#autistic Hotch | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

masterwords · 1 year

Note

Would you write Morgan getting Hotch a teddy bear while he's in hospital. Maybe with the line-

"if you're gonna act like a baby I'll treat you like one"

But really Hotch hasn't been given a gift like that in a long time and loves it even though he would never admit it.

Um. So. This happened. I'm not sure where this prompt crossed wires in my head and became this whole huge thing but...here we have autistic Hotch in the hospital after Foyet, and just...it got out of hand. I also brought back an OC I wrote in a different story (Happy Place) because she's a really fun nurse. I hope this isn't too far from what you were going for.

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 4.1k

Warnings: Post-Foyet hospital (stab wounds/bandages), swearing...it's pretty soft and tame, he's mostly just grumpy

** Feel the Heal **

“How is your pain?”

The gown is rubbing his thighs. That's all he can think about. The way the gown rubs against the hair on his legs, the way the blanket is threadbare and wrinkles at his ankles. Pain is the last thing on his mind. He can't tell her that, though.

“It's okay,” he deadpans. She shakes her head and holds up the clipboard with the sad faces on it. He hates that thing. It doesn't make sense to him, they all just look sad and he really can't figure out which one is the sad that he is supposed to say. Which one conveys being sad while also being in pain while also feeling out of control and like you're one fraction of a moment away from total meltdown?

None of them look like that. And the worst part is that those faces are stressing him out because he would normally be able to figure this out but for some reason he just can't clear the swirling fog in his brain.

“Last hour you said you were here, have things changed?”

The blanket. The gown. The lights. He isn't thinking about the pain even though he feels it. “No.”

“Good.” She smiles and nods, initialing beside the little face for the second time and setting the clipboard down. After that its the poking and the prodding, she's adjusting wires and tubes, she's changing out bags of fluid and recording everything. She's untying the gown from behind his neck and pulling it down, letting it pool in his lap so she can peek behind his bandages. The tape pulls at his hairs and he feels his skin crawl, his fists tighten, his fingernails dig into his palms.

“We'll need to change those on the next round,” she says nonchalantly and he suppresses a shudder. In the corner Dave is reading a book, pretending not to watch, pretending to give him privacy. Emily will come next, in twenty two minutes he knows. Because routine has already been established. The nurses come in every hour, the doctors every two to three, and his team changes out every four. Shifts.

This routine makes him more anxious than not knowing, because he has no control over any aspect of it. No one asked him what he thought, they're all operating on righteousness. This is for his safety and well-being. The lights in the room are always on, there is always noise, and when Emily comes she turns on the television. When JJ comes she wants to talk. Dave is content to read a book, but every so often he wants to read some of it to Hotch just to make some attempt at filling the empty space. Penelope brings treats for the nurses and thinks she'll entice him to eat, but she doesn't understand how sick he feels and she gets that teary eyed look when he says no thank you.

Best behavior. He's on his best behavior even though that part is physically painful. But if he isn't, then they get upset and nervous, so he's focused hard on just getting through it without making things worse for them. He's had to answer questions in the hundreds about the attack, he's submitted to a rape kit because the parts of his memory that are nothing but a void come with scary bookends. Maybe this will change the way you profile...

He shivers and holds his breath while she leans in close and ties his gown up again. What happened to him has been turned into a spectacle and he can't be alone, they won't allow it, and it's all he wants. If he just had some time to himself he could refocus, settle himself. Make his head stop spinning.

“There is a new nurse filling in down here tonight. Her name is Norma, she'll round on you at 7. She's normally down in the ER but we're short-staffed.” She paused and put her hand on her hip, smiling at him. “She's a little rough around the edges. ER nurses, you know. They're different down there.”

He frowns, not sure how to take that, but he catalogs it anyway. Under normal circumstances he might have been able to pick out sarcasm or a joke hidden in there, but it all sounded simple and straight forward to his jumbled mind. So he just remembers it, and when Dave leaves and Emily comes in, he's still focused on the nurse change. Rough around the edges. Different. He's more than a little fixated on that, which is kind of nice because suddenly he's not thinking about the damn blanket or the gown or the fucking lights that make his head hurt.

“Hey,” Emily says, approaching the bed cautiously. She's already made him angry enough times to know she needs to tread lightly. Especially at night. He's been here two days and it feels like a lifetime. “How are things tonight?”

He doesn't look at her. “Fine.” He says it with a finality that makes her huff and shake her head. She's given up on trying to coax him out, he'll come around when he's ready. Or never. He knows she was in his apartment, looked through his things, and he's being really fussy about that because the part that really bothers him, that she saw the blood, that she knows...he can't even access that area of his mind yet. She can't relate to this kind of trauma, and she can't relate to how he processes things, so she just goes to her corner quietly and flips the television on. He doesn't make a sound but she knows it irritates him, he makes no attempt to hide it. He won't say anything about it though.

When Norma comes in, Emily is watching The Simpsons and Hotch is sleeping. It isn't a deep sleep, and it's been more than a little restless if the heart monitor is anything to go by, but he's still sleeping. “I haven't seen you before,” Emily says, jumping up to check out the new nurse. Remembering that she's not just here to babysit the patient, she's here to keep him safe and that means vetting each new person who enters his room.

“I'm Norma,” the woman says in her raspy sweet voice and flashes her badge. “I was the Charge Nurse on shift when he was brought in the other day.” Emily's eyes go wide, her lips parting only slightly in shock. Norma just smiles. “I'm glad he pulled through. It didn't look good for a while. We all thought...well, here I am babbling about something you don't want to hear about.”

“I'm glad too,” Emily repeats quietly, turning to look at him, remembering suddenly why he's in that bed. It's so easy to overlook when he's being insufferable, when he's snapping at you or frowning or refusing to acknowledge you entirely. It's easy because he wants you to forget. She knows that. And she lets him do it to her which just pisses her off to no end. Slowly she retreats to her corner and watches Norma work. There is something about the careful way she maneuvers, about the way she avoids getting in his space unlike the other nurses that gives Emily pause.

And when Hotch wakes up and begins watching her work, it gets more perplexing. “Are you comfortable?” she asks, instead of asking how his pain is. She doesn't even hold up the clipboard he hates. Hotch looks confused. “Can I do anything to make you more comfortable? Some patients complain that these gowns are too stiff, we have a bin of older ones that are more worn in down in the ER...they just don't look as sharp so they don't like to keep them up here.”

“It,” he starts, almost ashamed, like he's never spoken up about himself before. He can't seem to finish the sentence. Is he really about to sit here with multiple stab wounds after life-saving surgery and complain about a gown? He knows it sounds absurd and he'd love to be focused on literally anything else, but he also can't shake it. She just nods, like he'd said something she understands even though he said absolutely nothing. Emily is confused and suddenly isn't paying even a little attention to Bart Simpson.

“I get it. They're scratchy and over-starched. You look like a hairy beast, I bet that's miserable. I'll be right back honeypie. Don't you go anywhere.”

He stares after her as she leaves, his brows drawn together confused. Honeypie. Derek calls him honeypie, because they both like that song and Derek can't live without having a handful of pet names to throw around. He's never...it's making his heart beat a little too fast. She comes back to find he's still thinking about honeypie, which is good, because she really did think he was going to try and get up. He just has that look about him.

“Alright Agent, be a dear and turn around to give us a bit of privacy? I'm gonna change him into something a little more comfortable.”

Emily turns but she catches bits of wavy reflection in the window. Norma changes his bandages in silence, only a few words here and there when she decides to explain something or ask if he's comfortable. She never asks anything obtuse, she never asks him to assess his pain on the little face scale, she just asks if he's comfortable. Emily thinks there is some magic in that word she's not understanding, especially when Hotch answers her truthfully (if not a little too quietly) and says no, he's not. He's on the verge of tears. She never gets a chance to ask about the way she's assessing him though, not before Norma is called down to the ER with the code team and they're left alone in the room again.

Derek comes for his shift to find Emily nearly asleep in her corner. She's not supposed to doze but Hotch has been ignoring her again and there is only so much she can do to keep awake when he won't even talk to her.

“Have fun,” she snaps outside of the room, searching through her bag for her car keys. “He's really on one tonight. And he's got this new nurse...she's different. He seems to like her though.”

“Different how?” Derek asks, craning his neck so he can peek into the room. Hotch looks out of sorts. Emily just shrugs.

“I don't know. She'll be by in about fifteen minutes, you'll see.”

The minute he walks in, Hotch changes. And Derek knows its coming. It always comes. Because he has to control his every move around all of them, he has to mask even when it hurts him, but he doesn't have to do that with Derek. It's never been an expectation, and Derek is glad for it but it does get taxing. Exhausting. Sometimes it downright hurts.

Especially now in this setting. Hotch is so over-stimulated by the constant movement in and out of his room, in the hallway, the intercoms, the carts, the lights, the BAU security detail. He's miserable, Derek can see it in his eyes, and that barely registers over the chaos going on around him that's how bad it is. And there isn't anything Derek can seem to do but show up and hope it's getting better while knowing damn well it isn't. They haven't even had a moment to themselves to talk about what happened. To talk about any of it. Derek heard him profiling it with Emily and Dave, he's heard the statements to the police, but he doesn't want to hear all of that. He just wants Hotch to talk to him about how he feels.

It won't happen, not for a while yet. Not until the rest of this is gone. Which really only poses more problems in Derek's mind...where is he going to go? What sorts of lasting effects will this have? He suspects PTSD is going to play a large role in their lives, and then there's the fact that Foyet has been a sick man since he stabbed himself and it stands to reason Hotch will end up in the same boat. Nothing looks promising, but none of that is on the agenda to be talked about. Not now.

He kisses him. Right on top of the head, his sweaty messy hair. “Hey baby,” he whispers and Hotch hums. “How's it going?”

Hotch sighs and sucks in a deep breath. What comes out is a barrage of complaints that have been bottling up, building pressure, nearly exploding out of his chest. And they're just words, but Derek feels crushed by them. He's crushed for him. That this experience is already, at its root, the most awful thing he can imagine...and then on top of it he has no peace here.

“I got your carpet ripped up,” he says quietly, hoping it might bring him back, help him focus on something more important than the chaos in this room. It is temporary, he needs him to remember that he won't be here forever. “And the hole is patched. Things are looking good. I made it over there on my lunch break.”

“You didn't have to do that.”

“I know,” Derek says, offering a smile. “I wanted to.”

“That's the landlord's job.”

“Aaron,” Derek says, grabbing his hand, his thumb grazing the tape wrinkled and slick covering his skin where they'd placed an IV needle. “I wanted to do it because I don't want any other strangers in your home.”

“You don't have time for that.”

“Dammit Aaron. I just told you I did it on my lunch hour, I have the time. Let me do this one damn thing for you because otherwise I'm completely fucking helpless here...” It's a rare show of his own emotion and he regrets it instantly, the way it hangs over them. “I'm sorry. Just please let me help.”

Hotch hums and closes his eyes, sorting through everything Derek just said. It isn't that it doesn't make sense to him, he just really really hates it. This isn't Derek's problem. It isn't. And he confuses the way Derek loves him with the guilt he feels that Foyet left his credentials in the apartment, which only makes him feel worse and more indignant.

“This isn't your fault.” He knows he shouldn't have said it, but he said it anyway. It's still true. Derek huffs indignantly and turns his face toward the ceiling, counts to ten beneath his breath.

“I know that.” He pauses. Longer and longer he waits, his vision spotty and flared. “I know it isn't my fault. But I love you and I want to help. Can we just drop it?”

Norma comes in before Hotch can answer and approaches the bed cautiously with her clipboard and a pile of blankets in her arms. They don't look anything like the scratchy piece of fabric he's covered in now, and it draws his attention.

“I'm Norma...” she says, extending her hand to Derek. She's taking in the situation, the way Derek sits on the edge of the bed and has his hand on Hotch's leg, nothing like the woman earlier who sat in the corner and avoided all contact with him. “And you are?”

“Derek Morgan,” he says, shaking her hand briskly. Something flashes in her eyes, some vague recognition, and she looks a little stricken. “I'm...”

“I know who you are. I saw your FBI badge covered in his blood when they brought him in. Can we speak in the hallway?”

