#mortch but not quite

[masterwords]

Hey! I know I have send a lot of asks by now, and I'm sorry, but I just really enjoy you're writing. If you ever feel like you are not in the mood to write a certain thing I wouldn't mind at all.

Anyway, I just reread "Fall On Me" for like the fifth time and I just would love more of someone stepping in to help Hotch when he's having a bad day. Because sometimes out of nowhere for no reason at all everything that ever happened to you just comes crushing down on you and you just need a little help. Pairings (romantic or friendship) and setting are entirely up to you- I'm open for anything.

I would however not mind if you included Jack a bit (you obviously fon't have to). I personally come from a household of depression, so I know how it affects a child, especially if they don't really undertand it yet and I firmly belive that it's possible (or even likely) Hotch suffers from (high functioning) depression.

Hope you have an amazing day!

~🍉

Hi 🍉 anon! First of all, thank you so much! I hope things are going great for you! I could never get tired of asks, really. I may not get to them quickly (mostly because I have to wait until the inspiration hits and then I get very carried away with them) but I LOVE to get them so much. Please never feel bad sending me ideas you have, I love to hear them and I love to write them! <3 I agree very much, I think it's very likely that Hotch suffers from depression - both situational and chronic. I had an idea for a story, and began writing it but it got a little off topic - I will continue the story and post it soon because I'm really liking it, but in the meantime, I found another way to honor this ask that fit better and I really hope you like it! I was watching 03x09 - Penelope and this struck me as a perfect opportunity. It is Hotch + Morgan, but only platonic in their own unique way. Honestly based this entire story on Rossi telling Hotch he looks like crap and Hotch saying he felt like crap. Felt right.

Warnings: faith, blood, divorce, depression

Words: 2375

**

“How's your faith?” Rossi asked, peering up at Morgan with a strange look on his face. It was part superiority, part genuine concern. He'd crossed some lines over the course of this case, played bad cop more often than he cared to in order to crack it and was feeling some guilt. His relationship with Morgan was already rocky, he hadn't earned the other man's trust but he was doing what he could in the way he thought was best – brutal honesty. Morgan wouldn't tolerate lies, that much was certain. It was clear from the start. He'd get further by pissing him off with the ugly truth than placating him with pretty lies. He watched the way Morgan absorbed the question and glanced immediately at Hotch, didn't even consider where his eyes would go. Hotch wasn't looking at him though, he was lost in the distance, in a faraway thought that read as purely sad on his features. He looked tired, ready to collapse right there in the middle of the BAU. For a split second, while Morgan regarded Hotch, he thought he saw something. A flash, something that coursed like electricity through Morgan and then it was gone. A skilled profiler didn't miss little things like that, but it didn't mean he knew how to interpret every single one. He puzzled over it while Morgan chose his words.

“Day to day...” he replied, letting his eyes drag from Hotch to Rossi to the floor before leaving. It took a moment of contemplation, but soon after Rossi pulled himself to standing, clasped Hotch on the shoulder and silently took his leave. There Hotch stood alone with his memories, with the weight of the last week, the bullet that tore through Penelope Garcia and threatened to rip apart his entire team and he knew he had to wait. This was his floor, the Captain had to go down with his ship and that meant that tonight, there was no rest for the weary. He would answer questions, fill out reports, justify JJ's shot and submit a request for a new door. One by one people left, jobs done, until Hotch was alone with his pounding headache and the deafening roar of his failures. They should have been able to apprehend Colby without loss of life, they should have been able to do a lot of things differently.

His car keys burned in his palm, the shiny new silver key staring up at him. Taunting him. He'd signed the lease a week ago, spent every day during any break he got slowly throwing boxes Haley had packed for him into his SUV and carting them into the new apartment. Nothing was final, they were separated he kept telling himself. Things could change, it was all he had and deep inside he knew it was only a matter of time. Penelope had been shot, the team was rallying around her and trying to solve a case they weren't supposed to be a part of, they had IA in their faces and during the only hours he had to himself, no matter what time of day, he was hauling his life from the home he wanted to the one he despised. He would show up and, if it was a decent hour, Haley would smile, hand him a mug of tea and visit with him on the porch while Jack hugged his legs. She would ask about Penelope, genuinely concerned, tell him to keep her in the loop because Penelope was family, they all were. And then he would throw his boxes into the vehicle and leave them behind. Hope dashed, time and again. Each time he thought maybe she would ask him in if he just gave her enough. If it was too late or too early, he would find the boxes stacked in the garage with a little note. Maybe he could have gone inside but it wasn't his home anymore, he had a new key on his key ring.

He needed to use the doorbell now.

It was late when he made his stop by Haley's and grabbed the few boxes that were outside, stacked neatly with a note letting him know she was thinking about Penelope, she'd seen the news coverage of what happened. He hefted the boxes into his car and drove away into the night, wondering whether he wanted to deal with them or just find a hotel to sleep at.

He chose the apartment, and with an arm full of boxes he approached his door, keys at the ready. On the stoop, waiting expectantly, was Morgan. Hotch stopped and blinked, wondering if he could trust his tired eyes, he hadn't told anyone where he lived.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, and Morgan groaned, extending his hand and letting Hotch pull him to his feet while balancing his box precariously beneath the other arm. He had a pretty good guess as to how Morgan got his new address, but it didn't matter. It really didn't, he was private but he wasn't trying to go out of his way to hide things. He just didn't advertise his private life, there was a distinct difference in his book. He watched as Morgan crouched and picked up a bag of Chinese takeout and a six pack of beer, followed it up with an almost childish look of expectation. There was an immediate rush of irritation, all Hotch wanted to do was sleep, not entertain a visitor.

“I thought you looked like you could use some company,” he said softly. He hesitated, thought about leaving it there, making it about Hotch, but it was more than that and he owed Hotch the truth. “And I could use the same. If you don't mind. It's been a rough week.”

“Figured my face would be the last one you'd want to see for a while...”

“Yeah, well, you're not wrong. But here's the thing...I don't have to make those decisions and I'm glad. IA comes down on us, you put yourself right there in front and take the heat. You had to look Garcia in the eye while she was in a hospital bed and reprimand her, put her on suspension...I know that was hard on you, I know you hated every second of that...I'm not stupid. I was mad, of course, but you put your entire career on the line because of your faith in her...Hotch, come on. I mean if you want me to take my dinner and go...”

Hotch fumbled with the key, turned it over in his hand. His head was throbbing, all he wanted was to throw his box inside and find a hotel. Somewhere to hide, no strings attached. He could handle a lot, he could deflect most of the ugly things that happened but a case that involved his colleagues, someone like Penelope, his shields were down. There were tears burning hot behind his eyes and something about Morgan's warmth was frustrating and appealing.

“I assumed you'd be with Garcia tonight,” he whispered, and Morgan moved closer, pulled Hotch's eyes to him, refused to release him from the moment.

“Well, Prentiss and JJ insisted they have a girl's night and I didn't make the invite list...”

He paused, cracked a smile and expected Hotch to mimic it but it didn't happen. He'd never seen Hotch look so defeated.

“Hotch? Look man, if you don't want me here, I can head home...”

“No,” Hotch sighed, unlocking his door. He wasn't ready to let anyone into his apartment, to see how he'd been living but his desperation for Morgan's company outweighed his need for privacy. He pushed the door open, hung his head in shame as he hefted the box up against the wall. Waiting for Morgan to say something, comment on the unpacked boxes or the lack of furniture, the way a pile of boxes was where he threw his jacket or set his briefcase on the kitchen counter. “I'm sorry I don't have much...”

Morgan stood there for a minute, refused to back down or run away from how raw Hotch was. He could count on one hand how many times over the years he'd had to be gentle with Hotch, and standing there, eyes darting around the room, he knew this to be one of those times. Something had drawn him here, he could have gone home, could have gone anywhere but just like he'd prayed for the first time in 20 years as Penelope was clinging desperately to life on the operating table, something inexplicably out of his control had pulled him here to this moment. Good or bad, he was in it now.

“You got a floor, and some boxes, that's a good enough table for me.”

Seated cross-legged on the floor, they spread their food over the top of a couple of boxes, ate with disposable chopsticks and argued over the validity of water chestnuts as a food item, whether egg rolls should be dipped in hot mustard or sweet and sour sauce. The smiles were genuine if not a little ragged, both of them exhausted and just clinging to the release of a case being done, the danger abated for the time being. A few days off, some rest. Morgan wanted to ask Hotch when he moved, but seeing him with the box in his arms that night he knew the answer already – somehow, during any spare moment, he was picking up the pieces of his broken life. Taking Morgan's phone calls and saying goodbye to his son in the same breath. Promising he'd be back to each of them, pulled in both directions over and over again until he was threadbare, ready to snap.

His phone buzzed on the floor beside him and he excused himself, it was Haley. Morgan could tell, his mood seemed to sour immediately, he couldn't hear what she was saying but he could hear the tone of her voice. Instinctively he looked down, poked at his food until he was full and began nosing around inside of one of the boxes they'd eaten on labeled KITCHEN. Easy things to find places for, plates and silverware, a few coffee mugs wrapped in tissue paper. He could hear Hotch's voice soften, knew Jack was on the phone now and he'd be on his own for a bit so he tossed their empty boxes into the trash, threw the rest into the empty fridge and stood to stretch himself out. When Hotch's bedroom door shut, he thought about leaving, but something pulled at him, made him stick around so to keep his hands busy (and because he knew Hotch would hate it) he began unpacking the KITCHEN box. First he set out the coffee pot and the tea kettle, and then he went about choosing cupboards and drawers, overstepping about a million and half boundaries in one fell swoop. Thought he was hilarious more than once at the items he chose to put in certain places, hoping to get a smile or a rise out of the other man. He realized as he was unpacking that Hotch had probably not even slept there yet, that he'd more than likely been moving himself in while living out of a hotel room and a suit case, showing up to work like everything was perfectly normal. To his knowledge, no one but him knew about Haley though Penelope had asked him if he knew why Hotch submitted a change of address. He skirted the issue, said he had no idea and felt terrible about lying but it isn't his secret to divulge. He would rather ask Penelope for forgiveness later than betray Hotch now.

By the time Hotch reappeared in the front room Morgan had unpacked nearly the entire kitchen using his nervous energy as fuel. Morgan didn't say a word, could see that he'd been crying and was doing his best to keep it under wraps. His instinct was to ask questions, to pull at the truth until it was a gaping wound but that wasn't what Hotch needed. He'd been bleeding out all week right under their noses, he needed it closed up, he needed a break.

“So, you got a bed or you sleepin' on the floor?” he asked and Hotch shrugged. Not sure what to think of that, Morgan slipped around him and peeked into the bedroom, saw a a bed neatly made, crisp military corners, entirely surrounded by walls of boxes. His suspicions were validated.

“Don't profile me,” Hotch warned and Morgan raised his hands in surrender.

“Wouldn't dream of it.” He already had, they both knew it.

They fell silent for a minute, and Morgan just threw caution to the wind. Why the hell not? He plopped down on the bed, back against the headboard like he owned the place. At this point he felt like he had done more living there than Hotch anyway. Hotch had no idea what was going on, but he followed suit, felt the pull of the bed calling to him. He hadn't had a good night's sleep in longer than he could remember and it was making him feel sick, headache still raging unchecked. Kicking his shoes off he made his choice, he was at home, in his bedroom, may as well follow Morgan's lead. He slid himself onto the bed. It didn't feel strange or invasive that Morgan sat there, how many sleepless hotel nights had they spent watching stupid old movies or infomercials or playing a game of cards? Looking at strange brochures for the towns they traveled to gathered from hotel lobbies. Morgan flipped his phone open, dialed Garcia, and put her on speaker so Hotch could hear her too. He didn't say where he was, never said that he was with Hotch, and they both just listened to the girls laughing, Penelope assuring Morgan (and everyone else) that she was fine, she was great. Prentiss and JJ had been drinking, they could hear it. Hotch stayed silent, settled himself deeper into the pillows and listened to Morgan talk with them, ask them about their night, roll his eyes at their ridiculous comments about Kevin Lynch. By the time Morgan ended the call, Hotch was asleep beside him. He was sure it was the first time Hotch had fallen asleep in that bed, and he poked around until he found a box of throw blankets, not wanting to disturb the other man while he sank deeper into a well-deserved sleep. It was late and Morgan was exhausted, just wanted to crawl into his own bed and sleep so he spread the blankets over Hotch as gently as he could, turned down the lights and let himself out.

How's your faith? Rossi had asked him. Thinking about Hotch, Penelope, Colby he sighed.

Day to day.

[whump-town]

As Long As It's You

Chapter One

Summary: Boston AU which predates the show in which Hotch and Morgan are together when Gideon's decisions with Adrian Bale change the course of their lives.

Warning: typical violence and bomb stuff

Pairing: Hotchgan/Mortch

The air conditioning in the room rages through the August heat, Boston has nothing on Quantico humidity but the air is still dense. Uncomfortably thick and showing no reprieve in the days since they arrived. On top of the sheets, the thin comforter underneath his sweaty body, Derek looks up at the spackled ceiling. The room’s too poorly lit to see it well but the whirling patterns are still there, easy to track in their simplicity. The shower runs in the background. The bad water pressure and too hot water working to wear down Aaron’s edges, leave him in his bare-bones. Sleepy and compliantly ready for bed.

“Oh Aaron,” Derek sighs. He props himself up on his elbow, his face eaten by a smile he feels no control over. Wet hair standing in crossed, leaning patterns Aaron steps out of the bathroom. He’s wearing his favorite pajama pants, the one’s he packs on every long case away. An old worn cable knit sweater pulled down over his hands. “It’s too hot for that.” Derek sits up, shaking his head affectionately. Aaron’s cold natured but the room is too hot for that sweater.

Yawning, sweater-covered hand coming held over his mouth, Aaron trudges to the bed. Feet scuffing across the cheap worn carpet, he pays Derek no mind. Their physical differences are so apparent in this little room. Derek’s abs hard and flexed with his arms stretched up above his head, a toned leg thrown over the side of the bed. Foot dangling just above the carpet. Aaron is worn and scarred in places where Derek is hard and smooth. He’s marked and scuffed across his stomach, scars scattered over his skin. And Derek sees right through him. To the self-conscious fool underneath the layers of clothes he puts between them.

Aaron’s rolled over onto his side, back facing Derek. He’s attempting and failing to settle down. The comforter is miserable and the bed much too small for two grown men. Especially with the amount of distance Aaron’s attempted to put between them. He flinches when Derek’s hand comes to his back, slowly creeping up under his sweater until warm fingers spreading out over his skin. Derek’s palm over his stomach, holding him together. Attempting to pull Aaron into Derek’s skin, meld them into one person. “Is this okay?” Derek asks.

Aaron nods, the tears in his eyes slipping down to the pillow.

“For breakfast,” Derek mumbles, “we should get waffles.” He yawns, pressing closer until his chest is against Aaron’s back. “Mmm and bacon,” he whispers, dreamily. His stomach growls and Aaron laughs a deep chuckle. Derek squeezes him, kissing the back of his neck. “What are you laughing at? I’m basically wasting away! I’m starving.” Wet hair against his forehead, Derek presses his face into Aaron’s neck. Squeezing him tight, holding him to his chest so he can’t get away. Worm away like he sometimes does in the middle of the night.

With a yawn, Aaron taps Derek’s hand and turns around until he’s facing Derek. He scoots down until he can fit his head under Derek’s chin, presses his face against Derek’s chest. Crinkling his nose he mumbles, “your breath stinks.”

Derek huffs, “you are so mean to me, Agent Hotchner.” His hand comes down to tilt Aaron’s head up, Dere kisses Aaron’s forehead, then his nose. Smirking when Aaron tries to worm away from this too. He turns himself into a koala, throws a leg over Aaron’s hips, and pins his arms to his chest. Aaron fights it, always does, but he secretly loves it. Being held that close. “So terribly mean,” Derek whispers.

Aaron falls asleep first, the anxious feeling he’s grown to be quite accustomed to stifled by how tightly Derek holds him. It’s easier to sleep with someone else. He’d never asked for this particular treatment, had always assumed he was actually more of a hands-off kind of partner. In a lot of ways, he is but not in this one. He’s not asleep though when Derek kisses his cheek, his warm palm dragging up his back. Coming to rest against his cheek, thumb brushing against his lip. Aaron smiles, Derek smiles back catching the edge of his lips in a kiss.

It’s not surprising Derek never moves in the night. Aaron wakes up on his stomach, lifts his head up out of where he’s wedged his face between Derek’s shoulder and the pillow. Out of the warmth. He looks over his shoulder, frowns at how far his squirming has caused his sweater to ride up his back. He really doesn’t sleep all that calmly but that doesn’t explain everything. Especially not Derek’s hand resting against his ass, above his boxers but in his pants.

Aaron’s mastered the art of crawling out of Derek’s arms but the pants situation is not something he’s equipped for. Derek groans when he moves, unhappy to be shifted in his sleep but he stays asleep. Aaron gets dressed in the dark, his slacks making soft swishing noises as his legs slide into the designated holes.

“Aaron,” Derek whispers. The bedsheets make a soft swishing sound as Derek moves his hand along the sheets, making another discontent groaning sound. He rolls over, squints into the darkness until he can see Aaron moving around. “What’re you doing?” He rubs his eyes, sits up. “Babe, it’s early. Why are you up?”

Stifling a yawn with the back of his hand Aaron stumbles over to the bed. He trips on Derek’s pants, his disregarded clothing leaving a trail of tripping hazards for him to break his neck on. “I was gonna go to the hospital? Get the reports that Gideon was talking about. I have to get a jump on them because Gideon thinks there might be something in them we can use to build the profile.”

Derek hums, laying back down. He waves Aaron over, “lay back down.” He yawns, pulling the comforter back and leaving Aaron plenty of room to do just that. “Come on,” he whines. “Fifteen minutes, you don’t even need to go just yet.”

Aaron wants to disagree, to keep going on about his morning, but Derek reaches over and snags his hand. Tangles their fingers, pulls him closer. “Fine,” Aaron whispers. “Until you fall asleep.” He lays down where Derek was, immediately warmed by the heat Derek’s body left seeped into the covers. Derek attaches himself to Aaron’s back, pushes his face into Aaron’s back, and falls back to sleep. Like it’s nothing.

It’s much harder to get out of bed this time.

He shuts the door behind him softly, fighting the lock thudding back into place. As childish as it must look, he eases past Gideon’s door. Knows that if he’s found out Jason will chase him back to the room, he won’t find Aaron’s early start to the day ambitious but rather foolish. They’re all exhausted, they need to sleep. They’ve been in Boston for four intense days, split out across the city watching three different victims fall prey to a bomber. Derek’s breaking his back profiling bomb fragments, angry that he can’t provide the final answers they need in the profile. In whatever dark room he’s afforded, Aaron closes himself off with the case files. Looks over Derek’s notes and relays information about the victims to Jason.

They’re stuck.

At five, Derek wakes up alone. It’s not unusual.

He’s halfway down the stairs when he hears Gideon come out of his room. Derek looks over his shoulder, nods his head in acknowledgment to Gideon, and keeps walking. Neither have to say a thing to know where Aaron is. “Will you be joining us for breakfast?” Derek asks. He fails to keep his tone even, to not sound annoyed by Aaron sneaking off so early in the morning. It’s not healthy and if he’d been more awake he’d have stopped him. Aaron’s answer is no but he dancing around the answer enough to make it sound like a yes, Derek just isn’t stupid enough to fall for that anymore. “Here,” Derek shrugs it off. It’s too early for a fight. “Gideon wants to talk to you.”

He has blueberry pancakes because they’re doing a physically demanding job and living on an empty stomach isn’t healthy. No matter how Aaron dances around it. Gideon hangs up the call, Derek simply holding up his hand and shaking his head when Gideon tries to let him have the last word. He doesn’t want to talk to Aaron right now. He’s still bitter about his own four a.m. wake-up call and too hungry to make it through a conversation with him without snapping. And that’s not what either needs right now.

