Aaron just a few minutes ago to go to the bathroom, and the nosy man had taken a peek over Aaron’s shoulder to see what he was watching. Derek has good intentions, but of course, he’ll never pass the opportunity to tease. So he’s more surprised that anything when Aaron, unknowingly teary eyed, replies with “Jack called y/n ‘mom’.” Then, under his breath “God, I love my family.”
Aaron skips out on the pico de gallo and chicken nuggets when he gets home, beelining to Jack’s bedroom to press a kiss to his son’s forehead before finding you in his bed. He makes sure to be quiet when he strips out of his work clothes. Aaron doesn’t bother to throw on any pyjamas, sliding in next to you wearing only his boxers. He wraps his arms around you and tugs you close to his chest.
He decides just then that one day, Jack won’t be the only one calling you mom.
omg helllooo! i am in love with how you write hotch! maybe i request a bearded hotch sees his gf after being sent away for a while and well it gets steamy…
only angel ༝༚༝༚
ᯓ ✈︎ aaron hotchner x reader
ᯓ ✈︎ summary: hotch gets back from pakistan, he's very excited to be home with his girl <3
ᯓ ✈︎ word count: 1.6k
ᯓ ✈︎ content warning’s: where do i even start?? i'm going to hell. not proofread, smut MDNI, p in v, doggy style, sex on a countertop, daddy kink (and i'm not even sorry), breeding kink, cumming inside, slight degradation, dom!hotch x sub!reader, idk anything else lmk
ᯓ ✈︎ author's note: hello angel!! thank you so much for reading my work <33 i love that you love it! i hope you like this<33
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── ·
The sight of Hotch walking towards you on the tarmac is nothing short of a sight for sore eyes. You’d spent the last several months clinging to any form of communication from him whilst you wore his t-shirts to bed at night and sprayed his cologne on the pillows.
It was hard, harder than you’d thought it would be. Time spent away from one another wasn’t something uncommon considering Hotch’s line of work but this last stint in Pakistan was the longest the two of you have been apart.
So, there’s a justifiable reason why you immediately launch yourself towards him before he can even drop his bags. Your dress flows in the wind as you quite frankly tackle Aaron, your legs in the air as your arms wrap around his neck.
It’s then that you notice it. He’s grown a beard. Aaron had never held a particular preference for his own facial hair. He chose to keep himself clean shaven because he believed he made him look more professional but there were days where he’d be off work and too lazy to shave and there was nothing that had you drooling faster than Aaron with some stubble over his face.
He’d complained once that he looked like a lumberjack and wasn’t too amused to find you practically salivating over the sentiment. Safe to say, Hotch with facial hair was an uncommon occurrence in your house.
One you’re immensely fond of right now, you’re not sure you’d ever let him leave the house if he kept this beard up every day.
“Why hello there handsome,” you murmur, hand cupping one of his cheeks as you brush softly against his beard.
Hotch rolls his eyes, looking at you in fond amusement with his sunglasses pushed into his hair, “No ‘hello’ kiss for your boyfriend after not seeing him for a couple of months? You just wanna drool over my beard?” he spoke mockingly.
You bite your lip to hide your smile, eyes drifting from his beard to his face where he watches you with an adoring smile. You feel yourself become shy, not uncommon for you but simultaneously a sign that you and Aaron have been apart for a while.
Aaron’s eyes soften and he takes pity on you, slipping forward to meet you with a kiss. “O-oh.” You murmur, slipping into the kiss as a fuzzy feeling starts to creep through your brain, the only thoughts are that of Aaron’s muscular arms around you and the feeling of his beard tickling your face and neck slightly.
You whimper slightly as you draw back, eyes fluttering as you bring yourself out of the haze. Hotch’s expression is dark and predatory. He looks like he wants to devour you.
“W-we should uh—we should go home,” you stutter out, aware that you’re still on a very public tarmac and unwilling to give anyone more of a scene than you already have. Hotch seemingly decides it’s a good idea because without further ado, he places you back onto the floor, grabbing his bag with one hand and your hand with another as you both make your way inside.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
You’ve barely made it into the house before Aaron corners you. You’re dropping your keys onto the table when he comes up behind you and traps you between the counter and his body.
“Missed you sweet girl,” Aaron purrs softly, his voice tickling your ears as he pushes flush against you. The rough material of his tactical outfit brushes against your thighs and arms yet doesn’t hide the hard outline of his cock.
“A-Aaron” you mewl half-heartedly, pushing back into his erection. Your pussy clenches around nothing, slick starting to dampen your underwear. Your skin feels tight and buzzy, like you just can’t settle.
“That’s not my name baby,” Aaron coos, hand drifting down the front of your dress to cup your pussy over your clothes. A choked gasp escapes your mouth as you grind into his palm.
“What? I don’t—” you gasp, throwing your head back into Aaron’s chest as his fingers trace the covered folds of your pussy. Your legs slip further apart without warning.
“C’mon baby, you’re a smart girl—you know what I wanna hear.” Aaron murmurs, thumb now rubbing circles onto your clit, the fabric of your underwear brushing sweetly against your clit.
Your brain is floaty and quiet as you mewl as Aaron swirls his fingers on your clit. You feel so empty, you just want him to slip a finger inside of you—feel his cock stretching you out and filling you so completely.
“I—please-mm—please please need you—inside please” you beg, legs shaking as Aaron presses one of his fingers against the damp spot on your panty.
“Just gotta say the word sweetheart and I’ll give this tight little pussy what she wants.” Aaron croons mockingly, his tone is amused and slightly mean.
Tears prick your eyes in frustration as you feel your peak start to die down, the stimulation isn’t enough, you need more.
“Daddy” you cry desperately, mind mushy as you claw at Aaron’s biceps.
“Good girl,” Aaron groans and you feel his erection twitch against you. You moan sweetly, head rolling back to bite on Aaron’s bicep—leaving a soft indent in place as you continue to plead with him to stuff you full.
“Shh angel, Daddy’s here—Daddy’s gonna give you what you need.” His voice sounds as wrecked as you feel, eyes unfocused as you hear Aaron’s zipper drop down.
The heat of his erection burns through your skin, and you push back against him, “please-inside I-I need daddy please”
Aaron huffs a laugh behind you, lifting up your dress with one hand and tapping your hip to signal you to pull your underwear off. You do so immediately and the cool air brushing against your wet folds make you shiver.
“Oh honey,” Aaron coos condescendingly, “Your cunt’s practically dripping angel, you need Daddy that badly?”
You’re nodding as the sounds muffle around you, all you can hear is the sound of you repeating “yesyesyesyesyes” over and over.
Aaron uses his hand to drag his cock against your folds, covering it in your slick. The first touch of his cock against your hole has you gasping and whining as you head falls forward, “nng—Daddy please, put it in.” you plead.
Hotch’s arm wraps around your waist, dragging you back towards him as he lines up his cock. His tip barely breaches your hole before you’re gasping for air and squirming in his hold trying to thrust yourself back into him.
You slump in his hold and let him thrust forward achingly slow, you feel every inch drag across your insides as his cock fills you pussy.
“fuck fuck-” you mewl as his tip hits your cervix, your pussy leaks around him like a faucet adding to the slick glide of his cock as he thrusts in small intervals to get you used to his cock after being gone for so long.
“thaaat’s it baby—good girl.” He groans as he bottoms out as he tightens his arm around you, his forehead falls to your nape as he breathes in deeply, It’s been a while since he’s felt the soft, hot and tight fucking clench of your cunt around him and he’s gonna take a few seconds if he doesn’t wanna blow his load like a goddamn teenager.
He starts with slow thrusts into your velvet folds, the slick sounds of your wetness gushes around the both of you as your pussy drools around him. You’re a perfect fucked out mess, eyes half-lidded and mouth open as you make little punched out sounds every time Aaron thrusts forward.
“Fuck-you’re so tight-Daddy forgot how needy this little pussy can be, I’m not gonna last—ha, need you to cum soon” Aaron grunts, placing scattered kisses down your neck before biting softly into your shoulder.
You squeal as the pain mixes with the pleasure, aiding the dizzying headrush you already feel. Your hand sneaks from the table counter to your clit to swirl your fingers around the bundle of nerves.
The feeling is so intense with Aaron’s cock hitting your g-spot that you immediately feel your high approaching, clenching down tightly onto Aaron’s cock—forcing him to stutter in his thrusts as he muffles a pained groan into your shoulder.
“close—m’close, Daddy need-” your thoughts are a jumbled mess but Hotch seems to know exactly what you need, slapping your hand away from your clit as his own rough fingers replace your own.
His pace picks up, he thrusts deeper and harder into you which punches the air out of your lungs. You’re reduced to punching out all ‘uh uh uh’ sounds as Aaron practically rearranges your insides.
“Daddy’s gonna cum baby—gonna fill you up nice and full huh?” Aaron growls, eyes clenched tightly shut as he feels his balls draw up, the telltale sign he’s about to burst.
