Oh, Sinnerman 

Chapter Two

Words: 5,500

Same Warnings as Chapter One

Oh, sinnerman, where you gonna run to?

Flames dance behind his eyelids. Hotch sees a burning bush. He hears a deep thunderous voice calling out Moses! Moses! He sees a bush on fire but did not burn up. Take your son to the top of Moriah and kill your son there as a sacrifice to me. This must be Issac, your only son, the one you love. Use him as an offering– 

He wakes with a jolt, his body broken out in a cold sweat. He watches a tree pass above him. His tinnitus is horrid, making his temples pulse in a rigid band. He hears Abel, like a preacher on the radio coming in and out of service. Static, ringing. Then a decisive sermon. He’s reciting Exodus. Moses leading his people from slavery. 

“Abel?” his voice is weaker than he’s expecting but the sun beats down between the treetops and he’s dehydrated. “Abel, you have to–” He tries to sit up but quickly gives that idea up. His arms can’t hold his weight and his head spins dangerously. His stomach hurts so bad he can’t think straight. 

“Aaron,” Abel breathes wistfully, speaking to the trees. “The brother of Moses.” 

Hotch thinks Abel should begin in Genesis; And it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abraham his brother, and slew him. He’s stuck somewhere between compassion and loathing. His head aches fiercely, his stomach is tied into painful knots. His left shoe is gone and on some tarp, he’s being roughly pulled through the woods. Rocks hit his back. Sticks stab at him. And yet, he imagines the crime scene photos one more time. Imagines Abraham at the top of his mountain with his son and Abel lost in these woods. Both raise daggers to the throats of people they love. One Abraham is ready to kill his own son and another begs his brother to see reason. 

Only one was saved. 

He’s bleeding. 

A bush leans down over him, leaves grazing skin. On its tilted edge, a drop of blood gathers and he watches it. He looks at the blood on that leaf until the colors blur together until that brush is lost amidst the others. Leaving a trail is good, even if blood isn’t. 

He drops, suddenly. The tarp is released and no warning given. He can’t hold himself upright so he just falls down onto the ground. Left to stare hazily up at the tops of the trees. 

“Are you faithful, Aaron?” 

Aaron. All he hears is his name – his ears conducting an intensely painful concert of forever ringing bells. Just trying to look at Abel hurts. The sun is too bright, even dulled by it’s passage through the trees. His head hurts. Faithful? He frowns, faithful? He doesn’t understand. It doesn’t make sense. He reaches for his phone but… His pockets are empty. That’s probably good a good thing? No wallet or keys or… gun. No gun. Damn. But these things must be discarded somewhere, a pile of proof to document the direction they’re headed. 

“Aaron.” Abel crouches down by his side and pushes his thumb against the weeping wound against Aaron’s forehead. “I apologize,” he says. “I’m afraid I hit you much harder than I originally anticipated.” He frowns, he seems to mean it which is more confusing than anything else. “I was afraid and I over-reacted.”

The tarp wrinkles as Aaron moves his hand, he nods. The mud is cold. The sticks damp from a recent rain. He finds a rock, cold and hard. A rock. He curls his fingers around it and feels its weight in his palm. 

“I hope you can forgive me.”

Breathing in slowly through his nose, Aaron swings his arm. His fingers end up pinched between the rock and Abel’s skull, an instant bloodied nailbed, but he can’t get further. Abel crumples, goes right down. Time is off the essence – he knows this somewhere in the back of his mind, it drives Aaron into movement. But he gets one sore shoulder to move, one aching arm up underneath him and his vision blackout. He gets nowhere. 

The sun is lower. 

Hotch’s first thought is Jack. The sun is too low. Jack needs to go to bed. He needs to.. 

He can’t remember. 

Beside him Abel groans, shifting but staying where he’s fallen. Move.Something in him screams. Anxiety lances up his stomach and painfully sits hot and heavy. Move.He pushes himself up slowly, taking a moment to gasp between waves of nausea. 

His knees buckle and he leans into a tree, grunting at the pain of leaning his body weight into thistles growing all around. More blood, that’s helpful. He needs to move. Move. Get out of here. 

He kicks up dirt in that first step, rocks and acorns and sticks. His fucking shoe. His left shoe is gone, missing. Abel moans again and Hotch knows he’s got no more time. 

[x.]

“And he just… disappeared?” 

Calling in what happened was uneventful. Only a few seconds had passed since Hotch tore off into the woods and she thought she knew he’d come back out – a few more scrapes and bruises and his clothes dirty but UNSUB in cuffs and his scowl in place. Only Hotch didn’t come back out. He just disappeared. And as JJ was realizing this the SUVs came into sight. Brown and black trooper cars coming in a swarm behind them. 

And Hotch was nowhere to be found.

JJ swallows nervously, eyes darting between the others. They’re in various stages of fury, all zeroed in on her. She’s confused about how this always happens to her. First Reid and now Hotch – and both with weird religious things going on? The odds of that have to be… impossible. 

“You have to understand,” Derek says, crossing his arms, “this doesn’t make any sense.”

JJ shrugs, “he – he just ran into the woods, Morgan. He called for–for, Uhm, Abel? The brother of the victim.” She holds her arms to her chest, glances at Emily pleads with her to say something. For anyone to say something and stop just staring at her. “I called you as soon as it happened. But–But the guy had a gun. I don’t think he hit Hotch but he shot at us.” She’s already explained this. Twice. Some guy comes out of the woods. She didn’t see him. Hotch did. The gun is what she heard but only after it was fired. She told Hotch to go. She stayed with the old woman. There’s nothing more to be said. 

Emily and Derek went into the woods to look, staying where they could be seen shouting out into the nothing and hearing nothing but their own voices in return. They know as well as she does, he’s just gone.

“Derek,” Emily finally warns, stepping in before Derek can make a complete ass of himself in the middle of his hopeless fear. “Leave her alone.” There’s a rogue stare-off. Derek already knows he’s in charge. The decision of next in command is Hotch’s and just a few short months ago that was Derek, leading them while Hotch took a step back. Pretended to unravel to give Foyet a show, a very convincing show. And Derek might be in-charge but Emily still has sway. It’s her advice that could sway any of Hotch’s decisions. Derek might be political, on paper in charge but they’ll listen to Emily just as quickly. Neither will win the silent battle of wits. 

Dave comes steadily back down the driveway to them, shaking his head. He’d gone to talk to the widow – she’d be more help anyway than standing down here getting mad at JJ for something stupid Hotch did. “Our UNSUB is Abel Boseman.” He nods in the direction of the woods, “his mother says he’s been living in an abandoned house on the other side of the woods.” He holds up a piece of paper, “I got the address. We gonna keep standing here talking nonsense or are we going to go do our jobs?”

They’re good kids, Dave knows, but some days he’d like to smack Emily Prentiss and Derek Morgan upside their big heads. What good are the two of them against one another? Aaron needs them. And he needs them to have clear, level heads. Not heads shoved up each other’s asses. 

Derek calls Penelope as they head up the old dirt road, all crammed into one SUV with Dave driving. It’s been a long time since any of them had to drive up a road in the state as this one is in. “What have you got baby girl?” It’s really just making them tenser but Garcia is always a lovely addition to the worst conversations. She’ll help. 

Garcia doesn’t answer right away, she’s not even sure she should. 

“Baby girl?”

She pulls in a shaky breath, “he’s going to be…” Tears gather in her eyes, she feels like she’s betraying Hotch. And she can’t stand it. Angry is the word that comes to mind but Hotch is never angry at them. He’s angry with things. Even when he is angry with them, he doesn’t take it out on them. But this… This might… “So I was looking at that the, ugh, that address Agent Rossi sent?” There’s a pause, dramatic and full of Garcia having no idea what the hell to do now. He’s going to be so upset with her and she can’t stand that thought. But they need to find him alive. Emotions are a symptom of life and he has to be alive to be upset with her. So she has to tell them. “It was owned by a Robert… Hotchner.” She clears her throat, “coincidentally… the same Robert Hotchner who, uhm, signed our Hotch’s birth certificate?”

The SUV is painfully silent. Emily gives the only reaction, she turns right to Dave. “His dad?” Hotch’s dad has been dead for as long as she’s known him – at twenty-something, scrawny and weighed down by the gun on his hip playing security around her mother’s house. She doesn’t even know that man. “So we’re going to his house?”

“Oh,” Garcia says, “my sweet raven-haired beauty you’re going to his childhood home. Where he grew up, where our Hotch started.” There is only such a tiny, itty-bitty little piece of her that is jealous. The rest is as scared as they are. 

JJ clears her throat but says nothing, just stares hard at her hands. “I grew up a few miles from here. On the other side of those woods.” Hotch hadn’t lied. Of course, he wouldn’t, she shakes the thought away. Hotch is an enigma, a thousand-piece puzzle missing pieces but never the same pieces. Each time you open the box it’s a different piece that’s missing. Making it impossible to complete the damn thing. 

“Can I–” Reid gets to the front steps and feels like he’s going to throw up. “Can I stay out here?” He’s not cut out for this job, not entirely. He’s a genius, they need him, but this part he’s no good at. That’s why he stays in the rooms with the maps. He spends all day doing math and creating a geographical profile. He’d be more use, even now, to sit out here and mess with his maps. Not in there. Not when they all know… No one says anything, they wouldn’t dare, but they have a good idea about the severity of what happened to Hotch in that house. 

Derek and Dave speak over one another – of course andno, we need you inside. 

Derek wins. “You have your map on you?”

Reid nods, face flushed. He doesn’t want to go inside and he doesn’t want Dave and Derek fighting about it either. He reaches a trembling hand behind him and pulls it out. “Yeah.”

Derek nods, “figure those woods for me? We gotta see how far he could have gone.”

“Okay.”

It’s probably better Reid didn’t come in, anyway, but at least JJ would have had some more company. She steps back because she knows Hotch very well but not like Derek, Dave, or Emily. He’s trusted the three of them with much more than he’s ever given her. So she just stands there in the doorway, horror gripping her chest tight and painful, as a cold chill runs up her spine. 

The worst part is that it almost looks like a normal house. 

She can imagine Hotch kicking his shoes off at the door, a habit he’s carried into adulthood. Kicking a ball around the front yard and riding his bike in the driveway. Children have lived here and that’s… that’s horrifying. 

“Can’t imagine anyone living here,” Dave mumbles, shaking his head as he steps to the foot of the stairs. The banister has been nearly ripped from the walls at the top and Dave moves his eyes away. The chill of this house, not just this room, makes the skin on his arms ache with shivers. No love has ever seen the inside of these walls. 

Emily steps behind him and looks up the stairs. “I don’t want to go up there,” she confesses, shaking her head at the sight above. She can’t imagine what they’ll find. What would her childhood home reveal about the interworkings of her mind? It certainly wouldn’t be fair. She’s torn, gripped by relief that it’s Hotch and not her being psychoanalyzed and still horrified they have to do this at all. To find Abel. To save Hotch. 

“God this is–” JJ covers her hand with her mouth, standing in shock in the doorway of the room Derek takes them to. He’d only been in the house once, the year their mother died. He was Sean’s friend but he came down with Aaron as a helping hand. The three of them trying to get as much crap out as possible. They never went inside Aaron’s room. He did, he stepped in there once. Came back out pale as a ghost, blamed it on the heat, and spent an hour outside on the porch with a cold rag and a bucket to throw up in. His grip was too weak after that, he was shaking too hard to stand strong. So he took over folding up his mother’s clothes for donation. Derek never bothered to ask what really spooked him that bad. 

It’s… a normal room. Ramsaked by time and likely Abel but bland. 

He’s always been a little boring, God love him.

Derek steps into the room, frowning at the heavy dust clinging to everything. There’s a plain blue rug on the middle of the floor, about the only color or decoration in the room. Sean’s room had posters, Aaron’s walls are flat, no tacks were ever poked in the walls. 

“Guess he’s always liked blue,” Emily mumbles, hesitantly looking around. Together, Derek and Emily say, “same color as his comforter at home.” They both immediately turn to each other, frowning in tight disgust at the train of thought they both assume. Derek knows Emily spent a lot of time with Hotch while he was recovering. He’d seen them sleeping together in Hotch’s bed many times. Just as Emily knows Derek returned Hotch home many times sore and limping from “runs”. They had both assumed the other was fucking the boss. They weren’t going to say anything, to him or each other. It was keeping Hotch alive, that was all they wanted. 

