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whosscruffylooking · 3 months ago

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The Purest Things: Magic

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

au! sept 2010

Six months have passed since Haley’s death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s you they notice him miss most.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ahem.”

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

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

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

“I’m going to say hi,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

“Hotch,” you manage, extending your hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Santa Rosa,” you finish.

He turns his head sharply, meeting your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course they did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile — not flustered, just amused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your chest tightens. “To the team?”

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

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

“Aaron…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He draws a slow breath, thumb grazing your knuckle.

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

Your throat tightens around the word. Home.

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

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

You exhale, slow. Shaky.

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

He nods once, firm. “Back for good.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Try and stop me.”

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

Tag List :)

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whosscruffylooking · 4 months ago

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Open Arms Chapter Ten

steve harrington x fem!reader Open Arms Masterlist | Taglist Form word count: 3k Warnings: Canon typical violence. Mentions of blood and weapons. Rewrite/Character Insert of Stranger Things ~1985~

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The world outside your little bubble of exhaustion and whispered promises starts to creep back in. The muffled bass of the movie’s closing credits rumbles through the walls, and the faint sound of chatter grows louder. You and Steve are still curled up against the tile, his arm heavy around your shoulders, his cheek resting against the top of your head.

“Think we should go find the others?” you speak up.

“In a minute,” he mumbles. “Kinda wanna stay here forever.”

You smile against his shoulder, but before you can say anything, the bathroom door bursts open.

“Ugh, finally!” Erica’s voice rings out, full of exasperation. “We were about to send a search party.”

Robin stumbles in after her, hands on her hips. “Seriously. The movie ended, like, ten minutes ago.”

Dustin pushes past them, eyes darting over you and Steve. His expression shifts from frustration to something bordering on concern. “You guys good?”

Steve sits up slightly, rubbing his eyes before shooting Dustin a lazy grin. “Oh yeah, we’re feeling the love.” He tilts his head toward you. “Aren’t we, babe?”

You nudge him playfully, then glance at the others. “Yeah, we’re good. Just, uh… recovering.”

Robin wrinkles her nose. “God, you two smell like hell.”

“Okay, rude.” Steve clutches his chest dramatically. “We’ve been through a lot.”

Dustin grumbles under his breath but motions for everyone to gather near the door. “Alright, we wait for the right moment, then we slip out all casual. No running, no panicking, no weird eye contact.”

You and Steve share another glance, both guilty of all three.

The five of you lean out of the doorway, scanning the area like a group of amateur spies. The movie crowd is slowly trickling into the halls, the rest of the mall dark and abandoned beyond the theater.

Dustin squints. “And… go.”

In perfect synchronization, you all step out, slipping into the flood of people like you belong there. No one looks your way. No one yells. No alarms.

Dustin grins. “Hah! That was easy. Now, let’s get out of here and go to my house—”

“Uh, Dustin,” Steve interrupts, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s not gonna work.”

Dustin frowns. “What? Why not?”

Steve winces. “I… might have told them your full name.”

Silence.

Dustin blinks once. Twice. Then—

“You WHAT?!”

Steve throws his hands up. “I was drugged, okay?! It’s not like I meant to!”

“You were supposed to resist, Harrington!” Dustin whisper-yells, his voice cracking. “I swear to god, this is why we don’t let you handle classified information!”

Before Steve can fire back, you feel it—someone watching you. A shiver skates down your spine, and when you glance toward the mall entrance, your stomach turns to ice.

A Russian man stands just outside the theater crowd, scanning faces as people exit. Then his gaze locks onto yours.

Oh, shit.

Your heart kicks into overdrive. “Abort!”

The others don’t ask questions. You run.

Footsteps pound against the floor as you weave through the dwindling crowd, dodging confused moviegoers. The escalators are just ahead—your best shot at losing them.

Except they’re roped off.

You turn to Steve, heart pounding. He looks at you, then at the escalators, then back at you.

Then you smirk.

Steve’s eyes widen. “Oh, no—”

Too late.

You hop onto the sleek metal divider between the two escalators, grip the edges, and slide straight down. The wind rushes through your hair, your adrenaline spikes, and for a moment, you feel unstoppable.

You land gracefully at the bottom, spinning on your heels to look back up.

Steve is staring.

Like, completely gone. Mouth slightly open, eyes practically glazed over with admiration. Then he glances at Dustin with a slow, almost dazed smirk.

“She’s so sexy,” he breathes.

Dustin makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Oh my God! Can we focus?!”

Robin claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You’re so far gone, dude.”

Steve shakes himself out of it, and nods firmly. “Right. Right. Running first, romance later.”

Then, without another word, he jumps onto the divider and follows you down.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The back hallways of the mall are a maze of flickering fluorescents and discarded cardboard boxes, and your group sprints through them like a pack of panicked raccoons.

“Where are we even going?!” Robin hisses, nearly tripping over a mop bucket.

“Anywhere that isn’t here!” Dustin wheezes.

Footsteps echo behind you, shouts in Russian bouncing off the walls. Your heart slams against your ribs. Up ahead, a shadow moves—someone’s coming this way.

Without thinking, you grab Steve’s sleeve and yank him toward the food court. The others scramble after you, skidding into one of the shut-down food stalls. Robin vaults over the counter with surprising agility, Erica ducks through the gap like she’s done this before (which is concerning), and Dustin nearly eats it but somehow lands in a crouch.

You all squeeze together beneath the counter, limbs tangled, breathing hard. The floor is sticky with something deeply questionable, but there are bigger problems—like the static crackle of radios surrounding you.

A sharp voice speaks in Russian. Another responds, the words sending a new wave of panic crashing over you.

“They’re describing us,” you whisper, voice barely audible. “Telling them to lock down all exits.”

Robin curses under her breath.

Steve, pressed so close his nose is nearly in your hair, notices your hands trembling. His fingers brush yours, just for a second. Then softly, like it’s just for you—

“Hey, hey, hey. Let’s think happy thoughts.”

You swallow hard, nodding.

“Tell me about our wedding,” he instructs you.

The others groan in unison.

“Oh my God,” Dustin mutters. “Now? Now you want to plan your wedding?”

Steve ignores him, eyes locked on yours. “Is it gonna be big or small?”

You let out a breathy laugh, trying to focus on him, on this instead of the Russian voices closing in. “Small,” you whisper. “Just the people who matter.”

Steve’s lips twitch. “So, like, Dustin’s not invited—”

“Excuse me?!” Dustin hisses.

Steve grins, glancing back at you. “Our first dance should be ‘Open Arms’ by Journey,” he says suddenly. “You know, since that was playing the first time we—”

You slap a hand over his mouth so fast he barely has time to react.

“Steve!” you hiss, eyes darting to Dustin and Erica.

Steve’s eyes widen like he just remembered there are children present.

Dustin groans, burying his face in his hands. “I will never be able to listen to that song again.”

Erica gags. “You guys are disgusting.”

Steve, despite the situation, winks at you. “It’s a good song.”

You shake your head, but the fear pressing against your ribs feels a little lighter. Steve’s hand slips into yours beneath the counter, giving it a squeeze.

The radios crackle again.

A whisper. A single, chilling confirmation.

“I’ve located them.”

And just like that, the panic slams back into you, sharp and unforgiving.

You close your eyes, bracing for the inevitable, every nerve in your body alight with terror. Steve’s grip tightens on your wrist, Dustin’s fingers curl around the fabric of your sleeve.

Then—

A sudden blare shatters the silence.

The shriek of a car alarm ricochets through the mall’s empty corridors, deafening and urgent. Your eyes snap open.

Taking a risk—despite Steve’s muttered protests—you inch upward, peering over the counter.

The Russians have turned away, their attention drawn to the second level. And standing there, bathed in the dim emergency lighting, is El.

Blood drips from her nose, her small frame vibrating with exertion, one arm outstretched toward the car that sits gleaming in the mall’s courtyard display.

A second later, she flings her hand forward—

And the car flies.

It hurtles through the air like a missile, crashing into the men and sending them sprawling across the food court. The impact is brutal, bodies crumpling beneath the weight of steel and shattered glass.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. You vault over the counter and run.

El’s eyes meet yours, and despite the exhaustion written across her face, she musters the faintest smile.

Then the others are there—racing toward you from across the mall. Mike has an arm wrapped around El’s waist, barely keeping her upright. Your stomach lurches. She’s hurt.

You reach them just as Dustin throws his arms around her, his voice breathless with awe.

“You flung that thing like a Hot Wheel!”

El leans into him, too weak to respond.

“Lucas?” Erica’s voice cuts through the moment, her expression shifting from relief to pure exasperation.

“What are you doing here?” Lucas shouts.

Erica jerks a thumb toward you and Steve. “Ask them. It’s their fault.”

“True,” Steve says, hands on his hips, his voice light with amusement despite the chaos. “Yeah. Totally true. Absolutely our fault.”

You giggle, nerves still buzzing.

Robin shakes her head, still dazed. “I don’t understand what happened to that car.”

You flash her a grin. “El has superpowers.”

Robin blinks. “What?”

“Superpowers,” Steve repeats. “She threw the car with her mind. C’mon, keep up.”

Erica narrows her eyes. “That’s El?”

Robin throws her hands up. “Who is El!?”

A new voice chimes in. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

Nancy.

Robin straightens up. “I’m Robin. I work with Steve.”

“She helped us crack the Russian code,” Dustin interjects proudly.

Jonathan, still catching up, frowns. “Russians?”

You exhale, gesturing toward the food court wreckage. “Yeah. Those were Russians.”

Jonathan stares. “You’re kidding.”

“Didn’t you hear our Code Red?” Dustin looks to Mike, expectant.

“Yeah, but we couldn’t understand you!” Mike snaps, his frustration spilling over.

Dustin groans. “Goddamn low battery—”

Steve points a finger. “How many times do I have to tell you about the low battery?”

Dustin crosses his arms. “Well, everything worked out, didn’t it?”

Their voices blur, fading into background noise as something shifts beside you.

El.

She stumbles back from the group, her breaths coming too fast, too shallow.

“Hey, hey—” You step toward her, catching her by the shoulders. “You okay?”

She lifts her gaze to yours, eyes unfocused, her skin too pale—

Then she collapses.

You pull El into your arms, cradling her against you as the others gather around in frantic silence. Her small body trembles, and you can feel the heat radiating from her skin.

“My leg,” she whispers, her voice strained with pain.

Nancy, kneeling beside her, gently rolls up El’s pant leg. What you see makes your stomach twist in horror.

The wound on her leg isn’t just an injury—it’s a sickening, otherworldly gash, the skin red and blue with the kind of bruising that doesn’t make sense. Then, as if it has a life of its own, the wound shifts, moves.

El’s breath catches in her throat, and she lets out a gut-wrenching scream, her body jerking. Panic surges through you, and you instinctively hold her tighter. Steve’s presence is solid behind you, his hand resting steady on your back.

“We have to get that out of her,” you state firmly, barely recognizing your own voice. You look desperately at Jonathan.

He nods and bolts off, and you start to run your fingers through El’s hair, whispering soft reassurances, though your own heart is pounding in fear.

“Just breathe, El. You’re gonna be okay. I’m here, you’re not alone.”

Minutes feel like hours. The air is thick with tension. Jonathan finally returns, breathless, with a knife and a pair of gloves in hand. You catch the flicker of a smile as you appreciate his quick thinking.

“Alright,” Jonathan says, his voice calm but his hands shaking slightly as he prepares to cut. “This is going to hurt like hell, El.”

He hands you a wooden spoon, and you immediately place it gently between El’s clenched teeth. Mike crouches beside her, holding her head steady as she grips your hand with a vice-like strength.

Jonathan presses the knife to her leg, his movements careful, determined. He slices into her skin, trying to reach whatever’s causing the pain, but El’s scream pierces the air, raw and desperate.

“Stop!” she cries, her voice weak and trembling. “I can do it!”

You help her sit up, your hands bracing her as she starts to focus, her eyes burning with determination.

“El, wait—”

But she doesn’t listen.

With a pained, strangled cry, she extends her hand toward her calf. Her fingers tremble, and then—she pulls.

The thing inside her leg jerks free, and with it, a shockwave of power rips through the room. The lights flicker violently. Glass shatters everywhere around you, and Steve leans protectively over you, shielding you from the debris.

El’s powers surge—wild and uncontrollable—and you can feel the energy crackling in the air, so intense it nearly knocks the breath out of you. El’s body is wracked with force, her hand still pointed at her leg, her eyes squeezed shut in concentration.

And then, with one final, agonized scream, she rips the tendril out.

The object flies across the room, slamming into the far wall with a sickening thud. It hits the ground with a wet, squelching noise. The tendril twitches, a faint, unnatural ripple running through it.

You glance at it—instinctively knowing what it is.

A tendril from the Upside Down.

You swallow hard. You knew it wasn’t gone for good.

Just as the tendril lays there, twitching ominously, a heavy boot crashes down on it, crushing the grotesque thing beneath the force. You freeze for a moment, your heart skipping a beat, as you look up.

Standing in there, framed by the neon light of the food court, are Jim and Joyce—relief floods your chest at the sight of them. But there’s someone else with them. A man you don’t quite recognize, though his face is oddly familiar. His weathered appearance, thick glasses, and the way he carries himself makes the pieces click.

Oh God. Is that Murray Bauman? The conspiracy theorist guy who’s always on the local news, ranting about mind control and surveillance birds. The one Nancy and Jonathan went to see when they—oh. Right. That guy.

You glance back at El, who is now in Jim’s arms. He holds her close, speaking softly to her as Joyce rubs her back, their concern evident. You step aside, instinctively giving them a moment to reconnect, to have their own reunion.

Steve follows you a few paces from the chaos, his hand sliding down your back, protective but with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. You don’t stop him. Not when his grip tightens just a little. Not when he pulls you into his lap like you belong there—and God, you kind of do.

You settle against him, heartbeat still erratic, but for reasons that have less and less to do with Russian death squads.

“You good?” he asks, breathless, his voice grazing your ear like a secret. His hands rest too low to be innocent, thumbs sweeping lazy circles along your waist.

“Barely,” you complain. “Everything hurts.”

“Yeah,” he says, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your cheek with something close to reverence. “But you look insanely hot when you’re cheating death. Like, I’m having a very complex reaction right now.”

You blink. “Are you—Steve—are you turned on right now?”

“I mean… I’m alive and you’re on top of me, so yeah, kind of hard not to be.”

You snort, half-scandalized, half-horrified at how much you’re smiling.

“You know,” he begins, dipping his head toward your neck, “I’ve been thinking…”

“Dangerous start.”

He grins, all dimples and bruises. “No, hear me out. This whole near-death experience number five hundred has me realizing something.”

“Besides that we need therapy?”

“No,” he says, his voice dropping, “that we need to elope.”

You blink again. “Eloping? Like skipping the whole wedding?”

He grins, teeth and trouble. “I mean, we could go traditional, but why not lean into the chaos? It’s kind of our thing now.”

"And how would this work?" You question.

Steve nods solemnly. “No seating charts. No weird uncles getting drunk and hitting on the waitstaff. Just you, me, a couple of shell-shocked friends as witnesses, maybe a demogorgon ring bearer—obviously.”

“Obviously,” you whisper, already laughing, "You are insane."

He tilts your chin up, smirk deepening. “Insane and madly in love, I don't know which is worse. But that means, if we survive tonight, I am officially putting in a request to skip the whole reception and head straight to the consummation.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. Straight to it, huh?”

“Why waste time?” he says innocently, though the heat in his eyes betrays him. “We say ‘I do,’ you wear something very white and very easy to take off, and then…” He lowers his voice to a sinful whisper. “I peel you out of that white dress. Slowly. Worshipingly. Like you’re a damn miracle and I’m on my knees about to sin... under ten feet of satin—”

You slap his chest lightly, but your cheeks flush. “Steven, there are children nearby.”

“Yeah, and they should be taking notes. This is what true love looks like.”

He buries his face in your neck. “Tell me you don’t want it,” he moans. “Me. You. Honeymoon. No monsters. Just…very thorough vows.”

You fight a smile, tangling your fingers in his hair. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself, Harrington.”

He grins against your skin. “No such thing when it comes to undressing my future wife.”

You hide your face in his shoulder, giggling like a teenager who just got dared to kiss someone behind the bleachers. Which, ironically, is probably how you started with him.

God, you’re so marrying this idiot.

You shake your head against his chest, breathless with laughter. “We need therapy.”

Steve kisses your temple, smug as hell. “Nah. Just you, me, and a really solid lock on the honeymoon suite door.”

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Tag List:

@xplrnowornever @brother-lauren @the-au-thor

#steve harrington #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fic #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fic #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x fem!reader #open arms au #joe keery #joe keery imagines #joe keery x reader

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whosscruffylooking · 4 months ago

Text

The Purest Things: Too Good at Goodbyes Part II

Aaron Hotchner x Fem! Reader Word Count: 1.8k Warnings: Murder. Blood. Death. Weapons. Canon typical violence. Everything that makes Criminal Minds, Criminal Minds. The Purest Things Masterlist | Taglist Form

au! november 2009

Bookend: “You can close your eyes to the things you do not want to see, but you cannot close your heart to the things you do not want to feel.” ― Tabitha Suzuma

A few days have passed since Haley’s funeral, and you’ve buried yourself in your work, trying to outrun the discomfort that’s settled deep in your chest. Ever since you said goodnight to Aaron that night, you’ve felt sick. Lovesick. Homesick for him and the team. Sickened by yourself and the guilt that clings to you like a dark cloud.

You’ve spent every waking hour convincing yourself that loving him—a man still drowning in grief, a man who never should’ve been yours to want—is something you can swallow down. But it remains, relentless and unforgiving.

The shrill of your phone startles you from your thoughts. You glance down at the screen — Rossi.

“Dave?” you answer, your voice a little hoarse from disuse.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, skipping the pleasantries. “Can you do me a favor and meet me somewhere? I’ll send you the location.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, the text arrives before you can ask what this is about. And when you see the address, your stomach twists.

You know exactly where you’re going.

And you know who’s going to be there.

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

Aaron sits forward on the stone bench, his hands clasped tightly between his knees, fingers twisted together as if he’s trying to hold something delicate or perhaps something already lost. The freshly turned earth, still unsettled, marks Haley’s final resting place. He doesn’t take his eyes off her.

Rossi approaches carefully, footsteps softened just enough to allow Aaron the choice of noticing him or not. When Aaron straightens slightly, it’s clear he’s chosen the former. Yet his shoulders remain low, his head still bowed beneath the burden that clings to him. His hands stay locked together, pale-knuckled, as though if he holds tightly enough, he can still feel her fingers wrapped in his.

“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” Rossi says sympathetically.

Aaron says nothing.

“Have you told her yet?” Rossi ventures after a pause.

Aaron’s brow furrows. “Told her what?” His voice sounds strange, and feeble, like it has been scraped hollow by grief.

“That you’re coming back to the team.” Rossi’s voice lowers. “And about…” He hesitates, as if uncertain how much truth Aaron can bear. “About your feelings for Y/N.”

Aaron’s head sinks lower, and he draws in a stuttering breath. Tears gather like beads of glass at the corners of his eyes, refusing to fall. He fixates on Haley’s grave as though she might answer for him. “I don’t have to tell her,” he remarks sorrowfully. “She already knows.”