She's looking up at the heart monitor a little concerned and he realizes that the numbers do look high. A lot higher than they should. He's upsetting Hotch. Under normal circumstances he might not mind, but now he's probably going to kill him. So, without saying anything, he stands and leaves.

“I don't presume to know your relationship with him,” she begins, closing the door to Hotch's room. “But something you two are talking about is upsetting him and its my job to keep an eye on that. His heart cannot take this, not right now.”

“Yeah. I get it. He's just so...I was only trying to help...”

“Is he,” she starts quietly, stepping forward and speaking in a hushed voice. There isn't any shame in the way she talks, she just seems concerned with privacy. “Is he autistic?”

“I uh,” Derek mutters, disbelief painted over his features. It isn't that he's offended by the question or even bothered by it, it's just that people don't usually ask. They either assume or they don't, but they never ask. “Yes. He wasn't diagnosed too long ago, it's been kind of a challenge to get him to understand that he needs to speak up for himself. I mean he's never been good at that, but it seems like now he'd understand that it's more important...after what happened...”

“Yeah, and let me guess...he'll do it with you, but no one else? And you're feeling pretty drained right about now?”

He feels like shit admitting it, but he nods. She's a little too easy to open up to, and she pats him on the arm, squeezes his bicep with a little wink and laughs. “Look, hun. My big brother is autistic. I understand. Little sister isn't supposed to be the care taker, but I grew up in that role because he would talk to me when he wouldn't anyone else and I learned a thing or two. I'm gonna offer you a little unsolicited advice here, tiger.” She smiled at him, wide and bright and poked her head into the room just to make sure Hotch was still okay. His eyes were closed. “It's important to remember that sometimes people like him, people who have a public persona to maintain, spend so much time and energy masking that this incredible pressure builds up...and you're his comfort zone. He can be himself with you. So even if it's hard on you...and I know it is...it's important.”

The sentence runs around in his head, chasing its tail until he feels dizzy. “It's new to both of us.” He admits it quietly, reverently.

“But you've known him a long time, I can tell. He's not new.”

“No...he's not.”

She smiles sweetly and shakes her head. “Go get a coffee or some ice cream. I think they have some tomato bisque left in the caf. Let me have a few minutes with him. Maybe I can make him comfortable so you two can have a nice night.”

Derek nods and watches her walk into the room again, shutting the door behind her. He waits while she dims the lights...the first person who has done that...and approaches the bed with that arm full of blankets and a soft smile. He can see the way Hotch softens with her and feels comfortable enough to walk away, just for a bit. He knows damn well Foyet isn't coming back. And he suspects that if Foyet did decide to walk into this place, Norma would give him a run for his money.

So he walks. He shoves his hands into his pockets and walks and walks and walks. Finds himself in the cafeteria sitting at a table nursing a cup of steaming hot coffee and a headache. His fingers ache from tearing up carpet, scrubbing blood from the sub-floor, they smell like bleach where the skin is burnt and dry. His hands don't just ache, they hurt. His knuckles are stiff. There is drywall under his fingernails that hasn't come out the last four times he's washed his painfully dry hands. Used to having well moisturized and perfectly manicured hands, he's frustrated at this small yet enormous thing.

He loses track of time thinking about his hands and realizes how tired he is. Working through his lunch hour was important, but its catching up to him now. All he wants to do is get a little cup of cranberry juice and take it to Hotch as a peace offering. They can talk about the serious stuff later, he just wants to be close and the fact that he can't just sit in that room all day and all night is twisting his stomach in knots.

Foyet nearly denied him this life they've been working so hard to build and he's probably reacting to it worse than he should. He's angry, he wants Hotch to move in with him and Clooney, he had to say goodbye to Jack and to Haley and deal with Jessica shouting at him at the apartment while she cleaned up and gathered his things into a bag. She was going to bring them to the hospital but she hadn't gathered the nerve to walk in yet...he is pretty sure she'll show up in the morning with tears in her eyes and a bag of every single thing that makes him comfortable. She's good like that.

Even if she's mad as a hornet right now. She hasn't quite figured out what she's mad at and how to deal with it.

He pauses at the gift shop and sees an overly fuzzy teddy bear in the window. It's wearing scrubs, a teal top and scrunchy little hat, and on the top it says FEEL THE HEAL. He laughs and huffs quietly to himself, and try as he might to walk past it, to let it stay in that window, he goes in and buys the damn thing. It's softer even than he imagined, and he knows Hotch is going to hate it. He'll ask how much it cost, tell him to take it back or give it to someone else probably, he'll have a million reasons why buying him a teddy bear was ridiculous.

But it might also make him smile, and they both needed that win. He hadn't smiled in days. Not since before the case in Canada, the fucking pig farm that broke all of them so spectacularly. They both needed to FEEL THE HEAL.

Norma is at the door waiting when he walks up with his Styrofoam cup of cranberry juice from the fountain and the bear. She can't help but smile. “Feel better?”

“I do, thank you.”

“I think he does too. He's all cleaned up and gift wrapped for the night. Did say he was thirsty...”

“I figured,” he replied quietly, waving the cup. “Handled.”

“He sure does love you.” She doesn't say another word, just leaves him with that and walks down the hall toward the next room she has to round on. Derek feels a little sick for the way he'd behaved earlier and he grips the bear tighter when he walks in. He's almost strangling the damn fuzzy thing.

Everything feels calmer in there with the lights down, the television off, the curtains drawn. He closes the door behind him, doesn't let it latch but cuts them off from the outside and he's pleasantly surprised to find that the deep wrinkle between Hotch's brow is all but gone. Norma switched out his blankets while Derek was gone, he was now beneath a pile of heavy soft things she'd stolen from the Maternity floor, the uncomfortable one he'd hated now folded in the corner probably waiting for guests. Norma was the person who could get you things, Derek realized

“Here,” Derek says with a smile, tossing the bear right at him. “Figured if you were gonna act like a baby I might as well treat you like one.” He seats himself right on the edge of the bed again, nestling his hip against Hotch's thigh, and watches the way he reads the top on the bear curiously then smiles in spite of himself. And then the bear is tucked neatly against his side, comforting in its hilarity.

“Thank you,” he whispers, a little too serious. Derek can see the shine of tears in his eyes. No one has ever given him a gift in the hospital, let alone an overpriced gaudy teddy bear. It shouldn't, but it means the world to him. His head has cleared enough now to start really letting things settle into their places. “I'm sorry Derek.”

“Nah, don't worry about it. You didn't do anything wrong. We've got some things to work through but I'm not going anywhere even if you act like a shithead. You know that right?”

“I do.” There is a short pause, and then Hotch's hands are covering the little bear's ears. His lips have twitched up into an unmistakable smirk. He's about to be a shithead again. “Watch your language, please.”

“You're really pushin' it buddy.”

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #hotchgan #criminal minds #david rossi #emily prentiss #post-foyet #fanfiction #hotch #morgan #hotch x morgan #aaron hotchner x derek morgan #autistic hotch #autistic aaron hotchner

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lust444men · 2 months

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Do u see spencer reid as

1. Talkative towards u and shuts up during sex

2. Quiet towards u and babbles during sex

3. Talkative towards u always, including sex

4. Quiet towards u always, including sex

I saw u were wanting requests, and this isn’t necessarily one, but it’s been on my mind all day.

hi, thank you so much for this! I can talk about stuff like this for ages. I don't just do requests babe! I do thoughts and inquiries all day long. now, to Spencer.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

I personally think a mixture of 1 and 3. at first, it'll be one. all throughout the show he trying to tell the team fun lil facts, cool lil statistics, and they all shut him down!!!

"reid."

"im sorry." "for what?" "for asking."

like!! leave him alone!! so when it comes to you, the person who will always listen and care for his silly little babbles, he never shuts up!

always talking to you on the plane if u work w him, during coffee runs, late nights, everywhere! but, in the earlier times of your relationship, I feel like he'd be quiet during sex.

first you thought he was nervous, but you actually just quieted pretty boys' head!! no facts, no statistics, just a lot of soft huffs and quiet whimpers.

but, as time progresses in your relationship, he'd definitely get more vocal, with your encouragement!! praise, louder grunts, moans, groans, whines, pleas, you name it, he's expressing it. babbling about how good you feel, begging for you to keep going!

n if it's unserious sex with him (which it often is les be real), he'll attempt a lil bit of small talk, as if ur mouth isn't full of his dick rn. he just doesn't know what to do!! he doesn't wanna grab ur hair, that's too mean :((.

God, how I love yapper spence.

#christi's posts #anon₊˚⊹#‧₊🫧꒷꒦‧₊˚⋆lust444men #spencer reid smut #autistic spencer reid #spencer reid #yapper spencer reid #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid thot thoughts #aaron hotchner smut #derek morgan smut #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid x reader

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fictional-lvr · 10 months

Text

Autistic! BAU Reader HCs

Obv you and Spencer would be really close

The team doesn’t baby you, but they make sure to be aware of your support needs and upkeep them

Emily is the best person to go to when you’re non/semi-verbal

Em will say anything, and especially for someone else

Hotch is the best to go to when you’re overwhelmed or shutting down

Derek is the best to go to for meltdowns

Like when you’re overwhelmed and just need quiet and stillness you can go to Aaron and he’s so protective and he’s all “Alright, honey. There’s an empty confrence room over there, cmon.”

AND AND DEREK he would stop you from doing harmful stims and he would be so like firm but gentle like “Alright..alright sweetheart- nope don’t hit, no. Here, hot stuff, grab my hands..there you go hun you can squeeze my hands as hard as you need. Uh-uh don’t worry about being loud, I’ll explain it to everyone else later. There you go, sweets.”

Spencer is so great to go to when you’re understimulated, he’ll infodump to you and listen to your infodumps and stim with you and share his stim toys and and and he’s just so and i love him

Jj is so gentle and concious of your support needs :(( it’s like a sixth sense, she always knows when you need something and exactly what you need. She will engage in your interests and will watch and smile so big when you and Spencer just feed off of each other.

I think the team didn’t really know all that much about autism before you. From the moment you joined the BAU, you were very open about it. Spencer hadn’t explicitly told the team until you, and while everyone knew, they were all so glad he finally felt safe and seen enough to do so.

Hotch LOVES asking questions omg.

“L/N, is it possible for an autistic person to do the opposite of the usual diagnostic criteria? Like making too much eye contact?”

Will listen to your WHOLE schpeal about it before giving you a pat on the shoulder and going “Good work. I think we’ve learned a lot about this unsub from that.”

ugh they just they all love you so much and they appreciate you so much and

Penelope gets SO EXCITED when you choose her to infodump to, or even when you ask her for certain supports. She LOVES hearing about your interests and will get nearly as excited as you when you talk about them!

You and Penelope trade stim toys all the time, and she’ll surprise you with new ones like once a week

I love them

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N; i love them so much ouch it hurts im gonna die

anywayz

like and reblog! :3

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #x autistic reader #spencer reid x reader #aaron hotch x reader #derek morgan x reader #bau #bau x reader #spencer reid x autistic reader #autism

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casualstea · 7 months

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Oh you want me to piss loads of people off with an honest opinion?

Okay. Hotch is shown to have just as many, if not more autistic traits as Spencer Reid but the fandom ignores it because the traits he conveys aren’t ‘cutesy babifying’ parts that the fandom projects on to Reid.

(Also this happens consistently in the fandom, Prentis/JJ/Morgan/Hotch have so much character development/trauma etc but it’s brushed aside by certain parts of the fandom to focus on Reid for some odd reason)

#not to mention how Spencer being a genius and autistic is just #every autistic stereotype #hotch genujnly feels autistic sometimes #like more than Reid ever does #but Reid is a smol bean the teenage girls r obsessed with so #anyways #bring on the gate #criminal minds #aaron hotchner #Spencer Reid

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ssa-atlas-alvez · 2 months

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hey could I be 🦕, if it's not taken?

I also have a request lol, could u do a meltdown comfort fic? ( definitely not requesting this be I had a meltdown over not having the right pasta sauce for my comfort/safe food) like where a male reader has a bunch of little things built up and it spills over when there's no more of readers comfort/safe food and they end up lashing out and having a meltdown because of it

anyways have a good evening,thx!

