#terrified because I know one file is literally at LEAST a foot thick

[cambria-writes]

@matchy6812 crying screaming good morning I love u I am actively the opposite of a health guru BUT WE LOVE THE ENERGY BEING CREATED IN THE STUDIO THIS MORNING

Hello! Happy new year!

It’s been a wild few weeks for me; my health has been weird, my grandmother’s passing, financial struggles. You name it I have been through it.

Next Honey update due this week and I’m doing my best to try and finish the next Ravenloft chapter in a way that’s… passably coherent?

Thank you to everyone who has been sticking around, thank you for paying attention and liking my lil Eddie x Reader seasonal oneshots, and I hope to be able to keep providing you with entertaining literature in this coming year. ❤️

[whump-town]

I need hotch whump. Dad rossi being a total dad and the team helping hotch through his deep seated emotional trauma. Just the team helping hotch be emotionally open and maybe some crying and him getting hugs n shit?? And if you can, at least 3k words cuz hes sad and needs to use his words

One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

(Fair warning, I feel like I couldn’t get Hotch’s script right. He has a unique way that he speaks and I just feel like I missed that. I hope I didn’t drop the ball but I’ve been working on this non-stop so I’ve kinda passed a point in my ability to tell. Bonus, this fits really well for a fix-it for this post that I made that hurt everyone. You can find that post here)

Word count: 5,452

He can feel himself falling apart. His thoughts are more than often filled with deterioration and self-deprecating harm. He knows it’s getting worse but he excuses it. If he can rationalize his thoughts, condone them, and recognize them then there’s no need to ask for help.

Especially, when he doesn’t deserve it.

The breath is kicked from his lungs as he opens the file in front of him. He’d gotten the call from the Dallas police department that morning and fielded the consult to himself. Normally, this would be the type of case JJ would handle but as soon as he heard the victims were blonde’s in their thirties he couldn’t let the case go to her. Except, a very important factor had been left out.

They were all mothers.

He finds himself looking down at half a dozen women who all look too much like Haley. 

Panic bubbles in his chest and a trembling hand pushes the case away. It’s not enough. He stands to his feet, leaning heavily on his desk to stop his knees from caving from beneath him. He’s paper left too long in the sun, warping. His print is no longer legible. His glue peeling away.

On the floor of his office, a step away from his desk, he falls to his knees. His breath is caught in his throat-- his tie an ever-tightening noose that leaves his mouth dry and his voice stuck. Logically, he can recognize his own symptoms. It’s a panic attack. Triggered because he’s never worked through his feelings. Never got over Haley. His incompetence. 

His failure. 

His brain can recognize that the pain in his chest shouldn’t kill him. His mind still draws the parallel to his own father. A chronic alcoholic who died in his office of a heart attack. An abuser. An asshole. 

What was that the team had said about him?

JJ had called him a bully.

Reid said he was a narcissist.

The hurt in Emily’s eyes as she deduced he doesn’t trust women as much as men.

Morgan said he’s a drill sergeant. 

So… maybe Hotch didn’t hit Jack. He’s never laid a hand on his son so he’s different from his father in that sole regard. He’s not a good father though. He’s not a good boss.

His team must loathe him.

Which means he’s not all that different from his father.

What does that leave? What does that make him besides a suit and tie? A terrified, sweat-soaked coward on an office floor. 

And there’s no wonder that he’s never made the time to work through his problems. Who is to talk to? Haley had known of his father. Enough to leave that subject alone. Even when he sat bolt upright in their bed, lost to his youth spent outrunning the hands of his father. She’d comforted him enough to get him back to sleep, holding him to her chest but never inquiring. Never pushing. 

The others have their own problems. Dave is a father without a son. Reid has a mother who’s taken care of for the better part of his whole life. Prentiss wants a child, a family so badly but she continues to have that torn from her grasp. JJ feels like she’s failed, Henry. Garcia is plagued by the images she sees daily. Morgan feels torn between his loyalty to this team and doing better for himself. 

So when should he fit in that time for himself? When does he silence them to talk about himself?

His phone vibrates on his desk. It’s a low, hollow sound but it snaps him to attention. The kind of sound that he could not ignore any more than a cry of pain from Jack. A case, more than likely. Maybe even an email from the Director or Strauss requesting his presence. 

His knees cave beneath him, a frustrated grunt leaving his mouth. He takes his fist and beats it into the carpet, hoping the pain that spikes up his arm will ground him. The world spins but he manages to stagger to his feet. Even if that means nearly losing his footing as the world dips suddenly. Curling that arm, pulling it protectively to his core, he manages to cross the room.

Except, there is no call to duty.

He’s greeted by a picture and an unknown number. 

It’s a newborn baby in the lap of someone but the important detail is the hospital bracelet on picture taker’s wrist and the distinct newness of the baby. The sight invokes a pang in his chest, reminding him of when Jack was that small. A youth blind to injustice and death. Before Hotch had gone and messed it all up.

A moment later, his phone goes off again. A single line of text but he knows immediately what it means.

“Learning how to smile again... I hope you are too.”

Elle.

He's not sure if he’s meant to respond so he doesn’t. It does spark a certain flame in his lungs-- he wouldn’t call it a breath of life but for once the inhale his raged lungs pull in doesn’t hurt. He falls into his desk chair, cradling his phone in his hand.

“You know,” JJ’s voice breaks through the silence of his office. She steps into the room with that blatant disregard that most of the team has. A mutual understanding that he’s given them-- as long as his door isn’t shut, they’re free to come in. 

As far as he sees, that openness is well understood by JJ, Morgan, and Garcia. He suspects their understanding comes from a creative source. A kind that Prentiss and Reid have taken their time in understanding.

