#soft hotch

It was supposed to be a casual Friday–a few drinks with friends, stories swapped over bar food and music too loud to really talk through. But you hadn’t realized how tired you were. How little you’d eaten today. Or how fast whiskey sours hit when you aren’t paying attention.

You don’t mean to get that drunk.

You had meant to just check in. To send a cute text to your boyfriend of a few months–the man you’d worked with for years, who had somehow gone from boss to friend to something infinitely more terrifying: someone you could see yourself falling for.

Your messages start out… maybe a little embarrassing, but at least coherent..

“miss u. u would hate this place lol so loud”

“why do guys named brad always yell”

“ur tie looked good today. tell it i said hi”

And then someone had ordered a round of shots. And then another. And suddenly, your thumbs stopped obeying your brain–which, to be fair, wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders either.

“emergency: i need cheese fries n maybe a hug. or both at once”

“hotsh hotc hotdch ur eyes are SO BROWN”

“ty for ur face and ur arms n ur … exist???”

You’ll be mortified by all of it tomorrow morning, but currently, you can’t find yourself caring about much, other than the fact he hasn’t answered.

You frown down at your screen, chin tucked into your hand, your other arm lazily draped around a half-finished drink in a sweating glass.

“What’s wrong with your face?” your friend asks, half-laughing at the childish pout on your lips.

“He left me on read,” you mumble, wiggling the phone at her as though it’s Exhibit A. “Aaron. He read it. Didn’t respond. He read it.”

She squints at your screen, then snorts. “How is he supposed to reply to ‘you’re the best jawline in the whole FBI’?”

You pout harder. “I dunno. Say thanks?”

Your friend just laughs at you, shaking her head. But you don’t think it’s funny.

Because even though you know you’re being ridiculous, even though the room is warm and the night is young, your chest hurts a little. Just a pinch. A flicker of doubt where certainty usually lives. 

You haven’t been together long–just a few months–and it’s all new, still fragile. You’re not used to this part yet. The missing him in public. Needing him without permission. The strange, quiet way his absence can leave you feeling a little off-kilter.

You stare at your phone.

“Fine,” you whisper. “Leave me on read. Rude.”

You sigh and drop your head onto the table, face smooshed against your arm. “I’m going to die here. I’m going to become a ghost in this Chili’s-adjacent bar and haunt the bathroom.”

Your friend pats your head. “You’ll be a beautiful ghost.”

You groan.

And then–

He’s just there.

You blink, lifting your head too fast–definitely too fast, based on the way the room tilts. But it doesn’t matter, because your heart is already thudding, even before your brain catches up with your eyes.

Aaron stands by the door, scanning the room, his tie slightly undone, his expression unreadable in the dim bar light. His eyes find yours, and his whole posture shifts–like something softens behind his stern exterior. Relief, maybe. Familiarity. 

Your mouth drops open. “Hotch?”

He’s already moving toward you, steady and sure.

“You stopped making sense,” he says calmly as he reaches you, slipping a hand under your elbow to help you out of the booth. “Figured I’d come get you after the third text you shortened ‘your’ to ‘ur’.”

“You read my texts,” you accuse softly, tilting your head back to look at him.

“I did,” he says as though it’s obvious, guiding you through the crowd like he’s done it a hundred times. 

“You didn’t answer.”

“I figured showing up would say more.”

You blink.

Oh.

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just him, but your chest folds in on itself. You let him guide you out into the night, warm and solid at your side, and suddenly the rest of the world feels quieter.

A little less lonely.

The car smells like him. Clean, calm, a little like cologne and a lot like comfort. You curl into the passenger seat, his jacket draped over your legs, your shoes on the floor, bare feet propped on the dash despite his protests.

The window is cracked. The scent of pine and rain float in on the wind. The road curves gently away from the city, trees rising up like shadows on either side.

“I wasn’t that drunk,” you mumble.

Aaron hums. “You sent me a voice memo where you just repeated the word ‘eyebrows’ for thirty seconds.”

You groan, covering your face. “That’s not a crime.”

“I didn’t say it was. But it was… concerning.”

You peek at him—his profile bathed in the dim light of the dashboard, jawline sharp, mouth soft. That little tug of a smile plays at the corner, the one that always makes your heart do strange things.

You’ve known him for years. Shared cases. Late nights. Quiet grief. It took months to earn that smile, and when you finally did, you made it a mission to chase it every chance you got. And then—somewhere between burnt coffee and unexpected laughter—everything changed.

A kiss, in the kitchen after an especially tough case. A breathless “what are we doing?” followed by that smile and the softest, realest “I don’t know. But I want to keep doing it.”

It’s still new. Still precious.

But you can’t deny it already feels like home. 

Outside, stars scatter across the sky. You tilt your head, watching them. A few drift–too slow to be shooting stars, too steady to be anything magical. Satellites, maybe. You squint, tipsy and thoughtful.

“Do they ever crash?” you ask, voice quiet. “The stars and satellites. Do they ever just–” you mimic an explosion with your fingers. “Boom?”

Aaron glances at you, like he’s deciding whether you’re serious. Eventually, he says, “No. They keep their distance.”

“That’s kind of lonely,” you say. “All that space between things. Nothing touching.”

He’s quiet again for a second, eyes back on the road. Then: “Or maybe it’s safe.”

You let that settle. Then smile, a little sad. “I think it’s sad.”

He glances over at you again. “You think everything is sad when you’re drunk.”

You pout. “Not true.”

He reaches over, hand brushing yours where it rests on your knee. “Alright. What’s not sad?”

You turn your head, taking him in. The clean line of his jaw, the focus in his eyes even as he drives, the quiet steadiness of his presence. Your heart softens, like it always does with him. 

“You,” you say, a little too easily. “You’re the opposite of sad.”

He doesn’t respond right away—just gives your hand a quiet squeeze.

“When you’re like this,” he murmurs, “you forget to hold back.”

You smile, sleepy and honest. “I know. But you love me.”

A beat.

“I do.”

You blink.

The words hang in the air like mist, weightless and heavy at the same time. The quiet hum of the tires on asphalt, the wind brushing through the cracked window, the rustle of leaves as the road curves–all of it fades beneath two words spoken so simply that they almost don’t register. 

You sit with it for a second. Like you’re not sure you even heard him right. 

Almost.

But then they do.

“...You do?”

Your voice is barely a whisper, a fragile thing in the dark of the car. You’re staring at him now–more sober in this moment than you’ve been all night. Not just because the alcohol is wearing off, but because nothing snaps you into clarity like him.

Aaron’s hand is still on yours, thumb moving once, slow across your skin.

He doesn’t look over at first. Just exhales, the smallest lift of his brow, like he’s thinking back through the last thirty seconds and only now realizing what slipped out.

He gives a quiet, dry sort of laugh. “Suppose that’s not how I meant to say it.”

