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ssahotchhner · 1 year

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could you do a blurb about hotch rubbing your shoulders/back to try to calm and comfort you? or just anything hotch and physical contact? I love your writing 🫶🏻🫶🏻

thank you for sending this in!!! i hope this is what you were looking for

tw: panic attacks, anxiety

Part of the reason you had fallen in love with Aaron had been his gentle demeanor. You knew he could be authoritative, scary even, when he needed to be. But he was never like that with you.

The beginning of your relationship was difficult, before he knew you. It took him a while to learn your rhythms and signals. It took him longer to convince you that your anxiety wasn’t just something you had to live with, that you could get professional help and it didn’t make you weak.

But it wasn’t a cure, you both knew that. All the same, the stretches between your panic attacks lengthened. Before you met Aaron they were up to an average of once a week. After he convinced you to see a therapist and a psychiatrist had prescribed something for emergencies, it had gone down to once a month. Then once every other month. It plateaued somewhere around once every six months.

You knew exactly what triggered them, now, but sometimes it wasn’t enough to stop them in time. Though you had learned to handle them on your own, it was much easier to slow the storm with Aaron around until they became nothing more than a gentle wave against the shore.

He had been away on a case for two weeks now, promising you every night over the phone that he’d be home soon. You knew he wasn’t purposely misleading you, but with each day he wasn’t home you could feel your frustration building. It had been an incredibly stressful week at your own job and when you came home that Friday night, the first thing you did was uncork a bottle of wine that you had been saving for when Aaron came home.

Swirling the wine in your glass, you stared at that orange bottle that sat on the window sill above the sink, conscious of the pressure that seemed to be building in your chest. It doesn’t make you weak to take one, you could hear Aaron in your head, it just means you know your body and your brain and what it needs. Just like eating when you’re hungry.

You bite the inside of your cheek and reach for the bottle. You hold it there in your hand for a few moments, taking some deep breaths as you did so. Then, you opened a cupboard and placed the little bottle there, not wanting to look at it anymore.

Finishing off the glass of wine, you pour yourself another. There was a voice in the back of your head telling you that the alcohol was only going to make it worse, but you pushed that away. You were fine. You hadn’t had an attack in months, you couldn’t even pinpoint what had triggered it anymore. You didn’t need the pills, you didn’t need anything. Plenty of people open a bottle of wine to unwind after a bad week, and that was enough for them. So why was your heart still racing?

You bent your head, trying to stretch out the tension in your neck and shoulders. It wasn’t helping. You tried to pay attention to your breathing, slow it down,, but that only made you feel like you weren’t getting enough oxygen. Suddenly, you could hear your heartbeat in your ears, your chest rising and falling too fast. Seemingly from a distance, you hear the front door and then Aaron calling for you. The sound of his voice becoming increasingly more concerned at your lack of response.

Then, you hear his briefcase hit the couch and his footsteps get closer. “Hey,” He’s next to you now, that soft low voice in your ear, it cuts through all the noise, “Are you alright?” He only needs to look you over for a moment before he can see what’s happening. You want to say something, but you can’t get enough air in your lungs. “That’s okay,” He says when you don’t respond, “Have you taken your meds?”

You manage to shake your head, the hyperventilation is making you dizzy. You feel like you’re choking, like someone’s standing on your chest. You’ve been through this so many times, but you never get used to the feeling. The surety that this time you were dying.

“Honey, where are they?” He’s noticed the little orange bottle isn’t on the window sill like they usually are.

“Had wine,” You manage. His shoulders droop immediately and the disappointment there is evident. It makes you feel even worse. This isn’t the first time you’d turned to alcohol instead of your meds, knowing you can’t mix the two.

“Let’s sit down, then.” He says softly, leading you to the couch. He sits first, taking off his suit jacket and tie, before opening his arms to you, gesturing for you to sit between his legs.

When you lower yourself to the couch, his arms snake around your front, pulling you to rest your back against his chest. You close your eyes at the feeling of his body against yours. His breaths are slow and deep, the complete opposite of yours.

“Breathe with me.” He says, his breath tickling the shell of your ear.

“Can’t.” You manage, your breathing still rapid and shallow.

“Try.” He kisses your hair, “In…” He instructs, breathing in slow and deep, “Out…” He repeats this a few more times until your breathing seems to have slowed significantly. He can no longer feel your heart racing against your back. “Good.” He murmurs.

You can feel the panic leaving you, slowly. Sometimes, it feels like coming down from a high. You’re starting to feel shaky, “I’m sorry, Aaron.”

He pulls his hands back from your waist and begins moving them slowly up your back to your shoulders, “You weren’t this tense when I left you.” He says as he gently kneads your muscles, “What happened?”

You close your eyes against his touch. With the panic having left in a rush, the wine, and Aaron’s touch, your eyelids feel heavy all of a sudden. “Bad week at work. Too much work, not enough time. The usual.” He’s quiet, continuing to work his fingers into your shoulders. He’s being gentle and calm, but you can tell from his silence he’s disappointed in you. “I know I shouldn’t have had the wine, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” He runs his hands under your shirt, applying gentle pressure along your back, “Just relax.”

The shakiness has started to pass, “I missed you.” You turn in his arms, straddling his hips.

His face is filled with tenderness as he looks at you, gently stroking your face with one hand, “I missed you too.”

“I’m sorry.” You repeat. The insistent apologies are a habit of yours, especially when your anxiety is on high alert. Always worrying that you’re being too needy, too bossy, too sensitive.

“Baby,” He leans your foreheads together, “I’m not mad. It’s okay. I promise.”

He sinks lower into the couch and you lay yourself on top of him, cheek pressed to his chest. The sound of his heartbeat is a comfort in your ear. He slides a hand under your shirt again, running his calloused fingertips gently across your skin. “Bad case?” You ask.

“I’ve had worse.” He murmurs, “Just relieved to be here with you.”

You smile and push yourself up, connecting your lips to his. He kisses you back, his hand at the back of your neck. When he slips his tongue into your mouth, you moan softly and his hand tightens on your neck in response. He pulls away a moment, smiling softly, “Let’s go to bed.”

You nod, and he leads you up the stairs by the hand. Your panic has completely dissipated now, proving to be no match for the comfort of your sweet boyfriend.

#icymi <3

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