He sees the way the two of them hesitate before knocking and announcing themselves. For what, he might ask if he did not already know the answer. The answer is on the tip of his tongue each morning as he shaves his face. It’s his last thought as he drifts off.

You don’t trust women as much as men.

“You’ve ruined me for all future employers.” JJ continues. Unaware of the fact that her audience is a bit lost.

I choose Aaron Hotchner. He’s a classic narcissist. He thinks he’s better than everyone else on the team.

JJ moves closer, her arms falling from their defensive place across her chest. She smiles, her eyes dancing between his. There’s a flash there, of what she’s uncertain but as soon as it’s there it’s gone. She sees the bone-tired, ragged look of his large frame and she wonders when the last time he got a good night’s sleep was.

“You--” Hotch’s eyebrow’s knit together as he stutters to put together what she’s said. “I--I ruined you?” His brain is still reeling from the panic attack. He’s too exhausted to put together whatever trivial meaning her words are meant to have.

JJ chuckles lightly, perhaps she should have opened that better. “You didn’t ruin me, literally,” she explains with a smile. Honest, she loves him like a brother but he can be as thick as mud sometimes. For someone who’s entire job revolves around understanding people, Hotch often misses the point. 

Not that she minds explaining that to him. 

“I mean,” she says, sitting herself down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. She pulls her legs underneath herself, not afraid to take the time to get comfortable. “You’re too kind. You give so much to this team that if you ever leave I’m not sure how any of us will function without you.”

He blanches. This seems out of left field to him. 

She smiles at his reaction, reaching across his desk to squeeze his hand. “Hotch,” she reminds him softly, “yesterday you brought me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. You made it for me because you knew I hadn’t taken a break.”

He can hardly understand how making someone a peanut butter and jelly sandwich constitutes a pat on the back. He does it all the time for Jack. When he was making JJ one yesterday he’d ended up making one for Reid and Prentiss as well. The two of them poking and badgering him until he’d relented. 

“Bosses don’t do that,” JJ assures him. “Not normal ones anyway.” Sensing that he’s not really putting this together, she rises from her chair. Stepping into his personal space she can see just how awful he looks. With all the tenderness she can manage, she presses a kiss to his cheek. Encircling his shoulders in her arms, she realizes that he’s trembling. “I love and appreciate you and I’m just… None of them tell you how much you mean to us. I just want to make sure you remember that.”

It takes him a moment but he hugs her back. Where his body is stiff with tension, she’s warm and soft. He breaks for just a moment, allowing her words to warm his chest before resigning himself back to his darkness. To his self-hatred. 

JJ gives his back a quick rub before pulling away. “You need to take a nap,” she informs him. “You look like shit.”

He smiles, mustering up all his energy into convincing her that he’s not on the knife’s edge of falling over into darkness. “I’m fine,” he assures her. Besides, he motions to the file on his desk. “I’ll get some coffee and finish this consult. Then I’ll go home.” 

She looks at the file in question and decides to save him the trouble. She picks it up despite his anxiety-filled voice calling her name out. What she finds shocks her but not for the reason he’d thought. These women do look like her but their resemblance to Haley is… “Oh, Hotch…”

He can’t look at her. “They…” he clears his throat. “I didn’t want you to see it because I knew they were blonde and that kind of stuff really gets to you but--” He’s said too much. He’s admitting that he knows they look like Hailey. Maybe even that it bothered him as much as it’s bothering her.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” JJ whispers, her emotions getting the best of her. Of course, he looks like shit. He’d done something kind to spare her and ended up looking at dead mutilated women who look too much like Haley. “You’re too kind for your own good.” She tucks the file to her chest, where she knows he won’t make a quick grab for it. 

“JJ…”

She shakes her head. “Go home. Go get coffee. Take a nap. I don’t care what you do but you are not getting this file back because I promise that whatever seeing these women will do to me is going to be less damaging than seeing them is to you.” She doesn’t spare him a second more before leaving his office. Leaving him to do what he pleases just not allowing that file to be one of them. 

She turns in the doorway to his office, offering him a smile. “By the looks of you, I’d recommend taking that nap.” 

He doesn’t but her words stick with him for days. 

I love and appreciate you. It’s most unlike the voice in his head reminding him that he’s a bully. A narcissist. 

When he goes to bed, arms wrapped around his chest and tears threatening to spill down his face… he thinks about those four simple words. His cheek stings where she’d kissed him and for a moment his chest burns again with an unfamiliar light. 

He remembers these words over and over. 

He starts to believe them but that doesn’t mean he changes. 

Then a case sends him home. His hometown is hardly an hour away from Quantico. Standing in front of the team, his hands buried in his pockets to hide the way they tremble, he tells them they won’t need the jet or the GPS. He knows where they’re going. 

He knows it too well.

Prentiss doesn’t start second-guessing her boss until he pulls off the main road. Reid will testify, he second-guessed Hotch the minute the man told them he didn’t need a map and turned the GPS off. Neither says anything but Hotch is still aware of the weight of their silence. He doesn’t feel comfortable offering them the reassurance that he knows where he’s going so he chooses to say nothing. The whole car opts to not comment on how it is that he knows where he’s going.

“Detective Carter!” Garcia is the first person out of the second car jammed packed with the other members of the team.

In the second car, there was a lot of aired criticism. Ninety-eight percent of which came from Morgan but upon pulling into the station, thirty minutes before the GPS estimated arrival time, he can’t complain. It does leave him curious. It’s not often they drive to crime scenes from Quantico but they never stray from the GPS. 

“I’m Penelope,” she explains to the older man. It’s clear the detective is taken aback by the sight of Garcia but the old man just smiles and takes her hand. Kindly he smiles and Garcia only beams that much more. “These are the agents I told you about.” She turns back to the others, lined up like a kindergarten class rather than a ragtag group of highly trained professionals. “JJ, Dr. Reid, SSAs Prentiss, Rossi, Morgan, and our prestigious and very handsome leader-”

“Aaron?”

