doctorstethoscope's fluffy february

The two of them walk down the street to a dive bar, snagging a booth and ordering their drinks. 

“I think we might have a good thing going here, McHale,” Will says, extending his glass to her. It had been just over a month since she’d come on as his EP. Their viewership had shot up, and to Will, it felt like doing something significant again. He’d been in a bit of a slump until she arrived. She pushed him. Hell, she drove him mad sometimes, but he needed it. He liked it. He wanted more of it, even if he knew he shouldn’t. 

“Well, I’d hate for you to overstate it,” Mac teases as she takes a sip of her gin and tonic, and he catches a twinkle in her eye. “As much as I’d love for you to fall over thanking me for making you a star, you are just as responsible for our success, Billy,”  she tells him, batting her eyelashes. 

He’s fairly certain she’s got something of a crush on him, and he’s halfway fucked. He wants her, badly, but he won’t do that to her. He’s got far too much baggage, not to mention the professional field day it would cause for her.  They order another round, chat a bit about the show, and then pay their tab.

“I don’t live far, so I think I’ll walk,” Mackenzie tells him as they exit the bar. 

“I’ll walk you,” Will decides immediately.

“That’s very sweet, but you really don’t have to—”

“It’s exactly as optional as drinks were,” he teases her, gesturing for her to lead the way. They walk in silence for a moment before he decides to broach more personal topics that the two of them hadn’t ever touched before. “So what made you decide to defect against The Crown?” He teases her.

“I’m American, you asshole,” she laughs. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” he shrugs, his eyes begging her to elaborate. 

“My father’s a diplomat. I was born here, although we moved to the UK shortly after my mother recovered. Stayed long enough for me to pick up the accent, and then we moved all over. Cambridge probably didn’t help with the accent thing.” 

“Where you went to school?” He asked. 

“Yeah,” she answered with a smile. “What about you?”

“You mean to tell me that you didn’t Google me before you took the job?” He teases her, and she blushes. God, he hopes to make that happen many, many more times.

“Maybe I just want to hear it in your words,” she says. “Maybe… maybe I just like listening to you,” she carries on, slipping her hand in his as they continue to walk. He squeezes her hand in his, then pulls her into an alley. 

“Will, what are you doing?” She asks, confused. 

“We can’t do this,” he says, even as he crowds her into the wall. “I’m your boss, for one.”

“Actually, I’m your boss,” Mackenzie chuckles. “So if I was inappropriate, I apologize.”

“It’s not that,” Will scrubs a hand through his hair. “I want to. You’re fucking electric, Mackenzie.” 

She smiles at that. “What is it, then?” She asks, bringing a hand to his chest, feeling the thrumming of his heartbeat.

“I’m fifteen years older than you,” he reminds her as she leans in closer. 

“I don’t think that’s a good enough reason,” she whispers, her breath hitting the junction of his neck and his collarbone, weakening his resolve exponentially.

“It could end badly. The network would prioritize me over you,” he cautions.

“Will?” She asks, and he looks down at her, sees nothing but desire in her green eyes. 

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing, and fighting to keep his hands at his sides when he’d much rather have them in her hair or—

“I’m a big girl,” she tells him. “I can take care of myself,” she promises as she pulls herself up on her tiptoes to press her lips to his, winding her arms around his neck and trusting him to catch her as she crashes into him.

He’s good for the catch, placing one hand on her hip and bringing the other to tangle in her hair as she prods her tongue past his lips. They kiss for longer than they should, based on all of Will’s previously stated objections, and he pulls back.

She’s panting, and blushing at him, again. He’s off the deep end, now. She’s got him right in the palm of her hand— halfway fucked is fully in the rearview. 

He leans back in.

“I guess. Hey, what’s going on? Where’s that smile?” His coaxing doesn’t have the effect he’s looking for, you’re sure. Instead, your chin wobbles and you let out a huff of annoyance. “Talk to me. Come on.”

“Everyone’s just… everyone is an idiot,” you snap, catching yourself off-guard with the fury behind your words. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it’s just, I feel like I’m the only person at work who has a brain and knows how to use it, and I feel like I’m doing everything, and now my boss is mad at me because I’ve made a few mistakes because I’ve been doing everyone else’s job, and now we have this luncheon to worry about for your mother’s horses, and-”

“Hey.” His voice is sharp, and one hand encircles your wrist. “Just breathe. Don’t apologize to me. I want you to tell me this kind of stuff, honey, you know that. Is anything else bothering you?”

The laundry list of things that have been annoying you seems meagre when you actually have to say it out loud. “I got stuck on the way to work behind a car that didn’t use its turn signal,” you mumble. “And the diner was out of sandwiches when I went there for lunch because they didn’t make enough to last all day. It’s all dumb stuff, I’m just tired.”

“It’s not dumb. If it’s bothering you, it’s not dumb,” Greg promises. “What can I do to help? Just say the word.”

You huff again, ignoring the way his lips twitch at the sound. “I don’t know. I just feel like you and I are the only people in the world who have two brain cells to rub together, and I’m tired of it. I spend every single day thinking for everyone and fixing things they should fix, and doing things they should be doing.”

Greg puts one arm around your shoulders, pulling you in sideways. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, dragging his lips against your cheek in a long kiss. “You know what I think?”

“That I should get promoted? Or at least, get in less trouble?” You grumble, allowing him to pull you close. “Good luck with that.”

“Well, yes,” he agrees after a second. “Of course. But I can’t do that. What I can do is, I can turn your pretty little brain off for a while.”

Oh. That’s not what you were expecting to hear, but it sounds nice. “I just don’t want to think,” you mumble, playing with one of the buttons on his shirt. “It’s too much.”

“I know it is, baby. Come on, it’s okay,” he soothes. One of his hands slides down your side, seamlessly unbuttoning your pants. “Can I? Let me take care of you.”

That’s the magical sentence, the key to the kingdom, and you nod in answer. Your eyes start to flutter shut when his fingers toy with the waistband of your panties, but you force yourself to keep them open so you can look at him.

“I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs again, leaning in to line your neck with kisses. “No need to think. You’re mine, remember? And I take good care of what’s mine.”

It’s true, he does, and you can already feel yourself going fuzzy around the edges when he circles your clit with one finger. “Mm…”

You feel his smile against your skin, that self-satisfied smirk he wears whenever he turns you to putty. “That’s it. Just take it, just like that. My good girl’s already getting so wet for me, so perfect.”

Greg won’t push a finger in until you’re dripping; you know that from experience. One of his fingers keeps circling your clit, and he uses his other hand to push down your shirt and bra, giving him access to thumb at your nipple.

“I’ll, I can take it off,” you offer, already thinking about sliding off your shirt and unclasping your bra, and Greg sinks his teeth into the skin of your shoulder in warning.

“I’ll take it off when I want it off,” he promises. “Stop trying so hard. You’re mine, I’m in charge here. You’re going to get what I give you, yeah? You’ve got a safeword. If you aren’t saying it, you’re taking what you get.”

“Y-yeah.” Your breath hitches through the word when he pinches your nipple, his finger rubbing you faster with more and more pressure as the seconds pass. 

His hand moves down slightly, and he groans into your ear when he swipes a finger through your folds to discover how wet you are. “That’s it. Is this turning you on, hm? You like it when I take good care of my princess?” One finger moves back to rub at your clit, lubricated with your arousal.

When he pulls his head away from your shoulder, you bury his face in his neck. It hardly muffles your moans, or your whines of, “Gonna, I need to, please,” against his skin.

“Come for me,” he coaxes. “You don’t have to ask, it’s okay. All over my hand, just like that, go ahead.”

The permission is like a release all on its own, and you moan unabashedly into him as you come, shaking and writhing against him as you grind down onto his hand. 

His finger stays steady against you, working you through your orgasm while you whimper into his neck. When he doesn’t stop playing with your clit, you pull back with a soft groan.

“Was good,” you sigh out, and Greg kisses you sweetly without his rhythm faltering. “I’m- oh, I’m good, baby, thank you.”

“Very good,” he agrees, his voice soft and husky against your lips. “I’ve got such a good girl. You can come again, good girl, I know you can.”

“Greg…” You squirm under him, pleasure mounting quickly as your first orgasm starts to build into your second without letting you come down first. 

He shushes you, kissing your neck again as you come undone on his fingers a second time, your orgasm cresting like a soft wave. “You can take it, just like that. So wet for me, sweetheart, so perfect.” The praise kisses your ears as he kisses you again, finally, blissfully withdrawing his hand as you take a deep breath.

Several deep breaths later, you start to return to yourself. The orgasms weren’t fireworks, or mind-blowing. They were good, of course, but they washed over you in a gentle wave of pleasure rather than making you cry out or making your eyes roll back in your head.

“Ready for more?” He asks with another slow kiss, and you pull back to blink at him.

“More?” You echo, and Greg chuckles at that.

Standing up off the couch, he offers you one hand and you take it. “Yes, more,” he promises, leading you toward the bedroom. “My girl hasn’t had enough yet. I want to hear you beg.”

The bed is soft beneath you when he lays you back, skimming both hands down your eyes before slowly- painfully slowly- tugging your pants and underwear down until they hit the floor. “I want to taste you,” you mumble, and he grins.