“Cum in me daddy-fill me—want you to breed me please.” You whine out, squirming at the force of Aaron’s thrusts as you feel his cock twitch inside you which makes you clench again harshly drawing out a punched out sound from Aaron.
“Gonna give you a baby honey-fuck you take me so good—Daddy’s gonna breed you.” He’s as good as gone, lost to his own personal damnation that’s the heaven between your thighs.
You feel your orgasm approaching and you squeal as you squirt wetly around Aaron’s cock, practically blacking out from the pleasure as he continues to jackhammer into you before stilling and groaning loudly as hot pumps of his cum flood your pussy.
EVERYBODY STAY CALM! K'S POSTING A FIC! i'm so sorry it's been literal ages oh my god hi guys how are you i hope you're all well here's the fic based on this ask :))
Summary: You've been secretly dating Aaron for almost a year when he decides to agree to a night out with the team. The problem? Once he's a little tipsy, he can't keep his hands off you.
Warnings: so much fluff it's stupid, very very light smut but still mdni 18+ only pls for my sanity, is this considered a crack fic? idk but it's silly and fun, fem!r who shaves her legs + has boobs, reader teases hotch within an inch of his life, and hotch is fighting for his life, hotch is a giggly bumbling drunk send tweet
WC: 5k
By the time Hotch’s keys hit the door, you’ve got dinner in the oven and a glass of wine already pressed to your lips.
By the time his arms wrap around your waist, he’s just Aaron.
“Finish everything?” you ask, setting your glass down and spinning in his arms. You only just saw him at the BAU office two hours ago, but that doesn’t matter. He kisses you like it’s been days.
“I did,” he says. “And you made dinner.”
You snicker, caught. He did say he’d make something tonight, but when he said he needed to stay later than you, you weren’t sure how much later. So you took dinner into your own hands.
Still, he pouts. “It was my turn.”
“Alright,” you shush him. “You can have tomorrow and Thursday. How’s that sound?”
He narrows his eyes at you. “Fine.” He pecks your lips, the playful anger gone. “What are you making, anyway? Smells delicious.”
You tell him the recipe, one of your favorites that you haven’t gotten to make in a while. He hums happily.
“That sounds perfect after today,” he groans, kissing you again. Today meaning a mountain of paperwork that you all had to sift through, and being Unit Chief, he then had to check and sign off on it all.
“Go get changed,” you tell him while loosening his tie. You’re already in your sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts, and you know he’s ready to be out of the suit.
“Did you shower yet?” he asks.
You shake your head, a little smile curling your lips. “After dinner?”
“Please,” he says, bending to kiss you one more time. “What wine are you drinking?”
“The one I bought last week,” you say. “Want a glass?”
“Sure,” he murmurs. “As long as you’re prepared to have me crawling into your lap later.”
“I’m always prepared for that.”
When you kiss this time, it’s simmering. A promise of something for later. Maybe in the shower, but not likely, because every time you’ve tried initiating that, Aaron has promptly scooped you up and taken you to the bedroom.
He leaves you with a kiss to your forehead before going to change. You turn and pull another glass down, pouring his wine. You take a sip of your own as you peer down into the oven to check on dinner.
+++
Dinner and two glasses of wine later and you do, in fact, have a lapful of Aaron Hotchner.
“Babe,” you scold him gently, but it’s through a fit of giggles. He’s half in your lap and half on the couch, simply because his six-foot frame would crush you if he fully climbed into your lap like this. “We’re supposed to be showering!”
He hums, lips pressed to your throat. “In a minute.”
You roll your eyes and run your fingers through his hair. “You’ve had barely two glasses.”
“I know,” he says, words muffled from where he’s buried his face. “I also just missed you.”
“You were alone for two hours!”
He lifts his head only to stare petulantly into your eyes. “Two hours too long.”
“Okay,” you accept defeat and bring him in for a kiss. “Fine, next time I won’t leave early to make you dinner.”
“Exactly,” he says, happy and content. “Because it’s my turn.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you laugh. “Come on, up, we need to shower.”
He groans but stands up all the same, extending his hand toward you. You grab it and he hoists you up and into his arms, giving you no room or time to argue with him.
And your response is always the same. “I can walk perfectly fine” all while wrapping your arms around his neck.
The shower, as it turns out, is mostly uneventful. You’re both too exhausted from the day to even try anything while standing up under hot water. That doesn’t stop you both from making out for a few minutes, though.
Eventually, Aaron steps out to give you space to shave your legs, but he stays in the bathroom, just rambling about the day.
“Oh, and after you left, I forgot to tell you, Penelope cornered me.”
“Oh?” you laugh, lathering the shaving cream. “What did she want?”
“She asked if I was coming out with everyone on Saturday,” he says.
“Oh, yeah,” you nod. “I told her I’d go.”
“Me too.”
You nearly nick yourself as you drop your razor entirely. “What?”
“Dave said he’s going, too, for once,” Aaron continues. “I haven’t in a long time, I figured I’m overdue.”
You wait a beat, trying to figure out what the hell to say. In the end you settle with “Okay.”
Aaron pauses. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not your nothing voice,” he pauses, and then the curtain moves and he’s poking his head inside the shower. You know what he’s doing, so you deliberately avoid his eyes. “Honey.”
“What!” you reply, still not looking at him.
So he fucking crouches down so he’s in your line of sight.
You glare at him while sliding the razor along your calf. “Not fair.”
“What is wrong with me saying I’d go out on Saturday?” he asks. “I thought you’d be happy.”
“I just,” you pause, running your leg under the water. “Are you sure it’s…a good idea?”
He clearly, despite being a profiler, has no idea what you mean. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
You chuckle, setting your razor aside now that you’re finished. “Aaron,” you sigh. “Light of my life. Love of my life. You had two glasses of wine tonight and ended up in my lap.”
He balks. “But--”
“You just -- and I say this with genuine love because I do love it -- you get very…affectionate when you’re drunk.”
“I wasn’t drunk earlier. I’m not drunk off two glasses of--”
“You’re missing the point on purpose,” you scold him gently, turning the water off.
He steps back and grabs your towel, holding it out for you and wrapping you in it. “I know I can get a little…handsy.”
You snort. That’s one way of putting it. You’re recalling a specific night about a month into your relationship when you decided to stay over at his place. Since you weren’t driving home, it meant you were both drinking wine with dinner, and it took no time at all for your clothes to come off and Aaron’s lips to end up on your nipples -- after two small glasses each.
“And I don’t mind it when you get handsy, I love it actually,” you remind him. “But that’s when we’re home. This would be out in public. With the team.”
The two of you have kept things private for many reasons. One being that the team is nosy as hell, and the other being that you just simply wanted this to be your little secret for a while. So, you’ve kept things professional at work -- not that you won’t once the team eventually knows. You still drive separately to the office, you never arrive or leave at the exact same time, and you never stay in the same room when you’re out on cases, despite living in the same house in Virginia.
And clearly, it’s working. It’s working so well that -- bless her -- Penelope tried to set you up on a blind date with one of Morgan’s friends a few weeks ago.
It has been a delicate balance but one that you and Aaron seem to have perfected. Aaron says Dave is suspicious, but Aaron denies it every time. (But you both know that’s as good as confirmation in Rossi’s eyes, you just ignore it.)
You’re almost certain that they will know something is up if you both go out for drinks. Because, based on his track record, Aaron can’t exactly keep his hands to himself after some alcohol has hit his system.
He smooths his hands down your arms. “Are you worried about the team knowing?”
You shake your head, turning to face him, smiling. “No. I’m not.” You pause, deciding you might as well tease him while you’re at it. “I just don’t want you to do something to embarrass yourself.”
His mouth falls open a little in shock before he realizes what you’re doing. “I can keep my hands to myself. I’m a grown adult, you know.”
“Never said you weren’t,” you grin, loving the way he rolls his eyes and pulls you in for a bruising kiss.
+++
So, it becomes a little bit of a game.
One of you brings it up to the other almost every day until Saturday, each time placing a bet on how many drinks it’ll take and what exactly Aaron will do to “out” the two of you.
“I think you’ll be so struck by how much you love me that you’ll just kiss me without thinking,” you giggle, your head resting on his bare chest in the afterglow.
“Very likely,” he agrees. “Because I do that already.”
“I think you won’t though,” you reply seriously. “I think you’ll be too focused on not being handsy that you’ll overcompensate.”
He laughs. “Like what?”
“Like…ignoring me all night so they start wondering if you actually hate me.”
He laughs again, the sound rumbling in your ear, but when he speaks it’s obvious he found nothing funny about that prediction, even if it’s all in good fun. “I could never do that to you.”
“I know,” you murmur, letting your eyes slip closed. “What do we do if the team finds out? Like actually, what’s our plan?”
He shifts, tucking you further into his chest. “Just the truth,” he whispers. “I don’t care if they know. I’d actually like to sleep in the same bed when we’re out on cases, you know.”
“Yeah,” you smile. “Me too.”