Prentiss had noticed Hotch’s hesitation the moment he put the car in park. He masterfully hid anything that might have given her a why but she’d still seen his stress become gradually more apartment as he got closer to the precinct.

“Jesus,” the detective shakes his head. He doesn’t give Hotch the opportunity to step away or even get a word out. The mood shifts as Hotch can’t hide the way he flinches as the man pulls him into a hug. “You were fifty pounds soaking wet the last time I saw you,” the detective admits.

Hotch can’t look at the detective and he can’t look at his team. 

Mercifully, Prentiss calls out to the older man. “I hate to push here,” she lies, “I would like to get working as soon as possible. I’m not sure how many more dead girls I can stand to see.” There are a few mumbled responses from the team, all agreeing with Prentiss. 

Hotch doesn’t notice. He stands in the spot the detective left him in. Eyes on the gravel, he’s struggling but he pushes it down. He has a job and the job has always come before physical comfort. 

He hangs his head and he gets through the day knowing that he’ll be allotted his personal time in a hotel room soon enough. He can break down there.

And he does. 

And then he has a nightmare that wakes up the entire team. 

He’s shaking so badly when he finally opens his door that he can’t even play it off. They know. 

“Let it out son,” Rossi whispers, holding Hotch tight to his chest. “It’s alright, it’s okay.” He rubs his hand down Hotch’s back. Something in his chest locking tight and stiff at the way Hotch melts, unable to even stand. Dave has always known, in one way or another, that Hotch’s childhood was a litany of things done wrong.

He’d seen the kid’s back, the crisscrossing pattern he’d only ever seen on dead people. Scars. Someone had hit Hotch so hard as a child to leave marks on his body into adulthood. If Dave had to guess, he’d say a belt. Given Hotch’s soft accent and tendencies, Dave knows he’d probably be right. Belts are loved by Southerners. 

Beat the sin out of your children. 

See if they ever come home. 

Rossi looks at Hotch, the man struggling to pull himself back together. Sometimes they do come home and that’s worse.

“This place,” Hotch whispers, eyes falling to the carpet. “This town is…” His eyes move to the window on the adjacent wall. If the sun were up, he would be able to see the house he spent his youth in. The drive-way where his father bounced his head off the gravel for dropping a can of green beans. The window by the main door that his father broke smacking his mother against it. “It’s an awful place and I-- I will be glad when we’re able to leave it.” 

Reid, of all people, is the first person to offer a condolence, a way out. He clears his throat, anxiously moving from foot to foot. “You could go back home,” he offers. “It’s not a long drive, you would be back with Jack before the sun even comes up.” Seeing that his idea isn’t being torn down but rather the others seem to agree this is actually a perfectly good solution, he continues. “You could work from the office with Garcia. We’ve all done it. I certainly wouldn’t think differently of you if you went home.” 

Reid sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, stepping forward and sitting on the edge of Hotch’s bed. “This town gives me the heebie-jeebies, anyway.” His small shiver lightens something in Hotch’s chest because not even Hotch can twist the genius’s actions. Reid is being sincere and Hotch hasn’t messed up. They don’t hate him. They don’t think he’s weak. 

“It does, doesn’t it?” Dave speaks up, shaking his head. “I feel it creeping into my bones.”

There seems to be a unanimous decision made in that immediate moment that no one’s going to push him. They’re not frustrated about being woken up in the middle of the night by his terrified screams. No one is going to force him to tell them about the detective. 

They solve the case and rescue the last girl from the clutches of their UNSUB. This time, Detective Carter does his job. He doesn’t send an obviously beaten and abused boy back home to his father. 

They save the girl the way no one ever saved Hotch but he doesn’t consider himself irreparable anymore.

He closes his eyes and remembers what it felt like when Dave held him.

Son.

I love and appreciate you.

I wouldn’t think differently of you.

He starts to feel loved and he’s so broken-- there’s something in his mind that just equates their affection for a need for him to be better-- he decides he has to prove he’s worth it. 

JJ has formed a habit of squeezing his elbow when she passes him. 

Rossi pulls him into one-armed hugs.

Reid brings him a coffee and smiles shyly when they pass one another in the halls.

But he can’t do anything right.

“Prentiss!” 

He doesn’t clear the second room properly as they raid a house and all he can do is put himself between her and the danger. There’s only a split second to think about it. She’s a head shorter than him. So the shot that would take her head off hits him center mass. 

There’s a sickening crack that rings through the room as he hits the wall behind them. His head bouncing off the wall. He doesn’t hear her cry his name out.

Prentiss’s hands shake but her own shot hits its mark. The UNSUB falls limply to the ground just as Hotch had. Despite every fiber of her wanting to double back and make sure Hotch isn’t dead, she moves forward. She can see her bullet embedded in the opposing wall. The hole in the UNSUB’s head is visible proof but she can’t walk away from him until she finds no pulse and moves his gun away.

“Agent down,” she calls shakily. Her knees almost give out from beneath her when she turns to see him. 

All six feet of her boss is crumpled into a limp pile. His neck is bent, chin resting against his sternum. She can’t tell if he’s even breathing, the vest strapped to his chest swallows any movement that might or might not be there. “Hotch?” She calls, hoping that he'll stir. That he’ll make a noise or something.

She sees blood.

“Hotch is down,” she cries over the radio. “Hotch is down and we need medics.” She pulls at his tie, swallowing down her own need to cry. To sob as her friend’s blood covers her skin. “It’s a--a-” she pulls the tie around his neck free and the blood starts to flow twice as fast. “Fuck,” she places her hand over the wound. Her hot tears stinging her eyes. “It’s a neck wound.”

