#but the hotchgan parts were SO GOOD

[masterwords]

heyyy who wants a snippet of the brainrot that took hold this morning while i was in the shower, huh? a hotchgan argument, early to mid 2000s gay bar/drag culture, and did i mention hotchgan fighting?

fic coming soon to a blog near you!

“I saw Morgan at a gay bar last night,” Emily whispered, leaning so close to Reid’s ear that he could feel the brush of her hair as it cascaded over her shoulder and onto his. He shivered and pulled away just slightly, frowning.

“What?”

“Last night. Gay bar. Derek Morgan.” She was grinning wildly, that kind of cat and canary grin that he thought made her look like a movie star. Her smile was too wide, too perfect, and for a split second his attraction to her was through the roof. “Hello?”

“Sorry,” he muttered, shaking it off. She was just like that. She kind of made everyone stupid sometimes. “You were at a gay bar?”

She looked dumbfounded and a little shocked that that was where his mind went – not on the juicy gossip but on her own culpability. “One of my good friends is a drag queen and there was a show last night.”

“Ahhhh,” Reid hummed, nodding. “So maybe Morgan was there supporting a friend too?”

She didn’t like his tone. The accusation that one or both of them was lying. “Look you little turd, he was on the dance floor surrounded by men and doing neon green jell-o shots. He knew every word to ‘I Will Survive’...isn’t that about as gay as it gets?”

Reid shrugged, trying to keep his features as neutral as possible. Part of it was simply that he didn’t believe it, there had to be an explanation. “I know all of the words to that song too.”

[eldrai]

Strength In The Open (+ bonus)

Read the main fic here

5+1 gen fic with autistic!Hotch, focused around stimming and team interactions.

I also have a not-yet-proofread bonus that’s technically unrelated to the main fic but I couldn’t not write Hotchgan about it too. So this is set after chapter 6 and it will make more sense if you’ve read the fic, but it’s not necessary to read with the rest of the fic.

The terrible part is it makes sense.

Derek feels guilty, somehow, irrationally, for not noticing it; he spends enough time around Aaron he should’ve noticed how often he buries his hands in his pockets or folds his arms to keep them still – out of sight – and doubly so considering he’s a profiler.

He knows it’s the entire point. He knows it’s not his fault. He knows the whole point of it was to be secret and subtle.

That does not make it any better.

Aaron hadn’t said more on the subject before they’d gone inside, but when they sat back down around the table, Derek searched it up and scrolled through page after page of results – promoting it for children with autism, primarily, then explanations, then a handful of testimonies scattered throughout. There are studies on it. He’d ask Reid if he had a reason to bring up the topic naturally but for now his own skim reading will have to do.

It isn’t a good picture.

He’s only seen a handful of photos of Aaron as a kid, even fewer anecdotes about his childhood, and he can’t stop them coming to the forefront of his mind. Adults holding him down. Forcing his hands flat and still. Hitting him.

They don’t talk about it, not amongst a crowded precinct, not when the team grab dinner, not when they get back to the hotel. Aaron sits at the desk with a small mountain of paperwork and Derek spreads the photos across the bed to try and make sense of their unsub and spends more time glancing over at Aaron’s bouncing leg or his thumb flicking over his fingers than he does on the case.

They’re not distracting. Just little habits he’s seeing in a new light.

A comfortable silence fills the room and it lasts until they’re getting ready for bed and Derek’s flipping between useless apps on his phone while Aaron’s brushing his teeth.

He’s noticed it before, in an offhand kind of way, how Aaron always does it in exactly that order. Brush his teeth (pacing in slow, lazy circles as he does) and then returns to get the glass he left on his nightstand, to fill it with water twice: first to drink from, then to top it up again. Every hotel, every night at home, the same. Derek finds it endearing; he’ll hear the bathroom light clicking on, knows to wait for the second set of footsteps which tell Aaron’s coming to bed.

Repetitive isn’t a bad thing.

Sometimes – when he doesn’t notice Derek looking – Aaron’s fingers will tap against his leg in a faint rhythm. And tonight he’s brushing his teeth with his other hand flapping in the same casual manner.

Derek isn’t intending to stare, he really isn’t. There’s just something in the contentedness of it, getting to see more clearly than anything short of an outright declaration Aaron’s that comfortable around him. In seeing him so at ease when he spends so much of his time stifling the parts of him they taught him to. It isn’t fair they took that simple pleasure from him – that and so much more - and not at all that they replaced it with a shame so deep it’s taken the better part of four decades to even begin unlearning, but watching him reclaim it…

It leaves a melancholy warmth in his chest. Grief for the fact it’s necessary, and joy Aaron can.

He realises he might’ve been staring a little too long when Aaron stops.

“What?” Aaron asks through a mouthful of toothpaste. He slides his other hand into his pockets.

“Nothing,” Derek says, because he doesn’t want Aaron to worry, then: “Just you,” because Aaron will worry if he doesn’t specify.

Aaron gives him a second quizzical look. His gaze lingers.

“You were stimming,” Derek says. There’s still an air of awkwardness to the words, clinical and new, saying them out loud. Fuck, it’s not even his disorder and he feels weird saying it – he can’t imagine what kind of shame Aaron is trying to work through.

All the more reason to talk about it, then.

His response is little more than a hum. His face drops into a flat neutral and he turns away to spit foamy toothpaste into the sink. Derek sits up and pads into the bathroom as Aaron’s rinsing the last of it down the drain.

“I wasn’t watching deliberately,” Derek says. Aaron meets his eyes in the mirror for a second then his gaze falls away again. “I just… it’s shitty that you’ve got to be ashamed of it, and I know it’s for you, but it’s nice. ‘Cause I know it helps you or you’re feeling good and I get to see a reminder of that when you’re doing it.

Aaron rinses his toothbrush for far too long and Derek’s heart sinks a little when he says nothing.

“I like seeing you happy,” Derek says. “And look, I wish everything wasn’t the way it was and it’d be fine whenever, but I’m glad you can relax when it’s just us.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Aaron says wearily.

“I don’t have to,” Derek agrees, “but I wanted to. That, and I can’t enjoy looking at you from time to time?”

“Because toothpaste is that attractive,” he deadpans.

“Mostly you,” Derek says, and though it gets Aaron’s lips to twitch it’s not the smile he’d hoped for. His eyes are distant, distracted, clouded with the same thoughts keeping his hands still.

Aaron’s gaze flicks off to the side like it does when he’s thinking of something particularly emotional; he only looks back at Derek when he talks, then he’s flat and factual: “This isn’t what you signed up for.”

He’s not moving so Derek sidles up closer behind him instead and drapes an arm over his chest, pulls Aaron lightly against him. “Bullshit. It’s exactly what I did.”

Aaron shakes his head with a frustrated sigh and pulls away from Derek, his hands splayed out on the counter, head ducked down. “If I’d have known—”

“It doesn’t make a difference,” Derek says.

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you,” he says. The words feel cold once they’re out of his mouth, almost cruel, but from Aaron’s silence he knows it’s had the intended effect – breaking him out of his spiralling hypotheticals. Because they don’t know that (well, Derek does) and they can’t so there’s no use worrying.

He wonders if that’s where all the repressed energy ends up, anxious thoughts racing around inside Aaron’s head. It really wouldn’t surprise him.

“So we’ve got a word for it now, that’s great. But your brain’s always been the same,” Derek says. “I’d love you if we never knew and I’d love you if we always had.”

Aaron says nothing but he lets himself lean back, relaxing against Derek, which constitutes an answer in and of itself.

“When I say I love you,” Derek says, reaching for Aaron’s hand, “I mean all of you. You know that, right?”

His hand is ink-stained and cold as Derek raises it to his lips and presses a soft kiss over his knuckles. Tension bleeds from Aaron’s shoulders with a quiet exhale. His dark eyes are bright.

“I know,” Aaron says. He squeezes Derek’s hand. “You too.”

[84hotpockets]

I Can’t Get No Sleep

Just a little something that took up too much space in my brain. No warnings, gen. audiences, implied hotchgan, insomnia.

If sleep was for the weak, he probably should have changed careers years ago and become a strongman for some travelling sideshow. Two or three hours, four if he was lucky, that was all his mind and body were willing to give him. The nightmares were part of the problem, but nothing he couldn’t handle. The far bigger problem was his body. After years of abuse, getting shot, beaten, stabbed, garroted, blown up, thrown down stairs, and basically dying, every day presented a new - or sometimes very familiar - problem. Some nights he lay awake shivering despite the two duvets and heating blanket. Other nights he got so hot, he had to kick each and every blanket off the bed. Only to put them back 10 minutes later when his body decided that a 85 degree Floridian night was too cold to survive without at least three layers on top of him.

Sure, his doctor had prescribed some very good sleeping aides, but they were so effective that the one time he took them on a case, he woke up to three of his agents almost breaking down the door to his hotel room because he didn’t show up for breakfast, wasn’t already at the local precinct and didn’t answer his phone. All of them remembered what had happened the last time no one could reach him.

Another problem were those hotel and motel mattresses. Some of them so soft he felt as if he was drowning, others so firm that the carpeted floor felt more comfortable than the bed. At least in this regard, he wasn’t alone with his complaints. More often than not, Reid, Rossi or JJ blamed this specific part of their accommodations when they downed the 4th cup of coffee at breakfast.

At home, things were better. He kept the bedroom at a constant temperature, his mattress was almost perfect, the nightly noises were familiar, and yet often enough sleep eluded him. When all the tricks and remedies he knew didn’t help - taking a walk, a bath, warm milk, tea, counting sheep, and everything else imaginable - and he knew that he needed the sleep, there was one thing that always worked like a charm.

So, once again, he stood in front of the by now very familiar door, a sleeping Jack cradled against his shoulder, hoping for the two inhabitants to welcome him and his son in. When the door opened and the warm air and familiar smells engulfed him in a hug of familiarity, he immediately felt more relaxed.

“That kind of night, huh?”

He nodded.

“Ok, you know the drill.”

A tired smile was answer enough for Derek. He took Jack out of Aaron’s arms and carried the still sleeping boy into his makeshift bedroom. When he returned to the master bedroom, Hotch was already in the bed with Clooney acting simultaneously as protector, weighted blanket and heating pack. A combination that never ceased to work its magic powers. In the time it took Derek to turn off the light and get comfortable, Hotch was already asleep.

“Good job, Clooney.”

The dog’s wagging tail was the last thing that registered in his mind before he too drifted off.

[jaspxr]

Contagious smiles and late-night surprises

Summary: It's Hotch's birthday and Derek is feeling playful, which might get him fired or laid

Warnings: Food mention

Pairings: Hotchgan, if you squint

Notes: Another one for the @hotch-central's month-long birthday party

The knock on his office door startled him out of his 53rd attempt to rewrite this month's budget calculations and Hotch barely had the time to grab his glasses off of his nose and shove them into the first open drawer before Morgan poked his head in and asked if he had a moment.

He could never say no to Morgan, so he invited him in and waited for the barrage of questions that usually followed him being behind closed doors with the Director for the day. He never regretted letting Morgan take on some of his duties, but it was taking him a while to get used to this sharing process, even when he knew that another set of eyes might actually be helpful.

Instead of questions, he only got a grinning Derek with his hands behind his back, slowly rocking from his heels to his toes, watching him expectantly.

"You wanted to ask me something?" Hotch asked when the silence started to feel too stifling even for him. Derek smiling like that was unnerving. Did he miss some kind of a joke?

"Derek, it is way too late, and I still have to finish those reports before I can go home. If it's nothing urgent...?"

"Shit, man, you really are in a mood today...when's the last time you've been home? Seen Jack? Do you even remember?" Derek finally started talking and it seemed he had no intentions of stopping anytime soon.

"It was ..."

"It was before the last case... a week ago. Hotch, do you even know what day it is?" Derek continued not giving him the chance to come up with one of his signature excuses, but something was missing from his face - the usual exasperation and disappointment he saw when Derek was worried about him. There were no traces of worry. Derek was still smiling.

"Of course I do," Hotch scoffed, "it's Tuesday."

"It's Wednesday! It's past Midnight and everyone has gone home. We're literally the only two people in the office." When Hotch started to protest and moved to get up out of his chair, Morgan just continued: "Listen, I'll just say my peace and I'll leave you alone, okay? I did come in here to ask you something..."

Hotch tried to relax. He even put on his best 'I'm listening' face and braced himself for anything that might come out of Derek's mouth, but it wasn't...

"What's it like to be so old?"

"I'm sorry? "

"You know, since it's already technically your birthday, and not to be ageist or something, but I'm heading in the same direction and I would like to be prepared! You already tired of having to hide those glasses you got a month ago?" Derek was in full swing now.

"How? "

"You have these indentation marks," he tapped his nose, "here, and you go slightly cross-eyed when you take them off in a hurry..." Derek chuckled.

"Morgan." My birthday?

"Oh and your joints? I heard them pop from Rossi's office! Is that a regular thing now, or? I hope that doesn't happen to me, although I am in a better shape than you most days..."

"Derek!"

"Hmm?" Derek finally stopped talking and rocking back and forth like a child on a sugar rush, but that ridiculous grin on his face didn't move an inch. Not that Hotch minded that part. It looked good on Derek. Very good.

"This is highly inappropriate..." Hotch tried to keep his composure, but Derek's mood was contagious and he was having a hard time controlling his own mouth from twitching upwards.

He was about to ask Derek if he'd been drinking, except he knew he'd never drink in the office, despite the bottle of tequila in his upper left cabinet Hotch wasn't supposed to know about. He was about to continue the reprimand, except he was once again stumped by Derek's sudden change of topic.

"You hungry? I asked for cake, but the cafeteria run out." Derek finally put his hands in front of him and produced a box of doughnuts with a couple of unlit candles sticking from the glazed circles of sweet dough. He moved to Hotch's desk, set the box on it and then sat in the chair opposite Hotch.

Hotch was, once again, too stunned to speak, so Derek continued: "Happy birthday! Now give me that other stack of papers so we can get you home before dawn."

[notsopersonalcharlie]

Hotshot

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Army!OC - Kinda angsty at some points 

Warnings: Haley’s death, mentions of terrorism, sniper shots, military stuff, normal criminal minds stuff, LMK if there are more 

Tags: @hotchnerxo @arsonhotchner @whump-town @eldrai @hotchgan​

Note: feeding everyone’s sniper!hotch fantasies. I was recently watching the ep where there was a mass shooting and they profile the case and at the end Hotch shoots the unsub from the victim’s balcony and from that a new head canon grew. The mall thing is stolen from that one episode from season three . This is extremely long... I got into it... There will CERTAINLY be a part two which will be more about the past and maybe several several parts after that. Please let me know what you want to see out of future parts, I’m happy to make it happen. Also sue me I fucking love beard Hotch. Gif is not mine, enjoy it tho

Part 2: Irreplaceable

Aaron was staring. He was not usually one to be slack-jawed and shocked, so when Derek saw him staring he turned. Coming through the bullpen was a woman in uniform, Army from what he could tell, with a slicked-back ponytail and a stack of folders under one arm. She was walking right toward him.

“Are you just going to stare, soldier?”

“I- I never thought I would see you again, Willow. I’m just surprised.”

“Well, good thing we have paths to cross. Your office?” Aaron nodded, putting out an arm for her to go in ahead of him. He closed the door behind him, unable to stop staring.

“I really never did think I would see you again.”

“Me neither, Aaron. But this is more important than whatever happened between us. We have intel that there’s going to be an attack on a Northern Virginia mall and we need your help. Well, your team’s.” Aaron nodded and took a seat as the woman he thought he was going to marry two decades ago laid out several folders.

“We have a source that gave us information about a potential attack on a mall in Northern Virginia. This guy says that the threat is getting more real by the day and the goal is to hit as busy as possible.” Aaron frowned, looking at the first file she handed him. It took a moment to focus himself back to work mode when he could smell the perfume she used. It was the same as back when they were teenagers. 

“I’ll get my team on it today,” he said, taking the file and heading toward the office door. 

“Aaron...” He paused, waiting for her to finish the sentence. She didn’t. He opened the door and stepped onto the catwalk. 

“BAU, table.” The group scrambled from where they had their heads pressed together in a circle. Even Rossi was down there, listening from just outside their little ring of gossip. Willow was walking out of his office when he turned. 

“I have to get back to the base, this is my number and my boss’ number just in case I’m not at my desk.” 

“Let me give you my cell number,” Aaron replied, pulling a pen and business card out of his pocket. Willow’s lips quirked into a smile, but she schooled her expression. She had plenty more to do on the case. He handed the card over to her and she slipped it into one of her pockets without looking. His team of agents each walked past pretending not to look at her. 

“Thanks, Hotshot. I’ll let you know if we get any more information.” He wanted to roll his eyes over the name. He felt a little bit like he was back to 18 years old, buddying up with the only girl in their unit because he was still a wimpy little kid.  

“Will do, W- Sergeant Cutler.” Aaron couldn’t help but watch her walk away. The last time he had seen her walk away in that uniform was the day he told her he was leaving service to finally finish what he joined the Army to start. The last time he saw her walk away from him at all was when he had told her he was going to law school, that there was no way they could get married. He could almost see the back of her floor-length navy dress as it disappeared from view. 

“Aaron.” He blinked and turned to Rossi, who was standing about a foot away from him. Willow was gone.

“Sorry, yeah.”

“I’m guessing that’s her, the girl from the Army?” Hotch nodded.

“First time you’ve seen her since you left?” 

“She was invited to the wedding. I found out from a buddy that she was in Afghanistan.” 

“Aaron, as your friend, I’m going to tell you, she definitely wasn’t going to come to your wedding.” Aaron let out a little laugh and then took a deep breath, refocusing on the job at hand. 

