#we need to stop pretending Aaron isn’t capable | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

scuttling · 3 years

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Weigh Me Down

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 4,221 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dad bod Hotch, Physical domination, Manhandling, Slapping, Choking, Mild breath play, Sir kink, Oral sex, Rough sex, Unprotected sex, Biting, Begging, Dirty Talk Summary: You always knew being the kind of girl who runs her mouth would get you in trouble eventually; you just had no idea how incredible being in trouble could feel. *Inspired by @unicornprancing. Link to A03 or read below! It’s always the quiet ones: it’s a cliché because it’s true, something you’ve never really given much thought to because you are not a quiet one. You talk a lot, laugh a lot, aren’t afraid to speak your mind—it can get you in trouble at work, when local law enforcement is being stubborn and you give them a piece of your mind, or when Hotch gives an order that makes no sense, like stay behind me.

Has he met you? You aren’t the stay behind me type, not by a long shot, so when he says that or something like that, it always leads to you running your big mouth and starting an argument.

You are surprised as hell when one of those arguments follows you back to the office and, in an apparent effort to get you to stop talking, Hotch presses your back against his closed door with his body and puts his hands on either side of your head, leaning in to kiss you rough and deep.

Kissing Hotch is not a thought you've ever entertained. It’s not that you don’t find him attractive—he’s pretty much everything you dream about in a man, tall and strong and commanding, with dark hair and big hands and a withering stare. It’s more that you are so different, that you are loud and lively where he is quiet and clearly repressed; the idea of the two of you together just doesn’t make sense, until it really, really does.

You fist your hands in his shirt, arch up to press your hips against his, and he puts his hands on your body and shoves you back against the door; there’s something hanging on the wall to your right, and its frame rattles with the force of it. You moan into the kiss, and he pulls back, panting, to look into your eyes.

“Was just trying to shut you up for a change,” he says, low, and you lick your lips, look over his face. He’s still angry, and his hands are hard on your hips, holding you down when you try to press up again. Your heart is pounding, your breathing harsh.

“It was working.” His eyes sweep over your lips, your heaving chest, and you suddenly want so many things, starting with his mouth on yours immediately. “Maybe try again.”

He tilts his head, looking like he can’t decide whether he wants to kiss you or purposefully deny you what you’re asking for, but ultimately he gives in, leans in, takes your face in one of his big hands and kisses you hard.

You twist your fingers tighter in his shirt, slip him your tongue, and struggle against his hand so he’ll let you make contact, so you can feel the raging hard-on he has to be sporting. He takes his hand off your hip, and you think you’ve won, but he slides a thigh between your legs instead, pins you against the door that way, and grabs your wrists; he pulls your hands away from his shirt despite your tightening grip, holds your arms over your head, and deepens the kiss, makes it wetter and messier.

All your life, you have wanted this: someone bigger and stronger who could handle you at your mouthiest, who could calm the fire that’s always raging inside you and wind you up at the same time. Men have always been intimidated because you’re in the FBI, or because you were a cop, and for those reasons you’re also physically more capable than they expect; plenty of guys enjoy having a girlfriend who can rough them up a little, but not the guys you want. The guys you want see your strength, your fortitude, and they go running.

Hotch knows all of this about you, and he’s not running.

Far from running, he is crowding you up against the door, his body and his hands and his unrelenting mouth bringing you such pleasure you’re tempted to try to rub off against his leg. You grind against it, more to see what he will do than to actually try to achieve anything, and he shifts so both of your wrists are in one hand, brings the other to your jaw to hold it still. When he stops kissing you, you whimper at the loss.

“No.” So deep it’s almost a growl, his command is one you can feel in your bones, and you swallow hard. Your eyes are fixed on his, and you grind up against him again; his hand flexes on your jaw, presses into the bone, and while that feels really good, there’s something you want even more. You cover his hand with yours—his grip loosens, either because he knows you’re trying to ask for more or because he thinks you’ve had too much—and slide it to your cheek.

You let him go, look up at him, breathless, and he pulls back and slaps your face: not too hard, or too soft, just enough to sting and soak your panties. You gasp, lick your lips, dazed, and he switches hands, hold your wrists together with one and slaps the opposite cheek with the other. He takes your jaw in his hand again, tilts your face up like he’s daring you to act up.

You contemplate it, quickly weigh the pros and cons—acting up is looking better by the minute—but someone comes up and knocks on the door, right behind your head.

Hotch drops your hands, steps back, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, try to snap out of the trance you’ve found yourself in. He turns around, presses his hand against the front of his pants, clears his throat and says, “come in.”

It’s JJ, and she gives the both of you a concerned once over when she enters; she was in the SUV with you on the way back from the airport, had a front row seat to the argument that started it all. You can’t imagine how you look—flushed, breathless, a little confused?—but Hotch somehow manages to look unaffected, like he’s really just been up here bickering with you all this time. You envy his composure.

“I was just getting ready to leave, wanted to make sure you guys didn’t need anything.” He crosses his arms, shakes his head, and looks over at you; you shake your head too, hope that your inability to do much more than stand there can be attributed to the fight she clearly thinks the two of you were having. “Okay then. Have a nice weekend,” she says, flashing a soft smile, and she leaves, closes the door behind her. Hotch blows out a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair.

“Look,” he says, and your heart sinks so fast. You really thought for a second that things might be different with him. That you finally found what you’d been looking for.

“No, I get it,” you manage to say, and your voice is rough, but you look him dead in the eye because that’s who you are. “You didn’t mean for it to go that far. We can pretend it didn’t happen.”

You’re surprised again when he frowns, shakes his head.

“No. Well, yes, but no. I didn’t mean to take it that far, I’ve never—I’ve never done that.” He wets his lips and takes a step closer to you, and already your body knows how to react to his proximity. It’s like a switch was flipped, and now it can’t be unflipped. “But I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. Not if you don’t.”

You breathe heavily, let silence blanket the room for one heartbeat, two. Twenty.

“I don’t. I really don’t.” He takes another step closer, brings a hand to your cheek, but this time his touch is gentle.

“Then we won’t.”

His mouth, when it finds yours, is not gentle. It is bruising, probing, his tongue seeking yours, and you wrap your arms around his back, his shoulders, encourage it, until one of your hands drops to his belt and he grabs it, forces it down at your side.

“Not here,” he says through gritted teeth—probably because, while he’s saying no, the unmistakable bulge in his pants is actually begging yes. You move the hand he’s not holding, brush it through his hair, and he blinks slow. “Do you want to come home with me tonight?”

You’re pretty sure you’ve never wanted anything more in your goddamn life. The ride to Hotch’s place is slightly awkward. You are both mostly silent, in that stage of the hookup where you’re both reliving how you got here, wondering what will happen, if this is the right thing, if it’s worth it.

From everything you’ve seen so far, it’s really fucking worth it.

His apartment is very nice, clean, kind of bare in that modern bachelor way. Yours isn’t much better, because you are always at work, always looking at photos of missing women instead of your family and friends. You run a hand along the sofa—large, black, suede—and comment on it just to say something, and he puts his hands gently on either side of your throat, kisses you, and looms over you so you are forced to settle back onto it.

You lay back, one foot on the floor and the other leg stretched along the length of the cushions, and he pushes his way between your knees, drapes himself over top of you, kisses some more. You run your hands over him because he lets you, truly feeling his body for the first time, and the thickness, solidness, softness has you moaning against his lips for more.

He leans up, takes one hand off your throat, and moves the other to the front of it, his fingers digging into the sides of your neck. The image of him on top of you like this, your literal life, safety, comfort in his hands… it’s intoxicating, and you nod just slightly, to let him know that if he wants, this is something he can have. Something he can take.

He bends down to brush his lips over yours, then over your throat, your ear. “Just a little,” he murmurs, squeezing tight. “I’d prefer to discuss it more—unless you wanted to stop and do that now.” There is a smirk in his voice when he says it, because he knows already that stopping is the furthest thing from your mind. You’ll take just a little, for now.

He leans up again, flexes that hand on your throat in a way that makes your eyelids flutter. With his free hand, he loosens the knot of his tie, pulls it off, starts slipping his buttons free.

Undressing himself on top of you, making eye contact, restricting your air supply—never before have you been willing to give a man free rein of your body, but there’s a first time for everything, and he’s quickly earning himself a key to your kingdom. Your body thrums at the idea of being at his complete mercy, tied up maybe, legs spread, edged with his mouth and hands until all you can do is whine his name and beg to come.

Your face heats, and you whimper, and he loosens his grip, brushes his thumb over your mouth.

“Good girl. Are you alright?” You lick your lips, swiping your tongue over the pad of his finger, and nod.

“Yes, sir.”

You would never be insubordinate—okay, you absolutely would be, have been, were earlier today—but authority is not really your friend, so you aren’t the type of person to throw sir around like it’s second nature. Your use of the title here is deliberate—call it a hunch—and when his eyes darken, it’s clear it’s worth swallowing your pride over.

He takes his hand off of you, makes quicker work of his shirt with both hands available to him. You look down at his crotch, and he pauses to bring his hands to yours, moves them to his belt, giving you permission to open it. The clink of the buckle feels obscene in his quiet apartment, and you untuck his shirt so he can pull it off, left only in a tight undershirt that emphasizes every curve of muscle, the bit of softness across his midsection. He’s perfect, and you run your hands over him, moan, make sure that he knows it.

He pulls your t-shirt off, unhooks your bra and kisses your throat, your chest, cups your breasts in his hands and teases your nipples with a pointed tongue. You let your head fall back, because it feels so good and you want to feel his tongue lower, wonder how he’d react to the taste of the slickness that’s been pooling in your panties since he slammed you up against that door.

“Fuck. Please.” He looks up at you from where he’s mouthing at your breasts, pulls off with a wet sound and rubs his hand up your chest to curl around your neck.

“You have to tell me what you want, sweetheart. I’m not a mind reader.” You whimper, and he presses his thumb into your mouth, lets you suck on it a moment before easing it out. “Always running your mouth, always disobeying me. Always have to have the last word. Where’s that mouthy girl now?” You stare up at him, say nothing, and he slaps your cheek, pushes two fingers into your mouth when it falls open in a moan.

He’s back to undressing one handed, stands while his fingers thrust over your tongue and pushes his pants down, his underwear. You moan when his cock springs up, big and full, and you bob your head a little so maybe he’ll get that you want to give him a sickeningly sloppy blow job.

“No, you don’t get this yet,” he says, pulling his fingers out of your mouth and spreading the wetness over the dark head of his dick. “You don’t get anything until I give it to you. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” you promise with a nod, and he pulls his undershirt off and works your pants open, drags them down your legs. He exhales deeply when presented with your panties—you’re certain they’re obscenely, visibly wet, and it’s confirmed when pulls them off and you can feel how messy you are, your sticky arousal coating your pussy, ass, and thighs.

He pushes your legs up, leans in, and swipes his tongue over you, from your opening to your clit, then over your inner thighs, and you moan, buck against him. Moving his hands to just behind your knees, he holds you tightly, lays his arms over the length of your pushed up thighs, presses down so you can’t move. You whimper at the restriction, and he presses harder, dives down to lick and kiss your pussy, to tug at your lips gently with his teeth.

“All this because of a little roughness?” he asks with a delicious jab of his tongue inside your aching hole. “Soaking your panties because I slapped your pretty face?” You pant, nod, and he rubs his tongue hard against your clit, gets you so close you can hear the change in your own voice as you moan, and then pulls back. “You’ve been needing someone to put you in your place for a while, haven’t you? Someone who can take hold of that smart mouth and render you silent. Do I have it right, baby?”

He has it exactly right and he knows it, only asks to hear you say the two words he probably never imagined he’d get out of you.

“Yes, sir.” It’s strained and weak, and he lays one forearm across your thighs, holds you down, and batters your clit with his tongue, rubs his huge hand over your hot, sensitive pussy until you come whining and trying desperately to move against him even though you can’t. “Oh my god, Hotch, fuck.”

He kisses you as soon as you sag against the sofa, groaning against your mouth, running his hands over your hips, and you are still trying to catch your breath when he gets his arms around you, scoops you up and carries you to his bedroom. From there, he tosses you roughly onto the bed, your body bouncing from the force, and then turns you over and wastes no time thrusting inside you, laying on top of you, his full weight all but guaranteeing you’ll come fast and hard.

“Does that feel good?” he grunts in your ear, pounding against your ass, and you whimper, claw at the sheets. He covers your hands with his, laces your fingers so you can't move them, pushes your hair off of the back of your neck with his nose. “Good girl, just lay there and take my cock. You aren’t the type to put up a fight, are you?”

That shouldn’t turn you on like it does, but you live to fight, and now that you have this incredible, sexy, strong man on top of you, dominating you the way you’ve only dreamed, it just comes naturally.

You try to buck back against his thighs but can’t because he’s so heavy, his thrusts so deep and rough. You try to get your arms free, whine when he holds your hands tighter, when he presses his biceps down against the backs of your arms so they can’t move at all. You thrash your head, moaning, loud, nearly primal sounds of pleasure, and he puts his mouth against the back of your neck, bites down hard like you’re an animal he’s forcing to submit.

“Settle, settle; just let me fuck you, let me come inside. You’re no match for me, sweetheart.” Your eyes roll back in your head as he speaks it into your ear, as he rocks his thighs against your ass, as you can feel the muscles of his stomach flex against your lower back. He uses your body, truly, every inch of it covered and compressed by the weight of him, forcing your breasts and clit to rub against the comforter; any one thing he’s doing would be enough, but all of it combined is almost too much, and you whimper, desperate, needy. “Too weak to do anything but let yourself be fucked, aren’t you? Whether or not we come is up to me.”

“Mmh, yes sir,” you breathe, and he leans in to bite the back of your neck again, possessive and rough. It sends a wave of arousal through your whole body, makes your pussy throb and ache. “Oh, god. Please, please make me come. Please use me to come.” Your voice is high, eager, so unlike you’ve ever heard it before that it somehow only adds to your pleasure.

“Using you, baby,” he groans in your ear, thrusting faster, harder, the fleshy smack of your thighs as he fucks and the wetness of your cunt as you take him in filthy and amazing. “I’ll make you come, I’ll come in you, if you promise to be a good girl for me. Are you a good girl?”

God, he’s really going to make you say this. Being a sweet, subservient girl is not in your nature, but it could be, for him. You’d be anything he wants you to be.

“Yes, sir,” you murmur, and he lifts one hand off of yours and puts it on the side of your head, pressing your cheek against the bed while he fucks you.

“Louder.”

“Yes, sir.” Your voice is louder, but less convincing, and he trails his lips over the curve of your ear, sinks his teeth into your exposed throat.

“Louder.” He punctuates it with a hard, almost brutal snap of his hips, and you can feel your orgasm so close, try not to become so focused on the feeling that you miss out on all the rest.

“Yes, sir, I’m a good girl. Please, please.” He picks up the pace, crushing you against the bed, beneath his weight, and you are sweaty, breathless, out of control—perfect.

“Yes you are, and you’re going to come for me.” Soft lips brush over the stinging bites he left on your neck, and he swipes his tongue over them, soothes them. “Who are you going to come for?”

“You, sir,” you gasp, body tensing, pussy clenching, and he groans.

“Who are you going to come for? I need a name, baby.” You whimper, moan, wish you could kiss him, taste him, and when you come it is violent, lengthy, gripping your whole body and dragging it somewhere you’ve never been.

“Aaron—oh, god, I’m coming for you, Aaron. Please, please.” Your eyes water as he fucks you through it, pumping deep until he spills inside you, panting that’s right, easy, just like that in your ear until he’s spent.

He settles on top of you, and the layer of sweat between you should feel disgusting, but it just makes you feel closer to him, like a good girl, like you earned the reminder of how hard you both worked, how hard you came.

He is all sweet kisses and gentle hands, asking if you are alright, praising your performance, your body; it feels so good, his velvet voice wrapping around you, his heavy body pressing down on yours.

You shower after that, so you can sleep; notorious insomniac that you are, he chuckles in your ear when you start to drift off in his arms almost instantly after he gets you both situated in bed. You wake to gentle hands sweeping over your body. You are bruised where he held you down, sore all over in the very best way; you hum at his touch, turn to face him so you can collect soft, sleepy kisses. You drape your arm over his stomach, bury your face in his chest, and he rubs his hand over the back of your neck where you are bitten and raw and claimed. It turns you on—the feel, the memory, the implication—and he lays you back against the bed, puts a pillow under your ass, then settles between your legs and kisses your mouth.

“Going to make you feel really good, baby. Just do as I say, be a good girl, and I promise I’ll make you come.” You nod, tired but horny and ready to do as he says, and he leans up over you, wraps his hands around your shoulders, hooks his chin against your neck. His weight is pressing down on you again, but this time it’s different, sweeter and more intimate. You smile softly, wet your lips.

He slides inside you, maneuvers your legs up over his thighs, and rocks upward, his pelvis lined up in such a way that it rubs right over your clit. You moan, wrap your arms around his back, roll your hips while he grinds against you, pumping shallowly inside but, more importantly, stimulating your clit with each stroke.

“Aaron,” you sigh, holding him tightly while he moves against you, and you throw your head back, gasp and groan while his heavy body glides over yours, while he breathes roughly in your ear.

“Yes, baby. Feels good? Want your sweet pussy to feel good, after I was rough last night.”

“Yes, sir, feels good.” It leaves your mouth as a groan as he humps against you right over your clit, as he tilts his head to kiss you softly below your ear.

“Not sir right now, just Aaron.” You hum, clutch him tighter, move against him, feel the tip of his cock come so close to slipping out just to have it pushed carefully back inside.

“Feels really good. I’m close.” He grinds a little faster, body rolling harder against yours, and you shudder, dig your nails in, and climax, easy and slow and delicious. He praises you even though, again, you didn’t do much, then leans up on his forearms and pushes in fully, thrusts quick and deep. “Mmm, yeah. Want your come.” You pull him close for a kiss, grip his shoulders hard while he fucks you fast, desperate.

You kiss his arms when he comes, panting and gorgeous over you, and when he collapses onto you you wrap your arms and legs around him, hold him tightly, and hum.

“What are you thinking about, baby?” he asks, knows that sound, and you press your lips to his shoulder.

“Just thinking how nice this is. How I like that last night isn’t all you want from me.” He makes eye contact, smooths your hair back, brushes a kiss against your mouth.

“I want anything—everything. I think we could be really good together, despite our differences… if that’s something you want.” You nod, smile softly, and he reciprocates, leans in for more easy kisses. “One thing, though: when I tell you to stay behind me, stay behind me.” Your smile melts into a scowl.

“You wouldn’t tell Derek to stay behind you!”

“Why are you comparing yourself to Derek? Why are you comparing at all, I told you—”

“I know what you told me, and it’s bullshit, so forgive me if I—”

“I don’t forgive you, actually, and if you keep talking back to me—”

“What are you going to do?” He demonstrates. It’s extremely effective. You still don’t stay behind him when he tells you to.

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#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader #ask answered #prompt #unicornprancing

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imaginesandinserts · 3 years

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Irreverent Pt. 55 - Utter Fixation

Title: Irreverent Pt. 55 - Utter Fixation

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader Rating: M Words: ~14K

A/N: This one is a doozy lols. Solnyshko is Russian for sunshine.

Men of Irreverent: Casting

Irreverent Series Masterlist

"Nice shot." You hug Spencer, his bony frame shaking just slightly as he laughs at your comment. "Bet you don't make fun of my marksmanship again, huh?" he jostles you as the two of you stand off to the side while Derek and Aaron wrap up with the SWAT team leader and ensure that both Novak and Cavanaugh are set on their way to the hospital, with appropriate protection in place while they await their CIA handler. "Yeah, that's not gonna happen," you smirk, before looping your arm through Spencer's as he leads you out to the car. As you pass by Agent Novak in a gurney, he nods at you in thanks. You offer a smile back, trudging through the field surrounding the warehouse. Spencer doesn't say much else and you know he's trying his best not to overwhelm you. You'd seemed shell shocked when Derek had gotten to you and it was only now, when the adrenaline was seeping out of your system, that you felt more capable. You lean against the car with Spencer, your mind fogging up as you careen through everything that had happened. You hadn't seen Clyde yet, so you imagine he's at Quantico. You'll have to ask Aaron about that. It's a wonder they'd managed to actually find you, but you'd never really doubted the team, no matter how much the odds had been stacked against them. Aaron had been the one to take out Ramos. He hadn't trusted any of the SWAT guys to do it. Not when it came to you. He wouldn't trust anyone else with that. Not that he had told you, but you had known even before you got to him. You see Derek and Aaron walking towards you, Derek pulling you into a quick hug before getting into the front driver's side. You expect Aaron to go around to ride shotgun, but he follows you in as you enter the back of the car, leaving Spencer to go sit up front. When you're buckled in, you look over to him. His eyes can't seem to leave you and you're struck by the thought: he'd been genuinely scared. The car rumbles to life as Derek pulls off onto the road and with one quick glance forward to ensure that neither Derek nor Spencer are paying you much mind, you close the distance between you and Aaron in the back. You press up against him and claim his mouth, a silent reassurance that you are indeed alright. He knows what you're doing and he lets you kiss him, the silent ambient noises of the car drowning out the two of you in the back. If Morgan or Reid noticed, they wisely kept their mouths shut and their eyes trained on the road in front. He can taste you – taste your apology, your regret. He feels your shoulders relax under his touch as his hand comes around to hold you to him. As you withdraw for a breath, he can't help the curve of his mouth from slipping into a small smile. "Does this mean we're back together?" he murmurs against your lips. He's not expecting a response beyond a laugh or agreement, but instead he sees confusion flicker onto your face as you move back to look at him properly. "What are you talking about?" He explains then. How Strauss had come to his office with the paperwork. How he'd seen your signature on the first page and she had expected he would sign the second. How he had indeed signed it, trusting that you had your reasons.

You feel your breath leave your lungs in utter disbelief. He'd thought…he'd thought you'd ended it. Just like that. He had signed it out of sheer faith and then gone home to Jack and pretended like nothing had happened. You can feel the pinprick tears in your eyes as you come to understand some of what he too must have gone through in the last couple weeks. You shake your head in disbelief, your mouth dry as you sniffle and clear your throat. "I – I didn't know," you tell him softly, your hand grasping his in the darkness. You'd never known he would have to sign something too. You'd only been shown that first page. You thought that would be it. That just you telling Strauss would be enough. Had you known – "Oh honey, I am so sorry." Your whispered apology is followed by your mouth on his once more, lips ghosting over his face, pressing to his skin. Physical atonement for the agitation and concern and worry you had no doubt caused him. Had you known that he too would have had to sign something, you would've spoken to him. Would've forced yourself to explain what was going on, as much as you could've. Perhaps you should've known better but back then, fresh after the day Clyde had taken you, your mind had been in disarray and you'd acted on instinct alone, doing your best to shield both him and Jack against any blowback from your assignment. You'd acted out of fear. Aaron only nods, drawing you in closer, tucked so close to him, you're practically in his lap. He's reacting to it a lot more calmly than you'd expected. No berating at you not thinking things through, because of course he would have to sign something too, and why wouldn't you just talk to him. Maybe, implicitly, he understood how much of a mess you'd been back then, trying to do whatever you could to remove the trail leading from you to him and Jack. Making sure that if anyone were to come after you, they would be safe.

You can feel his lips at your hairline as you push closer into him, running your fingers down his back, finding that pressure point that has him relaxing entirely under your touch as he holds you. The silent understanding that this – the two of you – was unshakeable. You'd left him and trusted him to find you. He'd let you go and trusted you to return. *------------* Clyde thought you were the mole. That you've been planted at the Bureau under your father's orders. Aaron and the others had filled you in on that as you'd neared Quantico, with Aaron still fretting that you needed sleep and rest before dealing with any of this. If it were up to him, he'd have you hooked up to an I.V. and put on bedrest. As it stood, it was not up to him, so now you're sat in a glass conference room, awaiting the rest of the team. The second you had arrived back at the Bureau, a couple agents had met you all in the parking garage and the four of you had been led past McKinney's office and to this room. You imagine the rest of the team will be joining you shortly, as you all had been the closest. It's really starting to sink in – Clyde thinks you're the mole, he'd talked to McKinney, you were escorted here by agents. You'd tried to protest when they'd met you in the garage, but one look from Aaron had you silent. He wants you to go along with this and not cause problems as long as possible. Buy time to figure out what was going on and what Clyde's angle was. It's only been a minute since you all were let into the room, Morgan and Reid were sat in chairs around the large table while Aaron stood leaned against it. He watches as you look out the glass walls, your eyes squinting, and he can tell you're thinking through what to do next. Aaron finds himself uncharacteristically calm regarding the situation – now that you're back, it shouldn't take much to convince McKinney just how ridiculous the entire notion of you being a mole really was. He isn't being naïve. He's aware that Easter potentially could have a case, given everything you've told him about your deal with your father. However, as it stands, he knows without a shadow of a doubt that it isn't the truth, and he can't imagine any proof that would show otherwise. "Can I borrow your phone?" Aaron starts at your sharp voice, your hand reaching out towards him almost impatiently. Brow furrowing in confusion, he's about to ask why, but the urgency on your face has him handing the device over before he can. He watches as you move away to the opposite side of the room, unable to step outside with two agents still standing guard. He shares a look with Morgan, who only shrugs as the two of them await the end of the call. With your head turned away to prevent Reid from watching, there isn't much more that they can do. You wrap up your call quickly, unsure how much time you have before Clyde and McKinney arrive, when you hear the door opening behind you. "Hey Cap." Your heart stops. No. It wasn't – You turn slowly, eyes widening as you see him standing in the doorway, a smile on his face, eyes crinkled at the corners. A soft gasp escapes you as you take him in. Then before you know it, you've barreled over to him, arms wrapped tight around his waist as his encircle your shoulders, tucking your head into his chest. Only one word comes to your mind, making its way down through you and settling against your ribs – Solnyshko. John presses a kiss to your hairline and you can feel the tears threatening to fall. Because if Aaron's arms were home, then John's were the lake house growing up. The one you think of fondly with the rose tinged glasses of nostalgia. Back to warm summers and too much sticky sweet ice cream dripping down your hands. To the thrill of jumping off the pier, scared and screaming and thrilled all at once. To the soft touches and gentle kisses shared on the patio with boys whom you would move on from but always remember. To the child you were, wide eyed and curious, wanting to have it all. He's a different kind of home. "We thought we could use an extra hand." You turn around at Aaron's deep voice coming from behind you, and there's a smile on his face that you're not sure how to interpret just yet. You can feel tears clouding your vision as you look at him, John's warmth still surrounding you, his arm still holding you near as he keeps you by his side. He'd called him. He'd called John. For you. Of course he had. Thank you, you mouth at him, catching just the hint of a second smile on his face before you're tackled by Penelope, who shoves John to the side. Behind her, you can make out Emily, JJ, and Rossi entering the room as well. "Oh my goodness, sugar! You're alright! I mean of course you are. We knew you'd be alright. We never doubted it, did we?" she asks Derek frenetically, whom you assume is behind you, but doesn't wait for a response before continuing her frenzied inspection, her hands running over your arms and hair, making sure nothing was out of place. "But you're alright, right? I mean when we saw what Easter did to you on that video – so, so awful. Who would waterboard someone? I mean, sure, you can learn anything on the internet, but that is still abhorrent. But don't you worry because I'm hunting down the other guys that were there with him, so we'll take care of them and of course the Director already knows, because Hotch showed him, and – " You break away from Penelope, trying to keep pace with her mile a minute voice, trying to understand everything she'd just said, trying to figure out what video… There's a sharp inhale that you hadn't realized was your own. Your lip quivers, eyes wide as the sinking, dreadful realization reaches you. In the background you can just barely make out John's voice asking what video she's talking about. You can't do anything but shake your head in horror. No. No. That's not. No. Aaron. No no no no no. He's looking at you and you know. He knows. No. You can't breathe. You can feel the air leaving your lungs but none seems to be making its way back in. Through the din you can make out Penelope and Derek moving towards you to make sure you're alright. John is still standing right where he'd landed when Penelope had pushed past him. Aaron. He'd seen. He knows. Oh God. Behind you, the door opens once more. You don't turn around to see who it is. Not yet. Aaron watches silently as you freeze, your shoulders tensing. He'd stopped himself from grabbing you right as the door opened, not wanting to give any visual to McKinney and Easter alluding to yours and his personal relationship. He knows better and he allows the part of him that knows the political play here, to overrule the part begging him to go to you. To seize you into his arms and draw you away from this room, this building. Take you home where none of this could touch you. No one could hurt you. Instinctively, your hands graze over your stomach, stopping momentarily before continuing up to your face and wiping away at the tears that had fallen. He sees you take a deep breath. Then another. Lips pressed tightly. Hands made into fists. It's like watching a metamorphosis in reverse – the unbridled, frantic panic and fury slip away, replaced by a cocooned version of you, held tight and wound together, guarding your soft spots within. "If everyone could please take a seat." Director McKinney enters the room after Easter who had already made himself at home near the front, a stack of folders and a tablet in his hands, his eyes curiously looking over the lot of you inside. You, still turned around and facing the other way, and every other person in that room, holding their breath and waiting for you to turn back. At the sound of McKinney's voice, you push through, forcing your mind to shut out the pieces of information that were not helpful in the moment. Aaron had already talked to you on the way up about not doing anything to get on McKinney's bad side right then, and you know that refusing to acknowledge his presence while you had a breakdown in the corner wouldn't earn you any brownie points. So, simply put, you didn't have the luxury to absorb it all. You couldn't think about the fact that they knew – that Aaron knew – about what Clyde did, why you had gone to Strauss, the baby. Your baby. His baby. Your baby. You didn't have the time to let it sink in, to take him aside, to give you both the time to fall apart. You couldn't. Not now. Later. First this. Later. With that, the steel trap clamps down, caging it all away. Turning, you grab the first chair in front of you, while everyone else who had been crowded near the doorway shuffles in. Aaron quickly settles down to your left, a brush of his hand to your shoulder and a softly muttered Later that was meant for your ears alone, but was caught by John as he claims the chair to your right. As you look up, you see Gladys trotting in after McKinney, a righteous look on her face as she carries what looks like a bundle of cloth and a mug into the room right behind her boss, and walks over to set both items down in front of you. With a quick motherly brush of your hair, she leaves as quickly as she came in, defiantly avoiding McKinney's eyes. It's quiet as everyone settles in, the shuffling of clothing and people, accompanied by the groan of government budget issued chairs. You reach out for the bunched up fabric on the table in front of you and unravel it to reveal a regulation F.B.I. crewneck. You're quick to slip out of the stiff leather jacket you still had on from a day prior, revealing a strappy top beneath, which you cover up, basking in the warmth the sweater provided. Gladys had also brought you a mug of hot chocolate from the kitchens and you reach for it gratefully, taking a quick sip, the hot liquid burning a molten streak down your throat in the best of ways.