A death sentence. 

She can feel his pulse against her palm. Each beat a little fainter than the last.

“Don’t you die,” she rasps. Her emotions are bubbling to the surface as her panic and adrenaline get worse. “Come on you stubborn bastard,” but her insults are laced with worry. “Hotch,” she pats his pale cheek. Attempting and failing to rouse him. On his cheek, her hand is left perfectly preserved by his crimson blood. 

“Agent,” the medics come in. Someone puts a hand on her shoulder but she can’t pull away. She can’t let him bleed out. “Agent we’ve got it.” 

I love and appreciate you.

Those words are the last thing Hotch thinks before his head hits the wall. He just has to hope she meant it. 

“Hey.”

She has to wait days to wring him out. To give him a proper piece of her mind. They are supposed to be passed this. They did pass this a long time ago. Time and time again he’s proven that he does trust her. After Foyet, they’d become the semblance of friends. She considers him family. 

Instead of offering him the immediate bitchfest he’s more than deserved, she offers him a passing-- “Hey, yourself.” Seeing him awake settles her but she has to be mad with him. She is mad with him. Even if she wants to hug him. He is her friend and she values him. It hurts to see him in pain.

After a moment, she looks up from the book she’s reading. Paying him just enough attention that she notices how uneasy he is. It makes her question her chosen silent treatment. It’s clearly not helping and the last thing she wants is to stress him out more. So she reaches between them and takes his hand. “You’re life isn’t less important than mine.” 

Her words take him by surprise. She can see the words make their impact. His brows furrow in confusion but he doesn’t say anything. Not for a long moment. He’s stalling. “I didn’t say that,” is what he settles on. 

She looks up at him and she’s disappointed. They’re profilers and he settles on deflection. She can’t say she’s surprised, he always chooses deflection. She’s just as stubborn as him though and she’s not afraid to push a little. “Your actions did.”

“Prentiss, I couldn’t--”

She lets go of his hand. For a moment, her anger gets the better of her. He gets the message and stops talking but the damage has been done. Of course, he’s not going to say that his life has less value than hers. He’s not stupid. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t think it.

“We’re partners, right?” She sits forward in the chair. “You trust me?” She already knows the answers. She knows everything he’s going to do. 

Hie scowls and he opens his mouth before he shuts it. He shakes his head as he says, “of course.”

She reaches back out to him, taking his hand again. His fingers are cold, his body still not fully recovered from the blood transfusions he needed. She needs something like this to never occur again. “Then it’s your job,” she tells him. “To cover my ass when I mess up and it’s my job to cover yours.” 

He doesn’t look at her. He can’t. He could have gotten her killed. Can’t she understand that? She should be furious at him for putting her life at risk. Not trying to go over protocol. He understands, though, that she’s trying to make a point so he nods his understanding. 

“I trust you with my life,” she whispers, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Why don’t you trust yourself with it?”

She’s right of course. If there was time for him to step in the way, there was time for her to move out of the way. A thousand things could have happened and, in the end, his actions weren’t warranted. This hits his chest in a tight, painful bundle. He has to look away from her. Clenching his teeth against the tears threatening to sting his eyes.

“Hotch, you gave me a family.” She squeezes his fingers, feeling her own emotions bubbling right back to the surface. It’s out of character, she can recognize that but something happened in that house during the raid. Something she never wants to happen again. “You are a part of my family, whether you like that or not.”

He turns to look at her, his mouth unable to tell her that he knows and he does like it but that’s okay. They’ve always been able to understand passing glancing. He offers her a lopsided, forced smile when she rubs her thumb over his rough hands. 

“I love you,” she says with a roll of her eyes because she’s Emily Prentiss and she can’t take herself seriously for too long. She stands from the chair at his side and knocks the back of her hand against his shoulder. “And,” she adds, “don’t take any bullets to the neck for me, alright? I’m starting to feel like I owe you.”

He nods his understanding, still not trusting his voice.

Just as JJ did, she presses a kiss to his cheek. 

Prentiss feels pretty safe at that moment. He’s high as balls and she doubts he’s capable of anything more than a grumbled complaint. 

He’s full of grumbled complaints but this time he doesn’t offer her one. 

He doesn’t spare Morgan the same courtesy. 

“Hotch,” Morgan manages, taking a deep breath to stop himself from losing his cool. “I love you, man. You know I do but if you don’t stand still--” Honest, Morgan’s seen Henry and Jack behave better. The soft corrector does the job though and Hotch lets Morgan shoulder some of his weight. Leaning into Morgan as they walk.

He knows he asked Hotch to lean into him. He said it would be okay but to feel the way Hotch trusts him, the way he stiffens in pain instead of masking it… Morgan has to clear his throat. “Hotch?”

Hotch is limping the whole way. Getting shot in the neck sucks but hitting a wall and breaking ribs isn’t any better. Through gritted teeth, he replies, “yes.”

“Don’t scare us like that again, alright?” Morgan keeps the pace going, forcing Hotch to keep moving even when he pauses as Morgan’s words take him by surprise. Morgan’s on a roll, though, and he’s got to get it off his chest. He can’t let Hotch think that Morgan wants this. “I can’t… This team…” it’s harder than he wants to admit. “I’m not ready to lead this team. I don’t… I don’t want to, man.”

Hotch remains silent. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say but he’s exhausted and he’s not sure he’s got it in him to tell Morgan that won’t happen. It might. 

“We left you the couch,” Morgan changes the subject. He steers Hotch through the opening of the jet, forcing him in the direction of the couch. As soon as Hotch is seated, Morgan excuses himself. He ducks away, taking his own seat and putting his music on. 

A proper distraction from the emotions burning his throat.

