#bubbs.writes

“Anywhere is fine with me.” You peer out of the side of your eye as you mull over a secluded spot you can bring him to interview him. He’s in his full regalia – blue suit, red shorts, cape. The whole ordeal. 

“I imagine privacy is the best,” you muse out loud, “but I don’t have an office – we work in a shared space.” Your tone is apologetic as you begin walking. “My apartment is near here, though, if you don’t mind.” You send him another smile, inwardly cringing as you do. You need to get your nerves out of the way. 

“If that’s where you think is best, lead the way,” he says, gesturing forward while leaning down to collect your bag. 

“Oh! You don’t have to do that, I can carry it!” You try to take the overstuffed tote from him but he simply shakes his head, knocking a curl loose onto his forehead. The way it falls, nearly brushing his eyebrow but not quiet, makes something in the back of your mind ring with familiarity. You brush it off, sure you’ve just watched too much footage of him. 

As you walk him the five minutes to your apartment, you start chatting happily, filling the silence as you always tend to do. 

“I actually had to twist Clark’s leg. He’s protective about his interviews with you, you know. I actually asked him where I should meet you, trying to figure out where would be the best to have a quiet conversation, but he wasn’t any help. Anyway, my apartment is small but it should work fine. Plus, nobody would be there to interrupt.”

“He brought up me talking to you a bit ago, actually, saying you write more humanitarian pieces? Less gossip or news, more think-pieces?” He sounds genuinely interested, large hands adjusting where they hold your bag with both hands in front of him. He looks a little silly, holding your frayed bag like that, walking around in his tall boots. The cape honest-to-god flutters behind him as he walks. 

“I do! Well, it’s what I like to do anyway. The Daily Planet doesn’t post them regularly, though, only when I have something really good to present.” You shrug, happy you get the chance to write for a living at all. “We’re turning here. Anyway, I like investigative journalism, of course, but something about writing about people, the human experience, and really just digging into a subject outside of the general norm of the news is always my favorite.”

A hand brushes your shoulder as you both cross a street and make a turn, adjusting you to walk closer to the buildings, Superman by the street. The thoughtless gesture makes that same chime of familiarity hums, running down your back to the base of your spine. It’s the sort of thing Clark does all of the time. He’s always pressing a hand to your back or shoulder to guide you along, swapping places to be closer to the road, covering corners as you pass them due to your habit of bumping them, and tugging you away from the fray of people so you don’t get trampled. 

You smile privately to yourself at the thought. Superman and Clark sharing the same simple, thoughtless, and incredibly endearing way of watching out for the people around them makes sense in a way. While Clark is just a lowly civilian like you, only in the fray of danger in the sense of offending some higher-up subject of a scandalous article, he’s always felt good in the same way the heroes do. 

You shake your head once to yourself, aware you’ve stopped talking and Superman is talking. 

“And that’s a really good thing, I think, wanting to know people for who they are beyond what they do. Sometimes the why is more important than the what, in some ways.”

“Oh, I completely agree.” You jump into your favorite article you wrote – a think piece analyzing Metropilis culture, structured by an interview with an older woman who’d lived in the city her entire life, creating a grand scope of how the city has breathed and grown like a living thing as the years passed. 

You lead him up the narrow staircase to your apartment, biting a grin at how he has to run slightly sideways to fit in the cramped hallway, and jiggle your keys in the door. “Sorry, it takes the perfect mix of jiggling the lock and bumping the door to - ah ha! - get it open.”

You talk inside, letting the hero trail behind you, ignoring how adrenaline thrums in your veins. It makes your neck warm and heavy with the pulse of blood from your rapidly beating heart. It doesn’t help whatsoever that you’re incredibly aware that he can hear how nervous you are by your heart rate, so you busy yourself with your kettle. 

“I’m making a pot of tea, if you want some. Please make yourself at home, I’ll be ready in just a minute – promise!”

Superman strolls around your small two-bedroom with an interest that makes you self-concious. You make an effort to not say the cliche it’s not much! comment, instead busing yourself with the kettle and picking a tea. You wonder if he has a preference as you pull down your favorite. 

If he does, bully for him, you need the calming relief of sipping something familiar and safe as you tackle the biggest interview you’ve ever had. 

You also repeat the mantra I love my home decor, I love my home decor over and over as he runs a finger across the books in your shelves and eyes the art on your wall. 

“Okay!” You announce, setting the electric kettle to heat and turning to open your laptop on the counter. You hold up your recording device and give it a small shake. “Make yourself comfy, I’m ready whenever you are!”

The interview goes smoothly, any small hiccups easily overcome as you settle into your favorite version of yourself – fully at ease as you slip into a sense of worn confidence as you ask your prepared questions. This is what you’re good at, what you’ve been doing for coming on ten years, your craft and passion. You love interviewing, talking to people, taking a list of initial questions and deciding on the fly where you need to dig and where you need to breeze past. The story flows easily, you catch the grooves of conversation and follow them to the trail of a story. 

The life Superman paints for you is idyllic – a rural upbringing with parents he adores and adore him, unknown biological parents who sent him to Earth to do good. A sense of responsibility – ‘If I have these powers, this ability, this purpose I was sent to Earth to fufil, and I sit by and do nothing, well, that makes me the worst kind of person, doesn’t it?’

You slowly become endeared to him as the interview progresses, a sort of comfort only gained by spending time with a truly good person. It reminds you of Clark again (a habit you regretfully admit you have, linking life to him in your mind). 