From the corner of your eye you can see the regret in Aaron's posture as he sees you enjoy the most basic of comforts offered by someone else. Something he should've considered. You're able to offer him only the slightest of assurance with your eyes – he'd found you, that's what was truly important. *------------* "Who is this?" McKinney asks, gesturing towards John once everyone was seated and Clyde was preparing to speak at the front. You exchange a look with Aaron and John both, realizing that perhaps John's presence wasn't entirely Bureau approved. "I am exercising my right to retain private counsel," you speak up before either one of them could. "That –," McKinney begins, only to be interrupted by Spencer, " – is allowed per Section 56 Code 19 of the Employee Handbook. All agents retain the right to employ private counsel in the event of accusations levied against their person as a function of their role within the Bureau." Reid rattles it all off quickly and not for the first time, you find yourself jealous of his eidetic memory. Yours was good, but not nearly like his. You shoot Spencer a grateful smile, before meeting McKinney's eyes once more. "You're paying him?" The question comes from Clyde, eyebrow raised, in a tone so derisive that you have to wonder if he had ever liked you at all, or if the man had spent the past number of months that you two worked together, silently seething at your very existence. You don't have to look at Aaron to know that he's already pulled out his wallet, when he hands you a twenty dollar bill. You slide it across the table, over to John, never once turning away from Clyde's critical look, your own unwavering under his scrutiny. He had no idea who he was going to war with. McKinney looks between you and Clyde, before sighing and nodding his okay. "Very well." He turns towards Clyde to give him the floor. Your eyes narrow as you take a sip of the hot chocolate again, careful to not show any discomfort outwards. Beneath the table, you can feel Aaron's hand resting against your thigh, the heat of it reminding you that you aren't alone. McKinney had let you have them all here with you, likely in reaction to that video, if Aaron had indeed showed it to him. He had the kindness to not make you be alone with the man who had tortured you. If Clyde was going to be accusing you of anything, he'd have to do it front of everyone. On your other side, you feel John shift, his knee skimming against yours before settling down to be right against it, a silent pledge – he's there too, and he isn't leaving. *------------* "I believe we all know why we are here," McKinney starts, his hands interlaced together on the table, a serious set to his brow. He's doing his best to keep this entire procedure civil. You know he's doing you a favor by allowing you to be there when Clyde offers up his accusation formally. He's offering you the opportunity for rebuttal before any of it is written down and documented. Saving you, potentially, from an entire formal review. Part of you wonders who that is meant to protect however – you, Clyde, or McKinney himself? You nod to indicate that you understand, meeting McKinney's eyes. Walter McKinney – as you'd come to learn – was a fair man and his rise in the Bureau had been no fluke. He knows that the reason you'd brought in the BAU at all was because you hadn't trusted anyone – not even him. You have to believe that when the two of you do eventually speak alone, that he would understand why. Clyde clears his throat, turning everyone's attention to him and the screen. Him, you were extremely wary of. You had been immediately after he'd tortured you, of course. However, he'd managed to convince you, that for him, that had been standard operating procedure. He'd been able to use your own fear and insecurities to convince you to go along with it. Were he not sitting across a table, gearing up to accuse you of treason, you might have allowed that one act to pass – he had simply been trying to make sure you were prepared for the worst. Not anymore. "I would've preferred this meeting be held behind closed doors," he begins, tilting back in his chair and keeping one eye trained on you at all times as though he thought you'd try and pull a disappearing act, "However, no matter. I will be walking through the evidence gathered against Agent L/N, proving that she has been a plant working against the Bureau since the very beginning." His declaration is followed by silence from everyone else in the room, and were it not for the seriousness of the accusation, you might've laughed. The screen at the front of the room flickers on, and a black and white surveillance quality photo of an airstrip appears. You're disembarking with your father at your side. You're eighteen, your hair up in a ponytail, John's Columbia Law School hoodie, rumpled from far too many hours on an airplane. Beside you, you feel him tense as he too realizes exactly how old this photograph is. How young you were in that. It's from that summer, so very long ago. When he and Julian had gone on that trip, just the two of them. You'd gone with your father. There's a man standing by a car at the foot of the steps leading down from the plane. For the first time in over seven years, you set eyes on Volkov again. "For those of you who may not be aware, the man in the photo is Alexander Volkov. Volkov is wanted by many Eastern European governments, and is notoriously on the books for the Russian government, despite no official ties. If you recall the bombing in Sokovia, five years ago, you're looking at the man responsible." Easter had been part of Olympus. He hasn't confirmed it, but that was the only thing that made sense. You look around and know that at least both Aaron and Emily had reached a similar conclusion. Nothing else would explain him having surveillance photos of you from a decade ago. In the wake of Clyde's explanation, you can feel Aaron's eyes on you from your left, but you don't dare look at him. The rest of the team is taking his lead and not saying anything in response either, for fear they might say the wrong thing. Ultimately, it's John who speaks up. "She's eighteen there, practically a child. What exactly is the purpose of showing us this?" Clyde's eyes narrow as he realizes that this won't be quite as easy as anticipated. If he'd expected Aaron or the others to display any shock or revulsion at his revelation…well, he really didn't know your team that well, did he? "It sets the foundation," Clyde counters, his hand once more on the controller. "A pattern of behavior, indicative of less than honorable intentions, bad company, and plenty of opportunity." With that, he clicks a button on the remote, replacing the photo with another one. This one is of just you, exiting a building on Harvard's campus. You have to be in your second year – your hair is dyed because Matthew liked it better that way and you'd given in to his request. You're carrying books in your hand as you walk, hair whipping around in the wind. It's you, but it looks nothing like you. With a deep internal sigh, you sink in further into your chair. You had a better idea now of where this was going. "This was taken outside the Lowell Lecture Hall. You were seen entering and exiting the building the entirety of the Fall semester, right in time for the Math 55 lecture," Clyde announces, his eyes issuing a challenge at you to explain this away. Unfortunately for him, his jab doesn't quite land with the audience, as Rossi raises an eyebrow at him. "What does a Math class have anything to do with this?" However, instead of Clyde, it is Reid who answers him. "Harvard, oddly enough isn't known for its advanced math program but it is known for one particular class," Reid explains quickly, his eyes flitting over you with some curiosity. "When you're good at math - good enough to get into Harvard - you take a math class called "Math 15". When you're better than that you take "Math 25", but when you're the best, the absolute best, you take "Math 55": Honors Advanced Calculus and Linear Algebra. Graduates are immediately employed by the U.S. Government because they're too dangerous to work anywhere else. More specifically, they're employed at the NSA." Reid's spiel is met with mixed reactions. Rossi shifts back in his seat, hands crossed in front of him, an oddly smug look on his face. The rest of the team looks mildly surprised as they process what Reid had said. Aaron sits beside you, unshaken, and John of course had already known you had attended the class. Clyde clears his throat, shifting forward in his seat. "Thank you, Agent Reid," he says to Spencer in a clipped tone that has you bristling in reaction. "Doctor." He looks up at your interruption, brow quirked in question. "It's not Agent. It's Dr. Reid," you clarify, your lips pursed, jaw tight. "You took this class?" McKinney asks, finally breaking his silence since Clyde had begun. You swallow, meeting his eyes. He was still your mentor. What he thought about you, still mattered. You can feel the attitude you'd just given Clyde waning ever so slightly. "I audited it. For all anyone knows, I would've flunked out." "No, you wouldn't," McKinney replies quietly, his gaze appraising. His dark eyes holding all the knowledge on you that he'd amassed in the past year of being your closest supervisor within the Bureau. He has no doubts when it comes to your capabilities. "Why didn't you just enroll in it?" You shrug nonchalantly, the large crewneck shifting off your shoulders slightly as you do. "It's a large commitment. I didn't want to be beholden to every assignment. I already had a lot on my plate." It wasn't a lie. Not exactly anyways. McKinney looks like he doesn't quite believe you. You thrive with having too much to do. "Is that the only reason?" he digs, his eyes firmly on you, watching for anything, any sign. You let out a short breath of exasperation which you manage to disguise, deciding to just give them what they wanted. "I didn't exactly want to be on a list of people considered dangerous by the US government. I wouldn't have said yes to working for the NSA. I wanted to be a lawyer." Your eyes cut to John and he meets them, because you both know – you had wanted to be a lawyer because he was. It had been part of the plan. Your plan with him. Your justification is met with some more silence and you can tell, that for McKinney, the deck is slowly starting to stack against you. He now viewed you as intentionally deceptive regarding your abilities and usefulness to the government. As ex military, to him, that was on par with avoiding the draft. "Attending closed session classes that you weren't actually enrolled in wasn't the only thing you did in college. You also made quite a few friends, didn't you? You aren't exactly a stranger to relationships of convenience." As Clyde speaks, the screen changes once more behind him and a photo from the ill fated engagement shoot that Matthew's mother had insisted on pops up. Your hair is curled, you're wearing a long burgundy gown, standing beside Matthew in front of Lippman House, where the two of you had first met. You're smiling, both of you. On your hand sits an incredibly prominent ring, the stone shining brilliantly in the sunlight. This time, both John and Aaron tense, and your mind, unwanted, goes back to the video that he'd seen. There's a chance – if they'd caught what you said to Clyde's lackey towards the end. There's a chance that Aaron knows about Matthew. About what he'd done. You can't look at him. Instead, you look across to Derek, who's shifted forward in his chair, his fists tightly balled up on the table in front of him, his brow furrowed and body tense as he looks from the screen, to you, and then to Aaron beside you, before meeting your eyes again. He doesn't have to say it. The way his eyes go from Aaron and then you and back to Aaron, says it all. Fuck. "My personal relationships are not up for discussion," you assert slowly, the feeling of all eyes on you causing your skin to break out with goosebumps. "You don't get to decide what is and isn't relevant here," Clyde rebuts, venom in his voice. "Is this how things are done at Interpol? Because in polite society, we don't simply ambush people." John's tone might be light but his posture spoke to how much he was holding back in making just that small comment. You know, that if you gave the go ahead, he would obliterate Clyde. "Don't worry Mr. Hawthorne," Clyde smirks. "I'm certain over the course of this discussion, we will arrive at the matter of you as well. Pretty sure I saw some your face in the stack as well. Or, is your objection to the fact that you were never anything official – just used and tossed aside when it was convenient?" This bastard. The fury you feel at him talking to John in that way. For him to insinuate that he knew anything about you and John. For him to talk down to John like that. You open your mouth to tell him off, but before you can, you feel the dig of John's fingers at your thigh and you look up to see him shake his head. He knows that you wouldn't let something like that about him simply pass. He's telling you that he knows what you were, and that Clyde – well, Clyde could go fuck himself. John didn't want you tossing your cards down just for him. Hold on to them. You're going to need them. You press your lips together tight and bite your tongue, your hand reaching for his under the table, fingers intertwining with his. He squeezes your hand gently – once, twice, thrice – just how he used to, before letting go. Aaron watches the interaction between you and John, before turning his attention back to Easter, who waits for a beat more, trying to bait you into lashing out, before he moves on. The screen changes once more, to be replaced with a photograph of you with three boys. You're on what appears to be a yacht, the blue ocean spanning out endlessly behind you. You're seated on the shoulders of a tall man with short, dark hair and light brown skin, his hands wrapped around your thighs to hold you steady atop him. Your hair is back to its natural shade and it cascades past your shoulders, hitting the top of your bikini clad breasts, your white bathing suit stark against your sun-kissed skin. Beside the two of you, are two other men – one with darker hair, standing nearly as tall at the first while the other – a stocky blond – sits atop his shoulders. The four of you are grinning, smiles carefree and happy as can be. The kind of loose joy that is really only found amongst college students indulging in spring break a little too much. "You know, Clyde, just because you don't have friends of your own for show and tell, doesn't mean you can use mine." The smartass comment is out of your mouth before you could hold it back and you know you'll pay for it later as Clyde elects to ignore it in the moment. From your left you feel Aaron's eyes on you briefly before darting back to the front. Well, you were definitely going to pay for it in one way at least. "Patrick Kane," Easter's laser points to the stocky blond man, before the screen changes to reveal just a photo of him. "His father is part of the Irish mob and runs their international businesses out of Europe. He himself now owns leadership of the faction out of London." Kane was going to love that he had been part of your indictment with the Bureau. He was sure to get a particular kick out of it, considering the number of times he got in trouble because you and Ricky decided to burst into his classes and stage a kidnapping. But well, it was usually warranted. Impromptu trips to the Hamptons took precedence over Psych 101.

From the corner of your eye you can see Penelope appraising Kane with some interest and you have a feeling you're going to be talking to her about all the boys afterwards. The screen changes again to reveal Ambrose Hastings - Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome himself. However this time, the photo of him is shown only briefly before its replaced with another one that has your breath catching. Hastings is seated with you in his lap, your lips slotted against his, a large hand wrapped around your back, holding you close to him. "Ambrose Hastings and his father own the largest weapons contracts internationally, for those of you who many not know. Just friends, huh? " Clyde's taunt has your eyes flashing with rage. How on earth had he gotten this photograph?! You know for a fact that this wasn't posted anywhere. It's from the trip to Monte Carlo for your twenty first birthday. You're wearing the black dress with the deep slit up one side, a tiara sitting at the crown of your head. Ambrose's large hands splayed across your thigh and his lips keeping yours warm, as was your pattern anytime you and Matthew were on a break. John has come to the same realization as you. This is not a photograph that you or anyone in the group would've leaked. Which meant that Easter had acquired it himself. There's a grim set to his shoulders as the two of you exchange a look, before he speaks. "What did you do, pay off the waitstaff for that?" When Clyde doesn't say anything in response, you have your answer. He had. He had set up someone on the yacht to get anything they could on you. The feeling of revulsion that crawls through you at that realization – he had been watching you, even in spaces where you should have had the assumption of privacy. "This is a cheap ploy," John continues, now that he had the confirmation on exactly how far Easter had gone to gather his so-called evidence against you. "You think you can slander Agent L/N and make inappropriate digs to provoke Agent Hotchner. However all you've accomplished thus far is displaying your inappropriate invasion of privacy into the life of a young woman, which would normally be grounds for a harassment suit." The barely veiled threat is in John's words. If Clyde doesn't have anything real to share, and soon, he will bury him. Before Clyde has a chance to say anything more, there's a knock at the door, and Gladys peaks her head in to interrupt. "Excuse me," she starts, her hand against the door to hold it ajar ever so slightly, "There is a call from Director Richards." "See if I can return the call later today," McKinney tells her quickly, before turning back to the table to continue the discussion. "Actually sir, the call is for Agent L/N," she clarifies, her eyes meeting McKinney's firmly before shifting over to you. You can feel the sharpness of McKinney's gaze on you as he wonders why Richards is calling you directly. With a quick look around, you stand with a nod towards Gladys. "I'll take it outside, thank you." With that, you quickly walk around the table and out the door, following her to McKinney's office, where she's routed the call for you. In the wake of your departure, the room is quiet. John turns to Aaron, one eyebrow raised in question. "Director Richards, as in – ?" Aaron looks quickly towards McKinney, whose eyes are fixed on the door where you'd left, before he nods at John in confirmation. Director Richards, as in, the director of the CIA, had called and asked for you personally. *------------* You're gone for ten minutes which might as well have been an hour, for as long as it stretched out. Easter tried to engage McKinney into a side conversation twice, before giving up and sulking at the front. Prentiss and JJ's eyes flit from the door, to Easter, and then one another, the two of them engaged in a silent conversation he wasn't privy to. On his right, Aaron can see John and Garcia engaged in a hushed conversation as she types away at her laptop, seemingly looking up something for him. Aaron meets Rossi and Morgan's eyes, both of them carrying the same question that was in McKinney's stalwart gaze that had locked on the door you'd left through and not wavered in the ten minutes since. Why on earth was the director of the CIA calling you right now? How did he even know you? Despite your offer from the CIA, Aaron can hardly imagine that the Director himself would be involved, so even that kernel of knowledge that he has over the others doesn't offer any clarity in the moment. At just past ten minutes, you can be seen making your way back, quickly bypassing the two agents still standing guard, one of them opening the door to let you in. You're met with McKinney's pointed look as soon as you enter, demanding some sort of explanation. You clear your throat and offer a polite smile. "Both Agents Novak and Cavanaugh are recovering well," you reveal, standing demurely in front of Director McKinney, who eyes you with a guarded look, no doubt simmering at the notion of one of his peers deigning to circumvent him and go directly to one of his agents. "Director Richards asked that I pass on his gratitude for the Bureau's role in the rescue and recovery of his agents. He will be reaching out to you again, later, in order to thank you properly." McKinney nods slowly, giving you permission to return to your seat, despite knowing that that had hardly been everything Richards had spoken to you about. A thank you did not take ten minutes. A mere thank you, would not have gone to you directly. Not if you didn't have some sort of personal relationship with Richards that he wasn't privy to. There is a palpable shift in the room as you reclaim your seat, making a show of taking your time to settle back in properly, leaning forward to grab a bottle of water from the center of the table and then unhurriedly opening it, taking a delicate sip, closing it, and then setting it back on the table before shifting in your seat to where your elbow rests on the arm of the chair closest to Aaron. Your posture is slouched, where before you had been a stiff board. As you lean closer to him, deliberately tilting your head to appear that much more near him, Aaron gets a whiff of that smell that is undoubtedly you. You, without a proper shower, but still you. Yes, it is quite obvious that you and Director Richards had spoken far beyond a simple exchange of gratitude. The tides have changed. *------------* Easter attempts to continue as though nothing had transpired, resuming his position at the helm, the image of you and Hastings kissing – which Aaron had carefully avoided looking at for the past ten minutes, because far be it from to judge you on your past, no matter who it was with – replaced by one of the final boy. "Ricky Costello, part of the Costello family. Son of Frank Costello." Easter doesn't bother expanding further. There wasn't an agent on the eastern seaboard that wasn't familiar with the Costello family. So this was the kid who had punched van Doren in the face. Aaron liked this one. He liked him a fair amount more than Hastings, that was for sure. Across the way, he sees Rossi's eyebrows raise with some surprise, a glint of recognition in his eyes. He isn't entirely surprised by that. He'd always known that Rossi had ties with the Italian crime families. Easter clicks another button and a series of surveillance photos replaces Costello. They are all black and white, with the date on the corner indicating that they are all from last year. You're getting into your car, with Costello helping you in, the two of you smiling at one another. "Would you like to explain what you were doing, speaking with Ricky Costello last year? This was after you started working on Atlantis." You remain nonchalant, taking another sip of the hot chocolate that was bound to be cold by now, but you'd never deny yourself chocolate in any form. You casually smirk up at Easter's question, answering it only with a shrug. "Were you giving Costello information regarding Atlantis?" Easter probes, his frustration with your changed demeanor highly evident. He had preferred when you were at least somewhat taking this seriously. "Is a connection with the Costello family all it takes to accuse someone of treason nowadays?" you drawl, eyeing Easter from behind the rim of your mug, before leaning forward and setting it down on the table. "In that case, there might be some other people you want to have a talk with." Aaron is fully expecting you to be hinting at Rossi with that line, though why you'd throw him under the bus was a mystery. However, he watches as you stare resolutely ahead. Except, you aren't looking at Easter. You definitely aren't looking at Rossi. No, you're looking at McKinney. McKinney who, if Aaron isn't mistaken, looks just the slightest bit uncomfortable in the wake of your statement. McKinney who shifts in his chair ever so slightly, his eyes darting down and to the left imperceptibly quickly – something that might have gone unnoticed otherwise, but unfortunately for him, he happened to be seated in a room full of profilers. Huh. "Let's move on, shall we," McKinney instructs Easter, avoiding your eyes and everyone else's in the room. Easter's mouth falls open in disbelief at the turn of events. Your presence, which you'd kept buttoned up for the first half of this meeting, now permeated the room, and Aaron is reminded all over again of your interview. How he had initially sat back, waiting for you to stumble. How you'd gone one by one, getting to or through to each of them. How you'd called out even his bluff. You were commanding, charming, and serene all at once, and he'd marveled at how one person could possibly embody all those things at the same time. "You shot me!" Easter accuses, grasping for something, provoked by your calm attitude, and believing that to be his hole in one. The one thing that could not be denied. His one piece of evidence against you that couldn't be brushed aside, threatened away, or dismissed. "Yes, you got me there," you chuckle lightly, and Aaron almost feels bad for Easter. Almost. Across the way, Morgan has a smirk on his face that likely matches his own. You shift forward, placing your hands on the table in front of you, your eyes trained critically on Easter and Easter alone. "I shot you twice, actually. Once, two centimeters above the center of the heart and another to the left, one centimeter below the fifth rib. Both shots take advantage of the portions of the vest designed to be thickest and also are far enough away from any major arteries to avoid you bleeding out to death in the event that the vest isn't enough. Even if both shots had made it to their destination, you would have had at least thirty five to forty minutes, at minimum, before you were in any real danger of not recovering. If you don't believe me, I suggest you ask a doctor." With that, you lean back once more, giving both Easter and McKinney the opportunity to offer a response in opposition. After a few seconds, when neither one is forthcoming, you sit up straight once more. "Why were you dismissed from Project Olympus?" *------------* You watch, your eyes directly on Clyde as he falters under your gaze. You can tell that your question had caught McKinney by surprise as well. McKinney, who had looked at you differently ever since the call with Richards. You would have to thank the man later. His call could not have come at a more opportune time. With Clyde unable to answer the question, you decide to answer it for him. "Is it because you wasted resources and defied orders by continuing surveillance on me because you were convinced that I had something to do with my father's business?"

“How would you know that?” McKinney asks, though his eyes say that he already knows. He is merely confirming in order to have your answer on the record.

“Director Richards was on Olympus as well,” you answer. “He was highly surprised when he learned that Agent Easter was overseeing the investigation into the Atlantis disappearances.”

McKinney nods, having expected that, you’re sure. You already know he’s trying his best to piece together what little he could about your conversation with Richards. No doubt, it’s something he’ll question you about in more detail when it’s just the two of you later on.

You both turn back to Clyde expectantly, still waiting for him to chime in with an explanation. Director Richards’ word would be taken at face value and McKinney wouldn’t question it. Not for this. "Anyone who paid the slightest bit of attention – every single person on that assignment – they should've seen what I saw,” Clyde seethed, pushing up from the table and standing up, his body trembling with caged fury. “He took you along to meetings. He introduced you to his contacts. You were being initiated, tested. Of course I kept an eye on you! It would have been negligent not to." You shake your head in disbelief at exactly how unhinged he sounded. How incensed. This wasn’t a man who had proof. This was a man who had believed his theory for a long time, and was unwilling to part ways with it. "And what did you see?" you ask, crossing your arms across your chest. "I saw a girl who was making connections - with everyone. Sons of the mob, the mafia, and the cartels. Saudi princes and daughters of Russian tycoons. Up and coming Chinese heiresses. If there was a single person with even the slightest of pull on that campus, they knew your name. They considered you a friend. You're telling me that's the move of someone who wasn't establishing themselves to take over the reins?" "What can I say? I'm a friendly person."

It wasn’t clear to just you. It was clear to everyone that Clyde didn’t have proof. None to speak of. "If you'd spent even half as much time and effort into watching her father that you did into watching her, maybe you would have learned enough about him to know that he would have never made her his plant in the Bureau. A plant is someone dispensable. You don't put what is potentially your best asset in the hands of the enemy. Far too much danger of them turning," John declared, his face betraying how astonished he felt at Clyde’s obsession with you. Of all people, he’s had some experience in men who become unhealthily attached to you. It never ends well for them. "Not to mention the fact that you cannot possibly think very highly of me,” you continue from where John left off. “If you think my grand plan was to bide my time within a faction of the Bureau with minimal ties to core operations, wait four years to enter into a relationship with a Unit Chief, compared to whom, my clearance level is actually significantly higher,” you state, before turning to place a hand on Aaron’s arm. “No offense honey.”

Aaron barely conceals his amused snort at that, the smirk that had taken residence on his face ever since you flipped the tables on Easter, firmly in place. "That's true,” John agrees, and you can tell that he’s enjoying the return to your typical repartee that the two of you have always had. The one that most outsiders find intimidating to keep up with. “If you'd wanted to infiltrate the Bureau, that role in White Collar was much better suited.” "You’re right,” you nod. “And it would've taken me only a couple of months to get everything I need. Agent Barton would've been an easy mark. I'm just his type."

Aaron watches as Easter appears to regroup and the Director looks deep in thought as he works his way through the quick back and forth performance you and John had put forward. From the corner of his eye, he sees John lean in to you, hiding his mouth behind his hand as he whispers something into your ear. You lean back sharply, your face the picture of disbelief as you think through whatever it was that he’d said to you.

Clearing your throat, you nod towards Garcia. “Agent Garcia, could you please pull up the first case I ever logged? It would have been during the third month that I was a trainee.”

From the front of the room both McKinney and Easter’ brows furrow, along with the rest of theirs, wondering what you were getting at. It’s Morgan who voices what they were all thinking. “What does your first case logged have to do with this?”

Your eyes flit from Morgan to Easter, barely stopping at McKinney, before you wordlessly direct Garcia to proceed with pulling up the case. “My third month while I was a trainee, someone broke into my apartment. Nothing was taken, but I could tell that someone had been there, so I dusted for prints and logged it. I ran it against the system but it didn’t turn up with anything then. The thing is, trainees only have access to the domestic IAFIS database.”

At that, your eyes flash dangerously towards Easter and the implication of what you’re saying has Aaron’s hackles raised. Easter sits straighter, just the slightest bit tense as Garcia pulls up the case and then runs them against Easter’s fingerprints.

The blaring negative result for a match has your jaw tightening and Easter sporting a smug smile that Aaron truly can’t wait to have wiped off of his face forever.

You take a breath, knowing that running it against the entire system would take far too long. Eyes narrowed, you look towards Easter once more. “You don’t really like getting your hands dirty yourself, do you?” you muse, your voice low and contemplative as you appraise Easter’s reaction to your conjecture.

“Garcia, compare the prints against Eli Black, Harold Woodshire, and Stefan Dupont.”

Garcia starts to pull up the prints of the Interpol agents you’d provided, when McKinney jumps in. “Agent L/N, don’t you think you are perhaps being just a little paranoid?”

Garcia looks between you and McKinney, the two of you engaged in a standoff that he was unlikely to win.

“Run it,” you instruct, knowing that Garcia’s loyalty to you far outweighed anything that McKinney could say to her in that moment.

The entire room waits with bated breath as Garcia runs the prints against the names provided. It’s tense as Easter’s eyes flit nervously between the screen that Garcia had commandeered away from him, and both you and McKinney, still looking at one another, your gaze staunchly defiant.

The system blares, stopping at Eli Black – a 100% match. They all look to the screen and Aaron’s stomach clenches as they look at the face of the man who had beaten you and strapped you down in the video, his eyes just as pale and emotionless in his Interpol I.D. photograph as they’d been when he’d put his hands on you.

There’s a tight smile on your face, your eyes shifting away from McKinney’s without comment, fixed on Easter once more. “I didn’t actually go to law school, but we happen to have two lawyers in the room right now. Remind me,” you say, a quirk of your eyebrow in John’s direction, “what’s the fourth amendment, again?”

John has a dark smirk on his face as he realizes you’re finally giving him full permission to do whatever he wants to, and in that moment, Aaron can quite easily see how he had the highest conviction rate in the entire New York state D.A.’s office. “The Fourth Amendment strictly prohibits unreasonable searches and seizures,” he states, the forced calm of his voice just barely masking the thundering rage that was coming off of him in waves, his chest expanding as he sits at his full height, towering over the table.

“How much you want to bet, that wasn’t a sanctioned search?” you quip, mirroring his expression, your tone hinting that this wasn’t the first time the two of you had paired up to dress someone down in prime fashion.

“Easy enough to find out. All we’d have to do is pull up the logs on warrants,” John replies, his eyes locked on Easter, daring him to say or do anything to further paint himself into a corner.

There’s a beat while Clyde seems to process everything that had just happened. Absorb how the script had been flipped around on him. McKinney was looking at him with a great deal of concern and you know that Clyde can see it on the Director’s face as well – any credibility that Clyde might have had with him was quickly dissipating. The combination of that video and everything that had come forward, along with the lack of concrete proof and now this, had McKinney finally arriving at a decision regarding the validity of Clyde’s accusation. "Then why?” Clyde asks, sounding as though he couldn’t quite believe anything that had transpired. “Why would someone of your pedigree and connections ever deign to be a federal agent?”

You close your eyes for a moment, having put together the final piece that had always plagued you. You don’t have to guess at whether or not you’re right. You know you are.

“Because you knew. People like you, knew. You knew that he murdered Julian and you chose to look the other way. Pinning him for killing some kid didn’t matter to you. Not when you could potentially be the people to bring down him and his empire. Why settle? Because you knew, and the second he decided to turn on me, you’d let him get away with that too. Because I refused to be yet another casualty of my father’s greed.”

You can feel the tears glistening in your eyes and you’re quick to blink them away while Aaron finds your hand on the table and grasps it firmly in his, his thumb caressing your palm comfortingly. He hadn't known that you'd truly feared this level of retaliation from your father, and your desperation to get onto the team takes on a new layer of meaning for him.

You clear your throat before continuing, taking stock of every single person seated around that table that was here because of you. JJ, smiling at you kindly while throwing her dirtiest looks at Clyde. Spencer, who had chimed in repeatedly and who you knew was about to pester you about Math 55’s coursework endlessly afterwards – after all, there had been a reason you’d never told him about it. Rossi, smugly claiming you as his own, his gaze proud as can be. Penelope, who was still wordlessly apologizing for bringing up that video earlier, and who you knew was going to ruin those guys’ lives because of what they had done to you. Emily, who was glaring daggers at Clyde and likely planning out the various ways she could torture him right back. Derek, who would have your back in any situation, any circumstance, no matter what. Aaron, whose hand was warm against yours and who had let you handle this yourself because that was your guys’ agreement. At work, you were your own person and he would allow you to navigate and deal with everything by yourself, until you asked for his help. Aaron, who would go out of his way to do anything for you at home, who would go to the ends of the earth to make sure you were alright.

“Because, you’ve seen what this team does in order to protect our own. Joining them ensured that I couldn’t just disappear.”