Hiya, I'm really sorry thats taken 😔 (I need to make a list lmao) - assuming you're not the other 🦕 anon currently in my drafts 😅

I hope this is okay, I don't have autism or meltdowns, so feel free to let me know if I've gotten anything wrong. I don't think the reader in this has a meltdown, he was distressed and then stims to regulate his emotions. But yeah, feel free to let me know if I get anything wrong, I don't want to offend anyone or anything.

Warnings: reader is distressed, meltdown

"(Y/N)? What's wrong-"

"Can you just fuck off?!" Everyone falls silent as the words burst from your mouth. You immediately look down, mentally scolding yourself for yelling at Hotch like that. Hotch. Of all people. Who had been nothing but kind to you since you joined. Who always made sure you were okay. Who was also your boss. "I- I'm sorry-" Your voice is quiet and Hotch has to strain his ears to hear you.

Instead of yelling, like everyone assumed he would, his gaze softens as he looks at you. "How about we head up to my office for a few minutes, okay?" His voice is reassuring and is doing nothing for your guilt and the dread for what he would say when it was just the two of you.

You hadn't meant to snap at him, but everything had just built up and built up and it was your tipping point. You should have just gone home.

It had started this morning when it turns out you had run out of milk - meaning you couldn't have cereal and a cup of coffee for breakfast. Then, you couldn't find the socks you had planned on wearing, you missed the early bus because of how long you had tried to find the socks you wanted to wear, and that made you almost late for work. And then, when you opened the fridge, it turns out someone had eaten the last of your safe foods you kept stocked up in the fridge.

You knew no one on the team would have taken it, they knew you were particular about your food (that's how you had worded it when you first joined the team - they knew the reasoning behind it now, of course but its still how you described it). And they always tried their best to make sure that you had food in the fridge that you liked.

You follow him to his office silently, you don't miss the look he shoots the rest of the team - who quickly make themselves look busy. So you don't feel more on edge than you already do. Your heart twinges at this. You had just yelled at him and here he was, being incredibly sweet to you.

When you reach his office, he shuts the door gently behind him and motions to the couch, you sit. "You don't have to speak until you're ready, whatever you need to do to help regulate your emotions is okay."

You take a moment to process his words before you give a small nod. It takes a few seconds before you gently start to rock, humming gently to yourself. Hotch sits down on the couch, at the other end. He wanted you to know he was there if you needed him, but enough space to do what you needed to. He slowly picked up the book on the coffee table, flicking to the page he was currently on.

Eventually, when your stimming comes to an end, Hotch closes the book. He had been keeping a close eye on you, not really paying attention to the book. He had just wanted to make you comfortable.

"You weren't reading," You state quietly.

"I wasn't," Hotch says with a nod.

"Thank you," You reply. You knew what he was doing - he had done it a few times during similar situations.

"That's alright," He gives a small (rare) smile, "Did you want to talk about what's going on?"

"It's just been a bad day." You shrug, "No coffee, no breakfast, wrong socks, and now no safe food," You felt your cheeks tint pink ever so slightly in embarrassment.

Hotch just nods, "I understand. What snack in particular were you craving?"

"I wanted a chocolate muffin," You shrugged, running a hand over your face. All you could think about was how stupid this all was.

"Is that the Starbucks one?" When you nod, Hotch smiles slightly and rummages about in his desk. "I had a feeling that this might happen at some point. So I stocked up on your safe foods." He said, pulling out a muffin. "There you go. As for drinks, take whatever you fancy,"

You look up, eyes slightly wide at the unexpected kindness. "Thank you,"

"That's alright, and (Y/N)?"

"Yeah?"

"Anytime you're feeling overwhelmed, or if the day isn't going quite right, you're more than welcome to come sit up here, okay?"

"Okay."

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #criminal minds fanfiction #x male reader #reader #x reader #male reader #autistic reader #autistic male reader #hotch

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chem-echols · 10 months

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shoutout to disabled BAU team headcanons <3 love yall <33

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honeypiehotchner · 2 years

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Faking It (Hotch x Autistic!Fem!Reader) -- one shot

Just a self-indulgent, fluffy-goodness fic <3

Warnings: some sprinkles of angst, many mentions of masking as an autistic person, one bed trope, lots of fluff

WC: little over 7k

You’re good at pretending. It’s remarkable, really, the way you can be someone else. It’s a survival tactic, you think, or at least, it’s the best way you can describe it.

Instead of using the word “autism,” or “autistic,” both words that scare people away or invite them to take advantage of you, you fake it. You fake normalcy, neurotypical behaviors, anything. You blend in.

You blend in so well that not even a team of FBI profilers can tell you’re wearing a mask. The only one who can kind of tell is Dr. Reid, and that’s purely because his brain is the same as yours.

Everyone on the team suspects or has suspected at one time that Reid is on the spectrum, but they never suspect you. Because you’re a woman. And women can’t be autistic.

Or, at least, that’s what your mom always said to you.

Obviously, that came from her own place of ignorance and stigma, but it stuck with you. So much so that you never sought an official diagnosis. Tests online and your therapist of a few years agree wholeheartedly that you are autistic, but that means nothing. Those aren’t an official diagnosis that goes on your record for your boss to see.

You can’t imagine a world where everyone knows, least of all Aaron— or Hotch, as you’re supposed to call him. He is your boss, after all.

On top of being your boss, though, he’s…a prospective romantic partner? You have no idea what to label these things.

The facts are that the two of you separately get coffee at the same café, at the same time every Saturday morning. So, you see each other there, and start sitting and talking, too.

It’s been a few months of this, and truthfully, you don’t know what to make of it. Someone neurotypical would know, for sure, but you’re fighting a losing battle here. If he wasn’t your boss, this kind of social situation would be easier to dissect.

Multiple Saturdays of “running into” one another followed by talking for an hour or so would equal a date, or a date equivalent, especially after so many times. Right?

Maybe not, you think. He hasn’t bought your coffee once. You never text and plan to meet there, it’s always happenstance, therefore you never arrive or leave together. Aren’t these key factors for a romantic date?

You exhaust yourself, going in circles like this. This isn’t the first or second (or even third) time that you’ve tried to analyze your Saturdays with Hotch. You always come back to the same conclusion: he knows you’re new, he knows you have no friends in town, he happens to be there when you are, so he decides to engage in conversation. Perfectly normal, friendly conversation. Nothing to freak out over or giggle about like a schoolgirl.

Still, your heart forgets itself and beats rapidly when Aaron enters the coffee shop, as if this is anything new. As if he doesn’t do this every weekend.

“Hi,” Aaron says. “How are you?”

“Good,” you reply, smiling softly. “How are you?”

“Good,” he nods. He’s in a suit, minus the tie. A slight change for him. “I ran three miles this morning.”

“Three?” you echo.

“Yes,” he chuckles. “I was a bit slower than last time, but I’ll blame it on jet lag.”

You laugh like he does. “Sure, blame the jet.”

“Are you getting your usual?” he asks, switching subjects. He always asks this and you’re not sure why. Your order hasn’t changed once.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Black coffee for you?” His order doesn’t change either. It’s weirdly soothing to you.

“You know me so well,” he smiles. “I might branch out today.”

“How so?”

“Medium roast instead of dark.”

You hum. “Big changes.”

He’s still smiling, but he does look at you strangely. It’s different than you’ve ever seen before. You’re getting better at reading his expressions, finally, but this one is new.

When he steps up to order, he goes off script and orders your drink first. On his tab. He orders for you.

“Wait,” you step forward, nudging his arm. “What are you—”

“That’s all,” he says to the barista. She reads the total back and it’s enough for two coffees. He swipes his card before you can stop him. “Thanks.”

He steps aside to the pickup area, dragging you with him because he’s like a magnet. You’re always following him, even on cases, you gravitate toward him. It’s partially his fault. He always pairs you with him when he splits the team up. If he didn’t do that, you wouldn’t be so inclined to be by his side.

“Why did you do that?” you ask.

And apparently it sounded aggressive, because Aaron’s response is, “Oh. I should’ve asked. I didn’t mean to upset you, I just wanted to— as a nice gesture.”

Gesture for what? “Oh! No, I’m not upset. I just wasn’t expecting it.”

“I should’ve asked,” he says again. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, relaxing. “Thank you for buying. I’ll get yours next time.”

He doesn’t really reply, just gives you another weird look that you can’t place or name.

When the barista calls out your order, this time it’s under Aaron’s name. He grabs both cups and hands yours off to you with a smile.

You sit down at the same table as always, in the far right corner. The sun is warm today and if you were alone, you’d curl up into yourself. But you’re with Aaron, so you settle for crossing one leg over the other.

“What are you up to today?” he asks, like always.

“Just some chores around my apartment,” you reply, like always. Saturdays, if you’re home, are your day for chores. Laundry, vacuuming, cleaning out the fridge, planning your breakfasts and lunches for the week. “How about you?”

He always does something different. Today he says he’s going to pick up Jack. “He spent the night with Jess so I could get up early today and practice for the triathlon.”

“Right,” you remember. “That’s in two weeks, right?”

“Good memory,” he says, which means yes, it is.

“Are you ready?”

“I think so,” he says. “Are you planning to come?”

“I won’t be competing, but yeah,” you smile. “I might come.” It’ll depend on how you’re feeling. And it’s on a Saturday, so that’ll ruin your normal Saturday plans. You do have enough notice to prepare yourself, but sometimes that doesn’t matter at all.

“I’d like you to,” Aaron says.

You tilt your head. “To compete?”

“No, to watch,” he says, smiling back at you, unfazed by your confusion. “I’ll do better knowing you’re there cheering me on.”

“That’s—” you stop yourself from making a foolish comment about how that isn’t how those things work. He’s being nice. You should compliment that. “Thank you,” you say, but it doesn’t feel like the right answer. “I’ll try to make it.”

“It isn’t required,” he says, doing what sounds like backtracking. “No pressure.”

“No, I know,” you say. “I usually just do chores on Saturdays, but I’ll try to come, really.” Your explanation sounds almost as ridiculous as you feel. You could’ve just said you’d be there, without needing to go through all of this.

“I understand,” he says, and you think he might, but you know he doesn’t, not really.

+++

You see Hotch again later that afternoon because a new case comes in just an hour after you two parted ways outside the coffee shop.

“Long time no see,” he says to you when he walks into the conference room.

You smile and nod, belatedly understanding what he means and glad you restrained yourself from saying Not really, we just saw each other an hour ago.

Morgan, somehow, picks up on everything that isn’t said. “What were you two doing?”

“Drinking coffee,” you reply. “Why?”

Morgan makes a face of confusion (you think) and moves on, so you do, too. JJ enters with Penelope and Emily, very typical of them. They’ve tried to invite you out to do things on off days, but they always go against your routine. Meeting Hotch for coffee has been pure luck, that his schedule always perfectly lines up with yours.

Reid comes strolling in a moment later with a book, and Rossi is behind him in a bow tie that he’s already undoing.

“Sorry to ruin everyone’s weekend plans,” Hotch says, eyeing you in particular, which confuses you, because he knows your only plans were chores. “But we’ve been called to North Carolina.”

Garcia takes over, putting her back to the screen as she shows photos and information on the case. She clicks the remote over her shoulder, grimacing at certain details.

You’re quieter than usual, something Hotch picks up on. It’s nothing to worry about. You’re feeling slightly nonverbal, but you’ll force yourself out of it in a second, or on the jet when the team begins building a preliminary profile. Right now, though, you just need to soak in the facts, which you do best when you are left to quietly process.

On the jet, though, it’s harder than usual to get yourself to talk.

Your sentences come out clipped and flat, and you try to stay as quiet as possible without raising any suspicions. The last thing you want is to start spewing words without being able to stop. Reid does that a lot, but they find it endearing when it’s him. You don’t know what they’d think of you.

It’s hard to not cause suspicion, though, when Hotch keeps such a watchful eye on you.

He’s always done that, but for some reason it feels different today. The entirety of today has felt different.

Oh. Today has differed from its normal path.

Knowing what has you feeling the way you are doesn’t take the feeling away, but it does give clarity, and that you like. Even if it’s frustrating. Today hasn’t even been drastically different, yet you’re unable to speak and behave like a normal human being.

Hotch pairs you with him to set up shop at the local police precinct, so that, at least, is the same.

