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snixkers · 1 day

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Omg I'm obsessed with your work! The way I actually really felt the emotions instead of just reading it. You're so talented arghhhh

𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

You worry your boyfriend is ashamed of you. This is very much not the case. Or, 5 times Hotch hid your relationship (+1 time he didn’t).

7k words, new-ish established relationship, lots of fluff between angst, hurt/comfort, fem!reader, civilian!reader, reader calls him aaron mostly

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The security for Aaron's building is weird. Weird as in extensive, intimidating, and extremely intricate.

You'd really wanted to minimise his stress — the whole reason you're here is to bring him a forgotten sheet of paper that must've slipped out at your kitchen table from one of his case files because you don't want him to have to make up a new copy — but you're too scared to go in.

You pull your phone out reluctantly and dial in his number, eager to hear his voice even if the security detail a few feet away are freaking you out.

"Hotchner."

"Hi, handsome," you say softly.

There's a small pause. For a split-second a nightmare situation runs through your head, his low voice asking, Who is this?

"Hi, honey."

You beam so wide it aches, forcing a pleased little breath from your mouth.

"What do you need?" he asks.

"I'm outside of your building but I'm too afraid to come in. I'm not sure they'll let me. I need a badge, right?"

"You're outside."

You pick at the hem of your sweater, a loose thread marring your otherwise pretty outfit. You'll admit to dressing up unnecessarily to see him. Nice clothes, your most subtle perfume.

"I found something confidential this morning, a piece of paper. I didn't read it, I promise."

"You really shouldn't be here," he says.

Your smile abruptly drops. You press the phone closer to your face and wait, hoping he's not talking to you. When it's clear that he is you cringe, the silence pervasive and the most awkward it's ever been with him.

"Sorry." Your apology is quick, quiet. "I thought it would be easier for you. I didn't mean to… overstep."

"It's not that. It's busy. Would you hang on to it for me? Maybe I can come and get it tonight, bring dinner."

You love how he says it. It's not a question, not an assumption. And it's a relief. If he wants to see you on a night where you hadn't planned to get together, he can't be mad at you for being here.

"Yeah, please. If you want to."

"I want to. Okay?"

Not for confirmation, it's shorthand. You okay?

"Yeah. Okay. Have a good rest of your day, handsome."

"Bye."

You like to think you can hear the sound of his phone clicking shut, imagining him at his desk in one of his neat suits with a case file open in front of him. You're not sure on the specifics of his job but you know he looks good doing it, and you also know he's very, very busy. You don't take his clipped goodbye as anything but efficiency.

Maybe you should.

—

The next time Aaron inadvertently hurts your feelings is in person.

Compared to him, you wouldn't say you're an incredibly exciting character. Your day job is tame, your hobbies are invaried. You like to watch TV, see movies, you enjoy people-watching. When you hold that stuff up to his job, his profiling, and his hobbies (seriously, who likes triathlon?) you feel rather immature.

You know deep down that hobbies are hobbies and that your job doesn't define how special you are, but when you're with someone like Aaron who lives and breathes his profession it can play with your head.

"Is there something interesting about my shirt?" he asks, a murmur under the sound of the TV.

You look up from the hem of his nice button down and smile, a half-smile. You want it to be more genuine than it is. "Don't you already know?"

"What do you mean?"

"You can tell I'm…" You frown, dropping the starched material of his shirt from between your fingers. "I've given myself up, haven't I?"

"A little," he concedes sympathetically.

You huff your defeat and let your cheek fall into his chest. Nice to seek comfort from him, nicer for him to give it to you, his arm rising from behind your shoulders to hook around your neck.

"I'm not profiling you," he says, voice close to the top of your head, "I'm wondering what you're thinking."

You relax under his touch, his big hand settling in the curve of your neck. A semi-hug. It doesn't take long for you to melt into his front completely, your unhappy thoughts dissolving with any tension and leaving only a want to kiss his stupidly nice neck.

"It doesn't matter," you say.

"You sure?"

You lift your head from his chest. He has to lean back to meet your eyes and he does it unflinchingly, a bemused smile playing on his lips.