“He’s been distance lately,” Gideon says into his tea.

Derek grunts and keeps his head in his pancakes, doesn’t want to encourage the conversation.

“You going to be okay?”

Gideon knows but… Aaron and Derek aren’t sure about how much or to what extent. They know that he sees right through them and that’s a dangerous thing but he says nothing. Aaron dispels Derek’s fear with practiced words, a profile he’s been building since he met Gideon. He’s been watching how what little trusted information Aaron gives him blows over. What he reacts to and what he doesn’t. He’s only actually a little certain that Gideon won’t have them hung and tried for their crimes. Leave them for dead. Worse, outed to the entire government.

“I’m not sure,” Derek mumbles. He’s looking down into pancakes, picking one up with his fork and examining how pathetic and unappetizing it looks. “I think four more days in this city is going to kill him.” He drops his fork, runs his hands over his head, and just sits like that for a moment. This relationship and this silent moment go against everything he’s ever taught himself. Not to trust men, especially ones in power, but Gideon… When Aaron shuts a door like this Gideon has the flourish to pick the lock.

“Mmm,” Gideon agrees. He sets his mug down, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and clears his throat. “Well, I guess, we better get to work.”

Work pays in migraines.

Aaron comes back with reports upon reports. The receptionist offers them coffee when they step in -- she has a thing for Derek, which they all ignore in favor of her bringing them the freshest coffee -- she beams a smile at Derek and motions to Aaron sitting in the press conference room they’ve been given to work in. “He’s been here all morning, he’s like a robot.” Derek takes her coffee and doesn’t exchange the flirting like he has been, though it’s the unspoken payment for her coffee.

Gideon winks, patting her shoulder and expressing his gratitude for the coffee. “He is,” Gideon agrees, “that’s why we keep him around.” He laughs even he doesn’t find it that funny. He busies himself outside of the room they’ve been working in none-stop since they got here. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Derek wake Aaron up, purposely distancing themselves so the outside world doesn’t see. To hide how badly Derek wants to wipe the file’s imprint on Aaron’s cheek away with his sleeve. He gives them enough time to settle things and he steps into the room, clearing his throat. “Well, it seems since Hotch has such a jump on us this morning, why don’t you tell us what you’ve found?”

Hotch looks up at Derek but stands, clearing his throat. He has to move his shirt around, sleeping on paperwork has worn down his charm and carefully curated look. “I was looking at the -- the metal rods Derek found in the bombs--” his trembling hands hunt through the files. Searching for the pictures that Derek took but he ends up making a mess, the papers too thin for his uncoordinated hands. Derek pushes him away, takes over the mission and finds the prize before Aaron can start stuttering through his findings again. “I thought they made it seem like all that matters is the bombs. Not the victims, that explains why there isn’t a type, in the victimology. He’ll kill anyone because it’s about the bombs, not the victims. It’s about the rush, the fire, and the control.”

Derek nods, he’s not so sure that’s what the metal rods are there for. It’s maximum carnage for a great distance, over-kill for one soul person. To him, it just sounds like Aaron isn’t sleeping enough.

Gideon seems to agree but he’s pleasantly forgiving. Aaron’s worked hard for the last four days carrying more than his share of the profile. “It’s good, that’s good.” With a nod, he shifts the focus to Derek. “I think I’m going to split us up today. Send Derek to look at the bombs again. There has to be something we’re missing there.” Gideon steps to leave the room but turns back, “keep looking into the rod thing, Hotch. I think you’re on to something.”

With two light slaps to the doorframe, Gideon disappears back into the station. To the whirs and light conversation being had by the officers. Where Aaron knew Derek would eventually abandon him too as well. Disappearing into the uniforms easily, not returning until lunch or dinner. Coming back to reprimand him about whatever meal he’s missed or how he didn’t call Derek back. But for just a second Derek keeps his hand on Aaron’s shoulder, soaks in all the physical proximity he can before he has to step away. Turn themselves into different people, with different motives.

“I love you,” Derek whispers, stepping away from Aaron. “Please, please get lunch with Gideon. Do not sit in this room all day. You need to get some sun.” He hesitates to leave the room completely, wants to stay here just a little longer. Bask in Aaron’s proximity before he has to go sit in front of his own reports all day, looking at pictures of charred bodies and analyzing bomb fragments. “We should take a day when this is over. Go to the beach, drink vodka out of a watermelon on the sand.”

Aaron’s head has already gone back to his hands, fingers seeping through his dark hair. “I don’t like the sand,” he mumbles. It’s childish, it’s picking a fight where there doesn’t need to be one. He doesn’t like the sand but he does like the beach. How happy that it makes Derek and even dragging chairs and an umbrella down to the water. Letting Derek pull him into the waves and falling asleep hours later with skin warmed by the sun, Derek’s arms holding him down, and the residual rocking of phantom waves easing him to sleep. It sounds… amazing but he’s just in the mood to be an asshole.

“Think about it,” Derek asks, “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

He does think about it. He wants to spend hours in the car with Derek, listening to his music shift in styles and decades the farther they get away from Quantico, Virginia. To feel the residual ache of a nap he takes in the car, neck bent awkwardly to rest his head against the window and Derek’s hand on the inside of his thigh. To be awakened by the sun on his face, the heat of it good against his chilled skin. To go on long walks along the boardwalk, taking bites out of the greasy food Derek loves, and to hold his hand when it gets dark enough. To initiate contact only when the night swells his chest with bravery, daring anyone to say anything when the buzz of alcohol in his veins fills him with liquid courage. Just the sun and the beach and Derek.

But there isn’t a break in the case.

Only a hostage.

A forty-seven-year-old white man, the bomb held in his shaking hands. His front porch is too small for most of the officers so they have to regroup, come up with a proper plan. The hostage won’t last much longer in the heat. Adrenaline and humidity will do him in. They’re fighting two clocks. They need Derek here but he’s halfway to Virginia, consulting with Gideon in angry shouts as the two feverishly disagree with the plan they’re making. Derek doesn’t trust Bale to tell them what they need, Gideon thinks he’s a coward, he’ll cave.

“I’ll do it,” Aaron interrupts. He’s wearing his vest, already hooked up. If Gideon mans the negotiations, tries to get Bale to tell them what to cut he can handle getting closer to the bomb. Being their man in the field, the filter between what Gideon says and making sure what Derek says gets done. It would be far more helpful to just have Derek doing it, someone here who understands everything. Aaron knows about bombs… he learned about them as a cadet but he knows enough. To help. To get this handled.

“No,” Derek says and Gideon nods his head, “go. Keep your radio on 4, I don’t want anyone else out there.”

Aaron nods, all he needs to say is done. His vest agitates the skin under his arms but as he pulls the straps in tight it stifles the anxiety hammering through his bones. It’s comforting, it’s dangerous.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Aaron looks up, knows he’s the only person that can hear Derek through his earpiece but he still freezes a little. Glances over at Gideon now bowed back over his preciously set up desk, on the phone with Bale and trying to find some way to make this disastrous situation end without more death. Under his breath, he answers Derek, “my job. Someone needs to be out there. You’re not here. So it has to be me.” He looks down at himself, vest pulled down to meet his belt. Zipper up. Radio properly fed to his ear. “Are you ready?” Aaron asks, clenching his fists tight. Calm, he needs to be calm.

“Aaron, please be careful.”

There isn’t actually much that he can do. He’s a mid-point, a place wedged between phone calls. A voice to be drowned into the mix of others, not as important as Gideon’s sharp no non-sense negotiating. He’s a body in the sea, a calm voice. “Eric,” he offers calmly, “just hold still for us. We’ll get you out of here.” The poor man’s hands are showing no signs of steadying out. The bomb explosive element is mercury -- perhaps it’s not the explosive element but Derek was telling him about all this while they were laying in bed, Derek’s fingers scratching at his scalp so no he wasn’t paying enough attention. Mercury, though, is very unsteady, and the way the bombs are made the mercury is unstable. It’s going to tilt over and… boom.

“Agent Hotchner,” a bomb squad agent steps forward. “I’m going to approach the bomb now. Agent Gideon and Agent Morgan have spoken to Bale, he’s helping them.”

Aaron nods steps out of the way. “Eric, this man is going to help you, okay? Just keep steady, alright?”

It’s agonizingly slow. Aaron stays close, he’s only allowed at the bottom of the porch. Eric standing right by the door to the house. He says what he has to, what he’s trained to. It’s not that hard, he trusts Derek and he trusts Gideon. No matter how his gut twists. How at the back of his mind he’s reminded that he thinks this is all end-game, it ends in a bang. How seven federal agents would make the best ending, a great story for a bad guy.

“Eric,” the bomb squad agent says. “I’m going to disarm the bomb now--”

Seven hundred miles away and Derek Morgan feels that bomb shatter his world.

[hotchley]

neptune’s ocean (wash this blood)

Okay so, I ended up on the part of TikTok that has A Thing for Hotch’s hands, and I decided to make it angsty. And then it had a happy Mortch ending? I don’t know... 

The title is a reference to Macbeth: “Will all great Neptune’s wash this blood from my hands? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” It’ll make sense when you read.

This was cathartic to write, especially given the conversation I had today. I hope it is somewhat cathartic to read. You can heal. You can move on, you can be happy, and your biggest fears may never come true, no matter what your brain says. As usual, no proofreading, or dialogue.

Word Count: 2486

Trigger Warnings: child abuse, blood, vomit, guns, death, grief/mourning, intrusive thoughts, survivors guilt

read on ao3!

He can’t bring himself to look at his hands. They’d never been something he’d actually focused on. He’d never thought they were cute the way Jack’s were, or hated how slender his fingers were, so unlike the stereotypical hero. He didn’t pause his life to watch them carry out household tasks the way Haley always had.

Haley. Haley who is dead, and gone and cold, and whose blood coats his hands like a second skin. She loved his hands. She always told him how she loved everything about him, but his hands were her favourite thing. She loved how soft they were. How strong they were. Everything about them. 

In their first apartment, with the random photos and multi-coloured walls and traces of themselves and love everywhere, she had confessed this love to him. He had laughed when she couldn’t explain what she loved, or why. Haley had thrown a pillow at him in retaliation. But when they ended up laying on the sofa, both claiming they would go and clear the kitchen in a moment, she had linked their hands over her chest and kissed his knuckles.

And confessed that part of the reason she loved them was that they were so much bigger than hers.  When Aaron asked her why, Haley turned away and said it was embarrassing. He convinced her to tell him. How, he wasn’t sure. But she told him.

It was because they made her feel safe.

But as he sits in the living room that had once been full of love and life and joy and her, his hands being wiped of all of his sins as though they were as easy to bury as her body, he thought about how those same hands she loved had only hurt her.

He looks down, needing to see the traces of blood before they’re removed forever. As he does so, the limbs start to blur before his eyes. His eyes swim with tears and his throat starts to close. How many times before today has he washed them? Scrubbed at the pain until the skin turned red and raw?

How many times had he succeeded at rubbing it away? At hiding it, not just from everyone else, but from himself? And how many more times would he have to repeat the motion before his hands were clean? Would they ever be clean?

He wipes the tears from his eyes. He doesn’t deserve to cry. Not now. Not after everything he has ruined. 

Moments flash through his mind all at once.

Aaron Hotchner is eight.

His father is drunk- but that’s not an excuse, not now and not ever, although he will only learn that at thirteen in a boarding school meant to destroy him- and he does not understand what is going on. 

But his father has taken the belt from his trousers and brought it down on too small for his age hands until he sees blood. His hands tremble uncontrollably. Tears stream down his face, but there is no sympathy or kindness waiting for him. Not this time. 

The next day, he can hardly hold his pen. Nobody seems to notice or care. So he grits his teeth and bears the pain. It is the first time he finds himself doing such a thing, but it will by no means be the last.

Aaron Hotchner is fourteen. 

Someone insults his mother. And they aren’t wrong. He will realise this in a few years: that his mother was just another victim, but in that moment, he is just a teenager angry at the world for letting him live. But whilst he knows it to be true, Sean does not. Sean does not understand that their mother is not perfect, and is just as broken as his brother’s spirit.

Sean is scared. No, he’s terrified that their mother is going to be taken from them and that they’ll never see her again. Aaron feels guilty for wishing that would happen- that both their parents would be taken away, and they would be carried off by someone that can love them the way a parent is meant to be. 

Sean is scared, and Aaron is meant to ensure that never happens. He punches the boy.

It hurts his hand more than it hurts the other boy’s face, but he still ends up being suspended. His father hurts his hands again. It’s in that moment that he finally makes a wish: that he would never be like his father, even if he was his mirror.

Aaron is seventeen. 

Somehow, he finds himself at Haley’s home. Her parents are away for the weekend. His are still in that wretched house, playing roles in front of their guests and destroying the set behind closed doors. 

His hands are covered in blood because his father hit too hard.

Jessica, who is back from college, and the reason their parents are not at home, answers the door. She starts to close it when she sees that it is him. But then she sees how scared he looks, and finally understands why Haley is so protective over this boy. 

She lets him in, and does not let him apologise. She summons her sister. His girlfriend.

Haley hugs him. She has suspected this for a while now- everyone has- but she’s going to be different in the way that she is going to act. His fists remain clenched at his side as she makes this decision. Because this is a mistake. He cannot ruin her as well. He needs to walk away.

But Haley and Jessica don’t let him. Haley takes his hands and in the same way Derek will twenty years later, wipes the blood away without blinking or flinching. And then Jessica bandages them up, making sure to use antiseptic to prevent infection. It stings. He doesn’t react. It’s nothing compared to his father.

He tries to ask them how they know what to do, and they both shush him. When Jessica wipes her eyes, and Haley pats her back, he remembers the days they would spend at the church, and the women that would spend hours with them, only returning to their homes when the sun went down.

It is enough to make him vomit. They clean that up without judgment.

And then, and then-

Aaron is twenty-six. 

He is graduating from law school, just like he is supposed to. His hand is shaken. He does not flinch away, even though he wants to. He doesn’t recoil because Haley and Jessica are sitting in the audience, the only people he even wanted to watch him walk across the stage. 

Their cheers are the only thing he can hear.

When Haley hugs him, and Jessica tells him how proud she is, he knows it isn’t just because he made it.

Aaron is twenty-eight.

He is dancing with Haley at their wedding.

Her hands are so much smaller than his. So much gentler. So much softer. So much more human. And so beautifully void of scars. So perfect.

He makes one final vow that he will never say aloud. He will always keep her safe. No matter what happens.

Hotch is thirty-two.

He shoots someone dead for the first time. The medics come running in to check the injuries on the hostages. To confirm the time and cause of death.

He drops the gun. Dave’s words- don’t let them see you break- echo somewhere in his mind, but he cannot help the display of vulnerability. His knees buckle. He hits the ground with trembling hands. He pulled the trigger that released the bullet that ended someone’s life.

On the train journey home, he pretends to be fine. Jason and Dave pretend to not notice that he is silently falling apart.

The door to his home- the only one he has ever known- closes. As Haley holds him, he cries. And then he tries to push her away because is going to destroy her. It’s in his blood. His father destroyed him, and his father destroyed him, and it is a vicious cycle that he cannot break.

But Haley does not let go.

When the tears stop, she asks. He manages to force the truth out. Haley tells him everything is okay, and that he did the right thing, that he will move on from this. Aaron pretends to believe her, and pretends he doesn’t see her shift away from him ever so slightly.

Perhaps this is the moment their marriage starts to end.

Aaron is thirty-four.

A nurse is placing his son in his arms. Haley is watching them both with a smile. He mirrors that smile. so in awe at her for giving birth.

He’s in awe of his son as well. Jack- named for Jacqueline, the mother Hotch gained from and lost to the job- is tiny. Aaron cannot quite believe he is real. Jack Gideon Hotchner is so small, but so trusting that the arms holding him will keep him safe.

So just as quickly as the awe overwhelmed him, the fear sets in. What is he doing holding a baby so small and precious? He will ruin this child. He needs to let go.

He hands the baby to Haley, and runs to the bathroom. His meagre dinner- fear for Haley had stopped him from eating properly- makes a second appearance.

Haley knows what happened- she always does. She doesn’t force him to explain what went through his head, nor does she tease him about not being able to handle the sight of childbirth like the nurses do, so blissfully unaware of the monsters that haunt his nightmares.

Instead, Haley lays Jack down in the cot beside her bed. And then she takes Aaron’s hands, covering them with her own. She presses a soft kiss to his knuckle. Almost like she is silently promising him the same thing: that he will not hurt this child the way he was.

Suddenly, he is in the present.

Aaron is thirty-nine.

He is sitting in the living room of the home he had built with Haley. The home they were supposed to raise Jack in. Together. But now she is gone. She is gone and it is all his fault. 

He let George Foyet escape. And then he took too long to work out his final plan. He took too long to get to the house. So now Haley is gone. Jack will grow up without a mother and a father that cannot trust himself to touch him without causing harm.

How can he?

He has killed a man. A person. A person who had surrendered, with nothing more than his bare hands. He killed the man that had murdered Haley, in order to save Jack, but what kind of person does that make him? How is he supposed to comfort his son by hugging him and holding him when the blood would never be washed from his hands? 

How could it?

He is worse than his father.

Derek leaves him after he finishes with the bandages. 

He returns a few seconds, minutes, hours- Hotch doesn’t know, time has become nothing to him- later. He returns to Hotch sobbing over all the things he has loved and lost since he was born.

Derek doesn't say a word. He doesn’t need to. He knows nothing he says will make the situation better. Instead, he takes Aaron’s hands and lets the man cry.

Healing- physical and emotional- takes time. Rationally, Aaron knows it will, but it’s still a difficult thing to accept. It takes longer than he wants it to.

 It angers him- that it’s taking him so long to get back to normal and move on. The grief counsellor (the one Derek urged him to see, if not for his own sake, then for Jack’s) reminds him that it’s normal. If it were anyone else, Hotch would tell them to let themselves feel, and to give themself time to mourn.

But he is supposed to be the leader of the BAU. And although he can hardly look at Jack without tears forming, he is a father. He needs to be there for his son. So whilst everyone- colleagues, family, Jack’s counsellor, his own therapist- tells him he needs to take care of himself as well, he just can’t.

He can’t bring himself to eat. He can’t bring himself to let go of the guilt. He can’t bring himself to mourn. He can’t bring himself to accept that Haley is gone, nothing more than a casket, a headstone, photos and the memories and stories her loved ones cling to.

There is so much he cannot do. Too much that he feels.

Yet no matter what seems to happen, no matter how sad he feels, how angry he gets at the world, Derek seems to stick around. When Aaron is terrified of hurting someone he loves, Derek is there to remind him he won’t. When he is so tired he can’t even sleep, but Jack wakes from a nightmare, Derek stays awake and reads to him.

When he forgets to eat.

When counselling drains him of his energy.

When his hands shake too much to point the gun at the target during his re-certification training.

When he can’t even look at his hands because of all the harm they have caused.

Derek stays, even when Aaron cannot hug his son.

Aaron Hotchner is forty-three years old.

It has been three years since Haley’s death.

Two years ago, he let go of his guilt. One year and nine months ago, he let go of his fear of moving on, as he realised he could love someone and remember her all at once. Seven months ago, he built up the courage to tell Derek how he truly felt.

Derek had kissed him, soft and gentle and perfect. It had been exactly the same and completely different to the first kiss him and Haley had shared. Because it had been perfect, and it had been unexpected, but it had been less desperate and less messy.

Derek had kissed him, and Aaron had felt peace. He knows Haley is proud of him.

Derek is watching him. The man who had lost everything and then found a way to carry on. The man who put everyone above himself, but is learning to care for himself. The man who still wakes up screaming, but who has learnt to breathe without fear of timing running out. 

The man he loves.