“Okay, I think I have what I need, thank you so much Superman!” You nod at him, wait a second, and turn off the recording. 

The second the formal process of the interview is over, the anxiety of sharing a space with the Superman resurfaces. You pick up your long-cold tea between two hands and send him a small smile. 

“I can find a way to send you the piece before it publishes, if you’d like. I can’t say I’ll edit for you, journalistic integrety and such, but as a thank you for your time and willingness.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”

You send him a soft smile, sip your tea, and grimace. You turn to your microwave to warm it, fingers tapping on your countertop. 

You’re trying to think of another way to politely tell him you have what you need, certain there are many other places Superman needs to be other than sitting at a barstool in your kitchen, when he speaks. 

“I am curious, though, if you don’t mind me asking.” His voice is all timber, taking on a quality you can’t quite place. It’s nearly nervous, actually, but you brush off that possibility. What could you know that would make Superman nervous?

“Oh! Of course, what’s up?”

“Are you seeing anyone?” You cough, loudly, face flooding with heat. You’ll kill yourself later for how many times you’ve blushed in front of this man, you’re sure, but you’re so bewildered.

“What?”

“No, no that came out wrong, oh gosh.”

“Sorry, Superman, not that you’re not,” you gesture wildly, “but I don’t – I’m,” you’re lost, bumbling. If Superman asks you to sleep with him, you have to say yes, right?

Isn’t it against some sort of ethics code to sleep with a subject while in process of writing about them?

Why are you second thinking the possibility of sleeping with Superman? Why are you going this way at all with your thoughts? 

“No, no, I’m sorry, that’s not the question I wanted to ask. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, sorry, you stunned me a little.” You return to heating up your tea as you ask, “What question did you want to ask, then?”

“Well, Clark. You know him well?”

“Yeah! Yeah, really good guy.” You spin on your heel to nod empathetically at him. You 100% don’t mind buttering up Clark for Superman, wholly grateful to him for getting him this interview. You’re not sure how his initial question relates to this one, though, sure he’s trying to find a seque into leaving as soon as possible.

You’re wholly and utterly confused and baffled by where this conversation has ended up, blinking rapidly at your microwave.

“You really seem to light up when you talk about him.” Superman’s head tilts, violently blue eyes piercing into you. “I noticed, earlier, anyway. I agree, he’s a good guy.”

You stand, frozen on your feet. The microwave beeps and you ignore it. After a second, your head tilts, in a mimic of his. This is where he was going, you guess. Heat floods through your body now, a full on flush head to toes. “Are you … sorry, I just. Are you trying to set me and Clark up?”

You’re confounded by the situation. Off balance, unsure if you would ever dream of this happening. You decide, no, this is far too ridiculous for you to think of, so it must be reality. More reasonable than Superman trying to sleep with you, you suppose, but still such an odd situation to end up in.

You start to giggle, watching the way Superman fidgets before crossing his arms and leaning back on his stool. The legs creak under his weight and he sends you an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry, don’t want to intrude.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” you wave him off, snickering. You retrieve your tea and sip it. “Are you thinking of starting a new career as a matchmaker, or something?”

“Or something,” he mumbles, obviously embarrassed at being caught so easily. “I imagined that would come out a little smoother, I’m sorry.”

You shake off his apology again. Your heart is pounding again, under the amusement, as another thought comes to mind. “Did, uh, did Clark ask you to ask?”

“Do you want him to have asked me to ask?”

“This is starting to feel like a really bad riddle,” you say, chewing the inside of your lip. The answer is yes, of course. The thought of Clark asking Superman to try and guage your feelings about him sends a sort of nervous thrill through your body. 

Your handsome, kind, sort-of perfect coworker turned close friend showing interest? Never would ever be a bad thing. 

“I think I have my answer. Thank you,” he says, standing and saying your name as he offers you his hand. You swear you can see a sort of pink tinge to his cheeks. “Please let Clark know when you’re done with your piece, I’m looking forward to reading it.”

“Yes! Yes, of course, thank you so so much,” you say, shaking his hand enthusiastically and bouncing from the awkwardness of the past few moments in an effort to return to trying your best to make a good impression on him. “Please let me know if you ever want to meet up again, I’m always happy to interview you.”

“How’d it go?” Clark asks, voice by your ear. You don’t even jump, used ot his attempts to sneak up on your while you write at work. 

You lift your hand, waiting for him to place something in your palm. He does, of course, and you’re pleased to see a muffin. “Oooh, you woke up earlier to go to the bakery?” You ask, excited. You take a bite and your eyes roll back. “This is perfect, thank you.”

“Yeah, of course. How’d it go with Superman, though?”

“Oh! Really, really well. Thank you for getting me the interview.”

Clark stares at you a moment. You smile, tight lipped and waiting. You raise an eyebrow slightly, prompting him to let you know why he’s staring at you like you’ve suddenly grown a second nose overnight. 

“What, that’s it? No play-by-play? No commentary about his biceps, no rant about how the article is going to go? You icing me out?”

You’re amused and tickled that he cares. “Don’t want to break any trust, you know, he can be secretive.”

“Oh, come on,” he groans, taking a step back and shaking his head. “You’re insufferable!”

“Hey, I learned from the best,” you wink, excited to be able to use his words against him. “Serves you right for all of the articles with no inside juice!”

Clark rolls his eyes. As he turns to walk back to his desk, you realize he’s not carrying breakfast for himself. Frowning, you grab a napkin from the stash in your desk, break your muffin apart, then jump up to follow him.

