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luveline · 1 year

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𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

You learn how to be someone’s girlfriend. Or, 5 times Hotch raises your expectations (+1 time you raise his).

7k words, new established relationship to established relationship, lots of fluff and some small angst, hurt/comfort, fem!reader, civilian!reader, calls him aaron, basically hotch treating you well

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1. Soup.

"Are you hungry?" Aaron asks, hands at the neck of his shirt as he loosens his tie.

You've never seen him do that. It's a lot to take in.

"A little, are you?" He's lucky that you remember to answer.

His smile lights you up inside and out, a warm, casual quirk. "Famished."

"Should we make something?"

He turns from the doorway and moves into the kitchen. You have to twist on his couch to see his movements.

"No need. I should've asked if you like it, but I made vegetable soup. The kind with mini dumplings."

You look down at your legs and squeeze your thighs together until your knees tap. You're too shy to go and meet him where he's standing, but perhaps sitting and having him wait on you is arrogant. And awkward.

The couch is plush under your hands as you stand. You'd slipped off your shoes at the door, and your socked-feet slide over the tiled floor of the kitchen as you make your way to his side. Aaron lights the stove, atop which stands a tall cooking pot.

"When did you have time to make that?" you ask, soft with awe.

"I knew you'd be coming over. I started it this morning."

"And if I didn't like it?"

He turns his gaze to yours, pot lid held aloft. "Then I would've ordered in for us. You're sure this is okay?"

You've never had somebody cook for you before. Homemade, fresh ingredients, and the intricacy of the dumplings too, it all impresses and amazes you. You feel very special. Like you're worth all the effort.

"I'm sure. More sure if you let me try it."

His laugh startles you for its rarity. "Okay. It's not done," he warns.

"Just to taste it."

He stirs the warming soup with a big spoon for half a minute, the heat on high, before scooping up some broth and holding it above a cupped palm. "It's probably not very hot," he says.

Oh, you think, excited and sick with nerves at once. He's going to feed the soup to me.

Something out of a movie, something you didn't know people actually did for their significant others, Aaron waits for you to open your mouth and offers the spoon. You slurp and feel heat rise to your cheeks at the clumsy sound.

"Aaron," you say, soft and obsessed after you've swallowed, "it's really nice. You made that yourself?"

"I can cook," he says defensively.

You lick your lips, giggling. "I can tell. That was really good. Though it was definitely too cold."

"Mm. It has to cook through some more. Reduce. Do you want to shower?" He puts down his wooden spoon, head tilting to one side gently. He assesses your expression, and brings a curved hand to settle over your cheek. The tip of his index finger kisses the delicate skin under your eye. "No, maybe not. You look tired."

You probably shouldn't say something like that to your brand new girlfriend (you scream internally at the word, every single time since he asked you a week ago) but Aaron speaks factually. You don't think for a second that there's any malice there, any hidden critique. His words shine with concern.

"It's Friday. I'm always tired at the end of the week."

His hand falls to your shoulder. "I can imagine."

"You can go shower, if you like. I'll watch the soup."

"I need one, huh?"

He must know how well-kept he looks even now. You're not sure you've ever seen him dishevelled.

"Definitely need one," you try to tease. It comes out murmur-quiet, and Aaron takes pity and kisses your cheek.

He leaves to shower and you 'watch' the soup — you stand at the stovetop and soak in it's emanating warmth, stirring it every now and then to prevent the bottom from burning. The shower runs muffled from the bathroom, and your mind wanders as it tends to do. It's an undeniable fact that Aaron is naked right now, the thought opening an avenue of images you've been trying not to think about all day. It's your very first time spending the night after a couple of weeks of dating, and now you're together, if Aaron wants to have sex tonight you'll say yes. He's handsome, and his build suggests a certain… tenacity.

His hands would convince you alone. Big hands.

You look down into the simmering pot of soup and smile harder than you have any right to smile. He's done everything right, all the romance; he'd asked you out clearly with no doubt of his intentions, which had shocked you; he'd brought you a bouquet of flowers on your first date, which had delighted you; and he hadn't tried to take you home, which had surprised you.