David Rossi knew the moment he met Aaron Hotchner that he would take the world by storm. Through the years, Rossi watched that rip him apart. Being unyielding and selfless is good in measure but too often Rossi found himself holding the younger man together. His hands interlaced over a bullet wound, holding him upright as his lungs rebel from smoke inhalation, and, on more than one occasion, watching him push himself past the point of no return.

David Rossi also knew Aaron Hotchner was going to be a problem child. Unlike the other interns, Hotch was married, had gone to law school, and had a successful career. A state attorney turned federal agent… Rossi was initially skeptical. He got a wise-crack, no-nonsense, hot-headed nerd dressed in mediocre suits but, Rosis had to hand it to him, the kid had spunk. So Rossi put in the time. 

He trained a prodigy and he watched that prodigy fail and break. 

But Hotch never quit.

Not after Gideon and the bomb that killed nearly their whole team. 

The Fisher King and Elle Greenaway.

Tobias Hankle.

New York and Kate Joyner.

Strauss.

Foyet… 

On the jet’s couch, some twenty-- hell, maybe thirty-- years after their initial meeting David Rossi is gently combing his fingers through that bull-headed new kid’s hair. His thoughts are actively drifting away. Back to times when he was the Unit Chief and Hotch was a lanky kid. Prone to accidents of spilled coffee stains on crisp white dress shirts and knocking files off his desk with his elbows. Dave and Jason had an ongoing joke that the poor kid should have come with a warning label sewed into the ass of his suits. 

He cracks an eye open, aware of a shifting presence. Emily. He offers her a small smile, “anything I can help you with, bella?” His voice is deep, bothered with exhaustion, and tinged with an unsettled sadness. 

But that’s all part of the job.

They get the bad guys and stop them from hurting people. Only, sometimes they become the hurt-- the victims. 

Hotch just added his name to another serial killer’s list of victims. His name is starting to appear a lot these days. 

Prentiss shakes her head. She’d been sitting on the other side of the jet and for a moment it occurred to her that from her vantage point she couldn’t tell if Hotch was breathing or not. Panic struck her center mass and she’d risen to her feet, clearing half the jet to get to him. To be close enough to see his chest is rising. To see if he's still breathing.

“I thought he wasn’t breathing,” she tells Rossi. “I just… it freaked me out.”

Rossi nods his understanding and shakes his head sympathetically, but not for Emily. 

He’s not sure what Garcia has planned but he’d put money down on the fact that Hotch isn’t ready for it.

Hotch is not even through the glass doors at BAU when the sound of heels prefaces Penelope Garcia shouting down the hall. He takes a step back, glancing at the others in confusion as they chuckle. Like they know what’s about to happen. He moves back to the hall, nodding his head at a rapidly approaching Garcia. 

“Sir!”

He raises an eyebrow, “Garcia.”

She comes to a stuttering halt, taking a deep breath as she steadies herself. 

Something about it, he can’t explain it, strikes him as humorous. He shakes his head and smiles. Next thing he knows she’s thrown her arms around him. Hotch raises an eyebrow, his confusion not muffling the smile still spread across his face. “Whatever was that for?” He wouldn’t lie by stating the feelings he has at this moment are anything other than happily surprised. 

Garcia’s smile is a twisted happy smile laced with sadness being overtaken. “You stopped smiling for so long, I-- It just made me so happy to see you happy.”

And he realizes she’s right. 

He hasn’t smiled in a long time but… slowly, his team has wormed their way into breaking that. 

Son.

I love and appreciate you.

I wouldn’t think differently of you.

You’re a part of my family. 

I love you, man.

"Please, " Garcia says softly. "Don't ever do that again, okay? You scared me--" she sucks in a breath and it sounds so much like an approaching sob that he reaches out and pulls her back into a hug. 

"I'll be more careful, " he promises. "No more close calls." 

She squeezes him gently, aware of his ribs. "Good, " she whispers, "because I'm tired of losing people I love."

And he remembers that next time he sinks. He reminds himself constantly. 

Aaron Hotchner is loved. He has a family to come home to. They need him. 

And he doesn't always have to be the strong one.

[theonetheycallhannah]

The Treatment of Capt. Syverson- Chapter Three: Therapeutic Activity

Pairing: Captain “Sy” Syverson x OFC (Shane Benton)

Summary: Tensions reach a boiling point during treatment one evening, Shane goes to her own veteran for advice, and takes the first step toward happiness…hoping beyond hope that everything doesn’t blow up in her face.

Masterlist with links to all parts HERE!

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: None, yet… ;) But maybe I should be putting language warnings in here…there are some bad words. And not to spoil but…there might be a bit of kissing in this one…

Author’s Note: Guys, I cannot stress to you enough how much I am enjoying telling this story. My goodness. To sort of combine my passions of writing and Henry with something I know so well like therapy (I’m a secretary like Heather, not a therapist), it really just makes me happy. The next chapter is already done, also, it was initially part of this chapter, but it felt too long, so I’ll be posting it separately later. I know, I’m a tease. Have Henry spank me. Lol.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism.

Tags:

@onlyhenrys

@cavillryarchive

@summersong69

@titty-teetee

@bloodyinspiredfuck

"This sounds…kinda dumb…" Sy expressed his thoughts on today's warm up with Shane.

"Oh, trust me, it looks even dumber than it sounds. But it works. And it's easier on your knees than doing it the right way. You ready?" he looked at the treadmill, inclined at 3% grade as if it was Everest itself, and looked back at her. "I'll start slow." she raised her eyebrows at him.

"You know just what to say to a girl." he teased as he stepped up, still gingerly, even after eight weeks of therapy. Crutches mercifully jettisoned two weeks ago. He was on his way to being his fighting fit self. With a foot on either track beside the belt, but facing away from the control panel, he waited for her to press start. He took a breath and nodded.

