#200followerasks

The only reasonable option, really. 

“Thanks for coming, Reid,” Hotch greets back with a softened expression as he looks him up and down. “Did you even go home first?” The very first thing Hotch always does is change out of his suit when he gets home, shedding that armour as best he can to switch mindsets between Agent Hotchner of the FBI, and Aaron Hotchner the ever-stressed-out single dad. That evening donning worn jeans and a heather grey Henley to better accommodate himself within the space. 

“Oh -- no, I didn’t see much point,” Reid shrugs, then motioning to his satchel which is now filled with books that weren’t there when he’d left the bull pen a couple hours before. “I stopped by the law library in Georgetown and found a few more references, just in case you were using the Favero citations instead of Weston and I don’t have all of those read yet -- or I didn’t. I do now. But I still brought them--”

Hotch smiles, a real smile -- small as it is, but no less fond of Reid going out of his way to help him. But before he can thank him again Jack’s socked feet come thundering down the hall behind him. 

“Dr. Spencer! Dr. Spencer! Dr. Spencer!” And he’s slipping past Hotch, smooth and fluid as water, attaching himself to Reid’s legs and waist in a hug with a big smile that looks so much like Aaron’s own. When he’d been younger, only about three or four years old, Jack had been deathly scared of Doctor’s visits. It had been Reid’s idea to have Jack start calling him ‘Dr. Spencer’ to help alleviate some of that fear, associating the moniker with his non-threatening and familiar face. Reid had been much younger then, too, and that had helped the tactic work like a charm. Haley had been over the moon when his reverse psychology worked out so well. 

“Jack! Woah, you got taller!” Reid’s whole demeanor changes. A little more animated, more comfortable, even -- and Hotch could remember a time when Reid hadn’t even wanted to hold a child for fear of the interaction. Now, he was always the first to talk to one if JJ didn’t beat him to it. “How’ve you been?” “Good!” Jack says excitedly, barreling over the small talk in ways only children can. “Dad says you’re going to help him with his homework, can you help me with mine too?!”

Reid smiles even wider and chances a glance at Hotch that he feels in his chest. “You bet, I love helping with homework.”

Jack just scrunches his nose up at him. “Why?”

“Because it’s fun.”

“Homework isn’t fun.”

“Well, maybe you’ve been doing it wrong.” 

“Let’s let Dr. Reid in from the hallway,” Hotch interrupts with a laugh, herding his son and the younger agent inside. “Jack, go get your homework and you can do it at the table,” Hotch says as he takes Reid’s coat and watches him kick off his shoes by the door. Mismatched socks prominent against the hardwood floors. Making himself at home, shedding some of the layers and getting comfortable in the space much like Aaron does every day after work. “Hope you like spaghetti. It won’t be as good as Rossi’s.”

“Who doesn’t love spaghetti,” Spencer grins with a soft laugh. “Rossi’s is almost too fancy for me, anyway.”

“A man of simple tastes,” Hotch teases him.

“I’m easily impressed.”

“Lucky me.” 

It slips out, the low, comfortable banter, and Reid’s eyes are alight and Aaron feels himself smiling enough his dimples show, and he leads the way to the kitchen where dinner is already in the works on the stove. Filling the small condo with the smell of tomato sauce and garlic. 

-

Jack and Reid set up at the kitchen bartop where they can watch Hotch finish cooking and stay within reach of conversation. It doesn’t take long for Hotch to finish making dinner, or for Jack to finish his homework spurred on by Reid’s strange enthusiasm for math problems. With how much time they spend talking about psychology and sociology (and sometimes even philosophy) Hotch always forgets one of Reid’s Ph.D.’s is in mathematics. 

“Numbers just make sense,” he explains, when Hotch brings it up while drizzling olive oil on the drained pasta on the stove. “There’s always a right answer and the rest are wrong. It’s comforting, to an extent, but predictable -- that’s why I shifted focus from sciences to humanities. There’s no right or wrong answers in philosophy, it’s all argumentative. Always evolving. I prefer that, it’s no fun having all the answers.” 

And coming from someone who does always have all the right answers, that must mean something profound to the younger man. One conversation outside the walls of the BAU and Hotch already feels like he understands Reid more than he has in a long time.