"I'm good. Better, if you would…"

"Yeah?" he asks quietly, leaning down, down.

You can't withstand his charms. He knows exactly how to get you, his smile and his eyes, his lashes kissing in the corners as they close.

He's imposing in the best way, a heavy presence that overwhelms you. All you can think about is the way he nudges his nose with yours to encourage your head back and the heat of his lips as they touch your own. His arm tightens behind your head.

You try to rise onto your knees, hands vying for his neck and his pitch dark hair. You're doubly pleased when you feel his mouth turning up into a smile, a mirror of your own.

"Slow down," he chides gently.

You're about to say something unlike yourself, something loud and brash. Speed up, Hotchner. You're hopped up on the giddiness that comes with being close to him. You're just about to say it when his phone rings.

He gives you a short, hard kiss.

"Hotchner."

You sit back in his lap, his hand sliding to the small of your back to keep you close as his face clouds with confusion. You attempt to climb off of him because you're not a sack of sugar — you're probably giving him numb thighs — but he won't let you.

"Garcia," he says eventually, "is this an emergency?" His tone makes it clear to you that whatever it is Garcia is saying, it's far from an emergency.

His hand climbs up, over your shoulder. You shudder as he tugs your earlobe, a mild and thoughtless gesture. You're so busy shivering you almost miss his playful eye roll.

"I haven't changed my mind. Yeah. Thanks for the invitation, but I'm perfectly happy where I am tonight."

Whatever Garcia says makes him laugh. If you weren't sitting as close to him as you are you wouldn't have heard it.

"Have fun. Bye," he says succinctly. He snaps his phone closed in one hand, the other dropping from your ear to your shoulder. It's heavy with a remorse you can't allow. "Sorry."

"Doesn't matter," you assure, tilting your head toward his hand and pretending to size him up. You don't know how to profile, but you're a good guess.

"You're not telling me something."

"No?" He blinks in surprise.

"No. You've been invited somewhere with your work friends, and you usually go. Why not tonight?"

"I think that's obvious."

"You don't have to flake on your friends for me, Aaron."

He smiles as you say his name. "Like I told Garcia, I am perfectly happy where I am."

You hide your face in his neck lest he see your doped up smile. "You have nice friends," you murmur, working your hands under the hem of his shirt.

"I think you'd love Garcia after the infinitial terror."

"I think I would too. She's good to you, after all. Makes me like her… Maybe one day we can all go out for drinks."

You don't have to be a profiler to feel the way he tenses.

"Yeah," he says. It sounds very much like Probably not.

That's a strumming hurt. Aaron is so nice, so so nice, and he treats you like you're gold dust. He does all the movie boyfriend stuff like flowers, silver earrings on your birthday (with tiny diamonds!), dinner reservations at dauntingly fancy restaurants. And he does stuff you didn't know men did, like calling you near every night to make sure you had a good day, and praising even your smallest achievements, and leaving notes in places he knows you'll find them on hard days. You don't know how he knows when days are hard, he just does.

You'd figured all of this stuff meant he must really like you, might even love you though he's yet to say it, and that's why his lack of enthusiasm stings.

Why doesn't he want you to meet his friends? He's obviously very proud of what they do at the BAU. They're not the issue.

It's you.

You cuddle him as a pit forms in your chest.

"You're tired?" he asks.

Funny how it's his comfort you crave when he's the one who's hurt your feelings. You're a little lopsided being upset with him, and you know if you tell him how you feel he'll try to make it up to you, but you're too afraid of the other alternative — a fight. Right now his arms are a sanctity you wouldn't trade for anything. You hope he feels the same.

You're not sure anymore.

"Yeah," you say roughly.

Your eyes burn as he pats your back. "Let's go to bed, honey."

You'll just… have to prove you're someone worth showing off.

—

Your plan, loosely titled 'Get Aaron Hotchner to Show Me Off,' is going about as well as you'd thought it would.

If Aaron doesn't want me to meet his friends there must be a reason. You've been thinking about it and it can't be a coincidence that he hadn't wanted you to return his paperwork a few weeks ago. That must've been something significant.

But what?

