Good morning, I’m thinking about how Frank Castle would react when you ragebait him.
Imagine it’s late at night. You’re having one of those playful debates while curled up with each other, your cheek against his chest, his arm wrapped around you, absentmindedly tracing slow circles against your back.
You don’t even remember how it started, that’s how unserious the conversation is. So why is he still talking, proving his point or whatever? Your man is supposed to let you win!
“No, baby. You ain’t listenin. Lemme ask you–”
To Frank’s bewilderment, you hold a hand in front of his face, stopping him from whatever he’s gonna say. Truth be told, you’d already turned your ears off after the tenth “lemme tell you sumthin.”
“Talk to the hand,” you say.
Dumbfounded, Frank stares at your palm for a good five seconds, then tilts his head to catch your eyes. It’s where his gaze always ends up anyway.
His fingers, oh, they’re still running along your back as he wonders where the hell you got the audacity from. He can’t help it. You’re so soft beneath his touch, grounding him even when you’re being the biggest hardhead in the world.
“What’d you say?” he asks.
You stubbornly move your hand to his face again, lips twitching as you fight the smile threatening to break through. He doesn’t need to know you’ve exhausted your points, and there’s no way out but through.
“I said,” your voice goes up a pitch. “Talk to the hand.”
“Wanna try that again, pretty girl?”
“Talk. To. The–”
He cuts you off by grabbing your wrist, and suddenly you’re half-sprawled out on him. You try to wiggle away, but your laughter bubbles out, completely ruining your best effort to commit to the bit. “Frank!”
His lips curve into a small smirk that you absolutely love any other day, but not right now because it’s saying Gotcha.
Then, he presses a kiss to the center of the very palm that’s been shoved in his face, never breaking eye contact. Oh, he’s playing dirty, like eleven-olives-in-a-martini dirty, and the worst part is that it’s working.
You chew the inside of your cheek, heat creeping up your face as you instinctively scoot closer to him. The annoying act is already gone with the wind, along with your reasons and excuses.
Frank turns your hand over and rests it against his chest so you can feel the steady beat of his heart through the cotton. His voice drops into that familiar gravel, coaxing you so sweetly that you almost surrender.
Or so you think, because he opens his mouth again.
Happy figures out you're touch-starved. Good luck surviving that one.
I mean, really, if Happy Lowman can figure out you're touch-starved, something might be very wrong.
If anyone else had noticed you were touch-starved, it probably would’ve been embarrassing.
If Happy Lowman noticed?
That was honestly catastrophic.
Because Happy noticed things the way predators did.
Quietly.
Patiently.
With terrifying accuracy.
And once he noticed something, he did not let it go.
It starts with little things.
Things you don’t even realize you’re doing.
The way you linger during hugs a second too long before catching yourself.
How you lean unconsciously toward warmth—Gemma bumping your shoulder, Chibs squeezing your arm, a drunk girl at the bar looping her arm through yours.
How your face softens every single time physical affection is offered to you like you’re starving for it but trying very hard not to ask for more.
Happy notices all of it.
Of course he does.
Happy notices everything about you.
That’s the problem.
The first time it really clicks for him is movie night at the clubhouse.
Most of SAMCRO is spread around the room in various states of exhaustion and intoxication while some terrible action movie plays too loudly on the TV.
You’re curled into the corner of the couch under a blanket, half asleep already.
Happy sits beside you because he always sits beside you now.
Nobody comments on it anymore.
At some point Tig says something dramatic enough to make everyone laugh, and you laugh too—soft and sleepy—and without thinking you lean sideways.
Just a little.
Your shoulder bumps against Happy’s arm.
That’s it.
Barely contact.
But then—
You melt.
Not dramatically.
Not obviously.
Just this tiny unconscious relaxation like your body had been waiting for it.
Happy goes very still.
His eyes shift toward you slowly.
You don’t even realize you’ve done it.
Still watching the movie.
Still smiling faintly.
But your shoulder stays pressed against his arm like you belong there.
Like you needed it.
Something sharp twists in Happy’s chest.
Not lust.
Not even possessiveness, not fully.
Something worse.
Something painfully close to tenderness.
He keeps thinking about it long after you leave that night.
The way you relaxed instantly from one tiny point of contact.
Like nobody touched you enough.
Like maybe nobody had in a long time.
Once he notices it, he can’t unsee it.
You flinch at harshness but lean into gentleness.
You always initiate contact jokingly, casually—playful punches to shoulders, quick hugs, brushing against people in passing—but the second someone touches you first, you go strangely quiet.
Like you don’t know what to do with being wanted softly.
Happy hates how much that realization bothers him.
“Ye look murderous,” Chibs tells him one afternoon.
Happy grunts from his place against the garage wall.
Across the lot, you’re talking to Juice while trying to fix the chain on your bike.
You laugh at something Juice says.
Then, without hesitation, Juice reaches over and brushes grease off your cheek with his thumb.
Your expression changes instantly.
Tiny.
But Happy sees it.
That brief startled softness.
That unconscious leaning in.
Like affection catches you off guard every time.
Happy’s jaw tightens hard enough to ache.
Chibs follows his line of sight.
“Oh,” he says slowly.
Happy says nothing.
Chibs watches you another moment before looking back at him.
“She doesn’t get looked after much, does she?”
That lands harder than it should.
Because no.
You don’t.
You’re independent to a fault. Self-sufficient. Careful not to ask for too much from anyone.
But sometimes Happy catches this look on your face when someone’s gentle with you.
Like you’re surprised kindness exists.
And that makes something ugly and protective wake up inside him.
The first deliberate touch happens by accident.
At least, that’s what Happy tells himself.
You’re sitting at the bar in the clubhouse late one night, exhaustion written all over you.
Everyone else has mostly cleared out.
Just you, Happy, and the low hum of old rock music from the speakers.
You look tired.
Not physically.
Something deeper.
Your eyes are distant, fingers curled loosely around a drink you stopped sipping ten minutes ago.
Happy watches you quietly.
“You alright?”
You blink like you forgot he was there.
Then immediately smile.
Automatic.
Too fast.
“Yeah.”
Lie.
Happy knows lies.
You stare down into your drink again.
“Just a long day.”
He grunts softly.
Silence stretches.
Then, before he fully thinks it through, Happy reaches out.
Hooks two fingers lightly around your wrist.
That’s all.
Barely anything.
But your entire body stills.
Your eyes lift slowly to his face.
Happy suddenly becomes hyperaware of what he’s doing.
Could pull away.
Probably should.
Instead, his thumb brushes once against the inside of your wrist.
Gentle.
Careful.
You inhale sharply.
Not scared.
Worse.
Your expression softens so suddenly it almost hurts to look at.
Like no one’s touched you gently in years.
Happy feels something in his chest cave inward.
“Jesus,” he mutters quietly.
You blink. “What?”
His eyes stay on your face.
“You're touch-starved.”
Mortification floods your expression instantly.
“Oh my god.”
Happy actually looks offended on your behalf.
“Who the hell ain’t holdin’ you enough?”
You let out a startled laugh despite yourself, covering your face with your free hand.
“That is not something you can just say to a person.”
“It’s true.”
“You figured that out from touching my wrist for two seconds?!”
Happy shrugs.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Because if Happy noticed?
Oh, something was deeply wrong.
You groan into your hands. “I’m never recovering from this conversation.”
Happy’s thumb moves against your wrist again unconsciously.
“No wonder you’re always hoverin’ around people.”
You peek at him through your fingers.
“…I do not hover.”
“You absolutely hover.”
“I’m a friendly person.”
“You look like a stray cat hopin’ somebody’ll pet it.”
You stare at him in betrayal.
Happy stares back calmly.
Then:
“C’mere.”
Your stomach flips.
“What?”
“C’mere.”
His voice is quieter this time.
You hesitate only a second before sliding off the stool toward him.
Happy immediately pulls you between his knees like he’s done it a thousand times.
One arm wraps around your waist automatically.
Solid.
Warm.
Safe.
And then—
Then this large, terrifying man with more ink than bare skin, and violence in his bones just… holds you.
No expectations.
No teasing.
No smugness.
Just steady pressure and a rough hand and warmth.
Your brain completely short-circuits.
Because it’s embarrassing how fast your body reacts.
Every muscle unclenches at once.
A shaky breath leaves your lungs before you can stop it.
Happy notices.
Of course he notices.
His arm tightens slightly.
“There she is,” he murmurs.
You could actually die right here.
You bury your face against his shoulder immediately.
“Don’t talk to me.”
A low rumble of laughter vibrates through his chest.
It’s rare enough that you freeze.
Happy laughs again, quieter this time.
And then—
His hand slides slowly up your back.
Not sexual.
Not possessive.
Just soothing.
You might genuinely cry.
Which is humiliating.
Happy seems to realize that too because his movements soften instantly.
“S’alright,” he says quietly.
That does not help.
That makes it so much worse.
Your arms slide around him before you can stop yourself.
Clinging a little.
Happy goes completely still for half a second.
Then his other arm comes around you too.
Firm.
Protective.
Like he’s locking you into place.
And the horrifying thing?
You’ve never felt safer in your life.
After that, Happy becomes unbearable.
Because now he knows.
And apparently decides this is a problem he can fix personally.
You’re cold? Happy’s hand settles on the back of your neck.
You’re stressed? He pulls you against his chest without a word.
You fall asleep during a run to Tacoma? You wake up with your head in his lap and one massive hand absently carding through your hair in the back of the truck.
It becomes constant.
Subtle touches.
Knuckles brushing yours. Hands on your waist guiding you through crowded rooms. His thumb rubbing slow circles into your shoulder while you sit beside him.
And every single time, your body betrays you immediately.
Melting into him.
Relaxing on instinct.
Happy watches it happen with increasingly visible satisfaction.
“You purr and I’m puttin’ a collar on ya,” Tig says one afternoon.
“Shut the fuck up,” you mumble from where your head rests on Happy’s shoulder.
Happy, the traitor, actually looks like he’s considering it.
The worst part is how gentle he gets with you.
Nobody warns you about that part of Happy.
Everyone talks about how violent he is.
How dangerous.
Nobody mentions the terrifying tenderness hidden underneath all that brutality.
The way he touches you like he’s afraid of being too rough. The way he checks your expression constantly. The way he pulls you closer anytime you seem even slightly upset.
Like he’s learning your body by instinct alone.
And the thing is—
Happy doesn’t even realize how affectionate he’s become.
One night you’re half asleep on the clubhouse couch when you feel fingers brushing lightly through your hair.
You blink awake slowly.
Happy’s sitting beside you.
Watching TV.
Completely calm.
Still playing absently with your hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You stare at him.
“…Happy.”
“Hm?”
“You’re petting me.”
A pause.
Then:
“Yeah.”
No embarrassment.
No hesitation.
Just yeah.
Your heart basically folds in on itself.
“You are such a weird friend.”
His hand slides to the back of your neck, warm and heavy.
“You like it.”
You smile helplessly into his shoulder.
Unfortunately.
You really, really do.
Happy gets dramatically worse once you start dating.
Not better.
Not smoother.
Definitely not normal.
Worse.
Because before, there had at least been some restraint. Tiny amounts. Barely measurable. But technically present.
Now?
Now you were officially his.
And apparently that meant Happy Lowman treated physical affection like a full-time occupation.
The first morning after you officially become a couple, you wake up confused because you physically cannot move.
At all.
You blink sleepily at the ceiling for several long seconds before realizing why.
Happy is wrapped around you like a human seatbelt.
One arm under your neck.
The other locked around your waist.
One leg hooked over yours.
You are fully trapped.
You shift slightly.
The arm around your waist tightens instantly.
A low grumble sounds against your neck.
“Don’t.”
Your stomach flips stupidly.
“You’re crushing me.”
“Mm.”
No movement whatsoever accompanies this acknowledgment.
You try to turn your head enough to look at him.
“Happy.”
He’s awake.
You can tell immediately.
Even with his face buried in your shoulder, even half asleep, there’s still awareness in him. Always alert. Always tracking.
But his voice is rough with sleep when he mutters:
“Stay here.”
It comes out quiet.
Not demanding.
Not controlling.
Just… wanting.
Like he genuinely can’t think of anywhere better for you to be.
Your heart immediately betrays you.
“Oh, you’re dangerous when you’re sleepy,” you murmur.
Happy presses his face further into your neck in response.
Which is not an answer.
It’s also unfairly adorable.
You make a soft sound despite yourself, and suddenly his hand slides slowly up your stomach like he’s checking you’re still there.
“You real clingy for a guy who pretends he hates everybody,” you tease gently.
“Do hate everybody.”
“And me?”
A pause.
Then, without hesitation:
“Different.”
Jesus Christ.
You stare at the ceiling trying to recover from that.
Happy, meanwhile, seems perfectly content now that you’ve stopped attempting escape.
The bastard even sighs happily.
Actually happy.
You’re doomed.
The touching somehow escalates from there.
You genuinely don’t understand how.
Happy already touched you constantly before you dated.
Now he acts like prolonged physical contact is medically necessary.
You’re beginning to suspect he spent years touch-starved too and simply hadn’t realized until your relationship unlocked something deeply embarrassing in both of you.
Because this man cannot keep his hands off you anymore.
Not sexually, even.
Just constantly.
Possessively.
Tenderly.
You’re cooking? Happy’s leaning against the counter with one hand hooked into your belt loop.
Walking through crowded spaces? His palm settles automatically on your lower back.
Sitting beside each other? One of his hands is on your thigh within thirty seconds or he apparently starts dying.
At one point you’re literally brushing your teeth when Happy wanders into the bathroom half asleep, wraps both arms around your waist from behind, and just stands there.
Silent.
Eyes closed.
Holding you.
You stare at him through the mirror, toothbrush still hanging out of your mouth.
“...You good?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why are you standing here like a haunted weighted blanket?”
Happy only tightens his arms.
“You’re warm.”
Your soul leaves your body immediately.
The guys at SAMCRO are relentless about it.
Mostly because Happy—the same terrifying man who once stabbed someone with a barbecue fork during a disagreement—now follows you around like you personally hung the moon.
“Ye created a monster,” Chibs informs you one afternoon.
Happy’s sitting beside you on the clubhouse couch, one massive arm draped across the back behind your shoulders while you read.
Without looking up, Happy hooks two fingers through one of your belt loops and tugs you closer absentmindedly.
You slide against his side automatically.
Neither of you even seem to notice you’ve done it.
Chibs looks deeply disturbed.
“He was emotionally constipated before,” he says. “Now the bastard’s domesticated.”
Happy flips him off without lifting his head from your shoulder.
Honestly, you don’t fully realize how bad it’s gotten until Lyla points it out.