Rossi doesn’t press him. Instead, he withdraws toward the parking lot, where you stand at a hesitant distance.

“I don’t think I should be here,” you say, your stomach churning with anxiety.

“I think you should,” Rossi counters. “He needs his best friend.”

You shake your head, disagreement inscribed on your face. “Haley was his best friend.”

“You can have more than one,” Rossi observes, his hand resting reassuringly on your shoulder before he strides away.

You take a breath, but it sticks somewhere between your ribs. Each step forward feels like walking through wet sand, heavy and resistant. Aaron sits motionless, his head bent low, his body smaller somehow, as though sorrow has folded him in on himself.

Your eyes drift to the temporary sign marking Haley’s resting place. The ink still looks fresh, unweathered by rain or time. The sight of it strikes you with an almost violent clarity — proof that she’s gone, that you stand here in her shadow, an unwelcome trespasser. Guilt coils around you like a vice, whispering that you should turn back.

You start to retreat, but when you turn, you see Rossi is still there, leaning casually against his car. His expression says all it needs to.

Go on.

So you do.

You gather your courage and step forward.

“Is this seat taken?” you ask, unsure of your own voice.

Aaron startles, his head snapping up as if he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. His eyes—painted with that familiar mahogany brown hue—sparkle in the sunlight, exposing a depth of vulnerability that has planted itself within him. Wordlessly, he shifts to the side, making room for you on the bench.

You sit beside him, close enough to feel the faint warmth of his arm beside yours, but far enough to give him space or maybe to give yourself an out if your heart becomes too much to contain.

“We don’t have to talk,” you offer. “We can just sit here… or you can tell me to leave.”

“Don’t go,” Aaron replies, the words leaving him almost before he’s thought them.

He exhales a weary breath. “I think you two would’ve been good friends.”

Your own eyes close against the rush of guilt that surges at his kindness — undeserved, yet given unreservedly. It strikes some fragile place inside you that you’ve spent too long fortifying.

“Aaron,” you murmur, “you don’t have to say that. I know what I’ve done…”

“Stop,” he warns, his tone certain, but considerate. “You have nothing to feel guilty for.”

“I do.” Your gaze returns to Haley’s grave. “When we were at the hospital… after you were hurt…” Your throat tightens. “I looked at her while Jack was hugging me, and I tried to — I don’t know — give her some sign that she could trust me. That I’d protect you… keep you safe. For her and Jack. For them. Not for me.”

“You did,” Aaron insists.

“I didn’t.” Your head shakes, and your eyes find his. Those deep, spirited, brown eyes that have seen you at your worst and still manage to look at you like this. “I was selfish,” you breathe. “I let myself believe I belonged in a life that was never mine to step into. And now…”

“I told her,” Aaron begins, leaning forward like he’s trying to meet you where you’ve fallen. “I told her that once I caught Foyet and once she and Jack were home, I’d spend the rest of my life making it up to her.”

He drags a hand across his brow, fingers pressing hard against his temple as if he could scrub the memory away. “I’ll never get to keep that promise.”

“You can,” you whisper. “You did. You saved Jack, and you’ll keep saving him every day just by being his father.”

He shakes his head, his mouth twisting into a grimace that demonstrates the turmoil he feels within.

“The only way I can make this right,” you resume, your body tensing as you lay bare what you believe to be the only solution, “is if I stay away. If I let you and Jack heal without me in the way.”

Aaron’s eyes widen as if you've just uttered the one thing he wasn't prepared to hear, leaving him momentarily unmoored. “You really think that’s what she’d want?" His voice is tinged with disbelief.

“I think it’s what’s fair,” you whisper.

“No,” he opposes, “What’s fair is that Jack has people in his life who love him. And what’s fair is that you don’t have to punish yourself for something you never took.”

It’s something you couldn’t have taken...because it was freely given. Aaron Hotchner willingly gave you his heart.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Neither of you breathes. The world seems to hush around you, the wind stirring only faintly, as though it too is holding its breath.

“I should go,” you manage at last, though your voice exposes your indecisiveness.

Aaron’s hand finds your wrist before you can rise, his fingers curling with gentle insistence. His touch feels like stepping too close to a cliff’s edge, drawn by the dangerous thrill of the fall, echoing the things neither of you has dared to hope for.

You hesitate, your pulse thrumming beneath his fingertips. There’s a part of you, foolish and reckless, that wants to stay. To believe you can hold your ground without losing yourself in him completely. But the rational part of you, the one that has always known better, whispers otherwise.

Staying means sacrificing something, your heart, your sanity, your peace. Loving Aaron Hotchner isn’t something that can exist in quiet corners or casual gestures. It’s the kind of love that demands everything — a fire that devours without mercy.

And yet, isn’t that what love is meant to be? A kind of madness that is beautiful and consuming, that leaves you breathless and bruised, yet still aching to burn a little longer.

Aaron’s gaze drops to where his fingers still rest against your wrist. His thumb traces an absent circle along your skin, slow and steady, as though memorizing the shape of you as if, by touch alone, he might preserve something of you when you go.

“I should,” you murmur, but the words remain unfinished. I should stay. I should go. I should forget what this feels like. None of it seems true enough.

His hand lingers a moment longer, fingers curling slightly before they fall away. The absence is immediate, abrupt as a breath drawn too fast.

“I know,” he yields. “I know you can’t stay.”

The resignation in his voice strikes deeper than you expect, an ache low in your ribs. You almost speak, almost tell him you want to stay, that you’d give anything to carry what he can’t. However, you know that wanting isn’t enough. Not now. Not when his grief is so fresh, when you’ve spent too many nights convincing yourself that love alone can’t mend what’s broken.

“I just…” Aaron exhales, running a hand down his face. “Just don’t disappear. Don’t let this be… final.”

His voice fractures slightly, and for all his measured control, you can hear it — the misery beneath the words.

“I won’t,” you vow. “I couldn’t.”

He nods, but his eyes linger on you, a flicker of doubt dancing in their depths as if he’s not entirely sure he believes you.

“We just...need time,” you add, just as uncertain. You both know time is a poor solution. Too slow to mend the fractures, too fast to outrun the shadows. “But I’ll be back.”

Aaron’s lips press together, a faint crease forming between his brows. He says nothing, but you know he believes you now.

And so you rise, stepping away before reluctance takes hold. Each step feels more challenging than the last like something tethering you to him is unraveling thread by thread. You pause, glancing back just once.

He’s still watching you, rooted in place, his hand half-raised as if he might still call you back. But he doesn’t. He knows better—understands that you’re not leaving because you want to.

“I love you,” you murmur, scarcely louder than a breath. The words slip from your lips as though they have remained there too long, aching for release. He can't hear you — of that, you are certain — yet somehow the confession feels no less risky.

Still, it spills out as though your heart had grown too full to contain it any longer. What a strange comfort it is, to speak the words aloud, to let them exist beyond the restless confines of your mind.

And what a cruel relief it is, because, even though your heart swells with the power of it, you know this love can be nothing more than a whispered secret, drifting in silence.

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

Tag List :)

@percysley @sammypotato @spideyreid @ithinkitzleslie

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whosscruffylooking · 4 months ago

Text

Open Arms Chapter Nine

steve harrington x fem!reader Open Arms Masterlist word count: 4.7k Warnings: Canon typical violence. Mentions of kidnapping, blood, vomitting, and drugs. Rewrite/Character Insert of Stranger Things ~1985~

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Pain explodes across Steve’s face, intense and blinding. His head snaps to the side, copper flooding his mouth as he groans through gritted teeth. His ribs ache, his vision blurs and the pounding in his skull threatens to drown out everything else.

“That one stung,” Steve rasps, forcing out a breath. His voice is thin, shaky — but defiant.

“Who do you work for?” The Russian’s voice is callous, slicing through the haze.

“For the millionth time,” Steve gasps, “I work at Scoops Ahoy!”

The man barely reacts; he just gives a curt nod to his partner.

Steve doesn’t even see the next punch coming. A fist slams into his stomach, driving the air from his lungs in a strangled wheeze. He curls forward instinctively, body folding in on itself. His muscles scream in protest, and his breath stutters outin a broken groan.

“Look at me!” Steve chokes out, barely able to lift his head. His voice shudders, edged with panic. “Look at this stupid outfit! You think I’m a spy in a sailor’s uniform?!”

Blood trails from the corner of his mouth, hot and metallic. His swollen eye barely opens, and the throbbing in his face grows unbearable.

Another blow — deeper this time — and Steve’s whole body bucks. The air rushes out of him in a ragged sob.

“I told you,” he wheezes, his ribs burning with every breath. “Our…our delivery didn’t come. We thought maybe it got left at the loading dock. So we — we went in to check, and there was this…this elevator and then… I don’t know, I woke up here!” His voice is breaking now, a desperate edge creeping in.

He swallows hard, tasting blood. “But I swear — I swear — nobody knows about us. Nobody saw us. Just…just let us go, okay? Shit happens and life goes on…right?”

The guards exchange a look — and then they laugh. Deep, guttural, wrong.

Steve forces a weak chuckle, trying to mask his growing panic. His ribs scream with the effort, but he keeps smiling — or tries to.

Then the man leans in, close enough that Steve can feel his breath.

“You see…” The Russian’s voice drops to a chilling whisper. “A young girl happened to stumble into our facility earlier. I think this is not a coincidence.”

The air vanishes from Steve’s lungs — not from the pain this time, but from sheer dread. His battered body stiffens, aching and sluggish, but his mind sharpens like a blade.

You.

“No,” Steve breathes. His pulse pounds in his ears. “No… please, I—”

The guard’s fist crashes into his face. The world lurches, tilts, and then everything goes black.

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A dull, searing pain pulses through Steve’s skull as consciousness creeps back in. His eyes crack open, sticky with dried blood, and the world tilts violently. The frigid bite of metal presses against his wrists, tied, again. His arms are stiff, his fingers numb.

Then he sees you.

Slumped forward in a chair across from him, your head hangs low, hair falling across your face. For a moment, Steve’s heart stutters — please, no.

“Y/N…” His voice comes out broken and delicate. He swallows hard, fighting past the tightness in his throat. “Hey… hey, wake up.”

You don’t stir.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Steve pleads, panic swelling fast. He jerks against the ropes, wincing as they bite into his wrists. “Please… just—just open your eyes, okay?”

Your body remains limp.

“God,” his voice shakes now, “no, no, no… please.” He strains harder against his restraints, ignoring the sting of the rope cutting into his skin. “Don’t do this. Don’t… don’t leave me.”

He sucks in a breath that shudders violently on the way out.

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes. “I should’ve told you… about everything. About why I’ve been… God, I’ve been so stupid.” His eyes burn, hot tears threatening to spill. “I just… I saw those pamphlets in your room and it hit me— this whole stupid idea that you’re leaving, that you’re gonna find something better than… than this. Than me.”

His voice cracks, and this time, the tears come. They sear tracks down his bruised face as he squeezes his eyes shut.

“I got scared,” he discloses. “I thought… if I kept some space, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much when you left.” He laughs dryly, bitter and broken. “Guess that backfired, huh?”

His gaze locks back on you, and his chest narrows. “I just… I love you,” he whispers. “I love you so much and… God, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m terrified you’ll realize I’m not enough — that I can’t give you what you deserve.” His voice falters, then crumbles entirely. “But I need you. I don’t know how to be… me without you.”

He sniffs forcefully, shaking his head. “And now you’re in this mess — this whole goddamn thing — because of me.” His voice breaks again, ragged and raw. “I’m so sorry. Please… just wake up.”

His head drops forward, and for a moment, the fight leaves him. His chest heaves as sobs wrack through him — a rare, helpless kind of crying that leaves him breathless.

“Please,” he whispers one more time, barely able to say the word.

Then, a faint sound — a breath, soft but real.

Steve’s head snaps up.

“Y/N?” His voice trembles with hope. “Hey… hey, I’m right here.” He watches as your head shifts slightly.

“Come on,” Steve breathes, eyes wide and desperate. “Come back to me baby, please.”

“Steve?” Your voice comes out in a strained whisper, each word scraping against your throat like sandpaper. The effort sends pain slashing through your ribs.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m right here,” Steve says quickly, “I’m here.”

You try to move, but the sharp pull in your side keeps you still.

“Don’t — don’t move,” Steve stammers, his own breath hitching like he’s holding back a sob. “Just… just stay still, okay? You’re hurt.”

“Where are we?” you rasp, your head swimming.

His face twists, guilt washing over him. “Some kind of… secret Russian lab under the mall.”

Your eyes snap open. Memories rush back — the loading dock, the crates, the hands grabbing you — and your stomach turns.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “I remember.”

Steve’s face crumples. “What did they do to you?” His voice cracks, and tears streak through the grime on his bruised face.

“Feels like I got hit by a truck,” you murmur weakly, trying for a smile that barely comes.

Steve’s expression falters, his face twisting with regret. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so — this is all my fault. You shouldn’t be here.” He shakes his head, eyes dropping like he can’t bear to look at you. “You shouldn’t…”

“Steve…” You swallow thickly, ignoring the sharp ache in your throat. “This isn’t your fault.”

“It is,” he insists, voice rising. “I should’ve been with you — I should’ve… God, I shouldn’t have been so stupid.” He pulls hard at the ropes binding his wrists, fingers digging in so tightly his knuckles turn white. “I was scared, okay? I was scared I was gonna lose you, and now…” His voice breaks, breath stuttering. “Now I almost did.”

“You didn’t though,” you whisper.

“I can’t — I can’t…” His voice is barely there now, a fragile thing on the verge of breaking. “I can’t do this without you. I love you. I love you so much it hurts.”

“I think the hurt is probably from all those bruises on your face,” you try to tease, but the words come out disjointed and frail.

Steve laughs brokenly like it’s the only thing that is going to keep him from falling apart completely. “We’re gonna get out of here,” he says, but the way his voice wavers makes you wonder if he’s trying to convince himself.

The metal door groans open, and your blood turns cold.

The Russian man from earlier steps inside, and this time he’s not alone. A man in a white lab coat trails behind him, clutching a large syringe.

“No,” Steve mutters, straightening in his chair. “No, no, no… hey! Hey!” His voice rises into a shout. “You stay the hell away from her, you bastards!”

The doctor ignores him, stepping closer to you — too close. You barely have the strength to flinch.

“Don’t,” Steve growls, voice shaking with desperation. “Don’t you touch her!”

The cold metal of the needle presses against your skin. You don’t fight — you’ve learned by now that it only makes things worse. Closing your eyes, you brace yourself.

The sharp sting bursts through your neck like fire.

“Son of a bitch!” Steve cries out, his voice breaking when you whimper.

The doctor turns next to Steve, syringe still in hand.

“No,” Steve pleads now, struggling harder against his bindings. “Don’t — please…”

The needle plunges into his neck. His head jerks back, a strangled noise ripping from his throat.

Then his body slumps, and the room tilts. Your vision clouds as the heat crawls through your veins, thick and dizzying.

The last thing you hear before everything slips away is Steve’s voice, faint and distant, calling your name.

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When you come to, Steve’s voice is the first thing you hear — strained and oddly light.

“I told you,” he giggles, “I work at Scoops Ahoy.”

His head wobbles like a loose hinge, chin dipping to his chest before rolling back again. He’s laughing like he’s hearing the world’s funniest joke.

That’s when you realize you’re smiling too. Your head feels too heavy to hold up, and when you try to move, your body sways. A chuckle slips out unexpectedly. Then another. And another. Soon, you’re laughing uncontrollably, like you’re watching some twisted comedy sketch you can’t escape.

“Uh… what did you give me?” you manage to ask between gasps.

The Russian man ignores you, leaning in closer to Steve. “How did you find us?”

“Totally by accident,” Steve chuckles, dragging out each word like it’s funny just to say them.

That’s when you see the doctor reach for something, a pair of pliers.

The laughter dies in your throat. “No…” you whisper, the fog in your head clearing just enough to send panic racing down your spine.

“What is that?!” Steve blurts out, suddenly more aware. “What— No, no, no…”

The doctor grabs Steve’s hand, forcing his fingers apart. The cold metal hovers over Steve’s fingernails, and before you can react —

Steve’s scream tears through the room.

“WE HEARD A CODE!” you shout, the words tumbling out before you’ve even thought them through.

The Russian man freezes, turning his sharp gaze on you. “What?”

“We heard your stupid code,” you snap, desperate to draw his focus away from Steve. “You know, for Russian spies, you guys are amateurs. You made us, a bunch of school-age kids, look smarter than you!”

Steve’s head jerks toward you, his eyes wide with something like panic. He’s begging you not to take this on — but you can’t just sit there and watch him suffer.

“What code?” the man growls, stepping closer.

Your voice drops to something taunting, a smile curling at your lips despite the tremble in your chest.

“Неделя длинная… Серебряный кот ест… Когда синее встретится с желтым на западе.”

His eyes narrow. “Что еще вы знаете?”

“Это не сойдёт тебе с рук,” you spit, defiance burning in your voice.

Steve’s gaze flicks between you and the Russian, face twisted in confusion. “W-what are you saying?”

“I told him that he and his little friends aren’t getting away with this,” you mutter, eyes still locked on the man.

“Yeah!” Steve blurts out, suddenly energized. “Because we have a Henderson and a Hopper on our side!”

Your heart stalls. “Uh… Steve…”

“A Henderson… and a Hopper?” The man’s attention snaps back to Steve.

Steve grins, loopy and fearless. “Don’t forget Hopper’s U.S. Cavalry,” he adds, shaking his head dramatically like he’s sharing some big secret... because he is.

Before the Russian can react, an alarm blares — a piercing wail that fills the room.

The man’s face twists in alarm. He barks something in Russian, then bolts from the room in a frantic rush.

Silence settles over you both, save for Steve’s ragged breathing. He turns his head toward you, his bruised face bright with a lazy grin.

“You should speak Russian more often,” Steve slurs, voice syrupy and slow. “It’s… very sexy.”

You let out a breathless chuckle, part disbelief, part exhaustion, but then a scoff cuts through the room.

Your head jerks toward the corner, where the doctor is still standing, arms crossed and thoroughly unimpressed.

“What?” you snap, “You can’t stand the thought of two people being in love when you’re so miserable, huh?”

Steve snorts, twisting awkwardly in his chair like he’s trying to point but forgot his hands are tied behind his back. “Jealous!” he cries, jutting his chin toward the man instead. “That’s what this is! You’re jealous!”

“Oh god…” you mumble under your breath.

“You wish you were like me, huh?” Steve continues, words spilling out faster now. “Dating the most beautiful woman on the planet?” He grins wide like he’s just said something brilliant and unheard of. “Well guess what...you’re not! I am. I’m dating her!”

He jerks forward as if he’s about to thump his chest, only to remember — far too late — that his arms are still bound. His face scrunches up in confusion before he leans back with a satisfied nod, like that was intentional all along.

The doctor’s expression barely changes, just a blank, bored stare, but Steve isn’t done.

“And...and you know what else?” He pauses, blinking hard like he’s trying to focus. “I’m gonna marry her too.”

Your mouth falls open. “Wait… what?”

“Yup!” Steve pops the “p” dramatically, swaying slightly in his chair. “I’m gonna marry her, and we’re gonna get a house — big one, with a pool and a dog! Or maybe a cat. I dunno, we’ll figure it out, but we’ll be so happy.” His smile softens, and his eyes — though glassy and unfocused — lock on yours. “Because I love her. More than anything.”