You just stare at him. “So… you did say it?”

His mouth twists–not regretful, just wry. That little pinch between his brows appears, the one you’ve come to learn means he’s sifting through something careful and important. “I did. Wasn’t planning to. Not like this. Not while driving you home after you sent me a bunch of texts about how brown my eyes are.”

You let out a tiny wheeze. “They’re very brown. Deeply brown.”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s quiet. Focused elsewhere.

“I mean it, though.”

You don’t breath.

He clears his throat, almost awkward. “I do love you. I was going to say it eventually. Preferably when you were sober. Maybe cook something. Say it over dinner. Something better than… a carfessional.”

You gasp. “Oh my god.”

“Don’t say it again.”

“A carfessional.” You bite your lip, barely holding in your smile. 

He groans, but you can see it—his smile, finally unguarded. Like he’s letting himself have this.

And something about that makes your eyes sting. It's a shaky little moment, full of that strange, sacred feeling that only comes around a few times in life.

You turn back toward the window, toward the trees passing by like silhouettes, the stars still scattered like someone spilled silver across the sky. You’re quiet for a while. Letting your heart settle. Letting the words breathe.

Then, softly: “I love you too.”

Aaron doesn’t flinch but you see it–the way his hand pauses slightly against yours. The way his shoulders shift, like something’s unfulring inside him. He doesnt say anything, but you don’t need him too.

He brings your hand to his lips, presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

You smile down at your lap, at the warmth tucked beneath his jacket, at the world outside that suddenly feels a little softer. 

After a few moments, you sigh.

“... Still want cheese fries, though.”

He chuckles, shaking his head.

“I’ll find you some,” he says. “But only because I love you.”

Your smile curls wide. Warm. Dizzy with the weight of it.

“Gross,” you whisper. “Say it again.”

He glances over, flashes another smile back at you.

“I love you,” he says again, like it’s easy now.

Like it was always meant to be.

He’s right. He is miles away, but that doesn’t deter you. As wonderful as Jessica is, from what you’ve heard, you know Jack idolizes Hotch. He’ll want to be with him now.

“I’m not doing it for you,” you say with a smile, knowing you’re about to play your ace. “I’m doing it for Jack, who is sick and should see his father.”

There’s no room to argue with you. Hotch picks up his briefcase and thanks you. With long strides, he leads the way out of the bullpen and towards the garage.

Ten minutes later, find yourself rushing to stack empty to-go-cups and loose papers, shoving them away as Hotch climbs into your car. “It’s no problem, really. Sorry about the mess.”

Hotch shakes his head. His lips are a little less downturned than usual, which in your mind almost constitutes a smile. “Consider it noted,” he says, “We’ll talk during your next performance review.”

Fighting a smile, you can’t help it. You hit his arm. “I take it back. I’m not sorry.”

“It really isn’t a mess,” he says. “And you really shouldn’t be sorry. You should see my car. You can’t move for Jack’s toys.”

You hum, hands gripping the wheel as your reverse out of the spot, “Be careful what you admit around me. You might be my boss, but I can always snitch on you to yours.”

An amused huff is the closest you get to making him laugh, but you take it. He shakes his head. “I’ve had too many uncomfortable conversations with Strauss to bother counting. I’m sure I’ll survive.”

“Not if I have a hand in it.”

Neither of you says anything for a long while after that, and neither mind. What the protocol is for driving your boss home outside of work, you aren’t sure. If there is something in the FBI manual about it, you’re quite sure Hotch knows it – but asking him feels a little on-the-nose, and so you keep quiet and put the radio on.

You’re also sure that there isn’t anything in the FBI manual about what music is appropriate to listen to with your boss in your passenger seat. If there were, you’re certain the songs on at the moment – half of which you vaguely remember Morgan and Garcia dancing to on one of the team’s nights at the bar, and the other of which might be their next choices – don’t make the cut.

Feeling your face heat up, you clear your throat. “I think I have a couple Beatles albums in the glove box if you wanna look for one,” It isn’t so much a suggestion as it is a request — maybe even an order – and you know he senses that. With a nod, he reaches over to open it.

“You’ve got eclectic taste,” Hotch says after a moment, raising an eyebrow at you as he pulls out one of the CDs buried somewhere in the pile. “I didn’t take you for a Mozart fan.”

The corner of his mouth pulls itself into a smirk. It’s the kind reserved for non-working occasions, or, alternatively, occasions that don’t require the wearing of a suit jacket. Like now. Not that you’ve noticed the broad lines of his shoulders in his dress shirt, or the movement of his Adam’s apple as he speaks, more easily seen with the top two buttons undone. And if you have, that’s nobody’s business.

You shrug. “I’m not one, really. Reid likes it.”

For a long second, he looks at you. “You keep a CD in your car for Reid?”

“He doesn’t like the radio. It’s distracting. I don’t particularly like it, either.”

Hotch doesn’t let up, “That’s…very thoughtful of you.”

Keeping your eyes on the road is more of a task than you’d like.

“They’re only a couple dollars. I just buy them when I see them.”

He takes another look in the glove box, grabbing a beaten-down copy of The White Album and pushing it into the player. But before the opening to ‘Back in the USSR’ is even over, he’s pressed pause and shifted in his seat to look at you head-on. Silence stretches between the two of you again. The dull hum of the engine and the rain battering the windows sound, of a sudden, much louder.

“What? You’re making me nervous.”

He is. If becoming skilled in the art of dangerous driving weren’t a side-effect of working with the BAU, you might’ve crashed the car by now.

You chance a look over at him. His expression is set in a frown. Over your short tenure with the team, you’ve fallen witness to enough of what Morgan deems his ‘Hotchner frowns’ (trademark implied) to know that this one is different. There’s something softer about it, more considerate than displeased.

“Those other albums…Sinatra, Radiohead, Stevie Wonder…you’ve barely touched them. Not compared to the others.”

Damn profiler. The stubborn part of you — which was a larger part than you’d like to admit — wanted to ignore him. Even so, you know it’d never work. Hotch is just as stubborn as you are, and worse than that, he is far more patient.

“They’re not my favorites, no, but—” you relent.

Gently, Hotch cuts you off. “No, they’re not. They’re Rossi’s, Prentiss', and Morgan’s. I’m sure you’ve got records in there for JJ and Garcia. And–”

You look down again at your hands where they rest on the wheel. The skin of your knuckles pulls as you tighten your hands around it. In a sigh, you admit it. “—And for you too, yeah.”

He tilts his head. When he speaks, his voice is soft. “Why?”

Retreating into silence again, you turn the corner onto his street. But even off the clock, Hotch’s presence is commanding, his stare on you unassuming and exposing all at once.

You laugh. “Remind me never to end up in an interrogation with you again. You’re terrifying.”

“You haven’t learned enough from them if you’re still deflecting,” he says, ignoring your jibe. Instead he folds his hands in his lap.

