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[beyscape]

God the yearning in this one hurts. happy ajf day everyone!!

burn.

Aaron Hotchner x GN!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: welcome back to our regularly scheduled programming after several delays--I've decided to post this before the sideblog is ready because you've all been so patient!

words: 1.7k content advisories: PINING. so much pining its painful

summary: "you forget what you want to remember, and you remember what you want to forget." —cormac mccarthy. december 24th–26th, 2010

ajf masterlist (under construction) | sideblog under construction | what do you want to see next?

The party ends like all the best ones do—slowly, reluctantly, and with too many hugs at the door.

Penelope’s glitter trail fades down the hallway. Emily’s SUV engine kicks over just as Dave mutters something about Italian wine being better than Italian judgment.

You’re still holding your mug.

You should’ve left twenty minutes ago. Spencer caught your eye on the way out and gave you a look—not teasing, just curious. Like he wasn’t sure why you hadn’t moved yet.

The apartment is warm in the way lived-in spaces get after too many bodies and too much sugar. The tree glows soft and quiet. A few stray snowflake crafts litter the coffee table, evidence of Jack’s brief cameo before Jess picked him up for a Brooks-side thing.

You and Aaron are alone now.

He’s in the kitchen, rinsing the same glass twice. You’re in the doorway, trying not to overthink the fact that you’re still here.

“Thanks for hosting,” you say, just because it’s something to say.

He nods. “Sure.”

“Everyone seemed happy,” you offer, like it matters.

Aaron hums. Noncommittal.

He doesn’t have to tell you this is his second Christmas without Haley.

He doesn’t have to tell you the first one didn’t feel real. That last year, he didn’t decorate. Didn’t cook. Didn’t breathe, really. He spent the morning letting Jack unwrap presents and the evening staring at the bottom of a glass.

He didn’t feel the weight of it until this year.

Until the tree was up again. Until Jack drew a family picture and only drew two people. Until he realized how deeply silence cuts when you’ve survived chaos. Until he realized he didn’t know where Haley ordered the Christmas cards. 

You shift your weight on the kitchen tile.

Aaron folds the towel with unnecessary precision. His hands are steady, but his pulse is loud in his ears.

“You’re not staying over tonight?” It comes out sharper than he means. Less invitation, more... alarm.

You blink. “Should I?” Your voice is soft, teasing, maybe. He can’t tell.

His gaze dips to your mouth before he can stop it.

Don’t.

His eyes flick back up to yours. “I just thought maybe you had somewhere else to be.”

“Tomorrow, maybe,” you say. He gets the acute sense you’re hedging your bets. “Not tonight.”

He nods.

You step away first. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

Aaron doesn’t stop you. Not right away. But then—

“Stay.”

You stop. Half-turned. He sees your shoulders lift, slow and uncertain.

“You don’t have to,” he adds quickly. “I just—don’t want you to go if you don’t want to.”

Your mouth tips up at the corner. Not quite a smile. Not quite relief.

“Okay.”

+++

He doesn’t breathe until you sit beside him on the couch.

The movie is some forgettable holiday comedy. You’re not watching it.

The lights are off.

Except for the tree.

Tiny bulbs blink lazily across the living room—reds, golds, soft white stars casting a sleepy glow over everything. They reflect off the glass ornaments, scattering glimmers of color onto the ceiling, the walls, the blanket pooled over both of your legs. The room smells like pine, like clove-studded oranges, like a home that’s been lived in, like the candle burning on the coffee table.

Neither one of you has spoken in a while.

Your head is on his shoulder, your legs tucked under the afghan, one of his hands resting over your shin—absentminded, not possessive. Just there. His thumb moves in soft, unconscious circles. You can feel the way his breathing changes with yours, how still he goes every time you shift. You could swear he’s holding himself together with duct tape and hope.

And you’re not doing much better.

“I used to think,” you start, your voice barely more than a breath, “that Christmas would always feel like it did when I was little.”

Aaron’s head tilts, not enough to look at you. Just to show he’s listening.

“Not the presents. Not even the family part. Just that feeling—like the world was softer. Like it could pause for a second.” You smile a little. “Now it just feels like we’re holding our breath.”

A beat.

“Maybe we are,” he says. 

You glance up. The tree lights catch his profile. His eyes are on the window, not the TV, but you don’t think he’s looking at anything out there.

The light catches the scar on his nose, the one Foyet gave him. There’s another, fainter one under his chin—childhood bike accident, if you remember correctly.

You should say something. Ask if he’s okay. Ask what he meant. You look away. 

Instead, you reach down and tug the blanket tighter over both your legs. His hand settles back over your shin like it never left.

He’s so warm. Stupidly warm. His shoulder is firm beneath your cheek, and his sweatshirt smells like him. You want to tuck yourself closer. You want to crawl inside the space between his ribs and stay there until January.

You don’t look at him on purpose, but you do. He’s already looking at you.

The breath catches in your throat. His eyes are soft. Quiet. But they’re searching.

You shift.

You hear the subtle change in his breathing. Feel the way his whole body goes still.

It’s comforting.

It’s also unbearable.

You see his pulse thrum at his throat. Quick. Hard.

You’re a profiler. You know what adrenaline looks like.

Aaron can feel your breath against his neck. The scent of your shampoo. The weight of your body leaning into his like you were made to fit there.

There’s a fraction of a second where you’re both leaning in. You don’t know who starts it. You’ll never know. But you do know what stops it.

Fear.

Not the kind you’re trained for. Not knives-in-the-dark fear. Not even heartbreak.

This is worse.

This is the fear of breaking what you already have. The fear of crossing into something so big you can’t get it back. The fear that one kiss could end it all, or change it so irrevocably that nothing is safe anymore. That there’s no room to pretend it’s platonic. No way to wake up tomorrow and call it anything less than what it is.

Your lips part.

So do his.

You both lean in. Barely.

And then—

You duck.

Not far. Just enough to hide in his chest.

His breath halts. But his arm comes around you without hesitation. He tucks you close, chin on your head. Protective. Resigned. Maybe relieved. 

You don’t speak.

Fuck. 

+++

You wake up to the smell of cinnamon and the distant sound of clinking kitchenware.

When you get up, you splash water on your face and brush your teeth in Jack’s bathroom—your toothbrush has its own cup now (you try not to think too hard about that). There’s a cup of coffee waiting for you on the counter—already poured, just the way you like it, and still hot.

Aaron doesn’t say a word when you walk in.

Jack’s back from Roy and Kathleen’s , tearing into a new Lego set on the living room floor.

You sit beside him, bare feet on the carpet. Aaron takes the armchair. Not the couch. Not beside you.

Jack talks enough for all three of you.

You laugh once at something he says—short, bright. Aaron looks up at the sound. You meet his eyes. For a fraction of a second, it cracks something open.

He looks away first. You get the acute sense that he’s not purposefully icing you out.

He’s just protecting himself. 

His self-preservation instincts have always been better than yours. 

The day goes on. Wrapping paper piles up. Coffee cools. Aaron reads the instructions while Jack builds.

You fold the blanket before you leave. Smooth it. Set it on the back of the couch like it wasn’t the scene of a slow-motion undoing.

Aaron watches you do it.

You both pretend it’s just a blanket.

+++

On Boxing Day (a holiday Penelope insists on honoring despite its unpatriotic British origins) Dave’s house smells like rosemary and caramelized onions and something else vaguely Italian that Dave refuses to name until dinner is served. 

Spencer sits cross-legged on the floor helping his godson with a puzzle. Henry’s doing his best and to Spencer’s credit, he narrates his every move (for language development, of course). 

Penelope is making spiked hot chocolate for everyone but insists it’s ‘medicinal’, and Emily is on her third glass of wine and definitely snooping through Dave’s record collection, crouched by the cabinet. JJ loosely supervises, watching Spencer and Henry on the floor with a soft look on her face. Will’s on duty today. You all promised to set aside a plate for him. 

You’re sitting on the edge of the couch, laughing at something Derek said but not really hearing it. Jack is curled into your side, showing you the Lego starship he and Aaron finished that morning.

It’s loud. Warm. Safe.

It’s the perfect place to hide.

Aaron hasn’t spoken to you since he handed you coffee yesterday morning.

He hasn’t not spoken to you either.

Which is worse.

You’re good at playing normal. You’ve had years of practice. But every time you move, your senses stretch for him. And every time you look over—he’s already watching you.

Never long enough to call it staring. Always just a second too short to make you sure.

Jack shifts in your lap. You adjust him automatically, arms tightening around his middle. He’s warm. His hair smells like cinnamon. When he looks up at you, he’s grinning.

“Wanna see the secret compartment?”

You smile back, genuine. “Obviously.”

Aaron’s watching.

You know he is.

You don’t look at him.

Later, when the kids have bundled up and play outside in the yard, you’re still sitting on the couch, doing your best to slouch and relax without thinking too much about it.

You feel him before you hear him.

He sits beside you, not quite close enough to touch.

Neither one of you says anything.

You think, for a second, he might speak. That he might say thank you for staying. Or I didn’t mean to— or I wanted to—

But he doesn’t.

He just exhales.

So do you.

The front door creaks open. The kids come back in, tracking snow and laughter. Noise floods the room.

[beyscape]

one of THE best chapters in this entire series. you know that's significant praise when every single chapter is a damn masterpiece !!!

focus. (18+)

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: this is texting-as-foreplay, lets be real also, derek and emily being nosy is canon behavior. follow up tomorrow!!

beta'd by @ssaic-jareau who basically should be credited as a co-writer at this point.

words: 6.9k content advisories: language, sexual content, oral (m&f receiving), sexually explicit language, if ur grossed out by bjs (like haley lmao) go ahead and skip a lil bit of this, sexting

minors dni and i'm not kidding!!!

summary: “texting is a supremely secretive medium of communication - it's like passing a note - and this means we should be very careful what we use it for.” --lynne truss. november 14th, 2011.

Your finger traces your lip as you stare through your computer monitor, completely lost in the rather distracting and intrusive memory of about 10 hours ago. You haven’t moved, scrolled, or typed anything in eight minutes. 

“That’s it, baby, let go. Let me see.” Aaron’s hand slides up your chest in the valley of your sternum and stops at the hollow of your throat. “You’re so pretty like this, so—“

Your phone buzzes. You jump and grab it. 

Messages Alpha Bravo Hotel (1)

8:04am Hey. Focus.

You swallow, taking a breath and shaking yourself out of it. You can almost feel him watching you from his office. 

8:04am I was focused.

8:04am Not on your work.

8:05am Focus is focus. 8:05am And what, did you want me to start writing a report about last night?

8:06am Depends. Are you citing sources? Quoting directly from the text? 

Your lips press together, fighting a laugh as you reply, your thumbs flying. 

8:07am You have a performance review coming up. There are team evals in there, you know. 8:07am You should be nicer to me.

8:08am Sweetheart, I know you don’t have any complaints about my performance. 

Your stomach flips. Your pulse kicks up—so violently that you have to set your phone down and turn away from his window. 

And that is exactly when Derek walks up, arms crossed, his eyes far too critical for this early in the morning. You can almost hear Aaron’s stupid little chuckle from your desk.

He’s probably so pleased with himself right now. 

“Alright,” he says, tilting his head. “What’s going on?”

You school your face into something neutral. “What?”

“That.” He gestures to you, his eyes narrowing. “That little smug thing you’re doing.”

“I am not—”

Your phone buzzes on your desk.

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, no way. You’re texting someone. Someone who’s putting that look on your face.”

You pointedly pick up your pen instead. “No. I’m working.”

Upstairs, Aaron leans back in his chair, watching this unfold with entirely too much amusement.

Your phone buzzes again. You pick it up, ignoring and combatting Derek’s attempts to read it. 

8:10am We really need to work on your poker face. 

8:11am “Working.”

Your jaw tightens. You’ll just keep it in your hand. 

Derek, watching way too closely, tips his head. “You sure about that?”

Another buzz.

8:11am You owe me an email, you know. We’re both in that thread with CARD. 

You exhale through your nose.

Derek leans in. “Who is it?”

Your phone buzzes again.

8:12am Whatever you do, don’t glare at my office.

Your eyes flicker toward the window—before you can catch yourself.

8:12am Good catch! 8:12am You’re terrible at this. 8:12am :)

Before you can shut Derek down, Emily strolls in with her coffee. “What’s going on?”

Derek betrays you instantly.

“Oh, nothing, just that someone is texting us, making us smile like an idiot during business hours.” 

The royal “we” is absurd. 

Emily’s entire body perks up. “Oh my God, who?!”

You groan, pressing your fingers to your temples. “You are both insufferable.”

Derek smirks. “And you have a man.”

Emily gasps, delighted. “Is this the same man?”

Your phone buzzes.

You do not look at it.

Emily zeroes in. “You didn’t even check that. That means something. Who is it?”

Derek leans against your desk. “Wouldn’t say.”

Emily presses her hands together. “Who do we know?”

Your grip tightens around your pen.

Another buzz. 

8:14am I’ll rescue you if you want. 8:14am But you’ll have to ask nicely. 

You let out a slow breath. Jesus, Aaron. 

Emily gasps, pointing at you. “Ohhh, it’s someone we know.”

Fuckin’ profilers. 

Derek nods, arms crossing. “See? I knew it. It’s gotta be someone in the Bureau.”

Emily tilts her head. “Or adjacent. Task force? Military? Hill staffer?”

Derek rubs his chin. “Nah. She’s the one smiling. He’s gotta have the upper hand.”

Emily squints. “It’s an instructor.”

Derek snaps his fingers. “It’s totally an instructor.” He turns to you. “You have a teacher thing, right?” 

You take a deep, steady breath. “I do not have a ‘teacher thing.’”

Bzzt

8:15am News to me. 

If he makes me laugh right now, I swear… 

Emily gasps again, her brain working overtime. “It’s an agent in another unit.”

Derek nods immediately. “That checks out. You like the brainy ones.”

Emily’s eyes widen. “Oh my God, it’s SWAT.”

Derek tilts his head. “You do have a type. Tactically competent control freaks, mostly.”

Your eye twitches. “Can you just? Go back to your office and work on something?”

Derek grins. “Are you working?”

“We’re just asking questions.” Emily sips her coffee, looking way too proud of herself. 

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm. “I hate both of you.”

Derek pats your shoulder. “That’s love, baby.”

He and Emily do, in fact, make their way out of the bullpen, looking over their shoulders every couple of steps. 

Your phone buzzes. 

8:18am Enjoying yourself?

You reply. 

8:18am Fuck. Off. 

 The reply is near instantaneous. 

8:19am Make me. 

You walked into that one. And you nearly, nearly start typing before you catch yourself. You drop your phone face down and lean back with a sigh that is, unfortunately, also a smile.

Bzzt 

You turn to your computer and take a breath, replying to that thread Aaron mentioned, just for the bit. 

Bzzt

It’s hard to keep a straight face, but you figure now is as good a time as any to practice your impression of Aaron. You make a point of responding with alarming efficiency to emails he and Derek are CC’d on, totally neutral. 

Bzzt 

...

Bzzt

Some case notes. Very clean, very crisp. 

Bzzt

You glance at your phone, face down on the desk. 

He really wants my attention…interesting. 

Your email chimes. 

FROM: Morgan, Derek F SSA <derek.f.morgan@fbi.justice.gov> SUBJECT: I stand corrected So you actually are working?? — SSA Derek Morgan, JD, MS

You roll your eyes and reply. 

Bzzt 

You ignore it, your fingers flying. 

TO: Morgan, Derek F SSA <derek.f.morgan@fbi.justice.gov> BCC: Hotchner, Aaron B SSA <aaron.b.hotchner@fbi.justice.gov> SUBJECT: I stand corrected I’m always working!! Xx :)

You answer another—this one actually from Aaron, with a deliverable, no less. You flick the finished attachment into the email and send it, sitting back in your chair, finally picking up your phone. 

Messages Alpha Bravo Hotel (7)

Seven?!

You turn in your chair to look and find him minding his own damn business (for once), his right elbow resting on the desk, his jaw resting in his hand, his left hand on his mouse. 

With a short little interested hum, you unlock your phone. 

8:20am That face you’re making isn’t very professional. Do you need a break?

8:21am I looked over your notes from the CARD briefing. You missed a line in your summary.

You absolutely did not. 

8:23am Probably distracted. Long night.

8:27am Be honest. Are you working, or are you writing a very detailed mental recap?

8:34am  If you’re sore, you can blame me. But I don’t think you’re complaining.

Alright. Amping things up. You take an even breath through your nose and resist the urge to shift in your seat. 

The effect he has on you really isn’t fair. 

It’s never been fair, but now he knows. 

The next set? Back to back. 

8:41am You looked so sweet last night, your pussy holding onto me so tight. I almost felt bad making you cry. 8:41am If I sat you on my desk right now and spread your thighs, how wet would I find you?

And then—a laugh.

Sharp. Stunned. Shocked. Uncontained.

You slap a hand over your mouth and spin slightly in your chair, eyes wide—no one in earshot. No witnesses.

Thank God.

You exhale hard through your nose, heart pounding like he touched you, like he whispered that filth against your skin instead of wrote it, in front of God and everybody, on your phone.

You dare to glance up.

Aaron’s at his desk. Stoic. Unreadable. The very picture of professionalism.

Same posture: Left hand on his mouse. Right hand curled under his chin. Not even glancing your way.

Unmoved. Untouched.

Like he didn’t just send you… that.

You recover, returning to your work, and decide to ignore him. 

+++

You answer emails. 

Update a case file with some unsurprisingly salient notes from your conversation with the case officer yesterday. 

Finish the interdepartmental CARD summary with irritating precision.

You sip your coffee. Adjust a typo.

You don’t look up.

Behind the glass, Aaron’s dying. Phone balanced on his knee. Seven messages and no reply.

Not a glance. Not a twitch. Not even a ghost of a smirk. A glassy lake, placid and serene. 

You’re pretending he doesn’t exist.

And he’s pretending not to notice.

+++

You scroll through the messages again.

Each one, slowly.

Letting them settle. Letting them simmer.

Your jaw tightens. Your mouth twitches.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

It doesn’t work.

Your thumbs move fast.

8:56am Awfully big… ego you have up there, Agent Hotchner.

Send. 

Delivered.

And then?

You set your phone down. Face-down. Spin back to your monitor. And get to work.

Like you didn’t just throw a match.

Like you’re not waiting for the smoke.

+++

His phone buzzes and he’s almost embarrassed by how quickly he picks it up and unlocks it. 

Messages Second (1)

He shakes his head. Just one? You’re joking. 

8:56am Awfully big… ego you have up there, Agent Hotchner.

He exhales hard through his nose.

A soundless laugh. A blink slower than the last.

His jaw ticks once, just enough. He checks on you. 

Unmoved. Insane. 

And it’s not even 9am. 

+++

You continue to work.

Actually work.

You finish two emails. Format your draft for that consult follow-up. Review a request for cross-divisional resource hours.

You even refill your coffee.

It’s virtuous, really. Professional.

Except your phone stays face-down.

Not even a glance.

Just enough self-control to make him suffer.

Just enough to make yourself ache.

And then—conveniently, mercifully, maybe even a little cruelly—you remember the consult analysis. The really good, publishable one you both started in the spring before Pakistan, finally rounding out with your contributions. 

You need his signature. 

You could scan it later, you could wait until lunch, you could even pretend it’s not urgent—but the printer is right there, and you’re feeling generous.

Or reckless.

Or both.

You hit print.

The pages whirr out behind you.

You take your time walking it upstairs.

+++

He doesn’t look up right away.

His pen scratches against the page—form review, by the look of it. His brow is furrowed in that way it is when he tries to pretend he’s concentrated. 

A legal pad open beside him, mug near-empty at his elbow, tie just a little crooked.

God, he’s trying to act normal. It’s absurd.

You knock your knuckle twice on the doorframe and step in, the file in your other hand.

“Need your signature on the consult analysis from the spring. Strauss is looking to publish.”

He looks up—slow, measured.

His gaze tracks from your face to the paper, then to your eyes.

And there’s a beat.

Just one.

One breath of awareness, of weight, of memory.

“Of course,” he says. Like it’s nothing. 

You step forward, set the page in front of him.

He doesn’t touch it right away.

Doesn’t pick up the pen.

Just looks down, eyes catching on the line above his—your signature already there.

He stares at it.

Just for a second too long. He lets himself imagine for a moment—

Same page. 

Same line of text. 

Same name, different hands.

That’s enough of that. 

You watch his eyes move—slow, reverent. Like the presence of your signature has undone him more than the texts ever could.

Then his pen moves.

He signs.

A flick of ink. A practiced stroke.

The crossbar of the A forming the crossbar of the H in a familiar, unbroken, almost star-like shape. 

But it’s deliberate. Personal.

“You gonna read my section?” You almost hoped he would. It is, honestly, really good. 

He shakes his head. “Don’t need to.” He pauses, his voice smooth, but tight. “Anything else?”

“Not right now,” you say, your voice just as even.

But when your fingers brush as you take the page back, his hand lingers.

And your pulse jumps.

+++

The ride home is quiet. Your car is “under recall” this week so you can drive in together in the mornings. 

Jack is in the backseat, almost snoozing in his car seat after a full day of kindergarten. 

The sky is soft with dusk. The traffic hums low and steady. Your hand finds his on the center console like it’s muscle memory. His fingers slide between yours without looking.

And that’s it. Nothing else.

Just that small point of contact—warm, grounding, maddening. His thumb strokes yours once, absentminded.

And the ache rolls through you like a swelling tide.

You know those fingers. You know that pressure.

You know how those fingers feel deep inside you.

How they move when he’s coaxing you open, when he’s making you come apart.

You know how those hands pin you to the mattress, cup your jaw, catch in your hair, press bruises into your hips and thighs.  

But here, in the car, with Jack humming to himself in the backseat?

He’s just holding your hand. Like he’s done a thousand times. Like it’s innocent.

But it’s not. It’s excruciating. Every red light is a punishment.

Every slow turn another second of not kissing him.

You glance over once.

He’s watching the road, jaw tight, the tendons in his wrist shifting as he adjusts his grip on your hand.

“You okay?” You ask, voice low. 

He nods. Swallows. “Yeah. You?”

“Fine,” you lie. Your thumb drags over the pulse point at his wrist.

It jumps.

Neither of you say anything else.

+++

You’re still shaking out of the tension when you walk through the door.

But Jack barrels ahead—backpack flying, shoes kicked off, jacket on the floor.

“Can we have quesadillas?”

Aaron looks at you. “What do you think?”

You’re a little touched he’s asking you at all. “I think that’s perfectly fine as long as they have a green friend.” 

Jack groans. “Carrots aren’t green.”

“They are not,” you concede. “But lucky for you I think we have some buttery garlic broccoli.”

He pulls a face. Aaron smiles. 

You pause, your brow crinkling as you study the little trail he’s made. “Shoes and jacket in their spots please! All items in this house have homes; let’s make sure they get there.”

+++

The kitchen is warm, lived-in, as the two of you work side by side

You dice peppers while Aaron taps butter into a pan. Jack sets the table and gets started on homework. You’ll have to re-set the table. 

Aaron brushes past you once, then again, his hand grazing your back every time—like he can’t help himself.

“You’re in my space,” you murmur, sing-song. 

He hums. “You like it.”

He’s got you there.

+++

Jack talks about a classmate’s science fair project and how his teacher said he was good at reading aloud.

Aaron listens like he doesn’t already know this—like he didn’t read the progress report that morning. 

You keep one eye on the broccoli, one ear on the rhythm of their back-and-forth, and think, maybe, that this is easy.

Too easy, almost. 

It’s not alarming. 

Jack clears his plate without being asked. You rinse, Aaron dries and loads the dishwasher (incorrectly, but it’s fine). 

When you pass him a glass, he takes it and kisses the side of your head without thinking.

You freeze, the dam broken. 

Then you keep going.

+++

Jack brushes his teeth. You read the first few pages of Charlotte's Web while Aaron finishes an email on the couch.

Already dozing a little, Jack asks, “Will you be here in the morning?”

You lean down and kiss his forehead. “Yessir. That’s the plan. Dad and I will take you to school tomorrow if you’re okay with that.”

He nods. 

You continue to read. 

+++

The moment his son’s door clicks shut, the air shifts.

You don’t even make it halfway down the hallway before his hand catches yours—spinning you into his space like a secret.