+++
By the time Saturday’s late afternoon rolls around, you’re kissing Aaron goodbye to head over to Pen’s, your duffle bag full of your makeup and your outfit for tonight (that you won’t let him see) sitting at the door.
“Already?” he asks, frowning, holding onto you where you bend over to kiss him.
“Yes,” you laugh, running your fingers through his hair. “I told you I was getting ready with the girls!”
“Why can’t you just get ready here?” he asks. “We can show up together, tell them right away.”
“Aaron,” you scold playfully, knowing he’s also not being entirely serious. “You’re being so dramatic already and you’re sober.”
“I know,” he grins, reaching for you again. “Have fun. See you later.”
“See you later,” you kiss him lovingly.
Just as you’re about to pull away, he stops you, his hand tugging yours. “Hey.”
You turn back to him, knowing you’ll be late and not caring. “Yeah?”
“If they don’t find out tonight from me being…handsy,” he chuckles, just a bit sheepish. “I want to tell them anyway.”
You slide down to sit next to him on the couch. “Me too.” You cup his face, waiting for the right moment. “But I still want to see you try to control yourself tonight.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine!”
“Mhm, just don’t drink any wine,” you tease, leaning in for one last quick kiss.
+++
Emily and JJ are already at Pen’s when you arrive, everyone welcoming you with smiles and open arms.
“The party can finally begin!” Pen squeals.
Music plays (not blasts, for once) through Pen’s speakers while you all eat lunch and gossip. You hear about the (disgustingly) cute conversation JJ had with Will the other day about their anniversary plans, and how vague he tried to be but she saw right through him. You hear about Emily’s cat and all the chaos he gets up to when she’s away, and how she swears he thinks he owns the place because of how often she’s gone. Pen talks about what movies her and Derek watched the other night, absolutely abysmal ones from the 80s that she insisted on showing him just to see his reactions.
And then they get to you.
“Yeah, what have you been up to?” Emily grins.
“And don’t say all work and no play,” JJ says with a fond eye roll.
“There’s gotta be something!” Pen agrees, lovingly shaking your shoulder. “Or someone…”
“Okay, okay,” you laugh, remembering Aaron’s words from earlier. It’s been long enough. You won’t outright deny it, but you’re not exactly going to drop the bomb on them right now. That would ruin the fun of tonight. “There might be someone-- I said might!”
“Ohhh, but your face said definitely.” Pen is beside herself, grinning and giggling. “Who is it? When did it start? Is it serious?”
“One question at a time,” you groan. Then, you smile just a little, the one you always get from thinking about Aaron for more than a moment, “It’s a secret, it’s been a while, and…yeah, I think so. I’d say it’s pretty serious.”
Emily’s jaw drops open. “Why haven’t you said anything?”
“You’ve been holding out on vital gossip!” JJ clutches a pillow to her chest.
“Honestly, I wanted to see how long I could keep it a secret,” you admit. “I was surprised none of you said anything.”
“Oh, I had my suspicions,” Pen says. “Especially after that blind date fiasco, which I am still so sorry about by the way.”
“No, it was sweet!” you assure her. “But I am already happily dating someone else.”
“Can we see a picture at least?” Emily presses.
You shake your head, hoping you come across as shy and not mischievous. “Maybe I’ll bring him to one of our outings one night.”
“You better!” Pen says.
You feel lighter somehow, just from telling them very vaguely about Aaron. It’s a bit comical how they still don’t suspect a thing, but you’re certain they’ll figure it out for sure tonight, especially if it goes how you’re expecting it will.
Soon, the four of you are getting ready, and they can’t stop talking about how you were holding this information back from them.
You’re doing your makeup and trying not to wear such an evil grin, but it’s hard not to. Your phone buzzes with a text from Aaron, his name just A❤️.
Heading over to Dave’s. See you in about an hour?
You love him dearly. And you can tell he’s clearly not handling this well already.
We’re getting ready and then we’ll be on our way. Feeling in control still?
Ha ha. Yes. I’ll be fine.
You roll your eyes and set your phone down. You give him one glass of whiskey before he forgets to keep it together.
+++
Aaron and Dave are the first to arrive, to no one’s surprise. They both order a glass of whiskey and hold down two stools at the bar.
“So…” Dave begins, and Aaron already knows where this one is going. “You two still keeping it a secret?”
After his earlier conversation with you, Aaron guesses there’s no harm in giving in and telling Dave the truth. Especially when he seems to already know it. “Maybe,” Aaron chuckles. “We’ve decided we’re going to tell the team.”
Rossi smirks around his glass. “Finally.”
Aaron rolls his eyes. “You can save the ‘I called it’ expression for another day.”
“I won’t, because I called it the first time you looked at her.”
Aaron gives his friend a look of expert incredulity, one he isn’t faking. “There was nothing between us back then.” Not on your first day at the BAU. That was Hotch’s first time ever meeting you. Strauss had done your interview.
“Not yet,” Dave says. “But I saw it.”
Aaron really doesn’t believe him, but he’s not going to argue about it. “Right, well, anyway, we’re not saying anything tonight.”
Dave raises an eyebrow. “You’re not?”
“No, tonight, she uh…” Aaron pauses to laugh. “She wants to see if I can keep my hands to myself. Which I can, for the record.”
“Oh yeah, you sound very convincing.”
“You know me, Dave, I won’t…” Aaron shakes his head, refusing to elaborate, but Rossi gets the gist.
“I don’t think that’s what she means,” he laughs. “You do know she probably means refraining from standing right next to her and putting your arm around her?”
A look of horror crosses Aaron’s face so fast that Rossi barks out another laugh.
“You, my friend, are in trouble,” Dave says, flagging down the bartender for another round.
Aaron really shouldn’t have more whiskey considering you and the girls haven’t even arrived yet, but he sort of feels like he needs it. He has no idea why it didn’t cross his mind that he won’t even be able to sneakily hold your hand -- how would he even hide that in a space like this? -- but now he feels like he’s in for a night of torture.
And when he sees you walk in, he realizes just how true that is.
+++
Okay, so maybe it was a cruel move on your part to wear the shirt that Aaron has complimented you in many times -- specifically the shirt that never stays on for more than a minute the second you get home -- but you couldn’t resist.
You and the girls intercepted Derek and Reid outside, so you all walk in together, nearly falling over with laughter when you see Hotch and Rossi already at the bar.
“We should’ve known Mom and Dad would be here so early,” Morgan jokes.
“Who’s who in this situation?” Emily asks.
You all share a look. “Do we even need to say?”
“Yes?” Reid pipes up. “For me?”
You pull him into a sideways hug and explain the joke as you all walk to the bar.
“First round is on me,” Dave promises, tipping his glass in a cheers motion.
“You’re so kind,” you chuckle. “First, second glasses?”
“Second,” Hotch answers quietly, but you didn’t need him to say. His eyes have that certain fire in them that he only gets when he drinks whiskey, and his jaw already has that certain tension to it that he gets when he’s trying to hold himself back.
And you just walked in. So this should be fun.
You all order your drinks and wait patiently, conversation flowing easily. You’re forever grateful that this team gets along as well as you do, because you spend so many hours together that it would be a nightmare if you didn’t like one another.
Hotch and Rossi stay seated at the bar for the most part, and you can’t help but wonder if Aaron’s reasoning is because he can have his back toward you. He’s gripping the bartop like it’ll save him.
The first round goes down fast and then a second is ordered, and the fun really begins.
“We are dancing tonight!” Penelope shouts. “I don’t want to hear any excuses!”
“You’ll never hear any from me, baby,” Derek grins. “Let’s go.”
You laugh as they head to the open space where a few other couples are already dancing (well, more like grinding) with one another. You stay at the bar with everyone else, deciding to be just a little bit of a menace and start up a conversation with Hotch.
You walk around to his side, so when he turns to look at you, his back is to everyone else.
“So…” you smirk, leaning your elbows onto the bar. “Come here often?”
Rossi’s eyebrows raise sky-high and the girls laugh loudly.
“Come on, Hotch!” you goad. “Loosen up a little!”
He gives you a heated glare that you’re thankful only you can see. It is a bit of an issue that you catch yourself having to school your features, though. The look in his eyes is enough to make your knees feel weak.
“You’re not playing fair,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear it.
You feign innocence. “What are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
You smile and laugh, acting like he’s just told you the best joke ever. “You’ve got to come out with us some more!”
You turn and waltz back over to the girls, rolling your eyes at them as you do.
“One day he’ll lighten up,” JJ jokes.
“Not today,” Emily mutters. “Do you see his face?”
“He doesn’t appreciate my humor,” you sigh wistfully, cracking a smile and looking over at Pen and Derek. “Should we join them?”
“Absolutely!”
“Reid, come on!”
“No, I’m--” He barely gets the words out before you and JJ are grabbing an arm, asking him for just one dance. He relents, but only with the promise that he can leave in the next thirty minutes.
It’s a mess and not at all coordinated while you all hold your drinks, but it’s fun nonetheless. A type of fun that you don’t normally get to experience together unless you plan nights like these. And honestly, it’s rare that nights like these even get to happen. You’re usually called out on a case days before.
