Lay down your arms,

That’s an entirely different issue. One you think, eventually, you could have forgiven on its own.

It meant months of overworking yourself, trying your best to support Morgan as he tried to lead a team that essentially had its legs cut off. You had to watch Spencer retreat into himself as grief consumed him. Consumed you. You had to pick yourself up after a bad day because the one person you needed was 7000 miles away. 

When the days ended, they never really did. There were more things to worry about than just the BAU, like the sweetest Hotchner boy. Your free time was spent helping Jess with Jack. You made sure she didn’t have to do it alone. Dinner and homework and soccer games. You were there.

To know now that he said yes to ease the pain of lying to you, that he left you in this mess alone, well, it reignites the flames of your anger.

“You got to escape from it!” you say, voice sharp. “You left.”

Aaron nearly flinches at your tone. Never once has he heard that type of anger from you directed at him.

“You got to leave while I stayed here alone.” Your voice trembles despite your efforts to steady it. “I had to live through every single day believing my friend, our friend, was dead.”

“I know.”

“No,” you cut in, shaking your head. “You don’t.”

Guilt starts to melt into Aaron’s features. It softens the set of his jaw, dims his eyes and drags his shoulders lower. 

He’s been selfish. It’s a truth he almost never has to face. His entire life is built around sacrifice, his career, his family, the choices he makes everyday. But this had been for him. Watching you grieve had been unbearable and every lie had felt like another betrayal.

“But it doesn’t even matter, I don’t care about Pakistan.” You wipe impatiently at your eyes. “I–I care about the fact that I trust you. Always. And I have for a long time and I know you have reasons for everything you do but this one I can’t figure out. How could you hide this from me?” 

“I couldn’t tell you. JJ–” His tone is pleading and his eye contact never waivers as he tries to explain. “-- is the only other person that knew. It had to be that way. We had to keep Prentiss safe and the fewer people that knew she’s alive the easier that was.”

“I know that.” Your voice is sharper than intended. “But you couldn’t have– have given me a clue?”

His eyes fall away from you, studying the grain of the dining table because this has suddenly become too much. Everything that has built up within you over the last few months is bubbling up to the surface. Aaron shakes his head with a heavy sigh.

“Not even when I was crying in your arms, falling apart, night after night, before you left?”

Aaron remembers those nights all too well. Nights where you were inconsolable, mourning your friend who was gone and would never come back. You wouldn’t sleep and you barely ate, the only solace you seemed to find was in him. 

It all broke his heart, watching you, his love, become a shell of yourself. Especially, when he remembered that he held the key to stop your pain and he couldn’t use it. All he could do was sit like a guardian, telling you lies, telling you it would be okay, telling you you’d get through all of this together. All while knowing you were carrying a grief he could have lifted.

“No,” he says softly, sadly. “I couldn't."

Silence creeps back in, and you watch the steam curl into the air. You’ve never heard Aaron sound so defeated. The anger that had burned so fiercely only minutes ago gutters beneath the weight of it leaving behind something far worse. Your inescapable sadness.

 Aaron feels it too, overcome with helplessness. This isn't a problem he can solve and fix as easily as he’d like, he can’t see the path forward that helps you rather than hurts you. He doesn’t want to hurt you or for you to be hurt any longer. 

“I know,” you shrug, tears collecting on your lashline. “It still hurts, though.”

“I’m sorry, honey, that it had to be this way.”

You’re nodding your head before he finishes, sniffling as your nose starts to run and the sting behind your eyes becomes more noticeable. You know he had his reasons, you know why he did it. Knowing doesn't lessen the sting.

You give Aaron a sorry excuse for a smile, the corners of your mouth barely lifting as you formulate your next sentence carefully. You don't want to hurt Aaron, there's no part of you that could ever want that, but there are things that need to be said that you think might.

“After all this…” you clear your throat. “...This big secret you kept, how am I supposed to know that you won't keep something from me in the future?”

“Unless I absolutely have to,” he says, immediately. “I won’t.”

“How can I believe that?” His mouth opens and closes as he searches for words. “Where do you draw the line for things you can and can't tell me? How am I supposed to know you’re telling the truth?”

“You just have to trust me.” Aaron replies resolutely.

“I could before,” you whisper. “I don’t know that I can now.”