Modern romance often doesn't feel very romantic. Things with Aaron are different.

Hell, he's so sweet he probably won't make a move unless you make one yourself.

You'd prefer to be squeaky clean tonight, you've decided, just in case. When he gets out of the shower, you'll tell him you've changed your mind.

The shower shuts off. He appears a little bit after that, in new clothes, towel around his neck and feet either side of your own as he sidles in for a damp and quick cheek kiss.

"Sorry I took so long. Are you ready to eat?" he asks, taking the spoon from your hand to give the soup a big, gran stir.

"Actually, could I shower?"

If he's surprised at your changed mind he says nothing, only turns down the heat of the stove. "Of course you can. Come on, I'll show you how it all works."

His 'come on' is accompanied with a guiding hand at the small of your back. You let yourself be guided. The heat of his touch fills your stomach and doesn't abate, no matter how cold you run the spray.

2. Phone calls.

It's the week after that when you're supposed to be spending the night again. You're excited for two reasons, the first and smallest being that he had been what you thought and more in bed, that itself an expectation raised, and it had felt like connection at its brightest — he'd been sweet, and he'd been rough but never, not ever once cruel. A perfect night. The second, and biggest, is that he's honestly just the nicest person you've ever met. He's your boyfriend, a phrase you don't say in front of him because he's admittedly older than you, and you can't imagine he calls you his girlfriend. Partner might be more apt. He's your boyfriend and he's openly fond of you. Openly more than that. It's new to be doted on as ardently as he dotes on you.

He touches you like he can't believe he's touching you. He talks to you like you're gold dust, all smiles and laughs heavy with admiration, and he listens. You've never felt listened to in the way you do when you're with him.

So many conversations are just one party waiting for the other to stop talking until it's their turn. You think, maybe, Aaron would let you talk for hours. He would listen the whole time.

In summary, you're basically thrumming with excitement to see him again. You've missed him some, but mostly you've spent the week bouncing off of walls waiting for the next time you get to talk to him.

His text is disheartening, to say the least.

Hey, honey. I have to cancel our plans tonight. I'm sorry, and I'll explain as soon as I get the chance. Please take care of yourself for me until I can.

It doesn't make you mad. While it is extremely short notice, and your heart hurts to the point of frustrated tears, you know it isn't his fault. He's been clear about his job at the FBI and what that means for you both. How it will without a doubt pull him away from you during dates, the middle of the night, special occasions, the works — this had been after a small disclosure about his commitment to his son, Jack, and how he's a father first — and how it will definitely cause some strain.

"But," he'd said, "I want you, and I want this to work. So if you can be patient with me, I'll try to make it worth it."

He's been successful every time. After he'd cancelled your third date, he'd quickly rearranged it and apologised with a modest but beautiful bouquet of flowers.

Somewhere between the fifth and sixth date, you hadn't seen him for two whole weeks, and every worry you'd had about his intentions had been abated by a steady stream of encouraging text messages and the occasional photograph. Nothing crazy, but sweet things, like the cookies he and Jack had made that night, captioned, I'd save one for you if I thought Jack would let me, or a sunrise in a different state, captioned, This looks like the dress you wore to Lemaira.

Later that night, you're unhappy and frowning still, a small carton of ice cream freezing your fingers to the cardboard and a spoon in your mouth when your phone starts to ring.

You aren't expecting it to be Aaron. You aren't in the habit of calling one another, even though you'd secretly wished he would while he's away beforehand.

It's nearing eight o'clock.

"What time do you call this?" you joke, smiling despite yourself. Again, the excitement that comes with talking to him wells at the surface.

"I know, I'm sorry," he says, sounding very tired.

You slouch down into your couch cushions, ice cream on the armrest, remote for the TV on your chest. You click the volume button down, down, down until the TV's near silent.

"I'm kidding, mostly. Are you okay? I've been a little worried."

