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There are plenty who could tell tales and spin yarns about the members of the BAU. They are a killer’s ticket to damnation,  a costly expenditure who’s security is under fire, and they are excellent at what they do. They close cases and they save lives— all the while risking losing pieces of themselves every time they choose to walk through those doors. On the other side of that elevator, however, they become more than that. At night, when their badges lay on the table and their guns are locked away; they are a family.

Penelope Garcia puts the light of every star to have ever graced the night sky to shame with her unyielding hope for a better tomorrow.

Derek Morgan won’t allow someone’s worth to be under debate— nor will he leave a friend to struggle on their own.

Emily Prentiss will do anything it takes to protect the very few she trusts with her emotions.

Jennifer Jareau’s endless compassion for those she knows and those she’s never met inspires everyone around her.

Spencer Reid shares the most vulnerable parts of himself in hopes no one will feel alone or misunderstood.

David Rossi, albeit occasionally a bit detached and blasé, won’t turn away from a request for guidance— even if just to steer them in a better direction.

Aaron Hotchner— who has lost so many and far too much, still loves those he holds close with unwavering ferocity. 

And so they sit together in that same living room with cashmere throws and three hundred dollar decorative pillows they have for ages in Dave’s mansion. Conversation flows and wine is poured perhaps too liberally with an impeccably paired meal. They dance to another old record, dragging the most timid onto the makeshift dance floor. They hold one another when it all becomes a bit too much after a glass too many.

Sometimes everything falls into place. Sometimes, it all goes exactly right and the team can go home knowing the families can hold their loved ones again. And for those who can't— they might at least rest knowing the one responsible for their grief will spend the rest of their existence behind bars.  

This wasn't one of those cases.

Four victims before they’d even gotten to the small town two hours out from Columbus. Another two while they built the profile. 

They'd found him— Garcia managing to find the needle that was the old family cabin within Reid’s geographical profile. They'd done the work, and they’d done it well. 

It wasn't enough. 

The Unsub had been devolving— the overkill between victims four and six increasing steadily. Sandra Glover, Lynn Krasnov, Yasmine Beaker and Mia Benjamin, while butchered, had been killed and dismembered with a hunter's precision. Jessica Cartwright, Jane Goswami, and Rebecca Carlston were torn apart. 

They'd found him moments away from his first strike to Maggie Bell. Hotch had taken the lead on talking him down, a mere breath away from the Unsub’s surrender when one of the local officers shifted his position a bit too quickly.

Robert Marston reacted. 

And Hotch pulled the trigger in the end. 

Aaron shrugs off his jacket after setting down his go-bag haphazardly near the entry table. He checks his locks methodically before tossing his keys in their assigned bowl, not even bothering to toe off his shoes before dragging himself to the sofa. 

A quiet groan is pulled deep from within his chest once he settles on the cushions, every sleepless night and forgotten dinner from the last week wreaking havoc on his body. He loosens his tie one handed– the other raking through his gelled strands in an attempt to ground himself. Chancing a glance at his watch, he regrets it immediately. It won’t be light out for hours yet, and Jack won’t come back from Jessica’s for even longer.

He just wants to hold his son.

 He slips the Rolex off his wrist and places it gingerly on the table. Every silent movement of the hand rings through his brain, the seconds creeping by taunting him with the reminder of Jack’s childhood slipping through his fingers. He averts his gaze.

He’ll put it away later.

He gets up after a while, grabbing himself a protein bar and a shower. He doesn’t taste nor feel anything, just running through the motions. He sits on the edge of his bed in his faded university t-shirt and plaid pyjama pants, damp hair sticking up every which way while he tries to muster up the courage to face another nightmare filled slumber. Just as he’s beginning to lift the duvet, a glint catches his eye.

He looks to the source unseeingly for a moment before his brain catches up with him. He just stares for what feels like hours, fragments of forgotten memories and dampened emotions washing over him. His feet hit the cold floor, breaking him out of the haze that had gripped him. He moves away from the bed.

Aaron grabs a clean cloth from the ensuite and heads back to the bedroom. He hesitates momentarily once he reaches the far corner just off the end of his bed, gaze focusing on the old guitar perched proudly on it’s stand. His legs carry him forward timidly, like one might approach a scorned friend. Settling on his knees— which both give a weary creak on the way down, his lips curve upward at the familiar sight. 

He wipes the J-45 down gently, a silent apology in each caress as the dust is swept away. Aaron’s eyes shine in the low light, mirroring the warmth in the aged wood before him. He lifts it carefully, practically cradling it as he settles onto the floor.

He spends a few minutes plucking each string, turning the pegs until he no longer cringes from the resulting noise. He strums once gingerly, finding the resulting sound much less abrasive than expected. He nods to himself, adjusting the guitar on his lap as he positions his hands. His fingers stumble over the worn strings, the notes buzzing in protest. He pauses, allowing himself a moment to breathe, eyes drifting shut on the exhale.

He changes tactics, and tries again.

The chord is a little muffled but rings true in the emptiness of Aaron’s apartment. He moves through the familiar patterns, fingers flexing with every change as he slowly finds himself in the groove of things once again.

Tentative presses transform into a self-assured glide. His confidence grows and his fingers dance aimlessly, allowing the honeyed sounds to decide their course.

He can almost hear Haley’s laugh within the melody. A lifetime ago— maybe in another life altogether, that laugh would’ve accompanied a tender hand on his thigh as they sang to the night sky together.

He’ll get to teaching Jack soon, he thinks. She always said he should.

He misses a note— or maybe five. His fingertips burn and his back is beginning to ache but it’s the most at peace he’s felt in, well, arguably much too long. And for once Aaron Hotchner feels. He doesn't lock it in a box wrapped in barbed wire. He doesn't hold onto it so tightly it might snap. 

He just is. 

The sun is rising by the time he’s ready to part with his old friend. He glances over at the window, taking in the soft orange light peeking beyond the cityscape. Aaron knows he should've gone to bed ages ago— Jack will be coming home in a couple hours and he still has to finish his report.