+++

In the precinct, Hotch has you setting up their conference room for the team. You grab the white board and begin writing down the different victims’ names and general information that you can remember off the top of your head. Photos of their faces are rolling out of the printer next to you, but otherwise, it’s quiet.

Slowly, you feel yourself coming back to your body. You pin the pictures up with little magnets.

By the time Hotch joins you in the room, you’re able to talk again. He’s glad to hear your voice and what you’ve concluded just from spending some time alone.

This isn’t the first time Hotch has done something like this. There’s a reason he always puts you with him — well, a few reasons.

One being he happens to like being in your presence. He likes being around you, therefore, when he can help it, he’d like you to be near him.

On the other hand, he does know that you need more time alone than others. It’s something he’s gathered about you just from working with you for these few months.

You have noticed he does this, but you don’t know that he does it for you, because he knows this is what you need, yet you won’t ask for it. He can’t always allow it or fit it into the schedule of things, but when he can, he makes sure of it.

+++

Divvying up hotel rooms later ends with you bunking with Hotch, somehow. You don’t exactly know how it ended up this way, but you don’t argue. You try never to argue.

It, at least, is a room with two beds.

Or it’s supposed to be.

“We might’ve gotten Dave’s room,” Aaron says, eyebrows furrowed upon entering. “Let me call him.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, exhausted from the day and quiet again. You listen to Aaron talk on the phone with Rossi, but something is wrong.

“Dave’s room also has one bed,” Aaron says after hanging up. “I can call the front desk and see if they have an extra room—”

“They’re booked,” you say.

The only reason you know is because you Googled the hotel on the way over, wanting to be at least a little familiar with it before walking in. And to get a sense of the rooms, what you could expect. In bright letters across their website, it said they’re booked. A conference and sports events in the city this weekend have their rooms filled to the brim.

Hotch doesn’t know how you know they’re booked up, and he gives you yet another weird look, except you know this one. It’s confusion.

“We can share a bed,” you blurt. “I don’t mind.” You’re too exhausted to mind. You’d fall asleep on the floor if you could. You might.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his finger hovering over his phone screen, ready to dial the hotel’s front desk.

“Yes,” you nod firmly, sealing the proclamation. “I’m sure.” You can feel your mask slipping little by little, your answers bordering on too blunt, too monotone.

“Okay,” Aaron says, conceding. He puts his phone away. “Would you… What do you normally do?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“Do you want to shower first?” he tries again, prompting you this time. “Or…?”

“Oh!” So that’s what he meant. “You can shower first.”

“Alright,” he says, smiling a little. “I’ll be quick.”

“No rush,” you shrug.

He takes his bag with him into the bathroom, shutting the door and clicking the lock. When the water turns on, you feel your shoulders relax. With him behind a separate door, you can take the mask off.

You can’t resist temptation, so you slide down to the floor, lying flat on your back. You bend your knees, hearing your hips and spine pop. You close your eyes, stretch your arms out by your sides, palms facing the carpet.

Your mother would scold you for this. Say something about the dirty floor. How ridiculous you look. How you should get up, stop acting that way. Put some inflection in your voice, stop acting like a robot.

But she isn’t here, and for just a moment, you’re alone.

Until you’re too far zoned out to realize Aaron has turned off the water and is stepping out of the bathroom.

“Are you okay?”

His voice startles you upright, eyes springing open to see him standing there in a white t-shirt and sleep shorts, his hair wet and still dripping onto his shoulders.

Like when he enters the coffee shop, your heart begins beating.

“Y-Yeah,” you say, nodding slowly. “I was just laying down.”

“The bed’s right there, you know,” he says, turning to set his bag down on the small bench, right next to yours. He looks back at you and he’s grinning. “You’re not sleeping on the floor, are you?”

“No! I mean— It is comfortable, but—”

“It’s bad for your back,” he says, eyebrows furrowed again. “At least let’s make a pallet with some blankets.”

“No, it’s okay,” you say, smiling, because he didn’t question you, just suggested a modification. It’s almost enough for you to take him up on his offer. “Thanks though.”

“Sure,” he chuckles. “Want some help up?” he asks, holding out his hand.

You take his hand and let him pull you up with ease. You barely do any of the work. And you forget to let go of his hand, until he lets go of yours, which happens just a few moments after it probably should’ve.

“What side of the bed do you want?” he asks.

It takes you a moment to answer because you’ve never exactly shared a bed with someone. You’ve always taken the couch, or the floor. But you keep to the right side in your bed at home, so that’s what you say.

“Perfect,” Aaron says, smiling. “I always take the left.”

“Cool,” you say, glad that worked out easily. “I’m gonna go shower.”

“Oh, yeah,” he steps aside so you can grab your bag and go into the bathroom.

You shower fairly quickly and go through your nightly routine of self-care and basic hygiene.

By the time you go back into the hotel room, Aaron is in bed, but sitting up with his laptop in his lap. He’s typing and looks preoccupied, so you don’t say anything. You just quietly put your things away and crawl into the bed next to him, underneath the covers.

You glance at his computer and see he’s answering emails, but then he closes the lid. You close your eyes, not wanting him to think you were watching him.

The bed dips as he settles down, and the room is covered in darkness as he shuts off the light. The sheets rustle as he tries to get comfortable, and his legs knock into yours.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you laugh.

“Did I wake you up?”

“I do not fall asleep that fast,” you say, your eyes searching for his face in the dark, but finding nothing. It’s surprisingly pitch black in here.

“Okay, good,” he says. He stretches and his legs hit yours again. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say again, giggling. “You’re too big for these beds.”

“Tell me about it,” he grumbles. “Most nights my feet are almost off the edge.”

“Damn,” you murmur. You always sleep curled in on yourself, so you never have that issue. “That’s what you get for being tall.”

The comment slips out before you can stop it, but thankfully, Aaron laughs. “Yeah, you’re right. This is what I get.”

You let out another soft laugh and curl your body, trying to sleep diagonally. It’s the most comfortable, but it’s harder with someone else in the bed.

“Are you cold?” he asks. He can tell you’ve curled into a ball.

“No,” you murmur, sheepish. “I just sleep like I am.” That makes no sense. You’re getting too tired to keep it up. You yawn.

“Sorry, I’ll shut up,” he whispers. “Good night.”

“Night,” you reply softly.

It doesn’t take long for Aaron to fall asleep, or at least, it takes a much shorter time than you. You’ve always struggled with insomnia before you even realized that it had a name. You like a controlled sleeping environment and hotels are the complete opposite.

The fire alarm on the ceiling has a bright red light that flashes every three seconds. The wi-fi router has a pale white light that is constant. The air conditioning unit cuts on and off periodically, though you wish it would stay on. These covers are scratchy, the pillow isn’t firm enough, and to top it all off, there’s someone in bed with you.

Strangely, Aaron being there doesn’t bother you as much as everything else. You know he’s a light sleeper, so you’re trying your best not to move, and that’s the most frustrating part. Normally you’d toss and turn. But you don’t want to wake him.

You tap your phone to see how much time has passed, grimacing when you see it’s already well past one in the morning. The team agreed to meet downstairs at 7:30.

Aaron rolls over and you freeze, holding your breath.

He sees the light from your phone and opens his groggy eyes, lifting his head. “Are you still awake?”

You turn your head toward him. “Yeah…”

“Can’t sleep?” His voice is deep, thick with dreams.

“Yeah,” you say again, unsure of if he’s actually awake and will remember any of this. “I have a hard time most nights.” More like every night. But every night sounds like too much of a problem.

“‘m sorry,” he says, cut off by a yawn. “Can I help?”

You wish you could say yes, but you don’t know of anything that can help it. You’ve tried everything. What works is just riding it out.

“Not really,” you murmur. “Thank you though.”

“Of course,” he says, softly. He stretches and his hand searches for you. “Why are you so far away?”

“What?” you laugh quietly. Maybe he isn’t fully awake.

“Come closer,” he says, lightly touching your shoulder. “Don’t want you to fall off.”

“I’m not going to fall off, Aaron,” you say, but you scoot a little closer anyway. “Is that better?”

He says nothing, but you hear rustling, like he nodded into his pillow. His fingers are still resting on your shoulder. He stretches his arm again and it cascades over your body, like a safety rail from the edge of the bed.

“Better now,” he says, already falling back asleep.

“Okay,” you concede, not knowing he was like this in his sleepiest hours. “Good night.”

He mumbles something into his pillow that you can’t decipher. You try to fall asleep again, this time with the weight of his arm over you, and it works. It works like a charm.

+++

By the time Aaron’s first alarm goes off at 6:30, there is barely an inch of space between the two of you. He remembers how sleep deprived he was, how easily he drifted off, and then, with some horror, how he wrapped his arm around you.

What must you think of him, your boss, sharing a bed with you because there were no other options, and instead of keeping his hands to himself, he resorted to pulling you into him in his sleep?

He goes to move now, but can’t, because you have curled into him so tightly, and are sleeping so soundly, that he doesn’t have it in him to disturb you.

He decides he can snooze his alarms for a bit longer. He’s never late, but if it means letting you sleep so the dark circles under your eyes can soften, then he’ll be late.

You wake with his 6:50 alarm, though, stirring gently and burying your face into his chest, thinking it is your pillow. It’s the smell that tips you off, because Aaron smells nothing like hotel detergent.

You open your eyes to his t-shirt, and then you close them again, thinking, this cannot be real, I cannot be cuddled up to my boss’ chest right now, please let me die.

Aaron shifts a little, but makes no move to get up. Instead, he says, “Are you awake? It’s almost seven.”

There’s no getting out of it now, so you lift your head, offering a sheepish smile, trying not to think about how close his face is to yours right now. “Sorry.”

“Me too,” he says.

“What are you sorry for?” you inch back from him. “I’m the one holding onto you like a koala.” But you don’t move because it’s cold in the room and he runs like a furnace.

“I’m the one who started it,” he counters.

Oh, so he does remember. “You were half-asleep.”

“I was still conscious,” he argues. “I apparently was worried about you hitting the floor.”

“It was funny,” you laugh. And cute, but you can’t say that.

“I’m glad it was entertaining,” he says. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, actually,” you murmur, smiling. “It was nice — your arm. I mean, your arm is nice, but I meant— I didn’t mind it being around me, to keep me from falling. It was nice.”

Aaron listens far more intently than he has to. “I’m glad,” he says. “I didn’t know if it was crossing a line, or—”

“I mean, kind of, but not in a bad way.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“I meant—” It’s too early. You’re not awake enough yet to be talking about this. You’re not masking at all, and it’s like your body isn’t even trying to. “We’re— You’re my boss, so I think us sharing a bed crosses some sort of line, right? On top of then cuddling, like right now, but it’s not bad. It doesn’t feel bad. What I’m trying to say is I don’t mind, I liked it. Even if it, you know, crosses a line.”

“Okay,” he nods. “I feel the same, you just took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Okay,” you echo, feeling like you’ve just run three miles. “Good. I’m glad we…settled that.”

“Me too,” he says, smiling gently. His alarm starts going off again. 7:00. “We should probably get up.”

“Yeah…” you laugh, already unfurling yourself.

+++

You and Hotch are the second to last ones downstairs, beating Morgan and Reid by only a couple of minutes. Apparently Reid kept getting distracted and it looks like he didn’t sleep much.

You’re normally in the same boat. When you aren’t rooming with Hotch.

The team grabs some coffee and breakfast muffins, splitting up into the SUVs to head to the precinct. You’re in the front seat next to Hotch, with Reid and JJ in the backseat.

“Y/N, would you mind coming with me to talk to some of the family? Reid bailed on me,” JJ says.

You turn around to look at them both, as Reid starts to argue. “I did not bail on you! I just told you I need to finish going through the suspect files this morning so we can narrow them down. Do you want to read a hundred files in two hours?”

JJ gives you a look and you laugh. “Sure, I’ll come with you.”

“Thanks,” she smiles.

You turn back around to the front and glance at Hotch who is already turning his head to look at you. He smiles softly and you do, too, able to understand, for once, what he’s saying. That it’s good you’re joining JJ in the field today.

You have to admit, it’ll feel weird being with her instead of Hotch. You’ve only ever been with JJ when you joined her and Emily on one of the very first cases you worked with the BAU. Before Hotch started picking you every time to be by his side.

