Unknowingly, he admits | Aaron Hotchner
part 1
pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem liaison reader
summary: Aaron tries to stop you from making the same mistake, but doesn’t realise it’s for his own selfish reasons
warnings: age gap, boss x subordinate, ex talk, mentions of divorce, Hotch being hot and reader is all (๑♡ .̫ ♡๑) once again
I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story!
"Straight through the glass door, then right." You stood at the entrance, signalling with your hand, explaining to the man who miraculously managed to get lost to your office.
"Oh, thank you." He turned to look at you once more, a mischievous but beautiful grin plastered across his face. "By the way, I'm Agent Nathaniel Smith."
He reached forward to shake your hand when you replied, "SSA Y/N. Nice to meet you."
Once he took off, you leaned on a door frame of your office, arms crossed over your chest. Then bobbing your head to the side, your gaze followed after the man as you admitted he was even better looking from behind.
Tight handshake, round from behind…
Pouting, you nodded at the thought.
"You meant Soft Spot Aaron’s (SSA) Y/N." A familiar voice came out of nowhere, humming in your ear. You jumped in your place, looked at him over you shoulder and rolled your eyes. Entering the office, Derek came in after you.
"What's up kiddo, you're not in the mood? You didn't like my friend Nathaniel there?" He teased, beaming widely, and pointing his thumb towards the exit where the man had left. You looked at him under your brows as you slumped back in your chair.
"What do you want, Derek?" You answered with a tinge of annoyance in your tone.
"Ah, that hurt." His hand on his heart feigning pain. With one leg propped on the edge, he perched himself on the table, enjoying a sip of coffee from his black FBI cup. You’d enjoy some coffee too. "Tell me, what's bothering you?"
"Ah, Derek..." You breathed out, leaning back in your chair, looking at the ceiling, fingers knitted at your stomach. "I don't think you want to hear that.”
He raised an eyebrow. "That bad? You know that’s my jam, I’m all ears, baby."
Deliberately raising your brow at him, you straightened in your seat and rolled your chair towards the table. “Really?”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Wanna make a bet?”
“Sure I do, lil pumpkin.”
When you expressed a sense of superiority through a subtle yet discernible smirk, it wouldn’t be a lie were you to say that panic sprang through Derek’s eyes. So you quickly added, “Game on.”
~
Not long after Derek stormed out of your office, repeating ‘No, no, no!’ more to himself than you — either because he just lost money or because of the thing you’d told him — Hotch appeared at your door. You didn’t notice him, slumped back in your chair, one leg across the other, your hands playing with a pen.
If it weren’t for the two knocks against the door frame you wouldn’t have even noticed him.
You straightened your back, sitting more appropriately.
“Are you ready?” He inquired, his eyebrows inched upward as he looked upon you.
“Yeah. I’ll be there in a minute.” Even through the smile that quirked on your lips at the sight of him, your eyes held the smallest hints of concern.
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"Is everything ok?" His voice, simultaneously stern and gentle, pierced through the hush that crept inside his office’s walls.
"Huh?" You hesitated, completely engrossed in the paperwork you were completing. It wouldn't be incorrect to say that you had no idea how you had managed to do it properly when your thoughts were occupied by something else. You were pleased when Hotch finally did speak and directed your attention towards him. Towards something that potentially could brighten your mood. “Yes?”
“Yes,” he replied, maintaining eye contact with you. “You've been unusually quiet."
You arched an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to be an insult?" Leaning back, you took a moment to escape all the work and overwhelming thoughts. "Are you suggesting I talk too much?"
Hotch recognised that small smile of yours, small but enough to encourage anyone — to rouse him.
Hotch knew you.
He responded in his very recognisable calm and professional voice. “That's what you said."
It felt like you two were having this conversation recently, but now the roles had been switched.
"Truth." You leaned in towards the table, reaching for the pen. "No, everything is fine."
But that itch in your head didn't give you peace, and you didn't have the will or enough concentration to continue working any longer with that on your mind, so you blurted out.
You sighed, running a hand over your face. “You remember Brad?”
You said it without even knowing why, perhaps because you needed someone to confide in without fear of judgment. Was Aaron Hotchner really that person? Anyway, there was no going back now.