You sit there, stunned, your pulse thudding in your ears.

The doctor exhales sharply, muttering something in Russian before grabbing his things and stomping out the door.

“Well…” you mumble, your voice tight. “That escalated quickly.”

Steve grins dopily, his head rolling lazily to the side. “Yeah,” he sighs, in a hushed tone. “But… it’s true.”

Just then, a sharp scream cuts through the air, followed by the sound of rapid footsteps. The door bursts open and two small figures come barreling in — Dustin and… Erica!?

Dustin clutches some kind of cattle prod-looking contraption, jabbing it into the doctor’s side. There’s a crackling buzz, and the man stiffens before collapsing like a felled tree.

Robin barrels in right after them, wild-eyed and ready for a fight, but freezes when she sees the doctor already sprawled out on the floor.

“Oh…” Robin huffs, chest heaving. “Cool. Glad I sprinted for nothing.”

“We gotta get you out of here,” Dustin says breathlessly, rushing toward you. His face crumples with concern the second he sees you. “Are you okay?”

“Henderson!” Steve blurts out, grinning like an idiot. His head wobbles so much you’re amazed it’s still attached. “I was just talking about you!” His head lolls back like keeping it upright requires far too much effort.

“I’m getting married,” you announce proudly, blinking slowly like you’re waiting for applause.

"To me! Did you hear that Dustin? She's getting married to me," Steve chimes in, ecstatic, "Wanna be my best man?"

“Nice spot for a proposal, Harrington,” Robin quips as she crouches beside you, fumbling with the ropes around your wrists.

“Right?” Steve slurs, swaying like a palm tree in a hurricane while Dustin struggles with the ropes. “Thought I’d make it memorable. The lighting’s great… Very… ambiance.”

“Oh yeah,” Erica deadpans. “So romantic. Nothing says forever like fluorescent lights and a sweaty Russian torture room.”

Robin snorts as she and Erica hoist you up. The room spins like a carnival ride or maybe you’re spinning, hard to say. Whatever happens next blurs together Robin's frantic voice in your ear, Erica snapping something impatient, Dustin dragging Steve upright and then you’re moving. Fast. The walls blur like smeared paint.

And then suddenly —

“Oh my god!” you squeal as the ground begins to move underneath you. “I love roller coasters!”

“No, no…” Steve grabs your arm like he’s bracing for impact. “Baby, no — this is a rocket ship. We’re going to the MOOOOON!” His hands shoot into the air like he’s leading a parade.

“Wheeeee!” you shriek, tipping sideways into Steve. Your stomach flips, and you giggle uncontrollably as Steve clings to you like an unsteady toddler. His grip is way too tight, but neither of you cares.

“Wait!” you gasp. “What if it’s a space ship and a roller coaster? Like — like we’re on Space Mountain!”

“I’m in Disney World!” Steve hollers triumphantly.

“You’re in an elevator, you morons!” Erica’s voice cuts through your bliss like a slap.

“An el-e-va-tor?” you repeat, awestruck, as if she’s just revealed the secrets of the universe.

“It’s like a metal room,” Steve explains wisely, nodding like a philosopher.

“A metal room that moves,” you whisper, eyes wide.

“You guys are very drugged right now,” Dustin says cautiously like he’s approaching wild animals.

Steve’s face scrunches in indignation. “You can’t tell me how to feel, Henderson.”

The elevator jolts to a sudden stop, and before you can process it, you’re being pulled out of the metal box. You stumble, your legs refusing to cooperate like a newborn giraffe on roller skates. You try to focus, but it’s hard to tell if it’s the spinning or the complete lack of spinning that’s throwing you off.

“Did we make it to the moon?” you whine, squinting around as if you expect to see Neil Armstrong standing next to a flag. “Oh, I sure hope we made it to the moon.” You blink, scanning the blurry shapes around you. “Where are the astronauts?”

“Nope, not the moon,” Steve says with a grin, trying (and failing) to jump in excitement. He immediately loses his balance and crashes into you. “We made it to the next best thing. The mall!”

You stare at him blankly, your thoughts still floating somewhere in zero gravity.

“Come on,” Dustin grumbles, pulling Steve upright with a look of exasperation.

They drag you into the movie theater at the mall, but you come to an abrupt stop as you gaze up at the screen.

“There’s giants on the moon,” you say, wide-eyed.

“That’s Back to the Future,” Erica groans, shoving you into a seat.

Steve collapses beside you with a thud, sending a slight jolt through your already unsteady frame.

“Ah, time travel. That's nothing. We went to the moon.”

You turn to Steve with a frown. “No Steve, we're at the mall remember? We never made it to the moon.”

Steve looks at you puzzled, “But you just said there were giants on the moon.”

“Now, make sure you are very quiet,” Erica whispers, her voice full of authority.

“I can be so quiet,” you shout, unhelpfully loud.

Erica slaps her hand over your mouth, mumbling something about babysitting being above her pay grade.

“Do not go anywhere,” she orders before stepping away.

“Dustin!” you call over your shoulder, already trying to figure out how to escape. “I want a soft pretzel!”

“Now is not the time,” Dustin says, his annoyance turning into a full-on eye-roll as he marches off to find a seat.

You turn to Steve, who’s looking at the screen with that familiar lost puppy look. “You kind of remind me of Marty McFly,” you whisper conspiratorially.

Steve’s eyes light up, and he looks at you like you just handed him a trophy. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

With strict instructions to stay put, the others head off to find their own seats. For a while, you and Steve do exactly that — sort of.

But soon, your throat feels dry, and your mind latches onto one singular, all-consuming thought: Water.

“Steve,” you whisper, poking his arm. “I’m thirsty.”

“Me too,” he whispers back. “We should go on a quest.”

“Yes! A noble quest!”

The two of you clamber to your feet like a pair of newborn deer. Your steps are slow, exaggerated — sneaky in your minds, but closer to two drunks trying to out-mime each other.

“Shhh,” Steve whispers dramatically as you bump into a row of chairs.

“That wasn’t me,” you insist, blinking at the offending seats like they’ve betrayed you.

Stumbling through the darkened lobby, you finally find a water fountain. Steve leans down to drink first, completelymissing the spout and hitting his chin instead.

“You gotta aim lower, Marty,” you giggle, nearly collapsing against the wall.

“You’re so smart,” Steve slurs proudly, steadying you before attempting another drink. This time he succeeds, turning to you with a victorious smile.

“Your turn,” he says, grinning like he’s just won a gold medal.

You lean in, take a sip — and immediately start giggling again.

“Why’re you laughing?” Steve chuckles.

“Because,” you whisper, pointing to the reflection of the ceiling in the fountain like you’ve cracked some great mystery, “I think we are on the moon.”

Steve follows your gaze, both of you turning to stare up at the glowing neon signs scattered across the mall ceiling. The lights flicker and swirl, colors bleeding together like some psychedelic kaleidoscope.

“Whoa…” Steve murmurs, swaying slightly. “It’s like… the lights are dancing.”

“You see that too?” you ask, eyes wide. “I thought it was just me.”

“Nope. We’re definitely in space,” Steve confirms solemnly, gripping your arm like he’s bracing for zero gravity. “I wonder why they'd tell us we weren't on the moon.”

"The government probably," you react, it at least makes sense in your head.

The lights seem to twist and pulse, and suddenly your stomach lurches. The queasy wave hits hard and fast, like you’ve just stepped off a Tilt-A-Whirl.

“Oh no,” you gag, pressing a hand to your mouth.

“Oh no?” Steve echoes. His eyes widen in panic. “Wait, wait — oh no what?”

“I think I’m gonna—”

“NOPE. Nope, nope, nope!” Steve grabs your arm, but you’re already staggering away, one hand clamped tightly over your mouth.

You half-run, half-stumble toward the bathroom, Steve stumbling behind you like a malfunctioning shadow.

“I’ll hold your hair!” he calls after you, voice far too proud of his noble offer.

You barely make it to the bathroom, shoving the door open and crashing into the nearest stall just in time. Steve follows you inside, hovering uselessly in the doorway.

“You okay?” he asks, voice tense with concern. “Are you—”

A retch interrupts him, and Steve winces in sympathy.

“You’re doing great, babe,” he encourages. “Total pro. Like, Olympic-level puking.”

You groan miserably, forehead pressed to your arm as you try to catch your breath.

“Should I… should I get Robin?” Steve offers.

You shake your head. “No… just… gimme a minute.”

“Okay.” He pauses. “I’ll just… stay here then.”

Steve stays true to his word, sitting loyally on the bathroom floor like some dedicated guardian angel — if guardian angels wore sailor suits and reeked of sweat and drug-induced delirium.

“You okay?” he asks again.

“I think…” You pause, swallowing hard. “I think I’m done.”

“Oh, thank God,” Steve sighs in relief. “’Cause honestly…” He shifts uneasily where he sits. “I’m not feeling too hot myself.”

“You’re not?” you ask, voice still hoarse.

“Nah… but I’m good,” he insists, forcing a grin. “I’m solid. Rock solid. Like a —”

His face blanches mid-sentence.

“Oh no.”

“Oh no?” you echo, eyes widening.

Steve bolts upright like his body’s made of springs and stumbles into the stall next to yours. The sound that follows is absolutely wretched.

“Ohhh my god,” he grunts miserably between heaves.

“You’re doing great, babe,” you call weakly, throwing his earlier words right back at him.

“Don’t — urgh — don’t mock me,” he grumbles.

“I’m not!” you protest. “I’m being supportive!”

“You’re laughing,” Steve accuses, voice gravelly and pitiful.

“Only a little,” you admit.

The two of you sit there for a while, drained and miserable, slumped against the cold tile walls. Eventually, Steve’s hand creeps into your stall, blindly patting around until he finds your ankle. He gives it a weak squeeze, his touch warm even through your jeans.

“Still wanna get married?” he proposes, voice muffled.

“Yeah,” you whisper back, resting your hand on top of his. “As long as our honeymoon isn’t this.”

Steve chuckles breathlessly. “Deal.”

The bathroom smells like a war zone — a mixture of sweat, sickness, and whatever cologne Steve thought was a good idea to drown himself in earlier. He’s still slumped against the wall, his head tipped back as if he’s trying to keep himself from spiraling again.

“So…” you start, your voice hoarse. “Does that mean we’re good?”

He snorts softly, cracking one eye open. “We’ve always been good. I was just… an idiot for 48 hours.” His head thumps lightly against the stall.

Relief swells in your chest, easing something that’s been tangled inside you for days.

“I wanted to explain something to you — that night, when you saw those college flyers? Yeah, they were for out-of-state schools, but… I grabbed them months ago. I already know where I’m going.”

Silence.

Then Steve’s hands reappear beneath the stall, fingers scrambling for something to grip. A second later, he’s dragging himself under the door like some kind of exhausted action hero. He’s pale, sweaty, and his shirt’s twisted awkwardly on his frame — but none of that matters when you see the look in his eyes.

“And?” he holds his breath. His voice wavers like he’s bracing for bad news.

You smile — even bruised, battered, and smelling like death, he’s still the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen.

“Everyone keeps saying you have to go somewhere big and prestigious to have a real future,” you tell him, voice soft. “But what kind of future would I be working toward if we’re not working toward it together?”

His throat bobs as he swallows hard. “But… you have so many prospects,” he argues, voice shaky. “I don’t want you to give all that up for me and then… I don’t know… regret it later.”

You glance down at his hands, still resting on his lap. Without thinking, you lace your fingers through his, your thumb tracing slow circles across his knuckles, maybe to calm your nerves, or maybe because you can’t imagine not touching him right now.

“Steve,” you say calmly, “I’d be doing it for me. For us. I don’t have a future if you’re not in it.”

A tear escapes before you can stop it, slipping down your cheek.

Steve ducks his head, his hair flopping forward. A few tears spill into his lap, and he sniffles hard. “I felt so lost these past few days,” he mutters. “I didn’t know how to prove myself to you.”

“You didn’t have to,” you say, reaching out to push his hair back from his face. “You’ve been my best friend since we were kids. I know exactly who you are — I knew everything I needed to the night we kissed, and I haven’t looked back since.”

His hand tightens around yours. “I really wanna kiss you right now.” His eyes are warm, so full of love you almost forget how gross you both must look.

“Please don’t,” you say with a chuckle. “We just threw up for half an hour.”

Steve barks out a laugh, louder than you expect, and you can’t help but join him.

“I love you, Steve Harrington,” you declare once your laughter fades. “And I can’t wait to marry you one day.”

“It’ll be the best day of my life,” he whispers, pulling you closer until your head rests against his shoulder.

“Promise me we’ll never get kidnapped by Russians again,” you mumble sleepily.

“Scout’s honor,” Steve says, wrapping an arm around you. “I think I’ve had enough Russian drama to last a lifetime.”

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@xplrnowornever @brother-lauren @the-au-thor

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whosscruffylooking · 4 months ago

Text

Open Arms Chapter Eight

steve harrington x fem!reader Open Arms Masterlist word count: 4.5k a/n: so sorry it's taken me so long to update this. Warnings: Canon typical violence. Mentions of kidnapping. Rewrite/Character Insert of Stranger Things ~1985~

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“Alright, what is it, Harrington?” Robin leans casually on the counter, the cheerful jingle of Scoops Ahoy far too chipper for Steve’s mood.

“Nothing,” he mutters, eyes glued to the counter.

“Oh, come on,” she groans. “You’re practically brooding. Spill it.”

“I… I—” Steve runs a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. “I saw some stuff at Y/N’s place, and it made me realize… a few things.”

“Like what? Did you find her secret stash of Playgirl?” Robin teases, her grin wide.

Steve’s head jerks up, his eyes wide. “Wait, does she read those?”

“No, Steve, she doesn’t,” Robin sighs dramatically. “For some reason, you’re the only male who can even remotely make her look twice.”

Steve stares at her, still puzzled, but his expression changes. “Well, I found these flyers… college flyers. All from out of state. Big schools. Places where people actually go somewhere.” He sighs, but it’s a hollow sound. “And here I am, a guy who couldn’t even get into Tech. I’m just… holding her back.”

Robin hops up onto the counter beside him, her feet swinging. “Okay, first of all, you’re not holding her back. She’s not a kite, Steve. She’s a person with her own life and her own goals. If she wants to go, she’s gonna go.”

Steve shakes his head, slumping a little. “Yeah, that’s the point. She will go, and I’ll just be… here. Slinging ice cream and pretending like I’ve got this ‘charming burnout’ thing under control. She’s got a future, Rob. A real one. Not like this.”

Robin tilts her head, studying him carefully. “You’re each other’s future, Steve. Do you really think she’d just forget about that?”

He exhales like he’s trying to push the words out before they can choke him. “I don’t know why she’d see me as that. Not with everything she could have.”

Robin crosses her arms, but there’s a gentleness in her expression now. “Because you’re Steve Harrington. And somehow, despite all odds, you managed to land a girl who’s smart enough to know exactly what you’re worth.”

He lets out a scoff, but Robin’s not done yet.

“You’re not just some guy handing out waffle cones. You’re the guy who drives across town at midnight when her car dies in the rain. You’re the guy who memorizes her favorite records so you can surprise her. You’re the guy who—” Robin pauses, her voice turning a little softer, “—makes her happier than I’ve ever seen her.”

Steve stares at some distant point, his gaze fixed on nothing. “She deserves more than this. She’ll find it. She’ll find someone who can actually meet her where she’s going in life, and realize I’m just… not it.”

Robin’s hand lands on his arm, steadying him with unexpected compassion. “Hey.” She leans in a little, her voice gentler but firm. “She loves you. And if you love her—which, trust me, you do—then you don’t get to decide you’re not good enough for her. That’s her call. And guess what? She’s already made it.”

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You stayed up all night, your thoughts a whirlwind of how to fix things with Steve. It’s your day off, and you’re determined to make things right. So, when the phone rings, you’re ready for something to break the cycle of self-doubt. It’s Dustin on the other end, fresh back from summer camp and brimming with energy.

“I’m back!” he exclaims the excitement in his voice like a spark of light in the fog of your thoughts.

The idea hits you in an instant. You’ll pick up Dustin, drive him to the mall, and surprise Steve. The ultimate peace offering. A plan that, with Dustin’s unpredictable charm, is bound to work.

At the mall, you and Dustin lurk behind the bushes in the food court, your eyes scanning the back of Steve’s head. He’s hunched over, looking more solemn than usual, and it sends a knot through your stomach.

“Damn, what did you do to him?” Dustin mutters, his voice dripping with amusement.

“Shut up,” you whisper, nudging him to stay quiet. “That’s what you’re here for.”

Taking a steadying breath, you walk toward Steve. Dustin lingers behind, his curiosity barely contained. You approach quietly, your steps light, then cover Steve’s eyes with your hands from behind.

“Guess who?”

“The love of my life.” Steve’s voice isn’t full of the usual warmth, but rather a tinge of pleading, like he’s reminding you of everything good between you, hoping you’ll see it too.

Your heart twinges at the sound of his hurt. He turns gradually to face you, his expression a mix of relief and uncertainty.

“I missed you,” you mumble, stepping closer. Your lips meet his, soft but cautious, neither of you daring to go further just yet.

“I’m sorry about last night,” you whisper against his lips, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “I really do want to talk about it. But, for now, I brought you something. A peace offering. An olive branch, if you will.”

You give him a tentative smile. His eyes enlarge, a glimmer of hope lighting up his face.

“No…” His voice drops, a spark of realization creeping into his expression. “Is it—”

Before he can finish, a familiar chuckle cuts through the moment.

“Henderson!” Steve’s face breaks into a grin, his voice filled with pure joy. “Henderson! He’s back!”

“I’m back!” Dustin echoes, jumping in with the same uncontainable enthusiasm. He steps forward, practically beaming. “You got the job!”

“I got the job!” Steve shouts, practically leaping into the air.

The two of them meet in the middle, hands raised in celebration, only to fall into their signature handshake—a bizarre fusion of fist bumps and lightsaber duels that somehow works every time.

Watching them, Robin’s dry voice cuts through the laughter, her face completely serious. “How many children is he friends with?” she asks, eyeing you with a level of disbelief.

You can’t help but laugh, the tension easing for the first time that day. Steve’s excitement is infectious, even if there’s still a faint edge to his demeanor. You settle into the booth, but Steve, ever so subtly, keeps just a fraction of space between the two of you. It stings, but you tell yourself it’s nothing.

Dustin, on the other hand, fills the silence between you with tales of his summer adventures, leaning in with enthusiasm. He seems especially proud of his new girlfriend, a subject that Steve, not unkindly, seems to dismiss.

“No way,” Steve scoffs, lifting an eyebrow. “Hotter than Phoebe Cates?”

You shoot him a pointed glare, and he immediately backpedals, realizing his mistake.

“Uh—that’s impossible because only Y/N is hotter than Phoebe Cates,” he clears his throat, the change in tone unmistakable.

“Good boy,” you mutter softly, a smile tugging at your lips. His body shifts at the compliment, just slightly, the smallest sign of unease that doesn’t escape you.

Dustin keeps going, blissfully unaware, recounting his summer exploits with fervor. “Well, uh,” Steve mumbles, shaking his head, clearly trying to find his footing.