They’re both wrong but neither clarifies. 

Emily touches the furthest wall from the door and runs her finger over raised marks scratched into the wall. Tally marks. Endless tally marks. He was keeping track of something, she wants to know what. 

“I hate you,” Dave reads out, stepping back to allow the others to see what he’s found. The words aren’t scratched, they’re engraved. Each one is meant. “Who do you think that’s to?” It’s entirely rhetorical and Emily hates him just a little bit for asking. 

Derek pulls out his flashlight, eager to turn his attention elsewhere. Something about being in this room, thinking about Hotch like this is making him nauseous. And it only gets worse as he looks into Hotch’s closet. There’s nearly nothing inside, one moth-eaten black t-shirt barely hanging onto its hanger and a blanket folded up in the upper corner. Which makes sense. Sean told him Hotch packed for college in one night, was gone without saying goodbye. But it’s what he finds in the dark corner that makes him feel even sicker. “Here,” he calls out, stepping aside so Dave can see where he’s aimed his flashlight. 

There’s a rusted razor stuck to the ground, Derek can’t move his eyes from it. It’s stuck to the floor, by a hardened, immobile substance. It’s not hard to guess which substance. Blood, Derek clears his throat, swallowing around the way his body attempts to rebel and heave his meager breakfast up. There’s gauze, what once was, at least. A toppled-over first-aid kid tossed beside it. Clearly knocked over. Never picked back up. 

Emily just stares at it. Not a thought in her head. Just blank. 

Dave grunts and turns away from it. Is it really that surprising? Aaron is a complicated man. Poor attachment style and while self-harm might not be on the table in any traditional sense nowadays, he lived out of an unpacked boxed and slept on a couch for over a year after his divorce. He’s carried these tendencies with him. They reared their ugly heads not that long ago.

Something about the way Derek just keeps staring at it that enrages Emily. It’s not surprising. She wants him to stop treating it like it is. As if this is news to them, like any of this is going to change how they view Hotch. They know he was abused and maybe self-harm is a little predictable but it’s not startling. Hotch is dark. This is the man that strips his vest to go into hostage situations. And then she remembers, suddenly, how Derek treated Hotch during everything with Foyet. “You don’t think we’re going to find him,” she says. Derek just doesn’t think he’ll be alive. 

He says as much, “he’s had a hard year.” His flashlight still aimed at the corner. In one year he’s hardly recovered from the damage Foyet did to him. He’s taken, what, one day off in all that time? He’s not stripping his vest off and running into dangerous places like he was but there hasn’t been that much of an improvement. He wouldn’t qualify the situation as resolved. 

“He’ll come back,” Emily seethes. Their eyes meet, Derek’s dulled by sadness and Emily’s bright with new hot anger.

Derek shakes his head, “you don’t know that.” He shrugs, finally looking away from the rusty razor and stepping away. Jack almost wasn’t enough a few months ago. What about now? Who says this isn’t too much? Everyone has their breaking point. “You can’t know that.” 

[x.]

Hotch doesn’t remember falling. 

It was just starting to drizzle. The muffled sounds drew his attention to trace the sounds of the raindrops hitting the leaves of the trees around him. Small drops pitter and patter as fat drops of rain made their way through the maze of leaves above his head. The humidity had grown, thickening until it could be felt seemingly pressing against him. The air like the packed streets of New York, knocking him this way and that until it felt nearly claustrophobic just to breathe.

It hadn’t taken long for the clouds to consume the light, his ability to see slowly being taken. He could hear Abel following him, quick, angry footsteps. Aaron!Follows him around every turn. Agent Hotchner! Cracks through the woods. 

The rain started falling harder, hitting the leaves loudly and drowning out the shouts. Until the drops tore holes through the leaves, hitting too quickly, too heavily to remain captured by the many overlapping branches.

Somewhere, he falls. 

The rain hits his face, enough to encourage him to shut his aching eyes again. Sleep is much safer. And he’s slept so little lately, it’s hard to fight the impulse now. So he doesn’t.

His head hurts so bad, like someone’s palms are on his temples and they’re pressing their whole weight into his skull. Trying to push his head down into the dirt below him. It makes thinking impossible. His body feels disconnected from him, like a foggy extension he doesn’t know how to reach. He’s fairly certain all parts of him can still be accounted for. His left foot throbs – he stepped on something that felt like it snapped when he pressed his weight down. Whatever it is, it’s splintered up into his foot. It aches, and pulses with each pounding beat of his heart. 

And then there’s this business with his side. 

He can’t really remember why or where it would have happened. There are these little holes just torn right into his skin. They’re bleeding like crazy and that doesn’t make thinking or moving any easier. But that’s okay. 

He turns his head, angles his cheek up towards the sky, and lets the rain pelt the side of his head. 

He’s hungry. 

[x.]

His food sits on the table.

Dave ordered him a sub out of reflex and it’s just sitting there. Mockingthem.Insultingthem. 

Derek can’t stop staring at it. 

They found Abel Boseman’s body. His skull was cracked by a rock, he was dead long before they got to him. 

Which means going to that house was basically pointless. All they figured out anyway was that Abel planned to return and Hotch would end up somewhere but not here. It made no sense for him to go back to that house, even as it began to rain. Sean had told Derek once Aaron spent every day of his childhood out there, playing around in the woods. And now Abel is dead and still, no one knows where Hotch is. 

“Do you really think…” Reid stays focused on the board. If he keeps re-angling, keeps crunching numbers then none of this is real. None of this is happening. “Do you really think he did it?” But Abel Boseman’s photo goes up and it’s hard to push what’s happening to the side. “That Hotch…” 

They found blood and Abel Boseman’s body – enough was Hotch’s to not ease their concern about him but too much of it was Abel’s too. There was a struggle. It wasn’t much of a question, Hotch killed Abel. Maybe he didn’t mean to but he did. And that made two men dead by nothing more than Hotch’s hand in less than a year.

Derek rubs at his temples, unable to stifle his frustration. “Obviously, he did.” Reid immediately turns away from the heat in Derek’s gaze, the hatred in his voice.

They found Abel a mile away from where they found Hotch’s badge, gun, and phone dumped. Only ten yards from Hotch’s left shoe – hooked on a log. It was clear Abel had dragged Hotch through the woods on the tarp, the bottom shredded and the blue tarp stained by Hotch’s blood. An altercation occurred. Abel did not survive and Hotch… Well, it’s hard to tell. They have dogs out there, searching. That’s where Derek and Reid should be. Looking. 

But Derek is benched for the time being. 

The Sheriff made a comment as they zipped the body bag containing Abel Boseman. Derek hadn’t even heard the whole thing but he understood the message – Aaron Hotchner is a nobody and no badge could ever make him a somebody. And it made him snap. He’d just spent the day searching through that abandoned house. Thinking about that fucking razor. About Foyet. About Haley and Jack and that it was his badge that started everything. He couldn’t take it. He shouldn’t have been in the field anyway. 

The Sheriff fucked off. 

Derek was sent back to the station. 

“The hounds picked up a scent,” Emily swings into the room, running in to grab more batteries for their flashlights and umbrellas. “They think they’re close. Dave wants everyone out there.” 

[x.]

JJ hates the woods.

She hates the south.

The gravestones where people lay buried with names and dates of birth and death that no one ever seems to know. Once, someone will mumble, once the dates and name could be read. Dragging a finger across the uneven stone will allow that much to become obvious. No one ever knows the people who lay at rest here but standing near, stopping to stare will settle the most discomforting feeling in the pit of your stomach. Whatever the people do here you know, as the hairs on your neck raise and you shiver like there are cold fingers playing your spine like the keys of a piano, no one rests.

The woods are like that too. The eyes that follow you into the trees never blink, they are always watching. 

Ahead of her, stomping through the underbrush with unsettled anger of a man having lost his temper multiple times today, Morgan pays JJ only as much attention as he has to. Enough to shout above the rain when he finds a particularly slick area of mud or to avoid thistles reaching out to snag against the skin. 

Morgan isn’t taking it very well. He stomps and breaks the eerie calm of the woods with each foot he puts down – breaking twigs or rustling plants. 

The people JJ had expected a riot out of took the news without blinking. Dave had nodded gravely with understanding, getting this glint in his eyes that read plainly he knew their likelihood of catching this unsub and finding Hotch alive seemed grim. Emily had taken a deep breath in and just shook her head, declared it bound to happen with a dismissive shrug. “It’s better that it’s him,” Emily promised her. “He knows the woods and… and he’s tough. He’ll come back.” But she was already considering how long it would take before their resources were cut. Before Strauss called and declared they would have to come home. Irrational but valid. What if Abel cracked his skull too? What if they never even find his body out there?

They’ve never left anyone behind before. 

“Morgan?”

JJ comes up over a bit of a hill, mostly just rocks and roots twisted and covered in leaves. She’d been following Morgan, he’d slowed his place to allow her to get a little closer. But he was right here. 

“Derek!”

Someone screams. The sound erupts from the ground, from through the trees or from under her feet. From behind her, she thinks but she can’t find a source. She can’t reason where it could have originated. Softer this time, her courage to scream into the darkness stolen from her throat. “Derek?” It’s raining, the water soaking through her hair and down into her eyes. She’s drenched. Lost. Laughter bursts out of her chest, tumbling up out of her chest in thick, tense bursts. Wherever Hotch is, chances are she’s going to end up in the same place. So at least there’s that, right? Maybe he’s alive but it’s unlikely he’ll be as happy to see her as she will be to see him. 

“JJ?”

She turns around, whips around so fast the world is just a pitch of orange blur. Nothing. There’s no one. Just fire and mud.Her fingers stiffly curling over her radio but she’s not certain she’s actually turned the thing on. “This is – This is Jennifer J–” her radio isn’t working. The static doesn’t sound out. Depressing the button does nothing. 

“Jennifer?”

She turns around, eyes searching along the trees to find absolutely nothing. Decaying leaves. Fallen tree branches. “Hotch.” He’s leaning against the trunk of one of the larger trees, holding himself up with the tight grip his fingers have on the dark bark. He’s soaked clean through, hair flat against his forehead, and clothes clinging to his skin. “You’re–” she steps towards him, eyes finally catching the smaller details of his stature. Rain isn’t what’s soaking his clothing through. “Oh my God.”

“Are you real?” he rasps.

There’s blood down the side of his face, coming from behind his ear somewhere. Or maybe out of his ear… 

JJ nods, “Yeah. Yeah,  of course.”

He squints, adamant. It’s hard to know what’s real and what’s not. “Can you…” he starts to tip forward and he hears the crunch of her footstep, the step she tries to make towards him. He stumbles back, hitting a tree hard. “No! No! Stop, stop, please.” He holds up a hand, holding her back. “Please,” he repeats. He holds his hand up as he breathes, focusing so hard on pulling air into his lungs. He has to think about it. Otherwise, he’ll forget to. “Can you…” he’s not even sure how to say what he means. “I don’t know what’s real.”

JJ just wanted to help him. He’d started to fall and he doesn’t look like he can really handle falling again. “Okay, okay, I can prove I’m real.” She smiles, “I know… Uhm, I know you like oatmeal raisin cookies? And – And blueberry muffins. You take your coffee black but only when someone else makes it for you. If you make it for yourself you like two creams and a sugar.” She’s not sure that’s enough but it’s what she thinks of first. 

He nods, face pinching up as starts to cry. Tears fall down his face. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah.” He tries to stay standing up, “thank, God. I’m gonna – I think I’m gonna–"

JJ watches his eyes roll back, his entire body going limp as he falls to the side. “Hotch!”

Oh, Sinnerman

Warnings: child abuse, bible nonsense, I’m pretty sacrilege but like really it’s just a funny word I’m only half sure of the meaning, and self-harm

Word count: 6 or 7,000? No pairings. All of them die single.

Here’s the bible shit you need to know only because Hotch knows: In Genesis, Cain killed his brother Abel. Also In Genesis, Abraham’s faith was tested by God telling him to take his only son, Issac, to the top of a mountain and offer him as a sacrifice. He is stopped before he delivers the killing strike and a goat is offered in Issac’s place. In Exodus, Moses saw a flaming bush and God instructed him to get the Israelites out of Egypt.

Now to the main show:

He goes to sleep with his window shut. 