“Brad?” Hotch furrowed, only a hint of a confusion gracing his features before realisation kicked in. “Brad.” He repeated his name blankly, then leaned back in his chair.
Perhaps not.
Of course Aaron knew your ex-boyfriend Brad. Everyone did. And no one liked him.
Well, they were kind of right.
The reason you'd been a bit absent — and why Derek stormed out of your office earlier — was because of your ex-boyfriend. A couple days ago, following your conversation with Hotch regarding his divorce, you got a message on your cell phone. Unknown number. Before even reading the whole message, you had quite a good laugh once you read Brad’s name signed at the end of it. Apparently, he wanted to see you. Of course, you would not consent in meeting him even in a state of madness.
But, having a mutual friend was never a good idea. Brad showed up at the bar last night while you were out with said friend. You were initially just being sarcastic, the irony was coming through. But as time went by, somehow Brad managed to soften you through conversation and touch.
The thought made your skin crawl.
“Yeah… That.very -same -Brad.” You spoke in a hushed tone, your voice quivering as you glanced sideways. Everywhere except Hotch. Suddenly, saying it out loud to Hotch wasn’t your best plan. You were almost too shy admitting it. Or rather, admitting it to him. Saying it out loud made Aaron's presence in your chaos feel intimate and somewhat intrusive.
And why?
It was not the first time you two talked about personal lives, dammit, it wasn’t even a hundredth time! You had spent countless days and nights working together, on cases and press conferences, bars and restaurants with the rest of the team, and talked everything out of your lives.
Yet somehow this felt different.
Was it because you were talking about potential someone in your life? Or were you ashamed of admitting to Hotch you were even considering going back to that fool? Were you actually confessing to Aaron Hotchner himself — your boss — it had been a while since you had someone, that you had been that lonely and… needy?
Ugh.
Nonetheless, Aaron could sense the irony and uncertainty as you replied. He toyed with the pen, shaking it slightly in between his index and middle finger as his other hand held his hip.
The things he unknowingly did to you…
“And what does that very same Brad want? To reconcile?”
You quickly looked up at him again.
“I…” you opened your mouth, but the words died on your tongue. His brows were drawn together in a sympathetic concern, his eyes glowed with an inexplicable intensity… Something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.
Did he actually care? To think anything else might have been in question would be insane. But Hotch’d always been protective over everyone in his team, and you were one of them. And no one ever liked Brad, so the stare he had been giving you made perfect sense. “Well… yes. Apparently.”
“And you are distracted by that why exactly?” There was no change in his even voice as he observed you, shifting his head from one side to other. The dim lighting coming from his desk lamp cast dancing shadow across his face.
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about reconciling with…” He halted in self-control, exhaling as his eyes slowly closed and opened. Fatigue washed over him, Aaron concluded. Regardless, he wouldn’t want his professional facade off, at least not when such a topic was in talk. “Very same Brad.”
You would have almost laughed at that, but only managed to smile and shake your head. Brad was not it, you knew that. And yet you were still thinking about it, and why, you wouldn’t know. You didn’t have the answer. Maybe you were bored, or perhaps tired of waiting for someone right to come your way.
It’d been a long time since you had a proper date, to be quite frank. One that didn’t end up in you yawning your boredom away, having Penelope fake call you to leave, having to really leave for work, and so on. It had been depressing to say the least.
You didn’t have anyone or anything planned in your love life for months. The only thing going on in that field (if one could even consider it that) was the crush you had had on Hotch that was somehow worse than pms’ mood swings. One day you liked him, the next day you wanted to rip his hair out. You also knew Hotch was within the reach, and considering and hoping something might have happen with the two of you was equal to hoping for snow in the middle of July somewhere in south Italy.
Your crush on him was there just to spice up your boring day.
Or so you thought most of the time.
“I knew you guys wouldn’t approve. You never liked him.” Is all you said, beaming widely at Aaron. He, of course, didn’t miss the hints of sadness either in your voice. It bothered you for whatever reason that much that you hadn’t been acting all giggly like your usual self.
Aaron’s eyes darkened as he leaned forward, his elbows on the edge of his table, his hands drawn together in front of him. “And you… like him?” The tone he spoke in was low and measured, almost intimate.
The tone that felt like a caress.