“We’re proud of you, pal, that’s…it’s uh…really romantic,” you quip, biting back a laugh. The words hang in the air, an inside joke you’re both aware of but can’t quite get past.

“So, where are the other knuckleheads?” Steve asks, his voice an odd mix of casual curiosity and something else—something you’re still trying to figure out.

“They ditched me,” Dustin answers, mouth full of ice cream. “Can you believe that shit?”

“Whoa,” Steve leans forward, surprised. “Seriously?”

“But they’re going to regret it when they don’t get to share in my glory.” Dustin’s grin is wide, his energy uncontainable.

“What glory?” you ask, a raised eyebrow your only response.

“So, last night, we’re trying to get in contact with Suzie…” Dustin trails off dramatically.

“Oh,” Steve’s face shifts at the mention of Suzie, his enthusiasm palpable yet controlled. It makes you laugh, just a little, at how predictable they are.

“And, uh…I intercepted a secret Russian communication,” Dustin continues, voice lowering to a near whisper.

“Huh?” You lean forward, caught off guard.

“I intercepted a secret Russian communication,” he repeats, but this time, the words are nearly indecipherable.

“Just speak louder,” Steve grumbles, growing annoyed.

“I INTERCEPTED A SECRET RUSSIAN COMMUNICATION!” Dustin shouts, too loudly, causing both you and Steve to jolt forward, hands raised in a frantic hush.

“Jeez, shh. Yeah, okay, that’s what I thought you said,” Steve lowers his voice, shaking his head, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement despite the tension.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” you say, standing up, sensing the gravity of the situation and the need to step out before everything gets too complicated. “I fought demon hounds last year, I’m not about to fight evil Russians this year.”

Steve watches you leave, his gaze lingering for just a second, as though he’s trying to find the words that have been sitting in his chest, unsaid. His fingers twitch at his side, wishing he could reach out, wishing he could make things right in a way that would finally make you believe in him.

“So what does this mean?” Steve turns back to Dustin, his tone a little more serious now.

“It means we could be heroes, Steve,” Dustin says, leaning in with a sense of importance. “True, American heroes. Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Y/N, but all those times you told me you wanted to prove to her that you can give her the life you both want in the future, this could be your chance!”

Steve looks over to where you just were, conflicted. This is his chance to show you he’s not just some guy who slings ice cream and hopes to be more. To prove he can be the one who stands beside you—not behind you, not left behind, but beside you in everything that’s to come. That he’s more than any college scholar or athlete who could chase after you. He wants to be the one who stands up, who fights for you.

He approaches you carefully, his hand brushing your arm just enough to draw your attention.

"We’ll talk later… but right now, I’ve got important matters to attend to.”

There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes — resolve mixed with a hint of boyish excitement — and before you can form a reply, he’s already moving.

“Steve—”

But he’s gone, pulling Dustin by the arm as they disappear into the back room of Scoops.

You exhale, glancing around the now-quiet space. Robin raises an eyebrow, her arms crossed as she leans against the counter.

“Well,” you say, awkwardly adjusting your bag, “I’m gonna leave them to… whatever that was.”

“And what exactly are you leaving them to?” Robin asks dryly.

“Something about espionage, I think?” You shrug, offering a half-hearted wave before turning to wander off into the mall.

“Espionage,” Robin repeats under her breath, shaking her head. “Right. Sure.”

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It’s been hours — too many hours — and still no sign of Steve. No call, no visit. By the time you pull into the mall parking lot, the place is nearly empty, lights flickering off in store windows as closing time approaches.

Scoops Ahoy is dark inside, but faint voices carry from the back room. Without hesitation, you push the door open.

The moment you step inside, Steve jumps to his feet like you’ve caught him red-handed.

“Y/N!” He’s in front of you before you can take another step, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, like he’s trying to block your view.

Behind him, Robin’s perched at the table with a pen in hand, a recorder playing something distorted and garbled. She barely looks up.

“Okay,” you start, crossing your arms tightly, “so you leave in a hurry last night without letting me explain, then today you barely even look at me, and now I find you holed up back here with her?”

Steve’s face falls. “No — no, that’s not… that’s not what this is.”

“I just thought…” You exhale sharply, forcing your voice to steady. “I thought we’d talk tonight. Clear the air. But instead, you’re ‘working late’ with Robin?”

His shoulders sag like he’s run out of excuses — or maybe the energy to make them.

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” he says, quieter now. “Dustin… Dustin really did intercept some kind of Russian message. We’ve been trying to translate it all day.”

You stare at him, unimpressed. “Then let me translate it.”

Steve shifts uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck. “I just… I know you wanted to stay out of anything life-threatening this time.” His words are careful, but the truth sits just behind them — he wants to prove himself.

“You’re making this sound really sketchy,” you warn, frustration bubbling up.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Dustin’s voice cuts in, startling you. He’s suddenly beside you, balancing a greasy bag of food court Chinese in one hand, “But honestly, you did make it sound like you were sneaking around with Robin. Don’t worry though, I was here the entire time.”

“How long have you been standing there?” Steve groans.

“The whole time,” Dustin says through a mouthful of noodles. He pauses to chew. “We didn’t even want Robin’s help — she just kinda… forced her way in.”

Robin waves from the table without looking up.

“Well,” you sigh, “I wanna take a look.”

“You speak Russian?” Dustin asks, eyes wide like you’ve just revealed you’re secretly royalty.

“I took it in ninth and tenth grade,” you say with a shrug.

Dustin presses a hand to his heart. “I just want you to know that, even though I’m in a committed relationship now, you will always be my first love.”

You step over to Robin’s side. “What’ve you got so far?”

“I think I’m finished,” Robin says, handing you a napkin scrawled with messy notes.

You scan the page, tracing the words with your finger. “Not bad,” you admit. “Your phonetics are solid, but this word, you have it sounded out like — ohstohrozhno — it should actually be pronounced ah-sta-ROZH-na.” You write it out in Cyrillic: осторожно. “It means ‘carefully.’ So ‘tread lightly’ works too, and that makes this phrasing… a lot more cryptic if this is a code.”

Robin’s eyebrows lift. “Wow… okay. That’s impressive.”

Steve’s smile flickers, but it falters just as fast. Another reminder that you’re always a step ahead — always smarter, quicker, better.

Robin glances at him and smirks. “I see what you mean about her,” she teases. “She’s brilliant.” Then she looks back at you. “So… what exactly are you doing with Steve Harrington?”

You laugh, but the sound falters when you catch Steve’s face, that half-smile gone completely now.

The four of you spill out of Scoops Ahoy, the last stragglers in the mall. The air feels oddly still, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Steve pulls down the gate with a rattle of metal and locks it with a sharp click.

You linger nearby, watching him. He stands there a moment longer than necessary, eyes fixed on you like there’s something he can’t quite say.

“Well,” he mutters at last, “so much for being American heroes. This is total nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense,” Dustin fires back, his voice echoing through the empty corridor. “It’s too specific — it’s gotta be a code. Like, a super-secret spy code.”

“That’s a total stretch,” Steve counters, shaking his head.

“I don’t know… I kind of agree,” you say.

Steve’s face twists in disbelief. “Oh, come on. You’re buying into this too?”

“If it is a secret Russian transmission,” Robin cuts in, “what do you think they’d say? ‘Fire the warhead at noon?’ Why would they bother hiding the message if it wasn’t something sensitive?”

You turn to agree, but Steve’s no longer beside you. He’s wandered off, standing by a mechanical rocking horse near the arcade.

“Steve?” you call.

He doesn’t look up. “Uh… it only takes quarters. I need a quarter.” His voice is oddly serious.

You blink at him, bewildered, but fish one out of your pocket and pass it over.

Steve drops the coin in the slot. The horse jerks to life, creaking forward as a tinny, cheerful tune begins to play — loud enough to bounce off the mall’s glass storefronts.

Steve’s gaze snaps to you, wide-eyed, like he’s just uncovered the Holy Grail.

“You need help getting up there, little Stevie?” Robin teases, grinning.

You roll your eyes, ignoring her. Steve’s bizarre logic is turning over in your mind like puzzle pieces sliding into place.

Then it hits you.

“Holy sh—” Your words trail off as you spin toward Dustin, waving urgently. “Give me the recording!”

Dustin fumbles with his bag, digging out the tape. You snatch it from him, crouching beside Steve as you hit play.

The melody, the exact same one playing from the horse, pours through the speaker, distorted but unmistakable. The two songs line up almost perfectly, one echoing the other.

You lean in without thinking, pressing a quick kiss to Steve’s cheek. “Oh, you are a genius!”

Steve freezes, stunned into silence. But pride swells in your chest and in his too, even if he’s too surprised to show it.

“I don’t get it,” Robin says, stepping closer.

“Steve figured it out,” you explain, still smiling. “The song on the recording… it’s this horse’s song.”

“Maybe they have the same horses in Russia,” Robin suggests.

Steve scoffs quietly, still watching the rocking horse. “Indiana Flyers?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” His eyes lift to meet yours, something more serious lingering there.

“This code…” He exhales sharply, voice low. “It didn’t come from Russia.” He pauses, the truth settling between you.

“It came from here.”

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The next day, Steve and Dustin stake out in the food court, huddled behind a cluster of fake plants. Steve peers through a pair of binoculars, scanning the mall like a man on a mission. He sweeps his gaze across the bustling crowd before landing on the record store — or rather, the empty space behind the counter where you should be.

“Have you seen Y/N today?” he asks, lowering the binoculars.

Dustin gives him a sideways look. “You haven’t talked to her? Dude, you guys are inseparable. What the hell?” He jabs Steve’s arm with his elbow.

“I just… I needed a little space, that’s all,” Steve mutters.

Dustin’s brows lift knowingly. “Is this because she’s looking at colleges?”

Steve lets the binoculars hang limply from his neck. “She’s looking at schools out of state,” he mumbles.

“Okay… and?”

“I just…” Steve drags a hand through his hair. “I feel like I’m holding her back.”

Dustin groans. “Here we go again. Come on, man. This is not the Steve Harrington who dated every girl like he was the prize. Where’s your confidence?” He pauses, softening. “You love each other. College isn’t gonna change that.”

Steve shakes his head. “She’s the prize, man. And I don’t want to screw this up.” He hesitates, voice quieter now. “I—I think I want to ma—”

Before he can finish, a hand clamps down on his shoulder. Steve jumps, spinning around to face your boss.

“Have you seen Y/N?” the man asks, frowning.

Steve blinks, caught off guard. He awkwardly stands from his hiding spot behind the plastic ferns. “I… uh… I thought maybe she was on break. That’s why she wasn’t in the store.”

Your boss shakes his head. “She clocked in this morning but hasn’t been seen since.”

Steve’s stomach twists. He glances at Dustin, panic flickering behind his eyes. Without another word, they rush past your boss and sprint back to Scoops Ahoy, nearly colliding with a customer as they push through the door.

Robin is hunched over the counter, scribbling furiously in her notebook.

“I’m so close to cracking this,” she groans, dragging her pen across the page. “I just can’t figure out what ‘the silver lynx’ means…”

“Robin,” Steve interrupts, his voice tight. He snatches the phone off the wall and punches in your home number. The line rings… and rings… and rings. No answer.

“What’s going on?” Robin asks, straightening.

“Y/N’s missing,” Dustin says flatly.

Robin’s eyes widen. “What?”

“Her boss said she clocked in but hasn’t been seen since this morning,” Steve says, gripping the phone like it might break in his hand. “We need access to the security cameras.”

“Oh sure,” Dustin snorts. “I’ll just waltz up to the security office and ask for the footage. They’ll love that. Real easy.”

Robin smirks. “I might have an idea…”

Robin leads Steve and Dustin through the winding corridors behind the stores, a maze of dull concrete walls and flickering overhead lights. The hum of the mall’s air conditioning drones above them as they approach the security office.

“Alright,” Robin whispers, stopping just before the door. “Here’s the plan — Steve, you’re gonna go in there and charm the guy.”

“Charm?” Steve echoes, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s your big idea?”

“I've seen the way he looks at the male jazzercise instructor….trust me. Charm will go a long way. And besides, you’re the guy who used to strut around this place like you owned it,” Robin reminds him. “I’m pretty sure you can sweet-talk one bored security guard.”

“I don’t know…” Steve mutters. “What if I can’t—”

“Oh my God, just unbutton your shirt or something,” Robin snaps.

Steve glares at her, but reluctantly undoes the top few buttons of his Scoops Ahoy uniform.

“You’re disgusting,” he says flatly.

“And you’re welcome,” she replies with a grin.

Dustin leans closer. “And what are we doing?”

Robin smirks. “We’re going to make a little… distraction.”

Steve exhales sharply and steps through the door.

Inside, the security guard, a middle-aged man with a mustache and a Styrofoam cup of coffee, barely looks up from his magazine.

“Can I help you?” he asks, voice dull.

“Yeah, hey!” Steve grins, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Listen, I’m having a bit of a… situation with my girlfriend.” He glances over his shoulder as if someone might overhear. “I think she’s mad at me. I was hoping you could help me out… you know, check the cameras so I can figure out where she went?”

The guard barely spares him a glance. “Can’t do that, kid. Mall policy.”

“Come on, man,” Steve says, leaning in with a conspiratorial smile. “You’d really be saving me here. She’s… she’s a total knockout, and if I mess this up?” He winces dramatically. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

The guard’s expression doesn’t budge. “Still no.”

Steve grits his teeth. “Okay… what if I—”

Suddenly, the emergency exit alarm blares down the hall. The guard shoots to his feet, muttering curses under his breath.

“What the hell—”

“I’ll check it out for you!” Steve offers quickly, but the man’s already bolting out the door.

Steve waits until the sound of the guard’s footsteps fades, then gestures frantically for Robin and Dustin. They burst through the door just as Steve slides behind the desk.

“Nice work, Harrington,” Robin teases.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s just find the footage,” Steve mutters, flipping switches until the grainy black-and-white monitors flicker to life.

“There!” Dustin points to one of the screens.

The footage flickers, grainy and washed out in shades of gray. Steve’s eyes lock onto the screen the second your face appears. There you are, opening the back door to the record store. He feels a flicker of relief — you look calm, unharmed — but it vanishes just as quickly. A man in a delivery uniform hands you a package.

“Okay… okay…” Steve mutters under his breath, watching your every move like he can will the footage to change.

You don’t close the door. Instead, you lean out, watching the man as he walks away. Then you vanish back inside the store.

“Where are you going?” Steve whispers, his fingers tightening around the desk. He doesn’t notice how hard he’s gripping it, and doesn’t feel Robin’s hand resting on his shoulder.

Then you reappear — no package in hand — and start following the delivery man.

Steve’s chest tightens.

“Why would she follow him?” Robin asks, her voice quiet.

“She’s not stupid,” Steve snaps, but his eyes stay glued to the screen. What were you thinking?

Robin changes the feeds as you move down the back corridors. Steve’s pulse pounds in his ears. The walls on the screen blur in his vision, but he doesn’t blink. You’re ducking into doorways whenever the man turns around, staying just out of sight. He almost feels proud…you’re smart and careful, but the tension in his chest coils tighter.

“Come on… come on…” he murmurs.

The feed switches again. You’re out by the loading docks now, hiding behind a stack of crates. The man stands with two others, their conversation too far away to hear. One of them glances in your direction.

“Don’t move,” Steve begs. “Don’t move.”

You duck, just in time. Steve exhales, gripping the desk so hard his knuckles go white.

“They’re leaving,” Dustin points out. “She’s fine… she’s—”

You step out from your hiding spot too soon. The door swings open again, and Steve’s stomach drops.

“No,” he chokes out.

You turn to run, but they’re too fast. One of them grabs your arm. You twist free, slamming your elbow into his ribs and kicking the second man hard enough that he stumbles back. For a second…a fleeting, impossible second, Steve thinks you might break free.

“Yes!” Dustin cheers.

But then the second man snags your wrist, yanking you back before you can break away. You thrash in his grip, landing a sharp kick to his shin. Steve’s heart jolts with hope —

“Come on,” he urges. “Come on, baby… you can do this…”

There are too many of them and they're too strong. You fight harder than Steve’s ever seen, but it’s not enough. One of them pins your arms, and the other grabs something from his pocket —

“No… no, no, no…” Steve breathes.

You struggle for another second before your body falters. Your legs buckle. Your head lolls against your captor’s shoulder, limp and lifeless.

Steve’s chair scrapes back violently as he jumps to his feet.

“We have to go,” he says, his voice shaking. “We have to go now.”

“Steve,” Robin starts, but he’s already halfway to the door.

“You don’t get it,” he snaps over his shoulder, voice cracking. “They have her.”

And he’s gone, shoving his way through the mall with only one thought in his head — get to you before it’s too late.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

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whosscruffylooking · 4 months ago

Text

The Purest Things: Too Good at Goodbyes

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

au! november 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How much he loved her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just need a minute,” you lament.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” you whisper.

“I should have —”

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

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

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

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

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

You love him.

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

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

You love him — and it’s too late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He loves you.

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

But this isn’t nothing.

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

“Hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re here. For Jack. For him.

And with that knowledge, he can take on anything.

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

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

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

You turn, and your eyes catch his.

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

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

He steps closer, and you offer a tired smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

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

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

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

“Mhm. Just tired.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows because he sees it in you, too.

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

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

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

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

“Goodnight, Aaron.”

“Goodnight,” he murmurs.

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

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

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

And you do too.

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

Tag List :)

@percysley @sammypotato @spideyreid

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whosscruffylooking · 4 months ago

Text

The Purest Things: One Hundred (100)

Aaron Hotchner x Fem! Reader Word Count: 6.4k Warnings: Murder. Blood. Death. Weapons. Canon typical violence. Everything that makes Criminal Minds, Criminal Minds. a/n: having to re-watch 100 over and over to write this hurt. The Purest Things Masterlist | Taglist Form

au! november 2009

Bookend: "The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief - But the pain of grief is only a shadow when compared with the pain of never risking love." -Hillary Stanton Zunin

“Start from the beginning,” Strauss begins, her voice sharp as she starts the recording. “Why was your presence requested at the BAU once again, when earlier you had transferred to another division?”

You meet her gaze, unflinching, refusing to let her intimidate you. This isn’t the first time you’ve been in this position; you remember the day she first interviewed you for the position at the BAU, and you handled it just fine then.

“I worked closely on the case when The Reaper returned from his dormant period. I knew George Foyet’s profile inside and out, second only to Agent Hotchner. I believe the team recognized that and knew that when Foyet resurfaced, I was an asset, and they needed to use all of their resources to catch him once and for all,” you answer, your voice steady.

She doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer and presses on, “Why did you transfer from the BAU?”

The question hits harder than you expected, the air in your lungs stalling for a second.

Because I was falling for the Unit Chief.

You blink a few times, forcing your composure back into place. “Because,” you start, taking a slow, deliberate breath, “I had not fully healed from being attacked by George Foyet.”

Strauss leans forward slightly, her eyes narrowing as she processes your words. There’s a brief, uncomfortable pause before she speaks again, her tone still measured, almost clinical.

“Understood,” she responds, jotting down a note. “But surely the team was aware of your emotional state then. Wouldn’t it have been more productive to remain with the unit, especially given your expertise with Foyet’s profile?”

