#Thomas FitzGerald

[streetsofdublin]

IF YOU ARE INTERESTED IN TREES THEN ST PATRICK'S COLLEGE CAMPUS IS THE PLACE TO VISIT

Ireland's oldest native tree, the Silken Thomas Yew, is 700-800 years old and it is located on the St Patrick College Campus in Maynooth.

PHOTOGRAPHED EASTER WEEKEND APRIL 2023 Ireland’s oldest native tree, the Silken Thomas Yew, is 700-800 years old and it is located on the St Patrick College Campus in Maynooth. “According to Aubrey Fennell, the man with the responsibility for measuring and recording every one of Ireland’s heritage trees for the Tree Council of Ireland, Ireland’s oldest native tree is the Silken Thomas Yew tree…

[thelockwoods]

"Father once talked about a ritual."

"An understandable choice, if a foolish one. The Marlowes once called Glimmerbrook home too, until we couldn’t - Jacob thought it was the safest option to leave, because staying would have affected time in so many different ways."

"Please help me."

[marias-hnz]

HNZ | Thomas Fitzgerald - Accio Pics (Part Two)

FIFTH YEAR

SIXTH YEAR

SEVENTH YEAR

[diioonysus]

women in art: titania

[mrs-kmikaelson]

01| The Grey Area

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader Summary: You meet Aaron Hotchner and he makes you see everything in colour; he makes you feel like you're the only girl in the room. But then, as you find out that you're not, you realize the colour he actually makes you see the most is grey. Warnings: emotional and physical cheating, forbidden love affair, reader is in government, cm level violence, r is a bitch at first, hotch is a jerk, based on olivia pope and fitzgerald grant Words: 3.8K

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Part 2

a/n: is this based on scandal by shonda rhimes? yes. why? bc that was peak television. making this a series bc i need to learn how to make things other than long fics (be proud of me).

1989

For as long as you could remember, life was slow. Everything was black and white: your surroundings, your activities, your beliefs. 

And then you met Aaron Hotchner, and you started seeing things in colour.

"I'm sorry, is this seat taken?"

You barely looked up at the person, just shaking your head and continuing to twirl your pen on your desk. He sat down right after.

You didn't expect him to talk to you. In fact, you were sure your disinterest was written all over your face in bold red letters. 

"I'm Aaron. Aaron Hotchner." He held his hand out; you only saw it because he held it over your desk, not because you actually looked in his direction. 

You stared at his hand plainly before looking up to the front of the class where the professor had just stood up. "And I'm not interested," you said. Presumptuous of you, maybe, but this was Georgetown, and it was your second year. Everybody was competition, and nobody actually wanted to be your friend unless they were looking for something a little more.

It was like you could hear his frown. "I— we can't be friends?" 

Finally, out of just pure exasperation, you looked at him, and boy were you taken aback. Aaron Hotchner, as he so formally introduced himself, had dark, dark brown hair, almost black, and a jawline that wasn't too sharp nor too round. His brown eyes looked at you expectantly, confusion swimming through them. Briefly, you thought he was perfect, but that wouldn't change your stance.

Despite your short-lived awe, you deadpanned, "No, we can't."

Aaron went to open his mouth, but then the professor started speaking and it cut him right off. You looked toward the front and didn't back at him once, listening intently. You were determined to succeed above all things, and no boy would get in the way of that.

Your first lecture of the semester went fine after that. You packed up your things at the end and you were gone before Aaron could try again. You went to one more class then got ready for work without another thought of him.

During nights, you were a bartender at this place near the campus. It wasn't just college kids; it was also frequented by businessmen and other big spenders who tipped well so long as you smiled and laughed at their jokes.

The excessive flirting wasn't ideal, but the job paid the bills, and since you were doing this all by yourself, that was exactly what you needed.

You rarely saw people you knew. There were regulars, and every once in a while you might've seen a kid from one of your classes, but it wasn't something you expected often.

You certainly didn't expect to see the hot guy from Advanced Legal Research.

"Hi there, what can I getcha?" You weren't looking at the customer, busy cleaning a glass and simultaneously passing someone their drink while you spoke to them.

"Hey, you're the girl from my LAW-J 301 course"

You paused at the person's voice, both at their enthusiasm and familiarity, and looked up. When you did, you couldn't help the groan that left you. "Seriously? You, again?" Each word was enunciated slowly, accurately demonstrating your annoyance. However, you got back to what you were doing, taking your eyes off him. "What, are you stalking me, Hopscotch?"

"It's Hotchner."

This time, your sigh was accompanied by a pointed eye roll. "Duuuude." You looked back up. "I do not care. Now, what do you want?"

He snorted. "Do you talk to all your customers this way?"

You flashed him a sarcastic smile. "Just the ones that can't take a hint." He opened his mouth for a sharp rebuttal no doubt, but you redirected the conversation. "Your order, Hopscotch. Or else you're gonna have to kick rocks."

He acquiesced like it was such a hardship you were asking of him, like you weren't in a bar that he came to specifically to order a drink. "Fine. Whiskey, neat."

That, you could help him with. You grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels and poured some into a glass for him, all the while making conversation. He wasn't special; you did this with every customer. "What are you doing here?" When you got no response, you glanced back up to see a confused expression on his face. You elaborated, "Doesn't seem like your scene." You would've said no offense, but who were you kidding? You were already abrasive to begin with.

But he didn't look offended. If anything, he looked curious. "How so?"

You slid his drink across the counter, cocking your head at him as if telling him it was stupid to even ask. "You introduced yourself with your first and last name, extended your hand for me to shake, then just now, you referred to our class with the course code." You raised a brow then. "A little formal, don't you think?"

Now he looked a little offended. "Formal? I don't think so. I'm a little old fashioned at most."

For the second time that day, you deadpanned. "You're at the bar in a suit and tie. You couldn't have made it any more obvious that you don't do this often."