The gaze that made you feel like you were made of glass and he was too focused to let it drop.
You gulped.
“I- I don’t know.” You whispered through a nervous smile.
You lied. You knew that, Hotch knew that. And the thought of that pinched at your heart.
Some mistakes were just not worth making twice.
“If you are asking about my opinion… which I suppose you might not, but I can’t sit here and watch you make that mistake. But of course, this is about you and what you want.”
To Hotch, this was completely normal. It was almost like a friend helping a friend, or rather a boss advising his subordinate. After all, you were there for him when he needed company — when he parted his path with Haley. So, no, nothing unusual.
Everyone on the team disliked Brad. When she first got on the team, she was in relationship with Brad. They’d been together for three years, Aaron remembered. But not long after joining the team, they split up. Even back then everyone cheered her on and told her it was the right thing to do. Everyone except him, but the reason was that she was a newbie at the time, so of course he didn’t want to pry. Now, it was different… somehow.
“I know you don’t think he changed, you are not naive. But do you think it’s worth it?” His gaze assessed you for a moment before his dark eyebrows lifted, pausing briefly before he continued gingerly. “Does he notice the way you bite inside of your cheeks to stop yourself from saying something you might regret? Or the way you play with your earring when you’re not really paying attention, lost in your own schemes? That stress and all the pictures that come through your desk make you reach for favorite snack in comfort? Or that you smile the most when you have the most in your head?”
Silence.
Brad was suddenly long gone from your brain. The words Hotch spoke made a vertigo in your head, lying to you that there was more to it than it seemed. But at the moment nothing was more important than those little lies he you fed yourself with.
But then your gaze fell upon his hand.
The wedding ring still firmly and warmly hugged his finger making your heart drop.
Hope is the joy of a fool, so they say.
Not that you desired him to divorce Haley. Never. It just reminded you that Haley was and would still be a huge part in his life, and nothing, nothing could ever happen between the two of you. He would always love Haley. So it was indeed a good reminder to keep your head cool, your expectations zero.
His eyes averted for a second or two before he looked up at you again, adding softly — in his voice a mix of gentleness and playfulness. “Or the way your eyes get big and dark when you plead…”
A softness came over your features, a semblance of a smile gently flickered onto your lips. “You know about that?”
Hotch gave you a look that said “Of course I know about that”.
Busted, you nodded. “Of course you do.”
He sighed softly, his face showing exhaustion, a craving for care and an opportunity to relax.
“Now, I know it’s the whole point of our job. To profile people. To notice such things about others, but… Our other half should be just as considerate and aware of us. And I believe you deserve better.”
As he breathed the last words out, he leaned back, his head resting on the back of his chair, the almost see-through fabric of his shirt hugging his broad shoulders. Reaching up his collar, he unbuttoned the shirt — not very chastely as thought it were suffocating him, and loosened his tie.
It was suddenly getting warm with everything he had on his mind — work, fatigue and insomnia, Haley and Jack, divorce, you…
Yeah, you also.
As he closed his eyes, something between a sigh and a moan escaped his throat.
And while all this was happening in front of your eyes, you were practically melting in your seat at the sound he made, at the sight in front of you. You gaped at your boss unashamedly, as if you were hypnotised, your lips slightly parting and only then feeling the dryness of them. You swallowed, wishing you could drink in that sight of him. Oh, you so wanted to… many things. You envisioned getting up from your chair, leaving a trail on his table with your fingers as you made your way towards him before settling down onto his lap and leaving kisses up his jaw.
“Hotch…” you called out absent-mindedly, slowly, as though the words left you without your consent, still very lost in your imagination. “You are right. I deserve something far better than him.”
Not really hearing what you had said, he winced back, eyes and hands searching for a file on his desk. “We should get back to work. I need you to take a look at this report on the press conference you held in Kansas City.”
Trying to shake off that picture in your head, you reached for the document he held for you and put it down on the table. The letters were mix of some unknown words, your eyes only skimming over the files.
If concentrating was hard before, now it was completely impossible.
Sneaking a small look at him, you contemplated about the words he said just minutes ago.
