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bludemons · 2 years ago

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Rome I love your work and I’m super sorry people are being rude to you, I was wondering if you would do an Aaron hotch X reader where reader comes out as nonbinary and Aaron maybe comforting them while on their period and having dysphoria (if your comfortable with that) thanks! ❤️❤️❤️ -anon

I am so so so so so so so honoured to have written this for you anon. I am so sorry for the wait, I can only hope after all this time I’ve done your request some justice.

Pairing: Aaron hotchner x afab!nonbinary!reader.

Word count: 7.7k

Warnings & A/N: Mentions of gross bathroom stalls. Mentions of menstrual blood. People address reader with she/her pronouns before they come out. Mentions of injected drugs and other canon-typical grossness. Mentions of assault/violence/murder and druggings at nightclubs. Inadequately proofread. That should be all! Please enjoy <;3

No one on the team could have expected this, for a simple opportunistic killer in the nightclub scene of New Orleans could have stretched on for five days and left the BAU without a lead to follow. Everyone was already irritable enough just given the sweaty, humid air that had blanketed around you all the moment you stepped off the jet. Every team member is now on edge, some five days later, having canvassed every club, hostel and backpacking destination in the city on foot.

For Prentiss, Morgan, Reid and Hotch, this has sent them into profiling overdrive. They’re throwing out complicated theory after complicated theory trying to think so far outside the box they’re almost losing sight of the facts. Annoyingly, it seems like you just need to wait for more bodies to drop, hoping the killer will slip up, that they’ll do something of any meaning.

JJ, Rossi and yourself appear to be the only ones willing to accept the fact that this unsub is actually managing to evade all your efforts, with probably no knowledge you’re even looking for them.

It’s 1:15 in the morning now, if the unsub is at the clubs again, you’ll have a body showing up by 7am. You’ve already tried bargaining with Hotch for the team to just get some rest and hope some evidence arises, but he won’t quit. You’re exhausted. Your back aches, there’s a dull pain behind your temples, pulling at your last resolve as you bury your head in your hands, unable to listen to Reid presenting yet another theory that this unsub is using drugs that are completely undetectable to take down their victims.

“Spencer! Stop it. There’s no sign of needle pricks, tox screens showed NO sign of any drugs remaining in the victim’s systems despite their time of death being as little as four hours prior to the bodies being found. The only thing in their systems was alcohol! That’s it.” You snap, tired of hearing him circle around the same idea for over an hour now, knowing his specialties are in physics and engineering. Not human physiology and pharmacokinetics. Because those are your background.

“Actually, the bodies have all been found at least four hours and thirty minutes later, so-” The boy genius leans forward, gesticulating with his hands, clearly preparing to lecture you in your own area of expertise and that does it. Without a word you push yourself up out of your seat, leaning over the desk to make sure he can see how little patience you have left for him constantly trying to correct you.

“Reid. Correct me based off of something you read in the textbook I wrote one more goddamn time and I will see how far that giant brain of yours really is from your skull.” You point an accusatory finger at him as in the corner of your eye, Hotch and Morgan each rise from their seats, moving towards you, clearly both at least a little intimidated by the set of your brows. You mean business.

“Woah, woah, woah. Mama. Let’s just calm dow-” Morgan grabs your wrist pointing at Reid and brings it down to your side where you tear it from his grasp.

“Would you stop calling me mama?! And do not tell me to calm down.” You try to level Derek with another glare that could burn holes in his head if you tried any harder. A hand lands on your shoulder, gentle, from behind you. Pulling you back ever so softly away from the table. You follow the direction of the hand you recognise as Hotch’s, letting him direct you out of the room, where you’re met with the alarmed faces of the local police department’s entire night crew. They all return to their work, and you’re reminded of how sternly your face is still set. You make an effort to relax your jaw as Hotch leads you into an empty office without a word, closing the door. You stand still, eyes on the ground, expecting to be yelled at as you realize how exhausted you are, every muscle in your body providing almost no resistance to the force that wants you to lay down on the linoleum floor and cry yourself to sleep.

“Are you okay?” is all Hotch can string together to ask you right now, you’re clearly very volatile and on edge. He just can’t figure out why. His mind is reeling with a thousand scenarios of you having been drugged or assaulted in some way in a nightclub just like these, and the thought makes his heart sink.

You finally look at him, noting the genuine concern and a hint of confusion behind his dark eyes. His thumb skating across his knuckles at his side seems to confirm your theory that he’s worried about you, not upset. The tenderness of his voice asking you the question is enough to make your chin wobble, your eyes welling up seemingly out of nowhere as you note that you definitely are not okay. You just don’t know why.