You start with your hair. Aaron has expressed a lovely and heaping handful of times that he thinks you have pretty hair. He plays with it often, usually when he's limp and tired from a long day. You've always taken care of it. Now you're going to the extreme — hair masks, hair appointments you can't afford, anything to make it look perfect.

It doesn't work toward the plan, though your boyfriend certainly notices.

"Your hair," is the very first thing he says when he sees you, stopping only in his smiling assessment to kiss your cheek in greeting.

"Is it okay?" you ask, turning your face to one side.

"More than okay. Do you want to go in?"

So it's kind of a bust. But that's okay, you weren't expecting to get a haircut and magically be invited to team dinners. You persevere, and eventually you forget the plan for the night when Aaron promises to show you how much he likes your new look with a hand at the small of your back.

Phase two, your clothes.

You dress as nicely as you can but you're no fashion guru and you can't afford an entirely new wardrobe. You get a bunch of magazines and look for fall staples. What's in this year, and how do you style it? You buy a couple of pieces that fit your budget and try to work around them.

Aaron's favourite are the new corduroy pants. They aren't a great fit.

"They're too tight," you lament, pulling the fabric from your thighs where they hug snugly. They're a desaturated sort of burgundy, not bright by any means but a good 'pop of colour'.

"I know," he says.

You gawp at him, and when he gets his fingers on the buttons afterward, you break.

"You like them?" you ask worriedly.

"What makes you think I don't?"

"Besides how eager you are to get them off of me?"

He hooks two fingers in your belt loops and holds your gaze as he tugs them down. "I like them."

A good time, but still no dice. You suppose a new look, besides looking smarter, doesn't actually prove your merit as a girlfriend. Maybe he wants something a little more concrete before he introduces you to people. Maybe things aren't as good for him as they are for you, and he doesn't see the point.

That particular thought sparks a wave of panicked tears.

The next time you see him, it's like he can tell. You wonder if he has x-ray vision, some sixth sense for tear stains that he has yet to tell you about. He's been gone for a few days in St. Louis, and when he'd come back he'd spent the weekend with Jack, so it's a whole seven days since the last time you saw him and your worries have festered. Not even his doting phone calls had kept the thought at bay.

Maybe I'm not a good girlfriend.

You open your door and there he is in a quarter zip with an overnight bag, matte suit cover draped over one arm.

"Hi," you say, unsure.

"Did I get uglier while I was away?" he asks seriously.

You startle. "No, of course not."

He smiles and meets you in the doorway, your head dipping back to accommodate. "I think I've had it too good," he says lightly, bringing a tentative hand to your cheek. "Are you okay?"

You're trying to work out what he means, and when you do your heart skips. "Handsome!" you say urgently. "Hi, handsome. No, you didn't get uglier, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking, and-"

He kisses you. It's malaligned because of your parted lips, but it's good. You'd really missed him.

"You're definitely still handsome," you murmur.

"Doesn't count. I begged for it-"

"No!" you deny, lifting on tiptoes to give him another kiss and stop his slander. "It does count because you're always handsome, I promise. I think I slept too much and miswired my brain when I woke up."

"I don't mind that you didn't call me handsome," he says firmly, "now let me in. We have dinner to make."

"Right, sorry."

Aaron frowns at you, then. It's weird. He frowns at his phone, at the TV, at nothing, but he doesn't frown at you.

"Is something wrong?" he asks as you traverse down the hall. You hold your hands out for his suit and bag to take to your room and hang up, ignoring his question. He doesn't give them to you. "Is there?"

"No." You smile as you say it.

You're an awful liar, especially with him. He makes you more nervous than anyone because he's your boyfriend and because he's a literal human lie detector.

"You didn't even try."

You cover your face with both hands and groan dramatically, spinning around and away from him. You don't want him to see how flustered you are.

"Don't make fun," you beg.

"You're embarrassed."

"Teach you that at the Bureau, do they?"

You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, distracted by your own racing thoughts when suddenly there are two long arms needling around your waist and pulling you backward. You gasp a laugh and squirm uselessly to escape.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

You tip your head back, hands falling from your face in surprise. "What for, handsome?"

His laugh fans out over your face but when he speaks again there's no humour there, only sincerity, "For being gone so long."