Part of you wishes the team already knew about you and Hotch, or that you and Aaron weren’t playing this little game right now, because you want nothing more than to wave him over. You wish you could have him right here, his hands on your waist, smiling down at you as you sway in the dim lighting.
Instead, you feel his eyes burning into you from the bar. You know he’s looking before you even glance over to see what he and Rossi are up to. Rossi is looking at his phone, and Aaron is looking at you.
It’s a miracle no one else sees it, but it’s only because they’re all so focused on dancing with one another, and especially with keeping Reid there for a few more moments of fun.
The song ends and with it you focus back on everyone else and not on Hotch. The last thing you want to do is be the one to give it all away.
“Let’s steal that booth!” Emily shouts over the next song, nodding to the newly empty one.
You turn and wave Rossi and Hotch over, pointing to the empty booth that everyone is flocking to.
Everyone piles in and you’re on the very end. There isn’t any space for Rossi and Hotch to sit, but they’ve been sitting this whole time, and you can’t imagine Reid is staying for much longer. Pen and Derek probably won’t sit still for more than a few minutes.
Rossi stands on the other side next to Morgan, leaving your side open for Aaron. Dave has a knowing smirk on his lips, too, which just tells you he absolutely knows and has known for longer than you or Aaron will probably want to admit.
Aaron stands just a little too close to you, but in all fairness, him and Rossi are standing in the middle of the walkway. And it’s loud.
And you’re running out of excuses and reasons why you don’t want to throw caution to the wind and pull him down into your lap.
Another round of drinks is brought to the table, courtesy of Rossi, and everything starts to get that warm fuzzy feeling to it. You catch yourself wanting to lean into Aaron and you tense, hoping no one sees it or reads into it.
Aaron’s only saving grace truly is that he is drinking whiskey tonight and not wine. You know for a fact if it was wine that he’d have his head nuzzled in your neck right now, but instead he’s showing remarkable restraint, standing next to you and nursing his glass.
Reid does escape after a while, his social battery officially drained for the night. Derek ruffles his hair as he leaves, and Rossi takes his seat in the booth. Aaron stays standing, his feet cemented in the space next to you. Rossi offers to let Aaron sit instead, but he declines, and that is when you see the first eyebrow raise of the night from the girls.
Except they think you’re seeing someone else entirely, so the look comes off as more of a warning than anything else.
As the drinks and conversation flow, you can feel Aaron inching closer and closer, and when you crane your neck to look up at him, you see it.
He’s gone.
He meets your eyes and you smile softly while a huge grin breaks out on his face.
It isn’t long before you feel a hand on your shoulder mid-conversation, and then his waist pressing closer to you so you can lean your head against his torso. It’s such a quiet, domestic display of affection that it takes a moment for JJ, Emily, and Penelope to notice, but once they do--
JJ’s eyes go wide and she elbows Emily whose jaw drops open. Penelope starts to grin and then Morgan blurts, “What the--”
“No comment,” you interrupt, your hand resting over Aaron’s on your shoulder while he has an entirely different conversation with Dave. “Not until he’s sober, at least.”
The shock stays on everyone’s faces as they try to move on, but you can practically hear their burning questions trying to claw their way up their throats.
Especially when Aaron steps even closer somehow, and you turn to kiss his hand automatically. Aaron responds by dropping a kiss to the top of your head.
“Okay,” Morgan nearly shouts. “You can’t just--”
“Aaand we should go home,” you say, patting Aaron’s hand. “Come on.”
“Home!” Pen does shout. “She said home!”
“You can’t just leave and not tell us anything!” Emily argues.
“Oh, but I am,” you laugh, standing up and melting as Aaron’s arm immediately secures its place around your waist. He drops a kiss to your head without warning and you think Morgan is going to puke. “Alright, alright,” you look up at your very loving and very tipsy boyfriend. “Let’s go.”
“See you on Monday,” he says to the team, offering a wave with the free hand that doesn’t have a death grip on your waist.
“See you guys,” you smile, trying not to laugh too hard at him and how relaxed he’s acting.
As you’re walking him toward the door, digging for your phone to call an Uber, he leans down to whisper too loud in your ear, “Should we tell them about us?”
“Oh, honey,” you laugh, “I think they know now.”
Despite the fact that the PDA was very tame as far as PDA goes, you still have a flurry of text messages from the girls by the time you and Aaron get home. You barely have a chance to look at them, though, before he’s backing you into a wall and lifting you, wrapping your legs around his hips.
“Can’t believe you wore that shirt tonight,” he says in between breaths, his teeth grazing your bottom lip. “Why did you do that to me?”
“Because,” you giggle, but it breaks off into a moan when he goes for your neck. “I liked watching you squirm.”
“I think you’re the one who’s about to squirm.”
You pull him back with a hand in his hair and a smirk on your lips. “Promise?”
+++
Aaron didn’t have near enough alcohol in his system to black out and forget last night, but he doesn’t exactly remember right away, either.
“Good morning, sunshine,” you smile, running your fingers through his hair. He, unsurprisingly, ended up falling asleep with his head on your chest, right on your boobs. “Sleep well?”
He hums contentedly from his spot, seeming reluctant to move his head, but he does, if only to steal a kiss. “Did you?”
“I did,” you hum. “How’s your head?”
His eyebrows scrunch together. “Fine? Why?”
“No reason,” you giggle. “Just curious, considering you smacked it pretty hard on the headboard last night.”
He lifts his head from your chest, clearly assuming that you’re messing with him, and then it comes flooding back.
Stumbling just a little as you walked him outside to order an Uber. Do you think they think we’re dating? Your little laugh as you, politely, said, no, babe, you hid it really well. Until the end.
And then, giggling in the back of the Uber, like the two of you were getting away with something. As if you didn’t touch each other even in the most domestic ways at the bar with the team, as if the team didn’t catch on immediately.
Giggling even as you both fumbled your way inside, and then the heat flooding his body, finally having you alone. Lifting you into his arms, right there against the wall, grinding into you.
He sifts further through the memories, trying to recall what you’re talking about. He can expect some slanted picture frames in the hall from the way he stumbled as he carried you to the bedroom. It’s a miracle nothing broke.
He tossed you onto the bed, took way too long getting his belt off and then his pants, but left his shirt. You weren’t taking anything off, just propped yourself up on the pillows, watching him and giggling. You weren’t sober either, but he had considerably more than you, and was clearly feeling it more.
He remembers it now, your laughter in between words. Honey. Aaron. You’re too drunk. And his, admittedly unconvincing reply, I’m sober enough, c’mon.
Except he wasn’t. He crawled up the bed to hover over you and completely overshot, ramming his head right into the wooden headboard. He cursed and nearly fell on top of you, all while you were still laughing at him and asking him if he was okay.
He remembers grumbling into your neck I’m fine but you’re being mean which only earned him some more of your giggles.
Aaron raises his fingers to the top of his head now, pressing on the tender skin there. “Oh my god,” he laughs, burying his face back in your chest. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“Don’t be,” you murmur, gently scratching his head, careful of where he hit it. “It was really cute. And hot. You were really hard.”
He groans, shifting on the bed. “Don’t say that.”
“Why?” you tease. “You were so affectionate. Despite not knowing how to work your limbs.”
He kisses you just to shut you up. It works. “We can never talk about this again.”
“Too late,” you grin. “You haven’t even looked at your phone yet.”
4 times hotch acts like a father figure and the 1 time he most definitely does not.
bet u wanna meet the reader! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
pairing: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader
warnings: fem!reader, slow burn, age gap (reader is 20s, hotch is late 40s, iktr), dbf!hotch, power imbalance, boss/subordinate dynamic, mutual pining, daddy issues (reader... prob also hotch), fluff, hurt/comfort, touch starved reader, garcia sending dirty texts!!, reader having dirty thoughts!!, reader sending hotch a suggestive pic by accident whoops!!, they are sooooo down bad for each other
wc: 6.8k (shewww stfu already gurl)
1 THE NUCLEAR OPTION
Aaron Hotchner looks very, very out of place standing in your bedroom.
Not inappropriate. You want to be very clear about that. You are two fully grown adults with fully operational frontal lobes and a respectable understand of professional decorum.
There is nothing scandalous happening here beyond your own imagination, briefly supplying an image of him against your headboard before you swatted it away like a cat attempting to push a glass from a countertop.
It’s just… visually disorienting.
He’s all severity and slate-gray composure now in a room rendered in blush and cream and the kind of girlish optimism that suggests you refuse to let your job bleach the color out of you.
He doesn’t fit, to put it plainly. Not physically (the man has shoulders like a structural beam) and definitely not symbolically.
Despite this, he takes his time as he scans the space with a clinical neutrality that feels less like judgment per se and more like being positioned beneath an unforgiving forensic lamp, dusted for prints you didn’t realize you’d left behind.