--

Dinner runs so smoothly it’s as if Reid is always there for it. Jack even finishes all of his food and helps with the dishes before Hotch has to ask him to. Making the two men exchange a glance and Hotch ask, “You charge by the hour?” and Reid laughs into his water glass in reply. They end up talking a bit about the paper Hotch has been working on, along with about a dozen other things Reid launches into in side tangents -- from the books he’d read during his brief visit to Georgetown that afternoon, to his most recent philosophical debate he had with his doctoral advisor about his thesis paper he’ll have to submit at the end of next month. 

“Do you need time to piece it together? I didn’t know you were that close to your next Ph.D.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Reid waves him off. “I just need a weekend where we are actually in town and not on a case, and I’ll get it finished.” 

“I’ve been working on this paper for the past six months,” Hotch all but balks in disbelief. “How can you write a Ph.D. dissertation in a weekend?”

“Well, I’m not the Unit Chief or a single parent,” Reid points out with a gentle grin, and Hotch feels one pulling at his own lips as well. “But it’s mostly written anyway, just all up here.” He points to his head, and Hotch bets he could recite the paper verbatim with what he writes up when he has the time.

“You could always write it on the jet,” Hotch says. 

“I do,” Reid smirks, and Hotch can’t help but roll his eyes. “In my head, someone is usually taking up the table with a headstart on paperwork.”

“I think they can be talked into relinquishing some table top space,” Hotch says, until Reid gives him a look. “Oh, you mean me?”

“You spread out everything to keep it organized in piles.” 

“I’d share with you.”

“You told Rossi to use the couch last week when he wanted to answer emails,” Reid says with a barely contained laugh.

“Yeah, well, he’s not you,” Hotch admits before he can take it back, and Reid almost answers -- mouth open and everything -- when Jack comes back and is all but begging ‘Dr. Spencer’ to help him with his science fair project he hadn’t even decided on. 

--

The rest of the evening ends up with the three holed up in Hotch’s office, Reid surrounded by Law books and reading material he hasn’t gotten to sift through before, Hotch with his drafted paper printed out for Reid’s ease of access, and Jack with his science textbook and a notebook already talking Reid’s ear off about a science project for the spring. 

But once the time starts to tip into the later hours of the night, Hotch tells Jack to get ready for bed and say goodnight to Dr. Reid. 

“Goodnight, Dr. Spencer. Thanks for your help,” Jack says politely, ingrained in him by his father and Reid smiles a little too bright and soft at the same time at how sweet it is he tries to be good for company.

“You know, Jack, you can just call me Spencer if you’d like,” he says, knowing that the older boy has already outgrown his fear of the doctor and the reverse psychology is no longer needed.

Jack looks a little confused for a moment. “Dad doesn’t.” 

“Well, your dad can, too -- if he wants,” Reid says, looking to Hotch and they share a look he once again can feel in his chest. Watching the whole interaction with a carefully guarded expression, but it melts under Reid’s glance and he isn’t quite sure what is there anymore. But whatever it is, it makes Reid smile softly at him.

“Okay, goodnight Spencer,” Jack interrupts their moment, and hugs Reid around the neck from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. It jostles the younger man, and Hotch smiles wide and ducks his head down to hide it. But Reid hugs Hotch’s son back, and tells him goodnight, as well. “You’ll come back, right?”

“Of course, I’d love to,” Reid tells him, and -- satisfied -- Jack goes off to brush his teeth, leaving the two in a lull of heavy silence. “Sorry, I think I just invited myself over, some time.”

“You’re welcome anytime.” And he means that, knows Reid knows that as he looks at him a little more soundly than before. “Not just for work.” If that needed to be said. 

And if Reid’s face flushes a little darker in the low lighting, Hotch doesn’t mention. No matter how much he can’t seem to look away.

Reid looks over his entire paper while Hotch tucks Jack into bed, and is already making notes on it at his desk when the man returns. The next hour rolls into two, and Hotch drags another chair in from the kitchen so they can share his desk and work through bullet points on the paper but… it was pretty much done, from the start. Even Reid’s edits didn’t take them long. After a while they dissolve into just talking, discussions and anecdotes and sitting maybe a little too close and laughing so much and so loud sometimes they have to quiet themselves so they don’t wake Jack down the hall. 

It’s almost 10:30 by the time they resurface from each other, before Hotch realizes Reid probably needs to go home because they both have to be at work bright and early. But this was… this was the best night he’s had in a long, long time, and he wants to do it again. Soon. More than soon. More than once. He thinks about all of this as he follows Reid to the front door and helps him gather the rest of his things. 

