spideyreid

[spideyreid]

let me love you — a. hotchner

summary: it takes you almost kissing someone else for him to realise just how much he cares

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader

warnings: angst, tension, angry kisses, jealous!hotch, he's so hot, did i mention tension? bcs there's so much tension tension tension, a few swears, her bag sort of disappears.. oops

word count: 5.2k (oops x2)

Aaron doesn’t even look at you anymore.

Okay, that’s not true — he does. When he has to. When there’s a case file in his hands and you’re just another member of the team he needs to brief — another agent he’s in charge of. When there’s a question about geographical profiling or victimology and you’re the one who can answer it. When he’s assigning roles and has to say your name.

But everything outside of that? Nothing. Cold silence. Controlled distance.

And it killed you.

You wouldn’t even know you kissed him. More than once. Wouldn’t know how his hands felt in your hair, or how he’d said your name like it physically hurt him. Wouldn’t know that there was a moment — no, a string of moments — where he looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him to earth.

Because now? Now he’s pretending none of it ever happened.

And the worst part?

You know he still wants you.

Not in the arrogant way. Not in the I’m-so-irresistible kind of way. No — you know it because you see it. In the way his eyes flicker to you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. In the way his jaw ticks when Morgan jokes too casually with you. In the way he goes quiet when your laugh cuts across the room — his lips pressing into a thin line while his body tenses, almost like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing along.

He wants you. And he’s made that clear before.

But he’s also your boss. Older. Emotionally constipated. A man who shuts people out just before they get too close.

So of course, he made the decision for both of you. Of course, he pulled away, said it wasn’t appropriate, said you needed to keep it professional. Of course, he slammed that wall up between you and iced you out like he didn’t miss you the moment he left.

And now? Now you’re in Florida. The local PD is stretched thin, there’s a suspected spree killer hitting tourist-heavy areas along the I-4 corridor, and you’re operating out of some small, humid precinct where the AC rattles and no one knows how to use a case board.

Hotch pairs you with Officer Pretty Smile — an actual cop, around your age, golden tan, charming, full of casual grins and easy compliments. You don’t even hear most of what Hotch says when he assigns you; you’re too busy fuming at the fact that he’s done it again.

Just like the last two cases, he pairs you with some random officer, keeps you away from the scene, away from the precinct, away from anywhere he might be — in a way, he’s not letting you do your job.

Distanced from the rest of the team, you’re not much help.

How is that professional?

You know the game he’s playing. Avoidance. Distance. Control.

You’re sick of it.

But Officer Pretty Smile — his name’s Ryan — doesn’t seem to mind the stormcloud hanging over your head. He makes it easy to forget, just a little. He’s perceptive, actually listens when you talk, knows when to make you laugh and when to stay quiet. It’s a relief.

He flirts — lightly, respectfully — and you flirt back. Why shouldn’t you?

Aaron’s the one who put this wall up. He’s the one not speaking to you.

You don’t owe him your loyalty if he won’t even look at you outside of a damn case briefing.

The case wraps up after a few days of gruelling profiling, false leads and one late-night stakeout that finally caught your UnSub at a rest stop. You’re debriefing the locals, coordinating transport and starting to pack things up when Ryan walks you out to the parking lot.

He offers you his number, and you take it, pocketing it with a smile that widens when he leans in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. It’s innocent, really. Careful and sweet, but when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His face stays close, breath brushing against your skin as his eyes lock onto yours.

Then his gaze drops — not just to your lips, but the space between you — like he’s weighing the distance and what to do about it. It takes a breath or two before he meets your eyes again.

He leans in, slower this time, and his lips just barely graze yours. A featherlight touch that barely classifies as a kiss. It’s more of a hesitation. A silent question — do you want this too?

Yes, you do.

You answer by lifting a hand and placing it gently on his jaw, your touch light but certain.

He exhales softly, and his hands move to your waist, holding you like he’s been wanting to all day.

Your lips are so close, a breath away, and just as you’re about to close the gap—

“Agent!”

Aaron’s voice cuts through the humid Florida air like a gunshot, sharp enough to turn heads. It’s not just a call — it’s a warning. A demand. His tone carries weight, and everyone nearby instinctively pauses, glancing over to where he stands near the SUV, his jaw tight, posture coiled like he’s seconds away from snapping.

You freeze.

Where the fuck did he spawn from?

Ryan pulls back, but not completely. His hands stay on your waist, holding you close, as his eyes look over your shoulder.

You, however, don’t turn around — stubbornly refusing to give Hotch the satisfaction of ruining this moment.

He can wait.

He can watch.

You keep your gaze locked on Ryan. On his lips that are a bit further away than before, parted in confusion as he stares at your boss.

Your fingers shift slightly against his jaw — a gentle nudge meant to draw his attention back to you. And it works. His eyes flicker away from whatever intensity Hotch is radiating behind you and settle back on yours.

You lean in, slow and deliberate, and the moment you do, he seems to forget everything else as he leans in too.

And, just like before, just as your lips graze—

“Agent!”

Somehow, his voice is harsher than before — each syllable laced with barely contained fury.

Your hands fall from Ryan’s face and drop to your sides as you sigh, letting your head dip forward slightly.

“What’s his problem?” Ryan murmurs, his frustration mirroring yours as he shoots Aaron a brief, irritated glance before turning his attention back to you.

You lift your head, just enough to meet his eyes again, and mutter, “I don’t know. He’s just—” You wave a hand vaguely behind you. “A hardass.” You pause. “Or an ass. A normal ass. Whichever floats your boat.”

Ryan snorts, nodding as he looks back at Aaron. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You smile, wide and genuine. “Well then,” you say, looking up at him, “duty calls.”

He nods, looking a bit reluctant as he returns your smile and asks, “Will I see you again before you go?”

You hesitate, just for a second, before finally glancing over your shoulder.

Hotch stands by the entrance of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office — arms crossed, back stiff, jaw tight. His eyes are locked on you like he’s trying to dissect every inch of the moment he just interrupted. He looks furious. Controlled, as always, but furious nonetheless.

You look back at Ryan. “Probably not.”

There’s a brief pause — just a breath of silence — before he nods. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for anything more. Instead, he steps in and kisses your cheek again, soft and quick, like a quiet goodbye. When he pulls back, he lets his hand brush down your arm before stepping away.

You turn without another word, lowering your head as you approach Aaron. With each step, the feeling of his stare on you burns hotter, sharper.

You stop in front of him, standing there for a moment before you glance up.

His blazer is off, his blue button-up clinging slightly to his skin. His sunglasses perched on his nose and his jaw is tight.

You hate yourself for thinking that he looks hot.

You cross your arms, exhaling sharply before saying, “You called?”

He doesn’t waste a second. “Get the scene logs from the officers inside. I want them scanned and uploaded before we leave for the jet.”

His tone is dry, detached. The words hang in the air like a weight that doesn’t match the way he’s looking at you. His expression is stone-cold, all business, and it only fuels the frustration coursing through you.

You blink, your chest tightening. That’s it? That’s the urgent reason he called you out of a kiss like the sky was falling?

It’s a bullshit task. You both know it.

But he’s your Unit Chief. And right now, he’s pulling rank — not for the case. The case is over. Solved.

He’s doing it for himself, and it makes you want to scream.

You bite back the thousand things you want to say, give a tight nod, and walk past him without a glance.

—

On the jet, the tension is unbearable.

Aaron is sitting near the front, a stack of case files spread in front of him that he hasn’t touched since takeoff. He just stares at them, unmoving, like he’s willing them to make him forget.

You’re in the back, headphones on, glaring out the window as your forehead rests against the glass of it.

The others feel it — the tightrope tension stretching across the cabin. No one says a word.

After a while, you can’t help but glance his way, your eyes rolling when you see how he’s glaring at the files in front of him.

He’s clearly seething. The image of you, about to kiss someone else, seemed to be carved into his memory.

If he’d been closer, he might’ve punched the guy. Hell, if he wasn’t so goddamn professional, he might’ve dragged you away himself.

But he didn’t. He waited. He watched.

He hates that he waited.

And now he’s stewing in it.

When the jet lands, everyone moves quickly — eager to escape the static pressure in the air. You stand, grabbing your go-bag before heading for the stairs.

And then — low, sharp, right in front of you:

“Stay.”

He’s still seated, leaning forward slightly, elbow propped on the table. His hand is pressed to his face, fingers buried in his hair while his palm digs into his temple like he’s desperately trying to hold his thoughts together.

His eyes are closed — not from sleep, but something heavier — and despite the jet landing, his papers are still out, strewn in front of him. Clearly, he’d given up trying to read them — or pretending to read them.

His face is taut, shadowed — caught in a quiet storm of exhaustion or thought. Maybe both.

He looks really hot.

Swallowing, you will that thought away.

‘Stay.’ He had said, in a tone that made you freeze — one that left no room for argument.

You hesitate, your grip on your bag tightening a bit as you stare before deciding.

No.

With your lips set in a frown, you start walking again.

Just as you’re about to move past him, though, his hand reaches out to wrap around your wrist.

You tense, his touch making you feel warm and a bit breathless despite your anger.

“I said stay.” His voice cuts through the quiet — steady with an edge that sends a jolt through you.

Shit.

You look down at him, jaw set. “Let go.”

He doesn’t move at first — just lifts his eyes to meet yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. Then he exhales before rising to his feet in a fluid motion. His grip on your wrist doesn’t loosen as he stands over you, shoulders squared.

You falter, thrown by the sudden nearness. “Hotch—”

“Aaron.” He interrupts you, his eyes narrowing as he stares down at you. His tone is sharp, stern like hearing his last name offended him.

“Hotch.” You repeat it, just to piss him off.

If distance is what he wants, distance is what he’ll get.

He stares at you for a second before exhaling, a tired look in his eyes as he says, “We need to talk.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” Your voice rises a bit and you barely manage to hold back a laugh. “You ignore me for weeks, send me off like I’m a problem you can delegate, and now — suddenly — you want to talk?”

His jaw clenches. “You don’t understand—”

“No. You don’t get to—“

Before you can finish what you’re saying, he uses his grip on your wrist to pull you into him. Fuelled by everything he hasn’t said, it’s not a gentle gesture.

You gasp as you stumble forward, crashing into his chest. Your cheek brushes the soft fabric of his shirt and your hand splayed instinctively against him for balance. When your eyes finally meet his, he’s already looking down at you — jaw tense, eyes dark, your faces now inches apart.

“You were going to kiss him.” His voice is quiet, but the words hit harder than if he’d shouted them.

His grip on your wrist tightens slightly, and for a moment, he closes his eyes. The sight of you both leaning in replays in his mind — the tension in his jaw is visible as his lips press into a line. His expression looks as if the image physically hurt him.

When he opens them again, his eyes lock onto yours, searching, checking to see if you understand the severity of it.

Your lips are parted as you stare at him.

You’re not surprised that he brought it up. You knew it was coming, but the way he says it — the weight in his voice — wasn’t something you were expecting.

His words carried an undertone of pain that make you falter. It’s not just about the kiss, you realise. It’s about everything he’s been holding in.

“You were about to kiss him.” He repeats, slower than before, his eyes still boring into yours.

Hearing the word ‘kiss’ a second time, along with the sudden proximity, had your gaze falling to his lips.

You couldn’t help it.

You looked back up quickly to find his eyes still on you.

A flicker of guilt creeps into your chest — something small, unwanted. Maybe it’s the way his voice quietened when he said it. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, like he wasn’t prepared for how much it hurt him — you almost kissing someone else.

For a split second, you start to feel bad.

But it doesn’t last.

Not when you remember the last few weeks — how he’s iced you out, kept his distance like you didn’t matter, like the moments you shared never happened.

Your jaw tightens and your brows furrow in the way they always do when you’re annoyed.

“Stop.” You say, the word sharper than you intended. Shaking your head, your voice comes out quieter the second time. “Just… stop.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches you — eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to read you.

Like he’s trying to profile you.

What happened to never profiling each other? Probably the same thing that happened to being ‘professional’.

“You’re being unfair, Aaron.”

You avert your gaze, unable to hold his anymore. It drops to his chest — the fabric of his shirt stretched a bit beneath your hands that are still resting there. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, slightly faster than it should be.

He has no right to be upset, you think, and it takes everything in you not to say it out loud first. But when you look back up at him, your anger catches fire again, sharp and unforgiving.

“You’re the one who pushed me away.” You bite out, voice low. “You iced me out. For weeks, Aaron.”

Your words land heavy in the space between you, but you don’t stop.

“You told me we couldn’t—” You falter slightly, pain catching in your throat, “—that we had to keep things professional. And then you avoided me. You acted like I didn’t matter.”

His jaw flexes again, but he says nothing.

“And now what?” you continue. “Now you’re upset because I almost kissed someone else? You don’t get to pull me in two different directions like this. You can’t tell me to stay away, and then look at me like that when someone else gets close.”

His hand is still on your waist, his grip on your wrist still firm. He hasn’t let go, hasn’t backed off, and that makes it worse — the contradiction of it. The ache of being wanted but not claimed.

“It’s confusing. You’re confusing.” My voice goes back to being quiet as I lower my gaze again, missing the way his expression softens a bit.

It softens because he knows you’re right.

He can’t argue with you, not really. Not when you’re looking at him like that. Or rather, not looking at him at all. Your eyes are fixed on his chest now, lips pressed together in that tight little frown that always means you’re trying not to show how hurt you are.

He can’t argue with you because you’re right.

He’s being unfair, and the guilt of that realization hits him instantly, swallowing him whole. The weight of his own selfishness also sinks in, making him feel stupid for not realizing how much he’s hurt you.

When the silence stretches for too long, you look up, and your frown deepens when you see how he’s watching you.

“Stop profiling me.” Your voice shakes a bit as you try to yank yourself free of his grip. But Aaron doesn’t let go. His hands stay firm on your waist, like letting go would mean losing something he’s not ready to give up.

It only makes you angrier.

You shove at his chest, hard, but he barely budges. “Let go.” you snap, glaring up at him, but his expression doesn’t shift. He just watches you, jaw tight, eyes unreadable behind the shield of his silence.

That silence cuts deeper than anything.

“You ignored me for weeks!” you shout, your voice rising, cracking with something raw. “You didn’t even look at me. You shut me out like I meant nothing!”

You try again to pull away, like his touch burns. Like the heat of his hands is searing through your skin, cracking you open.

And it hurts him — more than he thought it would. Watching you try to escape him like he’s done something unforgivable — which he has — makes something twist in his chest. He wants to fix it, but he doesn’t know how. Every word you throw at him lands like a blow, and still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go.

He just hurts.

“Let go!” you yell, louder now, fists balled as you push at him again. “I said fuck off, Aaron!”