“I’m, I don’t know, Hotch, I’m so tired, I feel like gravity is working against me, my back hurts, my head is throbbing and my-” That’s when it hits you, your stomach has been churning for hours, a thrilling mix of starvation and nausea despite you eating the same order of food that’s sustained you a thousand times before. Oh. Oh. Your period. God. This is so embarrassing, you’ve just threatened two of your coworkers for being even more dedicated than yourself at solving this case, and you’ve completely made a fool of yourself now, crying in front of your boss like a victim of some terrible thing.

“Your..?” Hotch offers, trying to get you to finish your statement.

“I, um. I think I know what’s wrong. I just, I just need like fifteen minutes to go… wash my face and get some air. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry, Hotch.” You wipe your tears with your sleeve and try to offer him a reassuring smile, but his face is nothing short of perplexed. You’ve gone from screaming to crying to comforting him in under four minutes without any prompting at all. He decides that he’s just going to have to keep you by his side for the rest of this case, to make sure you really are just overworked, and that this isn’t something more personal.

“Alright, Y/N. I’ll head back to the briefing room, please, take your time. I think Reid’s going to want to apologize in no fewer than a thousand words. Morgan will be okay, but. Just, don’t come back until you’re ready… If you need the night off-”

“No, Hotch, really, I don’t. I just need a moment. It’s okay.” You don’t want to be that weak, someone who gets their period and is suddenly unable to help do your job, when there are people being killed, slaughtered, and you can’t find their killer because you’ve got some cramping? No.

You can see Hotch doesn’t really seem one hundred percent convinced you’re fine after your sudden outburst, but it’s late and he probably doesn’t have the energy to fight you on this. At this point, he just hopes you haven’t been freaky fridayed with some much less tolerant individual, you really weren’t acting yourself tonight.

“I’ll be right outside if you need… anything.” He gives a wave of his hand on ‘anything’, trying to really drive home the notion he’s here for you in whatever circumstances you’ve found yourself in.

“Actually, do you think you could send Emily in here for a second?” You realized your go-bag is at the hotel and you have exactly nothing to help you with the imminent bleeding. You subconsciously give Hotch the biggest, most watery puppy dog eyes he’s ever seen, and his heart melts. Of course, of course he’ll get her for you.

“Emily? No problem. I’ll grab her now.” He offers you a small smile, only sparing a moment’s thought as he walks out the door as to why you need her help, not his. He decides once again that you’re more than capable of knowing what you need. He’s offered his help, that’s all he can do.

When the door clicks shut behind him, leaving you alone for the first time all day, your shoulders fall. You shift from one foot to the other feeling your back yelling at you to just lay down. You hate this part. It’s the worst part of all. The anticipation, your monthly reminder of who you are forced to be, looming right in front of you. When you can feel your grasp on your emotions slip away just a little bit and those little voices in your head gain a little too much power. The thoughts of how your body doesn’t look anything close to who you feel you are. Your chest is even more prominent in your life, aching each time you move too quickly, or worse, when you put on the kevlar vest, and your already tender chest becomes a constant reminder of how people see you. As a woman. Your stomach bloats no matter what you eat, and you feel even curvier than normal, wanting nothing more than to put on your baggiest clothes and crawl into a dark bed and just sleep.

You can deal with the usual levels of dysphoria well enough, you’re known as just not being particularly effeminate. You wear looser clothes and the tiniest bit of makeup, and you feel like yourself. Each time Derek treats you like you’re not made of glass, smacking a hand into your arm like he would with a guy friend. Each time rossi invites you to taste his new whiskey with himself and Hotch, knowing you’re not as much of a wine person like Penelope and Emily. Whenever Spencer is confident and open enough to freely be himself with you, knowing how nervous and closed off he tends to get with women. In those moments, you don’t need any labels, you don’t need to feel like you’re some kind of imposter, or in the wrong body, it doesn’t matter. You’re just, you.

But every month or so, nature sends you the most blinding reminder of who you are, of what you were made for.

A knock on the door brings your head back out of the clouds, as Emily gently pushes the door open.

“Hi, Em. How’s spencer? And Derek?” you ask, cringing at how you sound like the one who just got yelled at for trying to do your job. Like you’re owed an apology.