You gasp, stumbling slightly, and then he’s right there. You let him pull you into his chest, hands flat, fingers spread across low across his abdomen, under his ribs, the heat of him radiating through the soft cotton of his t-shirt. He exhales slowly, but you can feel how tightly wound he is. You can feel it in the way he leans just enough to rest his forehead against yours, like he needs the contact to settle.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he says, voice low enough that it brushes against your collarbone. “That look you gave me in the office… you knew exactly what you were doing.”

You smile, slow and shameless. “Of course I did. And you started it.”

His hands slide down your back to your hips. He doesn’t grip hard, but the pressure is steady, heavy. “You have no idea what it did to me—watching you work, ignoring me, knowing you were doing it just to get under my skin.”

You tilt your head and kiss the corner of his mouth, gentle and facetious all at once. “I think I have some idea.”

He groans softly, then leans in to kiss you fully—deep, thorough, with the kind of patience that makes your knees weak. His mouth moves like he’s trying to make up for every minute he had to keep his distance. You feel his restraint thrumming beneath the surface, taut and barely holding.

“I watched you dice peppers,” he murmurs against your lips. “I stood beside you and tried to pretend it wasn’t killing me.”

“You’re very dramatic,” you whisper.

“You’re very mean,” he returns. His nose brushes yours. “And I love it.”

You laugh, quiet in the dark, and that’s when he crowds you, walking you backward until you hit the wall with a light thump, just enough to jar you. He doesn’t press—just stands close enough that your chest brushes his with every breath. He braces one of his hands on the wall by your head. 

“We made dinner together,” you murmur, still breathless. “Cleaned up. Read bedtime stories.”

His eyes are darker now. “And I only touched you once.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

He grins, actually grins, and kisses you again, a little rougher now. His hand moves under your shirt, skimming your skin, reverent. His mouth wanders down, under your jaw, under your ear. 

“I want you,” he says against your throat, almost like it hurts. “I want all of you. And I want to take my time.”

Your hand slides between you, drawing his face back to yours with a hand on his jaw. You kiss him back, and it’s messier this time. More honest. He’s pulling at your shirt and breathing hard and you’re already thinking about how fast you can get to the bedroom.

“You better,” you say between kisses. “I’ve been thinking about your hands since noon.”

He laughs into your mouth. “You want to start a list?”

“Already done.”

He presses his mouth to your neck, to the hollow behind your ear, and you feel the heat pulse between your legs like muscle memory. You could come undone right here, just from the promise in his voice.

“Bedroom?” you ask, already breathless.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“You’re not sleeping at your place tonight.”

“No,” you agree. “I’m really not.”

“Good.” His voice drops, lips brushing your cheek. “Because I plan on keeping you up.”

He kisses you like he’s nineteen again and never learned patience. You return the favor. 

It’s messy.

Open-mouthed.

Teeth and tongue and lips that won’t stop moving.

His hands are under your shirt, on your hips, your ribs, your bra. He can’t decide where to land, just knows he needs skin. You’re already gasping against him, fisting the hem of his t-shirt, dragging your hands up his chest, raking through his still-long hair. 

He palms your ass like he’s trying to memorize it. 

You laugh breathlessly against his mouth. “You good?”

He shakes his head and kisses you again, harder this time. “Not even close.”

You tilt your head to deepen the kiss and he groans—actually groans, still quiet enough for the hallway—into your mouth, pressing you firmer against the wall. Your knees go soft, but he’s already there, already holding you up with a thigh between yours, grinding slow and heavy, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“You’ve got me,” you whisper, just to say it.

His breath catches.

“I know.”

He kisses you again, slower this time. Still messy, still hot—but with a kind of wonder that makes your chest ache.

You stay there like that—teenagers, idiots, completely obsessed—for another full minute before you both remember you have a perfectly good bed down the hall.

And then you’re leading him, taking him by the hand to his own bedroom while he walks behind you, a stupid grin on his face. 

The door closes behind him. 

You move quickly then.

Turn. Step into his space.

You crowd him back until his shoulders hit the closed door. Not hard. Not aggressive. Just enough to remind him who has the upper hand. Who’s in control.

And the shift is immediate.

He exhales—shaky. His jaw tightens. His eyes flick down to your mouth. His turn for muscle memory.

But this time?

He’s waiting on you. 

You lean in, slow and certain, your voice soft and dangerous as it brushes against his lips.

”So,” you start. “Those sneaky little texts today.” You press your lips to his and he moves to reciprocate. You pull away. He chases. He runs out of leash. His eyes narrow. 

“You think about laying me out on your desk and having your way with me?”

You tilt your head. Sweet. Mocking. A blade wrapped in silk.

“Hmm? Is that what gets you through? Thinking about how wet I’ve been, all day, just for you? Hm?”

And Aaron—

He dies.

His head tips back against the door with a dull thud, eyes fluttering shut for half a second like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. His breath leaves him like a man in freefall.

“Ahh, fuck—” he groans, a hand coming up to your waist, not to stop you, just to hold on. “I lose. It’s over.”

You giggle, dropping all flirt. “Was that even a question?”

Even after everything you’ve said—how sharp you were, how in control—you can see the shift in his expression as he lets it hit him all at once.

The humor. The heat. The play. The way you’ve been messing with  him all damn day like it’s nothing.

You watch him grin, slow and helpless, that rare little huff of breath through his nose like he can’t believe his luck.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs, his voice still rough from everything you’ve stirred up.

You raise your eyebrows. “I’m not the one who got flustered by a desk fantasy, Agent Hotchner.”

He shakes his head, full smile now. “You are endlessly adorable.”

You blink, taken off guard by the softness. “That was not the goal.”

His hands slide up your sides like he’s claiming territory. “Too bad. You’re also infuriating and smart and—” his fingers trace your jaw, his eyes drinking you in like he might never get another chance— “so precious to me.”

And it’s not a line. It’s not a play. It’s the truth.

You feel it settle in your chest like something warm and permanent.

You kiss him again, and this time it’s different.

Less teasing. Less push and pull.

More give. More yes.

You take his hand and back toward the bed, this time without the fire of a dare.

This is just you and him.

Falling.

And when he pulls you into bed, laughing softly into your neck, he says, “You’re trouble.”

You breathe, smiling against his mouth. “You love it.”

You kiss him with that same mischievous little smile you wore by the door—but he’s not laughing now.

Not when you sigh into his mouth.

Not when your hand drags up under his shirt.

Not when you lean into him, feeling his arousal through his jeans and he groans like he’s been holding it in all day.

Because he has.

He’s been hard since that text exchange.

Since 8:30am. 11 hours ago. 

Since the second you looked at him across his desk like you knew what you were doing.

He rolls you under him with aching care, like you’re precious and breakable and his.

His lips find your neck. Your collarbone. Your jaw. 

His hand finds the buttons on your pants and gives himself a little space to slide his hand between your legs. 

He freezes for a second. “Wow.”

“I wasn’t kidding,” you tell him, your fingers tracing up his shoulders, into his hair. “All day.”

He kisses his way down your body like he’s mapping familiar territory, hands under your thighs as he lays you back and slides your pants down. The mattress dips with his weight, and he settles between your legs without a second thought—like it’s his rightful place.

His tongue parts you gently. He starts slow. Testing. Tasting. Worshiping. And then he finds your rhythm and locks in like a man with a mission.

You arch with a gasp, hips rolling against his mouth. Hands locking him in place by this hair. 

“Jesus, Aaron—”

He hums. “Jesus isn’t here. Just me.” 

You laugh and he retaliates.

His fingers curl under your knees, spreading you open just enough to angle deeper. He licks like he’s starving, tongue flicking fast, then slow, circling just right, pressure building in your spine. Your hands scramble for something—his hair, the sheets, your own chest—and then it crests, all-consuming. So fast you almost can’t enjoy it. 

You fall apart in a gasp and a moan, thighs trembling around his ears. Your stomach clenches, chest rising in sharp waves, breath stuttering out of you.

He doesn’t stop until you twitch.

Only then does he sit up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, wearing the most satisfied smirk you’ve ever seen.

“Wow,” he says, voice warm and cruel all at once. “That was fast.”

You glare at him through half-lidded eyes, flushed and breathless. “You’re such an asshole.”

He grins and kisses your knee. “You’re welcome.”

You’re still catching your breath, panting softly through your nose, thighs twitching as you come down. Aaron’s weight shifts next to you, one hand trailing up your ribs as he slides up your body, the other smoothing a hand over your face like he can’t stop touching you.

You press a slow, messy kiss to his mouth. You can taste yourself there, warm and sweet and heady, and you hum against his lips, smug.

“Your turn,” you whisper, already pushing gently at his chest.

You ease him back against the pillows, straddling his thighs as you kiss a line down his stomach, your fingers dragging light as static. He’s been hard. Already warm in your hand. You stroke him once, twice—just to see him twitch. Just to hear the sound he makes when you squeeze gently at the base. You kiss his hip. 

“Wait.” His voice is low, rough as he sits up on his elbows. “You don’t have to—”

You tilt your head and smile. “I want to.”

Maybe just for one second he’ll let himself enjoy something. Maybe. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says. You can see it behind his eyes, the worry, the hesitation, the discomfort (you imagine) at being the sole object of your attention. 

You look up at him with the most devastating set of doe eyes he’s ever seen , his cock resting against your cheek. “Then die grateful.” 

You kiss the tip, letting his precum string from your lip to the head. You make sure he sees it.  

“Let me show you something,” you say, lips brushing the tip.

He groans when your mouth wraps around him—hot, wet, patient—your tongue flicking the slit, collecting what’s left. You start slow, lips plush, hand curling at the base. You use your tongue like you’ve got time, hollow your cheeks until he hisses. His hand settles in your hair—not to guide, just to ground. But you want more than that.

You hum low in your throat and sink lower. The stretch burns behind your jaw. Your throat starts to resist. You fight through it.

You use that trick, where you tuck the thumb of your non-dominant hand into your palm, squeeze with your fingers. It works. 

You breathe through your nose. Let your hand work the rest of him while you adjust your angle, relax your mouth, let gravity help.

And then you take him all the way.

The stretch is obscene. You choke. Just a little. Your eyes water immediately and you swallow around him, pulse pounding in your ears. His thighs tense under your palms. He makes a noise like he’s lost the ability to form words. You pull back with a slick gasp, drool catching on your lip—and then you go back down, slower this time, your hand moving in tandem.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice cracked. “Sweetheart…”

When you look up at him through your lashes, eyes glassy, mouth full of his cock, he swears under his breath. His hand scrabbles uselessly against the covers.

And then you grab his wrist. Guide him. Place his hand at the base of your skull and nod, pulling off with a pop. “Use my mouth, baby. Show me what you want.”

His breath catches. And then he does.

It’s gentle at first. Testing. You keep your eyes on his. Let him see how much you want it. Then he gets bolder—deeper, slower thrusts, like he’s watching every reaction, every tear tracing down your cheek, every stretch of your lips around him, every gag. His hands hold tighter, giving him a view. 

When you moan around him, he actually believes you like this, thrusting into your mouth with a little less fear. 

Not brutal, not fast. Just enough to make you choke a little, enough to make you drool, enough to have you making pretty noises every time he hits the back of your throat. 

Your nose brushes the soft skin of his abdomen with every stroke. Your throat works, swallowing around him. You’re soaked to your thighs, your orgasm minutes ago complimenting the throbbing of your clit in time with your pulse. You keep one hand wrapped around him, jerking him off when you come up for air. 

Your other hand slips between your legs, addressing the ache one orgasm hardly touched. Your sounds grow more desperate, turning up the temperature until he feels like he’s going to burn alive. 

When he pulls you off, spit strings between your mouth and the head of his cock. You’re breathless, dazed, panting through parted lips.

He drags you up for a kiss—deep and messy, his fingers still tight, pulling your head where he wants it, his hand sliding between your legs. And when he finds how wet you are, he actually groans into your mouth.

“Are you seriously getting off from having my cock in your mouth?”

You nod, wordlessly, still catching your breath. He groans again, almost a disbelieving sound. 

“I have to pick between fucking your mouth and filling you up?” he murmurs, breath shaky. “That’s cruel.”

“Then make a choice.”

He turns you around, rougher than usual, but careful in all the right places. You’re already on your knees, chest pressed to the sheets, back arched, when he guides himself to your entrance, running the head of his cock through the slick. 

You gasp, pushing back. The hand on your hip leashes you, his tip dipping shallow. He can see the stretch already. You need him, right now. 

“Aaron, please, I—“

“Yeah?” He grits out, his jaw tight. He’s playing like he’s in control but he is absolutely wrecked by this phenomenal image in front of him. “You want it that bad?”

“I want to feel you. I need you to fill me up—please.” 

Since you asked so nicely…

He presses in further, still just the tip—and already you’re pulsing, clenching around him and squirming. Already, he’s in the trenches out here. 

“You’re soaked,” he breathes, breath shaky. 

You whine. “Aaron—please—I’m begging, I swear—I need—“

“I know. I know.” He smooths a hand down your spine and finally moves, dipping into you a little deeper each time. “I’ll get you so deep, you won’t be able to walk right until Monday.”

You whine again, gripping the sheets. 

He slides into you until he bottoms out, a delicious pressure you can feel in your ribs. Slow. Intentional. 

Then—he’s not slow anymore. He pulls out almost all the way and pulls you back, strong and fast, until your ass makes contact with his thighs, jolting you forward

You moan. It pulses through your body. You feel the stretch down to your toes, his hand gripping your hip as he pulls back, then thrusts again. Each push sends you forward on the mattress. Each snap of his hips sharp against your skin. The sound of it—slick and rhythmic—is filthy. His hand slides around your thigh, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision.

Your head turns. You’re shaking. You can’t stop shaking. You reach out behind you and he takes your hand, lacing your fingers with his over the small of your back. 

“You liked that, didn’t you?” he says, low and dark against your back. “Taking me that deep. Choking on it. Eyes all wet for me.”

You whimper. He growls.

“I know you wanted me to come in your mouth,” he mutters, voice fraying. “But I needed to be inside you. I needed this.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to reach your soul—deep, slow, relentless. His fingers never leave your clit. You break apart again, pulse throbbing through your cunt so hard it pulls him deeper, makes him swear again.

“Jesus—baby—keep squeezing me like that and I’m not gonna last.”

Your voice is ragged. “Then don’t.”

And when he finishes, he presses as deep as he can go, locked inside you, his hand still between your legs. Still stroking. Still touching. You relax around him, your shaking muscles spent. 

You’re still trembling when he pulls out, slow and careful, like he’s trying not to spill a drop.

It doesn’t work.

You feel the rush of it, warm and slick, already falling down your thighs. Heat snaps from your clit to your chest as you feel his cum slide out of you. It should be messy, maybe even embarrassing, but it’s not. Not with him. Not when he groans like he’s the one overwhelmed by the very sight of it. 

(He is.)

His hands stroke down your back, reverent, steadying you as you rise onto your elbows. He bends behind you, breath hot between your thighs, and then—

“Aaron—” you whisper, already overstimulated.

But his mouth is on you. His tongue lapping at the mess between your thighs, tasting you both. His hands slide up your back, gentle, worshipful, while his mouth devours you like prayer.

You gasp. “I—I don’t think—I can’t—”

“This isn’t for you,” he says, kissing the back of your thigh.

You laugh, breathless. “Oh.” Your newly freed hand drifts back, playing with his hair. “Excuse me, sir.”

“You’re excused.” 

His tongue. Long, slow strokes, chasing the mess he left behind. He groans into you, hands spreading you open like he wants to see everything. (He does.) And then you feel it—his fingers sliding back inside, two at first, maybe three, and he’s careful, gentle.

Too gentle.

You’re already soaking, already stretched, but it doesn’t stop him from using what’s left of him inside you to ease the way. He pushes deep, tongue circling your clit with maddening patience, and your whole body shudders.

When you think you don’t have anything left, he always knows better. 

“Aaron—” Your voice cracks.

He hums like he’s pleased with himself. One long, slow curl of his fingers inside you and you see stars. Pressure climbs so fast it knocks the breath from your lungs. You claw at the sheets, hips rocking back against his hand, desperate.

“I don’t think—” you try, but then his mouth closes over you again, and you surrender to the inevitability.

“Yeah, there it is. Yes, you can.” You can feel his words against your skin. It’s very distracting. “That’s it, sweetheart. You’re right there, aren’t you?”

His voice is quiet but firm, guiding you through it like he’s walking you across a threshold. You can feel it building in your belly, burning behind your ribs, your whole body tightening around the pressure.

“Don’t run from it. You’re doing so good—so good for me.”

His mouth doesn’t stop—tongue laving your clit just the way he knows you need, not fast, not frantic, but devastating in its precision as he speaks into your skin. His fingers keep stroking you inside, curling up into that spot that makes you see white.

“You’re close—I can feel you. Come on. Let go.”

You’re keening now, legs shaking, hands fisting the sheets, your body winding tighter and tighter. You fight to relax, knowing he can get you there without tension. 

“I’ve got you. You’re safe. Just give it to me.”

He sounds like he’s begging now, but not because he needs it. Because you do. Because he wants you to fall apart, to feel everything he can give you.

“That’s my girl. Let me feel it. Come for me, come on—”

And when it hits—when the heat crests and your breath escapes in a broken moan—he doesn’t stop.

“That’s it. There she is.”

He groans as you pulse around his fingers, your thighs quivering. He keeps licking, kissing, letting you ride it out. Falling at your feet.

“Jesus, you’re beautiful when you come,” he murmurs, more breath than voice, his cheek brushing your thigh, his fingers still buried deep as aftershocks roll through you.

“I could watch you fall apart forever.”

When he finally pulls back, he kisses the small of your back. Soft. Grateful.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs. “You know that?”

You can’t answer yet. Your brain is static. All you can do is breathe, trembling and wrecked, hips twitching when he kisses the inside of your thigh. He guides your hips down, sliding one knee at a time back on the coverlet until you’re flat and relaxed.

It’s slow, and soft, and absolutely sticky with the afterglow. You’re still trembling a little—not quite shaking, but your limbs feel loose and jelly-warm, your muscles useless in that delicious, just-fucked way. You can’t stop smiling, which would be embarrassing if Aaron didn’t look so smug about it.

He kisses your forehead first, then your cheek, then your jaw—working his way back up until you turn your face into his and kiss him full. Sweet, unhurried, a little lazy. You can taste the both of you on his tongue and—

Maybe you did want him to finish in your mouth. 

“Can you walk?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You huff a laugh and roll your eyes. “Rude.”

“Valid question.”

“Some of us are still young and spry and very capable.”

He grins, presses another kiss to your temple. “Mhm. Tough talk.” He swats your ass and your breath chuffs with a little, exhausted noise. “Alright, my little baby deer. Up you go.”

You do your best to follow instructions, but your legs are indeed so shaky you have to hold onto the bed frame for stability. 

You look over your shoulder. “I hate when you’re right.”

He looks awfully satisfied with himself as he saunters over to you, around the bed to your side. 

You swat at him, but he tucks an arm under your back, another behind your knees, and carries you to the bathroom like the smug, post-orgasmic man he is. You nuzzle into his chest and mutter something about how absurdly hot it is that he can lift you like this after a rousing round of extracurriculars.

He helps you wash up—warm cloth, gentle hands, careful kisses to your shoulder as he towels both of you off. You brush your teeth together in companionable silence, bumping hips when you lean for the sink. You spit and catch his eye in the mirror.

He’s already looking at you.

“Staring,” you tease.

“Admiring,” he corrects. “I’m allowed.”

You narrow your eyes playfully and say, “Don’t make me kiss you again.”

He shrugs. “Make me.”

”That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Why don’t you do something about it, then?”

So you kiss him again, low and slow. He holds your face in his hands like you’re made of glass, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones. 

By the time you finally crawl into bed, your body’s humming, your skin smells like his, and you’re wearing one of his old academy t-shirts. You curl into his side like it’s instinct. His arm hooks around your back. Your leg slides over his. And he exhales, like the day is finally over.

Like this is the part he was waiting for.

“You alright?” he asks quietly, mouth near your hairline.

You nod. “You?”

“Never better.”

You nuzzle into him and whisper, “I believe you.”

+++

tagging: @duchesschameleon @chronicallybubbly @derekluvbot @jhiddles03 @soupyamanda @percysley @viennasolace @youngcowisland @beyscape @reidfile @littlemisskavities @lily43sblog @sochalant @lostinthefandoms11

[beyscape]

The penultimate scene singlehandedly destroyed me & put me back together—do yourselves a favour and read this one !!

proofs of holy writ.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

a/n: the people have spoken and by a wide margin, we're stepping out of the mean it/berry hill era and into season 8, the replicator!! this is the companion to trifles light as air, the episode fic for brothers hotchner. feel free to give that one a glance if you need a refresher!

friendly fandom reminder that its not cringey to comment/reblog/tell the author and your friends you loved it!!

summary: “trifles light as air / are to the jealous confirmations strong / as proofs of holy writ.” - william shakespeare, othello act iii, scene iii. june 10th-june 19th, 2013

words: 11.6k warnings: canon typical violence, mentions of alcoholism, mark hamill being scary as fuck, let me know if i missed something!

masterlist | the ajf masterlist is under construction | ajf faq | join the taglist | what do you want to see next?

You’ve just picked a movie to not-watch on the hotel TV when Aaron gets a call. It’s Penelope. 

Your heart sinks. 

As Aaron picks up the phone, you rest your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes against the wretched information that’s probably on its way to your proverbial desk. 

“Garcia, what -... The system is closed now, yes?... This isn’t your fault. Not at all…Have you called the rest of the team?... No?”

This is not good. 

“Okay I’ll take care of -... Yes, thank you.” 

He hangs up. 

“The Replicator is in New York. He hacked into Garcia’s system and has photos of us from this case.” 

A bolt of panic runs through you. “But we have Jack…” 

He shakes his head, already holding his phone to his ear again. “Hey, Beth. I’m so sorry it’s so late. I have a favor to ask.” 

You can’t help it. You push through the double doors to the living area of your suite. Jack is accounted for, sleeping soundly on the pullout couch. You kneel and let your shaking hand fall onto his head. 

Safe. 

+++

Jack (and his brand-new security detail) land at Beth’s apartment without much fuss. He’s still practically asleep, and it’s your only option right now. Aaron’s down with the car and the agents, doling out assignments and keeping the engine warm. 

“Thank you, Beth.” You turn the light off in her office, where Jack is set up. “I’m so sorry for the imposition.” 

“No! No, not at all,” she says. “I get it - bad guys ruining your vacation and whatever.” She pauses and takes a breath. “I’ve got him.” 

“His aunt will be here first thing in the morning to pick him up.” You text her a photo of Jessica, just in case. “Thank you again. Sorry about the random guys in your house.” You shoot a rueful smile at one of the US Marshals - Keith, you think, and he nods at you. 

“Not a problem,” Beth says. “You guys be safe out there, okay?” 

+++

The car ride to the federal building is quiet, save for the sound of Aaron’s fingers tapping against the steering wheel. Your mind is running in circles, screaming at you to call Beth one more time, to turn the car around and check. Jack is fine. He’s safe. You know that. But knowing and believing are two different things.

You exhale through your nose, forcing your grip to relax on your knee as Spencer and Dave slide into the backseat. It’s a bit of a blur - your mind is going a thousand different directions, not to mention fighting the urge to take everyone you’ve ever loved and throw them in a bunker. 

Dave hangs up the phone. “Strauss isn’t answering.” 

“Keep trying,” Aaron tells him. “Reid, any luck with Blake?” 

“Not yet.”

“There are more pictures of you taken outside of Beth's apartment,” Dave says, waving around a new missive from Penelope. “I get it if you want to stay with Jack until we find him.”

Aaron shakes his head. “I've got agents surrounding Beth's building and stationed in the apartment. She and Jack are safer without us since we're the targets.” 

You take the tablet from Dave. Yes, there are ones from Beth’s apartment, but those scare you less than one of you and Jack from the baseball game. He’s sitting on your shoulders, arms raised in triumph as you smile at someone out of frame. A bolt of adrenaline rushes through you. PTSD is a hell of a drug. Your therapist will need a raise this week. 

“Blake,” Reid says, and your heart lightens a little. At least she’s able to answer her phone. “We'll pick you up in a few minutes. The Replicator's back.” 

+++

The four of you eventually make it back to the hotel. It’s a miracle Aaron managed to weave in and out of the New York traffic like he did - any layperson would see a gridlock, but somehow he always finds a route. 

You settle in the lobby as JJ and Derek arrive. Dave heads upstairs to find Strauss. It feels a little chaotic, but everyone seems to be in one piece so far. Every little bit of your resiliency training is doing heavy lifting, keeping you upright and functional. 