He got a little red then. You think that, if he could've, he would've loosened his tie, but he just picked up his drink, taking a swig. You'd give him a little credit, though; at least he looked like he could take his liquor. "Fine," he admitted, "my friends dragged me out."

"Ah," you chuckled, "common occurrence here at GWU. You'll get used to it soon, freshie."

He furrowed his brows. "How'd you know I was a first-year?"

You grinned. "You just told me, Hopscotch."

He groaned, making you stifle a laugh. No, you wouldn't laugh at him; that'd make it seem like his presence was growing on you when it wasn't. 

You didn't need new friends, and you certainly didn't need suit-and-tie-wearing, formal Aaron Hotchner.

But he stayed there. He stayed there and talked you as you served other customers, asking you to refill his drink every now and then. You wondered where his friends were, but by the time closing came 'round, you assumed they were long gone.

He talked to you all night, you realized. 

And you didn't totally hate it.

Aaron visited you at work the next day, too. That's when you told him your name. Then you started talking to him in class. Then, before you knew it, you exchanged numbers and he was visiting you at work nearly every day.

But you were right in your earlier reservations. You and Aaron Hotchner couldn't be friends.

You just learned that too late.

2005

"Tallie, tell Gretchen that I need the files on Henderson's case by the end of the day, please."

You walked with your assistant at your side, heels clicking against the floor as you went through all the day's administrative business. Every day, Tallie went over your schedule with you as soon as you entered the building. Time was of the essence in your job, and you had none of it to waste.

"Yes, ma'am, and— if I may—"

"Oh, and contact the President's Chief of Staff. I need to meet with him by the end of the day to discuss the recent terrorist attack in London again. We need to communicate with the British government without overstepping."

"Done, and—"

"And could you please get Rob Burton on the line for me?" You turned down the hall that led to your office. "He said he has an inquiry for me."

"Well, ma'am, um—" You had just reached your office when Tallie stopped, sighing. You looked back at her, raising a brow. Sheepishly, she pointed ahead of you. "There's that."

Your brows knitted together. You turned, following her gaze to see a dark-haired man standing in your waiting room, eyes on his watch. As if he felt your presence, he looked up, and as soon as your eyes locked, you realized why he looked so familiar.

Tallie cut off your thought process. "I kept telling him he didn't have an appointment, but he said you knew him and would let him in, that it's urgent."

You let out a sigh of your own, muttering under your breath, "Somehow, I don't doubt that." It had to be urgent if Aaron Hotchner was at your office. You glanced back at Tallie, giving her a tense smile. "Thank you, Tallie. We'll raincheck that phone call with Mr. Burton?"

She nodded, giving a "Yes, ma'am," before she walked past the man in your waiting room to her desk.

Like old times, you couldn't hold back another sigh, but you got your exasperation under control before you walked up to him, if not just to be professional and keep up appearances.

"Agent Hotchner," you greeted, a faux smile on your face. "It's... nice to see you." It was like the words stung coming out of your mouth, and that was because they weren't true. If he was half as good of a profiler as you thought he was, then he'd know that.

If he knew you as well as he thought he did, then he should've known that regardless.

You didn't bother waiting for his greeting; you didn't care for it. "Let's talk in my office." Not a question.

He complied, following you into your office and shutting the door on the way in. With your back still turned to him, you momentarily closed your eyes, willing yourself to have the strength to sit through whatever it was he had to tell you.

When you had it, you turned back around, dropping all the pleasantries now that you were away from prying eyes. "What is it that's so important you couldn't say over the phone?"

He didn't answer. Deep down, you both knew it was because he could've. He didn't need to be here, but instead of agreeing with you, he nodded to the two chairs in front of your desk. "You're not going to offer me a seat?"

You scoffed. "If I did, would you take it?" You're met with silence, another answer in and of itself. It'd been six years, yet you could still read Hotch's tells like a children's book. He didn't like to say anything when he knew you were right.

You took that moment to examine him. He looked the same, just as you left him. Maybe a bit more worn, a bit more tired, and a bit more cold, but weren't you all?

Briefly, you wondered what he was thinking about you.

He got to the point, as he always did. "I have a suspect for the murders of 12 women in D.C. spanning over the past six months," he told you. "His name is Eric Clark. He's the founder and CEO of a new tech start-up here; they're calling him the new Zuckerberg." The sarcasm in his voice when he said that last bit was evident, shining through his monotonous persona.

You were aware of the murders he spoke of, and you were aware of who Eric Clark was. He was invited to some state dinner you just went to. But you didn't say this. Instead, you shrugged like it didn't matter to you and asked him, "So why are you telling me?"

If your nonchalance bothered him, he didn't voice it. He simply explained, "I need a warrant." A warrant, he said, like that sentence stood alone. What he was realling saying was, he needed a warrant, and he needed you to get it for him. More than that, he expected you to get it for him.

That forced a chuckle out of you, even though you didn't feel any humour at all. So that was why he was here; six years go by without any contact, but now that he needed something, here he was. 

You felt a strange sense of déjà vu. Hotch needing something and claiming that you were the only one who could give it to him.

"You need a warrant," you echoed, splaying your hands out in front of you. "So go take that up with a judge."

You saw a sudden crack in his calm composure. His eyes narrowed just the slightest bit, so slightly you wouldn't have noticed it if you didn't know what to look for.

But you knew what to look for.

"Come on, Y/N." He said your name like you were just old friends, like this stop by your office was a normal occurence. "Everyone knows you have pull in this city."

You did have pull in this city. In fact, you had pull in just about every city in America; being the U.S. Attorney General gave you that kind of power.

So yes, you had pull, and now Hotch wanted you to pull some strings for him as if you owed him a favour, as if you owed him anything.