You can feel her scrutiny bearing down on you, but you maintain your calm. Your fingers tap the table lightly, keeping your focus on the task at hand. You know where this line of questioning is headed, but you can’t let her corner you into something personal.

“I needed time to recover, to ensure I could be effective, both as a professional and as a person,” you explain, keeping your voice steady. “I thought a fresh perspective in a different division would allow me the mental space I needed to do that. But when the team reached out, I knew that my background with the case made me an asset. That’s why I came back.”

Strauss eyes you for a moment longer, her expression indistinct before she shifts in her seat. “And yet, it seems the team was more than willing to bring you back. I assume that speaks to your value within the unit.”

You nod, trying not to let your apprehension show. “Exactly. I’m here to help, as always.”

Strauss makes another quick note, “It’s clear you were a significant part of their efforts,” she says, voice colder now, “Let’s talk about Agent Hotchner. Your connection to him was… not insignificant. Can you elaborate on the nature of that relationship?”

You stiffen, the question cutting deeper than you expect, but you know better than to reveal too much. Your answer comes out smooth, and detached, your voice persistent as you steer the conversation.

“We were colleagues,” you begin, intentionally keeping it simple. “I respect Agent Hotchner, as I do the rest of the team. Our professional relationship was always my priority.”

The slight twitch in Strauss’s lips suggests she isn’t buying it, but she doesn’t press further. Instead, she closes her notebook with a soft click, her eyes narrowing again as she assesses you. “Well then, start from the beginning.”

You breathe a silent sigh of relief, knowing the worst of the interrogation is over. For now, at least.

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

The call comes without warning, slicing through the muted drone of your office. The moment JJ’s name flashes across the screen, a whisper of unease unfurls in your chest, but nothing could brace you for what follows.

“He’s back.”

Two words. Simple. Devastating.

Your grip tightens around the phone as your pulse roars in your ears. The walls seem to press in, the air stagnant and suffocating. The room—your desk, the meticulously stacked case files, the half-finished coffee growing cold—fades into irrelevance, swallowed by the impact of those words.

“JJ…” you start, but your voice barely holds together.

“I know he’d never ask you himself,” she says, careful, measured, like she’s already bracing for your refusal. “But we need your help. He needs you.”

The mention of him—the one person you’ve spent months forcing from your thoughts—sends a sharp twist through your stomach.

Aaron.

You shut your eyes, pressing your fingers against your temple as if that could dull the ache forming there. “JJ, I don’t think—”

“You’re the only other person besides Hotch who knows this case inside and out,” she cuts in, firmer now, unwilling to let you slip away. “If you won’t do it for him, do it for Haley and Jack.”

Haley. Jack.

Their names strike harder than any plea ever could. Jack’s small, trusting face flashes in your mind, followed by the last look Haley ever gave you—worried, desperate, yet still clinging to hope. You think of the threat that lingers over them, dark and relentless.

Your chest constricts, dread curling around your ribs, coiling tight.

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” you whisper, the words tasting like surrender.

As you lower the phone, your hand trembles before resting it on your desk. Silence follows, sober and extreme. You sit motionless, staring at nothing, the meaning of what you’ve just agreed to weighs you down like a stone.

This is a battle no one wins. Something—someone—will be lost.

And for the first time in a long time, you wonder if you’re walking straight into your own ruin.

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

The elevator doors glide open, and for a fleeting second, you’re back to the beginning—your first day here, stepping onto the BAU floor with too much hope, too much belief in what this place could be. What you could be.

Now, all you feel is hollow.

Beyond the glass doors, JJ catches sight of you. The moment her eyes lock onto yours, she moves swiftly, slipping out to meet you in the hallway. It all happens in slow motion—the way she reaches for you, the way her eyes confirm that this is real.

“He doesn’t know you’re coming,” she mutters, her grip firm but delicate as she steers you toward the conference room.

Each step feels heavier than the last. The invasion of memories attacks you from all directions—the bullpen, where laughter once felt easy; the hallway leading to Hotch’s office, where your world cracked open just months ago. You don’t dare look inside.

And then, the conference room.

The change is immediate. Conversations falter, words dying mid-sentence as every pair of eyes swings toward you.

Hotch doesn’t turn. He stands at the board, rigid, lost in thought, his back to the room. The sight of him—the way his shoulders carry so much strain—sends a pang through you.

JJ clears her throat. A soft sound that somehow feels deafening.

Aaron turns.

The air in the room stills.

His eyes land on you, and in an instant, the world around you blurs, everything else—Foyet, the case files, the team—falling away into irrelevance. This is all that’s left.

You.

Him.

The shock is immediate like he never let himself believe you’d actually be standing here again. His breath halts—just slightly—but you catch it. You always do.

He looks the same, and yet not—leaner, worn down, the exhaustion carved deeper into the lines of his face. But it’s his eyes that undo you.

Because when he looks at you, he breaks.

It’s there, in the way his guard falters, in the way his lips part, like he wants to say your name but can’t bring himself to. Like speaking might shatter this fragile moment.

You don’t know what to say either. What words could possibly bridge the gap between then and now? That you weren’t ready to see him like this? That you walked away with no intention of ever coming back? That despite everything, despite every reason you left, you still feel everything?

His hands curl into fists at his sides, as if stabelizing himself. And you? You just stand there, gripping the strap of your bag like it might hold you together.

JJ shifts beside you, a subtle reminder that you’re not alone, that the team is witnessing every second of this unraveling.

“You came,” he finally says, and his voice is more subdued than you’ve ever heard it.

It’s not just a statement. It’s something else. It's fractured. Something like, You came back to me.

“I’m here,” you manage.

He nods once, gradually, his throat working as he swallows something back. But his eyes—God, his eyes—are holding you in place, saying everything he won’t.

You left. And now, by some miracle, you’re back.

But you both know this isn’t the same. You aren’t the same.

And whatever was left between you feels like a bridge left untended for too long—weathered, fragile, one wrong step away from crumbling beneath you.

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

You stand at the window, peering across the street for any sign of life in the apartment that supposedly conceals George Foyet. JJ approaches you, her voice soothing. “I know he hasn’t spoken to you, but I can tell he’s relieved you’re here.”

You chew on your lip, stifling the emotions you’ve been holding back since she called you earlier.

“You could be the one to start the conversation, you know,” she nudges you, insistently.

“I’m the last person he should be talking to right now,” you mumble, keeping your gaze fixed elsewhere.

JJ tilts her head, unconvinced. “I think it’s quite the opposite.”

Your eyes dart toward Hotch—fixed, composed, but carrying a burden that even his posture can’t conceal. Maybe JJ has a point. This isn’t about old wounds or personal distance. Right now, you’re a team, and he shouldn’t have to bear this alone.

With a quiet inhale, you nod, steadying yourself before stepping forward, your pulse drumming in your ears.

“Should I even bother asking?” you say, stepping up beside him.

“You already know,” his voice is flat, almost defeated.

And he’s right. You do.

“Why didn’t you call me, Hotch?” you ask, the name feeling foreign on your tongue. Yet, it feels like you have lost the right to call him Aaron.

He lets out a hushed, exasperated laugh. “Hotch,” he repeats, like the word itself is a wound.

Realizing your mistake, you correct yourself. “Aaron.”

The shift is small but brutal. Another layer of distance, another reminder of how much has changed—how much you’re both pretending it hasn’t.

“I didn’t want to involve you in something that already weighed so heavily on you,” he acknowledges. “You were blaming yourself for the loss of my family, carrying guilt that was never yours to bear. You don’t deserve that.”

He looks away, as if ashamed. When he speaks again, his voice is even more powerless, frayed at the edges. “This is my battle. One I never should have dragged you into.”

“You didn’t drag me into anything, Aaron,” you say, stepping closer, your voice mellow. “I chose to be there. I chose you.”

His eyes flicker with guilt, sorrow, and second-guessing—but he remains silent.

“You don’t get to decide what I can and can’t handle,” you continue, your voice fainter now but no less resolute. “And you sure as hell don’t get to push me away to protect me from you. That’s not how this works.”

He exhales sharply, his gaze finally locking onto yours. “I thought that’s what we were doing—pushing each other away. For our own good.”

You can feel the hurt crawling up your throat, but you hold it back, knowing he’s right. “You're right Aaron,” you finally say, your voice shortened with frustration.

With that, you walk away, rejoining the team. JJ looks at you, her eyes searching, and she can immediately tell the conversation didn’t go as hoped. You offer her a brief, resigned look, knowing she can read you better than you’d like.

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

“That is when the footage came in from the SWAT team showing that Foyet had abandoned his apartment. There seemed to be no reason for us to think that he would be alerted to our presence if we raided it,” you recount, your voice controlled.

Strauss presses, her tone curt, “And who made the call to enter Foyet’s apartment?”

You know exactly what she wants to hear, but you hold your ground, unwilling to let her manipulate the narrative. “We all moved at the same time, knowing there was no time to waste.”

She doesn’t seem satisfied, but she moves on. “And what did you find in Foyet’s apartment?”

“We found very little. His computer was the most damning piece of evidence, yet as always, he was one step ahead of us. He’d triggered a fail-safe to delete everything.” You pause, “Except something caught our attention.”

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

"Garcia," you interrupt as you watch the computer screen in horror, "Go back, what were those images that were wiped?"

Flashing on the screen are images of Haley and Jack at the park, trying to maintain a sense of normalcy, not knowing that evil lurks just around the corner. What scares you the most is an image of Sam Kassmeyer.

“Hotch, isn’t that—” you start, but he cuts you off before you can finish.

“That’s the U.S. Marshal assigned to my family.”

His hand is already on his phone, dialing. No answer. He tries again—nothing.

“We’re gonna need to deploy another SWAT unit,” Morgan says urgently.

“That’s gonna take another half hour,” JJ replies, her voice tight with frustration.

Without hesitation, you reach for the keys clipped to Hotch’s belt loop and meet his eyes. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t hesitate either. He just nods, and the two of you bolt for the door.

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

“So it was your idea to leave for Marshal Kassmeyer’s house immediately? Wouldn’t that have been a job for a tactical team?” Strauss insists.

“Time was not a luxury we could afford,” you reply evenly.

“We?” She arches a brow. “Don’t you mean Agent Hotchner felt that way?”

You don’t so much as blink. “I’m sure you asked Dr. Reid the same question, and I have no doubt he recounted the sequence of events to you in perfect detail. So let’s not waste time with questions you already know the answers to.”

She exhales snappily, obviously unimpressed with your deflection. “What happened next?”

“No matter how hard Marshal Kassmeyer fought to protect Jack and Haley, it was ultimately futile,” you state, keeping your tone gauged. “Hotch accompanied Kassmeyer in the ambulance—a necessary decision, one that I will not comment on any further. It was the right call. Ultimately, we determined that Jack and Haley’s lives were in immediate danger and took action accordingly.”

“So Agent Hotchner was looking for an opportunity to separate himself from the team, and he found one,” she proclaims.

“I already told you, I would make no further comment on this.”

“Why not? Because you know it to be true?” She pushes. “He was desperate, and he didn’t want someone with a clear head to stop him.”

You let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “This is rich.”

Strauss sighs, “Continue, then.”

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

Back at the BAU, the team is gathered, suspense rapidly increasing as Hotch’s voice crackles through the speakerphone.

“Foyet called Haley from Kassmeyer’s phone,” he says, breathless. “He told her she was compromised—that I was dead. He told her to throw away her phone and buy a disposable one.”

Silence blankets the room for a beat before his voice cuts through again, urgent. “Is Y/N there?”

“I’m here,” you answer, swallowing down the fear clawing at your throat.

“I need you to think with me,” he says, his tone carrying a subtle significance, a message only you’d understand.

Your mind is already racing, connecting dots before anyone else can. “I need a car,” you say immediately.

In the car, you call Hotch, knowing Garcia is tapped in, and likely the whole team is listening.

“Aaron,” you say, fighting to keep your voice steady.

“I’m here,” he answers, mirroring your words from earlier.

You take a measured breath. “He’s playing on your worst fears. And Haley’s too.”

On the other end, you hear him exhale sharply. You know his grip on the phone must be tight, his knuckles white. He closes his eyes for just a second, trying to will himself into control, but you know it’s your voice he’s holding onto.

“In reality, you are his worst fear, Aaron,” you continue, your words firm, purposeful. “You’re in his head just as much as he’s in yours."

You’re still driving, but your mind is working at full speed, instinctively falling back into the rhythm of profiling with Hotch. The silence between you is short, but it’s a suspense that only you both seem to understand.

Putting all of the long hours you and Hotch spent toiling over this case to use, you begin rattling off everything you’ve profiled together about The Reaper.

“He’s meticulous,” you speak. “Foyet’s always one step ahead, and he doesn’t make mistakes. Every move is calculated and planned. He’s not going to pick a random location—he’s going to go somewhere he’s confident Haley will go, somewhere that plays into both her past with you and his twisted version of control.”

Hotch listens intently, his silence a silent confirmation that he’s with you every step of the way. You both know exactly how Foyet thinks, how he manipulates.

“Foyet thrives on manipulation, Hotch. He knows the importance of familiarity, the power of making someone feel trapped by their own memories. It’s the one thing he can use to get under your skin—and Haley’s.” You halt, letting the words sink in. “He’ll use her emotional connection to the location, it'll be the one place that’s meant to be a safe haven for both of you, to create doubt and fear.”

“Thank you,” is all you hear on the other line before it disconnects. You immediately dial Garcia and ask her to patch you into Hotch’s line, knowing that Foyet will be the next one to reach out.

You listen intently, your pulse quickening.

“Agent Hotchner,” that familiar, vile voice rings through, sending a chill down your spine. The memories of him—of Foyet’s cold words as he stabbed you—flash through your mind, unbidden and agonizing.

“If you touch her…” Hotch growls, his voice dangerous, the protective instinct rising within him.

“Be gentle, like I was with you…” Foyet mocks, the venom clear in his tone. “Like I was with your little girlfriend?”

You wince at the statement. Even knowing he’s trying to provoke him, it stings. Hotch’s breathing fastens, his eyes shut for a moment as the memory of you, lying on that stretcher, blood pooling around you, crashes over him.

How much more can he take of this?

Foyet’s cruel taunting continues, “Why so quiet? You usually lash out when you’re frustrated. What’s wrong, Hotchner? No smart remarks? No threats?”

Everything is hanging by a thread, Hotch struggles to maintain control, to keep focused, as Foyet pulls at every vulnerable string.

Hotch’s jaw clenches as Foyet’s voice slithers through the phone, each word curling around him like a tightening noose. The grim reminder of Foyet’s past crimes hangs over him, suffocating but familiar. Every taunt is like a cold hand tightening around his throat—but Hotch holds firm, forcing himself to stay composed.

“You didn’t know where Haley was,” Hotch says coldly, “So you made her come to you. Just another way for you to show control.”

Foyet’s laugh is hollow. “You make me sound lazy.”

Hotch’s voice hones, laced with controlled malice as he reads Foyet like a book — every twisted move etched into his mind from years of relentless pursuit. The tension builds, his bait clearly taking hold — until the line snaps.

“You know what I’ve been thinking?” Foyet’s voice turns mocking, cruel. “Haley looks pretty good with dark hair. She’s lost some weight. Must be all the stress you caused her. Where’s the little man? Oh. There he is. Does he like Captain America because of you?”

You wince, every nerve in your body twisting with dread. He’s already there—you know it deep in your bones. The realization strikes like a cold blade to the chest, sharp and unforgiving. Panic surges through you, a relentless tide crashing over reason. The clock isn’t just ticking anymore, it’s thundering, each second pounding like a war drum as Foyet lights the fuse.

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

“So you and Hotch were just driving around aimlessly?” Strauss asks, her tone skeptical.

“No,” you respond, enduring and sure. “Based on the profile Agent Hotchner and I developed over the past few months, it was clear that Foyet’s endgame would likely lead to Agent Hotchner and his wife’s home. The team also had the same profile, allowing them to draw the same conclusion.”

She leans in, her eyes sharpening with intent. “What happened next?”

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

“Foyet is calling Hotch,” Garcia announces, her voice tense with the kind of haste that fills the atmosphere.

“Foyet,” Aaron answers, his voice a mixture of grit and fatigue.

“Aaron?” The frail, tremulous voice on the other end pierces through the static—Haley’s voice, strained and full of fear.

A lump rises in your throat, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

“Haley,” Hotch’s voice quivers on the line, a brief crack betraying the calm he’s struggling to maintain.

“You’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” he soothes her, though the breaks in his tone betray him, a fragile attempt to steady the onslaught they both know is coming.

“But… Oh Aaron,” she whispers, a broken realization settling in. The quiet devastation in her voice makes your chest tighten, the horror of the trap she and Jack had unknowingly walked into seeping through the line like a cold, fatal mist.

“He can hear us, right?” Aaron asks, his voice weakened, as though he’s bracing for the worst.

“Yes. I’m so sorry,” she whispers, the words strangled, her voice cracking as the gravity of their situation overwhelms her.

“Haley, show him no weakness. No fear,” Hotch advises, his words rough and determined, trying to be her anchor as much as she is his.

“I know. Sam told me all about him,” Haley says. The tremor in her words cuts through you, unraveling a deep dread in your chest. Every syllable clings to the distress that consumes her.

“Is he, uh—”

“No,” Aaron breaks in, urgent and sharp. “Sam’s fine.”

“Is that why your marriage fell apart, Hotchner?” Foyet sneers, his voice oily and smug. “Because you’re a liar?”

“He’s trying to scare you,” Aaron says, his voice tighter now, almost pleading. “Haley, just focus on me.”

But Foyet doesn’t stop. “Did you even tell her what this was about? About the deal?”

Your stomach twists painfully, remembering that damn deal—the one Aaron refused, the one that’s brought them to this. Now Foyet’s twisting the knife.

“He’s just trying to make you angry,” Aaron’s voice breaks, the anguish bleeding through.

“Well,” Foyet drawls, sickly sweet, “she should be. She’s gonna… d-i-e because of your inflated ego.”

You grit your teeth, rage flaring hot in your chest.

“Just ignore him, Haley,” you whisper under your breath, knowing she can’t hear you—but hoping, somehow, she can feel it.

“You know,” Foyet continues, words dripping with mock sympathy, “all he had to do was stop looking for me, and you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

He’s right. If Aaron had given up the hunt, this wouldn’t be happening. But you know Aaron. Even if he had walked away, the guilt would’ve swallowed him whole. He would’ve spent the rest of his life drowning in it.

“Tell Jack I need him to work the case with me,” Aaron’s voice cracks—just barely, but enough to gut you.

And then you hear it—Jack’s voice, tiny and delicate, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

“Hi, Daddy,” he says sweetly, his words so innocent they almost feel cruel. “Is George a bad guy?”

Your breath catches. Jack’s so smart—too smart, like his father. He knows more than a boy his age should.

And Aaron—oh, Aaron. His world is crumbling, slipping through his fingers no matter how fast he drives or how hard he wills the universe to bend. He’s losing everything, and there’s nothing any of you can do to stop it.

“Yes, he is, buddy,” Aaron says, his words timid, desperately clinging to the hope that Jack will understand. Every syllable is a lifeline. “Jack, I need you on this case with me. Do you understand? I need you to work the case with me.”