*------------* There’s a long silence, during which all you’re really aware of is the seconds hand on the clock ticking away. Clyde isn’t looking at anyone. McKinney is switching between looking at you and Clyde both and you can feel him assessing everything said and shown. Weighing the proof or lack thereof. Thinking through the implications of Richards offering up the information on Clyde’s dismissal to you personally.

Beside you, Aaron has shifted and dragged your hand back with his, placing both in his lap so he can hold onto yours tighter. You can’t help but feel your heart tremble ever so much as his thumb drags itself back and forth over your palm, paying extra special attention to the deep indentations that have been left over the past couple of days, and especially the past half hour.

When you’d said that this team protects its own, what you’d really meant was Aaron. Of course the rest of them would protect you too, in a heartbeat. But Aaron protects differently. He does what needs to be done. Not what you ask him to do. Maybe at the time, you’d resented him for lying about Emily’s death. Over time, you’ve come to realize that he had done whatever needed to be done to make sure that she would be safe. He’d known the team would hate him for it and he’d done it anyways, because who cared if you were upset with him or not talking to him as long as it also meant that Emily was safe and alive.

To your other side, John has shifted so he’s leaning closer to you, his elbow on the arm of your chair, and you know that he – out of them all – had known how truly afraid you’d been in New York. How you’d lived in constant fear of your father finding out what you and him were doing and turning the full brunt of his fury towards you. You wouldn’t have survived that. Not then.

After a few more minutes, McKinney stands, and you know he’s arrived at a decision. “There remains the matter of the actual mole,” he states, bypassing any discussion on anything you or Clyde had said. With that one statement, he was declaring your innocence while electing to ignore everything else. You shouldn’t have expected any different from him. For him, all that mattered was ensuring the sanctity of the Bureau.

You squeeze Aaron’s hand before your hand away, back to the table, and with a nod at McKinney, turn to Clyde. “Where’s my locket?”

However, instead of Clyde, it’s Aaron who answers you. “I have it.”

You turn back towards him and watch as he shifts to bring out the chain and pendant from the inside pocket of his jacket and set it on the table in front of you gently.

Why Aaron had the locket instead of Clyde, was something you’d have to ask him later. For the time being, you focused on answering the Director’s question.

“When I was with Jansen, he revealed some details regarding the mole which were enough for me to create a preliminary profile,” you divulge, reaching and picking up the locket. “Rossi, can I see your wallet?”

Rossi gives you an odd look, but leans into his pants pocket and retrieves the wallet, tossing it to you from across the table.

You flip it open and search though, looking for the thick metal card, while everyone’s eyes are on you. When you find what you’re looking for, you fish it out.

“I just need to double check a couple of details, but if I’m not mistaken, I think I know who in the Bureau is the mole,” you say, as you latch the metal card into the bottom two prongs of the pendant, and with some leverage from the table, manage to flip them open.

Aaron looks at you and you mutter a quick Sorry, honey to him, before sliding the stone out of the setting to reveal a black memory card behind it.

Everyone watches as the memory card is taken out of the base of the pendant, having sat there behind the deep emerald stone, unbeknownst to them all. You slide it over to Garcia, who eagerly takes it off your hand.

“When we started looking at everyone on the project team for Atlantis,” you start again while Garcia is working on getting the information in the chip loaded to her computer, “we tracked financial statements primarily, to see who was receiving or had funds available to them which they shouldn’t. Additionally, I did an assessment of assets – mostly real estate and artwork – as that is often used to hide illegal assets. Most people checked out, others had some assets that were questionable but nothing that rose to the threshold that we were using for our assessment. However, during my conversation with Jansen, he told me that the mole in the Bureau was effective because he didn’t take monetary payment.”

“What kind of payment does he take?” McKinney asks curiously, now leaning in across the table. He’d seemed mildly taken aback when you’d broken the pendant to take out the microchip you’d hidden, and now that you were being forthcoming about your suspicions, seemed more than willing to listen to what you had to say.

Clyde sat sulking at the front.

You clear your throat, a grimace taking form as you recall your conversation with Jansen. “Apparently, little girls make for compelling payment.”

JJ has a sharp inhale and Garcia momentarily stops typing as your words sink in.

“Once Agent Garcia is able to fully read in the data, we can reassess the real estate holdings. We’ll be looking for property which could be used to easily conceal the presence of children.”

When Jansen had told you how his plant was paid, you’d had the bone chilling realization that your late night excursions over a month and a half ago had not been a mere coincidence. What you’d feared had come to fruition. The smell of smoke still lingers in your brain.

“Who do you think it is?” Rossi asks as you toss his wallet back to him.

“Alexander Pierce. He’s the only one that fits the profile of a child molester.”

McKinney appears beyond shocked. Pierce was at the level directly below him. He’s the favorite to take the reins of the entire Bureau in the upcoming decade. They’ve worked together for years and are at least friendly. Yet, he doesn’t question you. He doesn’t tell you that you might be wrong. Instead, he turns resolutely towards Rossi.

“Dave, due to the changed circumstances, I ask that you oversee the investigation and if warranted, subsequent arrest of Agent Pierce.”

Rossi nods, so McKinney continues as he sweeps up his files from the table and stands, buttoning his jacket as he does, effectively drawing your indictment to a close.

“Agent Easter, I will be speaking with the Interpol Director regarding your actions and composure on this assignment. I believe the three of us will have much to discuss together. Agent L/N, you have the entirety of the BAU, with Agent Rossi, to assist you in closing this out. Ideally, the two of us will sit down on Monday and discuss your role in all of this as well, beginning with the disclosure of classified information to outside parties without requisite clearance.”

You sigh internally, squeezing Aaron’s hand once more as he opens his mouth to likely speak up against McKinney still trying to read you the riot act. You’d expected as much. He wasn’t the type to let that slide – especially not with you rubbing his nose in Richards calling you directly.

"Yes sir," you nod.

Having said all he had to say, all of you watch as McKinney takes his leave with a sweep of the room, the door shutting behind him.

*------------*

In McKinney’s wake, everyone looks at Easter, who appears incredibly uncomfortable and looked to be assessing whether or not he was meant to stay. He seemed to have reached a conclusion, as he stands and makes his way towards the door.

“You know,” you speak up as Easter approaches the door, and Aaron watches as you break the man down with your gaze alone. “For someone who thinks I’m capable of any number of atrocious things, you sure didn’t seem to have a problem with pissing me off.”

Your words are said with a casual overtone as you remain seated, the perfect air of ease about you, designed to draw a rise out of Easter, who had one hand on the doorknob, having turned around at the sound of your voice.

At your words, he scoffs. “What is that supposed to be? A threat?” He raises an eyebrow at you and tilts back into his quietly assured self.

Your lips purse ever so slightly and your eyes flash, before your mouth widens into a smile. The kind of smile that would have grown men running for the hills. “No. That wasn’t a threat,” you clarify, shifting to sit up straight once again. “This is. You come near me or mine again, and you will find out exactly how much I learned from my father.”

Easter looks like he’s ready to dismiss your threats, rolling his eyes and turning around.

“Передай от меня привет Даниэлю.”

He turns sharply, his face paling at whatever you’d said to him. His eyes search yours for any doubt, any hesitation. He appears to have seen the staunch truth in them, as he only swallows, his Adam’s apple protruding, and if Aaron wasn’t mistaken there was a slight tremor in his hand as he once again opens the door, and this time, manages to exit the room.

You close your eyes, your shoulder slumping, a deep sigh workings its way through your body. When you open them, all eyes are on you.

“Pen, once the files are available, you’ll want to start with Pierce’s properties in the countryside,” you instruct softly. “Anderson is already watching him,” your eyes cut to Aaron and he realizes who that phone call you’d made earlier had been to. You had asked Anderson to go and watch Pierce while you dealt with Easter and McKinney, knowing you needed to reestablish your credibility with the Director before you could make any accusations of your own.

Garcia nods and the rest of them remain silent as you turn to Rossi. “Can I have twenty minutes?” you ask, the fullness of your voice hinting at just how exhausted you must be.

At Rossi’s nod, you push up from the table, and with a squeeze to John’s shoulder, make your way out of the room with Aaron at your heels. He knew to go with you. You didn’t have to ask. Not with him.

*------------*

As the team watches you and Hotch leave, Morgan turns to Emily, eyebrow raised. “That was Russian, wasn’t it?”

She nods, however Hawthorne also agrees with a quiet Yes.

At that, her eyebrows raised at him in some surprise. He was a New York State District Attorney. Language skills weren’t exactly a part of the job description. “You know Russian,” she asks, the lilt in her voice hinting at her surprise.

He chuckles, a smirk on his face as he looks up at her with those ocean blue eyes, amusement dancing in them. “Who do you think taught her?” All at once, Emily can entirely see how you and him had once worked so very well together. It had been clear since the moment they'd entered the room, Hawthorne wrapping you up in his arms. There was a quiet electricity to your interactions with him – a palpable connection which easily transcended everything else. There was a casual ease to your demeanor with Hawthorne that you and Hotch rarely allowed yourselves while at work, and Emily has to once again admire how well Hotch had maintained himself throughout the entirety of the meeting. He'd allowed you and Hawthorne the lead in retaliation against Clyde, knowing that drawing any additional attention to you and him wouldn't help your case. He'd bided his time, biting back any number of choice words he must've had for Clyde, letting you take the reins on it all, because it was your meeting, your case, your indictment. Anything she might have believed about Hotch when it came to him being controlling and overbearing had fallen apart, having witnessed exactly how well he took a backseat when it was important for you that he do so.

“So what did she say to Easter,” Rossi asks, drawing both of their attention away from one another.

Emily takes it upon herself, even though she had no idea what your words had actually meant. “Say hello to Daniel for me.”

“Who’s Daniel?” Morgan asks, his brow crinkling, gaze fixed on where you’d sat next to Hawthorne.

They both shrug.

“So um,” Garcia starts, shifting everyone’s attention to her as she looks hesitantly between Rossi and Morgan, who raises his appraising look at her next, compelling her to just spit it out.

“When John and I were looking into that other location – the one that burned down with the triple homicide – I saw that the same night, three kids were left outside the Philadelphia precinct. All three were young girls around eight to ten years old and they said they were being held somewhere by bad men.”

At Emily’s prompting, she continues, “The thing is, when asked how they got away, the kids said that they heard some fighting and then some lady came and got them and dropped them off near the police station. All of their descriptions of the person who saved them...they match Y/N.”

There’s a stunned silence before Morgan decides to speak up. “Baby girl, are you saying she took down three guys all by herself, snuck those kids out, and then burned the entire place down without leaving a single strand of DNA or anything else behind?”

Garcia shrugs, an uncertain expression on her face. However, they can all tell that that is exactly what she believes happened. “If anyone could…,” she trails off as they all look at one another before turning to face Rossi.

Rossi sighs, his face torn for a momentarily, before arriving at a decision. “Well, like you said, the Philadelphia police already called it a case of gang violence and shut it down. I don't suppose it is our place to go and create problems where none exist."

At his words, Emily meets Morgan and Hawthorne’s eyes, realizing that perhaps out of everyone in the world outside of herself, Hotch, and Morgan, Hawthorne was the one most likely to understand that you could and would do exactly that, and get away with it.

*------------*

You make your way down the stairs with Aaron at your side. You just needed twenty minutes. Twenty minutes. That was it. Aaron knows not to say anything. You don’t want to talk. Not then.

You make your way down to the locker rooms before you turn and speak. “You mentioned you’d brought my other bag.”

“Yeah, it’s in my locker,” he confirms, watching you with apprehensive, yet loving eyes.

There was no one else in the locker rooms owing to the lateness of the hour. With a quick look around, you begin to take off your shoes, undoing the buckles on the boots and toeing them off, before sliding the pants off of your hips and then quickly removing the sweatshirt along with the rest of your clothing.

Aaron is quick to shuck off his own clothes as you walk into the shower and turn it all the way to the left. He can already see the steam rising off of your skin when he slips in behind you, picking up the shampoo bottle from the ledge in the corner and dumping some out into his hands.

The hot water felt like baptism by fire, but it was the only thing helping you feel clean, as two days worth of dirt and grime slid off of you and swirled its way down the drain. You can feel Aaron behind you as his bare chest rubs against your back when he leans for the shampoo and then works it into suds in your hair, allowing you to simply be.

The slip and slide of his hands, as he takes soap and scrubs against your skin. His large hands gliding against your shoulders and back, down your legs, making sure to get every inch of you clean. You let him. You can feel the exhaustion seeping through you as your mind slips into a fog, leaving you aware only of the heat of the steam, the water, and him.

Once Aaron has ensured that you’re as clean as can be, he shifts so you’re fully under the stream, the last of the shampoo leaving your hair. That’s when you finally feel the weight in the pit of your stomach turn to lead.

You allow that steel trap to open ever so slightly as you lean back against him. The fact that he'd had to see you go through that, had to find out from a video of you being tortured, that you'd been pregnant and lost the baby. It was far too much for him to have gone through on his own. Your heart breaks at the thought of him sitting with the rest of them and watching that. Having them all find out at the same time as him, when he should've been the first and only one to know.

Your tears mingle with the water from the shower, your shoulders shake and your body quakes and slumps, held up by his arms alone, holding you tight across your chest and waist, tight to him as the sobs wrack your body. You can feel his lips against your shoulder as he dips his head down to slot his face against yours. He’s hard and warm and all around you, the only thing standing between you and total collapse.

*------------*

The two of you had gotten dressed slowly, taking far longer than the twenty minutes you’d asked Rossi for. Your eyes are red rimmed and glassy still, your hair falling to your shoulders in damp tendrils as you grasp his hand and the two of you make your way back upstairs using the elevators.

“There’s a chance McKinney still fires me,” you mumble, leaned against him and the back of the Elevator wall both to hold yourself up.

Aaron shakes his head, looking down at you with his warm brown eyes. “He isn’t going to fire you,” he insists, despite not fully believing it himself. He too had caught what McKinney had said to you prior to his departure.

You aren’t appeased by his words, but he hadn’t expected you to be. The elevator continues to climb back up the floors slowly. Right before it reaches its destination, you worm your way away from him and hit the emergency stop button, halting the elevator and plunging it into darkness.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, feeling his way around the elevator until he finds you again.

“If I’m getting fired on Monday,” you whisper, leaning up so your mouth is right against his ear, drawing a shiver through his entire body, “then there’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”

With that, your lips find his, insistent and soft, begging his open with your tongue running along the seam of his mouth. With a moan, he gives in, hands finding your waist and pulling you up further against him. He can feel the smile in your mouth, mixed with everything else – the fear and fury, the regret and pain undercutting everything else.

If this is what you wanted before you were potentially fired – then well, of course he’d give it to you.

*------------*

By the time the two of you make it back to the conference room, the team is well situated, with Rossi and Morgan engaged in conversation while the rest of them crowd around Garcia. John was in the corner, just getting off of a phone call and Reid had managed to find some pretzels it seemed like – or he merely always had them on him – because he was munching away, leading to Aaron becoming incredibly aware that none of them had eaten since that sandwich the day prior. Hell, he wasn’t sure when the last time you’d eaten at all. His eyes must’ve lingered on the pretzels for a while too long, because JJ had leaned into her bag and lobbed a package of chips towards him.

Aware of your return now, the team turns to you and Aaron, with John being the one to break the silence with a soft smile. “Mom says hi” he says quietly, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

Aaron can see the flash of guilt in your eyes. "I'll call her," you promise. When you'd left John, he hadn't been the only one you'd left.

He smiles and nods. "She'd like that."

With a glance around, and with no one else saying anything else, he continues, his smile morphing into a wicked grin. "So, you and Hastings, huh?" His voice teasing in that manner that only truly good old friends can get away with.

"Matthew and I were on a break," you clarify primly, shoving at his arm. His grin remains unchanged, causing your eyes to narrow, before a realization seems to hit you as you groan and slump back into your chair. “Don’t tell me you and Julian had a bet on that too,” you grumble, though Aaron can tell you aren’t really annoyed. You’re merely playing along.

“I won, if you must know,” John grins wider. “Seeing as you’re his next of kin, you owe me twenty.”

You scoff. “This better be written down somewhere. I’m not signing off twenty thousand to you just because you said so.”

Behind John, Aaron can see Morgan and Garcia’s jaws drop as they realize that twenty dollar bets were not the norm in your circles. You played for much higher stakes. Always had.

“Oh you’ll get your proof,” John winks at Prentiss, hinting at some sort of inside joke between the two of them while you and him both settle in, you stealing some chips from the bag in his hands, before swiping the bag entirely with a sweet smile that he was in no condition to refuse, ever.

“Hey,” Prentiss asks, drawing your attention away from John, “who’s Daniel?”

Aaron watches as your face turns dark ever so slightly, your eyes hardening as you meet Prentiss’s gaze, and Aaron realizes that the quietly enunciated Danielyu that he’d caught when you’d spoken to Easter in Russian had meant something more.

“Mr. Have-No-Attachments has a son,” you tell her, your jaw tight.

They’re all quiet as your revelation sinks in. You’d brought up Easter’s son while –

“You threatened his kid?” JJ asks, slight surprise on her face as she looks at you, her eyes flashing with the concern that they all always had. Their children being dragged into danger because of their line of work.

“He threatened mine.” Your retort is quick and to the point and if Aaron was being honest, he really really didn’t care that you’d threatened a child at this moment, because you were right. He had threatened yours.

When no one says anything further, you nod at Rossi and then turn to Garcia. “Let’s get to work.”

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #hotch #hotch x reader #hotch x you #aaron hotch x reader #Criminal Minds #spencer reid #irreverentseries #aaron hotchner x y/n #hotch x y/n

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imagineaworlds · 3 years

Text

I Love You (Part Fifty-Three) -- Aaron Hotchner

Written By: @desperately-bisexual

Request: None.

Warnings: Cursing. Talk of PTSD, hostage situation, shooting, murder, bombing, physical trauma. I’m pretty sure that’s it!

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Greenaway!Reader

Word Count: 7900

Timeline: Season 7 Episodes 24. Right after part fifty-two.

Criminal Minds Discord Server

As the sun began to set, a specialist came back in with my release form for Hotch to fill out while he talked to me about what the next steps for my recovery were. While Hotch worked on the form, we both listened to the endless number of rules I had to follow. They were giving me top notch pain killers to help with the inevitable constant pain I’d feel after the hospital’s morphine would wear off. I had to take two in the morning, two in the afternoon, and two before bed. I wasn’t allowed to take them on an empty stomach, and I wasn’t allowed to have alcohol at all— no cheating. After running us through the medication rules, the doctor handed me a piece of paper he ripped out of his notepad. I read the name, the phone number, and the address on it while he explained that it was the information of the best physical therapist in the state. He told me that if I were ever going to get better, then I needed to see him sooner than later. The longer I waited to seek out the proper help, or the longer I pushed myself without guidance, the higher the chances got of me fucking my back up forever.

“That isn’t to say that you can’t walk around at all,” the doctor backpedaled for a moment. “In fact, you should try walking around every thirty minutes or so. You can go up and down stairs, you can pace around the house, you can go on walks in the park. But no running, jumping, bending, strenuous exercises, bike riding— anything like that. The point is that you can do the bear minimum so that your back can start the healing process. If you ever start to feel the pain again, it means that you need to stop what you’re doing. You need to go lie down, put ice on your back, and relax. The ice will help with the pain and swelling.” The doctor turned to Hotch, “Your job over the next few months, Mr. Hotchner, is to make sure that they’re not pushing themself at all. If you notice that they’re trying to do something that they shouldn’t be doing, you need to stop them. Unfortunately, it’s going to feel like babysitting,” he addressed both of us, “but it’s for the best.”

Hotch’s phone started ringing. He apologized profusely while trying to dig it out of his back pocket. The doctor and I watched as Hotch stood, put the form down on his chair behind him, and hurried out of the room to take the call.

The doctor turned back to me. “Painkillers, rest, ice, walking occasionally. Got it?”

I nodded.

“That was Rossi,” Hotch explained, returning from the hallway. “Will and JJ are getting married at his place tomorrow night, apparently.”

My face brightened. I thought to myself, finally… The two of them had been together forever. I always figured that they would have gotten married before me and Hotch, but they had been holding off for some reason. Despite having Henry and being entirely devoted to one another, it took them forever to finally do it. I mean, the decision probably came with the aftershock of the day they just had, but still. This was great news—news that we needed when everything else seemed so shit.

“I want to go,” I insisted.

Hotch’s attention turned to the doctor. “What do you think?”

The doctor shrugged slightly. “I think it’s fine as long as you keep up with the medication, stay away from the champagne, and don’t attempt to do any splits on the dance floor.”

The three of us chuckled.

----

When we got home, Hotch helped me up the steps to the porch, then hurried to open the door for me. Just as we saw the living room, I caught a glimpse of Jessica and Jack on the couch, watching a movie together. I smiled. Home. I survived all that shit with The Face Cards just to come home, and I had never been more relieved in my life. As we stepped inside, I looked over at Scarlet’s bouncer to see that it was empty. She must have been asleep upstairs already.

“Mom! Dad!” Jack cheered as he pushed himself off the couch and sprinted over to us.

I crouched down as far as I could go and pulled him in for a tight hug, trying to lift him off the ground somewhat so that I could swing him around. I cringed slightly at the pain shooting down my back, but tried to hide it so that none of them could notice. Hotch was watching me like a hawk, though. My change in posture, my wincing face, and the groan that left my throat as I struggled to pick up Jack, all of that was apparent to Hotch. It wasn’t going to be easy trying to convince him that I was alright. Now I understood why he was always so annoyed with me after New York and Foyet.

“Be careful, bud,” Hotch warned. “Mom hurt their back at work today.”

Jack looked at me as I let him sit on my thigh as I stayed crouched. His index finger curled a strand of my hair loosely. “Are you okay?” he asked worriedly.

I nodded. “I’m okay, little man. I promise. How was your day with Aunt Jessica?”

“We went on a bike ride, then we played soccer with Scarlet—”

“Did you win?” I asked.

He nodded. “Of course!”

“Good job, little man.”

“Aunt Jessica took us for ice cream.”

I squinted at her, but she was laughing and hiding behind a pillow in order to avoid my playful glare. I looked back at Jack. “What flavor did you get?”

“Chocolate fudge.”

“Of course you did.” I kissed his cheek and stood up straight as slowly as I could, reaching for Hotch’s help when I felt my back sting again. I whimpered. He stepped closer to me and kissed my temple to comfort me. “Hey, Jack, Henry’s parents are getting married tomorrow. Do you wanna go with us?”

“Do I get to play with Henry?”

“Duh.”

“Yay!” He jumped forward to hug my legs. I was going to take that as a yes, then.

“Did you guys have anything besides ice cream for dinner?” Hotch asked, but it was more directed to Jessica than Jack.

She nodded. “I took them to Olive Garden.”

Hotch ruffled Jack’s hair. “Spoiled kid.” Well, that was what he deserved, considering we got called away for work at the last second on a weekend, as usual. “Why don’t you go upstairs and start getting ready for bed, bud.” Jack released me and immediately started running for the stairs. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth!” He kept running, though, pretending like he didn’t hear his dad. Really spoiled kid. Hotch dug his wallet out and pulled out some money for Jessica. “I’m so sorry again for today—”

“When will the two of you get it?” She laughed while standing up, gathering her things. “It’s okay!” She walked around the couch. “I love spending time with my niece and nephew. It’s not a job. It’s a chance to help them grow up.” She took Hotch’s money, but then quickly stuck it in his back pocket before he could catch her. “No money, no apologies.” She glanced at how I was leaning on Hotch to offset the chronic pain that was fucking killing me. “You okay?”

“Rough day,” I answered.

She threw her arms around me for a gentle hug. “Call me if you need anything else.”

“Thank you, Jess.”

“I’ll see you guys soon.” She parted from me and headed for the door. “No money, Aaron!” She closed the door behind herself.

“That woman’s a saint,” I told Hotch, walking with him through the house. “We don’t deserve her.”

“No, we do not.”

When Hotch and I headed upstairs, he held onto my hand, his other arm wrapped around my waist so that he could keep me steady as we carefully made our way up one step at a time. He was hovering too much. I was completely capable of making it up the freaking stairs myself, yet he wasn’t going anywhere. So, I just gave in. I let him corral me up each step and through the hallway, all the way down to our bedroom where he helped me lay down on the bed. He lifted my feet up slowly.

“Baby,” I whispered, catching his attention. He looked so worried, as if he had done something wrong or hurt me, which he hadn’t. I smirked at him. “I’m okay.”

He huffed and rolled his eyes at me before standing up straight and moving towards the closet to grab a few extra pillows for me. He slid one under my knees, two under my ankles, and he left a third next to me in case I wanted it for something else. When I was drowning in pillows, he hurried back downstairs to make sure that there was ice if I needed it. We were getting an ice machine that just needed cold water to make it run, but that wasn’t going to show up for at least another few days, so he was going to have to run to and from the kitchen every time I was in pain and needed ice on my back.

“Here, baby,” he whispered, helping me adjust so that we could get the icepack under my back. He kissed my temple. “I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He kissed me again, recognizing that I was just being playful. After a moment of standing at my side, Hotch remembered that he had to get my medication around, so he hurried over to the bag on the dresser and started sorting all of the pills. I watched him carefully. I wondered if he was going to actually keep this up for the next few months or if he was going to forget about our deal back at the hospital and just let me back into the field once I was feeling a bit better. Could he really afford to keep an agent benched for months? I mean, we were barely holding on when he was gone in the Middle East and Emily was still… I don’t know… dead? Sure.

“You know, at some point, you’re going to have to realize that I’m not entirely bedridden. I’m going to have to leave the bedroom sooner than later.”

Hotch glanced over his shoulder and glared at me. “I will tie you to the bed, if it’s the only thing that will keep you there.”

“That’s less of a threat than you had intended for it to be,” I teased.

“Ha. Ha,” he said plainly. I chuckled in response. “Take these,” he told me, turning from the dresser to give me my medication. “I’ll get you some water.” He skipped to the bathroom, and I heard the sink run for a bit before he returned and handed me a half-full glass. He sat on the edge of the bed as I popped the pills and chased them down with the water.

“Tada.”

“You’re sure about going to the wedding tomorrow?” he asked, taking the cup back.

I furrowed my brows. “Of course.”

“I’m worried that your back—”

“Aaron, I’m going to be fine.”

“I said that after New York, too.”

“Yeah, but the difference is that I actually believe it.”

He rolled his eyes. “You know it’s my job to worry about you, my love.”

“I know,” I accepted, taking his hand and squeezing it. “I know. But, my love,” I teased back, “I can go to a wedding, and I promise I won’t break. I’ve already agreed to staying out of the field until I’m better, so just let me have this one.”

He huffed at the fact that he wasn’t going to win this argument before getting up to put the glass back in the bathroom, then head to grab our pajamas. He helped me out of my gross, dusty clothes and into his clean, cologne smelling sweatshirt and blue flannel pajama pants. I immediately felt cozy and relaxed. When Hotch tore off his shirt, I could tell that he was considering taking a shower, but he looked so tired, and he seemed desperate to stay at my side.

“It can wait ‘til morning.” He changed into his grey sweatpants then snuck into bed with me. He sighed. “I say we stay here for the rest of our lives.”

I nodded. “I agree.” We reached for each other’s hands, and I tugged to try to kiss his knuckles, but he beat me to it. “Sap.”

“Yup.”

We both stared up at the ceiling. We were silent, both of us just catching our breath, reflecting on the day. I could have lost him again. He could have lost me again. At what point was it going to get too scary and we would finally call it? I wasn’t ready to leave the field yet, and I was sure that he felt the same way, too, but it was something that we had to consider. I mean, we had to retire at some point. Right? We couldn’t do this forever…

----

The following evening was the wedding. Hotch spent the afternoon helping Jack get ready—making sure he actually showered, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and picked out an appropriate outfit. Towards the time when we were about to leave, I caught Hotch kneeling in front of Jack, teaching him how to properly put on a tie. I smirked and continued to spy into the room. I had a bad habit of eavesdropping on them, but who could blame me when those moments weren’t going to last forever? Before we would know it, Jack would be all grown up and heading off for college, and we weren’t going to get any daily memories at all. I had to make them count while I still could.

As for Hotch and I getting ready, I took longer than he did. Considering I was somewhat immobile, I spent most of my time going between getting ready and laying down with an icepack when Hotch wasn’t looking. I was wearing a pant suit, something simple and light. Easy to get on and off. I barely even bothered with makeup because it hurt too much to hold still while trying to get everything perfect, and I just kept my hair out of my face. Nothing too fancy. As for Hotch… I wasn’t sure if he understood that a few years ago, he would have worn a work suit or that brown quarter zip to the wedding, but this time around he was wearing a well fitted all black suit, and all I wanted to do was literally jump him. Every time I saw him walking around wearing just the dress shirt and pants—no jacket yet, I could see his muscles and abs, and I wanted nothing more than to just have him pin me down and fuck me. Fuck. It was weird to think how when I was told to not do something, I suddenly wanted to do it. Specifically, I wanted to do him. I supposed that was just the brat in me, though.

Before we were about to leave, I went to go check on Scarlet in her nursery real quick when I noticed that it was a total mess with all of the toys scattered around. I groaned quietly as I bent over to grab her koala stuffed animal off the floor. It hurt like a total bitch, and there was no good way to go about doing it besides making sure I went slow and easy. As I carefully stood back up, screwing my eyes shut and wincing at the pain on my lower back as I did so, Scarlet cooed in her crib. I tried to smile while holding my back with one hand and her toy in the other. She was staring up at me, waiting for me to pick her up or give her the toy— either way, she would have been content.

“Y/N,” Hotch whispered from the doorway, making me jump in my own skin.

I caught my heart as I turned to glare at him for scaring me. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.”

“Hotch—” I knew what he was going to say. I knew that he was going to give me a talk about how I needed to be more careful than I was being, but I really didn’t want to hear it, not for the hundredth time, at least. I was sick of people telling me what I could and couldn’t do. I could afford to clean up my kid’s room, alright. That wasn’t going to break my back. “It’s fine.”

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but both of us fell into silence when we heard: “Mama” come from Scarlet’s crib. I froze in place, thinking about what could have possibly just happened. Maybe I misheard, or maybe Jack was calling for me from downstairs, or maybe he was watching TV and they said it, or—

“Mama,” I heard it again, snapping my attention to the crib. Scarlet was still smiling— almost giggling, actually— and she was dancing around on her feet. “Mama.”