You could double down, tell him jokingly to fuck off and then claim that swearing at him is entirely acceptable in non-working circumstances. What it is stopping you from giving him the answer he wants, you’re not sure. This isn’t the office. It’s not neutral ground. This is your car, your territory. Forced out of the context of work, Hotch is no longer just an abstract concept, your hardass of a boss — he’s a real person. Your friend. And something about that pulls at you.

“I had a little trouble adjusting, at first,” you say, stretching the words out until they become unfamiliar things. “More than I’d expected. I knew when I took the job what it’d be like. On paper, at least. But the first few cases…it was another thing to be doing it, you know?”

It’s the truth. The early days, right after you joined the team, were rough. They’d been a constant guessing game of when to speak up and when to keep quiet, when to shove down all of the stress and the fear and the self-loathing and when, if ever, to let yourself feel it.

Hotch stays quiet this time, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him. Was it too honest to admit that? His presence has gone to your head, like wine on a summer evening.

“I never let it affect my work–” you say in a rush, self-preservation instincts in full swing. You stop halfway, let the words wither in your throat.

One of Hotch’s hands twitches as if to reach for you, but retreats at the last seconds, remaining limp in his lap. He hums, his voice a low murmur. “I know that.”

You’ve come this far. Might as well finish this. “We’d come home from a case, and sometimes I’d drive Reid back so he didn’t have to get the subway. We’d drive back to our apartments with the radio on. But the news…”

Hotch sighs, “...Another robbery, another murder. Another thing out of our reach.”

There’s no judgment in his eyes, none of the sharp analysis profiling demands. It hits you again that you aren’t talking with the man that conducts your performance reviews, but the man who rolls his eyes at Reid and Morgan’s bickering, the father who’d drop anything to make his son happy.

A smile feels a little out of your reach as you remember those early months, so you settle for a nod. “I picked up a CD or two after the first couple weeks. Then I found out Reid liked classical music, so I looked for some. And it made sense, if I was giving Morgan or Prentiss or Garcia a ride too. I guess it got a little out of control.”

Hotch shakes his head. “That’s not out of control. It’s kind,” he starts, then stops for a second, his features rearranging themselves into a frown once more. “You know you don't have to do nice things for people to get them to like you, don’t you?”

Eyes widening, you almost think you’ve heard him wrong. “What?”

He tilts his head, his gaze on you soft as you put the car into park in front of his apartment complex. “Maybe you don’t do it anymore, but towards the beginning…I got the feeling you thought you’d have to move mountains to get the team to like you. And you didn’t.”

He’s right. You really had felt alone, for the first few months. You’d done everything you could to make yourself tolerable: memorized Garcia’s miles-long Starbucks order, lied about where you lived to Reid so he didn’t feel guilty about taking a lift from you, nodded along when Morgan told you about his housing projects even though you hadn’t a clue about property development. You’d done it all. And it had worked.

Maybe you hadn’t needed to do it. But over time, obligation had morphed into affection, and you liked to. Hence the music.

“Hotch…”

You’re glad he speaks before you can get any further, because you really have no idea what to say. “I mean it,” he says quietly. “Anyone with sense would do that all on their own.”

“Thank you,” you say, swallowing. “I hope Jack feels better soon.”

“I’ll tell him you said hi. He’ll appreciate it.” he says, checking his watch. “I’d better go check on him. Thank you for driving me back. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

You nod. “Tomorrow.”

You knew today was going to be a hard day. You woke up, hair caked to your forehead and your legs felt like jelly, like you were not meant to be walking on them. As you sat up, your entire room spun around and it took more than a couple minutes to ground yourself. You knew what to do in times like this, you had your useful skills learned over the years tucked away in the folder in your brain, but today it felt like the cabinet holding them was locked.

You walked into the bullpen, eyes foggy and head down. Usually, you greeted everyone with a happy and hopeful smile, but today that felt too hard. The muscles in your face felt like they would snap if you tried even to talk. Derek looked up at you, and over at Emily trying to gauge the problem, but Emily just shook her head no and let you sit at your desk, forget about all that was going on in your brain, and throw yourself into the reports that were due. You sat there for a few hours, with no one bothering you and your focused workspace. It was very easy when everything felt like this to throw yourself into work or a project because it makes the mind stay busy. It’s when you have nothing to do that everything feels like it's going to come crashing down around you. It’s when you have nothing to do that it creeps up to the surface and begins to slip out, mostly without your control.

You were so focused you didn't hear the familiar sound of steps creep up behind you until an arm was placed gently on your shoulder.

“Hey, I know what you’re doing, and I would like to see you in my office ASAP,” Hotch said to you, he leaned down to say it in your ear so no one else could hear. He knew that allowing everyone to hear what he said would make this all worse on your end.

You didn’t think twice, you got up from your workspace, pushed the chair in behind you, and followed closely behind him. You realized as you walked behind him how tall he was, and how well fitted his suits always are. You start to wonder where he buys them before you realize how far your mind has wandered in the minute it takes to get to his office.

“Have a seat, and tell me what's on your mind.” He sits in his chair and motions for you to sit down in the chair across from him. You feel the tears slip out before you even hit the chair. You knew this would happen at some point today, but Hotch actually taking the time to pay attention to you, to realize something was wrong enough to come out of his office and grab you, made the tears sting just a little bit more.

“Oh no, sweetheart what is going on?” He immediately jumped up and rushed around his desk to you the minute he saw the tears falling from your eyes.

“It's just… it's just a hard day for me is all.” You sniffled and tried to wipe your tears but he brushed your hand aside and wiped them for you. He placed his hand on your knee as he bent down beside you, looking up into your eyes.

“Is it your anxiety?” He asked, you could tell his voice was laced with concern. He would do anything to protect you, but it is hard to protect a person from their own mind. No matter how much he had tried to.

Your palms had started to become clammy, and you were shaking. The entire time you were trying to throw yourself into your work you had ignored what was going on inside your brain. In hindsight, that was a bad idea because now every little thing that happened alongside your anxiety was fighting its way out. You started to cry a little harder, your shoulder bobbing up and down as the sobs tormented you.

“What can I do honey? I’ll do whatever you need me to do.” Hotch was speaking in a soft, gentle tone. This was not the first time he had helped you through an anxiety attack. The second night you spent with him you realized you had forgotten to submit a report on the case you all had handled that week and started to panic. He calmed you down then by reassuring you that he was in charge of when they were due, and he absolutely believed you that it had been done you had just forgotten to submit it. You have never been one to turn something in late, even at work. The only thing about now, this was the first time you had an anxiety attack at work, and you have no idea why it was happening.