Understatement of the century. You know sudden cases of violence often draw him away from Virginia, but this had been sudden sudden. The lack of information had made you think the worst, worse than serial killer and bombers and hostage situations. You'd thought Aaron was in danger himself, and then you'd tried to suffocate that thought. He'd never worry you like that even if he were.

"I'm fine. Sorry to miss you tonight."

"I'm sorry to miss you too," you say, voice disjointed, too earnest. You scramble to hide the depth of your feelings. "Where are you?"

"I'm in St. Louis. Where are you?"

You laugh, curling onto your side with the phone pressed up against your ear. "Where am I? I'm at home."

"What are you doing?"

"I was watching TV."

"Yeah? Did you eat anything yet?"

You think to the takeout you'd bought and shoved in the microwave, not hungry at the time but knowing knowing would be. "Not yet. Why are you asking?"

"I want to know."

"I told you in my text I would take care, Aaron."

"Honey," he says, pet name like a warm palm over your heart, "my definition of taking care and your definition are very different. Promise me you'll eat something."

"Of course I will. Easy promise." You scratch the couch fabric absent-mindedly. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes," he says, the sound of a closing window in the background. "It's awful how much take out I eat. All these cases, there's never any time to cook real food."

"Why, what did you have? And surely there's some uber healthy options out there, like, a chickpea salad-"

"That costs thirty dollars? I'm not struggling, honey, but we both know that's obscene."

You're laughter takes on a giddy quality as you cross your leg over the other, picturing his smile as his laughter echoes breathily down the line. You really, really wish he were here right now and that you were having this conversation face to face. You know he'd smile and try to hide how smug he feels at making you laugh. His hand would reach over any gap to touch some silly part of you, forearm or collar or the skin under your ribcage.

"Are you okay?" You say his name to drive the point home. Your voice is quiet — you're hesitant to offer, worried you're crossing a boundary. "Aaron, I know you don't like bringing it home, but you aren't home, so… I'm here."

"I know. It's nothing I want you to worry about, there's an ongoing situation here, bomb threats coming in quicker than the local P.D can handle. They need us to vet them and figure out if any of them are real."

You think about it for a few seconds, the silence small but not uncomfortable. If you were under that kind of pressure, you'd be hurting. Chest pains, anxiety shakes, a migraine.

"You'll be safe?" you ask.

"Always. I'm not in any danger. And I need to get home, I owe you a Friday."

"You do," you mumble.

There's the creak of a box spring mattress, and the sound of a lamp being clicked. On or off, you don't know. When Aaron speaks, his tone is dulcet and hushed but distinct. You feel it in your chest.

"Tell me about your day," he murmurs.

You lay it all out for him in detail. He can barely reply when you hang up, sleep thickening his affectionate, "Goodnight, honey."

3. His bleeding heart.

"What kind of kid were you?" he asks.

You look up from your notebook, surprised. Aaron has been silent for what feels like an hour now, laid out on the picnic blanket with your sweater bundled up under his head while the sun warms your skin.

"I was…" You let your pen roll into the centre of your notebook and close it. He's laid his paperback flat across his chest. You think he might be very interested in the answer. "It was a long time ago, but I think I was lonely."

He nods like this is what he'd been expecting. "Me too."

It's a gorgeous day out. The sky is a light, bright blue with few clouds. They block the sun occasionally, providing a short and bittersweet shield from the heat. The grass surrounding is shockingly green, rippling in the breeze.

"You were?" you ask. "What were you like?"

"I was quiet."

"That's not surprising," you say mildly.

"No, I guess not."

You abandon your notebook and lay down beside him. Worrying what you look like from this angle, you cover your jaw with your hand and turn toward him ever so slightly to show you're listening.

"I liked affection. I remember my mom used to say I was a siphon for it. I'd be all over her, and she'd have nothing left to give anyone else."

"That's not true," you deny. Every ounce of affection that you given him, he has returned tenfold, and that's inspired a lot of kindness in you, for him and for the world. "You're like an amplifier, if anything."