Is he analyzing this? Is he building a psychological profile right now based on the chipped mug of pens beside your bed and the stuffed bear you can’t seem to get rid of? The half-burnt vanilla candle on your nightstand that, yes, you absolutely lit knowing he was coming — all of it suddenly looks childish.
Embarrassing. Juvenile.
This is how people die.
Not from shame, exactly, though that’s certainly trying its best, but from being comprehensively, devastatingly perceived by a man whose entire job is to see through facades.
He offered to wait by the door. Kindly. Considerably. With that quiet, unfussy courtesy that makes you sure, in the fullest sense of the word, he holds elevators open and always returns his shopping cart with solemn civic pride.
You should’ve let him. Really.
But no, instead of choosing the sensible option like someone who understands the boundaries of time, space, and self-preservation, you made a mistake. A fatal, irredeemable mistake.
You waved him in.
And now, instead of standing respectfully beside your umbrella stand and politely pretending that driving you to the airport isn’t already a favor beyond what his job requires, Aaron Hotchner is in your bedroom.
What did you offer in exchange for this selfless act of transportation? Not coffee or gas money. Oh, just full unfiltered access to the inner circle of your private life.
You shove another sweater into your suitcase.
“I promise I usually plan better than this,” you say, “but I got caught on a call with my landlord trying to determine whether my oven is gas or electric, which I apparently never clarified in three years of tenancy.”
You hesitate, already regretting the admission, because he is a man who knows the make and model of every government-issued vehicle he’s ever driven.
“In my defense,” you tack on quickly, “it functions. I press a button, it produces heat. We’ve maintained a very mutual, low-communication relationship.”
One of his eyebrow lifts, just enough to suggest that he has several thoughts and is choosing the kindest one.
“That’s the sort of thing you really should know,” he says, and there’s the faintest hint of dry humor threaded through the words, as if he’s allowing himself a single inch of amusement. “I can take a look when we get back.”
You let out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like nervous air leaking from a balloon you’ve been gripping too tightly.
“That’s — you don’t have to — you really don’t have to do that,” you rush out, tripping over your own politeness. “You are not responsible for my… appliance literacy. Or the alarming gaps within it.” You gesture helplessly at the room, at the half-packed suitcase. “You’re already doing so much. If I start assigning you household infrastructure, I’m pretty sure that qualifies as abuse of power.” You pause. “Not that I have any. Power, I mean. Very famously not in possession of that.”
He doesn’t bother disguising that same for of amusement this time that touches now his mouth.
“I’ve done worse favors.”
You squint at him.
“I feel like that says more about your life than it does about me.” You study him for a moment, then let your shoulders ease despite your best efforts. “Still. Thank you. I really do appreciate it.”
The words come out sincere, and for half a second the eye contact holds in a way that feels less professional and more… something else.
Which is your cue to flee into safer territory.
“Anyway, I am really excited about this conference. The keynote speaker is incredible. I’ve read three of her papers, and the case studies she’s presenting are the kind of things I used to read in grad school like they were campfire ghost stories.” You pause, reconsider. “More academic ghost stories. Less paranormal. Still pretty grim, though. Just… fascinating grim.”
He lets your excitement taper off unanswered, glancing down into your suitcase before lifting his eyes back to you.
“It’s going to be cold.”
You frown at derailment of the conversation. “...Yes?”
“You need a coat.”
“I have a coat,” you reply, pointing to the quilted white thing draped over your desk chair.
It has gold buttons. It is elegant. It is, admittedly, constructed with more outer-appearance than insulation.
“A real coat.”
“It is real,” you insist, because it exists, and you have worn it outside, and therefore it satisfies the basic criteria of outerwear under the laws of physics.
“You’ll freeze.”
You want to keep arguing.
You want to explain that the coat you chose is mostly warm, that it performs adequately under reasonable atmospheric conditions, that packing the bulky, government-issued tundra shield he likely considers appropriate would have required sacrificing something essential.
Like your backup flats, the only pair that doesn’t turn conference halls into endurance trials, or your travel straightener, which is less about aesthetics and more about appearing competent in harsh lighting.
But the look he gives you — so mild on the surface, so pointed beneath — drains the rebellion right out of your lungs.
Suddenly, it’s not about fashion or function. It’s about the existential need to not disappoint him.
You cannot afford to lose even a sliver of the regard he has chosen to extend to you.
You hoard his approval the way a crow gathers bright scraps of tin and glass, tucking them into the hollow spaces inside you, convinced that if you collect enough of it, it might one day harden into something sturdy enough to stand on.
So you sigh, equal parts petulance and submission, and turn back toward the closet in search of something thicker.
You sift through your wardrobe and grab a soft navy peacoat. You smooth your palm over the fabric as if presentation alone might improve its chances, then hold it up with the careful hesitation of someone submitting evidence to the court.
You don’t speak, but your eyes ask the question plainly: Is this acceptable? Does this restore confidence? Does this prove I can anticipate basic survival?
He studies it for no more than a second before the verdict arrives in the form of a single shake of his head.
You exhale slowly, already holding a small, private funeral for your pride, and reach into the back of the closet for the final option.
The nuclear choice.
The coat you swore would remain undisturbed unless meteorologists began using phrases like “artic blast” or “polar vortex.”
It’s fleece-lined. Excessively practical. It is also deeply, almost maliciously unattractive.
It swallows you whole, reduces your silhouette to an amorphous mass, and renders you less woman-on-business-trip and more sentient sleeping bag with ambition.
He nods, once. “Atta girl.”
You hate how effortlessly those two words melt down the structural integrity of your independence liquefying into dopamine-slush.
He’s an asshole, you decide.
Because you are entirely certain he knows what it does to you, how his approval lands like a controlled substance you never consented to trying, let alone craving.
Sometimes you suspect he enjoys it, just a little, watching you attempt to maintain dignity while your internal self is spinning barefoot through a field of daisies, drunk on validation.
You duck your head quickly, hiding the smile that threatens to surface, and shove the coat into your suitcase as if you can compress the feeling along with it.
“You always this stubborn?”
You wrinkle your nose.
“I prefer the word… determined,” you say, keeping your tone light, flippant even. Then you exhale. “But yes. Probably.”
“I don’t want you getting sick.”
You freeze for a second before looking at him. He’s already watching you with that stupidly hot expression that means something, but never tells you what.
Your throat tightens around something inconvenient. “Okay.”
He nods once, satisfied, like the matter has been properly resolved.
Then, almost as an afterthought, “Wear it on the plane.”
You huff a small breath through your nose.
“You’re surprisingly bossy for someone who isn’t technically supervising me right now.”
“Think of it as preventative strategy.”
You shake your head, but the smallest smile slips through despite yourself as you reach for the coat anyway. Because if his concern is the motive, then anything else suddenly feels… unnecessary.
And maybe a little unkind.
2 FORTY-TWO AND FORTY-THREE
The hotel is… not what you prepared for. You’d braced yourself for something sensible. Industrial carpet in a shade of brown that exists solely to forgive stains. The smell of disinfectant doing its honest, blue-collar best to mask a thousand anonymous overnights. Clean sheets, sure. Functional plumbing, ideally.
Maybe a little plant in the lobby that some waters too enthusiastically out of obligation rather than love.
Instead, there’s marble everywhere. Gold accents. Furniture that looks as though someone fluffs it between guests on a strict hourly rotation.
It’s almost funny, the budgetary whiplash between “active serial killer in rural nowhere” and “please observe our institutional excellence.”
Apparently, when the FBI wants to project competence, it does so in chandeliers and imported stone.
“Did you manage to sleep on the flight?” you ask, hoping it sounds completely normal coming from your overextended mouth.
Which you are, to set the record straight. Normal. Very normal. A model of composure. The very portrait of workplace appropriateness.
Not, for example, someone who, five minutes ago at the front desk, briefly entertained the likelihood of an overbooking error and the subsequent moral dilemma of one room, one bed, and a shared look of well, this is unfortunate.
You did not, under any circumstances, imagine saying something graceful like, “Oh, I don’t mind the couch,” while secretly hoping there wasn’t one.
You are a rational human being, after all.
If your thoughts briefly detoured into logistical fantasy, that is simply narrative conditioning from too many romance novels dog-earred on your nightstand teaching you that proximity plus tension equals destiny.
It is not a reflection of your character.
Probably.
Although the fact that your first instinct in a crisis is self-sacrifice for the sake of optics is… interesting. Something to unpack later. Preferably never.
“Enough,” he answers. “I wanted to make sure you did.”
Your pulse somersaults. You can’t figure out why.
“Oh. I did,” you assure him.
“Good.” He inclines his head slightly. “Long day tomorrow.”
“Right,” you nod. “Can’t have me falling asleep mid-panel and drooling on a nationally recognized criminologist. That would be deeply damaging to the Bureau’s image.”
You tuck your hands into your coat pockets, hiding the nervous flex of your fingers, and lengthen your stride to keep pace with him.
He manages to walk with such an unrushed confidence that somehow never looks like an effort, and you fall into step beside him like you’ve been trained to it.