You look up at him then — eyes blazing, cheeks flushed with anger, your frown etched deep into your face. The fury in your expression is undeniable, and it hits him like a punch.

And before he even realizes what he’s doing — he kisses you.

It comes out of nowhere. Like something snaps inside him, like instinct. It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s angry and desperate and messy—like he’s trying to shut you up and apologize all at once. Like everything he’s been holding back has just erupted, too big to contain.

You freeze at first, tensing against it, breath caught in your throat.

But then you break.

Your hands fist in the lapels of his blazer, gripping hard like you need something to hold you upright. Your lips move against his with the same kind of fury you’d just thrown at him — like this is a fight, too. But somewhere in that chaos, your shoulders slump, and so do his.

Like you’re both exhaling for the first time in weeks.

Like this is the first breath either of you has taken since everything fell apart.

His hands move — one, then both — rising to cradle your face, fingers splayed across your cheeks like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You pull back first, breaking the kiss with a gasp, your breath catching somewhere between his mouth and your own. His grip loosens, and for a second, something like a whine escapes him — soft and involuntary — like he can’t believe you’re already pulling away.

You’re breathless. Lips swollen. Heart racing.

“You’re such an asshole.” you hiss, voice low, hoarse, but still furious.

His eyes darken. “You were gonna kiss him.”

“Stop repeating that!” you snap, but there’s no bite behind it now — just exhaustion and heat and emotion so tangled you can’t separate any of it.

You don’t even think about it — you just lean in again, drawn like a magnet. And this time, he meets you halfway. Your lips part just before they touch, and when they do, it feels like the ground shifts beneath you. Like the jet could be spinning or crashing and you wouldn’t even notice.

It’s slower, deeper — but just as intense. His hands are still on your face, and yours are clinging to him like you don’t trust gravity anymore.

But then he pulls away.

His forehead drops to yours — close, so close — and for a moment you almost let him stay there. But something in you twists, and you turn your head just slightly, breaking the contact. You keep your eyes shut, breathing shallow, your face turned toward the wall of the jet like if you don’t look at him, you can hold onto the last piece of your anger.

His heart sinks.

“I’m sorry.” he says, his voice quieter now. Cracked open. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

You don’t move. Don’t look.

“I— I thought it was the right thing.” he says, and now it’s all unraveling, everything he’s shoved down clawing its way out. “I didn’t know how to handle what I felt for you. I didn’t know if I should. So I convinced myself the best thing — the most responsible thing — was to shut it down. To shut you out.”

He lets out a breath, sharp and rough. “I told myself you’d be better off. That you didn’t need someone like me — someone older, someone who barely knows how to process his own shit, let alone drag you into it. My hours are a nightmare, I’m exhausted all the time, and I have nothing to give you except… this mess.”

His voice softens but doesn’t steady. “And if Strauss found out, she wouldn’t hesitate to pull you off the team. To punish you for something that was always my fault.”

You still don’t speak. Your eyes remain closed.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says again, quieter now, like it physically hurts to say. “But it felt like cutting off my own oxygen. Seeing you every day, hearing your voice, pretending you were just another agent — it fucking destroyed me. Every moment I stayed away, I felt like I was unraveling. But I thought… if I could just hold the line a little longer, maybe I could let you go.”

His voice cracks then, barely above a whisper. “But I couldn’t. I can’t.”

You don’t say anything, and the silence eats at him. He shifts slightly, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to read anything — any flicker of emotion, of softness, of something.

“Please say something.” he murmurs.

There’s no anger in him anymore. Just regret. Just longing.

“I haven’t slept,” he says, after a second. “Not really. Not since I let you go. You’ve been in my head every day. Every night. You walk into the room and I can’t think straight. I hear your voice down the hall and I forget what I’m doing. It’s pathetic.”

Then gently — cautiously — he reaches out, fingers brushing against your chin. He turns your face to him, coaxing your eyes to his.

And when you look at him, he looks wrecked.

There’s exhaustion in his features, shadows beneath his eyes, but it’s the look in them that breaks you: raw, sincere, desperate. Like you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth right now.

“I’m sorry.” he says again, like it’s the only thing he has left to give. Like he means it with everything he’s got.

And he does.

It’s silent for a second.

His eyes search yours, unsure and a little frantic, like he’s trying to profile you again — trying to get an understanding of whatever’s going on in your mind.

He gives up quickly, wanting to find out whatever it is your thinking from you yourself. But just as he’s about to ask, you kiss him.

When you pull back, your hands stay on him, sliding down to his chest where you can feel the rapid, uneven rhythm of his heart.

“I don’t expect you to be perfect, Aaron.” you murmur, voice soft but steady. “I’m not. I barely have my own shit together half the time. And I’m not looking for some ideal version of you — just you. The version that cares too much and thinks too hard and carries everything on his back like it’s his job to keep the world spinning.”

You pause, your eyes searching his, and he doesn’t look away.

“I don’t want anyone else.” you say, more firmly now. “I can’t want anyone else. My heart’s already decided. It’s you. It’s always been you. These past few weeks without you—feeling you pull away, watching you pretend like nothing mattered—that was hell. And if you think I just brushed it off and moved on, you really don’t know me at all.”

You don’t stop there, because you can see it — how he’s still doubting, still not sure what you see in him. So you tell him.

“You don’t even realize how much I see you.” you whisper. “How good you are. You’re strong, yeah, but you’re also… unbelievably kind. You’re the one who makes me feel stable when everything else is a mess. You make me feel safe without trying to control me. You make me feel… things I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling.”

His brow creases like he doesn’t know what to do with that, like it’s too much, too pure.

“And I don’t give a damn about your age. If anything, it makes you hotter.” you add with a breath of a laugh. “It means you’ve lived, you’ve learned, and you listen. You make me feel taken care of in a way no one ever has.”

He’s blinking at you like his brain short-circuited somewhere along the way.

“As for Strauss…” You shrug a little. “She’s not a profiler. We barely even see her. If we keep things professional at work, we’ll be fine. We’re good at this — at keeping calm under pressure. This isn’t gonna change that.”

Then you take one of his hands and hold it tightly, pressing your fingers to his palm.

“All I want,” you say, voice low, “is for you to let me love you.”

Something in him breaks. Or maybe it mends. You can’t quite tell.

His eyes widen just a little, and for a second he just stares at you — like his brain is still catching up. Like the word punched the breath right out of him.

“What?” he asks, the word so soft it’s barely audible.

“I just want to love you, Aaron.” you repeat, quieter this time, like it’s a promise.

His breath shudders out of him, and he leans forward again — not kissing you yet, just resting his forehead against yours, like he needs the grounding.

“I love you.” he says, the words raw and unfiltered. “And I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you next time — really talk. I won’t shut you out again. I won’t let myself forget what this feels like.”

“You better not.” you murmur.

And then he kisses you again.

It’s steadier now. Certain. Like he’s finally, finally giving in to the truth he’s been denying. Like he knows what he wants — and it’s you.

As your lips move together, the world outside the jet fades into the background. His hand moves slowly, purposefully, down your side, and then it shifts, lowering until he reaches into your pocket.

You pull away a little, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Before you can fully process it, he pulls out the small piece of paper — the one with Ryan’s number scrawled on it.

Your heart skips a beat. He saw that?

The thought stings for a second — had he seen everything? You’d assumed he’d stepped outside for some reason and had just happened to catch a glimpse of you two — coincidentally, when you were about to kiss.

But Aaron’s mind works in a different way. He had seen you leave with Ryan, noticed the way you two were talking, the smiles on your faces. And something in him tensed. He didn’t like it. The way you were walking so close, how easy it seemed between you. So he followed, curiosity gnawing at him. He hadn’t meant to — but it felt like he had to know.

You break the silence with a quiet question, still trying to make sense of it all. “You saw that?”

Aaron’s jaw tightens, his face flickering with a flash of frustration, then quickly hardening as he remembers it.

“I saw all of it.” he says, his voice colder than you expected. A wince pulls at his expression as he scrunches the paper up in his hand, turning to toss it in the small bin beside the exit of the jet, the movement sharp and final.

You can’t help but let out a small, amused laugh despite the tension. His reaction, his possessiveness — it’s almost too much to ignore. But then, before he can get too far in his thoughts, you soften and murmur an apology. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts you off with a question of his own, his gaze still intense as he watches you, his tone now a little guarded. “Were you actually going to kiss him?”

You blink, surprised by the bluntness, but you can’t help the smirk that slips onto your face. “Hey, you’re the one who paired me with him.”

Aaron rolls his eyes, the hint of frustration fading a little, but you can still see the sharp edge to his expression. “From now on, you’re with me for every case.”

You laugh at the thought, shaking your head, but the joke settles in as you reply, “I don’t think that’d help with keeping Strauss off our trail.”

Aaron chuckles, his eyes softening just a fraction, but he doesn’t back down. “I’ll risk it. It’s fine.”

Your laughter fills the space between you, and it warms Aaron’s heart more than he’d care to admit. He’s missed hearing it, hearing you so carefree, even when things feel a little chaotic.

He pulls you a little closer then, wrapping an arm around your waist as if he can’t let you go now that he’s got you. He starts guiding you off the jet with that same quiet confidence he always carries, but there’s something different now — a sense of peace between you both, even if the world outside still feels a little unsettled.

“You’re coming to my place.” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’m making you dinner.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

[spideyreid]

The Purest Things: Magic

Aaron Hotchner x Fem! Reader Word Count: 3.6k Warnings: Murder. Blood. Death. Weapons. Canon typical violence. Everything that makes Criminal Minds, Criminal Minds. The Purest Things Masterlist | Taglist Form

au! sept 2010

Six months have passed since Haley’s death.

Time hasn’t softened the ache — not for Aaron, and not for you. But life has a way of moving forward, even when your heart feels stuck somewhere behind you.

At Quantico, you and Aaron cross paths only in passing. His eyes find yours sometimes in the hallways or during joint briefings, but the look never lingers long enough to be called anything more than habit. If anyone else notices the way his gaze strays when you speak, they don’t mention it.

Your transfer to another unit has kept you busy — new cases, a different rhythm you’ve tried your best to settle into. You keep your head down, working late more often than not, finding comfort in the steady flow of paperwork and case reports that give you no room to think about anything else. 

When weekends arrive, you let the girls drag you out on bar crawls — a tradition you’ve all kept alive as long as your schedules allow it. JJ orders the first round, Emily talks you into shots you know you’ll regret, and Garcia insists on stealing the jukebox to play the sappiest ballads she can find. By the time you’re three drinks in, you’re laughing louder than you should, letting their warmth and noise drown out the ache you never quite shake.

But you still wake up most mornings thinking of Aaron — his hand curling around your wrist that day at the cemetery, his voice low and pleading when he’d said, Don’t let this be final.

Most nights, you dream of him. And when you wake, there’s no laughter loud enough to quiet the longing that follows.

At the BAU, Aaron resumes his position as Unit Chief with the same unwavering focus he’s always carried, but the cracks are harder to hide now. The team sees it in the way he remains too long at his desk, staying late when there’s nothing left to finish. In the quiet moments, when he thinks no one’s looking, they catch him rubbing the bridge of his nose or staring at his phone like he’s willing it to ring.

Morgan keeps trying to draw him into conversations — sports, weekend plans, whatever feels easy — but Aaron always offers some clipped reply, returning to his files before anyone can press further.

And it’s you they notice him miss most.

He still pauses when someone mentions your name, his hand stalling mid-signature or his eyes flicking just a little too fast to the doorway, like he half-expects you to walk through it. 

“Have you talked to her?” Rossi asks one evening, stepping into Aaron’s office long after the others have gone home.

Aaron doesn’t look up from the file in front of him. “She’s busy,” he says — too quickly, too practiced.

“She’s avoiding you,” Rossi corrects. “And you’re letting her.”

Aaron closes the file with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. He knows Rossi’s right — knows you’ve been pulling away, but he doesn’t know how to reach for you without asking for more than he should.

“She thinks she’s in the way,” Aaron says finally. His voice is quieter than usual, thinner. “That she’s… taking something that doesn’t belong to her.”

��Is that what you think?” Rossi’s voice softens.

Aaron’s answer is slow — measured, as though saying it aloud makes it too real.

“I think…” He stops, his eyes drifting to the empty space where your desk used to be before you transferred. “I think I let her believe that because it was easier than asking her to stay.”

“You’re still wearing your ring,” Rossi points out.

Aaron’s thumb drifts toward his left hand, his fingers absently tracing the band still resting there.

“I know.”

The admission carries something hollow — something that feels too close to giving up.

“You don’t have to be ready for more,” Rossi says carefully. “But you can’t spend the rest of your life pretending you don’t miss her.”

Aaron doesn’t answer. He just stares at his empty doorway, wondering how much longer he can stand waiting for you to walk through it.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

Four more months pass — just as empty as the last — but the emptiness feels calmer now, something you’ve grown used to carrying. Work fills the spaces where memories used to linger, and the ache that once felt unbearable has dulled into something you can manage.

That is, until your unit is assigned to work alongside the BAU on a case in California.

The moment you step into the precinct, your eyes are drawn to Aaron’s like a moth to a flame — inevitable, instinctual.

You pull your gaze away and make a beeline for your team’s designated space, burying yourself in the case files you’d been too anxious to review on the plane. If you keep busy, maybe you can forget the way his eyes lingered — or how yours had so easily found his in the first place.

“Ahem.”

You know that voice — and you know exactly what’s coming. Eyes closing, you draw a slow breath before turning in your chair.

Emily stands behind you, arms crossed, a knowing smirk curling at the corner of her mouth.

“So,” she drawls, “are you two gonna need a mediator or…?” Her eyes flick pointedly between you and Aaron.

“I’m going to say hi,” you mutter.

“Well, you better do it soon,” she warns. “I’m trying to get this case wrapped up, and whether you like it or not, you and Hotch make magic together on cases like this — so I kinda need you two to… interact.”

“Fine,” you groan, pushing your chair back with more force than necessary.

Emily follows you to where the team is gathered, their greetings warm and familiar — a reminder of the life you left behind. But it’s Aaron who stands just behind them. He’s watching you, his gaze unwavering like he’s been waiting for this moment.

You force yourself to meet his eyes and suddenly it’s harder to breathe.

“Hotch,” you manage, extending your hand.

His fingers close around yours, and there it is again, that same jolt you felt months ago when he caught your wrist. His touch feels both too much and not enough, a reminder of everything you’ve tried to suppress.

You pull your hand back too quickly, your pulse hammering. His eyes soften, noticing your hesitation.

“It’s good to see you,” he says quietly, his voice gentle in a way that makes it impossible not to believe him.