"Well don't be. You can't exactly help it, Agent Hotchner," you hum.

"Oh, don't."

"Going out and saving the world takes time. I knew that when I met you, 'n I know it now. You don't have to say sorry."

"I'm not apologising for my work. I'm apologising that we've," — his nose presses into the highest point of your cheek — "been apart."

"I did miss you," you relent.

He presses his lips to your cheek. "I missed you too."

It's a nice distraction. You'd missed one another, and now you're together. You forget for a while what you'd worried, and only when he leaves again do you remember.

Maybe I'm not a good girlfriend.

You're not stupid enough to think Hotch is using you for anything, or that he's insincere. You're level-headed, though. His affection for you isn't necessarily permanent no matter how genuine.

You don't want to be overbearing. The offers start slow.

I can wash that for you. Of course I'm sure, I'm great with whites.

Maybe I could make you lunch tomorrow. You can take it in, spare yourself the federal cafeteria.

Yeah, I got them shined for you. They were looking a little dull at the toes.

"Do you want me to press these?" you ask.

Aaron looks up from where he's sitting in bed. You'd been out on a foray to the bathroom and have come to a stop by his bedroom door where a pair of black slacks hang in wait for the morning.

He pushes a darling pair of reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. "No."

"Are you sure? It won't take five minutes."

"I'll do it in the morning."

"I can do it for you, then. Just wake me up," you say, pushing back the sheets on the empty side of his bed. Your socked foot bumps his thigh as you pull up your legs. "What are you reading?"

He puts his book on the nightstand, takes off his glasses. It's too bad. He really suits them.

"I want to talk to you about something."

You laugh and slide down onto the flat of your back.

"What?" he asks, confused, the tiniest hint of amusement in his eyes.

"It's unlike you to start that way. You always cut around the fat." You bring his bed sheets up to your nose and squint at him. "'M I in trouble?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"You know I care about you."

Your heart somersaults. That feels very much like a break-up opener, and he must see your anxiety on your face. He wrangles your hand from under the sheets and leans over you, his face in your eyeline, his fingers massaging yours until they ache in the good way.

"Do you know how much?" he asks.

"Is that a trick?"

"No."

You wait in case there's something he's going to add. When there's nothing, you pull the sheets to your chin and tamp down your perplexed pouting.

"Yeah, I know how much."

"I'd like to tell you how much." He pulls your joined hands toward his jaw. "I know I'm not always here, but I'm always thinking of you. In roundabout ways."

"What ways?" you ask. Self-indulgence.

Aaron Hotchner indulges you.

"I see," — he kisses your hand — "trees. I've seen a thousand trees, but when I see the bigger ones I wish you could see them too."

It's a dropping sensation, near uncomfortable, that's how gutted his confession makes you feel. "You do?"

"Sometimes women walk past me and I swear that it's you because they smell like your perfume. Flowers growing through cracks in the sidewalk. Lights through the jet window." It's the kind of stuff you like to point out to him when you're together.

He stares at you, a long, reassuring look.

He deserves a better reply, but all you can say is, "I think of you all the time, too."

"I love that you want to take care of me, but you don't need to wear yourself out."

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. So that's what this is about. Aaron has profiled you, and now he's being the gentleman that he is and assuaging your fears.

"I'm not," you say quickly.

He understands that you're saying I'm not wearing myself out rather than I'm not taking care of you. You are taking care of him, the best that you can, the best that he'll allow.

"I can press my own pants," he says, leaning down for a kiss. "I can shine my own shoes." He kisses you again. You screw your eyes closed as the warmth of his breath heats your cupid's bow. "I can do my own laundry." He pulls back, dropping your hand in favour of your neck. His thumb pushes against your windpipe gently, palm hot over your skin. "I'll accept the lunches, if you're sure you don't mind making them."

You feel as excited as you did the very first time he touched you, chest full of a dizzying pleasure, heart bump-bump-bumping a racing rhythm. His thumb strokes a lazy quarter circle into your neck. He can probably feel your pulse, see the way your eyes have blown.

"I love making them," you say, breathless in earnest.

"The team think I'm spoiled."