Something about sucking him off, having the most intimate part of him under your control, never fails to drive you crazy. Some days, he comes home to find you already on your knees because you crave the taste of him so badly. Although, ever since one incident where you’d nicked the head of his dick with one of your teeth, he has a new… approach.

“You think you can take it? Already, baby, but you need to be careful,” he warns. “Remember, my good girl knows how to listen. You can unzip me.”

His zipper comes down so fast that it’s almost comical, and when he gives permission you push his pants and boxers off while he discards his shirt. 

“I want it.” Your voice is breathless as you eye his hard cock, hard enough to be standing up when he lays back on the bed.

“I know you do,” he says, his voice equal parting soothing and husky. “Okay, greedy girl. You remember what to do?”

This part always frustrates you; the way he talks like you’ve never blown him before, like you’ve never had him whining for your touch. “I know,” you huff, and he wraps one hand in your hair to steady it against the back of your head.

He continues talking like he hasn’t heard you. “First, you can grip it. Stroke nice and slow, get me ready. Stick out your tongue, that’s it. Look how fast my girl is learning.”

You’re perched between his thighs, one hand gripping his hairy leg while you take his cock in your other hand and stroke it. Nice and slow, just like he said, and when you see a bead of pre-cum your tongue slides out of your open mouth of its own volition. 

“I’m ready,” you insist, and Greg twists his hand in your hair just tight enough to hurt. “I am! I’m ready, I can do it.”

“You can do it if you can follow instructions,” he corrects you. “Tap the head on your tongue, sweetheart. Let me feel that mouth.”

“Could feel more of my mouth,” you mumble, but he ‘tsk’s at that until you follow his direction.

“Not yet, I can’t,” he sighs while he watches you, sympathetic. “Now, maybe if my greedy girl weren’t a safety hazard, we could do this however you want. But for now, you’re listening to me.”

You want to complain about that, but then he’s got his free hand steadying your jaw. “Open up more,” he murmurs, and your jaw drops obediently. “Good girl. If I feel anything other than that tongue and those pretty lips, I’m going to edge you until you cry. And we don’t want that, do we?”

He uses the hand tangled in your hair to shake your head for you. “No, we don’t.” He answers his own question, then slowly pushes into your mouth. “Just like that, good girl,” he praises. “You can stroke the rest of it, for now. You feel so good, I don’t want to finish too soon.”

Your eyes flutter shut as you listen to his instructions, bobbing your head only as much as he allows you to. Drool escapes your mouth, making the glide of your hand on his cock smoother, and you shift with excitement when you hear him sigh in pleasure.

You’re doing it. You’re being his good girl, following his instructions so perfectly, and if you could live out the rest of your days with your head between his thighs and his hands holding you in place, you surely would. It’s blissful, the familiar weight of him in your mouth, grounding you.

Time passes- how much, you can’t say- and Greg lets you get closer, take a little more of him. He even lets you suckle at his sac at one point before guiding you back up to his cock and thrusting shallowly; something he does so rarely that it feels like a reward for you when he does. He pumps into your mouth, once, twice, and you can feel him twitch against your tongue before he pulls out completely.

“Didn’t finish,” you complain, and he shuts you up by pulling you closer up on the bed with the hand in your hair and kissing you.

“I know, baby,” he soothes when you’ve broken apart, discarding your shirt and bra to the floor. “I know. But you got to taste, and now I can make my girl feel so good, can’t I?”

“Fuck me.” It’s half demand, half plea, and Greg is having none of it.

“Not yet.” He lays you back on the bed and gets between your thighs, kissing a line down your neck. When you whine with impatience, two of his fingers nudge your lips. “Suck on those, sweetheart. You can be good for a little longer.”

He’s right, you can be, so you eagerly suck the digits into your mouth as his lips caress your breasts, then your stomach, then your upper thighs while he slides down the bed. “Mm,” you protest around the fingers when you spread your legs for him, and he doesn’t immediately dive between them, instead pulling the fingers out of your mouth and tracing your nipple with saliva.

Sucking his cock has gotten you worked up again, and you’re ready for one of those mind-numbing, toe-curling orgasms that only he can give you. Luckily, he acquiesces after a long moment, wrapping his lips around your clit to suck. Hard.

His tongue pushes into you, curling and probing perfectly, and he pulls off after a minute just to murmur, “Come when you’re ready,” and then he’s back on you with fervour. When you do come, your back arches and you cry out and this time you definitely see fireworks, but he’s still not stopping. “Again,” he insists, panting into your skin as his tongue flicks against your clit and you moan.

Both of your hands are tangled in his hair by the time he pulls away, and by then you’ve got no idea how many times you’ve finished. Orgasm has blurred into orgasm, one continuous stream of pleasure that has you blinking away tears and breathing heavily when Greg comes up for air. His chin is wet, his eyes sinfully dark, and he’s still got a stupid smirk on his face, and if you could possibly come again you would probably do it just from looking at him.

“Just a few more,” he promises you, fisting his cock. It’s an angry purple, the bedsheet under him spotted with pre-cum, and you moan aloud at the idea of him enjoying eating you out so much that’s turning him on. His promise of ‘a few more’ doesn’t even register, at first. You’re drunk off the feel of his tongue, unable to form a sentence if you tried, and you need him inside you now.

“Please.” It’s a whine, and Greg grins at your needy pout while he kisses you. “Please, I need it.”

“I know you do,” he whispers. “Can you ride me? Can my princess handle that?”

You shake your head, no, you can’t handle it. Your legs are trembling and achy, you’ve come too many times, and you couldn’t move right now if you tried.

Instead of getting frustrated, Greg just chuckles while he pushes your legs back open. “No?” He teases, pressing the head of his cock against your hole. He pushes the head in slightly, then pulls it out just to hear your lewd moan at the loss. “Did I make my good girl so dumb she can’t even ride me? I’ve been so nice to you, sweetheart, and you can’t help your man out?”

Tears prick at your eyes as you nod furiously. “M sorry,” you gasp out, willing your legs to spread further for him. His thumb grazes your clit again and you flinch, overstimulated. “It’s, it’s too much, I can’t.”

“Don’t be sorry, baby.” His grin doesn’t falter as his thumb speeds up, pressing directly on the bundle of nerves until your eyes roll back and your back arches off the bed. “I’ll forgive you if you can come again, how’s that sound?”

It sounds impossible, but the way he’s giving you no reprieve is starting to make you shake under him all over again. “Can’t, I can’t, please!”

“I think you can.” He presses his cock into you again, hardly an inch. “You love it when I do this, you love being my dumb baby. You beg for it. Soak my cock, get it nice and wet so I can fuck you.”

Your whimper almost breaks the sound barrier, you swear. Greg’s thumb doesn’t slow down or break the rhythm at all when you try to squirm away, and he pins you down with one hand on your abdomen. “Please, please, please, please!”

It’s hard to tell what you’re begging for now, but he doesn’t care. His tongue pokes out in concentration, staring down at your pussy as you clench around the head of his cock. When his eyes dart up, connecting with yours, you shatter.

It’s like falling off a skyscraper, becoming a firework, a train of pleasure colliding with your body as you howl. Words escape you and your mouth falls open in a silent scream when he finally, blissfully, pushes in the rest of the way. You can’t focus on him or the way he cups your cheek or the words he mumbles, you can’t focus on anything except the slick drag of his cock inside you.

“Knew you could do it,” he pants, squeezing your jaw a little. “So pretty when you come for me, baby.”

“Greg, Greg, Greg-” You’re gasping out his name with each punctuated thrust, the only word in your brain now. You can’t even remember your own name, you’re so fuzzy.

“Did I get my girl all stupid?” He croons, grinning down at you with that sinisterly innocent smile. “Oh, I did. Look at those pretty eyes. All glazed over, not a single thought in there. You like my cock that much, princess? Hm?”

“Mhm, mm,” you moan behind closed lips, and you hear his chuckle.

“I thought so. You like it when I treat you good? When I rub that clit until you can’t breathe?” Your sharp inhale follows the sound of him spitting onto his hand, reaching down to roll circles around the swollen bud. “I know you need it, baby, you can do it.”

There are tears streaming down your face now, and you hardly know when they started. You’re too overwhelmed with pleasure, you can hardly stand it, you don’t know how much longer you can go. You don’t want to stop, that’s the only thing you know. He’s in charge, like he always tells you. He knows best, you’re his dumb baby, and you can take whatever he gives you, you can.

“That’s my good girl,” he coos when you don’t try to argue. “Just like that. I’m thinking for you, remember? You’re all mine. You’re going to let me keep playing with this pretty pussy, aren’t you?”

Swallowing a sob, you can only nod as he kisses you again. You let him invade your mouth as you grip his back, leaving scratches that are sure to burn but he only hisses in pleasure. You’re being so good that you’re almost dizzy with the thought of it, so good for him, he’s mumbling into your mouth that you’re so fucking perfect and it makes you shudder in pleasure. 

It can’t be possible for your body to come again, but it also shouldn’t be possible for one man to be so perfect, and you think that Greg can find a way to do anything. When you start to feel that familiar twist in your belly you whine, and he pulls his hand away, and you don’t know if you’re disappointed or relieved.

“Can I come?” He asks, breathless, just what you’ve been waiting for, and he places his hand on your stomach. “Right here, can I fill you up?”