Jack is holding an ice-cream in one hand as he and Hotch walk side by side, down to where Morgan is waiting to surprise the boy- not so little anymore- with a trip to the bowling alley for his birthday. 

Jack holds his hand out for his dad to take.

And what does Aaron do?

He takes Jack’s hand in his own, without a single ounce of hesitation.

[sodone-withlife]

one sentence

i saw sumayyah‘s answer to an anon’s ask (so all credit for this idea goes to them) about that scene in Omnivore where Rossi is offering Hotch his gun and this thing pretty much wrote itself (which is exceedingly rare lmao), so here is something that i thought would be just a few hundred words but ended up being a really long interpretation of the Foyet arc with hurt/minimal comfort with a good amount of pre-Mortch (or you can see them as platonic, i think it’s up for interpretation). 

also, just a quick heads up, i love Papa Rossi, but for the purposes of this fic, it might seem a little bash-y towards him

warnings: quite a bit of suicidal ideation, (almost) attempted suicide, implied/referenced suicide, canon-typical violence, canonical character death

word count: 7.9k words

The highlighted words stared back at Hotch as Shaunessy’s words echoed in his mind.

A deal with the devil.

“Yes, that’s exactly right,” he told Garcia.

“Because I found it, do I get to know what it’s about?” the analyst asked, unrepentantly curious. Hotch sent her a look.

Might as well. Shaunessy’s not going to last much longer, and we’ll be called in…  “The Reaper,” he said simply.

“Like—the Boston Reaper?” Garcia lowered her voice as she named the notorious killer. Hotch nodded. “I didn’t even know the BAU worked on that case,” she remarked. 

“1998,” Hotch informed her, remembering caffeine-fueled sleepless nights and the palpable fear on the streets. “It was my first case for the BAU as lead profiler.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but we don’t have a profile for the Reaper in the system, do we?”

Not in the system, no. “That’ll be all Penelope, you can go home now,” Hotch told Garcia, turning to the bottom drawer of the shelf behind his desk as the analyst nodded and left. Pulling out a worn folder bursting with papers and photos, he placed the newspaper clipping and the evidence bag protecting the contract into it. He left it to the side and refocused on the folder in front of him filled with sheets of old handwritten notes filled with annotations and crossed-out sections. 

There will be no sleeping tonight.

Early September, 1998

“You’re sending me?” Hotch was sitting ramrod straight in surprise, blindsided by Gideon’s sudden decision.

“Yeah,” Gideon answered simply, leaning back in his chair as much as he could in the cramped space and looking supremely unperturbed. “Do you not want to go?”

Hotch shook herself out of his shocked state, scrambling to gather his wits. “No—I mean, I’ll go, but—”

“But?”

Hotch carefully evaluated his words. “I’ve only been here a few months, and you’re sending me to Boston—alone—to help with the Reaper case? The case that has been going on for three years, longer than I’ve even been an agent, involving a killer that could probably put the Zodiac to shame?” 

The older agent shrugged. “I have to stay and hold down the fort since we are severely understaffed, but I’ll always be a phone call away, and you’re mainly there just to act as eyes for the both of us. You’re not working on this alone.”

Hotch stiffened as a sudden—but careful—warm touch on his hand pulled him out of the spiral of self-doubt he had been teetering over and grounded him. He brought his eyes back to Gideon and was surprised to see complete openness and no signs of deception or maliciousness that he had been forced to learn long ago at the hands of his father. 

“I’m not Dave,” Gideon began seriously, “I wasn’t the one who pulled you over here or the one you started out shadowing under, but I do talk to people. I know about your record in prosecution, in Seattle, and in SWAT, and it is very telling. You never doubted yourself before, and I have no doubt that you can handle yourself, so why are you starting now?” 

He leaned back, clearly done with the impromptu pep talk that Hotch, still frozen, figured happened once in a blue moon based on what Rossi had told him about the unit before he retired. The cramped room was silent as Hotch felt Gideon watching him struggling with internal strife. Slowly, he released some of the tension that was coiled within him, and Gideon turned back to his stack of consults with an air of satisfaction. 

“Start packing, Agent Hotchner. Boston awaits your presence.”

Late November, 1998

“Do you know what the hell is going on?” Hotch immediately asked when the call went through, pacing around his hotel room.

“And a good evening to you too.”

“Gideon.”

“What is it, Hotch?” his tone changed from dry to worried in a heartbeat, hearing the uncharacteristic urgency in his agent’s voice and the lack of nervousness that usually showed his agent’s discomfort towards using the less-formal form of address.

“Shaunessy, the lead detective,” Hotch spat out, throwing the case file that was in his hand on the bed. “He closed the case.”

“And that warrants a phone call at eleven PM, why?”

Hotch bit back a sharp retort, letting out a sharp breath. “You know I’ve been re-interviewing the victims’ friends and family, going through everything they had and lines of investigation that may have been dropped, working the profile along the way, but there have been no viable suspects, even with the accelerated killings,” he said quickly, a mess of emotions swirling inside him. “Gideon, no arrests have been made but he closed the case, just like that.”

“Remind me, when was the last victim?”

“Just over six weeks ago, a month after I got here. I know what you’re thinking,” Hotch said when Gideon didn’t respond, “that the case just went cold, but there were still things I had people following up on. It’s not cold,” he insisted.

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about it, Hotch. I know you don’t like it, but the locals have point on this.”

Hotch sighed, but it did nothing to calm him down. “I know,” he said, annoyed. “I’m catching an early train back to DC, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

January 2003

“The Reaper?”

Hotch slammed the folder shut and looked up from his desk, startled. He sent Gideon a glare, glad that no one else was there to see his composure slip, but he only looked vaguely concerned. 

“It’s been just over four years,” Gideon commented neutrally. “You’ve had that folder at the bottom of your third drawer, and you’ve pulled it out at least forty different times since ‘98.”