You set the half of the baked good on his desk before leaning up against the divider between his desk and anothers, cheek mushed against your hand. 

“It went really, really well. I think I’m going to center it around his insistence on violence-containment. It’s been ages, forever maybe, since a hero has cared about keeping damages down. Of course, they all care about civilian safety, but he’s taking it a step further. He doesn’t see a situation with any sort of casualty as a win, you know? That’s new, next level thinking, really admirable.”

Clark is watching you as you talk, eyes jumping between yours. When you’re finished with your tirade, he leans forward slightly, brushes a crumb off of your cheek, and leans back into his seat. 

“That’s really good, I’m happy it went well.” He’s so sincere that your heart feels a little swollen. You don’t deserve his friendship. 

“It ended really weird though, I think Superman wants to play matchmaker or something,” you blurt out, unable to stop yourself. 

Clark’s eyes sparkle behind his glasses and he reaches up to ruffle his curls as he laughs, shaking his head. “And now you’re back to teasing. Go, shoo, I have actual work to do.”

“I’m not lying!” You say, unable to keep a serious face as Clark laughs. His guffaw is impossible to ignore and you end up giggling with him. You do meander back to your desk, though.

“Sure thing, sure thing.”

You settle back at your desk, taking another bite of your muffin and sighing happily. You sit for a moment, listening to the chatter of the office and the clicking of keyboards. After a few minutes you scooch your chair back to watch Clark, observing how he bends over his desk, legs too long to fit in his chair and suit jacket just this side of too big. 

Something in you warms, the same warmth you’d felt all night, at the idea of him talking about you to anyone, nonetheless Superman. 

Perhaps it’s time to act on this silly crush. The flirting you send his way is returned, friendly enough in nature but, when paired with the daily treats for breakfast and the way his hand tends to linger on your waist when he passes … maybe somethings there. 

You roll back closer to your desk, pressing a few buttons aimlessly on your laptop as you mull it over. Something in you is scared to act on your feelings, of course, but a bigger part is excited about what could be to really ignore the prompting. Okay, Superman, you think, I’ll give it a shot.

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He returns it with a quiet, “Morning,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And that’s when the team starts paying attention.

Morgan’s head tilts up first, brows knitting together. Emily, mid-sip of her coffee, pauses with the cup just short of her lips. Reid frowns at the exchange like it’s a puzzle he hasn’t figured out yet. Rossi just smirks.

The door to Hotch’s office closes a moment later, and she moves toward her desk, entirely unaware of the looks being exchanged across the room.

Emily recovers first, setting her coffee down and leaning toward Morgan. “Morning, Hotch?”

Morgan shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “That’s not normal, right? She doesn’t talk to anyone like that. Not even me,” he points out, sounding offended. “And I’ve been workin’ on breaking her out of that shell for years.”

Reid blinks, clearly running through past conversations in his head. “She’s never greeted me like that before, either.”

“Or me,” Emily agrees, before throwing a glance toward Rossi. “You?”

Rossi just takes a slow sip of his coffee, unreadable.

“Something’s up,” Morgan mutters.

Emily hums in agreement. “Something.”

||||

It happens again the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

Each time, it’s something small—something easily overlooked if you aren’t paying attention. But they are paying attention. Because once profilers start noticing something, it’s impossible to stop. It becomes a game between Emily and Morgan, noticing the small ways you've warmed up to Hotch.

Easier smiles, passing him in the plane when you would usually wait for a larger gap, conversations continued when he walks into the room rather than screeching to a halt like before.

It's nothing massive to the untrained eye but, well, they are trained to notice breaks in patterns, to see when things change and how they do.

Like today.

Hotch walks into the bullpen, coffee in hand, heading straight for his office. Nothing unusual there. But as he passes by her desk, she glances up from her file, eyes flicking toward his cup.

“Did you eat?” she asks, casually—too casually.

Hotch slows just a fraction, just enough for the team to catch it. “Not yet.”

She hums, glancing at the time. “Bagel shop’s still open. They have fresh bread until nine.”

“I’ll be fine,” Hotch assures, but he lingers. Just for a second.

She gives him a pointed look before returning to her file. “Mm.”

That’s it. That’s the whole exchange. And yet—

Morgan immediately turns toward Emily. “You seein' this?”

Emily nods, hiding a grin behind her coffee. “Oh, I’m seeing it.”

Reid, who has been diligently pretending not to be part of this entire conspiracy, clears his throat. “I mean, she could just be concerned about his health?”

Morgan gives him a look as Emily snorts. “She’s never told us to eat.”

“She’s never told anyone to eat,” Morgan mutters, shaking his head. “Except Hotch, apparently.”

Spencer frowns slightly, watching as Hotch disappears into his office. Then he looks back at her, catching the way she glances one more time at the closed door before focusing back on her file.

“Okay,” he admits. “That was weird.”

“Thank you,” Emily says, throwing her hands up.

Morgan shakes his head, settling back into his chair. “I’m just saying, that’s not nothing.”

||||

It happens again later that evening, this time in the briefing room.

They’ve wrapped the case, a particularly grueling one, and now it’s the slow process of debriefing, paperwork, and waiting for the jet to be refueled in case they actually need it tomorrow - they've been able to help over the phone today but everyone is certain tomorrow will bring a tragedy the necessitates travel tomorrow or the day after. The team is scattered around the table—some flipping through reports, others making half-hearted attempts at conversation, everyone running on fumes.