“They’ll live. They really do need to learn to give you a bit more space. I think everyone’s tired, I can’t blame you for snapping.” You love Emily’s honesty. Knowing she’d only ever sugarcoat it for you if you really needed it. “Hotch said you needed me?”

“Yeah, god. I just had to ask if you have any tampons, a pad or anything?” You try not to sound so embarrassed. You know this is a perfectly normal biological function. It just feels like a cruel touch of fate to always drag you back to an identity that never fit you.

“Sure do. Here, I’ll get it from my bag, it’s on the way to the bathrooms.” Emily opens the door for you to walk with her back through the room the team’s set up in. You feel too many eyes following you as you enter the room. You keep your head down, trying not to have to look at any of the prying eyes or leveling stares you’d find looking back at you. Emily passes you the plastic package from her bag without a word, and you pocket it, padding down the hall to the bathrooms where you start taking deep breaths.

Looking at your face in the mirror, you can’t stand the sight. You put makeup on this morning, in some attempt to keep up a facade with the team, you were overcompensating for a tackle you’d made yesterday, you’d seen the look on Rossi’s and Morgan’s faces when you took down a runner during canvassing. Their eyebrows were raised as Morgan put his hands in the air, signaling his surrender. Rossi made some halfhearted comment in the SUV about your true calling being in the NFL.So here you are, playing a part. It’s really just some mascara and blush, but it feels like a thick mask over your face as your breathing comes more and more ragged. It’s 2am and your makeup is smudged anyway, the stray mascara making your eyes look darker and even more exhausted than you really are.

You groan, turning the water on in the sink as you start scrubbing the masquerade off of your face. If you’re already going to be hot and temperamental, you should at least be able to freely rub your eyes without worrying about your precious mascara smudging.

You finally manage to clean the black stains from your face when the cramping starts. You feel a hundred twisting knots inside of your uterus begin pulling you to curl into a ball. You put the toilet lid down, sitting down on it with a groan as you let the tears slip, bringing your shoes onto the rim so you can bury your face in your knees. The waves of pain start to come closer and closer together, each spike in your abdomen joining together until it feels like a mass of barbed wire has lodged itself inside of you.

You’re sure you’re reaching the worst of it when you start hearing whimpers escape your mouth at the stabbing sensations. You’re freely crying now, partly due to the pain and partly due to the embarrassment of this whole situation. How desperately you don’t want this to be happening, this isn’t you. This isn’t your body. This isn’t right. Your shoulders are shaking now with the momentum of your crying.

You barely have time to lift your head up when a hand against the door cautiously opens it, large strides through the small staff bathroom before a tall figure crosses the open doorway of your stall. You almost miss them, your tears clouding your vision as the figure pivots, taking a step back into the doorway.

“Y/N?” You’ve never heard Hotch’s voice so delicate, so laced with concern as the figure shrinks in front of you. You rub at your eyes, trying to clear the pooling tears so you can see him better. He’s crouched down to your eye level, his thumbs moving over his knuckles as his jaw clenches and unclenches, his eyes scanning your entire body for any signs of injury. “What’s the matter?” His hands fall around your shins where your feet rest on the lid. His thumbs begin rubbing over your legs so carefully you feel like you could just melt into his touch. Warm hands reminding you of where you are, of who you are.

“It’s s-stupid, Hotch.” You sputter out, a cry tearing through you as your eyes squeeze shut, another wave of pain in your stomach clawing at your insides.

“I don’t care if this is because a tellytubby died, it isn’t stupid to me if it upsets you.” The genuine care in his voice, the pools of concern in his eyes drawing you in, you don’t know what did it, but the next thing you know you’re pulling him up by his shoulders towards you.

Your boss finds himself kneeling either side of a toilet, in a unisex police station bathroom. A puddle of unknown origin soaking into the knees off his $300 slacks, his arms wrapping around you while your hands find purchase on his dress shirt and you bury your forehead in the crook of his neck. He’s shocked to find that he couldn’t care less about the surroundings, his hand finding the back of your head to hold you close to his aching heart. He’s desperate to know what’s happened to you, but he will kneel here until his knees lock if it means you’ll tell him when you’re comfortable. If it means you’ll stop crying. He feels a part of him physically ache every time a cry escapes your lips.

“It’s gonna be okay, Y/N. You have my help, through whatever this is.” You tug at his shirt harder, a shaky breath escaping you as his hand rubbing up and down your back soothes your mind. You don’t know why Hotch has such a comforting effect on you, but his presence has always been so calming to you. Even now, you’re hysterically crying in a bathroom and he’s the only thing able to draw you out of your own mind, making you able to see past the pain.