“You know he watches you constantly, right?”
You glance up from your drink. “What?”
Lyla tilts her head subtly across the clubhouse.
Happy’s across the room talking to Jax.
Well..
'Talking.'
Mostly glaring while Jax speaks.
But the second you look over, Happy’s eyes shift immediately toward you like he felt it.
Instantly softer.
Your stomach flips.
Then he does something even worse.
He holds his hand out toward you without breaking conversation.
Just reaches blindly in your direction with complete confidence you’ll come to him.
You stare.
Lyla starts laughing.
“Oh my god, you do it automatically.”
And horrifyingly enough?
You do.
Your body moves before your brain catches up.
You cross the room and slide directly into his space while Happy’s hand settles immediately on your hip like this was always the intended outcome.
Jax watches the entire thing happen with visible amusement.
“That’s actually disgusting,” he says.
Happy ignores him completely.
Too busy absently rubbing his thumb against your side.
You look up at him. “You summoned me.”
His gaze drops to your face instantly.
“Yeah.”
“That’s insane behavior.”
A shrug.
“You came over.”
You open your mouth.
Close it again.
Because unfortunately he’s right.
The worst incident happens five months into dating.
You’re exhausted.
Absolutely dead on your feet after a brutal week.
Happy notices immediately, of course, because he notices everything about you.
“You’re tired,” he says the second you walk into his room at the clubhouse.
You drop face-first onto the bed with a groan. “I’m actually dying.”
A moment later the mattress shifts under his weight.
Then rough hands slide under you without warning.
You squeak as Happy physically lifts you into his lap like you weigh nothing.
“Happy—”
“Shh.”
And then—
The giant terrifying biker hitman proceeds to manhandle you against his chest and wrap himself around you completely.
One hand in your hair.
The other rubbing slowly up and down your spine.
You melt instantly.
Actually melt.
Every coherent thought exits your body.
Happy notices immediately.
A smugness enters the room so powerful it’s almost visible.
“Told you,” he mutters against your temple.
“Told me what?”
“You like gettin’ held.”
You grumble something incoherent into his neck.
His chest vibrates with quiet laughter.
“You’re cute when you’re sleepy.”
Your head lifts immediately. “I have literally never said anything that embarrassing to you in my life.”
Happy grins.
Actually grins.
Sharp and rare and devastating.
Then he kisses your forehead.
Like it’s nothing.
Like he does it every day.
Maybe he does.
You’ve lost track at this point.
All you know is that this terrifying man who once scared you senseless now treats you like something precious.
Like touching you is instinct.
Like loving you is the easiest thing he’s ever done.
And you’re pretty sure you’d let Happy Lowman hold you forever if he asked.
a/n: NAVYYY! My goodness, do I need him too kdslsjk I can always trust you to fuel my love for this man like no other 😌🙏🏼Wanted something extra sweet so enjoy this little idea!! THANKS MOTHER ILY!!
» curious about both fall and winter specials this year? come & check out this year's 'reve's quirky reverie' m.list! ❄️'!
Imagine how beat Raymond is, having done Mickey's dirty work as usual, but is unable to take his eyes off you as his head remains lolled to the side as it perches on the headrest of the couch.
Watching you whip up some good quality hot chocolate on the stove—not even the finest cafés could make it as good as you—after convincing him to stay put and relax. He's a little more refreshed after a good shower, and fuck, if he didn't want to wrap his arms around you from behind so badly—
But, for you, he remains seated like the good boy he was, a dumb smile already gracing his lips upon imagining the big smile on your face after seeing him still melted on the couch like you had asked him to.
The thoughts he had of you while he worked his ass off at work couldn't hold a candle to seeing you just a few feet away now. Making sure he was as snug as a bug from the chilly weather like he hadn't killed a man point-blank hours ago.
While he knew you could handle a drop of blood or two, he didn't take the risk, washing the crimson fluid off as soon as he came home to ensure not even a speck stained your skin.
Now, there he sat, waiting for his beloved, though he'd be lying to say he did it patiently.
You can see how he visibly perks up as soon as you turn around, approaching with two hot mugs topped with a generous dollop of chantilly cream, making it almost as sweet as you.
His arms are already open, helping you with the mugs before tugging you to the couch with him.
It's that sweet giggle of yours that has his hold tightening around you.
You know he pretends not to hear you when you playfully tell him to let you breathe. His eyes already fluttering shut, despite putting his lips to work, covering the spot between your neck and shoulder with kisses, tickling you with his beard on purpose.
You can feel the cheeky smile against your skin as you wriggle and laugh against him. He only grants you mercy when you reach for the mug, his mug, to offer to him. He relents, smiling over the rim of the glass as you maintain cheeky eye contact.
Even after a satisfying fill of warm chocolate, he wants another fill of something sweeter, more satisfying in every way especially after the day he’s had as he watches you place your mug back on the coffee table before pulling you with him as he lay on the couch, snuggling you like he wants—needs to keep you warm like you do him.
Always.
˚ · . f i n . · ˚
a/n: Considering this as the first winter bonus for Quirky Reverie because why not!!
Summary: Your date night with Ray gets interrupted. But he comes home to find that you waited for him.
Warnings: Fluff, Ray being whipped, kisses, talk of moving in together!
Somewhere between the first and second Legally Blonde movies, your eyelids had grown heavier — more effort to keep open than to let them fall. Wrapped in a blanket on Ray’s plush leather couch, you patiently waited for him to return home.
On a rare night off work, he had invited you over — a bottle of wine, flickering candles, and the soft hum of his record player. But one call from Bunny had him rushing out the door, though not before he pressed a kiss to your lips, apologized again, and handed you his credit card to order dinner for yourself.
You did end up ordering dinner, and a meal for Ray in case he came back soon. Even though he hadn’t, you didn’t want to waste the chance to spend a night with him when your busy schedules often made it impossible. So you waited.
And you were glad you stayed, especially when you slowly stirred awake as you felt something warm brush along your check and down to your jaw. Your eyes fluttered open to see Ray standing above you, his expression soft.
“Hi,” you whispered, sleep still wrapped around your voice. You leaned into his hand cupping your face, pressing your lips to the inside of his thumb.
“Hello, love,” Ray said in that deep, whisky-coated tone of his. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting all night. Did you eat?”
Nodding, you gave a quiet hum. “Got you dinner too. It’s in the fridge.”
If you could have, you would’ve taken a picture of Ray when you said that. Instead, you just tried to memorize the way his lips parted, how any remnants of tension left his face. How he looked at you like he never wanted to be apart from you again.
You knew he felt that way, even if he didn’t profess it. He said it by thanking you and ushering you toward his bedroom, insisting that the couch was no place for you to sleep. He said it by keeping the blanket wrapped around your shoulders while you brushed your teeth next to him. And by the way he shook his head with a grin when you told him you weren’t tired anymore.
“You’ll be tired in the morning, love,” he warned even as he walked with you toward the kitchen, already heating up the kettle without you asking.
You trailed after him, still in your blanket. “‘s worth it. I want to-” a long yawn escaped your mouth, “spend time with you.”
You smiled at Ray as his hands found your waist and helped you jump up onto the kitchen counter. Your feet swung back and forth, your head coming to rest on his chest. You rocked up and down with his smooth breaths. “How was your night?” you asked, your lips brushing against his soft cardigan with each word. He must have changed before waking you up.
You felt the rumble of the hum he let out, the vibration making your eyes blink a little slower. “Fine. Bloody annoyed it took me away from you.”
You giggled. “You big softy.”
Your laughter turned into a yelp when Ray gently pinched your side. You went to swat at his chest, but he caught your hand in his. He brought it up inch by inch to his mouth, his bright eyes holding your gaze the whole time.
His lips kissed each of your knuckles, the back of your hand, then up your forearm, along your bicep, across your shoulder, and up your neck until your breaths came in uneven gasps.
The kettle began to whistle just as his mouth reached your jaw. A whine escaped your parted lips when he left you to take the kettle off, the absence of his warmth causing a shiver to run up your spine.
Gnawing on your bottom lip, you watched as Ray made two cups of tea — one just how you liked it. You took your cup from his outstretched hand, blowing on the tea before taking a sip.
A satisfied hum left your mouth, a grin spreading across your face. “I missed you.”
Setting his cup down, Ray returned to his spot in front of you with a sweet smile. He brushed a thumb across the arch of your eyebrow as he said, “Move in with me.”
You paused, sure your sleepy brain heard him wrong. Staring up at him, eyebrows furrowed, you asked, “What?”
Ray grabbed the cup from your hands, placing it onto the counter. Curling his fingers along your jaw, his gaze looking at you and only you, he repeated those words. “Move in with me.”
You swore you melted right then and there under his attention. Your mouth turned dry, your tongue coming out to wet your lips. All you could muster was, “Okay.”
A growing smile crossed Ray’s face, his eyes crinkling beneath his glasses. “Yeah?”
His fingers pressed harder, pulling you closer to him. Only once he laid a kiss to your forehead did his words begin to sink in. “Yes, of course!”
You leapt forward off the counter and practically on top of Ray. He barely moved an inch, just wrapped you into a hug.
He chuckled. “You almost knocked over your tea, love.”
You gave a contented sigh, too caught up in the idea of moving in together to care about the tea. “You would have made me another,” you whispered. Your mind was already running with a million ideas — all revolving around the man you loved.
Ray gave your butt a soft smack before saying, “Come on, let’s get to bed. It’s been a long night without lying next to you.”
“Our bed,” you corrected, your mouth curved in a huge smile as you cleaned up the tea. You grabbed Ray’s hand and pulled him toward the bedroom, finding that your date night hadn’t turned out all that bad.
weird random little idea I had bc in my brain Frank castle would be a big huge mushy bear at night after a construction shift ☹️
contains Frank castle x reader, nothing but fluff, bedtime stuff
Frank apparently took a little bit of overtime at work.
A little, meaning; he’s regularly home by six, latest. Tonight, you hear his apartment key twist in the lock at ten.
You knew how hard of a worker he was. Part of you wish that he was less so. Or maybe, that he had atleast given you a heads up. A, hey, don’t make me a plate at dinner. Or even a, I’ll be home late, don’t wait up.
You don’t wait up anyways. You went to bed even earlier than you regularly would, pettily, but feeling some kind of victory at punishing Frank. Denying him the loving gesture of staying up late on the couch, waiting to see him.
So, no. When Frank comes back to the apartment, even though you’re conscious enough to register his arrival, you don’t get out from under the covers and kiss him hello. You lay, listening through the darkness as his boots thunk on the hardwood— mentally, you scold him for dragging in dirt. A pause, then the sound of his footsteps lightens, work boots discarded.
You stay in the pantomime of sleeping even as he opens the bedroom door, the faint light from the kitchen bleeding through your closed lids. You listen to the sound of fabric rustling, him undressing and undoubtedly tossing the work clothes in the hamper; the pad of his bare feet towards the attached bathroom. The shower turns on. Maybe five minutes later, off. Again, footsteps.
There’s the sound of his soft grunts breaking through the silence. He must be sore. Tired— no, exhausted.
Your anger has grown a twin feeling, some kind of guilt by the time that his weight dips the other side of the mattress. The feeling only worsens as Frank shifts closer, his warmth against your back, and throws a burly, heavy arm over your midsection.
Still, you don’t say anything. Two things can coexist. Your frustration, and his exhaustion.
To your quiet groan (unfortunately telling to the fact that you’re awake,) that arm over your middle tugs, just enough force to pull you into him. Tight. You feel Frank’s nose nudge the crook of your neck. Can hear the breath inward he takes, in no rush to mumble, almost indistinct, “Sweet girl.”
You don’t make a peep. You have a feeling it’s petty. Still, his beard scratches the skin of your neck exposed by your pajama, as he lays down an unhurried kiss. “Know you’re awake,” he rasps after a long few moments.
You make a disagreeing sound, like he’s bothering your rest. In reality, you feel about twenty times better lying against him. His skin is warm from the shower, his hair damp against your jaw, and one large hand is lying over your stomach. Not rubbing, not grabbing. Just holding.
“..M’sorry.” Frank murmurs after a longer pause. Noses at the skin behind your ear before evidently deciding not to push you, laying his head on your pillow. The bridge of his nose fits against the crown of your head, and you can feel his sigh against your hair. “I’m late. Should’ve given you a heads up.”
“Mhm,” you hum. That hand on your stomach sneaks under your pajama shirt, without suggestion. His palm, calloused and strong, just scrapes upward slightly, thumb in line with your sternum. You’d be a liar to say you didn’t appreciate Frank’s touch, his constantly reaching hands. The facade of anger was getting increasingly hard to keep up.
“Y’know I’m sorry, baby.” Frank mumbles, voice all quiet and close in that way of his. “Please. S’been a fuckin’ day.” You feel him shift and there’s another kiss, now to your nape. His beard is damp against the skin there.
You inhale, deep and slow. He smells distinctly like soap. “You suck, a little.”
A sound somewhat like a huff of amusement leaves Frank. “I know.”
With the plan in mind to thoroughly scold him in the morning when you weren’t so eager to let yourself fall asleep, warm against his chest, you resolve to give your man a break. You shift, laying a hand on his forearm over your waist. Peering over your shoulder and squinting through the dark, you find him already staring at you with those tired, almond eyes. There’s a ghost of a smile in the creases in his face.
“..Hey there.”
“Hi.” You mumble in reply. That almost-smile develops into a real one, however unexaggerated. You watch him push up onto the arm not over you, and lean over to plant a gentle kiss onto your cheekbone. Why would you bite back the soft sound of appreciation that comes from your throat? There wasn’t any hiding from Frank.
He probably knew that you’d forgiven him already, anyway.
“I missed you. Y’know that?” The admission comes natural, looking up at him. He nods, barely.
“Missed you, lady.” His voice stays low, softer than anyone would think a man as hard as he was would be capable of. He squints, brows drawing as he shakes his head in some strange kind of disbelief, “Been waiting for this all day.”
“For what?”
Frank settles back down behind you, arm tugging you ever closer into him. His body is like a furnace; he’s very lucky that the AC is cranked up, because otherwise he’d be banished to the other side of the bed. For now, he gets to sigh against the baby hairs at the back of your neck, and get your pillow wet with shower-damp hair (meanwhile, his own pillow is perfectly functional and available.)
His eventual response makes you smile, eyes closing with satisfaction, “Sleeping with my woman.”
Creeper is in love with you. That's just a fact of his life.
Creeper would rather be in a shoot out than tell you. That's another fact of his life.
Unfortunately for him, Coco is a little shit.
Neron Vargas was in love with you.
That was simply a fact of his life, as unavoidable and permanent as the tattoos on his skin or the ache in his knee when the weather turned bad.