“We should do this again, sometime,” Hotch mentions, hands in his pockets and trying to be more cool about this than he feels.

“I’d like that, I had a lot of fun tonight,” Reid answers, standing up from tying his shoes and giving him that bright, wide smile he doesn’t always feel comfortable enough to allow. It never fails to stall Hotch in his tracks, staring a little too long at his mouth than he should be. 

“What if, next time, it’s just us? And no Jack?” he continues, elaboration just in case Reid doesn’t grasp what he’s asking. Reid is watching him with this look as if he’s unsure he heard correctly, and Hotch is nothing if not patient.

“I’d… I’d be okay with that,” Reid answers, slowly as he weighs some unseen options and gauges Hotch’s facial expressions to the most minute detail.

“Good. How about Saturday?”

He can see the moment it all clicks into place.

“...Are you asking me on a date?” Reid asks, a little winded. 

“If that’s alright with you,” Hotch says with a half smile. Once again sounding more confident than he should in the face of how Reid’s eyes start to dart around and he licks his lips nervously.

“I don’t know how -- how good I am with dates.” There’s a story behind that, and Hotch wants to know it, but he does his best to press Reid gently. Because… he’s been holding off asking the younger man for a long time, now, but after tonight he gets the feeling that he might not have needed to be so hesitant, after all. 

“Oh?”

“Just -- the ritual of it all always throws me off. Dressing up and going out, and making conversation over dinner while trying to eat and maintain the other’s attention, and then keeping it all going if you manage to do that I just don’t always do so well one-on-one and --”

“Reid.” He pauses, then -- “Spencer.” And that stalls his stream of thought to words, catching Spencer’s attention and snagging it in the best way. “...we just did all of that. And it was great.” Hotch knows his own expression has softened around the edges over the course of the night, smiles easier to hold, eyes more expressive, and Spencer takes in every change and nuance with a well-practice eye and is… very obviously stunned by what he finds. “So -- I’d like to do it again. Saturday?” 

Shocked, eyes a little wide, breath lost to the wind, Spencer waits a beat too long to answer. Enough to make Hotch nervous, before he answers in a sound that could have been a whisper if it had been quieter. A slight crack to it that betrays his emotion.

“Okay.” 

Hotch gets a turn to be stunned, because he thought this had been about to take a very different turn. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“--Okay.”

Intelligent men that they were, that was the extent of the conversation, and then Reid is smiling that bright, sunshine laced smile and Hotch is trying to contain his own and -- Reid still needs to go home. So, biting his lip, Reid turns as if to leave -- is just about out the door when he stops and turns back so quick he almost runs into Hotch on the threshold. 

“So… technically, that means this was our first date, then. Right?” he looks so goddamn hopeful, and like he has something further to add, that Hotch smiles outright and this time doesn’t bother hiding it.

“Technically, yes.” He supposes it was. And it really had been… a great night. Not a bad first date, at all.

Reid takes far too long trying to string together words after that. Keeps looking to Hotch then away to gather his thoughts, then back again as if in search of something; and it’s after about the third time that Hotch realizes what he’s getting at. What he’s trying to find a way to ask. 

It hits him so silent and hard it about knocks the wind out of him.

Oh.

He can do that.

Hotch steps closer, about the same time Spencer opens his mouth like he’s finally figured out the right combination of words within the range of the English language to form a coherent sentence, and they all die on his tongue the moment Hotch guides him back with a hand on his hip. He’s done it before, gentle leading when Reid strays the wrong way or needs to be shifted in a crowded room on cases, and this time is just as easy and no different.

Except this time, Hotch isn’t maneuvering them to get past him. This time, he presses Spencer’s spine to the doorframe and leans in to capture his lips with his own. Right there, in the open doorway.

Hotch kisses him, and it’s perfect.

The gentle slide of lips is over before either know it, lasts longer than his racing heart can measure, and before Hotch can decide his next move Spencer tilts in closer and kisses him back, slow and methodical and Hotch feels that. Feels it the way he’s felt every moment they had and shared the whole night. His free hand finds that sharp jaw framed in messy curls getting longer all over again, and Spencer doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands beyond grasp at Hotch’s shirt at his sides and then -- 

Then Hotch pulls back enough that he can nudge his nose against Spencer’s carefully, a punctuation that ends the kiss soft and apologetic. Silently says that’s all they can do tonight. That there’s more, awaiting them, but that… 

That had been one hell of a good first kiss.