You didn't say this, but you were sure that your next words said enough for you. "Where's Gideon? Normally, he's the one to come knocking on my door when the BAU needs something." You found it highly unlikely that he'd ever send Hotch, of all people, on his behalf.

Hotch pursed his lips. "He's on leave."

You made a clicking sound of realization, but it was more mocking than anything since you already gathered as much. That meant he was unit chief now, and that was why he was here. So that's what it took? you thought. All it took was a promotion, obligation, and now he was here.

He was here, checking his watch in your waiting room, marching into your office and shutting the door, clenching his jaw and pursing his lips like he was the one with the right to be mad. 

You'd give it to him: Aaron Hotchner sure as hell had guts.

You circled back to the original topic. "Yeah, Hotch, that's not happening." He went to cut you off, but you stopped him by raising a hand. Your were firm as you asserted, "If you're here with me instead of with a judge, that means you have insubstantial evidence. So how about, instead of ambushing me and wasting my precious time, you go back to the drawing board?" It wasn't a suggestion as much as it was an insult.

His jaw tensed, his eyes hardening as he stared at you. "I am sorry to waste your precious time, but precious lives are at stake." Condescending as ever.

"I undersand that, but you clearly have no probable cause." Or did you forget what that was? you wanted to add, but you kept that part to yourself.

You thought, if he clenched his jaw any harder, it just might break. "I have a profile—"

"Which clearly isn't enough—"

"You of all people should understand the importance of a profile, Y/N."

You took a sharp breath through your nose. It was low of him to say that, and it was also such a profiler of him to say it, mostly because he knew it'd get you.

You weren't always the Attorney General.

Perhaps this is why you agreed. "Fine. I'll go talk to a judge for you."

He sighed, "Thank you." He said it without looking at you, then he was opening your door and walking out, and you nearly thanked him for it.

Six years had gone by.

Yet you wouldn't have been able to tell with the way your heart was racing.

You went on with your day after Hotch left, going through paperwork and dropping by the White House. You had a meeting with the President that day, the President of the United States, the most important person in the whole damn country. That was little old you that did that.

You weren't the same girl he remembered, not that girl from Georgetown who rolled her eyes at every one of his corny jokes, and he wasn't the same guy who'd sit and wait for you the by the bar, either. He was the unit chief now. And you were the Attorney General.

Things were different now. 

Or maybe they weren't.

Because Aaron Hotchner came striding into your office just later that night.

Your door flew open, Aaron walking in thereafter with a stone cold frown and determination etched onto his face. It wasn't like the Aaron you knew to frown so much, but that wasn't what you were focused on.

You immediately shot up from your chair and rounded your desk, baffled by his behaviour. "Hey! What the hell do you think you're—"

You didn't get to finish your sentence. Before you could berate him, Aaron's hand was on the back of your head and his lips were slamming into yours. Slamming was the right word. This was fervent, almost violent, like he wanted to bruise you, like he wanted to permanently mold his lips into yours.

Your eyes went wide. You should've pushed him away—you really should have. But it was like you weren't thinking. Like you were on auto-pilot, your hands automatically went to his hair, your lips moving in unison with his.

This was muscle memory. God, how could you have ever forgotten what this felt like? Like ecstasy, and butterflies, and all good things in the world. Kissing him felt like everything all at once.

But everything meant that it came with all the bad in the world, too.

Your senses came back to you as you pushed him away, stumbling backward. You were sure you would've fallen, had your desk not been right behind you. You were heaving, and he was no different.

Fuck. What did you just do?

Your eyes darted to the door, alarm flashing through them. "Tallie—"

He finished your thought, assuring you, "She's gone. I sent her home."

Relief flooded your body. She wasn't here, she didn't see anything. That was good. But then what he said actually hit you. Your eyes narrowed into slits. "You did what?" He rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to retort, but you kept going. "You sent my assistant home?"

"Yes."

You scoffed. He sent your assistant home, and he was just admitting it proudly like it was nothing. Maybe nothing was different after all if Aaron was still here, barging into your life like he owned it, like he owned you.

And perhaps he did.

"You can't— you can't just—"

"I can't what?" he cut you off then took a step closer. "I can't come see you?" Another step. "We used to see each other all the time."

You were already cornered, right against your desk. "That was before," you responded. "Before—" the rest of your sentence got caught in your throat. You had glanced down momentarily, catching sight of his hand in the process. There, something glinted in the light. A golden band.

A wedding ring.

Your chest tightened, your voice getting smaller. "Before that." Even if he wasn't a profiler, it was impossible not to notice the crack in your voice.

You didn't know how you didn't feel the ring when he had his hand on your head.

Confused, Aaron followed your line of sight, right down to his hand. When he realized what you were referring to, he sighed, "Y/N, it's not what you think—"

A humourless chuckle left you. "It never is, is it?" You could count the number of times he'd said that to you. "God, I can't believe it." You chuckled again before your laugh faded into something angrier. No, not angrier. You were furious.

You didn't know if there was even a word in the English language that could describe how furious you were.

"You—" you took a deep breath, stopping yourself from yelling. "You're doing this to me— again?"

"Y/N—"

You slapped his hands away when he tried to put his hands on your arms. You didn't want to feel that fucking ring touch your skin. "Again?!" you seethed. "What, two times wasn't fucking enough for you? You had to go and do this a third time—"

"Please, just—"

You refused to let him get a word out. "No! I don't need any more of your excuses, Hotch!" Lord knew that if you heard them, you might just believe them.

You nearly did the first time.

To think that he had just been in your office hours earlier, acting like he didn't know you, like he didn't break you down just to build you back up and do it all over again. 

He could've at least given you the courtesy of leaving you alone, but it appeared that he couldn't even do that. Still, he was defending himself, false conviction lacing through his voice. "Haley and I are separated—"

"Separated?" That forced another chuckle out of you. "Sure, and I'm the Pope."

His glare at you hardened, like he was mad at you "I'm being serious."