Aaron, standing beside you and working with the other agents as they arrive, gets a phone call. 

“Yeah, Dave….We’ll be right up.” He hangs up and gestures to you and Spencer. 

The two of you follow him into the elevator without a word, finally reaching Erin’s room. 

The room is trashed, plastic bottles from the minibar scattered all over the floor, bed unmade, chairs overturned… 

“The window's open,” Dave says. ”She'd never sleep like that.” 

“Did something happen to make her drink again?” Aaron asks, his tone absent of judgement. He’s fallen completely into fact-finding mode, probably hoping to God this isn’t a repeat of last time. 

“No! She was working real hard at –” Something catches his eye on the table. He holds it up for you to see. It’s a red and gold coin with 12 embossed on one side. “This represents a year sober. She hasn't let go of it since she got it. She's even a sponsor now.” He pauses. “The Replicator has her. I'll check the roof.” 

Aaron nods. “I'll have Morgan meet you up there.” You and Spencer get out of the way, just in time to bump into Derek, JJ, and Blake in the hallway. 

“Strauss is missing.” Aaron looks to each one of you, confirming your assignments. “Blake, you and Reid talk to hotel security. We need access points and footage from every camera. Morgan, back up Dave on the roof. JJ, take the west staircase, I'll take the east.” He looks to you last. “Go with JJ.” 

You nod once. It’s almost strange that he doesn’t want you at his back, but you figure he can take care of himself. 

The west staircase is completely clear—no sign of anything.

“What do you think, Jayje?” 

She takes a breath. “The roof?” 

You get a call. “Dave? Do you need backup?”

“No. Hotch found Erin. I just called for an ambulance but…” 

“Dave. They’re on their way. Do we have anything for an APB?” 

“Not yet.” 

+++

You reach Aaron and Strauss at a dead sprint, but it’s too late. 

She’s gone. 

Your eyes sting with tears as you take in the scene before you. Aaron has Strauss wrapped tightly in his arms, holding her lifeless body close to him, almost cradling her. He looks at Dave, mournful and gutted. He turns, resting his head on Erin’s, bringing her closer. 

She didn’t die alone. That in itself is a small comfort. 

Your mind takes you, against your will, to a flash of Aaron holding Haley’s body. You shudder and shake it off. Now is not the time. 

Dave looks shellshocked, and you can’t blame him.

That’s three. 

Aaron, Spencer, Dave. 

Your heart breaks. You’re certain it’s audible.

The ambulance arrives, followed by the crime scene techs, but it feels like you’re rooted in place. Aaron doesn’t move, staring into space, his thumb worrying the knuckle on his middle finger. You’ve seen that look before—when he was barely standing after losing Haley.

The EMTs check him over but it’s clear he’s unharmed. You crouch beside him, placing a hand on his knee. 

“Are you okay?” 

It’s a stupid question. Of course, he’s not okay. His mind probably went to the same place yours did. 

You’re proud of him when he shakes his head. “No, but we have to keep moving.” He puts a hand over yours. It’s cold. He stands, dropping your hand. “I have a couple of calls to make. See what you can do.” 

You squeeze his arm once and let go as he rises, stepping away from you. 

JJ returns from her canvas and you join the huddle. She’s already talking, briefing Alex, Spencer and Derek. “We've got an APB, but the description of the Replicator is too general.”

“He wiped out all of the hotel security cameras,” Reid adds. “ATM and traffic cameras were compromised also. Which means he hacked into at least two dozen systems.” 

Dave stands away from you all, turning the coin in his hand, staring at it. 

“Well, he got into Garcia's place, which means he can get in anywhere.” Derek is thoughtful, still. “This guy's bragging.”

You nod once. “He also wants us to know he can take massive risks and still get away with it. It's probably why he took Strauss into a crowd of people.” 

“That and to humiliate her publicly,” JJ says. 

Your eyes stray to Dave, who still stands vigil by Erin’s sheet-covered body. 

Alex doesn’t look convinced. “But he called Hotch from her phone. It was important to him that we find her alive.” 

You have a weird gut feeling about the phone call coming to Aaron, almost like it’s another targeted mind game. It’s eerily similar. You shake it off. 

He can’t know about the Foyet case. It’s not public. And it’s classified.

Aaron returns. “The Director wants this contained and solved.” 

“Well, at least he's not taking us off the case,” Derek says. 

“He's given us 24 hours and then he will.” He effectively dismisses the five of you, turning to Dave. You stay close. 

“I’m taking her back to Bethesda,” Dave says. “She never liked this city, Aaron. I’m not about to leave her.” 

+++

With a plan in place, the rest of the team heads for the jet. You stand in the hangar for a moment, solidifying everything with Jess over the phone before you board and take off. 

“You’re sure you can come get him?” You ask. Even with a team of marshals at Beth’s apartment, something in you is activated by leaving Jack alone in New York. 

We’re the targets. He’s safer without us. 

It goes against every instinct you have, but you know it’s true. 

“Of course,” Jess replies. “I’d come up tonight if there were any trains running.” 

“There will be a car for you when you get here and the detail will take you home. I’ll send you pictures of the agents.”

“Is it that bad?”

You sigh. “It could be. We’re headed back on the jet now.” 

“Fly safe,” she says. You’re proud of her for trying to hide the waver in her voice. 

You catch Aaron’s eye as he joins Dave by Erin’s casket. His hand, in his pocket, peeks out and beckons you over. You stay a little ways away, but you can hear them. 

“Is Jack staying here?” Dave asks. 

“Just overnight. Jess is coming to get him in the morning and I have the marshals at Beth’s apartment.” He pauses, looking briefly back at you before turning back. “I think it’s a good idea.”

Dave looks at you, standing sentinel by the wing of the plane, then back at Aaron. “You’re lucky to have each other.”

“I know.” Aaron is almost inaudible from here. Your heart pulls. 

“Her children want to meet me at Bethesda.”

“How old are they now?” 

“Too young for this.” He wipes his eyes and fixes them on the casket. He’s not really looking at it, more through it. 

Aaron is the man he is at home, with you, standing beside one of his oldest friends. You know this is something he never wants anyone to understand - the pain of losing your other half, the piercing and unique mark it leaves on the soul. “Are you alright?”

Your gaze drops to the ground. It feels wrong to stay where you can hear, but something compels Aaron to draw you closer.

“She smells of booze, Aaron.” He lifts his head, meeting Aaron’s eyes. “You and I know it’s because that bastard took away her dignity, but her children might not believe that. It’s hard for them to trust anything to do with her drinking.” They both look at the casket, where Erin rests. “She struggled with it all her life. She was finally beating it.” 

Dave tosses Erin’s sobriety coin, letting it spin before catching it again. 

Aaron reaches out and lays his hand on Dave’s shoulder. It looks almost like a benediction, something more than comfort, more than simple connection. It’s all at once a prayer and an assertion that yes, indeed, you are here with him and for him. 

+++

“He knew about Foyet,” Aaron says, quiet under the roar of the plane. The pair of you sit on the couch, with you lounging against the wall, Aaron’s head in your lap. You’re half asleep, your fingers combing through his hair. 

You startle and he sits up. You bow toward him, your hand reaching out for his shoulder. “What?”

“He - he taunted me. He asked me if it reminded me of the call with - with Haley.” His eyes are downcast, his expression grim. “How I wasn’t fast enough. That I didn’t make it in time.”

You didn’t want to be right about the feeling you had earlier. It makes your stomach roll with nausea. That aside, you have a new insight for your profile. 

It takes a unique kind of psychopathy to go out of your way to seek out, target, and torture the subject of your fixation with their own PTSD triggers. To isolate Aaron’s fears and execute a reenactment of the worst day of his life takes planning, insight, and -

Shit. 

Knowledge. 

The archived Foyet case is heavily redacted—even for those who can find the sole remaining paper copy—but the original, unredacted report was released to a select few. To your knowledge, it was placed under a Top Secret/Polygraph access threshold before going to the oversight committee on the Hill. 

Very few people, indeed. A sinking, horrifying feeling drops into your gut. 

“Bastard.” It's an understatement. Your voice is low and a little broken. You wrap your arms around Aaron as he ducks into you, his head under your chin, taking refuge in your body. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

“Me too.”

+++

While some of you get some sleep on the plane, you’re all amped when you land at Quantico. 

“He mentioned Foyet to me on the phone,” Aaron says to the team, silent in the elevator. His hand is tight around yours and he keeps it as you all step off and into the BAU bullpen. 

JJ balks. “He knew about Foyet?” 

“Who's that?” Blake asks. 

“He's the man who killed my wife,” he replies frankly and without hesitation, squeezing your hand. Your heart pulls, even as you notice the strange sort of confusion on Alex’s face as she looks at you. 

You look back at her, clarifying, “That's a classified case that's not in any database.” You know that’s not the question she didn’t ask, but it’s the one you can answer right now.

“Then how would he know about it?” She asks.

“If he had access to the file,” Reid says. “We're talking about someone on the inside.”

That’s unfortunately the conclusion you came to as well. He could be anywhere. 

Aaron breaks away from you and heads to his office. “Conference room in five.”

Alex steps up next to you as you stop at your desk. “If you don’t mind me asking…” 

You look up at her. “Not at all.” You take a breath and pick up one of the photo frames on your desk, handing it to Alex. Haley smiles up at her. “Aaron’s wife Haley was murdered in 2008 by a serial killer the BAU had been hunting since the 90s. He played us, hard, and we got hurt.” You look up at Aaron’s office. “Hotch and I—we, um—” 

“No need to put it into words if you can’t find them.” Blake says, placing the frame back in its home next to your monitor. 

Spoken like a true linguist. 

You let out a halfhearted chuckle. “Thanks. Ready to go?” 

Blake nods and follows you to the conference room. You take a seat even though you feel restless. Aaron joins you only moments later. 

He stands behind you, placing his hands on the back of your chair, his fingers brushing your shoulders. “Garcia, is this everything?” 

You feel a little left out. Everyone’s standing.

“Yeah,” Penelope replies. “The Replicator stuff is here, and the team stuff is there and there.” She turns to Derek, who has crossed to the board, looking over the photos. “How's Rossi?” 

“Not good,” he answers, low and rough.   

“Is he with Strauss?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay.” She focuses back in, messing with her tablet and the monitor. “Uh - uh, I started with the question you asked - why attack Strauss, and on this day?”

You shrug. ”The most obvious answer is that it's an anniversary of some sort.” 

Penelope counters, “But there's nothing historically relevant.” You know she checked already and you’re so thankful she’s on your side. 

“It could be the smallest thing.” Spencer says, “Concentrate on New York. If the date's that important, the setting could be, too.”

JJ’s running through the givens in her head, thinking about what you already know and what you have left to consider. “It would be easier to attack Strauss at home. Is there a reason why he waited for her to be out?”

“Well,” Derek says, turning back toward the board, “considering she's hardly ever in the field, he sure got a lot of photos of Strauss.”

“It's like he's obsessed with her.” You pause, considering. “Maybe Strauss was always his first target. He attacked the top of the BAU chain first.”

Aaron’s directions come from over your head, his hands still firmly planted on the back of your chair. “Alright, Reid, you've matched up all the murder locations with the dates. Now we need to know how long it would take to drive to each of these locations, assuming a home base in the district.“ He pauses, casting his gaze on the rest of you. “He brought the fight here for a reason.”

”Well,” Derek says, “it's nearly impossible to figure out when he arrived and departed New York, but we should try.” 

Penelope gathers her tablet, “I'll collect all the public and private transport stuff.” 

Aaron stops her on her way out, meeting her eyes with a grave and gentle kind of severity. “Garcia, I need Kevin to go through every single pixel of these photographs. This unsub gets off on taunting us. He's given us answers here. We just haven't found them yet.”

Penelope has only seen that look once or twice. She nods and gets to work. Everyone else peels off, but stays close. 

You’re finally left alone with Aaron in the round table room, but he’s already got his phone to his ear, running along some train of thought he hasn’t bothered to articulate to you yet. He must have called Penelope only moments after she left, adding to her plate. “Garcia, before you and Lynch get started on the photos, pull the original cases for me before the system goes completely offline. I’d like to review them.” He hangs up. 

“Let me run to the basement really quick.” You rise from your chair, closing your tablet and tucking it under your arm. You talk fast, not looking up at Aaron as you consolidate your printed information to drop at your desk. “There might be hard copies down there, Jamie in archives works fast, and with the system down, we -” You turn to leave, but suddenly—fingers close firmly around your wrist. Not hard. Just certain. You whip around, startled to find a wild sort of look in Aaron’s eyes.

"‘No.’ His voice is quiet, but the weight behind it stops you cold.

Your pulse jumps. Aaron never stops you. Never holds you back. Not unless—"

"Aaron?” You take a step toward him, lacing your fingers with his, trying to ground him. “Talk to me.”

He swallows, his jaw flexing. “I need you to stay with me or Morgan until this man is in custody. Do you understand?”

Oh.

Oh. 

Your stomach drops. “What exactly did the Replicator say to you on the phone?” You don’t mean to make him relive it, but this guy is in Aaron’s head, big time. 

“He mentioned you by name, said it would be a ‘real shame’ if this job cost me someone else.” 

You squeeze his hand. 

He continues. “Erin said that the Replicator told her to tell me ‘I’ll race you home’ and she asked me if that meant anything to me.”

“Aaron…” 

“Please do not leave my sight.” He blinks rapidly a couple of times and you know he’s trying desperately to keep it together. “Please. It’s hard enough with Jack -“ He cuts himself off in an attempt to maintain what fortitude he has left. “If he’s an agent, and he’s finding ways to get to us, one by one, I can’t give him the opportunity to…” 

“I know.” You nod. It’s devastating to see him beg, to plead with you like this when he doesn’t have to. “I know.”

He pulls you close and fervently kisses your forehead before wrapping his arms around you. You let yourself fall into him, gripping the back of his shirt. It almost feels like he’s fighting to get you as close as possible. You can feel him looking behind you, out the window, likely studying every single person in or out of the bullpen. 

+++

Once Spencer has a preliminary timeline for the Replicator’s travel, Aaron calls them all back into the round table room. You remain standing this time, across from Aaron, over JJ’s shoulder. Before any of you can provide an update, Aaron’s phone rings. 

“Hotchner…” He pulls his phone from his ear, putting it on speaker and laying it on the table. “Dave, a figure eight?” 

“That's what it looks like. I just sent you all a picture.”

You squint at the picture, zooming in. 

“Maybe it's an infinity symbol,” JJ says. 

Alex sounds skeptical. “Well, if it's infinity, he could be boasting ‘I'll go on forever’?”

You purse your lips, thinking and turning the photo to the side. “Or if it's an eight, Strauss was his eighth victim.”

“There are eight of us,” JJ says. “Strauss could be considered the ninth, or alternatively, the odd man out.”

“If this is a taunt from him,” Aaron says, “it's too random.” 

He would have authority on that, being the last person the Replicator taunted with alarming specificity.  

Derek looks up, gesturing to the case files and his tablet. “Well, he's only sent one message and he seems to be real proud of it.”

“Zugzwang,” Spencer confirms. 

“Then what does this mean?” JJ asks, flatly. It’s almost rhetorical. She casts her voice to the phone on the table. “Rossi, the cut looks jagged. Any idea, what caused the serration?”

“Best guess is a piece of glass,” he replies.

Derek’s brow furrows. “Maybe he used empty bottles from the mini bar?”

“Those were all plastic. The M.E. is checking for splinters now.”

“Alright, let us know what you find out.” Aaron hangs up, looking at Penelope. “Anything from the photographs yet?”

“We blew up a few more and this one seems to stand out,” Derek says, pushing a photo of himself at some kind of formal event, behind a podium, into the middle of the table. 

"Since when do you wear tuxedos?" you ask, lifting the photo for a closer look.

“It was a British embassy event in London. Security clearance is high.”

“Security was insane there,” Penelope confirms. “That kind of accessibility, plus knowing about Foyet, the fact that he was able to get through all of my security clearances alone, you guys are right. You have to trust your gut. The Replicator has gotta be on the inside.”

+++

“If the Replicator's an insider, is there any way Strauss knew him?” you ask, stirring a little sugar into your coffee. 

“She said she didn't recognize him,” Aaron says. He crosses his arms, his back to the bullpen as you all sit at the table in the kitchen. A change of scenery was necessary after about three hours of deliberation. 

“To her defense,” you add, challenging him a little. It is your job, after all. “She was disoriented by the drug overdose.” 

He shakes his head. “No, she was adamant about it.” 

Alright. That holds water. 

JJ sits beside Derek with her own cup of coffee as he begins to speak. “Well, even if Strauss didn't know him, it doesn't mean he didn't know her.”

“Within the Bureau, she is the face of the BAU,” Alex says. 

JJ nods. “And clearly a target from the beginning.”

“But why?” Spencer asks. He continues. “More importantly, what was he replicating?”

“The drug overdose?” You tell him, like it’s obvious.

Spencer shakes his head, “I mean with the eight. It hasn't been part of any other case, and he's not one to make mistakes. He thought he was replicating a crime.”

Now, that gets Aaron thinking. You watch his eyes narrow as the wheels turn in his head. “The Director made us walk away from the case a few months ago. Strauss said that she wouldn't let it go.” He looks at you. “What if she hadn't?”

You raise your eyebrows. “You think she started her own investigation?”

“Well, if she thought he was an insider, she might have done something to trap him.”

“Why wouldn't she have told you about that back in New York?” Derek asks. 

“Maybe she didn’t have proof,” Aaron says, meeting each of the team’s eyes in turn.

There’s that lawyer again. 

“But her determination, plus the fact that he doesn't make mistakes makes me think that the eight was part of her plan to catch him.” 

You look around as Aaron speaks, finding thoughtful faces and more than a few nods. Aaron sets you on course, now that you’re all on the same page. 

“Do we have her laptop?”

“I got it. It’s in her office.” You jump up, but Derek joins you like a well-trained shadow. 

If the FBI doesn’t work out, he’d make a helluva bouncer. 

He follows you to the eighth floor, where you lead him into Strauss’s office. You’re sure it’s the first time you’ve entered this room without hesitation or anxiety. 

Her laptop sits on her desk, pristine. You grab it, tucking it under your arm, and face Derek. 

“Did Aaron tell-slash-order you to stay with me?” You ask. You don’t mind (mostly), but if they’re talking about you behind your back, no matter the reason, you’d like to be informed. 

“No,” Derek replies simply. “I just can’t imagine he’s gonna be comfortable with the team being targeted like this. Especially with that phone call and Strauss lying dead on a slab downstairs.” He pauses. “And I wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye ever again if something happened to you where I could stop it.” 

+++

You half-jog behind Aaron, walking purposefully down the hall to Penelope’s dungeon. As promised, you're staying within his sight as much as is reasonable. 

“This is Strauss' laptop,” he informs both Penelope and Kevin as he opens the door. They both look up from their monitors. “I need to access who was on the distribution list for my case reports.” 

“You don't know who reads your reports?” Penelope asks, a frown on her face.

“I know she sent them to the head of the criminal division and the Director, but I don't know who else is on the list.” 

Kevin types for a moment and spins the laptop toward you and Aaron. “The last case she sent in was the case in Detroit.” 

“The Cutter,” you remind him needlessly. 

His brows pull together, low across his eyes. “She amended the report and said that the unsub cut a figure eight into his victims' wrists.”

Bingo. 

“But he didn't do that,” Penelope says. 

Aaron glances up at her. “No, he didn't. “

“So, she duped him,” you say, trying to keep your eagerness to a minimum. 

Penelope picks up right where you left off. “Which means that one of the people reading these reports has gotta be the Replicator.”

Aaron turns the laptop toward Kevin “It doesn't show who else saw this.” 

Kevin pulls the laptop closer and you circle him, only crowding him a little. “Two other people read the report,” he says, showing you. Your expression turns sour.

“Who?” Aaron asks, looking at you. 

You sigh. “You’re going to need a tie.” 

+++

Derek drives you home for a change of clothes and one of Aaron’s suits, your marshal detail following you. He stands by the front door, rigid and watchful. 

“Black, blue, or brown?” You call. It’s irrelevant, but focusing on something trivial suppresses the stress bubbling in the center of your consciousness. 

You hear Derek’s steps on the carpet and he appears in the doorway. “It’s the Hill, so I would say black blends in best.” 

“Blue, it is.” You select your favorite - the navy suit with pinstripes he wore to Berry Hill, a solid baby blue button down, adding navy socks for good measure. As for ties, you pick a blue-gray one that always reminds you a little of scales.

Scales for the snake pit. 

His suit laying over your arm, you shove his clothes to the side, stirring a breeze and getting a noseful of Aaron that makes you smile. You grab something for the office and tactical blacks, just in case you need to get on the road. On your way out, you snag a garment bag off the closet door, hanging the suit inside it. 

You smooth down the garment bag when you’re done, turning to find Derek watching you with a funny little look on his face. 

“What?” 

“You’ve settled in nicely.” 

You roll your eyes. “Derek, it’s been a year and a half.” 

“No, I know. You just seem…” He searches for the word. “At home, here.” 

“It is my home,” you tell him flatly, passing him in the hallway. 

Derek scoffs. “You know what I mean.” 

You can give him that one. “I do know what you mean.” You almost speak your thoughts aloud, but you refrain. “What I was thinking will make you gag, so I’ll spare you.”

He leans on the hallway arch. “No, c’mon, what is it?”

"It’s easy to feel at home because… well, he is my home."

Derek groans dramatically. “Yeah, okay, I regret asking.”

+++

It seems everything about this case is triggering in one way or another. As you step into Aaron’s office, your refreshed go bag in one hand and a garment bag hanging over your other arm, you’re starkly reminded of the late nights in this very room when Aaron would sit behind his desk for hours, poring over the Foyet case.

You only realize you’ve frozen when Aaron steps up behind you, taking your bag from your hand and placing it by the door. You startle and he immediately apologizes, placing a hand on your waist as he passes you. 

“You okay sleeping in Derek’s office tonight?”

You nod, hanging the garment bag on the little hook behind the door. “Yeah. You need to be rested for your visit to the capitol tomorrow. I’m not about to take your couch.”

“I hate the thought of you sleeping in an armchair,” he says, drawing you close and resting his hands on your lower back. 

You shake your head, bringing your hands to his chest. This green really is a gorgeous color on him - it’s a shame you couldn’t enjoy it. “Not the first time, certainly not the last time,” you remind him with a half-smile. 

He sighs. “I would send you home, but -”

…And there’s the Elle trauma. Put that on the list. 

“I know. He’s a wildcard. Even an insider can’t access Derek’s locked office.” And Derek always locks his office. “And going home is a risk, especially with Jess and Jack coming back in the morning.”

He only addresses the first part of your comment. You suspect he’s compartmentalizing, keeping even his thoughts far from Jack to avoid crumbling from the stress. “I had bomb squad and hazmat clear Morgan’s office when we got back.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Overkill, much?” 

He shakes his head. “Never.” 

+++

The following morning, you sit on your desk in a loose circle with Blake, JJ, Spencer, and Derek. Blake sits in her chair, JJ in hers. Spencer stands, catching thought-volleys from the middle, and Derek mirrors you, sitting on JJ’s desk. You’ve been going through everything together. 

This is your favorite way to profile, a classic, Socratic circle where you all bounce off of each other, fusing ideas and finding new insights one brain would have missed. 

Your phone buzzes. It’s Aaron. 

10:56am Fax machine. 

You stand and hop over to the ancient fax machine in the corner, standing by as the lists come through. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Derek asks. 

You hold up one of the pages as it comes through. “Looks like Hotch’s visit to the Hill was successful this morning. We have a list.” 

You gather the pages and make copies, handing them out. When you’re done, you pull your phone. 

11:14am Thank you <3 Printed and distro’d.

He replies almost immediately. 

11:14am <3s are unprofessional. 11:14am See me later.

You suppress a smile and return to your seat. 

“At least this narrows it down,” Alex says. “Finding someone on the inside should be easier. 

“Not necessarily,” Spencer replies. “If our unsub was trained by law enforcement, he'd know how to fit in perfectly.”

Your turn. “There's meaning and purpose to everything he does.”

“Why did he choose to replicate the Silencer case?” Derek asks, looking at you. 

JJ answers instead. “Well, that unsub went dormant for years 'cause he was locked up. Is that a clue about the Replicator?”

“Well, it speaks to his patience,” Derek says. What about his M.O.? He sewed mouths shut.”