“See you in the morning, Spencer.” 

For once, Dr. Spencer Reid is speechless in an entirely new way, and he merely nods with lips still parted and a little darker from the kiss. From kissing him, and Hotch knows he stares more than he should, but that’s been a frequent occurrence lately. It’s just getting harder and harder to turn away, watch Reid -- Spencer -- smile at him in that quiet way only ever directed at him, and then walk away. But he lets it happen, feels every step even as he shuts the door behind him.

Because Hotch will see Spencer tomorrow.

“At this rate, you’re going to make us late to dinner,” Spencer scolds, arm linked with Hotch’s in a way they don’t usually get to enjoy. Shoulder to shoulder, his arm woven through the older man’s, holding his forearm and feeling the solidarity there. Firm and comforting, confident -- Spencer adores it. Isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to it. “Our reservation is at 6:30.”

“And Antonia will hold our table, no matter how long we want to take,” Hotch points out, a small smirk of a smile turning at his lips handsomely. They had spent the whole afternoon at the Smithsonian's newest exhibit, Spencer reading every place card and notating his own past studies in between. Hotch getting the tour of a lifetime, as he always does. They are season pass holders to all the museum buildings, and usually they make a day of it with Jack, but today Hotch had brought them there mere hours before their dinner date. With access to the new permanent “Time and Navigation” exhibit at the Air and Space Museum, which he knew Spencer would be dying to see. They take the long way back to the parking lot; exit through the back of the Smithsonian Castle where the Enid A. Haupt gardens are, which is always Hotch’s favorite place. 

Specifically the Moongate Gardens: a Japanese-style courtyard named after the circular stone archway, mirrored in shape by a fountain inlaid into the same pale stone, and surrounded by blossoming Sakura trees. It’s a chilly evening for that time of year, and they enter just before sunset -- another favorite event of Hotch’s. He’d brought Spencer there on one of their very first dates. At sunset, just like this, when the light colored stone soaks up the last golden rays of the sun, painting the whole courtyard as vibrant as the sky. It was one of the most beautiful sights Spencer had ever seen, told Hotch so that first time -- one year and three months ago. Hotch hadn’t answered with more than a soft, affirmative hum of agreement, but when Spencer had looked to him he saw that Hotch hadn’t been watching the sky or the scenic gardens around them at all. He’d been looking at Spencer.

They’d kissed until the sun dipped beyond the horizon. Ever since, the Moongate Garden has been a special place for them. Something they saved for the most special occasions, when it was appropriate to have emotion swallow them whole and they could savor the moment as long as needed.

Today was no such occasion; Spencer was sure of that.

And yet, Hotch was being unusually quiet. Not in the sense that he wasn’t talking, because their silences were always warm and companionable, but quiet in his mannerisms. Not revealing much of his thoughts or sentiments, keeping himself reserved -- and he only does that when he’s attempting to hide something. To keep it a surprise. Spencer was becoming just as good a profiler as Hotch is, as Gideon was, he can catch on to even the smallest hint of secret from the smallest micro-expression; but Hotch is also very skilled in keeping his emotions in check. An unspoken battle of wits that Spencer hadn’t even known he was a part of until they ventured into the garden. Mildly surprised at the turn, and somehow feeling he must have missed something --

But today isn’t anything special. It’s not an anniversary of any sort: it’s not their first date, their first kiss, nor the first time they said ‘I love you’. Spencer had been living with Jack and Hotch for less than six months, so that wasn’t it either. He remembers every date, every moment, with precision and accuracy and cherishes them beyond measure. He remembers all of it -- every date there is to remember.

.

Except for one. 

There is one date Spencer doesn’t know, because it had only occurred for Aaron. But it changed his life, everything big and small, and he wants to make it just as important for the man on his arm. Holding his heart, without really knowing just how much.

“You’re really not going to tell me,” Spencer murmurs with a half smile, glancing at Hotch as they pass a couple leaving the garden, now having the space entirely to themselves.

“Tell you what?”

“What today is,” Spencer prods. “I don’t forget dates, so I’m sure you’re having fun holding this close to the chest.”

“A little bit,” Hotch admits, bringing them to the far side of the fountain, where a circular inlaid bench is set into the stonework. 

“Alright,” Spencer laughs a bit, letting go of Aaron’s arm to take up his usual spot on the bench. “So out with it, enlighten me,” he teases further. A spark in his eye Hotch can never tire of, that never fails to steal his breath.