The sigh of relief he lets out when you nod is orgasmic in its own right. He thrusts again, once, twice more, and then you can feel him flooding your insides like he promised, filling you up with him. “Good girl,” he gasps out as he ruts through it, crushing his lips to yours as you kiss back hazily, messily.

Instead of collapsing on the bed when he pulls out, he immediately moves back down your body and mouths at your hip. “I’m gonna clean you up,” he says, gazing up at you as his lips trail lower and he sucks a mark on your inner thigh. “One more, on my tongue. My good girl can do it.”

Truthfully, you don’t know if you can. You feel weighed down, boneless, and the idea of ever coming again sounds impossible. But you’re good for him, you’re his good girl, you’re his, so you just nod. 

“Eyes on me,” he whispers, and he keeps his gaze locked on you as- fuck, as his tongue pushes inside you and curls, lapping up the taste of himself before it can leak out of you. Greg moans against you, into you, and as soon as you can feel your arms again you place one hand in his hair. It’s damp with sweat, the locks sliding through your fingers, and when you tangle your fingers in it to keep a grip on him he only licks harder.

Your hips rock up off the bed to meet his mouth, and his nose bumps against your clit as he tries to get even closer to you. Once he’s satisfied with cleaning his cum out of you he pulls back, still holding eye contact with you, and you see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

You must have died, several orgasms ago. This must be heaven.

Greg latches back onto your clit in a frenzy, sucking hard as he rolls his tongue over the bud, and a fresh stream of tears escapes you when you sob, yanking his hair hard, chanting yes, yes, yes, and please, Greg, fuck, as you come undone on his tongue like you have so many times tonight.

His tongue laves over you as you come down, an unspoken apology to your overused pussy, and he pulls away after you whine softly. Your hands release his hair and he moves up the bed, kissing you gingerly.

This might be your favourite part; lying in his arms in the afterglow, with no need to do or say or think. “Hi, sweetheart,” he murmurs once you’ve settled into him. “You did so well for me. How’s my best girl doing?”

Words haven’t returned to you yet; maybe they never will. When he wraps one arm around your shoulders, you roll over on your side to nestle your head in your favourite spot between his jaw and his collarbone and hum with contentment.

“So perfect,” he praises, and you turn your face into the crook of his neck. He loves to praise you, especially afterwards, and you both know how badly you want- no, need- to hear it, but it still gets you embarrassed sometimes. “You took me so well, sweet girl. I’m so proud of you.”

“Sorry.” Your voice is raspy, your throat dry, and your words are muffled against him. “Couldn’t ride you, Greg. ‘M sorry.”

“Hey,” he pulls back just enough to kiss the side of your head, “No apologizing. You could never let me down, angel. You’re so perfect for me, all the time.” When you relax back against him, he continues speaking, and you can hear the grin in his voice. “Honestly, after all that, I’ll be impressed if you can even walk.”

There might be a challenge in his tone, or maybe you’re just imagining it, because when you hmph indignantly he lets out a tranquil sigh and starts stroking soothing lines down your back with the hand wrapped around you. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s not find out tonight. You deserve some rest. Do you need anything else?”

After a moment, you inhale deeply. You’re surrounded by the scent and feel and voice of the man you love. The taste of him is still in your mouth, and you’ve got a perfectly-captured image in your mind’s eye of the beautiful smile he gave you before he kissed you. You’ve got everything you need, and you shake your head to tell him that.

“Alright. You’ll let me know if you need anything, okay?” He waits for you to nod. “I love you.”

“Love you more,” you mumble. You want to hear more of him, you want him to speak until his is the only voice you recognize, so you ask the only thing you can think of short of asking him to read you the dictionary. “How was your day?”

A smile pulls at his lips, and you can see it in your head when you feel his jaw shift above you. It’s that lopsided smile that always makes you want to kiss him silly, you just know it is. “It was good. It was Anderson’s last day, and we had a party. How was your day, princess?”

You sigh against his skin, relaxing into his embrace like it’s a warm cloud you could sink into and never emerge from. “It was perfect.”

Fluffy Feb masterlist | < Prev Day

You stir, groaning softly before you roll over and shake your head. Your eyes do not open, and you clutch the fluffy comforter closer.

He chuckles, following you to the other side of the bed and wrapping you in his arms. “It’s the first snow, c’mon.”

“Too early.”

“It’s our tradition,” He places another kiss on your cheek.

“Too dark,” You groan, scooting closer to the edge, as if you can escape him.

Steven follows, a wide grin spread across his face, “We do this every winter.”

“Too cold.”

“I’ll keep you warm,” He assures, squeezing you tighter in his arms.

“Steven,” You whine, finally opening your eyes and glaring over your shoulder at him.

“The snow, it’ll wake you up,” He insists, using one of his fingers to delicately wipe the sleep from the corners of your eyes.

“You’re not giving up.”

“No, dove, I’m not. Up and attem’, yeah? I’ll make you french toast for breakfast.”

“And do that fancy latte art?”

“Mhmm,” He hums, leaning in to press a kiss to your mouth.

“Alright, alright. I’m up.”

“Dress warmly, dear, I’ll get our coats,” He hops out of bed, and that’s when you realize that he’s not in his pjs.

You narrow your eyes at him, “You’re already dressed?”

“Been up for ages, watchin’ you snore,” He teases as he crosses the flat.

“I don’t snore,” You grumble as you hop out of bed and head into the bathroom.

Steven doesn’t reply to your denial, but you hear his sweet laugh float through the door as you stumble sleepily through your morning routine. By the time you’ve made it out and are pulling jeans and a sweater out of the closet, he’s wrapped up in his coat, his unruly curls tucked into a black beanie.

“Coming, I swear,” You start to move a bit quicker when he playfully arches a brow at you.

Once you’re dressed, Steven helps you into your coat before slipping your own beanie onto your head. He guides the both of you out of the flat and down into the building’s courtyard. The cold air bites at your cheeks, and you’re immediately grateful for Steven’s warm hand in yours. The snow is falling gently, caressing the ground like a knit blanket. Dead grass and shrubs still peek through the white, though it’s supposed to snow all day and soon everything will be covered in glittery white powder.

Because it’s early, it is just the two of you, surrounded by the gray and white haze of this snowy morning. It’s quiet for once in London, none of the honking and shouting cutting through this little slice of peace that you and Steven are sharing.

He raises his face to the sky, letting the flakes dust all over his face, “You know I could smell it coming when we fell asleep last night.”

“You always say that, you can’t smell snow, Steven.”

“People say they smell rain all the time, who’s to say I can’t smell snow?”

“Me, that’s who.”

“Somethin’ tells me I could convince you otherwise,” He grins cheekily at you, before leaning in for a kiss.

His lips are cold, a little wet from the melted snow but you kiss him back eagerly, your hands rising to cup both of his cheeks. You can taste the tea he must’ve quietly brewed while you were dead to the world but there’s something else. Something unique, that you can only contribute to the morning’s precipitation.

“You taste like snow,” You whisper quietly— as if speaking any louder will break this bubble.

He bumps his nose against yours, eyes narrowed, “Oh, alright, so you can taste it but I can’t smell it?”

“Seems we’re on the same page.”

“I’ll show you what page we’re on when there’s enough snow for a fight.”

Dusk has hit when he drags you back outside, the snow up to your ankles. You bury him in snowballs, and Steven concedes: no you can’t smell snow, but one can certainly taste it.

“The snow’s a part of it,” he assures you. “You’ll see, trust me.” 

And you did trust him to the ends of the Earth– so if he said it was important for you to join him on this hike in particular, you’d go. The hikes were really his thing, more than they were yours. 

“You’re sure this is safe?” you ask him as the two of you are trudging through the woods. There’s no real trail here, but Aaron seems to know where he’s going. 

“I’m pretty sure the twenty secret service agents on the property aren’t going to let anything happen to us,” he rolls his eyes goodnaturedly at you. 

“To you, maybe,” you mutter, and he laughs. 

“Come on, we’re not far.” he encourages you, reaching for your hand, which you gladly give to him. 

A short while later, you come to a clearing, and there’s a cabin a few yards away. “That’s where I used to stay with my mom,” Aaron tells you. “Come here, you have to see this,” he tells you, pulling you past the cabin and towards the other end of the clearing. There’s a vista there, and as far as the eye can see there are snow capped mountains and trees.You gasp.

“You told me about this place once. After Reverend Drake died. You came to my apartment and you asked me—”

“If you still believed in Vermont. If there was a future for us. If you could ever forgive me,” he finishes your sentence. 

“Yes, and yes, and yes, a million times over,” you say, wrapping your arms around his waist. 

“That was the first time I ever saw your apartment. The first time I saw you and it wasn’t ‘work.’ The place was so you, but it was also so different from our place here. We were so young, then,” he remarks, kissing the crown of your head as he looks out at the view with you. 

“I was young. You haven’t been young since I’ve known you,” you tease him. 

“You’re talking a pretty big game for someone who doesn’t know the way home,” he laughs. 

“Hal would save me,” you brush him off, mentioning one of his agents.

He shakes his head, picking you up and spinning you in a circle before setting you back down. “You’ve got one knight in shining armor, and it’s me, alright?” 

“The FBI has been searching for the unsub for some time,” Hotch answers as their hands part. “The case has been assumed cold for several years by the Bureau, so we’re grateful you reached out. Two of my agents are at the latest crime scene already.”