“You too,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Alright,” Emily interjects, giving you both a deliberate nudge forward. “Time to get on it.”

“Emily,” you snap, shooting her a glare.

“What?” she shrugs, feigning innocence. “When I called to brief your team, I suggested we could use your insight on this case. They’re tied up with something else.”

“You talked to my team without me?” you ask, incredulous. Your gaze flicks to Aaron for some sign that this wasn’t entirely her doing.

“It’s my job to listen to my team’s suggestions,” he says with a faint shrug, though the hint of a smile betrays him. “And Emily suggested she be the one to brief your unit.”

Your eyes narrow. “So you all were in on this?”

Aaron doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away — just offers you a look so steady, so sincere, that your breath falters.

“We missed you,” he says quietly. Just that — simple, honest — like the words had been sitting in his chest for months, waiting for a moment like this.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

The conference room is a mess of evidence boards and scattered files, agents murmuring over theories that keep twisting back on themselves. Hours have bled away, and the case feels like it’s fraying at the edges leads unraveling faster than they can be tied back together.

You stand at the far end of the table, scanning the timeline on the whiteboard. Aaron is beside you, arms crossed, brow furrowed. The others keep their distance, quietly observing the familiar rhythm between you...the way you both lean into the silence, minds spinning in tandem.

“Look here,” you reveal, dragging your finger across a series of dates. “The victims... there’s a pattern, but it’s not by location. It’s timing.”

Hotch steps closer, following your hand. “Every fifth day,” he says under his breath, as if reading your thoughts.

“Exactly,” you nod, reaching for a map. “He’s not choosing places at random — he’s moving outward in a spiral. Expanding his comfort zone.”

Hotch grabs a marker, circling points on the map. “If this pattern holds, he’s heading west. The next attack…”

“Santa Rosa,” you finish.

He turns his head sharply, meeting your eyes. 

“Let’s go,” he says, and there’s a trace of something light in his voice — something the team hasn’t heard in months.

As you both sweep out of the room, the others exchange quiet looks.

“Did you see that?” JJ murmurs, her smile small but unmistakable.

“I’ll be damned,” Rossi sighs with a chuckle. “I almost forgot what that looked like.”

Emily leans against the doorframe, watching as Aaron walks beside you — something easier in his posture, his usual stoic presence eased by your presence.

“He’s different with her,” Emily says, more to herself than anyone else.

“Yeah,” Morgan agrees, folding his arms. “It’s like…he’s breathing again.”

“Magic,” Emily whispers to no one in particular. And it feels like the team — like Hotch — might just be whole again.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

The case wraps late in the evening, exhaustion settling over the precinct like a heavy fog. But there’s relief too, the kind that comes with knowing you saved someone.

You’re at your desk, gathering stray papers into a neat pile when Rossi appears beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, that signature half-smile playing at his lips.

“So,” he drawls, “a few of us are grabbing dinner. You should come.”

You pause, fingers still on the edge of a file. “Rossi…” you start, already hesitant.

“Oh, come on,” he cuts you off with a casual wave of his hand. “It’s not a setup. Well, not exactly,” he amends with a smirk. “We just miss you. And Hotch…” His voice softens, just slightly. “He could use the company.”

Your breath catches, not because you hadn’t noticed, but because you had. The way Aaron seemed lighter today — the gentle traces of warmth that kept sneaking into his expression, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you.

“I don’t know,” you hedge. “I should probably head back to my hotel.”

Rossi chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “That’s cute. Like we’re gonna let you skip out on us.” He claps a hand on your shoulder, steering you toward the door before you can protest.

“You guys are relentless,” you mutter, but there’s no real fight in your voice.

“We’re family,” Rossi corrects. “And you? Whether you like it or not…you’re still part of this one.”

The warmth in his words surprises you, and for a moment, you let yourself believe it — that maybe, after everything, you still belong here.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

When you walk in to the restaurant, they’re already gathered around a table near the back — Emily laughing at something Morgan’s said, JJ leaning into Reid’s side, her smile soft and easy. And then there’s Aaron, sitting quietly at the end of the table, his expression calm, not hollow like it’s been for months, just… calm. Present.

Rossi spots you first and grins. “There she is,” he calls out, gesturing to the empty seat beside Aaron. “Saved you a spot.”

Of course they did.

You hesitate, but only for a second, then slip into the chair. Aaron glances over, his gaze meeting yours, warm and steady. He doesn’t say anything right away... just shifts slightly, almost imperceptibly, his arm resting along the back of your chair. His sleeve brushes against your shoulder — faint, but deliberate.

He’s here. Not just physically, but here with you. And he wants you to know it.

Conversation swells around you, stories about the case, Morgan teasing Reid, Emily snickering into her drink — but Aaron stays close, his peaceful presence grounding you. When he speaks, it’s softer than usual, but he’s engaged, sharing details from Jack’s latest school project and nodding along as Rossi recounts a story from his early days in the Bureau.

But it’s the way his arm lingers, the faint warmth of it seeping through your sleeve, that holds your attention. He’s not just leaning in for space; this is something else. A quiet gesture, a wordless admission: I’m here. I’m with you.

The grief isn’t gone and it may never fully be, but tonight, there’s something else. Like the first rays of sunlight breaking through after a storm.

Maybe things are starting to fall into place. Maybe he’s finding his way back — not just to himself, but to you.

The night stretches on, warm and easy, laughter filling the spaces that once felt hollow. Plates are pushed aside, wine glasses half-empty, and the conversation dips into the familiar teasing that feels like home.

“So,” Morgan starts, pointing his fork at you with a grin, “anyone special in your life these days?”

You smile — not flustered, just amused.

“No,” you answer simply, taking a sip of your drink. “I’m waiting for the perfect person.”

“Ooh,” Emily chimes in, dragging out the word. “The perfect person. Now that’s a high bar.”

“Yeah,” Morgan chuckles, leaning in. “And who exactly is this ‘perfect person’?”

For a beat, you hesitate. It’s not nerves...it’s choice. You can feel Aaron beside you, his arm still resting along the back of your chair, his fingers now idly tracing the curve of the wood. You don’t have to look to know he’s listening — reallylistening.

“Well,” you begin, turning your glass in your hand, “if he’s the one I think he is… he’ll know it.”

Rossi’s eyes flicker between you and Aaron, and for a second, the conversation stills. It's not awkward, just charged. 

Aaron’s heart thuds in his chest. He keeps his face neutral, but his fingers press just a little firmer against the back of your chair — not enough for anyone else to notice, but you do.

Morgan squints at you. “What does that mean?”

You smile, one corner of your mouth lifting like you’re keeping a secret.

“It means,” you say slowly, “I don’t think I’ll have to say it out loud when the time comes.”

Morgan groans, laughing as he throws his hands up. “Man, you and your riddles…”

But Rossi’s still watching you — and Aaron too. He sees it, the way Aaron’s arm hasn’t moved, the way you’ve shifted just enough that your shoulder leans into him now.

The others start to filter out one by one, still lingering in the doorway, tossing goodbyes over their shoulders. Morgan claps Aaron on the back with a teasing grin, Emily gives you a pointed look, the kind that says you know what you’re doing, and Rossi, ever the orchestrator, pauses on his way out.

“Another round?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. Two fresh glasses arrive a minute later.

Now it’s just you and Aaron, the hum of conversation fading as the restaurant empties out. 

Aaron clears his throat, fingers brushing his glass. “So,” he says carefully, “this… perfect person you were talking about.”

You smile — small, faint — and trace the rim of your glass with your fingertip. “What about him?”

“Is he…” He pauses, choosing his words like he’s defusing a bomb. “Is he worth waiting for?”

“I think so,” you say softly. “I’m not sure where he’s at with… everything. But I’m waiting patiently.”

Aaron exhales, quiet and measured, and when he finally speaks, his voice dips low — enduring, thoughtful.

“If he’s the perfect person for you,” he says, his eyes locked on his glass, “I think he knows that time hasn’t been the kindest. There’s been… a lot to get in the way.” His fingers toy with the base of his glass, knuckles flexing. “He probably can’t make promises right now — not the ones you deserve.” He pauses, just long enough that you feel it in your chest. “But I think… if he’s the person you’re waiting for… he’ll know you’re worth the chase.”

He says it like he’s speaking about someone else, like he’s distanced himself from the words, but you both know better.

Your fingers inch closer to your glass—closer to his—and for a moment, they almost touch. The space between them is barely there, just like the space between the words you aren’t saying.

Aaron exhales, slow and measured. “I don’t know what happens next,” he murmurs. His voice is careful, but the way he looks at you isn’t. “But if I were him…” He hesitates, his fingers flexing against the table. “I’d like to think I’d make sure you know how wanted and needed you are.”

Your breath catches. He’s not speaking in hypotheticals, not really. And neither were you.

He watches you for a long moment before he says, quiet but certain, “Come back.”

Your chest tightens. “To the team?”

His nod is slight, but there’s no hesitation. “Yes.”

The past ten months unfold between you like a distance you once believed necessary. You had convinced yourself leaving was the right choice, that space would make things easier. But sitting here now, feeling the stength of his gaze, the subtle certainty in his voice—you’re not sure anymore.

“Aaron…”

He shakes his head, just once. “We thought the distance was good,” he says, steady but low. “We told ourselves we needed it. That it was better this way.” His jaw tightens, a trace of something restrained crossing his face. “But it’s not.”

He doesn’t look away. “I can’t lose you too.”

The last few patrons slip out the front doors. A waiter stacks glasses at the bar. The low hum of closing time curls around you both like fog.

Your fingers finally brush his, light and tentative. But this time, neither of you pulls back.

“You know I can’t just drop everything,” you say, voice soft. “My current unit still has open cases. People depending on me.”

He nods slowly, his hand turning slightly beneath yours so that your fingers lace—not quite holding, but almost. “I know. I wouldn’t ask you to.”

You look at him, really look at him, and see it—the exhaustion, the grief, but also something else. Something open. Hope.

He draws a slow breath, thumb grazing your knuckle.

“Finish your cases. I’ll talk to Strauss. We’ll make it look like a transfer request came through channels.” He hesitates. “And when you’re ready…you come home.”

Your throat tightens around the word. Home.

“You’d wait?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

He leans in just slightly, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been waiting.”

You exhale, slow. Shaky.

“Just a few months,” you say, like you’re testing it. Feeling the shape of it. “And then I’m back.”

He nods once, firm. “Back for good.”

The tension eases in your chest—not gone, but different. Lighter now. Bearable.

You squeeze his hand, and this time it’s deliberate. “Okay,” you say quietly. “Let’s make it happen.”

Aaron nods again, the weight in his gaze grounding you.

“You’ll still come by?” you ask, a little teasing now, a little unsure. “In the meantime?”

He looks at you with something soft, something that burns.

“Try and stop me.”

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

Tag List :)

@percysley @sammypotato @spideyreid @ithinkitzleslie

[spideyreid]

The Purest Things: Too Good at Goodbyes

Aaron Hotchner x Fem! Reader Word Count: 3.4k Warnings: Murder. Blood. Death. Weapons. Canon typical violence. Everything that makes Criminal Minds, Criminal Minds. a/n: i swear the slow burn is coming to an end within the next few chapters, just hang on for me. pinky promise. The Purest Things Masterlist | Taglist Form

au! november 2009

Bookend: "There's nothing more intimate in life than simply being understood. And understanding someone else." — Brad Meltzer

The sun is far too bright for a day like this; its warmth feels almost cruel against your skin, as if the world itself refuses to grieve. The wind stirs the trees with sharp, biting gusts that sting your skin, grounding you in the awful truth that this isn’t a dream — it’s real. The air carries an eerie stillness, broken only by the crunch of leaves underfoot and the faint mutterings of mourners gathered further back.

Ahead, Haley’s casket is carried by the hands of those who fought desperately to save her and Aaron. He walks just behind, his head bowed, unable or unwilling to lift his gaze. His hand clutches Jack’s shoulder. Jack, so small and innocent, walks with quiet obedience. He doesn’t understand yet, not fully, but the loss clings to him like a shadow.

Penelope reaches for your hand, her fingers warm but trembling slightly. Emily loops her arm through yours, steadying you as much as herself. Their company anchors you, yet the grief sweeping through your body is ever-present.

This isn’t just mourning, it’s heartbreak in its rawest form.

When the casket is finally set down, the dull thud of wood meeting earth feels far too final. You retreat a step, unsure where you belong in this moment. You're close enough to feel the pain, yet somehow still on the outside looking in.

Aaron turns, and for the briefest moment, his eyes find yours. The exhaustion carved into his face tells you everything — the nights spent awake, the grief gnawing away at what little strength he has left.

You give a faint nod, a quiet promise that you’re still here. Still with him. His gaze remains fixed on you, as if he’s drawing strength from your support. 

Hotch gathers whatever resilience remains in him, and he begins paying one last tribute to the love of his life.

“It’s love that makes the world go ’round. And if that’s true, then the world spun a little faster with Haley in it.”

You force a swallow, the ache in your throat growing as his words spill out.

“Haley was my best friend since we were in high school. We certainly had our struggles, but if there’s one thing we agreed on unconditionally, it was our love and commitment to our son, Jack.”

Your gaze shifts to Jack, his face pale and drawn. His small frame pressed tightly to Jessica’s side. He’ll spend his life feeling Haley’s absence in every milestone, in every quiet moment where her voice should have been.

“Haley’s death causes each of us to stop and take stock of our lives — to measure who we are and what we’ve become. I don’t have all of those answers for myself,” Hotch pauses, closing his eyes briefly before finding his voice again, “but I know who Haley was.”

You clutch Penelope’s hand, your fingers digging into her skin as if stabilizing yourself. A nagging ache unfurls in your chest, knotting tightly — for Haley. For the years she should have had Aaron fully present and by her side. The hours you spent in that space instead, comforting him, listening to him...things Haley should have had. The guilt cuts deeper than you expected.

“She was the woman who died protecting the child we brought into this world together,” Hotch tells, his voice breaking now. “And I will make sure that Jack grows up knowing who his mother was, how she loved and protected him, and how much I loved her.”

How much he loved her.

The funeral ends quietly, mourners moving in slow procession to place flowers on Haley’s casket. Roses, lilies — each one laid down like an apology for all the love she should have had longer to receive.

You stand back, lingering at the edge of the crowd. The thought of stepping forward, adding your own flower, feels wrong. Like an intrusion. Like a betrayal.

All those nights spent in his home, tending to his wounds, consoling him when no one else knew what to say. Those hushed moments after the chaos, when the world still felt too loud but you found peace in his presence. Every time you felt seen by him, comforted by him, those moments belonged to Haley.