"You aren't spoiled." You're adored, you want to say. You cup his cheek instead. "You'd be spoiled if I brought them by everyday."

Aaron doesn't stay with you and you don't stay with him enough to make him lunch everyday. He might get one or two a week, and that's when he's home.

"Wouldn't that be nice," he mutters, his fingers pushing between your neck and the pillow underneath.

You hike up on to your elbows slowly to avoid headbutting him. "Well, I could."

His easy, loving smile flattens. "No."

"I wouldn't mind. My lunch break is super long and it only takes me ten minutes to get there. We could have lunch together."

"That's not going to work."

"Okay." You wish you could take it as calmly as he says it. You sound choked up. You are choked up.

"Sweetheart, the office is a war zone. Half the time I'm not there."

"I get it," you say, dropping flat onto your back again.

"Sweetheart."

"Handsome," you mirror, putting on your best unaffected smile.

You can't hold it very long, his concerned brows too much to deal with. You turn your head to the left and turn off the lamp on the nightstand, throwing at least half of your expression into darkness.

Aaron doesn't give up. Does he ever? He cups your cheek and pulls you back to face him.

"I can't promise any lunch dates. But I was thinking we'd go out for dinner next week, Friday," he begins hopefully, "somewhere nice."

It feels like an apology and you're desperate to take it.

"I don't need somewhere nice, s'long as you're there 'n not in Kansas, or Colorado, or Idaho, or New Jersey-"

He hums and drops his head until his nose lies against your own. "Gonna go through all fifty?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Hotchner?"

"I love your voice," he says agreeably.

Disarmed, you let him charm you, and you let him push it all out of your mind. Plan foiled, your fears fall on the backburner for a third time.

—

His fourth rejection is the first that feels entirely intentional, though you won't know until later.

Mostly because Aaron pushes you.

Far from cruel, the two of you are actually out walking in the city when he forces you into an alleyway, your fancy drink sloshing down the front of your sweater.

You laugh in surprise and almost roll your ankle, hands clinging to his coat to stop an unfortunate fall.

"Holy shit, Hotchner, learn to be a gentleman," you say as he presses up against you. "What are you doing? I'm soaked, you're gonna ruin your sleeves."

He kisses you hard. It's a surprise, your head jumping back against the wall to find his hand already there to protect it.

It's worth noting that Aaron is a sweetheart in practically every aspect of life. He once apologised after having walked in on you changing, which is ridiculous because most of the nights where you're together he insists on getting you some sort of undressed (even if it's just to help you into your pyjamas).

Needless to say, he's never kissed you like this. Your emotions spike so suddenly you laugh into his mouth, a girlish peel of giggles that you'll regret afterward but can't stop for the life of you.

He shushes you. "Sorry," he whispers, as ill-composed as you've ever heard him. "Sorry, just-" He cuts you both off with another bruising kiss.

Your laughter fades into sighs and little gasps for air. Somewhere near the alleyway opening a group of people pass by, a jovial series of cheers and friendly laughter trailing behind them. Aaron presses you further into the wall behind, and slowly, slowly winds down. Weirdly, you think his last couple of pecks feel sorry, softer and sweeter.

Your lips buzz.

"Why'd you buy me that fancy drink if you were gonna tip it all over me?" you ask good-naturedly when he finally pulls back.

"You looked too nice today." His deadpan voice wars with the smile on his face. "I'm sorry. We'll go find you something to change into."

"Was it really that important that you kiss me right then?" you ask, feigning disdain.

He looks out toward the main street again. "Yes. Where do you want to go? There's a Nordstrom."

You take a sip of your drink, unsurprised when he takes your hand and starts to lead you toward the department stores. "Have you ever been inside of a Nordstrom?"

"I'm sure I'll figure it out."

—

The fifth time is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Or the brick. It feels heavier than a strand of straw. It's technically already come to pass, so it's an invisible brick.

You're out for coffee by yourself which really means you're out for something sweet, bundled up in a coat and scarf to fight the night-time chill.

"Thank you," you tell the barista, accepting your drink and receipt with a smile.