“Aaron…” I mumbled, too scared to move a muscle, thinking that if I did, she’d stop saying anything. Hotch took careful steps towards me, also trying to not startle her. “Did she—”

He nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered back.

“Mama!” She did a “grabby-grab” gesture with her hands, reaching out for the koala toy that I was still holding.

Finally, a year old, she was finally talking, and of course her first word had to be just for me. Morgan wouldn’t believe it. I mean, statistically speaking—at least, according to Spencer—Scarlet was a late bloomer when it came to walking and talking, but she wasn’t entirely behind the curve either. Just yesterday, I had been thinking about how I couldn’t wait until she would start talking. How the fuck did she know?

I did a little dance, too, before handing her the toy. She fell onto her butt and gave the koala a Superman hug. Hotch and I chuckled at the same time. Mama. Yeah, I’d take that. I kind of wished we got it on camera or something, but I think it was better that it was in the moment and that Hotch and I were both there, taken aback by how shocking it was when it came out of the blue. My perfect lil’ bug… I laughed again.

----

“Uh oh, trouble just walked in!” Morgan cheered from the living room as we walked into Rossi’s house, the door having been left open for all of the guests. Emily and Garcia turned to see who he was talking about, and they all smiled when their gaze met me, Hotch, and Jack. “Where’s my goddaughter?” he inquired, walking over to me.

I rolled my eyes as he kissed my cheek and I hugged him. “Jessica’s watching her.” I turned and hugged Emily. “No more almost dying,” I whispered in her ear. “We need you here.”

She smiled shortly as we parted but didn’t say anything. As I hugged Garcia next, Morgan crouched down to talk to Jack. They were talking about the chocolate fountain that was in the dining room, and the next thing I knew, the two of them were running off together to go take a look at it. Garcia and I laughed before she insisted that she should go keep an eye on Morgan.

I turned to Hotch. “I am not responsible for his sugar high this time. You’re on your own, Agent Hotchner.” He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me to his side. “I should go find Rossi and thank him for inviting us,” I told him quietly as he kissed my neck.

“No alcohol,” he warned.

“Yes, Sir,” I saluted to make my comment look innocent to Emily, though it was anything but innocent to Hotch. After I pecked his lips with a grinning kiss, I snuck out of Hotch’s arms and headed to the backyard so that he and Emily could talk since he said that she was acting off.

As I was wandering around in search for Rossi, I discovered that he was nowhere to be found. Somehow, our host for the evening had completely vanished. I shook my head. Well, I’d find him later, I supposed, and maybe Hotch would be free then to thank him, too. So, for now, I tapped Anderson’s shoulder, catching his attention, and I asked if he had seen Morgan around since I spotted Jack running around in the backyard with Henry, which meant that Morgan had disappeared somewhere.

Anderson pointed me in the direction of one of the rooms on the first floor that was acting as a coat room for the night. I thanked him with a smile. He waved me goodbye before taking his girlfriend Angelica’s hand and leading her outside to go meet everyone. It was so funny to see him with her because they reminded me so much of how Hotch and I used to be when we first started going out, and we were just so naïve, hands all over each other all the time, smiles constantly plastered to our faces, no problems between us yet. Life used to be so simple. Hopefully Anderson and Angelica wouldn’t get as complicated as Hotch and I were.

When I stepped into the temporary coatroom, I found Morgan hiding in the corner, sitting on a leather footstool, drinking a cup of scotch. He spotted me and forced a smile onto his face. “Hey, sunshine.”

“Hey.”

“How are you doing?”

I sighed heavily, taking a seat beside him. “Well, at least you don’t have to worry about me shooting you or Rossi for getting on my ass about not leaving the bank for the hospital the other day.” He furrowed his brows. “I’m leaning more towards shooting Spencer or Hotch are this point.”

Morgan chuckled. “That bad, huh?”

“You have no freakin’ idea. And I can’t even drink it all away because of the painkillers. So. Yay me.” I rolled my eyes.

Morgan didn’t respond, though, which was concerning. I half expected him to back up Hotch and Spencer, or maybe say something snarky about he was glad to be rid of me for a few months until the doctors could clear me again. But nothing. Even his smile faded into the unnatural silence between us.

My eyes pouted as I put a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

He shrugged my touch away, which also wasn’t like him. “Nothing.”

Oh, yeah. Sure. Nothing. Recently, Morgan had a terrible habit of pushing everyone away because he thought that it would somehow protect us, but all it was doing was hurting everyone involved. He knew that he could tell me anything and I would always understand. He knew that I would always stand by his side and back him up, no matter what. So why was he so afraid to open up to me recently? Had I done something to break his trust in me? Was I somehow involved in this secret he was keeping? I just wanted him to give me some kind of answer so that I could stop worrying about him for once.

He sighed when he saw my mind churning. “I can’t tell you what’s going on because it’s not my secret to share. Is that okay?”

I nodded. “If that’s the case, then I won’t pry. But… I’m always here to talk, Derek. Always.” I tried to lighten the mood by joking, “Especially since I can’t go anywhere anymore.”

He chuckled. “Touché.”

Silence settled for a bit as both of our chuckles faded. Now, we were just staring at the wall together. There had to be something more for us to say, something that would lift his spirits. Oh—

“Scar said her first word today,” I admitted, biting back a smile because I knew that it would cheer Morgan up to hear the good news.

Morgan looked up at me, shock mixed with excitement washing over his face. “You’re kidding.”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Who won?”

“I did,” I smiled. He groaned, rolled his eyes, and dug into his back pocket for his wallet. I grinned as he gave me a ten dollar bill reluctantly. “Sucker.”

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding,” someone said from the door. Morgan and I both glanced up guiltily, as if we were two teenagers who got caught smoking pot at prom or something. It was just Hotch, though. Actually, no, that was too nonchalant for referencing him. It was Hotch, yeah, but he did, in fact, look like a stern and disappointed principle who had caught up smoking pot at prom. “I’ve been looking around for you.” He looked directly at Morgan to ask, “Have they been drinking?”

“Nope. They’ve been doing a lot of complaining about not drinking, though.”

Morgan poked my side, laughing at me in a teasing way, skipping towards the door, barely dodging around Hotch in time. He sent me a thumbs up for good luck. I groaned and hit my head against the wall behind me, looking at my husband out the corner of my eye as he took Morgan’s spot beside me.

“If it weren’t for your back, I’d have you over my knee right now for breaking the rules,” Hotch whispered in my ear.

I gulped. The idea sounded so appealing. I wanted nothing more than for life to just get back to how it was. I didn’t want Hotch to be scared to touch me, or to kiss me, hold me, fuck me. The next few months were going to be excruciatingly long without being able to have all of him. I was so fucking pissed.

“Mmm… and what if I were to be good for you right now…” I tried playing with him, sneaking my hand onto his thigh, making an attempt to work my way upwards towards his crotch, but he snatched my hand away. “Please, Sir. Something.”

“You behave, take all of your meds, work on getting better, then I’ll consider it—But only after the doctors say we can.”

“Come on, baby,” I pleaded with a pout. “We don’t need doctors to tell us how to be us…” I tried putting my hand on his thigh again, but he kept me away. “Aaron, I’m not going to break.” I instead moved my hand to his cheek. “I love you, I trust you, and I know that you would never hurt me, and I know my own limits when it comes to—”

“Y/N, stop, please,” he whispered. “Please. I love you, Y/N, and I want to do… I want to be us again, more than ever, but I just want to be 100% sure before we do anything. It’s only been a day. A day, baby girl… You heal fast, I know you do, but not that fast. One wrong move, and you might not ever go back into the field. Sex is nice and all, but it’s not worth it if that’s the price you have to pay.”

I chuckled lightly. “Okay. Fair enough.”

“Hey, you two love birds,” Rossi interrupted, sticking his head into the room, “everyone’s waiting on you two.”

We hurried to follow Rossi out to the backyard where everyone was gathered in front of the priest, Henry, and Will. I slowed when I noticed that it was standing room only. I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to stand through the whole thing without literally wanting to tear my own spine out and throw it across the fucking yard. I looked at Hotch, tugging him back towards me. He searched my eyes with worry, and when it finally dawned on him, the worry intensified, and he neared me to hold me close.

He kissed the top of my head. “I’ll hold onto you. If it gets bad, we’ll quietly excuse ourselves.”

“It’ll be rude,” I whispered.

“Everyone will understand. Come on.”

He continued to lead me to the group, a few of them shuffling around so that they could make room for us. Hotch was standing behind me, his arms under mine, hands on my hips, swaying them barely, almost as if it were some kind of hypnotizing therapy on its own, and he was kissing my neck gently, not passionately enough to leave a hickey, but enough to tell me that he loved me a million times over.

As JJ and Will kissed, Hotch pulled me closer and whispered, “You remember our first kiss as husband and wife?”

I nodded, smiling through the happy tears that drifted down my cheeks. I was just so happy and relived that we were all safe, and that we were a family again. Even though things didn’t go to plan yesterday, at least Will was there, and JJ would never have to know what it would be like to raise Henry without him. Even though I hurt myself, I at least had Hotch and he had me, and we would never have to know what it would be like to live without each other.

Everyone started clapping, which pulled me out of my trance. Hotch let go of me so that he could clap, too, and I turned to look up at him and kiss him as we both smiled and wiped each other’s tears away. He smiled against me, leaning into our kiss. He didn’t recognize what he was doing. He had been so careful with me since the bombing yesterday, and yet, for a moment, he forgot about everything and just kissed me the same way he kissed me the day we got married. And I kissed him back. I didn’t stop until the clapping stopped and he realized what he had done, quickly pulling away from me so that he could make sure that I hadn’t shattered to a million pieces. I hadn’t shattered, but I had certainly melted.

During dinner, I sat between Hotch and Morgan, just across from Spencer and Garcia. We were all eating—the rest of them drinking while I watched—and talking the night away, not even pondering for a second that yesterday we nearly died on multiple occasions. It was like all of the bad had been washed away. There wasn’t a single bad thought at the table, and there wasn’t a single frown on anyone’s face. Was that normal? I mean, our lives had never been normal, so I was pretty sure I forgot what “normal” was, but that kind of felt familiar, like that was how we would be if our jobs weren’t so time and emotionally consuming.

Garcia asked how I was, and I lied, telling everyone that I felt okay, that they were just overreacting yesterday. Spencer, just as he had at the hospital, actually told everyone the truth. I glared at him again. He didn’t recognize what he had done, however, and continued on to insist that he could help Hotch keep an eye on me since he could recognize the silence signs that I was trying to mask my pain in order to not worry everyone. I silently cursed him for being so damn smart. And oblivious. But the last part wasn’t necessarily his fault, especially with all the theories that had been circulating around the office since I first joined.

After we finished eating, Hotch held his hand out and asked if I wanted to dance. I stared at him for a moment. Was he really going to let me move? I mean, I wasn’t going to second guess him vocally, of course, but I couldn’t believe that he was asking. I jumped at the chance, though. I accepted his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. The two of us laughed excitedly as we carefully hurried to the dance floor and he turned me around so that I was facing him and we could start slow dancing.

Hotch was so gentle with me. We were hardly swaying, taking slow, gentle, and small steps in circles. His arm was barely even touching my waist. I rested my cheek against his chest and inhaled his scent. I loved him beyond words. Despite our ups and downs, despite his lies and my hurt feelings over and over again, I couldn’t shake that I loved him. I couldn’t help that all of that bad times just couldn’t compare to all of the good times, which made everything worth it at the end of the day.

“What are we going to do?” Hotch asked, sincerely baffled. I didn’t say anything. “This isn’t like when I left… You could move then, take care of the kids, and Morgan was always around… But now you’re actually hurt, and I’m going to be gone all the time. What… What do we do?”

“Nothing really changes, baby. I can take Jack to school; I can look after Scarlet. And, you know, Jessica will always be around to help, too, if I need. We’ll be fine.”

“You could barely pick up Jack yesterday.”

“In my defense, he’s getting too big to keep picking up.”

“Y/N, come on. I’m serious. You can’t put any stress on your back. That includes picking Jack up, and cleaning up the house, doing laundry, doing dishes— anything. You need to be really careful.”

“I’m fine, Aaron.”

“You couldn’t even bend down to grab Scarlet’s toy from the floor.”

I furrowed my brows at him when I noticed the way his hold on me loosened even more after recalling the memory of me in the nursery only a few hours ago. He wasn’t upset about that. I mean— he was. Obviously, he was. But there was something else stirring in the mind of Aaron Hotchner, and it had to do with his own guilt. That was the only explanation I could account for.

I brushed my hand over his hair. “Baby,” I cooed, waiting until he looked at me, “I’m going to be okay.” I scratched his scalp gently. He slowly melted against my touch, nuzzling into the way it relaxed him whenever I played with his hair. “It’s not your fault. I need you to hear that.”

He froze. “I—”

“Aaron, please, listen to me. It’s not your fault. I yelled at you, and I told you that I wanted to make the choices with SWAT, and you gave in. I made the call to send everyone into the bank, and I was the one who neglected to think that there could be a bomb inside. This isn’t your fault. It’s mine.”

“I wouldn’t have sanctioned an approach if JJ hadn’t compared you to Will.”

My face softened at the realization. I had only thought that he blamed himself, but I didn’t know it for sure, and I hadn’t realized that this was buried so deep. This was far worse than I could have anticipated. “That’s why you’ve been all protective like this.”

I mean, he usually got protective when something changed drastically in our lives. Haley and Scarlet were prime examples. But this was… different. Instead of ordering me to do things that would force me to protect myself, Hotch was coddling me and attending to my every wish. He was trying to make up for what he did. He was trying to apologize to me for something that he had no right blaming himself for; and he was trying to relieve the guilt he felt by catering to me constantly.

Hotch pressed his forehead against mine. “You could have died, Y/N. I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach that it was wrong to make a move like that again so soon, and I should have said something—but when JJ put it into perspective for me by asking what I would have done if it were you in that bank… I knew I had to help her. I had to help Will. And I forgot that it’s my job to protect you—to protect our team. I let my emotions get in the way. I shouldn’t have done that. It goes against everything we believe in at the BAU, and it nearly got you killed.”

“It was my choice, Aaron.” I brought my hand to his face and ran my thumb over his mole on his cheek. “Please, hear that. I made the call to move in with SWAT. It was my decision to push the front doors with you, and it was my decision to stay on site instead of going to the hospital afterwards. You can’t blame yourself.”

“But I do.”

“I know.” I felt a tear hit my thumb, making me pout. “It was an accident, baby.”

“Yeah, but it was an accident that could have killed you.”

I leaned in to kiss him because there was this overwhelming urge in the pit of my stomach to somehow comfort him, yet there weren’t enough words to tell him what I meant, and there wasn’t enough time in the world to hug him for as long as I wanted to—and even if the time existed, my strength to give him a Superman hug was too limited. But I could kiss him. I could press my lips to his until we couldn’t breathe, until he would grab my face and hold me there with him, leaning into me until I wrapped my arms around his neck to hold him there with me. So, I kissed him. I kissed him as hard as I could. We exhaled through our noses, turning our faces to kiss from a different angle while catching our breath. But he didn’t hold me as close as I wanted him to. In fact, he pushed me away somewhat, and I could tell that it was because he was terrified that if he tilted over me at all, it would hurt my back.

My shoulders fell. “Aaron Christopher Hotchner, you are not stupid. You did not make the wrong call. Stop thinking that way before I smack you.”

He chuckled. “I’m trying.”

“Try harder.” I kissed him again, finally feeling his arms snake around the small of my back, giving me the chance to fling my arms around his neck, just like I wanted. I smiled against him.

Someone beside us cleared their throat. We parted to see Morgan standing there, gesturing to ask if he could dance with me. What a way to be a cockblock, am I right? Not that Hotch would have actually fucked me, even if I were on my knees and begging. He made it entirely clear that he wasn’t ready to have sex with me yet, knowing just how bad my back actually was, and he probably wasn’t going to give in for a very long time. I was going to be miserable. Miserable and horny. What was the point of being married to the love of my life if I couldn’t fuck him every chance I had? And then motherfucking Derek Morgan had to come along and ruin the slight chance I had by asking to dance with me. Oh, boy, he was really lucky I loved him.

Hotch was polite about it, though. We smiled, patted Morgan’s shoulder, then stepped away to go dance with Emily since she looked all lonely on her own on the side. Morgan took one of my hands in his, then wrapped his other arm around my waist while I put my free hand on his shoulder. I was staring at him, trying to gauge if he was any better since earlier. He wasn’t.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he insisted before I could say anything. “But thank you for being in my corner, sunshine.” I smiled. “And for always being so damn stubborn, too.”

I laughed. “Only for you.”

“That’s a blatant lie.”

I laughed again. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Can I sneak in a dance?” Emily asked, sneaking up behind me. Morgan and I turned to face her. I saw that she was forcing a smile, and behind that illusion of happiness was a desperation to dance with Morgan, so I nodded and stepped away. “Actually—” Emily started before I could walk away. “I was hoping to dance with you,” she told me. She reached out and grabbed my hand before I could get too far.

I smiled and took her hand. “Okay.”

Morgan didn’t walk away, so we both glared at him slightly as Emily took the lead. She put her right hand on my waist, her left hand clasped tightly with my right hand, and my left hand was on her shoulder. We still glared at Morgan.

“What? Can’t I watch?” he questioned through a chuckle.

I shooed him away until he gave up and went to grab Garcia from her seat. When I looked back at Emily, she was smiling for real this time, which eased my nerves. Despite how happy everyone seemed, there was something off with her. I could tell that she was the secret Morgan was keeping. I wasn’t sure how I knew, but some part of me just put the pieces together, and I supposed I should have attributed it to being a profiler, but I didn’t want to be that stuck up. I just knew. Something told me that she wasn’t entirely okay, and my heart sank.

As Emily looked away from me, almost like she felt too guilty to keep eye contact, I started putting the pieces together. Morgan was as upset that night as he was when he found out Emily “died”. Hotch stayed back to talk to her when we arrived. I didn’t like where this was leading me.

So, I just asked. “You’re leaving again… Aren’t you?”

Emily snapped her attention back to me, her smile falling from her face quickly. But she didn’t deny it. In fact, she didn’t even question it. The look on her face wasn’t confusion over what I was talking about, instead it was about how I knew. So, it was true. I had this feeling boiling in the pit of my stomach that something was wrong with her, and for some reason her leaving the team was the only thing that made sense to me. I didn’t know why. Maybe it was because if I were in her shoes, I would have felt the same way. I couldn’t imagine going through everything she went through; from finding out that Ian Doyle was back, to the fact that he was coming after us in order to make her life hell, in order to being tortured and stabbed by him, then… dying on the way to the hospital. After all of that, she still had the strength to come back when it was safe. But it wasn’t the same. She wasn’t the same. Since coming back, something had been off about her, and I really hadn’t put the pieces together until she went out of her way to come up and ask to dance with me. She knew she was leaving, and she wanted to cherish the moments she had left with us.

“I don’t want to talk about it—” she began.

“Don’t leave. Please.” I didn’t know how I could be more clear and sincere. “Please.”

Her eyes softened. “I’m sorry.” We were silent for a moment. “How did you know?”

“Morgan was being all weird and keeping secrets from me, which was how I knew it had to do with the team. Since Hotch isn’t acting weird, I know he’s not keeping anything from me. The next option was you… and when you asked to dance… I just… I somehow knew.” I shrugged. “Profiling or whatever.”

She laughed. “Yeah. Sure.”

“We need you here. I need you here. Scarlet—”

“I’ll still be around, Y/N, I promise. I just need to do something else. The BAU isn’t what it used to be for me. I think I burned too many bridges when I was away.”

“What are you going to do instead?”

I felt a sob bubbling in my chest, even though I was trying my very hardest to suppress it. I didn’t want to be sad at a wedding. I didn’t want to even think that I would be sad in the future, missing one of my best friends, wondering if she was okay wherever she was, doing whatever it was, doing whoever it was. There was a time when Emily and I… We just clicked. I mean, at first, I was indifferent because she came shortly after Elle left to go travel and do something new with her life that she loved; but once I warmed up to her, we had a flow at work. Morgan and I were together in the field for almost every case, but there were instances when Emily would tag along, and it made sense. The one thing I could vividly remember about her before she left was the time we were working that swinger case and we were in the car together… With anyone else, I think it would have been awkward. But with Emily, I didn’t blink twice. Being stuck in that car with her—though I didn’t recognize it at the time—was actually funny, and I enjoyed little moments like that. If she actually left, I wouldn’t have those anymore. Hell, since she got back in the first place, there was hardly a chance to have little moments like that, and it broke my heart, but I thought that we were going to have a long time to make up for it.

Emily caught a tear running down my cheek with her thumb. Shit, I swore I wouldn’t actually cry. She searched my eyes for a moment, debating on whether or not her next words would force an actual sob out of me; but I was pleading with her for answers. “Clyde Easter called… He wants me to run the London Interpol office.”

I let out a shaky breath. “You’re taking it?”

“Yeah.”

“And it’ll make you happy?”

“I hope so.”

I sighed quietly and nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?” she questioned.

“Yeah. Okay. If it makes you happy, then I can’t tell you not to jump at the opportunity, Em. Once upon a time, you told me that no one else’s opinion matters unless it’s optimistic and helpful. I want my opinion to matter to you. I want you to know that I will always be in your corner, and I will support whatever endeavor it is you choose to seek out because I want the best for you. Because I love you.”

She finally smiled again, almost like she was relieved to hear that from me. “Thank you, Y/N. Truly.” She stopped dancing with me so that she could hug me tightly. “I love you, too.”

And that was how we said goodbye because seeing her off at the airport a few weeks later was just too painful.

-----

criminal minds family: @gorgeousdarkangel @peggy1999 @alex--awesome--22 @oceaneblu @brithedemonspawn @absolutemarveltrash @bshelley322 @rousethemouse @sunshinepower17 @weexinling @pettttyyyc @Braty-angel

#Criminal Minds #criminal minds fanfic #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #aaron hotchner #Aaron Hotch Hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner imagine

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criminalminds4days · 3 years

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Family Matters | Chapter 6: Genius

Hello people!

I have returned!

I am hoping you will enjoy this chapter, as I introduce one of my favorite characters from Criminal Minds (aside from Dr. Spencer Reid). I also hope you will have an amazing week. Love you all!

(Also, please forgive me if I glance over some cases, I am really bad at writing those scenes and I am trying my hardest)

I hope the wait was worth it and you enjoy this chapter!!

Warnings: Swearing, sexual references, violence and murder references, public embarrassment, and very bad jokes!

Word Count: 3.6k

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Tag list: @mcntsee @lets-be-gay-for-the-angel @evelyncade @haylaansmi @paulaern @myfandomlife-blog

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(This gif is not mine)

Chapter 6: Genius

She should have known something was up. Spencer had called her to say that he didn't need a ride to work that day and that he would just meet her there. She just assumed he had a meeting with Hotch or something, but no, the reality was he was hoping to have some alone time with Jennifer Jareau.

How did she know? Well because she was so used to picking him up that despite knowing today would be different, she still stopped by the coffee shop and made her way to work at the same time she used to for the past couple of months. She figured once she reached the parking lot that she might as well get ahead on some paperwork, maybe she could even have time to figure out what she would give him for a gift since she hadn't yet found anything that would have the desired effect she hoped for. As soon as she reached the glass doors, she stopped in her tracks, almost dropping the cups of coffee she had in her hands. There they were. The blonde was reclining on his desk, her eyes never leaving him and their hands linked. He smiled as she spoke, not once acknowledging their environment. She tried to walk away, but she felt trapped in her place. It wasn't until she heard the elevator that she was able to move towards the trash can, dumping one of the coffees. Too late she realized it was hers and not Spencer's, she sighed and decided she would have to suck it and drink the one meant for him.

"No, that alone has been enough sugar for the rest of my life." She said aloud as she dumped the second drink in the trash can. She didn't understand how he could do a whole 32oz of that sugary drink but she applauded him. That was, of course, when she wasn't mad at him for what she assumed to be a hidden relationship with JJ.

There were so many things wrong with that scenario she couldn't begin to phantom which one made her the angriest. Was it the fact that they were friends with Will, who was the blonde's husband and father of her child? Or was it the fact that Spencer was the godfather of said child? Maybe it was that he never even mentioned he had feelings for JJ? Or that he would be capable of having those demonstrations in their office when he knew full well that it was against the rules?

She walked into the office. Now the blonde was sitting at her desk, filing paperwork as if she hadn't been flirting with the man only minutes ago.

"Morning!" She sparked, a bright smile on her face.

"Huh." That was all the girl responded. She made her way to her desk and logged into her computer.

"Hey, stranger." He spoke. "You're here early."

"Is that a crime now?" She answered, unamused.

"No, I just- Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Life is perfect, wouldn't you agree?"

"I don't know about perfect-"

"Spencer, I'm a little busy, can you please be quiet."

He looked so hurt she wondered if she had gone too far. Then again, he was a cheater, so boundaries didn't apply to him. She rolled her eyes at him and continued with her work. She pretended she didn't feel his eyes on her for what must have been ten minutes, and she closed all the gift option tabs she had accumulated in the last month.

Every morning for the past 25 days she had acknowledged how close his birthday was and would ask him what he wanted, but today, just two days before the grand day, she decided maybe getting him a gift was not worth her time.

"Hello, my beautiful soul." Penelope approached her, a cup of coffee in her hand. She leaned in and whispered. "I saw you dropped yours, so I thought I'd bring you another."

"What are you talking about?" She looked around. Emily had arrived and was now working on some documents, Derek had also arrived and was conversing with JJ, and Spencer tried subtly to listen in to their conversation while pretending to work on his case files. "Garcia, do you mind walking with me for a second? I want to run a theory by you."

The mentioned understood and nodded. "Yes, of course, dear." They made their way to the elevators, and Penelope stopped. "I'm sure it's not what you think it is."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"JJ and Reid. They've been best friends since forever ago. There is probably nothing going on. I mean, sure, she liked him a while back but-"

"She, what now?!"

"It was a long time ago! Things are different... I don't think you have anything to worry about, I'm sure he likes you."

"Woah, okay, let us stop for a second." She held her hands up, as she looked around to make sure no one was looking. Anderson waved at them and smiled as he exited the elevator and made his way to the bullpen. They returned the gesture and she waited until he was inside the glass doors to continue. "I hope Spencer doesn't like me because we're just friends. That's not why him and JJ being together makes me upset."

"I'm pretty sure they're not together."

"Did you see what I saw?"

"Well, yes. But that can mean a hundred things."

"One of the possibilities being they're secretly going out."

"Yes... No! Of course not, they would never do that."

"Listen, Pen, I really appreciate the coffee, and I also appreciate you trying to look out for them and me, but honestly you don't need to explain anything to me, as a matter of fact, nobody does. I just hope this doesn't blow up in their faces." She grabbed the drink and returned to the glass doors pushing unsuccessfully her way inside.

"It's a pull, honey." She did as she was told, and the door opened. "Some things never change." She heard the blonde say.

"Love you too Garcia." She spoke with a hint of sarcasm. Once at her desk again, her phone began vibrating. She took it out and looked towards Hotch's office, making sure he didn't see her take a call. "Hello?" She whispered.

"Honey, how have you been? How's Spencer? I know his birthday is coming up!"

"Hello, mom. I'm fine, we're all fine." She whispered into the line. Spencer looked at her as if hoping she would share what was happening, but she simply ignored him. "Wait, how do you know?"

"About his birthday? I checked your calendar."

"How-"

"Well, your phone was unlocked so I simply went through it. It's no big deal. If you don't know what to get him I can give you the keys to the museum I bought him and you can say it's from you."

"You did what?!" She screamed. Her co-workers looked at her and she smiled, deciding this was a conversation that needed to be held outside of her workspace. She walked out of the bullpen and into one of the offices that were empty, closing the door after her. "Please tell me you're joking."

"Of course not. I thought that maybe that would help him see that a future with you is bright. Maybe this is the final push he needs to propose and soon after marriage come kids! Honey, I'm not getting any younger, I need grandkids."

"So you're using a museum as a bribe?"

"No, not a bribe, just encouragement."

"Mother you're gonna go and return that museum, and I don't want to hear another word about it. Do you understand?"

"Would you look at the time, got to go, love you, honey!" With that she hung up the phone, the woman sighing.

She knew she wasn't going to do it and one of those days Spencer would receive the keys to the building. As soon as she sat down, he eyed her with curiosity, hoping she would tell him why she was so worked up. She didn't have to ignore him for long since Aaron Hotchner called them in for a case. There had been several drug addicts who had been murdered recently, all of them seeming to have gotten fed and cleaned before their deaths. The team had to make their way to Albuquerque, New Mexico. As they borded the plain, she basically ran to sit next to Emily, avoiding all contact with Reid or JJ.

"Ok, we need to figure out how the unsub is choosing his victims and what purpose they fulfill, not to mention what role their drastic change in appearance and health play into his fantasy," Hotch said as they gathered in the local police station. "There is another agent here to assist us in this investigation, please meet Agent-"

"Luke Alvez." She interrupted as soon as she recognized him. His hair was still short and his beard had grown out, but it was clear he trimmed it just enough. His brown eyes landed on her and he smiled.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite non-medical doctor."

"I had no idea you were here."

"I was working on another case and thought it might be good to stick around."

"That's right," Aaron spoke, drawing the attention away from the pair and back to him. "Agent Alvez, these are Agents Jareau, Prentiss, Rossi, Morgan, Dr. Reid, and well, you already know the other doctor on our team."

"It's very nice to meet you all." He said, winking at her. She amusingly rolled her eyes and directed her view back to her boss. "Okay, well, JJ and Reid, go to the M.E. and see what more he can give us on their conditions before their deaths. Prentiss, Morgan, and Rossi, go interview the families of the victims, and you two stay here with me."

"Actually, Alvez can go with JJ and I can help set a geographical profile," Spencer said.

"No, I need to speak to agent Alvez." Hotch's tone was clear, it wasn't up for negotiation.

"Alright, let's go JJ." He said reluctantly, but made no intention to leave.

"Meet me in the main office." Hotch said to her and Luke, after which he walked towards said room.

"Great, I just barely saw you again and I'm already being called to the principal's office." He said and she jokingly shoved him and followed the man. After observing said interaction, both JJ and Spencer exited the building.

As soon as they entered, they were instructed to close the door and sit down. "Now, I am thankful for your assistance Agent Alvez, but am I correct to assume providing help is not the only reason for your presence?"

"You are correct."

"Wait, what do you mean? Why are you here Luke?"

"Am I allowed to say it?"