He had not meant for it to happen. In fact, he had done everything in his power to prevent it. He had kept his distance. He had spoken to you with the careful politeness of a man handling something fragile. He had convinced himself that admiration was harmless, that protectiveness was natural, that the way his chest tightened whenever you laughed was merely a passing inconvenience.
It had been three years.
At some point, a passing inconvenience had become a permanent condition.
You were twenty-four, bright and quick and warm in a way that made people instinctively gravitate toward you. You had started coming around the clubhouse because your cousin worked at the auto shop next door, and before long you had become a familiar presence: helping organize charity events, bringing coffee when everyone was too busy to remember they were human, laughing with Letty and teasing Coco when he got dramatic.
You treated Creeper with the same easy kindness you offered everyone else.
That was the problem.
Because Creeper was forty-five years old, and a patched member of the Mayans, and a man who had seen enough violence to know better than to put his heart somewhere it could be damaged so easily. He should have known better than to let himself care about someone whose life was still wide open with possibility.
Instead, he had fallen in love with you quietly and completely.
And he would rather be in a shootout than tell you.
That was another fact of his life.
Unfortunately for him, Johnny Cruz was a little shit.
The first time Coco said something, Creeper nearly drove his fist through the bar.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, hot enough that the air outside shimmered above the pavement. You were at the counter sorting donation receipts into neat stacks while Creeper sat at one of the tables pretending to read over inventory numbers.
He was not reading inventory numbers.
He was watching the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear when you concentrated.
Coco sauntered past him, took one look at his face, and grinned with the malicious delight of a man who had just found a loaded weapon lying unattended on the ground.
“You know,” Coco said loudly, “if you stare at her any harder, you’re gonna set her on fire.”
Creeper didn’t look up. “Shut up.”
You glanced over from the counter. “What?”
“Nothing,” Creeper said immediately.
Coco leaned against the counter beside you. “I was just saying Creeper here has been real interested in office supplies lately.”
You laughed. “Wow. Didn’t know filing receipts could be so fascinating.”
Creeper finally looked up, fixing Coco with a stare that should have reduced him to ash.
Coco only grinned wider. “I’m serious. Ask him about your favorite color. He knows it.”
You blinked. “My favorite color?”
Creeper muttered, “Blue.”
You turned toward him, surprised. “It is blue.”
Coco slapped the counter. “See? This man is paying attention.”
Creeper stood up so abruptly his chair scraped across the floor. “I’m going outside.”
“Coward,” Coco called after him.
Creeper heard your laugh behind him, light and genuine, and somehow that made the humiliation worse.
Outside, he leaned against the wall of the clubhouse and lit a cigarette with hands that were steadier than he felt.
Coco followed him out a minute later, still grinning.
“You’re gonna kill me one day,” Creeper said.
“Probably,” Coco agreed. “But not today, because today I’m helping you.”
“You’re not helping me.”
“Brother, you’ve been in love with her so long the whole charter knows except her.”
Creeper took a drag and looked away.
Coco’s expression softened just a fraction. “She likes you, too.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is exactly the point.”
Creeper shook his head. “She deserves someone with less… baggage.”
Coco barked out a laugh. “You’re a Mayan, Neron. We all got baggage. Some of us got whole airport terminals.”
Coco clapped him on the shoulder. “See? That’s the problem.”
The next Saturday, Coco somehow convinced you and Creeper to help with a supply run for a community barbecue.
“Why can’t you go yourself?” you asked as you loaded bags of charcoal into the truck bed.
“Because I’m busy,” Coco said.
“With what?”
“Important motorcycle club business.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re wearing flip-flops.”
“Exactly. It’s casual business.”
Creeper knew a setup when he saw one. “Coco.”
“Relax,” Coco said. “You two are just picking up food. How dangerous could it be?”
Creeper gave him a flat look.
“Okay,” Coco amended, “how emotionally dangerous could it be?”
“Coco,” you said, laughing despite yourself.
He waved you both toward the truck. “Go. Bond over condiments.”
The drive to the grocery store was quiet at first, but not uncomfortable. You sat in the passenger seat with the shopping list in your lap, occasionally reading items aloud while Creeper drove.
“Hot dog buns,” you said. “Hamburger buns. Chips. Water. Napkins.”
He nodded. “Got it.”
“And apparently twelve pounds of onions.”
“That sounds like Coco.”
You smiled. “It does, doesn’t it?”
At the store, you moved through the aisles together, dividing the list between you. Creeper carried the heavier items without being asked. When you reached for a case of water, he took it from your hands automatically.
“I can carry that,” you said.
“I know,” he replied. “I still got it.”
You watched him for a moment, something thoughtful passing across your face.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re always looking out for people.”
He shrugged. “Part of the job.”
“No,” you said softly. “I mean with everyone. You pay attention.”
Creeper felt his throat tighten. “Sometimes.”
You smiled and returned to the shopping list, but he carried your words with him through the rest of the store.
In the checkout line, an older woman behind you smiled at the two of you.
“You make a lovely couple,” she said.
You laughed. “Oh, we’re not—”
“Thank you,” Creeper said at the same time.
You both froze.
The woman beamed. “Well, you’re very welcome.”
Creeper stared straight ahead while you bit back a smile.
When you reached the truck, you said gently, “That was smooth.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.” Your eyes were warm with amusement. “It was kind of sweet.”
Creeper looked at you then, really looked at you, and for one dangerous second he almost told you everything.
Then Coco called his phone.
“You two married yet?” Coco asked as soon as he answered.
Creeper hung up on him.
The barbecue was held in a small park near the community center. Music played from portable speakers while families gathered around folding tables covered in food.
You moved through the crowd with a tray of drinks, stopping to chat with parents and hand juice boxes to children. Creeper found himself watching you from near the grill, his expression softening every time someone smiled because of something you had said.
Coco noticed.
“Jesus Christ,” Coco muttered. “You look like a man watching his first sunrise.”
“Mind your business.”
“My business is entertainment, and you are currently the best show in Santo Padre.”
Creeper turned a burger with more force than necessary.
Coco leaned closer. “You know she’s been asking about you, right?”
Creeper looked up sharply. “What?”
“She asked if you were okay after that run to Stockton last month. Said you looked tired.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means she noticed.”
Before Creeper could respond, you approached the grill.
“Need help?” you asked.
“I’m good,” Creeper said.
You looked at the row of burgers. “That is definitely not true. Those are getting aggressive.”
Coco burst out laughing. “Aggressive burgers. I’m stealing that.”
You stepped beside Creeper and reached for the spatula. “Move over, Vargas. Let me save lunch.”
He handed it to you, and your fingers brushed his.
It was a small touch, brief and accidental, but it sent a sharp current through him.
You focused on the grill, unaware of the chaos you had caused. “There. Less aggressive.”
Creeper watched the profile of your face, the concentration in your eyes, the way the afternoon light caught the curve of your smile.
“You’re good at this,” he said before he could stop himself.
You glanced at him. “At cooking?”
“At making people feel comfortable.”
Your expression softened. “That’s a nice thing to say.”
Coco made a gagging noise loud enough for both of you to hear.
You laughed. Creeper glared.
Later, as the sun began to set, Coco gathered a few club members near one of the tables and announced, “I’d like to make a toast.”
“Oh no,” Creeper muttered.
Coco raised a paper cup. “To community, good food, and to Creeper finally admitting he’s hopelessly in love with—”
Creeper lunged across the table and clapped a hand over Coco’s mouth.
The entire group went silent.
You stared at them from a few feet away, holding a stack of plates.
Coco’s eyes danced with triumph above Creeper’s hand.
Creeper removed his hand slowly. “Don’t.”
Coco swallowed and said, with exaggerated innocence, “I was gonna say ‘in love with this barbecue sauce.’”
Nobody believed him.
Least of all you.
After the barbecue ended and the park had mostly emptied, you found Creeper near the truck loading the last of the supplies.
“Can I ask you something?” you said.
He looked up. “Yeah.”
You hesitated. “What was that about with Coco earlier?”
Creeper considered lying.
He was very good at lying when it protected other people.
But you were looking at him with such open curiosity that the lie died before it reached his mouth.
“He talks too much,” Creeper said carefully.
“That is definitely true,” you said. “But he seemed to think he was teasing you about something specific.”
Creeper closed the tailgate and leaned against it.
The evening air had cooled, carrying the scent of charcoal and cut grass. Somewhere in the distance, children were still laughing.
He looked at you and thought, Here it is. This is the shootout.
“I care about you,” he said.
Your expression softened immediately. “I care about you, too.”
He nodded. “I know. But what I mean is…”
The words caught in his throat.
You waited.
Creeper laughed once, quiet and self-deprecating. “See? I can face down a gun and this is what gets me.”
Your brows drew together with concern. “Neron.”
Hearing his first name from you nearly undid him.
He took a breath.
“I’m in love with you,” he said.
The world went very still.
Creeper felt the aftermath of the confession move through him like a shockwave: relief, terror, vulnerability, and the strange emptiness that came from finally setting down a burden he had carried for years.
You looked at him with wide eyes.
“I didn’t plan to tell you,” he admitted. “Not like this. Not ever really. Definitely not because Coco can’t keep his mouth shut.”
A laugh escaped you then, startled and breathless.
“He really is a little shit,” you said.
Creeper smiled despite himself. “The worst.”
You stepped closer.
“I need to ask you something,” you said softly.
“Anything.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
He looked away toward the darkening park.
“Because I’m forty-five,” he said. “Because I’m a patched member of a motorcycle club. Because I’ve lived a life that’s left marks on me, inside and out. And because you’re twenty-four and deserve a chance at a life that isn’t complicated by all of this.”
You were quiet for a moment.
Then you said, “Do you know what I deserve?”
Creeper looked back at you.
“I deserve the chance to decide what I want,” you said. “And what I want is to be with someone who sees me, who protects me without making me feel small, who listens when I speak and remembers my favorite color and carries the heavy things because he wants to help, not because he thinks I’m incapable.”
Creeper’s chest tightened painfully.
“You deserve better than me,” he said.
You smiled gently. “That’s not your decision to make.”
You reached out and took his hand.
Creeper stared at your fingers wrapped around his, as if he couldn’t quite believe they were there.
“I’ve liked you for a long time,” you admitted. “I just didn’t think you could possibly feel the same way.”
He let out a disbelieving laugh. “I’ve been in love with you for years.”
“Well,” you said, smiling wider now, “that makes Coco’s teasing make a lot more sense.”
Creeper shook his head. “I’m gonna kill him.”
“Maybe thank him first,” you suggested.
He considered this. “I can do both.”
You laughed, and the sound was so beautiful that he felt the last of his fear dissolve.
Creeper lifted his free hand to your face, giving you every chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
His thumb brushed your cheek.
“You sure?” he asked quietly.
You nodded. “I’m sure.”
Then he kissed you.
It was gentle at first, careful in the way only a man with too much feeling and too much restraint could be careful. But when you kissed him back, his hand settled against your waist and the kiss deepened into something warm and steady and real.
When you pulled apart, you were both smiling.
“Hi,” you whispered.
“Hi,” Creeper replied.
You rested your forehead against his chest. “So what happens now?”
Creeper wrapped his arms around you, holding you as though he had been waiting his whole life to do it.
“Now,” he said, “I stop pretending I’m not crazy about you.”
The next afternoon, you and Creeper walked into the clubhouse together.
Conversation stopped.
Coco looked up from the bar, saw your joined hands, and slowly stood.
“No,” Creeper said immediately.
Coco raised both hands. “I haven’t said anything yet.”
“Don’t.”
Coco looked at you. “Did he finally tell you?”
You smiled. “He did.”
Coco pressed a hand to his heart. “I did it. I brought two people together.”
“You almost got strangled,” Angel pointed out.
“A small price to pay for romance.”
Creeper shook his head, but there was no heat in it.
You squeezed his hand. “Maybe don’t kill him today.”
Coco grinned. “See? She’s already improving you.”
Creeper looked down at you, his expression softening in a way that made the room collectively groan.
You arrive at the scrapyard covered in blood. Every Mayan is ready for war..until you quietly admit none of it is yours.
Creeper still insists on checking every inch of you for injuries.
The scrapyard went silent.
Not quieter. Not subdued.
Silent.
The familiar soundtrack of grinders whining against rusted steel, laughter echoing across stacks of stripped engines, Rat barking at Bottles over some completely pointless argument, Angel revving a bike just because he liked the sound of it—all of it stopped the exact second you stepped through the front gate.
You looked like you'd crawled out of a massacre.
Your jeans were soaked dark from the knees down. Your hands were crimson. There were streaks of drying blood across your throat, your cheek, your hairline, splattered across the front of your old hoodie until it was impossible to tell what color the fabric had originally been, and even your boots left faint bloody prints against the cracked concrete as you walked.
Every single Mayan froze.
Bishop looked up from the table he'd been leaning against.
Hank slowly lowered the wrench he'd been holding.
Gilly muttered a quiet, "...Jesus."
Even Coco, who usually had a joke ready before common sense, simply stared.
Then chairs scraped.
Metal clanged.
Someone reached for a shotgun.
Someone else grabbed an axe.
The atmosphere transformed in less than three seconds from a lazy afternoon into the opening moments of a war.
"Who?" Bishop asked, already moving toward you.
His voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
The question hung in the air like a death sentence.
Who did this?
Who needed killing?
Before you could answer, Creeper appeared.
He'd been around the back with EZ, sorting parts from a wrecked truck, and the second he'd heard the silence—the unnatural, impossible silence—he'd come around the corner.
Then he saw you.
Everything inside him stopped.
His heart.
His lungs.
His thoughts.
All he could see was blood.
So much blood.
On your face. Your hands. Your clothes. Your neck.
You were standing upright, somehow, but his brain immediately supplied a dozen catastrophic explanations anyway.
Gunshot. Knife wound. Internal bleeding. Head trauma.
He was moving before he realized he'd started.
The distance between you disappeared in seconds.
"Baby."
His voice cracked.
Actually cracked.
He reached you so quickly he nearly collided with you, both hands immediately grabbing your shoulders with just enough pressure to steady you without hurting you, his eyes frantically scanning every visible inch of your body.
"What happened?"
You blinked.
"...Hi?"
"Nena."
He wasn't smiling.
Wasn't teasing.
He looked terrified.
"What happened?"
Behind him, Bishop's voice rang out.
"Get the bikes."
Immediately.
No hesitation.
Mayans scattered in every direction.
Keys appeared.
Engines started.
Weapons were pulled from storage.
Hank disappeared into the clubhouse and returned carrying two rifles.
Angel was already stuffing magazines into his kutte pockets.
Coco slammed a pistol onto the table before checking another.
