the team noticing how comfortable shy bau reader has gotten with hotch and they all find it very sweet
Slipping Into the Light warnings: brief mentions of cannon typical violence paring: hotch x shy!bau!reader
||||
The bullpen is its usual brand of chaos—agents moving between desks, papers shuffling, the hum of conversation filling the air. It’s comfortable, routine. Nothing out of the ordinary.
At least, until she walks in.
The team barely notices at first, too caught up in their morning tasks, but then—then, something odd happens.
She walks past Hotch’s office, and without a second of hesitation, she reaches out and knocks twice against the open doorframe—light, quick, easy.
Hotch glances up from his paperwork, and instead of his usual curt nod or unreadable gaze, something soft crosses his face. It’s barely there, a flicker of warmth before he schools his expression. But it’s real.
And then—then—she says, “Morning, Hotch,” like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal.
Not Good morning, sir. Not a quiet, hesitant nod in passing. No, just Morning, Hotch, said with the kind of familiarity that suggests it isn’t the first time.
He returns it with a quiet, “Morning,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And that’s when the team starts paying attention.
Morgan’s head tilts up first, brows knitting together. Emily, mid-sip of her coffee, pauses with the cup just short of her lips. Reid frowns at the exchange like it’s a puzzle he hasn’t figured out yet. Rossi just smirks.
The door to Hotch’s office closes a moment later, and she moves toward her desk, entirely unaware of the looks being exchanged across the room.
Emily recovers first, setting her coffee down and leaning toward Morgan. “Morning, Hotch?”
Morgan shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “That’s not normal, right? She doesn’t talk to anyone like that. Not even me,” he points out, sounding offended. “And I’ve been workin’ on breaking her out of that shell for years.”
Reid blinks, clearly running through past conversations in his head. “She’s never greeted me like that before, either.”
“Or me,” Emily agrees, before throwing a glance toward Rossi. “You?”
Rossi just takes a slow sip of his coffee, unreadable.
“Something’s up,” Morgan mutters.
Emily hums in agreement. “Something.”
||||
It happens again the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
Each time, it’s something small—something easily overlooked if you aren’t paying attention. But they are paying attention. Because once profilers start noticing something, it’s impossible to stop. It becomes a game between Emily and Morgan, noticing the small ways you've warmed up to Hotch.
Easier smiles, passing him in the plane when you would usually wait for a larger gap, conversations continued when he walks into the room rather than screeching to a halt like before.
It's nothing massive to the untrained eye but, well, they are trained to notice breaks in patterns, to see when things change and how they do.
Like today.
Hotch walks into the bullpen, coffee in hand, heading straight for his office. Nothing unusual there. But as he passes by her desk, she glances up from her file, eyes flicking toward his cup.
“Did you eat?” she asks, casually—too casually.
Hotch slows just a fraction, just enough for the team to catch it. “Not yet.”
She hums, glancing at the time. “Bagel shop’s still open. They have fresh bread until nine.”
“I’ll be fine,” Hotch assures, but he lingers. Just for a second.
She gives him a pointed look before returning to her file. “Mm.”
That’s it. That’s the whole exchange. And yet—
Morgan immediately turns toward Emily. “You seein' this?”
Emily nods, hiding a grin behind her coffee. “Oh, I’m seeing it.”
Reid, who has been diligently pretending not to be part of this entire conspiracy, clears his throat. “I mean, she could just be concerned about his health?”
Morgan gives him a look as Emily snorts. “She’s never told us to eat.”
“She’s never told anyone to eat,” Morgan mutters, shaking his head. “Except Hotch, apparently.”
Spencer frowns slightly, watching as Hotch disappears into his office. Then he looks back at her, catching the way she glances one more time at the closed door before focusing back on her file.
“Okay,” he admits. “That was weird.”
“Thank you,” Emily says, throwing her hands up.
Morgan shakes his head, settling back into his chair. “I’m just saying, that’s not nothing.”
||||
It happens again later that evening, this time in the briefing room.