You turn around and almost walk straight into a pretty dark-haired woman with really nice hair. You make a note to tell Aaron about it when you see him next, not because he'll care but because he likes to hear what you've been thinking about. And right now, all you can think about is her feathered bangs.

I want nice bangs, you think offhandedly.

"I'm sorry," you say, trying to move around her.

She steps into your path.

"Sorry," you say again.

She's squinting at you, thin eyebrows peeking out from behind her hair. "Sorry, have we met?" she asks.

You try not to be too hasty, but you're not sure you've ever seen her. You stare at her as she stares at you, and you get a tiny inkling of familiarity, but it's gone as quick as it comes.

"I'm really sorry, I don't think so," you murmur, tilting your head to one side.

She bites her lip, let's it go. "Oh!" she says excitedly, voice bright with triumph. "Oh oh oh! I know who you are, you're Hotch's mysterious girlfriend!"

Your smile turns quizzical. You know nearly everybody calls Aaron 'Hotch'. Whenever you try it he either gives you the silent treatment or covers your mouth with his hand.

"I'm Emily Prentiss, I work in the BAU," she explains rapidly, shoving her purse under her hand to offer it for a handshake.

You do the same and shake her hand. Introducing yourself feels awkward. She knows you. You don't have a clue who she is. Only-

"Oh, I know who you are now, I'm sorry I didn't recognise you before!" you say contritely. "I've seen photos of you and the team together. It's really nice to meet you."

She nods. "It's nice to meet you too. I have to say, we've been dying to meet you. We even have a betting pool on what you're like, because Hotch barely says a thing about you."

You try not to look as devastated as you feel, re-wrapping your fingers around your cup. "No?"

"We didn't even know what you looked like until we saw you the other day. We came looking to say hi and you'd disappeared."

You lick your dry lips. "The other day?"

"Yeah, last Friday. We were out for impromptu drinks, celebrating a case. You know, you should come with sometime. It would be fun."

Emily talks each word with an undertone of good humour. She's stunning, bubbly, and her hair flows around her face with every movement.

"He really doesn't talk about me?"

Emily drops into girl code niceties, backtracking. "I mean, not too often. We catch him smiling at his phone and hear your voice sometimes when you call. He seems happy. Well, happy as Hotch can seem." She swallows. "He's a private creature."

He doesn't talk about me.

You pretend to check your watch.

"It was really good to meet you," you say, voice airy with a feigned nonchalance.

"Yeah, of course. Super nice," Emily says.

You smile at her. It's more like a grimace. By the time you're outside of the coffee shop you're too upset to care, a humiliated shock of tears brewing behind your achy eyes.

You hold your cup to your chest and unzip your purse to tuck the receipt inside, trying to maintain some control. There's a folded note inside, thick cardstock quartered.

You take it out. Your fingers tremble with offended adrenaline.

You're beautiful.

Short, sweet, extremely Aaron Hotchner. Too bad you can't believe it.

Emily Prentiss being out and about means the BAU are done for the night, though whether your workaholic boyfriend got the memo is anyone's best guess. You're not sure if it's better or worse if he's in work when you call. You're so upset that you can't help yourself.

"Hi, honey."

"Do you really think I'm beautiful?" you ask, staving off tears with all your willpower.

"I wouldn't write it if I didn't mean it. That one took you a while to find, I was-"

"Are you sure?"

"...Are you okay?"

You glare up at the dark sky rather than answer, blinking hard to force down your tears. You really don't wanna cry, but it's been a bad day and meeting Emily has made it worse. No matter how hard you try to think otherwise, all signs point to Aaron being ashamed of you. Embarrassed to be with you. He's hiding your relationship from everybody.

"Am I- Is it my clothes? My job?"

"What's wrong with your clothes?"

"You tell me, detective."

You're getting angry. He's- he's lying, or he's messing with you. He's making fun of you. At least that's how it feels.

"Where are you right now?" he asks. You can picture him shrugging on his suit jacket, putting his files in order to come and meet you.

You don't want to see him. "I'm at the coffee shop by your apartment. I actually ran into somebody, and I'm feeling very well-informed." A first tear bumps down your cheek. You ignore it.

"I don't understand."