Hotch stared up at him in a challenge. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Gideon shook his head. “Just be careful. Don’t get too drawn into the chase.”

~~~

Sighing as he rubbed the familiar ache on the back of his neck that always appeared during paperwork days and especially stressful cases, Hotch closed his battered folder of notes and opened it back up again. It was almost compulsive at this point, repeating every twenty minutes and each time with the hope something new would catch his attention.

Hotch shifted, the bedsheets suddenly feeling unbearably scratchy and coarse even through his slacks. The case details buzzed around his head incessantly, distracting him from feeling the physical exhaustion and strain caused by the lack of proper sustenance and the stress of a day filled with dead ends.

The sudden ringing shattered the silence of the room, knocking him from his focus. He got up from the bed and warily walked over to the source, picking up the hotel phone and bringing it up to his ear. 

“Hotchner,” he said out of habit, only to freeze as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in reaction to the sudden, heavy breathing. “Who is this?” he demanded, throwing the folder he was still holding back on the bed with dread rising within him. 

“If you stop hunting me, I’ll stop hunting them.” His question about the caller’s identity went unanswered, though the cursed words of the contract spoken by the same distorted voice that was heard on the 911 calls from ten years ago was confirmation enough.

Anger flared inside him at the audacity, and he snapped back, “You think I’d take that?”

“It’s a good deal,” the Reaper replied flatly.

“I’ve misjudged you,” he said, some distant part of him wondering how Shaunessy felt when he himself got the offer ten years ago. “I thought you were smarter than this,” he was unable to help the derisive tone.

The silence was long enough for him to wonder how much he had caught him unawares with his response. 

“You should take it.” 

“And you’ve misjudged me.”

“This is your last chance,” he warned.

Hotch didn’t hesitate. “I don’t make deals. I’m the woman who hunts guys like you.” That got the reaction he was hoping for.

“There are no guys like me,” the killer growled, anger bleeding into his tone.

He scoffed. “You all think that.”

“You’ll regret this,” he warned.

It was said with such certainty that a chill shot down his spine, but it was overshadowed by his anger. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised, promptly hanging up without another word. He walked back around the bed, feeling a sudden need to put as much distance between him and the phone as possible. It was with some hysterical hilarity that he wondered if the next people to stay in this room would know about what had just happened—that a serial killer tried to threaten an FBI agent into surrendering in this room.

Those feelings faded away when a terrible feeling suddenly came over Hotch as he realized the Reaper knew which hotel—which room—he was staying in.

It wasn’t unusual during their cases for an unsub to contact another person in the midst of their crimes, but the memories of Elle in the hospital bed and Morgan in the interrogation room had been seared into his brain. 

Both times, unsubs directly went after members of the team.

Unable to remain in the room any longer, he went around unceremoniously throwing his things inside his bags before leaving the hotel room. Paranoia quickly crept back into his consciousness as he quickly made his way down to the parking garage with a hand near his gun, intent on heading straight to the field office.

Only half an hour later, Hotch was staring at the glinting gold ring on the bus driver’s hand, feeling oddly detached from the situation as he was confronted with the consequences of that cursed phone call.

“6 bodies, not including the driver,” Rossi said from the back of the bus. “He put them down with a gun—or, more likely, guns—and finished them off with his knife.” 

The call had come straight to the field office, just minutes after Hotch walked into the empty conference room that the team had taken command of. A beat cop had heard a series of gunshots and went to investigate, only to see the macabre painting of blood on the side of the bus with its occupants slumped over inside, unmoving. “Arthur Lanessa’s wedding ring,” Hotch heard himself say for the other agent’s benefit.

“What’d he take?” Rossi made his way down to him in the front. 

He snapped back into the present with a sudden surge of anger. “Does it matter?” he asked bitingly, turning and storming away from the crime scene for the relative privacy of a nearby alley.

“Hey,” Rossi called in worry, taken aback by the brash response. “What’s going on with you?”

Hotch stopped some way into the alley and took a deep breath, taking his time before turning to Rossi, who had followed closely behind. “He called me tonight at my hotel room and offered me the deal.” 

“What did you say?”

“I hung up on him,” his eyes burned with the sting of tears—whether out of anger at the Reaper or himself, he wasn’t sure. “And then he does this.”

“So you think this is your fault?”

How could it be anything but? He looked away, trying to hide just how shaken he was. “It is.”

The familiar sound of the safety of a gun being released pulled his attention back to the man in front of him. “Well, here, use mine,” Rossi said, holding out his gun to him. “You convinced me. No, no, you hung up on him,” he pushed as he waved him off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You practically killed them yourself—”

You practically killed them yourself.

You practically killed them yourself.

Killed them yourself.

Killed them. 

Yourself.

You.

You did this.

You should have made the deal

Hotch flinched away from the touch of cold metal against his head only to freeze in his place, ice settling in his bones as he processed what was happening. Barely seeing the horror on Rossi’s face, he stared at the other man’s empty hand before he focused in on the gun that was resting against his own head, tilted at an angle. There were five things he knew:

I have a finger on the trigger. 

My hand is trembling. 

I am still one of the best shots of the agents that are not in a tactical team.

Make one move, fire the gun, only the hearing in my right ear will be gone and the darkness continues to creep towards me.

Make a different move, fire the gun, I’ll leave Jack the legacy of a coward and Haley the knowledge that her efforts back in high school and college were for naught.

You did this, a malicious voice in his head said, sounding oddly like his father. And suddenly, he recalled the memory of the blood droplets hitting him and the ringing in his ears the first time he witnessed a gun go off when he was nine.

Slowly, deliberately, Hotch met Rossi’s horrified and guilt-filled expression and lowered the gun from his head. Carefully measuring his steps, he moved forward and pressed the gun into the older agent’s hand, which dropped down to the side, the weight of the gun now accompanied by something unseen, something much heavier.

Not sparing him another glance, Hotch turned and walked back out of the alley.

This isn’t the time nor place to break. 

But in the end, he didn’t have a choice. 

“Foyet escaped.”

Hotch’s blood ran cold as he processed JJ’s words before he roughly placed his mug onto the desk and stood up from his chair, following JJ outside to the bullpen that was full of noise and movement.

“Guards found him in his cell vomiting blood and convulsing, they rushed him to the prison hospital,” JJ explained quickly as they made their way down the catwalk. Hotch twitched as he heard Rossi’s office door open behind him, the man coming out to see what the commotion was about.

“Get me the US Marshal’s Office,” Hotch ordered, making the executive decision to ignore the older agent in favor of getting down to business. 

“I already called Don Reilly. I offered our assistance, he said they’d call us if they needed it.”

Prentiss rushed to the trio, holding a phone up to her ear. “The Boston field office just identified documents from Foyet’s house,” she reported.

Reid approached the agents gathered in the middle of the room, holding out a printout of what looked to be a set of blueprints. “They’re schematics for the electrical, heating, and water ducts of the East Woburn Correctional Facility.”

Hotch looked at him blankly. “He had the schematics.”

“And not just for Woburn—for every jail, prison, and courthouse in Massachusetts.”

“And ten years to plan,” Rossi added, a heavy silence following as everyone turned to the TV.

Finally, Garcia turned around. “They’re going to find him, right?” she asked worriedly.

Eyes still trained on Foyet's mugshot on the TV, Hotch was completely certain in his answer. “No, they’re not,” he said, just as the memory of Foyet’s words rose to the forefront of his mind, unbidden.

If you know me so well, how come so many had to die to bring you here?

I’m going to be more famous than you realize.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, trying to get a hold of the wave of nausea that suddenly overcame him. He brushed past the team, purposely heading out of the bullpen for one of the bathrooms that was further away for the sake of keeping the team and their concern off his back.

Within minutes he was throwing up bile and the small amount of alcohol he had drank back in his office into the sink, thanking the god he never believed in that the bathroom was rather secluded so there wouldn’t be anyone catching him in this moment of weakness. His eyes burned for the second time in less than twenty-four hours—only this time, a few traitorous tears managed to escape from underneath his eyelids. 

The taste of bile was strong as he turned on the tap and splashed his face with cold water, stiffening when he heard the door swing open and closed. Looking up to the mirror, he was both relieved and unsurprised to see Morgan locking the door behind him. 

“You’ve been avoiding Rossi,” Morgan commented quietly. Hotch huffed a sardonic laugh, straightening up and turning around to face him, leaning against the sink for support. It was a familiar situation, one first started years ago when it was just them and Gideon, and stopped after the team started growing. Then New York happened and Hotch had to de-stress in a gas station they stopped at on the drive back to Quantico, and their secret rendezvous started happening again, when cases hit too close to home for either of them.

Somehow he always knows what the root problem is. “Was I that obvious?”

Morgan shook his head. “You know you hide it well. I’ve just known you far longer than any of the others, besides Rossi, of course.” He didn’t go on, waiting on the other to decide the direction the conversation would go. 

Deciding to go for complete honesty, Hotch swallowed, tilting his head up and avoiding Morgan’s eyes. “He called me at my hotel room and offered me the deal.”

To his credit, Morgan only stepped closer, face creased in concern and a hint of knowing. “I said no, and he shot up a bus,” Hotch continued tonelessly. “I lost it in an alley near the crime scene. Dave had pulled out his gun and was trying to make a point about self-flagellation, but—” he cut himself off and shook his head frustratedly.

“I don’t know what happened. One moment I was just angry, and the next moment I was aiming a gun at my head,” he met Morgan’s eyes desperately, stern facade completely gone. “I don’t know what I wanted to do—I don’t,” his voice cracked as he sagged against the sink and his trembling became more pronounced. He quickly covered his mouth as a sob tried to escape his throat, prompting Morgan to move.

It was surprising to both him and Morgan how willingly he melted into Morgan’s body when the man reached out to stabilize him, but the sensation of the embrace was oddly calming for both of them. Neither spoke as they stood in the bathroom, not even as Morgan felt his shirt getting wet from the tears that Hotch finally let fall, and not even as the crying became more audible. 

Now, they would stay in the bathroom and soak up the comfort that they offered each other. They would talk about Foyet’s taunts and what Hotch confessed later. 

But later never came, because life never waits, and neither do unsubs.

Soon, they were racing against the clock as Reid got infected with an engineered strain of anthrax

Soon, they were investigating one of the worst, stomach-turning crimes they had seen. 

When they got back from the pig farm, Hotch only asked the team for a bare-bones report of the investigation and let them leave to the comfort of their homes while he stayed behind and dealt with the rest of the paperwork and red tape that was involved because of their foray into Canadian jurisdiction. 

It was past midnight when Hotch finally left the office and entered his apartment with the intent of pulling out a glass of scotch and staying on his couch with a book, knowing there was no way he was going to fall asleep that night.  

But Foyet was waiting, and Hotch was weakened by the exhaustion and stress of two all-nighters in a row.  

That night, as his team was sleeping in their beds, dead to the world while he was slowly bleeding out and floating in and out of consciousness in his own apartment, he could only take comfort in the fact that his death sealed Foyet’s fate. There was no way Morgan the team—hell, even Strauss, or anyone in the bureau—would stop hunting his killer to exact their revenge. 

He faded into unconsciousness with the expectation that that was it.

He slowly regained consciousness to the sharp smell of antiseptic and the unpleasantly familiar beeping of a heart monitor. Fatigue settling heavily over his whole body was the next sensation that registered in his foggy mind, and then the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Where am I?” he forced out through a dry throat, eyes still closed.

“In the hospital,” Rossi, his mind told him. He opened his eyes only to close them again when he was met with blindingly bright lights, letting out a pained breath. 

“How did I get here?”

“Foyet drove you.”

Morgan. He drew in a shaky breath as dull, pulsing pain finally made itself known through the painkillers.

“Can you remember what happened?”

That’s Prentiss.

He vaguely felt his head loll to the side before the memories rushed back into the forefront of his mind. Foyet’s words, the same exact words he remembered thinking back in that alley echoed unpleasantly,

You should have made the deal.

Hotch swallowed again and forced his eyes open through the heavy fatigue. “What did he take?” he asked quietly, unwilling to delve deep into what he remembered and deciding to mentally run through the details about the Reaper case instead.

“What do you mean?” Rossi asked, uncomprehending.

“The Reaper always takes something from his victims.” you’re one of his victims now—shut up and think about that later “Do we know what he took?” 

“There was a page missing from your day planner,” his eyes flew open and he looked over at Prentiss as she continued talking, “in the address section, the Bs.” 

No— “What did he leave?” Hotch asked, eyes slipping shut as a trickle of fear went down his spine and his brain screamed out in denial. 

“I don't know,” Prentiss said, floundering.

“He also leaves something with his victims,” he trailed off in a breathless whisper, unable to sustain the volume he had been speaking at as the throbbing grew stronger.

“I looked over your whole apartment,” Prentiss told him helplessly. “Nothing felt out of place.”

A thought came to him. “Where are my clothes?” Hotch asked, slowly trying to force his eyes open again. He turned his head, watching Prentiss bring a plastic bag over to the hospital bed. Careful to avoid looking directly at his bloodied clothes, Hotch managed to pull the bulging manila envelope closer to him on his chest. 

His hands froze as his credentials slipped out and he noticed a folded paper tucked inside. Slowly, shakily, Hotch pulled them out of the envelope and carefully flipped it open. 

He sank deeper into the bed as the breath he had been holding was almost punched out of him by the sheer terror that pulsed through him, the treasured picture of Haley and Jack staring back at him tauntingly. That’s my blood, he thought blankly, staring at the red streak he knew was deliberately painted over his family’s smiling faces.

“Haley’s maiden name is Brooks,” he finally said, almost numb to the implications. “I always listed her in the Bs in my personal information in case it fell into the wrong hands.” 

Some kind of precaution it turned out to be. 

“He knows where they live.”

And that was that. As Hotch was stuck in flashbacks and lied to Prentiss about what happened, Morgan led the SWAT team in sweeping Hotch’s old house and picked Jack up from his playdate. As Hotch talked with Haley and failed to not think about that night in the alley with the cold metal against his head, Morgan played with Jack outside and failed to not think about Foyet using his credentials so he could continue to torture his friend boss. As Hotch remained confined to the hospital bed, Morgan watched through an upper-story window as Haley and Jack were driven off into the distance to a location unknown to anyone but a select few in the Marshals service. 

Nine stab wounds, thirty minutes down time, and six days in the cursed hospital.

The numbers circled through Hotch’s mind when he stepped back into his apartment and had to work through the panic that rose within as he stared towards the place where he knew Foyet had been hiding. 

In the end, what brought him back from the edge was when his eyes caught the new security panel that had been installed over where he knew the bullet had made a hole and the sticky note with what he recognized as Morgan’s handwriting that was stuck over it, concisely written instructions on how to use it. If he looked around carefully enough for other signs of Morgan’s presence, he could see where the section of bloodstained carpet had been replaced, and that was only because there was the tiniest spot that had been missed. 

The tiniest reminder was enough to send Hotch into a panic, but he knew there was no way he could tell Morgan about it. 

Is this what you felt like, Elle? Unsafe in your own home, having to sweep each room for fear of another one of the monsters we hunt lurking in the shadows?

Slowly, numbly, Hotch worked his way through medical leave and physiotherapy, during which everyone in his team came over at least twice, Prentiss and Morgan the most often to help change his bandages. He knew they worried, but he couldn’t summon the will to care nor the words to thank them for keeping him company and preventing the darkness in his mind from taking over. 

And maybe it was a good thing, because there were things they didn’t know, things that he lied to them about. He lied and he lied, and he knew that if he had the words, they would all come tumbling out, and what little of himself that he had left would be exposed for all to see. 

Even if Morgan had tried to take everything he might be able to use, there was still his mind, and so if he had the words, they would all know how many times he envisioned holding cold metal against his head just as he had back in that alley.

On the thirty-fifth day after he was discharged from the hospital, when they were discussing Darren Call on the plane, they came close to finding out. 

So why hasn’t he killed himself yet? Sprees usually end in suicide. If he's got nothing to live for, why hasn't he ended it?

It was much later, after a day of being on the receiving end of careful, worried glances, and overhearing Morgan’s firm declaration from inside his office that he realized his slip. 

“I’m not going to stand by and watch this man kill himself,” Hotch had heard Morgan snap towards Rossi. Moments later, Morgan passed in front of his office window and made eye contact with him, making it clear that his choice of words was deliberate. 

Suddenly Hotch was back in the alleyway with the gun pressed to his head and managed to talk himself off the ledge he didn’t know he was standing on while Rossi stood there, frozen and horrified that his brazen attempt at making a point had backfired so disastrously. His own words on the plane came back to him, then thought about what others would have seen when he walked into that house unarmed, and he understood. 

He hadn’t been thinking at all when he went in to try and talk Darren Call down, but though he didn’t have a background in psychology, there were some things that didn’t need expert opinion to be said, and so he knew exactly his action could be classified as. 

Don’t lie to yourself, you know exactly what that was.

Hotch swallowed convulsively and broke eye contact with Morgan, turning back to stare at paperwork until the other man walked back to his desk in the empty bullpen. As much as he tried, he couldn’t forget Morgan’s impassioned exclamation nor the depth of the worry that was present in his eyes when they made eye contact through the window.

Maybe that was the day when things shifted. It wasn’t a complete change—the team still hovered around Hotch in uncertain worry, his thoughts never completely disappeared, and he nearly broke down in the bathroom the day Jack turned four in witness protection after seeing what footage of his child on a playground Garcia could enhance. 

There was, however, a different air to his and Morgan’s interactions after that case. Perhaps it was a long time coming, stemming from the painful understanding that was formed that day in the secluded bathroom when they found comfort in each other.

It wasn’t news that the higher-ups were watching him again, but then he walked back to his office after helping JJ triage consult requests to see Strauss fixing him with a stern stare. The next few days he spent trying to work through the frustration of recording and justifying every decision while trying and failing not to antagonize Morgan. And so while he waited for Morgan to come into his office, he could only hope that he hadn’t managed to destroy the strange friendship that had been built between them based on their shared knowledge of just how close he was to the ledge sometimes.

I should give him more credit, I don’t know how he puts up with me sometimes, and he has more than enough reason to report me to Strauss.

“Come on, Hotch, nobody's gonna replace you,” Morgan said, incredulous at the notion of Hotch getting replaced. “Fight Strauss. I'll go to the mat for you, so will everybody else. You know that.” 

“Morgan, it won't work,” Hotch spoke over him, trying to get him to understand. “Decisions like this have their own momentum. Unless I step down—”

“Step down? What are you talking about?”

A foreign feeling Hotch recognized with some surprise as amusement wriggled its way into his consciousness as he anticipated Morgan’s reaction to his coming announcement, “I'm resigning as unit chief at the end of the week”

“What? No!” Hotch couldn’t stop his mouth from twitching as his feeling of amusement grew slightly stronger at the visceral reaction. “Hotch, look, yeah, ok, sometimes your actions, I may disagree with them, but it's not enough for you to leave this team.”

“I'm not leaving the team, I'm just no longer in charge,” Hotch corrected, continuing before Morgan could get in a word. “You are.”

He watched as Morgan’s jaw dropped in shock, before finally asking, “Me?” Detecting no deception from Hotch who had nodded, he continued. “Look, I had the chance to be unit chief in New York, and I said no. I turned it down because I like this team. Strauss can't just fire you like this.”

“She can reassign me, and we can avoid that if I promote internally.”

Unable to come up with a counterargument, Morgan was silent for a moment. “This is wrong,” he finally said. 

A strange thrill went through Hotch at the confidence Morgan had in him—their relationship, while slightly different now, ultimately had been built on unstated respect and the ease with which both were able to call each other out on their bullshit; it wasn’t built on such blatant declarations of trust and confidence. Hotch opened his hands, shrugging helplessly. “It's the only way to keep the team together.”

Morgan nodded consideringly before carefully eyeing Hotch. “So all of this,” he gestured between them, bringing up the tension that had built up between them in the last case, “this is why you've been pushing me so hard, huh?”

“I haven't been pushing you that hard,” Hotch denied, only to get a disbelieving look from the other man. He let out a faint smile before regarding the other with a serious look again. “Morgan, I need to know right now. Will you do this?”

He couldn’t articulate the relief he felt when Morgan finally agreed and continued to feel for the rest of the night as he introduced Morgan to the other parts of the job. Just like every other positive emotion he had felt over the past few years, however, it was short-lived, as Hotch had freed up time to dedicate to the hunt, even as he often stayed later to help Morgan get adjusted. Within months, they were called into a family annihilator case and Hotch was confronting Karl Arnold, one of the few unsubs that had continued to haunt him even after the case was closed and they were killed or incarcerated.

Of course, Arnold had to get in the last word, and oh, did he get it in. 

The cursed eye of providence, now drawn over a newspaper article about the attack months ago, never failed to create a surge of anger and fear within him, but never had it created such a storm of emotions before now. One torturous night of waiting as the envelope the taunts were sent in went through the lab, and the whole team was in the throes of the hunt, and in the process, fell victim to tunnel vision.

What if they had slowed down and remembered that Foyet worked with computers? Would they have managed to catch him at the apartment unawares? Would they have been better prepared for what Foyet had planned to do?

But there wasn’t anything Hotch could do except try and talk Foyet out of going through with his plans while trying to maintain as level of a head as possible.

“Your mother tried to protect you from your father, but she wasn’t strong enough, and you hated her for that, didn’t you? So, you decided that all women were weak,” Hotch suddenly brought up, hoping to catch him off guard as he vaguely wondered if the team was on the line, listening. 

“Those are your words, not mine,” came the grating, annoyingly blasé reply.

“What were you, nine when you killed them?

“It was a car accident. And, now that I think about it, our childhoods are eerily similar, don’t you think?” 

Caught unawares, Hotch jerked the steering wheel, barely managing to avoid crashing the car as Foyet continued. “But it was only your father who died, whereas your mother remarried.”

How—? He turned cold at the show of Foyet’s obsession, which was clearly much deeper than he or anyone in the team could have predicted.

“No response?” the killer taunted.

“My father swallowed a bullet because he couldn’t live with his self loathing or the cancer,” Hotch finally snapped, quickly directing the subject back towards Foyet. Even with the pit in his stomach growing as it became clearer that he was being toyed with, he couldn’t help but use every negotiation tactic he knew and taught at the Academy, desperately but futilely trying to dissuade the killer. 

“Haven't you gotten what you wanted?” Hotch tried, somehow having regained his composure after the unpleasant bombshell. “You've set yourself apart from anybody we've ever dealt with. You're not just a famous serial killer, you're the Reaper. We're going to study you and your methods for years and years.”