“Just stay with me, hold me.” Hotch grabs you, lifts you up, and takes you over to the couch in his office. He sits you down and runs over to his desk where he grabs tissues. He sits down in front of you on his knees, takes the tissue, wipes your eyes, under your eyes, and gives you a new one to blow your nose with. After you do this, he takes them all to the trashcan, returns to you sits down, and guides you where your head is on his lap and he is stroking your hair. He knows that laying down and having your hair stroked is one way to easily ground you, so you can return back to your normal state and are able to function again.

You clear your throat and ask, “How did you know something was up?”

He lets out a small laugh, “When you walked in. You didn’t look at anyone, you didn’t wave, and you didn’t even lift your head up to check if I was in my office like you always do. I let you have a little while, hoping you’d be able to pull yourself out of the trance you were in, but once I realized you couldn’t, I intervened.”

You shift, rolling yourself over, so you can get a solid look at the man. His forehead is creased, meaning he’s worried about you, and his hand hasn’t moved from your hair. He uses his other hand to rub your cheeks with his thumb and he hums your favorite song.

“Do you know what caused this anxiety attack?” He looks down at you with a half smile as you smile back at him, letting him know everything is getting easier. The pounding in your chest has started to ease up, but you can still feel your heart rate is pretty fast. If you got up now, you’d probably either pass out or your eyes would go blurry for a minute, preventing you from moving.

“Honestly, no. I woke up and felt very groggy and focusing to even get myself out of bed was tough. I haven’t had one of these episodes in a while, so I thought if I just worked through it, I could ignore it enough that it’d go away.” You now, roll your eyes at the thought. You had been dealing with anxiety since you were eleven years old. You had dealt with these types of episodes before, you had to face it head-on or it would just get worse. You learned your lesson this time.

“You could’ve just come to my office. You know I am always here for you. Always. I would have helped you get through this. You didn’t have to let it build up this badly.” He jokingly waved a finger in your face to symbolize you had been bad. This brought a hearty chuckle out of you, which in turn made him smile. Seeing Hotch smile could cure most things for you. He was a great man, a great dad, and a great boyfriend. He would do anything if it meant that you would be okay. You had just thought this one wouldn’t be as bad.

“I know, it’s just embarrassing to have to deal with this. I wish, I just wish I could be normal.” You let out a heavy sigh, as he looks at you.

“Hey, if having anxiety makes you not normal, what does having nightmares related to the things I’ve been through make me? We all have our demons, and we all have things that make us different from the people around us. There is absolutely no such thing as normal. Who you are, and I mean this, and everything about you makes you perfect to me. Anxiety included.” He says, completely serious.

You look up at him, sit yourself up, and place a soft kiss on his lips. He returns it, grabbing the back of your head to emphasize how much he means it.

“I wouldn’t have made it through this without you, Aaron Hotchner.” You smile, your mouth inches from his. He kisses you again, and bites your lower lip. You laugh.

It was a normal work day- the BAU had been sent to Saginaw, Michigan, and you had been working with Morgan to clear a hideout associated with a possible suspect. The unsub was targeting blonde females of short stature, and the team was aware that you and JJ both fit the victimology. Regardless, it wasn’t the first time someone on the team looked similar to their victims. 

Girls are being lured out of their cars by a wounded animal on the road, and snatched in late evening or early morning hours. The unsub had been profiled as someone withdrawn and non-confrontational, so every inch of that theory is invalidated when you’re taken in broad daylight.

 After clearing the house, you had made your way through a side gate in the backyard with intentions of talking to the neighbor while Morgan searched through personal items inside. 

And your last recollection before the pain started was hopping down the back porch steps. 

And fuck, did your head hurt when you slipped into awareness.

Once you regain some semblance of consciousness, you conclude the unsub must have fled into the neighbor’s yard from his hideout and panicked when you unknowingly followed.

 Hence, the current predicament. Spread out on what you’re trying not to imagine as medieval torture device, the unsub has your arms bound high above your head. Your feet barely brush the ground, and the muscles in your shoulders scream with every move. You try to negotiate with your captor, though the words only exchange for a few moments before he plunges a needle into the thick muscles of your thigh.

 A cool rush floods through your veins shortly thereafter, and your limbs feel heavier by the second. Your eyesight blurs without contacts or glasses and dry mouth creeps up from whatever drug is flaring in your system.

Thoughts of the team invade logical thought, trying to drown out the haunting images your brain is interpreting from your squinting eyes. 

A hooded figure with an oddly deep voice comes into the room and photographs you at regular intervals . He takes more items of clothing each time, sometimes ripping and other times taking a whole article. If you were in your right mind, you would have caught on to the child-like nature and tantrums when your subdued body can’t coordinate with his movements.

“What’s your name?”

You blink slowly, awakening to a dark room. Your arms are sore, and your shoulders still ache. The toes of your boots brush what looks to be an old wood floor, though you are  unsure due to the lack of visual acuity. An attempt to lift your head fails, and it instead droops until your chin hits your chest.

A limb shoots towards you, and instinct forces you to jerk. Rough fingers brush your reddened cheeks as the gag is taken from your mouth. “Sorry, did I scare you?”

“S-scare..?” You  squint, but only the shadow cast by his hood is visible. “W-where am I?”

A childlike giggle.

 “At my house. My Momma said we could have a sleepover.”

Even in a delusional and dazed, you’re able to feel the shiver down your spine. 

“A sleepover?”

FLASH. 

The sound of a camera shutter corrupted the functioning state you had started to develop, and you squeezed your eyes shut. You knew it was bad, but nothing in your brain could pull together enough info to react. 

“You’re beautiful… just stay right there, I’m gonna take more.

- - -

“He’s not smart. In fact, disorganized to the point where he can’t even keep up.”

Aaron Hotchner sits across the table from Rossi, who is trying to explain their newest theory to the local police chief. With you taken, everyone’s nerves are on edge, and Hotch finds himself tasked with keeping his emotions under control.

It was exactly why workplace relationships- even those based in casual sex and physical comfort- were not allowed. 

Additionally, it wasn’t as if members of the team hadn’t been kidnapped or put in danger before. Despite this, Hotch's mind is racing, trying to discern the best way to track an unsub who was so unorganized he didn’t even know what to do next. They got lucky discovering the first abandoned house Morgan and yourself had raided, but Hotch wasn’t sure they’d get that lucky again.

“We thought he was withdrawn, but maybe he’s escalating?” Reid suggested. It had been over twelve hours since the abduction of their teammate, and they were all pouring over case files in the station’s conference room. 

Hotch stared down at crime scene photos, including the ones from where you were taken. Prentiss is doing the same, and lifts her head at Spencer’s remark.

“What if she scared him?” Emily offers, “There’s a chance he was just trying to flee and got cornered. It would maintain the withdrawn nature.”

“He took her in the middle of broad daylight.” Morgan contradicts, obviously feeling a bit guilty as he was your partner when the kidnapping occurred. “Into the woods, and away he went.”