"Yes, after all the decision is hers."

"Who's decision? Mine? Guys I suck at those, this morning I couldn't decide what socks to wear so I put on one of each."

This sparked a laugh from Luke and a smile from Hotch. "It's nothing bad, I promise." The first one said, "my boss simply wants me to try and convince you to transfer to our department."

"Oh, that's an easy answer, no." She shook her head and turned to her team leader, who seemed to have a prideful look. "The BAU is my team and my family. It's my dream job, and I would never leave by choice. Sorry Luke, I really enjoyed working with you, but I can't leave my team."

"I knew that, but I still had to ask."

"Well, now that it has been settled, why don't you two review the files and see if there are any patterns that could lead us to who is responsible for these murders."

"Yes sir." They stood to leave, before Hotch spoke again.

"And agent," he paused as she directed her attention to him. "I'm glad you're staying."

"You had doubts?"

"It comes with a raise in salary."

"Agent Hotchner, you know I don't do it for the money."

He nodded and they both made their way out of the office, leaving Aaron behind. They had made their way to the room the local PD had set up for them before he asked.

"So are you gonna tell me what's going on between you and doctor eyes?"

"Who?"

"Dr. Reid."

"Why did you call him eyes? He's not even wearing his glasses today."

"Because he kept making eyes at you." He said as if it was obvious. "Are you two a thing?"

"Yes, we're friends. And colleagues."

"Mhmm..."

"Since when are you so nosy?" She said as she pulled the case files from the box to begin reviewing them.

"Since there is a possibility of romance in the BAU."

"Why do you care?"

"Are you serious?" He asked, slightly offended. "Your team is the elite team of the FBI; everybody is jealous of you guys or wants to sleep with you. Which is saying a lot since it is not necessarily the best-paid position within the agency.” He pointed out, hinting at the possibility to earn more in his department, when she gave it no importance, he continued. "Anyway, as I was saying, you and your team are like the Kardashians, but for the bureau. Everybody knows about Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotchner, Dr. Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan, Jennifer Jareau, Penelope Garcia, David Rossi, and you, Dr. I-wanted-to-join-the-BAU-and-got-in-almost-instantly-even-though-it's-really-hard."

"What exactly do you know?"

"About you? Only that you were one of the youngest agents to be hired, presided only by Dr. Reid, other than that, there hasn't been much on you, doctor. You know how to keep your life under wraps. You definitely spark the curiosity of the people."

"I don't even want to know how many rules you are all breaking to find out stuff about me and my team, do I?"

"No, not really." She laughed and returned her view to the papers in her hands. "Let's get back to work."

"You never really told me about you and Dr. Reid."

"There is nothing to tell, we're just friends."

"Does he know that?"

"We have some new information from the M.E." Were Spencer's first words. He looked between the two agents in the room, eyebrow raised. For a moment he seemed upset at the scene but soon changed his expression. "He's been impregnating the victims. Multiple times."

"Wait, that makes sense," Luke spoke. "That means there has to be a pattern somewhere, there is no way he's just doing it for the heck of it, if he was, he would dispose of the baby as well, and the woman wouldn't give birth or carry a child more than once."

"You're right, maybe if we can figure out what he is trying to accomplish by making them have his children, we'll find him."

"There are several reasons for someone to want a baby." Spencer said, "there is a black market for babies that yields high monetary compensation, and there is also the possibility this man feels powerful by fathering all these children. If he is keeping them, there is also a possibility we can find him faster, it is not every day your neighbor starts having children all around."

"I am going to tell Hotch about our theories." She said and left the room. She was still upset at Spencer and didn't want to talk or spend time with him more than it was necessary, so she took the opportunity to not be in the same room.

"I'm gonna work on the geographical profile." She heard him say.

A couple of hours later Luke had left to look through possible leads. Spencer and JJ found a child that matched the DNA of one of the victims, leading them to confirm it was hers, further supporting their theory. Now they were looking for other children, and how giving them up for adoption did anything for the unsub.

"I got a geographical comfort zone," Spencer said, he had tried to start a conversation before, but if it wasn't work-related then she wouldn't even look at him. "I have narrowed it down to three possible children, Lisa, Elizabeth, and Amanda."

After hearing those names, Luke's theory came back to mind. "Luke was right." She said as she turned she saw the mentioned entered the station. She waved him down excessively so he would know it was important, once he was inside the room she smiled. "Luke Alvez you are a genius! I want to kiss you right now!" He looked shocked, and a little uncomfortable, "but I won't because we are in a public setting. I have to tell Hotch." She ran out and pulled her phone to call said man.

"I guess you're a genius Alvez," Reid said, with a slight tone of resentment.

"Well, I don't know what I did."

"To me, it seems like I'm the one doing the work," before he could hear a reply his phone began to ring. "Reid." He said as he answered.

"Is Alvez there?"

"Uh, yeah." He placed the phone on speaker.

"Alvez, you were right. The unsub is keeping the boys, that's his end goal. We believe it might have significance to him or his partner."

"He has a partner?"

"There are indications of medications the victims were taking that would allow them to carry the baby to term. Rossi did some digging and the only way they can get access to the medication is through prescription, and they would have to have ample knowledge of the effects they could have."

"That makes sense. What should we look for next?"

"We found two potential subjects, I need the two of you on your way."

"Okay, we'll get ready-" Spencer began speaking.

"Not you Reid, I need you running point with Garcia."

"I'll go get her and we'll be on our way." Alvez comprehended who he meant and walked towards the door.

After the arrest of the man, they made their way back to the station. She was cleaning out the paperwork she had received when she heard her phone ring.

"What's up, Garcia?"

"Please tell me it's all a lie."

"What are you talking about?"

"The offer that agent Alvez came up with."

"How did you know about that?"

"So it is true." She heard some typing from the line. "You can't leave us, don't let what happened between you and Reid make you leave us."

"Garcia, my decision on the matter has nothing to do with that."

"So you've made up your mind? I can't believe it."

"Garcia, please listen to me, you can't tell anyone about this." She was now playing on her emotions, trying to see how far Garcia would go before she actually asked her what her answer was.

"I- I need to go." With that, she hung up.

She sighed and finished her packing, Luke appearing in her sight of view.

"Hey there, doctor."

"Hello, Agent Alvez."

"Is there no way I could make you change your mind?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Will you at least think about it? My bosses might not hate me as much if I left with an 'I'll think about it' rather than a straight-up no." He pleaded.

"Fine, Agent Luke Alvez, I will consider your offer."

"Thank you." He walked inside and helped her finish cleaning up. "And to show my gratitude, I am offering some advice: you can't avoid him forever. I don't know what he did, but he certainly does not deserve to be placed on the sidelines."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." He placed an arm around her and brought her in for a side hug. "I will be anxiously awaiting your answer. Take care agent."

"You too Luke. I missed working with you."

"You could do it every day."

She pushed him slightly and rolled her eyes. He laughed and waved goodbye one more time before exiting the room. She continued working when she felt someone rush in.

"What do you mean you're transferring?" Emily practically yelled. This brought in the attention of the rest of the team who soon enough were cramming the room. "I get it, Alvez is hot, but you can't just leave us because of an attractive man."

"Emily-" she tried to speak.

"Don't Emily me. I get it, really, I do. He's good looking, smart, and single, not to mention that beard, but come on, this is your team, and you can't leave us."

"You can't seriously be thinking of doing that for this guy," Spencer said, his arms crossed, and eyebrows furrowed.

"The kid is right, you re one of the smartest people I've met, you can't make a decision based solely on a man." Morgan added, and soon they were all talking at the same time.

"Can you all please calm down? I never said I was leaving." She tried to hide her smile, knowing full well this wasn't gonna end well, but right now their panicked faces were priceless. "I simply said I would think about it. It does come with a salary increase."

She saw Hotch at the edge of the door, an amused twinkle in his eyes. "The jet is ready; we need to get going." He said and walked away.

She squeezed between her teammates and made her way to the plane. She noticed how everybody kept stealing glances at her as if hoping that would be enough for her to say she was staying. She smiled and closed her eyes, ready for a nap.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer x y/n #Criminal Minds #CM #fanfic

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darkblueboxs · 4 years

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Hold the Line

Read here or on AO3

This was originally for the “foxes reacting to soft andreil” prompt, but I ended up posting a different piece for that.

“What are you doing, Hemmick?” Kevin is so very, very tired, and if there’s one thing the foxes excel at, it’s kicking a man who is already down. “Pick up your damn racquet and get moving.” His words, as usual, fall on deaf ears.

“They don’t even act like a couple,” Nicky says, pouting. Kevin fumbles for the threads of whatever conversation Nicky is holding with himself before looking to the bleachers where Neil and Andrew are sitting. They aren’t speaking, several feet apart and each apparently oblivious to the presence of the other. To the casual observer, they would look like strangers.

Allison joins them at centre-court, fastening the strap of her gloves with her teeth.

“What were you expecting from the monster? Kisses and cuddles at the half-way line?” she says through a mouthful of mitten, leaning on her racquet as she follows Nicky’s gaze.

“I don’t know. I expected something. It’s not like they’ve got anything to hide now.”

Kevin is ten seconds from knocking heads together. “Can we play Exy now? Please?”

“C’mon, Kevin, you gotta think it’s weird too. You spend more time with them than anyone. Give us the scoop. We’ve ruled out hate sex, but it’s gotta be something.” Nicky stops ogling his cousin and his partner to turn pleading eyes on Kevin. Allison quirks an eyebrow expectantly.

“You could settle some bets for us, Kevin. Do they even touch each other?”

Kevin bites back a scathing reply. Allison is relentless where there’s a bet to be won, and Nicky won’t stop whining until he gets some kind of answer. Sometimes, the only way to get the foxes to shut up and play is to give them what they want. Pick your battles, as his mother would have put it.

Kevin rolls his eyes to the ceiling as though it might fall in on him and save him from this conversation. Nicky takes his grimace as a rebuttal.

“C’mon, Kevin. Give us something.”

“Like what?”

“Have you ever seen them…” Nicky waves his hands in the most non-descript gesture imaginable. Kevin, having spent way too much time around Nicky over the years, prepares his most disgusted expression. “…being, like, soft?”

Allison snorts. “Two much steel in the pair of them for soft.”

Nicky looks deeply troubled by the suggestion. “I know they have their… issues, but it’s not like the pair of them are completely broken.” He turns back to Kevin. “Right?”

Kevin looks at Nicky for a long moment. The strange thing is that Nicky and Aaron have known Andrew longer than any of them yet can still be so blind to how Andrew works, and how his relationships to others work by extension. He mulls over his answer, trying to find the right size of crumb that will get them off his back and back on the court without feeling like a violation of his friends’ privacy.

“Maybe their soft doesn’t look the same as yours,” says Kevin at last. “Look harder.”

Their heads swing back to the bench in unison. Neil and Andrew still aren’t talking, but they’re both swinging their legs in unison, toes barely scuffing the floor.

Nicky and Allison turn back to him, but Kevin raps the butt of his stick off the floor, silencing them mid-protest. The court doors fly open, admitting the rest of the team in their usual shambles, and he is saved from further interrogation. He doesn’t miss, however, the evaluating glance Nicky and Allison pass each other, like they’re filing notes away for later.

Neil goes down in the first quarter, and he goes down hard. Kevin is half-way to Neil, who has yet to drag himself up onto his knees, but Andrew beats him to it. Kevin resists the urge to gripe at Andrew’s sudden burst of speed – Andrew is capable of crossing the entire court in seconds flat, yet acts like anything more than snail-pace in goal will kill him – until Kevin sees why he’s moving so quickly.

Neil’s hands are shaking like they’ve had electricity shot through them, and his breathing is not the laboured rhythm of exertion but the panicked hiccups of a panic attack. Kevin knows the signs.

His first thought is of the cameras, the audience, the witnesses – Kevin spent so much of his life under the glare of media flashbulbs that he struggles to think of much else. He knows he lets the worries spill over onto others more than he should, but for Neil it’s different – his future career depends on his perceived stability, and if Neil’s career falls through then the wrath of Ichirou Moriyama will fall upon all of them.

Remembering an old trick they used to use when Andrew was coming down from his meds, Kevin kneels beside them, planting himself between Neil and the nearest camera like a shield. He tugs Neil’s racquet over and pretends to inspect it for damage, ignoring the muted discussion happening inches from his face.

The rest of the foxes catch on quickly, crowding around them with concern that isn’t entirely manufactured. Dan nudges them into a neat circle that cuts the pair off from the gaze of the spectators. The opposing team watches from a distance, stunned by the sudden show of solidarity from a team that had spent most of the preceding hour screaming at each other.

None of the foxes are doing a great job at leaving the pair with their privacy, but there’s only so much they can do when they’re crowded around the pair in close proximity. The alternative is leaving Neil exposed to the world, and if the foxes have proven anything it’s that each of them is willing to put everything on the line to protect their number ten, even if this means going against his wishes from time to time.

It’s clear Neil is still somewhere else. Judging by the glazed look in his eyes, it’s a place Kevin knows far too well.

Andrew snaps his fingers in front of Neil’s face. The action draws a flicker of movement from Neil, half-way to recognition.

“What did he do?” Andrew asks in a low voice. He’s referring to the defensive dealer who knocked Neil down, a six-foot-four mountain of a man with an attitude Kevin has seen matched only within the walls of the nest.

“I’m fine.”

Kevin resists the urge to smack Neil around the back of the head, but only because he doubts he would survive Andrew’s retaliation. There’s an impatient knock against the plexiglass walls as one of the referees urges them on.

“Tell Wymack you want a substitution.”

It really isn’t the time. Kevin is about to say so, but Neil beats him to it. “That isn’t the strategy we agreed on. I’m fine.”

One of the other Foxes snorts. Neil’s eyes flicker up, but Andrew snaps his fingers again, drawing his attention back. “Ask for the sub.” It’s not a tone that leaves room for argument.

Neil lets out a breath. He looks to Kevin. “Can you hold the line?”

There’s still a glassy look to him. It reminds Kevin too much of the night they played the Bearcats, the awful dead look in Neil’s eyes as he tumbled back into the claws of a life he had sacrificed everything to escape.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” says Kevin. Neil grins, not the awful, dead grin of his father but his own. He raises his hand, and the foxes break apart so that Wymack can see the signal.

As Neil’s substitute jogs into place, Kevin flexes his left hand. He’s still a long way off playing full matches with it, but he can do this much. He taps the racquet off the court floor before tossing it to his left, and the crowd goes wild.

The defensive dealer lasts all of three minutes before Andrew’s bombardment of brutally aimed balls from the goal finally knocks his feet out from under him. He leaves the court with a bloody nose and a bloodier scowl, and Andrew sends him off with a wave that would look friendly to anyone who didn’t know him.

The first thing Neil does as they trail into the locker rooms is hand Andrew his water bottle. Andrew takes it, and they stare at each other for a long moment, a silent conversation Kevin has come to recognise as mutual reassurance. I’m here, you’re here, we aren’t going anywhere.

None of the foxes will be too overbearing with concern while Andrew is at Neil’s side, and so that is where he stays the length of the drive home. They share a seat at the back of the bus, and no threats are needed for the foxes to know not to bother them.

Kevin is halfway to a well-earned nap when Nicky and Allison’s heads appear over the back of the row in front of him.

“Did you see what the dealer did to Neil?”

“Does it matter?” He didn’t, although he has some theories. Then again, Neil’s recovery hasn’t exactly been a straight upwards line. The wrong jerk of a racquet in Kevin’s peripheral vision will still make Kevin twitch, and it’s been years since one was turned upon him. He can only guess at the intricacies of Neil’s triggers, but sometimes a trigger can be nothing at all.

“I still say they’re weird.” Allison’s gaze skips the rows of seats to the back, where the tops of Neil and Andrew’s heads are barely visible. “Andrew never touched him the entire time, did you notice?”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Kevin snaps, tired and ready for his nap. “It’s called respecting boundaries. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

Allison holds up her hands like she’s under attack.

“No, he’s right, I think,” says Nicky. “They’re a different kind of soft.”

Maybe there’s hope for him yet.

“Takes one to know one, doesn’t it, Kevin?” Nicky continues, and Kevin wishes he had a racquet in his hands to break over Nicky’s head.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Just because we got distracted by Andrew going full Mamma Bear doesn’t mean I don’t see you getting all defensive over them.”

“Huh,” says Allison, her eyes narrowing. “If you weren’t such a bastard, I would say it was sweet.”

Kevin pulls his hood down over his face. “Go away.”

Snickering, they leave him to sleep.

Kevin stumbles into the kitchen at the ass-crack of dawn, shaking his head in the vain hope that he can throw the nightmares out with sheer force alone. He hadn’t noticed as he rolled out of his bunk that both Neil and Andrew’s were unoccupied, only realising in hindsight when he finds the pair of them sprawled on the beanbags in front of the TV, which throws endless static over their sleeping forms. Kevin wonders if boiling a kettle will wake them – he has no hope of sleeping again unless green tea is involved – but the jerk of Andrew’s head tells Kevin that he’s too late.

He doesn’t bother with an apology, because he knows they’re of little interest to Andrew. He averts his eyes instead as he busies himself in the kitchen.

He knows Andrew and Neil would rather chew glass than make any public display of affection, not out of shame or fear but more because they didn’t feel the need to put themselves on display to satisfy the wants of others. He wonders what it must feel like, not having to perform on demand for the world in the way that Kevin has been trained to his entire life.

That’s why he expects Andrew to shrug Neil off when Kevin shows no sign of leaving, but when he slumps onto the couch a few minutes later with a mug clasped between his hands he’s surprised to see them still wrapped up in each other. Andrew’s eyes meet his for a moment, heavy and unblinking, before they slide shut once again.

The scene before him is what the others would probably call soft. The word isn’t one Kevin is used to having in his vocabulary, but it’s one he has been considering adding with increasing frequency, just to have a way of putting words to the feeling in his chest every time his team crowds around him to celebrate a goal together, or when his father claps him on the shoulder with something akin to pride. Neil and Andrew are a sprawling puddle of loose and tangled limbs across the bean bags, an assortment of empty crisp packets and sweet wrappers nestled at their feet like autumn leaves. They’re turned in towards each other, like they fell asleep mid-staring match, and their hands, while not quite touching, are side-by-side. Respecting each other’s distance but ready to take hold should unknown forces threaten to rip them from each other. The flickering shadows from the television cast Neil’s scars in sharp, black outlines, but they do nothing to detract from how much younger he looks in the pale light, the lines around his eyes smoothed out by sleep. Andrew’s face, on the other hand, is thrown into harsh angles by the contrasting shadows, accentuating the angle of his cheekbones and throwing shadows beneath his eyes. The light is bright enough that the faint freckles across his nose are just visible.

Kevin rips his gaze from them before Andrew can catch him staring and stares instead into the TV static, letting his mind fall into practiced blankness. The next thing he’s aware of is Neil sinking into the couch beside him. The room is brighter, warmer, and the beanbags have long since been abandoned.

“Sleeping upright is bad for your back,” Neil quotes Kevin’s own advice back to him.

“Talking to me this early is bad for your health,” Kevin retorts. “Yet here you are.”

“It’s four in the afternoon!”

Kevin bolts upright with a curse on his lips, but Neil lets out one of his muted snickers and Kevin realises that he’s being screwed with. “Fuck you,” he says, sinking back into the sofa cushions. The wall clock, he notices too late, reads 7:15.

“I’m going on a run. Come with?”

Kevin nods, even if every instinct is telling him to melt into the couch and stay there until noon. It’s just one of many battles he wages against himself on a daily basis.

Neil is waiting for him at the kerb when Kevin stumbles out of Fox Tower ten minutes later in running gear. He’s bouncing in place like the pavement is too hot to stand on, and as soon as Kevin gives the signal he shoots off like a bullet.

Being wildly outmatched has never done anything to quell Kevin’s competitive spirit; he tears after Neil like his life depends on it, even though the light-footed striker is practically over the horizon already.

They break on a park bench just off perimeter road. Joggers, dog-walkers, students and cyclists flash past while the pair inhale their water bottles, chests heaving in sync. There’s a pallor beneath Neil’s sheen of sweat which makes Kevin wonder exactly what he’s running from today.

The answer comes sooner than expected.

“How’s your hand?”

Kevin starts, flexing it automatically even though there’s no real need. Most of the pains are phantom ones that disappear until he’s reminded of his injuries. “It’s fine.”

“That’s my line.”

“It was aching a little by the end of the match, but I spent the whole evening doing Abby’s exercises. I know my limits,” Kevin answers snippily.

“It’s not about your limits. You shouldn’t have been forced to-”

“I wasn’t forced.”

“I mean, I shouldn’t have put you in that position.” Neil’s knuckles whiten as they clench in the fabric of his shorts.

Kevin huffs out a breath of air. He’s always had a one-track mind; he’s under no delusions that his feelings about Exy are anything but abnormal. Total dedication, total obsession, were the demands upon which his survival depended. Still are, but to a lesser extent. He remembers looking Neil in the eye the first day he left his room without a coating of bandages to hide behind and asking can you play? Not because he worried about the team’s chances in upcoming matches – although that was always a worry – but because without Exy, Kevin was nothing. He still can’t help but behave as though it’s the same for everyone else.

But he’s grown in the intervening months, grown enough to understand that while, yes, every match is important, failing to protect a player’s health for the sake of short-term results will only cause more damage in the long term. When he thinks of Riko – an activity he still fights to pull himself back from, another daily battle to add to the pile – he thinks of the pressure crushing down on him, on both of them, to perform in spite of the injuries, physical and mental, the pressure that built and built from year to year, warping Riko beyond recognition and grinding Kevin into the ground. He won’t let himself become the people who made them what they were.

“You were no use to the team in the state you were in,” Kevin says. Neil’s flinch says that this is not news to him. Kevin clears his throat. He isn’t good at this. He’s still learning to be this. Not soft, no, but not so hard either. “The first time I stood on a court after I left the nest… I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t…” Kevin hates this. He hates talking about this, he has enough of it with Bee and Abby. Neil doesn’t need to hear this. Except he does. “This isn’t the sort of problem you fix overnight. Not by training more, not by pushing yourself harder. All that will do is break you.”

Neil is silent for a long moment. “Wesninski,” he says at last, like the word was sticking in his throat. “The player. As we collided, he called me Wesninski, and I just… for a moment, I wasn’t me.”

Kevin closes his eyes. He is still called a raven often enough to understand – perhaps not completely, but close enough – the awful, shrinking sensation of being thrown back into another life with a single word. “It won’t be the last time someone calls you that, Josten. Especially not if word gets out.”

Neil shakes his head. “If people start doubting me-”

“Fucking listen to me, you idiot.” Kevin turns fully to face him. “I’m not telling you to fix the problem immediately. I’m saying we’ll take care of things until you can.”

“We?” Even after all this time, Neil can be so helpless that it hurts.

“You know. The team. Coach. Andrew.”

Neil huffs. “And you.”

“Obviously.”

Neil unclenches his knuckles at last. “Better be careful, Kevin. Next thing you know, they’ll be saying you’re going soft on us.”

Kevin shoves Neil. Not the way Riko used to shove him out of his way if Kevin had the bad luck or poor judgement to be standing in his path. He does it in a way that has Neil grinning, shoving him back playfully as he gets back to his feet.

Neil takes off, calling over his shoulder to challenge Kevin to a race as he does. Kevin cusses him out, but nonetheless takes off after him, chasing the sound of Neil’s laughter all the way home.

Maybe going soft isn’t so bad after all.

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought. Still open to requests!

#andreil #aftg #tfc #kevin day #aftg fic #my fic

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theredhairedmonkey · 4 years

Note

Why does Callum end up using Dark Magic? Was it to save the dragon or save Rayla?

He does Dark Magic to save both the dragon and Rayla in equal measure, with the added bonus that he also does it to shore up his own insecurities.

I’m a sucker for plotlines where a morally upright character does something ethically wrong, and as you can imagine, I think there’s a lot to unpack in this one decision. So, let’s dive into each of these reasons.

1. For the dragon

Once Rayla connects saving the dragon to the “cycle of violence” speech he gave her in S1, Callum agrees with her.

Callum: “You’re right. If we’re really going to change things, we can’t just watch while humans and Xadia keep hurting each other.”

Rayla tells him that, to break the cycle someone has to take a stand. Once he sees the connection between what he told her and what she’s telling him now, he agrees that leaving the dragon behind is wrong.

Callum has always been the kind of character who prioritizes doing the right thing. Rayla noticed that right away:

Rayla: “When we met, he could have had me captured or killed. But he didn’t, because without knowing me or anything about me, he saw past human hatred and did what he knew was right.”

Even before meeting Rayla in 1x02, Callum argues with his stepfather about the coming assassins.

When Harrow describes how there have been wrongs and crimes done on both sides, and that Harrow is responsible for terrible things, Callum doesn’t try to disagree. He doesn’t attempt to justify his stepfather’s actions or try to remain loyal to his side of the conflict. Instead, he says:

This scene helps highlight Callum’s naivete (“You’re the king, you can do anything”) but also his good-naturedness. He’s not taking sides in the conflict or dismisses the hurt that his own kingdom (heck, his own family) had caused Xadia. He understands that some of the people in his life, the ones he cares about the most, have wronged the side sending assassins to kill Harrow. A wrong had been committed, and Callum wants to set it right.

Indeed, after discovering the egg, Callum let what he hoped was the right thing guide his actions. He chained up Claudia to prevent her from attacking Rayla. Callum then confronted Runaan, letting him train an arrow at his head as he had Ez show him the egg.

He then confronted and even threatened Viren, putting himself in the crosshairs of yet another powerful figure (someone Amaya believes “may be the most dangerous human in the world”) while trying set things right.

He risks great personal injury (and perhaps worse!) in doing the right thing.

When all else fails, he’s the one who proposes the group take the egg to Xadia themselves, leaving behind their homes, family, and friends to set things right themselves.

Callum: “It’s up to us now. We have to return this egg. We have to keep it safe and carry it to Xadia.”

And when he needs to, he sacrifices his newfound power to save the Dragon Prince.

All of this helps lay out how Callum prioritizes doing the right thing over almost everything, even what was, at the time, his only source of self-worth. As Rayla says:

“He sacrificed everything so Azymondias could be born.”

When Rayla helps him realize why saving the dragon was the right thing to do, it frustrated him to no end that he felt he couldn’t help, even before knowing Rayla was going down there regardless.

But once he realizes that there is a way he can help.

He immediately bolts for the dragon. After taking Claudia’s spellbook, he looks through it to find the spell that would set dragon free, and then does it.

Callum does the right thing…despite knowing that the way he did it was wrong. And it’s precisely this motivation that Dark!Callum exploits to tempt him to continue using Dark Magic:

Dark!Callum: “You can have unlimited power, and you can choose what to do with that power. You can make a real difference in the world. All you need to do now is accept it.”

And it’s not until Dark!Callum says this that Callum is even remotely tempted.

And once he is tempted, it takes quite an epiphany for him to shake that temptation.

2. For Rayla

@raayllum lays out here how much concern Callum has about Rayla in this scene. But, it can be summed up with this line:

Rayla: “If I don’t come back, you and Ezran can get Zym to Xadia. I believe in you”

In general, Callum will go to extreme lengths to protect those he cares about. He wants to join the expedition against the incredibly dangerous assassins to protect his stepfather. Callum wants to dive after Ezran in freezing cold water, or will pretend to be him to throw an assassin off his trail. He’ll leap off a cliff and master a rare ability on the way down to save the love of his life.

In 2x07, when Callum hears Rayla say, “If I don’t come back,” he’s sent into a panic. He’s lost almost everyone he cares about in his life, and Callum is faced with the very real possibility that he’ll lose her too.

For this and other reasons (more on that below), we see him drawing Rayla. To give himself comfort that she will come back, but also upset that she may not.

So, it’s no wonder, knowing what we know about Callum, that he’s willing to take extreme measures to protect/save her too.

But that still leaves one final reason why he casts that Dark Magic spell…

3. For himself

Callum is his own harshest critic—while he has a good grasp on what the right thing to do is, he regularly questions his ability to do anything at all.

And these doubts are severe, enough to paralyze him or send him off the rails several times.

When he’s prevented from joining Soren’s mission to protect Harrow, Callum blows up at Ezran.

When he drives Rayla away and feels he is unable to save her from her own guilt, he gets angry at himself.

And here too, while Rayla goes off to save the dragon and Callum has been benched, he’s left fuming until breaking his charcoal pen sets him off.

Callum is not the kind of person who gets easily angered, but when he does, it’s almost always because he thinks he’s too helpless to change anything.

His drawings of Rayla help highlight something else besides how much he’s grown to care about her—he has her posing heroically as she leaps into danger because, deep down, Callum wishes he could be that heroic too.

It’s for this reason that he’s so hard on himself. Callum is a capable guy; his artistic talents and photographic memory are amazing. He’s able to improvise and plan rather well, is a good listener, and has an emotional maturity that surpasses many adults.

But in Callum’s mind, none of these things really matter because it wouldn’t help him, in his words:

“Be the heroes who stop all the fighting and save the day.”

As a result, he has a very skewed perception of himself—someone who is utterly useless, who isn’t brave or strong enough to make a difference.

In many ways, this reason is an extension of the first one—Callum is insecure because he knows what the right thing to do is, he just feels he’s too inadequate to do that.

And that pushed him to try Dark Magic. Without a Primal Stone or an Arcanum, Dark Magic was the easy way around all these roadblocks—it lets him do something he was great at (magic) without having to work at (and potentially failing toward) connecting to the Sky Primal.

Dark Magic makes him feel powerful. It makes him feel useful. It makes him feel like he can be a hero.

But it also feels wrong.

So, all three of these motivations are at play here—Callum’s desire to do the right thing, his desire to save Rayla, and his desire to be useful (which in a way is an extension of the first desire).

If you wanted to pick out one of these motivations as the primary reason, it would have to be Callum’s desire to do the right thing (i.e. “to make a real difference in the world.”). Callum is a good-natured kid; he really wants to make things right, and the gap between what he wants to do and what he thinks he can do is where his insecurities come from.

Callum is not tempted to try Dark Magic before because he understands, at least in theory, that it’s wrong. But the above reasons create a moment of weakness where he gives in and decides to use it.

But thankfully, there’s hope that the same thing that turned Callum to use Dark Magic is the same thing that would push him away from it. According to an interview here, Aaron Ehasz says the following about this moment:

“I think that, sometimes, the hero goes into the abyss before they can come out of it. I think he explored something dark, explored something that maybe he wouldn’t feel good about, but he may understand more clearly what he does now and what he’s accomplished having experienced the depths of a different kind of choice. So, I think it’s more about his character and the range of understanding he has. I do think you can’t mess with something like that and not have it stick with you. There’s something about it that will stay with him.”