"Test the belt with your bad foot first, and then when you're ready, step down with it. Remember what I've told you about which foot should lead when ascending and descending stairs or hills?"

"Good go to Heaven, Bad go to Hell. So I go up with the good leg and go down with the bad leg."

"A+ student. Okay, when you're ready…any time…Sy, this is an hour session…I have to kick you out in 55 minutes…chop chop." she cajoled him, but he wasn't budging.

"It feels…weird going this way, Shane." If she had been a less kind person, she would have called it whining…she called it nothing, instead.

"I know. Do you need to walk backwards around the clinic a little more to get you used to that sensation?"

"Hell yeah. If that means you're gonna spot me like you did before…felt kinda like dancin'." it was a perfectly legitimate and above-board treatment strategy. They stood back to back, Shane guiding Sy as he practiced walking backward and pushing off with the extensor muscle group, which had been weak. Sy had suggested holding hands, but Shane had compromised with the idea to link arms. Not that she wasn't dying to hold his hand…she was. But that had not been the time. The time was still weeks away. At least.

"I was thinking I'd have you try it with Jordan. He's got a free hour right now. And I can assess your technique. How does that sound, Twinkle Toed Romeo?" Immediately he placed a tentative foot down onto the slow moving belt trying to adjust to the odd sensation of walking up a hill backward.

"Ah, so I now know that all I have to do to get you to do something silly is threaten you with Jordan. Filing that away for a rainy day."

"Come on, you're breakin' my heart, sunshine."

"Aww, don't be ridiculous. I've seen therapists do way more embarrassing things to their patients in the name of treatment."

"Tell me!"

"Sorry, but it's classified information. Protected under the Health Insurance Privacy and Portability Act. I could literally get fired for telling you, and there are way cooler things to get fired for!" She'd always said it. And she meant it. She didn't fool around when it came to HIPPA, and there was no way she was gonna lose her job over a stupid slip like that.

"Any examples of things you'd rather get fired for?"

She thought for a few minutes. She used to have a list.

"Hmm, telling off my bitch of a boss," he looked shocked at her use of a bad language word, which he'd never heard from her. She nodded. "Telling off an asshole patient," sleeping with a patient…

"What about sleeping with a patient?" It was late in the day, the only person still there was Heather in the office, and a few therapists still documenting. Nobody in the gym to hear him echo the thoughts in her head. As if he could read them as clearly as a page in a book. Large print. She looked at him in shock.

"Sorry. That was over the line."

"It was…but…"

"But?"

"But…it would not be the least cool reason to get fired."

"It wouldn't?" she shook her head, reluctantly.

"Especially if the patient was…amazing, and kind, and…fucking gorgeous…"

"Young lady, that language today, I have never!" he exclaimed clutching at his broad and beautiful chest.

"I know, but, Sy…this is all hypothetical, and theoretical, and IF I was GOING to get fired how would I CHOOSE for it to happen and WHAT policy I would go against. People don't just CHOOSE to be fired, you know?" she was nervous and rambling.

"You know what people also don't choose? Who they care about, and have feelin's for. Who they--"

"Don't finish that sentence, Sy." She couldn't hear him say the word he was going to say. She couldn't let him start that. Not when there was too much complicating their situation.

She walked off to her treatment room, needing some space.  Some time.

She didn't get that space or time. Sy hobbled in behind her, looking like a man on a mission. And she knew from his war stories that his missions tended to be successful…even the one that got him his walking papers wasn't a total loss.

"Sy, you still had like, five minutes on the tr--"

His big hands found the sweet spot where her neck met her skull. He took a big breath and closed the distance between them, his lips landing light as feathers on hers, her soft skin welcoming the roughness of his beard, though everything else about the kiss was terribly gentle. Almost chaste. Even his beard wasn't so rough that she worried about beard burn…she'd be filing that away for later, as well. Against her willpower and better judgement but in full cooperation with her desires and instincts she began kissing him back, daring to deepen it by opening their mouths a bit, and sliding her hands up the back of his red tee that sported a black skull. All of his shirts were entirely too tight, but you'd never catch her complaining. Even after several months away from active duty and really, most activity at all, his body was still so solid and powerful.

"Ain't that a daisy…Fuck, I've wanted to do that since my first appointment." he chuckled, lightly.

"Sy…"

"Don't. Don't try to argue or tell me you don't feel it. This energy between us. I've seen it in your eyes, Shane. I've felt it when you touch me. It ain't nothin, sunshine. It's a whole lotta somethin'."

"I know, but I need this job. And I WANT this job. Being a therapist is the only thing I've ever wanted to do. Helping people. People like you. Getting them better. It's what I was meant to do. And there's no place like this in the area for me to treat such a diverse clientele and build my skill set. It's not without it's problems, but it's where I'm meant to be."

"I get that. And you should do what you were called to do. You're too good at this not to do it. But Shane, isn't it worth pushing back on some policy if it could mean you get to have some personal happiness, too?"

"I'm worried they'll make me choose." Actually, it was more than that. She was worried about which choice she'd make. Giving up a ten-year career with excellent benefits despite its pitfalls, or giving up someone she could hardly stop thinking about, who made her heart pound when he smiled, and who was rapidly shaping up to be someone she could see herself sharing a life with…making either choice terrified her for very different reasons.

"You shouldn't have to choose. Any boss who'd make you deny yourself what we could have just because of some ridiculous policy…well, they ain't worth the gas that brought 'em to work today. Y'understand me?"

She nodded, smirking at his idiom, "You don't know my boss."

"Well, maybe I oughta GET to know her, if it's like that. I have a way of throwin' my weight around, case ya hadn't noticed." he shot her a smug grin.