Reid closes the folder in his hand. “Actually, it is a good theory. She has specialized training in hand-to-hand combat, it would be very hard to subdue her quietly. If the unsub is withdrawn and scared, he might have come from behind once he realized there was no way out.”

Chief Ballard of the local department speaks up. “She’s a fairly small woman, even with specialized combat it’s hard to fight back if you take a surprise blow to the head.”

  Hotch looked up. He had sparred with you on many occasions in the gym, and knew firsthand the amount of tricks used to fend off larger attackers. However, an ambush and a good enough blow would render even himself unconscious.

“She could do it if given the opportunity. Between her hand-to-hand and her gun, there should have been some struggle. Though as Reid said, it doesn’t appear she had that chance.” Hotch concludes. 

“That could be indicative of someone lying in wait, or someone scared to show their face.” JJ says, “It really doesn’t allow us a good lead either way.”

“Damn.” Hotch grinds his teeth, nerves getting the best of him once again. “You did a cognitive interview?”

“At the scene. I had-”

A knock from the room’s entrance makes them all  jump, and an officer steps in the doorway. His eyes turn to Hotch. “Sir, there’s a woman on the phone for your team.”

Reid stands, moving towards the speaker setup in the corner of the room. “I called Garcia a little while ago, that’s probably her.”

The phone line crackles to life when Spencer picks up. “Hey, Garcia.”

“...S-Spence?”

Hotch’s blood runs cold, and he shoots to his feet. The team allows him the next move, murmuring your name as he approaches the receiver.

“Aaron… hey.” Your speech is slow and slurred, but it’s a clear sign of life.

“Where are you? Are you with the unsub?” Hotch feels the team’s eyes on him, but all that matters in the moment is the sound of your voice. 

“N-No. I-I’m with my friend Jake. He wants to have a sleepover, is that okay with you?”

Rossi makes brief eye contact with Hotch, who nodded his head in silent agreement of how to play out the call. 

Hotch takes it upon himself to answer and softens his tone.  “You know honey, I just need to know what house Jake is in. Do you remember?”

A breathy laugh came through the background of the call, and Hotch assumed it was ‘Jake’ listening in. Your heavy breathing is the dominant noise, and it takes a minute for an answer. 

“Y-yeah. Next door to the Youngs in a r-really pretty old house.” 

Rossi taps the mute button in a flash of tanned fingers. “Our unsub has reverted to a childlike state. If he’s letting her make phone calls-”

“She’s gained his trust.” Hotch finishes, finally feeling like they’re on the same page. 

“Smart girl. I’m calling Garcia to find a list of people with the last name Young in the area.” Morgan already had his phone to his ear.

“Those who live next door to old houses.” Hotch added. 

“Did you notice the way she said ‘really pretty’?” Rossi rubbed his chin. “With the emphasis on ‘pretty’? Is she trying to appease him?”

“Morgan, narrow that down to Youngs who live next door to abandoned or condemned establishments.” 

Hotch opens the line, your name sliding from his lips in that honey-soaked tone he usually reserves for early mornings and late nights in.

“Aaron?” Your words are still slow, though relatively coherent. 

“I think a sleepover is a great idea.” He swallows the lump in his throat, “We’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

“T-Thanks, it’s gonna be fun.”

The line goes dead after, and Hotch drags in a deep breath. 

“There’s only one place in the area with those parameters.” Morgan shoves his phone into his pocket as the team stands.

“Let’s go.”

You’ve been lowered to sit, but your hands are still suspended, fingers tingling with numbness. The unsub, or rather, Jake, as he told you to call him, is sitting with legs crossed underneath him a few feet away. There is a lop-sided grin on his face, and his child-like excitement is palpable. 

“Do you wanna play a game?” He asks eagerly. 

You manage to lift your head, filled with some hope after Jake’s strange allowance of a phone call a few minutes prior. While he might have killed two girls already, they were held for over 48 hours before Jake snapped. You are lucky enough to understand his mindset and play into it, even through whatever drug has been pushed into your system every few hours. The best guess you can muster was that the other girls were unable to deal with the strange kidnapper, and something they said or did broke his facade and led to murder. It was vague and unclear, but all you had. 

“What kind of game?” You ask through a shiver. The tremors never seem to end. 

“Tag.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to do that.”

Jake opens his mouth to answer, but is interrupted by the sound of stairs creaking. He freezes, turning towards the broken and sideways hanging bedroom door. 

“Jake, hey.”

You pray the sounds are the rest of your team, but want to keep his attention away if it is. 

“Yes?” His boyish gaze falls back to you. 

“What about I Spy?”

  Jake breaks out into a smile. “That’s a great idea! I just gotta do your medicine first.”

The man, who you now recognize as a white male in his late twenties with blonde hair and a pudgy face, drew another syringe out of his pocket and plunged it into your thigh. If your counting is still correct, it would be the sixth injection. 

“Jake... “ You inhale as the freeze begins to spread, “I spy something… white.”

Eyes wide, they scour the room for your challenge. Your eyelids grow heavy, and you blink as the door moves ever so slightly. It’s slow, until a creak echoes through the empty room. Jake whirls around, coming face-to-face with Jennifer Jareau and Emily Prentiss holding him at gunpoint. 

“Who are you?” He demands, scrambling to his feet. “Why are you at my sleepover?”

You sag with relief, shoulders hanging heavily on their bounds. “J-jake, they’re my friends.”

“Friends don’t point guns!” 

Jake rockets towards the left, where your pistol, badge, and shoes are discarded, Prentiss sees his motivation, and a gunshot echoes through the room. The man cries out, and your pounding head flinches away from the noise. 

“Stay on the ground!” Emily keeps her gun on him, and you druggedly take note of the wound in his leg as opposed to center mass. 

JJ moves to kneel in front of you. “Can you hear me? Are you alright?”

You fight the new sedation as best you can. “J-J?”

“I’ve got you.”

The other blonde turns, yelling towards the door that they were clear and needed help. Morgan appears in the doorway, rushing in to assist JJ. He pulls a pocket knife from his pants pocket, slicing the rope and cable ties binding your arms. Your exhausted body slumps into his chest, clinging to his shirt. You notice the purple tint to her hands, and hope it isn’t a bad sign. 

“You with me?” Morgan’s deep voice made you lift your head, unfocused eyes searching his face. 

“You found me…” 

“Yeah we did. You’re a smart cookie, gorgeous.”

You huff a laugh against his neck and suddenly take note of bright lights against your eyelids. Upon further inspection, you deduce it to be the sun. Morgan must have carried you all the way out.

“T-That’s bright.” You murmur, trying to shelter your eyes as Morgan lowers you to the grass.

“Medical is on their way. Where’s Hotch?”

The voices blend together for a few minutes, and you  focus on breathing in. Another presence  approaches and kneels down, surrounding you with a musky cologne and blanket of safety. A familiar hand rests on your cheek, and you blink up at his face.