Another laugh. He couldn't figure out why the hell you were laughing.

"Haley, haley, haley." Your voice raised. "It's always about fucking Haley." Even when he was with you.

Especially when he was with you.

His jaw locked. "We're not together right now."

You snapped, "Tell that to the fucking ring on your finger, asshole." 

It was laughable, really. You were the Attorney General of the United States of America. You sat in one of the highest offices of the land. Yet Aaron Hotchner still had the ability to turn you into putty in his hands.

The Attorney General didn't play second fiddle to anyone.

But you'd always be second to Haley Brooks.

"Get out, Hotchner." 

"What?" He had the audacity to look hurt, confused. You didn't understand what there was to be confused about. 

You managed to wriggle yourself out of the space where you were stuck between him and your desk, walking to your door and nearly yanking it open, holding it for him wordlessly.

He scoffed. "Y/N, come on—"

You shut him down. "No. I did what you asked earlier. I got you your warrant, therefore we are done. Now get out."

You didn't meet his eyes but you felt them burning into you with the same heat that'd make an unsub crack. It was the same heat that'd make you crack, too, which was precisely why you refused to look at him.

After what felt like a lifetime of staring at you, his footsteps sounded. You didn't look up until you watched his shoes pass you. Immediately, you closed the door, locking it.

Your hand fell around the door handle, your forehead resting against the door. Briefly, you wondered what the sensation in your eyes was, until you realized it was tears.

You hadn't cried in so long.

But whenever Aaron Hotchner came around, tears seemed inevitable.

taglist: @c-losur3

[vulcan-spicetea]

SPIRK: First Meeting

Oscar Wilde/Iain Thomas/Oscar Wilde/F. Scott Fitzgerald/Star Trek: Strange New Worlds

Inspired by this post by Wulfhalls.

[gingermintpepper]

hi, i haven't read the iliad and the odyssey but want to - do u have a specific translation you recommend? the emily wilson one has been going around bc, y'know, first female translator of the iliad and odyssey into english, but i was wondering on if you had Thoughts

Hi anon! Sorry for the somewhat late response and I'm glad you trust me with recommendations! Full, disclosure, I am somewhat of a traditionalist when it comes to translations of the source text of the Iliad + Odyssey combo wombo, which means I tend to prefer closeness in literal verbiage over interpretation of the poetic form of these epics - for that reason, my personal preferred versions of the Odyssey and Iliad both are Robert Fitzgerald's. Because both of these translations (and his Aeneid!) were done some 50+ years ago (63 for his original Odyssey tl, 50 flat for his Iliad and 40 for his Aeneid) the English itself can be a bit difficult to read and the syntax can get confusing in a lot of places, so despite my personal preferences, I wouldn't recommend it for someone who is looking to experience the Iliad + Odyssey for the very first time.

For an absolute beginner, someone who has tried to read one or both of these epics but couldn't get into it or someone who has a lot of difficulty with concentrating on poetry or long, winding bits of prose, I fully and wholeheartedly recommend Wilson's translation! See, the genius of Emily Wilson's Iliad + Odyssey isn't that she's a woman who's translated these classics, it's that she's a poet who's adapted the greek traditional poetic form of dactylic hexameter into the english traditional poetic form of iambic pentameter. That alone goes a very very long way to making these poems feel more digestible and approachable - iambic pentameter is simply extremely comfortable and natural for native english speakers' brains and the general briskness of her verbiage helps a lot in getting through a lot of the problem books that people usually drop the Iliad or Odyssey in like Book 2 of the Iliad or Book 4 of the Odyssey. I think it's a wonderful starting point that allows people to familiarise themselves with the source text before deciding if they want to dig deeper - personally, researching Wilson's translation choices alone is a massive rabbit hole that is worth getting into LOL.

The happy medium between Fitzgerald's somewhat archaic but precise syntax and Wilson's comfortable meter but occasionally less detailled account is Robert Fagles' Iliad + Odyssey. Now, full disclosure, I detest how Fagles handles epithets in both of his versions, I think they're far too subtle which is something he himself has talked at length about in his translation notes, but for everything else - I'd consider his translations the most well rounded of english adaptations of this text in recent memory. They're accurate but written in plain English, they're descriptive and detailled without sacrificing a comfortable meter and, perhaps most importantly, they're very accessible for native english speaking audiences to approach and interact with. I've annotated my Fagles' volumes of these books to heaven and back because I'm deeply interested in a lot of the translation decisions made, but I also have to specifically compliment his ability to capture nuance in the characters' of these poems in a way I don't often see. He managed to adapt the ambivalence of ancient greek morality in a way I scarcely see and that probably has a hand in why I keep coming back to his translations.

Now, I know this wasn't much of a direct recommendation but as I do not know you personally, dear anon, I can't much make a direct recommendation to a version that would best appeal to your style of reading. Ideally, I'd recommend that you read and enjoy all three! But, presuming that you are a normal person, I suggest picking which one is most applicable for you. I hope this helps! 🥰

[macabrekiller]

my horror themed collages :)

[thereofrin]

Countess Markievicz, her dog 'Poppett', Theobald Wolfe Tone FitzGerald (right) and Thomas McDonald (left), members of Na Fianna Éireann, photographed at Waterford in 1917

[boujee-marsh]

My man Fitz is pathetic but I love him

[fieldcinema]

The Fall of the House of Usher, 2023 Dir. Michael Fimognari, Mike Flanagan

[koerinz]

fooling around

[thelockwoods]

"Isabelle Marlowe, before you became a Fitzgerald."

"How much do you know about Glimmerbrook?"

"Very little. Father told very few stories, although he did mention the Lockwoods a few times. Titus more than any of the others."

"One of the most dangerous people to cross. Why did Gabriel leave?"