Aaron slumps back in his chair, as if your words are a physical blow. He is the picture of defeat as he rubs a hand over his face. Maybe if he does it hard enough the last ten minutes will have never happened or maybe he’d find some magic words to fix this mess. He loves you and you love him, so how have you got here?

His eyes are sad and impossibly tired when he drops his hands into his lap, you can hardly look at him. You feel sick.

“Tell me–” he starts, unsure and clumsy. “Tell me what to do, honey. Tell me how to fix this and I will.”

The twisted thing about it all is you don't think there is anything he can do. Can’t think of a single thing Aaron can say or do that would make any of this easier. They say time heals all wounds and you hope it mends this one.

“You should go see Jack,” you can’t look at him as you speak, eyes fixed on the table, unable to watch as defeat and heartbreak start to fill his eyes. You’ve never seen him this way, it’s awful. “He’s missed you so much and, I think, I need some space.”

There's a second where Aaron doesn't move, frozen in place, he can’t even tell if he’s breathing. He’d already planned ahead, asking Jess to have Jack for one more night so he could speak with you. Maybe he expected something easier than this. He’d imagined tears and anger, but not this quiet defeat.

The idea of leaving you here, upset and miserable, kills him. But what gives him the right to pick and choose when and how he’s going to be there for you. He’s already taken enough choices away from you. In your shoes, Hotch doesn’t think he’d want to be around himself either.

“Okay.” he says in a tone that suggests all of this is anything but okay as he stands. “Let me know when you're ready to talk, sweetheart, please and I'll be here.” 

He doesn't move towards the door until you look at him and nod. The walk away from you feels longer than it ever has. Once he has a hand on the door handle he turns to look at you where you sit unmoved at the table. 

“I love you.” For the first time since he’d spoken those words to you, Aaron doesn’t wait to hear them returned. He can’t take the chance that you might not say them back anymore.

He’s speaking, you realise vacantly. His lips are moving but the sound of his voice is eclipsed by the ringing in your ears.

“Honey…” His brows are pulled together, blue eyes flooded with concern. “Let’s sit down, okay? You’re okay.”

You can’t process anything beyond your panic but you know he’s asking something and Clark has never steered you wrong before. There's still not enough air to answer so you just nod.

His hand never leaves your shoulder as he guides you to the steps that lead up to the venue. He pushes you to sit down and settles beside you quickly, staying close enough that you’d know even without looking that he’s there.

“It’s okay, you’re okay.” He murmurs, his voice is too quiet. “Head between your knees. Big deep breaths, baby.” His palm slides carefully between your shoulder blades.

The gentle pressure encourages you forward and your body folds almost automatically. 

You try to take deep gasping breaths while hot tears start to fall from your eyes. You dig your nails into your palm with clenched fists to try to ground yourself. 

Clarks hand is warm where it stays on your back. You focus on him and the pattern of the floor while you wait to come back into your own body. 

“It’s okay.” He repeats, his hand moving in slow passes up and down your back. “Everything’s okay, just try to relax.”

You're crying in earnest now. A running nose and shuddering breaths that consume you. Clark is patient and steady, his exaggerated calm breathing starting to anchor you in place.

“Sorry.” you whimper, finally having enough air in your lungs. 

“Don’t apologise,” he says, sounding a little heartbroken. “You’re great. You’re good, sweetheart.” 

It's the first time you're hearing his voice clearly and it’s the final push you need. You sit back upright with shaky limbs, wiping uselessly at your face. When you turn towards Clark, the worry clouding his features is still visible but he has a sympathetic smile. 

You're confused. How did he get here? You don’t remember sending him a text and, honestly, it would’ve been a miracle if you had in your current state.

“Why are you here?” you sniffle, voice small.

His smile turns sheepish and tilts his head to the side almost like a shrug without his shoulders. 

“I was listening, just in case.”

Nothing about his statement does anything to alleviate your confusion. Clark realises and while he lifts a hand to wipe at the tears still falling he purposefully and quickly drops his gaze to your chest before lifting it again. 

What?

…Oh. “My heart?” you ask quietly and Clark nods. It’s strangely comforting, discovering yet another impossible little detail about your boyfriend's impossible life. 

The tears have mostly stopped now, your breathing interrupted only by the occasional lingering hitch.