My takeaway from these lines is that Callum, having tried Dark Magic once, realizes now better than most people why it’s so wrong. Much like how in other great stories (think Luke Skywalker using the Dark Side against Vader), Callum succumbs to his worst impulses and makes a devastating, almost fatal, decision.

But in crossing the line, he comes out the other side knowing just what his worst impulses are. He learns from his mistake, accepts that what he did was wrong, and grows beyond it. He now knows full well where he stands and knowing where he’ll go from here.

Callum: “Destiny is a book you write yourself!”

#callum #rayla #dark magic #pyrrah #ezran #harrow #viren #runaan #soren #claudia #zym #tdp #the dragon prince #rayllum

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msjr0119 · 4 years

Text

Sneak peek Sunday 26/04/2020

Thanks for the tags: @kacie-0156 @thecordoniandiaries 😘

I’ve been pretty useless recently with work and nausea all the time. But when I’ve had motivation I have been writing. Hoping to post a few things this week as i have six days off work - YAY! 🙌🏼... if anyone has tagged me in anything, I’ve got the notifications and will catch up tomorrow ❤️

Warnings: swearing, slight smut.

Tags- using combined tag list off the top of my head:

@pedudley @loveellamae @annekebbphotography @burnsoslow @ladyangel70 @kingliam2019 @bascmve01 @texaskitten30 @i-bloody-love-drake-walker @kimmiedoo5 @nikkis1983 @hopefulmoonobject @lodberg @axwalker @liamxs-world @rafasgirl23415 @yukinagato2012 @cordonianroyalty @indiacater @seriouslybadchoices @rainbowsinthestorm @jared2612 @desireepow-1986 @twinkle-320 @queenjilian @bebepac @drakewalkerisreal

****

A Second Chance

@kacie-0156 did me an amazing moodboard of my Royal family from my series ‘Hold on’ and ‘A Second Chance’ .. I was so frustrated because I can’t do them for the life of me, you are a little superstar! 😘🥰❤️

Louis Alexander Rhys (Aaron Brueckner), Riley Brooks/Rhys (Emily Rudd), Ayah Olivia Rhys (Grace Phipps), Liam Rhys (Kevin Lutolf), Eleanor Hana Rhys (Indiana Evans).

Below is a snippet from the next chapter ⬇️

Drake knew that everything she had gone through was due to that one poor decision he had made in the past.

“I suppose I should thank you for making me strong then? I’m going to head back, just to make sure that Maxwell hasn’t set your home on fire.” Laughing, she knew that Maxwell was capable to be involved in any calamity.

“I’ll come with you.” Drinking the remainder of his beer, he stood up ready to return to the cabin. Riley placed her hand onto his arm, focusing her eyes on to his.

“You don’t have to. I interrupted you. I talk to Liam all the time, I still phone him. I know how important it is to have these moments. I’ll see you back at the cabin, Glen is waiting to escort me.” Providing him with a tight hug, they stayed in that position for a while. “I’ll see you soon.” Caressing his cheek, she smiled softly at him. Drake nodded towards Glen who was stood in the distance, as Riley walked away. Knowing that she was safe with her guard, he still felt the need to be that extra protection.

Let it be, he whispered. Picking up the guitar he slung it over his shoulder, then picked up the empty beer bottles. Gazing up towards the brightest stars one more time, he blew a lingering kiss. I love you Hana. I love you Liam. I miss you both so much.

****

One Temptation

Maxwell had been quickly to meet his lover, not wanting to disclose her identity just yet. He knew that Drake was never precise with his timings. Giving a certain time that he would be back, didn’t matter. Half of the time he was early or late- never at the estimated time of arrival as provided.

“Hi, can I help you? You look lost.”

“Hello, this is probably a long shot but I’m looking for someone. Well some people infact.”

“Names?” Asking for the information, Maxwell would help anyone in need. Even strangers.

“Walker.” Must be his lucky day. Maxwell thought to himself as he shrugged.

“Which one? There’s Bianca, Savannah and Drake.” The mans defeated facial expression soon broke into a smile. Relieved that he had unexpectedly bumped into this stranger. Hoping that Maxwell could provide him with the information that he required.

“Ah splendid. So you know them? Could you explain where I may find Drake?”

“Come in buddy, today is your lucky day! He lives with me.” Escorting the stranger into the apartment- Maxwell was delusional, and far too trustworthy.

“Tea? Coffee? Biscuit?” Maxwell asked, being the good hostess. Shaking his head politely, the man became fidgety- hoping that Drake wasn’t going to waste his time.

“So I didn’t quite catch your name....”

“Theron. Hakim Theron.”

“Cool name, bro. So are you in business with Drake or something?” Drake was very private with his life, his colleagues- anything really. So Maxwell was intrigued as to who the mystery man was. Where he was from. What he wanted.

“Something like that...”

“You could tell me to pass the time away, or we could just sit here twiddling our thumbs?” Rolling his eyes back, he often wondered what Drake saw in this city- especially sharing an apartment with someone who acted like goofy.

“Let’s just say, I’m a family friend. My investments are very important to me. I am paying to upkeep the Walker ranch back in Texas and between myself and the Walkers we had an agreement. However, Bianca and Leona have gone awol. I need to know if I’m selling it for a huge profit or if I need to hire some staff during their absence.”

“Well shouldn’t you be discussing that with them, rather than Drake? I can give you the address.” Grabbing a scrap piece of paper, Maxwell began jotting Bertrand’s address down. Not thinking anything bad would come of it.

“Thank you. However I do need to talk to Drake too. This involves him as well. You see, part of the agreement was that Drake married my daughter for the generosity of my support. I just wanted to inform him that we have set a date for those nuptials. A month today.”

****

We Belong

“This is him. Isn’t he gorgeous? Like a Greek god. This is Evie’s potential second failed engagement. I mean they haven’t even kissed yet...” Elise sniggered along with the other women whilst ‘swooning’ over him.

“We aren’t into the whole PDA. I like to keep my sex life private with my fiancée.” Empathising the word fiancée he had hoped that that would be the end of it.

“We don’t care. Do we girls? Just kiss.” Elise was peer pressuring them as she wasn’t convinced that their relationship was sincere. Narrowing her eyes towards Evie’s direction, she pointed towards the watch on her wrist. Tick tock.

“Oh, I will be kissing him and doing a whole lot more when we return to the hotel. Isn’t that right darling?” Evie placed her hand across Liam’s chest, looking up towards his with a fake seductive expression.

“Just kiss. What’s the issue?” Evie turned her head towards Liam, cupping his cheek. Just pretend that you are movie star, Evie. It’s fake. That woman isn’t digging her claws into someone else’s man. Kissing Liam slowly to begin with, his hands roamed her body as the kiss deepened. Opening her mouth, he slipped his tongue in- both tongues battling against each other. Breaking the kiss, Evie noticed that Liam enjoyed that kiss far too much than he should have.

“Did you enjoy your ‘live porn’? I mean this is what I do to my fiancé...”. Pointing to his obvious erection, the women all gasped- all now swooning even more over the handsome stranger. Elise grit her teeth together, before dragging her ‘minions’ away.

“What the fuck Liam? Seriously! Can’t you control yourself?”

“You came on to me... I can’t help it. I’m a man.”

“Riley is going to chop your dick off your Majesty. I’m telling Drake why we kissed. To save that slut from ruining anymore relationships. No need to thank me. No matter how hard you resist, Elise always get what she wants. It’s up to you if you tell your wife.”

“You enjoyed it really, Duchess Evangeline.” Winking he was only joking. Even though he had cheated on Riley he did secretly enjoy it- but that kiss was closure even if it was fake. He realised that Evie wasn’t want he wanted anymore. Riley and his child was his world. As much as he loved Evie, he was grateful with how fate had occurred in his life.

“Your Majesty. Duchess Evangeline. Drake. Riley. Not so innocent are we Evie?” Elise spoke quietly standing in the shadows overhearing the conversation- her imagination began to roam wild.

****

The Unexpected Roommate

“Have I done something wrong?” Drake questioned, hoping that he hadn’t fucked up. Hearing Leo snort in the background, he turned his head towards his friend scowling. Leo responded by smirking and shrugging his shoulders.

“No. Why?”

“You overheard what I said... stop lying. That’s why you ignored me. It’s not like that at all, I said that....”

“I heard it all. Yes. Don’t worry about it. We’re not in a relationship. It was just sex remember? Sounds like you have a ‘fuck buddy’ already- don’t include me in your games or sexual needs anymore.”

“I’d rather you be my ‘fuck buddy’.” Fuck. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. Taking a deep breath, he regretted saying that instantly. He was kind of expecting a right hook. “What happened between us was amazing, Riley.”

“Yeah it was.” Not sounding too confident she didn’t want to make out that she was jealous over him being involved with someone else. Whether it was in the past, or in the present. Reaching out for her hand, he held it tightly not knowing how she would react to the gesture.

“So what do you say? Make a little arrangement? If you want ‘us’, we can start as casual sex- then see where it goes?”

“You’re fucking insane, Drake. Go back to hating me.”

“I’d say I’m an attractive guy, you’re a gorgeous girl when you’re not an arsehole.”

“You’re so vein. I do have a rule, if we do this though...No kissing on the lips.”

“But we did that last night. Why?”

“That was this morning actually. Because if we aren’t in a relationship, what’s the point in being intimate?” Drake’s heart sunk, not realising why. Now he had kissed her, knowing what it felt like- he wanted to continue that.

“Okay, fine. I’ll see you later then?” I’ll kiss those lips, don’t you worry Riley.

“Yup. Bye Leo.” Leo waved from a distance, not really wanting to get involved in the blossoming love life between his two friends.

“Ri?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for being a jerk... I’m starting to fall...” Fall for you. “fall behind with the housework. I’m only going into work for a few hours. I’ll clean up when I’m back.”

“Wait for me to come back. I’ll help you. 50/50 remember. My nails are fucked anyway.” Providing a little laugh, she headed towards her room- not fully aware of what she had just agreed to. Not knowing if that was actually what she wanted. Deep down, she wanted more after their night together. She wondered if he did too. Or if indeed he was just happy with the friends with benefits arrangement.

Drake sat down besides Leo, his head fell into his hands. This girl had got into his mind, he suggested the ‘friends with benefits’ hoping that she would decline the offer. Hoping that they could begin a relationship instead. He just didn’t have the confidence to express what his heart truly wanted - she made him weak at the knees. Although he would never confess that. Not yet anyway. He was unsure as to if he would ever be able to admit to his true feelings.

“Now I may not be a translator, but that was the biggest amount of bullshit ever stated, Drake” Leo knew Drake and he knew for a fact what his friend meant when he stuttered after the word ‘falling’.

#trr #trr fanfic #trr au the unexpected roommate #trr au one temptation #trr we belong #trr a second chance #drake x riley #evie x liam #maxwell beaumont #leo rhys #tw slight smut #tw swearing

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robronsecretvalentine · 5 years

Text

The Latest Scheme

Secret Valentine’s Day Gift for @prettyboysugden

Happy Valentine’s Day Lucy!

The Latest Scheme

Aaron was very frustrated. He had spent most of the afternoon trying to pick a car apart when he realized that there were actually working parts in good condition still on the car. He then had to be careful stripping the car and that had taken longer than usual and he still had another car to strip. He needed to finish this today as the pick-up for them was tomorrow. Adam had scoffed off earlier under the pretense of “needing some time to work on his relationship with Vic” which was mostly him grovelling to Victoria for his latest misstep.

He was hunched under the hood as he heard footsteps on the gravel leading up to the scrapyard. At this time and the way the person was walking, it could only be one person. Well that was it for the cars. They couldn’t be finished by tomorrow and Adam was going to have to take them himself the day after and moan about it. He knew whatever he was here for at this time, it would not end well for Aaron.

He braced himself as he continued to work. At least he could pretend to resist the newest scheme for a bit longer. Who knew if he played his cards right he might even get him to help with the cars!

“I bought you coffee and a scone. Wanted to bring you cake, but there was only one slice left and I wanted that so you have to do with the scone I’m afraid.” Robert said.

Oh this was bad. Aaron definitely needed a lawyer for this if he was being offered coffee and scone for free on a Wednesday afternoon.

“No. I’m not doing it. Whatever it is this time. I am not breaking into you ex-fiancé’s home to steal her dad’s old dirty love letters or breaking into the safe to get his will, and I am definitely not impersonating a millionaire to steal his clients. I am done with your schemes to take over Home Farm. At this rate I will either end up back in prison or killed by that nut-job Lachlan!” his voice raised as he turned to Robert. By the end he was shrieking.

“Calm down, will ya? I am not asking you anything you paranoid freak! Can’t I just bring my best mate in the whole wide world a coffee and a pastry?” Robert said teasingly with a smirk that Aaron knew meant death and destruction was on the way. He knew his friend well.

He took the coffee and the scone from Robert suspiciously. They both leaned against the half striped car. The truth was that his friendship with Robert had taken him by surprise. Almost one year ago, the two of them had found their ways separately back to Emmerdale. A series of bad decisions and even worst consequences had resulted in their first “meeting”.

Aaron shouldn’t have been surprised on how often they got into schemes together. Criminal activity and misdemeanor was the foundation of their friendship. What was surprising that after accepting a coffee from Robert and a drink on a night out, they had hit it off immediately. Their bickering and Aaron’s temporary absence of “best friend” had resulted in them becoming fast friends. It was a mutually satisfying friendship.

Aaron had convinced Robert to tell Chrissie the truth about his feelings or lack thereof for her and break off the engagement after Lawrence threatened him yet again. Robert however, had taken his advice and blackmailed Lawrence; he would break if off with her, if Lawrence had made him a shareholder in the business. Obviously Lawrence had refused. This was how Robert had come up with the brilliant idea to steal old photographs and love letters of previous lovers that proved Chrissie might not be Lawrence’s biological daughter. Obviously he couldn’t get his own hands dirty and who did he know who could do it? Aaron obviously. That is how Robert ended up a silent partner in Lawrence’s business, the main investor in Holy Scrap (as a thank you to Aaron for his hard work), Diddy Diner (because he was capable of caring for his family, thank you very much), and as of last month, an equal partner in Home James Haulage.

Robert’s interest in Home Farm was no longer necessary but as he was a grade “A” control freak and couldn’t let anything go if he could make more money out of it, he sometime still screwed with Lawrence. Aaron thought it was out of boredom mainly.

Now the reason Aaron was involved, or at least how he justified it in his own mind, was that he was a great friend. Case in point, Adam and how many times he had saved him. Aaron was ride or die for all his friends. That is what Aaron told himself and Chas and Paddy whenever they questioned his friendship with Robert. The truth though, was a bit different.

Aaron was totally in love with Robert. If he was honest with himself, he was insanely attracted to him from the first time he saw him and if Robert would show any indication that he might be interested, Aaron would confess his feelings on the spot. However, he knew Robert was straight. Aaron put it down as another case of unrequited love for best friend. God knows he already had the experience with Adam when they were kids, and as that experience had taught him, he would soon get over his feelings for him and instead become amazing friends. If he could only stop staring at Robert’s lips as he was sipping his Americano, then he would be fine. God those lips were just begging to be kissed.

“So, there is something I need to tell you.” Robert said in a very suspiciously casual manner.

“I knew it! You want me to do something stupid. Why can’t you just enjoy what you have right now and don’t do anything stupid to ruin it?”

“Well because, Azza, I am not someone who can do that and anyway, you wouldn’t like me if I was!”

“Who says I like you?”

“Well you’re still here. And might I add that in all of our shared endeavors, I didn’t really have to persuade you. You could have said no anytime. You are just as bad as me!” Robert said with his signature smug face. God, Aaron could just slap him. Or kiss him. Whichever that would wipe that smugness off his face.

“So go on. What is the price for this coffee that I have to pay? Are we breaking into a bank? Or perhaps organizing a hit?” Aaron said as he continued to sip his coffee.

“Don’t be so dramatic, you dolt! It’s nothing illegal. And certainly nothing that would get us in trouble. So you know that Chrissie has a sister, right?”

Aaron nodded. He knew that when they discovered that Chrissie was not Lawrence’s biological daughter, Lawrence had done anything to keep that information away from his daughters, especially Rebecca, as he was certain that would cause a rift between his daughters.

“Yeah. So?” Said Aaron.

“Well, what you don’t know is that before I got engaged to Chrissie, Rebecca and I used to fool around. It got more serious with Chrissie so I ended it with Rebecca. She didn’t have access to Lawrence as Chrissie did. She stayed away after that until she heard me and Chrissie are done. Now she is coming back. And the thing is that she never really got over me.” Robert said as if he was proud of the fact that someone had difficulty getting over him. Aaron could sympathize.

“So what? You want to blackmail Lawrence some more now? Give me money or I’ll tell your daughter sort of thing?” Aaron said grumpily. He knew Robert had flaws. He would even concede that Robert wasn’t going to win the best person award, but sometimes he wished he had a little bit if decency and not think of money and power all the time. It made Aaron more conflicted inside. He was best fiends (and maybe, sort of, kind of, a little bit, in love) with someone who didn’t bat an eye at blackmailing and emotional manipulation. Well, C’est la vie.

“No you idiot. I’m done with them. It’s actually the opposite of that. See Rebecca texted me a few days ago to let me know she was coming and I quote “so we could finally be together properly” and I don’t want that life anymore. So what I need is something else.” Robert said. Strange thing was he kept his eyes down. It was the first time that Aaron had seen him like this. It was as if like he was almost shy about what he was about to ask.

“Spit it out then!” Aaron said impatiently.

Robert took a deep breath and blurted “willyoubemyfakeboyfrienduntilshegoesaway?”

“You what?”

“Will you be my fake boyfriend until she goes away?” Robert repeated slower this time.

Aaron was gobsmacked. On one hand that was the most outrageous request he had ever heard and he just wanted to laugh out loud. On the other hand, this was the plot of one of his many fantasies which normally ended with him under Robert. He didn’t know to laugh or to cry. His lack of response must have alerted Robert.

“Look you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. It was just an idea. If she thinks that she has a chance with me, she will make my life hell until I give in and play her game which is basically torturing her sister and I don’t want to be dragged into another sibling drama.” Robert said.

Aaron composed himself enough to ask “but you are okay with everyone assuming you are gay?”

“Well, bisexual actually. And this way I can finally come out to my family as well. Killing two birds with one stone and all.”

“I’m sorry; did you just come out to me?” Aaron asked. He was completely confused. Did that mean he had a chance with Robert? Did it mean that Robert was available to him? But wait a minute, if he was, then did it mean that Robert didn’t like Aaron that way as he hadn’t come on to him. Robert wasn’t shy. If he liked someone he would just tell them. So that meant that he didn’t fancy Aaron. Universe had a cruel sense of humor when it came to Aaron.

“To be honest I thought you knew. Well at least we know you have a rubbish gaydar!” Robert had the audacity to say!

“So what? You thought a little romance with the local gay will get the woman to back off? And why does it have to be me? I mean Finn would be a more believable option for you. I mean he is prettier and he hangs on every word you say. So why not ask him?”

“Well Finn isn’t really my type!”

“And what, I am?” Aaron was hysteric now.

“Well yeah! I mean have you seen you?? You are fit and hot and very very sexy without even realizing it! I mean every time we walk into a bar, I am surprised that men don’t just pounce on you!” Robert said with an animated voice. Aaron was speechless. Did Robert just say he was sexy?

“Look forget it. It was a stupid idea. You clearly aren’t comfortable with it. Just forget about it.” Robert said while avoiding looking at Aaron.

“So are we on tonight to watch the game? Is Adam coming as well? I can make some snacks if you wanted to come earlier” Robert changed the subject.

Aaron cleared his throat. He couldn’t believe what just had happened. Robert seemed to be embarrassed by his accidental confession and clearly didn’t want to talk about it. Aaron suddenly felt shy as well. He never was good at taking compliments. And he didn’t know if Robert was complimenting him or coming on to him. He decided to play along with Robert’s deflection.

“Yeah, yeah. Adam said he would bring the beer. I can bring some crisps if you want. Say 5 ish?”

“No need. I will be making fish and chips. Just come by 5 and we’ll be all set.”

After a few awkward moments of silence, Robert chugged down the rest of his coffee, nodded his head and left the scrapyard.

Aaron could not move. He was sure that drool was falling down his face as he was unable to close his mouth. He was having an out of body experience. There was no way that Robert bleeding Sugden was attracted to him.

But it seemed that he was. He actually came out to Aaron and admitted that he found him attractive at the same time. It was as if someone had figured out all of Aaron’s deepest desires and had made them come true. So did that mean that he wanted to be Aaron? Surely he would have said something if he did. Instead, he had changed the subject and left. Perhaps Robert wasn’t ready and Aaron could respect that. He would follow Robert’s lead and act as if nothing had happened.

He would definitely do that as soon has his heart stopped hammering in his chest! He needed some time to calm down first!

Tonight was a game night. It had become a semi-usual event that Aaron and Adam would go to Robert’s place a couple of times a week for watching football and playing games or watching films on Robert’s giant TV. If Andy and Robert were on speaking terms that week, he would sometimes join them.

For some reason, Aaron put extra effort into getting ready. He then felt foolish for taking extra time because it was just their usual football night. Nothing more.

He finally decided on his usual black jeans and black hoody. But in the off chance that the universe wasn’t fucking with him, he put on his green sweater under the hoody. He felt ridiculous. There was no way that Robert wanted him.

A few hours later, he was completely convinced Robert wanted him.

It all started as soon as he got there with Adam. From the first moment, there was a charged feeling between them. It got so bad that even clueless Adam knew was something out of ordinary. Aaron was extra aware of Robert and he was trying so hard to not to be obvious that it was painful. During the game, Adam kept looking between them suspiciously. When Robert went to the kitchen to grab more beers, Adam finally snapped.

“Hey, what’s the matter with you two? Have you had fight or something?”

“What? No! Of course not!”

“Then what’s with the weird looks?”

“There are no weird looks! Shut up Adam!”

But when Robert came back Aaron turned red and turned away to look at the telly.

After the game, Adam was tired of both of them acting so strange, when Robert had gone to the loo, he ditched Aaron.

Robert came down the stairs a few minutes later. He froze on the doorway when he realized it was just him and Aaron.

“Where’s Adam?” he asked.

“Oh he just left.” Aaron was trying to sound casual.

Robert nodded his head and came to sit on the other side of the couch that Aaron was sitting.

“Another beer?” he offered.

“Nah you’re alright. I have to work early tomorrow and I don’t wanna be hungover.”

“So… fancy a movie? Or we could play some Fifa if you wanted?”

“What I want is you.” Aaron heard himself say. Fuuuuuuuuuck. Did he just say that out loud?! Judging by the way that Robert’s eyes widened and his face went red, it was safe to assume that yes, Aaron had said that out loud.

“I mean …. Not that… I mean I want to …. Look, just uhm…. Could you forget I said that?” Aaron spluttered. He was an idiot.

“uhm… how… why… really?” Robert said in reply. He didn’t seem repulsed by the idea. Aaron decided to take a chance. He had already ruined everything. What was a little love confession between friends?

“Yeah. I mean I do fancy ya. I mean more than fancy… like sort of kinda inloveish … yeah?” Aaron was hoping for a lighting strike or a giant hole in ground to swallow him so he could escape this utter humiliation.

Robert was silent for several excruciating moments. Enough to trigger Aaron’s fight and flight response. And since this was Robert, Aaron chose flight.

“So I guess I will be going. No need to you know say anything. And I guess I will see you around. Or not if you know, you don’t. So uhm. Yeah. Sorry. And thanks for you know. Yeah. Sorry.” Aaron said as he was pulling on his hoody and retreating to the front door. As he was about to open the door a pair of strong arms caught his arm and shoulder and turned him around.

Before he could say anything, Robert pressed him against the wall by the end of the stairs. His face was inches away from Aaron’s and he was directly looking at his eyes. Aaron held his breath. This was the look that had made him fall in love with him in the first place. The green eyes with such intensity, directing all of his attention towards Aaron. The heavy breathing and his parted lips was setting Aaron’s body on fire.

Robert finally broke the spell and looked at Aaron’s mouth.

“How do you know that you love me?”

It took all of Aaron’s strength to form a response.

“Because you are all I think about and every time I see you, it feels as if my heart wants to jump out of my chest.” Aaron said, without skipping a beat, looking directly at Robert’s eyes. The time for shyness and hiding was over. He had laid his heart to Robert. It was up to him to either take it or break it.

Robert was blushing which made his freckles more noticeable Aaron wanted to kiss all of them.

Robert took a step back. His face was unreadable. He had finally made a decision. He reached out with his hands and took Aaron’s hands in his. He brought one to his lips and kissed the back of his hand. He then looked at Aaron and smiled.

“You know?”

“I know.”

There was no more words needed. Robert didn’t let go of his hands as he took him upstairs. Aaron didn’t think he would ever stop smiling.

Later as Robert’s head was cradled between Aaron’s neck and shoulder and they were catching their breath, Aaron remembered something from earlier.

“So does that mean when you tell the Whites that you have a boyfriend, then it won’t be a scam anymore?” Aaron said as he was playing with Robert’s fingers.

“Is that your way of asking if I want to call us boyfriends?” Robert said while smiling into Aaron’s shoulder.

“Maybe”

“Hmmm, well I have a small confession to make. When Rebecca called before, I already told her I wasn’t interested and I was seeing someone else.” Robert said.

“Hang on a minute, so this morning, what was that? You trying to get in my pants by using a scam as an excuse?”

Robert lifted his head and looked at Aaron apologetically.

“Well, I wanted to ask you out but I didn’t know how to do it. I’m sorry.” He seemed genuinely upset.

Aaron looked at him with a frown for a second before deciding to put him out of his misery. He then cracked a mischievous smile which prompted Robert to bite his chin.

“Ow! Stop it you muppet!” Aaron pretended he was hurt. Robert bent his head and kissed him where he had bitten him. He then turned to Aaron’s lips and they were both busy to think about anything else for a while.

“So what’s the latest scheme then, if not blackmailing the Whites?” Aaron said the next morning as he was drinking the coffee that Robert had just made. Robert turned around from the stove as he was making their breakfast. He was only in a t-shirt and underwear. He looked good enough to eat!

“Well, to be honest I am sort of bored with the Whites. But the other day I heard something particularly interesting that I think it would be an amazing thing to do with my brand new boyfriend.” He responded with a glint in his eyes. Aaron knew instantly that this was going to be one of those schemes that would either get them arrested or in feud with the locals. God he loved this man!

“Alright, let’s hear what am I going to go to prison for this time.” He already knew he would do it no matter what.

“Hey I resent the implication that I would risk my boyfriend getting caught.” Robert protested.

“Soft lad. Go on, let’s hear it.”

“How do you feel about puppies? Specifically how do you feel about messing with a couple of puppy breeders and potentially having to take over a breeding operation?”

Yup, he was in trouble alright.

#prettyboysugden #robron #robron secret valentine #robronsecretvalentine #robron fanfiction #fanfiction

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ladysifofasgard · 5 years

Note

Just out of curiosity what was Sifs reaction to Thor sending Torunn to Midgard when she was a baby?

//ty for being patient with meee

to start this is basically her face:

Angry, sad, more anger. Sif isn’t someone who was exactly running towards motherhood with arms wide open, so by the time she finally has come to accept it, and prepared herself, and had her daughter, and really let herself enjoy this new family....now someone wants to take it away from her? Fuck no. That’s her daughter. War Goddess Mama Bear.

Now, @lxghtnxnggxrl has great headcanon that it was more realm instability and wars etc that caused them to send Torunn to Midgard rather than this ‘gotta teach my daughter a lesson’ bullshit. This is basically the only way I can justify it myself too. Sif wouldn’t give up her child for just about anything. But if there is active danger, the kind Sif and Thor need to be on the front lines for, and say, maybe even there’s already been an attack on Torunn? Yeah, Thor could probably talk Sif down from absolutely murdering him for sending Torunn away.

(Because let’s face it. Sif forgives Thor for fucking everything, [unless the writer is Jason-fuckboy-Aaron but he likes to pretend Sif doesn’t exist so I like to pretend he doesn’t] but ‘I’m taking our daughter away’ is pretty above and beyond)

I know u want a drabble though so have one:

um. is feels?

She wakes in the middle of the night, the glittering sky of Asgard and its myriad of swirling colors a soft glow through their windows in the palace.

Something’s wrong.

Her instincts know it before her consciousness catches up. Thor’s spot in the bed is cold, it’s too quiet. She rushes to check on Torunn, and finds her daughter’s cradle empty. Sif’s unease flares to terror. Three weeks ago they had caught word of plots to steal or kill their daughter. With Thor gone that must mean he has her, and he would not leave Sif alone if they both were not safe, but in these precious months of their new family Sif has found herself inhabiting all the stories of mother’s instincts. She supposes in a way she expected nothing less, always prone to protecting. It is half of her calling after all.

But now her husband and daughter are missing in the dead of night and no matter how she repeats it to herself Sif can’t find full calm. She walks through their rooms and it takes all her efforts not to call out to summon the guard. Instead she sits on their bed and finds herself twisting one of Torunn’s little blankets over and over in her hands while she watches the sky out the window. She’ll just wait for them. Just a little while.

It’s almost two hours until Thor returns. Dawn is near to cracking and even Sif’s worrying hands have gone still, but she remains sitting up watching the sky. The sound of the door breaks her from her daze and it’s like breathing again. She stands and hurries to Thor and her relief in seeing him is stopped with quirked brow. “Where’s Torunn?”

The look upon his face is weary and he takes a moment to answer her.

“Where’s Torunn, Thor?” she asks again.

He puts a hand up to soothe, “She’s safe.” He turns to ensure the door is closed and ushers Sif further inside their room. “Sif, there’s something we need to talk about.”

He’s being guarded and she doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like any of this. “About what? Is there more bad news at the fronts? Have any other worlds become swept up in this? Where’s Torunn, she’ll need feeding soon.”

“Torunn’s fine, Sif. Please.” Thor takes her hands and leads her to sit at the edge of the bed. He kneels before her and keeps holding her hands. “Sif, I need you to listen to me. I know...I know this will be hard for you. But this is for the best of all of us, I need you to remember that. You are not alone in this. I am here with you.”

He says all of it without looking in her eyes and that scares her more than any part of his words.

“Thor, what do you mean? Thor... Where’s Torunn?” she asks, shaking her head slowly.