“You know what I've been thinking?” Foyet finally asked after a few moments of silence, his next words sending his heart pounding in fear. “Haley looks really good with dark hair. She’s lost some weight. Must be all the stress you caused her. Where's the little man?” No, don’t you dare— “Oh. There he is. Does he like Captain America because of you?” 

Hotch gripped his phone tightly as he heard the ringing of another phone. “That's your wife. Hold, please—Mrs. Hotchner,” Foyet took on an accent, tone turning jovial. “Open the gate and I'll drive in.”

Open the gate? That son of a—of course.

“Aaron?” the malicious glee was back, cutting right to Hotch’s core. “I really gotta go.”

Almost frozen with fear, he pushed the car faster, heading straight towards the old house and praying to whatever deity he could think of that he could get there in time. He wasn’t sure how long had passed when he got Morgan’s call, which was confirmation that the team had indeed been listening. He didn’t dwell on it and only continued to push the car, disregarding speed limits and almost hysterically glad that it was the middle of the day and the streets were relatively empty. 

When his phone rang, it was with numb, mechanical movements that he answered, fully prepared to beg and bargain for his family’s life if he had to, only to sharply inhale at Haley’s dearly missed voice, which turned shaky with fear when she realized the danger she was in. As Foyet undercut their exchange with his maliciously satisfied taunts, telling Haley all that he could never bring himself to confess about the case, Hotch could only think about how he was just too far away, Haley, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry for lying to you about everything, I’ll never forgive myself—

But then Jack was on the phone, and the pure innocence and eagerness with which his son greeted him after months of no contact was enough to send a fresh wave of tears coursing down his face.

“Is George a bad guy?”

“Yes, he is,” Hotch answered, wanting to scream at him to just run away, get as far away from him as you can when an old memory was suddenly brought forth from his subconscious. “Jack, I need you on this case with me. Do you understand?” he tried to keep his voice steady, hoping with his whole being that his son would remember. “I need you to work the case with me.”

“Ok, Daddy.”

“Jack, hug your mom for me,” he requested, voice cracking and desperately trying to contain the sobs that were steadily building. He could only imagine the warmth his son was feeling from his mother now, potentially the last memory he would ever have of her. Hearing his son’s too-inquisitive question about his mother’s mood left him viciously biting down on his bottom lip, trying to maintain some modicum of control over himself.

“Is he gone?” Hotch finally asked, nausea joining the storm of emotions within him at the nickname Foyet had given his son.

“Yes,” Haley confirmed, letting her fear shine through now that Jack wasn’t there to see it. 

Each shaking breath was a stab straight to his core.“You’re so strong, Haley, you’re stronger than I ever was.”

Her response nearly sent him shattering into the pieces she had so carefully helped him put back together back in high school after his stepfather died.

“You’ll hurry, right?”

I can’t lie, I’m so sorry, Haley. I can’t lie to you. Not after everything I’ve already done, “I know you didn’t sign on for this.”

“Neither did you.”

Why does it have to be now that we finally talk about what caused the divorce?

“I’m sorry for everything.”

There was a short pause as Haley inhaled sharply, before leveling out into shaky breaths. “Promise me that you will tell him how we met and how you used to make me laugh.”

No, please— “Haley,” Hotch trailed off, unable to continue and almost paralyzed at the knowledge that these might be her last words because he’s too far away, I’m not going to—

“He needs to know that you weren't always so serious, Aaron. He needs to believe in love, because it is the most important thing, but you need to show him. Promise me,” she ordered him forcefully.

“I promise.”

The sound of three gunshots tore straight into his soul. 

And then he was finding Haley’s body, trying not to let the seams break when renewed rage roared to life within him at the extinguishing of the light that had been inside her and lit up every room she walked in. Minutes later, he was straddling the demon that had haunted him for over a decade, the demon that he finally caught up to but at a terrible cost and then he was punching—

I’m going to kill that bastard son of yours and I’m going to tell him it was all your fault— 

and punching—

You practically killed them yourself—

and punching—

You should have made the deal—

someone yelled his name—

Promise me.

“—dead. He’s dead,” someone was shouting as Hotch tried to lunge forward away from the person pulling him back and towards the man who killed my wife HE KILLED HALEY—

But all the fight that had been inside him suddenly disappeared, and he was left staggering backward, mouth open in a silent, rage-filled scream as someone—it’s Derek—kept a careful grip on his body, holding his shattered pieces together just long enough for him to gather his tattered seams close to his chest and fling himself away towards the stairs. 

Hotch collapsed to his knees in front of the chest, seeing no indication of any taunting messages and daring to hope that his son was—

And the sight of his son, unharmed and blinking at the sudden change in brightness, nearly sent him into a mess of relieved tears that were also tears of unadulterated grief because I got his mother killed—

He held himself together and lifted his son out of the chest, seeing all the features he got from Haley—her his hair, her his eyes, her his inquisitiveness—and struggling to maintain his weakening control as he told Jack to go to Ms. Jareau, who was waiting with open arms in the doorway to the room that had once been his office. 

Hearing their footsteps fade away and shaking with suppressed sobs, he slowly stood up, injuries that he sustained in the fight finally making themselves known as he made his way across the hall to the room he knew Haley was lying in—

He saw Morgan taking her pulse and for a moment he couldn’t help but hope that she was still—

But Morgan was pulling back and he was gently placing Haley’s right arm back on the ground and he wasn’t yelling for medics and—

“I’m so sorry, Aaron,” Morgan said softly as Hotch knelt down, his trembling becoming more palpable by the moment. 

If he looked past the unseeing eyes and the blood that pooled everywhere and her lying on the floor and—

He could almost convince himself that she was sleeping. For a moment, he was almost afraid to touch her, afraid to disturb her in her sleep, but in the next moment—

He was pulling her cooling body close to his chest and burying his face into the crook of her neck, gut wrenching sobs escaping his lips as a wave of grief shattered the flimsy show of control he had put up for Jack’s sake, his son who just lost his mother because his father was addicted to the chase and I broke my promise, Haley, I’m so sorry—

She’s gone. 

The solemn silence weighed heavily on the team as they waited for Hotch to finish testifying before Strauss and the brass. They had all expressed their outrage when they got the orders to come in for their statements, only two days after their leader nearly lost everything, but there was nothing they could do.

It had been painful to watch the man who had been a protector for so long, since childhood through his teenage years and into adulthood, try to maintain the post, disregarding his own health in favor of being the earliest in the office and last to leave, spending every free moment trying to get rid of the threat to his family. It was worse having to listen over the phone as his control started to slip while he tried so desperately to save his family from a madman. 

With the sight of him savagely beating Foyet’s dead body into the ground, all vestiges of the infamous controlled facade gone, they all hoped for Hotch’s sake that Jack had found safety and were beyond relieved to see him in JJ’s arms. Reality caught up to them, however, when they watched as Morgan had to physically wrestle Hotch away from Haley’s body so she could be transported to the ME’s office.

When they got the full autopsy, they could only be glad that Hotch wasn’t there to find out all that Foyet did to his first love.

And within a year, Hotch’s family had been ruthlessly snatched from his desperate, flailing grip and torn into broken pieces before being shoved back at him, misshapen with pieces missing. 

The faint sound of a door swinging closed had them all straightening up in their seats, turning to look into the bullpen where Hotch was walking up the stairs in front of his office, only to freeze right in front of the door with his hand just in front of the door knob. 

They watched worriedly as he let his outstretched hand fall back to his side and slowly backed up from the door, almost as if he were in a trance and startled when Morgan suddenly jumped up and ran out of the room and through the bullpen towards the man.

Their confusion cleared up when they realized that Hotch wasn’t stopping as he backed up, somehow unaware that the stairs were right behind him and stumbled, only barely catching himself on the railing. For Jack’s sake, they forced themselves to stay seated but watched out of the corner of their eyes as he tried to stand back up, only for his knees to buckle underneath him. 

Before he could hit the ground, Morgan quickly grabbed onto his arms, almost collapsing himself under his dead weight but managing to lower them both onto the ground, holding onto him in a way eerily reminiscent of what he had done when he pulled Hotch off of the barely-recognizable body of George Foyet. 

Hotch was still staring at his office door as if he had seen a ghost, and it was with heartbreak that Morgan realized what it represented to him—it was the source of so much passion and temptation that had gotten the love of his life killed. Looking back at the conference room and seeing the eyes focused on the two men, Morgan carefully pulled Hotch up from the ground and slowly guided him out of the bullpen, knowing that the team had Jack taken care of.

They walked through the winding hallways and into the bathroom that he followed Hotch into the night it all started to go horribly wrong. This time, it was different and yet the exact same, and after Morgan locked the door behind them, he pulled Hotch towards him, mindful of his bruised ribs. 

Surrounded by the four walls that heard so many of their small talks and witnessed their vulnerabilities, it wasn’t long before Hotch’s eyes began to burn as he finally melted into Morgan’s protective hold when the dam finally broke, letting out a wave of pain and anguish that was only made the slightest bit more bearable by the warmth of Morgan’s his friend’s care.

But even that couldn’t make that one sentence disappear.

You practically killed them yourself.

[fortheloveofwonderland]

mortch? pretty please with a cherry on top

Gives nose/forehead kisses - Morgan can be surprisingly cute sometimes, especially when he’s tired. Every night he crawls into bed, stifling a yawn and leans over Hotch, kissing him softly on the forehead and then on the nose. Hotch will never admit it, but it’s his favourite part of the day.

Gets jealous the most - although Morgan definitely gets more attention from both males and females, he’s also the one that gets jealous. He’s the silent jealous type. If someone is hitting on Hotch, Morgan will sidle up to his boyfriend and either take a hold of his hand or put his arm around his shoulders and stare down the person hitting on him. They usually leave pretty soon after Morgan turns up. 

Picks the other up from the bar when they’re too drunk to drive - Morgan will on occasion go out and drink a little too much. He is stubborn so he will never call Hotch to pick him up but inevitably someone else will (usually JJ). And Hotch will sigh and pretend he doesn’t love coming to his partner's aid. The whole ride home Morgan will insist he’s not even that drunk and he could have just got a cab home. Hotch will silently listen to him rant and as soon as they get home Morgan will kiss him and say “thank you for picking me up. Again.” 

Takes care of on sick days - they both take care of each other because they are both very stubborn when they are sick. They are as bad as each other, always trying to insist they aren’t ill and they don’t need soup, they don’t need to be in bed and it will be the others job to make them lie down and rest.

Drags the other person out into the water on beach day - Morgan is all about the beach and the ocean. Hotch does not love the beach but he does love seeing Morgan shirtless, sweat clinging to his abs. So when Morgan tries to drag him into the water, Hotch will complain and put on a show that he doesn’t want to but really, he loves seeing Morgan soaked and won’t be able to tear his eyes away from the beads of water rolling over his gorgeous body. He always has to remind himself not to eye up his partner around Jack but Morgan makes it so difficult.

Gives unprompted massages - honestly, I struggle to see either of them doing this. They aren’t the touchy feely kind of couple and neither of them is a big fan of being massaged.

Drives/rides shotgun - Hotch and Morgan constantly argue over who is going to drive. It’s a permanent point of controversy in their relationship. They both like to be in control and driving gives them control. Usually it ends up in an argument.

Brings the other lunch at work - Morgan loves to bring Hotch lunch. Morgan will always pop out to the nearest cafe when they are on cases to get Hotch his favourite sandwich. Hotch will thank him with his usual tight lipped smile but it means more to him than Morgan will ever know. 

Has the better parental relationship - I’m not a fan of this one so I don’t know?

Tries to start role-playing in bed - Morgan has suggested it a few times but Hotch is quite straight laced and thus far Hotch has not been open to it. Morgan will try again. 

Embarrassingly drunk dancer - Hotch has never danced in his life. Morgan on the other hand loves to dance, drunk or sober. When he’s drunk his dance moves go out the window and he moves in a wild, gangly fashion as though he is completely disconnected from his body. Hotch can’t even watch, he has to walk away because it embarrasses him to core to see his boyfriend like this.

Still cries watching Titanic - neither of them has ever seen Titanic, that’s what they’d tell you. Hotch is telling the truth, Morgan, not so much. Even Hotch doesn’t know Morgan’s secret affinity for the movie. He will watch it when he’s home alone and will sob like a baby every time. 

Firmly believes in couples costumes - I am 100% sure neither of them ever has or ever will dress up in couples costumes. Jack has tried to get them to but even he isn’t convincing enough. 

Breaks the expensive gift rule during Christmas - Hotch. Always Hotch. He isn’t even sorry about it either.

Makes the other eat breakfast - Hotch is always keen to make Morgan breakfast. He makes breakfast for Jack every morning and always insists Morgan eats before they head to Quantico.

Remembers anniversaries - neither of them are that great at this. Honestly, they aren’t even sure when their anniversary is. Hotch thinks it’s March but Morgan thinks it's May. Over the years it stopped mattering so much to them when exactly it was. 

Brings up having kids - Morgan would like them to have kids and has brought it up a few times. Jack really wants a brother or sister. Hotch still needs some convincing.

[hotchseyebrows]

whats your opinion on motch? also i love love love your penemily fic!!

i usually call them hotchgan (because mortch sounds BAD, but motch is a little better even if it's still not quite... the sound i want my mouth to make aidbhehe) but i like them!! many thoughts many ideas, all in all im having a good time

also omg 🥺 that makes me v happy thank you sm

[tenelvez]

If tenelvez is tara x penelope x luke then I love it!! Mine would probably have to be ellemily!! I just think they’re so bad ass and they would’ve made such a power couple!! Or even as friends, I definitely think they would’ve had a lot of chemistry together!! I like most wlw ships like temily, penemily, jelle, but those are becoming quite popular (at least on here), so I’m going with ellemily. I really like mortch/hotchgan too, but that ones more of a crack ship for me 😅 what’re your thoughts on it? - ❤️‍🔥

TOTALLY FORGOT TO RESPOND KN SO SORRY

elle and emily deserved to meet though we were robbed </3 the power they would hold, you’re so right

and also mortch/hotchgan is great as a crack ship (kind of how I ship it too, but I’m not as invested, I just think it’s fun), but there’s enough evidence for it to be pretty reasonable especially in mayhem. so much angst so much slow burn so much jealousy😔 my only for sure opinion that I’ll never back down on about the ship is hotchgan being the correct term

but yess tenelvez is tara, penelope, and luke i love them <3 tenelope, garvez and talvez all at once

[hotchley]

like blood underneath your fingernails

Honestly, I’m quite proud of this one. It’s been in the works for a while, and I finally have a title (from Looking Too Closely- Fink) and I both did those flashcards and emptied the dishwasher, so it’s here now. It’s been proofread!! Once. In the car.

The writers (according to the internet) did not deal with the aftermath of Scratch’s initial... thing. So I took it upon myself to write the case after. It got dark, but I had fun writing it. And it has low-key Mortch vibes... a lot of other amazing writers have also written fics linked to this, so you need to read those too because they’re just the best

OH!! This is not a Rossi-friendly fic. I have tried to explain why he responds the way he does, but it does come off as Rossi bashing, so if you reallllly love him and think he was a great friend to Hotch... skip on this one.

Trigger Warnings: dissociation, aftermath of torture, a slight reference to suicide and child death, canon-typical violence, cases involving kidnappings and murder, blood, dark themes, other canon-typical darkness, hallucinations

read on ao3!

He cannot close his eyes.

Because when he closes his eyes, he sees one of them, falling to the ground as the light leaves their eyes and the life leaves their body because his worst fear has never been his own death. It has always been the death of the family he is meant to protect- whether that was Sean, or Haley or the team. 

He hears the fear in JJ's voice as Spencer, her little brother, the boy that has always been too young, the man that he has never succeeded in saving, falls to the ground, eyes never opening again. 

He tastes the horrifying and coppery tang of blood as Derek is shot right in front of his eyes, the blood splattering onto his cheek and every sentence Reid has ever spoken about the bacteria and pathogens in blood springing to the forefront of his mind.

He smells the bitter and disgusting sage that Peter Lewis uses to torment people and turn them into brutal murderers that cannot stand the sight of their own hands or wrap their heads around their actions because they had always been normal and good, and it hurts because he's already a killer, never once normal or good.

He touches the knife that was slid towards him, the metal cool against his warm hand and the weight a comforting thing that make him feel like he could regain control of the situation he was in, despite the thoughts of George Foyet that fill his mind, and he wonders whether Scratch is impotent.

He closes his eyes and he no longer knows what is real.

It is why he is returning to work only ten days after the case. He had wanted to take the usual five, terrified even of that small number because he couldn't trust himself. The doctors that assessed him in the hospital wanted him to take thirty. Ten, and a passed psychological evaluation, had been the compromise.

He wonders if the team knows how he lied. They must do. They aren't stupid. He wonders if anyone will call him out on it, or if they'll once again be so terrified of the humanity he wants nothing more than to cling to that they will simply watch and wait until he shatters again.

The steady ticking of the clock is the only noise in the otherwise silent apartment. When he flicks the light on, he sees there are still five hours until he needs to wake up. For a single moment, he closes his eyes, contemplating whether or not attempting to sleep is a pointless exercise. He swears he can still taste sage and opens his eyes again.

A silent house is not necessarily a bad thing. It means Jack is sleeping through the night, no nightmares about the gunshots haunting him. And it means the extra locks on the door, the obsessive way he checks every window is locked as soon as the sun goes down, are doing their job at keeping the monsters out of the only home Jack has real memories of.

Aaron creeps out of bed, grabbing the jumper that was folded at the foot of his bed. Once he's put it on, he sighs to himself and counts to five. For each number, he tells himself a fact that cannot be disputed. That grounds him.

His name is Aaron Hotchner.

He is forty-four years old. 

He is standing inside his bedroom, in his apartment, which is located in Virginia.

The windows of that apartment are locked from the inside.

Just down the hallway, his son is sleeping peacefully, untouched by the monsters that strangle his father every single day.

He creeps down that hallway, taking comfort when the same floorboard that always creaks does just that. Normally he would avoid it. But lately he's been finding every opportunity to do something that Peter Lewis would have no knowledge of, if only so he can convince himself he's fine.

Jack's door is slightly open, allowing some light to enter. Aaron nudges it gently, making sure he doesn't wake Jack. The door doesn't make a sound, and his son carries on sleeping. He never looks so similar to his mother as he does when he sleeps. Haley slept on her left side, a slight smile on her face, and Jack does the same, unless he has a bad dream.

But even then, he is so much like his mother that his tears can be turned into something beautiful. Aaron was the exception of their little family, having always expressed his emotions so honestly, the few times he let himself do that, that there was no way it could be anything but ugly and human.

He's too big for the chair in front of Jack's desk, but he sits in it anyways, turning it so he can face Jack's bed. On the table is his latest art project- a collage of things that remind him of the people he loves- and Aaron finds it difficult to look at. Because his son has painted his mother as a perfect angel, and his father a superhero.

One day, Jack will realise his father is the furthest thing from the superhero and he will hate him for destroying his childhood and taking his mother from him before he was old enough to understand that people were mortal. Aaron is mentally preparing for that day- there are already so many letters that will never excuse or justify what he did hidden in his office drawer- but until then. he will allow himself this one good thing.

He will allow himself to sit, and take comfort in the steady rise and fall of Jack's chest. He ends up staying there until sunlight starts to stream through the window, and then he takes his leave. 

Seeing Jack, sleeping so calmly and normally, reminds him of why he's going back to work. Because if he hurts the wrong person there, the team won't hesitate and they'll do it. If he hurts Jack- and he knows he's weaker than the man that refused to harm his son, knows that it will be Jack- there will be nobody there to end his pain and suffering. He'll be forced to live with it.

A minute before his alarm is set to go, he turns it off, and then he goes about morning like it is any other day. 

He doesn't feel like himself till he puts the watch Dave got him when became lead profiler on, tightening the strap till it mirrors the feeling of holding the knife. And he wonders whether the team are discussing his return to duty the same way they had six years ago. 

They are. Aaron's absence meant more paperwork for the rest of them, as there is no way the team are going to let him handle it when he comes back, so every single one of them are in an hour earlier. It also means his return will be as smooth as it can be.

Even if they don't all approve.

"It's only been ten days," Derek says. "He needs more time."

"Does he? He came back thirty-four days after George Foyet stabbed him in his apartment and his wife and son were sent into Witness Protection, and he was fine. This is like child's play compared to that," Dave says, fiddling with a paperclip.

"Ex-wife," Reid corrects quietly. 

The three of them are sitting in the bullpen, looking towards the elevator every few minutes. Kate pretends she's not listening, and Derek pretends he believes her.

"Was he fine? He looked us in the eye and asked why a man that had lost his wife and child was still alive. He walked into a hostage situation unarmed. We all pretended he was fine because we needed Foyet to strike, but I'm not making that mistake again. Not after what happened when he did end up striking," Derek snaps.

Spencer swallows. Dave just raises an eyebrow. It's almost funny. Spencer views Aaron as a father, Dave as a son. Either way, they both believe he is perfect. Able to come back from anything and everything with nothing more than a broken ego. But Derek remembers what Foyet's body looked like, and he remembers how Aaron had shattered in his arms for those few seconds.

"If you want to ruin his first day back, then be my guest. But you need to trust him the same way he trusts us. After all, you care more about him than you do your job," Dave says, annoyance bleeding into his tone.

And Derek gets it. He really does. He had wanted to believe Gideon was invincible when he came back after Boston. Everyone had. So they hadn't done anything, and he had just gotten more and more reckless with his actions until innocent people ended up dead and Hotch got suspended. And then he ran. 

He isn't going to let that happen again.

"This isn't about not trusting him. This is about keeping him safe. And you're right. I do care about him more, because the last time I didn't, he almost retired. So we either do the opposite of what we did last time, or we let history repeat itself."

"Derek, you can't force him into anything. He passed his psych eval, so Cruz can't do anything either," Spencer says. 

Derek softens as he turns to him. "I know pretty boy. It's not about forcing him into anything. It's about making sure he knows that we're here if he needs more time, or if he needs a break. And don't get me started on that psych eval. I saw his answers. They're too perfect. He's lying."

"So what are you going to do?" Dave challenges, and not for the first time, Derek wonders how Aaron kept his sanity working with him, Jason Gideon and Max Ryan at the same time without any of the other members to meet his eyes with the same exasperated look every time one of them reverted to the old fashioned way of doing things.

"Be the friend he trusts me to be," Derek says. It's his own challenge. Dave prides himself on being the only one to call him Aaron. To people outside the team, Rossi seems to be the only one that Aaron trusts enough to be vulnerable with. 

But Derek knows better. Aaron will never be completely open with anyone, but he still feels like he has a duty to be the hopeful and undamaged boy that thought he could save the world that Dave recruited. He still has a duty to be the father that Spencer never had and thought he'd found in Gideon. It is only with Derek that he allows himself to do his own type of falling apart: one that is contained and messy and ugly. Somehow both terrifying and anticlimactic