Aaron Hotchner stares back at you, and a wave of emotion breaks through the drugs. “Aaron…” 

“I’m right here. You did good work today.” 

You take a moment to gaze at his familiar features. Dark hair, dark eyes. He’s kneeling beside you, but the size of his frame is still imposing. Against your will, you feel your throat tighten and eyes swell to accommodate tears. One hand extends towards him. 

“I need…” You pause, trying to collect yourself. “Hotch- please.”

Hotchner doesn’t answer her, only draws you against his chest. Your arms lift to wrap around his neck, face hiding against the sun-warmed skin of his neck. Despite the ache it causes to rake across his shoulders, Aaron remains wrapped in your embrace as your body begins to shake. You smell of sweat and captivity, remnants of the ordeal you’d just been through. The clothes you wore were the same Aaron had seen you in last, though there were small holes scattered about your black trousers. 

“I’m sorry this happened to you.” He murmurs against  greasy hair, gripping the back of your skull with his hand. “I should have-”

You lift her head at his tone and point a wavering finger. “No, d-don’t blame yourself.”

The cloudy haze of pharmaceuticals is creeping into your eyes as you chastise him. “I know how you are… Aaron, y-you’ll beat yourself up.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Let’s just get you to the hospital, alright?”

Hotch picks you up with little effort, strolling towards the ambulance and stretcher where it was waiting. “...N-No. I’m alright.”

Once you’re placed on the stretcher, the arguing starts weakly and you’re swaying like a daisy in the wind. Hands still fisted in Hotch’s vest hold him in place beside you. 

“We need to find out what you were given. Do the tests, and I’ll be satisfied.” Hotch orders, hand on your wrist rubbing gentle circles. “JJ can go with you.”

The blonde steps up beside their boss, soft smile on her face as she wraps an arm around your shoulder. 

“No… I don’t-” You pause and swallow, panic rising as Hotchner attempts to step back

Your fingers tremble against Hotch’s torso where they’re wrapped in his shirt, and tears leak from the corners of your eyes. Of all the years Hotch had known you on the BAU, he has never seen you so upset. You’re all trained to deal with these types of things, but nothing prepares you for the actual thing. Especially when you’re being pumped full of illicit drugs to keep you sedate. 

JJ rubbed your back, eyes lifting to Hotch. “You know boss, Morgan and I can handle the clean up and reports. You’re gonna have enough paperwork as it is.”

Thank God  for Jennifer Jareau.

Hotchner stares at the two women before dipping his head in a nod. “Alright. We’ll meet you back at the station as soon as possible.”

“Sounds great.” JJ turns on her heel and bustles off towards a group of local detectives and beat cops.

The medics were prepping the gurney to go up, carefully arranging your loose limbs on the cushion. Hotch watches in amusement, as you’re looking more stoned by the second.

“Sir, are you coming?” One of the medics asks, motioning to the back of the rig. 

“Yes, sorry.” Hotchner pulls himself into the back of the ambulance, accepting the hand you hold out to him. 

“Thanks for comin’, boss.” You tug his hand close, lips brushing against his knuckles. His body was warm, and you stretched towards it. 

Aaron leans in before the paramedics begin bustling to press a kiss against your forehead. “Anything for you.”

---

The quiet click of the light switch sounds deafening in the silence of the room. 

“Sweetheart?” 

Hotch’s sleepy voice would normally make you giggle with how cute it sounds. But tonight, you’re not in that kind of headspace. His voice makes you bristle with shame, like you were a little kid with their hand caught in the cookie jar. 

“Go back to bed, it’s late.” Your voice comes out low. But Hotch can hear how robotic it sounds. The normal teasing, playful tone is gone. Something’s clearly wrong. 

Also, because it’s 3 AM and you’re sitting in the dark in a satin nightdress, a knee pulled tightly to your chest, and a hand leaning on your cheek. You’ve been staring out the window in the library, eyes looking outside at the night sky, but not really seeing. He had no idea how long you’ve been sitting there and neither did you. 

Hotch joins you on the velvet window seat, big arms swallowing up your smaller body. It makes you want to shrink away and hide in the dark cave of Aaron Hotchner’s embrace. But, his voice breaks through the rocky walls of your emotional barrier, and you can’t help but tense up, not wanting to answer his very valid question. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You don’t reply. Instead, you lace your cold fingers in between his warm ones, gripping him tightly until your knuckles turn white and you’re sure you’re hurting him. But Hotch doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he simply holds you tighter as if he’s trying to anchor you back to reality. And he is. Your mind is swirling with anxiety and your thoughts are overwhelming, a spiraling whirlpool of regret and second-guessing and what-ifs. You’re sure Hotch’s brows are furrowed and he can feel how shallow you’re breathing, just barely staving off a panic-attack. 

The watering can placed tidily next to the sink, filled with water, but the plants were still thirsty. Every little thing startled you, but you weren’t frightened, you felt smaller and smaller for each moment that passed by, and you didn’t know why.

Everything that even remotely could be wrong with you was not what was actually happening. You weren’t sick, at least you didn’t feel like you were sick, nor did your temperature stray from the average. You weren’t having a case of anxiety. You weren’t tired. You weren’t anything, at all. Nothing.

As 4 pm hit, you’d heard nothing from Hotch through the entire day. He’d usually have texted or called, telling you when he would be expecting to be home again. With his favorite girl, he made sure to add. You loved how he treated you like his princess, you were his everything. His second chance at a happy life. And the sex. The sex was amazing, you’d never been made to feel as good in bed as the way Aaron made you feel. It was the kind of pleasure, making sure to keep your needs over his own, while still keeping you in line and training you to be his good girl.

Doesn’t he want me anymore? You thought to yourself, confused at the lack of conversation between the two of you. He’d left that morning, giving you a gentle kiss on the cheek and a loving “have a nice day” said between the two of you, but since then, nothing.

You grabbed yourself in starting to wallow in your self-pity, thinking about all the things that could be wrong in your relationship. Making yourself believe that he probably had found someone better than you. Someone who didn’t appear as needy or clingy. Something less you.

Continuing to beat yourself up, you didn’t notice how you slipped more and more. The look in your eyes becoming glossed over and distant, rendering you almost unable to do anything at all.

Somehow, you managed to get into the bedroom, curling into yourself on top of the sheets, not even having the awareness to crawl under them. You were afraid, so afraid. It was like nothing you’d ever experienced before.

All you could do was to sob into the pillow as you let everything out, trying to contain yourself. You just wanted your Daddy to come back to you, to hold you, to guide you through what was going on.

As you laid still on the bed, crying, you tucked your knees as close to your chin as possible, wrapping your arms around them as you held yourself, trying to comfort yourself to the best of your abilities.

Incoherent mumbles of: “Good girl” “Always good for daddy.” “his good little girl.” Fell from your lips, as you started rocking back and forth in your fetal position, so far gone that you couldn’t even focus on one specific spot in the bedroom. Everything was blurry to you.