Dreams of the branches of the willow in the backyard creeping into his room. Long branches wrapped around his throat. A noose. He’s seen pictures in his history books. Black and white pictures of limp bodies. How bad would it really hurt? Worse than broken ribs? Worse than a fractured skull? He’s passed out before, a hand around his throat and another slamming into his stalled chest. That hurt. But suicide is a sin. The preacher on Sunday mornings, voice cracking through the mountain fog, looks right at Aaron as he breathes these words. It’s the worst sin. To kill the gift of life that God has so tenderly breathed into your lungs. Aaron looks away. He’s angry enough, scorned enough, not to care. 

He wakes up and his window is open, leaves scattered on his carpet. 

His mother tells him this too shall pass, holds his hand, and reads from the bible. She thinks that this is a trial, smiles, and tells him his father is just battling the devil. Aaron looks away from her, lets her hold his cold, thin wrist but refuses to sit with her. God is her comfort but not Aaron’s. If the devil is who his father battles, Aaron can’t imagine how small God must be. The devil is a bottle. So who is God?

Whiskey. The devil is whiskey, hellfire scorching Aaron’s face as his father holds him still. “Smartass,” his father jeers, thick fingers sunk into Aaron’s bottom jaw. “You never know when to shut the hell up, do you?” Aaron’s mouth hurts, his jaw grinding under the grip his father has on it. His lips are bleeding, split by the fat class ring on his father’s index finger. His blood is smeared on his cheek, dripping onto his nice shirt. Held still by his father’s crushing grip, looking into his wild, angry eyes only inches away from his own,  Aaron survives by withdrawing. He sees nothing and feels nothing. Thinks about the willow in the backyard. He wouldn’t even need a rope. The branches are so thick– He’s shaken back to cognition, reflexively pulling back as his father’s face gets closer. “Are you listening to me, you little bastard?”

The fingers loosen just a fraction, he’s moving his other hand back to slap him, but Aaron sees it coming. He wrenches his face free, feels the sting of the slap, but runs. Throws the screen door open and runs. Doesn’t look back. Can’t look back.

“Come back here you stupid little prick!” 

The woods welcome him. He is their child. His blood has spilled onto their foliage. He has laid in their safety. It is their life that has maintained his. 

He stole a knife from the Brookes’ County Store, the owner the father of a girl he goes to school with. He’s a nice old man but Aaron doesn’t trust him. No matter how softly he speaks. Aaron’s not stupid. He’s not certain Roy Brookes would hurt him but he knows what happens when you trust adults. Two summers ago, Johnny Raylan was found drowned in the river. Lured there by his neighbor. A man he trusted, a man who loved him. Roy Brookes doesn’t even care about Aaron, so no, he doesn’t trust the man. 

He stole a knife just because he knew Roy wouldn’t say anything and that made him feel big, powerful. Untouchable. 

Mockingly, he carved into the bark of the oak in the middle of the woods. Taking out his pain and fear on old wood. Where no one would find his sacrilegious offense, he left “These trials will show your faith.” Aaron finds it easily and knows where to go. The woods are his home, these trees are just hallways. He comes to stand at the base of the oak tree, panting from his run. He presses his fingers into the jagged letters, feeling where the wood raises. From his back pocket, he pulls out his knife. He thumbs the blade experimentally. He sinks it into the tree, satisfied by the resistance but craving more. The knife shimmers in the sunlight, a wicked idea crosses his mind. How terribly fucked, he imagines, he must be to think such a thing. To hurt himself because he’s being hurt. How terribly unforgivable and immoral… He craves it nonetheless. 

His blades are one thing, sterile and thin. Pinched perfectly between his own fingers, the depth and length determined by him. 

He presses the blade into his skin, the same way he would with a razor. He punctures the skin, grunting at the hot pain that lances up his arm. This is so different. It bleeds more. More than cutting and more than he’s expecting. He presses his wrist to the tree and guides the blood into the words. Forces his blood to take to the words. It looks written in his blood.

A blood sacrifice. 

[x.]

A painter does not put brush to canvas without a reference, without some idea of what comes next in the process. And for that reason, Hotch could never imagine fatherhood. How do you raise a child as a man raised by his own hand? And as the living proof of his own handiwork, at his own success at raising a child, Hotch could not suggest that other people leave their children in his care. His well of understanding on how to raise a child was not just barren, it was dry. There had never once been water to pull from his well. He’d never seen successful, kind fatherhood. He had never felt it. So how could he do it? How could he be expected to love and care for a child when he had never known it himself? When he had never been able to show even himself that same kind of gentleness. 

Yet… 

Jack’s head rests on Hotch’s pillow. His hair is thin still, a youthful straw yellow he’ll grow out of before too soon and Hotch will miss just how young blond hair made Jack look. His little face is still pink with agitation but his breathing calmed. He’d woken up sobbing, as he often does these days. He’s too young still to understand exactly why Hotch can’t just go get Mommy, why she won’t come back no matter how much either of them cry or agree it would be better if she were here. 

It’s soothing to watch Jack sleep. 

His morning breath smells like pure rot but he’s terribly adorable taking up all of the bed with all of the three feet of his body. Hotch’s on the edge of the mattress, sleeping on his side – Jack’s razor-sharp elbows and harsh kicks having driven him to there. And as fit full as his own sleep had been, he smiles as Jack slowly works at waking up. He yawns and Hotch grimaces at the face full of his son’s morning breath. Hotch makes him brush his teeth every day but there is just something about the breath of little kids…  

Jack is disjointed, moving his shoulders and hips in a way that would certainly cause Hotch’s to lock up painfully. Jack tries to stand up and Hotch smirks at the state of him. His little wisps of hair stick up in every direction but he smiles happily. “Morning!” Jack dizzily falls back down on the bed, aiming and landing right on Hotch’s side. Hotch grunts at the impact, sharp elbows meeting his ribs unforgivingly. “I’m hungry.”

“Morning,” Hotch kisses his forehead, soaking in the unexpected way Jack crawls up to him. “Did you sleep alright?” Jack lays down on his chest, yawning and nodding as a reply. “You ready to get up?” Hotch rubs his back, not surprised to find Jack’s back and hair slick with sleepy sweat. The kid sweats more than anyone else he knows. Jack shakes his head. Hotch hums, he’s not ready to get up yet either. The day holds so much to do and taking a shower and shaving does not hold up to sleepy cuddles. Neither does the meeting he has with Strauss at three this evening. 

But they can only put off getting ready for the day for so long. 

Jack sleeps while he showers, rolling over to claim the warm part of the mattress Hotch had been laying in. Hoarding the one part of the bed he hadn’t taken over earlier in his sleep. By the time Hotch is out of the shower, working a towel through his hair quickly and trying to get a shirt on while Jack’s frantic knocking begins to be accompanied by a loud, Daddy hurry! I’m gonna pee myself! The carpet is spared an accident and Jack scowls at him from the toilet seat. He’d much rather stand to pee but in the rush, Hotch had embarrassed him by just stripping him naked himself and plopping him down on the seat rather than watch Jack piss himself trying to get out of a pair of footie pajamas. It’s happened more than once. A pouty four-year-old is better than one standing in a puddle of his own urine, sobbing uncontrollably over an accident. 

Jack recovers from his humiliation and is happy to be allowed to sit on the edge of the sink and watch Hotch shave. Yawning sleepily as he walks his fingers over his father’s ribs and up to his sternum. All until he falls forward and just lets Hotch hold him upright, little feet kicking off the counter. 

Brushing his teeth is like torture. Jack can not brush them well enough to avoid cavities on his own so Hotch has to double back and Jack hates it. “If you let me brush your teeth,” Hotch barters, moving Jack’s toothbrush back so he can’t grab it, “I’ll let you brush my teeth.”  

Jack squints skeptically at Hotch for a moment but that’s too good of an offer to refuse. “K.” 

True to his word, Hotch does allow Jack to brush his teeth and he’s very rough on the gums. But Hotch smiles and tells him that he did such a good job anyway. 

He has his morning cup of coffee and two or three spoonfuls of soggy cheerios. Jack eats all of his cereal soggy, a side-effect of not yet mastering the motor control it takes to wield a spoon. Most foods he eats end up all over him. They’re working on it. In the meantime, Hotch is force-fed bits of soggy cereal every morning. Bites he has to take because he’s pretty certain if he rejects his terribly adorable son’s offer he’s an awful father. And he does enough stupid shit throughout the day to be a bad dad, he needs the easy breaks where he can get them. 

Unfortunately, he really fucking hates soggy cereal. 

He has two more cups of coffee before he leaves the house and he realizes then that he is fighting a very unwinnable battle. 

He hasn’t been sleeping well. 

Or, at all. 

The couch in his office was a gift from Dave in ‘98 when he got promoted. It was a complicated gift – Dave was retiring, leaving, and giving Hotch that shitty old couch felt like blood money. Not that Dave really cared, he just didn’t want to figure out how to get that couch out of the building or to pay for a U-Haul. And who better to pawn it off onto than Hotch? In the three years that the couch sat in Dave’s office, only Hotch had ever liked that ratty old thing. The cushions are thin and the fabric is very rough. Jason would rather stand through hour-long meetings than sit on it – springs digging into his ass and back were not as bad as just standing uncomfortably. 

The first concussion Hotch got on the job he slept off on that couch, curled up like a baby, and almost unwilling to get up once Haley got there. It had taken Dave and Jason to get him back up off the couch – the only reason he left the safety of the shitty couch was with the promise of a peanut butter & jelly sandwich. The only person who ever liked that couch was Hotch but Dave was almost surprised to find Hotch had kept that old piece of junk for so long but then again, not really. Then again, Hotch was still packing PB&Js for lunch so nothing really changes. 

That couch is every bit of twenty years old, it’s only redeemable quality is simply that Hotch loves it. The cushions are thin and the only way he can sleep on it is on his back but that couch does what nothing else can. He takes sleeping pills and he ends up having nightmares – sleep is futile to the body if it never has the chance to relax. And the nightmares are night terrors, dreams so intense he wakes up soaked in sweat. He takes sleeping pills and then sits up for four hours in the middle of the night waiting for anxiety medications to bring him down from whatever anxiety attack he manages to work himself into. 

Penelope buys him tea and the only person that seems to work on is Jack. The smell of organic Chamomile tea steeping, even just the sound of water boiling, has Jack yawning and rubbing at his eyes. Penelope says honey will help the taste and dutifully, Hotch stirs a little into his mug, but he’s not sleeping. 

Except for one that shitty old couch. 

It’s not at a point where people are noticing, people being Emily, but someone’s noticing and that’s never any good. She doesn’t say anything to him or any of the others about it because when it comes to dealing with Hotch making public observations about him doesn’t blow over well. Noticing him is always a bad thing but it’s better to notice in private. 

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Hotch sits up slowly, palms pressed into his eye sockets as he tries to encourage his brain to work. “I was,” he offers matter-of-factly. For someone else he might sit up, fake being more attentive and awake. Get right to business and distract from his just sleeping hair sticking up in every direction. But Emily’s seen him worse. Besides, she’s got her arms crossed over her chest and giving him this look that he knows is going to annoy him. He has no choice but to entertain it. 

She’s sitting on the coffee table, her knees against his. She’s cornered him. “You’re being weird.” 

He uses the side of the couch to stand, old knees protesting the deep movement. “I do believe that calling people names is rude.” His left leg is asleep and he limps to his desk, rubbing at his eyes as he moves blindly around his office. He knows exactly where everything is just as he knows Emily is watching his every movement. 

Emily clicks her tongue, pleased that he’s still groggy from his nap. Enough to loosen his tongue, to give her what she wants. “Now you’re deflecting.” She has no questions to ask. If she should be worried, he’d tell her. If something were wrong, he’d tell her. They’ve worked hard at this trust, given up too much to suddenly start pulling back. 

She caves, she doesn’t want to but he sits down at his desk and puts his head in his hands. He needs to drink more water and eat something. She brought him a muffin from downstairs, a little plastic-wrapped situation. Blueberry. Normally, she brings him the chocolate chip muffins because those are the ones she likes and he never finishes one on his own. So he’ll always give her half, it’s a win-win. They’re giant muffins, really. But he is acting weird. So she feels bad and he knows it. “Here,” she throws the muffin at him and he reads the vulnerability in her kindness easily. “Eat something.” 

She got him the muffin he prefers. 

“Thank you.”

She shrugs it off and makes a face at him that says more than she’s willing. A warning not to make this a weird thing and a careful avoidance of his eye contact, a clarification that he does matter to her. That his well-being is something she considers and cares about. “Eat it, JJ wants us at the round table. Got a case.” 