[marias-hnz]

HNZ | Thomas Fitzgerald - Accio Pics (Part One)

FIRST YEAR

SECOND YEAR

THIRD YEAR

FOURTH YEAR

[iconsrequestsworld]

like or reblog if you save. ♡

[mrs-kmikaelson]

02| four-letter words

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader Summary: You meet Aaron Hotchner and he makes you see everything in colour; he makes you feel like you're the only girl in the room. But then, as you find out that you're not, you realize the colour he actually makes you see the most is grey. Warnings: sexual harassment, miscommunication, complicated relationships, emotional and physical cheating (not in this part technically), references to abuse, based on olivia pope and fitzgerald grant Words: 5.1K

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Part 3

a/n: long-awaited, but here's part 2. the next part is coming soon, and it'll be the last part of aaron and r in college! it'll shed more light on their relationship in '05 compared to '89 and '90.

JULY 1990

You were going on your third year at Georgetown soon, then you'd be graduating.

It was exciting, invigorating. This was everything you'd worked for finally coming together. your dreams coming true. The last decade of your life had been spent trying to get exactly where you were. No drinking, no drugs, no downtime—no distractions.

You didn't come from money—but you didn't tell people that, of course. Everyone just made their own assumptions. Georgetown Law was an expensive school, saved for people who could afford it. So you worked your ass off, garnering scholarship money and planning your life out to a tee.

It's why, every second that wasn't spent studying, you were working at the bar. The only reason you weren't working during the day was because you were interning at a professor's practice.

Everything was counting on this next year for you, just as it was for everybody, but the stakes were higher for someone like you specifically.

Aaron didn't know that.

He went to boarding school when he was younger. Based on the way he'd tense when it was brought up, you knew his childhood wasn't the best, but you also knew that Aaron Hotchner likely never had to wonder if there would be food on the table, if the roof over his head would suddenly disappear.

He didn't have to wonder if his future would even be possible. So it just wasn't something you talked about, even though you shared everything with each other.

Almost everything.

"Slow down, Hopscotch! Not all of us are blessed with long legs."

Your chiding was met with a laugh, and even though you were meant to be scolding him, the sound didn't fail to bring a smile to your face. You were growing to really like that sound, even though it got on your nerves at first.

You might've even loved that sound.

Aaron turned around then, nearly making you bump into him. "Hey—!" You cut yourself off with a squeal when his arms swooped under you, effortlessly picking you up by your thighs and then throwing you over his shoulder like it was nothing. Your eyes widened. "Aaron— Aaron!"

You felt him shrug. "You were complaining. So I took care of the problem for you."

Your mouth opened and closed like you were a fish, stammering in shock. He was still walking full stride through the hallway, like you weren't even there. He just picked you up, for God's sake. In the entire time you'd known him, he'd never done anything of the sort.

You were a little startled.

"Hopscotch, put me down right. now." Your pleas fell upon deaf ears as he just continued to move forward. "Your neighbours might see!"

He snorted. "So? We're literally almost there."

Again, you were just sputtering in shock. He was right, though—you arrived at his apartment in no less than thirty seconds, and he was reaching into his pocket for the keys soon after. This reminded you of the matching key in your own pocket, the one he gave you after just a couple months knowing each other. In case you ever need it, he'd said, or if you just wanna drop by.

That took you off guard at first, but you learned that Aaron was always direct, never one to beat around the bush. He wanted your friendship badly, and after watching him work for it tirelessly, who were you to deny him?

It wasn't like you had many friends in the first place. Perhaps that's why it always surprised you when he did things like this, things like giving you a key to his place or throwing you over his shoulder, insisting he drive you home after your shift, buying you the exact bag he'd seen you wordlessly eyeing in the mall for your birthday—an expensive one, at that, a little too expensive for a law student.

Was it surprising because you weren't used to it or was it surprising because it was him doing it? You didn't know, and you weren't sure if you wanted to.

This, this right here, was a good friendship. You knew that as Aaron set you down and gave a kiss to your head, giving you feelings you shouldn't have had. He doesn't mean it like that, you told yourself, assuring yourself that he didn't think much of the things he did.

He couldn't. He was your best friend, your only friend.

And that's all there was to it.

You and Aaron spent that summer together, attached at the hip. It felt good to have a friend, to let loose every once in a while and breathe. He reminded you to breathe.

You didn't know how you could've possibly passed this up before, how the old you could've just ignored him. It was luck that he ended up at the place you bartended for. It was luck that you met him. Luck, and maybe another four-letter word.

You didn't believe in Fate. It felt wrong to believe in something that took credit for everything you did. It wasn't Fate that got you into one of the most prestigious law schools in the country; it was you.

But what else could you call this? What else could you call a man being thrusted into your life, relentlessly trying to be your friend even as you gave him every reason not to? 

You didn't know. All you knew was that, if Fate existed, you'd have to thank her. You were starting to believe in it all.

Fate, luck, and other four-letter words.

"I'm really gonna miss you when you're gone, Y/N."

You barely stopped yourself from whipping your head around. At first, you were startled by the noise itself, thinking he was asleep, but then you were startled by the words themselves.

It was 3 or maybe 4AM. You got off your shift at the bar a little early and went to Aaron's for a movie, but he tapped out halfway through. You were just starting to clean up when he spoke. You almost didn't hear it; his voice was just above a whisper. 

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you didn't know what to say. He didn't say things like that—that wasn't what the two of you did. You didn't talk about your feelings; neither of you did.

All the things Aaron had ever said to you ran through your head at that moment, all the times he might've toed the line but never crossed it. In all that memory, you couldn't find anything like this.

But this was something friends said, right? To show each other they cared? This wasn't out of line; this was just him being a good friend.

As you stared at him and the glazed over look in his eye, that's what you told yourself. That this was normal, that he was a great friend— your friend.

But he wasn't looking at you like you were a friend.