She's tucked into the corner of the room, curled over a file, her pen tapping absently against the paper. If she stops moving, she’ll fall asleep. And she doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed about that.

The door opens, and Hotch steps in. The conversation dulls, but only slightly—it’s always like that when he walks in. Not because they’re afraid of him, but because his presence naturally shifts the atmosphere.

She barely looks up. “Coffee?” she asks, already moving to stand.

Hotch shakes his head. “I got it.”

She pauses, then settles back down, flipping a page. “Okay.”

That’s it. No hesitation, no stammering, no overthinking the fact that she offered in the first place. Just easy.

And that is very interesting.

Morgan narrows his eyes slightly, tilting his head as he watches her. It’s subtle—probably something even she hasn’t noticed—but there’s no way in hell he’s imagining it now.

The old her would’ve never spoken to Hotch without being spoken to first. Would’ve never offered him something so casually, so easily, like it was second nature.

And Hotch—

Hotch, who usually doesn’t acknowledge small gestures like this, doesn’t even bat an eye. Doesn’t make a comment, doesn’t pause, doesn’t do anything other than react without thought.

Which means this isn’t the first time it’s happened.

Emily catches Morgan’s look and raises a brow. You seeing this?

Morgan smirks. Oh, I’m seeing it.

They share a knowing glance, and then—just to test the waters—Emily leans forward, setting her elbows on the table.

“Hey, Hotch,” she says casually. “Since you’re already up, can you grab me one too?”

Hotch glances at her, then at Morgan, who looks far too interested in his answer. He exhales sharply, amused but unamused, and turns toward the door.

“No.”

Morgan barks out a laugh, and Emily grins, triumphant.

And in the corner, she remains blissfully unaware, still flipping through her file, still tapping her pen, still completely oblivious to the way the entire team is slowly piecing this together.

||||

The next moment happens in Rossi’s office.

She hadn’t meant to end up here. It’s late, past the point of pretending she’s being productive, but she told herself she’d finish one more report before heading home. Somewhere along the way, she’d wandered, coffee in hand, and now she’s leaning against Rossi’s doorway, blinking sluggishly at him as he flips through a leather-bound journal.

“Long day?” he asks without looking up.

She nods, then remembers he’s not looking. “Yeah.”

He hums, setting the journal aside. “And yet, you’re still here instead of going home. Or is it that you don’t want to go home?”

“I was going home,” she argues, though they both know she’s lying. “I just… got distracted.”

Rossi leans back, eyeing her with the kind of gaze that makes it impossible to lie. Not that she’s in the habit of lying to him—especially since he’s usually at least five steps ahead of her anyway.

She glances at the clock. 10:42 PM. She exhales through her nose, rolling her lips together.

“You should get some sleep,” he says, but there’s something else in his tone. A lilt. An implication.

She squints at him. “Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you know something.”

Rossi shrugs. “I know a lot of things.”

“Right,” she mutters, narrowing her eyes.

He’s enjoying this. That much is clear. She doesn’t know what he’s enjoying yet, but she’s sure he’ll make her figure it out on her own.

And then—

“Oh.” She blinks. “Wait. No.”

Rossi smirks.

Her stomach flips. “You know?”

He doesn’t answer, just reaches for his glass of scotch, taking a slow, measured sip.

She feels heat creep up her neck, spreading across her cheeks.

He knows.

Which means Hotch told him.

Which means Hotch talked about it.

Which means—

“Relax,” Rossi drawls, interrupting her impending spiral. “It’s not like he gave me a play-by-play. He just mentioned you two had dinner.” He pauses, then grins. “And that it went well.”

She shifts her weight, suddenly too aware of herself. Oh.

It’s not that she thought Hotch would keep it a secret forever, but hearing that he’d told Rossi, that he’d spoken about it in any capacity, makes it feel… real.

More real than the way her heart stuttered when Hotch had smoothed a hand over hers at dinner. More real than the quiet, steady confidence he’d had in their them-ness while she was still fumbling over the weight of it.

Rossi watches her carefully, still amused but softer now. “You okay?”

She nods, pressing her lips together. “Yeah. I just—”

She gestures vaguely, words failing her.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Go home,” he says again, more insistent this time. “And tell Aaron I said you’re welcome.”

She sputters, eyes wide, and Rossi just laughs, already reaching for his journal again.

She doesn’t know if she’s embarrassed or endeared, but as she slips out of his office, warmth tucked into her chest, she thinks maybe it’s a little bit of both.

||||

The moment is small. Blink and you’d miss it.

Hotch is standing by the coffee maker in the break room, pouring himself a cup. She wanders in a moment later, her movements unhurried, her posture looser than usual. The case they’d just wrapped had been rough, but the team was back home, safe, and exhaustion was settling in around all of them like a thick fog.

She steps beside him, reaching for the sugar, only to find his hand already on it.

She blinks up at him.

Hotch smirks, just barely. “You were going to put in two scoops.”

Her eyes narrow. “And?”

He hands her the spoon, ignoring the way the corner of his mouth twitches. “And you always complain that it makes the coffee too sweet.”

She exhales, glaring at him for being right, and scoops one spoonful instead.

“You should get your own coffee if you’re just going to judge mine.”

“I was here first,” he reminds her. "Making my own coffee, not yours."

“I was letting you make mine for me.”

The words are out before she fully registers them, her lips parting slightly at the realization.