“Where should we set up?” JJ asks, and the chief leads you to a conference room. “And, er, speaking of cold…”

You’re all very cold, just from the drive from the airstrip to the station. You’d seen people snowmobiling past the road, and JJ had marvelled aloud wondering how they could bear to be out in this weather. It’s not surprising that she’s the first one to bring up the chilly air in the precinct with her parka still zipped up to her chin.

McCartney snaps his fingers like he’s remembered something important. “Y’all must be freezing, eh? Let me rustle up a space heater, get you nice and toasty.”

The fact that he’s wearing a button-down shirt and a light jacket isn’t lost on any of the experienced profilers in the room. “You’re not cold?” Derek asks, half in disbelief. “Man, I grew up in Chicago and I can’t feel my toes right now.”

“We hit minus 30’s a few weeks back,” McCartney says, wincing. “Sorry, I didn’t even think of it. Guess we’re all used to it around here by now.”

“Minus…” You glance at Spencer, who’s locked and loaded with an answer.

“Negative 30 degrees Celsius is about negative 22, Fahrenheit,” he reports. “I’d estimate we’re closer to negative 31 degrees Farenheit, though.”

“He’s smart. Windchill’s pushing us a little under,” McCartney confirms. “I’ll go get that space heater. Y’all settle in, and I’ll have one of my officers bring over the files ASAP.”

You ‘settle in’ as best you can, poring over the case with your team while wrapped in thick sweaters and cradling to-go cups of coffee. They’re branded with the Tim Hortons logo from the traveller case that one of the officers brings for you along with the files and a box of donut holes labelled ‘Timbits’. The space heater sits in the corner of the room, slowly bringing the space to a temperature that you’re all used to.

Hotch takes the first sip of his coffee without adding anything into it, his face screwing up at the taste. “It’s not too good when it’s black,” the officer tells him. “Sorry, should’ve warned you. Try a double double, it’s way better.”

“Here, I’ve got it.” You take Hotch’s coffee from him, adding in two little packets of sugar and two creamer cups while he watches you. “Better?” He stirs it and takes a sip, deliberating.

The second sip must be miles better than the first. “It’s not as bitter. I think that’s all I can ask for,” he murmurs while he takes a seat next to you, and you smirk.

He’s wearing the same quarter-zip that made an appearance when you went to Alaska, and he seems relatively warm. Lucky him. The less-built members of your team, particularly JJ and Spencer, have rosy cheeks and keep sticking their hands in their pockets to warm them. Poor Spencer goes through several cups of coffee in mere hours, a weak attempt to warm himself from the inside out.

Nearing the end of the day, you all pack up your things. There haven’t been any more murders today, but the information gleaned from the crime scenes helps you add to the profile. The unsub has a pattern of striking each week, probably to gauge how close the investigation is to catching him during the cooldown period, and he hasn’t strayed from the pattern since resurfacing.

You trudge to the hotel across the street from the police station- this town is so tiny that you don’t think it’s made up of anything other than a main street and rows of suburbia housing- in the pitch-black, wind whistling by your ears and freezing them. The sun went down several hours ago even though it’s only nearing seven PM, and the dark doesn’t lift anyone’s spirits.

“Get some rest,” Hotch says while he hands out room keys in the hotel lobby, speaking over the sound of chattering teeth. It’s more of an order than a request. “We’re at the station bright and early tomorrow, and I want you all rested and ready to work.”

The room key in your hands leads you down a hallway to a door that you unlock right as Hotch turns the corner. “119, right?” He clarifies, and you nod. “Alright. You’re with me.”

“Sounds good.” Your voice sounds cool and even, and you’re sort of proud of yourself for keeping it together after finding out that you’re sharing a hotel room with your very kind, very attractive boss. You’ve shared a room with him before, but it’s a battle of willpower to appear normal every time.

The hotel room is decently nice, and it’s warmer than you expected. Two queen-sized beds share a nightstand, and there’s a desk with a coffeemaker on it pressed up to the wall next to the TV. It’s a standard hotel room, a setup you’re familiar with. The heater under the window is whirring, filling the room with blissfully warm air- almost too warm- that has you shedding your jacket as Hotch sets his go bag on one bed and his briefcase on the desk.

“No working,” you remind him, your tone as scolding as it is light-hearted. “Bright and early, remember?”

Hotch snorts at that, then takes off his quarter-zip sweater. “We’ll be six bitter coffees deep before the sun comes up,” he says, but you struggle to hear a single word out of his mouth when you see his biceps through the thin white material of his shirt. He’s been covered up all day, and you haven’t hit your daily quota of staring at his arms.

It’s been a hard day, particularly for that reason.

“I’m going to shower,” Hotch says after a moment, discarding his fleece on the desk chair. He picks up his go bag, and the bathroom door closes behind him a moment later.

By the time he re-enters, wearing flannel pajamas pants and a white shirt, you’re fiddling with the heater. It seems to be broken, and when you turn the dial to blow cold air in the room it only seems to come out a few degrees cooler.

“The blanket’s really heavy,” you warn as he gets into his own bed. You can’t believe you’re overheating at negative-a-million degrees, but the combined weight of the duvet and warm air blowing steadily into the room is reminiscent of falling asleep in Arizona rather than the snowy north. “Something’s wrong with the heater.”

“I’ll try to manage,” he responds with a dry smile before pulling the blanket over himself. It lands on him with a solid sound, thick duvet against chest, and a soft ‘oof’, and you count to three in your head before he says, “Okay, you were right.’

“Aren’t I always?” You pull your own duvet down when you get into bed, leaving yourself covered with the top sheet of the bedspread. He stays underneath his blankets, not shifting them while you reach out and turn the lamp off.

Falling asleep has never been so difficult. Without the thick duvet, you’re curled into a ball within five minutes when the slightly colder air fills the room. With it, you’re sweating so much that it’s a wonder you aren’t sliding right off the bed. One leg pokes out from under the heavy covers, but it feels like the only part of your body that’s at a closer-to-normal temperature while the rest of you overheats. You toss and turn, falling asleep briefly every once in a while for maybe ten minutes at a time.

It’s a little embarrassing, actually. Your blanket and sheet are lifted and shifted so many times that you have to hope you aren’t waking Hotch up, even when you move as quietly as possible. The only sound in the air is the wind whistling and fabric shifting, louder than you thought possible.

Around 1 AM, hours after trying to fall asleep, you’ve all but given up. You’re considering getting to work on the file by lamplight, or just stripping down naked under the thick blankets. What other option do you have?

That’s when you hear a grunt from the other bed, and Hotch’s outline shifts in bed. You can see him move around, lifting up like he’s flipping over his pillow. In the barely-there lighting from a streetlamp, you notice that his duvet is ruffled and partially folded over itself. It looks like he’s been tossing and turning, just like you.

“Aaron,” you whisper once he’s still. It’s quiet; he can pretend not to hear you if he’s close to falling asleep, and you won’t be offended. 

When he responds, his voice is gruff and just as loud as it was in the precinct today. “Yeah?”

“Can’t sleep?” It’s a stupid question, you realize as soon as it leaves your mouth. He isn’t sleeptalking, after all.

He doesn’t call you out on it, but just sighs instead. “No. It’s not working too well for me. I’m really hot.”

Yeah, you are, you want to say, but the logical side of your brain beats the sentence back with a stick before you can say it out loud. “Me too. How do you think everyone else is doing?

“Better than us, I hope.” He sits up in bed slightly; you can tell from the rustling and the dim outline. “I’m sure Dave has some kind of temperature-controllable blanket with him.”

“Spencer probably researched the best kind of pajamas to bring,” you joke back, and Aaron chuckles at that.

“Morgan probably worked out before bed and didn’t need any blankets,” he murmurs, and you snicker.

“JJ and Emily are probably cuddling for warmth.”

Why did you say that? The high altitude- the provincial average is roughly 1700 feet above sea-level, Spencer would tell you- combined with the restlessness is probably getting to you.

Aaron clears his throat, and you cough. Neither of you seems to know what to say, so he speaks first. “As long as they don’t tell me anything. It’s a lot of paperwork, for that sort of… fraternization.”

“Well, I mean. If they’re just doing it to keep warm, that’s got to be an exception,” you point out.

“I.. suppose so, yes. As long as nothing further were to happen, two agents just trying to keep each other warm isn’t inappropriate. They… we all need to be professional.”

He sounds hesitant now, speaking carefully like he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. You wonder if he’s dancing around the same thought as you. If he is, is he trying to avoid it? Or does he not want to say it first?

“So, by that logic…” you trail off, waiting for Aaron to say something. He can say anything now. He can cut you off, bid you goodnight again, or even ask you to go bunk with Rossi, but he doesn’t.

The fact that he also isn’t exactly not encouraging you doesn’t disembolden you at all. “Yes?”

“Well. You know,” you murmur. “I’m just saying that if it’s completely professional… and if it’s helping them sleep, and therefore be more well-rested to catch a serial killer tomorrow…”

“What are you saying?” He isn’t really asking. You can hear his smirk as clearly as wind whistling through the trees outside your window. “I think you need to clarify for me.”

Your huff of annoyance is more forced than it sounds. “I’m saying that if we sleep in the same bed we might be able to actually sleep. Body heat, and all that.”