"Ya don't say?" she retorted, brimming with sarcasm, literally still wrapped in the evidence of said weight in the form of his muscular arms, warm and thick, encircling her. Even though she felt like her life was up in the air, she had never felt more safe. "I'll try to have a chat with her about it this week. Our schedules rarely align, and usually that's how I like it, but I'll try to move some things around if nothing naturally falls into place."

"I'll be happy to lend my voice or even come talk to her, if need be." he offered, ever the gentleman.

"I appreciate that, Sy, truly. But I think it would be best not to involve you unless it becomes absolutely necessary. We have several more treatments to get through today, though. You didn't finish on the tread mill, do you think you're warmed up enough?"

"Oh, darlin', I'm plenty warm." he grinned down at her sliding a hand down her side.

"Shit, am I gonna have to start being extra careful with what I say to you until this gets sorted?"

"I really doubt it'll matter, Shane. Ain't much you can say I can't make dirty." she could tell by the satisfaction on his face that this was a point of pride for him.

"Lay down and shut up."

"Yes, MA'AM!" he complied with a little too much enthusiasm. She didn't know whether to roll her eyes with amusement or grow increasingly feral…apparently there was room for both as long as she didn't act on the latter. Yet.

~~~~~~~~

She dismissed Sy for the day, instructing him to behave himself until she gave him the all clear, and even then, if she got the green light to see him outside of therapy, sessions would still be about getting him stronger, and not flirting. Or at least mostly. They settled on a 90/10 ratio by the end. She was a weak woman.

She went into the office where one of the senior therapists, Anita, was still charting and snacking on some pretzels.

"How was your day, Nita?" she asked affectionately. Anita had been her mentor since she started with the clinic over ten years ago, and was now part time, flexing toward retirement. She'd miss her.

"Oh, long, Miss Shane. As they tend to be more and more these days. What about yours?"

"Ah…just…nothin'." she shouldn't go into it all until she talked to Susan, their boss.

"Mmm, that's no nothing nothin', that's a something nothin'. Come on, kiddo. Spill." she offered Shane one of her pretzels and kicked out the chair next to her. Again, she was a weak woman. She took a pretzel, sat, and chewed it for a moment, collecting her words.

"What do you think about…starting relationships with patients?" she searched her reaction for any snap judgement or emotion, but only a narrowing of her eyes occurred.

"Is this about that Captain Sexypants who just left?"

"I'm going to kill Heather. I'm not the one who came up with that nickname and I'm not the one who started the whole having feelings conversation. I was going to be miserable until he was discharged, at least."

"Why would you need to make yourself miserable, Shane?"

"Because the policy. About dating patients."

"Technically the policy only says you shouldn't treat family/close friends if you feel you wouldn't be able to maintain objectivity or would be uncomfortable yourself. But that you should disclose any relationship to your supervisor for review."

"See, what's Susan gonna say?"

"Who cares? The policy is the law. And the board of directors governs the policy. Not her. Tell her in an email if you can't work out a time to talk to her before you see him next. Hell, I sent my boss a memo back when I started dating Ron. And look at us now! 20 years strong."

"No way!?" Shane was flabbergasted. She had never known that Anita's husband Ron had once been her patient.

"Oh yes. I wasn't long out of PT school, my first husband had passed away and I needed an income, so I got my PT license and about a year into working here, Ron got put on my schedule. I knew from the eval, he was meant for me. So I typed up a memo, sent it to Morton, our boss at the time, and told Ron I was free on Friday after work."

"Sy just…I don't know, we have this…connection…a spark. I've never felt it with anyone else."

"Are you concerned that seeing him socially would affect how you treat him here?"

"I'm more worried keeping my feelings for him bottled up while I treat him will get so distracting I'll become less effective."

"Well, then, if you get any push back, tell Susan that." Anita said. "Just be forthright. Honest. And speak with integrity. She'll have no cause to refute it, then. And send it tonight."

"Okay. Thanks Anita. You're the best."

~~~~~~~~~

Shane spent too long, probably an hour, at least, drafting her email to Susan. It read:

To: Susan DeForrest

From: Shane Benton

Subject: Re: Treatment Policy

Susan,

I wanted to bring to your attention a situation that has presented itself with one of my patients. I have been treating him almost exclusively for several weeks now, apart from my week on PTO, and he has progressed to both of our satisfaction as well as the ordering physician. However, we have come to be quite friendly and he has expressed great interest in seeing me outside of therapy. This is something that I too would like to engage in, and I plan to accept the next time I speak with him.

From my understanding of the policy, the only thing that would prevent me from treating him as a social acquaintance would be my own comfort level and ability to remain objective. I have every confidence that my objectivity regarding his case will remain intact. I am also completely comfortable with it, and if that changes, I will transfer him to another therapist. Furthermore, I have no doubts that I will be able to maintain the highest level of professionalism throughout our treatments.

Thank you, and if you feel we need to discuss any of this further, please let me know.

~Shane Benton, DPT

And send…whew. She needed a big glass of wine tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Up Next: Chapter Four- E-Stim

[peraltasames]

nothing safe is worth the drive

3x01 canon divergent au in which jake drives to amy's before she gets the chance to come over and give her "screw light and breezy" speech. requested by the lovely @storyinmyeyes <3

read on ao3

The distance between Jake and Amy’s apartments spans only ten blocks. It doesn’t seem like a lot on a typical day, when he’s driving over there to bring her a hot chocolate because the guy at the store gave him an extra and he knows she loves it, or when he offers to give her a ride home because her car’s in the shop even though half of their coworkers live much closer. It does seem like a lot, certainly enough for his mind to cover a vast spectrum of emotions, when he’s on his way to tell her how he feels about her.