Across the room, Morgan and JJ freeze mid-conversation.

Hotch stills, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around the handle of his mug. He watches her, slow and appraising, and then—

He leans in. Not much, but just enough. “You've got me there. Here." Slowly, he places the cup in her hand, a spoonful and a half of sugar poured in, slowly curling her fingers around the mug for her. Pleased at the reaction he so easily brings forth.

And then he walks out, leaving her standing there, fingers curled around her coffee cup, ears burning.

Morgan lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

JJ, still wide-eyed, elbows him. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, it’s already a thing,” Morgan mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “Did you see that? She flirted back.”

JJ presses her lips together, fighting a grin. "Still, not our business." She insists, despite the way warmth curls in her stomach at the thought.

||||

The jet hums beneath them, a steady, soothing vibration. The case had been long and brutal, but it was over, and they were finally on their way home. The team was scattered around the cabin—Morgan and Emily playing cards, JJ half-dozing with her headphones in, and Rossi nursing a glass of something dark.

And her?

She was sitting stiffly in her seat, her arm propped awkwardly against her side, doing a terrible job of pretending she wasn’t in pain.

The gash on her ribs wasn’t deep. She’d already been patched up at the local hospital—stitched, bandaged, and thoroughly instructed to take it easy. But “take it easy” apparently translated to everyone treating her like she was made of glass.

Emily had tried to grab her go-bag for her earlier.

Morgan had asked if she wanted him to get her a drink—when had he ever done that before?

Even Spencer had hovered like a worried sibling, his gaze flicking toward her every few minutes like he was expecting her to keel over.

She could deal with that. What was harder to deal with was the fact that Hotch hadn’t said anything at all.

Not until now.

“You need to rest,” his voice cut through the low hum of conversation, steady, sure.

She looked up from her untouched cup of tea to see him standing in front of her, arms crossed, expression unreadable to anyone who wasn’t her.

She sighed. “I’m fine, Hotch.”

“You’re in pain,” he countered, not unkindly.

“I’m always in pain after a case,” she pointed out, arching a brow.

His lips twitched in a way that was almost—but not quite—a smile. “This is different.”

He knew. Of course, he knew. She should have expected that.

Her shoulders eased just a little. “I just don’t want everyone fussing over me.”

“They’re only fussing because they care.”

She couldn’t argue with that. But still, she rolled her eyes, shifting slightly in her seat—only to wince when the movement tugged at her stitches.

Hotch sighed and sat beside her. “Case in point.”

She huffed, tilting her head back against the headrest, aware of the small, knowing glances being exchanged around the cabin. No one said a word, but she felt it—the way the energy shifted.

Like they were all watching something unfold, something inevitable.

She kept her gaze on Hotch. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.” His voice softened just enough to make her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with her injury.

And despite the pain, despite the exhaustion pressing down on her limbs, she found herself... warm.

Because he knew her. Knew when to push and when to step back. Knew how much she hated being coddled, but also knew exactly when she needed to be told to stop pretending she was fine.

It wasn’t suffocating.

It was steady.

It was him.

||||

The bar was too loud, too dimly lit, too full of bodies swaying and pressing together in a way that made her head ache.

She’d never wanted to come, not really. But Morgan had a way of making things sound like a good idea until she was already in them, halfway slumped over a sticky bar top, nursing a drink she barely had the energy to lift.

"You look like you’re about to pass out," Morgan teased, leaning his elbow against the bar beside her.

"Probably," she murmured, not even pretending to refute it.

She was wrecked. The case had been long and grueling, every hour stretching into the next with little more than caffeine and sheer willpower keeping her upright. When Morgan had invited her out, she hadn’t been sure why she said yes—maybe just to avoid thinking too hard about things.

But now, with exhaustion weighing her down and the music pounding too loudly in her ears, she wished she’d just gone home.

Morgan nudged her shoulder. "Alright, lightweight. You eat anything today?"

The question barely registered before she answered, too tired to filter her words. "I had dinner in Hotch's office."

It was out before she could stop it.

Morgan blinked. Then grinned.

"Ohhhh," he drawled, sitting up straighter, eyes lighting up in that way that meant trouble. "That’s why you two have been acting different lately."

She frowned, sluggish. "What?"

"Come on, don’t play coy now. Dinner? With Hotch? In his office? That’s why you’ve been all up in each other’s space. I knew something was up!"

Oh, God.

Her stomach plummeted, warmth flooding her face so fast she thought she might actually faint. "Morgan," she hissed, suddenly far more awake. "I—I didn’t mean—"

"You totally meant," he cut in, smug as hell.

She buried her face in her hands, groaning. "You tricked me into coming here. I’m too tired for this interrogation."

"You’re too tired to lie," he countered, tapping the bar. "And that’s the best time to get the truth."

She let out a long, slow breath, willing herself to cool down, to deflect, to not make this worse. But Morgan was already grinning like he’d won something, like he had all the confirmation he needed.

He leaned in conspiratorially. "So, how was dinner?"

She didn’t even bother answering. Instead, she waved down the bartender. "Two shots, please."

Morgan laughed, clinking his glass against hers when they arrived. "Now that is an answer."

||||

"I'm so sorry," she groans, squeezing her eyes closed against the admission.

Hotch has the nerve to laugh, covering his face with his hand. Red peers up and over his palm where it covers his expression. "I'm not mad," he insists, "just very amused."

"How is this amusing?" She asks, exasperated, turning to pace across his office.