They’ve wrapped the case, a particularly grueling one, and now it’s the slow process of debriefing, paperwork, and waiting for the jet to be refueled in case they actually need it tomorrow - they've been able to help over the phone today but everyone is certain tomorrow will bring a tragedy the necessitates travel tomorrow or the day after. The team is scattered around the table—some flipping through reports, others making half-hearted attempts at conversation, everyone running on fumes.
She's tucked into the corner of the room, curled over a file, her pen tapping absently against the paper. If she stops moving, she’ll fall asleep. And she doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed about that.
The door opens, and Hotch steps in. The conversation dulls, but only slightly—it’s always like that when he walks in. Not because they’re afraid of him, but because his presence naturally shifts the atmosphere.
She barely looks up. “Coffee?” she asks, already moving to stand.
Hotch shakes his head. “I got it.”
She pauses, then settles back down, flipping a page. “Okay.”
That’s it. No hesitation, no stammering, no overthinking the fact that she offered in the first place. Just easy.
And that is very interesting.
Morgan narrows his eyes slightly, tilting his head as he watches her. It’s subtle—probably something even she hasn’t noticed—but there’s no way in hell he’s imagining it now.
The old her would’ve never spoken to Hotch without being spoken to first. Would’ve never offered him something so casually, so easily, like it was second nature.
And Hotch—
Hotch, who usually doesn’t acknowledge small gestures like this, doesn’t even bat an eye. Doesn’t make a comment, doesn’t pause, doesn’t do anything other than react without thought.
Which means this isn’t the first time it’s happened.
Emily catches Morgan’s look and raises a brow. You seeing this?
Morgan smirks. Oh, I’m seeing it.
They share a knowing glance, and then—just to test the waters—Emily leans forward, setting her elbows on the table.
“Hey, Hotch,” she says casually. “Since you’re already up, can you grab me one too?”
Hotch glances at her, then at Morgan, who looks far too interested in his answer. He exhales sharply, amused but unamused, and turns toward the door.
“No.”
Morgan barks out a laugh, and Emily grins, triumphant.
And in the corner, she remains blissfully unaware, still flipping through her file, still tapping her pen, still completely oblivious to the way the entire team is slowly piecing this together.
||||
The next moment happens in Rossi’s office.
She hadn’t meant to end up here. It’s late, past the point of pretending she’s being productive, but she told herself she’d finish one more report before heading home. Somewhere along the way, she’d wandered, coffee in hand, and now she’s leaning against Rossi’s doorway, blinking sluggishly at him as he flips through a leather-bound journal.
“Long day?” he asks without looking up.
She nods, then remembers he’s not looking. “Yeah.”
He hums, setting the journal aside. “And yet, you’re still here instead of going home. Or is it that you don’t want to go home?”
“I was going home,” she argues, though they both know she’s lying. “I just… got distracted.”
Rossi leans back, eyeing her with the kind of gaze that makes it impossible to lie. Not that she’s in the habit of lying to him—especially since he’s usually at least five steps ahead of her anyway.
She glances at the clock. 10:42 PM. She exhales through her nose, rolling her lips together.
“You should get some sleep,” he says, but there’s something else in his tone. A lilt. An implication.
She squints at him. “Why do you sound like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you know something.”
Rossi shrugs. “I know a lot of things.”
“Right,” she mutters, narrowing her eyes.
He’s enjoying this. That much is clear. She doesn’t know what he’s enjoying yet, but she’s sure he’ll make her figure it out on her own.
And then—
“Oh.” She blinks. “Wait. No.”
Rossi smirks.
Her stomach flips. “You know?”
He doesn’t answer, just reaches for his glass of scotch, taking a slow, measured sip.
She feels heat creep up her neck, spreading across her cheeks.
He knows.
Which means Hotch told him.
Which means Hotch talked about it.
Which means—
“Relax,” Rossi drawls, interrupting her impending spiral. “It’s not like he gave me a play-by-play. He just mentioned you two had dinner.” He pauses, then grins. “And that it went well.”
She shifts her weight, suddenly too aware of herself. Oh.
It’s not that she thought Hotch would keep it a secret forever, but hearing that he’d told Rossi, that he’d spoken about it in any capacity, makes it feel… real.