Ten blocks from Amy’s apartment, Jake briefly glances over at an overly excited Charles Boyle while shoving his key in the ignition of his old and battered Mustang, and he thinks about kissing Amy. It’s really all he’s thought about for the past two days. She’s an amazing kisser, and maybe a small part of him expected that, but none of his dreams or fantasies about the subject prepared him for the reality. She tastes like heaven, and the noises of contentment and pleasure she made while he kissed her (outside his apartment, in the staircase, on the couch, finally in his bed) were nothing short of ethereal.

Eight blocks from Amy’s apartment, Jake thinks about how much she means to him, how important it is that he doesn’t screw this up. There’s a lot on the line - she’s his best friend. His favourite coworker. More often than not, she’s the best part of his day. She’s so incredibly important to him and he simply can’t risk losing her.

Seven blocks.

Jake thinks about turning around. He’s screwed up every other relationship in one way or another. Amy doesn’t want to date cops. There have already been so many complications in so little time. The odds seem to be stacked against them.

Five blocks.

A Taylor Swift song comes on the radio and gives him a surge of newfound confidence. Taylor would definitely want him to at least try to get the girl.

Three blocks.

He tries to string his thoughts together in a more coherent speech than god I just like you so much and I would literally do anything just to keep hanging out with you and kissing you as much as possible.

Two blocks.

He’s coming up empty on the speech thing. He decides to wing it.

Less than one block.

He’s sufficiently freaking out and starting to worry that “winging it” isn’t the best idea for something so incredibly important.

“Jake!”

He snaps back into reality with Charles shaking his shoulders, realizing that he’s parked in front of Amy’s building on auto-pilot.

“Jake, we’re here. It’s go time.”

Jake nods, swallowing the fearful lump in his throat and trying to suppress the worries occupying his brain.

“Okay. I’m doing this.”

Charles gives him an encouraging two thumbs up and Jake hops out of the car, jogging up the front steps of her second floor walkup.

With only a door separating Jake from Amy’s apartment, his fist tapping the wood twice in quick succession, he is terrified. There are just too many possibilities that it won’t work or he’ll say the wrong thing or she’ll shut him down again.

But then she appears in the doorway, her eyes widening as she takes him in (he’s still panting from the short jog upstairs and his hair’s messy from his hands running through it out of stress). And god, she’s so beautiful.

“Jake? What are you doing-“

“I don’t want to go back to being colleagues.”

He doesn’t mean to interrupt her, or even to start talking, but his lips are moving without his brain’s permission. She doesn’t respond at first, just looks up at him and waiting for more elaboration.

“I-I’ve liked you for a long time. You know that.” He scratches the back of his head, shifting his footing and avoiding her eye line. “But you don’t know how bad I’ve wanted this - us - to happen for so long. You don’t know how amazing these past two days have been for me. Not just the sex and stuff - I mean, don’t get me wrong, that stuff was really good too - but, I just…it felt really nice to not have to hide how I really feel about you. And you don’t know how much I like you, because if you did you would get why I think this is worth having to deal with crap at work or pretty much anything else life throws at us. You don’t know how worth it this is to me.”

Amy remains silent when he finishes his short, completely unprepared but utterly true speech. His brief moment of courage fades and is replaced once more with anxiety and fear of what she may say. Her face flashes with so many different emotions that he has no idea what to expect when she does finally speak after a period of five seconds that feels like an eternity.

“I do know.”

Jake blinks at her, unsure if he heard the words correctly despite the fact that she spoke them with complete clarity and sureness.

“You-you do?”

She nods, biting her lip as she takes a small step closer to him.

“Of course I do, Jake,” she says, quieter than before. “Everything you said…it’s the same for me.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, his eyes radiating with affection and pure joy as he finally lets himself hold her gaze. She’s looking at him with similar reverence.

“Does that mean you want to-“

Her lips are very quickly pressed to his, her arms simultaneously wrapping around his neck and pulling him down to reach her level so she has better access to his mouth. With only two days of kisses under their belt, Jake already feels a warm kind of familiarity laying underneath the still very new excitement of kissing Amy. His heart is racing at the idea of kissing his long-time partner, coworker, and friend, but his hands move to her back on instinct and his lips fit in hers so perfectly that it feels like they’ve been doing this for years.

They pull apart slowly, and he smiles a little bit to see her eyes still closed and her lips still parted even as they separate. Her hands rest on his chest over his hoodie as she finally opens her eyes to look at him and her lips form a broad grin.

“I think this is worth it, too.”

Jake laughs again, just as softly, not wanting to burst their little bubble of sincerity and emotion.

“Okay. Noice.”

He runs his hands down her arms until their hands meet and link together, only then realizing that she’s wearing a jacket and boots.

“Were you going somewhere?” he asks, trying to pull his hands away and relaxing as she tightens her grip. “I don’t wanna hold you up if you have some place to be.”

She smiles, shaking her head. “No, Jake, I don’t - I was actually headed to your place to tell you pretty much the same thing.”

His face softens even more, if that’s possible at this point. His hands slip out of hers to cradle her face, pulling her into a kiss that is inarguably the most tender and patient they’ve shared, all of the nervous energy dissipating. It feels like a kiss between two people in a relationship, no longer just pining after one another endlessly.

There is even more evidence on Amy’s face supporting her claim that she truly feels the same way he does when they pull away this time. Her eyes are glistening, looking up at him the same way he sees her look at new binders and thick case files.

“You wanna come in?” She gestures to the inside of her apartment.

“Definitely,” he grins, clutching her hand as she slips it into his again. “Also, I should probably text Charles. He’s waiting in my car downstairs.”

Amy laughs, rolling her eyes at the typical Boyle behaviour the way she does across the desk from him at work every day, and pulls him inside.

One step inside Amy’s apartment, he’s not so scared anymore.