"I've been opening flirting with you for months, almost a year. It's been a running joke, darling. It's amusing because you're only just now getting the heat for it. For reciprocating it."

"Reciprocating!" She exclaims, injust.

"Oh, are you not? Should I clear my calendar for tomorrow, then, cook for just me and Jack?"

She scowls, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "No," she pouts, voice near a whine. "I just thought you didn't want the team to know anything was up."

"Oh, so something's up between us now?"

Leave it to him to use this moment to tease you, of course. When she first joined the team, Hotch was broody and withdrawn. It hadn't taken long for her to see his exterior crack, the flaws shining beneath.

He appears as a rule follower, a stickler for what's right and just, but he constantly bends for his team, for the victims, for children. And now, for you, he bends so far from that rigid form people perceive him in she has difficulties seeing his stiffness anymore.

Still, moments like these shock her. Aaron Hotchner is a flirt and an expert one at that.

"Maybe!" She concedes, too flustered to wiggle her way out of his trap. "That's not the point."

"I think that's exactly the point." Hotch catches her wrist, halting her pacing. "But it's okay. I don't mind the others knowing that 'something's up' with us."

“Clark,” you say again. It comes out breathy as his fingers pad against the spongy spot inside of you that makes your nose crinkle and toes curl. 

Clark, delighted at the reaction on your face, nips the tip of your nose and skims his free hand along the outside of your thigh. 

“Yes, sweetheart?” He asks, head tilting to the side, curls falling over his forehead, just slightly coated in a thin layer of sweat, sticking to his face. 

You reach up, grab his chin then his cheek. Your other hand slides into his hair at the base of his neck, tugging him down to kiss you again. 

He does so, happily, greedily. Clark kisses like a man on fire – hot, insistent, impatient. Teeth and tongue and smiles pressing against you, tipping forward to urge you to open your mouth for him. He’s doing the silly thing that makes you shiver where he runs his tongue along the roof of your mouth, light enough to tickle but firm enough to make you pant, before he’s pulling back, pressing warm kisses against the hinge of your jaw. 

“Ugh, then there was Jimmy today, absolutely tearing apart my new piece. I don’t even know why he bothers, we’re not even in the same department!” He leans back so you can see his eyes roll, hand skating from where it was firmly holding your thigh open for him to press softly against your clit – little taps that spread warmth up your belly and into your throat. 

You’re properly panting now as a chuckle breaks past your honeyed heart, “Do you want to stop?” You ask him, sliding your hands down his chest to rest on the bed, pushing yourself up slightly on one elbow. 

“What?” Clark asks, hands hesitating. He looks confused, a little more than lost, kneeling on the bed in between your legs. “Why?”

“Do you want to talk?” You ask, rephrasing and reaching up to touch him in response to his hesitation. He almost looks like he’s done something wrong – guilty in the eyes, little frown appearing at the corner of his lip. You want to kiss it better so you do, short and sweet and firm. 

“We are talking. Do you want to stop?” He rushes through the question, hands moving from your cunt to grab your hips and sit you up further. “I didn’t mean to bombard you honey, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, you haven’t bombarded me,” you say, suddenly cold from the lack of his hands, his mouth, his heat pressing down onto, into, you.”I just, I don’t know, I didn’t want to distract you. I want to keep going, I do,” you say, voice almost whining in your insistence. 

Clark has never denied you before, always more than eager to please, taking a gentle but firm role in guiding you into bed at your slightest insistence. He’s a pro at taking off your pants and grinning up at you between your knees, asking ‘you alright up there, sweetheart?’ before he steals any sense right out of your head with his mouth. 

That’s why the sudden halt in the rubbing and pressing and pushing has left you more than a little flustered. You’ve never really had to convince Clark, but you can see it’ll take some doing now. 

“If you wanna talk, I’m here to talk. If you wanna make me feel good – or I can make you feel good,” you offer, hand snaking around his waist to untuck his shirt, “I wanna do that.”

“I want both,” Clark says, like it’s simple. Like everyone comes home from work, lifts their happy girlfriend up off of the couch, throws them on the bed, and begins blabbering about their day while taking all but two minutes to have her hurtling toward orgasm. 

But, you think, maybe it is normal for him. This is Clark, in magnifying detail, in front of you. He’s written all day – you can smell the pen ink on him from his notebook – and spent the past few hours helping around Smallville as Superman. Now, he’s come home to you, loving and adoring and arms open, to lavish and ravish you. To share every mundane detail of his day while getting you off – more than once, you’d gather, if the way he’d simply cooed at you and kissed your forehead while continuing his minstrations is any clue. 

“Okay,” you say, smiling up at Clark and pressing a kiss against his open mouth with as much love, as much I-adore-you-so-much-I-feel-like-my-seams-are-bursting, as much gentle heat, as you can manage. “Let’s get some of these clothes off, hm? And you tell me about your article?”

Clark smiles, settling back, thighs against heels, as you begin taking off his belt. 

“It wasn’t even a massive article – I hadn’t interviewed myself. Just something about the projection of Meta-Human’s birth rates on the rise, and he felt the need to sit there and question it all.”

You hum, ridding him of his shirt before unbuttoning his pants. 

“I was pretty proud of it – I think it was one of the ones you read over for me, too, the other night,” Clark is saying as you take him out of his pants. 

You stroke him slowly, and he gives you a grin, wavering with pleasure, for it. Then, you bend and Clark’s monolouge halts. 