He smiles to himself and turns his gaze skyward. "I wish we'd met before."

"Me too," you say, leaving little room for debate.

"You're so kind," — he adorns you with each word like a gift, a tiny star of praise — "I think you're the kindest person I've ever met."

He laughs. It's a catching sound, contagious as anything. You giggle with him and shift closer. Your arms touch, your hips.

"Baby," you murmur, almost lamenting, "d'you ever think your ability to see the good in people is- It's indicative of the good in you... You've given more of your life than most to keep other people safe. That's the kindest thing a person can do."

He tangles your hand with his where it had been resting on your stomach. You're pretty sure you can feel every line of every fingerprint as he works your fingers together, a snug fit like one of those wooden brain teaser puzzles: How do you pull these two pieces apart? From the outside, it looks impossible!

"I think I'd be different, if I'd met you before. I'd be kinder," he says.

You can't agree with him. It's obvious who he is. You know more about him now than you ever have before. His late wife, how she'd been the best mother they ever made. His son, and how he moulds Aaron everyday into a better man. His friends, who trust him, who adore him. All these people have a hand in who Aaron is now, and while you wish you'd been around from the start, now will have to do.

"You're plenty kind," you say. Understatement of the century.

"Sorry," he says with a laugh, "With you-" He cuts himself off, head-shaking from side to side as he pulls your joined hands up slowly.

Your arm bends and then turns as he pulls it toward his face. He unlinks your fingers to steer your forearm, aligning it flat over his lips. The first kiss is a surprise, light like the feathered edge of a flower petal, and the second isn't dissimilar.

The third melts you, veritably, the parting of his lips emphasised by the dull scratch of teeth against your pulse, the wet heat of his tongue. Three becomes four, and a final fifth, crescent moons pressed into your skin like he's trying to tell you something.

You've no clue what. You likely couldn't say which way the world turns, not when he's kissing you. Not like this.

Aaron has an acute ability to talk without talking. Hello's and thank you's and I care about you's woven into quick kisses, the swift squeeze of his hand over the slope of your shoulder.

These ones say something you don't want to speak aloud, lest you jinx it.

The sunlight fades. A big grey cloud covers the sun.

"I think it's gonna rain," you say.

A raindrop splashes in Aaron's eye.

"Fuck," he says, which is hilarious, because he never swears in front of you. You hadn't known he cussed at all.

The downpour is slow and then sudden, spitting rain dotting over you both like a fine mist as you stand, a thicker, faster outpouring chasing your heels as you hurry to the car. You realise you can't outrun it even if you sprint, and so you stop, Aaron's hand in yours tugged like a rubber band. He bounces back into your chest with the picnic blanket under his arm, your books tucked somewhere inside.

He doesn't ask what you're doing. He's made the same deduction as you, or maybe he trusts you, or maybe he's indulging you.

"Your hair," he laments.

"Doesn't matter," you say.

You lift your chin up for a kiss. Aaron ducks down to give you one. A raindrop runs down the bridge of his nose to the tip of yours.

4. In sickness.

You insist that it wasn't the rain that made you sick, but honestly there's no way to tell. You'd kissed for slightly too long, and the rain had been surprisingly cold. Now you aren't very well, and you have to cancel Aaron's sleepover.

You hold out as long as you can, but come Friday afternoon it's clear you aren't getting better. You wake to a text from Aaron, two texts, and it makes you smile through shivery coughs.

I can't wait to see you tonight. Do you need anything before I get there? Miss you. Sent 6.26AM.

Is everything okay? Sent 9.17AM.

Usually you'd have answer his morning text within the hour.

Hi, I miss you too, so much, but I don't think we'll be able to see each other tonight. I've got the flu :( I'm sorry. And sorry I couldn't answer your message until now, I was sleeping.

It's another hour before he answers. You rouse from your gross snotty stupor to squint at the phone. It's surprisingly long.