+++

While on the way to speak to the families, JJ asks you how it was last night, rooming with Hotch.

“Emily and I can squeeze you into our room if you need,” JJ says.

“Why?” you ask, keeping your eyes on the road, even though you aren’t driving.

She shrugs. “We figured he’d be a nightmare to room with.”

“Why?” you ask again. “He’s not.”

“He’s not?” JJ says, raising her eyebrows. “That’s a shocker.”

“We just showered and went to sleep,” you shrug your shoulders. “Why would you think he’d be a nightmare?”

“You know how strict he is,” she explains, but that answer tells you nothing because you like strictness. You like structure, routine, everything having its place and time and neatly fitting into those spaces.

“Oh, right,” you say, trying to act like that made sense to you. “No, he wasn’t that way. We just did our own things.”

“Hm,” JJ nods. “That’s good, then.” She pauses. “So, you’re gonna be rooming with him from now on then, huh?”

“I don’t know,” you laugh. You wouldn’t mind it.

+++

Miraculously, the case is solved the next day, and the team heads home back to Quantico.

You and Hotch cuddled (if that’s what you’re calling it) again last night, and sat together on the jet for the ride home. Neither of you mention cuddling again, and you avoid another rambling mess about it, too.

But on the second day back in Quantico, you’re driving yourself insane.

With the Saturday coffee “dates,” it was easy to brush off. Happenstance. Nothing more.

Rooming together. Not your fault or his. The hotel was simply booked. Conferences and sports events are out of your control.

But cuddling? Two nights in a row? What is that supposed to mean, if anything? What are you supposed to make of it?

It’s the middle of the week, so you can’t exactly wait for a Saturday coffee to analyze his behavior then. Instead, you go over how he’s acted since you’ve been back, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. He’s been painfully the same as always.

So, while the rest of the team goes out to lunch, you march up to Hotch’s office and knock on the door.

“Come in,” he calls from inside, not looking up from the papers on his desk. But when the door flies open and he can tell it’s you from your perfume, he stops what he is doing. “Hey, what can I help you with?”

“What are we doing?” you blurt.

He furrows his eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”

You shut his door, and then you continue, words spilling from your lips wildly. “We always get coffee on Saturdays — you bought my coffee last time — then we room together and we cuddle twice, and neither of us minded it, but we didn’t really talk about it anymore, so. What are we doing?”

He caps his pen. “We— Why don’t you sit?”

“No, I need to stand.”

“Okay,” he says, moving past it. “I bought your coffee as a nice gesture—”

“You said that.”

“Because I like you.”

Oh. “Wait.” Oh. “Like…as in…?”

He smiles, not mocking you. “As in, I like you, which is why I go to that café every Saturday, and why I put my arm around you — in my sleep, nonetheless…”

“Wait. I thought you went to that café anyway?” you sit down now, in the chair across from him, feeling your muscles relax.

“I went one Saturday, and that’s when I ran into you,” he says. “I went back the next Saturday hoping you’d be there, and you were, so then I just…kept going.”

“So you were coming for me?” He was coming every Saturday for you. That’s it. He was fitting himself into your routine without question. For you.

“Exactly,” he says. “Took me long enough to buy you a coffee, though. I kept chickening out. It’s been a while since I’ve,” he pauses, waving his hand, “dated anyone.”

Your eyes go wide. “Have we been dating this whole time?”

“No, no,” he laughs. “I’ve wanted to ask, but like I said I’m just…out of practice.”

“And I’m clueless,” you mutter. This whole time you’ve been convincing yourself that it wasn’t this. That there was no way. That if it was true, he would’ve said something, been blunt like you, blurted it out already.

“You’re not clueless,” Aaron says softly, meaning it.

“No, I am, I’m—” you stop yourself from saying it, but it wants to come out, it’s fighting for an escape. You can’t keep this from him if he likes you. That’s not fair to him, to not know the full truth about you. He’ll keep it a secret, you think. He’ll probably say you aren’t autistic, ask you why you think that you are, or something else. At the very least, he’ll retract his romantic confession.

You don’t want him to do that. But your burning need to tell the truth wins in the end, and you blurt it out.

“I’m autistic.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, silence surrounding them. You prepare yourself for what is to inevitably come next. The disbelief. The “But you’re so…normal.” The “I never would’ve known!” The “Really?” The “Are you sure you know what that means?” The “I’ve met autistic people; you’re not autistic.”

But that’s not what you get.

“I know,” Aaron says.

“What?” This is almost even more horrifying.

“I pieced a few things together,” he says, but he’s smiling. “You really think a profiler wouldn’t be able to tell?”

You sit back in the chair. “I thought I was doing a good job at hiding it.”

“You are,” he says. “That was the first sign.”

You scoff, feeling irritated, maybe, you aren’t sure why. If he knew, why didn’t he say anything? Is it better that he didn’t?

“I don’t understand it because I don’t experience it, so I can’t tell you what to do, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide.”

“I know I don’t have to, it’s just easier. Especially here, at work, and in the field.”

“Okay,” he says, not pushing the matter. “But… I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide...around me.”

You understand the sentiment, but it isn’t that easy. “It’s not something I can just switch off. I’ve trained myself to be like this.”

“That’s okay, I just wanted to throw it out there,” he says. “Just so you know. You don’t have to pretend around me.”

“Okay,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

He fiddles with the pen in his hand for a moment. “Can I say something else?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“I didn’t want to come on too strong, too soon, so that’s why I’ve waited, but I had planned to ask you, officially, on Saturday.”

You grimace. “I’m sorry. I totally ruined it.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” he says. “Since we’re talking about it, um, would you like to get coffee on Saturday — as a date?”

“As a date?” you echo. “Same place?”

“Same place, same time, same table,” he lists.

“And you’ll buy my coffee?”

“If you’ll let me, yes.”

“I will,” you nod. “And I won’t freak out about it.”

He laughs. “Alright.”

“So it’s a date.”

“It is a date,” he says, clarifying once more. His eyes barely glance to the side, out into the bullpen, where the team has returned with food, and are looking for you. “They’re back.”

You stand up and he does, too, gesturing for you to go ahead.

When you step out of Hotch’s office, all of the teams’ eyes are on you. You try to ignore this fact as you bounce down the stairs, asking what they brought back for lunch. They do this often, bringing you something back even after you tell them not to.

“Chinese,” Morgan says, handing you a carton of fried rice. “What were you two talking about?”

“I just had a question about the last case,” you shrug, looking for chopsticks, which JJ hands to you. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” Morgan shrugs, leaving it alone.

Everyone eats at their desks and Rossi takes some food up to Hotch who still works diligently at his desk. You don’t know that you’ve ever seen Hotch take a break from work to eat. He always does the two simultaneously.

If they said anything worth hearing, Reid would say so, but this time he has his head buried in a book. Odd, because just a second ago he was watching Rossi and Hotch talk.

+++

When Saturday rolls around, you try not to overthink things, like your outfit. You do find yourself putting more effort than usual into it, but you refuse to admit that to yourself.

Aaron is already standing in line when you walk inside, though he hasn’t ordered yet, thankfully. Because you like hearing him recite your order, that he knows it well enough to call it your “usual” with no other specific details.

He does just that and pays, this time without any protests from you. You stand a little closer to him than you probably would have before, but neither of you mention it.

You sit at the same table as always, and you talk about anything and everything, like always.

In your mind, there was a clear picture of how dating should go. Friends first, then dates, then a relationship. But the switch from friends to dating should feel completely different. In your mind.

In reality, it isn’t that different at all. The differences are subtle. They’re natural.

Like when you laugh at something Aaron said, and your hand reaches across the table toward him and stays there. And a moment later, he covers your hand with his, gently cupping his fingers underneath your palm, a delicate touch. This would not have happened before. But you love that it is happening now.

Or when Aaron walks you to your car, because he does that now, because you have chores to get to and he has to pick Jack up from a sleepover. And he holds your hand as he walks you, he makes sure to open your door, and he kisses you on your cheek goodbye.

The changes are small, but things that you’ve wanted without fully realizing. They’re here and they feel right.

+++

The first time Aaron kisses you — really kisses you on the mouth, it’s after you’ve had dinner at your place, and you’ve had a very…inopportune conversation about kissing.

“It’s just— It’s weird.”

Aaron laughs loudly. He’s not mocking you, you know this, but you still feel stupid and ridiculous and like your boyfriend isn’t taking you seriously.

You’re putting up dishes because you needed something to do with your hands the second this conversation started. “Like just thinking about it. Just think about it. Mouths on mouths and spit and— It’s weird. Don’t even get me started on French kissing.”

More laughter, but you’re not laughing. If you were masking, you would be laughing with him. But it’s been easier to let the mask fall down when you’re around him, and once it’s gone, it’s really hard putting it back up.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, leaning against the counter next to you, gazing over at you. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh, I think it’s just the way you’re describing it. It makes sense why it would feel weird when you think of it in that way.”

“But I know it’s not weird,” you grumble, putting away a mug. “I know it’s a thing people do.”

“It is a thing people do, but it doesn’t have to be a thing we do.”

You deflate. “Don’t you want to?”

“Of course,” he says gently, “but I’m not going to force it on you.”

“You wouldn’t be, though. I want to.”

“You don’t need to say that just because I said I want to.”

“No, no, I’m not, I really want to— that’s what frustrates me about it. I want to, I want to kiss you, I just want my brain to stop getting in the way and thinking it’s weird just because it’s new and something I haven’t done in a while, let alone with you, with someone new, someone I really like, and I—”

Aaron does what might’ve been the best possible scenario for you. And that is to kiss you to get you to stop talking.

It’s brief, mainly a peck, just enough to get you to calm down, or at least get off that train of thought. And it works.

“That okay?” he asks quietly. He’s so close now. He crossed the space between you in mere seconds, you didn’t even notice, and then he’s here, kissing you, and asking if it’s okay. As if it could be anything but.

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling because it didn’t feel weird, it felt amazing. “More?”

He smiles too, and leans down to kiss you more. More and more and more, his hand cradling your cheek, thumb brushing against your skin lightly. He doesn’t try to add tongue, but he doesn’t need to. His lips alone leave you breathless, coupled with the way his other hand has traveled to your waist.

There, against the kitchen counter, he kisses you more. Down your jawline and across your neck. Your heart beats the way she always does when Aaron is around. Her own specific rhythm, just for his presence.

Like teenagers, the two of you make out against your kitchen counter for what feels like ages, but it’s only one hour. It’s not nearly long enough.

So, you move to the couch where you can sit. Because standing is hard when he makes your knees weak. And you want to lay down, you want to feel as at ease as possible, so the only sensations you can focus on, the only sensory input you feel, is Aaron.

+++

The team doesn’t know about your relationship with Aaron, and the two of you have decided not to tell them. They’ll find out whenever they come to the conclusion themselves. When that will be is up to them.

You thought they’d notice something unnoticeable to you, like a change in how you look at Aaron, or how he looks at you. Or how either of you speak to the other. Something only non-autistic people can identify.

But they never say anything.

Two weeks pass and the triathlon is here. The whole team is there to cheer Aaron on, and Jack sits on Rossi’s shoulders.

You spent the night at Aaron’s place, helped him get ready this morning, drove over here with him. When Rossi arrived and saw Aaron kissing your cheek while Jack hugged his leg, Dave knew his suspicions had been correct.

For the rest of the team, namely the girls who are incredibly hungover, they have no idea.

It isn’t until Aaron crosses the finish line and runs to meet you that they know.

Jack hugs his dad’s legs, makes a comment about him being sweaty and then latches onto your legs instead. All while Aaron wraps his arm around your shoulders, and presses a kiss to your temple.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, looking up at him. “You looked good. Did you see Jack’s sign?”

“I did,” Aaron nods, reaching down to ruffle his son’s hair. “It was a nice surprise, thank you buddy.”

“He worked on it all morning with Dave,” you confess, and Jack starts telling his dad all the secrets, that Dave brought the markers and poster.

The team stands back a little, whispering to each other and sharing knowing looks. Of all the things they had guessed, they really didn’t think it was this, that they’d see you and Hotch like this.