EZ yelled, "WHO ARE WE KILLING?"
"No idea yet!"
"GOOD ENOUGH."
You frowned.
"...Guys?"
No one heard you.
Or maybe they did.
They just didn't care until someone had names.
Creeper was still staring at you like you might collapse at any second.
"I need you to talk to me."
"I am talking."
"Not enough."
"I—"
"What hurts?"
"...Nothing?"
He frowned harder.
"What do you mean, nothing?"
"I mean..."
You looked down at yourself.
"...nothing hurts?"
He looked like he physically didn't believe you.
His hands moved automatically. One slid carefully to the side of your neck. The other checked your shoulder. Then your arms.
His fingers searched gently, methodically, pressing lightly through the soaked fabric while watching your face for even the smallest flinch.
Years around violence had taught him something important.
People lied.
Especially when they were hurt. Especially people trying not to worry everyone else.
So he ignored your words entirely.
Instead, he trusted what he could see.
Or, more accurately...
What he couldn't.
Because despite the blood...
You weren't reacting. No sharp inhale. No wince. No instinctive pull away.
Nothing.
Still...
He wasn't convinced.
"Take the hoodie off."
You blinked.
"...Here?"
"Now."
There wasn't even a hint of embarrassment in his voice.
Just urgency.
Pure, overwhelming concern.
You quietly peeled the hoodie over your head.
More blood.
Across your shirt. Across your arms. Across everything.
A collective hiss came from the gathered Mayans.
"Holy—"
"What the hell—"
"Creeper..."
But Creeper had already started checking again.
His hands slid over your shoulders.
Your upper arms.
He carefully turned each wrist over, inspecting your palms before lifting your elbows to search underneath.
Nothing.
No cuts. No punctures. No bruises.
His confusion only grew.
He crouched.
Checked your knees. Your ankles. Your boots.
"You twist anything?"
"No."
"You hit your head?"
"No."
"You dizzy?"
"No."
"Nauseous?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"...Yes?"
He looked up at you.
Really looked.
Your eyes were clear.
Breathing normal.
Standing steadily. Not pale. Not shaking. Not showing any signs of shock.
Behind him, Bishop spoke again.
"Talk."
You rubbed the back of your neck.
"So..."
Everyone waited.
"...it's not mine."
Silence.
"...What?"
"The blood."
You gestured vaguely at yourself.
"...It's not mine."
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
"...Explain," Bishop said slowly.
You winced.
"I was driving home from work."
"Uh-huh."
"There was a car accident."
"Uh-huh."
"I stopped."
"...Uh-huh."
"There was a guy trapped inside."
The yard remained completely silent.
"So I climbed in."
"You climbed..."
"...inside."
"...The crushed car."
"...Yeah."
"You."
"...Yeah."
"Without thinking."
"...Pretty much."
"You pulled him out."
"...Eventually."
Coco stared.
"...You're telling me..."
You nodded sheepishly.
"...it's his blood."
"...Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"There was another passenger."
Creeper closed his eyes.
Of course there was.
"There were...two people."
You gave him an apologetic smile.
"They're okay."
"You sure?"
"The ambulance took them."
"You stayed?"
"Until they left."
"So..."
You looked down at yourself again.
"...I forgot I looked like this."
Dead silence.
Then Coco let out one single bark of laughter before immediately clamping both hands over his mouth.
EZ started laughing next.
Then Gilly.
Angel doubled over.
Within seconds half the yard was laughing—not because anyone found the accident funny, but because they'd collectively gone from preparing for a blood-soaked revenge mission to discovering you'd simply been...being yourself.
"You almost started a damn war," Angel wheezed.
"I didn't mean to!"
"You look like a horror movie!"
"I know that now!"
Bishop pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I'm getting too old for this club."
"Same," Hank muttered.
Engines shut back off.
Weapons disappeared.
The immediate threat dissolved into relieved grumbling.
Everyone slowly drifted away.
Everyone...
Except Creeper.
He still hadn't let go of your hand.
He was still studying your face.
Still unconvinced.
"You sure you're okay?"
You smiled softly.
"I'm okay."
"You could've gotten hurt."
"I know."
"You climbed into a wreck."
"I know."
"You scared the hell out of me."
That one came out quieter. Smaller. Almost fragile.
You looked at him. Really looked.
His hands were still trembling. Just slightly.
You hadn't noticed before.
Now you did.
Because while everyone else had been preparing for revenge...
Creeper had simply been terrified.
Terrified that he'd lose you.
You reached up and wrapped your fingers gently around one of his hands.
"Neron."
He looked at you.
"I'm okay."
"I need to make sure."
"You already did."
"I'm checking again."
You laughed quietly.
"You've checked me like six times."
"Not enough."
Before you could protest, he stepped closer again, gently brushing your hair back from your forehead, examining your scalp with surprising care before tilting your chin upward to inspect your neck one more time, his fingertips impossibly gentle against your skin as he searched for cuts hidden beneath drying blood, then moving to your shoulders once again, every touch careful and respectful, driven entirely by worry rather than panic now.
"You missed a spot," Coco called.
Without looking away from you, Creeper answered flatly.
"Shut up."
"You checked her elbow twice."
"I know."
"You looked at the same arm three times."
"I know."
"You've lost your damn—"
"I know."
You couldn't help smiling.
His eyes softened the moment he saw it.
"There it is."
"What?"
"Your smile."
"It went away?"
"When I thought you were hurt."
Something inside your chest tightened painfully.
"You really got that scared?"
He laughed once.
It wasn't humorous.
"I've been shot."
"I know."
"Stabbed."
"I know."
"Beaten."
"I know."
"I've stared down people trying to kill me."
You nodded.
"But seeing you walk through that gate covered in blood..." His voice became rough. "...That was the most frightened I've ever been."
You reached for him without thinking. Your arms slid around his waist.
"I really am okay."
He hugged you back immediately. Tightly. Like letting go wasn't an option anymore.
"I know."
"You don't sound convinced."
"I'm not."
You laughed against his chest.
"I'll shower."
"Mhm."
"And change."
"Mhm."
"And let you inspect me one last time."
He pulled back just enough to look down at you.
"One last time?"
"You've already checked every inch of me."
"I'm checking again after the shower."
You grinned.
"You're impossible."
"I'm thorough."
"You are paranoid."
"I'm in love with you."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Everything froze.
Again.
Not the yard this time.
Just the two of you.
His eyes widened.
"...Well."
You blinked.
"...Well?"
"I wasn't planning on saying it like that."
A smile tugged at your lips.
"I kind of like that you did."
"You do?"
Instead of answering, you rose onto your toes and kissed him.
Softly.
Carefully.
Despite the blood.
Despite the scrapyard.
Despite the audience that definitely hadn't wandered as far away as they'd pretended.
When you pulled back, Creeper looked completely stunned.
"You kissed me."
"I did."
"So..."
"So," you echoed, smiling.
"I love you too."
For a moment, the hardened Mayan simply stared at you as if the world had narrowed to the space between your faces.
Then, with a laugh so warm it surprised even him, he gathered you back into his arms, heedless of the blood staining his own shirt now, because he'd spent the last ten minutes convinced he was about to lose you, and instead he'd somehow found the courage to tell you the truth—and discovered that the woman who had terrified an entire motorcycle club by arriving drenched in someone else's blood loved him back.
From somewhere across the yard, Coco yelled, "Can somebody hose those two down before they start hugging more crime scene onto each other?"
pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader
summary: beth is coming back from hong kong and you feel like hotch’s feelings are slipping away, so you decide to do it first.
content/tw: brace yourself, it’s a long one! established relationship, beth’s coming back, jealous!reader, oblivious!hotch, dave being a father figure (love him), very angsty (at least my attempt), alcohol consuming (barely), lots of crying, happy ending, lmk if i missed something!
word count: 7.3k (stfu challenge level impossible)
a/n: based on this request! this one goes for my people who feel like they have to remove themselves from the situation for things to be okay. know that you are important, wanted and loved! if you ever had a girl crush, sending you an extra hug and much love! hope you like this one💗🪽
dividers by @uzmacchiato
masterlist
The smell of bacon and toast fills the air even before you step into the kitchen.
Aaron is there, scrambling eggs with his shirt still unbuttoned and his hair damp from the shower. He glances up when you step in, already dressed up “Didn’t have time to make coffee.” he explains, nodding to the empty coffee pot plugged on the counter behind him. You shake your head, squinting your eyes at his face.
“Aren’t you at least a little bit embarrassed?” you tease, already starting to brew the coffee beans. It has been almost a year since he bought it – following your suggestion – and he never even cared to learn how to use it. Not that he needed to, really. You were always there to do it for him.
He pressed his lips together in a mocking reflective expression, just to shrug his shoulders “Not really, no.” you just chuckle as the two of you move in sync to finish preparing breakfast.
Just as the eggs were ready, his phone rang all the way to his bedroom. As an old man who still hadn’t created the urge to be glued to his phone 24/7, you took over the bacon pan as he faded into the hallway to pick up.
You were so focused on your task you didn’t realize he was taking too long. It wasn’t until you filled both of your plates and mugs that you noticed he didn’t come back. Your first reaction was too tense, to go after him and check what was wrong, but soon after you heard his laugh, loud and strong, making its way towards you. So, no emergencies.
Sensing it was probably Sean, your boyfriend’s brother, or maybe Rossi with a gossip – something you learnt after you started dating Hotch: the two older men at the BAU were gossipers. Penelope Garcia level gossiper – you stayed back, giving them privacy to chat. Ignoring all the etiquette lessons you had, you started eating alone. At least one of you should enjoy the warm food.
Just when you took the last bite you heard him stepping back into the kitchen, a ghost of a smile still present on his face “Hey, you chatty” you teased. He chuckled, sitting beside you on the stoll and drinking a sip of coffee “Who was it?” your curiosity got the best of you, even though you knew he was going to tell you either way.
“Beth!”
Oh.
“Oh”
“Yeah.” he agrees, taking a bite of the toast, completely oblivious to the gut wrenching feeling taking over your senses “She called me to say she’s coming back. From Hong Kong.”
Oh (but harder).
“That’s… good?”
“It’s great! She got to transfer back for a promotion, with a higher salary and getting to be close to her family.” he explains, sounding way too pleased with himself.
“She rocks.” you cringe immediately, not knowing what the hell you meant by that.
“Right?” fortunately – or not, that’s up to the eye of the beholder – he remained completely clueless to your awkwardness. “Jack’s going to lose it when he hears it.” he said, chuckling to himself.
You hate how hearing this makes you twice as jealous.
“Y’think Jack remembers her?” you wonder, pretending to be unbothered as you wash your dishes in a way to distract yourself. He stays silent for a second, and you hope he’s not picking up on your selfish rotting for the worse.
“He does. Last time she face-timed me, Jack took over half the call.” he says, his voice suddenly closer to you. He takes the dishes from your hand, gently pushing you to the side “That’s on me.” he points kindly, taking over the dishes. You step away, hoping he didn’t feel the sound of your heart breaking.
They face-time each other? Is Jack a part of this? By the way he said it, it seems like a frequent occurrence. Where were you all those times? How could you miss that?
Is this cheating? Objectively speaking, if it was cheating he probably wouldn’t be so blunt about it. And he’s probably the most loyal person you know.
So why does it feel like cheating? Why do you feel betrayed? Why do you feel so jealous?
Trying to take a hold of the situation, you fight to appear normal, trying your best to hide your anxiousness and all of self-doubt, at least while you figure your feelings out. Otherwise you’d probably end up locked in a mental asylum.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
It turned out the mental asylum would probably be a nicer place to be than your own head right now.
As the day passed by, you started to notice how excited Aaron was for Beth’s arrival. If you missed their calls before, you definitely weren’t now. Every other day you stumbled on him somewhere in the house, his phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear while he finished a task.
When it wasn’t the calls, it was the texting. He would send her pictures about things she liked and places she missed. She would always send a picture of everything that was different over there, ask silly questions about the job or about Jack.
And Jack was a whole other problem. Not a problem, actually. But his obvious adoration towards the woman made you bitter. You found yourself losing your appetite more often than not every time Jack asked about her in the middle of dinner or lunch. Which was a horror on its own, but it was even worse because every time he did it, soon after the meal ended Hotch would call her to tell her about it.
You felt like an outsider.
The worst part was that it wasn’t even their fault. Everytime you walked by him, he asked you to join the call, pulling you to sit with him and chat with the woman on the other side of the screen. She would ask about you, about your likes and dislikes. She would joke about Hotch, about his sleep myoclonus, about his ability to fall asleep in the first few minutes of a movie. You laughed with her, making fun of his antic habits as if sharing that with her didn’t feel like a knife in your gut.
When she finally came back, it was, somehow, worse.
Hotch insisted that you’d tag along on their catching ups, you hang with them as she went out with the team. You had playdates with her and Jack.
It was now safe to say: you hated Beth. And you were completely obsessed with her.
You watched the way she spoke, the way she dressed. How she smiled, how she laughed. The exact color of her lipstick, her haircut.
When her nails were perfectly made. She was so elegant. You started doing your nails weekly.
Next time you saw her, her nails were chipped and two of them were broken. She was so carefree. You cancelled your membership at the nail salon.
One would think Beth was a frequent character in Hotch's life. She really wasn’t. With all the cases, Jack and his relationship with you, he barely had time to actually hang out with Beth. But there was no point, and the damage was made.
Ever since he took that call, she made her way into your head, building her own little house with a balcony and a white fence. Even if she wasn’t around, your mind made sure to think about her. You hated hearing her name, but you secretly hoped it would come up in the middle of the conversation.
When his phone rang, you braced yourself, preparing for that gut wrenching pain you were oh, so familiar with. 9 out of 10 times, it wasn’t her. But 1 out of ten times, it was. And when you hear him calling her name, smiling easily at the speaker like she was seeing him, you felt your world fall apart, and what a comforting sensation that was.
You had no idea how you could crave someone as much as you craved her.
You wanted her gone.
The thought came to you out of nowhere, in the middle of the night. You were sleeping on his bed – almost yours by now – and his body involuntarily jerked. And there it was: another sleepless night. You were reminded of her, and now you were cursed to spend the rest of the evening wondering if she slept on the same side of the bed you were in, on how she would react. Would she laugh? Would she wake him? Would she pretend she didn’t see it?
It was maddening. It had to stop.
It wasn’t going to stop. You had to get out of this.
When the thought came, it stayed. You haven’t thought about it before, but you knew it. It had to be done. There was no way you would survive this. There was no way you could compete with this, with her. They understood each other to a degree you could never. They were the same age, and had the same references. They were both divorced, they had experiences you still haven’t had. You hated being outside of their inside jokes, even if said jokes were whatever was fashion in the 70’s.