It’s code—a language only the two of them speak, a silent agreement forged between father and son. You can almost hear the heavy weight of it hanging between them, a promise too dangerous to break, a signal too late to send.

You shut your eyes, your heart slamming against your ribs. It’s the only way Aaron knows to protect Jack, to keep him hidden in plain sight. You feel it in your bones—the cold certainty of it.

“Jack, hug your mom for me,” Aaron urges, each word drenched in a sorrow he can’t disguise.

You set the phone down, hands shaking as you try to steady your breath. The world is tilting, spinning with a sickening force, and you know, deep down, you’re too late. But you can’t stop now. Not when they need you more than ever.

When you pick the phone back up, Aaron’s voice meets you like an arrow to the chest. It’s raw. He’s already surrendered to something you don’t want to imagine. Neither of you, none of you, can avoid it anymore.

“You’re so strong, Haley. Stronger than I ever was,” Aaron says, his voice a ragged whisper of reverence, as if these words are the last gift he can give her.

“You’ll hurry, right?”

“I know you didn’t sign on for this,” Aaron says quietly, too quietly, the regret spilling out of him like a torrent. He’s drowning in it.

“Neither did you,” Haley responds, and for just a second, there’s a calm—like a breath before the storm. But it doesn’t last.

Aaron exhales, broken. “I’m sorry for everything.”

Her words come gradually, consciously, like she’s gathering the last fragments of her courage. “Promise me that you’ll tell him how we met. And how you used to make me laugh.”

“Haley…” Hotch tries to stop her, but the words are already leaving her. She’s saying everything she needs him to hear, everything she’s left to give.

“He needs to know you weren’t always so serious. I want him to believe in love, because it’s the most important thing. But you need to show him. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Aaron says, his voice a thin thread, a vow wrapped in all the pain he’s ever carried.

Then you hear it. The sound you never wanted to hear.

Three shots.

Three final, hollow sounds that punctuate the end of everything. Every moment you’ve been holding onto, every hope you’ve clung to, shatters in that split second. You’ve failed. And you’re too late to fix it. The world stops spinning. You feel nothing but the gnawing, hollow emptiness of what’s already been lost.

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

“I was racing to get there, but Hotch beat me there,” you sniffle, reaching for a tissue.

Strauss watches you closely, hanging on every word. She hands you the tissue. “And what happened next?”

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

You slam the car into park, heart pounding in your chest as you unholster your gun, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Every step you take feels heavy, your boots pounding against the ground as you race toward the house. You can hear Hotch’s strained grunts in the distance, but Foyet’s voice is gone—eerily silent. Panic grips you, but you push it down, focusing on reaching Hotch.

You follow the sounds and burst into the dining room, eyes landing on him immediately—Hotch, kneeling on top of Foyet. His fists are relentless, a brutal display of years of repressed fury, sorrow, and despair you’ve never seen before. His body is shuddering, not from exhaustion but from the intensity of everything he’s been holding back. The raw emotion in his movements is stifling. His breath comes out in harsh gasps as he delivers blow after blow, eyes wild with wrath. But underneath it all, there’s something even more personal. He’s defending his family—ensuring that this man, the one who’s tormented him for so long, will never touch him or his son again.

“Hotch!” you shout, your voice raw with urgency. “Stop! This isn’t you!”

But he doesn’t stop. His fists keep coming, hitting Foyet harder and harder, almost as if he’s trying to erase all the pain this man has caused.

Just then, Emily, Rossi, and Derek burst through the door, rushing into the room with wide eyes as they take in the scene. You run to Hotch, grabbing his arm, trying to pull him off of Foyet, but he’s relentless, lost in his outrage.

“Aaron!” you shout again, your voice breaking. “Please, stop!”

Derek steps in, his strong hands gripping Hotch’s shoulders and pulling him back, away from Foyet, his voice stern and commanding. “Hotch, that’s enough. He's dead, Hotch. It’s over.”

Aaron collapses into Derek’s arms, his fists still clenched in a defensive position, as the sobs break free from him. They echo through the room, shattered and hopeless. He struggles through his jagged gasps, each inhale shaky and erratic as if his body is struggling to find relief. The weight of everything, all of the pain and years of torment, is crashing down on him all at once.

Then, with no warning, he pulls away from Derek, his movements frantic. His body, exhausted and trembling, pushes itself up as fast as it can muster. He stumbles, the pain in his limbs almost too much to bear, but there’s only one thing on his mind. Jack.

Without another word, Aaron runs—clumsy but determined—his feet pounding the floor as he moves toward the door, towards the one person he needs to protect, the one person who has kept him tethered to whatever hope he had left. He has to get to Jack. Now.

You follow behind him, silently urging JJ to come along, though you know she’s already right there, just as shattered. The air feels charged, everything unraveling so fast it seems to move in slow motion, yet too quickly for you to grasp.

When you finally reach them, your heart seizes. Jack is wrapped in his father’s arms, Aaron holding him like a lifeline. The sight is so painfully raw that it nearly knocks the breath out of you. Aaron is shaking, his grip tight, almost desperate. He’s clinging to Jack as though he’s afraid that if he lets go, everything he loves will slip away.

“What happened to you, Daddy?” Jack’s small hand gently touches Aaron’s face, his fingers brushing the blood that streaks down his cheeks. The tenderness of it rips through you. He’s so innocent, so unaware of the gravity of the moment, and yet there’s wisdom in his eyes—wisdom born of having seen too much too soon.

“I’m okay. I want you to go with Ms. Jareau, okay?” He’s trying to sound strong, trying to protect Jack from the horrors of this moment, but his voice betrays him. The cracks in it are too wide to hide.

JJ takes Jack, her hands gentle and reassuring, but even she can’t hide the hurt in her eyes. Spencer squeezes your shoulder as he follows behind them, a quiet reassurance that feels like it should mean something—like it should make this all feel more bearable, but it doesn’t.

You stand in the doorway, watching as Aaron crumples in on himself, his body finally giving in to the grief that’s been threatening to break him for hours. He sits there, breathing heavily, his face crumpled in despair, looking so utterly defeated. You want to do something, anything, but words feel useless, actions feel too small to fill the space left by Haley.

You begin to walk away, but then you hear it. “No. Just… be there.”

It’s a plea so soft, so vulnerable, that you can’t ignore it. You stop, your heart clenching in your chest, and you remain where you are. You don’t speak. You don’t move. You just…be there.

The silence between you is delicate, but you don’t dare break it. You don’t try to fix it, because you know, somehow, that nothing can fix this. Not now. Not ever. You just watch as Aaron slowly stands up, his shallow breaths trembling through his chest. His lips quiver as he swallows hard, trying to steady himself, but it’s no use. The tears are there, trapped in his eyes, clinging to his eyelashes, as if they, too, are struggling to break free.

“I need to—” His voice falters, and he doesn’t even need to finish the sentence. You know where he’s going. He’s going to her. To Haley.

He whimpers, the sound so small, so broken that it shatters something inside of you. You nod, your own throat tight, barely able to speak. “I’ll go first.”

He follows you, each step slower than the last. His tears are limitless, and you wonder how one person can carry so much pain without completely breaking.

You hesitate before entering the room, but then you push the door open. The sight before you steals what little air you hadleft in your lungs.

Derek is leaning over Haley, his hands hovering uncertainly as if he doesn’t know what to do, as if this scene isn’t real. His eyes meet yours, and then they flick to Aaron, whose presence in the doorway is enough to make the air grow even colder. You can feel the shift in the room—the way everything seems to slow, the way everything seems to hold its breath.

Aaron doesn’t hesitate. He walks past you, almost mechanically, his gaze fixed on her. His wife. His love. She’ll always be his love, no matter what has happened. You can see it in the way he approaches her, the way he kneels beside her. He doesn’t speak at first. He just… looks at her. His eyes are wide, haunted.

Derek’s voice is scarcely a whisper. “I’m so sorry, Hotch.”

Aaron blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but the tears won’t stop. They fall freely now, slipping down his face as his shoulders shake. And when he finally looks up at Derek, the look in his eyes is the last thing you would’ve expected to see. It’s not the hardened gaze of someone who’s seen death before. No, this is something different. He looks like a boy—no, a man, yes—but in that moment, he’s just a boy who had the girl who represented his entire world, ripped away from him in an instant.

He pulls Haley into his arms, clutching her to him, as if holding her will somehow bring her back. His movements are erratic, desperate, as he rocks her body gently, as if begging for her to wake up, for her to just open her eyes and tell him it’s all going to be okay.

You can’t watch it anymore. You turn away, unable to bear the sight of his grief, of the last intimate moment they will ever share. The tears come before you can even stop them, the floodgates breaking wide open. You know this is the end. There’s no coming back from this.

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

After you and the team are done with your interviews, you sit back in the conference room with Jack while Aaron finishes his.

Jack, as if needing the comfort, climbs into your lap, his small hands clutching the toys you brought for him, the sound of his soft murmurs filling the otherwise quiet room. JJ sits close, her motherly instincts fully awake, her protective nature even more intense now as she watches over the child of the woman she had once called a friend.

“So, what does this mean for you?” her voice barely a breath.

You glance at her, your answer clear but hard to say, “I can’t come back.”

Her gaze softens, and she offers a weak smile, though it is hardly believable given the circumstances. “No matter how much we beg?”

You shake your head, the words heavy in your throat. No matter how much you miss them, no matter how much you long to be part of their world again, it wouldn’t be right. Not now. Not after Haley.

You look up just as Hotch enters the room. His shoulders slump, his posture a far cry from the man you’ve known. The shadow of grief looms over every step he takes, the shell of a man who’s been torn apart, but still standing. His eyes immediately find Jack, and without a word, you set him down. “Go hug your daddy.”

Jack runs into Aaron’s arms without hesitation, and Aaron wraps him up in a hold so tight, that it’s like he’s trying to hold onto everything he’s lost. His grip, fierce and uncompromising, somehow gives him a fleeting sense of strength. He closes his eyes, pulling Jack even closer, his only solace in this world.

Aaron’s eyes meet yours, and in that brief look, you can feel everything he’s going through. The loss. The helplessness. The confusion. It’s all there, but neither of you know where to go from here.

All you can do in that moment is be there. Just… be there. It’s all that either of you need.

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

Tag List :)

@percysley @sammypotato @spideyreid

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whosscruffylooking · 5 months ago

Text

The Purest Things: Stars & Midnight Blue

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

au! October 2009

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

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

Tonight is no different.

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

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

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

“I hate him so much.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something within you falters.

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

Aaron.

Not Hotch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel him.

And then you realize just how close he is.

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

If either of you moved even an inch—

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And worse—you wanted him to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

Maybe it wouldn’t have ended at all.

But you both know better.

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

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

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

Wordlessly, Rossi steps aside, inviting him in.

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

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

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

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

Rossi nods slowly. “How far?”

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

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

“No.”

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It feels wrong.”

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

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

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

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

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

Hotch tenses, the question striking a nerve.

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

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

“Then what are you punishing yourself for?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course he did.

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

It’s done.

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

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

You shouldn’t be here.

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

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

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

A beat of silence. Then—

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

You swallow hard. “My transfer request.”

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

“Why?”

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

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

Because it’s becoming too painful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But instead, he nods, slow and deliberate.

“I see.”

The finality in his tone stings more than you anticipated.

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

“I’ll review it in the morning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then the dream shifts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tag List :)

@percysley

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whosscruffylooking · 5 months ago

Text

The Purest Things: Nothing Left to Live For (Haunted)

Aaron Hotchner x Fem! Reader Word Count: 2.1k Warnings: Murder. Blood. Death. Weapons. Canon typical violence. Everything that makes Criminal Minds, Criminal Minds. a/n: sloooooooooow burn The Purest Things Masterlist

au! june 2009

Bookend: "If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the results of a hundred battles." - Sun Tzu

You return to Aaron’s apartment drained, the exhaustion bone-deep. It’s not just the case that wore you down—it’s him. Chasing after him, reining him in, watching him throw himself into danger like he had nothing left to lose. His first case back, and he was reckless. Impulsive. Stupid.

He exhales sharply as he sets his briefcase on the table next to the ever-growing mountain of evidence files on Foyet. The bastard is everywhere. His face stares at you from every angle—grainy crime scene photos, newspaper clippings, a mugshot with those hollow, mocking eyes. He lingers in the air, the walls, and the unshakable weight pressing on Aaron’s shoulders—a ghost neither of you can exorcize.

You know this is why Aaron was reckless today—he charged in without backup, without a vest, like he was daring fate to take another shot at him. He’s chasing something that keeps slipping through his fingers—justice, revenge, absolution. And if he’s not careful, it’ll be his life, too.

The man you spent the last month with—the one who let you sit with him in the quiet, who let you tend to his wounds, who let you see the fear and the grief in his eyes—is gone. Locked away the moment he stepped back into the field.

All that’s left is Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner.

And God, you want Aaron back.

He exhales sharply. “I don’t need a lecture from you.”

“Oh, I know you don’t need one, Aaron,” you snap, your frustration igniting in an instant. “But you sure as hell are gonna get one.”

You won’t let him deflect. Not this time. Not when he’s hell-bent on self-destruction.

“What’s your goal here, huh?” you bite out. “What does charging into a house with an armed killer—without a vest—prove?”

He doesn’t answer. His gaze drops to the floor, to the faint traces of the bloodstain that will never fully fade. A reminder of the night he lost. The night Foyet won.

“I know, Aaron,” you say, your voice quieter now, but no less firm. “I know what an ego hit this is. I stood right where you are not that long ago. He put me in a hospital, too.”

You lift the hem of your shirt just enough to expose the scars carved into your skin—his initials, a permanent brand of his cruelty. Aaron looks away, jaw tightening, unable to face it. Unable to face you.

“But we’re still here,” you continue. “And not because we got lucky. He kept us alive for a reason—not so we could get ourselves killed pulling reckless stunts like you did today, but because he gets off on it. Because he wants to drag this out, to watch us suffer.” You take a step closer, forcing him to meet your gaze. “But that’s his mistake. Because now we get to hunt him. We get to take the son of a bitch down.”

His hand reaches out, his thumb brushing over the scars marring your skin. The touch is unbearably gentle, starkly contrasting the hurricane raging inside him. Your throat tightens, overwhelmed by the tenderness, by the grief woven into his touch.

“I can’t get him, Aaron," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper, "I can’t get Haley and Jack back if you’re dead."

His eyes lift to meet yours, glassy with unshed tears. “I’m scared,” he confesses, the words raw, human.

You don’t think—don’t waver. You just reach for him. Your arms wrap around him, and the second he feels your warmth, he shatters, collapsing into you. His weight, despair, and fear—he gives all of it to you, and you take it without hesitancy.

“I am too,” you mumble. And you hold him tighter, as if that alone might be enough to keep him together.

For a long time, neither of you move. He grips the back of your shirt like a lifeline, like if he lets go, he might justdisappear. His breath comes in uneven bursts against your neck, but he doesn’t pull away. You don’t think he has the strength to.

Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his suit jacket. He smells like gunpowder, like sweat, like the ghosts he’s been chasing all day. But beneath it, there’s still something undeniably him. Something grounding, something you’re terrified of losing.

When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “I don’t know how to stop.”

You close your eyes. “I know.”

He exhales, ragged, exhausted. “I keep thinking if I move fast enough, if I push hard enough, it’ll stop hurting. But it never does.”

You don’t tell him it will. You won’t lie to him. You just ease back enough to look at him—his tired eyes, the tear tracks he hasn’t bothered to wipe away, the barely stitched-together man standing in front of you.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“I don’t care.”

His voice is quiet, but the words hit you like a gunshot.

Your stomach twists. You tighten your grip on his arms, shaking your head. “Well, I do.”

You should step away. You should let this moment pass, let him gather himself, put the walls back up, and pretend none of this ever happened.

But you don’t.

Instead, you reach up, cupping his face, your fingers brushing over the stubble he hasn’t had the energy to shave. His breath hitches.

“You don’t get to do this,” you tell him, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t get to throw yourself into the fire and expect the rest of us to just watch.”

His hands come up to cover yours, pressing them closer to his face, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling. His eyes slip shut, his lashes dark against his skin.

“I don’t know how else to be,” he admits.

You take a breath, steady yourself. “Then let me help you figure it out.”

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

The next day at work, Morgan corners you near the bullpen. His expression is tight, his frustration barely restrained.

“Can we talk?”

You nod, letting him lead you into the conference room. The door barely shuts before he turns to face you.

“You’re closer to him than any of us right now. What the hell was that out there?” His voice is edged with exasperation, his hands braced on his hips. “You can’t seriously believe this is okay.”

You swallow hard. “I know, Morgan.”

He shakes his head, not hearing you over his rising frustration. “He’s gonna hurt himself, and I can’t just stand by and watch that happen.”

You step closer, placing a steadying hand on his arm. “He knows. It’ll be taken care of soon.”

Morgan searches your face, his usual sharp intuition softened by something else—concern, maybe even sadness. “What happened to us, kid? We hardly talk anymore.”

You pull back slightly, embarrassed. The distance between you two hadn’t been intentional, but it had grown all the same.

“I—It’s my fault,” you admit, voice quieter now. “I got distracted. Then Foyet happened, and my focus became protecting him—Hotch and his family.” You hesitate, something inside you unraveling. “A part of me felt…feels guilty for surviving Foyet’s attack. Like maybe if I had died, and he thought the message had gotten across to Hotch, then Jack and Haley wouldn’t be in witness protection. Aaron would still have his family.”

Your voice breaks on the last word.

Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you into his arms, holding you like he’s trying to shield you from your own thoughts. “Don’t you ever talk like that again,” he murmurs into your hair. “You don’t think like that. Not the girl who took this whole team by storm..”

Your hands clutch at the fabric of his shirt. “I feel so pathetic,” you whisper. You wish you could tell him everything—the guilt, the fear, the way you’ve let yourself get too close to Hotch, how dangerous it feels. How it’s all spiraling into something neither of you can control.

Morgan tightens his hold on you. “You’re a fighter,” he says, voice steady. “One of the smartest profilers I’ve ever met. But it’s okay to step back, to figure things out.”

You look up at him then, not just seeing Derek Morgan, but feeling the strength of the man in front of you—his loyalty, his kindness, the way his soul is just as solid as the body that holds you upright.

“I love you, princess,” he says, pressing a firm kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

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

It’s the end of the workday, and Rossi is heading over to Aaron’s to make dinner. You know Hotch is covered for the night, which means you can finally go home and take some time for yourself. But the thought of being alone doesn’t sit right. You know better than to be near Aaron right now—too much weight, too many emotions neither of you are ready to face.

So you find yourself wandering over to Spencer instead.

“When was the last time you had a sleepover?” you ask.

“Uh—never, actually,” he admits, almost sheepishly.

“Well,” you lean in conspiratorially, “we’re changing that tonight. Come over, we’ll stay up playing chess.”

Spencer’s face lights up. “Really?”

You nod. “We’ll order takeout, watch movies—”

“Why are you asking me?” he interrupts, brows drawing together in curiosity.

You exhale, glancing down before meeting his gaze again. “I feel like I’ve been neglecting my friendships here. And you’re one of my best friends, so…”

His expression softens. “I’m one of your best friends?”

“I think so,” you say with a small smile.