More real than the way her heart stuttered when Hotch had smoothed a hand over hers at dinner. More real than the quiet, steady confidence he’d had in their them-ness while she was still fumbling over the weight of it.
Rossi watches her carefully, still amused but softer now. “You okay?”
She nods, pressing her lips together. “Yeah. I just—”
She gestures vaguely, words failing her.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Go home,” he says again, more insistent this time. “And tell Aaron I said you’re welcome.”
She sputters, eyes wide, and Rossi just laughs, already reaching for his journal again.
She doesn’t know if she’s embarrassed or endeared, but as she slips out of his office, warmth tucked into her chest, she thinks maybe it’s a little bit of both.
||||
The moment is small. Blink and you’d miss it.
Hotch is standing by the coffee maker in the break room, pouring himself a cup. She wanders in a moment later, her movements unhurried, her posture looser than usual. The case they’d just wrapped had been rough, but the team was back home, safe, and exhaustion was settling in around all of them like a thick fog.
She steps beside him, reaching for the sugar, only to find his hand already on it.
She blinks up at him.
Hotch smirks, just barely. “You were going to put in two scoops.”
Her eyes narrow. “And?”
He hands her the spoon, ignoring the way the corner of his mouth twitches. “And you always complain that it makes the coffee too sweet.”
She exhales, glaring at him for being right, and scoops one spoonful instead.
“You should get your own coffee if you’re just going to judge mine.”
“I was here first,” he reminds her. "Making my own coffee, not yours."
“I was letting you make mine for me.”
The words are out before she fully registers them, her lips parting slightly at the realization.
Across the room, Morgan and JJ freeze mid-conversation.
Hotch stills, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around the handle of his mug. He watches her, slow and appraising, and then—
He leans in. Not much, but just enough. “You've got me there. Here." Slowly, he places the cup in her hand, a spoonful and a half of sugar poured in, slowly curling her fingers around the mug for her. Pleased at the reaction he so easily brings forth.
And then he walks out, leaving her standing there, fingers curled around her coffee cup, ears burning.
Morgan lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”
JJ, still wide-eyed, elbows him. “Don’t make it a thing.”
“Oh, it’s already a thing,” Morgan mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “Did you see that? She flirted back.”
JJ presses her lips together, fighting a grin. "Still, not our business." She insists, despite the way warmth curls in her stomach at the thought.
||||
The jet hums beneath them, a steady, soothing vibration. The case had been long and brutal, but it was over, and they were finally on their way home. The team was scattered around the cabin—Morgan and Emily playing cards, JJ half-dozing with her headphones in, and Rossi nursing a glass of something dark.
And her?
She was sitting stiffly in her seat, her arm propped awkwardly against her side, doing a terrible job of pretending she wasn’t in pain.
The gash on her ribs wasn’t deep. She’d already been patched up at the local hospital—stitched, bandaged, and thoroughly instructed to take it easy. But “take it easy” apparently translated to everyone treating her like she was made of glass.
Emily had tried to grab her go-bag for her earlier.
Morgan had asked if she wanted him to get her a drink—when had he ever done that before?
Even Spencer had hovered like a worried sibling, his gaze flicking toward her every few minutes like he was expecting her to keel over.
She could deal with that. What was harder to deal with was the fact that Hotch hadn’t said anything at all.
Not until now.
“You need to rest,” his voice cut through the low hum of conversation, steady, sure.
She looked up from her untouched cup of tea to see him standing in front of her, arms crossed, expression unreadable to anyone who wasn’t her.
She sighed. “I’m fine, Hotch.”
“You’re in pain,” he countered, not unkindly.
“I’m always in pain after a case,” she pointed out, arching a brow.
His lips twitched in a way that was almost—but not quite—a smile. “This is different.”
He knew. Of course, he knew. She should have expected that.
Her shoulders eased just a little. “I just don’t want everyone fussing over me.”
“They’re only fussing because they care.”
She couldn’t argue with that. But still, she rolled her eyes, shifting slightly in her seat—only to wince when the movement tugged at her stitches.
Hotch sighed and sat beside her. “Case in point.”
She huffed, tilting her head back against the headrest, aware of the small, knowing glances being exchanged around the cabin. No one said a word, but she felt it—the way the energy shifted.