A coldness settles over you as you take a step back, the strain in your throat choking off your breath. You clamp down on the hurt, willing yourself to remain silent. You tell yourself you shouldn’t be crying — not now, not like this.

“Hey,” Emily’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. She’s standing beside you now, her hand brushing your arm. “You okay?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard. “You don’t need to be worried about me right now.”

“I can worry about more than one person,” she expresses, her eyes full of concern.

But you can’t meet her gaze. If you do, you’ll unravel completely and right now, your grief feels selfish. Whatever ache you’re carrying feels undeserved compared to what Aaron and Jack have lost.

“I just need a minute,” you lament.

Emily nods, but you know she’s watching as you take another step back further from the crowd, further from Aaron, further from the life you should never have let yourself want.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

The cemetery is quiet now, the last flickers of candlelight casting trembling shadows across the gravestones. The cold has sunk into your bones, but you barely notice. Each step you take over the frozen earth feels uncertain, as though you might lose your footing at any moment. You hadn’t meant to look for him — told yourself you wouldn’t — but as the crowd thinned and the mourners trickled away, you realized you couldn’t leave without knowing where he’d gone.

You find Aaron beneath the twisted branches of an old oak tree, a dark silhouette against the pale glow of moonlight. He’s still, too still — shoulders drawn tight, hands shoved deep into his pockets. From this distance, he looks carved from stone, yet you know better.

“Aaron,” you hesitate, unsure if you should even speak.

He doesn’t turn right away, but you see the faint drop of his head — a sigh, perhaps, or something close to it. When he finally glances back, his face is hollow, worn down by the sheer gravity of what he’s endured. The grief isn’t just written in his features — it lingers in the air around him, like something tangible and cold.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you murmur, stepping closer. “I just… I wanted to check on you.”

“You don’t have to,” he tells you, his voice dull and strained. “I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t have to be,” you assure him delicately.

He turns away again, but this time, his shoulders fall — a breath drawn sharp, then released slowly, like he’s run out of the strength to keep everything bottled inside. When he gives a faint nod, you move without thinking.

You step forward, your arms wrapping around him before you can second-guess yourself. He stiffens at first...startled, maybe, but then something inside him breaks loose, and his frame caves against yours. 

His breath stirs against your shoulder. You hold him closer, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck, your fingers weaving into his hair as though you can somehow pull him back from whatever dark place his mind has wandered. 

“I can’t…” His voice splinters beneath the words. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“I should have —”

“No,” you interrupt gently. “You did everything you could.”

He doesn’t argue, but you feel the tension building in him again, like he’s trying to swallow back the unbearable pain that’s been threatening to consume him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, the words spilling out before you can stop them. Sorry for Haley, yes — but also for every hour you spent in Aaron’s home when Haley’s place was empty.  For the nights when grief and exhaustion had driven him to you, and you let yourself stay too long in his orbit. For allowing something to flourish that once felt so innocent but is now haunted by a bitter truth.

The wind stirs the branches above you, but you barely notice it. All you feel is the warmth of him — the solid press of hischest against yours, the subtle desperation in the way he holds you like you’re the only safe harbor left in a world that’s been torn apart.

And suddenly, the truth strikes you with a clarity so sharp it steals your breath.

You love him.

You love him — not in the way you convinced yourself you could, with modest restraint and careful boundaries — but wholly, helplessly, achingly.

It’s been there all along, buried beneath denial and doubt...protocol. But it’s there — strong and certain, curling inside you like a flame that refuses to die out. It’s love that made you stay through the late nights and the whispered worries. Love that kept you constant when he confided things no one else knew. Love that made you ache for something you knew could never be yours.

You love him — and it’s too late.

Because no matter how fiercely you love him, it won’t change what’s already lost. He’s grieving a woman he loved, a woman who should have had every one of these moments with him instead of you.

When he finally steps back, his face is streaked with tears. He wipes them away with the back of his hand, quick and practiced, like he’s spent a lifetime hiding his pain.

“I appreciate it,” he sniffles, his voice hoarse but sincere.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, your voice catching despite yourself.

His gaze drifts toward the reception hall, where the faint hum of voices carries on without him. The kind of sound that feels impossible on a day like this.

You reach out, your fingers grazing his sleeve. “Come inside,” you urge gently. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

For a second, you think he’ll refuse. But when you tighten your hold, just enough to let him know you won’t leave without him, he exhales and nods.

He walks beside you, his arm brushing yours as you make your way back. The distance between you should feel wider now, with your heart laid bare beneath your ribs. But somehow, even as your love for him burns hot and yearningly inside you, you know you won’t let him see it. Not now. Not when this isn’t yours to carry.

For now, you’ll be what he needs, steady and sure. Even if it breaks you to keep loving him from a distance, you’ll stay. Because you know with a certainty that feels both cruel and inevitable, that you could never walk away.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

The reception hums with muted conversation, the murmur of voices blurring beneath the burden pressing down on Aaron’s chest. He stands alone on the balcony, cold air biting at his skin and yet it’s welcome, grounding him when everything else feels suffocating. The glass of water in his hand has long since gone warm, but he grips it tightly, as if letting go would mean losing the last fragile thread holding him together.

His gaze isn’t on the street below or the cemetery beyond. It’s on you, crouched beside Jack near the buffet table, guiding his small hands toward a plate of food. Your voice, smooth and pleasant, carries none of the hesitation Aaron so often hears when others try to comfort his son. You aren’t coaxing Jack to be anything but what he is: a child, mourning, trying to make sense of a world that’s just shattered. And somehow, in your presence, Jack doesn’t look quite so lost. His small fingers curl around yours as you point out the appetizers, and when you lean in to whisper something just for him, Jack’s face flickers with a tender smile. 

Aaron can't help but smile, mirroring Jack's expression.

Hours earlier, in the cold silence of the cemetery, you’d held him like that too. Like you knew exactly how to keep him from coming undone. He had crumbled in your arms, and you hadn’t flinched. Now here you are, stitching Jack back together the way you stitched him. Something rises in his chest, warm and relentless. Something that feels like light breaking through a sky that’s been dark for far too long.

He loves you.

The truth hits him with a calm finality like it’s been waiting to be acknowledged. No sudden shock — only the steady, undeniable realization that you’ve been part of him for longer than he recognized. The feelings are woven into every moment — every quiet glance, every conversation that lasted just a little too long, every time your hand brushed his andhe told himself it meant nothing.

But this isn’t nothing.

And yet, the thought feels cruel. He buried Haley today. His wife. The mother of his son. And here he stands, longing for someone else...for you.

“Hey.”

Rossi’s voice breaks the quiet. Aaron hadn’t heard him approach, but now his old friend stands beside him, wine glass in hand. He follows Aaron’s line of sight, and a knowing smile touches the corner of his mouth.

“She’s good with him,” Rossi chimes in.

Aaron swallows hard. “I know.” His voice is weary, and rough around the edges.

“She’s good with you, too,” Rossi implies.

Aaron’s grip tightens on the glass. “It’s complicated.”

“No,” Rossi counters, “It’s simple. You’re just making it complicated.”

Aaron exhales sharply, a breath that tastes like regret. “I promised Haley I’d keep Jack safe. That he’d be okay.” His voice stutters. “And now I’m… I’m standing here realizing I—”

“You love her,” Rossi finishes, restrained but confident.

Aaron doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

“It’s not wrong,” Rossi affirms after a beat. “And that doesn't mean that you loved Haley any less. 

Aaron tilts his head. “It feels like it does.” His eyes drift back to you. You’re still beside Jack, gently wiping crumbs from his chin. “And she knows it, too,” Aaron murmurs. “She apologized earlier… like she thought she shouldn’t be here. Like she didn’t have the right.” He pauses, his voice breaking just enough to betray the hurt beneath it. “And that hurt more than anything.”

Rossi’s sigh is faint. “Then maybe you should tell her she doesn’t have to apologize.”

Aaron watches you, the affection in your expression, the patience in your every move. And it strikes him, you belong in this moment, in his life, in Jack’s life. You always have.

“You’re allowed to grieve,” Rossi reminds him, “and you’re allowed to love her too.”

Aaron doesn’t speak, the words won’t come, but something shifts in his chest, intense and undeniable. He doesn’t know how to carry both the grief and the love threatening to overwhelm him. But as he watches you lean in close to Jack again, whispering something that makes his tired eyes brighten, he knows this much:

You’re here. For Jack. For him.

And with that knowledge, he can take on anything.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

The evening has unraveled into something quieter now — the lingering buzz of conversation has dimmed, leaving only the scrape of chairs against the floor and the shuffle of footsteps as people begin to leave. The air feels weighed down with the kind of exhaustion that grief carries in its wake.

Aaron finds you near the door, speaking to one of Haley’s cousins. Your smile is faint but persistent. It’s been there all day, that strength you’ve worn like armor, and now, as the last of the guests slip out into the night, he can see it beginning to wane.

You turn, and your eyes catch his.

For a moment, neither of you move. The silence between you filled with something that neither of you dare name, a sensation that’s been building for longer than either of you would care to admit.

Your hair has slipped from its careful arrangement, silky strands falling loosely around your face. The day’s stress is etched in the delicate smudge of mascara beneath your eyes, the faint crease between your brows. You’ve spent the whole evening carrying everyone else’s grief, and now it clings to you like a shadow — yet somehow, you’re still beautiful.

He steps closer, and you offer a tired smile.

“I was just heading out,” you reveal, your tone low enough that it feels like it’s meant only for him.

“Thank you,” he expresses, and the words feel too small. “For today. For everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” Your smile falters, your eyes flickering away for a moment like you’re afraid to hold his for too long. “I wanted to be here.”

“I know.” He confirms. He’s known it for longer than he should, known that you’ve always been there, even when he barely had the strength to stand.

You shift on your feet, your hand trailing over the strap of your purse as though you’re unsure what to do with yourself. “Jack’s asleep?”

Aaron nods. “Rossi’s staying with him tonight.” He hesitates. “I can walk you to your car.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

That stops you, and when your eyes meet his again, there’s something there, unstated but unmistakable.

Outside, the gravel crunches beneath your shoes, and your arms wrap around yourself, more out of instinct than anything.

“You okay?” Aaron wonders. His voice is more hushed now, less sure.

“Mhm. Just tired.”

He watches you for a moment, the way you keep your gaze fixed ahead, the way you seem to shrink slightly into yourself now that no one else is watching.

“I’m sorry,” he utters, the words tumbling out before he can stop them.

You turn to him, brows furrowed. “For what?”

“For—” He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “For leaning on you today. For… putting you in that position.”

“You didn’t.” Your answer comes quickly — too quickly — and you take a step closer. “You didn’t put me anywhere, Aaron. I wanted to be there.”

His eyes find yours, and the silence that follows feels impossibly fragile, like a thread stretched too thin. He can’t say it...not now, not when his heart still feels like a raw, sore thorn in his chest — but, he knows you see it.

He knows because he sees it in you, too.

The way your eyes twinkle as they linger on his, the faint tremor in your breath — it’s there. He’s certain of it.

“I should go,” you say at last, but you’re not quite sure you mean it.

“Yeah,” Aaron concedes, but neither of you move.

For a heartbeat, he wonders if you’ll reach for him or if you’ll say something, anything, that will break whatever this is that’s been simmering between you. But instead, you smile again — fragile, weary, yet infused with a spark that makes his heart race.

“Goodnight, Aaron.”

“Goodnight,” he murmurs.

You linger for just a moment longer, your gaze sweeping over him one last time, feeling yourself drawn into his presence. His tousled, chestnut hair glimmers softly in the moonlight, while his warm, amber eyes hold a profound depth of unspoken tragedy. Then, with a heavy heart, you turn and step away into the night.

He watches until you disappear from view, the silence enveloping him like a blanket—heavy, yet somehow less stifling than it was before.

Because despite the silence, despite everything you hadn’t said, he knows.

And you do too.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

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@percysley @sammypotato @spideyreid

[spideyreid]

The Purest Things: Stars & Midnight Blue

Aaron Hotchner x Fem! Reader Word Count: 3.6k Warnings: Murder. Blood. Death. Weapons. Canon typical violence. Everything that makes Criminal Minds, Criminal Minds. a/n: my heart broke a little. The Purest Things Masterlist

au! October 2009

Bookend: "You have lost yourself in dreaming. I have lost myself in you. Now we lie beneath the sky. Stars and midnight blue." -Enya

The next few months pass in a relentless haze—days consumed by cases, nights swallowed by the hunt for Foyet. You and the team, but mostly you and Hotch, stretch yourselves thin, existing on the barest minimum of sleep. The world outside the office blurs, reduced to crime scene photos, timelines, maps covered in red ink—always searching, always just behind him.

Tonight is no different.

The conference room is dimly lit, the glow of desk lamps casting long shadows over the endless array of notes and charts pinned to the walls. The air is thick with exhaustion, with frustration. You run a hand through your hair, staring at the whiteboard filled with Foyet’s movements—if you can even call them that. The bastard moves like a ghost, slipping through cracks before you can ever fully grasp him.

Your grip tightens around the dry-erase marker. And then, with a sharp exhale, you hurl it at the board. It bounces off, landing on the table with a dull thud.

From across the room, Hotch looks up from his notes. “You okay?”

“I hate him so much.”

The words come out raw, almost quivering. The frustration, the helplessness, the sheer rage of knowing that Jack and Haley are still out there, still living in the shadows because of him.

You press your palms against your temples, fighting back the emotion clawing at your throat.

You barely register the sound of his chair scraping back before he’s in front of you, kneeling down, close enough that his warmth settles over you like an anchor. 

“You’ve been working yourself into the ground,” he says, voice softer than you expected. “Take a break.”

You shake your head, inhaling sharply. “I can’t.” Your hands tighten into fists in your lap. “I can’t let them stay there any longer.”

Hotch remains silent at first, his chestnut eyes probing yours. Yet, after spending enough time with him, you can sense the apprehension beneath his quietude—the way his fingers dig slightly deeper into the arm of your chair, as if he’s battling the impulse to reach out and bridge the distance between you.

“You think I don't feel the same way?” His voice is soft yet laced with an unmistakable intensity, a gravity that compels you to meet his gaze completely. 

You do. You know he does. But the difference is he buries it better.

“Then why are you telling me to stop?” you counter.

“I’m not.” He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “I’m telling you to breathe.”

Something within you falters. 

It’s the way he expresses it—not as a command or an order from your superior, but as something entirely different.

Aaron.

Not Hotch.

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes, trying to suppress the emotion, to bury it deep and maintain your focus. But then his hand finds yours, gently pulling them away from your face.

The touch is delicate, almost ethereal, yet it sends a jolt through you.