“You didn’t forget anything,” Hotch says with a small chuckle, as Spencer sits down. Hands on the edge of the bench in an endearing posture. Hotch sidles up to him, all warm dark eyes and secretive smiles. “We’ve been together 18 months.”

“And six days,” Spencer smiles fondly, curiosity in his gaze.

“But we’ve known each other much longer.”

Spencer pauses at that. His mind flipping through his mental rolodex calmly, that fond smile ebbing to something full of much more, love and time past and everything in between. 

“Eleven years, five months, thirteen days,” he murmurs, and Hotch’s smile is so wide and adoring it captures all of his attention. Warmer than the last rays of the sun. 

“That long?”

“The first day I saw you was in August, when Gideon got me into the FBI Academy and I was still technically a candidate,” Spencer says, a flush highlighting his cheeks and matching the hues of the sky. That had been a long time ago. He’d barely completed his third doctorate, had just decided to switch from sciences to humanities and pursue a career with the FBI. Aaron Hotchner had been the first person he met that embodied what an FBI Agent was supposed to be, in his eyes. 

“There’s a lot of milestones I don’t remember with such accuracy,” Hotch says low and quiet in contemplation. Leaning against the stonework next to him, inside the circular design and close enough Spencer could knock his converses against his wingtips if he so desired. “I don’t remember what day I learned that you were joining our team, that you could do what you do, and how much it impressed me. But I remember the moment.” It had been the first time Spencer had taken his breath away, and made him smile, but he used to smile much more easily back then. “I also don’t remember the day I first looked at you and saw you differently. It feels like it should have been an epiphany, but it was a creeping thing that grew over… all those years,” he says, a little stunned it had really been that long. The astonishment echoing in his voice.

Spencer smiles and Hotch can’t help but reach out and take his hand, still standing beside where he sits on the stone blocks, the world around them turning rosy reds and oranges like it always does at sunset. But neither are looking at the sky. 

“I don’t remember which day I decided I was going to ask you to dinner, because it took a very long time to gather the courage to do so.”

“I remember,” Spencer says with a breathless laugh, eyes bright. “You tried and backed out twice before you finally asked me. I was ready to say yes from the moment I realized what you wanted.” 

Because of course he was. When words fail them, Hotch and Spencer always understand each other -- and it’s not often that words fail them. Hotch squeezes Spencer’s hands in his own, and doesn’t let them go. Once again working up the courage to speak what’s been on his mind and in his heart for the longest time. 

“But there is one day that I do remember, with very precise accuracy.”

“This day,” Spencer elaborates, soft and still looking at him. A slight squint to his eyes as he tries to wrack his brain. “This day… last year?”

“Yes,” Hotch admits.

“We were… working, it was a Wednesday, we went on a trip together to the penitentiary upstate for an interview, and didn’t get back until late,” Spencer says, pulling the memories from thin air. “You -- you were worried we wouldn’t be able to work alone together, while being together, and we did very well that day. Got our interview, no incidents.” He gives him a slight look, the reminders of Chester Hardwick hanging over their heads and Hotch ducks his head a bit in admonishment. That had also been a very long time ago. “We did it, we were able to work together, and we went to our separate homes that night.”

“We did,” Hotch says, rubbing his thumb along the ridge of Spencer’s knuckles lovingly. “Do you remember when we left the BAU that night, in the hallway outside my office door?”

Spencer’s smile goes a little dazed, as his perfect memory recall brings up every frame of that moment.

“How could I ever forget?”

.

Outside Hotch’s office that night, he’d closed the door and was locking it as they were leaving, when he called to Spencer by his first name. They were one of the only remaining people on the floor, barely a soul around to hear him.

Spencer turned back to him, all unruly curls and his oversized sweater hanging off his shoulders. Soft and exhausted and ready for home. Aaron had felt an overwhelming urge to ask him to come back to his place. They spent all day together, but not ‘together’ like they’ve become so used to, and Aaron realized then that he doesn’t want to go home without Spencer. Ever. That what they have at work and what they have outside of it is a separate dynamic, and that they could handle this.

Could handle more. 

Aaron thanked him, for everything that day, and Spencer only blinked once in mild confusion before he realized what Aaron meant. ‘Thanks for proving me wrong. Thank you for not tempting our predilections or our instinct to gravitate closer. Thank you for being you, unequivocally and earnestly you.’