“I’m glad you said that, because I’ve been feeling the same way,” Spencer says, excitement creeping into his voice. “Actually, a little-known fact is that the strongest friendships often develop with minimal effort—when two people naturally gravitate toward each other without forced interaction, it indicates a deep, subconscious compatibility.”

You shake your head fondly. “That’s a really roundabout way of saying we were meant to be best friends.”

Spencer grins. “Statistically speaking, yes.”

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

You walk into the bullpen, coffee in hand, still feeling the lingering warmth of an easy night. Spencer had crashed at your place after one too many chess games, and while you woke up to a rambling dissertation on quantum theory over breakfast, it was nice—normal. A rare moment of calm amidst the chaos.

JJ and Emily glance up as you set your things down, exchanging looks that you don’t quite know how to read.

“You’re in a good mood,” Emily notes, eyebrow arched.

You shrug, taking a sip of coffee. “Got a full eight hours and didn’t wake up to a case. Small victories.”

JJ smirks. “Reid still there when you left?”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Yes, why?”

“No reason,” she sings, already turning back to her paperwork.

You shake your head but don’t press it, instead catching a glimpse of Hotch in the conference room. He’s standing at the board, flipping through files, but when he glances up and sees you, he gives a slight tilt of his head—Come here.

You step inside, shutting the door behind you. Before you can speak, his voice drops into something quieter, something just between you.

“Reid spent the night?”

You blink, then let out a small, involuntary giggle. You don’t miss the way his brows pinch together at the sound.

“What’s funny?” he asks, suspicious.

“You,” you murmur, leaning against the table. “Just… the fact that you of all people are asking me that question.”

His eyes darken with something unreadable, but there’s the barest flicker of amusement beneath it. “Is there something I should know?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think about it. “Only that Spencer is terrible at ordering takeout and will, without fail, fall asleep with his glasses on.”

Hotch exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “I’m sure it was a thrilling night.”

“Oh, wild,” you tease. “Honestly, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous.”

His lips press together, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly. “I’m just surprised. You never invite me for a sleepover.”

Your stomach flips, but you keep your expression even. If only he knew.

“Well,” you hum, leaning in slightly, “I just figured you’d be sick of my company after all the nights I’ve spent patching you up.”

His gaze locks onto yours, something mischievous flickering there before he schools it back into his usual restraint.

“Never,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches. You force a smirk to cover it. “Careful, Hotchner. Someone might think you actually like me.”

He doesn’t respond right away, just holds your gaze for a fraction too long before finally looking back at the file in his hands.

“Get to work,” he says, but there’s something more delicate in his voice.

You grin, stepping back toward the door. “Sure thing, boss.”

And as you slip out, you don’t miss the small, hidden smile he’s trying to fight.

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whosscruffylooking · 5 months ago

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The Purest Things: Let Me Heal Your Wounds

Aaron Hotchner x Fem! Reader Word Count: 2.4k Warnings: Murder. Blood. Death. Weapons. Canon typical violence. Everything that makes Criminal Minds, Criminal Minds. a/n: all i want is for them to be happy and stay happy. and for rossi to adopt me tbh. The Purest Things Masterlist

au! may 2009

Bookend: “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” ― Rumi

The hospital discharge process takes longer than expected. Between the paperwork, the nurses’ instructions, and the doctor’s final check-in, you find yourself pacing the room, impatient to get him out of here. For his part, Hotch remains stoic, though you catch the occasional flicker of frustration in his eyes.

“You’d think they’d be quicker about sending a federal agent home,” you mutter, crossing your arms.

Hotch exhales a quiet laugh. “They’re just being thorough.”

“You got stabbed, not a lobotomy. You’re not going to forget how to take care of yourself,” you quip.

That earns you another amused glance, but he doesn’t argue. He knows as well as you do that you wouldn’t let him out of your sight long enough for him to do anything reckless.

When the nurse finally wheels him down to the exit, you retrieve the keys from your pocket and help him into the passenger seat of your car. He’s stiff, every movement pained and calculated, but he refuses to let out so much as a wince. You don’t push him, though you keep a watchful eye as you settle into the driver’s seat.

“You good?” you ask.

He nods, resting his head against the window. “Let’s go home.”

The word lingers between you. Home. You don’t know if he meant his or if it was just a general statement, but it sticks with you for the rest of the drive.

The roads are quiet, the city bathed in the golden hues of late afternoon. For a while, neither of you speak. It isn’t an uncomfortable silence, just one heavy with exhaustion and anguish.

As you pull into his apartment complex, you glance over at him. His eyes are open but distant, the weight of the last few days pressing down on him.

“Ready?” you ask softly.

He nods once, but when you move to get out, his voice stops you. “Thank you.”

You turn back, brow furrowing. “For what?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looks at you, really looks at you, like he’s memorizing something he’s too afraid to name.

“For staying,” he finally says.

Your chest tightens, but you force a small smile. “Always.”

You step out and move to his side, opening the door before he can protest. He may be too stubborn to admit he needs help, but you’re too stubborn to let him struggle.

You unlock the door and step inside first, instinct guiding you to scan the space before letting him in. The apartment isstill, carrying the kind of silence that remains after something violent has disturbed it. You can almost hear the echoes of that night—his strained breathing, the scuffle of movement, the sharp, wet sound of the blade cutting into him. You push the thoughts away and turn back to him.

Hotch stands just inside the doorway, his posture tense, eyes already fixed on the floor. You follow his gaze and see what he sees.

The stain.

A deep, rust-colored mark on the carpet, a permanent reminder of where he was attacked, where he bled. It should’ve been gone by now, but no matter how hard you tried before, it wouldn’t completely fade. The sight of it makes your chest tighten.

He doesn’t say anything, but the way his fists clench at his sides, the way his jaw sets, tells you everything.

“I’ll get it out. I already tried, but I’ll—” You swallow, shaking your head. “I’ll work harder to remove it.”

He exhales, slow and heavy, then nods. “It’s not your responsibility.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t do it.”

The silence stretches between you. Then, his shoulders lower just slightly, the smallest release of tension. You take that as a win.

“Come on, you should sit,” you say, moving toward him. He’s still favoring his side, moving slower than usual, his body heavy with fatigue.

You guide him toward the couch, steadying him when he hesitates. He doesn’t argue when you place a hand on his arm to help him lower himself carefully onto the cushions. He exhales sharply through his nose as he settles, pain flickering across his face.

“I’ll get your bag,” you tell him. You had insisted on carrying it up, knowing he’d refuse to ask for help. You retrieve it from the door and set it beside him.

He watches you as you move through his space, checking things without thinking, ensuring his water is within reach, glancing at the thermostat, and adjusting a pillow beside him. It’s second nature now, making sure he’s okay before you even realize you’re doing it.

“You don’t have to stay,” he says, though his voice lacks conviction.

You pause, meeting his gaze. “I know.”

That’s all you say. And he doesn’t argue.

Instead, he watches as you kneel beside the stain on the floor, dampening a cloth, determination settling in your features. You start scrubbing harder this time, as if sheer willpower can erase what happened here.

He doesn’t stop you.

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

The night is quiet, the peaceful hum of the house filling the spaces between your thoughts. The air is rich with an undercurrent of physical and emotional exhaustion. Hotch had insisted on trying to do everything himself when you got back from the hospital. He didn’t want to lean on you too much, even though he didn’t have to say it aloud for you to know what he meant.

You’re sitting in the living room, barely able to focus on the TV as you wait for him to settle. But then, you hear it—the soft sound of him struggling in the bathroom. You hold your breath, listening. A faint groan. A rustling of fabric. The sound of something being tugged at, followed by a sharp intake of breath.

You rise from the couch without thinking, your concern for him immediately outweighing anything else. You step down the hall and stand quietly outside the bathroom door, waiting for the inevitable.

“Hotch?” you call softly, your voice barely louder than a whisper. “Do you need help?”

There’s a pause before you hear him speak from behind the door, the weariness in his tone unmistakable. “I’ve got it,” he replies, but the edge of pain is evident in his voice. “I can do it myself.”

You hear him wince again, a sound that tugs at your heart. He’s never been one to ask for help, to let anyone see him weak. But tonight, something about it feels different. You can’t let him do this alone, not when he’s clearly struggling.

“Hotch,” you say, your voice firmer now, and you gently knock on the door. “I’m right here. Let me help you.”

After a long moment of silence, the door creaks open just a fraction. His face is tense, his jaw clenched in discomfort, but when he meets your eyes, you can see his defenselessness and embarrassment. He’s not used to this.

“I told you I’m fine,” he says again, but the words are forced, strained this time. He takes a step back, trying to pull himself together, but he winces sharply, and it’s clear he can’t hide the pain anymore.

You don’t wait for him to say anything else. Without a word, you take a step forward, gently guiding him back into the bedroom. The tension between you both crackles in the air.

“Let me help,” you whisper, ushering him to sit on the edge of the bed. “You’ve done more than enough on your own. Let me take care of you.”

He hesitates, his hands trembling slightly as he tries to undo his shirt. You can see the discomfort on his face as he winces with every movement. There’s a nervousness in his eyes, a quiet shame in having to rely on you for this. He doesn’t speak, but it’s clear he feels exposed, like he’s giving too much of himself away.

But you’re not looking at him the way he fears. Instead, you’re in awe. The sight of him, the way his muscles shift beneath his skin as he moves, the softness of his chest, the subtle scars that mark his life—it all takes your breath away. He’s a man who’s been through more than anyone should, but he still stands strong. And right now, with his guard lowered, you’re seeing him in a way you never have before.

Gently, you reach for the hem of his shirt, your hands trembling as you pull it up and over his head. There’s a slight hitch in his breath, but he doesn’t stop you. You take in the sight of him, his chest, the way his body bears the weight of everything he’s endured, the wounds he’s survived. It’s a vulnerability he doesn’t often show, and it’s both beautiful and heartbreaking.

“There’s no shame in asking for help, Aaron,” you murmur softly as you carefully help him settle back, easing him onto the bed. “You don’t have to carry this on your own. Let me be here for you.”

His eyes flicker with something—hesitance, maybe, or a quiet kind of gratitude. His voice comes out in a strained whisper. “I don’t want to burden you.”

You shake your head, leaning in closer, your fingers trailing softly over the lines of his chest as you adjust the bandages. “You’re not a burden. You never were.”

The room feels charged now, every breath between you heavy with the words you dare not whisper. Your fingers graze hisskin as you apply the fresh bandages, the closeness between you so intimate it almost feels like you’re touching more than just his body.

When you finish, you find yourself still close to him, both of you shaking—not from fear, but from something more elusive. The way his eyes linger on yours and your pulse races tells you both that the line between just being there for him and something more is thinner than you realized.

You swallow, trying to gather your thoughts, but all that comes out is a soft whisper. “I’ve got you, Hotch. I’m not going anywhere.”

He looks up at you, his eyes less guarded now like he’s finally allowing himself to see the truth. A small, grateful smile curves his lips. “I know,” he says quietly.

You’re no longer just the person who takes care of him, or the one who’s always there when he needs help. You’re something more. Something he doesn’t have to ask for. Something he never thought he could have.

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

Rossi enters the apartment, carrying a bag of groceries in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. He’s always the one to offer comfort with food, and tonight, it’s no different. He’s been coming over more often since Hotch’s recovery, bringing his old-school Italian cooking and, more importantly, his presence, knowing that it’s what both of you need.

The apartment feels lived in now, warmer in a way it hadn’t been before. The light from the kitchen casts long shadows across the living room, and the boiling pasta water fills the silence between you and Hotch. He’s sitting on the couch, propped up with pillows, his face pale but there is still strength behind it. You’ve gotten used to the sight of him like this—fragile but never fully broken.

You’re sitting beside him, your hands gently moving as you change his bandages. There’s no reluctance in your movements, no sign of discomfort at the sight of the injuries still healing on him. You’ve seen them too many times, each time more a reminder of what he’s been through. But you’ve learned how to handle it, just as you’ve learned how to handle the more profound moments of vulnerability between you both.

Rossi watches from the kitchen, his eyes narrowing on you as he observes the scene. The way you’re focused, your hands steady as you work, and how Hotch leans into your touch as if he’s finally allowing himself to relax in a way he hasn’t before. He’s seen the two of you together now, but something about this moment—this gentle, intimate care—strikes him differently. The domesticity of it, the way Hotch lets you take care of him, shows just how far you’ve come.

“You know, I expected a little more struggling when it came to getting you to accept help,” Rossi says, making his presence known. “But it looks like you’ve got a pretty good setup here.”

Hotch exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “I don’t have much of a choice.”

You glance at him with a smirk as you begin replacing the bandage, your touch gentle but sure. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re good at that,” Rossi comments as he starts chopping herbs. “Seems like it’s not your first time.”

You glance up, offering a small smile. “It’s not.”

“She took care of her own injuries,” Hotch adds, his voice quieter now. “When she shouldn’t have had to.”

Rossi hums, studying the two of you as he tosses garlic into a pan. “Well, it looks like you’re making up for that now.”

Hotch’s lips press together just slightly—a telltale sign he’s holding something back, something he won’t allow himself to say.

You exhale, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze, but as you stand, his fingers brush against yours.

It could be accidental—should be—but the look in his eyes tells you otherwise. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t pull away. Just reaches, his touch light yet certain, a quiet tether between you. A silent bridge over the space neither of you have dared to cross.

As Rossi continues to work on the dinner, you lean in to help Hotch settle back into his pillows, ensuring he’s comfortable. The moment is simple—nothing extravagant—but it feels like everything. It’s what he needs. And what you need, too.

“You’ve got him good, Y/N,” Rossi mutters as he stirs the pasta.

You glance at Hotch, whose eyes are now following you with a tenderness that doesn’t always make it to the surface. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say quietly. “Not until he’s back on his feet.”

And Rossi watches, feeling something like a weight lifting as he sees the way the two of you have settled into this new rhythm. Hotch might have thought he could carry the weight of the world on his shoulders alone, but with you by his side, he doesn’t have to. And Rossi, in his own way, is grateful for that—because he can see what you have and how much it matters.

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whosscruffylooking · 5 months ago

Text

The Purest Things: It Wasn't A Mistake (Nameless, Faceless)

Aaron Hotchner x Fem! Reader Word Count: 5k Warnings: Murder. Blood. Death. Weapons. Canon typical violence. Everything that makes Criminal Minds, Criminal Minds. The Purest Things Masterlist

au! may 2009

Bookend: "Heroes always have their scars. Some you can see, some you read about later on." - George Foreman

A month has passed since your return to the BAU, and everything feels… different. It's not just the challenge of easing back into the work or learning to live with a healing injury. It's Hotch. He's changed.

While your relationships with the rest of the team have slipped back into their familiar rhythm, your dynamic with him is far from what it once was. He's distant, his demeanor toward you almost uncomfortably stern.

The others have noticed it, too—throwing you questioning glances whenever he cuts a conversation short or keeps interactions strictly professional. But every time you try to confront him, he finds a way to avoid you—burying himself in paperwork, excusing himself for a meeting, or simply walking away. It's as though the bridge between you has been burned, and you're left staring at the ashes, wondering why.

Less than 24 hours after your most recent case in Canada, you're abruptly woken by a phone call from JJ.

"This one's urgent. I'll send you the address," she says as you rush out of bed to get dressed.

You groan. You haven't even had a chance to de-thaw from the iciness that is Hotch now. All you can do is hope that something about his treatment this time is different.

You arrive at the crime scene and follow the team inside. One person is notably missing. It's hard to concentrate without his presence.

"Where's Hotch?" you ask, scanning the room.

"Not sure," JJ says, already pulling out her phone. "I tried his cell, but he didn't answer."

"Try him again," Rossi instructs. "Leave a voicemail—tell him to meet us at the next address."

JJ calls again, but there's still no answer. A nagging unease settles deep in your gut—this isn't like him.

You turn to Emily. "Do you think I'm needed here right now?"

She furrows her brows. "What do you mean?"

You sigh, lowering your voice. "Hotch being MIA isn't sitting right with me. If you think I can slip away, I want to check on him—just for peace of mind."

Emily studies you for a moment before nodding. "You're a good woman." She squeezes your arm in reassurance. "Go. I'll cover for you."

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

Arriving at his apartment, you scan the halls for his apartment number. He's been to your house so many times now, yet you've never been to his. He gave you his address after you were attacked, in case you ever needed a safe house. Little does he know that wherever he is, is where you feel the safest.

You knock, but there's no response.

"Hotch… Aaron, it's me. Answer the door."

Silence.

You dial his number, praying he picks up. But then, you hear it—his phone ringing from inside the apartment. Your pulse pounds in your ears, blocking out every other sound. Instinctively, your hand moves to your gun.

Hesitantly, you reach for the doorknob. It turns easily.

The door swings open, and you step inside, gun raised, sweeping the space for any sign of movement.

The apartment is eerily still. No sign of Hotch. No sign of life.

You move around the couch—and that's when you see it.

A large pool of blood.

Terror tightens around your chest, stealing the breath from your lungs, but you push forward, clearing the apartment. In the kitchen, shattered glass litters the floor. On the table, Hotch's gun and some scattered files. Beneath the table—his phone.

Your hands tremble as you dial Garcia.

"Hello, babycakes, how can I make your wildest dreams come true?"

"Pen, something's happened to Hotch." Your voice shakes despite your best efforts to keep it steady. "I need police and FBI techs here immediately. Maybe even an APB."

"What happened?" Fear creeps into her voice.

"I don't know. But there's blood. I don't know whose. His car is still out front, but he's gone."

"Okay," she says, inhaling deeply. "You just stay strong, my love. I'm sure he's fine…"

Her words are meant to comfort you, but they don't. Not really.

"Don't tell the rest of the team yet," you say. "They need to focus."

She hesitates, then agrees.

You end the call, steadying yourself with a breath. Your gaze drifts across the apartment, carefully avoiding the bullet hole in the wall. You can't let yourself dwell on what that means—not yet.

This is where he lives, where he rests his head at night, where he tries to find peace, if such a thing is even possible for him. You step toward his bedroom. It's pristine, of course. Not a wrinkle on the bed sheets, not a pillow out of place.Everything is meticulously arranged, controlled. Just like him.

For a moment, your mind drifts. You wonder what it would be like to—

A knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts. Police officers and FBI agents begin to flood the apartment, their presence swallowing the space. You watch in silence as they take over, searching every inch of the apartment.

Buzz.

You glance down at your phone. It's Penelope.

"Talk to me, Garcia," you say, trying not to let your hopes rise too much.

"I called hospitals to see if Hotch had checked himself into any emergency rooms," she begins, her voice tight with urgency. "He's not listed anywhere, but someone dropped a John Doe off at St. Sebastian Hospital, and that someone was FBI agent Derek Morgan."

"That doesn't make sense," you whisper, the words barely escaping your lips.

"Do you think someone got the credentials mixed up?" Garcia asks.

You scour your brain, desperate for any hint of logic. If Aaron were here, he'd have drawn the answer out of you already. Then, it hits you.

"Oh my god, The Reaper," you murmur, the realization crashing over you. "Typically, The Reaper takes something from his victims. Nothing of mine was missing when I was attacked because Morgan tried to stop him, and he wasn't able to finish his routine on me. Afterward, Derek realized he didn't have his credentials. Foyet must have taken them."