Aaron’s voice is softer now, less sure than when he teased you just a minute ago. “Are you comfortable with that?”

“If it’s okay with you, then it’s okay with me,” you promise. The only sound in the room for a moment is both of you breathing, and you wonder if he can hear your heart thumping against your ribcage. What are you doing?

“Alright,” Aaron agrees after a long moment, pushing the duvet down to the foot of his bed. “Does it matter what side you sleep on?”

You get out of your own bed, and murmur, “No,” as he rolls over to make room for you. He lifts the top sheet up and you slide in under it, curling up. There’s still some distance between you, and you try to maintain it; he’s the one who’s concerned about things being ‘inappropriate’, after all. There’s no need for him to know that your heart is beating so fast that it feels like it’s about to jackhammer out of your chest.

“Goodnight,” you mumble as soon as your head hits the pillow. His body heat is like a furnace, warming you up perfectly from a foot away, and the thin sheet is warm like it’s been waiting for you to climb in. He says something under his breath- ‘goodnight’, maybe- but it’s been such a long day that you fall asleep in what feels like seconds without responding.

When you wake up to the sound of Aaron’s phone alarm, you’re much less than a foot away from each other in the warmest bed you’ve ever known. He’s curled up against your back, one of his arms slung around your waist to hold you to his chest. Previous experience with room-sharing tells you that he doesn’t wake up at the first alarm- he usually sets two or three, a few minutes apart- and you’ve got a couple of minutes to just be.

The sound of the alarm grates on you, but it must be on a timer because it stops ringing after a minute or so, and you relax back into Aaron. His cheek is resting against the back of your head, and you can hear his steady breaths in time with the rise and fall of his chest against you. It feels good, it feels right to wake up like this. You don’t want it to end, but you know that it has to.

When the second alarm goes off, he rouses with a little startle, like he doesn’t remember where he is. The arm around your waist tightens, just for a moment, as his body relaxes into yours. Soft as a whisper, you could swear that you feel warm lips brush the shell of your ear before he pulls his arm away and sits up.

The room is just as dark now as it was a few hours ago, and Aaron manages to fumble for his phone and quiet the alarm before he speaks. His voice is raspier than it was in the middle of the night when he checks the time and then says, “It’s almost a quarter to seven. Er, did you sleep well?”

“Very.” You yawn as you sit up, stretching both arms above your head. “I wouldn’t complain about a couple more hours, though. That whole same-bed thing works wonders.”

Aaron yawns too, turning away to grab his go-bag as he stands up. “I’m glad to hear it. You can go shower. I’ll change out here.”

“Deal.” You gather your own things when you get to your feet, disappearing into the bathroom to get ready for the day. Your mind is already on the case, pushing aside all thoughts of sleep arrangements and large arms holding you close in favour of your job. When you exit the bathroom, Aaron is already gone.

When you meet with the team in the lobby, you find out that he headed to the station right away to get ahead on the case. Everyone bundles up before walking back to the precinct; the walk is no warmer than it was last night, and fresh snow begins to fall just as you get to the doors of the precinct.

Once you find your way to the same room as yesterday, you find Hotch already there, dressed in yesterday’s fleece. He’s got a Tim Horton’s cup in one hand, and he sips it while staring, perplexed, at the geographic profile. “Good morning,” he greets everyone at once. “Reid, I was thinking. If we intersect his old hideout parameters from Minnesota and Georgia with his murders here, then…” their chatter fades into white noise as you turn your attention to the files lining the tables.

The first hour passes in a blur, the conference room lit only by harsh overhead fluorescents as you trade theories and examine new evidence provided by the local officers. The clock is just announcing the arrival of 9 AM, the sky beginning to brighten slightly, when you realize that you need coffee.

You’ve got the same setup as yesterday in that regard, too. One of the officers must have picked up a fresh traveller for you, evidenced by the steam rolling off of the coffee that Hotch is pouring for himself. “How’s it going?” He asks, stirring two creams and two sugars into his coffee.

“No big break yet, but I’m sure we’re close. We’re going to get this guy soon,” you promise, and Hotch nods at that. “I wanted to thank you again. For, you know. Helping me sleep last night.”

“It was no trouble,” he assures you, fiddling with the stir stick in his hand. “It was helpful for me, too.”

“And, hey.” You lower your voice a bit, and Hotch leans in to hear you better. “Maybe we can do it again tonight. You know, if that’s okay with you.”

He gives you a smile, that tight-lipped one you’re used to seeing around the office. “It’s alright with me. I just don’t want to… well, I’m your boss. I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. It has no impact on my views of your professionalism.”

There’s that word again. You wish he could be a little less professional, for once. But he’s right, he’s your boss, and there are certain things he can’t say first. Your profiling skills tell you that he still wants to say them though. “Well, what happens in Canada can stay in Canada,” you half-jest.

“It can, if you want it to,” he murmurs. He still hasn’t taken a sip of his coffee, and he hands the cup to you while he pours a second one. “The sun will be coming up, soon.”

He’s right. Pale orange is streaking the sky through the large conference room window, tracing pink lines around the edge of the sun that’s just starting to peek up into the prairie sky. The snow is still falling, painting a picturesque image in the sky “It’s gorgeous,” you comment, taking a sip of your coffee. Without taking your eyes off the sky, you step a little closer to Hotch.

“Yes,” he agrees, holding his coffee in his right hand. His left rests on the table that your back is against, and it might be wishful thinking, but you think that he would wrap that arm around you again if there were no one else around. “It certainly is.”

----

“Longest week of my life,” Emily complains as soon as you’re airborne, a mere three days later. The unsub has been apprehended and is in federal custody of the country you’re returning home to. “But those beds were insanely comfortable. I haven’t slept that well in months.”

You and Aaron exchange a glance, a double-layered inside joke about why Emily slept so well and why exactly you both slept so well for several nights in a row. 

The last four nights have brought with them some of the best rest of your life. You’ve grown familiar with the feeling of Aaron’s arms around you in the morning, and by day three he stopped jerking them away as soon as he woke up.

That was the same day he asked you out, his gaze averted while he fiddled with a gold-coloured coin that he had received as change when he went out to buy a coffee. You had agreed, of course, and had assured him more than once that it didn’t matter that he’s your boss. You want him, and you have for ages.

On the fourth day, just this morning, he had held you a little tighter when he woke up and rumbled, “Morning, baby,” against your ear. If he hadn’t felt your heart beating around in your chest before, he had certainly felt it then.

Despite the fact that you’ve got a date planned with the man you’ve been cuddling for the better part of a week, you’re ready to tease Emily for cuddling JJ, before Spencer chimes in.

“I thought that the beds were quite comfortable, also. According to Sheriff McCartney, they’re primarily a transit town, which runs on a completely different economic structure than a transit village. The economy depends on truckers and people on road trips or similar travel to sleep in their hotels and eat at their restaurants,” he explains. “It’s fascinating, actually; transit towns pour the majority of their resources into making sure travellers making one-night stays enjoy themselves enough that they take the same route on the way home, thus giving the town more business.”

“The only business I want from that town is the name of whoever supplies those blankets,” Derek says, grinning. “That thing was so heavy, it was like getting crushed to sleep. Exactly what I needed with all that cool air blowing in.”

“Your room wasn’t too hot?” You ask, your nose scrunching up. “I think the heat was broken in mine. It was just hot air the whole time, every night. Way too hot to sleep.”

“Ours was like that on the first night,” JJ recalls, and Emily nods in agreement. “It was awful.”

“Right?” You complain, sinking further down into your seat. Hotch is sitting to your right, his face an impassive mask while he watches the exchange. “Let me guess, you guys shared a… uh…” 

Your teasing falters when the look on both JJ's and Emily’s faces tells you that, no, they did not share a bed, and you’ve just implied your solution to the heater problem. “We used the other blankets,” Emily says slowly, her eyes narrowing. “Didn’t you?”

“Oh! Oh, the other blankets. Yeah, the ones in the nightstand.” You nod along, your mortification growing in time with JJ’s smirk.

“They were in the closet,” she corrects you, obviously trying not to laugh. “I guess we know how you and Hotch stayed warm.”

You don’t need to look at your boss’- boss? Friend? Lover? You aren’t too sure right now- face to know that his cheeks are dusted rosy pink. “It wasn’t like that,” you protest to deaf ears as Derek whoops and high-fives Emily.

“About time,” he snickers at the look on your face. “So, when’s the first date?”

“It’s not-” you start to say, but Hotch speaks before you can.

“Friday.”

Your eyes widen and you turn to him. He raises one shoulder and smiles, like What was I supposed to say? “Friday,” you relent a moment later.

Derek is still grinning ear to ear like a maniac, and even Spencer cracks a smile when Aaron snakes one arm slowly around your waist. The sun is rising on one side of the jet, and the orange glow illuminates his face.

For one suspended moment, everything is perfect. You’ve got a date for this Friday, you’re more well-rested than you’ve felt in ages, and your team doesn’t seem to care that you and your boss are much closer than you were a couple of weeks ago. It’s a blissful moment to you, and it’s only broken by Emily’s gleeful not-quite-a whisper to JJ. “Penelope is going to be pissed that she missed this.”