But they’re happy, because he looks happier than he’s been in years. And you look different, too, more yourself, for a reason they can’t quite place, but that they’ll know soon enough, when you have the courage to let the mask fall away.

#aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x autistic!fem!reader #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #hotch x fem!reader #hotch x reader #hotch x you #hotch x autistic!fem!reader #aaron hotchner x you #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fluff #criminal minds fluff

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softhairedhotch · 7 months

Note

i think hotch is autistic and loves jigsaw puzzles

anon you're so right and you should speak your truth ‼️

he is autistic and finds jigsaw puzzles soothing to do. it takes his mind off things and he loved doing them with jack when he was younger!! it's just a nice way to pass the time and make it easier to think about the better parts of life.

after a paticularly bad case and an annoying bout of restlessness, he finds himself in the living room at 3am with only a lamp on and some classical music (or the beatles) as he does a big puzzle. really just zones him out and gives him some peace, yknow?

i feel like he'd occasionally buy custom jigsaws too, like one of a specific picture or maybe even one of jack lol. omg wouldn't it be cute if gideon got him a bird themed jigsaw? anyways yeah he likes lil puzzles hehe

also this just reminded me once when i was a kid, i got really obsessed with puzzles so my dad bought me a few. one day he left me alone to go to the shop just down the road (like 8 mins away) when i was like,, idk,,, 6,, and gave me a puzzle to do to distract me. it was a big puzzle and i had that shit finished by the time he came back 😭😭 couldn't do that now tho, wouldn't have the focus LMAO i'd get bored after one piece

#thank you anon #autistic aaron hotchner #casks #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #autistic hotch

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eldrai · 2 months

Text

Lots of times I do wish I was better at verbalising my thoughts because I've gone over Hotch & Haley's conversation(s) in Route 66 and though I don't have too much actual 'evidence' for it*, the whole thing to me just feels like it fits with the headcanon of him being autistic and I don't have any better explanation than The Vibes. I need to figure out what it is, but trust me when I say this scene is one of the ones I got to and went: oh yeah, he totally is

*obviously the main point is to have fun, but I personally like having evidence and stuff!! that's why being unable to articulate it is frustrating lol

#autistic hotch #my best guess without going back right this instant is it's very direct and very open #at least the parts without foyet

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masterwords · 1 year

Text

standing still

Summary: Hotch & Reid travel to Connecticut for a custodial interview with Chester Hardwick before he's put to death. Their trip does not go smoothly. (ASD!Hotch & ASD!Reid, plus some Hotchgan.) (Coda to 3x14 - Damaged)

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan (but Derek is barely in the story)

Warnings: vomit, meltdown, food, depression, anxiety, divorce, canon-typical mention of crime/murder

Words: 6k

Notes: Ah, well, an idea on a whim yesterday produced 6k words overnight. Where did it come from? I don't know. But it's here. And it puts me over 50k words posted for the month of January which is pretty fucking cool.

The hotel is haunted.

Supposedly.

Hotch has heard the stories enough times, he's stayed there plenty over the years. Back when custodial interviews were more common and the jet wasn't an option, and he was the new guy on the block drawing the short straw. Never experienced a ghost that he's aware of, but if he has, they're very hospitable. He likes this hotel. The beds are comfortable, the continental breakfast is simple and predictable, the water pressure in the showers is strong. Not blast your skin clean off of your body strong but pounding those knots out of your muscles strong.

So, if it's haunted, he really doesn't care. But Reid has been doing some digging and he's excited to talk to locals about it. He doesn't believe in ghosts, per se, but he loves to collect stories. So, the hotel is haunted, and people say the prison is too. One of the cell blocks, anyway. He wants to ask the Warden about it in the morning. Connecticut is rife with stories of hauntings that go all the way back to the Headless Horseman.

“Have you heard about the prison? They say it's haunted by a former inmate who was killed by a group of guards. I guess the guards got to a point where they wouldn't go on that cell block, so they turned it into a storage facility. Funny, too, that a prison that still conducts executions is so focused on one death. You would think the whole place would be crawling with the souls of the dead prisoners.”

“I've heard,” Hotch replies quietly, staring at the road. He's lost in his mind. “But I haven't paid it much attention.”

“Well, I don't believe in ghosts but it's fascinating the way these stories take hold. The grip that they have on people, even rational people who say they don't believe, is powerful. People say they've seen file cabinets levitating and they hear moaning and screaming from that end of the prison at the full moon."

“A few minutes of fame can make someone say just about anything. We've seen it plenty of times during cases.”

He's not able to focus on the conversation for long. It comes in bits and pieces, scattered moments between the phone buzzing angrily at his thigh. It's Haley calling. Every fifteen minutes she calls, lets it ring and ring, then leaves a voicemail. That's 20 angry voicemails, give or take, by the time they get there if she keeps up at her current pace. 20 tirades that he has to listen to even though his gut tells him not to. Just delete them, he knows exactly what she wants.

She wants him to sign the papers. He's got them in his go bag. The plan is to read them again, really read them this time, but he doesn't want to and he's definitely putting it off. Derek already read them once. He went through them with a fine-tooth comb, because he's not emotionally involved...not like that anyway. He gave them his seal of approval. “It's all legit, man. She just wants to dissolve the marriage, let you guys manage the rest on your own. It's a good deal. You already gave her everything anyway...”

He's going to be sick if he doesn't eat something. It's a sudden realization, he's been ignoring that pang in his stomach so long that it's practically an emergency now. Up ahead is a roadside diner with a sign that's half lit up in bright yellow bulbs (the other half are in dire need of replacement but by the looks of it they have no real plans to do so). Hotch knows it's a gamble with Reid but it's one he's willing to take. The alternative is worse. Much worse.

“Let's get an early dinner here.” It's barely past lunch time, but he doesn't plan to eat again so that's just how it comes out. Aware that he sounds elderly, an old man after his early bird special, he smiles and tries to play it off casually but his stomach hurts so bad it's hard to hide. “They don't look busy, it'll be fast.”

“Diners aren't known for their cleanliness.”

“It's the only place around for miles. I'm sure we'll be okay.”

Inside, it's exactly what Hotch expects. Emerald green vinyl booths with silver plated tables, the look of every ice cream soda shop from the 1950s. Well, the idyllic version of that decade that mainstream media wants you to feel nostalgic for, anyway. There are framed movie posters on the wall with Ronald Reagan's face on some, Betty Boop on others. Reid looks around and frowns. He's not confident in this place but he walks inside anyway, stepping carefully around the bubble gum and sticker machines in the small entry. One quarter for a hard gumball that tastes like fruity plastic and threatens to chip your tooth until you can manage your way through the exterior. A dentist's worst nightmare. And they're not individually wrapped, just sitting there in the clear glass calling out to children who don't know any better. He shudders at the thought.

At the hostess station, he peers at the framed health department notices hung cockeyed on the wall in cheap frames, studying the dates of their last checks and whether they passed inspection. He eyeballs the kitchen, the greasy flat top, the cooks sweating and swearing and laughing over them. They both look relatively clean, but one has a beard and he's not wearing anything to cover it. It's not exactly a nightmare scenario, it's actually better than he'd anticipated, but he still would rather not eat here. He's got plenty of pre-packaged safe foods in his go bag.

The restaurant isn't busy, though it looks like they've just missed a rush by all of the full dish bins. They're between meal hours. That's a blessing, it affords them time and quiet, both things that Reid can tell Hotch needs. He's usually pretty reserved but today he's a whole new level of difficult.

Hotch slides into his side of the booth immediately, like he needs to sit down before he collapses. The cracked vinyl groans under his weight and he tries to find a spot that's comfortable. Reid reaches into his pocket and pulls out a packet of Lysol wipes, first getting his side of the table and then his side of the booth. Hotch pays no attention; he's already looking at the menu. Reid always wipes everything down first and it normally doesn't bother Hotch, he finds it endearing if not a little pointless considering the surroundings, but today everything that everyone is doing makes him feel itchy and like he's going to vibrate right out of his skin.

His stomach is bothering him. It's the stress. He can't stop thinking about the voicemails, wondering if he should go outside and listen to them. He could grab some Tums from his go bag while he's out there, kill two birds with one stone but he doesn't want to get back up. He's exhausted by the mere thought of it. Besides, the stomachache will turn into a headache in no time anyway and the Tums will be just as pointless as Reid's Lysol wipes.

“What are you going to order?” Reid asks absentmindedly, looking over the freshly cleaned menu. He's thinking about the cook and his beard, trying to figure out what he can order that's going to require the least amount of human interaction with his food. A piece of pie might be it; he saw them in the case already sliced and covered in plastic. He likes individual pre-packaged servings. It's doubtful they were baked here, he figures they're factory made and packaged by machines, the human part of it being minimal. He could probably get away with not thinking about who sliced it.

But then a slice of pie isn't dinner, and he is hungry.

“I don't know,” Hotch replies quietly, not at all hungry. But he's the one who decided to pull over so he's going to have to order something. He'd just wanted to stop driving, to catch his breath for a minute. Now he's got to come up with some food item that won't upset his stomach further, something that won't kill him when it comes back up later. He's already anticipating a rough night. “Maybe soup and some toast.”

“Did you know that in many restaurants, the soup of the day is made using whatever leftover ingredients are on the verge of needing to be thrown out as a way to curb waste? I saw that the soup of the day here was the tomato basil with garlic toast points, so...”

Hotch frowns behind his menu without looking up. “I suppose I'm doing my part to stop unnecessary waste, then. Tomato soup sounds nice.”

It isn't the response Spencer was hoping for, but he shrugs and turns back to his own menu. Pie. He's going to have pie and he'll snack on the food he brought later. He hails a waitress, not theirs, and asks which pies are made in house. She answers with pride that they make most of them in house, their baker comes in at 3am every day and even makes the crust herself. There are only two they have shipped because the ingredients are hard to keep on hand. When their waitress comes by, he orders one of the two kinds they don't make here. “Pecan, please.”

Hotch orders the tomato soup without a second thought. It comes in a large white bowl set on a little plate with saltine crackers, and the deep velvety velvety crimson of the tomato is a stark contrast to the bowl's brightness. In the center is a dash what looks like basil or parsley and a swirl of heavy cream on top.

“I read that they blend up old vegetables from the salads for tomato soup,” Reid mutters, wiping his fork on his pant leg. There are dishwasher spots on it. “It helps bulk it up, especially when the cost of tomatoes is so high. That soup is probably mostly lettuce and carrots.”

“Reid,” Hotch says quietly, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. There it is, the headache. “Less commentary about the food I'm about to eat would be appreciated.”

Reid smiles awkwardly, twirling his fork in his hands. “Sorry. Force of habit. I find the restaurant business simultaneously fascinating and horrifying.”

Hotch doesn't acknowledge Reid's statement; he just picks up his spoon and swirls it in the soup. Clockwise. He turns it in one big circle around the edge, dragging the spoon along the bowl, and then swoops inward to fold the cream into the red. The soup turns a vibrant peachy-orange and he smiles, the color looks serene and peaceful. He thinks about lettuce when he takes his first bite, but thankfully isn't able to taste it. After three bites he doesn't think about lettuce anymore. He thinks about being a child, about weekend lunches of canned condensed tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Every Saturday. Predictable. Comforting.

“Hotch,” Reid interrupts, and when he looks up, he's looking at crime scenes. Spread out in front of them, all over the table, his plate of pie lost somewhere in the middle of the gore...he didn't even realize Reid brought the files inside. It isn't that much of a stretch; the team often does this. They talk loudly about horrific things around the general public because what choice do they have? None of them even flinch at the sight of these things anymore. But not here. Not now. There are children eating with their parents two booths away. Hotch frowns. “Is this everything? I thought there were more. Chester Hardwick killed -”

“Please put those away.” Hotch doesn't care what Reid is about to say, he just interrupts him. His skin goes electric.

“We need to...”

“Not here.” He's about to lose it, he really is. Reid gives him a strange look, almost defiant and definitely confused, but he starts sliding the photos back into their folders just before their waitress brings Hotch his plate of whole wheat toast. He didn't want the garlic toast; his special order took an extra minute and now she was paying dearly for it. Involuntarily, she makes a displeased sound, a surprised little gasp, and he glances up at her with apology written all over in his honey eyes.