He lets out a breath that lets her know she will not like the answer.

“She is not here anymore-” The sharp intake of Sif’s own breath causes Thor to look up quickly, and jump to correct his words, “Not like that! She is safe, I mean it.” He breathes in courage. “She is on Midgard. I brought her there so she may be safe in these times.”

“Midgard!” Sif pulls her hands from his, “What do you mean she’s on Midgard, what do you mean safe? Tell me right this instant, Thor,” she demands. “What have you done?”

He puts his hands up in surrender. He’s been anticipating this fight. “I took our daughter somewhere she would be safe. Somewhere she could be kept out of the way and protected while we get these wars under control. You and I and Heimdall are the only ones in Asgard who know where she is now, no one will be able to find her.”

“But I don’t know where she is!” Sif pushes up to stand, hurt and anger welling up in confusion over all this and Thor stands to follow her. “All you’ve said is Midgard, that tells me nothing. Who is she with, when can I see her, when do we bring her back? Thor, explain this, please.”

“She is with Tony Stark and the Avengers, they are skilled, and they will protect her -” Thor reaches out to hold her arms. “I can see you wanting to fight already, but they can handle this, I promise you.” For a moment she is almost ready to believe him. One moment. Then he continues speaking. “They will handle this for as long as is needed, but until then we cannot go to her. It would only alert suspicion.”

Sif tears out of Thor’s grasp, gentle as it was. “No! No. No, we go to her now,” she declared, standing firm with hurt eyes. “We are going to retrieve her, and we are bringing her to my mothers, and then my husband will not dare tell me that I cannot see my own daughter.”

“Sif.”

“What?”

They were always a stubborn pair and her eyes burned bright and wild in her upset. In the stillness of morning they stared one another down. Sif with set jaw and Thor with heavy brow.

“They would come after your mothers too, and I will not be the cause of that,” he warned.

“They are sorceresses! Their magic is strong, they are more than capable of warding off any threats that come. We know what to watch for, we will not be caught so unawares again! Nothing even got close. Torunn was perfectly safe. She can be safe in Asgard, we just need to be careful of our protections.”

Thor lets out a sigh that turns growling, clenches a fist and closes eyes. “I didn’t tell you! I didn’t want to tell you,” he repeats. When he looks to Sifshe knows it’s going to be rough. “That wasn’t the first plot against Torunn.”

“She’s a royal baby, first one in ages, there’s always going to be -” she tries to dismiss, to rationalize, anything to get her daughter back in her arms.

“Yes. She is. But she is also our daughter.” He takes her upper arms again, leans in close. “Ours in power, and strength, and brilliance.” Sif can see the tears shimmering at the edges of his eyes, and the sad smile and can hear the way he means the last word as if it’s all because of her influence. Foolish man.

He touches forehead to hers. “Torunn is destined to be great. She will do that wherever she is, and right now her best chance of growing up to be that woman is to be far away from us. I know you think we can protect her, but both of us are needed in these fights and that means leaving her behind in Asgard alone and Sif....I have reason to believe someone is betraying us. We need to root them out. Until I know for certain it is safe it is too dangerous to even consider bringing her back.”

“But once it is safe we will consider it,” she pressed, ready to hold him to words and very sternly not pointing out that Asgard’s usual traitor was his own damned brother.

“Once the traitor is gone I will consider it, if the realms are calm enough. If things have not become worse.”

“For how long? What if it takes a year? More? Are we to simply live without our daughter?” she challenge, fearing the answers to these questions. She wants her baby back in her arms. Torunn should be fussing for a feeding soon, she should be here with her. “What happens when the next threat comes? Do we send her away each time?”

“When she's older it’ll be different.” Thor sits on the edge of their bed and sounds tired.

“Will it?” Sif crosses arms and watches him. Her brow furrows. “We were not of age the first time you died. I cried and you came back to life, and I have cried every time since.” She moves to sit down next to him, lays a hand on his shoulder. “Take me to her. Please take me to her.”

“No,” he says quietly.

“Why not!”

“It’s dangerous to go too many times. We need to keep our distance so no one catches on. It’s safest if you do not have the exact location anyway.”

She shoves him. Shoves him again, harder. One last time. “Are you really going to take her away from me like this?! Stealing her in the dead of night as if I get no say!” In that moment she breaks. The tears form in her eyes and her chest shakes because she knows the answer to this question.

It’s already done. He already has.

Her cheeks are wet. Thor tries to pull her into an embrace and she pounds against his chest even as a part of her leans into the touch.

“You didn’t let me say goodbye.”

#Anonymous #askbox #anon #drabble #lxghtnxnggxrl #long drabble is long

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warnerxferrars · 6 years

Text

Restore Me | The First Four Chapters

Juliette

I don’t wake up screaming anymore. I do not feel ill at the sight of blood. I do not flinch before firing a gun.

I will never again apologize for surviving.

And yet—

I’m startled at once by the sound of a door slamming open. I silence a gasp, spin around, and, by force of habit, rest my hand on the hilt of a semiautomatic hung from a holster at my side.

“J, we’ve got a serious problem.”

Kenji is staring at me—eyes narrowed—his hands on his hips, T-shirt taut across his chest. This is angry Kenji. Worried Kenji. It’s been sixteen days since we took over Sector 45—since I crowned myself the supreme commander of The Reestablishment—and it’s been quiet. Unnervingly so. Every day I wake up, filled with half terror, half exhilaration, anxiously awaiting the inevitable missives from enemy nations who would challenge my authority and wage war against us—and now, finally, it seems that moment has arrived. So I take a deep breath, crack my neck, and look Kenji in the eye.

“Tell me.”

He presses his lips together. Looks up at the ceiling. “So, okay—the first thing you need to know is that this isn’t my fault, okay? I was just trying to help.”

I falter. Frown. “What?”

“I mean, I knew his punkass was a major drama queen, but this is just beyond ridiculous—”

“I’m sorry—what?” I take my hand off my gun; feel my body unclench. “Kenji, what are you talking about? This isn’t about the war?”

“The war? What? J, are you not paying attention? Your boyfriend is having a freaking conniption right now and you need to go handle his ass before I do.”

I exhale, irritated. “Are you serious? Again with this nonsense? Jesus, Kenji.” I unlatch the holster from my back and toss it on the bed behind me. “What did you do this time?”

“See?” Kenji points at me. “See—why are you so quick to judge, huh, princess? Why assume that I was the one who did something wrong? Why me?” He crosses his arms against his chest, lowers his voice. “And you know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a while, actually, because I really feel that, as supreme commander, you can’t be showing preferential treatment like this, but clearly—”

Kenji goes suddenly still.

At the creak of the door Kenji’s eyebrows shoot up; a soft click and his eyes widen; a muted rustle of movement and suddenly the barrel of a gun is pressed against the back of his head. Kenji stares at me, his lips making no sound as he mouths the word psychopath over and over again.

The psychopath in question winks at me from where he’s standing, smiling like he couldn’t possibly be holding a gun to the head of our mutual friend. I manage to suppress a laugh.

“Go on,” Warner says, still smiling. “Please tell me exactly how she’s failed you as a leader.”

“Hey—” Kenji’s arms fly up in mock surrender. “I never said she failed at anything, okay? And you are clearly overreact—”

Warner knocks Kenji on the side of the head with the weapon. “Idiot.”

Kenji spins around. Yanks the gun out of Warner’s hand. “What the hell is wrong with you, man? I thought we were cool.”

“We were,” Warner says icily. “Until you touched my hair.”

“You asked me to give you a haircut—”

“I said nothing of the sort! I asked you to trim the edges!”

“And that’s what I did.”

“This,” Warner says, spinning around so I might inspect the damage, “is not trimming the edges, you incompetent moron—”

I gasp. The back of Warner’s head is a jagged mess of uneven hair; entire chunks have been buzzed off.

Kenji cringes as he looks over his handiwork. Clears his throat. “Well,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I mean—whatever, man, beauty is subjective—”

Warner aims another gun at him.

“Hey!” Kenji shouts. “I am not here for this abusive relationship, okay?” He points at Warner. “I did not sign up for this shit!”

Warner glares at him and Kenji retreats, backing out of the room before Warner has another chance to react; and then, just as I let out a sigh of relief, Kenji pops his head back into the doorway and says

“I think the cut looks cute, actually”

and Warner slams the door in his face.

Welcome to my brand-new life as supreme commander of The Reestablishment.

Warner is still facing the closed door as he exhales, his shoulders losing their tension as he does, and I’m able to see even more clearly the mess Kenji has made. Warner’s thick, gorgeous, golden hair—a defining feature of his beauty—chopped up by careless hands.

A disaster.

“Aaron,” I say softly.

He hangs his head.

“Come here.”

He turns around, looking at me out of the corner of his eye like he’s done something to be ashamed of. I clear the guns off the bed and make room for him beside me. He sinks into the mattress with a sad sigh.

“I look hideous,” he says quietly.

I shake my head, smiling, and touch his cheek. “Why did you let him cut your hair?”

Warner looks up at me then; his eyes round and green and perplexed. “You told me to spend time with him.”

I laugh out loud. “So you let Kenji cut your hair?”

“I didn’t let him cut my hair,” he says, scowling. “It was”—he hesitates—“it was a gesture of camaraderie. It was an act of trust I’d seen practiced among my soldiers. In any case,” he says, turning away, “it’s not as though I have any experience building friendships.”

“Well,” I say. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

At this, he smiles.

“And?” I nudge him. “That’s been good, hasn’t it? You’re learning to be nicer to people.”

“Yes, well, I don’t want to be nicer to people. It doesn’t suit me.”

“I think it suits you beautifully,” I say, beaming. “I love it when you’re nice.”

“You would say that.” He almost laughs. “But being kind does not come naturally to me, love. You’ll have to be patient with my progress.”

I take his hand in mine. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re perfectly kind to me.”

Warner shakes his head. “I know I promised I would make an effort to be nicer to your friends—and I will continue to make that effort—but I hope I’ve not led you to believe I’m capable of an impossibility.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only that I hope I won’t disappoint you. I might, if pressed, be able to generate some degree of warmth, but you must know that I have no interest in treating anyone the way I treat you. This,” he says, touching the air between us, “is an exception to a very hard rule.” His eyes are on my lips now; his hand has moved to my neck. “This,” he says softly, “is very, very unusual.”

I stop

stop breathing, talking, thinking—

He’s hardly touched me and my heart is racing; memories crash over me, scalding me in waves: the weight of his body against mine; the taste of his skin; the heat of his touch and his sharp gasps for air and the things he’s said to me only in the dark.

Butterflies invade my veins, and I force them out.

This is still so new, his touch, his skin, the scent of him, so new, so new and so incredible—

He smiles, tilts his head; I mimic the movement and with one soft intake of air his lips part and I hold still, my lungs flung to the floor, fingers feeling for his shirt and for what comes next when he says

“I’ll have to shave my head, you know”

and pulls away.

I blink and he’s still not kissing me.

“And it is my very sincere hope,” he says, “that you will still love me when I return.”

And then he’s up up and away and I’m counting on one hand the number of men I’ve killed and marveling at how little it’s done to help me hold it together in Warner’s presence.

I nod once as he waves good-bye, collect my good sense from where I left it, and fall backward onto the bed, head spinning, the complications of war and peace heavy on my mind.

I did not think it would be easy to be a leader, exactly, but I do think I thought it would be easier than this:

I am racked with doubt in every moment about the decisions I have made. I am infuriatingly surprised every time a soldier follows my lead. And I am growing more terrified that we—that I—will have to kill many, many more before this world is settled. Though I think it’s the silence, more than anything else, that’s left me shaken.

It’s been sixteen days.

I’ve given speeches about what’s to come, about our plans for the future; we’ve held memorials for the lives lost in battle and we’re making good on promises to implement change. Castle, true to his word, is already hard at work, trying to address issues with farming, irrigation, and, most urgent, how best to transition the civilians out of the compounds. But this will be work done in stages; it will be a slow and careful build—a fight for the earth that may take a century. I think we all understand that. And if it were only the civilians I had to worry about, I would not worry so much. But I worry because I know too well that nothing can be done to fix this world if we spend the next several decades at war within it.

Even so, I’m prepared to fight.

It’s not what I want, but I’ll gladly go to war if it’s what we need to do to make a change. I just wish it were that simple. Right now, my biggest problem is also the most confusing:

Wars require enemies, and I can’t seem to find any.

In the sixteen days since I shot Anderson in the forehead I have faced zero opposition. No one has tried to arrest me. No other supreme commanders have challenged me. Of the 554 remaining sectors on this continent alone, not a single one has defected, declared war, or spoken ill of me. No one has protested; the people have not rioted. For some reason, The Reestablishment is playing along.

Playing pretend.

And it deeply, deeply unnerves me.

We’re in a strange stalemate, stuck in neutral when I desperately want to be doing more. More for the people of Sector 45, for North America, and for the world as a whole. But this strange quiet has thrown all of us off-balance. We were so sure that, with Anderson dead, the other supreme commanders would rise up—that they’d command their armies to destroy us—to destroy me. Instead, the leaders of the world have made our insignificance clear: they’re ignoring us as they would an annoying fly, trapping us under glass where we’re free to buzz around, banging broken wings against the walls for only as long as the oxygen lasts. Sector 45 has been left to do as it pleases; we’ve been allowed autonomy and the authority to revise the infrastructure of our sector with no interference. Everywhere else—and everyone else—is pretending as though nothing in the world has changed. Our revolution occurred in a vacuum. Our subsequent victory has been reduced to something so small it might not even exist.

Mind games.

Castle is always visiting, advising. It was his suggestion that I be proactive—that I take the upper hand. Instead of waiting around, anxious and defensive, I should reach out, he said. I should make my presence known. Stake a claim, he said. Take a seat at the table. And attempt to form alliances before launching assaults. Connect with the five other supreme commanders around the world.

Because I may speak for North America—but what of the rest of the world? What of South America? Europe? Asia? Africa? Oceania?

Host an international conference of leaders, he said.

Talk.

Aim for peace first, he said.

“They must be dying of curiosity,” Castle said to me. “A seventeen-year-old girl taking over North America? A teenage girl killing Anderson and declaring herself ruler of this continent? Ms. Ferrars—you must know that you have great leverage at the moment! Use it to your advantage!”

“Me?” I said, stunned. “How do I have leverage?”

Castle sighed. “You certainly are brave for your age, Ms. Ferrars, but I’m sorry to see your youth so inextricably tied to inexperience. I will try to put it plainly: you have superhuman strength, nearly invincible skin, a lethal touch, only seventeen years to your name, and you have single-handedly felled the despot of this nation. And yet you doubt that you might be capable of intimidating the world?”

I cringed.

“Old habits, Castle,” I said quietly. “Bad habits. You’re right, of course. Of course you’re right.”

He leveled me with a straight stare. “You must understand that unanimous, collective silence from your enemies is no act of coincidence. They’ve certainly been in touch with one another—they’ve certainly agreed to this approach—because they’re waiting to see what you do next.” He shook his head. “They are awaiting your next move, Ms. Ferrars. I implore you to make it a good one.”

So I’m learning.

I did as he suggested and three days ago I sent word through Delalieu and contacted the five other supreme commanders of The Reestablishment. I invited them to join me here, in Sector 45, for a conference of international leaders next month.

Just fifteen minutes before Kenji barged into my room, I’d received my first RSVP.

Oceania said yes.

And I’m not sure what that means.

Warner

I’ve not been myself lately.

The truth is I’ve not been myself for what feels like a long time, so much so that I’ve begun to wonder whether I ever really knew. I stare, unblinking, into the mirror, the din of buzzing hair clippers echoing through the room. My face is only dimly reflected in my direction, but it’s enough for me to see that I’ve lost weight. My cheeks are hollow; my eyes, wider; my cheekbones more pronounced. My movements are both mournful and mechanical as I shear off my own hair, the remnants of my vanity falling at my feet.

My father is dead.

I close my eyes, steeling myself against the unwelcome strain in my chest, the clippers still humming in my clenched fist.

My father is dead.

It’s been just over two weeks since he was killed, shot twice in the forehead by someone I love. She was doing me a kindness by killing him. She was braver than I’d ever been, pulling the trigger when I never could. He was a monster. He deserved worse.

And still—

This pain.

I take in a tight breath and blink open my eyes, grateful for the time to be alone; grateful, somehow, for the opportunity to tear asunder something, anything from my flesh. There’s a strange catharsis in this.

My mother is dead, I think, as I drag the electric blade across my skull. My father is dead, I think, as the hair falls to the floor. Everything I was, everything I did, everything I am, was forged from the twins of their action and inaction.

Who am I, I wonder, in their absence?

Shorn head, blade switched off, I rest my palms against the edge of the vanity and lean in, still trying to catch a glimpse of the man I’ve become. I feel old and unsettled, my heart and mind at war. The last words I ever spoke to my father—

“Hey.”

My heart speeds up as I spin around; I’m affecting nonchalance in an instant. “Hi,” I say, forcing my limbs to slow, to be steady as I dust errant strands of hair from my shoulders.

She’s looking at me with big eyes, beautiful and worried.

I remember to smile. “How do I look? Not too horrible, I hope.”

“Aaron,” she says quietly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say, and glance again in the mirror. I run a hand over the soft/spiky half inch of hair I have left and wonder at how the cut manages to makes me look harsher—and colder—than before. “Though I confess I don’t really recognize myself,” I add aloud, attempting a laugh. I’m standing in the middle of the bathroom wearing nothing but boxer briefs. My body has never been leaner, the sharp lines of muscle never more defined; and the rawness of my body is now paired with the rough cut of my hair in a way that feels almost uncivilized—and so unlike me that I have to look away.

Juliette is now right in front of me.

Her hands settle on my hips and pull me forward; I trip a little as I follow her lead. “What are you doing?” I begin to say, but when I meet her eyes I find tenderness and concern. Something thaws inside of me. My shoulders relax and I reel her in, drawing in a deep breath as I do.

“When will we talk about it?” she says against my chest. “All of it? Everything that’s happened—”

I flinch.

“Aaron.”

“I’m okay,” I lie to her. “It’s just hair.”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

I look away. Stare at nothing. We’re both quiet a moment.

It’s Juliette who finally breaks the silence.

“Are you upset with me?” she whispers. “For shooting him?”

My body stills.

Her eyes widen.

“No—no.” I say the words too quickly, but I mean them. “No, of course not. It’s not that.”

Juliette sighs.

“I’m not sure you’re aware of this,” she says finally, “but it’s okay to mourn the loss of your father, even if he was a terrible person. You know?” She peers up at me. “You’re not a robot.”

I swallow back the lump growing in my throat and gently extricate myself from her arms. I kiss her on the cheek and linger there, against her skin, for only a second. “I need to take a shower.”

She looks heartbroken and confused, but I don’t know what else to do. It’s not that I don’t love her company, it’s just that right now I’m desperate for solitude and I don’t know how else to find it.

So I shower. I take baths. I go for long walks.

I tend to do this a lot.

When I finally come to bed she’s already asleep.

I want to reach for her, to pull her soft, warm body against my own, but I feel paralyzed. This horrible half-grief has made me feel complicit in darkness. I worry that my sadness will be interpreted as an endorsement of his choices—of his very existence—and in this matter I don’t want to be misunderstood, so I cannot admit that I grieve him, that I care at all for the loss of this monstrous man who raised me. And in the absence of healthy action I remain frozen, a sentient stone in the wake of my father’s death.

Are you upset with me? For shooting him?

I hated him.

I hated him with a violent intensity I’ve never since experienced. But the fire of true hatred, I realize, cannot exist without the oxygen of affection. I would not hurt so much, or hate so much, if I did not care.

And it is this, my unrequited affection for my father, that has always been my greatest weakness. So I lie here, marinating in a sorrow I can never speak of, while regret consumes my heart.

I am an orphan.

“Aaron?” she whispers, and I’m pulled back to the present.

“Yes, love?”

She moves in a sleepy, sideways motion, and nudges my arm with her head. I can’t help but smile as I open up to make room for her against me. She fills the void quickly, pressing her face into my neck as she wraps an arm around my waist. My eyes close as if in prayer. My heart restarts.

“I miss you,” she says. It’s a whisper I almost don’t catch.

“I’m right here,” I say, gently touching her cheek. “I’m right here, love.”

But she shakes her head. Even as I pull her closer, even as she falls back asleep, she shakes her head.

And I wonder if she’s not wrong.

Juliette

I’m having breakfast by myself this morning—alone, but not lonely.

The breakfast room is full of familiar faces, all of us catching up on something: sleep; work; half-finished conversations. Energy levels in here are always dependent on the amount of caffeine we’ve had, and right now, things are still pretty quiet.

Brendan, who’s been nursing the same cup of coffee all morning, catches my eye and waves. I wave back. He’s the only one among us who doesn’t actually need caffeine; his gift for creating electricity also works as a backup generator for his whole body. He’s exuberance, personified. In fact, his stark-white hair and ice-blue eyes seem to emanate their own kind of energy, even from across the room. I’m starting to think Brendan keeps up appearances with the coffee cup mostly out of solidarity with Winston, who can’t seem to survive without it. The two of them are inseparable these days—even if Winston occasionally resents Brendan’s natural buoyancy.

They’ve been through a lot together. We all have.

Brendan and Winston are sitting with Alia, who’s got her sketchbook open beside her, no doubt designing something new and amazing to help us in battle. I’m too tired to move, otherwise I’d get up to join their group; instead, I drop my chin in one hand and study the faces of my friends, feeling grateful. But the scars on Brendan’s and Winston’s faces take me back to a time I’d rather not remember—back to a time when we thought we’d lost them. When we’d lost two others. And suddenly my thoughts are too heavy for breakfast. So I look away. Drum my fingers against the table.

I’m supposed to be meeting Kenji for breakfast—it’s how we begin our workdays—which is the only reason I haven’t grabbed my own plate of food. Unfortunately, his lateness is beginning to make my stomach grumble. Everyone in the room is cutting into fresh stacks of fluffy pancakes, and they look delicious. All of it is tempting: the mini pitchers of maple syrup; the steaming heaps of breakfast potatoes; the little bowls of freshly cut fruit. If nothing else, killing Anderson and taking over Sector 45 got us much better breakfast options. But I think we might be the only ones who appreciate the upgrades.

Warner never has breakfast with the rest of us. He pretty much never stops working, not even to eat. Breakfast is another meeting for him, and he takes it with Delalieu, just the two of them, and even then I’m not sure he actually eats anything. Warner never appears to take pleasure in food. For him, food is fuel—necessary and, most of the time, annoying—in that his body requires it to function. Once, while he was deeply immersed in some important paperwork at dinner, I put a cookie on a plate in front of him just to see what would happen. He glanced up at me, glanced back at his work, whispered a quiet thank you, and ate the cookie with a knife and fork. He didn’t even seem to enjoy it. This, needless to say, makes him the polar opposite of Kenji, who loves to eat everything, all the time, and who later told me that watching Warner eat a cookie made him want to cry.

Speaking of Kenji, him flaking on me this morning is more than a little weird, and I’m beginning to worry. I’m just about to glance at the clock for the third time when, suddenly, Adam is standing next to my table, looking uncomfortable.

“Hi,” I say, just a little too loudly. “What’s, uh, what’s up?”

Adam and I have interacted a couple of times in the last two weeks, but it’s always been by accident. Suffice it to say that it’s unusual for Adam to be standing in front of me on purpose, and I’m so surprised that for a moment I almost miss the obvious:

He looks bad.

Rough. Ragged. More than a little exhausted. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I would’ve sworn Adam had been crying. Not over our failed relationship, I hope.

Still, old instinct gnaws at me, tugs at ancient heartstrings.

We speak at the same time:

“You okay . . . ?” I ask.

“Castle wants to talk to you,” he says.

“Castle sent you to come get me?” I say, feelings forgotten.

Adam shrugs. “I was walking past his room at the right time, I guess.”

“Um. Okay.” I try to smile. Castle is always trying to make nice between me and Adam; he doesn’t like the tension. “Did he say he wants to see me right now?”

“Yep.” Adam shoves his hands in his pockets. “Right away.”

“All right,” I say, and the whole thing feels awkward. Adam just stands there as I gather my things, and I want to tell him to go away, to stop staring at me, that this is weird, that we broke up forever ago and it was weird, you made it so weird, but then I realize he isn’t staring at me. He’s looking at the floor like he’s stuck, lost in his head somewhere.

“Hey—are you okay?” I say again, this time gently.

Adam looks up, startled. “What?” he says. “What, oh—yeah, I’m fine. Hey do you know, uh”—he clears his throat, looks around—“do you, uh—”

“Do I what?”

Adam rocks on his heels, eyes darting around the room. “Warner is never here for breakfast, huh?”

My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. “You’re looking for Warner?”

“What? No. I’m just, uh, wondering. He’s never here. You know? It’s weird.”

I stare at him.

He says nothing.

“It’s not that weird,” I say slowly, studying Adam’s face. “Warner doesn’t have time for breakfast with us. He’s always working.”

“Oh,” Adam says, and the word seems to deflate him. “That’s too bad.”

“Is it?” I frown.

But Adam doesn’t seem to hear me. He calls for James, who’s putting away his breakfast tray, and the two of them meet in the middle of the room and then disappear.

I have no idea what they do all day. I’ve never asked.

The mystery of Kenji’s absence at breakfast is solved the moment I walk up to Castle’s door: the two of them are here, heads together.

I knock on the open door as a courtesy. “Hey,” I say. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, yes, Ms. Ferrars,” Castle says eagerly. He gets to his feet and waves me inside. “Please, have a seat. And if you would”—he gestures behind me—“close the door.”

I’m nervous in an instant.

I take a tentative step into Castle’s makeshift office and glance at Kenji, whose blank face does nothing to allay my fears. “What’s going on?” I say. And then, only to Kenji: “Why weren’t you at breakfast?”

Castle motions for me to take a seat.

I do.

“Ms. Ferrars,” he says urgently. “You have news of Oceania?”

“Excuse me?”

“The RSVP. You received your first RSVP, did you not?”

“Yeah, I did,” I say slowly. “But no one is supposed to know about that yet—I was going to tell Kenji about it over breakfast this morning—”

“Nonsense.” Castle cuts me off. “Everyone knows. Mr. Warner knows, certainly. And Lieutenant Delalieu knows.”

“What?” I glance at Kenji, who shrugs. “How is that possible?”

“Don’t be so easily shocked, Ms. Ferrars. Obviously all of your correspondence is monitored.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

Castle makes a frustrated motion with his hand. “Time is of the essence, so if you would, I’d really—”

“Time is of what essence?” I say, irritated. “How am I supposed to help you when I don’t even know what you’re talking about?”

Castle pinches the bridge of his nose. “Kenji,” he says suddenly. “Will you leave us, please?”

“Yep.” Kenji jumps to his feet with a mock salute. He heads toward the door.

“Wait,” I say, grabbing his arm. “What’s going on?”

“I have no idea, kid.” Kenji laughs, shakes his arm free. “This conversation doesn’t concern me. Castle called me in here earlier to talk about cows.”

“Cows?”

“Yeah, you know.” He arches an eyebrow. “Livestock. He’s been having me do reconnaissance on several hundreds of acres of farmland that The Reestablishment has been keeping off the radar. Lots and lots of cows.”

“Exciting.”

“It is, actually.” His eyes light up. “The methane makes it all pretty easy to track. Makes you wonder why they wouldn’t do something to preve—”

“Methane?” I say, confused. “Isn’t that a kind of gas?”

“I take it you don’t know much about cow shit.”

I ignore that. Instead, I say, “So that’s why you weren’t at breakfast this morning? Because you were looking at cow poop?”

“Basically.”

“Well,” I say. “At least that explains the smell.”

It takes Kenji a second to catch on, but when he does, he narrows his eyes. Taps me on the forehead with one finger. “You’re going straight to hell, you know that?”

I smile, big. “See you later? I still want to go on our morning walk.”

He makes a noncommittal grunt.

“C’mon,” I say, “it’ll be fun this time, I promise.”

“Oh yeah, big fun.” Kenji rolls his eyes as he turns away, and shoots Castle another two-finger salute. “See you later, sir.”

Castle nods his good-bye, a bright smile on his face.

It takes a minute for Kenji to finally walk out the door and shut it behind him, but in that minute Castle’s face transforms. His easy smile, his eager eyes: gone. Now that he and I are fully alone, Castle looks a little shaken, a little more serious. Maybe even . . . scared?

And he gets right down to business.

“When the RSVP came through, what did it say? Was there anything memorable about the note?”

“No.” I frown. “I don’t know. If all my correspondence is being monitored, wouldn’t you already know the answer to this question?”

“Of course not. I’m not the one monitoring your mail.”

“So who’s monitoring my mail? Warner?”

Castle only looks at me. “Ms. Ferrars, there is something deeply unusual about this response.” He hesitates. “Especially as it’s your first, and thus far, only RSVP.”

“Okay,” I say, confused. “What’s unusual about it?”

Castle looks into his hands. At the wall. “How much do you know about Oceania?”

“Very little.”

“How little?”

I shrug. “I can point it out on a map.”

“And you’ve never been there?”

“Are you serious?” I shoot him an incredulous look. “Of course not. I’ve never been anywhere, remember? My parents pulled me out of school. Passed me through the system. Eventually threw me in an insane asylum.”

Castle takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes as he says, very carefully, “Was there anything at all memorable about the note you received from the supreme commander of Oceania?”

“No,” I say. “Not really.”

“Not really?”

“I guess it was little informal? But I don’t thi—”

“Informal, how?”

I look away, remembering. “The message was really brief,” I explain. “It said Can’t wait to see you, with no sign-off or anything.”

“‘Can’t wait to see you’?” Castle looks suddenly puzzled.

I nod.

“Not can’t wait to meet you,” he says, “but can’t wait to see you.”

I nod again. “Like I said, a little informal. But it was polite, at least. Which I think is a pretty positive sign, all things considered.”

Castle sighs heavily as he turns in his chair. He’s facing the wall now, his fingers steepled under his chin. I’m studying the sharp angles of his profile as he says quietly,

“Ms. Ferrars, how much has Mr. Warner told you about The Reestablishment?”

Warner

I’m sitting alone in the conference room, running an absent hand over my new haircut, when Delalieu arrives. He’s pulling a small coffee cart in behind him, wearing the tepid, shaky smile I’ve come to rely upon. Our workdays have been busier than ever lately; thankfully, we’ve never made time to discuss the uncomfortable details of recent events, and I doubt we ever will.

For this I am forever grateful.