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With one arm around Spencer’s shoulders, Derek shows you all to the room where Savannah is lying in bed next to a little bassinet with the baby inside it. “Oh, he’s precious!” Penelope exclaims, giving Savannah a smile before she looks down at the baby.

“You’re going to have a lot of babysitters,” JJ cooes to the newborn. “Yes, yes you are.”

Aaron wraps one arm around your waist, peering down. “Jack was never this tiny,” he comments. “Congratulations, you two.”

Savannah sits up slightly in bed, and Derek rubs her back absentmindedly. “Now we just need to name him,” she says, and they exchange a look that makes you think they’ve prepared for this moment. You’re practically squirming with excitement, ready to put a name to the little face you’ve already fallen in love with.

“What are you going to call him?” Spencer asks, extending one rubber-glove-clad hand into the bassinet. The baby wraps his chubby fist around Spencer’s pinky finger, and they both smile.

“We were thinking, uh,” Derek says, then pauses for a moment to take a deep breath before finishing, “Hank Spencer Aaron Morgan.”

The surprise is perceivable; no one speaks for a moment, Aaron’s grip tightens on your waist, and then Spencer says, “What?” in a voice so soft you would miss it if you weren’t holding your breath.

“Hank, for my pops,” he explains, smiling so widely that his face looks like it could split in two. “Spencer is for the best little brother anybody could ever ask for, and Aaron is for the best dad and one of the best men I know.”

Spencer’s mouth opens and then closes once, twice, and you know that- possibly for the first time ever- your resident genius doesn’t have a clue what to say. “I…” He doesn’t say anything else, just blinks rapidly like he’s trying not to cry.

“Thank you, Morgan.” Your husband’s voice is thick with emotion, and he’s looking down at the ground. It doesn’t surprise you; if he were to look up right now you’re sure there would be tears swimming in his eyes like they are in Derek’s and Spencer’s, and you know that he doesn’t want the team to see that. “This is… an honour.”

You squeeze Aaron’s hand where it sits on your waist, a silent acknowledgement of support before you step away. “How are you feeling, Sav?” You ask kindly, taking the opportunity to speak to your friend while the rest of the group takes a moment to collect themselves. Making your way to Savannah’s bedside, you take her extended hand. 

You and her have grown closer over the last couple of years. Derek and Savannah are some of the only ‘couple’s friends’ you have with Aaron, so the four of you spend time together going on double dates whenever you’ve got time away from work. She’s one of your best friends now, and you consider her the perfect thunder to Derek’s lightning. You can hardly wait to know what kind of firecracker their son will be.

She smiles up at you, exhaustion and pride shining in her eyes. “Tired, mostly. Say, my water…” You spy the empty water jug and cup on her bedside table at the same time Derek does.

He starts to get to his feet, but you shake your head and back away. “No way, Papa. You stay right here. I’ll get more.” When you reach the doorway, you pause. “Aaron, can you come with me?” You ask, and your husband makes his way to you.

“No hooking up in the storage closet, you two,” Savannah jokes, and then coughs. If anyone on the team made that joke you don’t know how Aaron would react, but he just gives her and Derek a slightly mortified smile before shooing you out of the room and closing the door behind the two of you. 

In the brief moment before the door closes, you hear what you know has been a long time coming; an offer for Penelope to be the godmother.

As soon as you’re alone in the hallway with a muffled squeal of excitement coming from the other side of the door, one of Aaron’s hands moves down to rest on your stomach. “How are you feeling?” He asks, rubbing small circles against the bump that’s barely started to form. It’s tiny, only noticeable to a profiler who sees you naked more days than not.

“Good. I’m fine,” you promise when he gives you a look. “But that settles that debate. Two middle names is perfectly alright.”

Aaron rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “We don’t know if it’s going to be a girl. The doctor said the ultrasound was too early to be sure,” he reminds you for the millionth time. “Besides, don’t you think we should at least ask Savannah before using her name?”

“A mother knows,” you insist. “They didn’t ask you about using your name, did they? And it’s only a middle name. The first name will be something else.”

“That’s a great name,” Aaron drawls sarcastically, leading you down the hallway to find some water. “‘Something Else’ Haley Savannah Hotchner. We should have blankets made up that say that.”

You snicker at that internally, but externally you fix him with your best frown. “We’ll get everyone’s opinion once we’ve told them. I don’t want to get too attached to a name and then have it be wrong when we meet her.”

“It won’t be wrong. It’s going to be perfect. She’s going to be perfect.” Aaron’s promise comes with a swift kiss to the cheek. “I know we can’t put off telling them much longer, but we shouldn’t do it yet. We can let the new parents settle in a little bit before you steal their thunder.”

“I know,” you sigh, willing to put your eagerness aside for your friends. He’s right. You also know that your announcement will be met with nothing except excitement and support, no matter when you make it. Your friends will be happy for you, ready to help however you need in the late stages of your pregnancy, and when Baby Hotchner enters the world.

The family tree just grew a new 6-pound, 1-ounce leaf today, but you already can’t wait for a new member to make your steadily-growing BAU family a little bit bigger.

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Today was a celebration of your love for Aaron, yeah. But as you prepared to walk down the aisle, with Derek by your side, you couldn’t help but be grateful for the love of the rest of your chosen family, too. 

“Don’t let me trip,” you muttered to Derek as you take the first step towards Aaron. He’s striking, in a dark suit with a light purple tie that matched the florals that were scattered around the lawn.

“I didn’t think you were capable of tripping,” Derek teased as he took your arm in his a little more snugly. “It’s not too late to run, you know.” 

You let out a laugh, only slightly conscious of the fact that everyone is looking at you. “You’re right. We should waste a couple more years before we make this official. We’ve rushed into this whole thing, not really thought about the consequences.” 

“Hey, mama, you said it,” he smirks. 

“Just keep walking and keep your mouth shut, smartass,” you say, giving the skin of his forearm a sisterly pinch. 

He does as he’s told, delivering you to Aaron’s waiting arms at the end of the aisle.  You’re grateful that Aaron’s vows are first, because you’re so overwhelmed and distracted you never would have noticed if the pastor had prompted you. 

“Well, this was easy enough,” Aaron joked, and was rewarded with a booming laugh.  “Maybe not,” he continues. “But it was worth it. Every night I spent wondering if I’d ever get this moment feels silly, now, because my wildest dreams don’t have anything on what’s real– the life I’m sharing with you now, and the commitment I’m making to you, today, in front of all of our friends and family, to love you until the end of forever. Being your husband is the biggest and best job I will ever have, and I couldn’t be more excited to start.” 

“Let me start by saying that for some reason, it’s much easier to write a speech about foreign policy than it is to write your own wedding vows,” you prepped the crowd, earning a laugh of your own. “And I think that difficulty comes from how deeply I’m understood by you, Aaron. What is there to say to the man who could always read me better than anyone else, even when I desperately wanted him not to? Politics, scandals, hell, even damn good public policy is easy. We got here by way of a town where everyone thinks they alone can make the whole world a better place. I’m a little older and a little wiser now than I was when I got there, and while those are still noble goals, I know who makes my world a better place, and he’s standing in front of me. I promise to be that person for you, for as long as we both shall live.” 

“I love you,” Aaron mouths as the pastor continues reading. You don’t really hear any of it, over the pounding of your heart. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter, because Aaron brings his hand to your cheek, and the other to your hip, and he kisses you, and your family is cheering while they also let out a collective sigh of relief. It’s everything you never even dared to dream of. And it’s all yours, from now until the end of forever.

It sounds like he’s moving around the kitchen- maybe he’s beat you to the breakfast idea- and you’re just starting to open your mouth, the ‘Ha-‘ of ‘Happy anniversary’ on its way out when he says, “I’ve got to get going. I’ve got an early meeting with Strauss. Have a good day, okay?”

On the day of your fourth anniversary, your husband gives you a kiss on the cheek and hardly a second glance before he’s out the door. Great. Your excitement has mostly deflated now, and you busy yourself with getting ready for work. At least you can still go out to dinner and celebrate then, right?

You’re mostly excited to exchange gifts. You’ve managed to find an antique coin collection- one of Aaron’s favourites from his childhood (he’s complained more than once about how if he had just found one last penny he would have had the whole set)- and his favourite Scotch. His gifts always blow yours out of the water, though. He’s thoughtful and observant, a lethal combination.

Your excitement for dinner and gifts wanes down to nothing when he texts you that afternoon.

Aaron: I need to stay late and figure out these budget cuts. Not sure when I’ll be home, don’t wait up.

You aren’t quite sure how to respond. Has he forgotten your anniversary completely? It’s so unlike him, but so is this behaviour. He always tries to be around during special events. Finally, you text back after re-reading your text three times to make sure it won’t come across as annoyed.

Me: Okay. I love you

Aaron: I love you too. Don’t forget to eat.

And you don’t hear from him again that day. 

The next day, you wake up early. Aaron is snoring in bed next to you, his alarm not set to go off for nearly an hour. You’re sleepy, but you’ve officially got the jump on some late anniversary celebrations. As quietly as possible, you creep into the kitchen and start to prepare breakfast wraps for the two of you.

The eggs are sizzling in the pan when Aaron emerges from the bedroom, wearing a suit and a face full of guilt. “It smells great in here, honey.” He pulls you in for a quick kiss, and when he pulls away he still looks guilty.