He frowns, JJ didn’t say anything to him. “Where?” 

“Winchester.”

Winchester. 

Barefoot two a.m. runs down the road, tearing off in one direction for as long as his legs would carry him. Hoping, praying, that his father would be too drunk to be able to find him. Seeing headlights coming up behind him and bracing for the impact. 

Squeezing between his mattress and the floor when the yelling got too much, hoping if he made himself scarce he’d suddenly be forgotten. Drunk hands swiping at him, trying to grab at an ankle or a wrist and pull him out. Coming into his room the next day to find his bedframe gone, his mattress on the floor. 

The clawfoot tub in the bathroom, being held under the water by a strong grip on his hair. He could never do anything right. His fear of water was born one summer afternoon, the lawn hadn’t been mowed the right way, and his t-shirt was too dirty at the dinner table. He couldn’t breathe, didn’t think he ever would after that. 

One short invaluable life measured out in quick, thundering heartbeats not certain things wouldn’t end right here. His head underwater. Headlights casting the shadow of his long skinny legs up the road. 

Winchester.

“Hotch?” Emily is still standing in his office, watching him just pause – this vacant, horrified look in his eyes. 

He clears his throat and lowers his eyes to his desk like he’s looking for something. “I’ll – I’ll be out in a second.” He opens the muffin but only to make her think he has any intention of eating it. He doesn’t. 

Winchester. 

In terms of relativity, is a big enough place. Logically, the odds are on his side that they run into no one that he knows. But he knows better than to hope that luck is aligned with that logistic. 

JJ hands him the file and he opens it, holding his breath as his eyes scan the page. And, of course, he’s wrong. JJ doesn’t need prompting to start so with him standing she begins the case outline. 

Abraham Boseman, thirty-four, was found in the woods at the base of an old dying oak tree. Laid out on a firewood prye, throat slit.

Under the table, Emily kicks his foot. Hard. No one else notices, Derek keeps on his worried path arguing with Dave about sacrilege. Reid is trying very hard to patiently wait them out. Lips pressed together to glue them shut and his entire body bounced with his leg. 

“It looks like  a sacrifice.”

Hotch can’t tear his eyes away from the pictures. 

“What’s that written on the tree?”

The tree. He can’t think. The tree? He looks up and watches Emily flip to pictures forward. He does the same. The tree. 

Solemnly, Derek reads, “these trails will show your faith.” His voice is steady and even, the opposite of Hotch’s beat skipping thundering heart. He can’t help but look up, search Derek’s face for some reaction to the thing that he is seeing. But Derek gives nothing. He just sighs and shakes his head. “Look at that tree, the coloration of the wood, the words?” He points the tip of his pen up at the board, “it’s dark. Aged. That was written there… years ago.” He shakes his head and looks back down at the photos in front of him. “So, either he chose these woods, this tree… or we’re missing years worth of bodies.” 

Hotch wonders if they can see the pulse he can feel in his face. 

Dave scoffs, “we don’t know that. Something like this?” They all look back at the photo, Hotch stares forward. “It upsets people. Southern, old people don’t sit well with sacrilege. They’d have called it in if there were more bodies or, at least, called in a priest.” Like an exterminator. Leave some traps to drag the pests out. 

JJ sighs, “I meant, where’s the quote from?”

Spencer raises his hand, fingers poised in that thoughtful way he does as he thinks. “It’s 1st Peter, These trials will show that your faith is genuine. It is being tested as fire tests and purifies gold—though your faith is far more precious than mere gold. So when your faith remains strong through many trials, it will bring you much praise and glory and honor on the day when Jesus Christ is revealed to the whole world.” 

Derek grunts, “so this is a sacrifice? For who, God? Kind of… grotesque.” 

Spencer shakes his head, “no not really. Biblically, sacrifices are very common. From the Israelites, God asked for a ram. From Abraham, his son Jacob”. From Aaron–” Spencer’s eyes move involuntarily to Hotch “–Mose’s brother, a bull.” 

Derek frowns, rolling his eyes, “animals are a totally different thing.” 

Penelope gasps. 

“Baby girl–”

Aaron clears his throat, his head throbbing as the attention in the room spins back to him. He feels immediately light-headed. “I think Dave’s right,” heknows, “but we won’t know for certain until we get to the scene.” It’s meant to be demissive, the sound of closing files following him out. They don’t but he’s also not going to stop for the meandering conversations that they’ll have once he’s gone. His residual presence in the room will make things awkward, they’re less open when he’s around. After all, he’s the boss, not their friend. 

Emily noticed his unnoticeable dissociation.  The way his eyes never left the photos JJ paperclipped to the file. She follows him out of the room, accusing his back, “you’re still being weird.” 

Hotch keeps on his path and ignores the Emily that apparates at his heels. He does leave the door open when he steps into his office and lets her take the time to close it behind them. He tosses the file on the desk, and lets it thud punctuate his sentence. Gives things a theatric pause. “Do we need to talk about the hostile work environment you’re causing?” He leans back onto his desk, arms crossed. There is no malice in his tone. He collected coins as a child. Endured torture at home and in class. Weird is on the list but it’s not that harsh or even creative. 

Narrowing her eyes, Emily crosses her own arms. “See?” She nods her chin at him, “now you’re being defensive.”

He opens his mouth nearly immediately but closes it and that’s nearly the same thing as answering her. At least this way he doesn’t arm her with words. Pushing himself off the desk he rounds the other side, puts the desk between them. Keeps being defensive. “Is there something I can do for you, Prentiss?” 

She frowns at him, calculating the response she’ll get from anything that isn’t her departure. He’ll kick her out, he’s done it before. “Yeah,” she decides. “I gave you the muffin to eat.” She turns back to the door, “so eat it, you get real… moody when you’re blood sugar is low.” 

“It’s not–” he shuts his mouth. He hates the way that she gets under his skin, and bothers him like no one else can. “Tell the others we’re heading out in thirty. I just need to call transport, get enough SUVs.” He smiles politely, already thinking about how he’ll send her in the same SUV as Penelope and Spencer. Payback. 

“Yes, sir.” 

It’s mocking and he knows it. 

“Thank you.” 

[x.]

It’s a forty-five-minute drive which is, truthfully, one of the more tame adventures they’ve endured in cramped SUVs. Not that Emily will forgive Hotch anytime soon for making her go with Derek, Penelope, and Spencer for it. Her head pulses to the beat of the song Derek and Penelope happily sing over, not even the wind from her downed window relieves the pressure. He’s a bastard and she stares at the SUV in front of them, trying to stare a hole into the tires. She wants him to have to change one on the side of the road. The sweltering sun beating down on his suit-clad shoulders. Make him get a weird pain in his back. Dirt all over his hands. He’s a rat bastard and she hates him. 

They’re greeted into the city of Winchester by an old wooden sign, rustic in an authentic, rotting in the ground kind of way. Derek cringes. Small towns are the worst cases to work.

Immediately, something is off. The Sheriff is a little too stiff as he shakes JJ’s hand. But Emily can’t figure out why. She narrows down the oddities to age – no one younger than thirty eyes them oldy. The woman who works the front desk frowns at them and not even Dave’s nasty way of flirting with her eases that tight frown. It’s weird, Dave’s charming. It’s also nasty but he’s very good at it. 

Leaning close to JJ, the only trustable person on this team, Emily asks, “Is it me or…” Emily frowns, “they’re acting weird.” All of the officers. It started with one or two, no reason she could wrap her head around. They don’t typically like having the team around but the reactions are… different. Too much whispering and side-eyes. Not the side-eye JJ gets or the kind Spencer gets. 

JJ looks up from her work, because she’s doing work and not gossiping like Emily, and frowns. She looks over her shoulder, around the room, and then back to them. “I guess,” she shrugs. “Why?”

Emily sits down, shaking her head. “Hotch.” JJ frowns. “They haven’t even noticed Reid, you notice that? Everyone notices Reid. And Garcia? Same thing. Hotch asks for something, they get weird.” She taps her finger, thinking. “Nobody does that to Hotch.” He’s big. Not broad but long. Mean too. And angry looking. Hotch asks for something and people do it. Not here. 

It started with the Sheriff, the old man’s face falling as quickly as Hotch’s had twisted into something unrecognizable. Something akin to fear or… at least recognition. Then a few of the older officers. They looked angry. 

JJ shrugs, “people are weird.” 

“Always,” Emily frowns. She leaves, suddenly, no warning. 

JJ doesn’t bother overthinking that comment or even wonder what the hell that’s supposed to mean. She has no particular interest in paying them any more mind than she has to. Places like this create a certain type of man. Those who eye her as she walks past because they don’t care to be seen watching. That’s exactly why Hotch asks her to go out to visit the victim’s family with him. He doesn’t want to stay at the station any longer and he suspects JJ will have far less to say about everything than anyone else. 

Her silence is valued and then it’s corrupting. She doesn’t play music in the car and he has entirely too much time to think. 

His house of horrors was framed by woods on three sides, the front opening to a driveway connected to the end of a dirt road. As a boy, he’d rest his head on the fence in the backyard gazing out into the trees and imagining the life within them. His mother forbade this after one night he told her a story, one he’d come up with all on his own, about a deer with human teeth standing on the edge of the property. It stood on its hind legs and waved. He was, from then on, no longer allowed anywhere but the front yard. Which he thought peculiar given the front yard was where his story took place. His mother smoothed this over by making sure he understood to never tell that story again. His little head just got away from him sometimes, she said. He was a gifted storyteller with an overactive imagination. 

Though, typically, overactive imagination is what she called rehearsing his lies with him. Dotting fleshy color back into reddened, painful skin. Her fingers were gentle where his father’s had been rough the night before. “How’d you hit your head, sweetheart?” And with crooked teeth, he’d smile, “fell off my bunk bed!”

He wasn’t sure he’d actually seen a deer do what he told his mother he’d seen it do until that very moment. This was the line between fiction and truth – his overactive imagination.

He never really wanted to play in the backyard after that anyway.

Not to say he’s scared of the woods. He’s a grown man, faced real demons in the daylight, not ones living under his bed and waving at him from the edge of the woods. But that’s not to say he can’t feel a cold sweat breaking out underneath his shirt as JJ drives them down winding backroads of another Virginia county he wishes to not recall the name of in a month. It makes him nauseous as well, hills upon hills and forever winding roads. It has nothing to do with the trees. Nothing to do with Spencer’s sudden interest in folklore or the older man who Derek questioned who smelt exactly like honeysuckles and moonshine. It’s the road. Long and winding. 

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” JJ says, blinker keeping track of the pause that follows her comment. She looks down both sides of the road and turns left. The blinker stops with a click. He says nothing. She glances over at him again. Quiet is the polite way to put it. He let her drive. Aaron Hotchner doesn’t let anyone drive. He’s been acting oddly. Paranoid in the exact same way Spencer is – looking over his shoulder and sitting with his back to the wall. She thought he might just be ill. Hotch wears ailments like relapses in his PTSD. As if the flu brings George Foyet back to life and once again they are in an active manhunt. But she’s fairly certain he’s not sick.

JJ doesn’t want to test her luck, she’s planning on bragging to the others that he let her drive and it’s really salt in the wound if she gets to drive back to the precinct too. But she also just can’t let this go. “You grew up in the area, right?” she glances over at him. Finds a storm cloud in her passenger seat. Quickly, to throw the blame, she adds, “Emily said something about it.”

Head turned towards the window, he hides the eye roll he can’t really help.  

Both Derek and Emily have said something about it to him. No sooner than he could pull his hand out of the Sheriff’s, offering the man a small, tight nod, as they walked side-by-side the Sheriff’s attention going anywhere but Hotch. Which is never the standard. Sheriffs usually like to talk to Hotch, not because they like him but just because he’s the easily identified guy in charge. This Sheriff goes to Derek. Even less normal. 

Derek knew. Emily was only just starting to work it out. He might not know the name of the street Aaron grew up on or which backroad would take you there but he knew the county name and that look on Hotch’s face. The same one Sean gets when he’s had too many drinks and heads down a road Derek wishes he wouldn’t. 

Seatbelts unbuckling, the rest of their car ride spent in complete silence, Hotch pauses a moment before opening his door. JJ sees his contemplation and waits. After a moment he offers, “I grew up a few miles from here. On the other side of those woods.” Then he opens his door and leaves the conversation. That’s all he’s willing to say on this matter. 