And Spencer smiled at him, soft and tired and more in love than he probably meant to look. They hadn’t said it yet, wouldn’t for a few more weeks. 

“Always.”

There was no specifics mentioned. Nothing narrowed down, just a feeling. A feeling Aaron doesn’t want to live without another moment longer.

“Good night, Aaron,” he murmured, barely contained longing there in those three words, and Aaron watched Spencer walk away with his heart thumping heavily in his chest.

.

“It was the first time I realized that I wanted to hear you say that every night. Beside me, in my bed -- our bed.” Spencer smiles even softer at Aaron’s words, because moving in with the Hotchners had been the best decision he’s ever made. 

“It was the first time I saw… a future beyond next month, or next year. The first time I looked at you, walking away, and thought to myself --”

He sighs deeply then, head tilted and just looking at Spencer, and finally says the words he’s thought to himself over and over, moment after breath-taking moment, for the past year.

“I’m going to marry him, one day.”

Spencer’s breath catches, and he can’t seem to let it go again.

With Aaron’s hands still holding onto Spencer’s, he kneels down from where he stood, and grasps those slender palms tight, and asks --

“Dr. Spencer Reid, will you marry me?”

Spencer is floored. Feels the words wash over him like a tidal wave it’s so all encompassing, he had -- not expected the question in the slightest. Hadn’t been sure Aaron would want to marry again, had only hoped and kept contingency plans, but Spencer had been content to love him and live with him and build a family even without a marriage certificate.

But the question surges through him, drudges up every longing look and fleeting thought and romantic notion. 

There is nothing in the world he wants more than to marry Aaron Hotchner.

“Yes,” he gasps out. “Yes, God yes!” And then Spencer’s all but tumbling off the stone bench and right into Aarons arms. Sending them both crashing onto the cold ground beneath them. He takes Aaron’s devastatingly handsome face in his hands and kisses him with so much fervor and passion it leaves them both gasping for air. 

And then -- he smiles; bright, unbridled, kisses Aaron again so the man can taste it, feel it pressed against his own.

“I have a ring,” Aaron tries to tell him, between Spencer’s frantic, endearingly passionate kisses.

“So do I,” Spencer admits, and it stuns Aaron as Spencer kisses him slow and simmering. Wonderful. “At home, in my office, I didn’t know if you’d ever…”

“How could I not?” Aaron says, still stunned. “I love you,” he tells Spencer, low and spoken like Gospel. Like Scientific Fact. “I can’t imagine my life without you in it, and I intend to keep you in it. For as long as you’ll have me.”

“The rest of our lives sounds about right,” Spencer answers. His gaze follows Aaron’s hands as he reaches into his coat pocket for a small velvet box, reveals a silver banded ring, and puts it on Spencer’s finger. The young doctor watching as if in a trance.

When he looks back to Aaron, his eyes swimming in unshed tears, he kisses Aaron once more. Heavy and purposeful, so they feel every second passing slow as lost breath. As skipped heartbeats.

“I love you, too,” Spencer answers, as if it needs to be said. As if he doesn’t tell Aaron every day, every morning, every night.

And will continue to do so, every day that follows.

They stay there until the streetlights come on, wrapped up in one another, and the sun sets on the gardens surrounding them. They are very late to dinner. But Antonia does understand, and their table is indeed waiting for them when they finally arrive. And it continues to do so, every year on this day in early spring, for many, many years to come. 

-

-

Hotch always rises with the sun. He goes on early morning runs at all times of the year, rain or shine, even when it snows. He’s always back in enough time to get Jack up and ready for school, shower and get himself dressed for work, he’s a creature of habit and routine is his comfort zone. But now --

Now, sometimes it’s hard to leave his bed in the mornings, and the sight that always greets him when he returns from his runs makes him smile like he hasn’t in a long time. 

Spencer sleeps much later, sometimes until Hotch is done showering and has already tried to wake him up two or three times with bribes of coffee. Kissing his cheek or wild curls while still smelling like sweat from his run, and Spencer swats at him or hides under the covers without even opening his eyes. And Hotch lets him until it gets too close to the time when they need to head into the office. 

“Why does Spencer get to sleep in?” Jack asks with a tired whine, now nine-years-old and pouting over his bowl of cereal as Spencer finally drags himself from bed and to the coffee pot at half past seven in the morning. Hotch smirks and weaves around the man, scooping him close to kiss him good morning before letting him continue his trek. 