Willow let out a sigh when the elevator doors closed, her eyes falling shut so she could focus on just breathing. She hadn’t expected seeing him to be so hard, and it had been even harder to walk away from him again. She reached into her pocket and looked at it. Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner. She flipped it over and scrawled in Aaron’s surprisingly neat writing was his cell number with Hotshot written next to it. She laughed, shaking her head as she stepped out of the elevator. 

-/-/-/-/-

“I got him,” Garcia called over the phone, “Address in your texts. Be safe my special agents.” They had been at it for two days, pretty much straight through Hotch had slept for a few minutes at most. Based on the information that they’d been given, an attack was imminent.

“Thank you, baby girl,” Morgan said. Hotch dialed Willow’s desk number and got an answer on the fourth ring.

“Sergeant Cutler.”

“It’s Hotch, we have a name and an address, so you-“

“Send it to me. We have a strike force waiting.” Hotch waved his arm at his team to sit back down while listing off the address and the name.

“I’ve got it. Thank you so much, Aaron.” She hung up and Hotch stuck his phone back in his pocket.

“We’re off the hook for the takedown. I don’t think I need to tell anyone, but this is not information that is to leave this room.” The team mumbled their agreements.

“Get out of here. Take tomorrow off,” Rossi commended. The team shuffled out, but when Aaron looked up Dave was still there. He began to gather up the paperwork to shred it.

“What can I do for you, Dave?”

“You should call her.”

“I didn’t get her number. She has mine.” Dave gave one of his famous little sighs, indicating his disapproval.

“Well, I’ll be inviting the team over for dinner so, if you have an interest and she calls, always have an extra seat.” He left the room and Aaron finished cleaning up, hoping his phone would ring. 

It still hadn’t rung by the time he stepped outside to walk to his car, the bright sun shocking him. He forgot it was midday, all sense of time had been drained out of him. He pulled his phone out to check the day. Saturday, Jack should be up by now. He dialed the home number for the apartment. 

“Hotchner residence,” Jess’ voice came. 

“Hey Jess, I’m headed home.” 

“Sounds good, see you soon. Here’s Jack.” Guilt was sitting like a weight in his chest now, guilt over leaving Willow, over not saving Haley. Abandoning the women he loved seemed to be a theme. 

“Hi, Daddy! Did you solve the case?” All of the sorrow that had begun flooding him washed away. Jack was the greatest thing that could have ever happened to him. Guilt be damned.

“Yeah, buddy. We solved it. I’ll be home soon. What do you want to do first?” 

“I don’t know! Can we watch cartoons?” Aaron smiled, climbing into the driver’s seat of his car, the call automatically connecting to the console. 

“Sure thing, bud. Sounds like a plan. I love you.” 

“I love you too, daddy.” He hung up and started on the drive home, a country radio station playing quietly over the sound of the wind rushing by through the open windows. He was almost home when an unfamiliar number appeared on the screen, ringing and interrupting the music. 

“Hotchner.” 

“Hey Hotshot. We got him. Your profile was spot-on. He was a coward, he surrendered right away. Couldn’t face anyone bigger than him.” 

“Glad we could help.” A long silence permeated and Aaron pulled into the parking lot, stopping in his spot and turning the car off. 

“Aaron, I was ho-” Her words overlapped with his, “Willow, would you want to-” They both laughed. 

“You go,” Willow said. 

“Would you want to come to dinner with my team? We can grab coffee or drinks before.” 

“Today?” 

“Yes.” He felt like a giddy teenager again, like the first time he had pulled her in for a kiss in the parking lot after their first week of boot camp. 

“You sure do work fast, Hotchner.” He was tempted to say out loud ‘you remembered’. That was what she had said the first time they had sex, after a drive-in movie in the back of his pickup. 

“I don’t know, seventeen years seems like a bit longer than most people would say is fast.” She laughed, the sound overtaking Aaron in memories of the moments during training that they had snuck away, the evenings when the heat in Kuwait gave way to the cold evenings and they would sit with their backs to the truck and watch the sunset, the calls he would make long-distance when he was at school. 

“Is that a yes?” 

“Yes, Aaron. You know I could never say no to you.” Jess and Jack appeared by the door, coming toward him and Jess’ car parked beside him. 

“Daddy!” 

“I have to go, Willow. I’ll text you the details?” 

“Sure thing.” He hung up and Willow looked down at her phone. Had the child’s voice in the background been a coincidence? He hadn’t been wearing a ring, but she had come across his wedding invitation when she got her stack of mail months after the date on it. She got up from where she was laying on the couch and began to shed the uniform. Something clinked in her pocket when she dropped the pants onto the bathroom floor and she sighed, reaching in and taking out her challenge coin, setting it on the counter next to her watch and jewelry. It was from their group in boot camp, the little sniper symbol smack in the middle. 

When she got out of the shower, there were two texts from Aaron, one with an address and another saying it was a casual affair and she didn’t have to dress up. Either way, she stared at herself in the jeans and shirt for a few minutes too long, wondering if he would like it, if he still liked her. He hadn’t commented on her work fast memory. She rationalized though, why else would he invite her out? 

Aaron stood outside the bar, fiddling with his phone. He had left Jack at JJ and Will’s for the night, given Will was going to be keeping an eye on Henry and Michael it wasn’t a stretch. He had gotten a few hours of sleep on the couch with Jack wrapped in his arms. They had built part of his Lego set in the afternoon and had McDonalds for lunch as a treat in addition to the fact that Aaron hadn't gone grocery shopping in days. 

“Hey there, you come here often?” He turned and he guessed he probably looked like a lovesick puppy. Willow was wearing light wash jeans and a navy shirt that had a neckline reminiscent of the dress she had worn to that gala. 

“No, but if I knew you were going to be here all the time I sure would be.” 

“Witty as always, hotshot,” she laughed. Aaron wrapped her in a hug, longer than was probably appropriate, but she didn’t let go either. 

“What have you been up to the last two decades?” she asked jokingly as they found seats towards the end of the bar. It was busy, but not loud. A group of what looked like college students were on the other end of the bar laughing. Aaron had taken a look around the room, not having to note anyone for looking suspicious. He noticed Willow doing the same. 

“After I finished law school, I was a criminal prosecutor for a few years before joining the Seattle field office as an investigator. After that I moved to the BAU and I’ve been here since then. You?” The bartender took their orders and quickly left them with their drinks. 

“Army to Intelligence. CID for a while and now Homeland Security. Never used your skills again?” Aaron smiled and took a sip of his drink, looking into the dark liquid. 

“I still use them, taking out unsubs. Only a few times, but enough to know I still have them. It... I try to be the one who does it if we have to. I’ve done plenty before, a few more for the really bad guys doesn’t hurt as much.” 

“It always hurts, Aaron. Sticks to you.” He nodded. He knew that, he just told the team that so they wouldn't try to take the burden from him. 

“Your team, they seem like they’re... close to you.” Aaron snorted, a little uncivilized, but something he used to do as a kid. 

“Yeah, we spend almost all of our time together. We’re practically family. I’m mom, according to the kids.” Willow smiled. She missed having family. Aaron had been her family for a long time, a little brother for a while and then much more. 

“You were always a worrier.” A long silence held as they drank, neither of them looking at each other. There was so much to talk about that it was hard to know where to start. 

“Do you have a kid?” It was the first thing she could think of to say. Aaron’s face lit up a little bit and he pulled out his phone. 

“Yeah, Jack. He’s seven. He loves soccer.” He added the last detail because he knew she did too. There were a few things about Jack and Haley that brought back memories of Willow throughout his life. That was one of them. He often wondered what she would have been like with their kids. He pulled up a recent picture of Jack playing soccer with Rossi in the yard. 

“He looks just like you did.” 

“Yeah, that’s what Haley always says-said.” 

“Haley? High school Haley?” Willow remembered the photo of Aaron and a pretty blond girl from high school. She felt a pang of jealousy, especially know he had gone back to her after the near decade they were together. Aaron scratched his head and downed the rest of his drink. 

“Yeah. She... she was killed a few years ago.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure that hasn’t been easy for you or Jack.” 

“No... it hasn’t. We get by though. What about you? Partner, kids?” Willow shook her head, leaning back in the barstool. She thought about lying.

“I- Truth be told, Aaron, I never found anyone else like you.” Aaron’s guilt returned, but before he could try to formulate a response, his phone rang. 

“Hotchner.” 

“Hey, Aaron. I need to know if I need to set another place.” He looked at her. She was watching him expectantly. He hadn’t met anyone like her either.

“Yeah Dave, another spot. We’ll be there in a half hour or so.” 

“Coming together are you?” 

“Bye Dave.” 

“Nosy friends?” 

“Very, like I said, family. I can drive.”

“You can pay too because I have-” She was in the process of getting the challenge coin out of her jeans when he put his own matching one down on the table, pulled from his jacket pocket. She blinked in surprise. 

“What? Old habits die hard. Plus Dave was a Marine and he’s tried to pull that on me.” He paid for their drinks anyway and led the way to his car. Willow was still watching him in surprise until they got to the car.

“Not a blue pickup anymore?” Willow asked, sliding into the passenger seat of the SUV. 

“Wasn’t so practical after I moved to the city. Not the country boy anymore.”

“Clearly, I was surprised that I couldn’t hear an accent anymore. Pity you got rid of the truck, loooots of good memories.” Aaron smiled and turned on the car. The radio kicked on and it was the same country station it was always on. 

“Good to know not everything about you has changed,” Willow said quietly, looking out the window as Aaron started towards the house. 

“Not everything,” Aaron agreed, reaching over the console to take her hand. He started to sing the lyrics to the song, the South Carolina twang entering his voice as he did. She smiled and shook her head, squeezing his hand. 

By the time they arrived at Rossi’s house, they were both singing and laughing. A few cars were already in the driveway and Aaron led the way up to the front door, not bothering to knock. 

“I’m here!” 

“Heyyy, Aaarrrooonnn!” Emily came down the hall, clearly stumbling. 

“Hi Emily, do you need some help there.” 

“Uh, no. Who- O M G you’re the army lady.” 

“Yeah, that’s me.” Aaron helped her back down the hall, Willow trailing while looking around the house, amazed. The house was enormous. 

“She’s been here a while,” Dave supplied when they arrived in the kitchen. Spencer and JJ were sitting at the counter talking. 

“We’re here!” Garcia’s voice called. Derek and Penelope arrived in the kitchen, rounding out the group. 

“Everyone, this is Willow Cutler, she was in my unit in the Army.” All of them stared.

“You were in the army?” Penelope exclaimed, “You never told us that.” Aaron helped himself to a bottle of white from a fridge and poured some for Willow too. 

“Oh please, he doesn’t scream Army to you? Crisp suit as a uniform, early riser. He’s always been regimented,” Willow laughed, “He was the worst. We would all agree to be late to something and he would be early, and all the rest of us would get in trouble.” Aaron rolled his eyes. The rest of the team was watching out of entertainment. Few people were able to poke fun at Aaron, and much less at this extent. 

“He was the best out of our entire group though.” 

“Best at?” Willow looked at Derek, who was watching her inquisitively. 

“Sniper. His call sign was Hotshot, close to Hotch, and he also almost never missed his target.” 

“Uh, no I always hit my target,” Aaron shot back, “You were the one who almost never missed.”

“Modest,” JJ laughed, “I guess it makes sense why he always takes those long shots without an issue.”  

“He was being modest. He’s in the top twenty marksmen in the Army and he left almost twenty years ago.” 

“Why did you leave, Hotch?” Spencer asked, his feet were tucked up criss cross on the stool, “If you were so good you could have stayed. Probably lived a different life.” Aaron caught Willow’s eye when Spencer said that, a very different life indeed. 

“I only joined the Army so I could leave the small town I was from and go to college and get law school paid for. I stayed... longer than expected, but I paid my dues, and I got to go to law school.” 

“Military takes a lot out of you,” Dave said, “That’s why Willow gets the first plate.” 

“What? We’re the ones who stayed up for two days!” Spencer exclaimed. The group devolved into yelling at each other. Aaron smiled and raised his eyebrows at Willow, unspoken conversations had become easy over their seven years together, especially on deployment. This looks said ‘What do you think?’ She flashed him a smile and took a seat at the counter next to Emily, who was now drinking water out of a wine glass. She fit seamlessly into to the group. Maybe she would fit seamlessly back into his life. 

[truegenius]

Because of You

moreid blurb for @spencers-renaissance <3

Summary: Spencer breaks up with his long time boyfriend. Derek comforts him.

Pairing: Moreid

Rating: G

tw: none

"Can I stay here tonight?" Spencer asked as Derek stood at 3:24 am, holding his front door open with a confused look on his face.

This in itself would not be out of the ordinary. Spencer often showed up at his house at odd hours of the night, sometimes to discuss potential breaks in a case, or to show Morgan a documentary he discovered that he thought Derek would like, and many times to raid the older agent's fridge as he steadfastly refused to buy food of his own. Derek never said anything; he never minded caring for the genius. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he secretly enjoyed being the one to make Spencer’s face light up and could feel an anger rise in him what it was caused by anyone else.

What drew Derek's attention was the state the young genius was in. Spencer was clad in only the dress shirt, khakis, and converse he had worn to work that day, and soaked down to the bone due to the thunderstorm raging outside. He had no bag or coat or umbrella and Derek was sure that his phone must have incurred some form of water damage. Spencer's hair was strewn about from the howling wind, but from what Derek could see through the strands of hair covering Spencer's face, his eyes were red and his cheeks were puffy.

"Reid," Derek said, desperately wanting to put his fist in the face of whoever caused it but deciding instead to pull the genius into a bone crushing hug, “What happened? Did you walk here?”

Derek didn't gave Spencer time to answer as he pulled away and nudged him into his apartment. He closed the door softly behind him as he watched Spencer carefully. The doctor was in the middle of his living room, creating a puddle on the hardwood floor where he stood, with his shoulders hunched and hair still falling in his face, looking like a lost puppy. This boy was going to be the death of him.

"Are you alright?" Derek said, walking over to him slowly and tucking the hair covering his face behind his ears.

“I will be,” Spencer whispered and gave Derek a small smile. After a moment of silence, he asked, "Uh, can I have a towel?"

"Oh! yeah," Derek said, taking a step back, "C'mon pretty boy, let's get you cleaned up."

Spencer followed Derek down the hallway, slipping into the bathroom as Derek continued down the hall to find some dry clothes for the both of them. Derek quickly changed out of his damp shirt and went to rummage through his closet to find clothes that might fit the smaller man. He ended up with a t-shirt about two sizes too small on him, a pair of sweatpants that he found in the bottom of his drawer, and a pair of fluffy pink socks, a birthday gift that his sister had gotten him as a joke.

"Hey Spence," Derek knocked on the closed door to his bathroom, "I've got some dry clothes for you out here if..."

He trailed off as Spencer opened the door wearing only his boxer briefs and signature mismatched socks. Derek had to actively avoid dragging his eyes up and down his lithe frame and slightly toned stomach as Spencer took the clothes from his hands and promptly shut the door in his face. Derek stood there for a minute, slightly stunned by Spencer's quick change in demeanor. He shook it off and wandered into the kitchen to make something that might calm Spencer down.

Spencer padded into the room just as Derek finished pouring hot chocolate into two mugs. Derek smiled slightly seeing the genius in his clothes which were still incredibly baggy on the kid. He slowly sat in one of the stools at the island as Derek slid a mug across the counter. The room was quiet as they drank in silence with Spencer occasionally looking over at the man leaning on the counter across from him, looking backdown into his mug every time Derek made eye contact.

Derek finished his coco first, rinsing his cup and leaving it in the sink before taking the seat next to Spencer on the other side of the island.

"Pretty boy, please," Derek said, "Talk to me."

“Aaron broke up with me." Spencer whispered after a long moment, his hands fiddling with the handle of his mug.

"You were dating someone? Wait—" Derek paused to process what was just said. "You... were dating... Hotch?" He asked, feeling the jealousy radiate through him as he tried his hardest not to put any judgement in his voice.

"What?" Spencer asked, furrowing his eyebrows, "No. Aaron Faller."

Derek stayed quiet, urging him to go on.

"I met him in college. We, uh, we started dating about three years ago... before I got into the bureau. After we graduated, he decided to follow me here. I thought-" he paused to collect his thoughts, "I thought we were gonna be together forever."

Spencer's voice cracked at the end and Derek could tell that the kid was near tears. The doctor refused to make eye contact, choosing instead to stare furiously into his hot chocolate. Derek could see as Spencer processed the emotions going through his head, going from sad to confused to angry before settling back on sad again and he had to fight the urge to pull the smaller man into another hug.

“I wanted him to love me as much as I loved him... I thought he didn’t,” Spencer whispered, “I told him that, too”

Spencer got up suddenly, startling Derek with his sudden movement as he went to put his mug in the sink.

“And you know what’s funny?” He said with a laugh as he turned the faucet on with so much force that Derek thought it might snap off, “He said that I was wrong. He said I had it backwards, that he loved me more than I did him, and do you know what the worst part is? I think he was right.”

“Spence,” Derek said, trying to get his attention as Spencer was still aggressively washing the mug. He turned off the water with just as much force and dropped the mug in the sink with a loud thud.

Derek knew that he had to choose his words carefully as Spencer looked like the next words he said might break him entirely, “Take a breath. Take your time.”