Your breaths start to come easier with each swipe of his hand up and down your spine. You let go of his shirt, smoothing it with your palms and he pulls back to look at you, finally seeing the pink paper package rustling in your hand. Oh. The penny finally drops, and he can understand why you were so volatile earlier. What he doesn’t yet understand is what’s changed, why are you so upset now? He resigns to the fact that he really can’t judge how you’re feeling, having never felt it himself. He refuses to draw a line in the sand as to what kind of response is appropriate for the level of pain you’re in. His hand keeps rubbing at your back, even as you sniffle and he pats at his breast pocket, finding there’s no handkerchief there because he discarded his jacket hours ago. He instead uses his free hand to tear off some toilet paper from the dispenser, offering it to you as a tissue.

You take it rather bashfully, wiping at your eyes and nose as you look down at the floor. This situation is so embarrassing, and the waves of pain are still making you well up.

“Hotch?” You keep your eyes glued to your shoes, almost digging into the flesh of his stomach where he still leans in close to you, right where you had held him.

“Yes.” He doesn’t skip a beat before responding.

“D-do you think you could take me back to the hotel?” Your chin wobbles as you feel just ridiculous asking, but another bolt of pain through your insides reminds you why you had to.

“Of course. I’ll just go pack up my things, did you just have your coat and your satchel with you today?” You nod, unable to respond. “Okay, I’ll be back in five minutes, just, hang tight.” He untangles himself from you, letting out a tiny groan as he stands up, straightening his soaked knees under him and closing the stall door for you this time, striding out of the bathroom.

You make quick work of putting the pad in your underwear, wincing through the pain of standing up and maneuvering your pants off and back on, but once you’re seated back on the closed lid of the toilet, you can breathe easier, still teary eyed from the pain but hopeful that you’ll soon be able to get some rest. Hopefully the exhaustion you can feel sinking into your bones will outweigh the pain and allow you some rest. You’ll have to buy more pads, though, the one won’t last you long. You know how heavy the flow is on the first few days, you’ll need more supplies to even make it through the night.

God, and now your male boss is driving you home. You’re going to have to ask him to let you out at a convenience store so you can grab some. Hopefully he doesn’t ask too many unnecessary questions, you guess that’s one reason Hotch will be the perfect companion for this. He won’t try to talk just to fill the stretches of silence, badgering you with questions about work or about the nitty gritty details of your apparent breakdown. You cannot even imagine having to have this conversation with Spencer or Derek, even Penelope tonight. As much as you love them all, they would either ask a hundred senseless questions, or try to make some jokes about periods to lift your mood. This isn’t really something you want to be reminded of.

Not that that’s their fault, it’s really yours for not telling them the truth about what you’ve been feeling for a long time. You’ve been sure of who you are for a while now, and you just haven’t been able to find the words to spit it out. You’re sure it’s been less than a perfect secret, after all, a team of highly skilled behavioral analysts from a range of backgrounds and training styles ought to be able to piece it together, even a little, right?

You’re pulled out of your thoughts when the external door opens with a creak, a light knock on the bathroom stall as you see a familiar pair of oxfords plant themselves on the opposite side of the stall. You pull the door open, standing with a wince, trying to stand as humanly as possible, but you can’t quite straighten your back without tearing up again. You actually see the moment Hotch’s expression falls, any morsel of hope he had that you’d no longer be in pain melting away before his eyes as he places an arm across your shoulders, helping you walk beside him slowly back into the precinct. You once again expect to face your entire team but your brows draw together seeing that they’ve vanished already.

“They were pretty excited to get a few hours sleep when I said we’re calling it a night. I think they’ll be very grateful to you for changing my mind.” You turn to look at him as he speaks, only now taking notice of how close your face is to his own. From this distance, your tearful eyes are able to see the hint of hazel in his as they search your face.

“I’m glad this is helping someone, I guess.” You say, still regretting the fact that you’re slowing down the investigation of a serial killer over a little cramping. But as you two start slowly walking out of the precinct, ignoring the sideways glances from all the deputies on the night shift, you’re hit with more waves of sharp, twisting pain and you let it go.

Hotch’s hands keep reaching out to catch you as you insist on heaving yourself into the SUV alone. You try to ignore the hot feeling that spreads over your skin each time his hands move to guide you. He closes the door, careful to make sure your legs are safely tucked inside the car before rounding the hood to the driver’s seat.