“It symbolizes keeping secrets,” Alex muses. “There could be something in that.”

Spencer squints. “He's targeting everyone. So how does that particular case factor into all of us?”

“It's the first one Garcia and I worked on with Blake,” Derek offers. 

You make a skeptical kind of noise. “Yeah, but the rest of us worked on the Seattle case before that. The unsub who used his kid to bait the victims.”

Spencer looks back at Blake. “We need to see if he replicated that one.” 

“I’ll go see Garcia,” Derek says.

+++

Derek gets the reports from the replicated Seattle case and Blake gets up to copy them, feeling restless. 

You roll your phone over in your hand, thinking and staring into space. Movement catches your eye and you watch Spencer stop JJ from approaching Dave as he walks into the bullpen. He doesn’t look at any of you, walking up the stairs.

JJ watches him, turning back to you, looking helpless. All of you exchange looks as Rossi crosses the bridge and steps into his office without a word. 

The five of you eventually huddle around the Seattle case file, compliments of ViCAP and Penelope, bouncing ideas about what this one means to your meticulous unsub. 

Aaron appears through the glass doors, his stride measured but purposeful. Your heart leaps a little. It’s been years, of course, but you’ve never stopped feeling that flash of… something when he shows up unannounced.

His gaze sweeps across the bullpen, landing on each of you in turn. "Conference room. Now."

You all file in, standing in a near-identical circle to your huddle downstairs, except there's a table in the middle. 

Aaron doesn’t hesitate once you’re all in and settled, speaking quickly and crisply. “A dozen federal employees have read our case files over the last two years - that was the list I faxed over. They all went through the highest levels of security. Each of those names needs to be checked against Reid's list.”

“We should get them all in here and start the interrogations,” Alex says.

Aaron hesitates. “If he knows we're looking his way, he might retreat.” He looks at JJ. “We should also check the support staff of all those employees.”

“Each one has two assistants, so we're already up to 36 people,” she replies. 

Spencer, as always, has more criteria to nail it down. “We should start with agents who work a four-tens schedule, given the fact that most of the murders happened over a long weekend, which means if the unsub traveled by car, no one at work would've missed them.”

“Well, he probably wouldn't fly,” JJ notes. “It would leave a paper trail.”

You hand Aaron the copycat case file from Seattle. He looks at you, really, for the first time since returning. “What's this?”

“The Replicator's first case was the same as mine,” Blake says. “Remember the sadist who made Ridgeway look tame?”

He looks over the file. “In Seattle, so it wasn't the Silencer.” 

“Do you think it's a coincidence he started all of this when I joined the team?”

“I don't know,” he says. His focus shifts past you, down the bridge. “Dave's back?” You nod and he excuses himself. 

Derek follows him, and you can hear the brief. “He's only been back a few minutes; it looks like it's hitting him pretty hard.”

You all review the Seattle file and help Reid with his lists. You’re tuned into Aaron, though, who has apparently passed Dave in favor of his own office. The director has been calling him almost non-stop. Without Strauss, the management apparatus for the section has fallen apart. You can see how easily Aaron could assume that role. 

“Rossi, what the hell are you doing?”

Derek’s voice carries and you drop your file, stepping out onto the bridge warily as Aaron leaves his office. 

He sees something that slows his movement and treads carefully. You can’t see past Derek - you can’t even see Rossi. Aaron looks over his shoulder and waves you off. You stay back, but you don’t go far. The team continues on without you, conversation flowing freely. 

Aaron steps into Dave’s office. His shoulders are stiff and his posture is purposefully open. You see him lean forward, his arm extended. To your shock, he tucks a gun into the waistband at his lower back.

You catch only a little of what Derek says as he leaves the office: “… paramedics.” He runs down the stairs, skipping the last four. 

You step out fully, your hands on the railing. “Derek, what -?”

“He drugged Rossi.” 

He was here. 

The on-site emergency medical arrives within minutes, and Aaron stays with Dave until he’s rolled out on the gurney. The rest of you stand just inside the bullpen. Watching. Waiting. 

Aaron walks back through the glass doors, his expression unreadable. You know that face—it’s the one he wears when he’s barely holding something together. 

He exhales once, measured, before speaking. "They've given him a sedative and they’re gonna take him to the infirmary. He’ll be okay."

“How did it get into his system?” Alex asks.

“The report must have been dusted with whatever he used on Strauss,” Aaron answers.

“Luckily,” Spencer says, fidgeting only a little, “the transdermal absorption rate was lower than her ingestion of it, so it wasn't fatal for Rossi.”

“Then this was a warning,” JJ says. 

You shake your head. “If he wanted to kill Rossi, he had every chance to do it.”

“If this is his endgame,” Alex asks, “why is he wasting time with warnings?

Aaron answers. “He's toying with us and we're playing into him. He's turned Rossi against Morgan. Even if it was temporary, he wanted to show it could be done.”

Alex’s brow furrows. “But why?”

Derek returns from his call, cell phone in hand. “Strauss was dosed with a chemical cousin of Doctor Death. He altered it so her torture would be longer.”

“A biochemist, computer hacker, and federal agent?” JJ walks through it, looking about as concerned as you feel. “Who the hell is this guy?”

You all stare at each other for a few seconds. When nothing new comes to mind, Aaron dismisses you all. “Conference room in fifteen. I want to review the security footage.”

The rest of the team scatters, but you follow him to his office, taking your usual chair. “How was the Hill?”

“Terrible,” he replies. 

“Did you have to deal with Speese again?” 

He nods grimly. “He’s the chair of the Intelligence Committee, unfortunately.”

“He’s also,” you pause for comedic effect, “an asshole.” 

Your comment has its intended effect. Aaron offers you the ghost of a smile. “He is. He also said hello to you, by the way.” 

“Well, I do not say hello back.” 

“I figured you wouldn’t.” He looks back down, adding his incident report notes for the Dave situation to his ever-growing file. “So,” he starts, getting back to business. “What do you think?” 

You mirror him, fixing your posture and dropping back into Work Mode. “He’s obviously meticulous, well-organized, has space for the amount of biochemistry and technology that he uses, he knows Strauss, and he’s on one of our lists. We just have to narrow it down.” 

“Do you think this is about Alex as well?”

“I think she’s involved in his fixation, for sure. Between her and Strauss, there has to be a link there.” You pause. “Is Dave really going to be okay?” 

Aaron sighs. “I think so. Obviously the loss will be hard on him, but he can take the leave he needs and we’ll be there for him.”

“For better or worse, if anyone knows what he’s going through, it’s us.” 

“Right.” Aaron looks up from his paperwork, meeting your eyes. You have no doubt he’s thinking the same thing as you. 

I wish we didn’t understand. 

He stands, breaking the spell and offering you a hand as he rounds his desk. “Ready?” 

You join him. “Yessir.”

He kisses the back of your hand and then lets it go. 

+++

Penelope stands in front of the large monitor and you watch as security footage plays on screen. “Only half the cameras are working because the system is still rebooting itself, so the security guards have to go old school. That means everyone has to sign in. You can't take your ID and run it through - well, you know what old school means. So, if you have a badge, you don't get harassed. The man who signed in to see Rossi went up to the sixth floor, held the door open for Kevin and Anderson…”

Kevin looks dumbfounded. “I can't believe he was right there.”

“Walked through our BAU into Rossi's office,” Penelope continues, “signed in as Adam Worth.”

Spencer perks up. “Adam Worth?” 

“Isn't that the same alias he used when Maeve went missing?” JJ asks. 

Spencer nods. “Yeah, which means it's not just a taunt. It speaks directly to his psychology. Adam Worth was a famous criminal from the late 1800s, commonly referred to as the Napoleon of Crime. This unsub obviously sees himself in the same light.”

“So,” Derek says, his brows pulled together, “this guy is a malignant narcissist who wants to be known as the worst enemy we've ever had.”

You look at Aaron. That’s a high bar. 

His eyebrow twitches, his arms crossed. Tell me about it.

“And look,” Blake says, gesturing to the monitor, “he's careful to hide his face from the cameras.” 

“Because he knows exactly where they are,” Aaron agrees, grim and low. 

+++

You look over Alex’s shoulder as she creates a list of all of the Replicator’s taunts so far. 

Strauss - New York

Reid - Zugzwang

JJ - Flowers

Garcia - Computer 

Morgan - DNA

Rossi - Poison

Hotch - Foyet Phone Call

For you, she has the photo at the crime scene listed. 

When it’s all laid out like this, it looks like you and JJ got off light. In hindsight, the photo did rattle you quite a bit, but you’ve figured out that the thing he was trying to target was exactly what Philadelphia PD’s very own Rizzo played into - your reputation. Strauss covered a lot of blowback when you and Aaron disclosed. She kept your team together because you assured her you could remain professional and not let it affect your work. The Replicator, with the photo of you and Aaron, attacked that very premise. 

Alex sighs, looking over her list. “The Replicator has directly taunted everyone on this team except for me.” 

“You may be part of his endgame,” you tell her, taking a seat beside Spencer. 

“Then so was Strauss,” she says. 

“He chose to use drugs as his final replication,” JJ notes. “That's no accident.”

“Is that a connection to you?” There’s genuine curiosity in Aaron’s inquiry. This is something, of course, that the two of you discussed in his office. You’re curious too - mostly wondering if you were right. 

“Strauss and I had issues during the Amerithrax case. It started in New York with poison.” 

“And it was delivered by envelopes,” Spencer adds. 

Derek shifts in his seat. “Why would anyone on the inside hold resentment over that case?”

“Because that person suffered a professional setback just like Blake,” Aaron says. 

You add to his thought, “- but was patient and psychotic enough to get revenge.” 

Penelope rushes in, two files in her hands, and starts talking immediately. “I am all over the DOJ names including support staff. I have Kevin pulling files and photos. System is down, so it's hard to check entire career paths, but there were two agents in New York in 2001. Scratch that- Lehman died in October - that leaves Curtis.” Penelope plonks a file down in front of Alex.

Alex flips through the file. Her face goes still, and for a moment, she doesn't say anything.

"Wait a second..." Her fingers tighten on the page. "John Curtis?"

“You know him?” Penelope asks. 

“I haven't seen him in a long time. He was a nice guy. We were first office agents together, but I thought he left the Bureau after the Amerithrax case.”

Aaron jumps on it. “Could it be him? Does he fit the profile?”

“He was quiet and a loner, but brilliant. He specialized in a lot of fields, but his passion…” She pauses, “was biochemistry.”

+++

You’re thankful you thought to pack your tac blacks. You change in Aaron’s office, the shades drawn. He answers an email, standing over his desk. 

“So, we’re taking the choppers?” You zip your fleece, shoving your credentials in your pocket. 

He nods. “I’ll fly one of them with a co-pilot and we’ll have someone outside the unit fly the other.” 

“Where am I going to be?” You ask. It’s not a leading question - you’re genuinely curious. 

“You’ll be with me,” he answers quickly. He crosses to you, getting the velcro under one arm while you handle the other side. There’s something hidden behind his answer, but now is not the time nor the place. 

You snatch your phone off the coffee table and turn back toward him. “Let’s go.”

+++

The six of you walk with extreme purpose down the hallway, taking the stairs to the roof. 

Penelope briefs you as you go through your comms. “He inherited a family compound in rural Virginia. Coordinates on your phone.” 

“What else do you have on Curtis?” Alex asks, turning her head toward her mic.

“Just like you thought. John Curtis was demoted in the FBI after the Amerithrax case. He was slated to take over the coveted New York field office, but then was shipped to the not coveted Kansas City one. He worked there for many years quietly before he was able to weasel his way back into the nation's capital. On paper he is a rock star. He immediately transferred to the Department of Justice, the intelligence oversight section. He's a genius on multiple levels.”

You spare a thought for James Comey, who reinstated the physical fitness testing. He’s probably the only reason you’re not in a puddle on the landing by the tenth floor. 

“What's his background?” Aaron, of course, the king of cardio and runner extraordinaire, is hardly out of breath. 

“Only child, parents died when he was eighteen. Never married. Total loner, just like Blake said.”

“Then all he's ever had to care about is his work,” Aaron says. 

Derek sounds resigned as you reach the roof. “And when he lost that, he snapped.”

+++

"Hey, Hotch,” Derek pulls him aside, away from the noise of the rotors. His voice is low. “Are you sure about this?"

Aaron tightens his jaw, checking his watch like the conversation isn’t happening. “It’s what the situation demands.”

Derek doesn’t buy it. He leans in. “That’s not an answer, man.” He pauses, mindful of the time. “I know this guy got in your head - he’s got all of us on edge - but we have to make the right choice, here. I know you’re flying, but…”

Aaron’s mouth tightens, pulling into a thin line. “Morgan.” He takes a breath and Derek is horrified to hear a shake in it. “I am making the only choice I can live with, and I need you to get on board. I know you would make a different choice  -”

Derek places a hand on Aaron’s shoulder, cutting him off. “I get it. It doesn’t matter what I’d do. I’ll see you both when we get there.”

Aaron leaves Derek and takes his seat in the cockpit, adjusting the controls and finishing up pre-flight checks. You put on your headphones, strapping yourself into the six-point harness. 

“You good?” Alex asks. You can hear her clearly in your headset, but you turn the volume up a little. 

“All good. Spence?”

Spencer doesn’t reply, but offers you a thumbs up as he tightens his six-point. 

You tap on the back of Aaron’s seat, making sure your mic is on. “Aaron, we’re all good back here when you’re ready.” 

“10-4. Thank you,” comes the crisp reply. 

You’re in the air moments later, rising from the helicopter pad on the roof in tandem with the other half of the team. You knew Aaron can fly almost anything, but it really is something else entirely to see him take the control column, flipping switches and turning knobs as you rise higher and higher, tipping forward to start your journey. 

Alex eyes you, watching you watch Aaron out of the corner of her eye. You shrug. 

Sue me. 

+++

As you get further and further away from Quantico, the lights on the ground get sparser. Aaron patches Penelope into the onboard channels. 

“HRT will divide us up when we land,” Aaron says, checking his instruments and fixing his gaze to the vast darkness ahead of you as the helicopters split. 

He patches Penelope into the channels, and after you all give a 10-2, signal good, she starts with what she’s found on John Curtis. 

“As you can see from the geo ref'd he's got plenty of privacy. Five and a half acres, three structures, house included.” 

Almost as soon as she finishes her thought, the screens turn to snow, all of the electronic instruments suddenly useless.

“Garcia,” Aaron says. There’s urgency, yes, but he’s not panicking. 

“I see it, too, sir. It must be some sort of system override.”

The helicopter pitches down and you reach out, holding onto the handle on the back of Aaron’s seat. Your stomach drops and you focus solely on keeping your mouth shut. The last thing you want is for Aaron to focus on you, even a little, when he’s handling… whatever this is. 

“What's happening?” Penelope asks. 

“Autopilot's seized,” the co-pilot says. Aaron attempts to override the seizure, pulling on the yoke as it moves, seemingly with a mind of its own. 

“Altitude. Altitude,” the Black Hawk’s warning system placidly tells you as you drop more than 100 feet. 

Aaron flips a final switch, and the helo stops descending, leveling out. “I got it back.”

“Are you okay?” Penelope asks. 

“We're stabilizing,” he assures her. 

You’re able to stay on course without any further incident for another few minutes. Aaron reaches back subtly with one hand and you briefly squeeze it before it disappears to the front once more. 

The controls shudder again and you take another breath. 

Maybe helicopters were not the move…

You flash to a conversation you and Aaron had, months ago, when he had to go re-up his flight hours to renew his license. 

“That’s the thing about helicopters and motorcycles, you only get so many rides. If you fly or drive them long enough…”

The implication spoke for itself. 

The alarms sound again, the warning system informing you that you’re losing altitude. 

The alarms blare, the cockpit flashing red. The helicopter dips, shuddering violently beneath you.

Aaron curses under his breath, both hands gripping the controls.

The co-pilot turns, his face grim. His eyes lock onto each of you—just for a second, just long enough to make it real.

“Brace for impact.”

You brace against the front seat, reaching a hand around to make contact with Aaron. Your hand lands on his ribs, over his vest, as he reaches for his own handles. His hand covers yours for a blink before returning to its proper place. 

Checking under your arm, you see that Alex and Spencer are properly braced as well, and you can hear their breathing in the headphones. 

That’s good. At least we’re all breathing. 

For now. 

You can’t see the ground, so it’s a shock when the helicopter touches down, hard. With your brace, there’s only the smallest downward impact on your body, but your back and legs receive an unpleasant jolt regardless. You take a deep breath, sitting up and feeling dizzy, disoriented. You don’t remember hitting your head…

You’re out before you can process your next thought, dropping back against your seat. 

+++

You come to as your door is wrenched open by JJ and Derek. 

“Are you guys alright?” Derek asks, his voice only a little touched by fear. 

You’re relieved when Aaron answers him. “Yeah.” Unfortunately, it sounds pained. 

JJ unclips your six-point with the emergency release on the seat, catching you a little as you attempt to step out. One of the SWAT agents does the same for Spencer. 

Derek’s flashlight stays low as JJ asks, “Where's Blake?” 

“What the hell is this?” Derek says, picking up a canister from the floor by your feet. “What is this?” 

You straighten and take it from him. “This looks like a quick-release gas canister to me.” 

Derek looks grim, taking it back from you as Aaron roughly clambers out of the pilot seat. You lurch forward, catching his right shoulder as he loses his balance. He holds fast to your arm and you’re thrilled he’s not treating you politely, trusting your strength as you bear most of his weight. 

“You okay?” He asks, straightening and checking you over. His hand ghosts over the side of your head, then down to your shoulder, taking stock. 

With a nod, you assure him you are. He takes you under his arm and the five of you walk away from the landing site, headed toward the SUV driven in from the Richmond office.

“If he'd wanted to kill all of us,” JJ points out, “he could have.”

“He's playing God, just like he's done all year.” Spencer almost sounds offended. “He hard-landed us, knocked us out with whatever was in that canister so he could take Blake.” 

Aaron squeezes you around the shoulders before letting you go, walking ahead to get back in the driver's seat of the SUV. If he were a weaker man, you’d be a little worried, but his threshold for mental and physical fortitude goes without saying, at this point. “He had plenty of chances to take her before tonight,” he says. “He wants it to be a spectacle.”

+++

You can see SWAT’s lights down the road as you pull up. Derek takes your hand to help you out of the car and you take it, patting his shoulder as soon as your feet touch the ground. 

“You okay?” He asks.

You puff a breath out through your mouth, shaking your head before you answer. It’s been a long day.

There’s no need. “Understood,” Derek says. 

The two of you join the rest of the team at the SWAT staging area. 

“Morgan,” Aaron says. “I want you to go through the breach plans. Look for tactical holes and opportunities for the Replicator to lay traps.” 

Derek nods, splitting off. 

“The rest of us will prepare for breach with SWAT.” 

+++

You take Aaron’s six with Spencer as you cross the vast yard and approach the cellar doors. Spencer looks at you and you nod once. 

Ready.

Aaron throws open the doors, allowing you and Spencer to cover for any threat on the stairs, before he resets and leads the way. You have a flashlight gripped tightly, crossed under your gun hand. 

The basement appears deserted, but difficult to clear on account of all the shelves. You find his photo processing space and clear it, doing your best to avoid the faces of your partner and almost-son in many of them. You startle a little when you see one from the cemetery, with you sitting on Haley’s bench and talking with your hands, your flowers resting on her gravestone. This guy is taking stalking to another level, apparently. 

Derek and JJ turn the corner and the three of you fall in line with them, finding Alex chained to a chair at the end of the hall, a gag in her mouth. 

JJ reaches her, removing the gag from her mouth. “Which way did he go?”

“I don't know,” Alex sounds exhausted.  

Aaron evaluates Alex, the locks, the chains, everything with a discerning eye. “Morgan, you and JJ find him. We've got this.”

You holster your weapon and kneel opposite Spencer, who counts the keys. 

“He said he used eight locks because there are now eight of us.”

“That's all he said?” Aaron asks. 

“About that, yes.”

“There's only six keys,” Spencer says, falling into stream of consciousness. “That means two keys will be used twice. Each key is a letter, likely corresponding to a number on the locks. Seven-seventh letter of the alphabet's G…” 

You look at him. “What are the other letters?”

“Um, Z, U, W-” He stops, looking at you and Aaron in turn. “Zugzwang. It's too easy.”

Spencer hands you and Aaron half the keys and you get to work, separating them and trying the locks. They work as expected. The two of you work side-by-side in silence, cooperatively shifting and passing keys to their respective locks. It would almost be fun, save for the imminent peril. 

Morgan and JJ return, jogging to you and stopping short. “He's got the place lined with C-4,” Derek says. “We've only got three minutes.”

You sit back on your heels, echoing Spencers thought from before. “This seems too easy.”

“Zugzwang also means a dilemma in chess where the best move is not to move at all…” Spencer muses. As Aaron finishes the final lock, the chains falling away, Spencer shouts, “Wait, don't get up!” He pauses as she stands, explaining, “It's a pressure sensor.”

Shit. 

You follow the pressure sensor wires to… 

You follow the pressure sensor wires to…

The door.

The moment you see it, it start to slide closed, solid steel scraping the wall. 

Derek lunges forward, slamming into it with his shoulder. "No, no, no—!"

It’s too late.

You whip your head to Aaron, who stares impassively at the blocked exit. His eyes flicker to you and you swallow heavily, seeing something that looks like hardened acceptance in his eyes. 

We got this. Don’t get complacent. 

The six of you look for alternatives, following cables and wires. All of them lead to the door. You’re on the floor, examining the structural integrity of the setup, when Aaron drops beside you. 

“Hey,” he says. 

You look at him, still holding the wires. “Yeah?”

He pauses, his eyes flick to your mouth, then your left hand, then back to your eyes. “I love you, you know that.”

“I do.” Your word choice isn’t lost on you. You place a hand on the floor between you and he covers it with his own. 

“I’m s-”

“Don’t apologize to me.” You make an attempt to smile. “You can tell me when we get outta here.” 

His jaw tightens and he nods. 

Derek watches the two of you when he exhausts his examination of the door. All that trouble to keep you safe, now you're all about to blow up in this room together. He sees the impossibly soft, affectionate, and determined look on your face as you say something to Hotch that has him dropping his head, picking your hand up to kiss the back of your fingers and holding them to his forehead with a kind of ferocity reserved for 18th century knights brought to their knees by the sight of an ankle. 

The door opens, startling all of you. Dave is on the other side, holding a radio transmitter. 

You and Aaron jolt to your feet, looking at the rest of the team. 

“You know what they say about gift horses,” you prompt. 

Derek laughs, a little hysterical with relief, and sprints out of the room, clearing your path. Dave joins him. 

Aaron grabs your hand and practically drags you out as your brain restarts and your feet start moving. The Virginia midsummer night hits you as you leave through the front door. 

“Everybody get back!” Aaron shouts, using his free hand to wave the staged agents away from the house. “There's C-4 in the basement. Everybody back!”

Spencer is just past the fence line when he stops. “Wait, where's Rossi?”

Derek turns, mentally counting all of you. He only gets to six. “He was right behind me.” 

Aaron takes a couple steps toward the house. “Dave!” 

“He just let us out. Why would he go back in?” Derek asks. 

Seconds later, though you’re not sure if you had seconds to spare, Dave appears, jogging toward you from the side of the house. Aaron corrals you all behind one of the cars. 

When the house explodes, his hand is warm between your shoulder blades. 

+++

“I’m glad we didn’t blow up,” you say in the blue darkness, sitting on the couch. He cradles you in his arms, lounging against the arm of the sofa, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other hanging carelessly off the couch. You lay across his chest, your ear to his heart, your hand playing with his hair. 

Aaron turned the TV off a while ago, Jack long asleep in his room, but it was nice to sit in silence, the tick of the clock the only other sound in the room beyond your breathing. It’s been a couple of days since the explosion. Erin’s service is on Sunday.

He doesn’t reply, but kisses the top of your head. 

“What were you going to apologize for, in there?” You ask. 

He huffs a laugh down his nose. “It seems silly now.” 

“That’s why I didn’t let you do it, you know.” You lean into him, tucking your face into the slope of his neck and shoulder. “I didn’t want you to say anything you’d regret in the unlikely event that we wiggled our way out of there.” 

Now, he really laughs, low and soft in the dark. “Very thoughtful of you, thank you.” He’s quiet for another minute. “It’s not something that I’d regret. It just isn’t relevant if we aren’t facing our imminent demise.” You laugh quietly, because it’s the only thing you can do. If you thought about it too hard, it would be scary. Now it’s just funny. 