The hallway stretches ahead in muted tones and hotel anonymity, the carpet thick enough to swallow the sharp click of your heels as though it understands the value of discretion.
“I’ve reviewed your grad work,” he says calmly. “You’re more likely to correct the panel than fall asleep during it.”
You freeze.
“You have?”
It comes out before you can moderate the enthusiasm.
Of course he has, you remind yourself quickly. He does not tolerate blind spots. You are an allocation of federal resources, and he is meticulous about ensuring his investments are strategically sound.
Still, the idea of him reading your thesis — your painstakingly footnoted, cross-referenced, over-edited labor of love — feels intimate in a way you hadn’t anticipated.
You remember the nights you folded yourself around your laptop, hair twisted up, rereading paragraphs until the words blurred, muttering about theoretical frameworks and definitional clarity like they were moral obligations.
You rewrote the introduction twelve times because it didn’t sound authoritative enough. You panicked over whether your sources were recent enough. Influential enough. Impressive enough.
Did he think it was disciplined? Did he see how hard you worked to make it unimpeachable? Did he notice where you rushed the methodology section because the deadline was breathing down your neck? Did he recognize the case study you were secretly proud of, the one you worried might read as ambition masquerading as competence?
“Yes.”
He looks at you, and for one breathless, precarious second you’re convinced he’s going to add something more. A descriptor. An evaluation. Something you could cradle later in private.
A word like “impressive,” perhaps. Or even “solid.”
You’d take solid. Solid is dependable. Solid can be examined from every angle at midnight while you’re brushing your teeth, replayed and replayed until it wears smooth.
But he offers nothing else. He simply holds your gaze, and the silence lengthens until it becomes reflective, until you can see yourself inside it.
The flicker of expectation you tried to mute, the hopeful tilt of your expression, the subtle widening that betrays how badly you wanted confirmation.
You’re suddenly hyperaware of how readable you must be, how clearly you hunger for the thing he chose not to give.
He looks away first and keeps walking, and you’re left wondering whether the silence is mercy, sparing you from overinvestment, or leverage, something he’ll deploy when it serves him best.
You quicken your pace regardless, because composure feels optional and you are, inconveniently, invested in every unsaid thing.
You close the gap between you more quickly than necessary, nearly brushing his shoulder when he stops in front of two identical doors.
Forty-two and forty-three.
Twin thresholds to separate, responsibly partitioned realities, as if a number on a plaque is enough to define distance.
“Any preferences?” you ask, gesturing between the rooms.
As if you aren’t very intune with the fact that whichever number you take situates him precisely one wall away, separated by drywall, wiring, and the thinnest possible illusion of propriety.
“Take this one,” he says, already extending the keycard. Forty-three.
“Okay,” you say instantly, because apparently your default setting when he gives you direction is cheerful compliance.
Pavlov would have had a field day.
You glance toward his door, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Should I be concerned you’re assigning yourself the superior territory? Is it the presidential suite? Hidden minibar advantage?”
He nearly smiles, but it never quite materializes.
“Yours faces the main corridor and the elevators. Mine faces the exterior exit.”
You blink at him, confused by the specificity.
“If something happens,” he continues, “I want you between both access points. That gives me visibility from either direction.”
“You’re planning for something?”
“I always plan for something.”
“I suppose that shouldn’t shock me.”
And it doesn’t, not really, because this is a man who could probably draft a contingency plan for a power outage in a room full of generators, who once paused outside a crime scene long enough to reroute you around a thin patch of ice you hadn’t seen, hand hovering near your elbow, just in case gravity decided to make an example of you.
Planning is his default state, his resting pulse, his love language if he had one he’d admit to.
But you’ve started noticing, and you wish you hadn’t, how the calculations seem to grow sharper when you’re involved, how his posture adjusts if you’re nearest to a door, how he subtly corrals space so you’re buffered from whatever could go wrong.
It’s probably subconscious. It has to be subconscious. You are not the axis around which his vigilance rotates. You are a member of the team. A junior one at that. This is leadership, not preference. Protocol, not protectiveness.
“No,” he agrees calmly. “It shouldn’t.”
You lift the keycard toward the reader, already angling yourself toward the door, but he moves a half-step ahead of you. His hand closes around the handle before yours can, body stepping between you.
You look up at him. “What are you doing?”
“Checking.”
He says it like the answer should have been self-evident, like you’re the one lagging behind for needing clarification, and then he’s stepping into your room before you are.
You watch as he moves through the space.
The deadbolt is tested. The chain latch examined. He leans in to inspect the peephole alignment, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes the doorframe, and you have the deeply inconvenient thought that this is what intimacy apparently looks like in your life — a man assessing sightlines and entry points.
His gaze tracks the ceiling corners next, scanning for blind spots. The bathroom door opens, lights flick on, the shower curtain is drawn back in one motion. Closet doors slide open and closed.
You hover near the entrance with your arms folded loosely, doing your absolute best impression of a person who is not secretly going, wow, okay, so this is what it looks like when a man is competent and terrifying and also, unfortunately, really, really attractive while doing the least romantic task imaginable.
You need to get a grip.
“It’s not exactly a cartel safehouse,” you offer.
“No,” he agrees evenly, checking the window latch. “But it’s still a point of vulnerability.”
He presses the window once more.
Satisfied with the resistance, he steps aside only then, as if you’ve been waiting for clearance.
“You can go in.”
You tilt your head. “Permission granted?”
“Recommendation,” he corrects.
“Right.”
He turns toward the hallway.
“Call me if you need me.”
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? You could call him for a hundred legitimate reasons. You could call him because the lock jams. Because the heater rattles. Because the hallway feels too quiet.
You could call him for none at all, just to hear his voice confirm that the wall between you is only drywall and not distance.
3 EFFICIENT ENERGY ALLOCATION
You know something is wrong the second you open your hotel door. Or, fine, not something. Someone. More specifically, him. Hotch.
There are two small lines gathering between his eyebrows, deepening incrementally the longer he looks at you, like he’s sketching blueprints for a cathedral of disapproval.
You know that look. You’ve built a secret mental archive of his face, categorized and cross-referenced with devotion, the way other people collect vintage wine or heirloom china.
This particular arrangement means he’s thinking too hard. Which is either excellent or catastrophic, and with him, the margin between those two things is gossamer-thin.
It’s a tell, though he would sooner walk into oncoming traffic than admit he has any.
And you would never correct him on it. You are not nearly foolish enough to forfeit your single, fragile advantage in this — whatever this is.
Because in the market of Hotch, he is always running four moves ahead on a chessboard you're still trying to locate.
And the longer he stares, the more your confidence begins to dissolve like sugar melting into coffee until you can’t even remember it once existed in defined, crystalline pieces.
Your body, traitor that it is, moves to compensate: spine straightening without permission, vertebrae aligning themselves one by one, chin tipping upward a fraction as though the geometry of good posture might function as armor.
Your hand finds your hair. Smooths it back over your shoulder. Corrects, with careful fingers, a flaw that was not there a moment ago. That would not exist at all, actually, if his eyes hadn’t passed over you and invented it.
“Is there a reason you’re looking at me like that,” you ask, attempting breezy and landing somewhere closer to ambitious intern pleading her case before a tribunal, “should I be concerned?”
He doesn’t answer right away and the silence manages to gather density. It pools in the corridor between you, thickening by the second, and you hold out for what feels like a respectable amount of time before your mouth makes a unilateral decision.
“Did something smudge? I knew I blinked weird during mascara and I made a judgment call that it was probably fine and I think we're both seeing how that turned out. This is what I get for rushing.”
For a second, something almost like disbelief crosses his features, there and gone, a brief constitutional crisis behind his eyes, as though he’s carefully sorting through his available responses and selecting the least inflammatory one.
“Your mascara is fine,” he says finally, and the economy of it, the complete lack of reassurance beyond the bare clinical fact, is so extraordinarily him that you almost want to write it down.
His eyes move downward again before finding yours again, the crease between his brows intact and now, you think, accompanied by a friend.
“I’m trying to determine,” he continues, “whether you were aware of the temperature outside when you selected that outfit.” He looks toward the end of the hallway. “It’s fourteen degrees.”
You frown and glance down at yourself, suddenly hyperaware of every seam and hem. Pencil skirt. Tailored, modest, entirely appropriate. Blouse tucked in neatly, sleeves buttoned to the wrist.
Tights, which are admittedly optimized somewhat more for aesthetic cohesion than for any serious confrontation with polar endurance, but which are nonetheless indisputably, demonstrably present.
And the jacket he chose. You draw it closed around yourself now, pulling the lapels together with both hands, turning just slightly toward him. Here. Look. Proof. You followed the parameters. You incorporated the feedback. You are, in this moment, the living embodiment of a person who listens and learns and shows up correctly dressed, and you would like that acknowledged, please.
“I was aware.”
“Then I’m concerned about your definition of the word.”
“I’m wearing layers.”