Finally, he’s figured out that he missed your anniversary. Or so you think. “I’m really sorry to do this- breakfast looks delicious,” he murmurs, and there’s a familiar twist in your gut when you realize what he’s about to say. “I’ve got to get to work right away. This budget issue, it’s just impossible to get ahead of.”

“Oh.” The lump in your throat feels tangible, makes it hard to breathe, so you inhale deeply and avert your gaze. “You should get going.”

“Thanks for thinking of me, though.” He presses a quick kiss to your temple as he fills up a coffee traveller. “I’ll cook for us this weekend, or something.”

The door closes behind him, and it’s like a nail in the coffin. He forgot.

That day, he sends a similar text to the one from last night. He’ll be home late, he’s so sorry, and it’s so predictable that you don’t text back. Instead, you call Emily that night to complain about how her job is costing you your husband’s presence. 

“He’s been too busy trying to figure out this stupid budget that he forgot about our anniversary! I mean, what does that say for us? Or our future kid’s birthdays?” You complain.

Emily whistles under her breath. “Another budget issue already? Him and Strauss just finalized this year’s financial restrictions last week,” she comments. It’s so casual that she obviously doesn’t realize what she’s implying until she hears your sharp intake of breath.

You don’t know how to feel now; either the BAU is so screwed that Aaron will be in budget meetings for the rest of his life, or he’s lying to you. “What if he’s cheating on me?” You blurt out.

“Hey. Hey, keep your head on straight. He thinks you hung the sun,” Emily reminds you firmly. “Hotch doesn’t have an unfaithful bone in his body.”

It’s too much, too overwhelming; you’re too far gone to listen to her, and that’s when you hear a key turn in the door down the hallway. “I need to go,” you mumble, and then you hang up on your friend even as she tries to protest. You can apologize later.

By the time Aaron turns the corner into the living room, your eyes have blurred with tears. They make it so that you can’t see the broad smile on his face, or the parcel tucked into his arm that he sets aside with his briefcase. 

Or the smile being wiped away as soon as he sees your face. “Sweetheart? Honey, what’s wrong?” He asks.

“Are you cheating on me?” You demand more than ask, and he visibly blanches.

To say that Aaron looks blown away by your accusation is an understatement. He looks hurt, and shocked, and concerned. Concern is what radiates off of him when he rushes over to you, gathering you in his arms even when you make a half-assed attempt to push him off.

“What are you talking about?” He asks, and you jerk your head away to avoid making eye contact. A tear spills over at the motion, and he wipes it away with a hand that gently guides you to look at him. “Hey. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

“You didn’t even answer the question!” You’ve got no idea where this is coming from. There’s never been a single indication of Aaron cheating, even with the long hours and time away from home. You’re spiraling now, and he’s the only person who can help when you get like this, but it’s all his fault.

“No,” he says firmly, his tone erasing any trace of doubt in the air. “I’m not cheating on you. I don’t… What's going on? Why would you think that? I wouldn’t- I could never…”

“Emily told me the budget thing was resolved a week ago.” As though you can save a shred of dignity, you wipe furiously at your cheeks to erase any evidence of tears. “You lied to me. I’ve barely seen you this week, and you forgot our anniversary, and- And you lied!”

This is the big point, and you both know it. Aaron has never lied to you, and you’ve always been honest with him. If he’s lying now, staying away from home when he doesn’t need to, what changed?

When you meet his eyes again, he looks upset like you’ve never seen him. The weight of your accusation has rattled him, you can tell. “I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he whispers, holding you a little closer. “I would never cheat on you. I’m crazy about you, come on.”

The reassurance helps a little, one side of your mouth lifting before it drops just as quickly. “You lied to me.”

“I know I did. I felt terrible about it, you have to believe me.” He lets you go, then goes to retrieve the parcel you’ve hardly noticed until now. “It’s- Your anniversary gift came late. And I didn’t want you to think I didn’t get you anything, because you always give me the perfect gifts.”

Your eyebrows furrow, trying to make sense of what he’s telling you now. “You forgot our anniversary.” Whether you’re reminding him or yourself, you aren’t sure.

“I would never forget it,” he vows, walking back to the couch with the brown paper package in one hand. “I was just… I don’t know. I was an idiot. I thought that if you thought I was busy with work, we could push back on celebrating until it arrived, and you wouldn’t know.”

“I wouldn’t know? You didn’t even acknowledge it yesterday!” Your voice raises, and Aaron pushes the package into your hands.

He sighs at that, a self-decreprating sound that hurts you as much as it hurts him. “I messed up. I know I did. I just didn’t want you to think I didn’t care, or didn’t get you something, and it backfired. I’m so sorry, honey.” The remorse on his face is real, written into every line and shining in his eyes. “I’ll never lie to you again, I promise. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

As though your hands have a mind of their own, you open the paper packaging without responding to him. “What is this?” 

“Pull it out,” he encourages, and the picture frame inside the packaging slides out into your hands when he pulls the paper.

“Oh…” You breathe out, taking in the image in the oak frame that matches the rest of your furniture. “This is…”

Words fail you; None can describe the gift. It’s a framed picture of you and Aaron on your wedding day, his arms around you while you both beam at the camera. The picture is cropped within the frame, and the words surrounding it look familiar.

“They’re our vows.” He breaks the silence tentatively. “I know I made a mistake. I never want you to think that I could so much as look at someone else. You’re all I’ve ever needed.”

Now, the tears blurring your vision are from some twist of happiness and relief. The vows have been tucked away since the wedding, out of sight, even though the promises you’ve made to love and support one another unconditionally have been realized every day.

It’s in writing, and when you look closely you realize that it’s in Aaron’s writing. He’s handwritten the vows for this, copied them all down. Every promise to love each other through the good and the bad, every pledge to be faithful in sickness and health and when work and life gets in the way, every assurance that you love each other more than you could ever bear to love anyone else; he wrote them all down, copied them out, because they’re still true. Truer than ever, maybe.

You cover Aaron’s hand with your own as he speaks again. “I am… devoted to you. I would worship the ground you walk on, if you would let me. And I vow to never lie to you again.”

When you turn your head and capture his lips in a kiss, you’re reminded of your wedding day. The spirit behind each promise you had made, and the love in your heart that’s only ever grown and flourished in the last four years.

“I love you,” you whisper, and it doesn’t feel like enough, but neither did the original vows when you said them. There are no words, nothing in any language you could learn that could begin to explain what he means to you.

The words that you’ve got in front of you will have to do.

“I love you, too,” he whispers, squeezing your hand in his. “Happy anniversary, my love.”

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“Are you gonna be awake long enough to find out?” Jayden asks. He’d never seen her stay awake through a whole movie, and given how late it was and how long she’d been studying for, he knew she was a goner.

“Obviously,” Kennedy scoffs, reaching for his popcorn and helping herself to a handful as she settles in under the blanket.

As Jayden suspected, Kennedy’s blinks started to get slower less than twenty minutes later. She’s asleep somewhere around the 30 minute mark, and her head falls onto his shoulder as the credits start to roll. 

He weighs his options. This feels… really nice. He tries not to think too hard about what that means. He could wake her, sure, but that just seems mean. And she’s not bothering him, really. And he… just doesn’t want to. He wants to stay here, like this, with her. Which means that the next logical option is for him to sleep out here too, which makes him grimace. The loveseat really isn't ideal for one person to sleep on, let alone two. Plus, he’d run the risk of her waking up in the middle of the night and feeling weird about it, the two of them sleeping together. Well, maybe not together, in that sense, but close enough. Well, maybe he could shift his way out just right—-

He’s saved from his decision paralysis when a resounding pop goes off from outside, and the power cuts out. 

“What? What happened,” Kennedy asks, jolting awake. “Aw, man, I missed Paul Rudd?” 

“Paul Rudd wasn’t in this one, and the power’s out,” Jayden explains. 

“What do you mean?” She asks, reaching out and grabbing his wrist, as if she suddenly became aware that the house was cloaked in darkness and she couldn’t see. 

“I heard a transformer blow. The city will come out and fix it, but probably not until the morning when the storm’s passed.” 

“Morning?” Kennedy says, and Jayden can tell she’s about to panic. 

“Hey, it’s okay. Haven’t you ever had the power go out before?” Jayden asks, rubbing his thumb over the back of her wrist soothingly. 

“Not really. My dad always made sure the generator was ready to go if it was going to storm at home.” 

“It’s no big deal, I promise. We’ll just light some candles and it’ll be fine,” he tells her, starting to stand up, but she tightens her grip on his arm to hold him in place. “Ken, come on. It’s our house, still. Nothing’s going to hurt you except maybe the edge of the coffee table. You can stay here if you want, just let me go get the candles.” He encourages her, and she releases him, so he treads carefully into the kitchen and returns with the candles and a lighter. 

“When I was little, my mom and I used to wait all summer for a good storm to come,” he tells Kennedy as he lights the candles, setting them on the coffee table and slowly illuminating the room. “We liked to listen to the thunder and lightning together. We had a gas stove there, like the one here, so once the power went out she’d light the stove with a match and make us hot chocolate, and we’d listen for the pause between the lightning and the thunder to see if the storm was getting closer or further away.” 