Spencer looked down as he fiddled with his hands and mumbled, “He said... he said it’s because of you”

He still refused to make eye contact and there was a long moment of silence before he continued, “He said that ever since I got in to the BAU, ever since I met you, all I would talk about is you and that every time we had a conversation, no matter where it started, it always ended up leading to you. Things on the street or stores that we would pass would always somehow remind me of you.‘Oh that restaurant? Derek mentioned that place has good Mexican food’ or ‘oh that park? Derek plays basketball there on the weekends’ and I hate myself for it. I hate myself for not noticing it and I hate that I was too wrapped up in you to realize that I was hurting someone that I truly care about and I hate that I don’t care that Aaron broke up with me because he is a genuinely good person who absolutely does not deserve any of the crap that I’ve unwittingly put him through. But what I hate most is that I don’t care enough to end things with him properly. God, I didn’t cry, I didn’t ask him to stay. When he confronted me, all I said was ‘I’m sorry’ and left. What kind of asshole would—”

Spencer halted his ranting when he heard the man across from him let out what sounded like a giggle. Their eyes finally met and Derek couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto his face. However it was quickly replaced with shock and it almost gave Derek whiplash with how instantly Spencer went from shy to seething.

“I fucking knew it. I knew you’d be like this,” Spencer hissed, moving around the island to point a skinny finger in Derek’s face, “You with your gigantic ego. You love this don’t you, ruining my life. Derek Morgan finally gets poor little Spencer Reid under his thumb. You just think—”

“Spence!” Derek was laughing again because no matter how hard he tried, the over dramatic doctor was about as terrifying as a baby kitten. He caught Spencer’s hands in his own as the genius feebly tried to hit him in the chest, “Spence, I’m smiling cause—”

“Cause you—” Spencer started as he tried to wrestle his hand out of the stronger man’s grip.

“Because I love you too, Spence” Derek interrupted.

“You—” Spencer stopped struggling, “You what?”

“I love you pretty boy. I have for a long time.” Derek smiled as he watched Spencer process his words.

“But I didn’t...” Spencer trailed off.

“You don’t have to. I know.” Derek smiled softly, “Call me selfish. Call me whatever you like but I’m glad that Aaron broke up with you cause now I can have you all to myself. And I’d really like to kiss you now if you’ll let me.”

Spencer didn’t bother to answer as he crashed his lips onto Derek’s.

taglist: @hotchsbabygirl @spencers-renaissance @wheelsup @makaylajadewrites @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @ssa-m-187 @hotchgans @honeyharreh @morceid @scandinavian-punk @reidology @lavenderbau @ssa-prentissinred @dr-omalley @athenna71 @temily

[hogwartstoalexandria]

Hot-Blooded

1125w | Explicit | Hotchgan: Aaron/Derek

Additional Tags:

Established Relationship, Married Couple, Rough Sex, Angry Sex, Anal Sex, Bottom Aaron Hotchner, Fluff

Part 4 of 50 Tropes till Winter (Criminal Minds), prompt list here.

Summary:

They've had the same argument a million times, long before they were even a couple, but rather than sit around huffing, sullen, dejected, Derek likes it when they settle it this way.

Read here on AO3, or under the read more.

"Sometimes I hate you." 

It's something Derek has heard Dave telling him a couple of times, and Aaron always grins, or laughs. He doesn't give it a second thought, it's just a part of their relationship, the humor and that closeness that he used to be jealous of. He's not jealous anymore, but he also never goes there, because he knows— as much as Aaron hides it, likes to pretend Derek wouldn't know right away if it happened— if he ever said that, Aaron would keep it close, would turn it over in his mind and believe it when the days are dark and hope is too hard, too exhausting. 

He never tells him he hates him, even in jest, even when they're so mad at each other Derek could punch walls and Aaron looks like he wants to bite his head off. Today's one of those days. It's a mix of the usual. He took too many risks on the case, Aaron hasn't been sleeping well and forgot to take his meds one too many times, Jack wanted them to be there for his soccer team's party and they missed it… a lot of frustration and concern, all bubbling up into red-hot anger. Sarah would say it's because they don't use their words enough, because as much as they understand each other without them, sometimes hearing them is what they should be giving each other. Sometimes you need a good screaming match. 

They don't scream, but the roughness of Aaron's grip on his hips says it all. Not a word is uttered, but Derek tears his husband's shirt off of him the minute they get home, and the buttons pop across the living room, and their harsh breaths are not exertion, not yet. They are rage. They are passion and exasperation. 

Derek lets Aaron claw his way to his naked skin, all the while pushing him towards their bedroom. No ceremony, no apologies, but a rush of sensation. He takes his fill of Aaron's hair sticking this way and that because he put his hands in it on the elevator. He admires the redness where he kept his wrists pinned by his head as they started rutting against each other next to the alarm. He doesn't wait for Aaron to get on the bed once they stand naked and panting, he grabs the back of his thighs and pushes him down. He lies on top of him and bites his lips in what barely qualifies as kissing. 

"I'm so mad at you," he groans, but their hips move, thrusting their arousals together, their legs twisting together and Aaron's arms squeezing his chest almost too tight. 

"Shut up," Aaron throws right back, his teeth catching on the swell of Derek's shoulder, and shit, he is mad, but he loves this. 

Derek's quick search in the drawer makes a mess of the books and papers on Aaron's nightstand but for now, even he doesn't care. He uncaps the lube without looking away from Aaron's dark eyes and flushed cheeks. He pushes two of his fingers inside him and watches as Aaron's mouth opens around a silent cry. Derek's eyes scan the man's chest, the scars both decade-old and more recent, a criss-cross of raised pinkish lines that add to his anger yet let it morph into something more careful. He crooks his fingers inside Aaron and watches as his husband's back arches and his fist hits the mattress. 

"Derek…" 

"You ready to say sorry?" Derek taunts, and he's ready for it—

"Are you?" Aaron's eyes narrow through the pleasure of Derek's touch, and Derek has to give it to the man — being able to glare halfway convincingly while he's touching him is something else. 

Derek laughs. He isn't ready to apologize outright, but his touch grows more gentle with each minute that passes, and by the time he slicks himself up and pushes into the other man, he goes slow and steady. His clean hand cups Aaron's jaw and he kisses him, forceful still, emotion pressing him to deepen the kiss right away, chasing Aaron's warmth and the taste of the words he just won't say. 

They both moan when Derek's pelvis presses, flat against Aaron's ass, and he stays there a minute, just feeling, just breathing in Aaron's neck. 

"Move," Aaron whispers, urgency in his voice and in the way his hands grab Derek's hips, "Please." 

He's too awkward, too shy to come out and ask Derek for what he really wants, but as with everything else, Derek knows what the broken notes of those simple words mean. He draws out and slides right back in, hard, unforgiving, and goes again, fast, rough, cathartic. 

The bed moves with them, and Derek feels the lines of Aaron's nails on his back long after he's drawn them there. He knows this doesn't solve shit. There will be more risky behavior, more pills forgotten and bruises hidden, more attempts at not "imposing" and he will hate them all, and Aaron will hate his running into danger and won't look too kindly on him losing his temper when he should know better. There will be more of all of that, and fucking Aaron into the mattress doesn't change any of it, but it does mean that when they come, and smile at each other, exhausted and gleeful, the anger is gone and the glare forgotten. 

It means that when Derek pulls out, they both wince and smile in the same breath; that when he gets up and comes back with a towel to wash him up, Aaron stops him with his fingers circling his wrist and they stare at each other for a minute. 

"Hot-headed idiot," he whispers, his eyes fond. 

Derek snorts, noting that his jaw doesn't set like it did an hour ago, his heart only speeding up with affection rather than annoyance. 

"Stuck-up fool," he whispers back, making quick work of cleaning the mess on Aaron's stomach before he leans back to kiss him. "Take your damn meds or I'm telling Jess." 

Aaron's eyes widen for half-a-second before he strikes back— "Don't make me call Fran." 

They laugh softly, and just like that, the tension is gone, evaporated. They're getting too old to hold onto something as tiring as staying apart. Derek needs him too much, needs those eyes bright and open, intent and peaceful. He can't stop kissing him, and the only good thing about Jack being at Haley's is, he doesn't have to. They'll just relent when they need to get up and eat something, have dinner and then start all over again, slower. 

"Don't move," Aaron says, reading Derek's mind again, his arms a loose circle around his neck. 

"I'm not going anywhere." 

[hotchgan]

Chasing Cars pt 5

Summery: Aaron finally regain his ability to move his arm.

A/N: This the finale and it's fast foward three months later. (Slight Hotchgan vibes is you ship them but mostly just their friendship)

Tagging: @ellyhotchner @unionjackpillow @eleanorbloom

Warnings: Spoiler of Avengers: Age of Ultron, Physical therapy

Here is part 1, part 2, part 3, and part 4!

Aaron squeezes the stress ball with his right hand. He has been going to physical therapy for three month now and he can finally use his right arm properly. There is still a faint pain whenever he squeezes the stress ball but the doctor says that it will slowly fade away.

Going to therapy wasn't easy at first. Aaron kept trying to push himself. He soon realized that he couldn't rush it and that he needs to go slow at first. Dr. Marcy Cooper was his therapist and helped him through these three months. She was a close friend to Aaron now and has met Jack.

Jack loves jumping on the soft chairs Marcy has in her office. She's even teaching him how to juggle. Aaron tried to juggle once but failed horribly. Aaron is grateful for her, especially the fact he was rude to her when he first met her.

Marcy says that patients fall into a depressive state when relearning how to use a body part. It still didn't excuse Aaron's rudeness at her. He didn't trust her at first and constantly questioned her and her ability as a doctor. He soon realized that all she wanted to do is help her and apologized for his behavoir. Marcy immediately forgived him and continued helping him.

And Derek, on the other hand, was a huge help. Jess couldn't babysit Jack all the time since she also had to take care of her father so Derek offered to babysit Jack. Jack and Derek soon grew a close bond. Especially because they both love action and sci-fi movies. Aaron never understood what was so interesting about them but enjoyed that they were having fun.

"Dad!" Jack yelled as Aaron came back from his physical therapy session.

"Hey Jack", Aaron says giving Jack a hug. Jack made sure not to put too much pressure on Aaron's right arm which was covered in a cast.

"Hey", Derek says walking out if the living room. Aaron stood up and smiled Derek.

"Hey", Aaron replies. They both stare at eachother for a second.

"So what movie are you watching now?" Aaron asks, walking into the living room.

"Oh uh Age of Ultron", Derek replies. Aaron looks at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

"So Iron Man makes a robot who becomes evil or something like that", Derek says. Aaron hums and sits on the couch. Derek sits next to him.

"Hey Jack, can you go in your room?" Aaron asks to his son. Jack nods and runs to his room.

"What's up?" Derek asks once they're alone.

"You don't have to take care of Jack, you know?" Aaron says. Derek sighs.

"I know but you have a lot on your plate right now", Derek says, gesturing to his cast.

"Are you saying I can't take care of myself nor Jack?" Aaron challenges Derek.

"No I'm saying that I like spending time with Jack", Derek replies.

"You want to spend time with an eight year old on your days off", Aaron questions Derek.

"Me and Jack both love robots and superheroes. And Jack can talk about a movie where a robot is designed to kill humans but then he turns good once meeting a teenage kid and I don't have to pretend to understand what's he saying", Derek explains.

"Wait what movie is that?" Aaron asks, actually curious.

"I don't know, I made it up", Derek replies.

"Damn it, that actually sounds like a good movie", Aaron says as he playfully hits Derek's shoulder. Derek laughs and Aaron smiles at him.

"Well I don't know about you but I'm starving, I'm ordering pizza. Want anything other than that?" Derek asks.

"No I'm fine with pizza", Aaron replies. Derek nods and starts making a phone call. Soon Jack come out of his room.

"Dad!" Jack says as he sits on the couch next to his father.

"Yes, buddy?" Aaron asks.

"I'm hungry", Jack says.

"Uncle Derek is ordering pizza for us", Aaron replies to Jack. Jack's eyes light up.

"Yay! I like uncle Derek!" Jack says. Aaron smiles to Jack.

"Me too, now do you want to finish the movie?" Aaron asks. Jack nods and Aaron plays the movie. Jack lays on Aaron's lap as they watch the movie. Aaron uses his healthy arm to stroke Jack's long blonde hair. Soon Derek comes and sits next to Jack and also watches the movie.

There is a lot of things Aaron regrets in life. But having a son and a family is the one thing he will always be grateful for.

[masterwords]

Hello, do you mind if I ask for a lot at once for the OTPs one? They're just too good to resist 💙

(20) Choose one song that perfectly describes their relationship.

(22) What reminds each of their partner?

(42) What's their favorite type of weather to enjoy together? (getting snowed in together, watching thunderstorms, etc.)

(51) What’s a non verbal way they say I love you?

(48) Who's the better driver? - I feel like having to preface this by saying I mean it ordinarily and not when they're after unsubs probably means it's not Hotch, but...

Also #59 made me lol given the many many conversations had about that particular question and Hotchgan already

Do I mind the chance to go fully feral about them? No, sir, I do not mind at all. <3

20. Choose one song that perfectly describes their relationship.

Oh...oh no. There are so many! ONE SONG?! Okay I'm gonna do two, because there is one that screams them on-screen, and one that screams them in my head. And so you get two.

On screen, I always think about "Trust" by The Cure.

There's no-one left in the world That I can hold onto There is really no-one left at all There is only you And if you leave me now You leave all that we were Undone There is really no-one left You are the only one And still the hardest part for you To put your trust in me I love you more than I can say Why won't you just believe?

And then the Them in my head, their theme song is "Restless Heart" by Peter Cetera. For all the reasons.

22. What reminds each of their partner?

Well, first of all they are both sentimental fools. That's a fact. Sunrises and coffee breath, the sensations of an early morning run. Gunpowder and shredded paper at the firing range. Popcorn and icy condensation pooling on a sticky bar table. The smell of hotel shampoo and dusty air conditioning and the echo of walking down a new yet always the same carpeted hallway every day/week/month. I think they travel so often together that anything has potential to be a reminder - when you do so much life with a person, they are woven into every aspect of it.

42. What's their favorite type of weather to enjoy together? (getting snowed in together, watching thunderstorms, etc.)

I'm going to speak to their older years, when the adrenaline junkies settle down a little and learn how to enjoy moments. LOL While I do think they can find a way to enjoy almost anything together, I think a heat wave has to be it for them. Grilling in the backyard, gardening, drinking iced tea by the gallon. Derek can walk around naked if he's so inclined (and there isn't anyone around to see), Hotch can nap in the hammock, and life is good. But a good snowstorm in Chicago, the kind where you have to dig yourself out of your doorway just to go get your mail, the kind where you drag your kid's sled behind you down to the corner store to haul your groceries home because no one can drive...is a nice way of forcing them to settle down a bit. To just sit quietly in their snow-insulated home, curled up beneath blankets and watching movies or reading books, cooking and sleeping.

51. What’s a non verbal way they say I love you?

Oh you know I'm a sucker for this one. So much of what they do is nonverbal. The things these two can say to one another with just a look. Derek learns how to make coffee the way Hotch likes it, he learns the exact measurements because he might not care that much (coffee is coffee), Hotch does. He would never turn his nose up at caffeine, even terrible police station slop, but there are just certain things that he enjoys and it's a pretty small sacrifice to pull out the measuring spoons in order to see that look of bliss when it's exactly right. And Hotch, touch-starved king, loves to rub Derek's shoulders. And back and feet and whatever else he's tweaked by running full speed into danger.

48. Who's the better driver?

Uh...sorry Hotch. Just because you do most of the driving thanks to your need to control (or your intense car sickness) doesn't mean you're the better driver, it just means you're the boss. LOL I do imagine Derek is actually a pretty good driver. He learned to drive in the congested streets of Chicago, he worked as a cop which meant a lot of driving time, he rides a motorcycle, I bet he's got some very good driving music intuition...I just think he's probably got a very good sense of direction (hello vibing it) and he's comfortable behind the wheel. When boiled down, I just don't think Hotch likes to drive as much as Derek does, like the simple act of driving doesn't bring him pleasure like it does Derek, he simply needs to. And therein lies the difference to me.

AHAHAHAA. Oh...59. That's a hard no from me, dawg.

want me to talk about hotchgan? i will...at length...and hey, if you don't vibe with those questions, ask some of your own. i'll talk about them all day.

[masterwords]

adding it all up

Summary: Hotch follows Reid and Jack into a haunted house. Inside he meets a ghost and stumbles right into some unexpected arms.

Pairing: Hotch/Will

Words: 3.2k

Warnings: nightmares, ptsd, minor injuries, panic attack

Notes: I formally submit to you my entry for @imagining-in-the-margins Meet Cute/Ugly Challenge with the prompt: Character accidentally gets hurt in a spooky attraction and a scare actor breaks character to help. To the surprise of no one at this point, I took some creative liberties with the prompt. There isn't much to the plot, it's pretty simple and we mostly just have an excuse for kissing. As with everything I've written so far about this pairing, we live in a universe where Will is a DC Metro Detective but he is not nor has he ever been with JJ because we don't have time for that kind of backstory in these little one-shots. Thanks for reading yo! Let's show this incredibly rare pairing some love. (And now I return to writing about hotchgan...I can only stray for so long.)

**

“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease dad!”

“I’d rather not,” Hotch said, as if it was going to change the mind of his six year old son. And maybe he didn’t really want to because his argument was pretty flimsy. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go in, or that he didn’t like Halloween. “I don’t like to be scared.” That was a lie and Reid saw the opening, poking a huge hole in it immediately.

“You get scared for a living,” Reid pointed out from behind him and Hotch groaned. He’d been hoping Reid would take his side. “Come on Jack. If your dad is too chicken I’ll take you in. I’m kind of an expert.”

“You are?!”