“You can’t carry this alone,” he murmurs.

You almost laugh. “I’m not. You’re right here with me.”

He knows what you mean. You’re in this together. The late nights, the exhaustion, the shared burden of pursuing the man who shattered his life. Neither of you can let go of this case, not while Jack and Haley’s lives hang in the balance.

His thumb grazes your knuckles, a subtle gesture, yet it anchors you to the moment. To him.

For the first time in months, you feel something beyond anger and fatigue.

You feel him.

And then you realize just how close he is.

The office is silent, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights. The warmth of his breath brushes against your skin, and you suddenly become acutely aware of the space between you—or the lack thereof.

If either of you moved even an inch—

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

You remain there, ensnared in a tension you no longer have the strength to resist. His gaze flickers downward—to your lips, just for a fleeting moment—before snapping back up.

Your breath catches.

And for an instant, you swear he’s about to close the distance.

But just as quickly as it began, the moment dissipates.

Hotch pulls back. The warmth of his presence fades as he stands, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off an invisible weight.

“You should get some rest,” he says, his voice returning to its usual steady tone, as if nothing just happened.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to nod. “You too.”

He doesn’t respond. He lingers for a moment longer, as if something still hangs between you—something unfinished.

But then he steps away, retreating toward the table, toward the case, toward anything that isn’t this.

You remain frozen in your chair, your hands still resting in your lap where his had been only moments ago. Your pulse races, your skin still warm from his touch, and no matter how hard you try to refocus on the case, you can’t.

Because for one brief, impossible second, Aaron Hotchner almost kissed you.

And worse—you wanted him to.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

The next day, the air between you and Hotch feels altered. He remains himself—composed, measured—but there’s a hesitation in the way he gazes at you, a moment too long where his eyes linger before darting away. You feel it too, a heaviness that wasn’t there before last night.

You both go through the motions of the morning—case briefings, checking in with Garcia, organizing files—but the tension remains. It doesn’t dissipate.

It isn’t until after lunch, when the office is quieter, that he finally broaches the subject. He finds you in the conference room, feigning interest in the same timeline you’ve both been obsessing over for weeks. But you’re not really seeing it, and you know he knows that.

He closes the door behind him—not all the way, but just enough to create a barrier.

“We need to talk about last night,” he says, his voice as cautious as his posture, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders taut.

You exhale, setting your pen down. “Yeah,” you reply, meeting his gaze. “We probably should.”

A silence stretches between you. He’s studying you, searching for something in your expression, as if hoping you’ll speak first and spare him the burden. But you don’t.

His throat works around the next words. “It… shouldn’t have happened.”

Your stomach tightens, even though you anticipated it. “It didn’t happen,” you remind him, your voice steady.

His jaw clenches. You both know that’s a lie.

“It almost did,” he counters, quiet but resolute. “And that’s—” He exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face. “That’s not something I can afford. Not now.”

You nod, pretending that it doesn’t sting. That it doesn’t leave you aching in a way you can’t quite name.

“I know.”

His expression softens just a fraction. “You’re—” He halts, reconsidering whatever he was about to say. Then, more gently, “You mean a lot to me.”

Something tightens in your chest. “I know,” you repeat, because you do.

Neither of you moves. Neither of you dares to voice what you’re both thinking. That if circumstances were different—if the world weren’t crumbling around you, if Foyet weren’t still out there, if he weren’t burdened by too many ghosts—maybe last night wouldn’t have ended the way it did.

Maybe it wouldn’t have ended at all.

But you both know better.

So you swallow it down. Bury it deep. And when you move to leave, brushing past him through the half-open door, he doesn’t stop you.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

Rossi isn’t surprised when Hotch shows up at his house that night, but he’s taken aback by the look on his face—troubled, adrift in a way he rarely allows himself to be.

Wordlessly, Rossi steps aside, inviting him in.

Hotch paces the living room, his footsteps echoing in the stillness, before finally stopping in front of the fireplace, staring at the darkened embers as if they might whisper some hidden truth. He exhales, runs a hand over his jaw, and then finally speaks.

“I let it get too far,” he admits, his voice taut with tension.

Rossi leans against the arm of the couch, watching him intently. “With her?”

Hotch doesn’t answer immediately, but the silence speaks volumes.

Rossi nods slowly. “How far?”

Hotch closes his eyes for a fleeting moment. “Almost.”

There’s a rawness in his voice that makes Rossi take a breath before responding. “But it didn’t...go too far.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

A flicker of pain crosses Aaron's features. “Because it shouldn’t happen.”

Rossi scoffs softly. “That’s not an answer.”

Hotch turns to him now, sharp yet weary. “The rules, Dave.”

“The rules.” Rossi echoes the words, slow and deliberate. “The same rules you two have been bending for months?”

Hotch exhales sharply, looking away as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders.

Rossi lets the silence linger for a moment before pressing on. “So what was it, really?”

Hotch doesn’t answer right away. He grips the mantle, his knuckles turning white. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. 

“It feels wrong.”

Rossi tilts his head, searching for understanding. “Why?”

Hotch swallows hard, his vulnerability laid bare. “Because Jack and Haley are in hiding. Because they’re out there somewhere, cut off from everything they know, because of me. And I’m here—” His voice catches, thick with emotion. “I’m here, wanting something for myself.”

Rossi studies him carefully, his heart aching for the man before him. “Something, or someone?”

Hotch remains silent, the weight of his unspoken desires hanging in the air.

Rossi sighs and pushes off the couch, stepping closer. “Listen, Aaron. No one’s saying this isn’t complicated. Hell, nothing in your life has been simple since the day you put on that badge. But tell me this—does being miserable make them any safer?”

Hotch tenses, the question striking a nerve.

“You think denying yourself every good thing in your life is going to change what’s already happened?” Rossi shakes his head, frustration mingling with compassion. “You think it’s going to bring them back?”

Hotch’s breath is slow, measured. “No.”

“Then what are you punishing yourself for?”

Hotch looks at him, caught between exhaustion and frustration, a storm of emotions swirling in his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Rossi nods, as if he expected that answer. He places a reassuring hand on Hotch’s shoulder, grounding him. “Then figure it out. Because she’s not going to wait around forever.” 

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

You gaze at the transfer request form resting on your desk, the words meticulously inscribed in your precise handwriting. All that remains is your signature.

Your pen hovers over the line, your fingers tightening around it. This is the right choice. The only choice.

The memory of that night is still too vivid, too piercing. The way Hotch had looked at you, the way the space between you had evaporated in an instant. How neither of you moved at first, simply inhaling the same air, ensnared in something impossible to reclaim. And then—he pulled away.

Of course he did.

You exhale, shaking your head as you press the tip of the pen to the paper. The ink bleeds into the line as you sign your name.

It’s done.

You rise, the request cradled in your hands, and make your way to Hotch’s office. The bullpen is quieter than usual, the hum of agents working fading into the background as you ascend the stairs.

Hotch’s office is a sanctuary of stillness, the only sound the faint scratching of his pen against paper as he reviews a case file. The dim glow from his desk lamp casts a soft halo around him, accentuating the hard lines of his face. Your fingers tighten around the envelope in your grasp, its weight far heavier than the paper inside.

You shouldn’t be here.

You could leave it on his desk and slip away, letting him open it when you’re not around to witness his reaction. But that would be cowardly, and you owe him more than that.

Taking a steadying breath, you step forward and place the envelope deliberately in front of him. The motion feels monumental, though your pulse thunders in your throat.

Hotch doesn’t look up immediately. The moment stretches unbearably before he finally sets his pen down, his dark eyes lifting to meet yours. His gaze flickers to the envelope, scanning the neatly printed name in the corner, before returning to your face.

A beat of silence. Then—

“What is this?” His voice is even, yet there’s an undercurrent—something restrained.

You swallow hard. “My transfer request.”

His expression barely shifts, but the atmosphere in the room thickens. He doesn’t touch the envelope, doesn’t even glance down at it again. Instead, he leans back slightly, studying you with the kind of intensity that has unraveled criminals and cracked open cases.

“Why?”

It’s such a simple question, yet it knocks the breath from your lungs.

You should’ve been prepared for this, but standing here now, under the weight of his gaze, everything you rehearsed in your mind feels flimsy.

Because it’s becoming too painful.

Because I can’t be near you like this anymore.

Because I almost kissed you, and I don’t know how to come back from that.

But you can’t voice any of that. Instead, you force yourself to stand a little taller, steady your voice, and say, “Because this is becoming too complicated.”

His eyes darken, but he remains still, his only reaction the slight tightening of his jaw.

“You think leaving is the solution?” His voice is quieter now, measured, but there’s something else lurking beneath—something that makes your breath catch.

“It has to be.” The words feel irrevocable, but they don’t settle right in your chest. “We can’t keep pretending nothing’s happening, and I can’t—I won’t—be reckless about this.”

A muscle flickers in his jaw, the only outward sign that your words resonate with him. “So instead of confronting it, you run?”

Your stomach twists. “This isn’t running. It’s safeguarding my career. Protecting yours.”

He exhales slowly, looking away for the first time, as if searching for something to anchor him.

“Do you truly believe I’d let this cloud my judgment?” he asks, voice low.

“I think we’re already there,” you reply, softer now.

That seems to strike a chord. His fingers flex against the desk, the tension in his shoulders palpable even through his crisp dress shirt.

For a fleeting second, you think he might say something else. That he might finally acknowledge the truth neither of you have dared to articulate.

But instead, he nods, slow and deliberate.

“I see.”

The finality in his tone stings more than you anticipated.

You nod once, turning before you lose your resolve. You make it to the door, gripping the handle with fingers that feel ice-cold, when his voice halts you.

“I’ll review it in the morning.”

You don’t look back. Because if you do, you might change your mind.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

The dream comes in fragments—flashes of heat, of craving, of something that’s been held back for too long, finally breaking free.

It starts with the kiss. The kiss that didn’t happen, but in the dream, it does. The air between you crackles with tension, the soft lighting in his apartment making everything feel too intimate, too close. His hand cups your face, pulling you in with a force that takes your breath away. Your lips meet—slow at first, testing, but then it deepens, his mouth molding perfectly to yours, taking what you’ve both been craving.

His hands move to your waist, fingers tracing the curves of your body like he’s memorizing every inch. You can feel the heat of him against you, his chest pressing into yours, the hard outline of his body telling you everything he’s trying to keep inside. His lips trail down your jaw, his breath hot against your skin.

“You’re not afraid of this, are you?” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly.

You shake your head, pulling him closer, the friction between you igniting something that can’t be denied. “No,” you whisper back, your hands slipping under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, the muscles beneath.

He groans softly, his hands finding their way to the back of your neck, pulling you in for another kiss—this time more desperate, more raw. You let him take control, his mouth claiming yours with an intensity that makes your heart race. Every part of you is alive, every inch of you aware of him.

He trails kisses along your throat, his breath shaky against your skin as he moves lower, and you can’t stop the sound that escapes your lips—soft, needy. You tug at his tie, eager to feel more of him, and he groans again, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. His hands find their way to your hips, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the hard edge of him pressed against you, making your pulse quicken.

“This is what you wanted, right?” His voice is a growl now, low and filled with desire.

You nod, your hands gripping his shirt tighter, needing him closer. “Yes,” you breathe out, before pulling his mouth back to yours.

But then the dream shifts.

The warmth fades, the kiss halts, and suddenly, he’s not there. The space between you is empty, and in its place, there’s an envelope on his desk—your transfer request.

His eyes snap open, his chest heaving with the remnants of the dream, the desire still burning beneath his skin. He runs a hand over his face, the weight of everything hitting him all at once. His pulse is still racing, but now it’s a different kind of tension—frustration, regret, and something else… something that tells him this transfer might be the best thing for both of you.

Because if you stay, this—whatever it is—might destroy him.

And if you stay, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop himself from taking it too far next time.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

Hotch stands by his desk, the dream still suspended in the air like tendrils of smoke. He watches you, every fiber of his being drawn to the choice he knows he must confront. The desire that clung to him in his sleep has morphed into a quiet ache in his chest, a pulsing reminder of everything he’s been repressing. You can see it in his eyes—the turbulent conflict between duty and his emotions, the pressure escalating with every heartbeat.

The decision is resolute in his mind, though his feelings swirling beneath the surface are anything but clear. “I’ll let you transfer,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, but the finality of it slices through the space between you.

You feel your breath catch, the sting of tears already pressing against your eyes before you can fully absorb his words. You swallow hard, striving to maintain your composure, but it’s futile. The dam breaks, and a single tear slips down your cheek, quickly followed by another. The meaning of it—the thought of leaving, of him saying it—brings everything crashing down.

Hotch steps closer, unsure how to navigate this moment. His breath hitches when he sees you, the tears making it all too real, all the more unbearable. He reaches out hesitantly, then pulls you into him, his arms enveloping you as if trying to hold you together against the storm.

It’s strange, comforting, and overwhelming all at once. His embrace feels like the only refuge where the burdens of the world dissipate.

“I didn’t want this,” he says, his voice thick with emotion, his breath unstable. You can hear the battle in his words, the rawness of what remains between you. He tightens his grip around you as if he's preserving you from breaking.

“I know,” you whisper, your voice cracking. You press your face into his chest, the tears flowing faster now, soaking the fabric of his shirt.

He doesn’t say anything more, but the way he holds you, the delicate strokes of his hand against the back of your head, speaks volumes. He’s striving to be strong for both of you, attempting to do the right thing, even as every part of him aches to keep you close.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse and vulnerable. His words are faint, almost pleading, as if he’s relinquishing the last vestiges of his control.

“I have to,” you reply. You pull back slightly to look up at him, your hands pressing against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart. You search his eyes for any sign of what this means, but he’s too guarded, his walls too formidable.

He swallows hard, his fingers brushing against your cheek, wiping away the remnants of your tears. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, but you both know the apology isn’t for what’s happening now—it’s for everything that led to this moment.

You take a shaky breath, trying to still yourself, but his presence, the way he holds you, makes it all the more difficult. You don’t want to leave. You don’t want this to be the end. But you know it must be.

“Goodbye, Aaron,” you say in concession, finally pulling away.

His eyes remain on you, filled with pain and regret, before he nods. “Goodbye.”

And even though the words are final, the silence that follows is heavy with everything left unsaid—everything neither of you had the courage to confront until it was too late.

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:••:•.•:•.