"Why would he drop Hotch off at the ER?"

You freeze for a moment, the pieces clicking into place.

"What hospital?" you ask quickly.

"St. Sebastian."

"I'm heading there now," you say, already heading for the door. "I'll call you when I know more."

"Go take care of our boy," Garcia says softly, her concern almost palpable.

"I will," you respond, feeling your heart tug at the thought of him.

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

The moment you step into the hospital room, the sight of Aaron lying unconscious in the bed hits you harder than you expected. His face is pale, too still, and the sight of the IVs and the bandages covering his torso make everything feel unreal. Your heart clenches at the sight—this isn't how it was supposed to be. He wasn't supposed to end up here, like this.

You walk toward his bedside, your breath catching in your throat. The room feels cold, too sterile. You reach out a hand, your fingers brushing the edge of his, desperate for some sign that he's still here, still fighting. The soft rhythm of the machines is the only sound breaking the silence, but it does nothing to calm the storm inside you.

"He was stabbed 9 times, but no major arteries were hit. It's a miracle he's alive," the doctor explains, her voice distant, clinical.

"When will he wake up?" you ask, your voice quiet, the question coming out almost like a prayer.

The doctor doesn't meet your eyes immediately. "There's no for sure answer. But he will be out of it when he does," she adds, glancing down at her clipboard.

You nod, but your heart sinks. That was the last thing you wanted to hear.

"Can I stay here?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, the words almost a plea.

"Are you his wife?" she asks, her tone soft but probing.

You feel a lump form in your throat at the question, your chest tightening. You swallow hard, unable to keep the emotion from your voice as you answer, "No. I'm his friend though." The words sound too hollow, too distant compared to what you truly feel for him. It hurts to say it.

The doctor studies you for a moment, her gaze full of sympathy. It makes something inside you break a little more. "Alright," she finally agrees, stepping aside to give you space.

You sit down, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you. The familiar sense of fear and helplessness floods back to you, dragging memories of your own attack to the surface. The panic. The helplessness. The pain. You can't help but feel it all over again, but now it's Aaron in that bed, and you can't stand it.

Your tears come without warning. Silent and unbidden, they slip down your face, and you let them fall. You can't hold it in any longer. You can't stand seeing him like this, can't stand the thought of losing him, especially after everything you've been through together. The weight of it all crashes down on you, and for a moment, you allow yourself to grieve for him, for both of you.

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

The soft beeping of the machines gradually begins to sync with your heartbeat as you sit by Aaron's side, never moving from your spot. The sterile smell of the hospital room is a constant presence in your mind, but you're lost in the steady rhythm of his breathing. The steady rise and fall of his chest is the only thing that reassures you he's still here.

It's quiet, too quiet, as if the entire world outside the room has paused, waiting for him to come back to them. Your eyes are heavy, but you refuse to let them close, not when he's here, not when he's so fragile.

It's a soft groan, barely a whisper, that breaks the stillness.

Your heart leaps in your chest, and you look up. His hand twitches, lips parting, and you lean forward, barely daring to breathe.

"Aaron?" you whisper, your voice trembling, unsure if he can even hear you.

He doesn't answer right away, and for a second, you're afraid. You're worried that you imagined it, that the moment of hope was just that—momentary. But then, his fingers twitch again, more deliberately this time, and his eyelids flutter.

"Aaron," you say again, this time louder, more confident. "It's me. You're okay."

His breathing hitches, and then his eyes crack open, barely slits at first. He blinks rapidly as if trying to adjust to the light, the unfamiliar space. His gaze is unfocused for a moment before they find you. His brow furrows slightly, confusion flashing across his face.

“Y/N…” Aaron's voice is hoarse, barely more than a rasp, as if the air is too thick to breathe.

You nod, your own voice caught in your throat. "I'm here. You're safe."

His eyes narrow, and you can see him trying to process. The way his lips curl slightly, as though he wants to speak but can't find the strength, makes something in your chest tighten. He's disoriented and exhausted, and you know the fight is far from over.

"You're gonna be okay," you continue, your voice a little firmer now, trying to soothe him, to reassure him. "You've been through a lot. You're gonna make it through."

Aaron doesn't respond immediately. His eyes flicker to the machines, the IV, and then back to you, and you see the recognition settle in. The confusion begins to clear, replaced by something else—something darker.

"You—" He starts, his voice rasping again as he struggles to speak. His hand reaches out, weakly, and you take it, squeezing it gently. The first time you've ever held his hand. Both of you feel it, the draw, the electricity.

"I'm here," you whisper, squeezing his hand a little tighter, as if that might anchor him, bring him back to you fully.

He swallows, trying to push past the fog of pain and grogginess. His gaze moves from you to the sterile hospital room, his expression growing more alert, more aware. He seems to be piecing together the last few hours, his brow furrowing with the effort.

"Where…" he starts again, his voice cracking.

"Foyet," you answer softly but stop yourself, "You're in the hospital, Aaron. You were hurt… but you're going to be okay."

His eyes close again briefly, as if the weight of it all is too much. You watch him, waiting for him to say something, anything. When his eyes reopen, there's a flicker of something deeper in them—a fear that makes your heart tighten in your chest.

"Y/N…" he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. You know he wants to acknowledge the distance he's caused. That's Aaron. He has to hold himself accountable. But you won't let him right now.

"None of that matters," you repeat, fighting the lump in your throat. "I'm not going anywhere."

For a long moment, there's only the sound of his shallow breathing, and then, as if the strength is returning to him, he squeezes your hand. It's not much, but it's something. It's enough.

"You found me," he says, his voice rough, but there's a faint trace of something else in it, something vulnerable, that you can't quite place.

"You can't get rid of me that easily, Aaron Hotchner," you answer, leaning closer, trying to keep the worry out of your voice.

He takes a shallow breath, and his eyes meet yours again. There's a fleeting moment of clarity behind the haze of pain, and the faintest hint of a smile touches his lips.

"I guess… you're not getting rid of me that easily either," he says, his voice hoarse, but the words are enough.

And for the first time since everything went wrong, you let yourself believe it. He's going to be okay.

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

A few hours later, the team joins you. They're working desperately to track down Foyet, but they keep their distance, letting you stay by Aaron's side.

Aaron's eyes never leave you. Even when you're speaking with the doctor or conferring with the team, his gaze is locked on you. Despite everything—his attempt to push you away, the distance he's put between you in the past few weeks—you found him. You stayed by his side. You held his hand, God what he wouldn't do to still be holding your hand right now.

Your attention shifts back to him, and you offer him a gentle smile, one that could heal him faster than any medicine or doctor could. It's a smile that speaks volumes—comfort, reassurance, maybe even love.

"What is it?" His voice is weak, but there's curiosity in it.

"You know," you begin, a smirk tugging at your lips, "We match now."

He looks at you, confusion flickering across his face. "What do you mean?"

Your eyes drop to his wounds, your expression softening. "Matching stab wounds. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that's pretty romantic."

Romantic. His heart rate spikes, and the rapid beeping of the machine makes it clear how much the word has affected him. He glances at the monitor, then back at you with a knowing look. "I clearly agree."

The door opens and the team files in, their presence a welcomed distraction. You stand and instinctively move a little closer to Aaron, positioning yourself between him and the others in a protective gesture. You trust the team, you always have, but right now, there's a primal need to shield him from anything that could remind him of the pain he's enduring. You need him safe. You need him whole.

"So Foyet dropped me off here?" Aaron asks.

Rossi confirms, and Prentiss fills him in on some missing details from his memory. Somehow, you don't hear anything they say. Your eyes are fixed on Aaron. You come to when he speaks again, a sudden look of nervousness on his face.

"What did he take? He always takes something from his victims," he sighs, his voice weak.

"The only thing that caught our attention was a page ripped out of your address book, the B section," Emily responds.

"What did he leave? He always leaves something with his victims," Hotch asks, his voice strained.

"I went over your entire apartment—nothing seemed out of place," you reply, tense.

"Where are my clothes?" He asks, his eyes fluttering with exhaustion.

Emily grabs them, pulling them out of a small evidence bag. Your stomach churns at the sight of his bloodied clothes. Hotch weakly reaches for the bag himself, pulling out his credentials. Inside is a photo. He unfolds it, revealing a picture of Haley and Jack.

Fear floods his eyes, and he quickly shuts them, his head falling back against the bed. His breathing becomes jagged,distressed. "Haley's maiden name is Brooks. I always listed her in the B's in my personal information in case it fell into the wrong hands. He knows where they live."

Dread sinks deep into your chest, the consequence of his words settling in like a cold shiver.

The team moves fast, and you trust that Haley and Jack will be safe in their hands.

You sit next to Hotch again, your gaze never leaving him as he rests. But soon, a change occurs. His breathing becomes erratic, his heart rate spiking—not for the same reasons it did earlier when you spoke to him, but for something more serious, something more urgent.

You can see his stress increasing, his body twitching with unease. Something is wrong. The doctor rushes in, calling out his name, trying to bring him out of this episode.

"I'm okay," he manages to choke out, his voice strained.

The doctor looks at you, her tone firm. "I need you to step out of the room."

Fear tightens in your chest as you force yourself away from Hotch, the uncertainty of what's happening gnawing at you.

"No, I want her here," Hotch musters up the strength to say, his voice uneven but insistent.

You nod, the uncertainty in your chest easing slightly. "I'll be right outside the door, Aaron," you reassure him, your voice soothing yet determined.

The doctor works swiftly, stabilizing him, then motions for you to return. You don't hesitate, rushing back to his side, your heart pounding in your chest. It relaxes next to him, though.

"JJ just texted. Haley and Jack are safe and on their way here," you murmur, your voice soft but filled with relief.

Hotch nods, letting out an irregular breath as he sinks into the pillows, a subtle wave of relief washing over him.

You wrestle with the question, unsure if it's something you should ask. But the words slip out anyway, driven by the need for understanding.

"Hotch," you begin, your voice weary. "The Reaper went after you, and now he's targeting Haley and Jack. But… why did he attack me?"

The room falls into a heavy stillness as Aaron processes your words. The guilt building in him seems to burden him even more, as if the air around him is too dense to breathe.

"I mean, believe me," you continue, trying to buffer the intensity of the question. "I would much rather Foyet make a mistake and I be the collateral damage than him go after Haley and Jack. I just… you know him better than anyone. Why did I get caught in the crossfire?"

Your words hang between you, full of pain and confusion, as you await his response. But Aaron doesn't answer right away. Instead, he looks down at his hands, and you know the answer isn't easy for him to say.

As Aaron takes a deep breath, clearly preparing to reveal the truth about why Foyet attacked you, the door opens, and Haley steps into the room. You exchange a brief, silent nod with Aaron, then turn to Haley, offering a quick glance that says everything you can't put into words right now. You quietly step out without a word, giving them the space they need.

In the waiting room, the tension that had been hanging over you like a storm cloud starts to lift slightly as you spot JJ and Penelope sitting on the floor with Jack, their laughter softening the atmosphere. Jack's eyes meet yours the moment you enter, and the change in his expression is immediate—his face lights up with relief, and before you know it, he's running toward you.

He crashes into your legs, his little arms wrapping around you in a tight hug. "Is my daddy okay?" he asks, his voice small but full of concern.

You kneel down, smoothing his hair back and offering him the reassurance he needs. "Of course. All he can talk about is how he can't wait to see you." You give him a soft smile, trying to mask your own anxiety for his sake.

Time seems to stretch on as you keep glancing toward Hotch's room, the silence of the waiting room now deafening. It feels like the walls are closing in, and with every passing minute, the weight of everything—everything that's happened and everything that's still to come—sinks deeper into your chest.

"You did good today," Penelope says, her voice full of warmth and a touch of admiration, though the strain in her eyes tells you she's not immune to the gravity of the situation either.

"I'm so in over my head, Pen," you whisper, barely managing to push the words past the tightness in your throat. You don't need to say more for her to understand. She wraps her arm around your shoulder, pulling you close into the comfort of her embrace, and for a moment, it almost feels like everything might be okay.

Before you can gather your thoughts, Penelope's voice breaks the silence again, softer this time. "Oh, incoming," she whispers, her tone shifting to one of quiet anticipation.

You look up to see Haley approaching, her gaze searching the room as she locks eyes with you. She doesn't look at you with warmth—not that you'd expect it. There's a coolness, a distance in her eyes that you've learned to recognize but can't quite reconcile with the situation at hand.

"Y/N, right?" she asks, her voice neutral but pointed.

You nod, feeling a slight knot form in your stomach.

"I'm gonna bring him into Aaron," Haley says, her words short as she nods toward Jack.

You look down at Jack, whose face is already lighting up again as he eagerly looks up at you. You smile at him, trying to keep the mood light. "I know your daddy will be so excited to see you."

"Really?" His eyes widen, and the joy on his face is almost heartbreaking, especially with everything else on your mind.

"Really." You say it gently, guiding him toward his mother, offering him the comfort of normalcy amid the chaos swirling around all of you. The heaviness hasn't left, but for now, it's enough to see Jack's smile as he walks hand-in-hand with Haley, all while you stand in the waiting room, helplessly caught between the past and what's to come.

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

Aaron holds Jack close, his grip firm but gentle, memorizing the warmth of his son in his arms, knowing this could be the last time he sees him for the foreseeable future. He presses a lingering kiss to Jack's temple, breathing him in, as if trying to make the moment last just a little longer. Across the room, Haley watches them, her fingers twitch slightly at her sides,like she's holding herself back from reaching for Jack just yet.

"Jack said earlier that you were helping another agent who got hurt," she says, her voice measured. Then, after a beat, she adds, "Was it Y/N?"

Aaron's gaze flickers to her, his breath hitching just enough to betray his surprise.

Haley gives a small, knowing smile, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "She favors her right side when she walks and winces when she stands. I learned a thing or two from being married to a profiler for so long."

Some of the tension in his shoulders eases, his guard lowering ever so slightly.

"The same man who attacked me went after her a month ago," Aaron admits, his voice flat, factual. "Left her for dead as a message to me."

Haley doesn't react immediately, but when she does, her question is sharper than he expects. "And why did he choose her for that message?"

A hush stretches between them. Aaron has no answer that he's ready to give. Or maybe, he just doesn't want to say it out loud.

Haley exhales, her features softening in a way he doesn't quite understand. "As long as you aren't alone," she murmurs. She steps forward and presses a gentle, remorseful kiss to his forehead, lingering just long enough that his eyes flutter shut. "Don't shut anyone out, Aaron. You can't forget to be human."

He looks up at her, searching, trying to decipher the meaning behind her words. For a moment, he forgets that he's a profiler, that he should be able to read her. Right now, he can't.

"Don't profile me, Aaron," she says, amusement flickering through her tired expression. "We were married once. You know what I mean."

And for the first time in a long time, she smiles at him—not the polite, distant smiles they've exchanged for years, but something real, something worn down by time but still familiar. Then, with one final nod, she turns toward the door.

You're standing in the hallway with Prentiss, Morgan, and U.S. Marshal Sam Kassmeyer when Jack runs out, making a beeline straight for you. His little hands tug at your pant leg, and when you kneel down, he looks up at you with wide, hopeful eyes.

"When I'm on my trip, can you come see me?" he asks, his voice small and sweet.

Your heart clenches. You glance up at Haley instinctively, searching for any sign of her feelings. She meets your eyes, and for a moment, there's something obscure there. Then, after a beat, she smiles—not big, not bright, but a smile nonetheless. A resigned kind of acceptance.

You turn back to Jack, smoothing his hair with a tender hand. "You're going on a very special trip with your mom," you tell him gently. "I wouldn't want to get in the way of that. But maybe when you're home, we can make spaghetti again, just like when we first met."

Jack grins at the memory, and from the corner of your eye, you see Haley's shoulders ease slightly. Maybe she recognizes the reassurance in your words—that you would never come between her and her son, that you know where the boundaries are.

"Give Miss Y/N a big hug," Haley encourages.

Jack throws his arms around you, and you hug him back, holding onto him just a second longer than you should. When you finally pull away and stand, your eyes find Haley's again.

"We're going to catch this guy, Haley," you say, voice firm, steady. "This won't be for long."

She exhales through her nose, then reaches out, lightly squeezing your arm. "I don't doubt it," she says quietly. "My concern is… at what cost?"

The significance of her words is not lost on you, and then she's turning, taking Jack's hand in hers as they start toward Sam. But just before they reach the end of the hall, Haley stops. She turns back to you one last time, something unreadable flickering across her face.

"Take care of him," she says.

And then she's gone.

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

You and the team return to Aaron's side, the room filling with quiet murmurs of reassurance and unwavering support. Morgan cracks a joke in an attempt to lighten the mood, Prentiss offers a knowing look, and JJ's soft words are meant to soothe. But despite it all, you hover just beside him, your hands hanging at your sides, unsure where you fit in this moment of camaraderie. Every so often, your gaze drifts to him, and without fail, you find his eyes already on you.

The team fills him in on the case they closed earlier—an investigation wrapped up in a matter of hours—but you can tell Aaron isn't entirely there. His nods are absentminded, his jaw tight, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. You know where they've gone. To Jack. To Haley. To the uncertainty of what comes next.

You shift closer, just enough that your fingertips barely graze his. It's subtle, a quiet offering meant only for him. Something small, something grounding. A tether, if he needs it.

For a moment, there's nothing. And then, slowly, his fingers brush against yours, the touch light, tentative. But then he holds on—just enough to make it count. Just enough that neither of you has to say anything. The contact is both everything and nothing, a lifeline and a release.

It's the smallest of gestures, unnoticed by anyone else, but in that fleeting moment, it feels like you're both holding on for dear life—and somehow, at the same time, setting each other free.

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

When everyone else leaves, you stay behind, offering to be his security for the night.

As the unit settles into its late-night hush, the nurses dim the lights and draw the curtains around his room. You giggle softly, the absurdity of it all hitting you at once.

Aaron glances at you, his lips curving into a faint smile simply because yours is so infectious. "What is it?"

Your laughter only grows. "I just think it's bizarre that a month ago, I was in the hospital from stab wounds, and now here I am, in the hospital with you… because you were stabbed." You shake your head in disbelief. "Wanna know the most ironic part of it all?"

He chuckles, the sound low and rough but full of amusement. "What's so ironic?"

Still grinning, you tug at the hem of your shirt, lifting it just enough to reveal the fading, jagged marks along your skin. Then, you step over to the chart hanging by his bed, pointing to the initials scribbled across the top.

"Of all the things my scar could've been, it had to be your initials," you say, shaking your head before bursting into laughter again. "Penelope said last week that it's like those soulmate tropes—where your soulmate's initials appear on your skin. Except mine were carved in by a psychopathic serial killer."

Aaron exhales a quiet laugh, but the motion is too much. He winces, pressing a hand to his side.

"I've been there," you say knowingly, your amusement fading as you settle beside him.

The silence that follows isn't heavy, nor is it uncomfortable. It simply exists, a quiet space between you both.

Then, in a voice so soft you almost think you imagined it, he whispers, "It wasn't a mistake."

Your breath stills. "What?"

"Foyet targeting you," Aaron murmurs, his eyelids fluttering shut. "It was never a mistake."

You blink rapidly, his words sinking in, pivoting something deep within you. But before you can speak, his body relaxes against the pillows, the exhaustion overtaking him.

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