Aaron wastes no time getting the car in motion towards the hotel, eyes on the road only flicking to you each time you shift in your seat or let out a quief huff of air as the pain simmers in your stomach.

“Hotch?” You hate how small your voice sounds tonight. Hotch feels it slicing right through his sternum each time your voice cracks with the pain.

“Yes?”

“Do you think we could just make a stop at a gas station or convenience store? Just anything that’s on the way.” Hotch throws the blinker on immediately, preparing to turn left. With your head down you hadn’t seen the glowing sign of the 24 hour service station you were about to pass right by.

“Of course.” The car is in park in no time, Hotch leaving the keys in the ignition as he undoes his seatbelt. “What can I get for you?” He asks, grabbing his phone and his wallet.

“No. Oh, no, I can go in. It’s fine.” “Y/N, I found you sobbing in a filthy police station bathroom less than an hour ago. I don’t really fancy sending you into a seven eleven at 2:30 in the morning alone just to see what’ll happen. So either we both go, or you can sit here in the nice cool air conditioning and relax, and I’ll get you what you need.” You sigh, realizing you do feel much less like crying now you’re cooled down, out of the sticky, humid air.

“I need some tampons and ibuprofen, please.” You avert your eyes, trying to ignore the creeping feeling that you’d very much like to crawl into a hole and wither away rather than to ask your very kindhearted boss to go buy your period supplies.

“Perfect. I won’t be a moment. Lock the doors if anyone comes within thirty feet of you.” He slides out of his seat and strides into the service station.

His senses are greeted with the ice cold, dry air, and the faint smell of hotdogs as he grabs a basket, making his way to the back corner of the store where the freezers are. He grabs a pint of cookie dough ice cream, and some mint choc chip. He’s seen you accept the offering of both of those at Derek’s game nights before. He grabs a bottle of blue electrolyte water, having quite honestly no clue how that’ll help your period symptoms, but at least you’ll stay well hydrated. Especially if you keep crying, god, he can’t stand the dragging feeling of his chest thinking about how much pain you’re in to cry that much.

He throws in a bag of chips here and some m&ms there as he makes his way to the health products. He finds some fast-acting ibuprofen and chooses that without a moment’s thought for the price. He’d give anything to make you feel better faster right about now. He stops in front of the sanitary products, and he looks for the tampons.

His eyes are reading a million miles a minute as he mutters to himself “Light, ultra light, regular, overnight, sport, active, everyday, heavy, ultra max… shit.” Why would there be different tampons for night time?? Is field work considered ‘sport’? It’s definitely active, but how different can that be to everyday? His mind casts back to Haley asking him to pick up the orange pearl ones. Okay, orange is regular. But what if your periods aren’t regular? Is it regular to be so bad you’re crying in a police station bathroom? You can’t even stand up straight, that definitely doesn’t seem regular. But there’s still ‘everyday’ and ‘overnight’? Don’t the two of those alone cover all times of day? Why are there times, weights and activities? This can’t be a build-your-own type situation… right?

His hand drops to the outside of his pants pocket, feeling the weight of his phone there as he looks out the window to the SUV. You look like you might be asleep. Oh god. He can’t wake you if you’re finally feeling calm enough to sleep. Or, no. Maybe you’re crying. It’s hard to see, but either way he doesn’t want to disturb you further by prodding you with questions. The overnight employee is stocking the shelves with baby powder behind him, but he doubts the surly man with a braided beard is going to be of much help here. Crap. He’s taking too long. All you want is to go to sleep and he’s agonizing over sticks of cotton that frankly all look the same to him, but he’s sure it’d be a world of hurt if he handed you some ultralight tampons and you’re more of an ultramax type girl. Aaron. Just choose. Just make a choice. Come on.

He stares at the boxes before him a moment longer before reaching out a hand to drag it across the shelf, dropping an ultralight, regular, heavy, ultramax, sport and overnight into the basket. He sends his curses to the all-boys boarding school he was in throughout most of puberty, having missed many a talk on the monthly goings-on of someone with a uterus. He feels stupid, really, at how quickly his IQ was slashed to a single digit when he was given such a simple task. He’s a father, after all. He’s witnessed every stage of the human life cycle. He knows how reproduction works, he just didn’t anticipate that there are more categories of menstrual bleeding than there are of hurricanes.

He drops a few extra chocolate bars into the bag at the register, ignoring the strange look from the cashier as they scan his six boxes of tampons with a laugh, noticing he has just about every period supply under the sun.