JJ doesn’t look in the direction he vaguely nodded to until they’re walking towards the house. He grew up in a home, that much she knows for sure, but Hotch’s history is a patchwork of half-truths. This one she’s inclined to believe but she looks into those woods and can not imagine a boy. Knowing Jack, and loving him to pieces, she knows he’s entirely woven from Haley. JJ could never imagine such wide smiles coming from Hotch, such unashamed laughter. It’s heartbreaking. 

Normally, Hotch would send Derek or Emily out to do this sort of work. He is better at it and yields better results faster but he’s usually preoccupied with sheriffs and deputies. Here those people would prefer he stay very far away from them and he couldn’t be happier to oblige. He leaves them to Dave and prays the older man doesn’t say too much. 

They’re visiting a widow, the victim’s mother. She’s in her eighties, a very typical southern mother. It’s easy and Hotch is comforted by the idea of it. He plays fully into his southern charm, slipping into an accent occasionally guided by the older woman sitting across from them. “And your other son–?”

“Abel,” the old woman gushes. “Abraham, Abel, and Abigail.” She sips at her sweet tea, her smile never fading. “Two sons and a daughter and I couldn’t be happier. They make me very proud to be their mother.”

JJ smiles back, “three As, that’s impressive.” She’d never understood why parents are inclined to pick one letter of the alphabet and name all their children by its guide. 

Without looking away from the fireplace Hotch adds, “Abel the good shepherd, Abraham the obedient, and Abigail cause of joy.” The old woman smiles and Hotch looks away. Gideon had called him a divining rod, the kindest way to say traumatized. Adapted. He always knew which family members would be helpful when investigating. Which fathers would curl their lips when questioned and which mothers would weep, would come undone and spell out generations of just the way things are done. Always knew just what to say. 

Once she’s done giggling, prideful of his knowledge, the old woman asks, “you said your name was Agent Hotchner? You any kin to the Hotchner’s over thataway?” 

Hotch steadies his attention and keeps his eyes on the older woman so he won’t glance at JJ. “No,” he lies, smoothly. Smiles too wide. Too much. Too forced. “I’m afraid it’s a very common last name where I’m from. More Northern.” He glances at JJ, shying from her gaze. His eyes aimed back at the creaking floorboards below. 

The old woman shakes her head, “I’ll be damned if you don’t look exactly like that family, though. Could fit right in. Exactly like the daddy of that bunch, spitting image.” She shakes her head and turns to JJ. “Meaner than a snake, that ol’ bastard. ‘Bout beat the skin off his oldest more than once. Why if I had–”

Hotch clears his throat, and suddenly his collar is too tight. “Sorry,” he apologizes immediately. Old habits die hard. Sorrywas the first word he ever learned. “Did your boys know them?” He already knows the answers. Against his better judgment, despite everything he knows, he takes a sip of the sweet tea she poured him. Tries to wet his mouth. “You said that – You’ve been in the area for a while. Could they be involved?”

Heobviously knows the answer. Her sons are younger than Sean and no one knew anything more about Sean in this town than they did about him. The entire town decided the Hotchner boys were the only things to fear in those woods. Drugs and alcohol and screams. Besides, no one lives in that old house anymore. 

“No, no,” the old woman says, decisively. Without a shred of doubt, he doesn’t ask for further proof. Doesn’t need to. “Them boys… I couldn’t tell you what they’re up to. Likely prison.” She shakes her head, looks at JJ again. They share a kinship of motherhood and she suspects JJ will agree with her. As if one of those boys isn’t staring a hole into the floor beneath their feet, avoiding her eye contact. 

Prison makes the skin on Hotch’s arms stand. He thinks of Sean. 

The bails he’s paid off. 

The law he’s practiced long after his license expired. 

The rehab stays. 

“Neither one of them was worth a damn.” The old woman looks remorseful, shakes her head. “Not that their daddy ever let ‘em have the chance.” She looks off to the side, wistful. Imagines the thin, inky black-haired boy standing at the edge of her property. Picking blackberries tell his fingers bled with the juice. 

Hotch takes another drink from his sweet tea and sits it down with an air of finality, a southern sort of dismissal. “Thank you,” he manages, “your hospitality has been welcoming but Agent Jareau and I really should get back to the station.” He extends JJ the same smile, never reaching his eyes, “JJ can leave you with a card to contact us.” 

Aaron would be the final puzzle piece. His business card would be the damning piece of evidence and that’s a distracting conversation to have. It would destroy the relationship they’ve just built. She’d known in an instant. He is that little Hotchner boy, not worth a damn. 

The air is not nearly that humid but it stirs his vision dangerously the second they step out onto the porch. JJ is right behind him, having another goodbye, so she doesn’t see his miss-step. She doesn’t see the man standing in the woods either. 

“Who is that?”

The old woman said her oldest son had moved out of the county two years ago and started a family. Her daughter had done the same. The only kids who stay here are caught, if you know what’s good for you, you leave so Hotch hadn’t considered she’d lie. 

“JJ!” 

Shotgun pellets. His side stings. 

“Go!” JJ has the old woman pinned to the house’s wall. “Go! I’ve got this!” 

Abel and Cain. Guess he should have seen that one coming. A biblical retelling. All the wrong characters, the story jumbled. Close but not right. 

It suddenly makes too much sense. Hotch wonders what they’d find in Abel’s house. He’d only heard stories, awful, crass retellings of the sort of things recovered in the bedrooms of men and women in fitful delusions. Mostly, he just gets twisted up. Abel killed Abraham. Dave will eat this up, it’s perfect book material. The twisted biblical stories. Not right but intricate and interesting. 

Another shot is fired, this one aimed at his head. He falls down in the driveway, scrapes his knees up but doesn’t get shot. “Abel!” he shouts, following the back of the man in front of him. The bushes at the mouth of the woods have been beaten into a path of sorts, thistles pushed aside. They reach for his pants, tear at his clothing. “FBI! Abel, you need to stop running!” 

His side pulses, hot and angry, and he comes to a fumbled stop. He searches the woods for a moment, hearing nothing but the sound of his breath. Then white-hot pain blossoms across the back of his head. He falls back, sticks and rocks digging into his back. 

“I did what was asked of me!” Hotch pitches forward, gasping and spitting up vomit. His vision swims dangerously until his head is suddenly grabbed. Two hands hold his face still, forcing his eyes to meet the man in front of him. “I did what was asked of me,” Abel repeats. “You must understand. Who am I to disobey God?” A second time, more frantically, he repeats, “God!” 

Hotch tries to open his mouth, to encourage Abel to let him go or to find the right thing to say. But he just can’t think of any words. He just can’t feel anything. His eyes roll back into his head, his lips meeting in a soundless last attempt to stay alive.

running toward nothing (part four)

Summary: Hotch is injured in an explosion while on overseas assignment, putting Derek in a difficult position both with the team and with Spencer who has spent the last few months inadvertently falling in love with him. (Set around 07x01 - It Takes a Village but canon divergent by a lot.)

Warnings: drug use, hospital, infection/emergency, drug theft

Words: 3.1k

Pairings:Hotch/Morgan established

Notes: This is for @tobias-hankel’ s Spencer Whump Challenge. My assigned prompts to do my evil with were Derek Morgan & Betrayal…we finally have some solid betrayal going on here! And some very very bad choices being made by a few people. I will be out of town for Little League tournaments all weekend so the next update will be Monday, most likely.

CHAPTER LIST

Read on AO3: Running Toward Nothing

**

“Sean…”

Hotch’s voice wavered, confusion made it sound watery and insubstantial. He didn’t trust his eye, not in the low light and red haze. The shadows had been playing tricks on his sleepy mind. Still, it was more than his eyes, he could smell his brother’s cologne, something musky and almost floral to mask the cigarette smoke in the fibers of his clothes. Sean was standing there or he’d reached a new level of hallucination. One seemed more likely than the other, especially with the vertigo he’d experienced on his way to the bathroom earlier that morning. Out of nowhere, legs made of jelly and a strange heat that surged from his hip to his knee. Over in a flash, not concerning enough to mention, he took his medication, relieved himself and hobbled back to bed without incident. Now his brother was staring at him, not just standing but looming, really, backpack slung over his shoulder like he was just leaving instead of just arriving. “What are you doing here?”

Sean smirked, as if to challenge Hotch’s mental acuity. Even with the long shadows cast over his features Hotch could tell he wasn’t going to take it easy. He never had. “Guess.”

“Jack told mom what happened,” Hotch started, flickering through a line of thought that was almost solid enough to grasp. “Mom called you. Probably bought you a bus ticket…how long are you staying?” He spoke slowly, carefully choosing each word, proud that he had managed to get through it without stumbling.

“Boss gave me a week.”.

With some great effort, Hotch talked Sean into helping him out of bed. He’d taken his pills on an empty stomach and it was starting to hurt. The dizzy feeling swelled in him, pounded from his eyebrows to his chest and he clutched Sean’s arm tight. He hadn’t intended to but it was just no use pretending he could do it on his own. The vertigo would pass. Blame the eye, he figured, he’d left it uncovered the last few days and it was messing with his equilibrium. Hell, it was messing with everything. Seeing the world through the red glare was like watching some old movie representation of Hell, minus the horns and pitchforks. “You good?”

Hotch nodded, he couldn’t focus on walking and talking at the same time but he could nod. The walk to the kitchen was slow, and he was dragging his leg more than stepping but the joint had slowly become a ball of flame and all he could think about was sitting down.

“Where’s Derek?”

“Work.” More of a grunt than a word as he sat, eased himself down into the chair leaning heavily on his good side. The ball of flame in his hip shattered and became shards of glass. “He’s going to a movie with Spencer later.” Sean didn’t seem to pay much attention to the way his face scrunched up in pain as he sat down, maybe he thought it was normal.

“Cool.” A break, Sean studying the cabinets one by one, inspecting their food selections and organization. He was a kitchen guy, it was what he did. “Alright, time to get you some lunch Skeletor.”

While he fumbled around for the items he wanted, the front door opened and slammed shut, followed by cheerfully loud voices. Jack and Spencer breezed through quickly, Jack stopping only to wave hello to his dad and paying no mind to his uncle at the toaster. Spencer said nothing, just walked right through to Jack’s bedroom and they heard the door slam shut behind the two friends. On the door was a handwritten sign with a hand drawn flag of Jack’s own invention and words that didn’t quite make sense, the spelling was just creative enough to be nonsense, but the basic idea was that Jack’s room was off limits to anyone that wasn’t he or Spencer.

“Not even a hello?”

“Spencer is teaching him how to play Risk. They’ve got a card table in there covered with it.”

“He’s a little young for world domination…”

“He’s good at it.” Not just good, great. He’d listened to Spencer over dinner the night before rattle on and on with information he could barely keep up with, but it all amounted to praise for Jack’s awareness and ruthlessness.

The conversation was halted by the dropping of a piece of toast slathered with orange marmalade and a glass of sweet tea in front of Hotch. Sean’s specialty. He was southern through and through. Hotch couldn’t help but smile. Sean’s after school snack, day after day. It was memories on a plate. There was a twinge in his hip and he shifted, pressing his thumb a little nervously into the joint.

In Jack’s room, they’d already set themselves down at the table and Jack was studying the board to make sure he remembered where everything was, what he’d wanted to do. He was little but he wasn’t stupid, he’d figured the game out now he just had to remember all of the mechanics. What his plans had been when their timer went off. Spencer was just glad Jack was trustworthy, everything was in exactly the same place as they’d left it though he was sure Jack had been faced with temptation more than once…just to make a little move, just one little thing. See if Spencer would notice, but he knew that he couldn’t fool Spencer. He’d win without cheating. Spencer rubbed at the ache in his temples and squeezed his eyes shut while Jack concentrated on the game, double checking that he remembered the rules.

“Your head hurts again?” Jack asked, huge brown eyes studying Spencer carefully. Spencer nodded, a little embarrassed that the kid had seen his discomfort.

“Yeah, it’s fine, kiddo. Not so bad today.” Jack ignored him, already on his feet and moving toward the door with a plan. He’d been thinking about it for the last few days, once his mind was set on something it was set. He’d talked to his dad and Derek already, really. If your friend has a hurt should you help them? A seemingly simple question with a very simple answer. If you can, yes. Even Jessica had elaborated enough to say that you should always try to help people, even when it’s hard. Even when they aren’t your friends. Well, that had settled it…he knew he could help Spencer.