“Because he finishes his homework before bedtime,” Hotch answers his son, looking pointedly at the half completed math homework on the kitchen table. The deluge of questions were just another diversion tactic, he could see right through it, and he doesn’t let up until Jack picks up his pencil once more. 

“You have homework?” Jack asks Spencer, who sits beside him and is still rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. Steam off his coffee the only breath of life he needs to wake up fully.

“Oh, I always have homework. Last night it was actually Morgan’s ‘homework’, he thinks I don’t notice when he slips files onto my desk.” 

Hotch sends Spencer a reprimanding look, because they both know that Morgan and Prentiss slip Spencer files all the time and he’s supposed to be putting his foot down about it. 

“He should really do his own homework,” Jack mumbles, glaring at his own math equations. 

“Well you be sure to tell him that when you see him again, Jack.” Spencer would pay good money to see that conversation, and he smiles fondly at the young boy for having his back. 

It’s barely ten minutes later when Spencer is getting up from the table and is gravitating towards the coffee pot for cup number two when Jack pipes up again.

“Hey -- was I supposed to not tell anyone about Spencer living here?” 

Hotch and Spencer look at each other, not realizing that… really that was what had happened in plain terms. Spencer did indeed live there. He couldn’t even remember the last time that he had been back to his apartment. Weeks, maybe. 

“It’s not really a secret bud, why?” Hotch asks, hesitant because… it’s not a secret, they just haven’t said anything to anyone.

“Because Aunt Penny didn’t know and now she’s sending me lots of screaming emojis.” 

Spencer looks to his phone and he also happens to have about a dozen text messages from Penelope. Most of it unintelligible key smashes and strings of pictures. 

“No texting at breakfast, you know better,” Hotch reprimands Jack as he checks his own phone. The juxtaposition making Jack scowl and Spencer snicker. Hotch finds he doesn’t have as many messages from their tech analyst, but he does have a few. The whole team probably knows already. 

He sends out a text to everyone that says ‘team meeting 9am’ 

“Guess I don’t have to take the train today.” Spencer is giving him a look over his coffee mug, amused but still hesitant. “I feel like we should be nervous, but I’m not.” 

Hotch can’t help the smirk of a smile on his face as he presses Spencer to the counter and kisses him fully, but still at least a little chaste -- with Jack making gagging sounds in the background. ’Dad, gross--’

“Finish your homework, and go brush your teeth,” he tells him without looking over. One more kiss that tastes like coffee and too much sugar, grinning a little too wide.

“I can’t tell if you’re happy, or plotting something.”

“A bit of both,” Hotch answers cryptically.

“Now I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be, I’ve been planning for this day for a long time.” But he keeps his secrets to himself as he ushers Spencer towards the bedroom -- their bedroom, he now realizes -- to make him get ready for work.

--

An hour later, the team is gathered at the round table in the conference room, and Hotch passes out binders to everyone packed with training material.

"Wait, this is an actual team meeting?" Prentiss blanches.

"How is this not about you and Reid sleeping together!?" The shock of a five pound binder in their hands seems to have taken any accusational tones out of anyone’s voices, but Hotch still scowls at Morgan’s outburst, and Spencer immediately jumps to their defense.

"We aren't sleeping together, we're…" they look at each other. "Living together. Are together."

"Dating." Hotch simplifies.

"Okay, so this ISN'T about you two 'dating'?" JJ elaborates this time, careful gaze darting between them, as is everyone else’s. 

"No, this is about how none of you noticed we were dating,” Hotch answers evenly, calmly. “If it had been about announcing ourselves, the text would have said ‘family’ meeting." 

That makes a few people smile, Penelope making a soft squeal in delight, and it changes the air in the room dramatically. 

"So ‘family’ dinner Saturday, Dave's house thank you for volunteering." Hotch says, just to wipe the smug look off the older man's face. He hadn’t said a word, yet, but with the smirk he’d been sporting all morning he didn’t need to. 

"This," he points to binders. “is a refresher course you all get to audit. Profiling 101, I want them on my desk by the end of the week. Morgan do not pass it off to Reid, you're doing your own homework this time."

Spencer can’t help it, he laughs. Hotch manages not to -- even in the face of Morgan’s comically betrayed expression.

-

It's not until the third or fourth time they fall into bed together that Spencer notices Hotch doesn't take his shirt off all the way. 