Reid crouched beside Jack as best he could, favoring his still sore (always sore) knee and leaned as close as he could to the child. His whisper smelled like kettle corn and candied apples and cotton candy, that’s what Jack thought anyway. Reid smelled like a carnival. “I’ve already been through it three times. I bet you could find some people in there you know. Like playing a really big game of Where’s Waldo…”

“Who’s in there?!”

“You’ll have to come in with me and see.”

“Can I dad?!”

Hotch sighed and nodded reluctantly. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“You don’t have to if you’re too scared! You can stay out here! I’ll be tough.”

“I know you will buddy.”

Hotch looked at Reid and then at the doorway. He wasn’t scared, it wasn’t that. He simply didn’t care for jump scares or people being that close to him, close quarters, being vulnerable. Not in control. In the dark. Worse than that, he didn’t want any of that to be witnessed by a man he’d just begun seeing just a couple of weeks prior. Because that would be embarrassing. Big strong FBI Agent can’t handle a clown yelling boo in his face.

He always knew this was a possibility. Jack had never wanted to go into the house of mirrors or the haunted house before, he preferred to stick to roller coasters and prize games when they came to the carnival. He thought he’d be safe, especially this year. They were coming up on one year since Haley died and he thought for sure Jack wouldn’t want a thing to do with fake blood and jump scares but here he was practically dragging Reid through the entrance. Dutifully he followed them in, staying a few steps behind. “See you at the end dad!” At the entrance he was asked to wait. Reid and Jack got shoved in with another group and he was about to be sorted with the next when he asked if he could go through on his own.

“I don’t have a guide for a solo trip,” the young man at the door said. “You good at following directions? There are little green glow in the dark arrows along the ceiling that point you the direction you’re supposed to go. Keep an eye on them and you’ll find your way. Don’t go too fast or too slow. There are little red lights on the walls where there are emergency exits if you get hurt or lost or too scared to finish.” The young man flushed a little as he said the last part, Hotch didn’t look much like the type to get scared of anything but he still had to say it. There was a script and he followed it. He liked his job.

“Got it. Follow the green. Red means emergency exit. Thank you.”

Great. Alone. Jack didn’t even care to walk with him, too enthralled with whatever whispers and promises of adventure Reid was feeding him. He didn’t even turn around to see where Hotch ended up. He moved at a relatively quick clip, barely looking in the direction of the sets or the mini scares. Up ahead he was sure Reid was peeking at all the details, getting the most out of everything and helping Jack do the same. He was barely paying attention to any of it. Occasionally he found himself jumping when a clown popped out with a hatchet. That was natural, his heart thumped a little harder, but he smiled and thanked the volunteer in costume before stepping around the corner into a room that was filled with spider webs and hissing sounds. He’d never been afraid of spiders, in fact as a child he’d found himself collecting them in little mason jars and feeding them for a week or two before releasing them back out into the woods. He batted at a piece of cotton webbing that tickled his ear and frowned, not caring much for that feeling. It was worse than the room full of animated spiders.

The haunted house wasn’t huge but it felt like it lasted forever, twisting and angling and collapsing in on itself until he really did feel dizzy. His senses had been warped by the strange dark shafts and violent twists and hanging bloody sheets behind which shadows lurked.

Was he lost or could it really be this long? He glanced up as if to assure himself that he was going the right direction, and squinting into the dark he was able to make out one small green arrow.

There was only one way to go, really. He could hear Jack’s chirpy little voice up ahead and Reid’s surprise, maybe real or maybe an act, and there were voices not too far behind him but he was otherwise completely alone in the maze. The ceiling ahead dropped until he was hunched over in a sort of soft, undulating tunnel. It was pitch black, with only a foggy red light to guide him from what looked like miles away. Hunching like this hurt his back. Up ahead was a pinprick widening to an opening he had to step through into what looked like a torture chamber with bodies hanging from the walls. He’d seen this in real life, this wasn’t entertainment. This was work. Well researched, too. He recognized bits that had been pulled from crime scene photos, small elements not many would recognize but they made his breath catch in his throat more than once. People’s fascination with serial killers would never cease to worry him.

“I’ll gut you like a fish!” growled a man in a grisly voice from the shadows beside him. Hoarse from saying his line so many times, Hotch knew, but something about it still made him flinch away. There was a strangely familiar quality to it, something ghostly and pale, dry leaves rustling in the chilly October wind. “You should have taken the deal…” the voice whispered in his ear and he froze. His legs wouldn’t move. A flash of muzzle and the smell of gun smoke, steel bright in the dark and then pitch black.

“What?” he asked, ashamed of the fear that welled up in his chest. There was a vague pain where his heart should be noisily thumping but was making not a sound. “What did you say?” (He knew, somewhere deep inside, that the man hadn’t said that. There was some still quiet voice of reason in there, it was just disappearing second by second as fear seeped in.)

No reply. He had to be hearing things. There was no way. (Someone could have read the book. He told Colson what Foyet had said to him. He'd been on pain medication, heavy stuff, when he talked to Roy...he should have said less. He knew it but Roy had been so good to him, he found it hard to hold back.) He squinted into the dark where he stood motionless, breathless and saw a black mask coming toward him, outlined by a sickly white fog. Hovering there, not attached to a body for the longest time, and then around him materialized a hooded sweatshirt. Foyet’s mask. He knew it wasn’t Foyet, he’d seen the autopsy report, Foyet was dead. But the mask still startled him, and when it came closer (the person now muttering their actual lines and not something his frightened mind invented on his behalf) he found that his legs did work. They just didn’t obey his commands. He stepped backward, his heel catching on the curtain separating the two rooms and he managed to pull part of it down on top of himself. The feel of the fabric against his neck sent him into a tailspin and he lunged forward past the man in the Reaper mask (now reaching for him and asking if he was alright) until he stumbled into the next corridor where he narrowly missed stepping on a body on the floor. One of his victims, presumably. Hotch glanced down at her, stabbed repeatedly (do you have any idea how long it takes to stab someone 67 times?, he thought) and felt his blood run cold.

Was this some kind of a sick joke? Did someone know he was coming today? (Someone aside from Will? Will would never…he’d been there that day, that was how they met.) As he stepped around the woman on the ground with her guts strewn all around her, he slipped in the gore and took a header down the small flight of black and white checkered stairs. The sound his body made as it hit the wall was horrifying – he wouldn’t doubt if the people outside waiting in line had heard. He groaned and tried to push up to standing but he knew right away that he was hurt. Or just about ready to pass out. His head swam and he collapsed in a heap. “Dammit,” he mumbled. His chest was tight and there was a pain, a burning and squeezing that ran through his left arm. He couldn’t catch his breath.

“You okay mister?”

He recognized that voice, that molasses drawl he’d been hoping to hear in any way but this. Never this. Slowly he looked up, taking the hand of a werewolf who helped him stand. He was dizzy after hitting his head and his ears were ringing. Most of the time his tinnitus was manageable, background noise, but when he was around loud noises or when he hit his head it made sure he remembered it was with him forever. Now it was screaming so loud he felt like his head might burst.

“Will?”

“Hotch?”

“Yeah,” Hotch replied, slipping back against the wall when the group of people who had been a few turns behind him made their way curiously down the stairs. They looked perplexed, probably wondering at all the commotion a few turns ahead of them. Waiting to see a body on the ground. Will quickly maneuvered them until they were part of the exhibit, pretending to eat Hotch and to his credit, Hotch moaned because...well he really felt like it, his head hurt that bad. Once that group passed, Will lifted his mask and eyed Hotch in the dark. There was only a dim foggy glow from the previous room but even in then he could see that something was wrong.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.” Hotch swayed where he stood and watched as an ominous gray cloud crept in at the edge of his vision. He felt foggy and wrong, his heart had slowed to a syrupy thump in his chest. He thought he might pass out. There had been such an immediate feeling of panic and now his heart felt like it might give out entirely. “Maybe.”

“What happened?”

Before he could answer, another group came around the corner and they slipped back into their role of werewolf devouring a poor innocent man. It wasn’t exactly what Will’s job was supposed to be, he was supposed to jump out from around the next corner howling and chase the passersby to the next room but it beat not doing it all or having undue attention paid to him.

Hotch swallowed hard. Was he really about to admit he’d been frightened in a haunted house? Really truly scared? And now he probably had a concussion to take home as a souvenir once this panic attack left him alone? “I don’t know,” Hotch said quietly, incapable of finding the right words. He couldn’t admit what he saw. Was it real? Had his mind played tricks on him? “The last room got to me.”

“The torture chamber?” Will asked, his hands gripping Hotch’s waist to steady him. “You seen stuff like that a hundred times…I guess the mad scientist was kinda creepy, I just thought he looked like Doc from Back to the Future.”

“Mad Scientist?” Hotch asked, gripping Will’s forearms. “I didn’t see a Mad Scientist.”

“Huh. I coulda sworn today was Mark’s day. He loves that damn wig. Who was in there?”

Hotch swallowed hard. His throat was dry and clicked painfully, and for a split second he questioned not only his hearing but his eyes...had he just made it all up? Before he could answer another group came around the corner and Will pulled his mask back down and once again set to devouring Hotch’s jugular. Hotch was happy just to stand there pretending to be eaten, it beat the hell out of exploring the caverns of his mind. Of wondering what happened. Did he invent it all? It was possible. He’d been having nightmares again as the anniversary crept closer but he thought he had a pretty good handle on them.

“You want me to get you outta here?” Will asked when they had a brief break. “You’re still shakin’ and you're breathing all funny. My shift is over in fifteen minutes, I can meet you out front when I’m done. We can talk then.”

“Jack is with Reid,” Hotch whispered. “Can I stay?” He didn’t think he could walk. One step and he had the distinct impression he’d be face planting. Maybe if he stayed until this silent panic attack passed – this panic attack he was so far not admitting to – it would be okay.

“Yeah. Sure. But I gotta do my job so you think you can help me out?”

“I’ll try.”

Will smiled from beneath the mask and let it fall back over his face, taking Hotch’s hand and leading carefully, slowly down into the hallway. He kept his arm around Hotch’s waist, walking with purpose. “Right here, lay down.”

“Lay down?” He liked the sound of that. His head was swimming and his legs felt like they’d been poured with concrete.

“Down.”

Hotch eased himself down until he was on the oddly soft fake grass, and Will nudged him until his body was flush with the wall painted with a glowing full moon and pitch black trees. It looked like something painted by children. “When people come, I’m gonna pretend to be eating you. Then I get up and chase ‘em down the hallway and come back. You just lay here. Close your eyes. Play dead.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hotch had no complaints about closing his eyes, it instantly made the pounding in his head quiet to a dull throb. Will shifted above him, and he heard the distinct sound of a howl. It was low, gutteral, almost sexy. Hotch shifted where he lay when he felt a heat growing in his belly. This was not the time, but it did settle the racing of his heart, and the ache in his chest. There were footsteps beside him and Will was panting, chasing a family who giggled and squealed at him, and then he was dropping to his knees over Hotch.

He expected the fur from the mask against his neck again, but instead in the blind darkness he felt the soft flush of Will’s lips against his own. The mask bobbed against his nose, obscuring both of their faces as Will drew him into a kiss. He was breathless from running, Hotch’s chest was constricting like his heart was going to give out, and suddenly the world around him erupted in kaleidoscope colors behind the black of his eyelids. He sucked in a deep breath, a wanting breath as Will stood and chased a couple past them. And then a group of teenagers, one of whom kicked the bottom of Hotch’s shoe before Will returned.

Another kiss. And another. Hotch had rolled over enough that he could press his thighs together to stop his body from responding in ways that would be wholly inappropriate in a haunted house. Every kiss brought him back to the surface for air, and slowly the panic in him drained to quiet nothing. He forgot, briefly, about Foyet’s mask. He’d been caught up in the moment, that was all. Just his mind taking the haunted house a little too seriously. The nightmares seeping into reality. The handle he thought he had on them was weaker than he thought.

Fifteen minutes later they emerged into the glaring daylight. Hotch had almost forgotten it was just barely afternoon, the sun was still overhead bathing everything in its warm glow. Will held his mask beneath his arm, the sweat on his brow making the strange mix of facepaint he’d had on beneath clump and smear. His eyes were blackened, his lips gray and lifeless. Reid smiled and nudged Hotch, handing him a paisley print silk handkerchief from his pocket.

“You uh...you’ve got something right….there…” he said, indicating his lips. Hotch glanced at Will’s smudged gray mouth and frowned, realizing what he must look like too. “Did you need CPR?”

“Something like that.”

“See ya LaMontagne!” an officer yelled as he exited the haunted house, his black hoodie tied around his waist and a mask dangling from his arm. Will glanced at the mask, and then at Hotch, and then back at the mask. He doubted it was intentional, at least not aimed at Hotch. How could it be? Probably just a practical joke, trying to get the best out of a local legend. Still, he was angry and embarrassed. This was one of his guys. Not a great look.

He didn’t even need to say it and Hotch wouldn't want to hear it. Likely he would argue on behalf of the officer, make an excuse for his poor judgment and lack of taste, and maybe he'd be right too but Will didn't want to listen. Roy Colson's new book about the Reaper's last stand was studded with Hotch's own memories, a gift to his friend for keeping his promise during the initial investigation, and the entire squad was in the process of reading it. They knew, they all knew. He couldn't believe one of them would think this was appropriate. Hotch turned away and wiped the grease paint off of his lips while Reid followed Will’s gaze at the officer and the mask. “Is that…”

“Yeah,” Will grunted. “I’ll handle it.” The guy was going to be seeing a lot of paperwork and grunt security jobs in the near future.

“Who wants a funnel cake?” Will asked, changing the subject abruptly.

“I do!” Jack had never turned down an offer of sweets in his life, and even Hotch could hardly say no to an offer of deep fried batter covered in powdered sugar.

“Well lets go find some grub then!”

[masterwords]

Ok, so I’m so hyped for May and all the domestic Hotchgan! And you said blow up your ask box, so….

I would love a fic about Derek and Aaron taking a cooking (or baking) class together! I just think it could be so funny and sweet. (And probably more messy than they think it is. Maybe a little competitive 😅)

Turns out...I am not good at writing cooking classes. LOL This idea was one of my absolute favorites and I found it to be incredibly challenging. I had three different drafts, none of which were good, so I set myself a 30 minute timer this morning and just went to town...landed here. It's better than the others, but not great. At least it's coherent! I didn't edit it, just skimmed...so if there are horrific embarrassing errors. I'm sorry please forgive me. We're in the thick of baseball and getting ready for tournament season and end of the school year stuff so my time isn't as plentiful as I'd like but we're getting there! Doing the thing! (Not on AO3 yet...I'm being lazy.)

Words: 1.7k

Warnings: food, it's all food based.

** hey shorty **

“You should take Penelope,” Derek muttered, one last attempt at salvaging his Saturday afternoon. “She would love this.”

“She bought the gift for us, Derek. To do together.”

He’d forgotten that part. Maybe not entirely, but he was clinging to some thread of hope that maybe she had wanted to go to the classes too. And if she did, he wouldn’t have to.

“It’s just gonna be a bunch of nerds…” Now he was whining. He wasn’t proud of it.

“It’s an hour, Derek.”

“An hour I’ll never get back.”

In the end, it turned out to be two hours...but two hours Derek was glad to have been present for. The instructor, an old woman with a thick Scottish accent and a frown that could rival Hotch’s any day of the week got right to business. No jokes, no wasted time.

She started by explaining the history of shortbread, and Derek breathed an audible sigh of relief. His ultimate fear was that they were going to be making something awful...it was described by Penelope as a “historical cooking class” and she gave him no more information. Hotch knew but refused to divulge – so he’d looked it up, and it turned out there were three possible classes it could have been given the time and day. One of them was making something called a medieval beef pie and something about the thought of that made him feel ill. Shortbread he could do.

Or so he thought.

“Pilcaithly Bannock,” she said and Derek couldn’t help glancing around the room to see if anyone else was as lost as he was. Turned out, he was not alone. “It’s a traditional shortbread made with the addition of almonds and a few flavors you may find intriguing. The recipe we’ll be using comes from a cookbook written in 1861.”

At her direction, everyone filed up toward the front of the classroom where she handed them a bin full of ingredients and cooking utensils with a photocopy of a recipe taped to the top. Hotch and Derek glanced at one another thoughtfully, both impressed by the instructor’s organization. Suddenly Derek, who had never considered himself much in the kitchen, felt like he might actually be able to do this.

Hotch baked. He loved to do it. His insomnia sometimes led to incredible pastries, flaky dough and sweet treats that helped him ease his troubled mind in the wee hours of the night. He would come back to bed around 3am with the house smelling like a bakery and a little flour in his hair and Derek would wake up starving and salivating. But him? No. He could grill, and he could do that with the best of them...and he could eat, boy could he eat...but baking required so much precision, measurement, time and patience. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do it, it was that he didn’t want to. Nothing about it was appealing except eating the end result.

They were not supposed to talk while they worked, but everyone seemed to want to chatter a little. The instructor poured herself a mug of coffee and stood in a corner observing for a long while. Surrounding them was the chaos and clatter of a kitchen, mixing bowls and whisks and spoons and running water.

“What does it mean when it says to beat the butter to a cream?” Derek whispered, leaning over close to Hotch. “Isn’t that already what it is?”

Hotch tipped his bowl in Derek’s direction and showed him the thick peaks of creamed butter with a smirk. “Just use your whisk and whip it.”

“Too bad we don’t have stand mixers in here.”

“Seems like a good time to put those muscles you work so hard on to good use…” Hotch muttered and Derek, under his breath, called him a shithead.