You weren’t stupid — you were aware he’d have to pick up a few ticks and tells of yours and everyone’s on the team, but did he then also know about your silly little crush, and how attracted to him you were? Had he been profiling you all this time like he profiled the unsubs? Did he go in depths into his profiling of you? The thought made your heart squeeze in regret of some not-so-appropriate thoughts and actions you had done.
But then again, deep down you knew he didn’t. It didn’t make sense. Things would have been way different between the two of you had he known.
At last you concluded it was all right.
And that was when you realised he was right.
You had been fidgeting with your earring! Quickly stopping, cursing yourself inside, you took the paper in your hand, giving your best to concentrate and read.
You didn’t even notice you’d had that tick, Brad knew even less.
But Hotch knew. The thought made your heart waltz inside your chest, it was almost too hard not to smile.
But what you also missed was that Hotch had seen your actions causing a quick, but not small smile spread across his lips.
“So I thought we don’t profile each others,” you added, pretending to had been reading the report as silence had spread between you two. “And you say I’m not naive.”
Looking up at him under your brows, you didn’t expect he would have already welcomed you with a biggest grin you’d ever seen on him.
You both chuckled out loud, shaking your heads.
“I didn’t profile you…”
“Aha, aha.” You spoke over him, pretending you didn’t want to listen, like you didn’t believe him. “So you’ve said.”
“When you spend time with someone, you have to notice…”
Long into the night, soft chuckles and small voices could be heard outside of his dimly lit office.
A profiler never misses.
Or that was an excuse he said to himself.
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Riz has counted four casseroles this week alone. Five, if one goes by the method of cooking, but Yelen's scary when she's crossed, and calling her burek by its proper name is important to her, so Riz does her the courtesy and doesn't include it in his mental tally.
He holds the tupperware over his head to keep it out if the way as he takes careful steps over the piles of notes in his path. The dockman case just closed, relevant documentations handed over to relevant personnels, evidences dealt with as needed; all he has lying around now is just record of the process and traces of himself thinking through it. Unsurprisingly they still haven't invented a surface more convenient for people under five feet who like to pace to put pieces of paper on than the ground.
Actual records go into the case folder with the other documents. Anything else with at least one side still blank is going to the school kids in the block - they chew through an astounding amount of paper just learning arithmetic. The rest is for the recycling basket.
Later. It's his mandated lunch break right now.
Riz sits down in front of the corner file cabinet. In an office often overrun with papers and strings and sometimes even thumbtacks, he's never really managed to clutter up this exact square of surface like every other ones. Ever since the bottom drawer rattled for no discernible reason a day long past, his eyes have always just kinda decided to slide across the space without acknowledging it.
It's years out, now. Riz doesn't know why he thought it such a big deal anymore, back then. He wasn't scared, he doesn't think. Not anymore. Maybe just uncomfortable with the idea that certain things persist despite all efforts to change.
He opens the tupperware. Dame Carabelle's experiment greets him with enough spice in the aroma alone to knock out a small mammal. When he chopped the vegetables for this casserole he couldn't really imagine the eventual heft of it, evident even through just these few ladles' worth, maybe weighing heavier for being still warm. His folk eat more through the smell and the textures and the aftertastes than the taste itself. His folk's meal is really the cooking rather than the eating. The eating is the meal's end.
"Hey," he tells the file cabinet's bottom drawer. "Um."
It's the anniversary. Riz doesn't know the exact date of his dad's death; nobody currently alive does. He and Mom both use the date of the funeral, though as he moved out to Bastion and then got more directly involved with Interplanar he hasn't really been going to Dad's grave as much. Doesn't seem like very efficient use of his time, catching a train or borrowing a car or spending a whole spell slot on going somewhere he knows Dad isn't at. They're sorta coworkers now. They talk on and off every other week between missions. When he goes now, it's just to clean up the place, keeping the landmark tidy and respectable.
Without that work to mark the date he doesn't really know what it serves anymore. But he still remembers it. Still takes note, absently or not, when it comes around.
There's not really a good way to tell the drawer that. Riz looks for another way to start the... conversation, hopefully. The question at play, he'd guess, is why he's doing this. He's been pretty content ignoring all the rattlings and the knocks from inside and the times it sits slightly ajar without him ever opening it himself; hell, he still uses the three drawers on top of it. Space is fucking precious in Bastion.