"I was just thinking about how sorry I was that—” He stops. Shakes his head. “That we - I wasted so much time.” 

He pauses again.

"Time apart. Time spent dancing around what we knew. Time I spent convincing myself I couldn’t have this.” His hand skims your arm, back and forth. “I was a coward.”

“It’s not,” you whisper. “And you’re not a coward.” 

“I was about us,” he replies simply. 

You sigh. “Neither one of us were particularly brave, if I recall, but we made it.” 

“No,” he says. You can hear the smile in his voice. “You made it.” 

A thought comes to you. “If I didn’t kiss you, were you just going to let me yell at you until I got it out of my system?”

“That was the plan, yeah,” he’s so matter-of-fact, it makes you giggle. He joins you, holding you closer.  

“God, you’re such a masochist.” 

You feel him shrug under you. “I had been so in love with you for so long. I wanted anything you would give me, even your anger.” He shakes his head. “The masochism started long before then, trust me.” 

You’re speechless for a moment. You sit up just enough to meet his eyes, bracing your weight on his chest. “Aaron Hotchner, that might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

He draws you toward him by the chin, stopping you before his lips meet yours. You watch as his eyes track down to your mouth. The heaviness and devotion in his gaze almost makes you feel self-conscious. It gets worse when he tightens his jaw for a moment before his tongue sneaks out to wet his lower lip. 

You nearly lose your breath, his lips slightly parted as his eyes leisurely wander back up to yours. He’s said nothing, has hardly moved, but you’re held by his eyes like a physical vice, unable and unwilling to move. 

A spark of mischief lights up his eyes as he asks, “You gonna kiss me?” 

“I was waiting for you,” you tell him, dazed. 

He moves in, his lips just barely grazing yours, his breath warm against your skin as his nose traces along yours. “Please don’t ever wait for me again.”

+++

“It had to be a perfect round. And sure enough, coming right back at me was the target. And it was blasted right through the chest. The goggles come off... And it's Strauss.” Derek laughs. “I mean, I was like, what? I would have never believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. That woman... She was one hell of a shot.”

You’ve gathered at Dave’s after the service. It seemed like the only thing that felt right, to truly honor her as a team. 

Penelope’s next. “Um...do you guys remember that one time that she called me, but I thought that it was somebody else?” She throws her thumb toward Derek. 

“Oh, no,” he says. 

JJ tips her wine glass toward Penelope. “That was funny.”

“Oh, maybe to you,” Penelope says dubiously. “I was mortified!” 

“What did you say?” Alex asks.

“I said, ‘Talk dirty to me.’” 

It’s never not funny. You bark a laugh and smother it in Aaron’s sleeve, his hand on your thigh under the table. Alex leans forward. “No!”

“Yes, she did,” Derek says. “That's my girl.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Hey, that was my line,” Dave interjects with a smile. You’re glad he’s able to celebrate her, at least, for one evening.

Derek claps him on the shoulder as another round of laughter echoes around the table. 

“I remember when I walked into her office the day after Aaron and I had a conversation at home about going above board with-” You gesture to the space between you and Aaron, “- this.”  

“I went into her office and before I could say anything, she says ‘You’re either here to hand me your badge or to ask for two copies of a conflict of interest disclosure form.’” You pause as a ripple of laughter runs around the table. “I didn’t even know what to say. I think I short-circuited for a second and said ‘The second one,’ and she said nothing, pulled out the forms from her top drawer like she knew I was coming.” You pause for dramatic effect. “The only empty field was the date.”

The table laughs.

“In fairness, you were the least subtle people on the planet,” JJ says. 

You roll your eyes. “What I’m getting at is that Strauss was far more… liberal than any of us gave her credit for.” You glance at Dave, whose smirk is just starting when you cut him off. “Ew. No.” 

Another laugh. After a moment, the table grows quiet again, pensive. More stories bounce around for some time, your dinners all finished, your wine glasses refilled, and Dave taps his spoon against his glass. 

“Last year, right here, we had a… very different kind of celebration. Of life.” He pauses, looking at JJ. “Of love.” He looks at you and Aaron, where you lean against his shoulder. “And good people. This year it’s the, um, other side of that. Because, well, that’s what families do.” He pauses, looking at Spencer. “It’s been a hard year.” Spencer ducks his head. “But tonight, we celebrate a life well lived, well loved.” He raises his glass and the rest of you join him. “To a good woman. An even better mother. Our friend."

Dave takes a steadying breath, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass.

“Who I will miss very much.”

+++

tagging: @chronicallybubbly @derekluvbot @jhiddles03 @soupyamanda @percysley @viennasolace @youngcowisland @beyscape @reidfile @ssaic-jareau @sochalant @acidicbloody @duchesschameleon

[beyscape]

professional courtesy.

...or berry hill (aaron's version) Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

a/n: hello it’s me from beyond the veil i’m sorry i haven’t updated this in three years, but enjoy! i figured i’d warm up from my hibernation with a long-requested installment. (i dont want to hype myself up too much but the discord girlies about died)

words: 17.3k (damn) warnings: language, a far less vague mention of aaron’s anatomy (masturbation in the shower, nothing too extreme), alcohol, the vibe is self-loathing, catholic guilt™

summary: “i go itchy with want, thin on sleep. i feel her fingers in mine. the way we could be both hard and soft on each other. her sandy voice calling out as i climb one exposed cliff after another. ... all night this all goes through me, the four hours of sleep i get.” - kawai strong washburn, sharks in the time of saviors. december 6th-12th, 2010

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | taglist | what do you want to see next?

It’s way too late and you both know it, but Jack is still on his annual winter vacation with Jessica and the rest of Haley’s family, so there’s simply no incentive to leave. Aaron sits back in his chair, a soft smile on his face as he watches you kick back in one of the chairs in his office, your feet on his desk like you own the place. 

The Montana case wrapped up neatly, and any remaining or incoming paperwork this week is light. If Aaron were an honest man, he’d have a few problems. The first, though, would be how much he missed JJ. He, of course, knows and understands the importance of her role, but he didn’t anticipate that losing her to the State Department would feel more like losing a limb. He knows you feel similarly - he’s seen the way you look up in the office and in the field, the ghost of her name on your lips. 

That aside, he’s in the middle of a story - one that took place just before Jack left for the lake. “...And then I found the actual writing on the wall.” He clarifies, seeing your furrowed eyebrows. “He drew on the wall.”

“What do you mean he drew on the wall?” You say through a laugh, popping a grape in your mouth. “Are we talking like a crayon mark here and there or a full on mural?”

He loves the way you love his son. It’s palpable to anyone who sees the two of you together - the love that Jack has for you and the fierce, consuming love you have for him in return. 

If he thinks about it too hard, he can imagine how seamlessly you could fit into their lives, how faithfully and seriously you would step into your role in Jack’s life. If he thinks even harder, he can imagine sleepless nights beside you, caring for the children you share. 

So he doesn’t think too hard. 

“Multi-media mural - glue, paper mache, markers, crayons, you name it and it was there.” He laughs and he takes a grape from your bowl, kicking his feet up on the desk - mirroring you. “I have no idea how he managed it. I was in the house the whole time.”

“Oh my God, he’s a terror!” Before Aaron can agree, your phone starts ringing. You pick it up, smiling as you see the caller ID. “Hey Dean!” You stand and give Aaron a ‘sorry, just a second’ finger and step out of the office, leaving the door open behind you. 

Aaron watches you go, taking another grape. He can’t hear what’s said on the other line, only your reply.

“Oh, not at all. I’m still in the office with Hotch getting some work done.”

Aaron raises his eyebrows, catching your eye. “Work?” he mouths. You shrug playfully, pulling a face, a light, lovely smile just for him. He smiles when you turn your back.

You’re doing anything but work right now. 

Work was over…

He checks his watch. 

…Nearly three hours ago. 

Is it that late already?

“So what’s up?”

There’s a pause while your friend speaks. When you reply, you sound defeated. Aaron’s brow crumples and his feet come off the desk. He sits forward, not really meaning to eavesdrop, but he is anyway.

I hope everything’s okay…

“It’s okay. I get work stuff, trust me.” 

He watches as you tip your head up to stare at the ceiling. He can hear the tears in your voice. “Yeah, I’ll figure it out. None of them knew to ask off work, so if we have a case I’ll be on my own regardless.” 

Oh no.

“It’s okay,” He hears you say. He knows it isn’t, but you’re a good friend. The last thing you’d want is for someone to feel bad on your behalf. 

Too damn bad and too damn late. 

Aaron starts to think. Time off work could be for anything - it sounds like an event? He got (and approved) your leave request ages ago. Maybe a vacation? 

Maybe I could… 

No. Don’t go there. 

There’s something in his head screaming danger! danger! danger! at the possibility that you and he could be somewhere alone for an extended period of time. It’s not that he doesn’t trust himself (really), but he’s not sure he’s that good of an actor. 

“Okay.” You heave an uneven sigh. “I’ll talk to you then. Really - don’t worry about it, it’s fine.” You hang up quickly and rest your forearms on the railing. Aaron watches your head hang, watches you swipe at your face and take a deep breath. 

He watches as you fruitlessly try to maintain the frivolity and decadence of the moment before, sitting in your same chair with your feet up and a cluster of grapes in your hand. 

It doesn’t work. Aaron sees right through you. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” but your voice breaks. You clear your throat and blink a few more times. 

He squints at you. “What’s wrong?” 

“Oh, you know.” You sniff, and gesture vaguely as you continue. “My best friend from college was supposed to be my date to a friend’s wedding next week, and the friend getting married also happens to be someone I dated in college so I was really hoping Dean could come with me, and now…” You trail off. He can see there’s more to say, but you’re holding back. 

It’s more than you’ve ever shared about your time in college, certainly more information than he’s ever had about your dating history. You’ve been through so much together, Aaron almost finds it odd that he’s never asked, but his curiosity is squashed by guilt. 

It’s been years…and he’s never asked. 

All those moments you’ve shared, the horrors and the joys, and he never thought to ask about something as simple as a college boyfriend? 

Maybe because it’s inappropriate, Hotchner. Ever think of that? 

He’s never asked Derek about his college flames, or Emily about her first kiss or anything of the sort. Why does it feel so odd with you? 

He knows. He just won’t admit it to himself. 

“Do you want someone to go with you?” He watches you chew on your lower lip. A long time ago, he decided there was nothing worse than seeing you upset. 

This is the least you can do, Hotchner. First personal weekend in nearly four years, you can at least do what you can to make it suck less. He reasons with himself, but he can’t help the sly thought that sneaks in on the tail end. Being a backup is better than being nothing at all. 

That’s enough. 

You scoff, still trying to shake it off. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”

He smiles a little. You completely missed his point.

The smart choice is to let it go—to offer some reassuring sentiment about how you’d be fine on your own, that you are more than capable of handling an awkward situation. And yet, he can’t ignore the weight behind your words, the way your shoulders have drawn just a little tighter, how your voice cracked when you first answered his question. His instinct to protect, to ease whatever discomfort you’re feeling, is strong—always has been. But it’s tangled up in something else, something quieter, far more dangerous. His fondness for you, his respect, his attraction — lines that had once been clear but have blurred over time into something he wasn’t sure he can still call professional. His ability to hold those boundaries is tenuous at best, these days, and this would only make it worse. But then you exhale, soft and resigned, the fight to downplay your disappointment slipping away. 

And, really, what was one more bad decision?

“If you wanted…” He hesitates, debating how to phrase it, but you beat him to it.

“Oh, God, Hotch.” You cover your face with your hands. “Please don’t feel like I’m trying to guilt you into anything. I’ll be fine.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re not guilting me into anything. I’m offering.”

Your hands fall away from your face, eyes searching his. He keeps his expression even, waiting.

“Really?”

“Really. I can get the weekend off—things are pretty slow around here. Where is it?”

You look a little stunned. “It’s, ah—it’s down at Berry Hill Resort, right by the North Carolina border.” You hesitate. “It’s about a three-and-a-half-hour drive.”

He nods, pulling out his phone to check the route. “If we leave early, we can switch in Richmond. I’ll start, if you’d like.”

Your smile is small but genuine. “Hotch, you’re the best.”

Warmth spreads through him at the ease of your acceptance—at the way you don’t second-guess his offer, don’t try to talk him out of it like he was making some grand sacrifice. You’re just… happy. Glad to have his company. And that shouldn’t mean as much as it does, but it settles somewhere deep in his chest, steady and certain.

He clears his throat, nodding as he glances back at his phone. “If we get on the road by seven, we’ll have plenty of time to stop if we need to.”

You hum, thoughtful. “You’re gonna regret offering when I make you stop for coffee every hour.”

He laughs a little, shaking his head. “I think I can manage.”

+++

He hits send on his brief email to you (no subject, just a come see me when you can - ah) and leans back for a moment, rubbing a hand over his jaw. It’s the middle of the day, but it already feels much later. 

Hotch’s desk phone rings, the director’s name flashing on the tiny screen. He sighs before answering.

“Hotchner.”

“Aaron,” the director greets, his tone brisk. “I wanted to go over the paperwork from your last case. I received your after action report and the folks down at records supplied the rest.”

Hotch straightens. “Of course. Was there an issue?”

“Not an issue, exactly,” the director hedges. “But there are a few inconsistencies between your initial report and the final case file. I need clarification before this goes any further.”

Hotch exhales slowly. “I assume this is about jurisdictional oversight.”

“In part. There’s also a discrepancy in the timeline of the suspect’s apprehension and when the local PD filed their report. It’ll need to be accounted for.”

He had anticipated as much. A minor issue, more bureaucratic than substantive, but one that requires correction nonetheless.

There is a knock at his door before you swing in, one hand gripping the doorframe. Your movement is easy, familiar—Hotch is thrilled that you never hesitate in his office, never second-guess your place here. It’s a good quality. Confidence without arrogance.

Stop it. 

Hotch lifts a hand, beckoning you inside. You step in and close the door behind you, waiting patiently near the couch on the far side of his office.

“...No, sir, that won’t be an issue. I’ll review the reports and send the necessary adjustments this afternoon.”

The director says something else he’s not really listening to with any depth, distracted by the way your eyes wander out the window, the sun catching your face in the light…

Stop it!

A pause. The director said something nice, something he needs to respond to as soon as he pulls his head out of his ass. “Understood. And I appreciate that. I’ll pass that along to the rest of the unit.”

“Thanks, Hotch. Have a good night and get home safe.”

“You too, sir.”

He sets the phone down, lacing his fingers together as he regards you. “Question.”

You drop into the chair across from him, resting your elbows on his desk. “Answer.”

Hotch levels you with a flat look, but his eyes betray his amusement. He can’t let your ability to make him laugh go to your head. “Funny.” You smirk, but he ignores it, pressing on. “I’m not sure if it matters to you, but I have an absurd number of ties. Color preference?”

A short huff of laughter leaves you. “You called me in here to ask whether or not I want to have a color scheme?”

“Yes,” he says, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. “A united front, or at least a coordinated one, seems like the best strategy, right?”

The reasoning is sound—practical. Coordination suggested cohesion, something seamless and intentional. It’s a subtle but effective advantage. He had seen juries make unconscious associations based on far less.

That was the only reason he asked. Definitely no ulterior motives. 

+++

Aaron descends the stairs from his office, phone pressed to his ear, the steady hum of the bullpen grounding him in the familiar rhythm of the day. Outside, the snow is falling in thick, lazy flakes, dusting the base in a quiet hush. Jack had launched into a continuation of the story he’d started earlier in the call—something about a rabbit nearly the size of his backpack darting across the backyard. He had, apparently, spent the better part of the afternoon watching from the window, hoping to see it again.

“You’ll have to tell me if you see it tomorrow,” Hotch says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe it’ll come back looking for more crumbs.”

Jack hums thoughtfully. “Maybe I should put out some carrots.”

Hotch chuckles, “That might work. Just don’t be too disappointed if it doesn’t come back. Wild animals don’t always stay in one place for long.”

“Yeah,” Jack sighs, clearly unconvinced. “But it was really cool.”

“I bet it was,”

Jack hums his agreement, then shifts gears, asking to speak to you. Hotch is already on his way toward your desk.

You’re in the middle of a consult with Ashley, walking her through your approach with the same steady patience Emily once used with you. Hotch’s hand comes to rest on your shoulder, and you glance up at him.

“Yeah?”

He pulls the phone from his ear just long enough to say, “Jack wants to talk to you.”

Your expression softens, a small smile playing at your lips as you shake your head. With an apologetic glance toward Ashley, you take the phone from his hand.

“Hey, kiddo,” you greet easily. “How’s Grandpa’s house?”

Hotch can’t hear Jack’s response, but he doesn’t need to. The way your face lights up told him everything he needs to know. He catches a few words here and there—aunt, snow—but mostly, he hears the warmth in your voice, the way you so easily match Jack’s enthusiasm.

“Aw, bubba, I miss you, too.” You assure him. “You’ll be home really soon, and when you get back we’ll go out to ice cream and you can tell me all about your visit.”

Another pause, then your voice, quieter, almost absentminded, as if the words had slipped out on their own. “I love you too.”

You hand the phone back without looking at Hotch, refocusing on Ashley as if nothing had happened. “So, like I said, Hotch prefers to—”

Hotch takes the phone, walking back toward the stairs.

Jack’s voice calls out as soon as Aaron greets him again. “Bye, Dad!”

Hotch feels a quiet pang of affection as he lifts the phone back to his ear. “Bye, Jack. Let me talk to Aunt Jess.”

There’s a shuffle on the other end, and then Jess’s voice comes through, bright and teasing. “Well, he’s having the time of his life, if that wasn’t obvious.”

Hotch huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s good to hear.”

“He’s been an angel,” Jess continues. “Which, honestly, is shocking, considering my family has zero faith in your parenting skills.”

Hotch lets out a real laugh at that, not bothering to argue. “I think that has more to do with you and—” He catches himself, shaking his head. “With the people he has around him.”

Jess hums, but doesn't press. 

+++

The crystal decanter clinks softly as Dave pours a generous measure of scotch into Aaron’s glass. He slides it across the polished wood of his desk, then leans back in his chair, swirling his own drink with the practiced ease of a man who has lived (at least part of) his life in leisure.

“So,” Dave begins, his voice laced with amusement. “You gonna pretend we’re just drinking in companionable silence, or are you finally going to tell me what’s going on?”

Aaron inhales slowly, lifting the glass to his lips. He knows Dave isn’t asking about the Orioles game yesterday. “Nothing is going on.”

Dave scoffs. “Oh, please. I’ve known you for too long to believe that. Tell me.”

Aaron shakes his head, gaze fixed on the amber liquid in his glass. “There’s nothing to tell.”

Dave leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Uh-huh. And that’s why you look at her like she hung the moon?”

Aaron’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t need to ask who Dave’s talking about.  “She’s a valued member of my team. Just like you, or Morgan, or Prentiss, or Reid.”

“She’s also someone you’re clearly crazy about.” Dave takes a sip of his drink, watching Aaron with knowing eyes. “I mean, come on, Hotch. You really think I haven’t noticed?”

Aaron stays silent.

Dave smirks, using his hands now for emphasis. It’s absurd. “Let me paint you a picture. She walks into a room, and suddenly, you’re not the unshakable, unflappable Aaron Hotchner anymore. You’re—what’s the word? Present. Engaged. Maybe even happy, if I squint.”

Aaron sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Dave.”

“I’m just saying,” Dave continues, undeterred. “If there’s nothing there, then I’m a damn fool. And we both know that’s not the case.”

Aaron hesitates, then, almost reluctantly, admits, “Maybe there’s something.”

Dave grins like he’s just won a bet. Maybe he has. “Knew it.”

Aaron shakes his head again, but the small smile tugging at his lips betrays him.

“So what’s the problem?” Dave presses.

Aaron takes another measured sip before answering. “Jack, for one. It’s too soon after Haley. I have to be careful about—”

“Careful about what?” Dave interrupts. “Being happy? It’s been two years, Aaron.”

Aaron shoots him a look. “About how this affects him.”

Dave softens slightly, nodding. “Fair. But have you considered that maybe she’s already a part of his life? That maybe Jack — God forbid — actually likes having her around?”

Aaron doesn’t respond.

Dave tilts his head. “And let me guess — your other concern is her?”

Aaron lets out a slow breath. “There’s fourteen years between us, Dave.”

“Oh, give me a break. You were born in November—that’s practically thirteen years.” Dave waves a dismissive hand. “You’re acting like you’re twice her age.”

“She has a career to think about,” Aaron continues, ignoring him. “A reputation. If there were even a whisper of inappropriate behavior… or a conflict of interest, the whole team would get torn apart. Just imagine what Strauss—”

Dave groans. “Aaron, you are the most upstanding man I’ve ever met. If anyone tried to imply something inappropriate, they’d be laughed out of the room.”

Aaron still doesn’t look convinced.

“And as for the age thing,” Dave goes on, “she’s a grown woman. A brilliant, capable woman who—let’s be honest—doesn’t take crap from anyone, including you.”

That earns him a faint smirk from Aaron.

“She’s not some kid with a crush,” Dave says. “She knows exactly who you are, baggage and all. And let me tell you something—you might be able to fool yourself into thinking this is just one-sided, but I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

Aaron stills, his lowball glass touching his lips. He recovers, taking a sip in what he hopes is a nonchalant fashion.

Dave raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. Thought that might get your attention.”

Aaron shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “Even if you’re right, it doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”

Dave studies him for a long moment, then leans back with a sigh. “Hotch, let me ask you something. When’s the last time you let yourself want something just because it made you happy?”

Aaron doesn’t answer.

Dave nods knowingly. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He takes another sip of his drink, then points at Aaron. “At some point, you have to stop talking yourself out of the good things in your life. Otherwise, you’re gonna wake up one day and realize you let something incredible slip away.”

Aaron looks down at his glass, turning it slowly in his hands.

Dave smirks. “Just think about it, is all I’m saying.”

Aaron sighs, shaking his head. “You’re relentless.”

“That’s why you love me,” Dave says, raising his glass.

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh and clinks his glass against Dave’s, but he says nothing.

Dave takes a slow sip of his scotch, eyeing Aaron over the rim of his glass. Then, as casually as if he were asking about the weather, he says, “So… Any plans to spend time together outside of work?”

Aaron sighs, already anticipating where this is going. “She asked me to go to a wedding with her next weekend.”

Dave’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

“As a favor,” Aaron clarifies, setting his glass down with a firm clink. “Nothing more.”

Dave makes an exaggerated show of nodding. “Ah. A favor. Because obviously, of all the people she could have asked, she just happened to land on you.”

Aaron gives him a look. “It’s a professional courtesy. And I was right there, so it was probably just convenient.” He leaves out the part where you didn’t ask outright, knowing his offer is damning evidence that would only prove Dave’s point.

Dave outright laughs at that. “Oh, that’s rich. Hotch, if this were any other woman in your life, you would’ve given her some excuse about being too busy with Jack or the job. But you didn’t.” He points a finger at Aaron around his scotch. “That means something.”

Aaron shakes his head. “It doesn’t.”

“Sure it doesn’t,” Dave says, smirking. “But since you’re doing this grand, selfless favor, tell me—what’s your game plan?”

“My what?”

Dave leans forward. “Your approach. This is the perfect opportunity to figure out where she stands, and you’re not about to waste it, are you?”

Aaron sighs. “Dave—”

“Nothing untoward, of course, nothing unprofessional,” Dave interrupts. “Just a little fact-finding mission. See how she responds to being close to you—seizing the opportunity to dance, for example.”

Aaron exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “I’m not—”

“Why not?” Dave cuts in. “It’s a wedding. It’d be weirder if you didn’t.”

Aaron pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous,” Dave counters, “is pretending there’s nothing there when it’s obvious to everyone else. Just consider it—see how she reacts to you in a setting that isn’t life-or-death. Give yourself permission to look for the signs.”

Aaron doesn’t respond right away, and Dave knows he’s planted the seed.

After a moment, Dave smirks. “At the very least, you get to have a nice weekend out with a beautiful woman. Not exactly the worst way to spend a few evenings.”

Aaron sighs, finishing off his scotch and repeating, “You’re relentless.”

Dave grins. “So you’ve said.”

+++

Aaron sits alone in his armchair, an ill-advised finger of bourbon in his glass. He’s sure he’s had more to drink this week than in the previous five years combined.