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@percysley

[spideyreid]

[spideyreid]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭 ⋆ 𝐚. 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

synopsis: following a near-encounter with death, your not-quite-boyfriend slash boss takes it upon himself to take care of you. [5.7k] contents: fem!bau!reader, reader was mentioned to be hurt but no gory descriptions about what happened, but theres semi-graphic (?) descriptions of hypothetical injury, first kiss, soft hotch, this is fully self-indulgent fluff (forgive me) a/n: i've never written for criminal minds before and i am rather nervous so please dont criticize too harshly :') + i tried to not make him too ooc (not sure how well that worked out.) i also beg for one-shot requests because i love writing them :p reblogs and comments are more than appreciated ♡ i hope you enjoy!

Sense by sense you come to.

Taste. On your tongue lingers the metallic taste of blood. It coats your throat thick like petroleum jelly. The aftertaste of artificial sweetener. Saccharine.

Smell. It’s sterile, alcohol swabs. Dully sweet like laundry. Coffee and creamer. So good and warm it’s nauseating.

Hearing. Steady beeping somewhere from your right. The rustle of fabric. Birdsong bleeds through thick walls. A phone rings, shrill and stark amongst the dull hustle and bustle outside of your room, and a woman speaks unintelligibly.

Touch. A pinprick tag itches against the back of your neck. Scratchy cotton sheets and a gauzy blanket and a too-flat pillow. Then a slow-burning hurt that climbs through your limbs like being devoured by flame, and you think that if you didn’t already meet your end then this must be what it’s like.

Your eyes blink open. The fluorescent lights above are too bright for you to see anything. Metal clinks as someone opens the curtains, then, Aaron’s face comes into your view in a hazy blur. He has a big bandage on his left cheek and prominent dark circles but otherwise looks well enough.

“Hello,” he says, and a warm paper cup of coffee is pushed into your stiff hands. “How do you feel?”

“Bad.”

“I know. I’m sorry. How much does it hurt?”

“Um... a six and a half. I mostly feel really out of it.”

“They’ve given you as much painkillers as they can. I bet that the brain fog will lift once you have something solid to eat.”

You push yourself up slowly as he edges into focus. In one hand he has a black duffel bag with your old shirt’s dirty sleeve hanging out of the zipper top, white fabric stained rust-brown with dirt and old blood. In the other, a thick manila folder with a seal adorning the front and his pen shoved into the crease.

There’s a strange silence then; strange within itself and strange in the fact that, with him, silence is never strange. His lips twitch downwards: he can feel it too. Then he inhales sharply as though it stings to speak.

“You were more than brave out there. You saved Julia’s life.”

“Thank you. That’s what I wanted to do.”

Your tone must not be convincing enough because he puts the bag down and curls his fingers around the half-rails of your bed, reinforces the idea with a pointed look and sighs, “I’m being serious. We wouldn’t have made it in time to help her without your courage.”

“Thank you,” you say again, milder this time.

He doesn’t say anything further. He doesn’t need to. The sort of unspoken communication that blossoms with time and effort; he looks out for you, and in turn you look out for him. It’s the same for the rest of the team, of course, but it’s no coincidence that you’re the one he always picks to watch his six in the field. And, again, he needn’t speak for you to know. Perhaps born from the innate desire to wane the burn of vulnerability; words stamped across his skin invisible to the untrained eye.

It’s different this time, though. He’s leaving not because he wants to — rather, he has to, stolen away from you as you were him by your profession (a whole thirty-six hours he had to spend without you around to nag him, what a tragedy it was!) You’d expected him to come just to leave since the moment you saw him, but perhaps foolishly, you’d clung to a shard of hope that’d cut up and bloodied your palms. You rub them together self-consciously.

He waves the folder in the air unenthusiastically and, despite him knowing you’ve already put the pieces together, voices it anyway.

“I can’t really stay for long,” he says simply.

“Where are you going?”

A prompt, disguised by niceties in typical fashion, though entirely unnecessary with him: when will I be able to see you again?

He sucks on his teeth and flips the folder open. “Albany. I think a day or two at most and we’ll be back.” He spares the details of the case lest you worry yourself to your grave. Your recent brush with death has already been nearly too much for the team to handle.

You don’t mean to slip into the habit of doubting him, not Aaron, who knows better than to lie to you because always he’ll splinter, crack, then crumble into a fine powder under the weight of your gaze. He’s smart, so smart, and so perceptive and by God if you know anything, you know him — down to the lines of his fingerprints and each individual eyelash across his waterlines, and you know now that something is troubling him.

“What is it?” you ask.

His brows crease in the center like you’ve said something offensive. “What is what?”

“You’re sulking.”

“I’m not,” he says, sounding like he’s sulking.

He knows something that you don’t and he doesn’t want to tell you — evident through the bob of his Adam’s apple with a thick swallow, the whitening of his knuckles around the bed’s guard rails. You give your cup a perfunctory squeeze and the plastic lid pops off and skitters to the ground.

There’s another silence wherein you wait, he waits too, staring at you dumbly. An eternity passes till he brushes his thumb over the length of your forearm, elbow to wrist, then traces the ridges of your knuckles before letting his arm drop limply to his side. He looks around to make sure nobody is within earshot and draws the blue privacy curtains around your bed to enforce extra precaution.

“I was just worried,” he finally says, his voice lowered. “I still am, honestly. You know, seeing you like… this.” Like, sick and weak, strung up with IVs like a puppet and unable to move without strain. “And I don’t want to leave you,” he adds as an afterthought.

In the presence of other agents, doctors, strangers, he’s a professional. He knows how to keep things curt and platonic, but when it’s just you and him, I missed you, I was worried about you, I need you around, I can’t lose you.

The way he speaks to you makes you feel something. He worries about you every moment you’re on the field. He frets over you when you’re ill, misses you when you’re apart, thinks about you all the time. Long ago you’d passed the threshold between mere team members to friends, and now, you’re touching base with what’s next. Beyond friends. Borderline lovers. Whatever that could mean for you. And the vulnerability in his voice strikes you, making him sound so small, so pained by your pain.

“You don’t need to worry,” you say, hoping to soothe his qualms. “I feel alright.”

“I can’t help it. I thought... I don’t know what I thought.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” is your light response, then a switch of the topic, and you ask again, “Will you tell me about the case?”

He puts a reassuring hand on your shoulder, then it moves to push your hair out of your eyes. Lingers in a soft caress on your cheek and your palm fits over the back of it when you lift your hand to cover his.

“Like I said, I think it’ll only be a couple days. Don’t stress yourself out over it. I want you to focus on getting better, alright?”

“Can you call me?” you ask.

“Every chance I get.”

And, trapped in the makeshift prison of your hospital bed, you can only croak out a weak goodbye that scratches your throat as you watch him leave.

⊹₊ 𐙚

It’s been a week since they discharged you from the hospital, assigned a lot of rest and fluids. Seldom a word from Aaron, though, and you, too, are beginning to fret just like he had over you. Your cuticles are peeled from existence, you’ve bit your nails too short and raw and red, your lips are chapped to the point your mouth tastes of metal more often than not.

Penelope has been more than kind and has kept you company in your too-empty apartment, even bringing over the case file and a grainy image of the evidence board sent over by the rest of the team for your viewing pleasure. You didn’t have much of value to add and ended up feeling more useless than you were to begin with.

Now, your gaze is trained on the toes of your too-big socks. A seam is misaligned along the top and the heel has pulled up to the back of your ankle. And you think of him. He’s all you can think about as of late. Feels something like nausea crawling up your throat to think of something happening to him.

Nervous. On edge. Sick with worry. He said one or two days. It’s been six and counting, who knows what could have happened to him out there, he was being secretive about it and he’s never secretive with you. Not you, why wouldn’t he tell you what was happening? Why wouldn’t he let on any details about the case? What if he’d anticipated getting hurt or —

You don’t dare entertain the thought. The only reason you’d imagined it up in the first place is because it happened to you. In the end, you’re still very much human no matter how much bureaucratic authority you have. That’s to say, you’re very much flesh and blood and bone, and from the safety of your apartment Aaron is even more so when he’s out on the field. Flesh can be cut, torn apart, blood can spill unstoppably like a faucet, bone can shatter into a million unfixable pieces. A bulletproof vest will do nothing against a knife jammed into his neck or a shotgun to the back of his head. You shudder and tug at your socks to un-bunch them from your heels.

In the middle of your bout of overthinking, the lock on your door clicks and turns and it swings open with a quiet creak. Aaron stands in the doorway, backlit by the dingy lights outside, akin to an angel with the cast of his hair and the contours of his face dipped in shadow.

“Hello? Honey, I have something for you,” is the first thing he says, the silhouette of his arm twisted to hide something behind his back. From his other hand dangles his go-bag, which falls to the floor of your living room with a dull thud. He peels out of his jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair.

The relief chokes you. Strangles you till you’re blue in the face. You’re struck speechless and can only watch as he pushes the door closed behind him and tosses the keys into the catchall on the hall table, toes off his shoes, then comes over to sit with you on the couch. Plastic crinkles behind his back as he moves closer.

“I’ve got something,” he says again. “A present for you.”

“Aaron-”

“Before you say I didn’t need to, I wanted to,” he interjects, waving a hand to stop you. “I saw them while I was out and thought of you.”

“The anticipation is killing me.”

All turbulent emotions vanish like morning dew on a sunny afternoon, your heart thrumming hard against the confinement of your ribs. You let yourself think it’s only because you’re just excited to see him in good spirits, certainly not because he places a hand on your knee and squeezes lightly, or looks at you with poorly-concealed adoration in his gaze, or the knowledge of the fact he thinks of you often enough to go out of his way to get you something nice.

From behind his back, he produces a bouquet of pink roses wrapped neatly in a matching shade of cellophane with a flourish and you nearly fall to the ground. He’s brought you flowers. Roses. He saw roses while he was out and they made him think of you, and that thought alone nearly has you knocked out cold.

You’re able to mutter his name before you reach for his shoulders for a hug, and he lets out a small huff as he’s pushed down to lay back on the couch with your arms around him.

“Consider this my apology for being too busy to call,” he murmurs.

“Thank you,” you say, breathless. “Consider your apology accepted.”

His free hand rubs up and down your back, lingering flush to the space between your shoulder blades to press you close to his chest. “How have you been?”

“I’m okay.”

“Yeah? Has Garcia been taking good care of you?”

You nod into his shoulder. “You know her.”

“That I do. Do you have a vase that I can put your flowers in?”

“There’s one in the kitchen cabinet.”

But he doesn’t yet stand to retrieve it, too engrossed in the warmth of your hug. This is not how a boss acts with his subordinate. Not even how a friend would act. If he were just a friend he wouldn’t come to you first, because your space is his space, and he wouldn’t have brought you a really nice bouquet, and he wouldn’t find such comfort in your embrace and the smell of your perfume that he goes slack under you. Him and you, always, together.

A moment passes and he shifts out from beneath you. You watch him get up with remorse, his hand holding onto yours till the distance draws his fingers away.

“You know,” he begins, rummaging around in your cabinets to find the aforementioned vase, “I’ve been honing in on my cooking skills.”

“That so?” you ask from the sofa, jelly-limbed with your neck craned to watch him.

“I can make stir fry if you want dinner.” His arm retracts from the cabinet, hand around the neck of your vase.

So he cooks for you. Insists upon it, even. Even though the hospital cleared you fine to go home and you feel more or less well, he insists on taking care of you. You let him. Maybe for his peace of mind. A chance to take care of you just like you’ve taken care of him countless times before. You won’t pretend to not like having him dote on you.

The roses sit between you, lit by warm candlelight because the overhead light buzzes too loud and the bulb flickers when you turn it on. It’s sweet and it’s romantic, shit, you really shouldn’t be getting so personally involved with your boss. The no-fraternization rules implemented by the Bureau higher-ups have been hammered into your skull since the day you joined, yet just look at you. Too late for go-backs now.

Over the table, you say, “You can stay the night, if you want to.”

It’s not that you’re implying anything because you’re not, voice void of sexual innuendo. He doesn’t seem to take it in such a way anyway. His gaze meets yours and he draws closer with a hand curled like a cage atop yours.

“I will,” he replies. “If you want me to.”

“I do.”

He’s slept over before a secret half-a-dozen or so times, mostly on the couch. Only in your bed once. That one time was after you’d came home from a particularly bad case, and it was the second time you’d seen him as upset as he was. Beaten black and blue, scraped up worse than he’s ever been on the job. You’d diligently cleaned his wounds up (always too proud to sit in the back of an ambulance and let a professional take care of it), sat with him until he fell asleep, then you never spoke of it again.

Tonight he sleeps beside you. Blissfully unaware to the way you stare at his profile — the line of his nose, the mess of his hair where it’s fallen over his forehead, the way the light catches on his fluttering lashes and turns them a pale blue. The back of your knuckles run against his cheekbone. Tender, soft, so unlike most anything else he knows now.

He’s beautiful. All of you belongs to him.

You stir to Aaron’s heavy arm draped across your abdomen and crack one eye open to see him staring at you. The room is warm, sunshine spilling over his back to paint him shining gold, and the tip his of nose presses against your neck when he sees you’re awake. He must’ve gotten up before you woke because you can smell fresh-cut grass from the open window and the scent of coffee brewing floats in from the kitchen, and from outside you can hear the humming drone of a lawnmower, the song of morning birds chirping.

“Did I wake you up?” he asks, more a murmur than anything.

You shake your head no. A part of you — the small part that yearned for his care and attention long before now — is awestruck. You’ve got Aaron in your bed, the same Aaron who bleeds and hurts and fights beside you, the man who hadn’t wanted you on the team in the first place, and he’s touching you like you’re made of glass.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

“I’m okay for now,” you reply.

“Are you sure, honey? I can cut up some fruit for you. You could do with some vitamins… maybe some sun, too.” Mournfully, he gets up from bed, leaving you with only the warmth of the sheets where he lay just a moment ago. You watch, blinking slow, breathing slow.

“I’m really fine,” you insist meekly, pulling the blankets up to your chin.

With hands planted on either side of your head, he leans back over you in bed, brows pulled in concern like you’re still bedridden in the hospital. His thumb ghosts over the delicate skin of your undereye, then lower, feather-light down the slope of your jaw and to where your collarbone peeks out from the neck of your shirt.

“I’ll bring you a bowl,” he says, disregarding the rejection.

And then he kisses you before he leaves to the kitchen. Nothing full-fledged, only a brief press of his lips to your cheek, but it renders a swell in your gut, too hot beneath your quilt, breathless like your heart is going to rip straight out of your chest and chase him down to kiss him again. The print of his lips burns white-hot. A brand on your skin.

He pauses in the threshold of your bedroom and looks back. “I’m sorry if that was… weird.”

“No! No, it wasn’t weird. I liked it, actually.”

“Oh, okay.”