“Y’know, you’re a stronger man than me, I always just avoid my lady that time of the month. They call it shark week for a reason, champ.” He mutters, manually entering the code on one of the ice cream tubs that wouldn’t scan. Hotch feels his face shift into what you call his ‘cyclops glare’, telling him he reminds you of the x-men character that can turn men to sludge with just one withering look. He makes no attempt to hide his sour face when the cashier looks up at him, giving him his total. Aaron pays and collects his bags in his hands before turning to leave with one last look in the man’s direction.

“Funny. Sharks rather like eating invertebrates.” He barks over his shoulder towards the counter.

“Invertey-what?” Hotch smiles as he walks towards the door.

“Invertebrates. Spineless creatures.” He says, watching the glass doors part as he strides towards the car.

Your head lifts from the cool glass window at the sound of the car door closing, Hotch rifling through three grocery bags in his lap. He finds the gatorade, ibuprofen and a kitkat bar, handing you the items before dropping the rest onto the floor behind his seat.

You try to bite down another bout of tears at the sweetness of the action, gulping down some ibuprofen with the cool liquid soothing your throat, chilling you from the inside out. You wear a shy smile as you unwrap the chocolate bar, offering Hotch a row for his troubles.

“No, thank you.” He waves a hand for his troubles but you refuse to take the piece back, holding it out to him until he relents, taking it from your hand gently. You smile wide as you both share the chocolate bar on the short ride back to the hotel.

Once you two arrive, he insists on carrying all the bags for you, and now that you’re feeling even the tiniest bit more human and less like a pincushion, you feel the exhaustion radiating through you. The magnetic pull of the concrete ground on all your bones is almost irresistible at this point, but you know if you walk just a little further to your room, you can collapse in a soft, cushioned, non-concrete bed. With your head lulling towards the ground, Hotch walking just a step in front of you, your eyes land on the bags in his hands. You notice one bag is about to tear a hole, overstuffed with the four, five, SIX boxes inside all trying to poke through. Another bag looks rather colorful, chips, chocolates and your favorite drink inside. The third bag is covered in condensation. It’s clear Hotch has gone very far overboard on your supply requests, or, he’s a diabetic at risk of a blood sugar crash.

“Hotch, did you need some groceries back there?” You ask innocently, hoping he hasn’t blown $70 of his hard earned money on trying to get you to stop crying.

“Um, no. I. Well, I uh, didn’t really know what you might need at the hotel so I just got some of everything. I’m sure Prentiss and Morgan would help you finish off anything you don’t eat.” He’s stopped dead in his tracks, looking rather embarrassed as you rush to assure him he did nothing wrong.

“Thank you, Hotchner. I’m actually kind of dying to pig out and have a picnic on my hotel bed tonight. But, you’ll have to let me repay you for it all. Please.” You try this time to muster up all of the tears you have left, pouting to make your eyes look all puppy-like, hoping he’ll cave and let you get away with anything.

“I can allow no such thing. I feel bad. As your boss I should’ve known that working a nineteen hour day is just unreasonable. I feel kind of like it might be a human rights violation to deny a menstruating woman her sleep.” He tries for a self-deprecating joke, but the last four words hit you like a punch in the gut. He must see your mouth fall into a hard line because he steps closer to you. “Hey, are you okay?” His hand reaches out towards your arm, holding both of your briefcases in mid air, just hovering there in case you need him. Instinct.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just. Well if you aren’t going to let me pay you back, would you at least join me for the picnic in bed?” A breath of relief leaves him as he starts to smile at you.

“Sure. I’d Love to.” Damnit. He instantly regrets throwing the L word at you, you’re his employee, he is being nothing short of unprofessional right now. But he just can’t help but want to reassure you when you’re like this. He’s never seen you cry until today, and he has seen you take a four inch blade to the shoulder before in the field. You’re one seriously tough cookie, which is why he’s so worried having seen you break down earlier.

You both start walking again, you take your room key from your satchel as Hotch holds it out for you. Entering the room, you’re suddenly ashamed to see you left yesterday’s clothes scattered at the foot of the bed. You shuffle in to scoop them up, shoving them into your go-bag as Hotch unloads the ice cream into the minibar. The pain in your abdomen making itself very known as you stand back up and move to pull some clean sweatpants out of your bag, before slipping into the bathroom to change out of your work pants.