He'll roll his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms and pulling the fabric taut around his biceps. Outlining the width of his shoulders so enticingly. He'll unfasten the top few buttons, revealing dark chest hair and sharp collarbones and faded tan lines from running every morning. If the room is dark Hotch seems to have no problem ripping the fabric over his head and pressing Spencer heavily into the bed, miles of warm, soft skin above him and against him. Spencer has shamelessly mapped out every curve and dip of muscle and bone he can reach -- every single time -- so, to be fair, his IQ being sliced in half by Aaron's hard body over him can really be to blame here. 

But then, one evening only a few weeks into the physical aspect of their relationship, his wandering hands slip beneath the hem of the causal sweater Hotch is wearing as the other man kisses Spencer breathless. Skin thrumming, fingertips alight with firing neurons and dopamine practically dripping down his spinal cord as Hotch does something impressively sensual with his tongue. Everything is buzzing and warm and on a timed delay. He barely notices that his hands aren't just tracing over the musculature he wants to taste so badly his mouth waters at the thought, but they also skim over what can only be rough, raised scar tissue and -- just like that -- it all clicks into place. A rapid fire sequence that connects dots Spencer hadn't even considered warning signs until that very moment.

There's nine of them, that he knows of. Nine that were put there by George Foyet, and the physical reminders don't just remain healed within his body -- but they also litter Hotch's skin. He doesn't want to look at them. He doesn't want Spencer to look at them. It all makes sense now…

And Spencer has stalled far too long as he realizes all of this. 

Hotch has stopped kissing at his neck, his hands -- ever steady, patient, purposeful -- take hold of Spencer's wrist and pull his hand out from under his sweater. Spencer doesn't know if he's going to stop them altogether, which would be a damn shame with the direction they had just been heading as they made out just inside his front door, or if Hotch was planning on redirecting Spencer's attention elsewhere. But either way… Spencer decides he isn't having it. 

He drops to his knees. His hands go back to where the hem of that sweater meets the waistline of the older man’s jeans, and he looks up at Hotch just in time to see those dark eyes go black as his pupils dilate in shock and arousal. 

"I can close my eyes, if you want me to," Spencer tells him, knowing it's the seeing as much as the feeling. But as he plans on kissing every inch of skin along the man's stomach and strong core muscles, feeling them was going to be a given.

Hotch shakes his head, like the question is ridiculous. As if Spencer is needlessly coddling him. "It's not -- you don't have to do that. It's fine. They just... aren't very pretty to look at."

Now that sounds ridiculous, to Spencer’s ears, because he can’t think of one single thing about Hotch that isn’t breath-taking in its own right. He almost says as much, lips parted around the words, but at the resigned look on Hotch’s face he goes for a more practical approach.

He pushes the sweater up the long line of the man’s body, exposing a dark trail of hair from his navel to his waistline, strong hips and hard planes of muscle from years of cardio and field work. And the first of the nine scars, pierced through the very meat of his internal oblique muscle, parallel to his inguinal ligament -- the V shape of the pelvis that Garcia always raves about on Morgan’s physique. While Hotch’s isn’t as prominently ‘cut’, it’s still there, and Spencer finds himself nosing at it as he presses a kiss to the scarred knife wound. Slow, profound, and the intake of breath above him is as audible as it is soft.

“If I could, I would kiss away all of your scars.”

Because he knows they are reminders of the worst day of Hotch’s life. How much he hates them, that they must mock him constantly as they itch beneath whatever fabric he wears, but Spencer doesn’t want him to feel he has to hide them. Not from him. He mouths at the gnarled skin, slow and wet and heated and Hotch’s breath goes ragged.

“I wouldn't mind you trying,” Hotch tries to tease, but it sounds winded, and that just pulls a smile at one side of Spencer’s lips. “Just to see what happens.”

The smile spreads wider, Hotch has to be able to feel it pressed into the skin of his stomach as Spencer sits up a little straighter, travels to the next abdominal scar -- along the linea alba, the very center of his abs -- and he nearly speaks against it as he pushes the sweater even higher up Hotch’s chest. “I know exactly what will happen.” 

It wouldn’t remove the scars, in any physical way, but to erase them from Hotch’s mind for a few moments would be well worth the effort.

With a carefully controlled pause, catching Spencer’s lust-hazed eyes, Hotch considers him for a moment -- and then slowly peels off the offending fabric the rest of the way. Leaving him bare-chested, heaving lightly, and awaiting a reaction that apparently is written all over Spencer’s face because the man can barely contain a smirk as he answers.