It’s a safe space for me here, with Delalieu, where I can pretend that things in my life have changed very little.

I am still chief commander and regent to the soldiers of Sector 45; it’s still my duty to organize and lead those who will help us stand against the rest of The Reestablishment. And with that role comes responsibility. We’ve had a lot of restructuring to do while we coordinate our next moves, and Delalieu has been critical to these efforts.

“Good morning, sir.”

I nod a greeting as he pours us both a cup of coffee. A lieutenant such as himself need not pour his own coffee in the morning, but we’ve come to prefer the privacy.

I take a sip of the black liquid—I’ve recently learned to enjoy its bitter tang—and lean back in my chair. “Updates?”

Delalieu clears his throat.

“Yes, sir,” he says, hastily returning his coffee cup to its saucer, spilling a little as he does. “Quite a few this morning, sir.”

I tilt my head at him.

“Construction of the new command station is going well. We’re expecting to be done with all the details in the next two weeks, but the private rooms will be move-in ready by tomorrow.”

“Good.” Our new team, under Juliette’s supervision, comprises many people now, with many departments to manage and, with the exception of Castle, who’s carved out a small office for himself upstairs, thus far they’ve all been using my personal training facilities as their central headquarters. And though this had seemed like a practical idea at its inception, my training facilities are accessible only through my personal quarters; and now that the group of them are living freely on base, they’re often barging in and out of my rooms, unannounced.

Needless to say, it’s driving me insane.

“What else?”

Delalieu checks his list and says, “We’ve finally managed to secure your father’s files, sir. It’s taken all this time to locate and retrieve the bulk of it, but I’ve left the boxes in your room, sir, for you to open at your leisure. I thought”—he clears his throat—“I thought you might like to look through his remaining personal effects before they are inherited by our new supreme commander.”

A heavy, cold dread fills my body.

“There’s quite a lot of it, I’m afraid,” Delalieu is still saying. “All his daily logs. Every report he’d ever filed. We even managed to locate a few of his personal journals.” Delalieu hesitates. And then, in a tone only I know how to decipher: “I do hope his notes will be useful to you, somehow.”

I look up, meet Delalieu’s eyes. There’s concern there. Worry.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “I’d nearly forgotten.”

An uncomfortable silence settles between us and, for a moment, neither of us knows exactly what to say. We still haven’t discussed this, the death of my father. The death of Delalieu’s son-in-law. The horrible husband of his late daughter, my mother. We never talk about the fact that Delalieu is my grandfather. That he is the only kind of father I have left in the world.

It’s not what we do.

So it’s with a halting, unnatural voice that Delalieu attempts to pick up the thread of conversation.

“Oceania, as, as I’m sure you’ve heard, sir, has said that, that they would attend a meeting organized by our new madam, madam supreme—”

I nod.

“But the others,” he says, the words rushing out of him now, “will not respond until they’ve spoken with you, sir.”

At this, my eyes widen perceptibly.

“They’re”—Delalieu clears his throat again—“well, sir, as you know, they’re all old friends of the family, and they—well, they—”

“Yes,” I whisper. “Of course.”

I look away, at the wall. My jaw feels suddenly wired shut with frustration. Secretly, I’d been expecting this. But after two weeks of silence I’d actually begun to hope that maybe they’d continue to play dumb. There’s been no communication from these old friends of my father, no offers of condolences, no white roses, no sympathy cards. No correspondence, as was our daily ritual, from the families I’d known as a child, the families responsible for the hellscape we live in now. I thought I’d been happily, mercifully, cut off.

Apparently not.

Apparently treason is not enough of a crime to be left alone. Apparently my father’s many daily missives expounding my “grotesque obsession with an experiment” were not reason enough to oust me from the group. He loved complaining aloud, my father, loved sharing his many disgusts and disapprovals with his old friends, the only people alive who knew him face-to-face. And every day he humiliated me in front of the people we knew. He made my world, my thoughts, and my feelings seem small. Pathetic. And every day I’d count the letters piling up in my in-box, screeds from his old friends begging me to see reason, as they called it. To remember myself. To stop embarrassing my family. To listen to my father. To grow up, be a man, and stop crying over my sick mother.

No, these ties run too deep.

I squeeze my eyes shut to quell the rush of faces, memories of my childhood, as I say, “Tell them I’ll be in touch.”

“That won’t be necessary, sir,” says Delalieu.

“Excuse me?”

“Ibrahim’s children are already en route.”

It happens swiftly: a sudden, brief paralysis of my limbs.

“What do you mean?” I say, only barely managing to stay calm. “En route where? Here?”

Delalieu nods.

A wave of heat floods my body so quickly I don’t even realize I’m on my feet until I have to grab the table for support. “How dare they,” I say, somehow still clinging to the edge of composure. “Their complete disregard— To be so unbearably entitled—”

“Yes, sir, I understand, sir,” Delalieu says, looking newly terrified, “it’s just—as you know—it’s the way of the supreme families, sir. A time-honored tradition. A refusal on my part would’ve been interpreted as an open act of hostility—and Madam Supreme has instructed me to be diplomatic for as long as possible so I thought, I—I thought— Oh, I’m very sorry, sir—”

“She doesn’t know who she’s dealing with,” I say sharply. “There is no diplomacy with these people. Our new supreme commander might have no way of knowing this, but you,” I say, more upset than angry now, “you should’ve known better. War would’ve been worth avoiding this.”

I don’t look up to see his face when he says, his voice trembling, “I’m deeply, deeply sorry, sir.”

A time-honored tradition, indeed.

The right to come and go was a practice long ago agreed upon. The supreme families were always welcome in each other’s lands at any time, no invitations necessary. While the movement was young and the children were young, our families held fast. And now those families—and their children—rule the world.

This was my life for a very long time. On Tuesday, a playdate in Europe; on Friday, a dinner party in South America. Our parents insane, all of them.

The only friends I ever knew had families even crazier than mine. I have no wish to see any of them ever again.

And yet—

Good God, I have to warn Juliette.

“As to the, as to the matter of the, of the civilians”—Delalieu is prattling on—“I’ve been communicating with Castle, per, per your request, sir, on how best to proceed with their transition out of the, out of the compounds—”

But the rest of our morning meeting passes by in a blur.

When I finally manage to loose myself from Delalieu’s shadow, I head straight back to my own quarters. Juliette is usually here this time of day, and I’m hoping to catch her, to warn her before it’s too late.

Too soon, I’m intercepted.

“Oh, um, hey—”

I look up, distracted, and quickly stop in place. My eyes widen, just a little.

“Kent,” I say quietly.

One swift appraisal is all I need to know that he’s not okay. In fact, he looks terrible. Thinner than ever; dark circles under his eyes. Thoroughly worn-out.

I wonder whether I look just the same to him.

“I was wondering,” he says, and looks away, his face pinched. He clears his throat. “I was, uh”—he clears his throat again—“I was wondering if we could talk.”

I feel my chest tighten. I stare at him a moment, cataloging his tense shoulders, his unkempt hair, his deeply bitten fingernails. He sees me staring and quickly shoves his hands into his pockets. He can hardly meet my eyes.

“Talk,” I manage to say.

He nods.

I exhale quietly, slowly. We haven’t spoken a word to each other since I first found out we were brothers, nearly three weeks ago. I thought the emotional implosion of the evening had ended as well anyone could’ve hoped, but so much has happened since that night. We haven’t had a chance to rip open that wound again. “Talk,” I say again. “Of course.”

He swallows hard. Stares at the ground. “Cool.”

And I’m suddenly compelled to ask a question that unsettles both of us: “Are you all right?”

He looks up, stunned. His blue eyes are round and red-rimmed, bloodshot. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “I don’t know who else to talk to about this,” he whispers. “I don’t know anyone else who would even understand—”

And I do. All at once.

I understand.

When his eyes go abruptly glassy with emotion; when his shoulders tremble even as he tries to hold himself still—

I feel my own bones rattle.

“Of course,” I say, surprising myself. “Come with me.”

(source)

#aaron warner #juliette ferrars #warner x juliette #kenji kishimoto #restore me #shatter me series #tahereh mafi #warnette

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scuttling · 3 years

Text

Something Stupid

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Latina Original Female Character Word Count: 25,159 Chapters: 6 of 6 Complete Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dad Hotch, Fluff and smut, Light angst, Unprotected sex, Oral sex, Getting together, Minor background Garcia/Prentiss

Summary: All it takes to turn Sophie Cortes's life upside down is getting bashed over the head with a fire extinguisher. And sleeping with her boss. Note: This is a reformatted, previously published work. :)

Link to A03 or read Chapter 1 below!

All it takes to turn Sophie Cortes's life upside down is getting bashed over the head with a fire extinguisher. And sleeping with her boss.

There had been a case, of course—there’s always a case—and the victims were all Latina runners in their early 30s, abducted from a local park, so they took the very specific victim profile as an opportunity to use her as bait. It was all pretty straightforward, except the unsub escalated, upgraded from using the ‘lost dog’ trick to try to lure her to his car to just straight up knocking her unconscious from behind, and Hotch and the team were too late to grab her before the unsub loaded her into the trunk of his car to take her to his disgusting torture den. Thankfully, they caught him before he got her out of the park.

She was fine in the end, just some swelling and tenderness where he’d brained her with the fire extinguisher he kept in his car, and though it was kind of scary to hear it all retold by Spencer and JJ on the flight home, she knows her team did everything they could to get to her, and that they were ultimately successful, and that’s really all that mattered.

At least, it was, until Hotch showed up at her door that night.

“Hey, Hotch, what—what’s up? Is everything okay?” she asks, confused, because he’s… he’s rumpled, no jacket, tie loose, hair a mess like he’s been running his hands through it, and—when she gets close enough to smell him—he reeks of alcohol. She’s never seen him like this, ever, in the last two years she’s worked under him.

He looks down at her, and his eyes aren’t glassy, at least; they’re as dark and serious as ever, staring into hers like he’s seeing every shadowy secret she keeps locked away beneath her delightfully sarcastic exterior. It makes her feel hot—not sexy hot, but exposed, self-conscious, unsettled: the mortifying ordeal of being known. She’s about to ask him what the fuck is going on when he surges forward to kiss her, and she wraps her arms around him, kisses him too, stumbling backward into her apartment until her body bumps against the kitchen island and shocks her back to reality.

“Are you out of your mind?” she asks, shoving lightly at his shoulders so he’ll give her some room to breathe. His chest is heaving, and so is hers, and he reaches up a careful hand, brushes it over the bump on the back of her head from the incident earlier that day.

“Do you have any idea what I would have done if we couldn’t get to you in time?” His voice is low, a little raspy, and she swallows hard, looks up at his gentle face. The Hotch who just kissed her isn’t a man she knows, and this version of him isn’t someone she recognizes, either. He has always behaved toward her the way she behaves toward her brother’s wife’s family at the holidays: like she’s a person who just happens to be there, and he’ll be cordial, and respond when spoken to, but he’ll breathe a little easier when she’s gone.

It used to hurt. It doesn’t anymore.

“Um, I don’t know. The same thing you’d do for anyone: look for witnesses, pull security footage of the park entrances, put an APB out on the car—” He laughs, something humorless, and shakes his head like she’s being dense.

“That’s not what I mean. I mean, do you have any idea what I,” he takes her hand and presses it to his chest, over his heart, covers it with his, “would have done if we couldn’t get to you in time?”

“You don’t really give me the time of day any other time, so what makes you think I’d expect anything from you?” she asks, and she knows it’s a little harsh, but she can’t take it back now. “You are my boss, Hotch. You’re not my friend, you’re not… you’re not anything to me.”

“But that’s not exactly true, is it?” He doesn’t even bristle at her tone, her words, just continues to stand in front of her, looking soft. She kind of wants to hate him for it. “The reason I don’t give you the time of day, as you said, is because we’re something to each other. You know it, I know it.” He brushes his thumb over her cheek, tender and affectionate. “I feel it every time I’m close to you, and I know you feel it too. And we’ve both pushed each other away because we know it can’t happen.”

She wets her lips, because this is actually the mortifying ordeal of being known: he’s absolutely right, she has wanted him for almost two years, can’t stop her eyes from sweeping over his tall, strong body when he straps on his bulletproof vest, can’t stop imagining his hands on her when he pushes up his sleeves if they take a case in a humid Southern state. She looks at him and thinks of his mouth on her throat, her legs wrapped around his waist, his thick thighs supporting her while she moves in his lap until they both give in to the pleasure and collapse against each other, panting, gasping, wishing they had the stamina for more.

But like he said, it can’t happen, and if that’s the reason he’s been keeping his distance? She really can’t be angry about that, because she’s been doing the same thing.

“You can’t do this. You can’t just come here—drunk, by the way—and kiss me, and act like you like me, like you care, just because I got hurt. You can’t, Hotch.”

“Why not? Because you truly don’t want me to? Because if that’s the case, I’ll leave. We can pretend this never happened, if that’s what you truly want.” He looks solemn, now, and she knows that he would drop it if she asked him to. “But if it’s just because you’re afraid of what will happen if we give in… I’ve been there, Sophie. I’ve reminded myself of the consequences of this every single for... longer than I'd like to admit. But seeing you hurt today… I would never forgive myself if I didn’t at least try to show you how much you mean to me, how devastated I would be if anything happened to you. That’s all I want to show you.” He presses his hands to her face again, softly, leans in just a little. “Can I show you?”

She should tell him no. She should push him away again, call him a cab, send him home, and request a transfer in the morning. It might hurt now, but it would all be for the best in the end.

But Sophie has never really been known for doing things with her own best interest in mind.

She bridges the distance, kisses him deeply, hands sliding up his back to pull him closer for more. He lifts her up onto the kitchen island, stands between her knees, and she slips her fingers into his already fucked up hair, legs wrapping around his waist. His lips move to her throat, and she tips her head back, sighs at the feel of his hot mouth against her skin; when he pulls back, she tugs her t-shirt over her head, and he kisses down her collarbone, brushes his lips over her breast, her peaked nipple, so that she tightens her fingers in his hair.

“Sophie,” he sighs, looking up at her with those deep, dark eyes, and she reaches down to get his pants open, to untuck his shirt. If he’s so desperate to show her how he feels tonight, to show her emotion this once, maybe she’ll make it quick and dirty and then call him that cab and go to bed feeling awful about herself. Maybe she’ll request the transfer anyway.

Except… that’s not what she wants. She doesn’t want quick and dirty, she doesn’t want one and done. She wants him, wants to get to look at him every day without feeling guilty, wants to see more of the tender side of him he’s displayed tonight. She wants to wake up with him, go to bed with him, and everything in between.

She brings his mouth to hers for a soft, slow, passionate kiss, and then she pulls off his tie, his shirt, his undershirt. He helps with the rest of their clothes, and she takes his hand, guides him toward her bedroom, where there’s nothing left between them: no clothing, no hesitancy, no consequences. At least for tonight.

They kiss so much her lips feel bruised, and his hands caress every inch of her body like he’s drafting a map and needs to familiarize himself with the terrain: the curve of her calf, the slope of her breasts, the contours of her waist, the depth of her aching pussy. He dips his fingers inside her, praises her wetness, then bends to taste it, lifts her hips and devours her until she comes shaking and moaning his name.

Then he presses into her, thick and solid, but that’s not the best part; no, it’s when he rolls his hips up, sinking so deeply, so completely inside of her that she can’t even tell where she ends and he begins. She grips his back, rocks to meet each slow, thorough thrust, her body sliding further and further up the bed while he lays claim to her, his teeth sinking into her throat like it’s a soft, ripe peach and not overheated flesh and tendon. It hurts, and it feels so good.

“Oh, god,” she breathes, because she’s never had a man take her apart so thoroughly; but that’s it, isn’t it? He is a man, without performative six-pack abs the guys her age spend their days in the gym trying to achieve, in their place a strong core capable of pinning her to the bed, powerful thighs hard and unyielding against hers as he works desperately to fill her with his come. His arms support his weight, provide leverage, and she turns her head to mouth at his forearm as it flexes, as his fingers dig into the sheets because he feels exactly as much pleasure as she does, she just knows it. “Yes, Aaron.”

A thin film of sweat forms on his back, and her hands slip, so she sinks fingers in his hair, clutches his shoulder, pants and gasps into his mouth until he climaxes inside her, his hips pistoning faster for a moment before slowing altogether. He brushes the pads of his fingers over her lips, and she swipes her tongue over them just to taste him, and then he slides them down to glide over her swollen clit. “Come for me,” he murmurs in her ear, rubbing and grinding inside her as he softens, and she whimpers, hips stuttering against him, her second orgasm even stronger than the first.

They kiss more, smoothing their hands over each other, pressing noses and lips to foreheads, cheeks; Sophie feels so many emotions fighting for dominance it makes her head ache—and then she remembers the injury on her scalp that’s still fresh, and it makes her head ache worse.

Aaron can probably see it on her face, because he leans up, carefully turns her head to the side, and presses down on the area surrounding the bump. She closes her eyes; it feels so good she almost wants to purr.

“Did you pick up that prescription?” he asks softly as he massages her head, and her eyelids flutter open at the sound of his voice.

“Yeah, it’s in the bathroom,” she murmurs, gesturing to the master bath, and he makes a soft noise of understanding, climbs off the bed; he returns with a warm, wet cloth, a pain pill, and a glass of water, all of which she accepts gratefully.

“I should probably stay here tonight—to make sure you don’t have a concussion,” he adds when her eyebrows shoot up her forehead, making her wince. “If you want me to.” They both know she’s already been cleared by a doctor, and it’s not that she doesn’t want him to—unfortunately, she wants it more than anything—but she doesn’t feel up to arguing about her particular brand of commitment issues right now, so she just nods softly.

“Please, stay.” She threads her fingers through his hair, and guides him down for another kiss, and when her headache goes away she sinks into sleep with his arm wrapped around her waist and his nose buried in her hair. Sophie wakes up the next morning, makes coffee, a smoothie—Aaron’s dead to the world, because he doesn’t even stir when she pulses coconut milk and mango and greens in her Vitamix a little bit longer than necessary. She stalks into her bedroom, leans toward him on the bed, shakes his shoulder. “Aaron. You need to go.”

“What?” he grumbles, lifting his face off the pillow to seek her out; he has some serious bedhead, and a crease on his cheek from the pillowcase, and he’s still the most gorgeous man she’s ever seen in her life. It’s completely unfair.

“It’s 7:00—I’m going running, and you need to go home and get showered and dressed before work. There’s coffee made, your clothes are hanging in the closet over there. You can lock up behind you when you go.” She makes to head for the door, but he turns onto his back and reaches for her, taking her arm and pulling her closer.

“Don’t do that, please.” His voice is rough with sleep, but he’s awake now, looking like he’s ready to further complicate her life. The worst part is that she’ll probably let him. “Don’t treat me like a one night stand you’re never going to see again.” She sighs.

“I’m not. I’m treating you like my hungover unit chief who is bare-ass naked in my bed and who’s going to be late to work if he doesn’t get moving.” She tries for stern, but the corners of her mouth twitch up against her will. “So get moving.”

“Give me five minutes,” he says, and he brushes his hand over her cheek like she’s something precious. “I’ll walk you out.” She agrees, doesn’t see the harm—she likes knowing for herself that the place is locked up, anyway, so it makes sense.

He dresses quickly, and she drinks her smoothie, fills a travel mug with coffee for him, with two sugars, the way he likes it. When they step out into the hallway, he tries to kiss her goodbye, but she turns her face to take it on the cheek instead, making him sigh. He heads downstairs to his car, and she locks the deadbolts, looking up when a flash of hot pink catches her eye.

It’s her neighbor, Jazmine. She’s tall, leanly muscled, with chestnut colored skin—boisterous, flashy, the up-all-night-partying type, so she’s probably just getting in—and she raises an eyebrow in Sophie’s direction.

“He’s cute.”

“He’s my boss,” she explains quickly. “I got hurt at work yesterday and he stayed over to make sure I didn’t have a concussion.” Jazmine nods, looking like she 100% does not believe her.

“Uh huh. You don’t have to explain yourself to me, girl. I’m just glad your dry spell is over; these walls are thin, so I know the only relationship you’ve been having is with your vibrator.” Sophie’s cheeks heat, and she fights to get the key out of the deadbolt so she can get herself the fuck out of this awkward conversation.

“That’s not true; I have two vibrators,” she mumbles, and Jazmine laughs, ducks inside her apartment. The key finally comes loose, and Sophie tucks it into the zippered pocket of her leggings and prepares to try—and fail—to run off her frustrations.

Then comes work.

“What are you doing here, Cortes?” Prentiss asks when she walks into the bullpen. “Head injury usually means you get a day or two off—or are you just that obsessed with this place?” Sophie blows out a long breath, sets her stuff on her desk, then shoots her a kind smile. It’s not her fault she royally screwed up her life last night, so she can’t take it out on her.

“Oh, you know me: all work and no play.”

“Better than all play and no work, I guess,” she replies, grinning, “even if it is more fun.”

“Yeah, but play gets you into trouble; at least it gets me into trouble,” she grumbles, taking a seat at her desk. All she can hope for at this point is a quiet, easy day of consults and maybe a drink at the bar around the corner on her way home from work. “Dinner and a bonfire at my place tonight,” Rossi greets when they enter the briefing room. Sophie’s first instinct is to groan, because that means finding a way to avoid Aaron for an additional four plus hours, but she grins instead because her need for Rossi’s cooking and a night of relaxation outweighs the tension.

“Are we breaking in your woodfired pizza oven? If so, just pop open some vino and I’m there,” she teases, and he smiles in response.

“I can do pizza, and I have a very expensive bottle of Brunello with your name on it—since you were almost kidnapped yesterday, and all.”

“She was kidnapped,” Aaron says when he walks in, looking serious. “We just got her back before she left the park, that’s all.” The room goes quiet, because everyone can tell he’s in a mood—but thankfully, Morgan doesn’t really concern himself with other people’s moods, and he chuckles.

“Ah, he would have given her back after five minutes anyway. We love you, but you’re an acquired personality,” he tells her, and she reaches across the table and punches him in the arm.

“Shut up, I’m delightful.”

“If you two are done,” Aaron says with a no-nonsense expression that makes her want to get smart with him just on principle, “we can go ahead and get started.”

Everyone is filing out of the room after, with their assignments for the day, when he asks her to stay back; Spencer glances at her, like he’s making sure she’s okay, and she nods, waves him off.

“Is something wrong, sir?” she asks, like a bit of a smart ass—residual bitchiness from earlier, she knows—and he exhales deeply.

“I just want to talk to you for a minute, since you were practically shoving me out the door this morning.” She crosses her arms, tilts her head.

“Would you have preferred I go about my business and let you be late to work?”

“I would have preferred that we have a conversation about last night like the adults we are,” he counters, and she feels like a properly chastened asshole. She leans her butt on the table, looks up at him with soft eyes; this is more emotion than she’s prepared for so early in the day, but it’s clearly unavoidable.

“Alright. You’re right. Do you want me to start?” He nods, and she blows out a breath. “You surprised me, coming over the way you did. My guard was down, and hearing you say all those things—it was like you were poking at all of my bruises, things I’m still trying to heal from. Wanting you the way I have, and feeling completely overlooked by you… it used to really hurt me. I took it very personally, and my hackles are always kind of raised when you’re around, for that reason. If I seem a little abrasive, that’s why.”

He nods, like it makes sense to him. Like it explains a lot.

“I get that. I didn’t handle my feelings for you the right way at all, and I know that now, and I’m sorry. And I realize that showing up at your apartment unannounced, after I’d been drinking, was the stupidest way I could have possibly gone about trying to explain my feelings to you, but everything I said was true. And when we…” He wets his lips, swallows hard. “When we made love, I knew it was the right thing. I knew pushing you away was a mistake, and I’ll find a way to make that up to you, to make up for lost time, I promise.”

“I’m not sure what I want out of this,” she says honestly; she hasn’t even had twenty-four hours to sit with the fact that he wants her, and her head is still spinning. “I’m not—I don’t do well in relationships.”

“Maybe in the past, but it’s possible you just didn’t have a partner who was willing to meet you halfway.” It’s clear he wants to get closer to her, touch her, maybe even kiss her, but they’re too exposed in the briefing room, blinds open; he lets his eyes do the touching, sweeps them gently over her face. “I’ll always listen to what you have to say, value you. I’ll meet you halfway and then some. I won’t abandon you again.”

“I’m not the kind of person who can make a commitment on the spot like this. I need some time,” she says gently, hopes he sees it for what it is, not an excuse or a brush off. Despite the messy way this all came about, she really does want him, care for him. “Can you give me some time?”

“Of course; all the time you need,” he promises, and she nods, stands fully. “Is there anything else you want to say, while we’re here?” His expression is neutral, and she’s glad he’s not leading… If he expects something more from her, it’s nothing she’s ready to give.

“No, I’ll just take that time. Thank you for understanding.” She carefully brushes her fingers over his hand before walking out the door.

She goes home after work to change her clothes, slipping into a light, summery sundress, and then she heads to Rossi’s, steeling herself before she gets out of the car.

The bonfire is already crackling when she walks through the back gate, and she’s greeted warmly by her friends, promptly handed a glass of wine, and asked what toppings she would like to put on her pizza. It’s the makings for a great evening, she has to admit.

They eat, and drink—Sophie doesn’t drink quite as much as she normally would, because her head’s still throbbing a little—and they sit around the fire cracking jokes, and then someone turns on some music, and people start to dance.

Sophie has always loved ballroom dancing: the class, the grace, the drama, the romance. Her aunt owned a studio for most of her childhood, and when things were hard at home, it was the perfect place to go to escape from the world, if just for a little while. Sophie even teaches some classes at a local studio occasionally, just for the fun of it.

She hangs back, watching JJ and Morgan, Prentiss and Garcia sway back and forth, smiling, laughing, and then Rossi asks her if she’d like to dance, and she does.

They may not always see eye to eye, but he’s got good taste in food, wine, and music, she has to give him that.

After Rossi, she heads over to Spencer, tugs him to his feet, and he lets her lead him around the makeshift dance floor for longer than she’d expected.

“May I cut in?” Aaron asks over Spencer’s shoulder; Spencer looks at Sophie, who just nods, tries not to sound wary when she answers.

“Sure.” He leaves them with a brief smile, and Aaron slips an arm around her waist, takes her hand, pulls her close to his body—maybe a little bit too close. She rests her other hand on his shoulder, tries not to think of the pink half-moon impressions that must still be lingering there from where she’d gripped him tight, nails pressing in, while he went down on her. She follows his lead. “What are you doing?”

“You danced with Rossi, Reid; I’m not allowed to dance with you?” She glances around, sees Prentiss and JJ by the fire, Morgan and Rossi by the food, Spencer and Garcia pouring wine—she’s surprised no one notices how closely they’re dancing, talking. She feels hyper aware of it herself.

“It probably looks highly suspicious,” she says anyway, “since it’s never happened before, but if you’re not worried, I’m not worried.” He looks around too, and it’s clear: he’s not worried.

“Good. Maybe we can enjoy this, then.” He moves his hand further down her back, presses her a bit closer, and she sighs, lets him. It feels good to be in his arms, but she wonders what it says, that she missed them after only a few hours. She’d spent two years building up a tolerance to him only to have her resolve come crashing down after one night of extremely sensual, passionate sex. So much for the power of will.

“I am enjoying this. More than I should be, I think,” she answers honestly, and god, what an understatement. Nothing about this should feel so good, so right, but he’s handsome in the flickering, golden light of the bonfire, softer in more casual clothes, his voice low in her ear, the smell of his cologne heady as always; he is a feast for all of her senses—except taste, but that can very much be arranged.

“So let me take you on a date. We can do more dancing, or just have dinner, see a show. Anything you want.” She looks up at him, frowns, and he sighs deeply. “I know you said you needed time to figure out if you want to make a commitment. I’m not asking for a commitment; I’m just asking for a chance.”

“You said yourself, our actions have consequences. Sleeping with you is one thing,” she whispers, “but dating is another, and I’m just not sure it’s the right thing to do, for either of us.” Sleeping together is casual, a series of circumstances that lead to something more; dating is purposeful, meaningful. There are disclosures. Intentions. Things are made concrete. She’s not so sure about concrete.

Aaron looks hurt.

“Last night was more than just sleeping with me, Sophie. That was…” He closes his eyes tightly, like he can’t find the words, and she gets it, because neither can she. She’s only oversimplifying it for the sake of making it easier to say no to him, because no is the last thing she actually wants.

“Okay, yeah. You’re right. It was something special,” she admits, squeezing his hand. “But I can’t afford to put my career in jeopardy right now, and neither can you.”

“Who says we have to? I can talk to Strauss—” She takes a half step back, looks up at him seriously.

“Okay, see, this is all moving a little too quickly for me. I’m not even sure I’m ready to be in a relationship, let alone one that’s under as much scrutiny as we’ll be if you talk to Strauss.”

“It’s been almost two years in the making, if you ask me,” he says lightly, but his jaw is tense.

“That’s not fair, because I’ve spent all this time holding back, trying not to feel things for you—and you hurt me. Imagine being new and hearing about how tightly-knit your team is and then getting practically ignored by your boss, even when you were struggling.” She tries not to think back on the toughest cases, how unhealthy her coping mechanisms were, how badly she could have used his firm but kind voice telling her she was okay, not a fuck up, not alone.

“When were you struggling?” he asks seriously, looking concerned, and she huffs an unkind laugh.

“You were trying so hard not to look at me that you didn’t even see me, Aaron. That’s not healthy, I don’t—I don’t deserve that.” She drops her hand from his shoulder, gently pulls the other free. He lets her. “I’ve had enough fun for one night. I think I’m going to head home.”

“Sophie, I’m sorry. Please,” he says softly, and at least he’s trying not to draw any attention to them. It’s the last thing she needs right now. “You’re right. I know messed things up, but I want to change that, if you’ll let me.” She looks into his eyes, and they’re earnest, sincere; she wants to let him, so badly.

“Not tonight,” she says instead. “Can you just let me think about this a little, please?”

“Yes. No more pressure, I promise.” He looks back at the path leading to the gate, the driveway. “Can I walk you to your car?”

She agrees, says goodbye to everyone, thank you to Rossi; no one seems to find it unusual that Aaron walks her out to her car. He stops beside her door, lifts a hand to brush her hair softly back from her face.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, and he leans in to kiss her temple, something brief and sweet. “We’ll talk soon?” She inhales deeply, breathes him in, nods.

“We’ll talk soon. Goodnight.”

Finding a way to fall asleep in her empty king size bed has never been so impossible.

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