“Just one second.”, a nod from Hotch and you close the door. Flicking on the light and fan in the bathroom, you turn to the vanity. Your glazed, bloodshot eyes stare back at you. You can’t help but notice how miserable the stranger in the mirror looks. You try to divert your attention away from the features you most dislike as you slide off your work pants, not wasting a second before pulling the sweatpants up your legs, tugging harder as they stretch to accommodate your thighs and hips. You try to bite down the resentment for how tightly they hug your curves, every inch of flesh there is a reminder of who you are. Of who you’re sick of pretending to be. You drop your face into your hands, willing yourself not to be caught crying in yet another bathroom by your boss.

You flick the light off, opening the door to greet Aaron who’s sitting on the bed. A tray from the kitchenette now filled with bags of all your favorite snacks, and a small mountain of tampon boxes stacked next to your go-bag on the chair in the corner. You see his face fall from relaxed into profiler mode in the blink of an eye.

“What’s wrong?” He sits up straighter, making sure there’s room for you to come fall onto the other side of the bed. You oblige, tumbling onto the mattress with a sigh as you move the pillows to support your already aching back.

“I, just cramps.” you stare at your hands a moment while Hotch cracks open the bag of m&m’s, offering you first pick.

“Y/N, you do realize I taught you how to profile, right? How to read people?” You nod your head, eyes now focused on the colorful beads of chocolate in your palm. “Then you must know I can tell when you’re lying. I can tell when one moment you’re completely fine and the next it’s like you’re forty feet from your own body. Now, I won’t even pretend to know why that is, or what it is that you go thinking about, which forces you into the darkest recess of your own mind. But, I do know that whatever it is, I have your back. If you’re in danger or if it’s stress, anxiety from our work. Whatever it is, I have you…” A flash of worry crosses his intentionally softened features as you meet his stare, his hand freezing in mid air where it was reaching between the two of you. “I mean to say the whole team does. Of course” Hotch says, redirecting his hand into the bag of candies, rattling them in his palm, turning them over with his thumb while he struggles to bring his eyes back to you.

He finds you staring back at him with such a troubling intensity that he thinks you might have something seriously incriminating to ask of him. Then your chin wobbles once more, you close your eyes tight. Taking a deep breath in and out. You steel yourself. Hotch has only seen this look on your face before when you’re about to face an unsub. It’s your armor. It’s the kind of look that will conceal almost any wars waging behind your eyes. He knows it well because he uses it himself. He silently prays you aren’t about to begin an interrogation.

“I feel. Different. To the way people see me. To the way they always have, I guess… I don’t feel like my labels or my clothes or my… pronouns, fit me. I don’t really know if the bureau allows, changes, like that, to be made. But. I don’t think my identity fits me very well. At all. I’m not a woman, Hotch. I don’t feel like a man, either. I think I sort of fall someplace in the middle there, in the grey area. I um… I hope that doesn’t, like, compromise how you see-” A larger pair of hands flies across the space between you on the bed, both encompassing your shaking one. His warmth causes your cold hand to clam up as he carefully relaxes his face, offering you a loose smile.

“That doesn’t compromise any single thing I have ever known about you. You’re still my bravest agent, maybe even more so now.” He squeezes your hand tighter, making sure you can feel his genuine joy radiating through him. “I am so, so happy that I’m someone you’re comfortable to talk about this with. Now. I just want to check I’m grasping this correctly before I go make any incorrect assumptions and, well, you know what they say about when you assume things. So, you feel you best align with ‘they/them’ pronouns? Or they/he? they/she? he/she? I mean you, you don’t have to feel exactly the same way every day of your life, so I could totally arrange a sort of system if you have some more feminine or more masculine days?” Your eyes flood with tears as Hotch talks about making arrangements to accommodate you at work, and you can’t stop them from falling as you try to find the words to answer him.

“Did I say something wrong?” He shifts closer, worry rising like bile in his throat that he might have misunderstood what you were saying.

“No. Not at all! You, you’re just being so sweet to me and I was really ready for like, an argument or I don’t know, maybe more a patient debate because I know you understand these things but I just thought you wouldn’t want to change things at work, or-” “Y/N. I will go and call every Section Chief in all fifty states tomorrow morning if you want me to adjust our M and F tickboxes on every piece of bureau paperwork to a, to fill in the blank or a slider for goodness’ sake. I want you to feel as comfortable as I’m able to accommodate.”

“The tickboxes are okay, they’re just for medical stuff, anyways. And they//them, to answer your last question.” You wipe your eye with the sleeve of your free hand. “I’m not sure I want you to go petitioning the whole FBI just yet. Maybe just the BAU is fine, for now. I at least know all of you are respecting of other identities.” You sniffle as Hotch smiles widely again.