“Is…” You sniff. “Is that hard to do?”

“Not really.” he shrugs, some of the worry leaving his face now that you're talking easier. 

It's kind of crazy, he definitely didn’t tell you about this when you had the whole I’m Superman conversation.

“What?” you whisper. “You can just pick out a specific person's heartbeat from miles across the city?” 

“Oh, uh, No.” He answers sheepishly. Clark slides his arm around your shoulders, pulling you carefully against his side as a shiver runs through you. “Just yours, really. We spend so much time together, and I love you and I know you, so keeping track of yours is easy.”

“Oh…” you sigh, trying to piece that all together. It’s a tricky thing to think about as the adrenaline fades, your senses dulling as you relax in Clark’s hold. “I love you, too.”

He smiles this great lovestruck smile and you feel the gentle pressure of his lips against your temple. Neither of you speaks for a while. You listen to the muffled music that spills out of the venue doors every time they’re opened. His thumb traces absent circles against your arm until your breathing is completely steady again.

After a while, he speaks again.

“I know, lovely. It’s Remus.” He calls through the door. “Can I come in?”

If you truly don’t want him to, he’ll go find someone else to try until you do let someone in. Luckily though you let out some sort of affirmative sounding nose and he takes it as his cue to step in.

His heart pinches. You really do look a sorry sight, all bleary eyed with rumpled clothes that have twisted where you're slumped down next to the toilet. Remus’ knees give a few great cracks and creaks as he lowers himself to sit beside on the floor. 

“Oh, honey.” he coos, raising a hand to sweep across your back. There was a time not that long ago that he might’ve hesitated to touch you. Every accidental brush of your hands, every shoulder bump, every hug goodbye had required careful deliberation. He’d worried that wanting to touch you so badly would somehow make every touch selfish. But somewhere along the way it all became easy.

The feeling of his hand on your back seems to be all you need to abandon your slouched position against the toilet and fall back into him. His chest to your back, solid and warm, and after a brief, clumsy fumble, your hands find his. You're looking at his hands intently as you start to play with his fingers. Remus can hardly breathe, this isn’t quite the caliber of easy touches you’ve both been handing out recently, it’s quite a lot more. It might as well be a cuddle if it hadn't been preceded by your sickness. Remus’ ears start to pinken. 

“Hi Rem,” you drawl lazily. “You ‘kay?”

“M’okay,” he assures you with a little laugh. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, jus’ tired. Think I got the bad bit out.”

“That’s good.” He says, freeing one of his hands to run it up and down your bicep soothingly. 

You go lax in his arms easily and without thinking. Happy to be engulfed in the warmth that radiates from Remus and ignore the faint bass from the music that flows through the door. With your head tipped against his shoulder, the party comes back to you and guilt builds in your gut.

Remus shouldn't be in here looking after you just because you're a lightweight. He should be out there having a nice time with everyone, or more likely, having a nice time with a drink in hand while he observes everyone else’s madness.

“You should…” You hiccup. “...go back out there, I'll be fine.”

You try to sit up, away from his arms but you don’t get very far before he’s pulling you back. He’s gentle but firm enough to stop you wobbling sideways.

“I’m happy here, lovely.” He says. “I’d only be looking for you out there anyway.”

Remus really hopes you take his words for what they are, the truth, without needing further explanation. That further explanation involves admitting to things he thinks you should only hear sober.

“Okay.” A huge yawn is pulled from your lips as your head tips back to rest on his shoulder with eyes closed.

“Do you want to go to bed?” Remus asks. His question makes you turn in his arms to face him. Your eyes are glassy and half lidded as you take in his face, figuring out your answer with an inebriated brain.

“With you?”

“No, not tonight.” He laughs breathlessly. “In your own bed.”

Your brows pinch together.

“But some other night?” 

The question makes Remus shy. He wonders if you think about sharing a bed with him normally. Whether, when you aren’t several drinks deep, the idea has ever crossed your mind too. He’s leaning towards thinking you have.

If you asked him while completely sober, he suspects his answer would arrive far too quickly.

“C’mon.” He murmurs, carefully sidestepping the question. 

He slowly disentangles you both and stands before bending to settle his hands on your waist to help you as you wobble upright. 

“Let’s get some water and maybe a bit of bread.” he smiles. “and we’ll get you to bed.”