“I'm sorry,” Hotch says. “Sometimes we forget where we are when we're working.”

“What um...what is it you fellas do exactly?” she asks, refilling Hotch's coffee with trembling hands. He's on his third cup, his hands are trembling a little too. The coffee isn't making his stomach feel any better but it'll help him finish the drive.

“We're with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI,” Reid chimes in, closing the last of the folders. “We um, we catch serial killers. Today we're on our way to interview one before his scheduled execution.”

She stares, wide-eyed, and Hotch sighs. Under normal circumstances he would just let Reid do what he does. He's not doing anything wrong, and he knows without a doubt that all of the problems he's having are his entirely. He's overstimulated and extra prickly today. “Thank you for the coffee.” He doesn't mean it to sound as dismissive as it does and he's acutely aware as she turns and leaves the table that he's been rude. “Reid, she didn't need all of that information. A simple answer would have sufficed.”

“Sorry,” Reid chirps, digging at his pie. He picks the pecans off of the top first. “Force of habit.”

“So you've said.”

This is their first trip together, one on one. Sure, they've been all over the country as a group, but it's never just been the two of them and Hotch is certain now that he's not in the right frame of mind to handle it. He likes Reid, he enjoys him and his info-dumps. He always learns something new when he's with Reid. Besides, it's startlingly nice to be around another person who doesn't think the same as everyone else, who filters the world through a different operating system. Those were Garcia's words when she, very bluntly, asked if he was autistic. Reid always assumed it, but Garcia had no qualms about simply asking.

She had asked after running into him in the break room and watching him go through his very regimented steps to make his cup of coffee. Not that he did anything out of the ordinary, she explained, just that he didn't get his coffee from coffee stands like everyone else. He always insisted on making his own and he always did the same thing. Dump the filter, clean the pot, make one single cup using his own bag of grounds and a bottle of water brought from home because he didn't like what the filtration system in the building did to the flavor of his coffee. He kept his grounds in a small paper bag in the back of the freezer with his name on them, and his water bottle was labeled as well. All the years she'd known him, it was the same thing, and they disappeared at a very regimented pace. She claimed it was obvious. He knew there was more to it than that, she was just being nice and overly simplistic. He tried not to overthink it, dwell on it...he almost succeeded, too. But he did dwell a little, wondering how many other things he did that were just odd enough to tip her off.

Ultimately it didn't make any difference.

“I don't like my coffee to be a surprise,” he'd said quietly, a little defensive. “Sometimes with coffee shops, you'll get a different thing every day even with the same order. They'll try to surprise you with more of something or less of something, or they'll change the beans they use, or the strength of the brew. I prefer not to guess whether my coffee is what I want.”

“It's okay, sir, I understand completely. I go to the same bakery every time because they've been around for fifty years with the same recipes.”

“Trudeau's?” Hotch asked, smiling. She nodded.

“The one and only. You always know what you're going to get, and it's always going to be good.”

The problem Hotch runs into frequently is that his operating system, so to speak, isn't like Reid's. Or Garcia's. He's the odd man out even here where he thinks he should be able to relate. He knows it's a spectrum, of course he knows that, but it doesn't stop him feeling isolated. The discouragement that comes from knowing how separate he is makes it hard for him to find a way to communicate it.

So, he doesn't. He keeps his mouth shut and his head down and he just forges on.

That Derek learned his tells early on was a mixed blessing. He'd groaned about being profiled, unwritten team rules, but secretly he thought it was nice to be seen.

If Haley wasn't so angry with him, maybe he'd be better able to manage his own expectations and reactions in this situation which was really going quite well, all things considered. He was so skilled at masking and managing that these days when he was raw and vulnerable and completely unable to keep his shields up were few and far between...but since the divorce papers were served, he couldn't name a single day he felt totally in control. Derek helps when he can, where he can. Derek has been a life raft in a raging sea, but he can't fix everything. He's got problems and a life of his own. He's got mountains to climb and traumas to heal. Hotch is acutely aware that he takes more than he gives frequently and needs to do better. Derek would vehemently disagree with that. But it doesn't matter, he's sitting at the table mortified by how rude he'd been to the waitress and to Reid, wishing Derek were here to help him back to the path.

But Derek couldn't come, not this time. Someone had to stay behind and run the BAU while Hotch was away without cell reception in a prison. It puts them all in a vulnerable position and anymore, he preferred to be the one to do it. Which left his second in command to man the ship. Hotch couldn't think of anyone better to run the team, and the fact that Derek had chosen to love him on top of all of his needs, in spite of all of that, he still isn't sure how it happened. He sometimes forgets he's lovable at all.

Today he's completely out of control. It's just fitting, in some way, that his version of out of control still looks very subtle if you don't look too closely. No one can tell he's breaking. He just looks grouchy. He's sure he'll make it to the hotel before the cracks in his armor start becoming visible.

“We should get back on the road. I looked up the traffic reports and if we're not in city limits by 4pm, we're going to be stuck on the highway for an average of thirty to sixty minutes longer than necessary.”

“You've hardly eaten your pie,” Hotch says, poking at his own barely eaten toast. He plans to finish the meal if it kills him, traffic be damned. “I'm not concerned about the time, we don't have anywhere to be until tomorrow.”

They get to the hotel in a reasonable time, not exactly as good as they'd hoped but not as bad as Reid feared. It's possible Hotch might have been going a little over the posted limits in places, but Reid wasn't going to tell anyone. It's still better than Emily's driving. He suddenly understands why Derek always holds the door handle when he's in the passenger seat, though.

“One room?” Hotch asks the clerk, exasperated at the sight of the one key card. He should have known. “They only booked us one room? Would it be possible to get another?”

“I'm sorry sir, there's a convention and a concert here tonight, we're booked solid. I might be able to find you two rooms somewhere else if you'd like me to call around. You'll have better luck just outside the city.”

Hotch knew this hotel. Sure, a second room would be nice but a hotel he wasn't familiar with sounded just a bit too much for him right now. He and Reid have shared a room before. It isn't ideal, not by a longshot, but it works. “No, thank you. One room is fine. There are two beds, though?”

“Yes, sir. It's a double queen. Non-smoking. No pets.”

“We don't smoke or have pets.”

The room is small. That's the first thing that Hotch notices. He's always had a single room here and he thinks it's the same size but with an extra bed. And speaking of beds...the second thing he notices is that the beds are not, in fact, queen sized. They are full, a whole size smaller. He sets his bag neatly on top of the bed closest to the door while Reid goes for the one further in... that's always how they do it. Hotch stays closer to the point of entry, no matter who he rooms with. And then he puts the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. He doesn't care for people coming into his room, to clean or not.

“You can take the first shower,” he offers, pulling out his suit for the next morning and hanging it up. There are voices next door, muffled but clearly a man and some children. Paper thin walls, he can hear everything the man is saying to the children. Telling them to be quiet, to quit stomping, to turn the television down. Reid nods and heads right for the bathroom with his Ziplock bag of cleaning supplies. He always brings his own in order to sanitize the tub and shower head before he uses them, and Hotch, knowing this, always offers the first shower. The first time Reid did it after he showered, he felt filthy. Like Reid was cleaning him off of the tub. Never again.

He doesn't care about who gets the first shower, otherwise. He kicks his shoes off and sits on his bed, leaning back against the bleach scented pillows in their over-starched cases and closes his eyes. His head is throbbing.

Reid leaves the bathroom smelling like Lysol and bleach and Hotch watches as he strips his bed of the comforter. “Did you know they don't wash these?” he asks, dumping it into the corner like it disgusts him. “They wash the blankets and sheets with all sorts of harsh chemicals, they go scorched earth, but rarely the comforter. Not unless it's visibly soiled.”

“I had no idea,” Hotch lies. He does know, he just...once again...does not care. He can't care about everything and he's got more than enough on his plate right now. “I'll take yours, if you don't plan to use it. I get cold.” That's the damn truth. Reid sleeps with the air conditioner on no matter what the season. Hotch can't take it.

“It's all yours.” Reid barely hides the disgust in his features as he tosses the green and gold comforter toward his boss. Hotch doesn't notice the look; he just wads it up beside him and is satisfied knowing he's got a little extra protection against the cold air assault later.

He decides to take a walk down to the vending machine for some pretzels, and that's when he pulls out his phone and listens to the messages. One after another, terse and angry, Haley tells him to sign the papers, to call him, asks him why he won't just do it. Two of the messages are from Jessica calmly telling him to get his head out of his ass and call one of them back. “If you won't talk to her, fine. Talk to me. Just call one of us. Either that or I'm going to assume you've been injured in the line of duty and start calling your bosses...”

Jessica gets the call. He would have tried Haley but he just...he can't. It'll turn into a fight.

"It's about damn time," she says through clenched teeth and he closes his eyes.

“I'm on the road,” he says quietly. “I've been driving all day with Doctor Reid. The constant phone calls and threats are a little much, don't you think?”

“We were worried.”

“No, you were worried. She's only concerned about my signature.”

“Fair enough. Just get it over with. Sign the damn papers.”

“I haven't had any time to read them.”

“You of all people should know exactly what's in there, and besides, I know you already asked Derek to read them. You don't trust him? What's really stopping you?”

He sighs and pushes the button that reads B9 for the pretzels. They get stuck on the way down, jammed between the spiral and the window, and he thinks that's it. He's going to cry. That's all it takes, one single second of that crinkly blue bag of Rold Gold tiny twist pretzels getting stuck right there and the tears are burning tracks down his cheeks. “I need time.”

He's pacing back and forth in front of the vending machine now, wearing a track in the dingy red carpet. His mind loops. The papers. The drive. The soup. The photos. The pretzels. Repeat repeat. He worries the pads of his fingers over his nails until they nearly bleed and his breathing speeds up. Jessica can hear it, she knows exactly what this looks like, but she isn't gentle. He passed on gentle hours ago when he ignored her calls, she figures.

“Suck it up. Read the papers tonight, sign them tomorrow. Be done with it, Aaron. Move on. She already has.”

“I'll read the papers tonight.” He repeats the one part of what she said that he can manage. It makes her pause, re-calibrate her course before she sends him into a tailspin. She's dangerously close and she does feel bad. She understands, Haley has been at her throat all day today too.

“Just sign the papers and I promise it'll make everything better. Do it for Jack, so you two can get back on good terms. Jack needs you both to remember how much you mean to one another. And I know Derek would like it if you'd let it go...please. Sign the papers.”

He can't breathe. He's standing with his back against the wall and overcome with the feeling that his legs are about to give out, the world is about to go dark, he's about to lose whatever shred of control he still held. His body is giving him what little warning it can, and it isn't much. He's better at listening now than he used to be. “I'll call you tomorrow when I'm back in town.”

“Sign the papers Aaron!”

She hollers it into the phone, one last demand. He barely hears it before he hangs up and stumbles back to the room without his pretzels, someone else can have them. He makes his way immediately for the shower, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Reid barely notices, he's got Chester Hardwick's photos spread out all over his bed and he's deep in thought. “The hot water takes a minute,” he says absently, as if Hotch is right there.

It doesn't matter, anyway. He's not going for the shower yet. He almost doesn't make it to the toilet before he vomits. Reid can definitely hear that, and it startles him, but he assumes it's food poisoning and he isn't at all surprised. That damn soup. Lettuce is notorious for salmonella. Hotch is happy to let him think it's food poisoning too, it's a harmless lie. Better than the alternative.

His shower is anything but relaxing. He presses his forehead into the tile so hard it hurts while his stomach cramps and he's worried he's going to throw up again but the pressure he keeps on his forehead stills the nausea. For now. He's not exactly crying, it's sort of just miserable gasping for air while the shower washes away his tears. He can barely breathe. His hands are balled so tight his fingernails cut crescents in his palms and he can feel the small spots of blood pooling there. Sign the papers, Aaron. Sign the papers, Aaron. Uncontested, that's what she wants. He doesn't have a problem with that part of it. He'd willingly give her everything, keep nothing for himself. That isn't it, that isn't it at all. He doesn't want to sign it because signing it is permanent. Right now there is still hope. He still wears the ring. She hasn't worn hers in a long time, sometimes it's around her neck and other times it's nowhere in sight...but his is still firmly in place on his finger. Hope. Some shred, however minuscule, still exists and the minute his signature is on that page it's gone.