It was Derek that stopped him from running into a burning building all those years ago. It was Derek that was voluntarily told about Haley leaving. It was Derek that stepped up as Unit Chief and pulled him off Foyet's dead body. Not Dave and certainly not Spencer. So he won't let them influence his actions. Not this time.

Hotch does blink. But only when he thinks nobody will see him do it.

Dave keeps eye contact for a few more moments, but this time, Derek does not break it. Eventually the older man turns around and heads to his office. Derek sighs, knowing fully well that Aaron is going to end up doing the paperwork anyways.

"Is he going to be okay?" Spencer asks, sounding so painfully young that Derek has to look at him to remember he wasn't the new recruit anymore.

"Dave? Yeah, he'll be annoyed, we'll get a case and then everything will be fine," Derek says, smiling so Reid doesn't worry.

"No I meant Hotch. Will he be okay?"

Derek can't tell him the truth. "Of course he will. He's Hotch."

"Why are you lying to me?"

He knows there's no point in trying to deny it. "I'm not trying to patronise you or keep you in the dark. It's not that. It's just- I don't know. It's stupid, but I want to shield you from his mortality and flaws and imperfections for as long as is humanly possible. You are always going to have a different relationship with Hotch because of how much younger you are, and I just don't want to be the one that ruins it."

"So you want to protect me?"

Derek nods. "I guess."

"Thank you. Nobody ever did that when I was younger," Spencer says.

Kate breaks the ensuing silence by asking for Spencer's opinion on her consult, and Derek starts watching the elevator doors again. They don't open until precisely nine, when Hotch steps off, dressed in the same suit and tie he wears every second Monday of the month, carrying his briefcase and acting like nothing happened.

He gives them a slight smile as he passes them in the bullpen, and even those few seconds are enough for Derek to see that he hasn't been sleeping.

When Aaron sets his briefcase down, Spencer looks to him, nervous. Derek gives him a small smile, even though they all saw him as he entered. It's only been ten days since they last saw him, but his suits seem to hang from him more than before. Dave looks out at them, and Derek starts to count.

He counts to three hundred, and is immediately struck by just how fast time can go. Three hundred seconds is five minutes, and yet it feels like no time has passed. But when Hotch looks out at them, as he always does, everyday, without fail, ten days feels like a lifetime.

He is terrified as he stands, but he fights through the fear and goes up to his friend's office. The door is open, so he walks in without knocking. When Hotch looks at him, he closes both the door and the blinds. Hotch swallows as the sound of them closing fills the air.

"I don't want them profiling this conversation," he explains.

Aaron just nods. "Thank you."

"You don't need to pretend with me," Derek says.

Aaron looks away, and Foyet's presence, usually contained to the self-deprecating voice in his head telling him he's no better than his father, seems to fill the room. They both know why he doesn't pretend anymore.

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"You don't need to say anything. I don't expect you to tell me the truth, because I wouldn't, if I was you. I'd be too terrified. But I remember what it was like seeing Spencer and Emily. So if you do want to talk, then I'm here. Always. And I won't flinch."

Aaron knows this to be true. When they finally got back to Quantico after Jason's death, Derek found him sobbing in the men's bathroom, the barriers he had spent so long piecing together completely breaking when he opened his drawer and found a photo from the early days, where Jason looked happy and hopeful. He hadn't said anything. Just sat beside him, and offered a tissue. 

"I know you won't."

Derek sighs, not sure what he's meant to do. "Aaron-" he starts, not sure what he's going to see next.

"I can't trust myself. I- I don't know what's real, and I keep trying to do the grounding things that the bureau therapist said I need to, but I don't know if they're working. I have post-it notes all over the apartment and I have my five facts, and I have things I can touch, but Scratch knew so much, I can't- I feel like he's everywhere and he knows everything."

It is so honestly vulnerable that Derek wants nothing more than to flee, if only so he can cling to the Aaron that existed when he first joined the unit for just one more moment. But he made a promise. And he has no idea how he's meant to keep it, but he's going to.

He holds his hand out. When Aaron doesn't take it, he leans over the desk, gently linking their fingers. "I'm here. With you. Scratch can't get our body temperatures perfect. He can't know that I'm always slightly warmer and you're always colder. He can't know that twelve years ago, I called you darling because I didn't realise it was you."

Aaron chuckles slightly. "Derek."

"You don't need to say anything. I messed up after Foyet. I won't do that again."

He shakes his head, finally meeting his eyes, and the fire in them is almost enough to convince Derek that everything is going to be fine. Almost.

"You did everything you could after Foyet. If you had tried to do more, I would have stopped you. We both know that. You did everything right, everything perfectly right and you cannot feel like you failed because you didn't. Do you understand me?"

Derek swallows. “Yes. But you need to understand that if you need anything- and I mean anything, whether it’s for me to take the reins for a bit, an unofficial firearms certification, or even just to do the grounding techniques with you, I will.”

Aaron nods. “I know Derek. I know. Thank you.”

Derek gives him the most convincing smile he can, leaving the door open because Aaron hated having it closed. As he exits. Dave steps in, and he sees as Aaron morphs back into Hotch to be the man that Dave needs him to be. It hurts to see, but he understands why it happens.

He doesn’t believe in God. He hasn’t for a while. But he needs to do something other than stare at dead bodies, so he prays that the team remain grounded for a few days. Not for too long because then Aaron will get suspicious and realise that Derek had been forging Rossi’s signature in order to transfer their out of state cases to other teams, but long enough for him to get settled once more.

Or as settled as he would ever be.

It’s probably why, only minutes after Dave leaves Hotch’s office, smiling, whilst the other man just looks exhausted, JJ comes rushing into the bullpen. There are five files in her arms, and she looks frantic. 

“No,” Derek says.

“I’m sorry, but we need to go on this one. It came directly to me. It’s- just look.”

He doesn’t want to, but as JJ goes to give the files to Dave and Aaron, he does, if only so he can gauge how much support he will need. And as he opens it, he understands exactly why they’re going on this case. Why, even if JJ had tried to hide it from Hotch, he would’ve said they had a duty.

They have four victims. All blonde women. All mothers. All divorced. Killed by a single gunshot to the head. No evidence of sexual assault, but they were held captive and tortured for three days before being dumped in their home. All found by their ex-husbands, who were only there to drop the child off.

Hotch does not show an ounce of humanity during the journey there. It terrifies Derek. Hotch only refuses to show how human he is when he’s close to falling apart. Too close for anyone to feel comfortable. Instead, he keeps his tone detached and professional. Derek pretends to not notice the way Aaron pushes down on his stomach, over the biggest scar Foyet left. Aaron pretends he doesn’t see Derek watching him.

When they get to the station, Derek knows it’s going to be a long case. Him and Reid are sent to the coroner’s office, whilst JJ and Kate are tasked with searching through their victims history. Which means Hotch and Rossi are left to interview the husbands. JJ and Derek- the most attuned to Hotch and the thought behind his actions- make a silent agreement that they will do whatever it takes to make sure Rossi doesn’t go too far. Whatever that means.

They fail because they don’t get the chance to speak to him before they leave the precinct.

And when they return, Dave is nowhere to be seen, and Aaron is sat in the conference room, clenching his jaw and hyper focused on the details in the case files.

“Did you get anything from the husbands?” JJ asks, tone gentle.

Hotch shakes his head. “They’re grieving, and terrified for their children. But they’re not guilty. They all loved their wives.”

Nobody bothers to point out all four couples were divorced.

"Where's Rossi?" Reid asks.

The tension in Aaron's shoulders increases.

"Hotch," Kate says, the only one that can.

"He accused one of the father's of committing the crime," Hotch says.

JJ and Morgan give each other identical looks. Kate looks horrified, and Spencer is stunned speechless.

"What happened after?" she prompts.

Hotch doesn't speak. Kate sighs, then leads JJ away. As she passes Spencer, she asks him to follow her because Hotch and Morgan need to speak alone. He nods and leaves without another word.

"Aaron," Derek says.

"I ended the interrogation and dragged him out of the room. And then I punched him in the face because those women remind me of Haley and those fathers remind me of myself and every accusation he made reminded me of the months after her death and I couldn't do it."

Derek wants to punch Dave himself. He must have known what he was doing, and in some strange and obscure way thought his actions would help the situation. Clearly he couldn't have been more wrong.

"You didn't cause Haley's death," he says, for lack of any other words.

"I did. Maybe I didn't put the gun to her head and pull the trigger, but I did cause it. That's not what I'm scared about though."

"What are you scared of then?" Derek asks, well aware that they're in the middle of a police station where anyone could hear them, but needing to take advantage of Aaron's vulnerability before he let his mask slip back into place.

"Scratch. I punched Dave and it felt like Scratch was laughing at me, egging me on to hurt him more. The worst part is that I almost did. Punching him felt good, and then I panicked and now I don't know- I don't know whether the only thing I did was punch him or if I did something more."

Derek curses under his breath. "How long have you been feeling like that?"

Hotch shrugs. "I couldn't- I forgot what time it was when I stumbled back here. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he says, the words almost reflexive because of every apology Aaron has ever given him. "We just need to ground you."

He takes Aaron's hands, noting that the muscles are moving the way they should be. It's a small thing, but it's a good thing, because it means he's wearing the wrist support when he needs them and doing the physical therapy.

“Look at me,” he commands softly.

Aaron does so willingly. “Derek, we’re in a conference room.”

“That’s good. Can you give me four other facts that prove you’re here, in this moment with me?”

"My name is Aaron Hotchner. I am forty-four years old. We are in a police station. You are Derek Morgan. There is a door behind you and a window behind me- the window is locked, but the door is wide open. We can both see if someone walks in."

"Show off," Derek teases.

Aaron manages to smile slightly. “Thank you,” he whispers after a moment.

“You have nothing to thank me for,” Derek says. He means it.

This time, Aaron’s laugh is self-deprecating. “I’m a horrible person to look after.”

“Not to me you’re not. How do you feel now?”

He shrugs. “Better, I guess.”

“Drink some water. Slowly. I’ll go check on Dave.”

“Do you think he’s going to hate me?” Aaron asks.

“You’re the closest thing he has to a friend. Of course not,” Derek says. He keeps his tone light, but deep down he’s afraid that Dave will. Not forever, he could never do that, but for long enough that something else goes wrong.

He finds Dave in the bathroom. 

“Hotch told me what happened,” he says.

“And what? You’re here to tell me that I shouldn’t have pushed because he’s fragile and hurting? Did you tell him that he shouldn’t have fucking punched me in the face because of something I said to a suspect?”

“Those men were not suspects and you know that,” Derek snaps. He sighs. “I wasn’t coming here to tell you that you shouldn’t have pushed. I came to see whether or not you were okay.”

Dave raises an eyebrow. Derek sighs, again.

“He saw Scratch when he punched you. Now he’s worried. And he’s falling back into old patterns. I told him he didn’t kill Haley and not only did he not believe me, he flat out disagreed and said he did.”

“What do you want me to do?” Dave asks. He doesn’t sound angry, just tired. Derek wants to shout at him. He may be tired after this one event, but he’s not been the one picking up the pieces and gluing their fragile leader back together for the past few years. Dave doesn’t get to be tired. Not whilst Derek is still the only one able to do anything.

“I don’t know Dave. You’ve known him the longest. It was you that found him in the immediate aftermath. You took the gun from him- rather poetic given the last time an unsub targeted him, you told him to take yours- and got him to speak.”

Dave blinks a few times. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I thought being hard on him would bring him back, but I was wrong.”

“It’s okay. You just need to correct yourself now,” Derek says, for lack of any other words.

“I just want him to be the boy he was when he first joined the unit,” Dave whispers.

Derek did not know the boy his friend was then, but he does know the Aaron that existed before Boston. The Aaron that held a baby Jack in their arms like that one small child was enough to remove every piece of darkness to exist. The Aaron that had grabbed Haley’s hand and taken her dancing so they could spend a bit of time together.

"We all do. But he's gone now. The only thing we can do is try to save whatever pieces of him live in the Aaron that is sat in the conference room, beating himself up over something that was not his fault because of your misplaced comment," Derek says. They have a killer to catch. There's no time to entertain this.

"I know. Thank you. For doing what the rest of us are too afraid to," Dave replies. Derek shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze. 

Something about the dynamic between the two men has changed, and everybody has noticed.

"Somebody has to," is all he can say, before he leaves Rossi to wash his hands and search for the man that had promised Aaron everything he could ever want, all those years ago when he first recruited him for the BAU.

There's an empty glass of water beside Hotch when Derek returns, and he's silently thankful that for once in his life, Aaron listened. He's deep in conversation with one of the police officers, so he refrains from making any comments, but when Aaron turns back towards the table, he goes over without a second thought.

He tells himself it's because he wants to know what happened just then. Because he wants to know whether or not they have any more information that can be used to their advantage. He tells himself it has nothing to do with the fact that learning about the case means he doesn't have to focus on the minute tremble of Hotch's hands. Doesn't have to see the hollow look in his eyes- a look of a man so defeated that he has no reason to try anymore.

The problem with being a profiler is that you rarely fall for anyone's bullshit- including your own.

“Did the officer have some additional information?” Derek asks.

Hotch hears him, obviously, but does not respond.

“Hotch,” he repeats.

“No. He didn’t. He wanted to know why you were holding my hands.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “And what did you say?”

“That ten days a man that managed to turn people that would never dare hurt another person into horrific killers drugged me, causing me to hallucinate the deaths of the same people that are solving his case for him, and as a result, I cannot always tell when things are real,” Aaron deadpans.

For a moment, Derek honestly can’t tell whether or not he’s joking. Then Aaron gives him the smallest smile, and he relaxes slightly. The last thing they need happening is officers spreading even more rumours about the types of cases the BAU work on.

He starts to reply with a joke of his own, then sees Aaron’s smile fade away like it was never there. He wonders how instinctive the action is- how many times was that little boy told he was too much, and how many times did he fade into the background like he didn’t even exist?

Without turning, he knows it’s Dave.

“I’m going to see if Spencer needs any help,” Derek says.

For a moment, it seems like Aaron is going to beg him to stay. But like most of his displays of humanity, it passes in a second, and then he simply nods, not even trying to fight.

“Aaron,” Dave says, walking over with purpose.

“Rossi don’t. Please,” Aaron pleads.

“What you did was stupid. But my actions were also uncalled for,” he says. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to a proper apology. Aaron accepts it because there’s not much else he can do. Dave pretends it’s going to fix everything because it’s the only thing that will get him through the case.

“Do you seriously think the fathers are to blame?” Hotch asks.

Rossi shakes his head. “Not anymore. I just needed to be sure.” He also needed to be sure that Aaron was fine, and given his response to Rossi’s accusation, he can’t say he’s convinced.

"Good," Aaron says, and the smile he gives Dave is so small and subtle, but so full of love, that for a single moment, the older profiler is able to convince himself that the fragile collection of skin and bones in front of him is still the hopeful boy that joined the unit. But then the moment passes and he's left feeling worse than before.

When the team come back, picking up on the cues that both Hotch and Rossi laid down, they go back to acting like nothing is wrong. Like the women in the photos are victims that deserve justice, and not the mirror of the same light they failed to save five years ago.

There are no breaks in the case, and they return to the hotel defeated and miserable. Budget problems mean they're doubling up. Part of Derek wants to switch rooms with Dave so he can keep an eye on Aaron, but the bigger part of him knows it would be a terrible idea, so he texts him saying that if he needs anything, no matter what time it is, he'll be available.

Aaron mouths the words thank you once he's read the message. Derek counts it as a win, and he tries to remain calm when Dave texts him saying that when he entered the shower- after Hotch- although the water dial was set to be normal, the water ran hot. Too hot.

He refrains from commenting the next morning, when Aaron clasps his glass of freezing water like a lifeline. In some ways, it is. And he knows what it's a sign of. He isn't sure whether it's caused by something in particular, or if he's just overwhelmed, but the hotel dining area- where Kate and Spencer would both hear- isn't the place to ask.

They get to the precinct, and it becomes clear that nobody there has slept. Another woman was found dead a few minutes before they got there. The father and son are sitting in the same conference room the BAU were working out of. For a moment, Aaron looks like he's going to kill the person that sent them there. The lead on the case quickly intercepts, saying they moved the boards and evidence files, and he relaxes slightly.

But before anyone can sleep, he removes his blazer and tie, before unbuttoning his top button and rolling his sleeves up. And then he walks into the conference room. Derek blinks, then it clicks. Aaron looks like a father. Someone both people sat in the room can trust. JJ hands him the information on the file, and his breathing stops for a moment.

The father and son could have been Aaron and Jack. If Aaron's eyes were darker and Jack's hair lighter, they would be the boys smiling in the photo provided with the file. He wants to take over the conversation Hotch must be having, but he finds himself rooted to the spot. How many cases are going to hit too close to home before Aaron gives up? Before it feels like every victim wears Haley's face? 

How many more times can Aaron Hotchner look into the darkest parts of humanity before his hands stop going cold at crime scenes and Derek Morgan needs to take his place in some weird parallel of the events that occurred after Boston? 

When the father and son leave the room, he jumps out of his chair and runs over.

"We will catch this man. And if you need anything, please don't hesitate to contact me," he hears Aaron say.

He sighs to himself.

The father shakes his hand and leaves, guiding his son with nothing more than a gentle hand to the back of his head. He sees Aaron swallow. 

"You know you can't promise things like that," he chastises, not truly meaning it.

"It wasn't a promise. It was a guarantee," Hotch snaps.

Morgan simply raises an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry."

"Want to tell me about it?"

"I told him about Haley, and how I found her. And about how Jack was just down the hallway in my office- the one place in our home that my work touched, even if he never found it- so now he can't be alone on New Years or Independence Day. I only said it because he told me I didn't understand what it was like. To have to do that."

No amount of surgery is ever going to fix the hole in Aaron's heart that Haley's death created. They could plant seeds of love and watch them blossom into flowers of acceptance and fearlessness in every other part of his body, but that one area could never be touched.

Derek knows this. He's seen it before.So he doesn't offer any words, because there are none. Instead, he takes Aaron's arm and he squeezes the elbow. It is Aaron's non-verbal method of saying thank you. So in that moment, it can also be his.

Aaron isn't entirely sure why Derek is thanking him, but he learnt long ago that when someone said something, you didn't push. You accepted their words- whether they were kind declarations of love or as sharp as knives- and you moved on.

When Derek lets go of him, he walks back over to the team, feeling slightly lighter and infinitely more grounded.

Kate tells him another woman had been taken, and the weight he thought he'd been able to let go off settles on his chest like a death threat. There is a single moment where she worries that this will be the thing that causes him to fall off the edge of the cliff he's been standing on for far too long, but then he stands up properly and it's like nothing ever happened.

He doesn't sleep, instead pouring over the case file whilst Rossi gently snores beside him. If Jason had been with the team. he would've somehow realised that Hotch was still awake, and told him to go to sleep. And Hotch would've obeyed. But Jason wasn't with the team. He was dead. And sometimes that knowledge knocked Aaron off guard, so he stopped focusing on that and started concentrating on the woman.

Their break comes the next morning.

Garcia hasn't slept either, and between the two of them, they have a name and a location. Everyone piles into the cars, vests on and weapons ready, because even though nobody had said it, there was no way this is ending without at least one shot being fired.

The door to the building is unlocked, and they have their unsub surrounded within seconds. Hotch suddenly feels like a bucket of ice has been poured over him, causing him to freeze, and the blood to start pounding in his ears. Nothing feels real to him. He tightens the grip on his gun.

His name is Aaron Hotchner.

He is forty-four years old.

He is holding a gun because he is on a case.

The unsub is holding a knife to a woman's throat.

The woman looks just like Haley- no. He cannot think that. Not now. 

"Let her go," JJ commands softly.

"No," their unsub says.

What is his name? And why can Aaron not remember his name?

"If you put that knife down, and let her go, we can tell the courts that you cooperated with us. That'll be nice, won't it?" Kate adds. Her tone is completely level. Calming in a way that it shouldn't be.

The unsub grins, then presses the knife even closer to his victim's throat. She lets out a terrified whimper and closes her eyes. He yanks her hair, forcing her to open then, and he seems pleased with himself.

"I don't care about the courts. I care about the man I'm doing all of this for. He's going to be great, and he's going to make me great too. Just you wait and see."

This wasn't part of the profile. There was never meant to be a more dominant partner. The control Aaron has been clinging to in order to get through this case is slowly slipping away with each piece of information he either cannot remember or is introduced to him. 

"He? Who is he?" Spencer asks.

The man cocks his head. "Is it not obvious?"

Spencer shakes his head. "We're not like you. We need you to explain."

He nicks the skin slightly. Blood pools at the tip of the blade. Another digression from the previous pattern. No knives were ever used to cut the skin. The kills had been quick and clean. Why was everything changing?"

"I won't."

"The only way you get out of this alive is if you explain everything to us. Because this man, he won't make you great. Whoever he is, he only cares about himself. Not you. Certainly not your life. But we care about you. Just set the knife down," Derek says.

Aaron knows he needs to contribute, but he just can't do it. His tongue is like a useless knot in his mouth that he can't undo because his brain is twisted too.

"No," the man says, bringing it dangerously close to the woman's pulse.

"Aaron!" Derek shouts. "You're the only one with a clear shot. You need to take it. Or do something. Do you hear me? You are the only one that can do this. If he moves that knife, take the shot."

Aaron turns in the sound of the voice. Derek is telling him that he needs to take the shot, and he can see why. With the way they're stood, he is the only one that can possibly avoid hitting either the woman or another team member. 

He raises his hands, ignoring how they tremble. Front sight. Trigger press. Follow through. Three steps that he has been following since his days at the Academy. Three steps that mean he has never missed. Never failed.

The man smirks.

Aaron turns to make sure nobody else will get hurt, or can take the shot. But when he looks at Derek, it's not Derek.

It's Peter Lewis.

"No," he whispers, but in the silence of the room, he may as well have shouted at the top of his voice.

He turns to look at the man, and he sees that he is about to shoot Derek Morgan. The one person that has never been afraid of him. The one man that is still good and undamaged by his hands. The one man that can and has led the team without any sort of assistance with him.

"Aaron!" Derek's voice exclaims, but he still wears Mr Scratch's face.

Aaron does not know what is real anymore, but he knows he needs to minimise the damage. The gun falls from his hands, with the safety off. It lands on the floor with a clatter that is too loud to his ears.

Their unsub laughs, once, and slits the woman's throat. She falls to the ground, dead by the time she hits the ground. Derek- real Derek, whose hands have always been warmer than his- fires his gun once. The unsub also falls to the ground with a shout.

Aaron closes his eyes.

He hears his name.

He tastes copper.

He touches his own hand, startled by the coldness.

He sees Derek's terrified face.

He smells sage.

He smells sage.

He smells sage. And then the world goes black.