You got over the little shock you had, throwing him the best tired smile you could muster. "I'm not gonna be that far. I plan on staying in D.C. when I graduate, so you don't need to worry." You didn't say that you'd miss him, too. But he knew. He always knew.

Looking back, you wonder if he knew everything else you weren't saying.

"I know." There was a beat, but he didn't look away from you; you couldn't tell if you hated that or loved it. When his voice returned, it was just as soft. "It's just going to be different."

Another beat passed, the whirring of the AC being the only sound audible as you stared at each other. Then, tenatively, you grabbed his hand, engulfing it yours. You didn't know why you did it—you just did.

You squeezed it, not allowing yourself to break eye contact once. Because you hoped he could see the other words in your eyes that you didn't know how to say. You hoped he could feel them as your hands melded together. 

It's going to be okay, you said. You think he understood, because he squeezed right back.

It was gonna be okay. The sentence spanned through your mind, along with another. You don't know if he caught the other one; you weren't sure if you even did.

Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.

And other four-letter words you didn't have the power to say.

Life moved on as if that day in Aaron's living room never happened, and in your eyes, it was best that way. You weren't good with feelings; they'd never gotten you anywhere. Even if you were starting to feel something, despite all your best intentions and every time you told yourself otherwise. 

You told yourself you were wrong, that whatever you were feeling only felt weird because it was unfamiliar. Friends weren't something you had a lot of—you just didn't know how to handle it, that was all. And however Aaron was looking at you—however you thought he was looking at you—was nothing more than a trick of light.

His eyes just look different in the dark, you convinced yourself. That wasn't entirely wrong.

But it wasn't entirely right, either.

The club was dark, much darker than the bar you worked at, but the strobe lights compensated for it. The lights danced around the room much like the patrons, randomly and without care. You paid mind to neither as you maneuvered across the floor, heading straight for the bar.

Aaron was back at your booth. Your booth. You snorted to yourself at the thought.

Of course, they had a booth. 

It was his friend's birthday, and for some reason, Aaron wanted you there. You couldn't fathom why he'd even agree to attend if he wasn't comfortable with them, but there were many things about his behaviour that you didn't understand.

You understood his discomfort, though. After spending just thirty minutes with them, you were eager to find any opportunity to leave. They were dumb jocks, not entirely dumb—this was Georgetown, after all—but they were nothing like the crowd you thought Aaron would hang around. You wondered how they even became acquainted in the first place, but then again, you weren't exactly someone he'd typically be friends with either.

Where'd you find this broad, Aaron? they asked.How'd you get her? they asked. She looks out of your league, they said. Sweetheart, what are you doing with him? they asked.

We're just friends, he responded. Every single time. It was the appropriate response, the Aaron Hotchner response, but there was an edge to his voice as the words left his mouth, an edge much sharper than the roundness he normally spoke to you with. 

You didn't understand that, either.

As soon as the opportunity arose, you volunteered yourself to get the next round of drinks. You missed the look Aaron sent you as you left.

At the bar, you waved the bartender down. "Could I get six beers, please? For table 18?" The guy didn't acknowledge you with anything more than a nod, but that was enough for you.

"Nothing for yourself?" The voice, unexpectedly close, startled you.

You jolted, spinning to see Aaron's friend standing behind you. He was the birthday boy—though, you couldn't exactly remember his name. Mike, Mark— it was some name with an M that you didn't care to memorize, nor recall.

You gave him a smile, reminding yourself that even though this guy was uninteresting, he was Aaron's friend, and so the least you could do was not be rude. Plus, it was his birthday.

"I have work tomorrow," you reasoned, choosing to ignore the fact that you didn't have to go in until late in the afternoon.

"Ah," he said. You thought he'd leave it at that, but you'd soon learn that the birthday boy was persistent. "Does that mean you'd be busy tonight?"

You kept the smile on your face, even as it got tighter with his implication. "Yeah. I plan on turning in early." You were no stranger to intoxicated men that had trouble taking no for an answer; you saw it all the time, and you knew how to handle it by now. Smile, don't insult them, be polite, and wait for them to walk away.

Aaron's friend didn't walk away.

"Aw, come on, baby." The name sounded slimy coming out of his mouth. Ignore him, your mind chanted, don't cause a scene. "I can pay you." 

Just as you'd turned back to the bar, your head was whipping back around. "Excuse me?"

The guy must not have seen the incredulity splayed all over your face; that, or he just didn't care. He shrugged. "I know you could use the money. Aaron's told us all about how you're here on scholarship." He said the words carelessly, unknowing of the weight they held.

He— he did? He told them that— his stupid friends that he couldn't even bear to spend a single night with? You didn't even tell him that; you didn't talk about it. Did he just make that assumption and run with it, then go around telling people?

Your Aaron, the one who waited for your shifts to end and bought you pretty things. Did he... did he just do that because he felt bad for you?

A whirlwind of thoughts swirled around your head, but you fought to keep your face impassive. The smile on your face had long since disappeared. "I don't need your money," you spat. The drinks arrived, but you didn't notice.

He smirked, somehow finding your words amusing. "Oh, baby, don't be offended. I'd be the one truly gaining something here. I'm sure a night with you would be priceless."

The inner voice telling you to stay calm was silenced, and you couldn't tell if you were so angry because of the his words or because of your friend. "Go to hell," you sneered, drinks completely forgotten as you turned away, ready to catch a cab home by yourself.

You were just about to walk away when, suddenly, you felt a foreign sensation, followed by stinging, cementing you to your spot. It was only when you heard his boisterous laughter over the music that you realized what happened.

He slapped your ass.

He slapped your fucking ass.

You pivoted, but before you could even do anything, the boy was sent staggering into the bar. It didn't register to you until you saw the fist following through. Your eyes followed that fist to its owner, meeting a head of dark brown hair.