And he's alone.

What's he supposed to do with the bare skin where the ring once sat?

He cries harder. The walls are paper thin and if someone on the other side is in the bathroom, they can definitely hear his miserable moaning. Sobbing. He collapses slowly, crumples, his joints folding and his limbs contorting until he's sitting in the tub in a ball sobbing into his kneecaps. He hasn't had a meltdown like this in years, not since Adrian Bale and that bomb put him in charge of the BAU and left him just about as vulnerable as he'd ever been. But he'd had Derek then, and he pulled through. The one constant good was Derek.

“Hotch? Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he grunts with his wet lips in tear pools against his knees. He can't make himself sound fine, but he knows Reid isn't going to push further. He never does. They may not experience things in the same way, but Reid can recognize a meltdown when he sees it and he knows better than to try and intervene. The last thing Hotch needs is extra attention.

He goes about his business instead, glad to be sure now that Hotch's soup wasn't killing him. He prepares, rehearses, but still listens. A meltdown isn't going to hurt Hotch but falling in the shower might and he's more than a little concerned about that. Statistics are overwhelming when it comes to shower related injuries.

When Hotch walks out of the bathroom in sweatpants and a t-shirt with red-rimmed eyes glassy and dazed, Reid doesn't say a thing. Not at first. He notices, it would be impossible not to, but he can't find anything to say about it, so he asks the question that's on his mind.

“What time do we need to be at the prison? I'd like to set the alarm now.”

“7am. We'll be done and on the road by 9am.” That's it. Hotch spreads the second comforter over his bed and he burrows beneath the blankets. That's all he's got in him. Reid stays up pouring over files he's already memorized, full of nervous excitement. Custodials always put him into a frenzied mindset. He hasn't done too many of them and this is definitely the most excited he's been. Chester Hardwick doesn't talk to anyone, refused their requests repeatedly.

The meeting with Hardwick is something neither of them wants to discuss once they're out of the prison. Once they're back in the fresh air under the bright blue sky, not locked up in a cement room with a madman who thinks killing a couple of FEDs will earn him a stay of execution. Maybe it would have, but Reid managed to talk their way out of it. The very thing that Hotch loves about Reid, and the thing that has been getting under his skin for the last day, saved their lives. He's grateful. It isn't lost on him. But it didn't stop him from shedding his jacket and tie, squaring up, almost hoping that Hardwick would try. He could take a beating for thirteen minutes, and he could give it right back. No way Hardwick would have managed to kill both of them, but he still feels guilty. His foul mood, that electric feeling, it didn't go anywhere while he slept. It only got worse.

Chester Hardwick's threats were enough to settle him, to bring him back to the reality where he's in charge, where he's in control.

But he knows he probably owes Reid his life. He starts with an apology that burns his tight lungs, and then explains that Haley wants him to sign the divorce papers uncontested. No lawyers. It's faster that way, he says. And her constant hounding has been getting to him more than it should.

Reid's answer is simplistic and sweet. He doesn't understand the complication, the intricate balance and Hotch smiles sadly. He just asks what Hotch wants and isn't that funny...because it doesn't matter. This whole thing is moving along full steam ahead whether he wants it or not. “What I want, I can't have.”

Reid seems to understand that much. He knows Hotch doesn't want to lose his family; he also knows that his family is already gone. He has no idea what to say, how to respond, but the silence screams so loud it almost hurts. He has to fill it with something. Part of him wants to bring up a conversation he had with the Warden about the haunted cell block, but he refrains. Hangs out in more neutral territory.

“Derek and the team will be back from Indianapolis by the time we get home. He'll know what to do.”

Hotch smiles and nods. “You're probably right.”

“It's a good thing we have him around, huh?”

“Yes,” Hotch whispers, feeling his heart beating wildly against his chest in a different way. Untamed but not painful. “It is.”

"Do you want to stop for lunch? I did some research and there's a diner about fifty miles ahead that gets good reviews." It's clean, that's what he means. None of the reviews talk about food poisoning or flies in the windowsills.

Hotch smiles wearily and nods. "Lunch sounds nice."

When they return to Quantico, Derek is already at his desk finishing up a detailed report of the case for Hotch. All the papers Hotch would normally do, he's already deep in the thick of before it's even asked of him. He hates it so much. But after talking to Reid for a few minutes earlier, he knows it's better to anticipate this one and get ahead of it. They'll have to defend their choice to take the jet and follow Rossi into his cold case that wasn't even on the BAU's radar.

"How was your day?" Derek asks, flipping the page. Reid shrugs and sets his bag down.

"Ultimately uneventful." If only Derek knew. Maybe he'd tell him later, but not now.

Hotch passes through the bullpen without looking at anyone. He just heads directly to his office and shuts the door.

He's got papers to sign.

Derek has his doubts about how uneventful things were, at least given Hotch's icy demeanor. Usually he would at least have greeted them, asked how the case went, asked how the reports were coming so he had a clue about what happened. He did none of those things.

Later, when everyone has settled into the late afternoon workload, Derek enters Hotch's office without knocking. He doesn't do that anymore. Hasn't in a long time. In one hand he's got a mug of tea, steaming and hot, and the other he uses to shut the door behind him.

“Hotch,” he says, approaching the desk cautiously. The divorce papers are right there, signed and ready to be handed over. There are damp places where the tears soaked in, and his bright gold ring sits right at the top. Derek already knows the answer to the question he's about to ask, but it dances over his lips nonetheless. “You good?”

Hotch looks up at him from beneath thick, wet lashes and shakes his head. “No.”

#aaron hotchner #spencer reid #derek morgan #hotchgan #hotch x morgan #criminal minds #fanfiction #autistic hotch #autistic reid #autistic aaron hotchner

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dungeons-are-too-cold · 2 years

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I will single handedly be keeping the autistic aaron hotchner tag alive and well because I love him

#autistic headcanon #autistic aaron hotchner #criminal minds #criminal minds watch through #ssa aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner #ssa hotchner #autistic hotch

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iamcxlleigh · 1 year

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⸻ 🗯️ 𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱𝘀.

❛ 𝖺𝖺𝗋𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇 ❜.

Aaron Hotchner in a relationship with an asperger girl.

❪English is not my native language, an apology for any grammatical or spelling errors.❫.

▬▬▬ Aaron knew about asperger's syndrome, it is something that as particular as it sounds, it is among the different disorder he has seen throughout his career as a profiler, he could identify a person with this syndrome as he knew the characteristics that identified this condition.

▬▬▬ When he met you, he thought you were very sweet, but you proved to be too shy and somewhat awkward when talking, you didn't even look him in the eyes when conversing, you even found it difficult to understand some simple things that Hotch tried to convey, you didn't get it, he could notice the autistic spectrum characteristics in you.

▬▬▬▬ He loved you, he realized how much he liked you since he didn't want to profile you as he would do with anyone, he wanted to get to know you more and more, that you yourself gave him the confidence to know more about you.

▬▬▬▬ You were a little younger than him, very different from him in so many ways, he felt really nervous and scared to take you into his world, destroy you because of his chaotic work, and because of his little experience with asperger people, he only knew Reid and sometimes even didn't understand him.

▬▬▬▬ One night he spoke to Spencer as they were returning from a case, he thought talking it over with him would be best, he commented that he was meeting a girl with asperger's syndrome and wanted to know how to treat and understand her, Reid took the time to give him some facts about the condition and give him some advice, the most important was “Pay attention to the details.”

▬▬▬ Aaron understood it soon after, You had difficulties to understand nonverbal communication (gestures, facial expressions, tone of voice, etc.), You didn't understand jokes, jokes, metaphors or sarcasms, for you everything was for its literal meaning, your way of speaking and expressing yourself was so correct, technical and formal with a moderately childish tone of voice, that for people who didn't know you it could sound annoying and pedantic, but for Hotch it turned out to be simply cute on you.

▬▬▬▬ You were talking so passionately about your favorite things, explaining to Aaron even the smallest detail without being able to stop for a second, another characteristic of your condition, this man could listen to you talk for hours and hours and he wouldn't get tired, this helps him a lot to know you in depth.

▬▬▬▬ The first time you met Jack, Hotchner was scared that you couldn't relate well with him because of your poor social skills, but to his surprise, you were much better at striking up a conversation with a child than with an adult, you missed the real world just to play with his son as if you were just another child, an image that destroyed his heart was watching you and Jack playing in the little boy's room with all his toys on the floor after dinner, you were laughing and enjoying yourself like he had never seen you before.

▬▬▬▬ Your relationship was progressing very well, everything seemed to be going great, until one afternoon, Hotch decided to take Jack to the amusement park due to the little one's insistence to go, he decided to invite you to accompany them, which you happily accepted, Once in the park Jack and you were walking each one holding Aaron's hands. At first you watched with amusement the attractions with their lights and the people having fun, but it came to a point that the screams and laughter of the people were bothering you, they sounded so loud in your head that it began to upset you.

▬▬▬▬ The loud noises made you very anxious, you realized that there were many people around you and it made you uncomfortable, you felt a discomfort run through your chest as your throat felt clogged with the need to cry, you tried to pretend that nothing was wrong as you didn't want to ruin the moment with Aaron and Jack, but you were dating an expert profiler, indeed, you didn't even have to be one to notice that you didn't feel well at all.

▬▬▬▬ At the moment Hotch noticed it, he saw how you moved the fingers of your left hand similar to how you do when you are nervous, when he asked you what was happening you hesitated for a second, but with much sorrow you approached him whispering in his ear that you did not feel comfortable in that noisy place, everything got worse when a group of teenagers nearby began to scream and laugh scaring you so much that you covered your ears with your hands on the verge of tears, you seemed so helpless and weak that Aaron quickly took the determination to get you out of there.

▬▬▬▬ On the trip to drop you off at your house, the air conditioning in Aaron's car helped you calm down along with his hand, which rested on your leg silently giving you to understand that he was there for you at all times, but you felt extremely ashamed of yourself for reacting like that and ruining the night, Jack saw you worried without understanding why you had reacted like that in the park, he wanted to know if you were okay, but honestly you did not feel like talking about what happened.

▬▬▬▬ When leaving you at your home, Hotch noticed the instant relief that ran through your body to be in your comfort zone away from people and loud noise, you tried to apologize for ruining his night and making him feel sorry for taking you out of the park in that state, you thought that after today Aaron would not want to see you anymore, but he was totally sincere in his own way, he made it very clear that he was not upset with you and he was willing to help you in all your crises as many times as necessary, he was not going to abandon you for anything in the world, he could not leave without kissing your head in a careful and loving way, being this action one of the first signs of affection of the major towards you.

▬▬▬▬ That same night, he took Jack to bed to sleep as usual, but his son still worried about you asked his father why you had behaved that way, in the best possible way he explained to Jack your condition and some characteristics that you suffered from this, resolving doubts of the child, When he found out and understood what was happening, he bravely promised his father that he would protect you from all the bad things and help you to enjoy the world as he did, these words touched Aaron's heart, making him smile sweetly, thinking that his son was an angel and very intelligent.

▬▬▬▬ In the solitude of his room, Hotchner realized how difficult this disorder could be for you, what happened today in the park helped him to see that you needed a boost to move forward in your daily life, that you needed someone by your side to help you get ahead, and he would be that someone, he was really in love with you and would not let you go so easily, he would help you to be more independent and brave to face the world, but above all, to feel loved.

— 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 —

‹ 15. 04. 2023 ›

credits for : @iamcxlleigh

¡Hola, gente! How are you? This is the first one I wrote about Hotch so I hope you liked it, I liked writing about him. 🤍 remember that my native language is not English so I'm sorry for any grammar or spelling mistakes.

I found it very interesting to write about Aaron and an autistic character, respectively with this condition, I am an asperger's sufferer so I don't know.... Now it's my dream to have an Aaron Hotchner to take care of me. 😔

If you want to see more writings with this theme or any situation with Hotch, you can write to me !!

calleigh angelo ──── ‘lista maestra’

¡Nos vemos! 🗯️

#criminalminds #mentes criminales #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch fluff #criminal minds x reader #bau x reader #i love you agent hotchner #aspergers #fem!reader #aaron hotchner x autistic!oc #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner x female reader

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