His brown eyes drop once again. Slow with the unhurried certainty of a man who has never once been rushed by another person’s discomfort, and comes to rest at the hem of your skirt, right where it grazes your thighs, and simply remains.
Every hair on your body stands at full attention, a physiological standing ovation for the specific quality of being looked at by him. Your hands want to move — to the hem, to the lapels, to anything that might constitute a defensive action — and you refuse them, one by one, with great effort and limited success.
No. Absolutely not. You will not flinch. You will not fidget. You will not give him the satisfaction of watching you fold, because the moment you reach for that hem is the moment you've lost, and you are already losing enough in this conversation.
He exhales slowly, the kind of exhale that has a whole paragraph in it, before he speaks. “The skirt is short.”
“It’s not —” you begin, warmth rushing up your neck before you can determine whether it’s indignation or something more humiliatingly self-conscious steering the ship.
“It’s appropriate,” he says, and his voice has shifted, gone quieter, the hard edge filed down like he's recognized he's overshot and is now carefully correcting course. “I’m not criticizing it. That’s not —” He stops. Starts over. “You look exactly as you should.” He presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose. Closes his eyes for just a moment. “I’d just prefer you not be miserable on the walk over.”
You stare at him, running a rapid internal audit of your available emotional responses and finding the inventory deeply unhelpful. Mortification is one option. Gratitude is another. They are not, as far as you can tell, mutually exclusive, which is its own problem entirely.
You shouldn’t have to feel both things simultaneously before eight in the morning, that seems like a violation of something, some basic covenant between a person and their day.
You are going to need significantly more caffeine before you can be expected to feel things correctly.
“I am aware of how temperature works,” you reply, gently defensive but not sharp, “and I do, in fact, possess the ability to identify discomfort before it becomes life-threatening.”
“I don’t doubt your ability to recognize discomfort,” he says. “I doubt your inclination to admit it when you’re experiencing it.” The brow tightens, just slightly, just enough. “You have a habit of tolerating more than you need to.”
There's nothing wrong with what he said.
That's the problem with what he said. You recognize yourself in it with the specific, sinking clarity of someone who has just been handed a mirror they weren't expecting.
You reach for your smile. The reliable one, the soft, deflecting smile you've been deploying since approximately the third grade, and let it do what it's always done. Cover the crack. Keep the walls presentable. Move things along before anyone gets a good look at the load-bearing ones.
“I wouldn’t call it a habit,” you reply carefully. “More like… efficient energy allocation.”
“Is that what we’re calling it.” It isn’t a question. A hint of dry amusement surfaces in his expression, not a smile exactly, just the suggestion of one, the ghost of one haunting the corner of his mouth, as he relents. “All right.” His tone softens. “I’ll defer to your… methodology.”
You beam at him with a brightness that is frankly disproportionate to the exchange. Wildly, embarrassingly disproportionate. You don't care even a little.
“Great. Perfect. Wonderful.”
He is, unfortunately, completely correct.
Fifteen minutes later, the wind finds you like it has a personal grievance, carving straight through your layered confidence, making a thorough and public mockery of your efficient energy allocation.
You keep your chin up and your expression neutral because you would genuinely rather fossilize in place than give him the satisfaction.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t point, doesn’t raise an eyebrow, doesn’t deploy a single syllable of the told-you-so he has absolutely, irrefutably earned.
He simply pauses mid-stride, unwinds the scarf from his own neck and wraps it around you with both hands.
You try not to kiss him.
4 HIS FLOOR OR YOURS
The conference has been going on for three hours and forty minutes, which feels less like a span of time and more like a psychological experiment designed to test how long a human being can remain upright while their soul quietly slips through their ears. Two hours and forty minutes beyond what your attention span contractually agreed to when you walked in with your notebook.
During the break, Hotch had taken one look at you, at the restless rotation of plastic between your hands, at the brittle way you were holding yourself together, and said, in the tone of a man who had already made the decision and was merely informing you of it rather than requesting your input, come on.
So now you’re walking to get lunch, which would have been entirely pleasant, almost restorative, even, sunlight, fresh air, the gentle reward of carbohydrates after too much bureaucratic endurance, if Garcia hadn’t chosen this exact moment to text you something that demands both your full visual attention and the majority of your remaining cognitive function.
The text reads, in its entirety:
how’s the conference bestie!!!!! followed immediately, without waiting by: and before you say “informative” or productive” or any other word that means you’re reflecting… i want to know about the OTHER curriculum. the one where it’s just you and hotch and a hotel and no rossi chaperoning.
Your face heats to 380 degrees, a temperature at which most metals would begin to warp. You type with your thumb as you walk, squinting against the glare on your screen.
garcia.
A breath.
GARCIA.
You delete that. Too much.
the conference is going fine, there is no other curriculum, we are colleagues attending a professional development event and i would like you to reflect on what you've said.
You pause. Add:
also rossi wasn't chaperoning he was just. present. there's a difference.
You read it back. Delete it because now you sound like someone with something to prove. Add it back because you do, in fact, have something to prove. Mainly your innocence. Allegedly.
Hotch shifts slightly closer to navigate a narrow patch of sidewalk and you physically rotate your entire torso away from him like a sunflower turning from the light, except the opposite of that, and hit send.
The response comes through in the time it takes you to exhale.
there's a difference !!! yeah the difference is whether or not you end up on his floor or your floor tonight babe
You read it twice. You read it twice because the first time your brain just skips, like a record catching on something, and the second time it processes it fully and that is infinitely worse.
Because now you’re thinking about it. Now the thought has a foothold and it is making itself at home, spreading out, getting comfortable, putting its feet up, and your imagination, which we’ve already covered is your most disloyal organ, starts filling in details you did not ask for.
Carpet burn. His chest pressed flat against your back, his rough breath against your ear, telling you what to do, how to do it, what to feel.
You guillotine the thought before it can finish forming. You do. You absolutely do. You are doing it right now.
You type back one handed, the response dissolving and reforming as your fingers fumble, something about how Garcia is clinically unwell and should be investigated by her own team, your attention fractured by the screen and the pavement you assume will continue existing beneath your feet.
You don’t see the curb.
You don’t see the car.
You don’t see anything at all until Hotch’s hand finds your arm and the world snaps back into focus all at once, as the vehicle tears through the space you’d been about to occupy.
The wind of it grazes your knees.
You look up at him because you don't know what else to do and immediately wish you'd looked literally anywhere else.
His eyes darken and move over your face with the rapid, assessing quality of someone running a systems check.
Pupils. Color. Responsiveness.
And when he’s satisfied that you are intact and present and not currently dying, something shifts.
Hotch doesn’t soften exactly, that’s not the right word for it, more like reconfiguration. A rearrangement of something that had gone momentarily, dangerously loose. The aftermath of relief rather than relief itself.
His thumb moves once against your arm. Small. Probably involuntary.
“Are you all right.” Once again not quite a question. The tone of a man who needs confirmation of a thing he's already determined to be true.
“Yes,” you say, which comes out smaller than you intended.
His hand finally releases your arm.
“Put your phone away.”
You do as you're told. Immediately, without deliberation, without the small internal debate you’d normally stage on principle.
It disappears into your pocket with the speed of someone who has just been reminded that the universe has consequences.
Garcia can wait. Garcia, in fact, has forfeited her right to immediacy, because Garcia and her terrible timing almost got you killed, and she is going to receive a text later when you are safe and stationary and no longer shaking slightly in a way you hope isn’t visible.
“You sound like my fa —” you start, because apparently you are constitutionally incapable of letting a silence exist peacefully, and then your brain catches up to your mouth approximately three words too late and the sentence just stops.
You don't finish it. You can't finish it, actually, because finishing it would require you to say out loud the thing you were about to say out loud, which was to compare hotch to your father, which you were apparently fully prepared to do two seconds ago and are now prepared to die before doing.
You swallow the rest of it. Redirect your gaze to the middle distance, to some fixed and blameless point that isn't his face, and devote every remaining resource you have to convincing your expression to do literally anything other than what it's currently doing, which is, you are fairly certain, everything.
You feel him look at you. There’s a particular quality of his attention when he’s already understood something and is giving you the grace of not saying it out loud.
He knows. He absolutely knows.
Neither of you says anything. You keep walking.
+1 FOR SCIENCE
The scolding had gone well, you think. You’d communicated the full extent of your feelings about Garcia’s role in the near-death-by-crosswalk incident with clarity, and she had said okay you’re right i’m sorry in the sincere tone she reserves for when she actually means it, and that should have been the end of it.
That was the natural ending. But then, approximately four seconds later, as if the apology had simply been a brief administrative detour:
but do you even own any lingerie just in case… this is a completely unrelated question, purely for science.
And somehow, through a conversational sequence that had felt, step by step, almost reasonable, that is how you have arrived at this.
Hotel bed. Nearly eleven. Cross-legged in your white lace pajames with your hair loose and your phone held aloft at an angle you’ve adjusted three times now, trying to produce a photograph that communicates see, I have perfectly good taste, this is both comfortable AND attractive for the benefit of a woman who treats every piece of information she receives as a potential future weapon.