When he comes round, he does not know where he is. He does not know where the team is. He cannot ground himself in the moment or come up with five facts that prove his surroundings are real. 

He opens his eyes. The team is gone.

And he is covered in blood.

[masterwords]

A Fool For Lesser Things

Warnings:  None that I can think of, unless you hate love and fluff.

Notes:  Inspired by an ask by my fave Mortch anon ages ago (sorry it took me so long!) about them confessing their crushes on one another when Hotch was still married, and then again after the divorce...well I listened to some Billy Joel and “The Longest Time” hit me hard in the feelers and here we are.  It doesn’t make sense, it’s jumbled and messy but I think it turned out sweet anyway.  It’s soft Hotch time!  (Yes, you get two fics in one day.  I’m backlogged!  If you missed it, I finished up An Idiot Prayer of Empty Words and posted it super late at night.)  Anyway, this is short and probably way too fluffy and cute but soft Hotch needs representation.  

“How did this happen?” Penelope asked in a hissing whisper, indicating the unsettling but sweet sight of her very gruff, sharp around the edges boss sleeping soundly in the crook of Derek's arm, mere feet away from her on the couch.  “You got some 'splainin to do.”  

“Right now?” Derek asked, careful to keep his voice as low and soft as he could.  Truthfully, he wasn't sure how it had happened.  A series of small moments in time, fleeting fragments of a life, pieces that didn't quite seem to fit together.  The first hotel room shared, there was that time.  Aaron had a migraine, he'd left the precinct early to try and sleep it off, and Derek remembered watching the television with the sound off, just reading the captions but he laughed too loud and it woke Aaron up.  He thought he would be upset, but he smiled, asked him what he was watching, and tried to watch with him but he fell asleep again.  For a while, they roomed together almost exclusively, when it was just them and Gideon.  When Reid joined, he would room with Gideon, and Aaron and Derek stayed together.  They would go out for a beer or two at the end of the day, sit and talk for hours, and back in those days Derek remembered Aaron talking more – he never said many words at a time, but he talked. He had a gift for being succinct, he could convey more with fewer words, but he still spoke.  Not like now. The way Penelope was watching them, he got the distinct impression that he was the only person on the team who ever really got to see the softer side of Aaron, and it had been so long since he'd seen it.  “Later,” he finally replied, because he couldn't tell those stories now.  They belonged to him.  She hated that answer, but she nodded and turned her attention back to the movie.  Reid hadn't stopped watching, he either didn't notice or didn't care about the conversation happening beside him.  

Seattle, Derek's first case on the road.  Aaron knew the city, he'd worked there for years and he was always a little glad to return, even though it was always gruesome.  Those pacific northwesterners really knew how to make it worth your time to fly all the way over there, must have been the lack of sunlight for half the year.  They found themselves wandering through Pike Place Market on their last day in town, watching the fish peddlers and the cooks, the children running down the pier to the aquarium, taking in the briny air.  Aaron knew everything to say to make Derek feel better about what he'd seen, he knew how to put it into perspective, knew how to bring him back to the world of the living (food, it was always food – and they stopped at a small restaurant down a filthy side street that sold the best sushi Derek had ever eaten in his life), knew how to help him close his eyes without seeing the faces of the dead.  When they got their next road case, Aaron gave Derek a gift – headphones, to be kept in his ready bag, to help him sleep or tune out the noise, because even in the short time they'd known each other he'd noticed how important music was to Derek.   He preferred to read on the jet, to lose himself in something soft and romantic, or bold and heroic, but never dark.  Not on the jet.  They noticed the little things, always one upping each other with silly little gifts and ways to feel comfort in the darkness.   Derek bought Aaron a heated blanket for his ready bag.  Just a small one, and it was dark green and so soft and sometimes Derek would steal it for himself.  

When Reid joined, the dynamic shifted, and Gideon began grooming Aaron for a leadership role but he still found himself side by side with Derek often enough.  They shared their hotel rooms and kept snacks in their desk drawers for one another, and sometimes Aaron would steal a t-shirt out of Derek's bag because they were more comfortable than his own.  Haley found more than one of Derek's shirts in Aaron's laundry, and she noticed the way they stood a little too close sometimes, the way they seemed to be making eyes at each other, the way they anticipated the other's every move.  She knew how Aaron was, he didn't mean to, but he couldn't help himself – he fell in love with just about anyone who showed him any small kindness.  Became unreasonably attached, and she understood it.  She didn't like it, but it was harmless.  When he was eight, his teacher saw that he was being picked on at recess so she invited him to remain in the classroom and read or work on a project if he wanted, and pretty soon he was asking her to marry him.  She might have been the first person to really show him kindness, and he didn't know how to process it, the intoxicating feeling of being cared for, and that feeling became irrevocably mixed up with romantic love.  As he'd aged, he'd become better at figuring out the difference before it got too far, and Haley helped him as best she could, he was always open with her. There was something different about Derek, though, and it made her nervous.  She asked Aaron about it, and he hadn't considered it before that, he wasn't sure.  In the end, he found himself in the dark corner of a bar somewhere in Manhattan, forehead to forehead with Derek, swaying to the sounds of Prince on a jukebox and he knew he was going to take it too far if he wasn't careful, that what he was feeling was more than just friendship and more than just harmless infatuation.  He and Haley were trying to start a family and he wanted that more than anything, almost anything, and he wanted to be promoted, he wanted to lead the BAU, and none of that could happen if he kept this up.  He knew at some point, he would cross that line and he wouldn't be able to come back from it, wouldn't be able to salvage his marriage to Haley or his friendship with Derek, and he was getting dangerously close to that line.  There, in that smoky bar, forehead to forehead with a man he loved with his whole heart, Aaron said they had to stop, he couldn't do this anymore and it killed him. They were sharing a hotel room, but out of respect, he paid for a room of his own and gathered his things.  Derek was upset, but he moved on quickly because he had to, Aaron hadn't ever been his and it was silly of him to think it could have happened.  Things were awkward for a while and Gideon did his best to mitigate the damage, pairing himself up with Aaron more often and putting Reid out in the field with Derek.  Soon it became the new normal that Aaron and Derek didn't talk, didn't spend time together, said as few words as possible to one another even when they were in the field one on one. Aaron shut down, refused to allow more friendships as the team grew, wouldn't let himself walk that path again.  

It all came crashing down when Haley filed for divorce and everything Aaron had worked so hard for, everything he'd given up to try and make it work hit him like a ton of bricks.  The divorce was his fault, he knew he could have tried harder, but he also knew it still wouldn't have worked, not forever.  They were too different now, they'd grown apart in ways that could never be mended.  Standing in the interview room with Chester Hardwick threatening his life, threatening Reid's life, something inside of him snapped and when he began pulling off his tie he was ready – maybe he was hoping Chester could take him, could put him out of his misery, but he'd die protecting Reid at the very least, buy some times until the guards came back and Reid would live.  It would be worth it.  But then Reid started talking, and Aaron always liked to hear Reid talk but it had never sounded better or been more calming than in that moment and as Chester allowed Reid the magician to distract him with his sleight of hand, Aaron felt something else creep in, felt a sense of peace knowing that he could give Haley her uncontested divorce, and he could try to get back something he'd lost, given up.  Maybe it wasn't as dramatic as a reason to live but it was something to cling to, and he would owe Reid an apology along the way.

Showing up on Derek's doorstep at 7pm on a Wednesday evening was a bold move, a six pack of beer cradled in his arms, keeping his hands busy, keeping him from flying apart at the seams. He hadn't called or texted first, he just knocked and hoped he would find Derek home.  

“Hotch,” Derek said, cocking his head to the side just a little, taking in the sight of the man before him looking softer than he had in recent memory.  He wore his deep purple sweater with the elbow patches, the one Derek had made fun of years before by calling him Professor Plum, and he wore his glasses which meant he either had a headache or was exhausted and had beer in his arms.  Derek couldn't figure it out.  

“I'm sorry for showing up unannounced,” Aaron said, offering Derek the beer as a consolation prize.  “I was hoping we could talk.” Derek looked around, he seemed nervous, and then he gestured for Aaron to come inside.  

“Talk about?”

“I signed the divorce papers today.”  He just blurted it out, he had no subtlety, no idea how to do this.  Being vulnerable didn't come easily.  “I know I have no right to be here, to ask you to...” his voice trailed off, unsure how to finish that statement.  

Derek realized, then, what was happening and he smiled.  He hadn't meant to, he wanted to be upset because how dare Aaron come knocking on his door after so many years just because he was suddenly single and lonely, but here he was smiling and he would be lying if he said he hadn't hoped for this moment more than a few times over the years. 

“I'm not alone,” Derek said, finally breaking the silence.  Aaron looked crushed, and Derek just grinned.  “It's not like that.  On Wednesdays I have Penelope and Spencer over for a movie and dinner. If we're...” he began, locking eyes with Aaron.  “If this is what you want, if we're going to...do this...you'll have to get used to seeing them outside of work.  I know that's hard for you, but they're my friends.”

Aaron considered it for a moment, thought about leaving, but he'd already made that mistake once before and he was fairly sure Derek wouldn't forgive it again.  “It's okay.”

“Hey, guys,” Derek announced, walking into the room to listen to Spencer telling Penelope that he was going to start the movie again soon if Derek didn't come back.  They both turned around and their stunned silence at the sight of their boss standing in Derek's living room, looking very un-Hotch like, made Aaron shrink a little.  Derek put his hand on the small of Aaron's back and nudged him forward, toward the couch.  “Aaron's going to join us.  That okay?”

'Is...is that okay?  OH SIR!  That is most definitely okay, like so super okay.  Have you seen Jackie Brown?  Should we start it over?” Penelope was gushing, she was over the moon.  She'd invited Aaron out to these sorts of things hundreds of times over the years, always hopeful that he'd finally come but knowing he wouldn't.  She still tried.  Aaron smiled and shook his head, taking a seat on the end of the couch beside Derek.  

“I'll figure it out,” he said softly, letting himself sink into the cushions.  Social situations were not his forte, even with people he knew so well.  He spent every day with these people but he felt like the new guy, the intruder, the third wheel.  He settled into the crook of Derek's arm, the arm that sat so heavily over his shoulders, and he fell asleep before he even knew what was going on in the movie.  

So when Penelope asked how this happened, Derek supposed he really didn't know, it had just been a series of adventures and small moments building up over the years.  He didn't know how it happened but he was glad it had.

[hotchley]

various ways in which the bau find out about mortch <3

So I have so many WIPs that need finishing but they do not spark joy and this does, so enjoy! Most of theses are really stupid and should not be taken seriously.

Morgan can’t resist slapping Hotch’s ass. Which would’ve be fine, but they were in the middle of the bullpen and the entire team was watching Hotch lean across Morgan’s desk to grab something

Hotch turns up to work and his collar doesn’t quite cover the hickey. When Rossi asks if they get the woman, Morgan loses it and starts laughing hysterically because it’s him

They’re in Chicago for a case, so they obviously go to see Derek’s family. When his mom sees Aaron slightly hesitant to come closer, she GASPS and is like: YOU TWO ARE DATING? The team are shocked. And also feel like they should quit their jobs

Because their work phones are the same standard ones, Hotch does not realise he’s picked up Derek’s until Garcia makes a flirty comment and hears choking on the other end. She’s incredibly supportive of their relationship, but Hotch just wishes she wouldn’t flirt with him as much as she started because it’s embarrassing

On a case, Hotch is an idiot and gets himself landed in the hospital for something not serious and almost comedic like... a child whacking him with a toy or something? Anyways, they ask for his medical proxy and it’s Morgan, who has been listed as “partner.” The doctors do not care, but the entire team are like: PARTNER??

Also on a case, Morgan introduces Hotch as his partner to someone they’re going to interview, and the person just lets them in like it’s nothing. I like to imagine Em and Spence are with them. so it’s the four of them in a stranger’s home. And whoever it is just goes: I think it’s lovely that to work with the person you love. Em and Spencer are like: Oh god not this conversation again, but Morgan just ruffles Hotch’s hair and goes YEP

When Hotch goes for a bike ride with Beth- I like to think they’re friends- the team decide to surprise him with their support because he’d been demotivated, but what actually happens is Morgan yells something about his cute-ass butt, and Beth finds it hilarious

Morgan phones Hotch, and on reflex, Hotch ends the call with: I- you know. Yeah. And when he hangs up and puts the phone down, he’s like: Ohhh shit- PENELOPE NO! DO NOT CALL HIM!

Strauss decides it would be funny to remind them about displays of affection at work and in the field by calling a seminar, and initially Penelope thought it was because of her and her completely consensual thing with Derek, but then they saw Hotch squirming and Derek snickering and she went: NO WAY YOU TWO?

When Hotch falls asleep on the jet- finally- it’s on Derek’s shoulder, covered in a blanket that smells like him. And Derek kisses his hair like he always does, not even thinking about the team. To their credit, the team just smile. Because the two of them deserve this.

Hotch turns up to work wearing Morgan’s shirt, and although he’s grumbling and complaining, he does in fact love it and Morgan never gets that shirt back, but it’s fine because in his expert opinion, Aaron looks better in it than he does

[masterwords]

The Places I Can't Reach

Warnings: Nothing really. It takes place mostly in the hospital but I kept the descriptions of Hotch's injury (Foyet's stabbing) minimal - it's not about that.

Notes: I've been writing this for a while now and it's not getting any better so...it just has to be done. It's just straight up Mortch, some sad, some fluff, mostly just...average ramblings because one night I wondered what it would look like if someone suddenly decided to be a parent to Hotch. ~4000 words

“Derek?” He could hear it in his voice. It was Aaron, of course it was because he watched him speak, but it also was not. He was weak and tired and the countless medications being dumped into his system to keep him alive, keep his pain managed, were creating a perfect storm of confusion and fear and hopelessness. He stood over Aaron's bed, holding his hand, and he tried to force a soft, reassuring smile while the world crumbled to dust around him. He'd sworn after Carl Buford never to put another person, not a single other living breathing creature fallible as he was on a pedestal but here he was, shattered at the sight of a man he hadn't realized he'd held in quite such high regard until the moment he'd witnessed him struck down. There was more to it than that, there always was, but that was the ground floor, the foundation of it all. The man in the hospital bed was just a man, and until this moment, watching him come apart at the seams, too weak to move, barely able to speak, he was certain that hadn't really ever occurred to him. Not like this, anyway.

“We gotta go to Albuquerque,” Derek said, and he heard what sounded like a strangled sob, a hitched breath, a painful gasp and he watched with his own growing fear as Aaron fell apart, just briefly, like it caught even him off guard when it happened. His features contorted into something tragic and silent tears burned in his eyes, coated his lashes as he tried to blink them away. Derek had already been wary of leaving, had tried to worm his way out of it, and now he knew without a doubt it was a mistake. It was just he and Rossi going, they had a trial they'd been subpoenaed for and there wasn't any way out of it no matter who he talked to. The one person who had the connections and the authority to get him out of it was lying in a hospital bed, unable to even sit upright without help. Aaron didn't know what day it was most of the time, so asking him to be in charge of his faculties enough to talk to the AG was akin to asking for the moon.

“Please. Please don't leave me. ” Even through the fear he couldn't admit what was really there, and on every level beneath the surface he knew the truth - that Derek had to leave, that everyone always left, and if they didn't, he would push them away. Good intentions mean nothing to the ebb and flow of reality. He would let Derek go before admitting he was afraid to be without him. The only person who didn't look at him with pity, the only person who made him still feel human, like Foyet hadn't stripped him completely of his dignity. The only person who didn't look at him like Foyet had shucked him, removed his shell and returned him to the scared, angry boy he once was, eager to fist fight his way out of any situation fueled by sheer desperation and fear and rage. Derek knelt beside him, he wanted to sit on the bed but they'd tried that trick already and it had ended up with blood and a crash cart, and maybe it had nothing to do with him being so close but he never wanted to feel that helpless again so he would have to settle for a little more distance. He kissed Aaron's knuckles, let his fingers trail up along the soft gauze on his arm, held eye contact. Every move he made was small, carefully planned and methodical, no surprises, no sudden movements.

“We'll be back in four days. And when I get back, I'll be just in time to bust you out of this place.” He wouldn't say he promised, though, because Derek didn't like to make promises – he wouldn't ever forgive himself for breaking one. Instead, he told Aaron that he wouldn't be alone, and even though Aaron had asked the team to stop visiting him, demanded it really, he had something else up his sleeve.

A moment of peace. A soft, sweet voice, barely audible over the hum of the machines, the groan and hiss of the blood pressure cuff inflating and deflating on his calf, the strangled sound of his own breath. It was barely there, but he could feel it and he knew it wasn't someone from his team, he'd told them to go home, to stay there. To stop coming, tear up their damn schedule and let him be. Maybe it was too angry and maybe they didn't realize before just how angry he was, the fury that burned slowly just waiting for a real spark. It wouldn't have to be much. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate their devotion but he just wanted silence, he wanted to be free from endlessly having to convince them he was alright for their own good, he needed them to stop pushing him so damn hard. He thought his weakness scared them, but maybe it was the anger that hovered there just beneath the surface that really did it. Emily wanted him to talk, to tell her things he never wanted to share and she wouldn't take no for an answer, but he could be silent forever if he needed to, he could fade away until you forgot he existed at all. JJ and Penelope wanted him to eat, but they didn't understand how bad it hurt to eat, to put food in knowing it had to come back out. Dave wanted to reassure him they'd catch Foyet but he'd been chasing Foyet for over a decade already and he hadn't yet so it just felt like lies. They were desperate and directionless without him, without knowing how to help him. It knocked out their center of gravity, they were spiraling, and there was a moment when Derek made his decision clear by simply telling him that he didn't owe any of them a single thing. That no matter how involved they tried to be, this time, this pain, this healing belonged entirely to him.

So he told them to stop. Rip up their schedule, get back to work, leave him alone. Dave and Derek took charge and brought their feet back to the ground, meeting every argument to the contrary with the same canned response that he was a grown man and they would respect his wishes. He may have been lonely, but the loneliness could be comforting in its familiarity. Even with Derek and Dave out of town, the team respected his wishes, no one came to visit him (though he suspected they were keeping tabs, maybe even peeking through the open door, but no one entered).

Still, there was a voice beside him anyway.

Somehow, even after all the years, he'd underestimated Derek and his enormous bleeding heart. He hadn't counted on Derek doing exactly what he said, following his orders to a T, but also carefully ambushing him with someone to care for him that let him be exactly where he was, off the hook for strength, lonely and in pain and weak. She wouldn't stand for his false bravado, wouldn't put up with any of his grumbling about being able to do something on his own that he clearly could not or should not. Instead, she sat beside his bed in that chair and she made sure the nurses were called when they were needed, she made sure he drank his apple juice by watering it down until he could handle it and ate whatever food the doctors said was absolutely necessary but let him off the hook for anything they considered optional (there would be plenty of time for food later), and she kept his phone from him so he wouldn't be the least bit tempted to work. Most of all she talked with him, she listened to him, and when he was spent, she read to him until he slept in the hopes that his dreams would be good because she understood all too well how nightmares could settle into every crack and crevice if you let them.

Derek had flown his mother in from Chicago, and it was everything Aaron didn't know he needed, he'd never had a mother who doted on him, who was nurturing in the ways Derek's mother was. His own mother comforted out of necessity, and it was strained and it was selfish.

Fran appeared after he woke, startled from a dream, the same awful dream over and over and he'd expected to see Dave there like he usually did. Dave would hover over him when he frightened himself awake, and he'd see his friend reassuring him it was all a dream, he was safe, but that didn't happen. No Dave lying to tell him he was safe because he was not safe, he never had been. Dave was in Albuquerque he reminded himself. Dave and Derek were both there, across the country, away from him. He turned his head painfully to the side at the sound of crinkling paper, pages turning. His gauze and stitches bit into his skin at the subtle shift. The smallest movement took all of his energy, reminded him that stillness was his only recourse.

“Fran?” he whispered, licking his dry, chapped lips. She looked up from her book and smiled so sweetly at him he thought he may have been dreaming, except no one smiled in his dreams.

“Hey sweetie,” she replied, sliding a worn out business card into her book to mark her page and setting it down. He tried to speak but the words wouldn't come, his throat was sandpaper. She grabbed his water cup and held it up to him, turned the straw to let him sip, remembering what Derek had told her. Aaron would never ask for what he needed, she would have to learn how to read minds and learn it quick. He'd given her a list, things to do, things to say, and most of it she intended to ignore completely – she knew how to comfort people without a numbered list, especially from her son. The list would be easily forgotten. She thought she knew Aaron especially well after all of the years Derek had been on the team, and all of the years her son had been head over heels for this strange, too serious man with his angry, pinched features that softened to sunshine around her son.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, finally, once the water had done its job, eased the pain in his throat. He'd asked her this same question for two days now, the drugs fading his memories in and out, but she just smiled like it was the first time because he deserved that much.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked, ignoring his question. Telling him the truth, that she'd been there two days already and he couldn't remember it wouldn't help anyone, least of all him, but she wouldn't lie to him either. When he shook his head no and closed his eyes, she put down her own book and picked up their book, The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, the book she'd been reading aloud since she'd made herself comfortable beside him. She'd read it to her children, even as teenagers. Derek had told her it was a particular favorite of Aaron's and one he planned to read Jack someday. It was a sweet adventure, nothing too heavy, and one he could easily lose himself in if he afforded himself the luxury. She'd asked the nurse if it was an odd choice to read to a grown man in his position, but she assured her it was perfect, meeting him where he was with something light that flooded him with memories of goodness and comfort, things he needed above all else. When she began reading about Lucy and Mr. Tumnus, Aaron opened his eyes and she could see it, the sadness and humiliation as he remembered how long she'd been there, how much of the book they'd already covered, he just forgot, but she forged onward. He let himself sit in Mr. Tumnus' home, and the words swirled through his mind as she spoke them, sometimes even a moment before, he knew the story so well. He opened his mouth to speak, and she paused, marked the page with her finger and set it in her lap to listen.