“Mine’s gonna be so much better than yours.”

“Keep dreaming,” Hotch replied so quietly, so sure of himself that it became Derek’s entire mission in life to do this one thing as perfectly as he could. So, stepping back, he read the entire recipe top to bottom and then again, closer, before he set to whipping the butter. He was a little behind the rest of the class, they all looked like they were adding in the flour and sugar and almonds, but he wasn’t concerned. He could take his damn time.

And he did. He chopped his almonds into fine little bits, he made sure there were no clumps in his dough that he would definitely classify as a “paste” in accordance with the recipe, and when he scored his final product before taking it up to the oven he was...well, he was proud.

Until he saw Hotch’s, which looked borderline professional. His heart sank. The students all piled their trays into the waiting preheated ovens and set to their next task...cleaning up while the shortbread did its thing.

“If mine is better,” Hotch said while he scrubbed his countertop, “you take me out to lunch at Shake Shack.”

Derek scowled. It wasnt’t that he didn’t like Shake Shack, but he wasn’t in the mood for greasy burgers and milkshakes. “And if I win, you take me down to Così.”

When the timers began going off, the instructor pulled them out of the oven one by one. She inspected each tray before handing them off to their owners to begin cooling. The look she gave Derek was impossible for him to read, but he could see the admiration on her face when she looked at Hotch’s perfect little slab of shortbread. He began mentally preparing himself to eat at Shake Shack, to watch Hotch with his mushroom burger and frozen custard quietly gloating over his perfect performance. He realized in that moment that while he loved Hotch, he probably would have hated him had they met in high school. That smug look on his face was getting Derek all sorts of riled up and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss him or smack him. Maybe both.

“How are they?” he asked when Hotch broke off a corner to try. He just shrugged and looked...disappointed.

“I could have done better. They’re a little tough.”

Derek stared at him agape. “They look professional, man.”

“I over-mixed the flour. They’re not bad but they don’t crumble the way they’re supposed to.”

Derek, horrified by what his own creation must be like in order for Hotch to be disappointed in his own turnout, stared down at his slab. They were darker than Hotch’s by at least one full shade, and a little extra even on the edges. Slowly, he reached out and broke off a corner of his to try and it crumbled in his fingers.

Hotch was watching him closely with a sweet smile on his face. “That’s perfect, Derek.”

“What are you talking about? It fell apart.”

The instructor made her way to their counter and peered at both of their creations. First she looked at Hotch’s, broke off a corner, and Derek saw the same look of disappointment on her face that Hotch had.

“They taste incredible,” she started with a smile. “But you’ve overmixed a bit, haven’t ye?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Give it another try at home.” Hotch smiled and nodded at her encouragement, proceeding to clean up the rest of his station and package up his failed attempt at shortbread. He could turn it into ice cream topping or something else at home at least. It was salvageable. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the instructor inspecting Derek’s.

“Nice color,” she began before grabbing a bit and watching it crumble in her hands. Her smile, once somewhat timid, widened. “Ahhh. That’s perfect.” She snapped off one whole cookie and held it in her hands reverently before snatching a chair, dragging it over to where Derek stood and stepped up on top of the seat. She stood now beside a very confused Derek, her hands still cradling the cookie.

“An old Scottish tradition is to break a slab of shortbread over a bride’s head. If it crumbles, the marriage will be good and fruitful. Shall we give this young man’s shortbread a try?”

The class erupted in laughter and applause, so she held her hands now over Derek’s head and snapped the cookie. It barely took a second before it crumbled to bits and fell over Derek’s head and shoulders in cookie dust. He shut his eyes and laughed along with everyone.

“Ahhh. Well, if that’s any indicator of the strength of your marriage…” she said, doing her best to get safely down off of the chair with Derek’s help. “Job well done.” Derek glanced at Hotch and shrugged, thinking he would find the man looking jealous or disappointed in himself...but all he found was Hotch with tears in his damn eyes and a smile on his face. The big softy.

In the car afterward, Hotch sitting in the passenger seat with two takeaway containers of shortbread on his lap, Derek poked the bear. “Did you hear her say mine was perfect?”

“I did.”

“She used the word perfect. Not good or great...perfect.”

“I heard.”

“Just makin’ sure. I know your ears don’t work so good, shorty.”

"Derek..." Hotch mumbled, giving him the side-eye. Derek just smiled broad and pulled out of the parking lot.

"Whassup shorty?"

Hotch had no response, but he couldn't help the ghost of a smile that ticked up at the corner of his mouth. Being called shorty was probably the least of his concerns. Derek was about to be insufferable over this shortbread ordeal for the remainder of the weekend and he would just have to suck it up and deal with it.

Derek, with a wicked little grin on his face, drove them straight to Shake Shack, bypassing Così on the way. He won the competition in class fair and square, but the instructor was right. He did have a pretty damn good marriage, and part of what made it so good was knowing when his partner might need a little pick-me-up...even if he did make the superior treat. He won cooking class.

But Hotch needed that frozen vanilla custard for his wounded pride and Derek was going to make sure he got it. (But if he crumbled a little of his perfect shortbread on top...well, could he really be blamed? It was perfect.)

[masterwords]

03x19 - Tabula Rasa

[masterwords]

legend

I had this idea. And I sprinted it in 20 minutes and didn't edit it and if it sucks, I'm sorry but CM: Evolution has really put me in my Hotchgan feels HARD (as if I ever really leave but...) so this happened. It fits with the @comfortember prompt for today: proud. ❤

1.6k words. Cheesy, stupid, self-indulgent and so sweet. Hotch & Morgan semi-retired and freezing at a Northwestern University football game.

**

Breathing hurt.

Hotch tugged his hat down over his ears and pressed his gloved hands over his mouth and nose, sucking in one, two, three deep breaths through the filter of warm knit wool. It didn't sting his lungs the way the air did. Derek's aunt made them for him, and a hat to match, and they were holding up better than anything he'd ever purchased at the store. She had made some crack about how he was always cold and made him two pair...his indoor gloves and his outdoor gloves. It was meant as a joke, poking fun at the way he wrapped himself in blankets or seated himself as close to a fire as he could, but he'd never minded a good joke at his expense. Especially not when that joke came with the warmest gloves he'd ever put on his hands.

“WOOOOOOOOOOO! GET EM!” Derek shouted from beside him, startling him by jumping up and waving his arms in the air wildly. “YEAH BABY!” Hotch glanced up at Derek and smiled cold and dreamy. He had no idea what had just happened on the field, but it mattered little. He had sixty quizzes to grade and Derek had a game to watch, that was the deal.

“You see that? DID YOU SEE THAT?!”

Hotch blinked up at him and Derek knew what that meant. He hadn't. It was okay, too. He would explain that it was one of the boys Derek had mentored at the youth center, one of the many he'd helped get scholarships to Northwestern. He was in his last year and he was a stud. NFL quality, Derek said, and he was working his tail off to get scouts out, get him noticed. He had connections.

That was how games went with them. Hotch went along dutifully, sometimes watching the game, others absorbed by the work he had to do. Since retiring from the FBI, since choosing that his family had to come first, he'd been teaching part time at Northwestern Law. It made sense, taking on a class or two at Derek's alma mater in order to prove to Derek that yes, moving to Chicago was a good thing for all of them. Being closer to Fran, to Derek's sisters and the rest of the Morgans was important. He'd spent so many years away from all of them. At a certain point they both realized what it cost them to remain in the D.C area and it wasn't worth it. Once Roy passed, the decision was even easier because Jessica wanted to go too.

“Let's get away from all of this,” she'd said, sealing the deal when Hotch had his doubts, most of which involved leaving her. “There's nothing left for us here.”

She was right. But in Chicago, they had the Morgans, and it was a quick trip from there to New York to visit Sean once he was released from prison. They were doing better at that whole visiting thing, too. Better at being brothers. Sean sent birthday gifts and cards; he even came to Chicago to visit. Hotch couldn't remember a time in his life when family looked like this, and it was overwhelming at times, but it was always good.

Except the temperatures in Chicago when winter hit. If he had to come up with one complaint to file for the record, that would be it. Right now, they were sitting in temperatures that were in the single digits, and the windchill took them down below zero. His nose hurt, his lungs hurt, his joints ached, his nose ran. In his pockets he kept plenty of packets of Hot Hands, and his collection of wool undergarments had grown exponentially, but there was really only so much you could do to combat this kind of chill. It settled deep in his bones.

“What quarter is it?” he asked, blinking his frosted eyelashes as he tried to focus his eyes on the scoreboard. It was a blur of purple and yellow, bright lights and nothing else. His glasses had fogged up enough times he'd given up on them...he could see his papers just fine without them, everything else would be up to Derek.

“Third. One left baby. Hang in there.”

Hotch scrunched his frozen nose but he smiled and went back to his papers. He only had a few left to go, and they would occupy his mind until the frostbite set in at least. At that point...well, at least he knew Derek could carry him if his feet no longer worked.

“Hey,” Derek said quietly, nudging Hotch with his elbow. “That one of your students?” Hotch glanced up and squinted, focusing on a young woman a few rows up who kept turning back to look at him. He smiled at the vague shape of her and she lifted her arm in a nervous wave.

“Yes,” he replied, returning the wave with one thick gloved hand. Her eyes darted from him to Derek and back, the vague flicker of realization in them, and blushing she turned back around and turned her attention back to the game. He scrunched his nose; it was really about the only expression he had left available that his frozen face could manage and watched her for a moment longer. He had some misgivings about what she saw or thought she saw, some horror at the thought she might feel it was inappropriate in some way that he waved at her, or perhaps that he was here with his husband. Whatever it was made her turn in an instant, and all he could do was turn back to his papers and begin scribbling furiously in the margins with frozen stiff fingers. He was going to be a human popsicle by the time this game was over.

“Professor Hotchner?” came a voice from beside him, and he glanced up, sniffling a little. His nose was running it was so damn cold. The student he'd waved at was now standing above him with an expectant smile.

“Monica,” he answered quietly, nodding and pushing up to standing as fast at his locked and painful joints would allow. He steadied himself against the seat when it flipped up behind him and smiled. “How can I help you?”

“I um...” she started a little nervous. “This is probably really out of line and I'm sorry to bother you, but is that Derek Morgan beside you?”

Hotch glanced over at Derek who was so intently locked on what was going on in the game that he hadn't noticed what was happening beside him. He nodded.

“It is,” he replied. He left it open, just hanging there, doing his best not to make any assumptions about her intention. The stadium erupted around them, and Derek leapt out of his seat again, hollering. Without wasting a moment, hHe wrapped Hotch in a hug, arms tight around his shoulders and kissed his cheek. Not a care in the world.

“TOUCHDOWN!”

“Derek,” Hotch whispered, nodding his head in Monica's direction. “This is Monica Jordan, one of my students.”

“Oh, hey! Pleasure to meet you!” Derek released Hotch quickly, with only one arm, and extended his hand to her. The other arm stayed hooked around Hotch's shoulders, fingers digging into his puffy coat protectively. “He's nice to you, yeah?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, taking his hand. “Yeah, his class is great. It's my favorite.”

“Nahhh...that can't be true,” Derek said, shaking his head. “He's so boring. I've been forced to sit through this man's lectures. Come on, what's your real favorite class?”

“No, really,” she began, squaring up her shoulders as if she needed to defend him. “The way he presents topics is so engaging. You can tell he's got a lot of lived experience, it's not just something he read in a textbook and regurgitated for us. Did you guys work together?”

“Yeah, we did. For a long time.”

“I'm supposed to do an interview with someone I admire for my sociology class, and I was wondering if um...if I could interview you, Mr. Morgan?”

“If it's all good with the ol' ball and chain...”

Hotch rolled his eyes and sighed. Sometimes he just had to question his own sanity. “Derek.” He said nothing more, and Derek let out a soft chuckle.

“Yeah, sure. Let me know when and where, I'll be there. OH HELL YEAH! WILDCATS WIN BABY! WOOOOOO!”

Hotch couldn't blame Derek for his enthusiasm, the way he was easily distracted by what was happening on the field. It was the team's first win of the season. Likely to be their only win, too. The team seemed to be permanently ailing, it was kind of their thing, but Derek never wavered in his support. No one could accuse him of being a fair-weather fan, and Hotch followed him dutifully to every game. His support of Derek was unwavering, too.

“I um,” Monica started, stepping a little closer to Hotch. “He's a legend in my neighborhood. I grew up hearing stories about him from everyone. You're really lucky.”

Hotch, frozen as he was, beamed at that. His eyes shone bright with tears that froze before they could do much more than appear. “I am.”

Breathing hurt, but the celebratory kiss Derek gave him, and the warm air pushed into his lungs didn't. He hoped Monica had walked away, hoped she wasn't staring at them, but he wasn't going to let it stop him from wrapping his arms around Derek beneath his open coat and hugging him close. Sucking up all of the warmth he had to offer in the glow of the stadium erupting in loud cheers. “I love you,” Derek whispered between kisses, and Hotch smiled against his lips and muttered his reciprocation breathless and happy.

[masterwords]

Okay for asks, what about Hotch and the team are dealing with a hostile and skeptical police chief, and the chief is really going in on Hotch, and Hotch is doing his best to deal with it calmly, but it’s already been a long and stressful case and the police force have been absolutely no help, doubting and fighting the team the whole time, and the police person says something Hotch’s father used to, and Hotch just has a full on flashback/panic attack type thing in front of at least the team, if not the police force too. And one of the team (probably Morgan) tries to just hold him and bring him back to reality. Feel free to change the setting and cause or whatever as much as you like, but that’s the general concept! I’m kind of a sucker for Hotch angst + the team seeing Hotch be vulnerable 😶‍🌫️

I do want to say, though, that if this is something you’ve already done something similar for, or if it’s boring, please don’t feel obligated to write it! Only if it will be fun for you!

Hey! Thank you for trusting me with your idea. I will say, I am not sure I could ever get tired of putting Hotch into situations where he's vulnerable so feel free to send asks anytime. <3 This is mostly platonic Hotchgan, but it's vague enough that it could be shippy. I like to look at it that way always but I know not everyone does. :)

Warnings: migraine, panic attack

Words: 4358 (HOLY CRAP I'M SORRY. This got massively out of hand.)

**

It was already a two day migraine. Strong enough that even his contacts were a problem.

It was no sleep in a bed for longer. Sure, he'd found fifteen minutes to lay his head down on the desk in his hotel room, set the alarm, and doze off while the coffee pot spit out it's goods for the third time that day. That didn't amount to much more than disorientation and a new pain in his neck.

It was a victim's family living in a house that looked just like his own childhood house. The very same Southern charm, immaculate interior, plastered smiles.

It was all of these things, and still it could have been none of them when he considered his state of mind in general. This case was worse than anything he'd experienced in as long as he could remember, everything about it. The way the LEOs treated them, the way Jack had cried when he told him they were leaving, the intense heat and humidity. Hell, maybe it was the fact that the police station only had Sweet n Low and he hated Spencer using that garbage in his coffee but he wouldn't drink it unsweetened. The police were less than welcoming, had sent Derek and Dave off in the opposite direction of the dumpsites more than once just for laughs. Gotten them lost in corn fields on dead end roads. He was keeping JJ and Emily away from the station, not allowing the LEOs the chance to make their ��little lady” comments to their faces, behind their backs was bad enough. The things they said to Spencer were enraging.

But that time he spent sleeping, that was the best part of his entire week. Eyes closed, riding the waves of intense pounding in his head and nausea coursing through him. The rest of the world faded away, it was just him and his pain and that was somehow comforting. He was startled by a knock at his door three minutes before his alarm was set to go off, pulled from whatever sleep he'd managed to sink into. He blinked hard a few times, felt his contacts pull at his lids, threaten not to let them open again. Against his better judgement he pressed his fingertips to his eyes, rubbed gently and felt one contact pop free, slip backward. Another frantic knock and he stood, rushed toward the door while trying to get a grip on the renegade contact, ready to rip them right out and just wear his glasses.

Spencer stood in the doorway, an awkward smile on his face. “Are you ready to head back?” he asked, as if it were a treat to get to go back to the station, to try and work with a Sheriff and his deputies that didn't want to play nice. They'd only been in their rooms for an hour, just their forced “lunch break” though Aaron hadn't eaten a bite, just drank a glass of lukewarm water followed by a pot of coffee. With any luck, his heart would explode right there in the Georgia heat. He beckoned Spencer in, told him he'd be ready in just a minute and maneuvered blindly to the bathroom to take out the offending contacts. Returning in glasses, pushing them high on the bridge of his nose, he noted Spencer's look of shock. The look he tried to hide but couldn't. Aaron smiled gently, tried to ease the tension in the room, pressed at the sore spot on his neck with his middle finger for a moment and said he was ready.

He let Spencer drive. That should have been the moment, right there, that tipped him off. Aaron slid into the passenger seat without even offering to drive, and Spencer shrugged it off easily, maybe he was just tired or maybe it had something to do with his glasses. Whatever it was, he wasn't concerned about the other man's fragile state of mind. They discussed the case, whether they honestly thought they'd catch their unsub or if they'd be heading home empty handed – neither of them had high hopes. The police and their lack of cooperation gave them more than enough cause to doubt the success of their case. The city roads gave way to crops on either side of them, a sea of bright green as far as the eye could see. Spencer regaled Aaron with whatever knowledge he could produce on each separate crop, the types of pests that liked to ransack them, the reason the dirt was good for each one, anything he could think to fill the void left by Aaron's silence.

All Aaron wanted was quiet. His head was beyond painful, and though the contacts had been hard to contend with, now he had the pressure from the glasses resting behind his ears making him feel sick. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat, humming and acknowledging Spencer's questions when appropriate. There was something about Spencer's voice, the way he jumped down the rabbit hole and never looked back that was soothing, it was why he'd kept Spencer close and sent the others out. He never looked too deep, never tried to dissect Aaron's moods, his behaviors. Just accepted them. Derek and Dave had to go, they would have had him cornered in his hotel room, chained to the bed. They looked too close, knew him too well. Derek would coddle him, Dave would scold him. Both options sounded awful, so he chose Spencer and his cautiously aloof nature.

The station was the lone building in the sea of crops. They serviced the entire rural area and they didn't care for having the FBI haunting their halls but the mayor had insisted they get a handle on things before harvest time flooded the area with migrant workers and gave their unsub a mass of fresh targets. Aaron feared that the unsub was gone, the trail was cold already and likely wouldn't heat up until it was time to harvest, he was probably hunting somewhere further south that was already starting to run their combines.

It was quiet in the station, only a few deputies hung around, chatting around the coffee pot. They hadn't seen the Sheriff for hours now, he was running double duty with another office a county over until they elected a new official.

“Hotch?” Spencer asked, pulling him from the spell of the coffee pot. He turned slowly, exhausted, on his third cup of the battery acid they were passing off as coffee already and it was doing nothing to keep his eyes from falling shut and staying that way. No rest for the weary.

“Yes?” he replied, a moment later than he should have. His brain was working on a delay, like the sound and the action weren't quite in sync. He'd watched a movie with Jack the week prior, the mouths and the words they said were a split second off and it had driven him crazy. Jack didn't seem to notice. It threw everything off, made him feel itchy and exposed. Spencer paused, or Aaron thought he did anyway, before continuing.

“Sheriff Morrison wants to speak to us in his office.”

Aaron pressed his free hand to his eyebrows, rubbed hard with the pads of his fingers and sighed. “This should be good,” he muttered. Spencer smiled. He hated this, the way they were being treated, but it brought out a sarcastic side of Aaron he wasn't often privy to and for that, at least, he was thankful.

“I can't figure out this geographical profile,” Spencer said, walking shoulder to shoulder with Aaron through the station. “I've marked everywhere on the map that victims have been found, and where they came from, and it just doesn't make sense. We're missing something.”

“I have some concerns,” Aaron said under his breath, pressing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, “about the files we've been given. I suspect they've been doctored.”

“Doctored? But why would they...”

“Not now, Reid,” Aaron whispered, approaching the Sheriff's office. He rapped twice with the backs of his knuckles, peering into the empty room. “You're sure he said to meet him here?”

“Yes, I'm sure Hotch,” and of course he was. Aaron knew better than to question Spencer's memory. They stood for a moment, figuring they should wait. It wasn't long before the Sheriff approached them with a few deputies in tow, returning from their lunch break.

“That map of yours is interesting,” one of the deputies said, his drawl exaggerated and slow. He smiled. “Looks like Kindee-garden art class was fun today.”

“Excuse me?” Aaron asked, stepping in front of Spencer just enough to put his body between his colleague and the officers. The Sheriff smiled and turned to the deputy, muttering something just under his breath.

That was it. Not even even something big, it was something so small anyone might have missed it and Aaron couldn't even tell you exactly what it was that he'd said, it wasn't meant for him. Maybe it was just a vocal inflection, the way his father had pronounced certain words struck an odd fear into him even still when he heard it from someone else's mouth. Maybe it was the look on his face or the way the room smelled like sweat and burnt coffee and stale cigarette smoke, just like his father when he would come home drunk and ready to rumble.

Maybe it was the woman's voice suddenly shouting at the booking desk behind them about them holding her boyfriend in the drunk tank overnight. The migraine had been quiet but now raged front and center, the exhaustion and days without sleep left him exposed and unable to force his way past. His vision exploded in white hot sparks and for a split second he thought he was going to be sick or pass out. It was entirely involuntary, a reaction to stimuli he couldn't control.

Any of these things on their own, he could handle. But this was a perfect storm.

He fled. Excusing himself by muttering something incoherent, he turned and walked away from the gathering as quickly as he could force his legs to move. It was undignified and he would have to explain it later to someone, he wouldn't get away unscathed but if he didn't find a dark room, a safe place, he was going to have a panic attack right there in the middle of the police station. That was the last thing he needed, any of them needed. Head down he walked out, focusing intently on the sound of his heels against the tile, echoing off of the walls. The woman's shrieking rattled through him, she sounded more like an angry raven than a human as he moved away, kept his eyes trained on the floor and focused hard on the number of steps between he and their conference room. They wouldn't follow him there.

At least he hoped they wouldn't. He sank down into a chair, folded his arms on the table and pushed his head into his arms, resting against the table like a child playing Heads Up 7up. His hands shook, chest heaved painfully and he felt the sting of tears coating his cheeks, pooling in the lenses of his glasses and slipping down to the table. His glasses pressed hard against his nose, dug into the soft places behind his ears. Mercifully, that was when his breath hitched in his throat and the sobs came, not a moment sooner, the tingling fingertips and toes, the invasive and obsessive thought that he was, in fact, having a heart attack and not a panic attack. No one could see him now.

“Morgan?” Spencer asked, pacing outside the door to the conference room. He stood between the door and the station, ready to hold anyone off that he needed to.

“Yeah, what's up kid?” Derek's voice broke in and out, crackled on the other end of the phone. They had terrible service, the call would be choppy at best.

“I know this sounds weird, but I think Hotch is having a panic attack...” he whispered into the phone, peeking through the slit in the blinds at his boss curled up in the chair with his face hidden in his arms, all folded up on himself against the table. He looked like a child and Spencer thought he could see him shaking, like he was crying. It made him feel sick. Aaron hadn't been right since coming back to work, since Foyet and his knife, since Haley, but he thought they were past the really bad parts. It had been so long now, he'd almost managed to convince himself that everything was fine. He'd taken back the leadership of the team, they'd had a lot of successes.

His own knee had long since healed, so must have all of Aaron's wounds, his grief, all neatly packaged up and put away. Realizing he was wrong never sat well with Spencer. “Is that...normal? What do I do?”

“Yeah, kid. He gets them just like the rest of us," Derek said softly.

"Nothing you can do,” he replied, putting some distance between he and Dave who was staring intently at him. If Dave knew, he'd have them on the road speeding with their lights flashing to get back and they couldn't afford that, not yet. He needed time to consider their options, if what they were doing was useful, if they should just pack up and leave.

Spencer didn't like Derek's answer and huffed his disapproval. Derek smiled and shook his head.

“I just mean you can't fix it, that's not how anxiety works man. Get him a cup of water and a wash rag or a towel soaked in cool water. If you need to talk to him, do it slowly Reid...don't ask questions, don't talk about whatever was happening when it started, just...read a police report out loud. Tell him about corn. I dunno, something boring and calm. Just don't ask him about what happened or how he feels...ask if you can do anything for him if you need to say anything at all.” Derek's voice cut in and out, he knew Spencer was only getting a portion of what he was saying, he just hoped it was the right portion. The part where he reiterated over and over not to ask him what happened, why he was feeling the way he was. Spencer loved asking why.

“Where are you?” Spencer asked, still staring at Aaron through the blinds, looking for just about any excuse not to go in there yet. Derek shook his head.

“We're like 30 miles away on the side of some dirt road corn field...I dunno. It's on you kid.”

“Hotch thinks they're doctoring the files they're giving us...”

“Yeah, Rossi mentioned the same thing. Listen, we're gonna head back but you gotta get in there and stay with him okay? Make sure he's good.”

“What if he doesn't want me there?” Spencer asked and Derek laughed, that rang through loud and clear.

“Kid, he won't. He absolutely won't want you there. Don't let him bully you into leaving. You understand me? You don't walk out of that room until he's on his game again, or I get back. You sit in there with him all day if you have to.”

The moment Derek told Dave what was going on, they were on the road. There was no hesitation, they weren't going to find anything out where they were anyway and they'd both known it. It was going to be bad back at the station, but this was his team so long as Aaron was incapacitated and one of his people was struggling and needed them. Needed him. “We're comin' back kid, just...do your best. He's not dying.”

It was helpful to remember that fact when Aaron was in the thick of it, when he was convincing himself and everyone around him that he was having a heart attack, when he knew all of the signs and symptoms and he looked at you with those eyes so full of the terror of knowing exactly what a heart attack looked like. He'd called 911, he'd watched his father fall, felt the fear when he stopped breathing, when he'd had to start CPR on a man he only barely wanted to survive. Guilt put his hands on his father's chest, guilt and shame forced his panicked counting. He'd studied all of the symptoms, knew every sign inside and out. He could manifest each and every one of them before your eyes if you let him.

Spencer grabbed the water and a towel before entering the room. Instinctively, he turned down the lights, left only one row in the back on, thought it might calm him down if it were him in the situation. He liked to feel like he could be invisible, thought maybe Aaron might feel the same.

“It's just me,” Spencer said, approaching the other man slowly, recounting everything Derek had told him. “I brought you some water, would you like it?”

Nothing. No response. He set the water down where Aaron could grab it if he wanted and hung back a moment, calculating his next move. He just needed to buy enough time for Derek and Dave to get there, they would be better, they would know what to do, how to help him. He realized as he sat himself down that he couldn't think of a time he'd ever really touched Aaron, aside from an errant handshake or a pat on the arm, and even then it was usually Aaron initiating the contact. His hand trembled a little at the idea of it, like it was crossing a line, a boundary he wasn't sure needed crossing and Aaron was just crying so softly, uncontrollably, and lost to the world beside him. He was quiet, almost silent except the sniffling sounds, the tiny gasps and Spencer wondered if Aaron was trying to hide from him too.

It was the last thing he wanted. Of course he'd never seen Aaron so vulnerable, not once and it made him wildly uncomfortable. He hadn't been there to see Aaron in the hospital after Foyet, he hadn't seen him weeping over Haley's body, he'd only known what he was told. They had gone to great lengths to keep him away and for what?

Now he was here, the only person who could help and he had no idea where to begin. This was uncharted territory, but it wasn't as awful as he'd expected. Not insurmountable. It almost made him feel better, like if Aaron had weaknesses, maybe he wasn't so bad off himself. He wasn't a child. He could do this.

“It's okay, Hotch,” he said softly, opening a police report beside the man. “I'm right here if you need me.”

He didn't move, didn't even breathe for a moment and Spencer almost reached out and touched him but thought better of it. No, Aaron wouldn't want that. Instead he began reading the report aloud, starting with the victim's name, age and height. He read as slowly, as dully as he could muster. Beside him Aaron sucked in a deep breath, followed by a multitude of smaller, shallow breaths. Itw was a painful sound, like his lungs just couldn't do their job. Like his chest was too tight to allow room for breath. He pushed his head in deeper, pressed his forehead hard against the table trying to relieve the pressure. It was breaking his heart, but it was sound, at least he seemed to be letting it run its course instead of hiding it from Spencer so he kept reading.

Derek entered the room almost silently, the only noise coming from the hallway where Dave was laying into the Sheriff and letting him know they were no longer going to be working on this case. Spencer smiled, he wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that speech. Dave was often the first person to smile, had kind twinkling eyes, but there was a flash of anger, a streak that was more than a little terrifying. When one of his own was threatened, his version of justice looked a lot like revenge.

“Hotch?” Derek asked, placing his hand gently on the small of Aaron's back, fingers delicately tracing small circles at the base of his spine. Spencer watched in awe at the effortless way Derek touched him, knew exactly what to do, what to ask, how to bring him back. With his free hand, he pulled Aaron's glasses off, set them neatly on the table beside him and let his hand rest against the other man's hair. His fingers danced there against his scalp, small circles, figure eights and zig zags sending a shiver through Aaron's spine, his racing heart beating wildly against his chest. “We're gonna pack up and get out of here. They don't want us.”

That was it, that was all Derek said. He picked up the cool, damp rag and lay it against the back of Aaron's neck before standing, motioning for Spencer to follow him.

“Let's get this room broken down, we're heading back to DC. We're done with these hillbillies here.”

“What about Hotch?” Spencer asked, peering back at the other man still face down on the table. Derek shrugged. He didn't seem worried at all, but Spencer could tell how much he cared. He wondered how Derek stayed so cool all the time. How it was so effortless for him to take care of people.

“Time,” he whispered, patting Spencer on the shoulder. “He needs time. I've got it, you just start packing up our shit okay?” Relief was what Spencer felt, knowing that Derek would manage his way through Aaron's troubled waters, bring him back to shore and Spencer could go use his skills somewhere else.

The next time Spencer came into the room, Aaron was sitting upright. He was paler than usual, slumped over but he was up. His face was puffy, eyes red, cheeks streaked with tears. Derek was sitting beside him, maybe a little closer than he'd ever seen him, and he was on his phone, firing off emails to Chief Strauss about the situation they found themselves in. The room was silent.

“Everything is packed. JJ and Prentiss are going to meet us at the airport, Rossi and I checked us out of the hotel.”

Derek nodded and set his phone down. He knew Aaron wasn't moving yet, standing him up would be a mistake, send him into a tailspin. He'd done that once, forced Aaron to move during a panic attack, and he'd ended up with the man passing out in his arms. Something about blood pressure, the EMT had told him, he didn't listen to everything they said but he did take away one key piece of advice – don't move him while he's having a panic attack unless he's in danger.

“I can walk,” Aaron whispered, turning his head just slightly until he was looking at Derek. “I'm okay.”

“You sure? We got all the time in the world.”

They walked out of there with Aaron between them, neither touching him, letting him carry off the illusion of being fine while being flanked entirely by people he trusted. Derek had managed to get him into the bathroom, help him clean up, splash cold water on his face until he looked angry, intense, but not sad. Spencer lead the way, Derek followed just behind Aaron, Dave pressed in close beside him. They kept in step easily. He thought he could feel eyes on him, mocking him. The leader of the BAU running away with his tail between his legs, this wasn't going to look good on any of their reports. Chief Strauss would have words for him.

No one bothered him on the jet, Derek had instructed everyone to leave him be. Hushed voices spoke about the case, about the LEOs and their uncooperative behavior, the fact that more people were going to die as soon as harvest season was on them. Maybe they'd catch their guy on their own, they clearly didn't want help. A game of poker opened up, kept everyone occupied and distracted.

“Morgan?” Aaron asked, waving the other man over. Derek excused himself from the card game, folded his hand and tossed it to Rossi, and sat down beside Aaron, pressed in as close as he could. He loved to invade Aaron's space. “Thank you,” he said softly, rubbing at his temples. His head felt worse, somehow. Like he'd been on a three day bender and was drying out, now he was just a dried out husk of hungover man but without the fun of the party.

“How long?” Derek asked, indicating the way he rubbed at his head. He'd seen it days ago, the way his eyelids drooped and his shoulders were stiff, but they had a job to do and pointing out that he knew Aaron was struggling wasn't going to help anyone.

“Two days.”

“Shit. You want the lights off?”

“No,” Aaron whispered, leaning back and closing his eyes. “I just wanted to thank you for your help.”

“Nah, it was all Reid. He's the superstar here.” He reached over and pulled Aaron close to him without asking permission, he never bothered with that. He pressed his palms to the other man's temples and applied pressure, like a vice, biceps flexing to maintain it. It was a flood of instant relief, and though Aaron knew all of the pain would come right back the moment Derek let up, he was glad for the few moments of complete and utter peace. All noise in his head had ceased, he was left with just a silent void “I just swooped in and took all the glory for myself.”

Aaron smiled and settled in, let Derek hold his pounding head as long as he was willing, as long as he was able. It was the best he'd felt in days.

[masterwords]

Okay, Hotchgan for you (I’m anti Mortch but that’s not why I’m here)

I’ve had this idea of like the two of them having an argument because the team doesn’t know about them and Derek wants to tell them but Aaron doesn’t. So anyway, they argue, and Morgan says he wants a break to work out priorities. Hotch just retreats into his old ways, spends long nights in the office, forgets to eat, anxiety through the roof except when he’s in the field, because . Low key just depressed Aaron but handling it by blocking everyone out. He purposely doesn’t pair himself up with Morgan and avoids him other than strict work things.

Would be super keen for you to maybe write this? With a happy ending. Idk I just wanted someone else to hurt over these two.

Hi! UGH This is too good, and I am really sorry that I took this and turned it into a whole ass novel but here we are.

(On the note of Mortch vs Hotchgan, and entirely lighthearted...I'm all in on both, honestly. Because like, yeah, Hotchgan just sounds nicer. I dig it. But I am in the camp that believes the dominant person's name should come first in a ship and for me...that's Morgan. Plus Mortch totally sounds gross and I am very immature and like that for some reason. I have zero real preference, basically. I use them interchangeably.)

ANYWAY. Thank you for this idea, it broke my heart to the point that I picked out a 3 episode arc to exploit for my own selfish purposes. (S10 - Beyond Borders, A Place at the Table, Mr. Scratch) I hope it lives up to the painful image you had in your head! (And yes...it takes a while to get there but we do have a happy ending.) I appreciate you sharing with me and trusting me with it!

Warnings: Grief, death, blood, some swearing

Words: 5248 (OOPS????)

Shades of Shame

The sun cast her early dawn glow over the island, throwing pools of gold through the blinds. Morgan lay stretched out in bed, the sheet draped over his midsection carelessly while he slept. Hotch couldn't help watching him, keeping his eyes trained on the way the sunlight filtered in and danced on his skin. He was Adonais, he was Achilles, he was everything. Hotch wanted to crawl back into the bed, lock the door, pretend they were in Barbados on vacation. Sleeping in the same bed, sharing his room while Morgan's went untouched two floors below them felt about as close to a vacation as they'd ever had.

(And dangerous, it had required careful planning on their parts to start and end their days.) He peeked through the blinds, drank in the crystal blue water glittering on the horizon and sighed. That they were here to catch a murderer, not bask in the sun with their toes in the sand really said a lot about all of them. He would never have had occasion to come here otherwise, he could barely manage a quick weekend trip up to New York to visit his brother.

“We're not due downstairs for an hour,” Morgan whispered, his voice gravelly, thick with the luxury of sleep. Hotch smiled and turned around, grabbing his shoes from the corner before taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

“I know,” he replied, slipping his shoes on. “My stomach is a little upset this morning, I'm going to go find something to eat that isn't deep fried or greasy.” Morgan rolled over, slipped his arms around Hotch's waist and kissed him, pressed his face into the soft curve of his hip. A year ago Hotch would never have admitted that he wasn't feeling great, would have kept it to himself but he was doing his best to be more open since collapsing in front of his team at work. It was an arduous process, one he hated with every fiber of his being but he hated what had happened more so he dealt with it. Morgan knew all of this, so he made it a point to acknowledge it every time with some reward, in this case a kiss. Simple and effective.

“You're okay?”

“Travel doesn't always agree with me,” Hotch shrugged, leaning into Morgan's embrace. He could afford a few extra minutes for that. “I'm fine.” And he was, it was just nerves. An overseas case with a team he greatly respected but hadn't ever worked so closely with, all of them looking to him for guidance. Leaving Jack with Jessica on the mainland, splitting up his own team between Barbados and home. He tried to share the weight, he'd taken Morgan and Rossi with him for that very purpose, they could bear his loads when they got too heavy but splitting up his team and relying on people he didn't work with every day was a challenge and it was manifesting itself in a small but irritating way that could, if ignored, become a much bigger problem. He was hungry, he was doing a better job of listening to his body, but he'd seen the hotel's breakfast options and he knew it was a recipe for disaster. They cooked to appease American tourists and that meant hoards of eggs and bacon and fried potatoes, heavy food that would make him sick all day. He couldn't handle that kind of food anymore.

“There's a little coffee stand in the lobby,” Morgan said, his face still pressed against Hotch's hip. “They had tea and fruit salad and these incredible croissants. Simmons and I got coffee there yesterday, waited in line behind a group of grannies who ordered yogurt parfaits. You'll fit right in.”

“Very funny,” Hotch muttered, peeling Morgan off of him to stand up and adjust the collar of his polo. He was already sweating. He didn't mind heat or humidity, in fact he rather liked both, but it was awfully early in the day for his shirt to be sticking to him, for sweat to pool at the small of his back. Especially when they had the A/C on in their room.

“Are you happy?” Morgan asked, his face turning serious all of a sudden as he watched Hotch attempt to tame his unruly hair in the mirror. The sweat was helping to weigh it down but did nothing to make it stay in the right place, a constant source of amusement to Morgan.

“Of course,” he replied apprehensively. His neck flushed beneath the collar of his shirt and he didn't turn around, not yet. There was a sudden shift in the mood of the room, it made him uneasy. He had an idea of where the conversation was headed, they'd been skirting the issue for a while now, Hotch was the king of deflecting. There was nowhere to go, now. Nowhere to hide. He leaned on the dresser and peered closely at the lines around his eyes, an easy distraction while Morgan reloaded, prepared to fire.

“I am too,” Morgan said, sitting up slowly. The sheet pooled in his lap, left very little to the imagination. Hotch tried not to be so obvious when his eyes fell on Morgan's hips. “So what's stopping us from sharing that with the people we love?”

“Your family knows,” Hotch offered softly. “Jessica and Jack...Sean...my mother...”

“You know what I meant.”

“Derek,” Hotch said, turning on his heel. He leaned against the dresser, affecting a much more casual stance and training his eyes on something that wasn't as distracting as Morgan. “I don't know Cruz that well yet. You and I are in violation of fraternization rules, we could lose our jobs. If it was Strauss, I would...” he let his voice trail off, cast his eyes down at the pattern in the carpet. There was no way he came out of this conversation unscathed. “The team would understand, but...it doesn't look good to anyone who doesn't know us, doesn't know that I would never abuse my power, you must know that. I just think we need to be cautious.”

“Cautious, got it.” Morgan was snappy, he pulled the sheet up over his chest and covered himself with it. The message wasn't lost on Hotch. “I think I'll sleep in my own room tonight. Wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong impression, think I was sleeping with the boss to get the fancy room perks.”

...

The late spring days gave way to early summer, pollen coating everything in its thick, yellow haze. Hotch was living in an antihistamine fueled nightmare, pumping himself full of twice as much coffee and tea as usual just to combat the drowsy feeling he was plagued with from the moment he opened his eyes in the morning. They'd returned from Barbados the week prior but there had been no rest, no reconciliation. He was pouring himself harder into work to compensate for his sudden lack of a personal life, filling the void with case files and research papers, anything that could keep his mind focused on one thing. To avoid the comments, he was making sure he left on time every day with his briefcase and his bag full of plenty to occupy him well into the night. It helped keep Jack from asking questions too, if he was so busy at work it made sense that Morgan wasn't coming around. Emails crossed Rossi's desk at 2am with changes to his guest lecture schedule, budget request forms for Penelope with all sorts of questions at 3:30am. It was frustrating, but he was well known on the team for having suffered from bouts of intense insomnia, usually it only lasted a week or two but this seemed to be stretching on forever and none of them could seem to figure out why, what had happened. At work he sounded fine, happy even, was looking forward to a day off to chaperone Jack's class at the Air & Space Museum. He and Reid had talked about it to the point where everyone else would find a reason to leave the room, so whenever anyone got their middle of the night email from Hotch who should have been asleep they were given cause to wonder how bad things must be that they couldn't even read him.

“You good?” Rossi asked one night, a bottle of scotch and two glasses in hand. “You seem...”

“I'm fine,” Hotch interrupted, hardly wanting to hear from Rossi what he seemed. He knew what he was, what Rossi would have to say. Rossi inclined his head, placed the cups on the table and poured a few fingers of the amber liquid. He gave Hotch the glass with more, thought he looked like he could use it.

“Is Jack alright? Tomorrow is museum day, right?”

“We're looking forward to it,” he replied, skirting most of the inquisition expertly. Of course Jack was fine, he wasn't sure he could keep it together if anything happened to Jack. He was barely holding on as it were.

“Any single moms joining you?”

“Dave...” Hotch groaned, sipping his scotch. The walls felt like they were closing in. “Please.”

“I'm just curious, Aaron. Seems like you're burning the candle at both ends these days, maybe a distraction would do you some good...”

...

He wasn't surprised when they got an urgent call while Jack was flying around the apartment getting himself ready for school. He wasn't surprised to find out that it was a high profile case and he couldn't let his team handle it without his leadership. He really wasn't. There had been a part of him that never really believed he'd get to go on the field trip with Jack, but while he wasn't at all surprised, he was disappointed. Incredibly so.

“Aaron, you don't sound good,” Jessica said, standing in his home office watching him shove files and loose papers into his briefcase. He was stuffed up, she could hear it in his nose, in his chest. He had allergies, she knew it, but he was often so well medicated no one would know. His voice had a nasal quality that was hard to ignore and it concerned her. Like a crack in the foundation. By itself it was insignificant but it would give way soon enough.

“Allergies,” he muttered and she nodded, accepting his answer. “Thank you again.”

“I'm kind of looking forward to it, I haven't been to the museum in years...” She sounded distraught but he couldn't put his finger on it, couldn't worry about it. He should have been in his office an hour ago, the police were waiting on them to do a live walk-through of the crime scene before the bodies were moved and he was holding everything up by not being there. He didn't see her face contort, he didn't see her tears. She knew he was going through plenty of his own problems, she'd noticed Morgan hadn't been around lately, hadn't wanted to bother him about it. If he wanted her to know, he would tell her. They shared enough between them, there needed to be room allowed for privacy.

As if he wasn't distracted enough on a daily basis, the desperate call from Jessica sealed the deal. He'd been leaning over Penelope's shoulder, listening to her give him very important information and the next he was excusing himself to go and pick up she and Haley's father after being detained by the police for breaking and entering. It wasn't exactly jail, but he was being held and Jessica wasn't available to help, she was at the Air & Space Museum with his son and his class, where he should have been, which meant he was going to take care of her responsibility while she was busy taking care of his.

Two steps forward, one step back.

He was kind as he signed his name, pulled Roy out, offered him a jacket and was met with the first unruly outburst of anger. It would have hurt even if he was having a good day, even if he'd been at a high point in his life, but hearing Roy growl at him to shut up in the police station, in front of everyone, knocked the wind out of him. He pulled the jacket back to his chest and put his head down, following behind, anticipating a rough car ride.

Not one to disappoint, Roy laid into him. It started out simple, defensive, he wasn't doing anything wrong. He was an old man, he forgot things sometimes. Hotch stayed silent, stared intently at the road, tried to appease Roy, make him feel better. He didn't understand what was happening, Jessica hadn't told him there was anything going on and Roy didn't exactly make it a habit to spend time with him these days.

Once they were in his apartment, Roy let loose. He'd kept it civil in the car, kept it quiet but once they were inside all bets were off.

He couldn't be stopped. It came in intervals, yelling one minute and crying the next, his world topsy turvy and Hotch just did his best to stop, to give him his full attention, not to talk.

He was good at not talking. At not defending himself. Roy was starting to sound like his own father, insults cascading from his lips to Hotch's bleeding heart. He accepted the words as they came, didn't counter a single one. How could he? He'd seen Haley's ruined head with his own eyes, held her, covered his broken and battered hands in her blood. There was no way around the simple fact that she would still be alive if she'd never met him, and as Roy continued to point that out, he had no argument.

There was nothing to be done but float between the case and being yelled at until Jessica showed up, apologetic and teary eyed. How had he missed it? How selfish could he be that he'd missed her cry for help? Did he not once bother to ask her what was going on in her life, if anything was new? No wonder Morgan was upset with him, he was so absorbed in himself he had no time for anyone else.

“He's my father, he's my responsibility, not yours,” she said and he just stared at her, gutted. The ground had gone out from beneath his feet hours ago. She knew what he meant to say, he didn't need to say it. He didn't need to point out how much she gave him, how she'd stepped in and become a second mother to Jack and that their families were inexplicably bound together. He couldn't say it, he had nothing left in the tank, standing there in front of her was as much as he had in him.

And he still had to find more, somewhere. Had to go back to work, to find a killer. Had to help Jessica figure out what to do about Roy because, for better or worse, Roy was his father too. Roy deserved to be taken care of, he'd taken care of Hotch more times than he could count throughout his life. Given him a father's love when he had nowhere else to turn.

In the office it was business as usual. No one stopped to ask him why he'd missed half of the day, they didn't have time and they were aware they'd be met with his steely glare and a reprimand. They couldn't afford the distraction, his day didn't matter. Morgan watched him when he walked in, sat still beside him, let his eyes trail Hotch as he moved silently. There was something wrong, he could tell by his posture, the way his chest heaved like he couldn't catch his breath. By the time they were in their kevlar vests and taking down the unsub, he was the walking dead. He placed his hand on the victim's shoulder as Morgan pulled the unsub, her son, out of the house and he froze there like that contemplating his own paternal lot in life. This boy was given two fathers, one very much alive and unworthy, and one who never existed who could do no wrong. He was caught somewhere in between, a place of anger. What did that make Hotch? Now somehow lost somewhere between an abuser and a phantom, nothing but distant memories every direction he looked. He didn't hear Morgan approach him from behind, pull him away from the now empty table.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, standing a little too close. Hotch blinked stupidly a few times, tried to get his bearings.

“I,” he began, ready to pour it out. Ready to just overflow into the one person who could take it all and put it right, but he stopped short. Shook his head. Morgan didn't want it, he'd made that much clear. He couldn't figure out why he cared now, why he'd watched him suffering for weeks without a sideways glance, how he could walk out of that hotel room in Barbados and write him off entirely and then come here expecting that he still held a place of trust. Even if it was true, even if it was the only true thing Hotch knew at that moment. His stubborn pride won. “You don't get to come and go when it's convenient for you. You're the one who needed time, you're the one who left. I need to get home. Good job today.”

Home didn't feel like home. He wasn't welcome, no one greeted him happily when he walked through the door. Jessica wore a look of pain and concern on her features he didn't often see, while Jack and Roy played video games loudly down the hall. There was pizza on the table waiting for them and he wondered if it was cold, if he'd ruined dinner too.

“Jess,” he said softly, pulling her aside. “You bring it up. If I say anything, he'll turn it down.”

She knew. “Okay,” she said, and the look on his face seemed to so entirely mirror her own. They would smile as she approached her father over pizza, offer him a bedroom with her like it hadn't been planned out by the two of them in any spare minute he'd found during the day to call her. Shuffling between a murderer and the care of a man who hated him. After dinner the mood had lightened, Jessica was relieved and Jack was excited.

“For once, take the low road and tell me to take a hike,” Roy muttered after laying into Hotch again when his daughter and grandson were out of earshot. Hotch chewed the inside of his lip, breathed out to hold the tears back. He was officially beyond his limit for one day. On the verge of taking the low road, of giving Roy what he thought he wanted, Hotch sat silently. He took it, he always did, even when he had nowhere to put it. Even when it overflowed, came back out as tears. Every angry, defensive word he wanted to say died before it reached his lips. Roy would never hear any of them. Roy would die never hearing Hotch defend himself. “You'll be rid of me soon enough.”

Jess saw the tears. She didn't have to hear the words from her dad's mouth to know what he'd said, to know what he was doing. Hotch sucked in a breath and forced a smile when Jack came back into the room with his model airplane. He found the smile hiding beneath the ashes somewhere deep that Roy hadn't burned, not yet. The smile of the teenager who went out and learned how to fish beside a man who had no reason to love him. The smile of a proud young man graduating the FBI Academy and seeing a man who never had to love him clapping for him as if he were his own. He could take Roy's angry words because he could remember Roy's love. It was enough.

Jack cracked jokes while they built his model airplane, jokes that Hotch knew without a doubt Morgan had taught him. Some were inappropriate but elicited laughter anyway. A few were punctuated in sloppy Italian thanks to Rossi or pristine French thanks to Prentiss. They all had a hand in making sure Jack got away with saying things he shouldn't have in languages his father didn't know.

...

“I need you to tell me what's going on,” Jessica said, handing Morgan a cup of coffee. She didn't often make it a point to spend time with him, but she had the morning to herself and Hotch had become almost insufferable so she invited him over to her place. He was wary, but thought it might help them patch things up so he accepted. “Did you two end things?”

“No, I don't think so...” Morgan assured her, swirling the coffee in his mug, releasing the steam into the air around him. “I just thought a little space would do us both some good, help us figure out our priorities.”

“Priorities? You mean like him not knowing how to stop working? Like him cleaning the bathroom grout with a steamer and a toothbrush at 3am on a Saturday because he can't sleep? Priorities like that?” She smiled, she was mostly kidding, she dealt with problems by using sarcasm and jokes. A lot of people tended not to like her because of this but she didn't mind that much, those people didn't concern her. Morgan had always liked it. Made him smile.

“He didn't want the team to know about us. I mean a few months in, fine, I get it man...but it's been over a year now and I guess I thought this was the real deal, end game shit you know? When can I stop lying to my friends?”

“Maybe instead of space, you guys just needed to talk?”

It was all fine and good for her to say that, and for Morgan to ultimately agree with her, but Hotch was still doing his best to run himself into the ground entirely. It was how he coped, easier to avoid painful things if he just worked around them. Helping Jack with his homework, making dinner, putting Jack to bed, working all night. He would sleep at his desk some nights, curl up on the couch others. His bed had been made for two full weeks without him ever touching it. Jessica hovered, tried to badger him into taking care of himself when she could but she had her own plate full of shit to deal with. She loved him dearly but she wasn't his mother and he was, for all intents and purposes, still functioning at a high enough level that he hadn't become a danger to himself or anyone else.

...

Work was work and no one seemed to notice the change. Not really. They'd always managed their relationship in a way that nothing ever looked different from the outside. It was a testament to their professionalism on one hand, and to the incredible closeness they'd developed over the years on the other. No one noticed a change because there wasn't one at work, there didn't need to be. They couldn't seem to find time to talk unless it had to do with work, though. They talked about cases, proof read each other's papers and lectures, Hotch approved a new physical ed program Morgan wanted to try out with Academy recruits. By the time they had a new case, the break was so far from either of their minds it was like it had never happened, right along with years of commitment and time and love. All out the window, but somehow they still found themselves able to function in such a way that no one asked them about it.

...

It was Scratch that changed things. Peter Lewis, for all his evil, managed to fix something that had been, up to that point, completely broken. Seeing Morgan shot in front of him, the warm sticky blood on his face, lifeless body there on the floor, his worst fear was realized. No one was there with him and he couldn't move, couldn't reach out and touch Morgan, just stared at his soulless eyes, every minutiae of the man he loved gone. Only the beautiful perfection of his body remained, bleeding away everything that made him him. Peter Lewis loomed over him, smiled and the images faded. He felt sick.

With a gun in his hand, he stared at the door, ready to shoot Scratch, blinking away the confusion that swirled through him. What was real, what wasn't. He held the gun in trembling hands, shoved it off to Rossi the moment he could and collapsed, tears coursing down his cheeks. He heard Morgan's voice in Rossi's comm, heard JJ, they were alive or he was seeing things again. Everything was faded and hazy.

In the ambulance, Rossi held his hands and listened as he recited what he could remember, his voice shaky and unsure. Recalling Dr. Ragan's blood, Scratch's smile, Morgan's blood on his face. As long as he lived he didn't think he'd ever forget that feeling. It hadn't ever happened but it was as real as Haley's blood on his hands. He shivered violently, the drugs coursing through his veins, his heart thundering in his chest. He was electric, thought he might explode at any moment. He didn't put up a fight when the EMT draped a blanket over his shoulders and told him to slide into the ambulance, helped him up onto the stretcher while Rossi seated himself within eye shot still listening to the story, still asking questions, still holding his hand.

“Is Morgan...” Hotch began and Rossi nodded. He never looked away, not once.

“He's fine. Everyone is fine. Scratch is with the police, the team is okay. What you saw wasn't real, Aaron.”

He had the distinct feeling Rossi had said that to him before. Moments before, maybe more than once. It sounded like a well rehearsed script. He was losing it. His eyes drifted closed, he was so tired and the pain was setting in now. Each movement of his wrist shot bolts of lightning up his arm, crackled in his elbow. He wouldn't tell Rossi, wouldn't pull his hand away. He needed that.

“Dave?” he asked, because he knew his friend was still there. Could still feel his hand, the warmth of his skin, he would know that grip anywhere. When everything started to fade he focused on his grip, on the pain it caused. That was real it had to be. “Dave...is Morgan?”

“He's fine, Aaron, I just sent him a text to meet us at the hospital.”

“Why does he need to...was he hurt?” His voice was weak, the EMT said something about his pulse being thready and slow, but his heart still felt like it was going to explode inside of him. It didn't make sense. “Dave?”

“He's fine, Aaron. You are hurt, not Morgan.”

He lost count of how many times he repeated himself, but at least it meant that Hotch was alive. When he went silent, when the EMTs put the oxygen mask over his face and his eyes rolled back in his head, that was when he worried.

In the hospital, he was treated for minor injuries. His wrist was bandaged and his ribs were bruised, packed with ice against his side while they awaited more tests. They cleaned up the blood on his cheek, the blood he was sure was Morgan's even after Rossi assured him it was his own. It was hours that the team paced the waiting room, hours of Rossi coming out to assure them things were moving, Hotch was in and out of sleep, they weren't going to admit him so they weren't letting him have visitors. Rossi only crept out of the room to give them updates, wouldn't be gone for longer than a minute, couldn't bear to be away from his friend.

They stayed in the lobby for hours, exhausted as they were. None of them could find it in them to walk away not knowing how Hotch was, not seeing him with their own eyes. What Scratch did to people was terrifying and each of them found themselves wondering what they would see when he came back. None of them were prepared for the sight of Hotch walking side by side with Rossi, looking exactly like a person who had just gone toe to toe with their worst fears. He walked slowly, listened as they all stood and greeted him, said they were glad he was okay (was he? He wasn't so sure...) and watched as he forced his way through them to fall into Morgan's chest. Without hesitation, Morgan wrapped his arms around Hotch's shoulders, pulled him as close as he could, held as tight as he felt comfortable. Hotch buried his face in Morgan's neck and cried, he couldn't stop it and for once he just didn't care. Maybe it was the drugs, maybe not, it didn't matter.

“I think they might figure us out,” Morgan whispered and Hotch closed his eyes, breathed in the smell of Morgan's skin, felt his entire body shake with weeks of sadness and anger and pain.

“Don't care,” he whispered, lips slicked with his own tears. I need you, everything is worse without you, I don't care about my job, he meant to say it all. Couldn't make his mouth work, but he held tight, one fist balled up tight in Morgan's shirt, the other, bandaged and painful, resting cradled against the small of his back. His head was a place of chaos and burning, every inch of his body hurt from injuries he didn't remember sustaining, his grip on reality was frail at best but Morgan's arms were solid and they were real and they were holding him firmly in place. It was enough.

“I can't...I can't go home...” Hotch whispered, still squeezing his eyes shut. His eyes that he couldn't trust. “I can't be around Jack and Jessica, not yet...not...I don't know what he did to me...” It was bad, that was all he knew. He couldn't trust himself, but he could trust Morgan. He could always trust Morgan.

“You can come stay at my place,” Morgan whispered back, lips pressed soft against Hotch's damp hair. “Garcia is staying a few days, her apartment building is being fumigated or something...if you don't mind...” He left it hanging, left it open for Hotch to decide.

Yes, he was standing there in front of all of them and yes he was letting Morgan hold him but they could still find a way to explain it. He'd done it after Haley, he'd pulled Hotch off of Foyet and he'd held him tight right there in front of Rossi, in front of Prentiss. No one had ever questioned their closeness, their motives then. They could explain it if they wanted, but Hotch shivered in his arms and pushed himself tighter into the embrace, pressed his cheek into the warmth of Morgan's neck and shook his head. He didn't care anymore and as he stood there, all eyes on him, all eyes on them, he knew he never should have cared in the first place.

None of it mattered.

[masterwords]

Are you looking for prompts? If so maybe Hotch having side effects from medication after Foyet (so somewhere in season 5, maybe just after Jack came to live with him) and Jack worries about him, so he tries his best to take care of him and eventually calls Morgan or Jesica or anybody else you want. Thanks, have a great day.

I am always welcoming prompts! You guys have the best ideas and I am always happy to oblige. I think this got a little darker than you'd imagined, and it is only barely in line with what you actually asked for and I'm sorry for that. It's kind of chaotic and mostly a long insane ramble but...I hope you like it? It is mostly platonic Hotchgan but you could look at it romantically if you wanted. Thank you for thinking of me to write up your idea! <3

Warnings: drug/medication side effects, suicidal thoughts/attempts, grief

Words: ~2600

**

His hands were shaking.

That was fairly normal for him these days, he'd almost gotten used to it. They'd been shaking since Foyet's attack and no matter how many breathing techniques or fancy little calming sayings his Bureau appointed therapist taught him, he couldn't seem to get them to stop. Sometimes one hand would stop, but never both. It didn't hinder his day to day activities, he only really noticed it when he was sitting still, trying to relax or fall asleep. With a pen in his hand, with a gun, he was steady. It was manageable. No one said anything but he could tell they'd noticed. It got worse after Haley died, but he rolled with it. Accepted that it was part of him for the time being. He could hold a book and not notice it, but sitting with his hands folded in his lap was troubling.

Not like this, though. He couldn't grip the cereal box without it trembling, cereal missing the bowl entirely. Jack watched with the kind of concern a child has when they don't understand something and they want to – brow furrowed, nose scrunched, he said nothing. Hotch gritted his teeth, set his jaw and focused harder on his hands until he got enough into the bowl that Jack wouldn't complain. The table was a mess, Apple Jacks all over. He took a step to the side to reach swipe some up and heard them crunch beneath his foot. Jack looked up at his father and back at the mess, wondering whether he should say something. He didn't know how to behave around his dad right now, everything felt strange.

He missed his mom. She would never spill the cereal. It hadn't really sunk in yet that she wasn't coming back, this kind of finality didn't register in his mind as a possibility. She was on vacation, on a trip. On a case, maybe, just like his dad. Permanence was beyond his grasp.

“Mommy can help you,” he mumbled, lifting his spoon in anticipation of a bowl of his favorite food. Hotch froze. Couldn't move. So Jack repeated himself. “Just call mommy. She knows how to get the cereal right. Mommy always does the cereal right.”

He willed his fingers to grasp the milk, to lift it over the bowl. He'd already fumbled with the lid before bringing it over, there was no need to worry about that, the damage there was done. There was a moment that everything looked like it was going to work out, the milk streamed into the cereal, splashed against the edge of the bowl and Jack smiled. It was good. He was doing it, such a mundane task had felt insurmountable minutes before but now...he was doing it. Making his son a bowl of cereal. If he could manage that, maybe next he could get himself dressed or brush his teeth without it taking an hour. Without needing help because he couldn't seem to get his shirt buttoned all the way.

And then he dropped the milk, it slipped from his fingers and crashed against the table. Catching the lip of the bowl, it sent the cereal flying, white liquid pouring everywhere. He closed his eyes as Jack scooted himself back, a little too late, there was already milk in his lap and it cascaded to the floor over his legs, into his shoes.

The sound of Jack crying filled the entire apartment, rattled through his bones.

His hands weren't shaking now, he just couldn't make them work. His fingers cramped, pulled in toward his palms and he shook his head, apologized to Jack for making a mess and slipped away from the table and toward the kitchen to get a towel, napkins, anything. Unsure what he was going to do with them, what was happening to his body, he just went on a blind mission. He had to clean it up. That's it, so simple.

“Daddy made a mess!” Jack exclaimed and Hotch hunched over, back against the kitchen wall, and held his painful hands close to him, listening to Jack tell Jessica about their morning. First daddy put his shoes on the wrong feet, and then he spilled the cereal everywhere. Now there was milk in his shoes. Jessica smiled, told Jack that his shoes were indeed on the right feet, but they would need to change them because he didn't want to have stinky wet milk feet all day did he? Hotch sucked in a deep breath and tried to will himself to stand tall, to find a way but he couldn't seem to move. If she could have shown up ten minutes later he would have had everything cleaned up. She shushed Jack, told him to go change his clothes and rushed into the kitchen.

“What's going on?” she asked, approaching Hotch cautiously. He didn't say anything, mostly because he didn't know. Had no idea. What was he supposed to say? She reached out, pulled his hands into hers and sighed. “Aaron.”

“I just need a minute,” he mumbled, pulling his hands back toward himself protectively. He had no idea what was wrong with them but it was his problem, not hers. “You weren't supposed to come by today.”

“Oh for pete sake, Aaron,” she muttered, turning around to peek her head down the hallway, making sure Jack wasn't listening. When she turned back to him, her anger faded. He looked worried, almost childlike. She couldn't fault him for that. “Let me help. I have nothing else to do with my days off.”

He slid down the wall and pressed his face into his palms, letting out a low sob. It came on without warning, caught him entirely off guard. Jessica stood over him, hovered there a moment to see what his next move would be and when he didn't make any attempt to explain it away, tell her to leave, stand up and pretend he was fine she sat down beside him. “Aaron?”

“I don't know what's wrong with me,” he whispered without looking at her. She leaned against him and sighed.

“Where do I begin?” she asked, her lip twitching up into just the softest little smile. “Aaron, you've been through a lot...”

“Don't,” he said, shaking his head. “You lost her too. Don't tell me that.”

“Well, first of all that isn't what I meant, you jerk,” she replied, rolling her eyes. She wanted to punch him, to push him over, to remind him that he didn't get away with talking to her that way. Instead she put her arm around his shoulder, pulled him close to her so she didn't have to talk so loud. “Look. I know you don't care what I think but I'm going to tell you anyway, and you're going to listen. I read all of the package inserts for all of your prescriptions. Every one of them, and every time I pick up a new one I talk to the pharmacist. This is normal. Your body is just adjusting to whatever new cocktail they've got you on until they find the sweet spot, it'll pass. And if, for some reason it doesn't...” Well. She was already going to call his doctor and talk to him, tell him about this episode. She wouldn't let on but she was concerned. He let himself lean against her, pressing his weight against her.

“I can't do this.”

“Yes, you can. And you will.”

She nudged him back, pushed him upright. He was alone, raising a son he barely knew, preparing to return to work in a body that was malfunctioning. So what if she lied to him sometimes to build him up? Give him a little false confidence to make up for where he lacked the real deal? He would find it again, it would just take time. They both had an abundance of that lately.

He was better after that. Slowly the tremors stopped, the headaches stopped, and he went back to work. She wasn't entirely convinced of what she was seeing, he was a master manipulator, but she'd spent so much time building him up that it would have been impossible for her to step in and pull him back.

There had been a brief period of suspicion, his tremors stopped so suddenly she went and counted his pills and found that he'd missed a few days. Nothing to be terribly concerned about, she knew he forgot them often or just got busy. It became a habit, every morning she'd show up a little early to take Jack to school and she would count his pills, force him to take them. He hated that she did that, took them reluctantly and watched as his side effects returned, the headaches and the tremors and the thoughts. The side effects were worse than living with the symptoms of what they were treating.

Especially those invasive thoughts the therapist worried about. The ones he couldn't seem to control, hadn't ever been able to control. Only ignore, because that's what he did best. Now they were front and center, in the spotlight. He couldn't hide from them, and at a certain point he'd started to believe them.

It became easier just to slip the pills into his pocket and lie to Jessica, tell her he'd taken them. It was too easy. She trusted him, she had no reason not to anymore. Sure, there had been times in her life she hadn't, she'd seen him do things that no one who knew him now would ever believe but he'd gotten past all of that. And he seemed to be doing well.

Until he collapsed in his office, hit his head on the desk on the way down. There wasn't anyone there to help him, he was alone, it was just after 5 and everyone had gone home for the day. He couldn't pull himself upright, was too dizzy and his head throbbed. There was blood, he could feel it trickling down into his eyebrow and he frowned. His phone buzzed in his pocket relentlessly, he made no attempt to reach for it.

When Morgan pushed through the door, he found Hotch unconscious on the floor beside his desk. He'd been at home, enjoying his Thursday evening when Jessica called frantic – she'd received a call from the daycare saying Hotch never came to pick up Jack and they couldn't reach him. They were charging $15 for every ten minutes he was late and it was adding up. He was aware of the cost, it wasn't like him to be late.

“I got him,” he said, pressing a finger to the thready pulse at Hotch's jaw. His skin felt cold, clammy and Morgan swallowed the lump in his throat. “Looks like he passed out, but he's breathing.” Jessica let out a string of curses before hanging up and letting Morgan dial 911, shrugging out of his jacket and pressing it to the wound on his head to stop the bleeding. He stayed with Hotch, rode with him in the ambulance, watched the EMTs put the oxygen mask over his face.

“Does he take any medications?”

“I uh...” Morgan stammered, staring at the ghostly pale form of his friend on the stretcher. The blood on his forehead looked almost black, thick and sticky in places, dry in others. He held his jacket in his hands, thumbs slipping over the drying blood mindlessly. “Yeah. He does but I don't know...” They didn't seem to care, kept poking at him, shining their lights into his eyes, ignoring Morgan entirely.

It was a quick admit in the hospital, and Morgan sat in the waiting room mourning the loss of his quiet evening. Going back and forth between wanting to let the team know and keeping it quiet, he waited, texted with Jessica. The team didn't need to know, they would all flood the hospital and what good would it do? He had no information, nothing to give them except the same worry that was eating away at his stomach and making him sick.

What if he'd gotten there too late?

“Are you here with Aaron Hotchner?” a nurse asked and she beckoned Morgan to come back with her. Hotch was awake, barely. Blinking too slowly beneath a heavy patch of gauze over his forehead. He turned toward the window, didn't want Morgan to be there, to look at him, too filled with the shame of what he'd done.

Too filled with shame that it hadn't worked.

Anyone else might believe it was an accident, but not Morgan.

He loved Hotch the same way Jessica did, it was never to offer him the benefit of the doubt, to always question him. They trusted him implicitly when it came to external motivation, taking care of someone else, but when it came to himself? They were under no illusions that he gave a shit whether he lived or died most days, no matter how they wished it wasn't so. Some days, weeks, months were better than others but he was suffering now and there wasn't anything they could do about it.

“You stopped taking your meds, didn't you?” Morgan asked once the room had cleared. Hotch coughed softly, his throat dry and painful, and closed his eyes. He picked at he paper tape on his arm, scratched at the tight skin over the IV cannula. It made his vein bulge, skin turning purple and bruised around it.

“Hotch?”

Silence. Angry silence from both of them. Hotch at being called out, at being once again in the hospital completely vulnerable and useless and Morgan at losing another evening to the stubborn pride of his friend.

“You could have died.”

“I didn't.”

“What would Jack do if you had?”

“I don't know, Morgan. Have a better life?” His voice was cold, distant. Sarcastic. Like icy water trickling through Morgan's veins, he realized exactly what had happened. He'd suspected it already, but there was no question now what Hotch was hoping would happen, anyway, if the daycare hadn't called Jessica. If she hadn't called him. If he didn't care enough to show up. He knew what could happen to him if he stopped taking his meds, if he just happened to forget enough doses.

It could still have been an accident. But it wasn't. It wasn't an accident. Furiously Morgan walked out of the room, he had to catch his breath and where was Hotch going to go if he took his eyes off of him for a minute? Nowhere. He leaned against the wall and clenched his fists, imagining one just smashing into Hotch's face, bone crunching beneath his knuckles. God it would have felt so good to knock some sense into him. He watched hospital staff walk by, listened to the squeaking of their rubber soled shoes on the linoleum and he tried to find something to cling to. Some shred of hope, some silver lining. A way out of this mess. How could he tell Jessica? She probably already knew, probably figured it out before he did. Maybe she would punch him, do it for him.

“Morgan?” Hotch called from inside of his room, he could still see the other man's shadow just beyond the doorway, knew he hadn't gone far. He wouldn't, he never did. Morgan, no matter how frustrated he got with Hotch, was always right there. He didn't deserve it. “I'm sorry.”

That was all it took. As quickly as Morgan's anger had risen, so it fell. The fire died out to embers, warm but no longer dangerous. He moved himself slowly back into the room, softened his features and mustered the courage to approach the bed. To move close enough to touch Hotch.

“Don't you ever...” Morgan whispered, reaching out, circling his long fingers around Hotch's entire hand. Closing around him, feeling the warmth of his skin. He locked eyes with Hotch, wouldn't release him from his grip, knew that this would be their secret. There was nothing to tell, no one who needed to know. “Ever...”

“I won't.”

And Morgan believed him. He didn't want to, but he had to.