Garcia had said prove it with the energy of someone issuing a formal declaration of war and you had, apparently, accepted the terms without reading them.
The fourth attempt is the one.
You know it immediately. The angle is right, the light is doing exactly what you wanted it to do, the lace sits exactly as it should and you look, if you’re being objective about it, genuinely pretty.
Soft and warm and settled in yourself in a way that doesn't always come naturally, in a way you don't always feel entitled to, and something about the photograph catches it, holds it still, makes it documentable.
You open the conversation. Tap the photo. Hit send. Set the phone face down on the duvet with the kind of pleased energy of someone closing a chapter, pouring yourself a glass of water from the sink, taking a sip, allowing yourself eight whole seconds of serenity.
Then you pick the phone back up because Garcia hasn't responded and this is wrong, this is factually incorrect behavior for Garcia, who has never in the entire history of your friendship allowed more than thirty seconds to pass without a reply, whose response time is frankly less a reflection of effort than of some innate physiological gift, and you look at the screen and —
The background of the conversation is wrong.
The contact picture is wrong.
Something is wrong with the name at the top of the conversation in a way that your brain, in an act of profound self-protection, declines to process for three full seconds.
Sits there cycling through increasingly implausible alternatives, searching for any exit ramp from the conclusion that is, despite everything, the only one available.
And then it arrives. All at once, the way bad things do, complete and total and horribly clear.
Hotch.
Garcia.
Recent conversations, right next to each other, because they would be, because why wouldn't they be, because the universe has a personal investment in your suffering and an excellent sense of comedic structure.
The photo is delivered.
For science sits beneath it.
And you sent it to your boss.
You make a sound that has no letter equivalent, something that exists purely in the register of visceral horror, and you are off the bed before the sound has finished leaving you.
Think, you need to think.
Option one: he's asleep. It's late. Hotch is a disciplined, regimented person who almost certainly has a consistent sleep schedule because of course he does, because he is Hotch, and maybe, maybe, he'd put his phone on silent and gone to bed and hasn't seen it and won't see it until morning at which point you will have already faked your own death and started a new life somewhere without extradition.
Option two: his phone. You could get to his phone. His room is right beside yours. You could be there in twenty-two seconds, and hotel door locks are — okay you don't actually know how to pick a hotel door lock but you could figure it out, probably, under sufficient duress, and this qualifies as sufficient duress —
A knock sounds at your door.
You stand in the center of the hotel room and you do not move, do not breathe, do not produce any sound or evidence of biological function whatsoever, because if you are very still and very quiet then perhaps the universe will lose interest and move on to someone else.
Maybe it's not him. Maybe it's housekeeping, at eleven at night, which, yes, is not when housekeeping comes, but hotels are unpredictable, stranger things have happened, you are not ruling anything out.
Maybe it's the person in the next room who miscounted doors, maybe it's someone who has the wrong floor entirely, maybe it's — your phone screen lights up.
Open the door.
You stare at it. It stares back.
You open the door and immediately wish with every fiber of your being that you hadn’t.
Not because of the expression on his face, though that’s — that’s a lot, that’s an entire situation, his jaw tight and his eyes doing something you’ve never seen them do before, moving over you in a way that starts at your face and doesn’t stay there and snaps back up with the control of a man making a conscious decision.
Not even because of the grey t-shirt. The sweatpants. The fact that Hotch, your Unit Chief, apparently exists in soft cotton after hours like a normal person, which is information you are placing in a box, sealing the box, and sliding the box to the very back of a shelf you will not be visiting tonight.
No. It’s the silence that does it.
He just looks at you. Says absolutely nothing, makes no move to explain himself or fill the space or give you anything to work with. It presses on you with considerable force.
“It was an accident.” The words come out before you've decided to produce them, falling over each other with the graceless urgency of someone trying to outrun a consequence. “I love this job. I'm good at it, I mean, I think I'm good at it, I hope you think I’m good at it, and I know this looks insane, it is insane, but please — please don't make this into something that ends my career, I was just trying to win an argument with Garcia about whether I owned ling — Uh, nice pajamas and —”
“Garcia,” he interrupts.
You blink. “What?”
“The argument.” His words are careful. Doing a great deal of structural work beneath the surface. “It was with Garcia.”
“Yes,” you say. “About whether I — yes.”
“About the pajamas.”
“About whether I owned any.” You are aware you’re not improving the situation. “Nice ones. She implied I didn’t and I — it was a matter of principle.”
He looks at you for long enough that you become acutely, specifically, inventory-level aware of every square inch of white lace currently within his line of sight.
And the awareness moves over you in real time, square inch by square inch, because he is. He is doing exactly that. Looking at the neckline and the hem and everything the light is enthusiastically illuminating and then looking at more of it, and you stand very still in the doorway of your hotel room and breathe very carefully and wait for him to say something, and he doesn't, and the looking continues, and it has a temperature.
“You’re not losing your job,” he says. His voice has done something you can't quite name. The professional remove still present but thinner somehow, like fabric that's been washed too many times. “That was never —” He stops. Edits. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“I really am sorry,” you say, which is true, which is entirely true, which is also complicated by the fact that he’s standing in your doorway and you have now run out of layers to hide behind, literally and figuratively.
“I know.” He says. “I came because I wanted to make sure you were —” a pause, brief and loaded, “ — all right.”
“I’m glad you did,” you say, which comes out quieter and more honest than you intended, stripped of the deflection you’d normally wrap around something like that. “Come, I mean. I’m glad you came.”
You become very interested in a point just past his shoulder and then make yourself look back.
“For the record,” he says, “you won the argument.”
“Hotch —” His name comes out barely a whisper.
“You did.”
“That’s not —” you start, “I don’t need you to —”
“I know you don’t need me to,” he says. “That’s not why I said it.”
“Why did you say it?”
He moves first.
Or maybe you do.
Or the wanting does, finally, after months of being firmly managed.
Later you might look for the beginning and find only that the distance was there and then wasn’t. His hand comes up to your face with that steadiness, that particular Hotch steadiness that you have been watching without permission since the day you met him, the kind that says I have considered this and I am not afraid of it, tilting your chin up.
And then his mouth is on yours.
And here is what you were not prepared for: that it would feel like being returned to you. Not given, returned.
Like something you’d been missing your whole life without knowing what it was called, without having a word for the specific absence of it.
Your father’s approval delivered at arm’s length, your college boyfriend who never quite saw you, every authority figure you’ve ever rearranged yourself for in hopes that this time, this time, it would be enough.
And Hotch, who has been watching you with those eyes for months, who has noticed the necklace-tugging and the over-apologizing and the way you look at him when you think no one’s looking, who has known, who has known —
It is nothing like what your imagination built. Your imagination was not working with sufficient information.
It is exactly like the thing you've been most terrified of wanting, because wanting things this much has historically been the setup for not getting them, and you are so tired of not getting them, and for a moment, for this moment, there is only his mouth and yours and the feeling moving through you in waves you can’t name and don’t need to.
Finally.
You lean into it with everything you have. Every feeling you've filed under inadvisable. Every careful professional distance you've maintained. Every time you looked away first. You stop looking away. You give him all of it, and he makes a sound low in his throat, vibrating through you.
Then he stops.
Goes still first, and then pulls back by degrees. Slow, almost reluctant, like something being peeled away rather than removed.
His forehead drops to yours just for a moment, his eyes closed and his breath uneven and his hand still at your jaw.
You don't move. You barely breathe. You are terrified of breaking it and equally terrified of what exists on the other side of it, and so you stay very still in the small sacred space of his forehead against yours and try not to want more than you're being given.
What comes next is his eyes opening. Finding yours. And in them, underneath the want that he’s no longer quite managing to conceal, something older settling back into place like sediment after a disturbance.
You can see it.
Something that was always going to come back. Responsibility settling through him like silt after a tremor, like a tide reasserting itself, the accumulated weight of everything he is and everything he thinks you deserve and every reason he has been filing this under don't from the very beginning.
You can see exactly where it lives. In the careful way his jaw sets. In the incremental straightening of his posture, degree by degree, a man rebuilding his architecture in real time, becoming your Unit Chief again by visible effort.
His hand leaves your face last.
“I’m sorry.” His voice has gone hard again, a professional distance reassembling itself word by word. “That wasn’t —” a pause in which several things clearly occur to him and are discarded — “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“It's okay,” you say, which is both completely true and completely insufficient. “I'm — please don't apologize, I —” you hear yourself, recalibrate, attempt something in the vicinity of normal. "I'm sorry too. For the photo. For all of —” another vague gesture, this one encompassing roughly the last hour of your life — “this.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“Okay,” you say, because what else is there.
You both stand in it for a moment that lasts too long.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says finally.
“Yeah.” Your voice is remarkably steady. You’re proud of it. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
You stand in the doorway until the corridor is empty and then you close the door and press your back against it and stare at the ceiling of a hotel room that feels entirely different than it did an hour ago.