"I don't understand! What am I doing wrong?" You bite your tongue in last ditch efforts to remain intact, but the tears won't hold off any longer. You swallow a sob. "What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing. Nothing, honey, nothing is wrong with you."

You wipe your wet face with mean hands.

"Stay where you are. I'll come and meet you."

"No. I don't wanna see you."

"Honey-"

"Leave me alone, Aaron."

You hang up. You walk for a while, feeling as though steam is rising off of your flushed skin with every clumsy step. It had been a short phone call and already you can't remember what you said, all you can feel is angry, and then that runs out and all you can do is cry.

You've never felt incredibly attractive. Aaron makes you feel better than that — he has the uncanny ability to inspire self-confidence with a loaded look alone. He can smile at you and your skin feels like it's glowing.

So why doesn't that translate? If he thinks you're so pretty, why does he insist on hiding you away?

Because that day, he'd seen his friends. He could've introduced you but he took you down the alley and kissed you so you wouldn't be seen. That's not too busy: That's secretive.

That kiss. You fooled yourself into thinking you must've looked irresistible. Fuck. You went home that night thinking you were the best thing since sliced bread.

"I'm so stupid," you mutter, sniffling.

Your self deprecation is muffled by the sound of a slowing car. You don't look up. There are two possibilities for who it is, and you don't want to deal with either.

The car parks and then you do look up. Despite how mad you are you're not suicidal, and Aaron's given you extensive coaching on sex trafficking.

It's him. Shocker.

You're half-expecting him to reprimand you. You didn't look up until I parked. You know it takes five seconds to snatch and incapacitate someone?

He looks haphazardly put together. Suit jacket on but tie loosened, he rounds the hood of his car and joins you on the sidewalk. You don't want to play games with him. He really doesn't need it, he didn't sign up for it, and drama isn't your style, but you're sick of this.

"You want to tell me what you're thinking?" he asks, standing an amicable two feet away, hands at his hips.

"I'm really mad."

"What else?"

"I'm thinking," you say, looking down at your cold hands, "that you… That you're…" You rub your cheek into your shoulder to hide a fresh tear. "I don't know, Aaron. I'm thinking lots of things."

"Do you want to think about them in the car?" he asks.

Do you want to talk about it?

You don't want to talk about it. You don't like crying in front of him on a good day.

You're pretty sure he'll combust on the spot if he knows you're walking home alone in the dark and distracted.

You get in the car. He has the good sense not to touch your shoulders like he normally would.

You buckle as soon as you've closed the passenger side door. "I'm sorry," you mumble, looking down at your knees.

"Let's forget that, for now." He turns the key but doesn't pull out. "Tell me what's upset you and I'll explain."

"I met Emily Prentiss."

He looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

"She told me that you don't talk about me. Ever. That they didn't even know what I looked like."

You know he's listening but he keeps his eyes on the road, and you chance a look at the side of his face. He doesn't seem mad.

"I don't talk about you often," he says. "But that doesn't mean never… It's true that they didn't know what you look like."

"Until last week, when they saw us together and you pulled me into an alley so they couldn't see me."

"Yes."

Your lower lip trembles. "Do you see why that would upset me?" You're asking genuinely.

"Yeah, honey."

Your head jolts up. He's diverting his gaze from the road to you intermittently, offering up a regretful grimace. The oncoming headlights splash over his work worn face.

"Then why are you doing this? What's so wrong with me that you won't even admit we're together?"

"Nothing is wrong with you. I'm not ashamed of you," he says firmly, volume rising.

"Then why?"

His eyebrows pull together. "You're the best person I've ever met that isn't my son, and I selfishly don't want to share you yet. I also don't want to scare you off."

You pull your sleeves over your hands and turn in your seat, wiping your damp cheeks as he continues.

"My job is hard, and it's dangerous. It has jeopardised the safety and wellbeing of people I love before. So no, I'm not eager to introduce you to my world. The more intertwined with my life that you become, the more danger I put you in, and…" The car slows down again. He turns to look at you. "And I like that I'm the only one who knows you like this.

"I have been hiding you. I have. But it was a," — his tone turns wry — "misguided attempt at keeping you all to myself. Safe, and to myself."