Perched on the sink, his feet dangling over the edge, he rifled through the medicine cabinet. Top shelf, the daddy pills. Everything else was Band-Aids and tummy stuff, but Derek kept those yellow bottles that made daddy feel better up high. He didn’t know what any of the words on them meant but he’d figured out they all really did the same thing, daddy only had pills to make the hurt go away. He twisted and twisted at the little white caps but to no avail, they wouldn’t budge, they would just spin and spin. He could figure them out, he knew he could, but something told him just to take a bottle to Spencer and let him do it.

He hoped he wasn’t doing anything too wrong…his dad had so many and it seemed like Derek was always getting new bottles, he could spare just a little to help Spencer play the game with him. “Here you go! My dad takes these…they make his leg not hurt so bad…”

Spencer held in his hand a poisonous tube of sweet relief. He almost salivated, and still he wanted to push them back. Like it burned. Hadn’t he just been thinking the other day that he’d like to get his hands on something? Anything? Closing his eyes he saw the orchids, still fresh and beautiful and blood red on Derek’s desk. Blood red just like Hotch’s damned eye that wouldn’t seem to heal. It was creepy. He wore sunglasses, even in the house, just to hide it but Spencer saw the blood in there and imagined it sloshing around. “No, Jack I…these are your dad’s.”

“He has five bottles…I counted.” It was so innocent. Five bottles meant enough to share with a friend, Jack couldn’t see any reason not to. He got the impression from the look on Spencer’s face that maybe was doing something wrong and thought he might want to apologize. Spencer looked scared. He considered giving the bottle back, telling Jack to take it to the bathroom but what if he was caught? He didn’t want the kid to get in trouble, but he certainly couldn’t take it back…if he was caught with it, even as innocently as this, Hotch would think he was relapsing. As if he’d even cared the first time, really. Who was he kidding? Hotch was so blitzed out on a cocktail of these things right now that he probably wouldn’t notice. He shook the bottle, only a few left in there anyway, the prescription was probably ready to be refilled. Maybe they wouldn’t even notice.

“Five bottles?” Spencer asked, quietly. His voice raised an octave and that was hard to control. He was talking more to himself, but Jack nodded. “Thanks Jack.” He wasn’t confirming he’d take any of them, but he had decided that the kid was only trying to help. Slowly, reverently, he dropped them into the pocket of his vest when Jack looked back down at the board and decided he’d find a way to put them back in the bathroom before he left. No way he’d keep them. He couldn’t keep them.

He’d worked so hard to stay away. He’d survived being shot in the knee and healed just find without them…what was some annoying headache in comparison with that?

Except he was so excited about the movie he was going to with Derek later that he forgot all about them in his pocket. He and Jack played an hour of intense Risk and he all but ran out of the house and to the movie theater without considering that he’d now taken a disastrous and dangerous step toward relapse. By the time he realized they were there he was parking in the garage, the flashing lights of the theater inviting him in. He’d put the pills back tomorrow, he figured. Hotch had five bottles…four now…of whatever it was he was taking. Probably a hefty mix, all things considered. Besides, there were only three left in this one, he’d counted the little shadows. Three wouldn’t be missed for a while.

One day wouldn’t hurt.

(x)

Hotch started acting funny about halfway through his toast, after swallowing his sweet tea and Percocet. He’d been planning to ask Sean to pass him a cookie, one of the oatmeal raisin ones Penelope made for him in secret. Watching Sean pick his way through the Tupperware full on the counter was making his stomach grumble, but he couldn’t manage to slop the words together. His ears were ringing, his tinnitus back with a vengeance. Inside his skull was the entire percussion section of a 2nd grade band, complete with out of time triangles and tambourines. It wasn’t that he couldn’t think around it, more just that he couldn’t do anything but drown in the cacophony.

“Sean?” His voice was ragged and soft by the time he found it. “My hip feels…” Like fire? Like shards of glass on fire? Not for the first time that day, but certainly the worst and for the last fifteen minutes it hadn’t let up, it only seemed to increase. Afraid to touch it, to explore, he squirmed and felt the last remaining sutures pull. Where there had been so many, his entire side stitched up this way and that, only small places still remained and those places were the source of the flames. Breathing was getting hard. The heat was terrible, creeping like a forest fire over the surface of his skin. Sean came quickly and helped him stand, he was sure it was just the sitting down that was doing it but standing only served to make it worse.

“…lie down…” he mumbled almost incoherently as the vertigo came back with a vengeance and he faltered, slumping heavily into Sean’s side before the world went gray and he went headfirst into the fog.

On the couch, Sean put an ice pack on Hotch’s burning hip and called Derek who spared no time rushing home. He’d started running while he was on the phone, not bothering to shut his office down…he’d ask Penelope if she could later, it seemed unimportant now. By the time he rushed through the door, Hotch was awake but barely. Groggy and blinking slow, sweating beneath ice packs with Sean pacing behind him nervously.

“Sean,” Derek called, breaking his trance. “I’m sure you didn’t do anything. Help me please.” With Sean’s help, they shifted Hotch enough on the couch that Derek could see the incision, the site that now looked red and infected. The sutures, only four of them left, pulled taught around glistening pink skin. It was hot to the touch and Hotch flinched away from even the remotest sensation. Even the warmth of Derek’s cinnamon gum breath was too much. “Looks like an infection,” he said softly, pulling out his phone to call Jess and let her know.

Derek would take Hotch to the hospital while Sean stayed with Jack. It wasn’t exactly something Sean was comfortable with, he’d never been on his own around a kid before, especially not this kid who was so different from other kids. Jack who looked right into you, who spoke in words most six year olds wouldn’t use, Jack who knew too much about life.

Lifting Hotch into his arms, Derek grunted and struggled to secure him in place. Long legs, head lolling to the side and back exposing his throat until Sean tipped him forward, dropping his chin to his chest. It was Sean who guided him, held doors open, made sure he got to where he was going without slamming Hotch into walls and doorways in his hurry. Holding him was no problem, even at his heaviest he wouldn’t have given Derek any trouble, but those long legs…they seemed to go on forever and there was no good way to fold him up.

Derek was pacing the exam room while they poked Hotch’s already bruised and scarred arms with needles, placed IV tubing and dimmed the lights. They were going to admit him, already planned to without the results of the blood tests, they could see the signs of infection already in his growing fever and redness. It was just a waiting game now…can you guess his counts? How bad is the infection? How long had it been festering unnoticed? Derek couldn’t help it, he thought of Osmosis Jones, a movie he and Jack had watched more times than he could count. You ever try to blow dry your hair with a fart?It made him smile and would make for an easy way to help relay what was happening to Jack. Or maybe it would just keep his own spirits up.

Jessica sat with him. Paced with him. Conspired and whispered with him. They lost all track of time while doctors and nurses floated around them, in and out, adding and changing IV bags, checking vitals, poking at him.

At Derek’s house, Sean was doing everything he could think of to entertain Jack who seemed oddly okay with what was going on. A little worried look would flash over his features but it was so quick that Sean nearly missed it. He guessed it made sense, Hotch hadn’t been home long, he’d been away overseas, it was almost just like he hadn’t come back at all. “Wanna watch a movie?”

Jack always wanted to watch a movie. By the look of uncle Sean, he’d pick a good one…something his dad wouldn’t approve of, and he wouldn’t even ask if it was okay. He got in his pajamas without complaint, helped Sean clean up the house and make some snacks, anything he could do to ensure that they got to watch a good, good movie. Not a baby movie. Jack fell asleep with a chocolate milk mustache on Sean’s chest in a mess of popcorn to the dulcet sounds of Ripley blasting her way through aliens.

(x)

Spencer waited and paced the movie theater lobby, watching the clock tick away the time. He checked it against his own watch, and then his phone, to make sure. First Derek was just late but that could be traffic easily, he was working and sometimes things got jammed up pretty good this time of day. They had plenty of time until the movie started. And then Derek was even later, so he bought them their popcorn and sodas and found the best possible seats. No sense waiting in the lobby, Derek knew how to get into the auditorium. He left the ticket for Derek at the box office and settled in. When the movie started, the room went black, he was still alone. Sodas in the cup holders surrounding the seats he’d chosen, sitting on the outside so maybe Derek might use their shared arm rest and be closer to him…it had been planned out perfectly, except the seat remained empty. He set his popcorn there and fought back the tears. No text, no call, nothing from Derek except silence. Halfway through the intro credits, the music already agitating his now immense headache, he felt the bottle of pills in his pocket. Vicodin.

Just three. Still three. He could take one now, and put the bottle back with the last two when he brought Jack home from school the next day. He doubted they were inventorying them, that wouldn’t make any sense. They weren’t worried someone was eyeing the stash. Popping one into his mouth quickly, he slurped it down with a gulp of Pepsi and a handful of popcorn. His headache vanished quickly, but a lead ball settled in his belly. Guilt. A deeply upsetting feeling of stepping back in time…he knew damn well, the way his head swirled pleasantly with the soundtrack, that he wasn’t going to return the other two pills either. He’d already named them dinner and dessert. The thought amused him as he slipped further into the memory of this light feeling.

Hello old friend.

<- Previous Chapter|Next Chapter ->

running toward nothing (part three)

Summary: Hotch is injured in an explosion while on overseas assignment, putting Derek in a difficult position both with the team and with Spencer who has spent the last few months inadvertently falling in love with him.

Warnings: bombing, fire, surgery, pain medication, angst

Words: 2.9k

Pairings:Hotch/Morgan established

Notes: This is for @tobias-hankel’ s Spencer Whump Challenge. My assigned prompts to do my evil with were Derek Morgan & Betrayal, and if you know that going in… well I’m sorry. How are we feeling here? We’re getting there. Spencer’s really in it now. I have never written a love triangle before so I greatly underestimated the amount of build-up we would need to get to Spencer’s pain. We’re on our way now though!

Read on AO3: Running Toward Nothing

**

“DADDY!”

Jack’s voice rang out loud through the house, vibrating through the old hardwood. Hotch stiffened briefly, bristling at the sound that crashed through his head. He heard Jessica shush him, reminding him that daddy wasn’t feeling good and we need to use our indoor voices but he knew that Jack simply couldn’t help it. They hadn’t seen each other in months. There was bound to be at least a little excitement he couldn’t contain, afterall, there had probably been times Jack wondered whether his father would come home at all. Even before the explosion. There was a spell of silence, almost like a mockery, and then the pounding of feet, little feet, and Jessica’s voice again calling behind him. Hers wasn’t exactly a whisper and definitely not a yell, somewhere hoarse and sharp and it made goosebumps raise on Hotch’s arms.

“Jack, remember to be gentle!” That was the last thing she tried to chirp at him, but her voice fell on deaf ears, and Jack was launching himself into Hotch’s waiting arms. The explosion of pain in his hip barely registered, though he knew it was there and he knew he would pay for it. The relief of holding Jack was too great. In the doorway Jessica stood, arms folded over her chest, shaking her head in disbelief. After all the preparation, after all the lectures, the kid just couldn’t keep it light.

In the dusky bedroom she felt the sting of tears when their eyes met, when he smiled through Jack’s hair at her. “Hey,” she mouthed, and he blinked back at her a silent hello. “Love you.” Just the lips, just the tears. There was time for the rest later. Another second chance, she figured, but her eyes stayed trained on him. Not a ghost, not as scary and fragile as she’d expected, just Aaron. Tired, exhausted even, but still him.

“Did Derek show you the cookies?” It came out almost naturally, each syllable perfectly timed and neatly enunciated, and he figured Jack probably wouldn’t be able to tell he’d been rehearsing it for hours. The look Jessica gave him, that tiny quirk of her eyebrow and twitch at the corner of her lips said she saw right through him, but then she always did. She knew better than to say anything, it wasn’t for her benefit.

“COOKIES!” Jack squealed with delight. Things were always made easier with the promise of sugar.

“Go find Derek, I’ll be right out.”

He didn’t want Jack to watch him struggle to his feet, and as Jessica pressed Jack’s shoulder and nudged him down the hall he began the arduous process of swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Her hands were on him quickly, helping slide off of the bed and holding him upright against her. He’d lost weight, an unbelievable amount of weight, since she’d last seen him. From the doorway he’d looked alright, but now she was close enough to see the way his chin sharpened to a point, his hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes. If he put on a billowing cloak he might look like a Scooby Doo villain. Another conversation to have with Derek, later always later. He wouldn’t want her to prod him, not right away. Instead she stole a hug before grabbing for his walker, the metal contraption that Derek kept propped frustratingly close.