Truth to be told, you wouldn’t even be with him if she hadn’t moved out of the country. And now she was back, reclaiming her old apartment, her athletic habits and his heart.
You weren’t dumb. You could see he loved you. But he loved her too. And you wouldn’t settle for half. Even if it killed you inside.
Besides being younger than Aaron – and Beth – you were very mature. Mature enough to understand that you shouldn’t make a big deal out of this. You knew, usually, the right thing to do was to talk about your feelings. To explain where you were coming from and make changes in order to keep the relationship alive.
But how could you go to the man you loved and beg him to not fall back in love with his ex? What exactly do you want to achieve by talking to him about it? He wasn’t doing anything wrong, you know that much. He would probably just stop talking to her ‘if it meant not making you insecure’, but you know very well how that would turn out. You didn’t want it to end with a fight, and you didn’t want to feel like you had to put up a fight to keep the man you love. You didn’t deserve that, and neither did him.
So, piece by piece, you started to make your way out of Aaron’s life.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
You usually spent the majority of your time in his place. And you started to change that, slowly starting to spend more time in your rented apartment than in his. Piece by piece, you started to move back your clothes. First a blouse, then a pajama. Evolving to your dresses, shoes, and your products.
It was going by unnoticed, until after you moved almost all the products on your side of his bathroom’s cabinet. A wednesday morning, while getting ready to work, you opened it to find everything back where they belonged.
You stayed there, shocked for a few seconds, your heart racing. The toothbrush inside your mouth is frozen, the minty foam starting to burn your gums. Aaron stepped on the bathroom behind you, fixing his cufflinks and looking at you through the mirror.
“Oh, I saw you ran out of them.” he explained, casually pointing at the new stack of products, completely unaware of your mind short circuiting “You didn’t restock, but I remembered them from last time. I had to go to the drugstore anyway.” he shrugged, reaching for his cologne and stepping out like he didn’t just shatter your whole world.
Later, when your tears smudged your mascara, you just said you choked with the mouthwash.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
After a while, you’d spent so much time on your own place that Aaron started to miss you. Not only that, he questioned it. One specific morning, you were in the shared kitchen in the BAU mixing a bowl of yogurt with cereals and fruits when you felt a pair of large hands clinging to your hips. Yelping in surprise, you turned to face your boyfriend.
“Hey, you scared me.” you chuckled, picking up the bowl to put something between the two of you.
“I miss you.” he said, simply. He wasn’t whining, or complaining, or even trying to talk you out of your devious plan – not that he knew about it. He was just stating a fact, as clear as the day, the same way and tone he announced a profile or call a meeting.
Not knowing what to answer without breaking into tears, you stuffed a spoon full of greek yogurt, granola and strawberries into your mouth. While you did it, you mumbled something he couldn’t comprehend. Figuring you said you missed him too, he just moved on, leaning over your head to reach for the cabinet.
“Can I take you out for dinner tonight?” he asked, grabbing the freshly made coffee and filing his mug “It’s been a while since we left the house.”
You swoon at him, taking a deep breath before answering “It has. But I have plans.” you grimaced “Girls night.” you explained, chewing on the granola for longer than needed.
Aaron stopped for a second, his steaming mug already halfway to his lips. “Oh.” He wasn’t the kind of boyfriend to be in the way of your life, but he usually was aware of your plans. Not in a controlling way, but by knowing you, talking to you. And he was just realizing how it felt not knowing. He hated it. Not being a man to give up, he quickly came up with another idea “I can make you that BLT you like while you get ready.” not seeing you immediately jump with joy – as you usually do when BLT is mentioned – he suggested “Or we can stop at McDonalds drive-thru when I pick you up later.”
Your heart did a backflip and shattered in a thousand pieces with the sight of his puppy eyes, expectantly looking at you.
“Oh that sounds lovely. But the bar we’re heading it’s the one across the street from my building. We’re walking there.” you explain, placing a hand on his chest gently, fixing the lapels of his suit. He looked down at your hands, fighting the urge to pull you by his arms and lock you in there. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but his gut knew something didn’t sit right.
“Text me when you get there. And when you get home.” he says, more a statement than a request. Your safety was not negotiable. You nodded, stepping closer to him and giving him a quick peck on the side of his jaw.
“I promise!” and you meant it, winking at him as you move to leave the kitchen.
Just as you step outside the perimeter, you almost bump into Rossi, who’s just standing there with his hands buried in his pockets and his eyebrow raised so high it was almost blending his hairline. Not ready to handle his piercing gaze – knowing you’d crumble at the first couple minutes –, you just nodded and gave him one of your best polite smiles, speeding your pace all the way to your desk.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
After you knocked twice on the office door, you stared at the words “David Rossi” engraved on the metal platter in its center as you waited for him to open.
When he did, you were surprised to see his office drowned in low light coming from the lamp on his desk and the moonlight peeking through the widow.
“You wanted to see me?” it meant as a statement: he did ask to see you. At first, you were sure it had something to do with the case you were consulting, the topic you and him were talking about during dinner. What confused you was that the setting looked anything but professional, if the expensive bourbon bottle and the two glasses sitting on the table wasn’t enough of a tell.
“Yes. Come in.” he said, waiting for you to walk into the office to close the door. You stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for him to take the lead. Unaware – or, most probably, choosing to ignore – your startled state, he slowly made his way to the couch on the back of the room, filling up both glasses before sitting comfortably.
Taking one of the glasses, you sat beside him, pressing your lips together and trying not to bounce your leg to ease the tension.
“How was girls night?” Rossi asks, raising his glass to his lips. He didn’t even look at you as he waited for your answer, his tone almost mocking you.
Having absolutely no idea what he was going with this, you decided to play along “It was fun.”
He nodded “I see.” You took a sip of your drink, trying to keep your posture. It didn’t work. As soon as the burning liquid settled in your stomach, you turned to face him. Terrible idea.
“Dave, what’s going on? What is this?”
“You know,” he started, completely ignoring your question “People may think about profiling as a criminal study. They think we have to learn about psychopaths, stressors, geography, and criminal patterns. That it’s about getting in the mind of crazy people and figuring them out.”
“And it isn’t?” you blinked, drowned by his speech.
“Oh, definitely. But it’s not just that. It’s about studying people. Feelings, motivations. Learning, understanding their behaviour and using it to figure out their intentions.”
And that’s when it hit you: he knew.
“We have an unspoken policy in the BAU: not profiling each other.” he began, turning his body to face you.
“So why are you profiling me?” you asked, voice edging and uneasy, desperately trying to stop him from putting into words. He ignored it.
“You’re breaking up with him.” Not a question, not a suggestion, and definitely not a doubt. “I know what this is about. Who this is about.” your chewed on your bottom lip, deciding on what to say.
“Please, don’t try to talk me out of it.” you beg, hating how weak your own voice sounds. He took another long and lazy sip, and you watched as the liquid clinged to his lips, the wet reflecting the low light of the lamp.
“I won’t.” he stared at you, his eyes squinting slightly “I’m here to encourage you.”
You frowned, your eyebrows pinching together “What?”
“Yes. You really should break up with him. You know, if you’re in such an unbearable relationship.” You roll your eyes, tilting your head back.
“Stop.”
“No, seriously. Do you think he’s what? Cheating on you with Beth?”
“What? That’s not what this is about. I know he’s not cheating.” you defend yourself, cringing at the topic of the discussion.
“Then what is it?”
“I’m just…” your eyes burn with tears harder than the liquid on your throat when you down the rest of the bourbon before continuing “I’m not her.”
“You sure? Under this specific light I could’ve swore…”
“Dave!” you whine, and he chuckles.
“Yes, you’re not Beth.” you grimace at her name, not bothering to hide your feelings anymore “Why are you saying this as a bad thing?”
“Because it is. She’s back now and…” you feel a tear striking down your cheek as you gesticulate “She just fits. She gets him.”
“And you don’t?”
You sigh “You must think I sound really stupid.”
“Oh, you sound absolutely ridiculous.” you look at him, looking at a smirk on his face. Before you realize it, you’re laughing as well, but in a weak and depressed way “Love does this to us. Make us blind to the obvious. Clouds our judgement and turns us into…” he gesticulates towards you. You roll your eyes, but you’re not crying anymore “I have three divorces, so you’d think I know one thing or two about failed relationships. And let me tell you: yours isn’t one of them.”
“You’re just saying this because you’re his best friend.”
“I’m saying this because I love you.” he stated bluntly, and you widened your eyes in surprise, not expecting this. “And it'll kill me to see you do something I know you’ll regret later.” he leaned closer, looking at you with a paternal love that made you uneasy “Hotch loves you, kid. Don’t try to assume things. Let him know.”
“It’s hard.”
“I know it is. It has to be, don’t you think?” he smiles, the wrinkle on the corner of his eyes enhancing his passion towards the subject “Or else is not worth it. But talk to him. You know him more than I do, but I’m pretty sure you’re seeing things out of a place of hurt, probably past experiences.” he nod his head in a knowing gesture “From what I see, you’re out of your mind if you think that Hotch would ever consider living his life away from you.”
You only notice the tear streaming down your cheeks like a waterfall when his fingers gently wipe them away.
“Sorry.” you mumble, and he shakes his head.
“Listen, if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t. It’ll be fine too. You’ll be fine. But just don’t let it all go to waste before at least giving him a chance.”
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
It got to a point where you had to stop for a second to wipe the sweat out of your eyelids to see. By the time you reached your – Aaron’s – front door, your heartbeat had lowered to a normal rhythm and your skin was now cold rather than wet. You spent almost the entire night awake, tossing and turning on the bed. The night went so late it was almost morning, so you figured it made more sense to just get up and do something other than to lay in the dark with nothing but your loud and torturous mind.
Running, these past few weeks, were your loyal ally to your early mornings. That specific day, you just got back from an over two hour long run, finally feeling your limbs hurting more than your heart. As you walked in, you were surprised to find Aaron pacing around the living room, something crumpled up on one of his fist, a piece of paper in the other.
When he looked at you, his face was everything but stoic: he looked panicked, tortured, confused and, overall, hurting. “We need to talk” he said, quietly. If you listened closely, you could hear the way his voice wobbled in the middle of the sentence, like he didn’t actually want to talk. Like he wanted you to just be confused, and just ask what he meant by that, and that you weren’t being distant, he was just paranoid. Anything that could prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that you weren’t, in fact, leaving.
Despite all his silent wishes you just nodded, making your way to the couch “Yeah, we do.”
Hoping the sound of his heart shattering wasn't loud enough for you to hear, he made his way to the couch in front of you, distant enough for him to think clearly – as much as possible, under the circumstances. For a minute you just stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid so heavy it could suffocate.
You glanced down at his hands, still not managing to understand what he was holding so tight on his fist. On the other hand, you could finally see what it was. Before you left the house that morning, already planning on staying out for long, you wrote him a note with the steps to use the coffee pot.
“Before we start,” he began, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat before continuing “I already know. So there’s no need to lie.” you gulp, shifting in your seat. You never lied to him before, but it was fair of him to point it out. You weren’t being exactly honest. And even though you knew what he was talking about, it still surprised you when he finally said it out loud “When exactly you were planning on breaking up with me?”
Your breath hitched, panic rushing through your veins. It didn’t matter that you still weren't sure about what to do, there was no point in lying. Not anymore. It hurt you to think about it, but actually admitting to him was a whole other level of pain.
“I don’t know.” you answer weakly.
He blinks. And then chuckles.
When he dips his head down, you stare at him confused. The only thing you catch is the way his head shakes slightly, his fists flexing but never letting go of your note and the other white soft – looks fluffy? Is it a stress relief ball? – thing. Aaron tilts his head up and his eyes are full of tears. They are shiny and reddish, and you want nothing more than to make it all go away.
“Hotch,” you try, because just watching him crumble in front of you is not an option.
“Jesus! Stop calling me that.” he spat, frowning.
“Your name?”
“That’s not my name. Not to you. Not in here.” he adverts, the pain muffling the anger in his tone.
You chew on your bottom lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to fall from your eyes. Sniffing as quietly as possible, you look at him “Do you think this is easy for me?”
“It must be!” he says, barely containing himself, “You’re doing it all behind my back, vanishing from my life little by little, until all I have left is an empty drawer with nothing but this shirt and a coffee pot I don't know how to use.” and you finally understand what he was holding on so tightly. It’s a plain silky pajama shirt. It’s the only piece of clothing because it’s matching short you – he – ended up tearing it in half on the first night you wore it.
“I left you instructions.” you point to the paper in his other hand.
“I don’t want to learn.” he looks disgusted at the paper, like it personally offended him “I’m not learning how to use it.” he emphasizes.
You try again “It’s not that hard.”
“I won’t.”
That discussion was pointless, anyway. It is something to cling onto while avoiding the main issue. Sighing deeply in order to avoid crying, you change the subject “Listen, it’s nothing with you. It’s me.” you snort at that, because it’s that old cheesy and shitty excuse. But it’s the truth. “I’m just…” it’s all you manage to say before the tears blur your vision and you have to dip your head down to try and wipe them away.
His voice filled your ears, making you glance up to face him again. “I noticed that you weren’t being yourself, but I figured you’d tell me. It was something from work, or your family. I didn’t think it was this. It was us.” his voice weakens, and he has to gulp before continuing “Aren’t you happy anymore?”
“I… there’s a lot going on.” you feel your nose burning, and you stop caring if he sees the tears streaming down your face.
“Tell me what I did.” his demeanor changes, and he doesn’t look sad and confused anymore. He sounds energetic, urgent, demanding and begging all together “Tell me where I got it wrong, i can change it. I’ll do it right. I’ll do it better.”
Hearing this, combined with the raw desperation on his voice, so opposite from his usual calm and steady behavior, only makes you cry harder, and you don’t even try to wipe them away.
“You did nothing wrong. Nothing. I don’t want you to change. I just…” a strangled hiccup interrupted your speech, and you feel ridiculous, weak, dramatic and lonely. You want this to end, but also you want this to have never happened. “I shouldn’t feel this way in a relationship.”
He nodded, thinking. When Aaron speaks again, his voice is much calmer. Resignated, even. “So that’s it, then? You have your mind made up? Nothing I say will change it.” and it’s not a question anymore.
“I’m doing this for you, I want nothing more than what’s best for you.”
“Bullshit.” he snapped, his words startling you “Why are you doing this? Is it the job? You said it’s not me. Is it Jack? Is this life too much for you? The responsibility of…”
“What? Of course not!” your heart aches thinking about it. It hurts that he thinks this, but you have no one but yourself to blame “I love Jack. I love our… this life.”