Like they were all watching something unfold, something inevitable.
She kept her gaze on Hotch. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Not a chance.” His voice softened just enough to make her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with her injury.
And despite the pain, despite the exhaustion pressing down on her limbs, she found herself... warm.
Because he knew her. Knew when to push and when to step back. Knew how much she hated being coddled, but also knew exactly when she needed to be told to stop pretending she was fine.
It wasn’t suffocating.
It was steady.
It was him.
||||
The bar was too loud, too dimly lit, too full of bodies swaying and pressing together in a way that made her head ache.
She’d never wanted to come, not really. But Morgan had a way of making things sound like a good idea until she was already in them, halfway slumped over a sticky bar top, nursing a drink she barely had the energy to lift.
"You look like you’re about to pass out," Morgan teased, leaning his elbow against the bar beside her.
"Probably," she murmured, not even pretending to refute it.
She was wrecked. The case had been long and grueling, every hour stretching into the next with little more than caffeine and sheer willpower keeping her upright. When Morgan had invited her out, she hadn’t been sure why she said yes—maybe just to avoid thinking too hard about things.
But now, with exhaustion weighing her down and the music pounding too loudly in her ears, she wished she’d just gone home.
Morgan nudged her shoulder. "Alright, lightweight. You eat anything today?"
The question barely registered before she answered, too tired to filter her words. "I had dinner in Hotch's office."
It was out before she could stop it.
Morgan blinked. Then grinned.
"Ohhhh," he drawled, sitting up straighter, eyes lighting up in that way that meant trouble. "That’s why you two have been acting different lately."
She frowned, sluggish. "What?"
"Come on, don’t play coy now. Dinner? With Hotch? In his office? That’s why you’ve been all up in each other’s space. I knew something was up!"
Oh, God.
Her stomach plummeted, warmth flooding her face so fast she thought she might actually faint. "Morgan," she hissed, suddenly far more awake. "I—I didn’t mean—"
"You totally meant," he cut in, smug as hell.
She buried her face in her hands, groaning. "You tricked me into coming here. I’m too tired for this interrogation."
"You’re too tired to lie," he countered, tapping the bar. "And that’s the best time to get the truth."
She let out a long, slow breath, willing herself to cool down, to deflect, to not make this worse. But Morgan was already grinning like he’d won something, like he had all the confirmation he needed.
He leaned in conspiratorially. "So, how was dinner?"
She didn’t even bother answering. Instead, she waved down the bartender. "Two shots, please."
Morgan laughed, clinking his glass against hers when they arrived. "Now that is an answer."
||||
"I'm so sorry," she groans, squeezing her eyes closed against the admission.
Hotch has the nerve to laugh, covering his face with his hand. Red peers up and over his palm where it covers his expression. "I'm not mad," he insists, "just very amused."
"How is this amusing?" She asks, exasperated, turning to pace across his office.
"I've been opening flirting with you for months, almost a year. It's been a running joke, darling. It's amusing because you're only just now getting the heat for it. For reciprocating it."
"Reciprocating!" She exclaims, injust.
"Oh, are you not? Should I clear my calendar for tomorrow, then, cook for just me and Jack?"
She scowls, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "No," she pouts, voice near a whine. "I just thought you didn't want the team to know anything was up."
"Oh, so something's up between us now?"
Leave it to him to use this moment to tease you, of course. When she first joined the team, Hotch was broody and withdrawn. It hadn't taken long for her to see his exterior crack, the flaws shining beneath.
He appears as a rule follower, a stickler for what's right and just, but he constantly bends for his team, for the victims, for children. And now, for you, he bends so far from that rigid form people perceive him in she has difficulties seeing his stiffness anymore.
Still, moments like these shock her. Aaron Hotchner is a flirt and an expert one at that.
"Maybe!" She concedes, too flustered to wiggle her way out of his trap. "That's not the point."
"I think that's exactly the point." Hotch catches her wrist, halting her pacing. "But it's okay. I don't mind the others knowing that 'something's up' with us."
"Oh my god," she groans, heat in her face nearly as brilliant as her smile.