I'm sorry it's taking me so long to get back to you, things are tense here right now. You don't have to be sorry for either, I'm glad to hear you're resting. You could have told me you were sick. Is it okay if I come and see you tonight anyways? I would love to check on you. Don't rush to answer, and call me if you can.

You call him with reservations.

"Is this a good time?" you ask weakly, forgoing a hello.

It takes him a little while to speak. You assume he's leaving a room, closing a door. "Now's fine. How are you?"

"My throat hurts and it's a little hard to breathe, but I'm sure I'll live."

"You've been to see a doctor?"

"It's not that bad."

He sighs. "You sound tired. And sore. Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"

"You don't have to baby me, I'm really okay."

"Have you considered that I'd like to baby you?"

Not really. You can't imagine anyone would want to deal with you. You're a mess, you look awful, you don't smell great, and you're not good company. You can't think of a single reason Aaron would want to be anywhere near you right now.

"No," you say, "I hadn't."

"I'd love to look after you."

"You could be doing something fun with your Friday. You could see Jack."

"Jack's going to Kings Dominion. And Fridays are our day, you being sick doesn't make me want to see you less."

You hadn't said that, but he'd inferred it. Of course he had.

You and Aaron decide that your sleepover will go ahead after all. Or, he persuades you very gently. You spend three hours doing tasks that should only take one. You shower, you clean your room, and you do the dishes. By the end of it you're sweating enough to need another shower but you aren't a quitter, so you open the freezer and stick your head in, hands braced against the refrigerator door.

You're excited to see him. You always are. Too bad you look so wiped out.

It's almost 6.30 when you hear his knock on the door. You'd been waiting for him and started dozing at the kitchen table, your neck a mess of twisted nerves, your hand numb from supporting your head. You shake it out and open the door, sheepish.

"Hi," you croak out.

He has a lot of stuff with him. His familiar overnight bag, a briefcase, two grocery bags, and a bouquet.

"Aaron, why," you moan, covering your face with one hand as you move back down the hall to let him in.

"Not the greeting I'd hoped for."

"I can't greet you, I'll make you sick."

You get all the way to the kitchen and think, triumphantly, that you've escaped his 'greeting'. He puts the flowers down carefully on the kitchen counter as you try to come up with a thank you that doesn't make your eyes burn. The grocery bags are placed without ceremony on the floor, and his overnight bag falls onto the kitchen chair. You watch him unbutton his rain spattered coat, and your triumph fades when he peels out of it and instantly reaches for you.

"Aaron," you mumble, stepping into his arms. He knows you can't say no to a hug, not after a week of not seeing him.

"I missed you," he says, arms around your back, lips at your temple. "You're running a temperature."

"It's not that bad. 101."

"Honey, 101 is bad."

"Not as bad as 102."

"Not as bad as 102," he concedes. You can hear his voice rumbling in his throat, and feel it in his chest and yours.

He takes as much of your weight as he can, leaning back so you're forced to arc forward. Your face slips into his neck, and you're thinking, this is what it's like? To be held, sick, with nothing to give? It feels good.

"Please tell me the next time you're sick," he murmurs.

You definitely will. If this is what it's like, roaming, cautious hands over your shoulder blades, a strong nose stroking lines against your warm forehead.

"Thank you for the flowers."

It's squished against his skin but he hears it. "You're welcome. Do you want me to put them in a vase?"

"I can do it."

"I think that might defeat the purpose. They're a gift, not an extra chore."

"Nobody ever got me flowers before you, so it doesn't feel like a chore at all."

He encourages your face back enough to look at you. You have to mouth breath on him because your nose is all stuffed up, and it is not something you're happy to do. You look down so he can't feel it.

"I'm gonna do something really cheesy, and you can tease me about it later, okay?"

You look at him from under your lashes. "'Kay."

"Close your eyes," he whispers.

You let your eyes shut. Aaron cradles your face in both hands and pulls your face toward his chin, in your rough approximation.

Heat fans against your eyes. He kisses your eyelids, the left and then the right, the most gentle press of his lips you've ever felt.