He stays silent for a second, as if analyzing your explanation — or lack thereof. “Is it someone else?” you stop, and blinks. This is it. You won’t lie straight to his face. He stiffens, and it doesn’t need another word from you to understand. “Who is him?”
“Him?” you frown in the middle of your tears, so confused you stopped crying. “What do you mean?”
“You said there was someone else.” he squinted his eyes at you.
“I didn’t, you did.”
“You didn’t deny it. Who is he?” he insisted, his jaw tensed.
“Who do you think I am?” you asked, actually aggravated at his accusations “I would never…”
“Who is he?” he interrupts you, his eyes burning holes in your head.
“There's no he. It’s Beth.”
Hotch’s jaw is immediately unlocked at that, the anger and betrayal completely subsided by complete shock and confusion. “What? You and… Beth?”
“Huh?” you were the one left in confusion now. How did he get to that conclusion? For a second, you didn’t feel the excruciating pain and humiliation from admitting your feelings to him “No. You and Beth.”
“What do I have to do with this?” he asks, his confusion turning to aggravation once again “You don’t like our friendship? That’s why you're breaking up with me?”
Now, said excruciating pain and humiliation were back on its full force. You ignored the lump on your throat, taking a deep breath and explaining the situation in the most sober and objective way possible. “I realized you and her fit more together than me and you, and…” your voice faltered as you saw his outrageous expression “...the two of you only broke up because she moved away. You’re all happy that she’s coming back. I just figured…”
“What?” he interrupted, his voice sharp and edgy “That i’d break up with you to be with her?” asking like it was a ridiculous thought. You stayed silent, because that was exactly what you thought. He huffed an incredulous laugh through his nose “Jesus. Did I ever give you a reason to question me? Or my loyalty?” he accused, his voice showing more worry than anger.
“No. Actually I don't know if you’d break up with me. That’s why I saved you the trouble.” you shrugged, trying not to show how much it hurt you to say it.
“Jesus fucking christ.” he muttered, pintching the bridge of his noise “Are you even hearing yourself?”
“Stop talking like I'm insane.” you snapped, losing your patience “You’re the one making phone calls, facetiming and going on dates with your ex girlfriend. I saw you when the two of you broke up. I was there. You were in pain. How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to handle this? How am I supposed to compete with this? Explain to me, Aaron. Because I have no fucking clue.”
The moment you stopped speaking, you realized you were almost yelling. It was the first time you let out your anger, your hurt. All the time you kept saying you were doing the best: for Aaron, for Jack, for Beth… Not once you stopped to think how much it sucked to be you, to deal with all of that. Yes, you could’ve talked to him sooner. But you shouldn’t have felt like that. No one should.
When you asked him to explain, to tell you what to do, it wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t sass. You were actually asking, begging for him, for someone, to tell you how to feel. It didn’t make sense, none of this made sense to you. It was too overwhelming, and you just wanted it to be gone. You wanted to disappear.
You noticed too late you were crying, fully sobbing now, with one hand clutched to your chest, as if you tried to rip your heart out, and the other resting against your throat, trying to soothe the pain from talking so loud. You didn’t see how his expression softened, his anger melting into pure sorrow. He couldn’t believe he did that to you, that he, of all people, made you feel this way.
A few minutes had passed when he finally made a move. He got up from his couch and crossed the room, sitting right by your side. His knees were pressed against your thighs, his eyes filled with tears. His body and his soul were completely in surrender to yours.
“I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “I should’ve seen it before. I shouldn't have acted like this. Or at least, talked to you about it. I’m not trying to make any excuses for the way I acted, but I need to explain.” he cleared, his eyes scanning your face every 10 seconds, trying to find any hint of chance in your stance “The thought of someone other than you, in a romantic way, is so out of my reality that I didn’t even considered her a ‘threat’. Not that she, or anyone, is a threat. But I really didn’t see the situation as something that could’ve hurt you. And that was my first mistake.”
“She knows you in a way that I can’t.”
“You know me in a way no one can.” he argued “You were my subordinate, then my work colleague, my friend. Now you’re my best friend and my family. You’re the woman I love.” he gulped, flinching at his own words and feeling the hot streak of a lonely tear falling from his eye. The one he couldn’t hold back. “I don’t want you going back to being less than that.”
Your posture didn’t show any kind of surrender. But he didn’t see resistance either, and when you turned to face him, he noticed that you didn’t keep arguing and just waited to listen. Taking it as a good (the best yet) sign, he pressed further.
“There’s nothing going on between me and Beth. She happened to be the first friend I’ve had outside of the job for a long time, that’s all. I don’t know if it will help to hear this,” he tried, hesitantly “...but her leaving wasn’t the only reason why we broke up.” seeing your questioning expression, he kept going “We came to the realization we worked better as friends anyway, and it was just a matter of time for us to end things. The moving just happened first.” he shrugged.
You opened your mouth to speak, but he anticipated your argument “Yes, I did suffer. It was a change in scenario, how could I not? But as I said, we knew it was happening. So what it hurt the most was actually Jack. I felt like the worst parent from giving another sort of mother figure just to take it away from his life. Again.”
Before you could think properly, your hand reached out to his, squeezing in a silent reassurance. He always doubted his parental skills, and you were always making sure to remind him how amazing he was. Even now, with your heart broken and your relationship hanging by a thread, you still found a way to comfort him.
How could he lose something like this? Someone like this? How could he let you go? How could he make you feel that way? He had to press his lips together in a thin line to keep them from trembling, and to hold back the force of his grip when he squeezed your hand back, making sure he wasn’t hurting you as he not so subtly tried to hold on to you. To keep you from leaving.
“Honey,” he started, not even caring about his voice cracking. He couldn’t wait any longer, or lose any more chances. This was it. “I love you so much. I know this isn’t ideal, and I hate myself for ever making you feel this way. If not being with me will make you happier, then…” he gulped “...I’ll let you go. But if this situation is the only reason, please, don’t go. Please, give me a chance to show you how you’re the only one I want.”
You feel your tears running freely from your face, and you choke up a sob before speaking, your voice so weak it was barely hearable “I feel really immature.”
He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of you. It sounds like he’s gone completely mad, like your admission was the water bottle after two days in the desert. It gave him hope.
“No.” he denied firmly, not letting go of your hand even for a second “Now that I think about it, if the tables were turned, I might’ve murdered your ex.” he whispered like a secret. It was so unexpected and so out of character of him that you laughed, surprising both you and him. He smiled from ear to ear at the sound of it. “I’m really sorry, I should’ve been more careful with the situation.”
“I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.” you smiled apologetically. He ignores your attempt, looking deep into your eyes and calling your name with such a raw expectation that if you weren’t already seated, you would’ve fell.
“Did you change your mind?” you hesitate for a second, and he sees right through you “Tell me you have. I know you want to, I can feel it.” His voice is quiet, his words so soft spoken it feels like a spell. Only you know that you do want to be with him, now that is all cleared. “Please, give me a chance to make things right.”
You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes fill with tears again “I feel stupid.” you admit, and he wants nothing more than to cry his eyes out.
“Don’t say that ever again.” he leans in hesitantly, and when you don’t flinch or pull back, he wipes the tears from your face with the pad of his thumb. The other hand is still holding yours firmly “You were protecting yourself, as you should’ve. Thank you.”
“What for?” you snort between tears, not understanding what he could possibly be thankful for in this situation.
“Thank you for protecting and taking such good care of someone I love so much. Especially when I was too damn blind to see that she needed it.”
After that, there was no point of dragging this any further: you were completely and undeniably his.
He didn’t see it coming, his body jerking in surprise when you literally jumped to his lap, hugging him tightly and burying your face on his neck, sobbing and muttering apologies on repeat. His lips were glued to the crown of your head, kissing you repeatedly. His hands were all over you, touching from your feet to the strands of your hair, as if his body needed to feel you there, to make sure you were with him, for his mind to completely wrap up around the fact that you weren’t going anywhere.
Ignoring your words, he whispered his own, “Don’t you ever apologize. I should be the one apologizing. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” and it’s the only moment his lips leave your skin “I’m sorry. I will never make you feel this way. If I ever hurt you like that again, and I won’t, I want you…”
“Don’t say it.” you cut him off. He ignores, once again.
“...to just shoot me in the face. Kill me.”
You chuckle weakly, lifting your head from his chest to face him properly “Dude, you gotta stop with the murder threats.” he arches his eyebrow at you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk.
“Dude? Who do you think you’re talking to?” he asks, and his finger tickles your sides as the stubble on his beard tickles your neck. Your body jerks and twitches on top of his while you laugh loudly, but never moving away from his.
When he finally feels you learned your lessons, his hands rested comfortably around your waist in its rightful place. You sigh, looking at him.
“Promise me that you will always talk to me, and be honest about your feelings. No matter how ugly you think they are.”
“I promise.” you say as you wipe the wet off his face, and it’s just then that he realizes he’d been crying all along “Promise me that if your feelings for me change, you’ll communicate.” he rolls his eyes so hard it feels like they’ll hit the back of his head “Promise.” you insist.
“I promise.” he says, seriously. When you relax, he starts again. “Matter of fact, my feelings just changed.” you squint your eyes at his playful tone “A few minutes ago I wanted to stop by your place to get back the clothes you took. But now, I’ve decided you’ll be spending the rest of the weekend with nothing to wear but that shirt.” he says, leaning – without moving you away from his lap – to grab the piece of fabric he left on the center table.
“I have to get at least underwear.” you argue.
“If you behave, I’ll let you borrow a couple boxers.”
“Jack will see it.”
“He’s a kid. And they’re the exact same size of what you call your casual shorts so I doubt he’ll notice the difference.” he points seriously and you squeal, slapping his chest slightly.
“That’s rude. And humiliating.”
“That’s what you get for stealing.”
Your mouth hangs open for a second “I didn’t steal! I didn’t take anything from your house but my clothes.”
“This house is ours.” he stares at you deeply, waiting for his statement to sink in before continuing “So is everything in it. From the bedroom to the coffee pot and, therefore, your clothes. So, basically, you stole from us.” he shrugged, like he made a perfect point. You just laugh, choosing to accept it.
“I’m sorry for stealing.” he nodded politely and you dive back into his embrace, sighing happily “Can we stay like this forever?” Aaron tight his arms around you, his whole body answering before any words came out.
“I’ll think about it. But before that, we have to eat. You're probably on the verge of dehydration right now.” he points, standing up with you still in his arms, and makes his way toward the kitchen. He settles you in one of the stools and hands you your shirt “Go change while I make us breakfast. Now that I’ve learnt how to use the coffee pot.”
You gasp, widening your eyes in a mock-threat. Jumping out of the stool with your shirt already crumpled on your hands, you stomp your way to where he stands behind the stove, pointing your finger to his chest. “You can cook whatever you want, but don't you dare touch the coffee pot, Aaron Hotchner.”
Aaron does just as you said, beaming while frying the bacon even when you’re upstairs in his shower. Your shower. And both of you know, somehow, you’ll be okay.
taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna
pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader
summary: beth is coming back from hong kong and you feel like hotch’s feelings are slipping away, so you decide to do it first.
content/tw: brace yourself, it’s a long one! established relationship, beth’s coming back, jealous!reader, oblivious!hotch, dave being a father figure (love him), very angsty (at least my attempt), alcohol consuming (barely), lots of crying, happy ending, lmk if i missed something!
word count: 7.3k (stfu challenge level impossible)
a/n: based on this request! this one goes for my people who feel like they have to remove themselves from the situation for things to be okay. know that you are important, wanted and loved! if you ever had a girl crush, sending you an extra hug and much love! hope you like this one💗🪽
dividers by @uzmacchiato
masterlist
The smell of bacon and toast fills the air even before you step into the kitchen.
Aaron is there, scrambling eggs with his shirt still unbuttoned and his hair damp from the shower. He glances up when you step in, already dressed up “Didn’t have time to make coffee.” he explains, nodding to the empty coffee pot plugged on the counter behind him. You shake your head, squinting your eyes at his face.
“Aren’t you at least a little bit embarrassed?” you tease, already starting to brew the coffee beans. It has been almost a year since he bought it – following your suggestion – and he never even cared to learn how to use it. Not that he needed to, really. You were always there to do it for him.
He pressed his lips together in a mocking reflective expression, just to shrug his shoulders “Not really, no.” you just chuckle as the two of you move in sync to finish preparing breakfast.
Just as the eggs were ready, his phone rang all the way to his bedroom. As an old man who still hadn’t created the urge to be glued to his phone 24/7, you took over the bacon pan as he faded into the hallway to pick up.
You were so focused on your task you didn’t realize he was taking too long. It wasn’t until you filled both of your plates and mugs that you noticed he didn’t come back. Your first reaction was too tense, to go after him and check what was wrong, but soon after you heard his laugh, loud and strong, making its way towards you. So, no emergencies.
Sensing it was probably Sean, your boyfriend’s brother, or maybe Rossi with a gossip – something you learnt after you started dating Hotch: the two older men at the BAU were gossipers. Penelope Garcia level gossiper – you stayed back, giving them privacy to chat. Ignoring all the etiquette lessons you had, you started eating alone. At least one of you should enjoy the warm food.
Just when you took the last bite you heard him stepping back into the kitchen, a ghost of a smile still present on his face “Hey, you chatty” you teased. He chuckled, sitting beside you on the stoll and drinking a sip of coffee “Who was it?” your curiosity got the best of you, even though you knew he was going to tell you either way.
“Beth!”
Oh.
“Oh”
“Yeah.” he agrees, taking a bite of the toast, completely oblivious to the gut wrenching feeling taking over your senses “She called me to say she’s coming back. From Hong Kong.”
Oh (but harder).
“That’s… good?”
“It’s great! She got to transfer back for a promotion, with a higher salary and getting to be close to her family.” he explains, sounding way too pleased with himself.
“She rocks.” you cringe immediately, not knowing what the hell you meant by that.
“Right?” fortunately – or not, that’s up to the eye of the beholder – he remained completely clueless to your awkwardness. “Jack’s going to lose it when he hears it.” he said, chuckling to himself.
You hate how hearing this makes you twice as jealous.
“Y’think Jack remembers her?” you wonder, pretending to be unbothered as you wash your dishes in a way to distract yourself. He stays silent for a second, and you hope he’s not picking up on your selfish rotting for the worse.
“He does. Last time she face-timed me, Jack took over half the call.” he says, his voice suddenly closer to you. He takes the dishes from your hand, gently pushing you to the side “That’s on me.” he points kindly, taking over the dishes. You step away, hoping he didn’t feel the sound of your heart breaking.
They face-time each other? Is Jack a part of this? By the way he said it, it seems like a frequent occurrence. Where were you all those times? How could you miss that?