There’s something, even now, that leaves him feeling unsettled when he’s in his apartment alone. Maybe it’s PTSD, maybe something less pathological, but it’s nevertheless uncomfortable. 

Maybe you don’t like to hear yourself think. That’s an option, Hotchner. 

The voice that narrates his thoughts isn’t always his. When it’s critical or snide, it’s almost always his father. 

Maybe he should work on that. His mouth twists and he takes another sip, letting the liquor roll across his tongue before warming his chest. 

Drinking bourbon is an art form at the most, a learned skill at the least. He’s almost certain it was a required item for law school, but he couldn’t quote the statute. 

He’s stalling, avoiding both his (far too reflective) thoughts and the phone call he needs to make. It’s just you. Why is he so nervy all of a sudden?

All of a sudden. Right. Like I haven’t been that way this whole time. 

There is some irony in creating artificial distance between him and the one person who can reliably calm him down. What, then, happens if you’re the thing freaking him out?

No. Aaron Hotchner does not freak out. Become subject to the whimsy of his neuroses, sure. Fine. Let’s call it that. 

Neurotic. Sure. 

He exhales, rolling the tension from his shoulders. The house is quiet now, still—a stark contrast to the nerves humming under his skin.

It’s just a wedding. A favor for a friend.

And yet, as he reaches for his phone, he knows that’s not the only reason he’s calling.

The line barely rings twice before you answer. “Yeah?”

The tightness in his chest eases immediately and he feels even sillier for putting it off. “Hey, it’s Aaron.”

“Ah, my saving grace,” you say, a smile in your voice. “Calling to cancel on me, after all?”

His lips twitch. “Not even close. Is 6 a.m. still good to come get you?”

“It’s so early.” The dramatic whine earns an actual chuckle from him, surprising even himself. “But yes, that’s fine. That gives us enough time even if we hit some traffic out of the District and into Richmond.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

A pause, then: “You’re still okay with this, right? I know I couldn’t grab that extra hotel room for you, and I don’t want you to feel pressured or—”

He doesn’t let you finish. “Enough,” he says firmly, calling you by name. “I offered, remember? I’ll see you at six. Bring a pillow so you can sleep in the car.”

There’s a beat of silence, then a quiet, “Thanks, Aaron.”

He knows you’re not just thanking him for the reminder.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” you add, after a beat of silence.

“Of course.” He hesitates, then adds, “Sleep well.”

The call ends, and he stares at his phone for a moment before shaking his head and setting it down.

He doesn’t sleep much that night, either.

+++

At 5:55 a.m., he pulls up to your driveway expecting to have to knock, maybe even call. Instead, you’re already outside, standing on your porch with a pillow under one arm and a travel mug in hand.

He blinks.

You look only mildly worse for wear, but you’re ready. And you have coffee.

His mouth twitches. “You’re awake.”

“Barely.” You step forward, holding out the travel mug. “Thought you might want this.”

He takes it—along with your suitcase, because he won’t let you carry it. “Thank you. Jump in.”

You don’t argue, sliding into the passenger seat and immediately wedging your pillow between your head and the window.

Aaron tosses your bag into the trunk before getting behind the wheel. He glances over as he starts the engine, and his chest does something strange at the sight of you, curled into yourself in an oversized sweatshirt, already half-asleep.

He shakes his head, exhaling as he backs out of the driveway.

Just a wedding. Just a favor.

Aaron has always been good at compartmentalizing. It’s a necessity in this line of work, the only way to keep from drowning in the weight of it all. But this morning, he finds it harder than usual to box up his thoughts and shove them aside.

He blames Dave.

"Any plans to spend time together outside of work?""This is the perfect opportunity to figure out where she stands.""Seize the opportunity—see how she responds to being close to you."

Ridiculous. This—the drive, the wedding, the whole weekend—isn’t about that. It’s a favor, nothing more. You need a date, and he is more than capable of stepping in.

So why does it feel like something else entirely?

Aaron lets out a slow breath, glancing to his right. You’re curled against the window, your pillow wedged beneath your head, still fast asleep. Your sweatshirt is too big for you, the sleeves bunched up where your arms are tucked close to your chest. Your face is relaxed, peaceful in a way he rarely sees when you’re awake.

Something shifts in his chest.

Would he have offered this to anyone else?

Emily? Maybe. JJ? Possibly, depending on the circumstances. But would he have gone out of his way to clear a weekend, to ensure they didn’t have to face something alone?

No.

He knows the answer, even if he doesn’t want to.

He knows you’re different, and that frustrates him. Confuses him.

Would it really be so bad to… pay attention? To see if Dave is right?

His hands tighten around the steering wheel. It doesn’t matter. There are too many reasons this is a terrible idea.

Jack. The team. His own grief, still lurking beneath the surface, no matter how much time has passed.

A year and change, almost two, has passed since Haley’s death, but there are still mornings when he wakes up gasping for breath. Jack still has nightmares, too. He knows you would always pick up if he called—no matter the hour.

And he has called. More times than he can count.

You never hesitate. Sometimes you talk to him about anything and everything, filling the quiet until his mind settles. Other times, you simply read to him, your voice a low, steady thing in the dark.

You understand in a way no one else does. You have been there. You have seen him at his lowest, taken Jack from his arms when he couldn’t stop shaking. You know what haunts him.

And yet, you stay.

You murmur something in your sleep, shifting slightly. He could swear it was his name. Aaron glances over, watching as you burrow deeper into your pillow, a small smile tugging at your lips.

His fingers flex against the steering wheel. That warmth—the one he has been trying to ignore—stirs again.

He shakes his head, looking back at the road.

And then there’s you.

The age gap isn’t something he’s ever consciously thought about, but now that Dave has addressed it, he can’t help but consider it. Would it even matter to you? Would it matter to anyone else?

That’s not the only thing that concerns him. You have worked hard to build a career in the Bureau, and despite your talent and intelligence, it has taken you longer than it should have to be taken seriously. You once told him that being a young woman in this line of work often feels like a battle you never really win—only survive.

And what would people say if there was suddenly something between the two of you?

He exhales sharply through his nose. Not that it matters, because there isn’t.

Still, he keeps his hands firmly on the wheel, afraid that if he loosens his grip, that warmth might spread beyond his control.

The car slows as he takes an offramp, the change in speed pulling you from sleep. You lift your head, blinking sluggishly as you look around.

“Are we in Richmond already?”

Aaron glances at you, his lips quirking slightly at your sleep-heavy voice. “Not yet, but I figured you hadn’t eaten yet.”

You tip your head, still shaking off sleep. “I could eat.”

He gives you a knowing look. “You should eat.”

You huff a small laugh, rubbing at your eyes. “You take your supervisory duties very seriously.”

He only shrugs. “It’s my job.”

You smile at him, still soft around the edges from sleep, and something in his chest tightens.

Aaron looks back at the road.

Dave is wrong.

This isn’t a fact-finding mission.

Unfortunately, he already has enough facts to know he’s cooked.

+++

Aaron refuels the SUV and makes sure you’re settled with food before pulling back onto the highway. The morning settles into a comfortable rhythm—quiet, but not stiff. But then again, it’s always easy with you.

When you offer to take over driving, he shoots you a look before shaking his head. “If you drive, I don’t get to pick the music.”

You frown, still shaking off the last bit of sleep. “I thought shotgun picks the music.”

“That’s Morgan’s house rule, not mine.”

You hum in consideration, eyes narrowing slightly. “Okay, so what are your house rules?”

He lets a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. “Driver picks the music and critically considers any suggestions made by shotgun.”

You groan. “So, what I’m hearing is that we’re listening to the White Album.”

Aaron flips through his playlists, selecting the album in question without a word. The familiar opening chords of Back in the U.S.S.R. fill the car, and he glances at you just in time to catch the way you bite back a smile.

You might tease, but he knows you like it. Or maybe you like that it’s his favorite. It’s a thought he doesn’t prefer to dwell on.

The road stretches out ahead, and for the first time in a while, he feels something close to ease. The usual tension in his shoulders dulls, the steady hum of tires on asphalt lulling him into a rare sense of contentment.

“Why is this one your favorite?” you ask suddenly.

He considers the question for a moment. No one has ever really asked. Maybe no one has thought to.

“I’m… not sure,” he admits. “I think it might have something to do with my mom. She bought the record a couple of weeks after I was born, and when I got my own record player in college, she made sure I had a copy.” He shrugs, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel. “It’s been around just as long as I have, and there’s something a little— I don’t know— comforting about that.”

You nod, thoughtful. “I get that.” A pause. Then, with a wry tilt to your voice, “Grease 2 came out the year I was born, so I can’t say I share a similar affinity for the pop culture phenomena of my birth year.”

Aaron lets out a low whistle. “That film really was awful.”

Your laughter is immediate, warm. He finds himself waiting for it before continuing, “I saw The Who on their final tour that year.”

You turn in your seat, brow furrowed. “Weren’t you, like, barely in high school?”

He nods. “We snuck out—some friends and me. It was really stupid, and we got in a lot of trouble, but it was fun.” A nostalgic smile plays on his lips. “I have no idea how we managed to get all the way into the District, let alone find tickets, but everything was a little less complicated back then. Buses ran on time, people read maps and paid in cash, and parents didn’t all have cell phones.” He smirks, glancing over at you. “But of course, that’s before your time.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Oh, come on. I’m not that young. I remember the world before the mainstream internet and 9/11 and all that pre-Patriot Act shit. I remember when the Berlin Wall came down, at least.”

That gets a real laugh out of him. “Fair enough.”

The conversation slows after that, the easy quiet of the road settling in again.

Every so often, he reaches a hand toward the center console, and without prompting, you pass him a fry from the fast-food bag. It’s a small thing, but it makes something in his chest feel steady.

Aaron keeps his eyes on the road, but he knows you’re watching him. You always notice things—little things no one else pays attention to. Like the way his fingers move in time with the music, a habit so ingrained he barely thinks about it. Until now.

“Hotch, do you play guitar?” There’s something in your tone—amusement, curiosity, maybe a bit of disbelief.

He shrugs. “I played a little when I was younger. I guess you could say I know how, but I don’t claim to be decent at it.” A short exhale, a shake of his head. “Sean’s always been better at those kinds of pursuits.”

That isn’t untrue. Sean has a natural talent for things Aaron has always had to work at. Music, art, charming the hell out of people. But that isn’t why Aaron stopped playing.

After a moment, you ask, “Have you and Sean always butted heads?”

Aaron lets out a short laugh. “Yes.”

That’s the simplest way to put it. There’s silence for a moment. 

“My dad was right-handed, so I play right-handed,” he admits, voice quieter than before. It’s a non-sequitur, but he suddenly itches to share something with you, something he rarely talks about. “When he taught me, it never occurred to me to try the left-handed way.” A beat passes, then a wry smirk. “He wasn’t exactly the type to entertain the idea of doing something differently just because it might’ve been easier.”

That’s putting it mildly.

He sees you nod, filing the information away in that sharp mind of yours, but you don’t push. Instead, you say, “I’d like to see you play sometime.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, unsure if you mean it or if you’re just being kind. It’s been years since he picked up a guitar for anything more than a few absent-minded chords. Longer still since he played with any real enjoyment.

Then you say, almost absently, “You have a Gibson in your office at home.”

His grip tightens on the wheel for half a second before he forces himself to relax. “It was my dad’s Les Paul.”

He doesn’t know why he keeps it. The guitar is a relic of a man he has no desire to remember and is worth well over ten grand, yet there it sits, leaning against the bookshelf. The same man who once took a young Aaron by the hands and taught him his first chords is the same man who turned those hands to violence. And yet, Aaron has never been able to bring himself to get rid of it.

Maybe it’s proof that his father was once something more than a monster. Or maybe it’s just another burden he carries because that’s what he’s always done.

He doesn’t look at you, but he feels your attention shift—feels the moment when you connect the dots, understand the weight behind something as simple as a guitar in the corner of a room.

You don’t say anything.

And for that, he’s grateful.

Instead, you let the silence settle, let the music fill the space between you. And slowly, as if nothing has happened, his fingers resume their absent rhythm against the steering wheel, tapping along to Happiness is a Warm Gun.

+++

Aaron listens and participates quietly as the conversation drifts between you both. He’s used to the silence that comes with long drives, but he knows that when you have something on your mind, you don’t always jump straight to it. After a while, though, the air feels thick with unsaid things, and he finally asks, “So, who is this guy?”

He glances at you quickly, the question hanging in the air. He can already tell you’re hesitating, unsure whether to share more detail with him. But he isn’t expecting anything specific. His job has taught him that people open up when they’re ready, not when they’re pushed.

You sigh, tipping your head against the seat, clearly reluctant to dig into old memories. “Ugh. You really want to know?”

Aaron shrugs, keeping his eyes on the road. “Of course. Isn’t it protocol to brief the team before arrival?”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, sounding almost mockingly formal, and he can’t help but smile more at that.

You begin to tell him, your words flowing easily now. “His name is Austin. We met in some random general education class and became fast friends. Then we started dating. We were talking about marriage, kids... the whole thing. We were together for two years.”

The weight of it all hits him—he can tell it’s not easy for you to talk about, and yet you’re doing it without hesitation. He listens, letting you pace yourself, because he knows that’s what you need.

You pause for a moment, and Aaron glances at you, catching the small frown forming on your lips. “Then I went abroad for a semester… When I came back, I found out he’d been seeing someone else the whole time I was gone.”

The shift in your tone makes something twist in his chest. He knows that feeling of betrayal too well. But he doesn’t interrupt. You need to get it out.

“It’s kind of cliché, I know, but it broke my heart in half,” you finish, your voice a little shaky but hiding it behind humor. Aaron doesn’t push. He knows it’s still there, the hurt, even though it’s been years.

“You handled it better than I did,” he says, keeping his voice soft.

You continue, telling him about how you’ve tried to remain civil with Austin’s family, keeping in touch through other people over the years. Your words drift back to the wedding invitation. “I think his mom sent it. I mostly accepted because I wanted to see her and Austin’s little sister. I miss them the most.”

The warmth in your voice when you talk about them catches Aaron’s attention, and he finds himself focusing more on the things you miss, the parts that matter.

“What are they like?” he asks, genuinely curious.

You smile as you tell him. “Allison is funny—always putting more cream than coffee in her mug. And their mom—she is the best. She had great taste in books. She still sends me copies of her favorites, even now. It’s nice to get something from her every once in a while.”

Aaron can’t help but admire how you’ve managed to keep that connection alive, even after everything. He knows what it’s like to try and maintain ties, even when it’s difficult. He appreciates that you haven’t let it all go, even when it would’ve been easier to cut the ties for good.

“It was good of you to keep in touch,” he says quietly, a genuine respect in his tone. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, but he doesn’t need to tell you that. You already know.

You shrug. “I guess. I mean, I know it’s different, but you have Jess.”

The comparison catches him off guard. His relationship with Jess has never been about choice. He loves her because she’s family, because she took care of Jack when he couldn’t. But if Haley were still here, would he have made the effort?

The difference, he decides, is that you’re kinder, more patient than he is. Jess would hardly be in his life at all if Haley were still here. He had a hard enough time keeping up with Haley’s family when they were married. Keeping up with them after the divorce? There’s no way to know, but he can’t remember much affection between them even before Haley’s father decided to hold him personally responsible for her death.

He’s a little startled when your hand reaches out, resting lightly on his arm. Your hand is a little cold, but it’s nice, almost refreshing. Your thumb traces softly over the skin of his bare forearm. The simple gesture unravels something in him.

“It’s different now, and it would have been different then,” you say, gentle but certain. “There’s no right way to do anything.”

Aaron exhales in a huff, unsettled by how easily you know him. How you always seem to.

“I spent almost twenty-five years knowing Haley,” he says. “You know that.”

“I do,” you reply. “I also know you spent longer than twenty-five loving her. And probably won’t ever stop.”

Aaron feels the weight of your words settle into the quiet between you. There’s no hesitation in the way you say it, no pity—just an understanding and acceptance that feels too easy, too natural. It catches him off guard.

He knows you pay attention, but this is different. This isn’t just observation. This is something deeper, something that makes him feel more seen than he’s comfortable with.

He thinks about deflecting, about making some comment on profiling, turning it into a joke to lighten the moment. He considers arguing, telling you that love like that doesn’t last forever, that people move on, that they have to. But he doesn’t believe that—not really.

Instead, he wonders if he should correct you, if he should remind you that love isn’t what it once was, that time has reshaped it into something quieter, something lonelier. But that isn’t entirely true either.

So many things come to mind, but none of them feel right.

So he exhales, leans onto the center console, and settles on the only thing he can say.

“How do you know everything?”

You rest your head against the seat and adjust so your body is angled toward him. A small smile crosses your face as you take in his profile.

“I dunno. I guess I just pay attention.”

+++

Aaron watches as you exhale, shoulders sagging the moment you step into the room. His eyes flicker to the lone king-sized bed before returning to you, gauging your reaction. He registers the way your breath hitches just slightly, your posture going momentarily stiff. He understands immediately—it’s not what you expected.

It’s not what he expected, either, but it’s fine. There’s a couch, if it comes down to it. He adjusts quickly, out of habit, but beneath that practiced ease, something unspoken lingers—something that makes the space between expectation and reality feel impossibly small.

But years of practice, of adapting to the unexpected, have conditioned him to recover faster. He doesn’t hesitate. Instead, he moves toward the left side of the bed, the side closest to the door. That instinct runs deeper than thought. It’s the side that gives him the fastest access, the clearest vantage point. It’s the side that lets him place himself between any unknown variable and you.

As he sets down his bag, something flickers across your expression, something just shy of startled realization. You follow his lead, wordlessly taking the opposite side, unzipping your suitcase in tandem with him. It doesn’t escape him how easily the two of you move in sync.

He files the thought away before it can settle.

Your small, satisfied smile doesn’t go unnoticed. Neither does the way it vanishes just as quickly, as though you’ve chastised yourself for it. Aaron doesn’t linger on it, though. Instead, he unzips his garment bag and retrieves the suit he had set aside for the occasion.

The moment you look over, he senses the shift in your focus.

“Mind if I take up some real estate?” you ask, holding up a handful of hangers.

Aaron shakes his head, wordlessly making space for you. He notices the way you glance over his suit again as you hang your things. It’s a suit like any other for him, part of the uniform of his life, but this one is particularly well-tailored, undeniably expensive. Maybe you hadn’t expected that. 

When you both finish, he watches as you sit on the bed, sinking down with the weight of exhaustion. 

“What time is our first obligation?” he asks, more to get a read on your energy than anything else.

You huff a small laugh. “5pm Cocktails at the hotel bar for everyone who arrived today. Rehearsal dinner after that is wedding-party-only, thank God.” You glance at the clock, confirming, “We basically have the day to ourselves until then.”

Aaron nods, considering the hours ahead, then meets your gaze. “How do you feel about a nap?”

Something flickers across your expression too fast for him to catch. But whatever it is, it makes his lips curve slightly, his body instinctively seeking relief at the idea of rest. He’s running on fumes. He knows it. 

And yet, there’s something in the way you immediately agree, something in the easy way you say, “I feel great about a nap,” that makes something in his chest loosen.

He doesn’t let himself analyze it.

Instead, he reaches for a pair of flannel pajama pants from his bag, retreating into the bathroom. He changes quickly, splashing cold water onto his face, gripping the edge of the sink as he studies his reflection. 

This is fine. You’re just tired.

He takes a steadying breath before stepping back out.

The room is dim now, the blinds drawn to a gentle shade, leaving a soft hush in the air. You’ve already curled up under the covers, body relaxed, breath slow. He stops just short of his side of the bed, gaze drawn to you despite himself.

Your brow, usually furrowed with thought, is smooth in sleep. Your hands rest loosely in front of your face, fingers curled slightly. He watches the way your breath moves evenly past the curve of your lips, steady and undisturbed.

Something in his chest tightens.

He knows he should slip under the covers properly, let himself rest. But the thought of shifting the bed, of disturbing whatever delicate balance exists in this moment, makes him hesitate. Instead, he carefully places his jeans back in his duffle bag and stretches out on top of the covers beside you.

His body is heavy, exhaustion pressing into him, but his mind refuses to still.

He lets his eyes close, but sleep does not come immediately. Instead, his thoughts remain preoccupied—not by the case files in his briefcase, not by the endless to-do lists or the weight of responsibility.

But by the quiet phenomenon beside him, the simple, inexplicable comfort of your presence.

This should not feel as natural as it does.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. But even in sleep, he drifts toward you, drawn by something he isn’t ready to name.

+++

Aaron stirs, the warmth of your hands grounding him before he even fully wakes. His fingers are curled around yours, your hands clasped together between them, the smallest space between your foreheads. Not touching, but close. Too close.

There is no memory of how this happened. No recollection of seeking your hand, of the moment skin met skin. Either he has reached for you, or you have reached for him. He doesn’t know which possibility unsettles (or excites?) him more. A small shudder goes through him.

Of course, this isn’t the first contact you’ve ever made, but it feels different. Hair ruffles and shoulder squeezes and hugs for comfort are one thing, but this is entirely another.

His first instinct is to move, to create distance, to restore the boundaries that have served him so well. But he doesn’t. Instead, he listens—to the even cadence of your breath, to the way his own heart hammers in his chest, an erratic counterpoint to the quiet, and the things that heart says. He tells himself you are still asleep, that you don’t know what is happening, that you won’t wake up and see him like this, so weak and subject to the strength of his feelings and impulses.

And then he watches as your hand shifts slightly, as if in response to his own. You are awake.

A slow exhale escapes him, measured, careful. He releases one of your hands, feeling it drop onto the coverlet, fingers relaxed. He should roll away. He should sit up. But his body betrays him before his mind can stop it.

His fingertips skim the arch of your brow, tracing downward, barely brushing your skin. He follows the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips. He tells himself he is committing your face to memory, as if it is something fleeting, something he will lose the moment he lets go.

His hand moves lower, tracing the line of your jaw, lingering for half a second before he pulls away. His fingers wrap around yours again, grounding himself in the simplest touch. And before he can think better of it, he brings your hand to his lips, pressing the faintest kiss to your knuckles before tucking it back against his chest.

His eyes close, but sleep does not come easily. He is too aware.

Of you.

Of the way his body angles toward yours.

Of the way his heart beats too fast in his own ears. It takes time, but eventually, his breath evens out.

But you don’t sleep.

Your eyes open, and you look at him, really look at him. He can feel it. The quiet study of your gaze, the slow path of your fingers as you trace the angles of his face.

He fights the instinct to react. He knows what this is—knows because he did the same to you only moments ago. He remains still, perfectly still, even as a shock of adrenaline spikes through him.

You know.

You know how he feels about you.

And worse—you know how you feel about him.

His chest tightens, his grip on your hand nearly faltering before he forces himself to stay still. The truth is too much, too soon. He isn’t ready. You aren’t ready.

This is temporary, he tells himself. It has to be. There is no space for this, no space for you in the life he has only just started to rebuild. His time belongs to his son. His efforts belong to his healing.

But even as he tries to convince himself, something inside him wavers.

The new normal is the hardest thing to find, his therapist once told him.

He’s been so sure he could find it on his own. He isn’t sure anymore, especially as your finger rests on the hollow under his nose, just above his mouth. He can hear your breath catch.

It takes everything in him to stay still as your fingers card through his hair at his temples. His breath remains steady as he resists the urge to lean into your touch like a cat, deeply comforted by your gentle touch.

You pull away first, slipping your hand free from his and rolling onto your back. He tells himself the loss of contact is a relief. He tells himself he doesn’t miss it.

You check your phone, the early afternoon light filtering through the drawn blinds. He forces himself to move, inhaling deeply before stretching, shifting onto his back as if he is only just waking up. He laces his hands behind his head—it’s a play at casual, but he mostly just needs to occupy them.

When you turn to look at him, your expression is composed. Normal. Too normal.

“Good afternoon,” you say, and he almost smirks at how carefully neutral you sound.

He lets a small smile play at his lips, refusing to betray what he knows. “Good afternoon.”

You shift, pushing forward before anything can slip between the cracks. “So, tonight.” Your voice is casual, almost too casual. “Do you just want to be ‘work friends,’ or do we want to lean into the whole ‘let’s ruin Austin’s life’ thing?”

Aaron laughs, the sound breaking the tension like the first crack in ice. “I’m comfortable leaning in if you are.”

+++

The cocktail hour isn’t as horrible as Aaron anticipates. He stays close to you, your right hand resting lightly in the crook of his arm, a small tether between you. You hold a glass of wine but he hasn’t seen you drink much, if at all, your fingers idly twisting the stem as you navigate the room.