He wasn't looking at you. His eyes were trained on Mike with a look you didn't recognize, almost like he was baiting him to get back up. With the way he stayed slumped on the bar, you think he was out cold. But with the way the look in Aaron's eyes didn't disappear, you also think he didn't care.

He knocked a guy out for you— his friend.

The same friend he talked about you with.

At that thought, you felt your shock wear off. You spun back around, and in a matter of seconds, you were bulldozing through the crowd at the door. Your ride was still inside, but at that moment, you would've rather walked home than go anywhere near him.

You passed through the mob swiftly, barely registering the call of your name. Was it because of the music or the ringing in your ears? You couldn't tell. 

"Y/N!"

You got outside, rain immediately hitting your head. Was that why your face was wet?

"Y/N!"

Cars whizzed past the club in a flurry. You waved your hand in the air, trying to hail a cab. Why weren't they stopping?

"Y/N, stop." Your hand in the air was grabbed by someone behind you, and only then did you finally realize who was speaking.

You twisted your hand out of his grasp, refusing to turn his way. "Fuck off, Hotchner." The ice in your voice was colder than the raindrops hitting your skin, but even you could hear it crack.

He tried to grab your hand again, but you didn't let him, and so he tried a different approach, grabbing your arm and holding onto it like his life was on the line. Aaron was persistent. He knew how to work people—his debates you'd seen were evidence of that—but you weren't about to let him work you. 

He apologized, "Look, I'm sorry for—"

"For what?" you sharply cut him off, finally turning his way. The sight you were met with nearly broke through your rage. There was that look again, that look in his eyes that could convince you to stay with him forever if he asked you to. Genuine fear.

Fear, and other four-letter words.

You brought your guard back up, using his fear to your advantage and ripping your arm from his hand, turning away before he realized that there was a puddle in your eyes that matched the ones forming on the ground.

You waved your hand again, and on a stroke of luck, a cab finally stopped. Perhaps the universe didn't totally hate you. Before he could utter a single sound, you cursed, "Just fuck off, Aaron."

And maybe the universe actually took pity on you, because Aaron let you get into the cab without any further protest.

If the cab driver noticed the shake in your voice when you told him your address, he didn't say anything. He was silent the entire ride, and you were thankful that he didn't acknowledge you as you tried to stifle your tears.

You were also thankful that you didn't live in a dorm so that, when you got home, you could let the sobs wrack through your body at full force.

God, you told yourself you wouldn't befriend Aaron Hotchner. You told yourself you wouldn't let this happen—that you wouldn't let yourself get hurt. You weren't even supposed to give anyone the opportunity to hurt you, and yet there you were, crying over a boy who wasn't even yours.

He's not yours, Y/N, you berated yourself. He's not yours. The late night movies, the way he sat with you at the bar as you worked, the way he'd study with you and buy you presents. None of that meant anything.

He didn't owe you anything. He didn't owe it you to be the same person around you that he was around his friends. He didn't owe it to you to think of your feelings.

No, he felt sorry for you. Sorry. That was a five letter word.

And it was the only thing Aaron Hotchner felt for you.

Once you stopped crying, you got off the floor and miraculously made it to the bathroom. You weren't drunk, but your legs felt like jello. You weren't sure how much time you spent on the floor sobbing, but when you turned on the light and looked in the mirror, you realized it must've been a long time.

Mascara streaked down your puffy cheeks. Your eyes were so red that it almost looked like you'd been crying for hours. You wiped at your nose, sniffling, and opted to look away from woman in the mirror, turning the faucet on. You didn't want to look at her anymore; she was pitiful, and you weren't supposed to be pitiful.

You couldn't remember the last time you cried so much.

You splashed cold water onto your face, rubbing away at the tear stains. You didn't stop until the swelling looked like it was actually decreasing, but the red in your eyes didn't totally disappear. It made you scoff. You hadn't drank a single drink that night, yet you still looked intoxicated.

Is that what letting people in does? you wondered. Poisons you?

Another scoff left you. You hadn't planned on drinking much that night, but after the events that took place, you figured you might as well.

You opened the bathroom door and made your way to the kitchen. Aaron bought you this bottle of wine once, didn't tell you how much it cost but you knew it was expensive. You were gonna save it for a celebratory occasion, but this was fitting enough.

Just as you were entering the kitchen, you were knocked out of your daze, jerking backward. You threw a hand onto your chest. "Holy fucking shit—"

"Hey, calm down, it's just me—"

"What the fuck, Aaron?" You couldn't keep your voice down, looking at the man in front of you in your dark kitchen with his hands raised as if he was trying to placate you. "Are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack— what the fuck are you doing here?" you fired, barely giving him a chance to answer. "How did you even get in?"

Part of you was shocked that there was a man in your apartment in the first place. The other part was shocked because that man was him.

Aaron kept his left hand up, using his right to reach into his pocket and pull out his key ring. It dawned on you then before he even said it. "You gave me a key."

You couldn't help the sigh that escaped you, even if you tried. You didn't know if you were more mad at yourself for giving him such a thing or at him for using it. He never did before; you only gave it to him after he gave you yours. "And so you chose tonight to use it?"

If looks could kill, he'd be six feet under already. All the sadness you'd felt had disappeared, dissipating into this pure anger. Anger at what he said. Anger at how he ran after you like he cared when you knew he didn't. Anger that he was in your house. And anger that he looked so calm.

Aaron had this ability that not many people had, the ability to remain composed in even the worst of situations. It's what would make him a great lawyer one day. It's also what made it so surprising when he seemingly lost it earlier and punched his own friend, one that he surely knew longer than he knew you.

He was an amazing actor. But it made you wonder what the act really was. Was the composure the mask, or was it the pretence that he gave a damn about you? Was it both? Which one was fake and which one was real? Who was the real Aaron Hotchner?

You realized you didn't know.

Maybe you never did.

He let his hands fall to his sides, reasoning, "I figured you wouldn't have let me in if I knocked."