Is this cheating? Objectively speaking, if it was cheating he probably wouldn’t be so blunt about it. And he’s probably the most loyal person you know.
So why does it feel like cheating? Why do you feel betrayed? Why do you feel so jealous?
Trying to take a hold of the situation, you fight to appear normal, trying your best to hide your anxiousness and all of self-doubt, at least while you figure your feelings out. Otherwise you’d probably end up locked in a mental asylum.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
It turned out the mental asylum would probably be a nicer place to be than your own head right now.
As the day passed by, you started to notice how excited Aaron was for Beth’s arrival. If you missed their calls before, you definitely weren’t now. Every other day you stumbled on him somewhere in the house, his phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear while he finished a task.
When it wasn’t the calls, it was the texting. He would send her pictures about things she liked and places she missed. She would always send a picture of everything that was different over there, ask silly questions about the job or about Jack.
And Jack was a whole other problem. Not a problem, actually. But his obvious adoration towards the woman made you bitter. You found yourself losing your appetite more often than not every time Jack asked about her in the middle of dinner or lunch. Which was a horror on its own, but it was even worse because every time he did it, soon after the meal ended Hotch would call her to tell her about it.
You felt like an outsider.
The worst part was that it wasn’t even their fault. Everytime you walked by him, he asked you to join the call, pulling you to sit with him and chat with the woman on the other side of the screen. She would ask about you, about your likes and dislikes. She would joke about Hotch, about his sleep myoclonus, about his ability to fall asleep in the first few minutes of a movie. You laughed with her, making fun of his antic habits as if sharing that with her didn’t feel like a knife in your gut.
When she finally came back, it was, somehow, worse.
Hotch insisted that you’d tag along on their catching ups, you hang with them as she went out with the team. You had playdates with her and Jack.
It was now safe to say: you hated Beth. And you were completely obsessed with her.
You watched the way she spoke, the way she dressed. How she smiled, how she laughed. The exact color of her lipstick, her haircut.
When her nails were perfectly made. She was so elegant. You started doing your nails weekly.
Next time you saw her, her nails were chipped and two of them were broken. She was so carefree. You cancelled your membership at the nail salon.
One would think Beth was a frequent character in Hotch's life. She really wasn’t. With all the cases, Jack and his relationship with you, he barely had time to actually hang out with Beth. But there was no point, and the damage was made.
Ever since he took that call, she made her way into your head, building her own little house with a balcony and a white fence. Even if she wasn’t around, your mind made sure to think about her. You hated hearing her name, but you secretly hoped it would come up in the middle of the conversation.
When his phone rang, you braced yourself, preparing for that gut wrenching pain you were oh, so familiar with. 9 out of 10 times, it wasn’t her. But 1 out of ten times, it was. And when you hear him calling her name, smiling easily at the speaker like she was seeing him, you felt your world fall apart, and what a comforting sensation that was.
You had no idea how you could crave someone as much as you craved her.
You wanted her gone.
The thought came to you out of nowhere, in the middle of the night. You were sleeping on his bed – almost yours by now – and his body involuntarily jerked. And there it was: another sleepless night. You were reminded of her, and now you were cursed to spend the rest of the evening wondering if she slept on the same side of the bed you were in, on how she would react. Would she laugh? Would she wake him? Would she pretend she didn’t see it?
It was maddening. It had to stop.
It wasn’t going to stop. You had to get out of this.
When the thought came, it stayed. You haven’t thought about it before, but you knew it. It had to be done. There was no way you would survive this. There was no way you could compete with this, with her. They understood each other to a degree you could never. They were the same age, and had the same references. They were both divorced, they had experiences you still haven’t had. You hated being outside of their inside jokes, even if said jokes were whatever was fashion in the 70’s.
Truth to be told, you wouldn’t even be with him if she hadn’t moved out of the country. And now she was back, reclaiming her old apartment, her athletic habits and his heart.
You weren’t dumb. You could see he loved you. But he loved her too. And you wouldn’t settle for half. Even if it killed you inside.
Besides being younger than Aaron – and Beth – you were very mature. Mature enough to understand that you shouldn’t make a big deal out of this. You knew, usually, the right thing to do was to talk about your feelings. To explain where you were coming from and make changes in order to keep the relationship alive.
But how could you go to the man you loved and beg him to not fall back in love with his ex? What exactly do you want to achieve by talking to him about it? He wasn’t doing anything wrong, you know that much. He would probably just stop talking to her ‘if it meant not making you insecure’, but you know very well how that would turn out. You didn’t want it to end with a fight, and you didn’t want to feel like you had to put up a fight to keep the man you love. You didn’t deserve that, and neither did him.
So, piece by piece, you started to make your way out of Aaron’s life.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
You usually spent the majority of your time in his place. And you started to change that, slowly starting to spend more time in your rented apartment than in his. Piece by piece, you started to move back your clothes. First a blouse, then a pajama. Evolving to your dresses, shoes, and your products.
It was going by unnoticed, until after you moved almost all the products on your side of his bathroom’s cabinet. A wednesday morning, while getting ready to work, you opened it to find everything back where they belonged.
You stayed there, shocked for a few seconds, your heart racing. The toothbrush inside your mouth is frozen, the minty foam starting to burn your gums. Aaron stepped on the bathroom behind you, fixing his cufflinks and looking at you through the mirror.
“Oh, I saw you ran out of them.” he explained, casually pointing at the new stack of products, completely unaware of your mind short circuiting “You didn’t restock, but I remembered them from last time. I had to go to the drugstore anyway.” he shrugged, reaching for his cologne and stepping out like he didn’t just shatter your whole world.
Later, when your tears smudged your mascara, you just said you choked with the mouthwash.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
After a while, you’d spent so much time on your own place that Aaron started to miss you. Not only that, he questioned it. One specific morning, you were in the shared kitchen in the BAU mixing a bowl of yogurt with cereals and fruits when you felt a pair of large hands clinging to your hips. Yelping in surprise, you turned to face your boyfriend.
“Hey, you scared me.” you chuckled, picking up the bowl to put something between the two of you.
“I miss you.” he said, simply. He wasn’t whining, or complaining, or even trying to talk you out of your devious plan – not that he knew about it. He was just stating a fact, as clear as the day, the same way and tone he announced a profile or call a meeting.
Not knowing what to answer without breaking into tears, you stuffed a spoon full of greek yogurt, granola and strawberries into your mouth. While you did it, you mumbled something he couldn’t comprehend. Figuring you said you missed him too, he just moved on, leaning over your head to reach for the cabinet.
“Can I take you out for dinner tonight?” he asked, grabbing the freshly made coffee and filing his mug “It’s been a while since we left the house.”
You swoon at him, taking a deep breath before answering “It has. But I have plans.” you grimaced “Girls night.” you explained, chewing on the granola for longer than needed.
Aaron stopped for a second, his steaming mug already halfway to his lips. “Oh.” He wasn’t the kind of boyfriend to be in the way of your life, but he usually was aware of your plans. Not in a controlling way, but by knowing you, talking to you. And he was just realizing how it felt not knowing. He hated it. Not being a man to give up, he quickly came up with another idea “I can make you that BLT you like while you get ready.” not seeing you immediately jump with joy – as you usually do when BLT is mentioned – he suggested “Or we can stop at McDonalds drive-thru when I pick you up later.”
Your heart did a backflip and shattered in a thousand pieces with the sight of his puppy eyes, expectantly looking at you.
“Oh that sounds lovely. But the bar we’re heading it’s the one across the street from my building. We’re walking there.” you explain, placing a hand on his chest gently, fixing the lapels of his suit. He looked down at your hands, fighting the urge to pull you by his arms and lock you in there. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but his gut knew something didn’t sit right.
“Text me when you get there. And when you get home.” he says, more a statement than a request. Your safety was not negotiable. You nodded, stepping closer to him and giving him a quick peck on the side of his jaw.
“I promise!” and you meant it, winking at him as you move to leave the kitchen.
Just as you step outside the perimeter, you almost bump into Rossi, who’s just standing there with his hands buried in his pockets and his eyebrow raised so high it was almost blending his hairline. Not ready to handle his piercing gaze – knowing you’d crumble at the first couple minutes –, you just nodded and gave him one of your best polite smiles, speeding your pace all the way to your desk.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
After you knocked twice on the office door, you stared at the words “David Rossi” engraved on the metal platter in its center as you waited for him to open.
When he did, you were surprised to see his office drowned in low light coming from the lamp on his desk and the moonlight peeking through the widow.
“You wanted to see me?” it meant as a statement: he did ask to see you. At first, you were sure it had something to do with the case you were consulting, the topic you and him were talking about during dinner. What confused you was that the setting looked anything but professional, if the expensive bourbon bottle and the two glasses sitting on the table wasn’t enough of a tell.
“Yes. Come in.” he said, waiting for you to walk into the office to close the door. You stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, waiting for him to take the lead. Unaware – or, most probably, choosing to ignore – your startled state, he slowly made his way to the couch on the back of the room, filling up both glasses before sitting comfortably.
Taking one of the glasses, you sat beside him, pressing your lips together and trying not to bounce your leg to ease the tension.
“How was girls night?” Rossi asks, raising his glass to his lips. He didn’t even look at you as he waited for your answer, his tone almost mocking you.
Having absolutely no idea what he was going with this, you decided to play along “It was fun.”
He nodded “I see.” You took a sip of your drink, trying to keep your posture. It didn’t work. As soon as the burning liquid settled in your stomach, you turned to face him. Terrible idea.
“Dave, what’s going on? What is this?”
“You know,” he started, completely ignoring your question “People may think about profiling as a criminal study. They think we have to learn about psychopaths, stressors, geography, and criminal patterns. That it’s about getting in the mind of crazy people and figuring them out.”
“And it isn’t?” you blinked, drowned by his speech.
“Oh, definitely. But it’s not just that. It’s about studying people. Feelings, motivations. Learning, understanding their behaviour and using it to figure out their intentions.”
And that’s when it hit you: he knew.
“We have an unspoken policy in the BAU: not profiling each other.” he began, turning his body to face you.
“So why are you profiling me?” you asked, voice edging and uneasy, desperately trying to stop him from putting into words. He ignored it.
“You’re breaking up with him.” Not a question, not a suggestion, and definitely not a doubt. “I know what this is about. Who this is about.” your chewed on your bottom lip, deciding on what to say.
“Please, don’t try to talk me out of it.” you beg, hating how weak your own voice sounds. He took another long and lazy sip, and you watched as the liquid clinged to his lips, the wet reflecting the low light of the lamp.
“I won’t.” he stared at you, his eyes squinting slightly “I’m here to encourage you.”
You frowned, your eyebrows pinching together “What?”
“Yes. You really should break up with him. You know, if you’re in such an unbearable relationship.” You roll your eyes, tilting your head back.
“Stop.”
“No, seriously. Do you think he’s what? Cheating on you with Beth?”
“What? That’s not what this is about. I know he’s not cheating.” you defend yourself, cringing at the topic of the discussion.
“Then what is it?”
“I’m just…” your eyes burn with tears harder than the liquid on your throat when you down the rest of the bourbon before continuing “I’m not her.”
“You sure? Under this specific light I could’ve swore…”
“Dave!” you whine, and he chuckles.
“Yes, you’re not Beth.” you grimace at her name, not bothering to hide your feelings anymore “Why are you saying this as a bad thing?”
“Because it is. She’s back now and…” you feel a tear striking down your cheek as you gesticulate “She just fits. She gets him.”
“And you don’t?”
You sigh “You must think I sound really stupid.”
“Oh, you sound absolutely ridiculous.” you look at him, looking at a smirk on his face. Before you realize it, you’re laughing as well, but in a weak and depressed way “Love does this to us. Make us blind to the obvious. Clouds our judgement and turns us into…” he gesticulates towards you. You roll your eyes, but you’re not crying anymore “I have three divorces, so you’d think I know one thing or two about failed relationships. And let me tell you: yours isn’t one of them.”
“You’re just saying this because you’re his best friend.”
“I’m saying this because I love you.” he stated bluntly, and you widened your eyes in surprise, not expecting this. “And it'll kill me to see you do something I know you’ll regret later.” he leaned closer, looking at you with a paternal love that made you uneasy “Hotch loves you, kid. Don’t try to assume things. Let him know.”
“It’s hard.”
“I know it is. It has to be, don’t you think?” he smiles, the wrinkle on the corner of his eyes enhancing his passion towards the subject “Or else is not worth it. But talk to him. You know him more than I do, but I’m pretty sure you’re seeing things out of a place of hurt, probably past experiences.” he nod his head in a knowing gesture “From what I see, you’re out of your mind if you think that Hotch would ever consider living his life away from you.”
You only notice the tear streaming down your cheeks like a waterfall when his fingers gently wipe them away.
“Sorry.” you mumble, and he shakes his head.
“Listen, if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t. It’ll be fine too. You’ll be fine. But just don’t let it all go to waste before at least giving him a chance.”
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
It got to a point where you had to stop for a second to wipe the sweat out of your eyelids to see. By the time you reached your – Aaron’s – front door, your heartbeat had lowered to a normal rhythm and your skin was now cold rather than wet. You spent almost the entire night awake, tossing and turning on the bed. The night went so late it was almost morning, so you figured it made more sense to just get up and do something other than to lay in the dark with nothing but your loud and torturous mind.
Running, these past few weeks, were your loyal ally to your early mornings. That specific day, you just got back from an over two hour long run, finally feeling your limbs hurting more than your heart. As you walked in, you were surprised to find Aaron pacing around the living room, something crumpled up on one of his fist, a piece of paper in the other.
When he looked at you, his face was everything but stoic: he looked panicked, tortured, confused and, overall, hurting. “We need to talk” he said, quietly. If you listened closely, you could hear the way his voice wobbled in the middle of the sentence, like he didn’t actually want to talk. Like he wanted you to just be confused, and just ask what he meant by that, and that you weren’t being distant, he was just paranoid. Anything that could prove, beyond reasonable doubt, that you weren’t, in fact, leaving.
Despite all his silent wishes you just nodded, making your way to the couch “Yeah, we do.”
Hoping the sound of his heart shattering wasn't loud enough for you to hear, he made his way to the couch in front of you, distant enough for him to think clearly – as much as possible, under the circumstances. For a minute you just stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid so heavy it could suffocate.
You glanced down at his hands, still not managing to understand what he was holding so tight on his fist. On the other hand, you could finally see what it was. Before you left the house that morning, already planning on staying out for long, you wrote him a note with the steps to use the coffee pot.