Your behavior kept up, crying and trying to reassure yourself.

Aaron was confused at how silent the place was, once he let himself inside. Normally you’d be greeting him at the door or in the process of cooking dinner. But there was nothing. The tv was on, you weren’t in the kitchen and it definitely didn’t smell like dinner had even crossed your mind. It was way too silent for his liking.

His hand protectively fell to his hip, ready to pull the Glock out of its holster before he managed to detach it from his body.

Checking every single room downstairs, nothing was to be found and there was still no sign of you. Making his way upstairs was when he started getting this feeling in his gut like something was wrong, he just couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it was supposed to be. He made his way from one end of the floor to the other. Making sure to check each and every room thoroughly, and yet there was still nothing to be found. And you were nowhere to be seen.

Aaron stopped up, just outside of the bedroom. He could hear your faint sobs through the closed door. You didn’t sound panicked, as if you were being threatened. It was distress he picked up on. Although you’d promised not to profile each other, he couldn’t help it, it was in his DNA, and sometimes it just happened. Unclasping the holster from around his waist, he put the gun down on the bookcase in the hallway, before pushing the door open slowly.

“Hey there, sweetheart. You okay?” He spoke softly as he approached your shaking body. You didn’t react, your back was facing him, rendering him only able to hear your small whimpers and cries. You were curled up on his side of the bed, it smelled like him, you prided yourself in that. Having been sane enough at one point to figure that out.

You felt the bed dip as Hotch sat down on the edge, right next to you, but in your dazed state, you didn’t realize that it wasn’t just your mind playing tricks on you, that there actually was a real-world around you.

“Baby? What’s wrong?” Aaron tried again, carefully putting his hand on your thigh reassuringly. He gently rubbed it a bit, trying to get your attention. You jolted at the sudden contact, flipping over to see what the commotion was about. Your tear-stained face lit up when you noticed him. Although you still were completely out of it and unresponsive to anything that wasn’t daddy this and daddy that.

“Daddy, you’re home. Missed you.” You managed to get out as you looked up at him. And that was when the coin finally dropped for Aaron. His worried expression quickly fell into a frown, just as confused as you were as to how it had all happened. You hadn’t shown any signs that morning, what had made you slip?

Aaron soon found himself positioning you in his lap so your body was laying down between his legs and your head rested on his chest. You weren’t much help. His back was pressed against the headboard of the bed as he stared you into your eyes, the concerned expression back in its place as he searched for something unknown to him.

“Daddy? Why do you look so sad?” You blabbered on, giggling to yourself as you had no conception of the situation. Aaron sighed before he wrapped his arm tighter around your frame.

“Not daddy right now sweetheart. Just Aaron. Can you come back to me, my sweet girl? My lovely (Y/N)?” Hotch asked, trying to drag the real you back out of your mind. His arm reassuringly went up and down your arm in a smooth motion as he tried to calm your nerves down.

Your gaze fell on everywhere else in the room, but him, managing to look more confused over the things that were bumping around and into each other inside your head.

“ ‘M good girl for daddy.” You mumbled, closing your eyes as you nuzzled your head into Aaron's chest.

“You’re always my good girl, but it’s Aaron. Daddy’s not here. Just you and I sweetheart.” He kept on. Your mind was elsewhere as he kept on reminding you that it was in fact Aaron and not Daddy that were present. You sat there for a while, your gaze flickering around the room, probably seeing things that weren’t exactly there, but you weren’t saying anything.

Aaron kept caressing you, wanting to make sure that you were fully back before he even thought about resuming with what he was doing once he got inside the house.

Closing your eyes for a moment, they fluttered back open again. At that point you started feeling more aware of your surroundings, your brain still fuzzy, but it was getting there.

“Hi.” You whispered once you noticed Aaron holding you.

“Hi, sweet girl.” He smiled down at you, keeping you wrapped up in his arms before he leaned down to give you a peck on the forehead. You smiled up at him, not saying a word, still adjusting.

“I’m glad you’re back.”

Typically the people I met on cases didn't stick with me. There were just so many faces, too many names to remember, although I tried my hardest. It was a con of the job, not being able to single anyone out, most previous cases remembered in a blur of action and determination, not that we didn't try to build relationships with them, there just wasn't one that stuck out to me until now.

She'd been placed under the watchful guard of an agent in WitSec a week after her case came across my desk, and in three months time, we still hadn't narrowed down who it was that was after her. I was keeping a close eye on things, coming to see her every night on my way in from work; she'd listen for my knock and let me in quickly, and we'd talk until I'd start getting too tired to drive. She was good company, and after having to know everything about her in order to help her, I'd started to open up too. It wasn't necessary for the case, but I wanted to tell her more, and she was willing to listen.

I was exhausted, so I pulled into the drive thru of the coffee shop before making my way to the house she was placed in, two cups of coffee in tow. She always greeted me at the door with a smile, ushering me in happily as she led me to the couch, and tonight was no different. She was happy to see me, but she seemed more on edge than usual. She was jumpy and panicked, and I could see all of the signs even though she hid them well.

"What's going on? What can I do to help?"

She shrugged, tucking her legs beneath her and crossing her arms over her chest, indecisive--I could tell something was going on, but I wasn't sure if she was willing to tell me.

"I'm just scared. Some nights it gets worse than others. I just--I dunno, I get stuck in my head sometimes," she explained, and I nodded in understanding as I reached across the couch to offer her my hand. It took her less than a second to hold it back, looking up to me as if I held all the answers. I wish I did; more than anything I just wanted to make her life return to normal for her. She was alone and away from everything she knew, and other than the agent protecting her, I was the only face she got to see.

"What if I stay with you tonight?"

She perked up instantly, beaming back at me like I'd told her she won the lottery. I liked the way she wanted to be around me, even if it was just because of shitty circumstances. I could tell she enjoyed my company and I really enjoyed having her around. I was glad she lived close so I could still see her when all of this was finally over.

"You'd do that for me?"

I nodded, finishing the last of my coffee before I stood up, shrugging off my blazer.

"Let me go get my bag so I can change. I'll be right back, want to meet me in your room?"

I changed in the bathroom and found her already tucked into bed and waiting on me, and I couldn't help but smile at how adorable she looked in this massive bed that took up most of the room, making her look much smaller. She was the perfect size; I could easily tote her around if she'd let me.

"You look cozy," I slid into bed next to her, leaving just a bit of space between us in case she didn't want to be too close to me. She took me by surprise when she closed the distance between us and put her head on my shoulder, her free arm wrapping around my middle.

"Is this okay?" It came out soft and hushed, and in response I put my forehead to her lips and kissed her.