An incredulous laugh left you, in disbelief at what he was saying. "Of course not." The words didn't come out as strong as you would've liked them to.

"Why?" he questioned. If you didn't know any better, you would've thought he was pleading. His voice was soft, too soft, too unlike the Aaron you thought you knew and also unlike the Aaron you found out about tonight. 

For some reason, you felt a tug at your heartstrings.

He took a step closer, prompting you to take a step back. "What did I do, Y/N?" God, was he going to make you say it? Hadn't you been humiliated enough? "Is this about Matt? Because I swear to you, he won't ever bother you again—"

You cut him off with a loud groan, unable to take it any longer. "God, Aaron. No, this isn't about your sleazy fucking friend!" Against your better judgement, you took a step forward, getting close enough to jab your finger in his chest. "This is about you."

You were reminded then that Aaron's eyes looked different in the dark, but you could've sworn you saw hurt. 

"What— what did I do?" he stammered.

You repeated his words under your breath, scoffing, "What did you do?" You shook your head before you looked back up, a renewed fire in your eyes. "Am I your charity case, Hotchner?"

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "What?"

You didn't back down, repeating yourself and enunciating every word slowly. "Am I your charity case?"

Now, he almost looked offended. Angry. But not as angry as you. "What the hell would make you think that?"

Sarcasm laced your voice. "Maybe it was your friend propositioning me because I apparently 'could use the money?' Maybe it was you telling them that I am here on fucking scholarship?" You took another step closer to him, but you failed to see the realization cross his face. "What else did you tell them, huh, Aaron? That you hang out with me because you feel bad for me? That you pay for everything because it makes you feel better about yourself? That I'm so fucking easy all you have to do is wave a wad of cash in my face to get into my pants—"

"Stop it, Y/N! Just fucking stop." He threw his hands into the air, and that momentarily stunned you, but you kept going.

"Oh, you're swearing now. So that means I've touched a nerve—"

His jaw was clenched tightly. "You're being disgusting."

"Am I?" Your voice cracked, and it was almost like you could hear your heart doing the same. The tears were resurfacing. "So how do you think I felt?" You pointed to yourself. "How do you think I felt as I stood there and found out that my—" you cut yourself off.

Your what? What were you gonna say? Your best friend?

Lord knew that Aaron Hotchner was more than that to you, even if that's all he could be.

Your breathing was heavy. You trained your eyes back on the ground, not wanting him to see the tears in your eyes. 

The room was silent. You could hear only the sounds of your own breaths and the rain outside. You were waiting for him to leave so you could find some semblance of peace. You just wanted to be left alone, away from him and all the things he made you feel.

But another part of you was waiting for something else. That part of you was waiting for an explanation. An explanation as to why he would say that, why he would do something like that to you. You knew better than to expect that, so you didn't, but deep down it was what you wanted.

You know better, your brain whispered. You heard his feet shuffle, and you knew then that he was finally leaving. And that was what you wanted, wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

Just as you were waiting for his feet to keep moving, you looked up and you saw that he wasn't at the door; he was right in front of you.

Aaron stared down at you with an intent gaze, like he was peeling back all of your layers the same way he did with case files. Any previous anger was gone, replaced with emotions you couldn't pinpoint.

Move, your mind said. Tell him to leave.

You opened your mouth to utter the words, but for some reason, they didn't get further than the tip of your tongue.

Almost hesitantly, Aaron rested his hands onto your shoulders, and you let him. Naively. Stupidly. It was dumb of you, and you knew it.

Dumb, and other four-letter words.

"Y/N," he started, and then he paused, like he was trying to find the right words to use. The Aaron you knew always knew what to say, but this one looked shaken. It was unnerving, to see a man like him falter, to see a man that stood so tall suddenly get smaller.

After a few moments, he seemed to have decided what to say, but his words didn't sound rehearsed. "I want you to know that I would never speak about you out of turn. It's my last wish to embarass you, let alone place you into a situation you are not comfortable with." 

His voice was wholly earnest. He looked like he was telling the truth—he was looking at you like he was begging you believe him—but that wasn't enough.

"So why would—" you paused at the lump in your throat. "Why would you tell them about the scholarship?" You wanted to come off demanding, authoritative, but your question was just barely above a whisper.

Aaron's composure wavered. He opened his mouth and then he closed it. "I— I didn't know it was something you hid." You sighed, but he must've sensed that his answer wasn't good enough because he continued, "I didn't tell them because I wanted to belittle you, Y/N. I told them because I was proud."

What?

You took a step backward, and this time, he let you. With his hands now free, he brought one up to his head and ran it through his hair.

Confusion filled you and painted itself all over your face. Your mind worked hard to try and decipher what he meant, gears turning and coming up empty. You didn't understand.

He looked back up at you, and now you could make out new emotions in his eyes. Doubt, masked by a blanket of assurance. "I do talk about you," he revealed. "It's— it's nearly unconcious. Habit." His thumb and forefinger tapped together, a nervous tick of his you'd noticed early on. "The topic of the scholarship came up by accident. I was talking about how smart you were, how you're so smart you got here by merit." He swallowed as your brows furrowed. "That's where the conversation began, and that's where it ended. You're not my— fuck. You're not my charity case, Y/N."

Things started coming together, but none of it made any sense. You couldn't see the picture this puzzle made. It's impossible.

What was he saying— did he know what he was saying?

Maybe he didn't know, but you needed to.

You whispered, "Then what am I to you, Aaron?"

His eyes didn't leave yours. You could see the indecision within them, the struggle as he tried to find the right words to describe your relationship. 

You supposed he never did.

Because, within seconds, he advanced and his lips were colliding into yours. You were surpised by how quickly you reciprocated, letting him wrap his arms around your waist, letting him pour all the words he couldn't say into this kiss.

A kiss.

A kiss and other four-letter words.

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