“Before we start,” he began, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat before continuing “I already know. So there’s no need to lie.” you gulp, shifting in your seat. You never lied to him before, but it was fair of him to point it out. You weren’t being exactly honest. And even though you knew what he was talking about, it still surprised you when he finally said it out loud “When exactly you were planning on breaking up with me?”
Your breath hitched, panic rushing through your veins. It didn’t matter that you still weren't sure about what to do, there was no point in lying. Not anymore. It hurt you to think about it, but actually admitting to him was a whole other level of pain.
“I don’t know.” you answer weakly.
He blinks. And then chuckles.
When he dips his head down, you stare at him confused. The only thing you catch is the way his head shakes slightly, his fists flexing but never letting go of your note and the other white soft – looks fluffy? Is it a stress relief ball? – thing. Aaron tilts his head up and his eyes are full of tears. They are shiny and reddish, and you want nothing more than to make it all go away.
“Hotch,” you try, because just watching him crumble in front of you is not an option.
“Jesus! Stop calling me that.” he spat, frowning.
“Your name?”
“That’s not my name. Not to you. Not in here.” he adverts, the pain muffling the anger in his tone.
You chew on your bottom lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to fall from your eyes. Sniffing as quietly as possible, you look at him “Do you think this is easy for me?”
“It must be!” he says, barely containing himself, “You’re doing it all behind my back, vanishing from my life little by little, until all I have left is an empty drawer with nothing but this shirt and a coffee pot I don't know how to use.” and you finally understand what he was holding on so tightly. It’s a plain silky pajama shirt. It’s the only piece of clothing because it’s matching short you – he – ended up tearing it in half on the first night you wore it.
“I left you instructions.” you point to the paper in his other hand.
“I don’t want to learn.” he looks disgusted at the paper, like it personally offended him “I’m not learning how to use it.” he emphasizes.
You try again “It’s not that hard.”
“I won’t.”
That discussion was pointless, anyway. It is something to cling onto while avoiding the main issue. Sighing deeply in order to avoid crying, you change the subject “Listen, it’s nothing with you. It’s me.” you snort at that, because it’s that old cheesy and shitty excuse. But it’s the truth. “I’m just…” it’s all you manage to say before the tears blur your vision and you have to dip your head down to try and wipe them away.
His voice filled your ears, making you glance up to face him again. “I noticed that you weren’t being yourself, but I figured you’d tell me. It was something from work, or your family. I didn’t think it was this. It was us.” his voice weakens, and he has to gulp before continuing “Aren’t you happy anymore?”
“I… there’s a lot going on.” you feel your nose burning, and you stop caring if he sees the tears streaming down your face.
“Tell me what I did.” his demeanor changes, and he doesn’t look sad and confused anymore. He sounds energetic, urgent, demanding and begging all together “Tell me where I got it wrong, i can change it. I’ll do it right. I’ll do it better.”
Hearing this, combined with the raw desperation on his voice, so opposite from his usual calm and steady behavior, only makes you cry harder, and you don’t even try to wipe them away.
“You did nothing wrong. Nothing. I don’t want you to change. I just…” a strangled hiccup interrupted your speech, and you feel ridiculous, weak, dramatic and lonely. You want this to end, but also you want this to have never happened. “I shouldn’t feel this way in a relationship.”
He nodded, thinking. When Aaron speaks again, his voice is much calmer. Resignated, even. “So that’s it, then? You have your mind made up? Nothing I say will change it.” and it’s not a question anymore.
“I’m doing this for you, I want nothing more than what’s best for you.”
“Bullshit.” he snapped, his words startling you “Why are you doing this? Is it the job? You said it’s not me. Is it Jack? Is this life too much for you? The responsibility of…”
“What? Of course not!” your heart aches thinking about it. It hurts that he thinks this, but you have no one but yourself to blame “I love Jack. I love our… this life.”
He stays silent for a second, as if analyzing your explanation — or lack thereof. “Is it someone else?” you stop, and blinks. This is it. You won’t lie straight to his face. He stiffens, and it doesn’t need another word from you to understand. “Who is him?”
“Him?” you frown in the middle of your tears, so confused you stopped crying. “What do you mean?”
“You said there was someone else.” he squinted his eyes at you.
“I didn’t, you did.”
“You didn’t deny it. Who is he?” he insisted, his jaw tensed.
“Who do you think I am?” you asked, actually aggravated at his accusations “I would never…”
“Who is he?” he interrupts you, his eyes burning holes in your head.
“There's no he. It’s Beth.”
Hotch’s jaw is immediately unlocked at that, the anger and betrayal completely subsided by complete shock and confusion. “What? You and… Beth?”
“Huh?” you were the one left in confusion now. How did he get to that conclusion? For a second, you didn’t feel the excruciating pain and humiliation from admitting your feelings to him “No. You and Beth.”
“What do I have to do with this?” he asks, his confusion turning to aggravation once again “You don’t like our friendship? That’s why you're breaking up with me?”
Now, said excruciating pain and humiliation were back on its full force. You ignored the lump on your throat, taking a deep breath and explaining the situation in the most sober and objective way possible. “I realized you and her fit more together than me and you, and…” your voice faltered as you saw his outrageous expression “...the two of you only broke up because she moved away. You’re all happy that she’s coming back. I just figured…”
“What?” he interrupted, his voice sharp and edgy “That i’d break up with you to be with her?” asking like it was a ridiculous thought. You stayed silent, because that was exactly what you thought. He huffed an incredulous laugh through his nose “Jesus. Did I ever give you a reason to question me? Or my loyalty?” he accused, his voice showing more worry than anger.
“No. Actually I don't know if you’d break up with me. That’s why I saved you the trouble.” you shrugged, trying not to show how much it hurt you to say it.
“Jesus fucking christ.” he muttered, pintching the bridge of his noise “Are you even hearing yourself?”
“Stop talking like I'm insane.” you snapped, losing your patience “You’re the one making phone calls, facetiming and going on dates with your ex girlfriend. I saw you when the two of you broke up. I was there. You were in pain. How am I supposed to feel? How am I supposed to handle this? How am I supposed to compete with this? Explain to me, Aaron. Because I have no fucking clue.”
The moment you stopped speaking, you realized you were almost yelling. It was the first time you let out your anger, your hurt. All the time you kept saying you were doing the best: for Aaron, for Jack, for Beth… Not once you stopped to think how much it sucked to be you, to deal with all of that. Yes, you could’ve talked to him sooner. But you shouldn’t have felt like that. No one should.
When you asked him to explain, to tell you what to do, it wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t sass. You were actually asking, begging for him, for someone, to tell you how to feel. It didn’t make sense, none of this made sense to you. It was too overwhelming, and you just wanted it to be gone. You wanted to disappear.
You noticed too late you were crying, fully sobbing now, with one hand clutched to your chest, as if you tried to rip your heart out, and the other resting against your throat, trying to soothe the pain from talking so loud. You didn’t see how his expression softened, his anger melting into pure sorrow. He couldn’t believe he did that to you, that he, of all people, made you feel this way.
A few minutes had passed when he finally made a move. He got up from his couch and crossed the room, sitting right by your side. His knees were pressed against your thighs, his eyes filled with tears. His body and his soul were completely in surrender to yours.
“I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “I should’ve seen it before. I shouldn't have acted like this. Or at least, talked to you about it. I’m not trying to make any excuses for the way I acted, but I need to explain.” he cleared, his eyes scanning your face every 10 seconds, trying to find any hint of chance in your stance “The thought of someone other than you, in a romantic way, is so out of my reality that I didn’t even considered her a ‘threat’. Not that she, or anyone, is a threat. But I really didn’t see the situation as something that could’ve hurt you. And that was my first mistake.”
“She knows you in a way that I can’t.”
“You know me in a way no one can.” he argued “You were my subordinate, then my work colleague, my friend. Now you’re my best friend and my family. You’re the woman I love.” he gulped, flinching at his own words and feeling the hot streak of a lonely tear falling from his eye. The one he couldn’t hold back. “I don’t want you going back to being less than that.”
Your posture didn’t show any kind of surrender. But he didn’t see resistance either, and when you turned to face him, he noticed that you didn’t keep arguing and just waited to listen. Taking it as a good (the best yet) sign, he pressed further.
“There’s nothing going on between me and Beth. She happened to be the first friend I’ve had outside of the job for a long time, that’s all. I don’t know if it will help to hear this,” he tried, hesitantly “...but her leaving wasn’t the only reason why we broke up.” seeing your questioning expression, he kept going “We came to the realization we worked better as friends anyway, and it was just a matter of time for us to end things. The moving just happened first.” he shrugged.
You opened your mouth to speak, but he anticipated your argument “Yes, I did suffer. It was a change in scenario, how could I not? But as I said, we knew it was happening. So what it hurt the most was actually Jack. I felt like the worst parent from giving another sort of mother figure just to take it away from his life. Again.”
Before you could think properly, your hand reached out to his, squeezing in a silent reassurance. He always doubted his parental skills, and you were always making sure to remind him how amazing he was. Even now, with your heart broken and your relationship hanging by a thread, you still found a way to comfort him.
How could he lose something like this? Someone like this? How could he let you go? How could he make you feel that way? He had to press his lips together in a thin line to keep them from trembling, and to hold back the force of his grip when he squeezed your hand back, making sure he wasn’t hurting you as he not so subtly tried to hold on to you. To keep you from leaving.
“Honey,” he started, not even caring about his voice cracking. He couldn’t wait any longer, or lose any more chances. This was it. “I love you so much. I know this isn’t ideal, and I hate myself for ever making you feel this way. If not being with me will make you happier, then…” he gulped “...I’ll let you go. But if this situation is the only reason, please, don’t go. Please, give me a chance to show you how you’re the only one I want.”
You feel your tears running freely from your face, and you choke up a sob before speaking, your voice so weak it was barely hearable “I feel really immature.”
He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he’s making fun of you. It sounds like he’s gone completely mad, like your admission was the water bottle after two days in the desert. It gave him hope.
“No.” he denied firmly, not letting go of your hand even for a second “Now that I think about it, if the tables were turned, I might’ve murdered your ex.” he whispered like a secret. It was so unexpected and so out of character of him that you laughed, surprising both you and him. He smiled from ear to ear at the sound of it. “I’m really sorry, I should’ve been more careful with the situation.”
“I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.” you smiled apologetically. He ignores your attempt, looking deep into your eyes and calling your name with such a raw expectation that if you weren’t already seated, you would’ve fell.
“Did you change your mind?” you hesitate for a second, and he sees right through you “Tell me you have. I know you want to, I can feel it.” His voice is quiet, his words so soft spoken it feels like a spell. Only you know that you do want to be with him, now that is all cleared. “Please, give me a chance to make things right.”
You chew on your bottom lip as your eyes fill with tears again “I feel stupid.” you admit, and he wants nothing more than to cry his eyes out.
“Don’t say that ever again.” he leans in hesitantly, and when you don’t flinch or pull back, he wipes the tears from your face with the pad of his thumb. The other hand is still holding yours firmly “You were protecting yourself, as you should’ve. Thank you.”
“What for?” you snort between tears, not understanding what he could possibly be thankful for in this situation.
“Thank you for protecting and taking such good care of someone I love so much. Especially when I was too damn blind to see that she needed it.”
After that, there was no point of dragging this any further: you were completely and undeniably his.
He didn’t see it coming, his body jerking in surprise when you literally jumped to his lap, hugging him tightly and burying your face on his neck, sobbing and muttering apologies on repeat. His lips were glued to the crown of your head, kissing you repeatedly. His hands were all over you, touching from your feet to the strands of your hair, as if his body needed to feel you there, to make sure you were with him, for his mind to completely wrap up around the fact that you weren’t going anywhere.
Ignoring your words, he whispered his own, “Don’t you ever apologize. I should be the one apologizing. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” and it’s the only moment his lips leave your skin “I’m sorry. I will never make you feel this way. If I ever hurt you like that again, and I won’t, I want you…”
“Don’t say it.” you cut him off. He ignores, once again.
“...to just shoot me in the face. Kill me.”
You chuckle weakly, lifting your head from his chest to face him properly “Dude, you gotta stop with the murder threats.” he arches his eyebrow at you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk.
“Dude? Who do you think you’re talking to?” he asks, and his finger tickles your sides as the stubble on his beard tickles your neck. Your body jerks and twitches on top of his while you laugh loudly, but never moving away from his.
When he finally feels you learned your lessons, his hands rested comfortably around your waist in its rightful place. You sigh, looking at him.
“Promise me that you will always talk to me, and be honest about your feelings. No matter how ugly you think they are.”
“I promise.” you say as you wipe the wet off his face, and it’s just then that he realizes he’d been crying all along “Promise me that if your feelings for me change, you’ll communicate.” he rolls his eyes so hard it feels like they’ll hit the back of his head “Promise.” you insist.
“I promise.” he says, seriously. When you relax, he starts again. “Matter of fact, my feelings just changed.” you squint your eyes at his playful tone “A few minutes ago I wanted to stop by your place to get back the clothes you took. But now, I’ve decided you’ll be spending the rest of the weekend with nothing to wear but that shirt.” he says, leaning – without moving you away from his lap – to grab the piece of fabric he left on the center table.
“I have to get at least underwear.” you argue.
“If you behave, I’ll let you borrow a couple boxers.”
“Jack will see it.”
“He’s a kid. And they’re the exact same size of what you call your casual shorts so I doubt he’ll notice the difference.” he points seriously and you squeal, slapping his chest slightly.
“That’s rude. And humiliating.”
“That’s what you get for stealing.”
Your mouth hangs open for a second “I didn’t steal! I didn’t take anything from your house but my clothes.”
“This house is ours.” he stares at you deeply, waiting for his statement to sink in before continuing “So is everything in it. From the bedroom to the coffee pot and, therefore, your clothes. So, basically, you stole from us.” he shrugged, like he made a perfect point. You just laugh, choosing to accept it.
“I’m sorry for stealing.” he nodded politely and you dive back into his embrace, sighing happily “Can we stay like this forever?” Aaron tight his arms around you, his whole body answering before any words came out.
“I’ll think about it. But before that, we have to eat. You're probably on the verge of dehydration right now.” he points, standing up with you still in his arms, and makes his way toward the kitchen. He settles you in one of the stools and hands you your shirt “Go change while I make us breakfast. Now that I’ve learnt how to use the coffee pot.”
You gasp, widening your eyes in a mock-threat. Jumping out of the stool with your shirt already crumpled on your hands, you stomp your way to where he stands behind the stove, pointing your finger to his chest. “You can cook whatever you want, but don't you dare touch the coffee pot, Aaron Hotchner.”
Aaron does just as you said, beaming while frying the bacon even when you’re upstairs in his shower. Your shower. And both of you know, somehow, you’ll be okay.
taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna
