#code name mom

[codename-mom]

Between two worlds

Summary: Aaron has just been stabbed by Foyet. Half conscious, he's trying to figure out what's going on around him.

Characters: Aaron Hotchner (Foyet is somewhere around but he doesn't speak)

Contents: TW pain, stab wounds, blood, paralysis, nausea, medical actions... it's an internal dialogue with Hotch analyzing all his feelings, so it can be rough. NSFW/Minors DNI

PS : English is not my mother language so they are necessarily mistakes. Sorry about that.

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Read on AO3

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                Nine. He had counted nine stab wounds. If Foyet decided to follow his plan to the letter, he had to be done with it. Well, that was what he was hoping for. He was in such a pain. He had the sensation that every nerve in his chest was screaming at the same time. That they were all trying to make their voice heard more than the others, resulting in a sensory cacophony that totally stultified him. He wanted it to stop. He wanted to close his eyes and feel nothing at all. Except that his eyes were already closed and the pain was excruciating. How could anyone be in so much pain and still be conscious?

                What was that noise? He couldn’t turn his head to check. He couldn't even spread his eyelids. Too much pain. No strength anymore. He could no longer feel his extremities. All his limbs weighed tons. What was that? A chuckle? A groan? Actually, he didn’t want to know. He was nauseous. Why was the ground rocking so much beneath him? It didn’t make sense. And Foyet, who seemed to be enjoying the moment when all he wanted was for it to stop. Mercy! Somebody bust his eardrums or rip his ears off! He didn’t want to hear anything anymore. In any case, he couldn't have been in more pain.

                He has lost consciousness? Maybe. There was something missing in the sequence of events. What he was doing on his belly? The pain returned, more searing and intense than ever. What was that texture under his cheek? It was cold, bumpy and noisy. The slightest movement Foyet made him make – because he couldn't move on his own anyway – provoked a series of cracks that echoed in his skull. The sound hurt him. Everything was hurting him, in fact. Or almost. Foyet was kicking him in the calf – or was it his thigh? Or his ankle? In short, somewhere in his leg – and the sensation seemed to be coming from extremely far away. He had the impression that a thick layer of cotton cushioned the shock.

                If he’d been able to, he would have screamed. Instead, when Foyet put him again on his back, all he uttered was a vague, suffering gurgle. Loud enough, however, to attract the attention of his torturer. He opened his mouth, made sounds and seemed to find his words amusing. He couldn't have said it, he hadn't understood anything. The letters had arrived in a jumble in his ear canal, then scattered randomly in his brain. The pain wiped out all mental exercise. His brain was entirely focused on the twinges coming from his torso. Spins that redoubled in power when Foyet set about towing him. To go where? What was he going to do with him? Why didn't he let him die in his living room? What was his sick mind up to now? He didn't know, and he was in too much pain to make any assumptions.

                Where was he? He had fainted again. How much time? Was it really moving beneath him or was he just dizzy? He felt like throwing up. What was in his mouth? It was hot, liquid and ferruginous. Blood. He parted his lips and trickles of hemoglobin ran down his chin, down the back of his neck and onto the tarpaulin he was loosely wrapped in. He coughed, winced in pain and coughed again. Where was he? Why was the floor vibrating under his back? Was he delirious or was someone singing nearby? Who? Foyet?

                A flash blinded him, quickly followed by a second, then a third. With great difficulty, he managed to open his eyes. The glare again. Fleeting, yet repetitive. He looked away, trying to figure out what was going on. The plastic in which it had been wrapped had slipped – unless he had been dragged along by his own weight. In any case, he realized he was in the back of a vehicle. A pickup truck or a van. Everything around him was a blur, but he smelled rust, dust, earth and iron. That of his blood and that of the structure on which he was carried. Every bump, every pothole, every turn caused vibrations throughout his body, tugging at his torn tissues, jostling his ripped muscles. He was incapable of the slightest movement, but his entire nervous system had reached a level of sensitivity that would have made him scream if he'd had the energy. That was not the case. So he ached, silently, his retina regularly burned by the streetlamps that lined the roadside.

                He didn't know how long the journey lasted, but the brake jerk woke him from his unconsciousness. His brain had once again stalled, overwhelmed by the overflow of stimuli, all the while running out of oxygen. His heart thumped erratically against his ribs, his lungs struggled to rise, his eyelids were far too heavy to open now. A draught slapped his face as he heard a clatter. Someone was walking around him. Foyet? Who else? Without warning, he was shoved violently out of the way, and the encounter with the concrete sidewalk was brutal. He heard distant cries, doors closed and an engine started up close to him. Too close. He felt like coughing, but held back because he knew the consequences. Where had he abandoned him?

                He heard people running in his direction. Voices shouted at each other. He still didn't understand, but he felt their concern, their annoyance, their daze too. Hands came to rest on his chest. His stomach reflexively contracted and a groan escaped his lips. The lightning had moved up his spine, shearing everything in its path, clouding his thoughts. Someone wrapped something around his neck as he returned to the present moment. Strangling him? No. His neck was blocked. A neck brace. He had dropped him off outside a hospital. Why? It didn’t make any sense. He was abruptly lifted from the tarmac and laid down, without much more gentleness, on a softer support. A stretcher, most likely. He moved again, and the tremors of the metal frame reverberated throughout his bones. The pain was still spreading its venom through his veins. When would it stop? Soon, he hoped.

                The overhead lights exploded as they entered the building. Even with his eyelids closed, he was in pain. He wanted to turn everything off. But that wasn't on the agenda. A woman approached the team around him and questioned them. He managed to translate two or three words, but he had relied more on her intonation. She had to ask them where he'd come from. She was answered and then one palpated him with varying degrees of delicacy. His badge was taken from his inside pocket. This should direct them to the BAU. What time was it? His subordinates were surely asleep. They had no idea what was happening to their superior.

“… Derek Morgan.”

What? What were they saying? Aaron. His name was Aaron Hotchner. Why did they mention the ex-policeman? The stretcher moved, away from whoever had spoken. He had to rectify this information. He had to straighten up, communicate, explain what had happened. He didn't even have the strength to move a finger. In fact, he could no longer feel them. Did he still have them? A slight pressure on the tip of his index finger enabled him to determine that he had at least one left. The bed rolled and rolled and rolled, through swinging doors, forcing shadows to move aside. Someone touched his cheek with a certain firmness. Then a questioning voice spoke up. Was he the one being asked? He opened his mouth and a warm liquid beaded along his jaw. Drool? Blood? Well, he was sure he hadn't said anything.

                The room they entered was darker than the corridor. Good, his head hurt too much. His shoes were removed, then his socks. The cold slid under his foot arch. Then the sleeves of his pants and jacket were pulled. He knew what was coming and tried to protest. That suit cost a fortune and they were going to turn it into lint. He gurgled and nearly choked to death. It didn’t change anything. Within moments, he found himself with nothing on his back. An icy breeze circulated through the room. He shivered. The pain followed the same path. A cloth was laid over his legs, untouched, and his eyelids were lifted for him. A point of light crossed his right lens before piercing his left. Pupil reflexes. Someone must have realized that he wasn't as unconscious as he seemed. We grazed his arm, stuck stuff on it, and then shoved a pipe down his throat. He retched, but it only hurt.

                The world around him began to darken. The panicked beeping that had just appeared nearby became increasingly distant. His body seemed to sink onto the operating table. The pain was gradually subsiding. He was falling asleep. At last. He’s going to stop suffering. No! He had to stay awake. They didn't know his exact identity. They had to know who he was to warn his team. To warn his mother. To warn his son. Jack. He had to… resist… Foyet… free… His son… danger… Jack.

___

I had this idea in mind for quite a long time now, but didn't find the time to write it until now. It won't be part of Code Name: Mom, just as an appendix.

I hope you like it anyway. :)

[nicodemuslily]

As I’m currently working on my Hotchniss fanfic, I’ve got a pretty clear idea of what Jack looks like at 17-18. He looks like a younger Aaron, but with lighter hair and his mother nose and ears. I’m not that good at this exercice, but he’s suppose to have the same face features than his father (chin, jaw, eyes, eyebrows, hairline, spike of hair...). Temper speaking, Jack is a smart kid, with a sharp mind, a fine repartee and a big heart. 

On the first line, those scenes happened in my Hotch-centric fanfic; when they were ready to move far away from Quantico (after Mr. Scratch final clap) on the first one and when they were under witness protection for the second one. On the first one, Jack has just discovered that his mother cheated on his father and he’s upset that his father still protected her no matter what (Aaron took the full responsability of this behavior because he was neglectful). On the second one, Jack was pissed because he wanted something but as they were under protection, he couldn’t have it. So, he’s furious against his father because if Aaron wasn’t a FBI agent from the BAU, he would have been free to buy this thing.

On the second line, those scenes happened in my Hotchniss fanfic. Jack is having fun of his father misadventure with Sergio because he’s some kind of jealous (his old man enjoys himself with a woman when he’s not and he’s craving to). On the second one, Jack is asking questions to his father about periods and he’s unsettled by what he learns (actually, Aaron told him that it took 23 hours to his grand-mother to give birth to his father).

[daisychainsandbowties]

super curious today about how people feel toward the names they might have been given. apparently i used to ask my mom about my “boy name” several times a week and get really sad i couldn’t have both my given name and that name. being trans this is hilarious to me now so wondering

also curious how this intersects with being trans!! i feel like my fixation with it definitely had a lot to do with that, so idk add in tags? if you feel like being trans makes you more/less curious about it

[firephoenix23]

Girl these color codes are making me 🥺😭

[doctorsiren]

he’s mad she ratted him out

[kingly-court]

I’m legitimately gonna explode if I don’t find someone else who understand the background tragedy of the Gleeful Family in Gravity falls.

[ivymarquis]

Blind Date

Me: “why the fuck is this fic taking so long to finish?”

The fic: *is the longest singular piece I’ve ever written for one chapter*

Pairing| John Price x F!Single Mom!Reader Rating| M Word Count| 8.4k Kinks/Content/Warnings| Drinking (everyone is clear headed), run ins with a shitty ex, mentions of abuse from prior relationship, these two are incredibly down bad for each other, oral (m! and f!receiving), protected piv, squirting

There is a certain catharsis in lamenting your dating horror stories with men to a married lesbian who’s over a decade older than you. Kate is always willing to lend an ear, and you’re positive that she gets a kick out of your misadventures in the way so many married people did while listening to their single friends.

“I swear I’m this close to just giving up all together and embracing spinsterhood,” you grouse with a drink in your hand after the work day had concluded.

You like to think your standards aren’t unreasonable. Someone kind, with their head on straight. It felt like finding a man who respects you as a person is becoming too big an ask and you very simply would rather be alone than deal with the endless hoard of men who seem hell bent on destroying any confidence you have in yourself.

“What about the guy you went out with yesterday?” Kate inquires with her head tilted. Must be fun, listening to your ramblings with a devoted partner at home.

“Oh did I not tell you? He was engaged!”

Kate pulls a face like her drink soured on her, matching how you’d felt at the time.

“Even better- guess how I found out he’s engaged.”

“She showed up at the restaurant?” Kate hits the nail on the head on the first try.

“Bingo,” you raise your glass in a gesture of affirmation before finishing it off. “Somehow I ended up being the one getting yelled at in that situation. Un-friggin-believable.”

You don’t abuse your work privileges to creep on people you meet in your personal life, but public record could have spared you if he’d been married. Harder to find out about an engagement from a total stranger who was determined to not let you find out about it and didn’t have social media.

“There’s always the other side,” Kate teases.

“Women scare me too much, I get all nervous.” You could appreciate an attractive woman as much as the next gal but good God you just could not help yourself when it came to men. The subtle way their breathing would change before they made their move, that low timber growling in your ear. The sheer weight of one on top of you as he manhandled you into the bedding-

Dear Lord, you need to get laid. Maybe you’re fixating on it too much because you’ve had an over 2 year dry spell. That tends to happen after a baby though. Especially with a pain in the ass ex who thinks he can pick and choose when to be around (and becomes absolutely incensed each time you remind him he could be consistent or he could stay home).

Kate is thoughtful for a moment, clearly kicking around an idea she hasn’t fully committed to in one direction or another. You can see the moment she decides to proceed with the thought. “Depending on what exactly you’re looking for, I might know someone.”

—

And here you are on a Saturday night, nerves clawing at your belly like a rabid dog.

Most (well, all) of the men you’ve dated you met online. There’s almost additional butterflies beyond the first-meet jitters knowing that the date is set up by a mutual friend.

There’s more at stake, even if the stakes are relatively low pressure. If the guys you met online did something incredibly out of pocket you never had to see them again, and held no qualms divulging the events to friends. Your romantic life has been full of misadventures but has given you a handful of stories, and as strangers you never have to consider any possible fallout in telling those stories.

Your son is with your mother for the night, allowing you the opportunity to focus solely on yourself this evening. No concern about keeping an eye on him while getting ready, worrying about what possible trouble he’ll get into when your back is turned.

It is hard at times- striking that balance between wanting to be a good mom and also wanting to be acknowledged as a desirable woman who has needs. A lot of men are shitty about it. You’d grilled Kate for every detail of his reaction when being informed of your young son. You don’t need another ambush regarding your disinterest in making it work with your son’s father.

She’d soothed your nerves- he hadn’t batted an eye, was about as worried about your reaction to how often his job pulled him away as you were about him having a poor reaction to being a single mom. You both have responsibilities that have to be placed above a relationship, now go play nice and have fun.

You tell yourself you can have one drink while waiting at the bar of the restaurant you’d agreed to meet at.

White wine ends up being your pick- not quite so easy to suck down as a tasty cocktail full of liquor, but gives you something to occupy yourself with.

You’ve only had the drink a handful of minutes before hearing someone clear their throat slightly behind you, and then your name.

Kate has shown you a photo of what he looks like so you’re not caught off guard when you turn around.

He’s handsome. You expect that but it’s different seeing him opposed to just the photo. Kind eyes, a warm smile on his face as he takes you in.

At least you both seem pleased with the big reveal.

“I’ve got a table waiting for us if you’re ready, love.”

He holds out a hand to let you balance yourself as you dismount from the bar seating, allowing you to steady yourself in your heels.

His hand is warm on your waist as he guides you and you’re already smitten by the time the pair of you sit down.

You’re fifteen minutes into dinner when you decide that so long as he a) is willing and b) doesn’t say or do anything completely deranged, you are going to ride Captain John Price like a mechanical bull at a shitty dive bar at the end of the night.

Perhaps the bar is in hell but either way you have been utterly deprived the past few years and he is checking plenty of boxes for you.

“So you work with Kate?” Starting off on the easy footing- the common ground that leads you both here.

“I do. Not directly- I work more on the tech side. I’m an independent contractor, I basically built the entire system she runs off of.”

“Beauty and brains,” his praise warms you, an impressed expression on his face. “Would explain how we’ve never crossed paths if you were hiding in a backroom surrounded by monitors,” he teases.

“You’re actually not that far off the mark,” not that you hide persay, but keeping that contract keeps a roof over your head and food in your child’s mouth. That keeps you busy. The fewer people who know how to work your program, the harder you are to get rid of.

You may or may not have hidden a few kill switches. Job security you call it. Though it’s not exactly first date material to talk about how you’ve got a government agency in a mutual understanding- keep extending your contract, and the program continues to work.

Either way, you don’t have much contact with the soldiers. Maybe you have passed each other in the halls but probably not- you’re certain a face like that wouldn’t have escaped your notice, introduction via a mutual friend or no. But you decide to utilize that mutual friend to shift the conversation. He’s hedged around talking about his work- on his end, sees that as the thing that might be a deal breaker for you. Probably wants to delay that until you've at least gotten your entrees.

So you go from business to hobbies. And it’s probably not entirely fair, but you’re about to see what his sense of humor is.

“Kate mentioned you’re a big soccer fan?” You make sure your expression is wide and doe eyed as you ask the question.

His eyebrow twitches- caught, no doubt, between wanting to leave a good first impression and biting back it’s football over here, love.

You crack far quicker than you initially plan, the wide grin on your face as you let him off the hook he’s good naturedly trying not to bite.

“Beauty, brains, and a comedian, lucky me.”

“I’m sorry, I had to. In fact, it was in her terms for this,” you make a vague gesture with your hand.

“Trust Kate to wheel and deal just to get my blood pressure up,” he muses as he takes a sip from his drink.

The conversation rolls easily enough- an ebb and flow as one of you poses a question, the other answering before allowing the first to say their contribution to the subject and moving on.

He’s charming, attentive, and a good storyteller. The way he carries himself screams military without being overbearing. He’s relaxed back into his chair and something about the scene in front of you makes you want to climb into his lap like a domesticated house cat.

Being the field captain to a specialized task force it’s no shock that he’s in incredible shape and you find yourself slightly distracted on more than one occasion by his hands and forearms.

The food is wonderful though the company is better- you end up moving back to the bar for fresh drinks and to free up the table for the server.

You spend a good length of time just talking with him at the bar.

John’s attention is on you but it’s clear he’s proverbially chewing on something the further on you go.

“That is the look of someone with a question they’re not entirely positive they want an answer to,” you’ve got a habit of being a touch direct at times. Amazing how it streamlines a conversation though.

“Observant one, aren’t you?” He pauses, takes another sip of his drink. “It’s probably none of my business, but ah- is your son’s father in the picture at all?”

It was your turn to take a drink. This was always such a fun topic of conversation. Frankly the number of men who took your ex’s side when the whole custody arrangement gets brought up alarms you.

But he has a right to his son.

Fuck that.

Your child is not property and you do not give a singular shit about your ex’s feelings- especially if it comes at the expense of your son’s safety. But it saves you a substantial amount of time not wasting energy on someone who could not understand the reason for your decisions.

“The short answer to the question is no. I had already left him by the time I found out I was pregnant, and given I left because he’s a raging alcoholic- with the emphasis on the rage-,” what a nice, polite way to say he is an abusive asshole. Your gaze shifts down towards the bartop, missing the way John’s expression softens as he reads between the lines of what you say. They’re not pleasant memories, but you’re not a wounded bird anymore- you’ve tended to your clipped wings and grown new feathers. “I didn’t want him involved.”

“He ended up finding out from a mutual acquaintance, and while he claims he wants to be around, he hasn’t done much other than blow my phone up at midnight trying to throw his weight around every time he gets a new girlfriend. So I get to be the cold blooded harpy that he gets to cry about- which is fine by me. On paper he says he wants to be involved, but he’s made absolutely no effort to arrange plans or anything while sober. I haven’t seen him in over 2 years. I can’t trust him to be a safe parent, and since he’s not on any official records I get final say unless he wants to go to court over it.”

Your whole little house of cards hinges on the fact that your ex wants everyone to bend over backwards for him while doing nothing for anyone else. All it would take would be one subpoena for a paternity test and your hands would be tied. He is an incredibly functional alcoholic, so there isn’t a criminal record or anything you can do to prove he would be unfit. There’s no proof of the abuse he inflicted on you.

Which means, if push comes to shove, you would be forced to relinquish sole custody and hand your child over for unsupervised visitation.

But that requires effort on his part. And that effort is the only thing keeping your little house of cards afloat.

“Sorry that’s probably way more information than you wanted-“ good job. Everything was going great until you laid out your drama.

“No apology necessary; I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.”

And there’s no lecture about how you should give your ex a chance, that the opportunity to raise his son could make him change for the better. No dissertation on how you owe it to your son to do whatever it took to make things work with his father (that had been a weird way to end a date, and the only reason you hadn’t gotten up sooner and left was because it was such a bizarre conversation you’d half convinced yourself the whole thing had to be a bad dream).

You’re not a wounded bird and on the one hand it’s a good thing to get everything laid out on the table, but on the other you don’t want to sit and mope about your personal troubles. You’re actually enjoying John Price’s company, and don’t want to think about your problems.

And yes you are enjoying the time for what it is but part of you can’t help but also keep an eye out for… any opportunities for a transition.

As hot under the collar as you are, John’s gaze makes warmth coil in your gut in a way that has nothing to do with the wine- he’s being a gentleman.

It’s sweet. He’s being polite and respectful and showing sexual discipline while making it clear he’s interested.

And for all your bemoaning of prior dates with other men who aren’t captains of specialized task forces about how they were too pushy and too presumptuous and a nice dinner paired with drinks doesn’t entitle them to you dropping your panties—

Yet here you sit, hours into a conversation when you’d decided 15 minutes in you want to jump his bones. And you have to be patient otherwise you’re a total hypocrite.

You’re not entirely subtle. The pair of you are perched on barstools again, much closer than the table allowed you to be with the two of you angled towards each other.

Your dress looks good on you. A jewel toned blue that compliments your skin beautifully, the hemline stopping above your knees and loose enough to bounce tantalizingly when you hit your stride walking.

It’s not exactly an olive branch, but it is an offering of sorts when you carefully take the leg closest to John and cross it over the other. The hemline of your skirt slips up your thigh, exposing more of your leg. It stops just shy of exposing the top of your stockings and the clip to your garter. It does show just a hint of the darker border to your stockings, the lace peeking ever so slightly before transitioning to the sheer material that covers the rest of your legs.

You’re incredibly pleased with yourself when his eyes flick down for a split second and linger before snapping back to your face. Got you. He tries to hide behind being caught with a sheepish clearing of his throat. It’s adorable, really.

Your cheeks are starting to get sore from all the smiling and laughing that’s occurred over the past few hours. But he’s pleasant company so it’s a discomfort you’re happy to deal with.

You look past him for a split second- nothing in particular catching your attention but just taking in the scenery of the restaurant behind you. Your eyes are back on him in a moment only for your brain to process what it saw after a delay.

There’s no fucking way-

Yes. Yes there is. Your ex is mingling in the background, and you don’t even realize the smile on your face has fallen to a flat line like all the previous giddiness is draining out of you and pooling on the floor below.

It would not take a captain of an antiterrorism task force to see your sharp shift in disposition, so John notices immediately.

“Everything alright, love?”

Maybe he won’t see you. Maybe, if there is a God and he is merciful, your ex won’t look in your direction, won’t see you, and you can continue your cheerful plan of trying to seduce your date.

And whether there is not a God or he is just not merciful- either option remains with you having the same shit result. He turns his head and makes direct eye contact. God damn it.

You look back to John. You’d hoped you could move past talking about your ex for the evening. “Remember how I said I haven’t seen my ex in over 2 years?”

There’s a twinge of relief on his face- the look of a man grateful to not be the cause of your displeasure.

“Let me guess- he’s right behind me?”

“Not quite “right behind”, but yes. Hopefully he’ll just-“ a short huff off agitation leaves you as you cut yourself off.

So much for hoping he’d simply mind his business and stay with his group. He’s making his way towards the pair of you at the bar, and you can tell he’s had a good number of drinks in his system just looking at him.

You’d become extremely proficient at gauging how drunk your ex is at a glance. A skill you developed while still with him and one that doesn’t seem to have faded.

This is, you know without question, going to end up being absolutely humiliating for you. You just know it.

“I am going to go ahead and apologize now for whatever is going to come out of his mouth,” you inform John.

His hand finds your knee, giving a light, reassuring squeeze. “It’ll be alright, love.”

“Well what do we have here?” is the warning shot letting you know he’s not going to show any form of civility.

“Hello, Michael,” you greet cooly, mind spinning a hundred miles an hour trying to figure out how to end this conversation as quickly as possible.

“You don’t have time to answer my texts but you’ve got time to go out. That’s good. Good to know you’ve got your priorities in order,” he starts.

“Answering your texts isn’t even remotely on my priority list, you know that.” You’re trying incredibly hard to keep yourself from being outright nasty but a whole lot of old wounds float up to the surface at the sight of your ex.

Maybe your new feathers aren’t as filled out as you’d initially thought. You feel raw and exposed and it’s difficult to think. You know what you should do, how you should handle it- and there’s still that one little part in your brain that is keeping tabs on John and his response to all of this.

“Your priority should be my son-“ he starts,

“-who is with his perfectly capable grandmother for the evening, thank you,” you finish for him, jaw set tightly. “Why are you here?”

The direct question is aggressive but you know the cycle with him too well to allow him to steer the conversation. He’ll run you in circle after circle until you’re so frazzled you can’t discern left from right.

“Can’t say hello and introduce myself to your new fella? Come on now, where’s your manners?”

Your eyes widen as Michael reaches a hand out- there is no way this asshole is about to grab you in public.

Quick as a snake, John runs interference and drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his fingers holding the shoulder furthest from him lightly.

The entire length of your back and shoulders are blocked by the SAS captain, forcing Michael’s hand back as there was no easy place for it to land that wouldn’t also be touching John.

Up until now, John has been quiet and assessing the situation. Not bowing up or trying to assert himself- letting you deal with your ex and navigate the situation for yourself.

The look on his face is downright unpleasant to put lightly. This is the man in charge of an elite task force, who barks orders at soldiers who drop everything at once because he told them to-

-and you don’t feel so exposed anymore. You find yourself sitting up a bit straighter only for John to gently stroke his knuckles against your shoulder in a soothing gesture. The gesture isn’t a miraculously grand one, but one that makes you realize you’re not alone in this situation even as disorienting as it is. And if you’re being honest with yourself, the upright posture and shifting of your thighs isn’t so much a stress response to your ex as you keying in on John’s response to the whole situation.

“John, Michael- Michael, John. There, now you’re introduced.” Go away now please.

Your ex is too drunk and too full of himself to see the writing on the wall, and continues to poke the bear. “Well, since she doesn’t seem to want to give a proper introduction-“ he sticks an arm out, and you can’t help but notice how the simple gesture causes him to need to correct his balance. Good lord it was barely dark out and he’s already-

Well. Not your problem. Not anymore, at any rate.

John is sitting to your left, his right arm the one that’s draped across the back of your chair. The pair of you flash a quick look to each other, John lifting his arm from your chair to take Michael’s hand and-

God.

Damn.

It.

The exchange is actually as hilarious as it is embarrassing (You can’t quite decide if it’s all the second hand cringe variety, or first hand because Look, John! Here’s the father of my child! I sure know how to pick a partner! Is still coiling in the depths of your stomach). You’d prefer if it simply never occurred at all.

You can see your ex’s forearm flexing as he shakes John’s hand. The microexpression that flicks across your date’s face confirms your suspicion- Michael is (for some reason) trying to use an overexaggerated grip to establish some sort of dominance in the situation.

The quick really? that reads on John’s face rapidly turns to a bemused and subtle if that’s how you want to play then, a barely noticeable shift in his own grip resulting in Michael wincing.

“Captain John Price,” his tone is easy, betraying none of the pissing contest your ex instigated and is failing miserably to get one over on John.

Your ex mumbles his full name, clearly realizing that whatever his brilliant little plan is a) isn’t so brilliant to begin with b) he might just be alert enough to acknowledge the fact that he clearly has no true plan. He came over with the intention of being an asshole and has been flying blind the entire time.

There’s one woman from the group your ex split off from who is watching the three of you keenly. If you were to guess, she is probably his new girlfriend.

You can’t help but wonder- does she know enough to know that this is routine behavior for him? That he throws himself headfirst into a situation he hasn’t planned out- isn’t sober enough to plan out? Situations that don’t need to occur just so he can throw his weight around? Too petty to give a genuine “Hello, how are you? It’s been a while. I want to talk to you about Sam when we’ve both got some free time?”

Everything is vindictive. Constantly worrying about not being undermined and being respected to the point he gets in his own way. Actively sabotages his own opportunities. In dire need of therapy to work through his issues because you know the alcohol is how he copes and you’d sympathized at first but the reasons became excuses and then he’d started blaming you and-

-John places his arm on the back of your chair again and you pull yourself out of your mental spiral.

“I think your date is waiting for you, Michael. Best not to keep the lady waiting.” John observes, his tone neutral despite being a clear dismissal.

“You’ll be hearing from me later. I want to see my son.” Michael’s ignoring John’s presence but taking the hint.

You don’t fling a final barb at him. The venom has been drained out of you and you just want the interaction over and done with. Let him have the last word. You just want him gone.

You merely cast a look over at the woman who is Michael’s date for the evening and hope she’s got better sense than you did- that she leaves before he sinks his claws in her too.

The weight that settled in your stomach upon first seeing him is finally lightening up on you. You know you’ll wake up tomorrow to a barrage of phone calls and text messages that you won’t answer. It’s probably not good you’re so desensitized to the idea that it barely registers as a problem. Merely one of life’s many inconveniences.

“You alright, love?” John’s voice helps you shake the last of the tendrils that cling to you.

“Yes. Sorry. Wasn’t expecting to run into him of all people tonight, is all.”

“Never fun being ambushed, is it?”

You take a bit of a risk- you know enough about his job but he’s steered the conversation away from it every time the topic would naturally shift that direction. You know how Kate’s work can go and you assume his is very similar. “Well you’d certainly know more about that than I would.”

It works. The two of you break out in grins, and you find yourself no longer worrying about Michael and your focus readily settling back on John where it belongs.

At some point- long after the single cube in John’s drink has melted, and the condensation of your wine glass has soaked the bev nap underneath it, and more importantly long enough that you don’t feel that you’re fleeing the restaurant- the suggestion is made to go back to John’s. “No more surprises, hm?”

You gladly follow him. You’d taken an Uber to get to the restaurant, anticipating drinking and hoping to go home with him, so you have no worries about your own car.

You can easily see him being the type to give you a quick, chaste kiss on the doorstep after safely dropping you at home. In another universe you’d appreciate the restraint, enjoy fleeting touches over the course of a few dates that get more intense each time before finally finding yourself in his bed.

In this universe however, you don’t have to wait. Don’t want to, either. You get to indulge your earlier impulse of crawling into his lap, knees spread wide on either side of his waist. Lowering your hips allows you to feel him and what exactly he’s packing between his own legs. Your hips cant in short motions and heat coils heavy in your gut.

From the feel of things he’s proportional and John is not a small man. There’s a brief flicker that runs through your mind that you might be in over your head with him. The pent up lust and desire stifles that flicker. You’re more than game to see what a night with him ends up being like.

His hands are warm against your skin- one cupping the back of your head and keeping you close as the pair of you make out, the other settles on your hip and keeps you steady as you grind down on him.

You are possessed with the desire to get his cock in your mouth.

It’s cute how his face follows yours as you pull away from him.

“Help me with my dress?” Your question is perfectly innocent as you turn your back to him, presenting the zipper that runs down the length of your back.

His pleased laugh warms you, a shiver of desire and anticipation running down your spine as his breath fans across the back of your neck.

You’ve got a surprise waiting for him underneath your dress, partially revealed as one of his hands holds the top of the dress steady while the other draws the zipper down.

You gave him the hint you were wearing stockings when you’d baited him back at the restaurant, letting the heavy fabric of the dress fall to a heap around you before kicking it off to one side.

Turning back to face him, John seems quite enraptured with his surprise.

The lingerie set is a matching shade as your jewel toned dress, the garter belt clipping to the sheer black thigh high stockings.

There’s always that split second hesitation when revealing yourself to someone- the anxiety of if they’ll be pleased with what’s presented to them.

John is the first person you’ve been with since you’ve had your child, and the slight anxiety quells quickly at the look on his face.

John looks like he wants to eat you alive. Any insecurity is knocked firmly aside by desire quickly ramping back up.

Placing one hand on his thigh to steady yourself as you lift a leg to take your shoe off, John is quick to stop you. “Leave them on for now, love.”

It’s a request but it’s not. Really that doesn’t surprise you- he is someone who is likely used to having his whims accommodated to. You find yourself having no urge to defy him, nodding in compliance. If John wants your heels to stay on, then they’ll stay.

He guides you between his legs, enough space between his knees for you to slot yourself in. With him sitting on the bed he’s shorter than you standing straight up in your heels. Bending down to give a quick, teasing kiss you let yourself drop to your own knees.

“You don’t have to-“

“I want to,” you assure him with doe eyes and are rewarded with him settling into the bed as your hands go to work on his belt.

Unable to resist teasing him, you mouth at his bulge through the thick fabric of his pants. You’re rewarded with a soft cant of his hips, having his belt undone and working on the button and zip of his pants in record time.

Your earlier suspicions are correct. John is a big boy in more ways than one. You want him in your mouth- now.

While you’re occupying yourself with getting his pants off, John shucks his shirt and shoes.

He is, simply put, delicious to look at. From the broad muscling to the thick dark hair running from his chest down his abdomen. He doesn’t have the hard chiseled abs of a man who lives in the gym but the sturdy build that comes from having useful, functional muscle that’s put to work.

And that’s incredibly hot. He’s girthy as hell in your hand as you give a few strokes before putting your mouth on him.

You’re not entirely certain if deep throating him is going to be an option, but by God you’re going to try.

“Bloody hell, love.” John grunts while you bob your head up and down the length of him. You’re gauging just how much of him you can get in your mouth- where your threshold is before your gag reflex wants to kick in.

He’s petting you. Doubtless trying to fight the urge to fist your hair, his hips struggling to stay still on the bed.

You want him to. You feel feral, all the pent up sexual energy you’ve been storing for God-knows-how-long welling up all at once. You want this man carnally and your brain presently thinks having your hair held in place and your throat fucked is a fantastic idea.

John clearly has other plans, restraining himself and letting you work at your own pace. That low, deep breathing paired with his soft grunts and voiced encouragements stoke the flames of your arousal hotter.

Eventually you do need air, pulling off of him for a moment. Your hand works his shaft and teases the tip of him as you lean forward to run your tongue up and down the length of him, dropping a bit lower to lave at his heavy sac. He jolts which only encourages you to do it again.

You know your eyes are one of your better features- you’ve heard the compliment enough times both in and out of the bedroom, holding John’s gaze as you lick him back up the length of his shaft and circle the head once before having caught your breath enough to wrap your lips around him once more.

The second time around you’re able to get a bit more of him down your throat, but not all the way. What you can’t reach you stroke with one hand, the other resting on his thigh to help balance yourself as you work. You can feel the tension building in his thigh as he gets closer, pleased with yourself.

It’s a heady feeling. You don’t know exactly all the dirty details of his job but understand enough to know you’ve got a powerful man at your whim right now and that scratches a deep seated itch in you.

“Good girl,” his praise washes over you, warm and welcoming. “Just like that-“

You’re intent on sucking the soul out of him, all doe eyes and hollowed cheeks with those painted red lips. Eventually he gives into the urge to grab a fistful of your hair. He doesn’t do anything to interrupt the rhythm you’ve settled into, letting you move as you see fit.

He bites out your name and you feel the muscles in his leg drawn tight. “I’m getting close, love.”

It’s not quite a question. You give your not-answer by doubling down on him. You’re so close to having him in your mouth all the way to the base. You don’t want to back off. What you do want is for him to finish down your throat.

You get your wish. John’s fist tightens and you let out a grunt as his thrusting results in your nose pressed against his public bone.

The taste of him doesn’t really register as he spills inside your mouth, your focus on breathing through your nose and keeping your gag reflex down.

He’s petting your hair again, praises falling freely from him and soft apologizes. “Lost myself for a moment there, love. You alright?”

You keep your mouth hilted on him for a moment to prove a point- you’re fine, he didn’t push you past threshold- before finally releasing his softening cock.

He’s pulling you up to him after that, an open mouthed kiss that flusters you considering he just came in your mouth. “You’re just a treasure,” his voice purrs in your ear. “Only fair I return the favor, hm?”

He guides you to lay on the bed, knees hanging over the edge before he turns to settle between your legs.

He starts at your neck. You’re ticklish at one spot his lips, squirming in his hold with a giggle. “Sensitive, hm?”

You nod out a “mhm,” that breaks into a breathy moan as he works his way down your chest. Rather than removing your bra his hands work to pull your breasts free from the cups before paying particular attention to your nipples.

His hands are warm as they roam your ribcage, the heat of his body seeping through the lace of your outfit as his fingers trail across your skin and the delicate material.

“You’re so soft, love,” you don’t quite know how to respond to the compliment, mewling wordlessly in pleasure at the attention.

That seems to appease him as he kisses his way down your sternum and to your belly, the expanse of most of it covered by the fabric of the garter belt.

His eyes flick up to your own as his lips travel closer to the apex of your thighs. Where you’ve been lying patient and pliant in his grasp, the eye contact draws something tight in your core and you squirm again.

The next thing you feel is teeth as he nips you. “Be a good girl for me,” he tells you, soothing the soft throb of his bite with his tongue.

You force yourself to still as he moves lower, lower, lower- taking his time and having you thoroughly worked up before moving to the next patch of skin.

When he’s down far enough he slides one of your thighs over his shoulder, that arm looping under your arm and banding across your abdomen.

It’s his turn now to mouth at your clothed sex.

He pulls the gusset of your thong aside after a moment of teasing, his lips descending on you.

“Oh,” your hand immediately finds purchase in his hair, a pleased whimper escaping you at the feel of John’s tongue.

John feasts on you. There’s not much else that can be done to describe it. It’s lewd and wet as he laps at you, the flesh of his tongue doing little to soothe the burning ache inside you and only ramping it up.

Those eyes are wicked as he gazes up at you from between your thighs. The hand resting on your lower stomach is pressing ever so lightly, like John wants the pressure there but not too much yet and you’re once again struck with the idea you might be in over your head with him.

“John, please,” you beg. It feels good but you need more, lust clouding your brain as your hips rock against his face.

“You need to be patient, love. I’ll take care of you. Just relax, hm?”

It dawns on you that he’s probably running down the clock until his refractory period is up. That he doesn’t want to get you going too quick and then be stuck not quite ready to perform.

It’s an assumption, and you’re not 100% sure that you’re correct, but it’s a solid enough option that you move forward with that in mind.

The thought almost makes it easier to relax into the bed- the idea that John is going to pleasure you with his mouth until enough time has passed and he can get it up again. That he’s not just mindlessly toying with you with no end goal in mind.

It feels good you’re just stuck being greedy and wanting more stimulation despite knowing that won’t happen until John decides he’s ready to give you more.

You almost jump when the fingers you’ve been waiting for make their presence known. His mouth moves to focus on your clit, lips making a seal and sucking on it. You cry out, hips canting as his fingers gently rub at your labia.

He starts with one, gently sliding it in and out of you. Your back arches in satisfaction of having something to clench on and rub against. It’s more satisfying than just one of your own- that was for sure.

“That’s it love,” John praises you while easing a second one into you.

The second finger is what you were looking for, stimulation wise. John pets and strokes you, thumb gently working over your clit in soft circles before putting his mouth back on you.

He doesn’t just find your g-spot. John’s fingers are placed so they hone in on that spongy bit of tissue tucked inside you. He doesn’t let up on it, tongue working on your clit as you arch your back helplessly and moan.

That pressure is back on your abdomen, the hand not currently stroking you to nirvana pressing down on your belly.

You moan and buck against his hold. Your orgasm is creeping up on you and it’s like he’s determined to make you squirt.

“You keep that up and I’m gonna make a mess,” you warn him- not entirely certain how he’ll respond to the prospect of you squirting on his face.

John looks delighted and you realize that yes, you are in over your head with him.

There’s a mischievous glint in his eye as he pulls back from you, “You promise, love? Don’t tease me.”

Oh dear God- Next thing you know he’s reaching over you to pull a pillow from the top of the bed, wedging it underneath your hips before returning to his place between your thighs.

You’re flustered at how eager he is to see you squirt. His mouth is back on you, sucking on your clit and making your legs shake as two fingers go right back to abusing your g-spot, his free hand pressing on your belly increasing the pressure that is mounting by the second.

There’s nothing else for you to do but grab a fistful of his hair and hang on. “Please- oh! J-John! Right there,” at your encouragement he locks in on the spot that’s got you arching your back and your thighs trembling.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Show me,” he’s moaning encourments against your skin and you feel like a bow drawn tight and ready to snap. You’re so, so close.

The sounds he draws out of you- both from your mouth and between your legs- are filthy and vulgar and you don’t care at all as he gets you teetering just on the edge.

You’re practically gasping for breath, eyes screwing shut as the hand not buried in John’s hair fists the sheets next to you. You babble his name, chants of John all your brain can muster.

All that pressure coiling in you snaps and gushes out, literally and metaphorically.

“Good girl, making such a mess for me,” John’s praise has you flushing hot while his fingers work you like he’s making sure he can wring out every single last drop.

He stops when you have nothing left to give him, a trembling mess shivering in his hold.

Your brain at some point made the windows shut down noise, needing a moment to settle as you process what John just did to you.

This is the hardest you’ve cum in ages, certainly better than the orgasms you’ve given yourself during your little dry spell.

You return to the land of the living with his lips on yours, tasting yourself as he soothingly strokes your side. “You back with me?” He asks, eliciting a nod from you.

“Please tell me you have a condom,” your tone is pleading. You still want to ride him but you’ve learned your lesson about practicing safe sex. Once was, in fact, all it took for things to go off the rail.

“I do,” he stands, moving to the nightstand and opening a drawer.

Now that your legs feel somewhat compliant you sit yourself back up.

No sooner than John’s got the condom on then you’re guiding him back down, having him lay on the edge of the bed.

It takes a bit of maneuvering, getting yourself situated so your heels don’t catch on his sheets, but you’re straddling him with the leg closest to the edge of the bed hanging over the side as the opposite leg folds underneath you. You hover over him while getting everything lined up. The position of your legs allows you to alternate which one is supporting the brunt of your weight, a factor that is going to be fairly important once you’ve hilted yourself on John.

Even with how pliant your body is it takes a moment for the head of him to breach you.

“Oh,” you let out a breath as you sink down on him. You’re not able to get all the way to the base of him on the first go, getting your weight underneath yourself and lifting almost completely off of him before dropping down again. You get a little further this time, a moan escaping you.

“That’s it, love. Nice and easy,” his voice coos in your ear, that low timber having you liable to melt.

He’s thick. Not in a way that’s insurmountable to manage, but you have absolutely no complaints with how he fills you and anticipate being pleasantly sore in the morning.

Two more slow bounces have you sinking low enough to hilt yourself on him, taking a moment to enjoy the sensation of sitting fully on his lap.

One of his hands braces on your hip, the other his thumb circles your clit. You squirm at the stimuli, relishing in the feel of him before getting to work.

This is what you’ve been drooling over all night. Your reward is very well earned in your opinion. Moaning lowly as you bounce up and down, your movements are initially slow and languid but pick up speed as you get your bearings. John’s heavy exhales and grunts when you clench only serve to wind you tighter.

“You feel good, pretty girl? Hm? You like bouncing on my cock?”

You flush- a ridiculous notion given how you’re quite literally hilted on his dick-, face hot from the dirty talk.

The hand on your hip helps guide you to a pace that’s pleasurable for the both of you, eyes rolling as he thrusts his hips in a way that makes you see stars. “Yes! John- yes! Oh it feels so good,” your voice a low purr as he delivers on every fantasy you’ve had this evening.

The stretch of him in you feels absolutely incredible, knocking the air out of you on each bounce. It doesn’t take long until that knot begins to form again, growing steadily as you rise and fall in his lap. The press of his finger circling your clit draws staggered moans, bracing on him for support.

“Been thinking about this all night,” John grits out. “Wanted to flip you over the bar top and have my way with you right there on the dining room floor.”

You moan at the confession, feeling less like a rabid dog with no impulse control now you know you’re not alone in the intense desire that had struck once you’d laid eyes on him.

“Probably wouldn’t have- ah! st-stopped you,” you tell him. The grip on your hip tightens at that, another moan escaping you as you bounce on him.

Your eyes roll in pleasure, cunt practically fluttering from the way he keeps getting you to clench. The thickness of his girth doesn’t just let him keep hitting that spot in you with lift of your hips so much as the mushroom tipped head of his cock drags across it.

“Aren’t you just a fucking treasure,” he praises.

Your thighs are burning, eased by the position of your legs and John’s grip helping you but becoming more present with each wet clap of your sex against his lap. It almost helps you tip closer to another climax.

Your eyes squeeze shut, a staggered breath escaping you.

“Eyes on me,” he tells you and you comply immediately.

“John, please I’m so close,” your thighs are shaking again, threatening your already precarious balance.

“You need more, pretty girl?”

You shake your head. “No-no. Just don’t stop. Please don’t stop!”

And bless him, he doesn’t do anything to fuck up your rhythm. The fingers circling your clit keep the same tempo and pressure perfectly, his free hand still helping guide you up and out of his lap before sitting you back down.

You know you’re about to come but are caught off guard by how sharp it is as you squirt for a second time.

The sight of you spurting across his abdomen nearly severs any control John has left. The next thing you know John’s abandoned your overstimulated clit in favor of rolling you onto your back, your heels clattering to the floor from the motion. Your legs go instinctively to clamp around his waist for security- only one of them does, the other stopped by wet fingers gripping your thigh by your knee as he spreads you open. His weight is held on the forearm bracing next to your head by the time you process the shift in position.

“You alright, pretty girl?”

You can’t quite get your words out but manage a nod. “Ye-yeah,” you eventually stagger out as he waits for a verbal confirmation.

With the comfort that you were fine, that gives John the assurance he needs to seek his own pleasure.

More than satisfied with your two climaxes, you lay limp and pliant in his grasp while he chases his own end.

The wet squelch of his cock splitting you open with each thrust was loud and obscene although you were too far gone in the blissed out pleasure to care. Your whole body feels delightfully tingly, your head swimming pleasantly.

You clench down on him a few times, more for his benefit than anything else. You’re spent but more than willing to help him across the finish line as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, muttering praises that are punctured with short, sharp thrusts before he stiffens as his own climax hits.

The two of you have both broken into a light sheen of sweat by the end of things. After a moment to recuperate John stands with a “I’ll be right back.” (And you unabashedly enjoy the view of his ass while he retreats to the bathroom.)

True to his word he returns shortly, evidently having disposed of the condom with a towel in hand for you.

The pair of you get yourselves clean and sorted. Before you can decide how you want to ask, John seems to already know what the question is.

“You don’t need to leave, do you?”

Again it’s not entirely a question, but still gives you an out if you want to take it.

You don't want to take the out.

[chirpycloudyrobin]

wouldnt it be simultaneously extremely funny and extremely sad if wei ying's 婴 (infant, baby) was actually his milk name and his official name after his 100 days was still ying but 螢 (firefly), and no one else knew but his parents ? and he himself didnt know either bc cangse-sanren kept on calling him 婴 for the family inner jokey jokes and rarely called him 螢 ? bc apparently "The milk name may be abandoned but is often continued as a form of familial nickname." (Wikipedia, 2024)

[note that, as far as i understand it, 嬰 (yīng) and 螢 (yíng) have diff tones and could historically have been pronounced differently so i wouldnt say they necessarily sound alike to ppl who do know the language well aka wwx and his fam and literally everyone else in the world of mdzs. they only sound alike to ppl who arent used to the nuances and minute differences in the tones that exist in mandarin chinese. correct me if im wrong tho lmao this is just for funsies]

[catdemontraphouse]

I like to think Sebastian and Ciel talk shit about people a lot in French or whatever target language he’s currently being taught. That’s how Sebastian motivates him, “Young master, if this client is ‘insufferable knobhead’ in English, how would you convey that in French”

U can’t tell me these two don’t gossip like mad 😂 they’re each others only friends after all who else do they have to gab to?

[hopefullystillliving]

Just had a thought. How much would you bet that after the whole Dracula deal is said and done, Johnathan and Mina make a series of code phrases. Nothing noteworthy. "It has been a fine day" maybe. "It reminds me of traveling the country". Things like that.

Someone could catch a letter in shorthand, after all, even if they can't read it. Much harder to find fault with some meaningless pleasantries to a beloved spouse.

[guidingthulite]

i finished yokai gakuen

[codename-mom]

Paternity test

Summary: Aaron has doubt about Jack being his now he is nine and still doesn't look like him. Dave tries to find a solution to reassure him, but it can be a double-edged sword.

Characters: BAU team (Callahan era) + Jack Hotchner

Contents: TW mention of Haley's cheating, alcohol, anxiety and I think that's all.

PS : English is not my mother language so they are necessarily mistakes. Sorry about that.

___

                Jack finished his exercise and looked up at his father. He hadn't moved an inch since he himself had sat down at the living room table to begin his homework. The giant was concentrating on his computer screen, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed, his right hand regularly twitching, as it always did when he was deep in thought. The little boy got down from his chair and walked towards the sofa, his heart pounding. He wasn't afraid of his sire, but he still impressed him a little.

“Dad?”

“Yes, Jack,” he answered without looking at him.

“Can you check if it's okay?” he asked, placing his notebook on the armrest.

“I'm listening,” affirmed Aaron, his attention still fixed on the monitor.

“It's not math, it's grammar.”

The titan immediately ceased his activity and turned his attention back to his pocket roommate. Jack smiled at him, sketching a discreet chuckle. Then he picked up his notebook and read his lines in silence under the toddler's worried gaze. His father spoke much better than most of his teachers and other parents, and he had told him many times that knowing how to write properly would be an asset for his future life. In fact, the boy could feel the pressure on his shoulders as the director's brown irises leapt from one word to the next. It was hard to tell from his unexpressive face whether he was satisfied with his work or not.

“Reread the third sentence,” he said, finally giving him back his possession.

“What did I miss?” he interrogated him, disappointed that he hadn't got it right the first time.

“I don’t know, think.”

His ascendancy rarely made it easy for him to understand his mistakes. For many things, he let him analyze, study and dig for himself, before providing the explanation he needed, when necessary. For others, he readily agreed to teach him what he knew, just as he also took the time to listen to the results of his own discoveries. Jack loved these moments of exchange between them, and cherished them all the more as his father wasn't often at home. And when he was, he sometimes carried on with his duties as branch manager, forgetting about his offspring. Which he appreciated less and less.

“What are you doing?” he questionned as the colossus fell back into his trance.

“Research.”

“For work?”

Aaron didn't react on the spot, squinting his eyelids, before suddenly flinching as he met his gaze.

“… What? No, I... he stammered, his pupils shifting from him to the screen. I’m actually looking for a new place to live.”

“Why?”

He hadn't expected this.

“Because this one isn't very practical for either of us. Especially now that you're older.”

“Why?”

“You need a bigger bedroom, and I need an office where I can work without blocking your access to the living room.”

Instinctively, he looked towards the corridor at the end of which was his den. When he'd had to move in for good, he'd had a hard time adjusting to the old-fashioned decor, the noisy surroundings and the smallness of the place. Now he knew all its nooks and crannies by heart and felt at home here.

“Where are we going?” he worried instantly.

“Not that far, don’t be afraid. I'll make sure you stay at the same school so you can keep your friends, Aaron declared with a smile. And, in any case, we can't go too far away. I have to stay close to Quantico and I can't make your aunt travel miles for you.”

His father's large hand passed through his hair and lingered on his cheek. The FBI agent was smiling in a very exceptional way, but the whole physiognomy of his face, usually hard and cold, changed all at once. All the sweetness in his heart seemed to emerge from its hiding place and envelop him tenderly, soothing him instantly.

“Did you find something?”

“Not yet. But maybe you could help me, he asserted, looking at him. After all, you have a say in it, since you'll be living in it.”

Forgetting his English exercises altogether, he climbed onto the sofa beside him and pressed himself against his arm.

“What should I do?” he inquired, delighted to be able to support him.

“Look at the photos with me and tell me what you think. Would you?”

“Yeah.”

“So correct your third sentence and we'll take care of this.”

“Okay,” he yielded, picking up his notebook again.

Later, on a Monday, Dave invited himself into Hotch's office to let him know it was time for lunch. But as soon as he saw his drawn features and low expression, he knew something was wrong. He approached and shouted: 

“What’s going on? And watch what you say.”

His superior had a nasty habit of insisting that everything was fine, when it absolutely was not. A protective reflex that had already played many tricks on him. But the manager didn't fight. He sighed and settled back in his seat, pushing back the folder in his hand.

“…This weekend, Jack and I visited several homes. The other one's getting too small for the two of us, and I need a more suitable workspace than the living room,” he explained as Rossi sat down opposite him.

“Sounds like a good idea. But I have the impression that the hunt wasn't a good one.”

“In fact, one of them might do the trick, but... - he hesitated – that's not really the point. I didn't really expect to find the gem right away.”

Given the high demand and indecent real estate prices in the capital, it would indeed have been naive to think you'd hit the jackpot on your first try.

“So why the long face?”

“Because of the reaction of the real estate agents when they saw me arrive with Jack. You… you should have seen their faces.”

Surprisingly, Aaron wasn't looking at him, his irises turned to an invisible spot on his desk. He looked defeated.

“Well, what?” his mentor said impatiently, perplexed.

“None of them thought for a moment that that kid with me was my son, he revealed, staring at him at last. And even when Jack called me “Dad”, they still had their doubts.”

“Aren't you being a little dramatic?”

With his former disciple's tendency to see the glass as half-empty, the former retired doubted the accuracy of his statement.

“No. Many asked to see Jack's identity papers, even though they were of no use in completing the application files.”

He had to admit that this supported his hypothesis and he understood better why he wasn't particularly happy.  He dared to put things in perspective:

“At least they check.”

“Dave, these people were convinced I was a pedophile looking for a new hideout!” snapped his wounded interlocutor.

“Aaron…”

“And, at the same time, they have good reason to think so,” he continued, looking downcast.

“Why?”

The novelist had no idea why he would say such a thing. He was used to hearing him self-inflict a multitude of imaginary defects, but this one was beyond comprehension. Especially as there was nothing innocuous about it.

“Look at him, Hotch resumed, flipping the frame on his desk. Look at him and tell me where I am.”

A frozen Jack on glossy paper gave him a radiant smile, his straight, light hair waving in a passing breeze.

“He’s still a child, Aaron.”

“He's nine! the ex-prosecutor reminded him. It's high time he showed some of his father's physical traits. Except he doesn’t. Jack, it’s clearly Haley and... someone else.”

“Don’t say that.”

“So, tell me! Tell me what he took from me.”

 Uneasy, Rossi lowered his eyes to the toddler's portrait and carefully observed his eyes, nose, ears, chin... Apart from the color of his irises – which could also be his mother's – it was difficult to identify his sire's features. However, the elder felt that the kid was still too young to express all his genetic characteristics. Besides, he didn’t like what it implied.

“See. Even you can't answer that.”

“You realize you're implying that Haley went elsewhere.”

“But she went somewhere else, Dave, he asserted without preamble. One… one day when I was unusually at home, someone called. I picked up the phone and nobody answered. There was a silence and then they hang up. Right after that, someone called on Haley’s cell phone. I didn't make the connection with Jack this day, but now it's so obvious that he's not mine.”

The BAU co-founder realized that it had been eight years since his opposite had kept his wife's betrayal to himself, and he was touched that he hadn't been in the loop at the time. Why hadn't he told him about it? He'd been living with this memory for almost a decade, and it must have crushed his self-esteem when he realized that Haley hadn't had the respect for him that he'd had for her in the twenty-five years they'd been together. A memory that continued to undermine even now.

“Aaron, maybe it was someone who had the wrong number.”

“When you get the wrong number, do you just hang up?”

“… No,” he conceded, honest.

“You apologize and explain that you made a mistake. Haley didn't ask for a divorce because I was never around, but because I was too much and had discovered the truth.”

Dave easily perceived the anger rolling through his veins. Even after so much time, even after everything that had happened, he was still furious. The question was, against whom? The most likely answer was: his partner at the time. But Hotch was a complex person who had very little regard for himself, and his eldest wouldn't have been surprised if he resented him too.

“Wait, that doesn't mean that Jack isn't yours. It's playing with fire to have a child with someone other than your husband.”

“Except when the husband doesn't want children.”

Taken aback by this outburst, he widened his eyelids, questioning the giant with his eyes.

“She wanted that kid so badly; she could have done just that. And, once pregnant, she did what it took to convince me to take the plunge.”

He glimpsed a side of Aaron's private life he'd never known about before. The couple he had formed with Haley at that moment had seemed so harmonious that he hadn't questioned further why they had remained childless for so long.

“For… for years, she had put her desire for motherhood on the back burner, but suddenly it became urgent. She put me on the spot for it, he added, his eyes shining. And, as luck would have it, it worked the first time. Normally, it takes several attempts to make it work, even for couples who have frequent relations. But not us. I'm sure of it now, she was already pregnant and I find myself raising someone else's kid.”

“Hold on, Aaron. Breathe. All this is just speculation.”

He ignored all the statistics that ran through his brain about the number of tries one had to go through to get it right – even more so when the mother-to-be was in her forties – just as he refrained from bouncing on the fact that Haley had obviously taken advantage of her husband's unconditional love for her to finally accede to her request. Even if the evidence seemed to be mounting, he couldn't overlook the fact that he didn't hold all the cards and that, even if she had gone elsewhere, there was no proof that she had played him to such an extent.

“What are you going to do anyway? Abandon Jack?”

“No, he retorted immediately. I… I can’t do that. He… he’s not to blame. And… if I couldn't be his biological father, I could always be his... his legal guardian.”

                Dave was struck by the sadness that emanated from these last words. Even if he hadn't actually experienced it, becoming a father was an incredible opportunity, a stage of life like no other. All of a sudden, you found yourself propelled into a completely different dimension, where care freeness disappeared, replaced by a constant attention to detail. One was brutally invested with a long-term mission, which consisted in bringing an innocent and pure being to become strong and skilful enough to survive the ferocity of life; all without turning them into a bloodthirsty and cruel monster. Becoming a father meant making millions of sacrifices and compromises every day for the sake of a single individual; it meant facing up to fears and repulsions, ignoring fatigue, silencing anxieties, mastering annoyance, monitoring one's own behavior, weighing one's words and being able to give it all up when necessary. All this without even knowing if the child will return the favor one day.

                Being a legal guardian was a soulless legal term for the fact that you were just a name on an administrative document.

“But, you know there's a way to check if there's a genetic link between the two of you.”

“I won't do a test,” rebelled Aaron, adamant.

“Why not?”

“No. Imagine that... that he really wasn't mine. What should I do? Tell him nothing, at the risk that he might discover the truth later? Telling him the truth and destroying his mother's image and the pretend balance we've both managed to achieve? I… - he sighed. At least, at the moment, I'm still left with the doubt that he's mine.”

                Rossi left the office and joined the team gathered in the corridor, ready to go down for lunch. Their brows furrowed as soon as they noticed their superior's absence.

“Isn't he coming with us?” worried Penelope.

“No. He’s… he’s cogitating.”

“What? What's that supposed to mean?” grumbled Derek, unsettled.

“Cogitate comes from the Latin cogitare, which means... began Spencer, before all eyes turned to him. That wasn't what you meant, was it?”

Morgan shook his head jaded, but said nothing.

“Aaron thinks Jack isn't his.”

“Again?” exclaimed JJ.

Everyone stared at her, surprised.

“I'm sorry, but this idea has been on his mind for some time now, she justified herself, a little embarrassed. Everyone tells him that Jack looks like his mother and never like him. After a while, I can see why the idea would catch on.”

“When they're born, babies resemble their sire so that the latter can attach more easily to the newborn and thus provide it with all the protection it needs,” declared Reid, perhaps a little too cheerfully.

“Who did Jack look like when he was born?” bounced Kate, who didn't even know what the child looked like now.

The two blondes glanced at each other awkwardly and replied in unison:

“… Haley.”

“Wait, interjected Derek, suddenly enthusiastic, Jack has brown eyes and so does Hotch.”

“Around eighty percent of the world's population has brown eyes.”

“Reid, I'm trying to make a case for Hotch, he growled, letting his shoulders fall back. Don’t help me there.”

Dave refrained from hammering the point home by reminding the ex-policeman that the boy's mother also had brown eyes. 

“Sorry, but the only way to be sure Hotch and Jack are related is to have them take a DNA test,” the multi-graduate defended himself.

“He doesn’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Because without it, he still has the illusion of being his father.”

His reply cast a chill over the assembly. The few snatches of a smile that remained disappeared in a flash, and discomfort seized everyone.

“It's so sad,” commented Garcia, tears welling up in her eyes.

“At the same time, I've always thought Jack had a false air of Sean about him,” said the ex-officer liaison, in a very small voice.

“Seriously?” choked Rossi, blown away by this thought.

“It's true that it could explain the hair color,” supported the technician, who didn't dare meet his gaze.

“Who’s Sean?”

Attention turned to the newcomer to the team, whose embarrassment had given way to confusion.

“He's Hotch's younger brother, Spencer explained. They don’t look alike at all.”

Which was saying a lot. As tall as each other, the resemblance ended there. Aaron was as dark-haired as Sean was blond, and his dark irises were set against a much more attractive blue-gray. And then there were their differences in character: the former's straightforwardness didn't go at all well with the latter's carefree attitude. While both had criminal records, the elder had settled down before he came of age, while the younger was multiplying offences now that he was an adult.

“Hotch took from his mother and Sean from his father,” continued JJ, helping her colleague understand the situation.

“How likely is it that Hotch passed on his own father's physical characteristics to Jack?” suggested Kate, very seriously.

“That’s a good question. If we assume that his mother's alleles are all dominant...”

“We're going to do a DNA test,” proclaimed Rossi, cutting Reid off who was, in his opinion, putting a little too much effort into this sordid calculation given the context.

“What?” croaked the group, bewildered.

He'd expected this reaction, but the Las Vegas native was right: it was the only way to get to the bottom of the story.

“At least we'll know for sure.”

“How do you plan to do it? Derek questioned, eyebrows furrowed. Recovering Hotch's DNA shouldn't be a problem; all you have to do is steal his mug...”

“The DNA of all FBI agents is recorded in the national database so that it can be discarded when analyzing crime scenes.”

“Thank you, Reid.”

“You're welcome,” replied the latter, as cheerful as his colleague was weary.

Morgan sighed and resumed:

“How do you plan to get Jack's DNA?”

“JJ, I thought I'd put you to work.”

“Me? Gasped the interested party, unsettled. But… how?”

“You could organize a brunch with Will where you invite them both. Henry and Jack will be happy to play together, and Aaron won't suspect a thing.”

He'd come up with this plan in the very short time between their conversations, but it seemed feasible. And, by leaning on the young woman, he thought he wouldn't arouse the giant's natural distrust, which, after their conversation, might put distance between the two of them. If only to avoid being told to do the test over and over again.

“Are we talking about the results? Intervened Penelope. What are we going to do once we get them? We're not going to tell him that Jack isn't his, even if it were true.”

“Of course not. The whole plan relies on him not knowing about the test. In fact, if it's not in his favor, we won't tell him anything – and he'll keep hoping he's his real father – and if it is in his favor, we'll be able to prove to him that Jack is really his, he unrolled before adding. And he'll be too relieved to give us the hell for doing the test behind his back.”

The profilers and the analyst watched him as if they'd just suggested bungee jumping off the Empire State Building on a windy day. They, who were so quick to pounce on the slightest crumb concerning their superior's intimate life, retreated with great strides when he offered them a scoop on a silver platter.

“Not all at once.”

They exchanged questioning glances, then JJ spoke again:

“Okay. I’m in.”

“Thanks for your support.”

As agreed, JJ invited the Hotchners, father and son, to lunch at her home one weekend, and she met Dave in his office to entrust him with the few hairs she'd been able to remove from Jack's jacket. That same evening, the agency's eldest went to the analysis laboratory, where he knew one of the employees. The woman in question was a little younger than he, and they had seen each other on occasion outside of the professional context. Intelligent and endowed with a certain charm, she didn't shy away from propriety. In private, at least; at work, it was a different story, and he was going to have to convince her to help him despite the unofficial nature of his request.

“Hi, Dave, she said with a smile as she saw him enter her den. What brings you to this part of the world?”

“I’ve got a favor to ask.”

“I thought so too,” she ironized, resting the notepad in her hand on the bench behind her.

“I'll need to look for a DNA match.”

“Which file is it for?” she inquired, activating the nearby monitor.

She settled down on the stool, ready to launch a computer search so that she could attach the results to the ongoing investigation. Rossi couldn't lie on this point, but he was equally put off by the idea of unpacking Aaron's intimate life to this scientist who was a stranger to the titan.

“It’s… confidential.”

“Are you serious right now?” she retorted immediately, swiveling her seat in his direction. 

She knew perfectly well what this formulation meant. 

“I can’t tell you more.”

“Then, I won’t do anything. These machines are worth a fortune, and we don't run them for nothing.”

He then realized that there must have been some abuse lately, and that the laboratory workers were being watched. He didn't know how it all worked in practice but wasn't surprised to hear her put the financial argument of the procedure on the table. However, he didn't trust those online sites that offered DNA tests for a fee; just as he couldn't see himself contacting an analyst in whom he didn't have absolute confidence. The hostess stared at him, waiting for further explanation.

“Okay, okay, he yielded, raising his hands in front of him. I have a friend who's convinced his kid isn't his. I'd like to prove him wrong for once.”

She frowned.

“You know this kind of bet is a double-edged sword?”

“If he's right, he won't know.”

“But you’ll know.”

“I'll deal with it, he swept with his most casual air. How soon can you get me the results?”

He handed her the sample taken by the former liaison officer. She took it and sighed, before giving him a discreet smile.

“I’ll give you a call when it’s done.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait until you get the results before thanking me.”

A week passed, during which a certain tension gripped him from morning to night, and he was relieved to see a message from the coroner appear on his phone screen. He didn't yet know what she had to tell him, but the simple fact that his mission was progressing soothed him. He left Quantico earlier that day to see her. She was in the same place as last time and handed him an unmarked envelope.

“So?” he inquired, curious all the same.

“I'll let you find out. All I can tell you is that the father has a record.”

Which, in itself, did not exclude Aaron. Indeed, shortly after he and Gideon had decided to give the young prosecutor a chance to join the fledgling BAU, the HRD's vetting department had alerted them to the fact that he had a juvenile criminal record. He and his then accomplice had asked to take a look at it, only to discover that the obviously angry pre-adolescent had abruptly mellowed out three years before coming of age, never to leave the beaten track again. And apart from a few outrages against law enforcement officers, he had committed no crime that would prevent them from hiring him. But that didn't mean he was Jack's father, either; only that Haley had messed around with someone who hadn't been above the law at some point in her life.

“… Okay. Thanks.”

He started to walk away when the scientist called out to him:

“Hey, Dave! It’s not for free.”

“What do you want?” he replied, unsurprised by her remark.

“Look at the results first, then we'll discuss about it.”

Rossi's usual plan was to go home, open the envelope and pour himself a glass of twelve-year-old whisky to celebrate the fact that he'd been right, and could therefore reassure his superior and friend. But when he found himself sitting on his sofa, with that white rectangle in his hands, he couldn't go any further. What if it wasn't him? And what if Aaron's ex-wife really had slept with someone else to have the child she so dreamed of before she played her then-husband? Or, to put it more simply – and more commonly – had she had an ongoing extramarital relationship, forgotten to take her pill, or had unprotected sex and got pregnant afterwards? She would have backed her husband into a corner to cover her tracks. Unless she slept with both of them on the same day or within a very short period of time and didn't know which one was the father. There were so many plausible hypotheses that he didn't know which to believe.

He thought he could handle knowing the truth without blinking. But now that he was within a hair's breadth of knowing it all, he realized the implications and no longer felt as serene as he had at the start of his quest. Could he still look Hotch in the eye, smile at him, and joke with him and, above all, watch him interact with Jack knowing, in fact, that they were not related at all? How long could he keep this information secret? What would the agency director's reaction be when he heard that he was right and, what's more, that his mentor had hatched a whole plan behind his back and then kept quiet about it?

The next morning, he returned to the FBI training center with the envelope still sealed in his hands. The whole team was eagerly awaiting him, huddled together in the bullpen area while their boss held yet another management meeting.

“You've got them, haven't you?” Spencer hooked him up, impatient.

“It seems so.”

“So?” bounced JJ.

He didn't answer, staring at the mail as if it were about to start talking.

“You didn't dare open the envelope, did you?” teased Derek, with a smirk.

“I'd like to see you in my shoes, kid.”

“If that’s all it takes.”

Morgan took the document from his hands, gestured to open it, and then froze. Dave took the opportunity to say:

“Think about the fact that you'll have to work alongside him knowing the truth. And perhaps this truth will have the power to destroy what little self-esteem and self-confidence he still has.”

The ex-policeman rolled his eyes and sighed before handing over his property. The novelist could have savored this victory if it hadn't brought them back to square one.

“What do we do? Should we abandon the project?” suggested the Chicago native.

“I'd love to know the results, honestly, Reid admitted, but I don't want to hurt Hotch.”

“And, at the same time, continued JJ, if this test proves that he's Jack's father, it'll take a burden off his mind.”

“So, we come back to my question: what do we do?”

Everyone casted questioning glances at each other. They wanted to help their colleague feel better, but none of them wanted to be the bearer of bad news, let alone spend the rest of their lives with the weight of the truth on their shoulders.

“In any case, there's no way I'm opening this envelope,” said Penelope, moving away from the group.

“I'll do it, decreed Dave, cheerlessly. It's my idea, and it's up to me to accept the consequences to the end.”

“But if the results are negative, does that mean you'll be willing to take on the job of reassuring him again on the matter, when you'll actually know it's wrong?” pointed out Kate, dubiously. 

“Ouch!” commented Spencer, his irises leaping from his female coworker to his elder.

He hadn't thought of that possibility either, but threw out: 

“Somebody's got to open the damn envelope.”

“Is there a problem?”

The team gasped as they heard the cavernous voice behind them. They turned as one to see their leader standing beside them. They'd been so absorbed in their discussion that they'd stopped paying attention to their surroundings. Hotch looked at them blankly for a moment, then looked at the envelope in turn.

“What is it?”

“What? Ah! Stammered Rossi, unease. Uh… these are the results of a medical test I took.”

“A test? For what?” worried the giant, his eyebrows more furrowed than usual.

“No big deal. It's more of a routine check-up.”

He had tried to adopt his most detached attitude, but the expression on his interlocutor's face proved that he had not achieved his objective.

“Dave, would you tell me if something serious was happening to you?”

“Of course, Aaron. You’d be the first to know.”

The interested party seemed even more concerned, but the ringing of a distant telephone made him look up at his desk.

“I have to go. Don’t forget to keep me in touch.”

“Everything is fine, don’t worry.”

The BAU co-founder patted Hotch on the shoulder as he walked away from them, and they watched him climb the ramp to the walkway and disappear into his office. A general sigh passed through the federal agents' rib cages.

“Are your legs shaking too?” Garcia asked, leaning on the nearest piece of furniture. 

“If it was just the legs...” confirmed the other blonde on the team.

“Well done, Rossi,” congratulates sincerely Derek, who didn't seem to mind any more than his comrades.

“Fortunately, he always worries more about others than himself.”

It would have been a lie to say that he'd thought about it when he came up with this justification, but fact was that the giant's altruism and empathy had made things much easier for him.

“We might have to open that envelope now,” Callahan snapped, curious in spite of everything.

“Wish me good luck.”

Dave followed in Hotch's footsteps, but continued on his way to his own workspace, next to that of the colossus in the suit. He sat back in his chair and placed the envelope on his desk pad. He was afraid. Afraid to open the envelope and learn the truth. Afraid of condemning himself to silence for an indeterminate time. Afraid of having to lie for the rest of his life about the true nature of the bond between his friend and the boy he hoped would be his son. Afraid to face Aaron's scrutinizing gaze every time his insecurities resurfaced.

                He knew that the man behind the wall behind his back hadn't chased fatherhood – his difficult childhood hadn't encouraged him to extend the lineage – but that he adored Jack, nonetheless. More than that, the former pensioner was convinced that if the little boy hadn't existed, Aaron probably wouldn't have found the strength to overcome all the hardships he'd been forced to endure. Without the toddler, he'd never have recovered from the death of the only woman he'd ever loved. He hung in there because there was a four-year-old who needed him. Then, little by little, he had gained confidence in his new role as a single father and, year after year, he had even managed to overcome his grief to the point of getting back together as a couple.

                To reveal to him that Jack was not of his blood was to set him back almost a decade and annihilate all the efforts he'd made up to that point. It was tarnishing – ruining – the last nine years of his life, just as Haley had soiled their twenty-five years together by cheating on him and then filing for divorce. Dave hadn't been there for the birth of their child, but he'd been there for everything else, and he wasn't at all happy to destroy it. On the contrary, he really wanted to help his neighbor relieve his conscience of at least one of his anxieties. And for that, he had no choice but to throw himself into the lion's den.

He took a deep breath and picked up the envelope. So as not to back down again, he didn't wait to open it and extract the tri-fold sheet it contained. The paper was thick enough that nothing could be read from the outside. With his heart pounding against his ribs, he slowly unfolded the letter: first flap first, with the date, title, and laboratory logo; then the next two, clearly displaying the results. A long exhale escaped his lips.  

A few moments later, the profilers saw their colleague cross the few meters separating his door from that of the manager. He had a serious look on his face. He knocked to signal his presence to Hotch, still on the line, who beckoned him in anyway.

“Listen, I understand your concerns, but my team is used to this kind of situation and... Yes, even agent Callahan… he affirmed, rolling his eyes. I don't think this information will be of any use to you... Very well, we'll discuss it in person... Of course… And I'll get back to you as soon as possible... Have a good day too.”

He hung up immediately afterwards and turned his gaze on Rossi, who was standing in front of him.

“Something tells me you're not going to answer them right away,” Dave said with a smirk.

“I have no idea why you would think that.”

“Intuition.”

They smiled in unison, then his superior became serious again.

“What can I do for you?”

“Read this.”

He placed the envelope on his desk.

“These are your medical results, he remarked, confused. It’s private.”

“You wanted to know if I was okay. You'll find the answer in here.”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“Aaron, open this letter, please.”

Disconcerted by his insistence, the giant obeyed, not without some hesitation. His perplexity gave way to annoyance, however, when he read the document's subject.

“You did a DNA test?” he scolded, glaring at him.

“Keep reading.”

Hotch gulped. He was hesitating, logically. He hadn't asked to know because he didn't want to know. He didn't want to lose the person he loved most in the world. He didn't want to be reduced to a wallet on legs for Jack. Dave understood his reluctance, so he made sure to appear as relaxed as possible. Finally, the branch manager applied himself and unfolded the entire sheet. The features of his face suddenly distorted. Anger vanished and a daze overtook him. Then tears rolled silently down his cheeks.

“I’ll leave you to it. You know where to find me.”

Rossi left the office, leaving his tenant in shock, and rejoined the group that had gathered at the bottom of the ramp. Penelope had emerged from her lair and was watching him walk towards them, her eyes shining.

“So?” she asked, in chorus with JJ.

“It’s a boy.”

Relief and joy took hold of the whole assembly, which found itself smiling and colorful once again.

“Are we sure?” wished to clarify Derek.

“Yes, the match is there.”

“I've got to go and give him a hug!” stomped Garcia, tears of happiness escaping from behind her glasses.

“Penelope, give him time. He's got a few years' worth of doubts to sweep under the rug right now.”

“I'm so happy for him,” declared JJ, moved.

“Me too,” toped up Spencer, grinning from ear to ear.

“I don't know him as well as you do, but I must admit I'm relieved,” revealed Kate, who shared her peers' elation.

“Here he is!”

At the analyst's exclamation, all eyes turned to the manager's office from which Hotch had actually emerged. Letter in hand, he walked slowly towards them, a neutral expression on his face. The general jubilation subsided into discreet smiles. Their superior froze in front of them, and the tension spread to Dave and his neighbors. By having this test done without his knowledge, he had trampled on his privacy, something the giant abhorred. Whenever his men had started poking around in this area, he had always reacted very badly. It was probably the only thing that made him bang his fist on the table about them. Except that this time was different from all the others. He spread his arms and embraced his mentor, saying:

“Thank you.”

“Mazel tov,” exclamed the latter, responding to his embrace with a few friendly pats on the back.

“I'll never know how to thank you.”

“Stop doubting yourself.”

The titan smiled and detached himself from him, but not without keeping a hand on his shoulder. Rossi was delighted to see him so happy. He had succeeded in his gamble. His colleagues approached in turn, and Morgan extended his hand in the direction of the man he'd had to replace at short notice years earlier.

“Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” answered Aaron, squeezing his palm.

JJ was the next to congratulate him, but she allowed herself to give him a hug. Garcia then threw herself at him, her red cheeks bathed in tears. 

“I am so, so, so happy for you! You have no idea.”

“Thank you, Penelope.”

Spencer dared an awkward embrace, offset by the radiant, confident smile that lit up his youthful features. Callahan waited for Hotch to face her before speaking:

“If all your affairs are resolved like this, I'll sign on for the next ten years.”

“I'll make a note of it, replied the ex-prosecutor, amused, before he regained his seriousness by enveloping them with his gaze. I… I should be mad at you for going behind my back, but...”

The end of his sentence disappeared into limbo, his smile revealing the depth of his thought. Dave guessed that he was a little embarrassed to be the center of attention, but that he wanted to share this moment of joy with them.

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” said Reid, proudly.  

They all burst out laughing, dispelling the pressure that had been building up.

“How did you get Jack’s DNA, by the way?... Oh, the brunch,” he realized all by himself.

“Sorry,” apologized the culprit.

“Well done.”

JJ immediately blushed, touched by the compliment.

“Well. Clearly, I owe someone a meal now,” he stated as the team filed out of the open plan to retrieve their respective places, and he and Aaron returned to their desks.

“To who?”

“To the coroner who performed the test.”

“If that's all there is to it, just make an expense claim. I'll validate it with my eyes closed,” assured the colossus, ecstatic.

“It’ll be fine, he answered, laughing. Thanks.”

He squeezed the shoulder of his friend and, by now, official family man, before resuming his day's work. Curiously, despite the harsh news they received by email that day, the same calm smile remained on the lips of the BAU agents.

___

I'm still alive! Actually, I put my other works on hiatus just to write this for Father's day (which was last sunday in France), and I'm now back working on three CM AU at the same time. Yes, three. I'm crazy. XD

Well, I hope you've enjoyed your journey. ^^

PS: Yes, I know "Mazel tov" doesn't mean "congratulations" and Aaron knows it too, but Dave is always so cheerful when he's using it that he never told him that he's wrong. ^^;

[eddiesxangel]

if older eddie and popstar end up having kids i need to see this, even in a blurb 😭

https://www.tiktok.com/@frenchieflorida/video/7298013353966849323

Clickable link OMG 😭

Eddie was so excited to surprise you tonight. It was your first show back after having your daughter 2 years ago. She was the light of your life, and your exact mini me. Eddie had her purple noise cancelling headphones on her head because she had to be just like her big sissy. Purple was their favourite colour. she didn’t have a choice lol.

As you come out on stage you can’t see much but when the stage lights faced across the audience you caught a flips of your husband and baby crouched down by the front of the stage.

“This one goes out to my baby girl Lila Rose who is here tonight!” You smile as you gesture to them.

Eddie lifts here up lion king style and the crowd goes wild. You see her big doe eyes scan the crowd with curious wonder until Eddie turns her round to face you and her cherubic face lights up into a bright smile, cheering and clapping.

Later on you brought her up and she ran around the stage until Eddie had to come up and catch her. He gave you a quick kiss and a tap on the ass before leaving to put her backstage for bed. 🥹

[helpimstuckinafandom]

My Big Fat Dekarios Wedding when

[jrueships]

do you have a story behind your parents naming you ted? ted is a cute name!

i think ted is a super cute name too !!! but it's not my real name, lol, it's actually nothing even close to my real name 😭 when i was little, my friends and i were kinda bad little kids, so we came up with 'codenames' to call each other when we knew we were someplace new, behaving badly, so nobody could track our guardians ( kind of a shit plan lol). Im a creature of habit so i kinda just use ted for incognito purposes. Im a very private person abt my irl cus of my job and location, which i feel bad abt smtimes bcs it definitely distances me somewhat from a lot of my internet friends who like being rlly close to other internet friends on a personal basis, but idk! ive just always been kinda private. i grew up in the 'big scary internet, don't tell anybody anything identifying' abt u age, so maybe that's why ! Idk. But ya, my real name isn't ted but i wish it was !! U can call me ted or teddy or jrueships, whatever u'd like. I don't mind! Also i don't mind the pronouns either! Use whatevs, i usually get referred with/refer myself with masculine ones the most

[risetherivermoon]

i forgot that near the end of s1 when Henry goes back to Oakvale to recruit the Oakvalians and Autumn, that they make a joke about how Lark is going down the path of becoming a cult leader and just...

i have some thoughts abt this...au related thoughts...