Aaron fusses over you incessantly the entire day, from cutting your fruit up to holding your hand to help you to the couch, despite your insistence that you’re fully recovered. He isn’t so used to putting his feelings so brashly on display, but you’ve been walking this tightrope between friends and more for a while and it’s no secret he wants it. Wants you. Wants whatever you may have to offer. No matter if you’re well or not, he’ll want you.

“Thank you,” you say over lunch, picking idly at the tangerine he’d peeled for you. “For staying with me, I mean.”

He lifts his head. He’s opened the window above your sink, citing the lovely weather and your need for sunshine as his reasons for letting the bugs in, and it makes his eyes shine from his seat facing the sun.

You’re like a vampire, he had said. Don’t get me wrong, definitely a beautiful and kind one, but fresh air will do you good, then he’d laughed as he stood in the spill of warmth exuding from the open window.

In his hand is the other half of the tangerine, which he assiduously peels the spongy pith from and discards in a small heap atop your dining table.

“I hope you know that I don’t mind.” Aaron breathes out and hands you two slices stripped of their white viscera. “I like taking care of you. Every so often someone get hurts on the field and it never gets more comfortable to deal with. It makes me feel… good to be here with you.”

“That’s really nice of you to say.”

“It’s only the truth.”

You’ve been better for the greater part of a week and no longer need babying like you did at the start, you think, but withhold on commenting for fear that he thinks you don’t like having him around. You more than like it, really, and you like it even more when he leans over the table enticingly.

He’s smiling widely when he speaks. “And the company is the best part.”

“Even if the company is a vampire?” You touch the side of his throat, flush over his jugular where a vampire might bite. His heart thrums hard beneath the pads of your fingers when you push down with the faintest pressure.

“Even so.”

⊹₊ 𐙚

“Can I see you in my office? There’s something that I want to talk to you about.”

You stand from your desk. Aaron — rather, Hotch, because you’re at work — has been staring at you through his window the entire morning like a reverse-scenario zoo animal in an enclosure. It’s been unsettling to feel someone’s eyes on you perpetually but you let it slide because you know he’s just worried. He made it very clear that he didn’t want you coming back to the office so soon, for worry you might bump a fading bruise on the exceedingly dangerous desks in the bullpen or injure your back further by sitting in the expensive, cushy roller chair.

It’s an overcast Monday in light of your sunny weekend. Aaron had messaged you at five-thirty in the morning, insisted heavily that if you intended on coming in today then it had better be with a warm coat on. You’d come to a tentative middle ground via a knit sweater that he likes because Emily runs cold and makes sure the whole office knows it (Seriously, you can’t remember the last time she’d allowed it to be less than the low eighties, and most of the team would rather bear the heat than listen to her gripe about how cold it is. Today, it’s freezing. The heat is broken and you figure you’ll have to deal with it once she comes in.)

He’s waiting for you when you step in and close the door behind you, drawing the blinds. “How are you?”

“I’m well. I’d be better if you’d stayed home to rest.”

“I promise I’m recovered enough for desk work, Aaron.”

He grumbles with no real upset and beckons for you to come around the other side of his desk. When you do and lean back with palms braced over the lip, a broad hand slips around your waist to touch your back. He drops it quickly. So unprofessional, you might tease, if you weren’t so pleased with the fact that he’s unabashedly touching you at work.

Something in the air has shifted. Following the night you spent together, it’s as if the spark between you has turned into a real firecracker, a sparkling dazzle of neon color and fizzling light. He’d left Saturday afternoon after a lot of coaxing that you’d be alright alone, made you promise you’d eat real food and not just cereal and frozen pizza and TV dinners. Most importantly, he wouldn’t leave without kissing you silly all over your cheeks and forehead and jaw. And when you’d anticipated the killing blow and closed your eyes and parted your lips, he’d bid you goodbye with an affectionate pat to your shoulder.

It was cruel, but you don’t mind waiting for a real kiss. The riper the fruit, the sweeter the juice, isn’t that what they say? This thing, for lack of a better word, with Aaron being as discernible as it is, is still relatively new. Not to mention he’s navigating romance for the first time again after Haley, so you’re more than willing to take it slow with him.

“What did you do over the rest of the weekend?” he asks conversationally.

“You know, the ushe.” You tuck your cold hands between your knees, press your lips together like you’re really devastated by the answer you’d come up with. “I laid around feeling sorry for myself, missing you…” you trail off, wistful.

“You poor thing,” Aaron responds sympathetically. “What can I do?”

You lean forward with a mock show of great sadness, though not without an underlying coquettish, hopeful demeanor. “The only thing that would make it all better is dinner later tonight with someone special.”

“What a coincidence. I was just thinking of asking my own someone special if she wanted to get takeout and spend the night at mine after work.”

It’s awful, the way he’s staring at you and beaming. Like you’re the one who hung all the stars in the sky, crafted the constellations just for him; like you control the tide of the ocean and the spin of the Earth; like you’re the light that makes the moon glow. Makes you want to grab him by his hand and bring him back to your place and never let him leave the comfort of your apartment. Keep him safe and warm and content.

You settle instead on smoothing his lapels down. He isn’t propositioning you when he asks you to stay over — never would he be so blatant, and you don’t think you’re quite involved enough yet for such a risqué offer to be on the table (though the notion has you imagining a torturous handful of things that you wouldn’t dream of telling him about.)

“Tell you what,” he begins. He moves his chair to be positioned in front of you. You have to look directly down to see him face-to-face. “We’ll pick up some dinner and we can watch whatever movie you like. Do you have your go-bag?”

“I do... and if I want to watch Mean Girls?”

“I’ll watch anything you want,” he supplies.

“Oh, how sweet are you?”

“Don’t tell anyone. My professional reputation would be ruined.”

Truth be told, there is a prominent lack of ‘professional reputation’ in Aaron’s department, at least within the team. He can pretend as much as he likes for as long as he likes but it’s their specialty to sniff out lies, pick up on secret cues, and of course they notice when he comes into the office with two cups of coffee instead of one, when he holds your hand to help you up the steps of the jet. You’ve received enough conspiratorial looks to know that they know.

You don’t suppose Aaron is your boyfriend. Your relationship with him is a nuanced thing. Becoming the brunt of office gossip is one thing, jeopardizing your careers is another — Strauss has her suspicions and there’s been, well… talk that stokes the (albeit small) kindling flame. It comes down to having a discussion that will remain on the back burner until the both of you can sit down and discuss the professional implications and the other difficult things that Aaron doesn’t want to talk about.

Dark has long since encompassed the Bureau by the time that he decides to be done working. You’ve been waiting on the couch in his office for the better part of the day, his suit jacket draped over your legs fashioned into an impromptu blanket. And then there’s the shuffling of loose-leaf paper shoved into folders, the scratch of his chair’s wheels as he pushes it in.

The toes of his shiny oxfords come into view and a kind hand pushes a loose lock of hair out of your face. “Are you ready?”

He wedges his hand beneath the small of your back to get you up. You’re tired from your day and limp when he encourages you to sit, but ultimately allow him to prop you up against the back of the couch. You take his hand to stand up when he offers it to you.

One and a half years ago, he wouldn’t dream of holding your hand. Wouldn’t even sit next to you in the conference room or on the jet, in fact. But Aaron didn’t really start liking liking you until eight months ago and didn’t tell you for even longer. It took him a long while to gather the courage to come out and just say it like any normal adult with feelings might do.

If you told your former self you’d wind up holding hands with Unit Chief SSA Aaron Hotchner, going home to eat dinner with him and sleep in his bed, you’d have laughed in your own face. The most you’d ever let yourself indulge in such a fantasy prior to his grandiose confession of more than friendly feelings was maybe, just maybe, in an alternate timeline you’d met Aaron under different circumstances and it would have been history.

But you have him in this timeline. You have him picking up your dinner, driving you to his house, crouching down in front of you to undo the buckles keeping the straps of your kitten heels fastened around your ankles. He rubs your calf after tucking your shoes away before he stands and walks to the kitchen.

“What a long day,” he comments. He loosens the knot of his tie and looks over at you over his shoulder. “For you especially, I imagine. Does it get tiring, laying on the couch in my office?”

“Mhm,” you hum agreeably. “A very long day of very grueling paperwork. My boss can’t stop assigning me more and more when there are other agents who could share the workload.”

You know Aaron is smiling, even as he’s faced with his back to you. It’s clear in his voice. “Maybe your boss just thinks you’re very diligent and produce quality work.”

“That sounds to me a lot like favoritism, Hotchner.” You saunter up behind him, draping your arms around his waist. He tears apart the plastic bag holding your food then separates portions onto two ceramic plates.

“Uh-huh,” he says wryly. “You see, honey, favoritism would be more like if I let a member of my team quote unquote lay down to rest her eyes on my sofa instead of doing her work like I very kindly asked — oh wait, doesn’t that sound familiar?”

“So I am your favorite? Ooh, how scandalous. Imagine if word got out that you were picking favorites.”

“I must be doing something wrong if you have to ask.” Aaron turns and puts a hand on the back of your neck, scoffs, shakes his head good-naturedly. This mood he’s in, playful, teasing, is so rare, and you love it. “Do you ever see me letting Morgan take a nap during work hours?”

“Derek will nap regardless if you let him or not.”

(This is true. You’d caught him sleeping in the conference room once. He’d made you swear not to tell Aaron in exchange for vending machine money — and who were you to deny such a generous offer? Your silence was easily bought via chocolate bars.)

“In that case, I might have to give him a stern talking to.” His expression is grim.

“Oh, please don’t. He gave me money to buy candy from the machines if I swore not to tell you.”

Aaron is delighted by this answer. “But you’re telling me anyway?”

“Does that make me a bad friend?” you ask morosely.

“No, no. You’re the best friend. And an even better subordinate for ratting him out… it’s good to know where your loyalty lies.”

He’s laughing when he says it and then he isn’t laughing a mere moment later. Rather, he’s leaning in on a whim, eyes fluttering shut, a hand over the back of your neck, thumbs a whisper against the curve of your cheek. There’s a perceptible flash that travels like lighting up your spine — he’s going to kiss you for real this time, you know he is, and it’s something you’ve wanted for who-knows how long and it’s finally yours to have. To keep. And it’s not just about the kiss, is it? It’s about Aaron, like it most always is, and you thank your lucky stars one by one to have found a man like him and to be able to keep him.

But it’s over nearly as soon as it began. How torturous for it to end so quickly when you’ve dreamt of kissing him day and night. It’s only right for you to go for another and another and another, and yes, juice is always sweeter when the fruit has had time to ripen.

[spideyreid]

me when i saw spencer reid info dump for the first time

[spideyreid]

How I feel after saying “hear me out” to half the people in criminal minds

[spideyreid]

The smoothness of SmartBoards is godly

[spideyreid]

this blog hates donald trump

Look how many people hate him. I’m pretty damn happy about that 😁😁😁😁😁😁

[spideyreid]

what do you mean elon musk did a nazi salute on live tv at the united states presidential inauguration twice and is now erasing the evidence off the internet by replacing the footage with the crowd cheering instead?

would be a shame if people reblogged this, wouldn’t it?

[spideyreid]

[spideyreid]

spencer: you let your cat sleep in your bed with you?

emily: reid, i’d let him represent me in court

[spideyreid]

Criminal Minds is funny because Hotch is living in a crime drama, and everyone else is in a workplace sitcom

[spideyreid]

now why tf were these two roleplaying as gay men at a gas station in the middle of nowhere?!

[spideyreid]

Dear Santa,

I’ve been really good, and naughty in the best of ways, please leave a 6’2, middle aged, BAU Unit Chief under my Christmas tree this year.

With love, xx

[spideyreid]

guilty as sin? // aaron hotchner x reader

guilty as sin?

aaron hotchner x fem!reader

words: 3.9k

warnings: pining, longing, a bit of angst, jealous hotch, slight language, povs switching back and forth because i couldn’t focus on just one sorry

description: in which you can't have the one person that you want. inspired by guilty as sin? by taylor swift.

a/n: whoops i am so sorry about disappearing for so long. basically i’ve been studying abroad and while getting to travel the world has been the best thing that’s ever happened to me, i'm so excited to be back with time to write! hope you guys like this one (and it’s holiday themed #sleigh) lmk if you want a part 2 and i might do it

messy top lip kiss

how i long for our trysts

without ever touching his skin

how can i be guilty as sin?

Aaron Hotchner can’t remember the last time, or if ever, he’s hated someone that he's never met before.

The BAU's annual Christmas party was in full swing, the atmosphere alive with laughter and the soft hum of holiday classics playing in the background – thanks to JJ’s playlist. Glittering, colorful lights and festive garlands adorned the room, and a tall, magnificent tree stood proudly in the corner, its ornaments catching the light. 

Penelope was right – no one could decorate for the holidays like she could.

Aaron stood at the far end of the room, a glass in hand, his eyes scanning the crowd. His team looked relaxed, their usual burdens temporarily lifted by the party that he had sworn he wasn’t coming to this year. 

It had been a tough year – every year was tough, but this one especially considering the ordeal of Emily faking her death and coming back. It had taken a toll on everyone. 

However, despite the pretty decorations that he knew Penelope had put hours into putting up, his focus remained focused on someone across the room.

You.

You looked stunning tonight wearing a deep emerald dress, your smile so blinding that it put Penelope’s decorations to shame. But it wasn’t just your beauty that held his attention.

 It was the man standing beside you, his hand resting a little too low for Aaron’s liking on your back as he leaned in to whisper something that made you flash a smile.

The man you’d brought as your date.

Aaron had been eyeing him all night. He was in a perfectly fitted suit with a tie that matched the color of your dress. He'd heard from JJ that the man was a lawyer that you had been set up with by one of your friends from college. Apparently, it wasn’t serious yet, and the two of you had only been on a few dates.

Not that he cared that much. And not that he nonchalantly asked JJ or anything.

Aaron’s jaw tightened as he took another sip of his drink, the liquid doing little to calm the feeling inside him. He had no right to feel this way, he reminded himself. You were his colleague, part of his team – he was your boss – and yet he couldn’t stop the wave of jealousy that surged through him every time your date leaned closer or when you laughed at something he said.

“You’re going to crack that glass if you keep holding it like that,” Rossi’s voice broke through his thoughts. He turned to find his friend’s knowing smirk, his wine glass tilted slightly as if in toast to Aaron’s predicament.

Aaron stiffened, his composure faltering for just a moment before he shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on,” Rossi said, rolling his eyes. “You’re oozing jealousy. It’s almost painful to watch.”

“I’m fine,” Aaron replied, loosening his grip on the glass. His tone was clipped, but Rossi wasn’t easily fooled. There was no use in trying to lie to one of his closest friends, but Aaron attempted to regardless.