Precious enough to finally fix this damn drawer so he gets his turn to use it? Riz asks himself. Is that what we're getting to? Then he dismisses the thought - he didn't manage to fix it the times he actually tried, let alone-- now. When he doesn't really care that much to.
That's probably a good place to start. "'s fine if you keep being in there, turns out," Riz says.
The lunch hours are quiet in the block, sleepy and bright with the brief window of sunlight that manages to break through roof overhangs and extended balconies and laundry lines and climbing vines. Riz's work isn't loud here (the loud parts happen away from his office, if everything goes right), but the fragment of early summer heat reflected in the steady warmth his meal still carries compels him to lower his voice even more. It makes the words feel intimate, in a way he's never been familiar with - if he says something he just says it. He doesn't whisper. If he gives his friends something, he gives it open-palm. He's found out, along the way, that people usually don't think of rituals and courtesies the way he does.
Small voice for a diminished monster. "You know why I think so?" Riz asks. "Because almost two decades ago you kidnapped me and almost killed me, and now you rattle a drawer in my office."
It doesn't sound as much like a taunt as Riz wanted it to; the drawer has made a lot of noises again this morning when he checked the calendar, and he was definitely annoyed at it. Now, though, facing it like this after cooking the whole morning with more grandparents and peers from the block than he can count on both hands to cater for a tenant union meeting, he thinks the annoyance has morphed. Changed shape.
It has the shades of something like pity. Riz is not prone to pity, and especially not at these kinda matters. It's slightly maddening that he coheres perfectly outside of this one spot. That he commands his spaces, except for a drawer.
He puts the tupperware onto the floor between himself and the cabinet. "I know we're aware it's the anniversary," he says at the drawer. "You do this every year. You make a ruckus every time I decide to go do my job instead of mooching off my friends' aircon, and every time I get an invitation to some stupid social thing I want to turn down, and every time one of the old people tries to introduce me to a child or a nibling, because being a bachelor over thirty is weird," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have three fucking jobs. I love doing my fucking jobs. I'm forcing funds into infrastructures. You're never leaving, are you."
The drawer vibrates lightly. It's a very, very mild acknowledgement, considering the history of reactions Riz has gotten from this thing. Riz thinks it's emanating joyous agreement, or satisfaction.
It only sharpens the pity. Riz doesn't like that, but it's how it is. That's, ultimately, the lesson he's been taught over and over and over again, just by existing as himself, turned every which way by space after space that don't see him eye-to-eye: it's not like he'd quit living over any of it. It's not like any of it can sand off these fundamental pieces of him.
He's outgrown a lot of things, he's found out. Again, and again, and again. A childhood home, a yearly trip, a monster.
"'s probably scary for you, huh?" He asks. "Because I left."
He thinks he hears joints creak that sound like you did. Probably the way a scorned lover would say it, in a movie or a yellowback. He has no more connection to the idea than he did as a kid. Less, because it doesn't even scare him.
"That's what it is, right? That it's the anniversary, and I'll never be like Dad." He raises a knee from the floor, pulls it back closer to him. Slings an arm over it. "You love to remind me. The thing is, Dad also left. He loved Mom and he loved me, and none of us wanted it to happen, but it still did. Because love does fuckall to make anyone stay on its own."
He's long past being bitter about it. It's just the facts. Once upon a time he looked into the future and the specter of his friends' happily-ever-after casted lightless, fathomless shadow over him. Love, marriage, that kind of devotion, to a fifteen-year-old with more solved cases than friends seemed so eternal. Final.
But you can only watch your friends build up apps' worth of jilted lovers for so long before getting over it.
"You know what I learned?" Riz tells the drawer. "Love doesn't make anyone stay. Project management does."
He stands up, and picks up the tupperware of Dame Carabelle's casserole, that he helped make, that he helped share with a block's worth of neighbors and members of a community he's at home with, and goes sit at his desk to eat. "Last chance to get any," he drops an offer over his shoulder as he walks away.
He doesn't eat all of his share in one go. What he's spared he leaves on the desk when going outside for a smoke break. Baron looks the exact same as when he saw them last, when he catches a glimpse; they haven't grown at all. They aren't there when he comes back inside, but the leftover has gone days-old cold, like someone's sucked the future out of it.
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