“That’s really nice, Jay,” Kennedy says, and he’s lit just enough candles that he can see the way the corners of her eyes crinkle up when she smiles at him. She looks as perfect as he’s ever seen her, with her hair piled up on top of her head and a bit of mascara smudged from her nap. She’s leaning in towards him and he’s leaning in towards her and he’s certain he’s about to change the dynamic of their relationship forever, and he’s not scared. Not at all. He closes his eyes and leans in, and a clap of thunder wakes them both up, sends them to their respective loveseat cushions. 

“I guess that sounds pretty close, huh?”

In true Boy Scout fashion, Aaron is shakily illuminated by a pocket flashlight that he holds between clenched teeth while he rummages through the junk drawer. “‘Ookin’ ‘or ‘ands’,” he says around it, and even though you don’t know what he’s saying it becomes obvious a moment later when he pulls out a few half-melted candles and a small box of matches.

“Here, let me.” You secure the robe and take the flashlight from his mouth, aiming it while he lights the candles. “What happened?”

“Probably blew a breaker, if no one else’s power is out. I’ll talk to the neighbours in the morning and take a look at the fuse box,” he promises. “Go get dressed. I made dinner.”

You kiss him, grateful as ever for his willingness to take care of the around-the-house dirty work that you could learn to do, but would rather not. “Be right back.”

When you come back to the kitchen a few minutes later fully dressed, Aaron is setting two plates down next to a deck of cards. “The chicken wasn’t finished cooking. I thought it would be better not to risk it,” he says guiltily, and you snicker when you see that the only thing on the plates are salad and mashed potatoes.

“Better safe than sorry,” you agree, turning off the flashlight that had led you back from the bedroom. “And the cards?”

“That’s what you do when the power is out.” He says it like it’s a simple fact, like the idea of reading a book by candlelight or doing any sort of individual activity during a power outage is a bad idea. “Crib, or crazy eights?”

“Hmm…” you tap your chin as if you’re in thought, basking equally in the warm candlelight glow and the smile he gives you. “My crib skills are pretty rusty. And you’re a sore winner.”

“I am not,” he laughs as he takes a bite of salad, “But fine. Crazy eights, it is.”

While he deals out cards and you eat, you take the opportunity to study his face. The angle of the light enunciates his age, highlighting wrinkles and crow’s feet that you’ve never noticed until now.

The laugh lines around his mouth are proof of a happy life- the happiest you can give him, at least- and you’re just thinking to yourself that he looks handsome like this, a little older, more distinguished, when he looks up and catches your gaze.

“What are you looking at?” He asks, chuckling as he picks up his cards. 

“You.” Your response is simple, blunt, and the endearing lift of one side of his mouth- the smile you’ve gotten intimately familiar with over several years- makes an appearance and makes you want to say, fuck the card game, and kiss him stupid until the lights turn back on. “You look good.”

“Yeah? Well, you…” And here he does what you’re thinking about doing, leaning over to capture your lips against his own in a chaste kiss, “look better and more beautiful every day. Cut the deck.”

You listen to instruction, flipping up one card to start the game, still entranced by the age on Aaron’s face. It’s impossible to know when he started to look like this, when those lines developed. In your mind’s eye, he’s still the boyishly handsome college senior who asked you out on your first day of junior year.

Maybe that’s what growing old- no, older, because you’re certainly not old and you aren’t too far behind him- is, you muse to yourself as you flip through the cards he’s dealt for you. 

Appreciating each other, loving each other through all of it, and- no matter his age, physically, mentally, or in experience- never losing sight of the boy you fell in love with.

The candles flicker on, and the game begins, and you think that you’re a little bit more in love than you were an hour ago.

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Your kids are as active outside of the house as they are inside it; the proof is in your perpetually-messy living room, strewn with toys and books and various odds and ends despite your futile attempts to clean everything for the last twelve years. Having a sixteen year old and a five year old don’t go hand in hand with spotless, minimalist living. It’s a battle you’ve given up on fighting.

Aaron tilts his head like he has to really think about his answer, and then he’s dropping the long-faded sweatshirt into the washing machine and closing the lid. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve been thinking about it,” he admits as he starts folding socks. “I drove by the old apartment the other day.”

You snicker at that, and gather up Aaron’s work shirts. He’s so picky about them that they’ll need to be ironed regardless, so you toss them onto his pillow for now. “I’m surprised that dump is still standing,” you joke, and he cracks a smile at that.

“Hey, now.” The scolding in his tone is light and playful, a stark contrast to the first time he ever spoke to you. You’ve come so far. “That dump is what led me to you, thank you very much.”

“If I recall correctly, the communal laundry room is to blame. That, and your attitude.” You’re right, and you both know it.

That day, the fateful day that had grabbed hold of you and thrown you down a path towards the beautiful, exhausting mess that is your life now, had started with Aaron yelling at you.

“That’s my sweater.” The voice from behind you could have been speaking to anyone. Right? You were doing your own laundry, and surely not touching anyone else’s clothes. 

Your laundry basket was almost overflowing with clothes- your clothes, the ones you had owned for years at this point- and when you turned with it set against your hip you were surprised to notice that you were the only person in the usually-busy laundry room aside from this stranger.

He was intimidating, to say the least. A black suit adorned him, and the harsh set of his gaze struck you like it was trying to burn you to the ground. And he was, obviously, pissed. “Do I need to repeat myself?”

“No.” Your response was as simple as it was ineffective, obvious when he narrowed his eyes at you further. “This is all mine. Maybe your stuff is in a different machine.”

“My things were in this machine, and my sweater is missing. It’s that one.” He pointed to the charcoal sweatshirt at the top of your pile, one sleeve flopping over the side.

The laundry basket is transferred to your other hip, obscuring his view and reach of the sweater. “No, it’s not. That’s my lucky sweater,” you argued back, not caring how stupid it sounded that you were a grown adult with a lucky item of clothing.

In your defense, it was lucky. You maintained that the university crewneck was the only reason you had passed most of your exams in your final semester at Washington State. 

“So mine just got up and walked away, then?” He was fuming, fire in his eyes and you had to take a moment to examine just how pretty he was before responding. His eyes were a shade of brown that was trying to melt you, and his lips were quirked into the merest hint of a smile even as he frowned at you.

You’d seen him around before, maybe. In the elevator, with a kid. Did he have a kid? He wasn’t wearing a ring, but the kid had appeared to be two or three so divorce or separation wasn’t off the table.

You were brought back to your thoughts by thick fingers snapping in front of you. “Anyone in there? Hello?” He was speaking like he’d been talking for a while, and you blinked quickly to settle yourself out of your wandering mind. “Are you going to check the laundry?”

“You know what? Fine.” You dropped the basket on the floor with an audible noise. “But if I’ve got your stupid sweater, you’re taking me to dinner.”

That smile got a little wider, and he knelt next to the basket with you. “Shouldn’t you be buying as an apology for stealing my clothes?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. If I have the sweater, I’m buying. It’s an apology for calling you a dick in my head.”

Confusion knit his brows together, and he averted his eyes as you rifled through some underwear to look underneath them. “But you didn’t- oh, for- it’s this one.” He cut himself off, wrapped one hand around the charcoal sweater and pulled, sending a spray of clothing around the two of you.

“Ugh!” You sprang to your feet, frantically trying to pick everything up before it got dirty. “That’s why I called you a dick. The floor is filthy!”

He winced audibly, his first show of regret or apology so far. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, holding up his old familiar GWU sweatshirt in front of him. Except, wait- why was the lettering red? Why did it say WSU?

“That’s mine, you dick, I told you!” You motioned to the grey ball of fabric in the corner, the W and U fully visible. “Is that yours?”

Your sweater was dropped back into your laundry basket, and he picked up his sweater as you dumped the rest of your thankfully-clean clothes into the laundry basket for a second time. “I’m sorry,” he said again, after a long moment of silence. “I’m Aaron.”

You quirked one eyebrow at him; you weren’t going to make this easy for him, and something about that lit a flame in his belly. “I’ve seen you around.”

“What were those conditions of yours, again?” He tried. As awkward and uncomfortable as it was, he had the urge to know more of you; whatever you would give him, he would gladly take. “Will you go out to dinner with me?”

 You barked a laugh, obviously irritated. “You barge in here, get mad at me for stealing, throw all of my clothes around the room like a monkey throwing its own shit, and now you want to take me out for dinner?”

“Well, yes.” He held a hand out. “Except I’ll pay, of course. As an apology for being such a dick.”

Several years later, even if you were at gunpoint, you still didn’t have a clue why you had placed your hand in Aaron’s, why you had led him up to your apartment and opened the door and never shut it on him or Jack again.

“Thank god for that attitude of yours,” Aaron sighs dramatically, tossing a pair of Olive’s socks at you. “Imagine if you hadn’t been so romantic that first day.”

“I called you a dick because you were being a dick,” you argue, even though it’s something you’ve been going around in circles on for over a decade. “I would have burned that sweater by now if you let me, you know.”

That’s a lie, and you both know it. For the majority of your pregnancy with Olive, you had spent your days wearing Aaron’s clothes. Primarily, you had a fondness for the GWU sweater that held so much history and nearly matched your WSU fleece that you were unable to fit into. Even now, nearly six years after being pregnant, it remains your favourite clothing to curl up in.

“You couldn’t if you tried.” Aaron gathers up the kids’ clothing in his arms, then steps in to kiss you. “After all, it’s my lucky sweater.”

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