“You’ve been staring at her all night,” Rossi said. “You might want to rein it in before someone else notices. Need I remind you that you’re in a room full of experienced profilers?”

Aaron said nothing as his gaze shifted back to you. Your date was gesturing animatedly, and you were nodding along, a genuine smile lighting up your face. It should have made him feel relieved to see you enjoying yourself after the traumatic year that you had been through but instead, it twisted something deep inside him.

“She seems happy,” Rossi observed, his voice softer now. “It’s good to see her smile. She’s been through a lot this year. We all have.”

Aaron didn’t respond immediately. He thought the pit in his stomach couldn’t go any deeper, but it did. His grip on the glass relaxed, but the knife in his chest didn’t ease. 

“Yeah,” he finally said, though the words felt distant, like someone was possessing him and speaking for him. “She took the Prentiss situation hard.”

You and Emily Prentiss were attached at the hip. There had never been two people who immediately matched each other’s energy more than you and Emily from the second that you joined the team. When Emily faked her death, you had been devastated. It caused you a lot of time in therapy and an even longer amount of time to accept the fact that she really wasn’t dead.

So, in short, yes, it was good to see you happy.

Aaron just wished that it was him making you happy instead.

“You can talk to her, you know,” Rossi told him. “She doesn’t bite.” Before he could respond, Rossi was pulling at his arm to follow him.

“What the hell are you doing?” Aaron muttered underneath his breath.

Rossi rolled his eyes. “Can you relax? You’re acting like an angsty teenager. We’re just going to go say hello.”

Your smile brightened at the sight of Rossi, and it lit up even more as your eyes moved to find Aaron’s.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Rossi said, but both him and Aaron knew that he was not sorry at all, “but I had to come to see how our star agent is doing this evening.”

You smiled at the compliment. “Oh, Rossi, stop it.”

He shook his head and looked at your date. “It’s only her second year here with us, and she’s almost as good as me.”

“Okay, now you’re just lying.”

Aaron’s eye finally caught yours, and he could’ve almost sworn that your breath caught in your throat, but he was probably just seeing things. You tossed him a small smile – one that made his chest tighten.

Rossi raised his hands in surrender. “I would never,” he said with a grin. He turned to your date. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

You cleared your throat in preparation to do introductions, but your date beat you to it. “Agent Rossi, right?”

Your date shook hands with Rossi as he introduced himself.

“And Agent Hotchner, correct?” He turned to Aaron and put out his hand. “It’s great to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

The tension between the two men was palpable, though your date seemed oblivious to it. Maybe it was just one-sided.

“Good things, I hope?” Aaron attempted a joke, much unlike himself.

Your date laughed. “Really good things – don’t worry. She thinks very highly of you. She’s always talking about you.”

You laughed awkwardly while Rossi attempted to hide a smirk behind his wine glass. Aaron, on the other hand, thought he was going to have a heart attack.

Thinks very highly of you.

She’s always talking about you.

“I think very highly of her as well,” Aaron said, trying to keep his voice at bay. “She’s an excellent agent.”

He locked eyes with you, and he knew he wasn’t imagining the way your breath hitched this time. You kept opening and closing your mouth like you wanted to say something to him, but no words ever came. Instead, you brought your drink to your lips and looked away.

Rossi, seeing the interaction that just played out in front of him, swooped in to help. “Well, it’s great to meet you.”

Your date, oblivious, nodded. “It really is. She’s been telling me how much she enjoys working with all of you. Sounds like a great team and sounds like you all are pretty close.”

“We are,” Rossi said smoothly, his voice warm but his eyes calculating as he watched Aaron out of the corner of his eye. “It’s not every day she brings someone to a work event. You must be quite the catch.”

Aaron was going to kill him.

You opened your mouth to interject, but your date beat you to it. “Well, I don’t know about that, but I like to think I’m lucky to have met her. We’ve had fun.”

“How did you two meet?” Rossi asked. It was a genuine question on his part.

“We were introduced by a mutual friend,” he explained. “It was kind of a blind date, but it worked out pretty well.”

Aaron’s grip on his glass tightened even more, and he hoped you didn’t notice how his jaw clenched for just a fraction of a second.

“Well,” Rossi said, breaking the tension, “it’s always nice to see someone who recognizes what they’ve got. Right, Aaron?”

Aaron’s gaze flicked to Rossi, his expression carefully neutral. “Absolutely,” he said, his voice steady but devoid of emotion. Then his eyes shifted to you, softening just enough to make your heart stutter. “She deserves the best.”

The weight of his words hung heavily between you, and for a moment, the room, the background chatter, and the bright lights seemed to fade away.

It was just the two of you, caught in a silent conversation that spoke volumes. You wanted to reach out – to say something, but you couldn’t as your date’s arm moved around to your waist, grounding you in the reality of the moment.

You had come here with someone. It wasn’t fair to him for you to be thinking about your boss in a not-very-appropriate way.

“Well, we should probably mingle,” he said cheerfully, oblivious to the tension swirling around him. He glanced at you with a warm smile. “Ready?”

You nodded, your smile feeling strained. “Yeah, let’s go.”

As he led you away, you glanced back over your shoulder, your eyes meeting Aaron’s one last time. Your expression was unreadable, but the emotion in your eyes was evident. It was an unspoken feeling that stayed with you both long after you turned away – a reminder of everything the two of you couldn’t say to each other and everything you couldn’t have.

Rossi watched Aaron carefully as the two of you disappeared into the crowd. “Before you say anything, I was testing to see how serious it is between them. You need to do something about this before it eats you alive,” he said, his tone devoid of his usual teasing.

Aaron didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the spot where you had been standing. After a long moment, he downed the rest of his drink and turned to Rossi. “You shouldn’t have done that. Some things are better left alone. It would never work out anyways.”

Rossi shook his head, a hint of sadness on his aged face. “You don’t know that unless you actually try.”

Aaron didn’t reply while Rossi clapped a hand on his shoulder and walked away, but the set of his shoulders and the tension in his jaw spoke volumes. The holiday lights around the room glowed softly, a contrast to the storm of emotions swirling inside him.

Maybe he should’ve said something to you. Not just tonight, but before it turned into the mess that it had become.

You and Aaron had been working together for two years. You’d started not long before Haley died. He wasn’t sure what it was about you that made him forget how to speak, but there had never been a moment since he met you that he wasn’t completely and utterly mesmerized just by your mere presence.

It wasn’t just him that adored you. The whole team did – you were exactly what they needed. Rossi hadn’t been lying earlier because it was true: you were excellent at your job, but you were also kind, understanding, and empathetic – something Aaron felt like he lacked at times.

He knew you felt it. Whatever was going on between the two of you – it wasn’t just something one-sided that he had made up in his head. It didn’t take a profiler to figure out that you both had feelings for one another because anyone with eyes could tell.

Except your date, apparently.

Aaron would like to have said he didn’t know why the two of you had never brought it up, but he would be lying if he said that. 

A relationship with his subordinate would be a field day for Strauss. Logically, he wasn’t sure if it would ever work out as long as both of you were still working with the BAU, and if it would never work out, what was the point of even talking about it?

At the end of the day, Aaron was as professional as they come. He would never act upon anything with a risk of you losing your job over it.

These were the thoughts swirling around Aaron’s brain as he decided to step outside for some air, coming to the conclusion that he needed a moment to breathe and get out of the stuffy room.

To avoid drawing attention to his exit, he briskly left the room by taking the stairs rather than the elevator and made his way down and outside of the building.

As the cold December air hit his face as he sat down on one of the benches, Aaron knew with certainty that he had to get over the way he felt about you. It was evident that the man you came with was a good person, and he needed to shut down whatever unspoken attraction you had for each other.

“Was it overwhelming in there for you, too?”

Hotch whipped his head around at the sound of your voice to find you walking towards him, still in your dress but wearing your winter coat, your hands stuffed in the pockets. There was no evidence on your face of how you were feeling as you sat down beside him. You weren’t close enough for your leg to be touching his, but close enough that if he moved even the slightest inch, it would be.

He tried not to think about that.

“Hot, stuffy, and too many people,” he said as he tugged on his tie, hoping that loosening it up would help him breathe easier around you.

You laughed. “I love Penelope’s enthusiasm, but did she really have to invite what feels like the entirety of Quantico to this party? I would’ve been fine with the team just getting dinner or something. I don’t know, like, over half of the people in there. I think she just sent out a mass invite to the entire FBI. Speaking of that, what were your thoughts on the e-vite?”

“I didn’t know that many shades of pink existed,” Aaron said, fully serious.

Another laugh escaped you, this one much more prominent. You looked so pretty that he couldn’t help but crack a rare smile – something that actually wasn’t that rare around you.

A comfortable silence grew between Aaron and you. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth.

“Your date seems nice.”

He glanced over at you as you raised an eyebrow up at him. You didn’t say anything.

“What?” He asked in response to your silence.

“You can be honest.”

Aaron frowned. “I am being honest. He was,” Aaron paused, trying to find the right word, charming.”

You chuckled. “So you’ve been glaring at him all night because he’s charming?”

That caught him off guard. “I wasn’t glaring.”

“Hotch, I think you forget that I’m also a profiler,” you retorted, “and a damn good one. You don’t have to lie to me if you don’t like him.”

He frowned. “Why do you care what I think of him?”

This time, you were the one that was caught off guard. You pursed your lips together in concentration, trying to think of what to say to Aaron.

“I value your opinion.”

Aaron nodded. “Because you think very highly of me?”

You turned away from him with a playful eye roll, a tinge of embarrassment running through your veins as you remembered your date telling your boss right in front of you that you talk about him all the time. In your defense, you wouldn’t say that you talked about Aaron all the time.

Okay, maybe seventy-five percent of the time, but you couldn’t help it.

Aaron Hotchner was charming, attentive, and a natural leader when it came to his job. He made everything look effortless. It was no wonder why you were immediately drawn to him right after meeting him.

You weren’t sure if you were ever not going to be drawn to him.

Your mind raced back to your date, who was still inside while you had told him that you needed some air. You grimaced, feeling guilty at the idea of him inside by himself while you were sitting on a bench with the man you actually wanted to be with.

But technically, you weren’t doing anything that you shouldn’t be. In fact, you weren’t even official with the guy – this was only the third time you had seen him and while you liked him as a person, you were planning on telling him that it wasn’t going to work out after tonight. 

You’d only agreed to your friend’s incessant request for a blind date in an attempt to get Aaron out of your head, and he was actually the one who offered to come to the party with you – not the other way around. He was a nice man who, in any other circumstance in which you had never met Aaron, you probably would’ve been head over heels for.

Both fortunately and unfortunately, you had met Aaron Hotchner.

“Well, if I recall correctly, you also said that you think highly of me.”

“I did say that. I do think highly of you. I’m not denying it,” he said before he quickly added, “I think highly of everyone on the team.”

Aaron wanted to kick himself after seeing how your face fell before you quickly replaced the disappointed look with a smile. “Yeah, it’s a good team to be a part of.”

He was trying to keep it together like the professional that he claimed to be. The comment was meant to be a neutral compliment, not hurt your feelings. Of course he thought highly of everyone on the team, but the way that he said it didn’t make the situation better.

You cleared your throat, knowing you had to go back to your date and stop digging yourself deeper into the situation you were already in. “I should get back inside.”

Aaron nodded, getting ready to stand up with you. “I should, too, before Garcia sends a search party to hunt me down.”

As the two of you got ready to stand, your eye flickered to his undone tie.

“Oh, your tie is undone,” you told him. 

He looked down at it and moved his hands to fix it, but you hesitated for a moment before you stopped him. “Let me,” you murmured.

You weren’t sure what had gotten into you, and you weren’t sure why your hands were now moving to your boss’s neck to fix his tie when he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. You’d just told yourself that you were going to go back inside, but there you were: your hands inching closer and closer to Aaron Hotchner’s body when you should’ve been going back inside.

Aaron froze, his breath hitching audibly as your fingers brushed the fabric, your knuckles ghosting his chest over top of his white button-up dress shirt. Slowly and carefully, you straightened the tie, your fingertips grazing the skin at the base of his throat as you finally slid the knot up to his collar. 

His pulse thrummed under your touch – it was rapid, unsteady, and unlike him – and you felt your own heart race in response to the close proximity.

It shouldn’t have felt the way that it did. You were fixing his tie. It wasn’t an act that was supposed to be intense, but it was. You didn’t want to be dramatic, but you were positive that fixing his tie was the most intimate act of your life.

Neither of you spoke as your hands moved. Aaron’s gaze bore into you, dark and heavy with something you couldn’t name, but you felt in every nerve and every inch of your body.

When you finished, your hands lingered, trembling slightly. Whether that was from the cold or from the moment with Aaron – you weren’t sure. 

His tie was perfectly fixed now, but you couldn’t bring yourself to get up off the bench and walk back inside. Your hands never moved – one holding his tie and the other resting against his neck. He lifted his hand, hovering near your leg as though he wanted to touch you, but he didn’t dare.

“Aaron,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of your pounding heart. Your eyes searched his, looking for a sign as to how he was feeling.

For him, his name on your lips was his undoing. You never called him Aaron – only ever Hotch.

 His hand moved to your hip before snaking it around to your lower back, your bodies now as impossibly close as they could on the bench. 

His grip was firm but tentative as he leaned in, his forehead nearly brushing yours as his other hand moved up and around to rest gently against the side of your face. The only audible sound in that moment was the sharp intakes of breath between the both of you

You didn’t know who moved first, but the distance between you disappeared. His nose grazed yours while you involuntarily closed your eyes. If you moved even the slightest inch, your lips would meet.

 His breath was warm against your lips in the winter air, and for a fleeting moment – a split, brief, delusional second – you thought he might kiss you.

But then, as if the weight of reality came crashing down, he pulled back. His hand dropped from your hip, his expression a mix of longing and regret as he avoided eye contact with you – something that he never did.

“We should go back inside,” he said, his voice strained as he moved to stand up.

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak and your hand still gripping his tie. Immediately, you pulled back and stood up quickly, the cold air rushing in to fill the space where his warmth had been.

As you made your way back inside, the tension between you and Aaron was undeniable and worse than it had ever been before. It was something neither of you could escape as you walked back up the stairs, not daring to come up in the elevator together.

You didn't look at him as you moved quickly to breeze past him on the staircase, afraid of what you might see in his eyes.

Or worse, what you might not see.

When you returned, the party was still in full swing, the lights and music still bright and loud. You didn’t have time to think about what had just happened before Spencer came up to you, rambling on about something that you couldn’t bring yourself to fully listen to.

 But as you rejoined the crowd and tried to be present in the conversation with Spencer, the memory of Aaron's touch on your body lingered. 

It was a silent reminder of everything you couldn’t have.