"Try to get some rest. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I'm right here," I promised her, and she nodded before going still, her breathing slow and steady, chest rising and falling against me. She was warm, and I was already growing used to having her next to me; I'd never want to sleep alone again now that I'd shared a bed with her. I waited until I knew she was asleep before I shut my eyes, but I slept like a rock all night long beside her.

Waking up to her felt normal, like I'd done it a hundred times before. She was up before me, retreating to the kitchen, letting me lay in her bed a while longer. I was still so warm I didn't want to get up yet, and I was good on time, in fact, I had a little bit of time to spare with her before I left for the day. When she came back, she held two mugs of piping hot coffee, sitting one down on the bedside table for me.

"Thank you, sweetheart," she sat on the edge of the bed next to me, so I rolled over and wrapped my arms around her, still unsure of where we stood but I wanted her to know I wanted to be close to her; I wasn't sure how to show it other than physically--words didn't seem like enough.

"Will you come back tonight?"

I nodded, sitting up so I could bring her closer, reaching for her hand. She looked up at me, more vulnerable and open than I'd ever seen her, chewing anxiously on her bottom lip as she searched for what she really wanted to say--I knew she was holding back because I was doing the same. When she asked if I'd come back, what she really meant was, I really want to see you again.

"I'll stay with you every night I can if you want me to," I admitted, and she smiled softly, leaning back to rest her body against mine. For a moment we just sat there, our breathing in sync as I held her close, more content than I'd been in a while.

"And what about when things are back to normal for me? Will you still be around then?"

I pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, my fingertips on her chin so I could tug her face to meet my eyes.

"I want to be around you all the time," I didn't anticipate her leaning forward and pressing her lips to mine, but it was a welcome feeling nonetheless. It had been so long since I'd kissed anyone that it temporarily took my breath and had me struggling to think properly, but I kissed her back with zero hesitation. Her lips felt smooth and soft against my own, and I quickly found myself opening my mouth for her tongue, teasing my bottom lip. It was all too easy to get engrossed in her, bringing her into my lap so I could keep kissing her, her hands on the back of my head keeping me in place.

"You're the only thing getting me through this," she said breathlessly, and my grip only tightened on her when I realized how much she truly needed me. She didn't realize I needed her just the same, like the air in my lungs. I'd come to find that I couldn't live without her--I didn't want to. If I was certain of anything, it was that she was my future, the brighter part of my days despite how out of sorts her life was at the moment. She always managed to put a smile on my face when she had very little to be happy about currently.

"I'll always be here for you. Always going to keep you safe," I'd do anything at all to keep her out of harms way, even if it meant putting my own life on the line to do so.

"I know."

✨✨✨

The constant blare of sirens was enough to have me panicking before I even knew if she was here or not. The sound was all around me, and although it was typical for a crime scene, and I'd seen it too many times to count, it was too overwhelming for me knowing we were there to look for her.

I thought surely after I left her for the morning, she'd be fine. Things in her safe house were normally quiet, but today in particular had been busy for our unsub. He'd been stalking her online, and he'd known where she was the entire time, lying in wait to make the perfect move, something no one had seen coming.

Garcia had told me at lunch that her location had been compromised and that she was gone, and we took immediate action. Garcia found her stalker within a couple of hours and we were on our way to an abandoned farm to search for her, hoping it wasn't too late.

"We'll find her, Hotch," Morgan told me as we made the drive, and I nodded, my grip so tight on the wheel that my knuckles were white, my eyes focused on the road in front of me.

"We've got to," I said under my breath, because I knew losing her would hurt too much to bare, and I wasn't prepared to find someone else I cared about stiff and lifeless. I tried to keep the worst case scenarios out of my head but it was nearly impossible until I knew she was alright.

Working her case had put a strain on everyone, and I was partly to blame. I was too involved, and they knew it, but they didn't dare say anything for fear of what would happen after. If anyone said her name with a tone that I didn't like, I was saying something;  it wasn't normal for me, but I couldn't help it.

When we arrived, Morgan went in first. He didn't want me finding her if things weren't favorable, so I stood right outside of the door, hoping to hear any sign that she was alive so I could stop worrying. As soon as Morgan kicked down the door, I heard her scream, shrill and loud before I rushed in, running as fast as my feet would carry me until I was met with her, bound and bloody, but alive.

"Aaron," she cried, struggling against the ropes as Morgan worked to cut her bindings off, and once she was free she rushed to me, letting me wrap my arms around her.

"Shh, I've got you now," I couldn't tell where the blood was coming from and that worried me more than anything. It could've been her head, but I couldn't be sure. I needed to get her to an ambulance to get checked out, so I scooped her up and carried her, letting her arms wrap around my neck as I took her to the EMTs.

"Was so afraid you weren't going to find me," she cried as I sat her down, staying as close as I could while the EMT worked to find the source of the bleeding and stop it. She'd been hit over the head, and she more than likely had a concussion along with other mental turmoil that we had no clue of.

"I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart. Can I ride with her?" The EMT gave me the okay so I took Morgan my keys and asked him to drop off my car at the hospital so I could ride in the ambulance. They were working on sedating her so they could keep her calm,  so I slid in on the bench seat and took her hand, making sure she knew I was there even if she fell asleep. She shot me a soft smile before her eyes closed and she went still, the first bit of peace she'd had in months.

When we got to the hospital, I was sent to the waiting room. I paced the floors, drank watered down coffee until I had the jitters, but there was still no news. I'd just sat down and started to doze off when her doctor came in and I stood to my feet, asking if there was any update.

"You can see her now. As soon as she finishes her IV fluids, she can go. She's going to be sore, but she's going to be alright."

I followed him down the hall and to her room, where he let me go in alone. The steady beeping of the monitors had me uneasy as I stepped in, looking at her lying on that bed made my stomach churn and my heart drop to my shoes. I crossed the room as quickly as I could and sat right next to her on the bed.

"Glad you're still here," she said, taking my hand in hers. I kissed her head quickly before I looked down at her, sweet and fragile as she stared up at me.

"I'd never leave you. If I would've known--" she cut me off with a kiss; she wouldn't dare listen to me blame myself for this, even if I felt responsible.

"You couldn't have known, Aaron. This isn't your fault. You saved my life," she whispered, voice cracking slightly as a tear slid down her cheek. I quickly wiped it away and she leaned into my palm, letting me cup her face with my hand.

"I'm so glad you're okay."

Even under the harsh glow of hospital lights, surrounded by antiseptic smells and nonstop beeping, she was the most beautiful woman in the world to me. I had no willpower when it came to loving her, I couldn't have stopped it. It was as easy as breathing, and it came just as naturally. Nothing could've prepared me for it. Granted, I'd only loved one other person before, but I knew the feeling well enough to know I was falling for her fast with no sign of slowing down any time soon.

"Can I go home tonight?"

I nodded, but I wasn't taking her to her apartment. I was bringing her home with me so I could keep an eye on her; I wouldn't dare leave her alone after what she'd been through.