"It's killing me to see you like this," he says, and you're grateful for the pinch of humour behind it. "Couch or bed?"

"Couch. I wanna watch a movie with you."

"Good. I wanna watch a movie with you, too."

Aaron does everything. You're too tired to notice, but when you're better, you'll add it all up. He makes you dinner and breakfast and lunch and enough for the day after that, too. He trims down all your flowers and places them in a vase on your window sill. He recleans your room, cleans your bathroom, and plays nursemaid diligently. He makes you take your temperature in front of him, and then he fawns and makes you hug an ice pack, stays the night again when he's supposed to go home.

It sucks, but your temperature falls, and when your insides stop cooking themselves you start to feel better. On Sunday morning, when he has to leave, you feel the strange pang of being cared for unconditionally like the wind being knocked out of you. He'd done all of that because he cares about you. He'd wanted to see you fed and well and happy, and he hadn't gotten anything out of it in return.

5. The test-drive.

"Hi, Jack," you mumble, rubbing wetness out of your sleep-heavy eyes. "Good morning."

"Good morning," he says cheerfully, of his father's disposition.

"Did you," — you yawn wide and turn your face so neither of them can see — "sleep well?"

"Yeah, thank you. Why are you so tired?"

Aaron's standing at the stovetop making oatmeal. You stand at the counter beside it, hips touching but facing opposite ways. "I'm still getting used to your dad's bed."

It's true. There's something about someone else's mattress that makes you ache.

"What is it about my mattress you can't get along with?" Aaron asks in good humour, adding a generous pinch of salt to the saucepan.

"It's more comfortable than mine," you say with a self-satisfied laugh.

Aaron pecks your damp cheek and skirts around you to fill three identical bowls of oatmeal next to three identical glasses of orange juice. Jack cheers when his portions are placed in front of him, and he digs in even though it's ridiculously hot.

Aaron had explained once that he's basically trained Jack to eat it scorchingly hot by accident. Years of oatmeal straight off of the hob versus a growing boy with no patience. You watch in awe as Jack scarfs it down.

You and Aaron are doing this thing. You've called it the test-drive in your head. He wants to see how well you and Jack get along, likely, and how well you handle living together, too. (Though you absolutely don't think you'll be moving in together quite this soon.) That's your working theory. He'd asked you if you'd be interested in staying for the week a month ago, and you had, and it had been a dream. This is week two, and it seems to be going just as well as the first.

It's definitely revealing. To see each other's routines. And an adjustment. You have to see all the gross stuff, no avoiding it.

Though stuff you might consider gross he enjoys. Like watching you put on body lotion, he'd loved that more than words could express. And watching him shave, you'd loved that more than you'd thought you would. You'd sat on the lip of the tub and he'd listened to your morning murmurings, half asleep and excited as always to talk to him about everything.

Getting to know Jack more has been a joy, too. You've met him nowhere near as many times as you would've liked and done family things: bowling, pizza places, the movies, a baseball game.

Eating breakfast together is way more fun. Especially because Jack likes you.

As soon as you sit down he starts to tell you about school. You listen, sipping your orange juice while you wait for the oatmeal to cool from lava.

After breakfast, the three of you head back to your respective bedrooms to get dressed.

That's something else you adore, you and Aaron undressing and redressing together in the space in front of his closet, the intimacy of casual nudity, and the way his hand closes around your hip to move you out of the way of his shirts.

You're pretty much inseperable until you get to the car park. A firm believer in kids receiving as much love as they can from everybody, you offer Jack a hug before you part ways everytime. Sometimes he says yes, though most times he says, "Thank you, Miss Y/N, but my hug quota is full."

Today, he squeezes your waist really hard and says, "Have a good day bye," like it's one word.

"Have a good day, baby," you tell him, laughing as he jettisons into the passenger seat of Aaron's car.