“Hey, hey, you don’t have to do that,” he insists, like he always does. You don’t miss the way his voice catches when you kiss him, though, followed by a short and sweet kitten lick at his tip. 

“I wanna,” you say, voice soft and sincere. “Keep telling me about your day.”

“Okay,” Clark says, “okay, yeah, thank you, baby, um,” he stumbles, flustered and caught off guard by your sudden focus on him. 

You smile, listening to him slowly try and put himself back on track, focusing on making him feel good and listening to his day. 

When you’re done, you want to make him proud by having follow-up questions to ask, too.

You look up to watch Aaron as he writes something down. Not so long ago, you asked him what he is always writing. Every case, he’s bent over papers, pen in hand, scribbling away. You’d noticed it within the first few cases you’d worked together but only questioned it when your closeness meant that a stray mark of ink made its way from his fingertips to your chin. He’d told you that the only way for him to keep his mind moving forward and not worrying about Jack or home or anything other than the case was to write.

You can tell by the way his hand flexes over and over while he clenches the pen that his wrist is sore. Later, if you can gather the courage to follow him to his hotel room or invite him to yours, you’ll massage his arm for him. Now, though, you decide a tea will have to do.

You know he’ll complain about the lack of caffeine, but you know he already struggles to sleep most nights. It’s well after midnight, you want him to sleep as much as he can.

(A small voice in the back of your head reminds you that, once, Aaron divulged that your few naps together were the best sleeps he’s had in years. You’re certain he wouldn’t be opposed to you sharing his room, even though that line hadn’t been crossed. Certain that he wouldn’t expect anything from you, would just let you lay with your cheek on his chest and trace shapes across your shoulders. The thought feels near to a fantasy even though he would never reject you if you asked. You want to, just don’t know how.)

You’re waiting for the water to boil when the door opens. This police station seems to be a repurposed house and there’s a small kitchen that you’re using the stove in. You turn to see one of the officers, likely returning from patrol, in the doorway.

“Hey, sweetheart, glad you’re here. Make me a coffee, while you’re at it, ‘kay?” He doesn’t wait for you to answer, sauntering away.

The coffee pot is full, freshly brewed. You furrow your brows, turning and tapping your nails against the plasticky countertop. You’d caught the gist from the second you entered the station – small town, no female officers, raised brows and quiet comments when they’d seen your team.

The sheriff only directly talked to the guys and Emily had to glare one down to get him to listen when she was talking to him.

Deciding that an argument wasn’t worth it, especially considering the coffee was already ready, you pull down an extra mug and fill it to the brim, leaving no room for sugar or cream just to be a little petty.

You pick up the mugs, holding the handles of your and Aaron’s in one hand, and manage to open the door without help. Your tea is sweet, several scoops of sugar and a healthy dash of milk. Aaron’s only has the barest splash of cream, though, so mixing them up shouldn’t be an issue.

The officer who demanded his coffee is at his desk, leaning back in his chair and talking loudly to the only other officer in the building. You set his mug on the corner of his desk and turn back to the table you and Aaron are sharing.

You set the mug at his elbow, resting a hand on his shoulder lightly so he looks up. “Take a break, we should probably leave soon,” you whisper.

Aaron nods at you, not smiling, not now when the air is thick with tension and the setting is so public, but meeting your eye with a sort of purpose that reminds you of his smiles – direct and open and meant only for you.

You sit down with a leg tucked under you and take a sip of your tea, listening to Aaron begin to read you some of his notes – another new development. You like it when he talks, an admission you made once when very tired and slightly tipsy on the plane home. Aaron likes to walk you through his thought process, knowing you’ll let him talk through his thoughts and only interrupt if you have some new revelation to share with him. It’s a win and has gotten you through several long nights and tough blocks on cases.

You’re building this steady foundation together, slowly but surely, and it feels a little like you’re weightless. You don’t quite have your feet under you, you’re not ready to run headfirst. You think Aaron likes that, though, he can count on you only doing what you’re comfortable with. Sometimes you worry that you’re moving too slow for him. You blush easily, still tuck your chin to hide your smile when he compliments you. Still have to whisper when you tell him he’s handsome, even though that’s becoming a more frequent habit. Still wait for him to kiss you most days, though you’ve become braver with that too. The anxiety trickles in that he should be with someone stronger, as forthcoming with their feelings as he is, but it’s quickly soothed by relentless care from Aaron.

You’re lavishing in the quiet dialogue from him, letting the familiarity of his voice soothe you as you begin to let your thoughts dig into the case again, when the voice of the officer cuts in.

“Hey, girl,” he says. You know he knows your name, he was only reminded of it this morning, but you look up anyway. He’s holding his mug up, tilted toward you. “The fuck is this? Nobody teach you how to make a coffee?”

You’re stunned at this. It’s not the first time an officer in a town just like this has spoken to you like this, but in front of others so brazenly is shocking.

“Excuse me?” Aaron asks, looking up at the man and setting his pen down.

“I’m surprised you keep her on your staff, man, to be honest,” the officer jokes, obviously not paying attention to the disgusted gaze Aaron has leveled him with.

“The agent you’re speaking to is a highly qualified member of my team with more talent than you could possibly possess. I’m surprised you’re still staffed when you’re unable to remember to put in a belt in the morning and obviously are frequently distracted by your ongoing divorce.”

You fight a smile, lifting your mug to hide your expression.

The officer tries to interject but Aaron stands, bending to collect your bag. Taking the cue, you tidy the desk.