“Cane,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Don’t need that thing.”

“You sure about that?”

“Cane.”

With a frustrated huff, the same sound she had already made plenty of times that day, she reached for his cane and pushed it into his palm, watching the way he curled his fingers around it and made it an extension of himself. Immediately relief flooded his pinched and pallid features, the weight removed from his bad leg. They moved out slowly, her clinging almost desperately to his side, holding his free hand in both of hers, and for some inexplicable reason he didn’t try to brush her off. He let her stay, let her fuss, let her stick to him.

In the front room, Jack chattered at Derek while poking at the trays and trays of cookies. He couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Careful to keep his eyes on Jack, he tried to watch Hotch move in his peripheral vision, tried to ensure he made it to the couch and down into his spot without incident. He had two favorite spots these days, one slightly safer than the other. The couch was a nice one, his heating pad and heated blanket stayed right there to ward off anyone who might think to sit there. Derek had hammered together a quick little table, like the kind of TV tray his mother used to have so they could have special treats sometimes and watch a show on the couch with dinner, only this one was sturdy enough that Hotch could use it for leverage to push himself upright. Any old store bought one would collapse, this one might withstand the apocalypse. (His other favorite spot was a hammock in the backyard, built on a sturdy frame from Derek’s own design. One large piece of thick cloth that stayed more or less flat even when he lay on it and would swing gently in the breeze. He needed help getting in and out of it, but he said it was the most comfortable place in the house. He often napped there after physical therapy, the only place he could get comfortable.) Taking his place on the couch, he let Jessica help him get a pillow beneath his knee and the soft cushioned ottomon under his foot. He could sit here about an hour before he’d be sweating and unable to pretend he wasn’t in pain. An hour would be enough.

After Jack’s visit, they had some decisions to make.

“Talk to me,” Derek whispered, lying beside Hotch in bed. In the quiet moments, once the pain medication fogged his senses and the pillows and ice packs did their jobs, his head didn’t scream like a siren and he could think. Even better, he could talk. “What’s on your mind?”

“I dreamed about the surgery today,” Hotch replied after a moment of careful consideration. He’d been gathering his words in a heap. The plan was to sort them and fit them together in order to tell Derek something he hadn’t told anyone yet. He might not want to tell anyone, but he owed it to Derek who was fumbling around in the dark trying to put his pieces back together and for what? Love? It was the least he could do. “I saw it. It’s still…some parts of it don’t make sense. I woke up screaming louder than I’ve ever screamed, loud enough that my throat hurt for days after. They said I did it four times, I would pass out…and wake up screaming.”

“I can’t imagine you screaming.”

A simple statement, but one that made them both laugh. Hotch’s with less amusement, but the sentiment had struck him nonetheless. He couldn’t remember the last time he actually screamed. Though, he supposed, he didn’t really remember this time either. “I guess they had run out of all of their pain medication, even Tylenol, after so much chaos and so many injuries. It wasn’t just me,“ he added the last part with some solemnity that made Derek sigh and blink back tears. Hotch was, so far, emotionally unaffected by the retelling…he’d already cried so many tears over this. "So once the anesthesia wore off I was on my own for almost an entire day…the shipments were being held at a security checkpoint waiting for the area to be cleared. Every box, bag, bin had to be opened and rifled through in case there was another bomb.”

“So, you woke up from a major surgery…”

Sober. Dry as a bone. Clean as a whistle. His mind played word games, associations with phrases his brother would use, and his father would use…all of it meant the same. He woke up without anything to take the pain away, and if that wasn’t just the most obvious thing in the world…

But then he deserved it, didn’t he? He’d sent Emily away, hidden her deep, lied to his family and friends…so if he woke up from surgery without anything to ease that…well. So be it. “Yeah. I guess I screamed until I passed out. I don’t remember it…and when I dreamed about it today, I was just watching. Helpless, like one of the nurses who would hold my hand and put cold rags on my forehead like it made any difference.”

“…fuck…”

“Yeah. They knocked me out the minute they could and kept me under.” And that, he didn’t want to say, was when the real horror started. The explosion replaying over and over in his drug addled head, the screaming, blood in the sand, the flames licking up the sides of their tents. A spray of glass so loud, followed by another and who knew a Humvee had so damn many windows? One explosion lead to another until everything flammable had made its boom and then the silence and the apocalyptic pain. Post-op was nothing to that moment of realization, of fear, of wishing he hadn’t survived and hoped he wouldn’t…not if it felt like that. He didn’t want Derek to ever think about that, ever have a clear picture of what happened. For his own peace of mind. They’d already been over it, as Derek ran his hands along the new slick pink scars on Hotch’s forearms and the back of his neck, they’d already been well on their way to healing by the time he’d been transported. “What happened” was always met with the same answer. “Nothing. It didn’t happen.” The long and short of it was simply that it didn’t happen. None of it did. His job overseas would be scrubbed, maybe whatever information remained would be thrown into the bottom of a file no one would ever look in and he would have to come up with some interesting story to tell down the road when people asked about his limp. The limp he’d probably have to live with for the rest of his life, if his doctors were to be believed. He might run again, get back into shape to be in the field even, but the injury was severe enough to be problematic forever.

“Hey, so I go back to work Monday…”

Hotch hummed; he knew. Jessica would come over, she’d already taken care of her FMLA coverage. In truth she’d been working hard on her “vacation” to make sure she was ready to hit the ground running when she got back. Not that she should be saddled with this burden, but she’d volunteered before Derek had a chance to talk about hiring an in-home nurse and well, he figured this was the best course of action anyway. He could heal with Jessica.

“Jess and I were thinking we might get your PT appointments here instead of having to get into the car every day…make it a little easier on you, on everyone.”

He saw red. He didn’t mean to, but he did. And not the red from the blood in his eye that was hanging on, no this was…worse. And judging by the serious look on Derek’s face, it wasn’t over. There was bound to be more. “Spencer offered to pick Jack up from school and hang out with him in the afternoons, until I’m off. He’ll come in earlier so he can get out earlier, maybe start doing more lecturing again instead of office work so his schedule fits. It’ll give you a few hours after PT to rest. And then we do the family thing, get back into our routines. You, me, Jack. Right? Jess if she wants…like old times.”

What he thought was a mixture of things, most bad, most downright mean. But what he said was simply “What about soccer? I volunteered to coach this season.” What a silly thing to say, he knew he wouldn’t be coaching anything anyway. He should have already called or emailed, told them to find someone else…why hadn’t he?

“I know. Look I don’t know shit about soccer and I really don’t wanna learn but Rossi said he’d give it a go, and JJ offered to help out too. She went to school…” on a soccer scholarship, he remembered but he let Derek say it anyway. Say it like he couldn’t remember. Maybe Derek would want to remind him who Rossi was next, wouldn’t that be fun? The red film was spreading and he closed his eyes, tried to remember to breathe.

Nothing to do but agree, he had no choice. So Spencer would be watching his kid, and Rossi and JJ would be coaching his sports, and Derek would be doing Hotch’s job at the office…all it seemed to leave him was time to rot in bed. Angry really didn’t begin to cover it. (That he should also feel incredibly fortunate was not at all lost on him, but he wasn’t capable of reaching that yet. Later, he’d feel it later when the guilt washed over him and he cried himself back to sleep at 3am to the gentle sound of Derek snoring beside him. If he wished, once again, that he hadn’t survived that bomb…he wasn’t going to tell anyone except the clock that ticked his minutes away in the dead of night.)

(x)

Coffee isn’t a good idea at midnight, and Spencer could tell you that, but as he frothed the foam and listened to the way it hummed through the pages of all his books he smiled. He felt light, energetic, and almost good if not for the nagging pain in his head. Psychosomatic the doctors were telling him, no medical reason for the pain. Nothing on the MRI, in fact his brain as he admired it in photographs, was perfect. He’d hung it on his fridge, like maybe if he walked by it enough times it might grow teeth, fangs…jump out at him. A tumor lurking in the folds of slick gray. But no, just slippery perfect lobes.

Psychosomatic, he said to himself, his tongue clicking over his teeth at the end. It was a delightful feeling and he said it again. He pictured Derek and smiled.

There was a book he’d been wanting to pull down, and in his half-sleepy half-caffeinated daze he wanted to thumb his way through it leisurely. This was pleasure reading, the careful soaking in of words and phrases, absorption into his bones. He devoured books but he didn’t always enjoy them…this one he intended to enjoy. Or do his best to.

He was going to read Vonnegut. Not because he hadn’t before, or even because he was terribly interested…Vonnegut’s particular brand of satire hadn’t ever struck any gold in his mines but Derek loved him and he wanted desperately to understand that. He wanted to feel Derek’s heart beating in the pages; to know someone most intimately, he figured all you really needed to do was seek the things they poured themselves into or pulled themselves out of. This felt like a good way to spend his night.

His headache was a distant memory the moment his eyes scanned the first words.

All this happened, more or less.

(x)

On Monday morning, Spencer showed up a little early with a coffee for Derek. His favorite order from his favorite stand, a welcome back of sorts. Derek was running late, something about traffic and Jessica getting Jack to school, so he figured he had time to drop it off on Derek’s desk as a nice little surprise.

Except someone else had thought of a nice surprise first and it was a hell of a lot better than a coffee, he figured. Maybe not more useful, but better. There was a bouquet of the most exotic flowers Spencer had ever seen in person sitting on Derek’s desk. It wasn’t big, actually it was quite modest, but it was…exquisite. Like it had been pulled from some alien planet, spiraling spindly blood red orchids smiling at him. Phalaenopsis, he whispered. Unmistakable and mocking him. Every detail precision, a small fortune. The vase was nothing but slick crystalline glass, an elegant fishbowl filled with water, no frills, no gimmicks. He thought of Hotch’s injured eye, the way blood filled the aqueous liquid and obscured the warm amber like a bloody fishbowl. Maybe Hotch was being cheeky with these flowers, but he thought not. He probably didn’t see the connection. He flicked the card with his forefinger and read the neat type on the back, as if he didn’t already know exactly what it was going to say. Maybe not exactly…but he’d be silly not to see it coming.

I love you &I miss you already.
xoxo

He didn’t even have to sign his name. It wasn’t surprising and it wasn’t out of character, of course Hotch wanted to wish Derek well and make sure he knew he was thinking of him. Hotch, knocked around and mixed up, was still Hotch and he was romantic and traditional, and he made gestures like this all the time. Nothing about this was surprising, except maybe that there hadn’t been some cheeky sonnet attached…but it gutted him anyway. He glanced at his coffee cup, the barista’s loopy scrawl of "raise my hand” on the side (a cheeky Vonnegut quote) and he dumped it into the trash on his way back to his own desk.

For the first time since the headaches began, he thought that he might need something stronger than avoidance and caffeine to get through his day. His finger twitched…he was thinking about something a lot stronger. His head was screaming.

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liar-or-lawyer:

masterwords:

• Warnings:  Character death & mentions of abuse 
• Notes:Just all up in my feels here for some reason.  I have about six different WIPs right now but this one was calling to me.  Here you go…a fic about Roy dying that no one asked for. (In this, we assume that Scratch did not stalk Jack and force them into witsec.  It was just business as usual.)    

Conversations with the dead were always very one sided.  Sometimes, with the right person, a conversation with the living could feel the same.  

“I’m dying, Aaron,” Roy had said as he shuffled through the house on feeble legs, scooting his walker along.  “You’ll be rid of me soon. And once that happens…” he grumbled, the click and slide of his walker the only sound in the room.  “There’ll be no one left to hold you responsible for the things you’ve done.  The lives you’ve destroyed.”

“Sit down, Roy, before you fall.”

“Dad, sit down.  Be nice.”

“Grandpa!”

“Oh, wouldn’t you just love that?  If I fell?” Roy found the door he’d been looking for and swung it open, scooting himself inside and slamming it behind him.  This was an hourly occurrence.   He would come out of his room, make a loop around whatever space he found Aaron in, and then find his way back to bed. Perhaps he was hungry, looking for food to begin with, but the very sight of Aaron turned his thoughts to one thing: Haley.  It was true, he was dying, and he’d prayed desperately that he could know happiness one more time before he went, but that meant he’d have to forget her and in a cruel twist of fate, he’d managed to forget nearly everything else that made up his life except Haley.  