Aaron usually gives you a swift kiss and goodbye like his son. Today, he brings his hand to your neck. You stare him straight in his dark eyes as he does, marvelling the shock of straight lashes outlining each one, and the permanent wrinkle between his brow from frowning.

Placing two hands on either shoulder, you use his frame to rise on tiptoes and kiss it.

"Don't frown too much today, okay, handsome? Have a good day."

He cups your face in both hands as your heels touch the ground. His hands are warm, kind as he pushes both palms over your cheeks and your ears. He covers them, and your heartbeat amplifies, a thumping sound fighting his skin. Then he slips his fingers behind your ears and the roaring fades.

"I love you," he says.

You beam at him. "Really?"

"Really. I love you, honey. Have a good day."

As if. If he thinks he can walk away after dropping that on you he's got another thing coming.

You throw your arms around his neck and all your weight into his front, almost barrelling him over. You have to stop yourself from wrapping your thighs around him, 'cause then he really might fall over.

You dig your face into his neck, searching for something, for the perfect place to rest your cheek. "I love you, Aaron."

There isn't a chance in hell he didn't already know it.

"I got you something," he says.

You laugh in surprise and tighten your hold on him. "Why? This is gift enough." He loves you. It bounces around in your chest.

"Because I'm not stupid enough to miss what I have right in front of me."

You lean back so you can kiss him, ignoring his hand as it reaches into his pocket.

"Baby," you say, a hair's width from his lips. You kiss him again for a second, thrilled, but curiosity pulls you back. "You have it now?"

He takes a step away from you and reveals the box in his pocket, long and thin. It clicks open on a silver hinge, and inside velveteen lies a simple chain.

"Is that a diamond?" you ask, breathless. The stone at the end of the chain shines like nothing you've ever seen before.

You don't know a thing about them other than that they're expensive. You can't see Aaron Hotchner of all people buying a fake.

"A small one," he says modestly.

Your eyes burn. You're happy to the point of tears but you refuse to cry.

"And it's for me?" you ask.

He laughs and you laugh too, the sound slightly sniffly.

"Of course. Do you want to wear it?"

"Now? Yes, more than anything," you say, smiling hard, cheeks appled and aching. "Are you serious?"

"More than anything."

Corny, you think desperately. Do not cry, that's so cheesy.

"Are you sure you don't want to wait until my birthday?"

He gestures for you to turn around, the chain hanging from his finger. You turn, feel his hands brushing against your neck as he lays it across your chest and pulls it together behind your nape.

"Your birthday gift is better than this."

Better? You could burst.

The clasp closes and he rubs his hands down the backs of your shoulders.

You turn back around, face dipped to your chest in efforts to see the necklace. It's short but long enough to spot the diamond hanging under your collar.

"I've never had a diamond, before," you mumble, hands pressed to your chest. Your heart bumps under your hand.

"Thank you," you say, looking up, "baby, you didn't have to. You don't have to get me stuff like this, it's a lot."

"I don't think it's too much. You give gifts when you're grateful. I'm grateful to love you."

He's expecting you this time, unwavering when your arms slide over his shoulders. You breathe in the smell of his skin and he does the same, his face pressed to the top of your head.

Jack is late for school that day. You apologise to Aaron more times than you can count, and every time he only smiles and says, "It's okay. I love you."

Aaron misses your first anniversary.

It's a very important date to miss, and you have a right to be upset.

But.

You always knew from the very first date that this was something that could, unfortunately, happen. You'd been lucky to get him for your birthday, luckier still to see him on his own and treat him with the delights he deserved. You'd figured eventually something would happen to throw a spanner in the works.

What you aren't expecting is the lack of anger.

You aren't mad at him, not one bit. It would be okay if you were, even though it's not his fault, because this is so big. You're celebrating the best year of your life alone, and that's no fun. You and Aaron had planned to go away, two days in a fancy hotel, Jack with Jessica and no worries.

He can't ignore a bomb threat in the capital, and he wouldn't want to.

You know a missed anniversary is a lesser weight than innocent people dead. You know Aaron wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he didn't go. You know he regrets leaving you on such an important day.