When your name is called from across the space, he tips his head down to listen as you whisper a quick debrief—names, relationships, a crash course in shared history. It’s impressive, really, the way you move through social circles with ease, offering him just enough to fall seamlessly into step beside you. The person he knows at work—put together, capable, confident—is here, but this version of you is just a little different. A little more put-upon, a little more deliberately engaged.

You’re performing. Just a little.

Which version of you is closer to the truth?

If he were profiling you in this moment, he’d see someone who knows how to navigate a crowd, someone who controls the conversation with quiet grace. But he also knows you’re nervous. He admires the effort you’re making to connect, to meet these people where they are after years apart.

As expected, he plays his role well. Warm, charming, a careful observer, taking his cues from you. He listens as you catch up with old classmates, some you remember fondly, others whose faces don’t stir a single memory. He’s proud when he can recognize the momentary blank look on your face when you don’t remember someone, but you always cover neatly. He nods at the right times, adding the occasional comment where it makes sense, content to exist in your orbit.

“How did you two meet?” The question comes from a woman whose name he catches (Leslie)  but you did not. He resists the urge to smirk at your near-imperceptible pause before you answer.

“We’re in the same department at work.”

The man beside her—Carson, apparently, based on the murmured correction from someone else—tilts his head. “Where is that, again? I can’t remember where you landed after your internship.”

“DoJ, in Quantico,” Aaron supplies helpfully.

“FBI,” Leslie interjects before Carson can fumble through another half-formed thought. “Keep up.”

“No shit!”

A small group gathers now, drawn into the conversation, and instinctively, you shift closer to Aaron. Without thinking, his arm slides around your waist, his stance adjusting to keep you securely within his personal space.

Protective. Steady. Natural.

It makes sense. You have moved closer, and he has responded accordingly. That’s all.

“Shit,” you say, bumping him playfully with your shoulder. “We don’t have our creds on us tonight, so if you get arrested, you’ll have to bail yourselves out.”

“We also don’t have jurisdiction even if we did,” Aaron adds smoothly, his voice low and even, laced with quiet amusement. “So keep it high and tight, and we’ll all do just fine.”

He feels the tension in your body shift—not quite a flinch, but something subtle and telling. A second later, you take a longer sip of your wine than necessary, as if to mask a reaction.

Shouldn’t have said that.

Not with his hand where it is, his chest just barely against your back. Not with how easy it is to stay close to you, to let the boundaries blur just a little too much.

But, again, it’s for the show. A natural response. Just acting.

“There he is!”

The exclamation shatters the moment, and he feels you tense before your head whips around so fast you nearly lose your balance. His grip adjusts instinctively, a steady hand at your shoulder keeping you upright.

That, at least, isn’t acting. Just reflex.

“Thank you,” you murmur, just for him.

He hears you. Of course he does. And before he can think better of it, he presses a light kiss to your temple.

Too much.

“Always.”

Unnecessary.

It sells the image, sure, but it also crosses the line. He justifies it easily—you’re nervous, you need reassurance, and this is the most natural thing to do.

The instinct isn’t for the act, but the justification certainly is. How much more can he get away with, without taking advantage or being gratuitous? You don’t seem to mind, and that’s good enough for now. 

Austin approaches, looking more polished than Aaron expects, with a stunning fiancée at his side and an easy, practiced smile.

Aaron lets you go just as Austin pulls you in for a hug—longer, warmer than necessary. He uses the moment to assess, his gaze sharp as it flicks over the man’s expression. Austin’s focus lingers on you, but there’s something calculating, almost judgmental in his eyes when they finally land on Aaron.

He introduces his fiancée—Madeline—and you, in turn, introduce Aaron.

“Austin, this is my…” You hesitate.

Aaron’s fingers curl gently around your waist, a silent reassurance, a quiet prompt. He’s just as interested in what you’re going to say as Austin appears to be.

You let the implication settle before making a light recovery.

“Aaron.”

That works. 

The smirk threatens at the edge of his lips, but he suppresses it as he extends his free hand. His grip is firm, unwavering, just a touch longer and more of a squeeze than is entirely necessary. He watches as Austin’s expression falters, his jaw tightening briefly before he lets go and flexes his fingers.

“Pleasure,” Aaron says. “Congratulations.”

Austin gives a slightly forced laugh, shaking out his hand. “Thanks. We’re really glad you both could make it. Mom will be really happy to see you.”

Aaron simply nods, his hand settling back at your waist, his touch light but deliberate.

Just to sell it, that’s all. 

+++

“That could have been so much worse.” You shuck Aaron’s blazer off your shoulders and hang it in the closet as he passes behind you. He’d passed it to you when you shivered slightly at the bar, and it wasn’t even a point of conversation. Just instinct. Draping it over you, placing a hand on your back. He’d barely thought about it, but now, watching you slip it off, he kind of wishes you’d kept it on a little longer.

It is both shocking and uncomfortable how much he likes to see you in his clothes, even if it is just stuffy outerwear.

“Thank you for enduring the mayhem down there.”

Aaron sits on the bed and slips off his boots. “I can’t remember the last time I went to a social event that didn’t directly affect my career trajectory.” He looks up at you, and the way you smile at him—soft, easy—makes him feel a little looser than he should. His buzz from two drinks hasn’t quite worn off yet, and he lets himself enjoy that.

You shake your head, walking past him to retrieve your pajamas and toothbrush. “Do you ever want to move up the chain at all?”

“Not really. Something big would have to change to get me to leave the BAU.” He looks at you over his shoulder. “We tried that, remember?”

He had tried, during one of the most trying periods of his life. With every incentive and push, he tried. And it hadn’t stuck. The BAU was grueling, consuming, and unrelenting, but it was also the work that made him feel most like himself. The thought of stepping away—leaving behind the team, the purpose, the sheer necessity of what they did—felt impossible. He knew he wasn’t built for desk work, wasn’t made for a role where he wasn’t in the thick of things, reading people, preventing the worst. Every time he’d thought about moving on, the idea had crumbled under the weight of what he’d be giving up. 

“I do, actually.” At his chuckle, you continue. “I can’t say that’s something I’d like to relive anytime soon.”

You move easily around each other, and he takes more notice of that than he probably should. There’s a comfort here. A rhythm. Changing into pajamas, brushing your teeth, the little rituals of getting ready for bed. He’s seen you like this before, sure—late nights at his house with Jack asleep in his room, movie credits rolling—but this is different. It’s just you and him. No cases, no responsibilities, no excuses.

He catches his own reflection in the mirror, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, letting the fabric stretch over his shoulders as he pushes his hair back. He shouldn’t be encouraging anything, but if you’re looking, he won’t stop you.

Lost in thought, he stares into space for a moment before coming back to himself, preparing everything he needs for bed. 

Eventually, you throw back the covers and crawl in without thinking about it too much, while Aaron lingers in the bathroom doorway, still in his slacks, his shirt untucked, barefoot. 

“I really can take the couch.”

You look at him and pointedly turn off the lamp resting on your side table. “We’re adults. I don’t mind it if you don’t. And for that matter, if either one of us is sleeping on the couch it’s me.”

“Oh?” He asks, amused. “Why’s that?”

As you answer, he reaches for the fresh t-shirt he set aside earlier, slipping into the bathroom and pulling the door while he changes. The motion keeps him busy, gives him something to focus on besides the knowledge that he will be sharing a bed with you–again–this time, separate from the team, independent of necessity and absent professional boundaries or inconveniences. You’re here, with him, settling into bed like it’s normal. 

He hoped, probably somewhat irrationally, that you would let him sleep on the couch. This is an unfair temptation of his ability to repress his feelings. He’s good at it, but he doesn’t know how much longer that skill will hold up to continued stress before something snaps.

“Because as you so astutely pointed out earlier, I am significantly younger than you, and I think my back will fare better than yours after a night of lumpy cushions.”

The bathroom light flips off, and he scoffs in the dark. “Never once did I say significantly younger.”

“Well, Aaron, ‘before your time’ is rife with implication.”

He chuckles as he moves toward the bed, sitting on the edge and putting his socks on. He’s stalling. The king-size bed feels small, almost claustrophobic. 

“You know what? Nevermind. I forgot who I was talking to, and I would hate for you to go full-tilt lawyer on me.” You curl up, bringing the covers to your chin. He laughs, and he knows, in that moment, that if he let himself, he could get used to this.

He flips the covers back and forces himself to lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He’s rigid, his hands resting lightly on his chest. He makes an effort to unlock his knees, but it takes some work. 

Don’t get comfortable.

Why not? She’s right here.

Because she’s your friend. Because this is temporary.

You’re both quiet for a little while, listening to each other breathe in the dark. Then a sigh—yours. He catches it too late to figure out what it means. 

“Are you okay?” His voice is softer in the dark and he turns on his side, facing you. You nod. He can hear your head move against the pillow, but he’s not sure if you’re being honest. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

You pause, then, carefully, “Yeah, I’m fine. I just—I really can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’re here with me this weekend.”

That shouldn’t hit him the way it does. He reaches out, tentative, and when your hand finds his, he lets himself hold on.

“Of course. I’m glad I can be here for you.” He means it. You trusting him like this, being this open, it’s something he won’t take for granted. “Thank you for letting me come.”

I’d like to let you come—

Jesus Christ.

What?

Read the room.

He swallows the thought and keeps his voice steady. “With that in mind,” he continues, “I’m really proud of you. And not in a ‘I’m your boss and you’re making significant progress’ way. As your friend, I’m really proud of you.”

Your friend.

That’s what he is.

That’s what he needs to be.

That’s what you expect.

He can hear the fondness in your voice when you reply, “Goodnight, Hotch.”

Hotch.

Not Aaron.

He takes a deep breath. He doesn’t correct you. “Goodnight.”

He belatedly realizes you’ve avoided accepting the compliment. 

+++

Aaron wakes slowly, the weight of his arm around your waist both grounding and comforting. For months now, he’s woken from these moments with a lingering sense of peace, only for reality to rush in and steal it away. He hasn’t dreamed of Haley in months. It’s you. It’s always you. And he’s long since stopped trying to deny what that means.

It’s always like this in the best dreams.

He exhales slowly, nuzzling in. His breathing matches yours, slow and steady, as the warmth of your body sinks deeper into his, and the scent of your skin fills his senses. There’s something about this moment, the way you fit against him, the way you’re tangled up with him, that feels like the best part of every dream he’s ever had.

His eyes flutter open, and for a moment, everything feels like it’s been pulled from the world he visits in his subconscious. But then something shifts—the warmth beneath his palm, the way your fingers brush against his in sleep. And the realization hits him like a punch to the ribs. The softness of your skin against his, the quiet rhythm of your breathing, the way your hair smells like something impossibly familiar—he’s not imagining it. He’s not dreaming.

For a brief, disorienting moment, he doesn’t recognize where he is, but it all comes back to him fast enough. You’re tangled together—his knee between your legs, his face buried into your shoulder. He feels you breathe, slow and even, your body molded against his like you belong there.

The feeling sends a wave of warmth through him, and the last vestiges of sleep fade. His first instinct is to pull away, afraid that you’ll wake and find him draped over you like some kind of ridiculous backpack. 

But as his mind clears further, reality sets in with an almost physical weight. He’s not sure how he’s gotten here. Last night feels like a blur of quiet conversation, laughter, and unspoken tension, but here you are, wrapped in his arms as if you’ve done it a thousand times before.

God, what am I doing? 

The thought is sharp, cutting through the haze in his mind. He tries to pull away, but he can’t. His body refuses to listen to the voice that tells him to stop—to retreat, to keep the distance between you that’s always been there.

This is wrong, he tells himself. But the longer he stays, the more that little voice feels like a lie. He’s wanted this—wanted you—long before he ever admitted it. You’ve been there in his dreams, in his thoughts, in places he never thought he’d let anyone reach. But now, with you here, so close, it feels too much like something he’s been afraid to face.

You’re here because you want to be, he tells himself, even though the thought makes his chest tighten. The last thing he wants is to ruin this by overthinking it. But how can he not? He’s tangled up with you, wrapped around you in a way that feels natural, but still entirely new. Your breath on his skin is soothing, but it’s also a reminder of how close you are. The thought shakes him, unnerving in its simplicity. 

You, with your vibrancy, your youth, your life ahead of you... how could you possibly want someone like him? He’s older, with baggage that comes with the territory - a dead ex-wife, a son, an irreconcilably difficult relationship with his work. He’s seen the toll of his career on his own soul, and he’s no fool—he knows he can’t give you the things someone your age deserves.

And yet... he can’t picture a life without you. Whenever he looks ahead, you’re there. You’re part of it.

You shift in your sleep, and the movement makes his body react in ways it shouldn’t, as if it’s betraying him on purpose. Morning wood was always inconvenient, but he can’t deny that his body has a good reason for reacting the way it is, this morning. He can’t rightly blame his body or his brain for this one, but he can mitigate the issue. He swallows hard, trying to keep his thoughts in check. This is foolish. He’s being foolish. But the pull of you, the way you trust him enough to let him in this close, it’s all too much.

Quit while you’re ahead, Hotchner. 

He tries to shift away, slowly, gently—careful not to wake you, though your soft protests make it clear you’re not fully asleep. The last thing he needs right now is a reminder of how real this moment is.

A shower. That’s what he needs. Something cold. He picks up his toiletries and makes his way to the bathroom, locking the door behind him for some semblance of space, of control. He starts the water and palms himself, trying to relieve the uncomfortable pressure insistent and painful between his legs. 

Hotch braces a hand against the cool tile, his other already wrapping around himself with a practiced ease that borders on shameful. The heat of the water is nothing compared to the warmth of your body still lingering in his mind, the phantom press of your back against his chest, the way your fingers had laced so easily with his in sleep. He bites back a groan, jaw tightening as his strokes fall into a familiar rhythm, one he knows too well. This isn’t new—he’s had years of practice burying his want for you in moments like this, years of pretending that letting it out like this will make it any easier to ignore in the daylight.

But this time, it’s different. This time, it’s not just a fantasy. This time, he has the memory of you in his arms, your scent in his nose, the knowledge that, even unconsciously, you reached for him just as much as he reached for you. His chin falls down to his chest, breath stuttering as he pictures what it would be like if you weren’t just beside him in sleep but in this, too—if it were your hand, your touch, your voice whispering his name in the quiet. He grits his teeth, trying to hold back the rush of it, but it’s no use.

The release comes fast, sharp and overwhelming, and for a moment, it’s everything. But then it’s gone, leaving him panting under the spray, the guilt creeping in at the edges like it always does. He lets the water scald his skin for a moment longer, trying to drown out the truth of it.

He’s fucked. He’s completely, hopelessly fucked.

He takes another breath and turns the spray to a shrinking cold. Serves him right. 

When he finally emerges, he’s grateful for the cold that follows, the chill of the bathroom driving out the last of the thoughts that have been clouding his mind.

He doesn’t expect you to be awake when he returns, but he hears your soft chatter and typing before he even opens the door. He’s aware of your presence, as always, and of the tension in your voice as you speak to someone on the phone. He leans toward the door, his fingertips pressing with the lightest of touches to hold his weight as he eavesdrops. 

He can’t even bring himself to feel a little bad. 

And then he hears your voice.

“…he’s just here because he likes to owe me favors.”

Hotch pauses, and huffs out a quiet laugh. He can’t even be annoyed because, honestly? That’s funny.

He can’t hear the response, but he does hear you when you say, “My God, Em. Would you quit?”

Ah. So it is Emily.

“I’m not going to do anything about it because there’s nothing to do anything about...Don’t give me that...You have absolutely no proof...I don’t care if you’re a profiler or not, there is no way you can say with any definitive certainty—”

Your voice drops, too low for him to catch the rest over the hum of the bathroom fan.

With a frustrated huff, he ties the towel around his waist and ventures out, entirely aware of his state of undress.

And if he enjoys the way your voice falters at the sight of him, well—he doesn’t owe Emily a damn thing.

The sight of you, trying to pretend you’re unaffected, makes something in him tighten.

You’re not as unaffected as you’d like to think. Neither of you are.

He catches the faintest hint of a smile as you try to recover, but it’s gone before it fully forms, replaced by the distraction of your laptop, your fingers flying over the keys.

“Yeah, for sure,” y0u reply, still determinedly typing with a little more force than necessary.

Hotch smirks to himself as he pulls on his shirt, taking his time with the buttons. He may not be able to hear Emily’s exact response, but your reaction tells him everything he needs to know. The sharp click of your typing, the force behind your words—he’s spent enough time reading you to know when you’re flustered. And if Emily is pressing you, it means she knows it too. She reacts to sexual tension like a shark with blood in the water. 

Emily must say something in reply, as you retort, “Emily, you know I’m not going to dignify that with a response.” 

He’s not blind. He knows he’s at least somewhat attractive for a man in his early forties—he keeps in shape (his mile time and bench max are better than they were in his 20’s, in fact), his suits are finely tailored, and he’s been told more than once that the whole “stern FBI unit chief” thing works for him. But knowing you think he’s attractive? That’s something else entirely.

And it’s more than enough of an ego boost to wash away any lingering guilt from his… activities in the shower. Because really, can he be blamed? When you look at him like that, wide-eyed and breathless, struggling to pull yourself back into focus?

No. No, he absolutely cannot.

He bites back a knowing smile as he reaches for his tie, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. You’re still determinedly avoiding looking at him, fingers flying over your keyboard like it’ll somehow drown out the conversation entirely.

Poor thing.

He almost feels bad for you. Almost.

In the bathroom, he decides to forgo the tie until it’s time to leave for the ceremony, leaving the top two buttons of his white dress shirt undone. He notices that something on your computer must be riveting, because you don’t look up at all as he returns to the suite. 

+++

Austin's family had clearly spared no expense for the ceremony or the reception. The moment he and you had walked in together, arm-in-arm, he could feel the weight of the event pressing down on you. You’d chosen seats near the back, on the groom’s side.

He knows this is strange for you—this wedding, this man who was once supposed to be your future. But you aren’t sitting beside Austin now. You’re sitting beside him.

Aaron doesn’t miss the way your eyes flick over him when you think he’s not looking, the warmth in your gaze when he adjusts his tie—the tie that matches your outfit, as promised. He had seen the way you watched him put it on earlier, how you’d ducked your head with that little smile you always tried to hide. He pretends not to notice, pretends it doesn’t stir something in him, but it does.

The ceremony itself is a blur. He follows the motions—standing, sitting—but what he notices most is you. You rest your head on his shoulder, playing the role. But when you take a shaky breath, he knows it’s more than that.

You don’t love Austin anymore, not even close. But he recognizes that look in your eyes—the quiet ache of knowing time keeps moving, that you are married to nothing but work. He knows because he’s felt it himself.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear.

You nod. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About?”

You shake your head, pressing your temple deeper into the fabric of his jacket. “Later.”

For a moment, just a moment, he lets his cheek rest against your hair. He isn’t worried, not exactly, but he’s never seen you like this before—existentially untethered. It unsettles him, not because he doesn’t understand it, but because he does. And there is nothing he can do to make it easier for you.

+++

At the open bar, you snag a glass of wine for yourself and two fingers of whiskey for him—good whiskey, because of course you would—when an older woman embraces you with unmistakable warmth.

Aaron watches as you break into a genuine smile. “Hey, Laurie,” you greet her, embracing her with an ease he doesn’t often see from you. He knows exactly who she is—Austin’s mother, from the ceremony. He doesn’t need to hear your words to know that she means something to you.

He doesn’t eavesdrop, exactly, but he can tell the woman is pressing you for information. When she gestures toward him, he schools his expression into something neutral, waiting for you to answer.

With a long-suffering sigh, you grab the drinks and make your way back to the table, the woman in tow. Aaron watches your approach, the amusement flickering behind your carefully composed expression.

“Aaron,” you say, placing the whiskey down in front of him, your hand resting briefly on his shoulder.

He turns, catching the way you glance at him before stepping aside. He stands, extending his hand. “SSA Aaron Hotchner. Thank you for having us. I’ve heard so much about you and your family.”

“Oh no, that can’t be good.” Laurie laughs lightly and takes his hand in both of our own. “Laurie Miller. As I’m sure you know, I have a great amount of love for this one here.” She releases Aaron’s hand and tucks you into her arms again, kissing your cheek. You laugh. Aaron smiles. 

“C’mon, Laurie. You don’t have to lie for my benefit.”

Aaron takes his seat as Laurie settles across from him, and you lean forward on your elbows, watching as he answers her questions. He doesn’t talk about their work often, not outside the team, but here, away from the weight of the job, he lets himself. He tells stories—ones that won’t bring the room down—and watches as Laurie hangs onto his words.

When he glances at you, he sees something shift in your expression. Something that almost makes him forget what he was saying.

“...Preventing loss of life is always rewarding, and our team is a family.”

Laurie nods, clearly enamored. “It’s so lovely you have so much fondness for each other. I imagine it makes everything much easier.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “It does.” He lets the words sit between you for a second longer than necessary before your phone buzzes, pulling you away.

You excuse yourself with a hand on each of their shoulders, your touch lingering on his just a second longer than necessary. He watches you step away, lifting your phone to your ear. “Dean, you bastard!”

Aaron huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he turns his attention back to Laurie. He picks up where he left off, but his mind stays on you, lingering at the edges of his thoughts.

Her expression shifts, her gaze turning knowing as she studies him. “So,” she says, resting her chin on her hand. “What exactly are your intentions with her?”

Aaron exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “We’re just colleagues,” he answers honestly, though he knows that’s not the whole truth.

Laurie tsks, tilting her head as if she’s seeing straight through him. “I beg to differ. I’ve been watching you two. The way you look at each other.”

He doesn’t quite squirm, but he feels a warmth creep up his neck. “She’s important to me,” he admits carefully.

“Of course she is,” Laurie agrees, her smile soft but pointed. “I just think you should consider how important she is to you. And in what way.” She pauses. “Just don’t break her heart and you’ll do just fine.” She smiles a cheeky, knowing smile. There’s a little pain behind it. “Trust me, I know.”

Aaron doesn’t have a response to that, and Laurie simply pats his hand before shifting the conversation elsewhere. But the thought lingers, settling somewhere in his chest as he watches you, framed by the doors to the balcony. 

+++

When the dancing starts, Aaron’s anticipation reaches his nervous system in a way it hasn’t in a long time. He finds himself chuckling when Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I’m Yours) starts to play. He thinks of what Dave said earlier, about letting himself have a little fun, and for once, he’s inclined to listen. Maybe he will seize an opportunity tonight. 

Old dog, new tricks?

With a confidence and certainty that only feels partially for show, he stands and offers you his hand. There’s no hesitation when you take it, and only after does it seem to dawn on you what he’s doing.

“Hotch, you can’t be serious.” You stop in your tracks, and he tightens his grip just enough to keep you tethered to him. There’s amusement in his eyes as he looks back at you.

Of all the things to say to me, of all people…

“When have you ever known me to be otherwise?” He tugs you forward, and you fall into his arms with an exasperated huff. “Humor me. Just one, and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night.”

Your skeptical look is well-earned. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because I’m lying.”

You give in, and when you do, something shifts. He keeps you both to one side of the dance floor, mindful, careful. The push and pull of movement is familiar, natural, and his grip on your waist is steady, grounding without constraint. There's laughter—his, yours, mingling with the music—and the ease of it catches him off guard. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this, the quiet joy of sharing something simple, something good.

Your tension eases gradually. He notices the way your fingers stop gripping his shoulder so tightly, the way your steps become more fluid. He catches sight of Austin across the dance floor and, in an instant, recognizes the way your eyes dart away.

“Hey.” His voice is low, nearly teasing.

Your eyes snap back to his. “What?”

“Relax.”

“You’re one to talk,” you scoff.

With a smirk, he spins you out, then pulls you back in against his chest. “I’m plenty relaxed. You, however, are tense.”

Aaron's heart pounds in his chest, and he's sure you can feel it. Whether it's from exertion or something else, he's not sure. He’s pushing the line now, taking liberties. 

In for a penny…

You sigh, relenting. "It just feels weird."

“What does?” He turns you again, your hand landing lightly over his heart as he pulls you close once more. His hands are politely centered on your back. Now that is a liberty he’s not going to take.

“I just—” You hesitate, then push through. “I don’t love him in that way anymore, but it’s strange to think I ever did. That I thought he was it for me. And now he’s with someone he loves, and both of our lives just… kept going after we split, you know?”

He nods. “I do.”