“I read this book to Sean,” he whispered, his features grim but soft. “It was summer, and I blew out my knee in a soccer game, couldn't go outside and play for a month...just had to stay on the couch.” She pursed her lips and nodded, leaning closer to hear him, he was so soft spoken, his lips hardly moved. “Sean was little, four maybe. He sat on my stomach with his cereal in the morning and I read to him, we got through the whole book before I could go play again. Mr. Tumnus was his favorite. I asked our mother to get us some Turkish Delight, we didn't know what it was but it had to be great for Edmund to sell his soul for it. I'm not sure how she did it, but my mom found some. It was the best thing either one of us had ever eaten, just pure sugar. We used to joke that the White Witch could have us anytime she wanted so long as she brought the candy.” He went silent again and she smiled at the memory, told him it was sweet, but she knew his relationship with his brother was strained so she didn't ask if Sean was going to come visit or what he was up to now. Instead she just made a soft humming noise and went back to reading, and he didn't speak again before falling asleep.

“Who is that with Hotch?” JJ asked, wheeling Spencer down from his room. The chair had a squeaky wheel and it echoed through the hallway, announcing their arrival with every turn. They paused in front of Aaron's room, peering in through the door silently. He'd been cooped up in the hospital the same amount of time, but he hadn't been down to visit Aaron and even though he knew they were under strict orders to stop coming, he didn't think that applied to him since technically he hadn't even done it yet.

“That's Derek's mom,” Spencer replied, very matter of fact, as if JJ should have known that though he wasn't sure why she would. He couldn't recall a time when the two of them would have met, in fact, he'd only met her once years before. He couldn't account for why she was there, though, in Aaron's room reading softly to him. He couldn't hear her but he could read her lips, knew what she was reading. JJ glanced down at Spencer, eyes wide.

“Derek's mom? Like...Derek Morgan's mom?”

“Yes,” Spencer's reply was short, he was trying to sort things out. “Her name is Fran. I think we should leave. Come back later.” JJ nodded, she agreed. There was something strange about knowing Derek's mother was sitting with Aaron, something that felt forbidden, like they were trespassing on something not meant for them. There was no explanation either could come up with, on their way back up to Spencer's room, that seemed to hold any water but JJ was struck by a feeling reminiscent to her own not so long ago, trying to preserve some level of privacy in a group of people designed to invade and penetrate that very thing. Still, her curiosity was piqued.

“We could just...ask Derek,” JJ said, finally, helping Spencer back into his bed. He glanced up at her, a look of concern crossing his features. She didn't want to, but it was on the table. The room was too quiet, every word they spoke seemed to echo mercilessly.

“He would have mentioned it if he wanted us to know.”

“You think he's trying to hide something?”

“I don't know. I guess I just figured he would have said oh, by the way, I'm flying my mom in to be with Hotch or something but he didn't so maybe it's supposed to be a secret.”

“Yeah, that sounds just like him,” she muttered sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “Come on Spence. He probably thought something like I'm not about to just let him be alone and then bought her a plane ticket without saying anything to anyone because he makes his own rules.” She did her best Derek impression and Spencer chuckled, she wasn't half bad at mimicking his deep, gravelly tones. Still, it gave them pause, and after some more careful consideration they decided to call him.

“I forgot you knew what my mom looked like, kid,” Derek said to Spencer, seated on the bed in his hotel room. He was preparing for another day in court, psyching himself up to be called to the stand. This phone call wasn't helping. “Didn't think anyone would know. Don't say anything, okay? You're the only ones who know she's here and I really don't wanna answer any questions.”

“Why is it a secret?”

“Spence...” JJ said, having put it together the moment she heard the tone in Derek's voice. “Think about it.”

“I am. I haven't stopped thinking about it since I saw her and it doesn't make sense, unless...” he let his voice trail off, and Derek waited expectantly, knowing he was nearly there. This wasn't exactly how he'd pictured them telling their friends, but then, he hadn't really ever pictured being in this situation in the first place. He'd also been operating under the assumption that they might just be able to hide it forever.

“Unless...” Derek mumbled, and Spencer's eyes went wide and he blinked rapidly, three four five times like he was short circuiting. JJ suppressed a smile.

“No...”

“Yeah, kid. Don't have an aneurysm OK? It's all good.”

Fran sat with Aaron morning and night, taking only small breaks in the middle of the day while he had appointments with all sorts of therapists to go to Derek's home to walk his dog, take a shower, change her clothes. She spoke on the phone to her daughters and her friends, kept busy, but made sure that when his eyes were open, she was all his because that's what a mom was supposed to do and she was certain, the longer this went on, that he'd never been given this much attention by anyone in his entire life who didn't want something from him in return. During one particularly painful evening, when the doctors couldn't seem to get him comfortable or keep him asleep no matter what they pumped into his IV, he looked at her and called her mom, cried out for her and it nearly broke her heart but she sat there beside him and held his hand, there wasn't anything else she could do. He wouldn't ever remember doing it, but she wouldn't ever forget it.

“Safe? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the king, I tell you,” she read softly, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the shadow of her son leaning in the doorway, duffel bag slung over his shoulder like he'd come directly from the jet. She smiled and closed her book, set it on her lap gingerly and stood up to greet Derek.

“He sleeping?” Derek whispered, wrapping his mom in a hug. She nodded.

“Just barely, it's been another bad night.” He knew what that meant, knew how hard it was, but the peaceful look on his face made him infinitely glad he'd flown his mother out. “Are you staying?”

“Yeah, mom, I'll stay. You go get some sleep.”

Derek couldn't believe Aaron would want to return to his apartment. He'd hounded everyone he could to get new carpet, to fix the hole in the wall, but all of the work was sub-par at best and if Derek could tell, Aaron would surely be able to. He tried to convince him to come stay at his house, at least temporarily, but Aaron needed his autonomy, he needed his solitude, and on some level Derek suspected Aaron was punishing himself for what had happened to him, to Haley and Jack, to Derek, to O'Mara, the people on the bus, anyone he could imagine to be a victim of Foyet's. He would need to pay a penance for all of it, and part of that had to be living in the home he'd been violated in, the place that should have been safe and secure.

“I'm staying,” Derek told him, and Aaron argued fiercely, he may have been weak and in tremendous pain but he wouldn't go down without a fight. Suddenly he was ten again, fighting for his life on the playground with boys two and three grades above him who saw an easy target in the boy who was too small, who bruised easily and cried furious tears as he threw his fists around. He was desperately trying to gain some sort of control over his unraveling life, and it looked like anger and harsh words and a pain he could explain away as his wounds but it started long before Foyet and his knife. Derek wasn't afraid of him, and he wouldn't fight back, he just planted himself firmly before Aaron and told him repeatedly that he wasn't going anywhere. Sheer exhaustion and unbearable pain forced Aaron to give in, to lie in his bed and let Derek help him. He brought his ice packs and his heating pads, he heated up broth and watered down apple juice to the point that it was barely able to be considered juice at all. He counted out his pills in the morning and in the evening, he changed bandages, and he took a break only when his mother told him he was pushing too hard and he needed to leave for a bit. She was gentle with Aaron, she met him where he was, didn't try to force him to take a step forward when all he wanted to do was stay put.

“It's okay,” she would say. “Today, you're right here. Tomorrow you might want to take a few steps, or maybe that won't happen for a week, or even a month. There's no timeline for this, sweetheart, but we're here to take those steps by your side when you're ready.”

She baked him a peach cobbler and told him to keep Derek's hands off of it. She portioned some of it into tiny little cups and threw them in the freezer, for when he wanted a little treat, and left the rest in the refrigerator. When Derek noticed it, he dove right in with a fork, unable to contain his glee. He hadn't had his mother's cooking in far too long, and her cobbler was a masterpiece with sweet syrup and cinnamon and buttery biscuits on top.

“Uh uh,” she scolded, smacking the fork out of his hand. “That's for Aaron.” They both knew Derek would end up eating all of it, that Aaron wouldn't touch more than a bite or two, but that wasn't the part that mattered.

After a few more days, she flew back to Chicago and Derek went back to work, giving him his days to himself. Derek still came by after work, stayed the night with him, but he didn't push so hard. Aaron was reading the rest of the Narnia series, a book a day for a short while, and then he was picking up books from his shelves that he'd bought years ago collecting dust or recommendations from Spencer that he hadn't gotten around to reading. Derek would return from work to find him curled up on his couch, wrapped in his heated blanket and a book, a cup of tea on the coffee table usually untouched but at least he tried, at least the effort was there. Some days he'd eaten a few saltines or a bowl of real soup, other days he couldn't stomach anything and Derek would have to force him to drink one of those thick, chalky shakes the doctors prescribed that made him sick but at least he would get some form of calories.

A week after Fran had gone, a package showed up on his doorstep. He'd heard the knock but he couldn't bring himself to open the door, afraid of what he'd find on the other side. Instead, the package waited on his stoop until Derek came strolling in after work. It was a small box, and upon opening it, he found it to be an ornate candy box, red with gold trim and a gold ribbon tied delicately around it all. Inside were six Turkish Delight candies, bright red and orange and dusted with powdered sugar and glistening like tiny jewels. He smiled and pulled out the card from inside the box.

Call your brother. - Mom

“Uh oh, my bad...” Derek said, draping his arm over Aaron's shoulder as he sat with the small box in his lap, hardly able to comprehend the gift, or the note, or the love behind both. It wasn't anything akin to what he was used to, what he knew a mother's love to be, and he wasn't entirely sure how to navigate. “There's no turning back now. I don't know why, but she must have liked you. Lemme just tell you...if you don't call Sean, she'll know. I wouldn't test her.”

He didn't want to call Sean, but he also didn't want to upset Fran Morgan, so he popped a candy into his mouth (which made Morgan unreasonably happy to watch on a night when he knew they were destined for another chalky protein shake) and he picked up his phone.

[hotchley]

mortch having a girl, specifically hotch coming home after a bad case to see derek-with glasses ofc- holding their babygirl while reading hotch’s high school play script

Grace I am in love with your brain and I need you to write this properly, but for now, enjoy this little drabble... thing whatever, we’re going with it (and I hope you liked the other mortch headcanons!!) 

the best thing they ever did

I don’t know what else to call it and all of the songs I’ve been listening to are sad and look... either of them with a daughter is just the best thing and yeah so please be gentle

Also where in canon is this? Fuck if I know, Tara and Luke are on the team but Derek left and Jack is a teen and Hotch is retiring in a few months and like Mr Scratch the episode did happen but not the shit after?? but that’s not that important just go with it 

read on ao3! (I cannot believe I am doing this)

tw: vague crimes against children, the slightest implication of child abuse

Cases with children were always hard. But cases with children, when he had two at home and Derek wasn’t there to ground him or make everything better by simply holding his hand and drawing circles were awful.

So awful that he just wanted to bury his head in the lumpy pillow at the hotel and scream. He missed feeling Derek’s arms around him as he slept, and he missed falling asleep on his shoulder, and he missed the scent of his shower gel.

He just missed Derek. And Jack. And their little girl. He couldn’t believe he had a daughter. He had always wanted to give Jack a little sibling, but his own failures had meant that never happened.

Until it did. Just in a completely different way to what he was expecting. He lost Haley to George Foyet, yes, but he gained a new family that he thought he would never find. And he knew Haley, wherever she was, was at peace, watching over him and the loves of his life with pride and happiness.

In the end, they saved the children. Their lives would never be the same and this would stay with them forever, but they would, with the right support, recover and flourish.

He used to tell the team that saving a victim was the best thing they could do because he needed them to carry on having faith in what they did and not start doubting whether or not they made a difference because they did.

But he too had wondered whether or not it was worth it. When he thought of everything Foyet had put him through, had his life really been worth saving?

And then he saw Jack. Jack who would always miss his mother and the person she had been to him, the woman he remembered, but Jack that looked at Derek and called him Papa without feeling guilty. Jack that sometimes got angry and threw tantrums but was every bit the boy Haley had raised.

And he knew that it was all worth it. As he thought of Derek- good and kind and beautiful Derek that had stuck with him through everything and held him after Mr Scratch had forced him to see his family die- he smiled. 

Derek Morgan was the best man he knew. And every single day, every single moment, he considered himself lucky to call him his husband. He knew how difficult it was for Derek to wave goodbye each morning, knowing first-hand the horrors of the job. But Aaron only had to do a few more months before the Bureau would give him his pension.

And when that day came, he was going to retire and join Derek at the local community college, where they would teach the next generation of lawyers. Together. Like they were meant to. Because even before they had fallen in love- unwillingly and resentfully realised that actually, they did care about each other a lot- they had been partners.

But before then, he would carry on with the BAU, writing reports until his eyes started to hurt and he has to fight back tears every time he looks at the photos. This time though, his desk was suspiciously void of paperwork that wasn’t absolutely essential to the case.

When he looked into the bullpen, Emily and Luke’s piles seemed significantly bigger. Tara and Spencer also had larger piles, but those were decreasing at an incredibly fast rate. 

He smiled to himself and pulled his phone out to text Derek that he would be home sooner than expected. But as he gazed at his lock screen- subconsciously counting down the days till he could change it to the family photo- he decided he would surprise them instead.

With the knowledge that he would soon be home and in the arms of his loved one, the paperwork was slightly more bearable. It was still brutal and heartbreaking and he kept needing to pause to stop himself from sobbing, but there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

Derek’s presence had always been more than a light, but still.

He finished before anyone else of the team, but he didn’t feel guilty leaving. They didn’t need him to hold their hands anymore. They hadn’t for a while, but Derek’s departure after the birth of their daughter- their beautiful daughter- had driven the point home.

It was why he was going to be able to leave without any regrets.

It was dark when he unlocked the front door to their home. Home. He thought he had lost that after Haley left. He never thought he would find it in Derek, but he would never stop feeling grateful that he got a second chance at a family. A second chance at being happy.

All the lights downstairs were off, so he assumed they had all gone to sleep. He checked Jack’s room and saw that he was peacefully asleep. Maybe it was the case, or the nostalgia that came with leaving, or maybe he was just a better man than his father was, but the sight of him sleeping without stirring or being haunted by nightmares bought on a wave of emotion so overwhelming he had to hold the door handle.

With every passing day, Jack looked more and more like his mother. Once upon a time, it would’ve been like a dagger to Aaron’s heart, but now it just made him smile with a fondness he hadn’t realised he was capable of.

Even though Jack wasn’t a child anymore- he was almost as tall as Hotch- he still found himself quietly entering to press a soft kiss to his forehead. He closed the door properly as he left, knowing his son would appreciate the thought in the morning.

The door to the nursery was also closed. Either she was sleeping, or Derek was still awake with her. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was the second. Derek loved their daughter the way he did everything in his life: with passion, the utmost care and his entire soul.

He hesitated in the doorway of their bedroom, wanting to enjoy the sight for just a moment.

Derek, in nothing but a thin t-shirt and pair of shorts, clearly ready for bed, and glasses that he somewhat resented wearing because it reminded him that he was getting older, holding their daughter in his arms. He held her like she was the world.

And in some ways, she was.

Aaron smiled at the two of them. And then he heard what Derek was saying.

The book in front of him was not the storybook Haley had bought Jack when he was a baby. Nor was it one of the many gifts they’d received from the team.

It was the script for the Pirates of Penzance. The same one Hotch had scribbled his notes all over, so he would know exactly where he was meant to stand and when he was meant to enter and leave. He wanted to be offended, but he couldn’t help but smile.

Theatre had been the start of his and Haley’s love story. He loved that Derek was so willing to celebrate it.

“I hope you’re doing the voices right,” he quipped, as Derek started to recite the first of Pirate Number Four’s two lines.

Derek turned and Aaron was still so taken aback by how stunning he was that whatever he was going to say died on his lips. He smiled slightly, trying to not give away how much the case had affected him.

“I thought you could use something good today. Em told me what happened. Do you want to talk about it?”

Not today. Tomorrow he would, but tonight he was going to love his daughter and fall asleep in Derek’s arms. So he shook his head and went over to the two of them.

His daughter babbled and smiled at him, wrapping her little hand around his finger.

“Hello darling,” he cooed. “Did Papa make you stay up for me? Or did you do that yourself?”

Derek laughed, a joyous and warming sound. “She did that herself. In fact, she almost woke Jack up with her screaming. I think she knew her daddy would be home today. Didn’t you?”

Aaron smiled as she carried on smiling at the two of them. “Thank you for staying up. I know I’m back earlier than usual, but it’s still late.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Derek said, still rocking the baby in his arms. She was a beautiful baby. And one day, she would be an amazing, strong and vulnerable woman. But for now, she was his little girl.

“I know. But I want to,” Aaron said in response. “Did she really almost wake up Jack?”

“Yep. She wanted to be held, and then I thought I would read to her, and I remember getting this out for Jack earlier. It just felt right. Haley had so many lines, how she remembered all of them is beyond me.”

“She was ethereal on that stage,” he said. But thinking of Haley didn’t hurt now. It hadn’t for a while. JJ had been right. He was happy.

“I’m going to change out of this suit,” he said, after a few moments of silence passed. Derek nodded, not even moving to put her back in her crib. When Aaron returned wearing Derek’s old pyjamas, he was still rocking her gently.

“You’ve never looked quite so beautiful as you do when you hold her,” he confessed quietly.

Derek smiled, passing her over. “And you never look as relaxed as you do when she’s in your arms.”

He laughed, then responded with: “Gas.”

Derek rolled his eyes in that fond way he always did, but he laughed along nonetheless. And when Aaron’s eyes started to droop, he took the now sleeping baby from his arms and went to the nursey.

As he set her down, he brushed his lips across her forehead, wishing her a peaceful sleep. 

“Goodnight, Penelope Haley Hotchner-Morgan. Have the sweetest dreams,” he said, leaving the door slightly open so some of the light could get in.

Aaron had fallen asleep in the few minutes he had been gone for, on top of the duvet and with his feet dangling off the end of the bed. Derek smiled at his sleeping figure from the door, wondering how anyone could look so sweet as they slept.

Derek moved him to be under the covers, having done it enough times to know how to do it without waking him up. When Aaron’s breathing remained even, he breathed a sigh of relief and climbed in on the other side.

As if he just knew, Aaron rolled over, burying his head in Derek’s neck as he wrapped his arms around his husband, feeling like home was perfect once more.

[hotchley]

🎆 my queen, Emily Prentiss

♣️hmm I’m less confident with ships but currently a fan of Jelle

🔀 your all’s favorite, Mortch

🎆 and a character and i’ll give you a song that reminds me of them

Leave The City- Twenty One Pilots

This is purely because I was writing the date last night so now season 7 Emily is the Emily I’m thinking of. It just fits her. At the start of the season, she’s already thinking about leaving because she never really came back but she needs to know that both her and the team are okay. That they’re alive.

♣️ and a ship and i’ll give you a song that reminds me of them

I’m going to be completely honest, the only person I ever really saw JJ with was Will like I prefer penemily over jemily and the only knowledge I have of jelle comes from tumblr so this is literally just going off the vibes but for some reason:

Lookalike- Conan Gray

Maybe in a universe where Elle broke up with JJ right before she left because if she goes down, she won’t drag JJ down with her. But she keeps tabs on the team to make sure they’re okay and they’re safe. She sees JJ with Will and finds the parallels between the two of them and selfishly wonders if Will is just a substitute for what she’s lost.

🔀  and a ship and i’ll shuffle my music and give them an AU inspired by that

You know the last time I did it with Mortch, it was completely ironically and it was the dumbest thing. I also remember getting mirrorball that time and constructing a college AU. This time...

Getaway Car- Taylor Swift

Friendly reminder that I do like Hotch, but he is flawed. So I’m thinking...

Hotch is a prosecutor that never joins the FBI. Morgan fought like hell to become a college professor. They meet when Hotch comes to give a lecture. Because Morgan has his law thing (that’s canon right?) he attends out of curiousity.

The two of them hit it off right away, and they go for coffee. Aaron is a flustered mess the entire time, it’s actually quite cute. Hotch isn’t happy in his relationship- for reasons, it isn’t Haley, but some other woman, and Morgan sort of becomes his reprieve from that.

Morgan won’t let him cheat, but he does support Aaron because sometimes, relationships don’t work out and that’s okay, it’s part of life, but he won’t do anything if Aaron is still with this other person that he isn’t happy with anymore.

Hotch does eventually break up with said person, but then his fear gets the worst of him and he ends up leaving Morgan because he’s terrified of ruining either of their careers and he ends up getting back with the ex because they fit the conventional and appropriate image a prosecutor is meant to have.

[masterwords]

Hey! Sorry it's been a while but the past couple of fics you posted are amazing! I love you're writing! And you said you have a husband, right? Does he know about ur obsession with cm and that u write fics about them. Just curious! - Mortch anon

Hey there! Life gets wild sometimes but thank you! Oh yes, he knows. I have been watching CM since season 2 originally aired, which started the same year we got married so he's used it it by now. He has plenty of his own weird little quirks. (Also, he's quite taken with JJ & Emily.)

[hotchley]

🐨 Loved your last web-weave! I love all of them, honestly. I love seeing it all connect. Here in America, it’s a three-day weekend, so I went to a lake an ride some paddle boards with a friend. Twas fun!

My audition went well…I have a callback to prep for now. Quite excited!

My brother is home from college, and as I’ve said, we’ve never really been close. But we’re getting on really well! We watched TV together the other day, and now we’ve been playing a video game.

Hope all is well over in the UK! Excited to see your jubilee poem :D

Aww thank you <3

I'm glad you liked it! I feel like I should've put your beautiful words about reaching for the stars no matter how many times they burn you in but I'm only now remembering so... another time maybe

Oooh it's a four day weekend for us but I'm on half term so it doesn't make a difference to me, and I'm in full blown revision mood so even if I wasn't, it would still be: yeah well, I barely have time to write let alone have fun so...

AHH I'M SO EXCITED FOR YOU!

Oh I'm glad <3

Sometimes we need time away to realise how much we care about people. And sometimes, you don't need to be super close, you just need to know you can trust them. I'm really close with my sister but that's more because she got parentified and I don't want to tell my parents anything so it's swings and roundabouts. That sounds really awful.

My point is that different people, regardless of relation, play different roles in our life which means so long as you and your brother get on when he's there and you can have some fun, it's okay and you don't need to feel any guilt about maybe not being so close!

The UK is actually quite colourful right now because I've been using the pens my mum got me for my blurting sheets so now my bed is just a mass of colour because I've been doing them for all of my subjects and that's where I keep them :)

Ah yes, the Jubilee poem. On the one hand I feel like I've done the thing I did with the mayhem au/the allergy fic and the mortch teacher+doctor au where I've been really excited and then been really scared that it won't be good enough, but all of those fics were popular so... and I'm also like: well I had fun writing the poem and I like it and that's what matters!

(But also I'm very much anti monarchy, I told some of my friends I wrote one and they thought I liked the queen. I don't agree with the royal family, so if you're expecting something nice you should probably leave...)

I'm excited for you to read it! I'm thinking of scheduling it for 11:00 since apparently the first celebrations are then? But I'm not sure yet...