Maybe one day, you'll be angry with him. Today, you only miss him.

I love you. I'm sorry. I'll be back very soon. Happy anniversary.

He sends that after a grovelling, short phone call, in which you assure him that it's fine. Your voice is tight with tears, you miss him like crazy, and he hears it though you try to hide it.

I will make it up to you.

You don't have any doubts.

You feel a little sorry for yourself, and then you send him a text of your own.

I love you, so don't be sorry. Get back safe and sound and consider yourself forgiven. Happy anniversary, my love.

Followed with what's likely too many hearts for good measure.

Still, still, he doesn't believe it's okay. You know he's human, and he loves you, and that makes it easy to predict how he's feeling — worried that you're angry, worried that you'll leave him, worried this won't work for you.

And you're only human yourself. You can't say how you'll feel in another year, or two, or five. You can't imagine how depressing it might be to miss the holidays and birthdays and anniversaries with him year after year, but you want to be patient. You want to forgive him for the things he has no hand in, and you do.

You get a visitors pass for his office once you're cleared and take the elevator up, checking your text messages for the fifth time, just to make sure.

I'll be home in a couple of hours, the plane touches down in two. Love you. Sent 4.53PM.

It's the day after your anniversary, a Monday, and it's nearly 7PM. You smile at people you've seen in passing the few times you've visited his office before and don't bother trying to sit in Aaron's office, knowing it's locked while he's away. You travel the spare steps and sit at the top of the landing, hands clutching the neck of the bunch of flowers you're holding nervously. The cellophane crinkles.

You hadn't answered him. It was cruel to leave him hanging, but you didn't expect him to come home so soon. He's too damn good at his job.

The elevator doors open in the quiet. Barely anybody lingers now in the late hour, and the voices of the BAU echo.

Spencer sees you first. Morgan second. They stop at the beginning of the office.

Aaron sees you third.

You spring to stand up on your feet, and then you feel very tall and very seen and descend the steps rather than draw more attention.

"You said seven," you say, not sure what else to say, not with people watching you. "This is definitely closer to eight."

Aaron thankfully isn't too proud to speed walk to you. Your heart skips as you meet him, flowers crushed half to death as he gets his arm behind your neck, hooking your head in the crook of his elbow.

He kisses you roughly. Heat floods every inch of skin, your breath rushes out of your nose with a sigh.

He pulls back.

"Happy anniversary," you say quietly, smiling at the sheer relief in his eyes.

"It was yesterday," he says, quiet too.

"Happy one year and one day, then." You push him away from you gently. "Don't suffocate your roses."

"You got me flowers."

"You get people gifts when you're grateful," you parrot.

He takes a step back and accepts the flowers. On the message card, you've written, bashful and clumsy and adoring, I'm grateful to love you. One year and more.

He moves the bouquet into one hand and wraps you up in another huh, firm-armed, chin over the top of your head, though he intersperses his embrace with dainty kisses pecked from one temple to another.

"You aren't mad?" he asks, worried about the answer.

"No," you say honestly. "Not mad. Missed you like crazy yesterday, but I get you today. I can make it work."

When you break apart a second time, you both buckle under the weight of his colleagues watching.

"Thank you," Rossi speaks up, grand and wry, "we thought we'd have to endure his moping for at least a week. Your understanding spares us all."

"Nice, Dave," Aaron says.

"I've got your paperwork, Hotch," Morgan offers.

Aaron has the good sense to accept it before Morgan can change his mind. His friends say goodbye, and Aaron pulls you by the hand back to the elevator bank. You couldn't wipe the smile off of his face if you tried.

The elevator doors have barely closed when he's leaning down to kiss you again.

"Thank you," he says.

"You really don't have to say thank you," you murmur, bumping your shoulder with his. "You got home safe. That's all that matters."

His next kiss is bruising. The sound of cellophane crushed between you makes you laugh. He kisses you through it, his smile pressed feverishly to yours, over and over and over.

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