And he does. The memories of Haley—of their love, their pain, their loss—never truly leave him. But right now, for the first time in what feels like forever, those thoughts aren’t heavy. They don’t weigh him down. Instead, there’s just this—just you, warm in his arms, laughing as he spins you under his arm. The sound of it tugs something loose in him, something he hadn’t even realized was so tightly wound.

When you return the favor, spinning him under your arm, he lets out a surprised laugh, bright and uninhibited. The song shifts into something slower, and he doesn’t let you go. Doesn’t even consider it.

Your head comes to rest against him as you sigh, exhausted and content.

“Thank you for being here with me.”

The words settle in, warm and unexpected, and something in him softens. When he speaks, it's quiet, but certain. “Of course.”

Nowhere better. 

+++

By the time you both retreat upstairs, Aaron feels something he hasn’t in years—genuine lightness, unburdened by the usual weight he carries. His suit jacket had long since been abandoned, leaving him in rolled sleeves, a loosened tie, and an altogether uncharacteristically unkempt appearance. He carries it slung over his shoulder, holding onto the collar with a single finger. He leans against the wall, his ankles crossed. He’s the picture of ease.

“You look positively rumpled, Agent Hotchner.”

The teasing lilt in your voice makes him laugh, a sound he’s only now realizing has come freely tonight. “It’s past my bedtime.”

“You don’t have a bedtime.”

And it’s true—he hardly sleeps on cases (or at home, for that matter), and you’ve seen him function on nothing more times than you can count. But here, in this moment, he feels the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from stress or overwork, but from something simpler, something warmer. Something that could actually inspire him to sleep soundly, for once. 

You turn away to sort through your belongings, and Aaron watches for just a second longer before disappearing into the bathroom to shower.

When he returns, his hair damp, you’re already asleep—curled up on top of the covers, out like a light. He exhales softly, flicking off the last of the lights before making his way to your side of the bed. Carefully, he peels back the covers, shifting your legs beneath them, then your torso. You stir, your fingers curling around his wrist before he can pull away.

His breath catches, his eyes closing for just a moment. Then, gently, he slips his hand from yours.

And when he finally slides beneath the covers, you instinctively curl into his side, your leg hooking over his. He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t move away. He only lets out a quiet sigh and allows himself, for once, to enjoy the comfort of something good.

+++

Aaron watches you sleep, your face tucked against his chest, your breath warm and steady against his skin. He should wake you soon—checkout isn’t far off—but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to. His arm tightens slightly around you, as if that will keep this moment from slipping away.

Your body is curled into his, trusting and unguarded. He tells himself it’s just the circumstances, that you’d be this way with anyone who made you feel safe. But something deep in his chest twists at the thought, and he wonders if he’s being selfish, holding onto this feeling for just a little longer.

The morning light filters through the curtains, catching in your hair, casting soft shadows across your face. You shift slightly, murmuring something he can’t quite make out, and he freezes, barely daring to breathe. But you settle again, your fingers lightly curling into the fabric of his shirt. He lets out a slow breath, relief and something else washing over him in tandem.

He wishes he could have this every morning—waking up warm, wrapped in quiet moments before the world intrudes. But joy like this isn’t for men like him. He knows better than to reach for things that aren’t meant to last.

Still, he lingers, allowing himself just a few more minutes in this fragile peace before reality calls you both back. He tips his head back against the headboard, letting himself fall into the fantasy where this is his every morning, waking up with you in his arms. 

Get over it already. Jesus. 

He’s still looking at you, memorizing the peace on your face, when your eyes crack open. Your eyes flicker up, meeting his with a surprise that doesn’t seem all that unwelcome. 

“Good morning,” he says. 

Best to start simple. 

You tuck your face back into his chest. He takes the opportunity to pull you closer, hold you a little tighter. “I’m sorry - I’m clingy when I sleep.” 

His laugh sings over the crown of your head. “It’s alright. I don’t mind.” 

Too much? He freezes for a moment, but you haven’t pulled away. 

“What time is it?” You crane your neck and look at the clock on his bedside table, but he’s sure his arm is blocking the eyeline. He’s not inclined to move, so he just answers. 

“Just before nine. We have an hour before checkout. Want to get packed, grab some breakfast, and head out? I’ll drive.”

“You drove here.” You shove at him and sit up. He lets himself fall back as you leave the circle of his arms. He’s not imagining it–you’re much readier to make contact now than you were before. Sometime during the weekend, the contact became less taboo. 

The zings of electricity that jump through his skin when you touch him haven’t stopped though. He hopes it never does. 

He shrugs and tells the truth. “I like driving.” 

I am also a control freak. But you knew that. 

“I won’t argue with that.” 

You sigh, stretch and stand. You miss the way Hotch’s brow crumples as a sliver of your skin becomes visible as your arms stretch above your head. He very purposefully keeps his back to you as he gathers his things, tidying up and hiding the rather unfortunately timed hard-on. While you’re in the bathroom, he changes with practiced haste, using a trick he hasn’t needed since college - the old flip into the waistband move. Minimizes adjustments, maximizes suffering. Especially in jeans. Serves him right.

You switch places, letting him brush his teeth and shave. He takes your zipped suitcase in one hand, his roller bag in his other. 

“Meet you downstairs?” He asks. 

You nod, smiling. “Checkout should be taken care of, but I’ll check at the front.” 

“Bill me if it’s more than five dollars,” he says with a wink, already halfway out the door.  

He meets you outside, sunglasses on, the sun baking his dark hair. It is rather pleasant outside, even if it is the beginning of winter. “Ready?”

You snap back to attention and give him a wide smile. “Yes, sir!” 

He finds himself loving the side of you unlocked by this trip–the shameless silliness and easy laughter. He hopes it can stick around when they get home. He hopes a lot of this can stick around when they get home, but he knows the magic of being ‘out of context,’ as it were, for a weekend can’t last.

Breakfast is an eventful affair. As soon as you sit down, you get a call from Penelope. 

“Hey, Pen, what’s up?” You look across the table at Hotch with amusement in your eyes, and he smiles, still digging into his eggs benedict. He is starving, the ver corner of a hangover at the edge of his eyeline. He only had two or three drinks, but his metabolism isn’t what it used to be. 

“Oh, well we’re just at breakfast,” you say, “almost on our way back. My laptop is in the car, can I take a look at that for you when I get home?” 

He studies you behind his sunglasses. There’s something intangible that changes in your demeanor when you’re omitting something - he’s seen it in the interrogation room. He’s almost certain Penelope wants you to spill. 

There’s a small part of him that idly wonders how many details you shared in advance of this weekend. 

With a laugh at Penelope, you reply, “Of course. You know, it might be easier if you just stop by - I’ll text you when I get home and we can do dinner or something.” You push your food around your plate. 

Is that… disappointment? 

For what, though?

You put your phone away as Penelope appears to abruptly hang up and shake your head. “She’s very predictable.” 

He nods, looking at you from under his brows. “Indeed.” 

You both continue to dig into your food, not realizing how hungry you are from all your antics the night before. His phone rings next, and it’s Jack. 

“Hey bud!” 

“Hi dad!”

God, he loves that boy. He has no idea (okay maybe some idea) of how he turned out so great so far. 

“You having a good weekend?” He asks. 

“Yeah! I saw that rabbit again!” 

Aaron smiles. “I’m glad buddy.” 

“What’s all that noise?” 

Aaron looks up, finding a dog barking on the sidewalk, a leafblower going strong across the street, and the sounds of the hotel valet drivers tossing keys and getting people checked out. “We’re at a wedding this weekend, remember? We got to go to a big party last night, and we’re driving home today.”

“Did you have fun?” Jack asks in that polite way only children can. 

“Yeah,” he looks at you, “we did have a lot of fun.” You smile, crinkling your nose at him. He smiles back. “I’m so glad you had a good time with Aunt Jess and the Brooks cousins this weekend.”

“I did! We ice fished, too!”

“You got to go ice fishing? That’s so exciting! Did Grandpa take you?

“Yeah. He showed me how to put bait on and everything.”

“Awesome, bud.”

“I gotta go, Dad. We’re leaving to go…” Jack must have pulled the phone away from his mouth, because all Aaron hears is ambient noise of an entire house getting ready to leave. 

“Sounds good,” he says uselessly. “I’ll call you when I get home, okay?”

Jack returns to the receiver. “Love you Dad!”

“I love you too.”

When he puts his phone away, you ask, “How’s he doing?”

“It’ll be a fight to get him home, that’s for sure.” 

You take another bite of your food. “How are things with Haley’s family? Any better?”

Isn’t that the question of the hour. “Not at all. I’m not sure there’s much I can do, at this point. Jess does what she can, but her dad is...not a fan of mine.” 

Aaron vividly remembers the cold fury in Roy’s eyes at the funeral, the icy conversation they had after the service. Roy’s feelings about the whole affair–Haley’s murder, his role in it–is clear. Aaron’s responsibility for her death is one of the few things they agree on, these days. But even that isn’t enough for a functioning relationship. 

Like you can read his mind, you say, “I know you know this, but none of this is your fault.” He can tell just by looking at you that you mean it, which is very kind of you. 

Kinder than he deserves, surely. 

He doesn’t want to get into it with you again, so he just says, “Thank you.”

+++

Hotch lets you pick the music on the way home, and doesn’t say a word when you sing along (sometimes good, sometimes bad). He secretly enjoys your karaoke-esque abandon in the car. He catches himself smiling more often than not. 

At a certain point, you turn the music off and sit back in your seat. 

Uh oh. 

This feels like a preamble to something.

“Yes?” He asks. 

“I know I keep saying this, but thank you for coming with me this weekend.” Your body shifts toward him. He can see out of the corner of his eye that your attention is glued on him. If he didn’t like it so much, it would be unnerving. 

“You’re welcome.” He glances at you before looking back at the road. “Thank you for trusting me not to embarrass you in front of people you haven’t seen in almost ten years.” 

You smile a kind of lopsided sort of smile. “You could never embarrass me.”

He frowns playfully. “That’s not true.” He’s sure he has, in fact, on multiple occasions. 

“You are exceedingly upstanding, and you just got your hair cut, so the odds are in my favor.” 

“Hey!” He self-consciously runs a hand over the back of his head. He did get a haircut before this weekend, but he was sure you hadn’t noticed. You reach over to shove at his shoulder and he laughs, letting himself get jostled. 

“I’m kidding! I like it long, though.” You look over fondly at him. Something grows warm in his chest and his lips turn up at the corners, almost without his permission. “It was longer when I first met you, remember? You started keeping it shorter after the div - well, after.” 

He quirks his brow, the corners of his lips upturn just the smallest amount. “Nobody ever accused you of being unobservant.” 

And ain’t that just the coldest truth. 

You grin widely at him and turn the radio back on. 

+++

Aaron has never been more reluctant to pull into a driveway in his life. Yours, specifically. He slows more than he needs to, as if delaying the inevitable might somehow change the outcome. But real life is waiting for both of you, and pretending otherwise is just another cruelty he’s allowing himself.

He turns off the ignition, and for a long moment, neither of you move. He can feel the weight of everything left unsaid hanging between you. Maybe you don’t realize it, but he does. He knows the exact shape of it, the way it’s been growing, pressing in at the edges. And still, he sits in it, selfishly, because soon he won’t have the luxury.

You sigh, and it feels like a cue. He follows you out of the car, circling around back without thinking. He should just let you take your own damn suitcase, but he doesn’t. Carrying it is another excuse—one more fleeting moment before the goodbye he doesn’t want to say.

At your doorstep, you fumble with your keys, and he thinks, just for a second, that if you never got the door open, he wouldn’t have to go. He sets your suitcase down, but his hands don’t leave it right away. They ache with restraint. You get the door open and take a few steps inside. 

Then, before he can stop himself, he reaches for you. Covers your hands with his own. He shouldn’t, but he does. He shouldn’t lean in, but he does. The kiss he presses to your cheek is light, barely there, but it lingers between you all the same.

“Thank you for inviting me.” It’s not what he wants to say. Not even close. What he means? 

Thank you for letting me love you, like I would. Like I want to.

But it’ll have to do for now.

You nod, but your smile is tight, your lips pressed together. You feel it, too, don’t you? This thing neither of you are naming. He swallows and lets you create distance. He can scarcely allow himself to hope. It’s not fair to hope. 

He’s not sure if it’s more unfair to you or to him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He steps back because he has to. Because if he doesn’t, he’s not sure what he might do.

Something regrettable, no doubt.

“Bye, Hotch.” Your voice is steady, but he knows better. “Thanks again.”

He turns before he can look too long at the way you watch him. He pulls on his sunglasses, a weak shield, and opens the door, looking at you over his shoulder. “Anytime,” he says, and it’s the biggest lie he’s told in years.

He is proud that he only looks back once, to see you waving with the tips of your fingers, peeking out behind the door, as he follows the stone path back to the driveway. The walk feels miles long, the distance between you stretching like a reflection in a funhouse mirror.

You disappear inside when he reaches the edge of the poured concrete. He waits until the door closes before he exhales, before he rubs a hand over his face and forces himself back into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t start the car right away. He sits there, gripping the wheel, knowing that for the first time in a long time, going home doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like loss.

Fuck.

+++

tags: starting fresh! hit up the spreadsheet if you want to come back to the taglist :)

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also persephone saying she hates the fruit—emphasising that the love between her and hades is real

the pomegranate popping up to signify the death of a lover -- euridicye buying one at the super market the day she dies almost not really thinking about buying it, the camera pulling back as charon chokes on his own blood to see the fruit already cut and eaten on a bedside table-- but when it shows up in zeus' vision there is no one else there with him his lover is his godhood/empire

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every august without fail is like i will give you some of the most beautiful golden summer moments of your life but also you will be thinking about childhood and loss constantly. it will always be either 5pm or 2am

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pillow talk

Aemond Tagaryen x reader

Summary: Aemond's wife is upset when Prince Regent does not pay attention to her, so she takes the matters into her own hands.

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: Mostly fluff with some mild suggestive content, just something quick!! Requests are open for more Aemond—we can never have too much of Aemond, tbh.

“Are you too busy for your wife, my Prince? Or shall I say Prince Regent?” You raised an eyebrow at Aemond, the slight smirk on your lips not quite reaching your eyes.

“I must finish reading this, wife.” Aemond did not look up from the papers he was bent over, not even deigning to answer your teasing.

You rounded the bed with a disappointed hum, taking in the figure of your husband; he had already shrugged off his leathers he was fond of wearing during the day, his sword and daggers discarded around the room. Now remaining in his linen breeches and shirt, he had even thrown off his eyepatch in an annoyed huff; beneath his furrowed brows, the sapphire gleamed in the candlelight that illuminated your chambers.

Careful to not disturb the papers strewn on the bed, you sat down next to him, head tilted to the side. “Urgent matters?” You asked, though you had a feeling that you knew the answer. 

Being named Prince Regent had placed a great burden on his shoulders—those very same shoulders that were now tense as Aemond bent over the papers, the very same shoulders you loved to run your fingernails over as he made love to you.

Your husband only hummed in response. You tried not to feel hurt—you understood it, after all; how much he had waited for this moment, to finally be in charge, to finally have power over the way the Realm was ruled, and yet…

And yet.

You still felt hurt by the way his attention had shifted off of you completely—even when he shared your bed at night it was to spend couple hours in fitful sleep, he would come to the bed long after you had already fallen asleep and would often be already awake and busy with his duties long before the sunlight would break through the windows. 

“Aemond…” You sighed, lips pursed in annoyance. “Have your duties not disrupted our lives enough? Must they join us in bed also?” 

“Just a moment more,” His low voice trailed off, his focus on the papers unbroken; it was all-too-clear that your words had not even registered with the Prince Regent. 

You looked at him for another moment, watching the way his jaw tensed and the way his eye trailed the words of some war report or another from the Realm. He was bent over the documents, his long, unbound hair falling off of his shoulder like a silky curtain. 

“Fine, then.” A huff escaped your lips. “I am going to bed.” You blew off the candle by your bedside before laying down, your irritation with your husband growing rapidly as he still did not grace you with a single word or look of acknowledgement. 

You laid there for a moment, listening to the crackling of the fire and the occasional shifting of papers.Any other night the sounds, accompanied by the deep, steady breathing of Aemond, would have lulled you to sleep—but not this time. Not this night, certainly not after having been all but ignored by your husband for days on end. 

Unable to stand the silence and Aemond’s treatment of you any longer, you knew you had to do something, anything to finally snap him out of his deep focus. Quietly, your hand trailed to Aemond’s side of the bed, your fingers gripping the edge of his pillow. You held your breath for a moment, a silent debate ongoing within you, trying to estimate his potential anger and your chances of finally getting some quality time with your husband.

Your desire for the latter greatly exceeded your fear of the former—so you did what you had to do. You smacked Aemond’s tense shoulders with his pillow. 

Aemond’s hands stilled as a moment stretched between the two of you. His head turned towards you ever-so-slightly, brows still furrowed. “Did you just… hit me? With a pillow?” He asked, incredulous. 

You shrugged at him. “Whatever else was a displeased wife to do? Seemed like the tamest of the options I considered.” You raised an eyebrow, a gesture of a slight challenge. 

Aemond let the paper clutched in his hands fall back onto the bed, blending in with the rest of the documents. In a flash his slender hand was wrapped around your ankle, you let out a shriek as Aemond pulled you towards himself; suddenly the previously monumental duties were forgotten as his hands travelled the length of your body rapidly, teasing and tickling at every turn and moment. 

A wicked glint was in his eye as he rendered you a breathless mess—laughter came out of your lips in gasps as you tried to hold onto his arms in a vain attempt to stop him. “Aemond—I,” you breathed, “Stop, I’m sorry, stop!”

Accepting your retreat Aemond stopped, pinning your hands above your head, a slight smirk still playing on his lips. “You cheeky, insolent thing,” he chastised, leaning in as he hovered over your figure on the bed. “However shall you pay for this, wife?”

“I think I already have,” your chest heaved beneath him, still smiling as you tried to catch your breath.

He looked at you for a moment, his eye tracing your face with a careful look—one that was hungry to take in every little breath you take, every little expression on your face. His smirk faded, leaving its place to a look that seemed…apologetic, almost.

It was such an unfamiliar look on the handsome face of your husband, it sent a sudden pang of ache through you. You tilted your head a little to the side, taking in his pensive expression, the way you could practically see him process his thoughts and figure out the best way to express them. Such an intimate knowledge this was—to know Aemond so well was a privilege no one else had… Not a single soul in the Realm but you.

“I suppose,” He began, tentatively. “I suppose I have not had much time for you, as of late.” His thumb rubbed the skin of your pinned up wrist; it was still unbelievable, how the smallest of Aemond’s touches managed to affect you so monumentally. 

“Any time, more like,” You offered with a pout, his gaze immediately falling to your lips.

He hummed, a low and guttural sound—his sombre air tinged with desire set a flame burning in the pit of your stomach. “Then I am the one who should make it up to you.” 

Aemond’s head dipped down, pressing a long kiss to your lips. He let go of your pinned wrists in favour of his hand cupping your cheek, his other hand running down your side to tighten on your waist. He pulled you closer, deepening the kiss, his weight pressing down on you. One of your hands sneaked into his hair while the other wrapped around his shoulder—you held onto him as though if you let go, the world would shift from underneath you. 

He pulled back slightly, reluctantly, to inhale, his eye never leaving your face. “Are you truly displeased with me?” He asked, his voice tainted with a vulnerable insecurity that never surfaced outside of the confines of your chambers. 

“Aemond,” you sighed, raising your face to press a kiss to his jaw, then to the corner of his mouth. His eyes fluttered close at the contact, your name tumbled out of his lips as a plea, as a prayer. “I have missed you is all. I am not vexed with you.” 

He looked into your eyes deeply, looking for any signs of insincerity or deception; he nodded once, twice, when he only found unwavering affection. Aemond dipped down to kiss you again and again, the first one being heart-achingly tender. 

“There was…” You said in between kisses, “a matter of making it up to me?” 

“Indeed,” His kisses trailed down your skin, his lips finding the spot connecting your neck to your shoulder. “I am in your service, dear wife.”

Your head tilted back almost instinctively, overcome with the desire to give him more access to you—to give him everything and anything he asked for. 

“Tell me what you want,” he breathed as his kisses continued to trail down, his gravelly voice reverberating against your skin.

“You,” a small gasp escaped your lips as his hand caressed the length of your leg, travelling up, up, up until he reached his destination and squeezed in triumph. “No more teasing. I just want you.”

Aemond pulled back with a satisfied little smirk that widened when you whined at the absence of his touch and his kisses. “As my dear wife wishes.” 

He looked down at your figure sprawled on the bed with a distinct hunger in his eye—like his appetite would never be sated, no matter how much he devoured you, like he would never be able to get enough of you. 

As he took off his white shirt, revealing the toned slender figure beneath, you knew one thing: Prince Aemond was going to take his sweet time giving you all the attention you desired and demanded from him—that is, at least, until the morning rays brought back to the mind the weight of duty and Crown alike, until your new reality returned.

You pulled Aemond down for another kiss, letting the taste of his lips ground you to the moment—you felt aflame, your skin flush and fingers tingling with longing to touch, to feel, to hold. It was magic; it was a blessing, a curse—to want someone so much, to be rendered half-mad with just a look, a touch, a gasp. 

Damn duty and the Crown, you thought hazily as Aemond pressed a kiss to the spot above your heart—they could wait their turn. In this moment, Aemond was all yours, unburdened by the troubles of ruling the Realm, by the waging war. 

In this moment, Aemond was all yours—and you would cherish every second of it.

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Can you please write a fic where Aemond's wife wacks him with a pillow for not paying attention to her. Playfighting turns steamy.

Anon you have a wonderful brain. I'll get to that immediately!

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my love for aemond singlehandedly brought me back to write one-shots on tumblr lmao. does anyone have any prompts/requests?? please send 'em my way!!!

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Louise Glück, Poems 1962-2012 / Cynthia Ozick / Adonis, tr. by Khaled Mattawa, from ‘Celebrating Childhood’, Selected Poems / Gregory Orr, from “Origin of the Marble Forest” / Rainer Maria Rilke, tr. by. C.F. MacIntyre, Sonnets to Orpheus / John Boyne, The Absolutist

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hold on a second man…

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you ever feel like you were born with something rotten inside you and if people get close enough they’re gonna find out

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stepped on a plum (overripe plum) (barefoot) it was on the driveway got out of the car and accidentally (didn't know it was there) stepped on the plum (warm) (on the ground) (it had fallen from the tree) barefoot (no shoes) wearing long pants (too long) (need to hem them) plum viscera got on them (the pants) unexpected plum on the driveway (hot plum) (97 degrees out) already super hungover (throwing up all morning) (should not have been driving at all) and I stepped out of the car (black car) (97 degrees out) and onto the plum (unexpected) (didn't know the plum was there) and it burst (plum nightmare on my only good pair of sweatpants) still we find ways to keep ourselves going from day to day

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haunted house uquiz by streetlighthalo

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“It is late now, I am a bit tired; the sky is irritated by stars…I love you, I love you, I love you…”

— Vladimir Nabokov, in a letter to his wife Véra (1926), Letters to Véra

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What she says: im fine

What she means: the average age of conception over the past 250k years is apparently 26.9. Let's round it down to 25. Think of your birth mother. Hold her hand. Imagine her holding hands with her mother. Within 4 people, you're back in time 100 years, and it's an intimate family dinner. Just after WWI. Add another 16 people, a small party of 20, and you're in the 1500s. Double it, twice, and you're at 80 people. Your family would fill a restaurant, and you're at the height of the Roman empire. At 100 people, Confucius is alive but Socrates has not yet been born. 100 people. That's a medium sized wedding. A small lecture theatre or concert. 200 people, probably the biggest party i could ever hope to host, takes you back 5000 years. The guests at your soirée of parents would be contemporaries of the Egyptian and Indus Valley civilisations, although you'd probably be too busy fixing drinks and nibbles to talk to all of them. Just imagine it. 200 of you. That's all it takes to get back 5,000 years. And we could go further. 1000 people, a decent sized concert, a large high school, and we're at the end of the last ice age. Your ancestors are comparing their pink floyd vinyl with music played on instruments carved from wood or bones of long vanished species. Wander through the crowd. See your own features and phrases and gestures refract out like a kaleidoscope. What would they make of you? What do you make of them? Why does it feel so unfair that even that first 100 years --that small family dinner of four--is out of your grasp? Maybe it's because questions of spatial distance have become negligible to us now. why, oh why, does time hold out against us so stubbornly