The room is cold and quiet as you follow Aaron out. He stops by the man’s desk, bending forward and tilting the picture of the officer and his family so he can examine it closer. “In the future, I would use more caution with who you speak to that way. Not only can she outshoot most of my team, I also don’t take too well with disrespect toward any of my agents

Later, you do follow Aaron into his hotel room. It’s next to yours, so it’s easy and nowhere near as awkward as you were afraid of. You soak in the pleased smile he sends you when you do.

He sets your bag down on the bed and turns toward you, mouth open to say something as neither of you addressed the situation in the car.

You shock him again, though, reaching a hand up to his cheek and pushing yourself on your toes to kiss him, firm and quick. “Thank you,” you say, voice quiet and meeting his eyes. His hands make their way against the small of your back, keeping you near him.

“I’m sorry for stepping in, I know you don’t like to make a scene,” Aaron replies despite the self-pleased smile that is stretching across his face. You shake your head, sliding your hand from his cheek to the back of his head, slotting your fingers into the short hair there.

“I actually think I liked it – you making a scene for me.”

“Yeah?” Aaron asks, letting you tilt his head down to ease the strain on you reaching up.

You nod, tugging him to kiss you. He obliges, of course, pressing his mouth to yours eagerly. It’s warm, his kiss, and he wastes no time deepening it, reaching his hands down further to lift you by the thighs and walk you to the bed.

the thing is, spencer knows you’re finished with it already. you’ve been working harder than usual the last few days, staying until he leaves like usual, but working right up until he stands. he’d noticed, of course, that you’d been scrambling to collect your things. he’d reassured you, of course, that he would wait for you, silently questioning why you were so determined to get ahead of the neverending cascade of paperwork crossing your desk. 

now, though, he knows it’s because you’d made plans. it’s gotten easier, getting to know you. spencer isn’t the best at conversation, a steamroller of information tumbling out of his mouth, the issue increased by tenfold when faced with the nerves of looking into your pretty eyes; but he’s been getting there. he knows your cats name, your coffee order (which emily has been getting wrong every morning that she brings you a cup for months, you won’t tell her), your favorite book and movie. he knows the other things, the stuff he had to pay attention to notice because you’d never tell or show him on purpose. how you laugh, your favoirte nail polish color, that your favorite shoes pinch your toes. he pushes to make the cheesy jokes you like, compliments when you return to the deep red that is as comfortable as home to you, passes you a bandaid from his pocket when you sit down on the jet and lean down to rub your hell where it chafes.

the point is, spencer has been prying at the edges of the thick cover you hide behind. you’re quiet but so, so easy to talk to. you’re sweet, shy in how you duck your chin to smile at him with doe eyes that make his heart trip. 

and, he’s almost certain, you’ve a date that has just been cancelled. he thinks, at least. why else would you be so sad and droopy eyed?

he stands, without thinking about it any longer, and throws his coat on. you look at him, curious, as he puts his files in his bag. eyes drift to the large clock on the wall and then back to him. he wonders if you’ll ask and is pleasantly surprised when you do.

“where are you going?”

“it’s friday, don’t you have plans?” spencer asks, trying (and probably failing) at playing cool. “you’ve been fighting to stay ahead all week,” he says, after you blink at him in question. 

he’s never been good at hiding how closely he pays attention to you. 

“oh, not anymore.”

“no?” spencer asks, slinging his bag around his shoulder and striding across the room to your desk. he leans against the corner of your desk and crosses his arms, tilting his head down and watching you closely.

for all his noticing, he doesn’t see how you swallow thickly at how his hair falls over his eyes at the move. you’re enamored by him, his full attention, his focused look. 

you shake your head slowly, still leaning against your knee, still making him sick at how sweet and sad you look; so pretty and warm and disappointed. “i was going to the movies with some friends, one got sick and they live together,” you say softly after a few sluggish seconds getting used to his full attentive eyes on you. 

you always talk like you’re going to be cut off in the middle of every word, starting slow and syrupy and rushing to clip the end to get your point across. it drives him mad. 

he dreams of a day where you talk in the slow, languish pace you take on when you’re sleepy. dreams of when you understand that there’s not a single word you could utter that he wouldn’t cling onto.

“what movie?” spencer asks, pushing off of the desk and bending down to scoop up the file he knows you’re not done with (at the corner of the desk, not the one you have open, but the one littered with sticky notes and paperclips) and grabbing your bag.

you tell him, he recognizes it as your favorite. “i saw they were rerunning that. the theater on fourth street?” he asks, slotting the file inside and putting the bag on his other shoulder. 

“yes? what are you doing?” you’ve sat up fully now, confused and reaching for your bag too late. 

“taking you to your movie,” spencer says, breathing deeply and not sounding nearly as confident as he wants. he wishes he was suave, wishes he could take your hand and sweep you away. you deserve that — someone to sweep you off of your feet and make all of your dreams come true. he’s certain you don’t know it, don’t believe it, too busy blanketing yourself against the world. but, god, you do and he wants to give it to you in any way he can.

he’s not the awkward kid he was, years on the field bringing confidence he wears comfortably. he’s certain, too, that you’re what he wants. sweet you with your soft voice. he’s starting to wonder if you might want it, too, but he still hesitates before asking, “if you want, i mean.”

you nod, standing too fast and tripping over your toes. spencer smiles at you, at how you laugh a little under your breath at yourself, radiating happiness from how quickly your mood had flipped. 

not a date you’re missing, then.