You're finding it difficult to be mad with him.

He's finding it difficult to maintain his poker face. A fat tear rolls down your cheek and you're not sure what it's made of, fatigue or relief or plain hurt, whatever it is he doesn't like it. He pulls over.

You hold still as he pinches the tear off of your chin.

"How long have you felt like this?"

"Like what?" you ask wetly.

"Like this." He opens his hand against your cheek. It encompasses your face; you lean in, hungry for reassurance.

"I don't know."

"This is why you changed your hair. Your clothes. And started making my lunch."

You cover his hand with your own. "I actually really like making your lunches."

You stare at each other until suddenly you're laughing, sniffly, short of breath. Aaron joins in soon after. He always sounds so surprised to be laughing.

"I'm glad," he says when your laughter has abated, pinky and ring finger caressing down the slope of your cheek. "I really like having them. Rossi can't hide how jealous he is."

"They know about the lunches?"

His mindless petting pauses. "They know about the lunches. You're not a secret. I'm… selfish with the details. I'm selfish." Aaron takes back his hand. "I'm sorry."

You take as deep a breath as you can. "Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Mm. Can we go home?"

His eyebrows jump and swiftly smooth again. "Yeah, we can go home." He chucks your chin and gets the car moving again.

You watch him drive.

When you get home, he doesn't mind reassuring you some more. Actually, it's like he needs to do it. You'd love to say that it's overkill and that his low murmurings of praise are unnecessary, but you can't.

"You're lovely," he says seriously across two plates of pasta. Again through the mirror when you're brushing your teeth, and again when you've curled into his chest for the night. You're lovely. Nothing that needs hiding.

You hear him on the phone early in the morning, half asleep.

"Hey, Dave. Yeah. Okay. Uh… No, that's fine." He laughs under his breath. "Yeah, if she was awake I'd ask her to make you one. I think she would… Okay. See you in forty."

You bury your tired face into his pillows and beam.

—

Aaron's office is terrifyingly hectic. You can see already that the bullpen is full to bursting with agents, including but not limited to his special team of profilers. There's the distinct smell of coffee, sharp and burning, and then the underlay of printer ink, new paper.

You can't believe you're here.

You're not brave enough to introduce yourself to his team, and half aren't at their desks anyways. You hover in the doorway until somebody needs to get past you, taking a reluctant step inside.

You shouldn't wait for Aaron. You should be brave. You're a grown up, and you're bringing your grown up partner his very grown up lunch. You'd wanted desperately to do this. The least that you can do is do it by yourself.

You've scrapped most of the fall staples but kept the burgundy pants Aaron likes so much at his request. They feel insanely tight on your thighs, as does your collar. In fact, the room has definitely shrunk since you got here.

Like an idiot, Aaron says your name loud and clear, standing with a hand on the railings at the top of the instep. You hadn't even noticed him emerging from his office.

His voice demands — commands — attention. People turn in their seats, first toward him, and then toward you.

All eyes on me.

You don't run but you don't walk either, weaving through desk chairs and people looking a mix of busy and curious.

"You're being cruel," you say as you approach him, a brown paper bag held close to your abdomen.

"Hi, honey," he says. He wears a knowing smile, all dark and tall and handsome as he starts down the stairs to meet you.

"Don't punish me."

"Is that what you'd call this?" he asks, hand quick to clasp your shoulder, glueing you in place so he can kiss your forehead.

And yes, this is what you'd wanted. The doting boyfriend not just at home but at work, too.

That doesn't mean it isn't really, really embarrassing.

"Is everyone looking at me?" you murmur.

He slips his arm behind your shoulders to walk you up the stairs. "Yes." His voice drops lower. "At one place specifically, I imagine."

"What part is that, Agent?"

He laughs and opens his office door to beckon you inside. "Don't start."

༺༻

my first hotch fic omg. i did a big character study beforehand but i doubt it's entirely in character, hotch is a difficult character to write for! (and im only at season 4). but this was so fun and he's hot so it's worth it. if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging! i promise it makes a difference to me (and also i love seeing what people thought). thank you for reading!! ♥

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