“Well, we can do that. Start small, take on the world later, right?”

“Right” you giggle. Feeling a whole lot better about this whole ordeal. A moment of silence passes as you both just take in what’s just happened. You reel at how well Hotch took the news, how he still looks at you with the same twinkle of amazement in his eye. He still thinks you’re his bravest agent. Although, you’re not sure how the man who stared down the barrel of a gun, took 16 stab wounds to the chest fully conscious, and took down countless unsubs with his bare hands or even a piece of string is saying you’re brave, and he sounds like he really believes it.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a sharp stabbing pain through your insides, that tuft of barbed wire twisting inside of you. A corner of your mind sees the irony of you thinking of Hotch’s real stab wounds and then feeling some of your own, but you push that down. You curl over, trying to assume the fetal position against the stack of pillows behind you as Hotch sits up, moving the tray of snacks out of the way and giving you a pitiful look.

“Ice cream?” He offers, you feel bad he’s so helpless, you know how he hates feeling that way in situations.

“I’d normally use my heat pad but I didn’t bring it.” You wince, feeling the mattress shift around you. You open your eyes as your boss peels the duvet and sheets back, opening the bed to you.

“Slide in. Under the blankets. In the middle, there.” You move yourself slowly, trying not to further twist your stomach. “I want to try something, okay? Do you trust me?” He pushes the blankets over you where you sit stranded, an island in the large bed.

“Of course.” You don’t hesitate, knowing you’d trust Hotch with your life in any situation. He begins climbing into the bed behind you, pulling you back onto his torso where his legs part around your own. You feel his heat encompassing you underneath the blankets, forcing out the cold, dry air conditioning of the room. Your back flush against his front as your head lays perfectly on his chest, and he rubs his hands together tightly in the air in front of you both, the friction between them audible where it sizzles your ears.

“I run really hot so, you tell me if this does anything to help the pain, okay?” He races his hands under the blankets, wrapping his arms around your middle, interlocking his fingers of both hands over your front as you feel the near-steam rising off of him all around you. Much to your surprise, his hands really do feel a little like your heating pad from home as they rest over you gently. A moment passes as his warmth wrapping around your body like silk and the dull thrum of his heartbeat behind your head begin to lull you towards sleep. The only sound in the room is the metallic whirring of the minibar in the corner, and Hotch’s tentative breathing, trying not to rock your head where it lays cradled in his chest.

You begin to drift off, the exhaustion of a nineteen hour work day, the stress on your body from shedding your insides in as a violent bout of cramping and nausea and emotion. You couldn’t even begin to chart the journey you’ve taken across the entire wheel of human emotions in the last three hours alone. It has been such a long day, but you can’t bring yourself to regret it even one bit as your hands come up to wrap around the strong forearm framing your body, and sleep overtakes you.

Hotch lies awake almost an hour longer, his mind reeling with the events of today. He thinks it over and the penny drops in his mind as to why you despise your period so much. Aside from the associated side-effects, he understands why you didn’t just run to Emily or JJ today. Why you refrained from seeking comfort from other women, as a woman. You aren’t one. He can’t imagine getting a scheduled monthly reminder that you’re living in a body different from the one you belong in. Let alone with the added bloodshed and havoc on your emotions, all other bodily functions giving way to the one thing you wish you could live without. He wonders how long you’ve wanted to tell him this about yourself, how many times he’s seen you retreating into your mind, could he have pulled you out sooner? Showed you that there’s safety in the light, with him? In any case, he swears he can feel specks of glitter appearing all over his skin with how ecstatic he feels that you were able to tell him. That you trust him. That he’s the one person you allowed to hold you at your lowest and to support you through the hardest thing he can imagine an agent like yourself having to go through. Subjecting yourself to the scrutiny of your boss, of your peers, is so difficult. He’s never been good at it. But you wear your heart on your sleeve. You are able to be so vulnerable, so honest and so ready for whatever comes your way.

When sleep finally does find Aaron Hotchner that night, he really does believe you are the most admirable agent he’s ever had the pleasure of meeting. Of course, it’s normal for this admiration to taste sweet in his mouth, like honey. It’s normal for this admiration to feel as if it’s warming him from the inside out. It’s normal for this admiration to make his heart skip a beat whenever he looks down and finds this admiration wrapped tightly around his arm, their short breaths fanning over his bicep as his eyes flutter closed. Right?

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