“How is everyone holding up?” Dave asked, standing on the front porch in the early morning sunlight. Jessica lived in the suburbs.  The neighborhood was nice, cozy even, with regular sized houses for regular people.  It was quiet, and Jack could play with all of the neighbor kids in one of the many backyards – trampolines and pools dotted the street.  Aaron helped Jessica pay for her house, helped her take care of her father.  Roy had told him it was the very least he could do after everything he’d taken from them and he supposed that was probably not wrong.  Aaron slipped out onto the porch, folding his arms over his chest, shrinking in the chilly autumn air.  

Keep reading

Jack: can you check for monsters under my bed?

Hotch: monsters don’t live under our beds they live inside of us

Jack:

Hotch: goodnight

Blended - Mama Bear

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Wc: 3.2 k

Description: You and Hotch live in a blended household, someone picks on your daughter for it and Jack stands up for her. What happens when reader goes mama bear on the principal?

A/n: This focuses more on the relationship between Jack and reader and how she stands up for her kids. He’s much older here, about 17. This is something new, so feedback is needed here. If it’s weird, please tell me! Hope you all enjoy though! I know it’s been awhile, but I adore all of you <3

Not my gif

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The sight of your husband sitting on your shared bed with his glasses sliding down his nose, is one you never get tired of. You lean against the doorframe of your bedroom, admiring him and how relaxed he looks.

A book sits in his lap, one you know he has read maybe one too many times. As if he feels you staring his eyes shoot up from the page and he gives you a soft smile.

“Hey sweetheart.” You smile at the endearment and make your way over to the bed, plopping beside him as he sets his book on the side table. His glasses slip adorably down his nose as he turns back to you and you giggle.

He simply rolls his eyes at you and sets them with the book, turning back again and bringing you into his arms. You face each other and he presses a long sweet kiss to your lips.

“Mmm, what was that for?” You ask.

“For being the most amazing wife I could ask for Mrs. Hotchner.” You roll your eyes playfully before bringing your lips together again.

“Well thank you Mr. Hotchner.” He smiles, his dimples making a rare appearance.

“Kids all tucked in?” He asks and you nod.

“Jack is finishing up homework for Calc, god bless him. Addie is on the phone with Sam? I think that’s the name. I told her she had fifteen minutes. Isaac is fast asleep, and the Sophie is close behind him.” He presses another kiss to your lips.

“Wait, Sam? Is that a girl’s name or a boy’s name?” He asks and you already know where the conversation is leading.

“Does it really matter?” You ask, kissing down his jawline.

“No.” He pauses. “Not unless it’s a boy’s name.” You laugh and bury your face into his neck.

“You’re ridiculous. She’s a teenager now, boys are gonna happen now sweetheart.” He grimaces as you look back up at him.

“I know. I just miss when she was a little girl. And soon Sophie is going to be like that, and barely want anything to do with us.” He whines and you hold back a laugh. Even though Addie was Aaron’s step-daughter, he loved her all the same. She would always be his little girl, biological or not.

“Oh please.” He glares at you playfully.

“You think this is funny?” He asks. You let a chuckle escape and suddenly he is pinning you to the bed.

“Hey!” You squeak as his fingers dig into your sides. You can’t help but laugh as he tickles you.

“Okay! Okay! I’m sorry!” He laughs as he collapses on you, crushing you into the bed.

“No you’re not.” He chides. A devilish grin falls on his lips as he looks down at you though. “But you will be.”

You smile as the night ahead of you begins and his lips touch yours again.

* * * * * * * * * *

The next morning is filled with starving children and a soon to be late husband, your kitchen erupting in chaos.

“Honey, you’re going to be late if you don’t leave soon!” Aaron comes out of the hallway grumbling about meetings with Strauss and marches over to the pile of pancakes laid upon the stove. You shuffle Sophie around in your arm as you flip another pancake. Jack comes down the hall soon after, dressed and ready to go.

“Jack, honey can you drive Isaac to school when you and Addie leave?” You ask.

“Of course ma.” He comes up beside you, grabs a pancake and places a kiss on your cheek. He takes Sophie from your arms and flys her around like an airplane.

“Careful!” You chide as he takes off to the table to feed her breakfast. Addie is already at the table eating and Isaac is reading a book. He reminds you of Reid as he pushes up his glasses and stares intently at the pages.

“Kids be good for your mom, I love you all.” Aaron shouts as he wraps an arm around your waist and plants a kiss on your lips.

“Ewe!” You hear your children complain as you smile into the kiss.

“Be safe honey, I’ll see you at the office after I drop Sophie off.”

“I will, drive safe.” He leaves with one more kiss on your lips, his travel mug in hand.

Jack places Sophie in her high chair as he stands.

“Alright, Addie, Isaac, let’s go.” He grabs his keys off the counter and gives you another kiss on the cheek as you hand him his lunch. “Thanks ma, love you.” Addie follows behind as she hugs you, Isaac not far behind.

“Be good at school. Love you!”

“Love you mom!” Isaac and Addie shout as they exit the front door. You sigh and stop yourself from tearing up. Aarons right, they are growing up so fast.

You turn towards the twins and notice the syrup all over the table.

“Alright girls, let’s get cleaned up!” Thirty minutes later, Sophie is being dropped at daycare and you are making your way into the BAU’s glass doors. A fresh wave of stale coffee and paperwork fills your nostrils.

“Hey mama, how’re you doing?” Morgan asks as he hands you your favorite coffee.

“Good now that I have this.” You groan as you take a sip. “Thank God for Derek Morgan.” He laughs.

“Don’t let Hotch hear you say that.” You laugh at his remark and make your way to your desk. Morgan has been your best friend for as long as you could remember, and he couldn’t help himself but make fun of your very jealous unit chief slash husband.

You soon get to work on the paperwork from the last case, you work until lunch, when Prentiss comes bounding back into the office with subs for everyone.

“Prentiss you’re a saint.” JJ says as she makes her way down the steps from her office. Everyone drops their paperwork and makes their way to the conference room.

“I’ll grab Hotch.” You volunteer.

“Make it quick, we want to actually be able to eat this time.” Rossi jokes and you blush bright red at the implication of his words, though you should be used to it.

“Oh shut it.” You chide and they all laugh. You make your way down the hall to your husband’s office door.

You knock jokingly and he lets out a soft, “come in”. He smiles at you as you walk into the familiar office.

“Hi baby.” When you are close enough he grabs your wrist and drags you into his lap, pressing soft kisses to your face. “I missed you”

“I saw you four hours ago!” You laugh and he shrugs, kissing you square on the lips.

“Still missed you.” You smile and shake your head.

“I came to get you for lunch, Prentiss brought subs.”

“Thank god, I’m starving.” You both stand and make your way to the conference room.

Lunch was a much needed break from the gruesome paperwork that filled your day. The team joked and laughed and overall enjoyed each other’s company. It was days like this that you truly cherished the people you worked with, and the job that you had.

As if he senses your thoughts, you find your husband staring at you adorning a crooked smile.

“Careful guys, Hotch is smiling!” Morgan jokes and the group shares a laugh. He quickly drops his Amalie and glares at Derek, although you can tell it’s fake.

“Ooo”s fills the table like your back in middle school, but Hotch can’t hold it long and soon cracks another smile.

“I didn’t know Hotch could smile.” Reid whispers to you and you laugh getting yourself a glare from your husband. You can only laugh harder.

The girls start up a conversation soon after asking how the kids are and how the older three are getting along with the baby. It was only about a year ago that you brought her home and it was a major adjustment.

You’re happy little bubble is rudely interrupted by the ringing of Hotch’s phone.

The team groans, but you quickly realize it’s not work related when Hotch excuses himself.

“This is he.” Is all you hear as he steps out. Your left with baited breath as he walks back in a few moments later, something’s wrong. Your mind flies to the kids. You stand abruptly.

“What’s wrong, is it the kids?” You walk over to him and he looks bewildered, and a bit disappointed .

“Jack, Jack got in a fight at school. They need me to come pick him up he’s been suspended.” Shock blooms across your face.

“Jack Hotchner? Did they get the right Jack?” You ask and he nods. He can’t believe it himself. The team watches as you shake your head.

“I need to go pick him up.” Aaron says and turns to reach for the door, but Anderson is already coming through.

“Oh, sir, I was just coming to get you. Strauss needs you in her office, it’s important.” Anderson notices the tension in the room and raises his brows.

“It’s fine, go. I’ll go get him.” Aaron sighs, and the team clears out to continue paperwork.

“Are you sure?” He asks, and you nod. You squeeze his hand, press a kiss to his cheek, and walk back to your desk. You grab your keys and quickly head to your car and are off to the school. When you arrive, you walk swiftly towards the door.

The principal’s office is already open and you march in.

“Jack Benjamin Hotchner!” You demand as you look at him. He looks at you bashfully and you’re taken back to when you first met him and he was scared to shake your hand.

“Hey ma.” He says quietly. He’s obviously guilty. But you’re too mad at him right now to feel bad. You look to Principal Rogers and he looks angry to say the least.

“Ma’am, your son’s actions today were completely unacceptable. We have no fighting tolerance here. He will be suspended for-” Something isn’t adding up here. Jack wouldn’t just hit somebody unless he has a reason.

“May I have a minute with my son please?” You ask, well more like demand.

“I don’t think…” The principal shuts his mouth when you send him a vicious glare. “That’s fine, I’ll wait outside.” He scurries off. The door shuts behind him and you sigh audibly. You step in front of Jack and crouch down.

“Mom, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking!” He begins stuttering out excuses, barely looking you in the eye.

“Jack. What happened?” You ask.

“I- well he- I just punched him.” He says shamefully and you’re skeptical.

“Jack, you’re 17 now. When are you going to learn you can’t lie to me?” You attempt to make a joke to lighten him up, but he simply shrugs his shoulders. “C’mon, what really happened?” He sighs.

“He was making fun of Addie. Father’s Day is coming up and he said she wouldn’t have anyone to celebrate with cause her dad’s dead. I don’t know how but he knew all about her dad, and he just kept throwing insults at her. He was all up in her face ma! I had to do something. I stepped in to help her and he threw the first punch.” You couldn’t believe the audacity of whoever this kid Jack talked about was. But you were also incredibly proud of the boy sitting before you. With tears in your eyes you stood and pulled him up hugging him tight.

“You’re not mad?” He asked. You pulled away and looked him in the eye.

“Oh I am pissed off.” You smile softly. “But I am so proud of you for standing up for your sister like that.” At that the door opens again, and you tell Jack to wait outside. “I’ll handle this.” Jack smiles and hugs you one more time.

“You’re the best, ma.” He whispers and you nod before ushering them out.

“Ma’am, don’t tell me you’re not upset with him?” You turn around glaring at the man before you.

“Principal Rogers, did you even bother asking Jack what happened?” He opens his mouth but you don’t let him get a word in. “No you didn’t. Instead you pointed fingers. I would like you to know that my son stood up to a bully who made fun of his little sister’s dead father!” You yell. He points his finger up but you still don’t let him speak.

“He knew information about her father that people should not openly know or use against a fourteen year old girl! So that is probably some form of stalking! And this kid threw the first punch! He attacked my son!”

“Ma’am, the boy insists Jack attacked him.” He states and you shake your head.

“Are you calling my son a liar? A child who doesn’t have a mark on his record? Now before this goes further I demand you look at the security footage I know you have.” He stands and moves to a computer in the corner of the room, finding the hall video. He turns back to you moments later, a shocked look upon his face.

“Ma’am I apologize.” He says. “Unfortunately Jack will still have a three day suspension for being a part of the fight.” He insists and you glare harder than before.

“One day. It was self defense. And I want this other kid looked into immediately. For stalking, bullying, and for assaulting my son.” He nods, looking as scared as an unsub in an interrogation.

“Of course ma’am.” He nods.

“Good. Thank you.” And with that you turn and march out of the room. You’re surprised to see Jack standing with his ear to the door.

“Ma, you’re a badass!” Jack exclaims and you give hIm a look.

“Language young man. And you’re not off the hook.” He grimaces and nods before you both walk to the main office. Addie is sitting in the chairs and you sign her and Jack out before heading to the cars. You bring Addie into your arms.

“Hi baby.” You say softly.

“Hi mom.” She sniffs and you hold her tighter. No one messes with your babies. You walk out of the school, angrier than you’ve every felt before.

* * * * * * * * * *

Hours later you are waiting on the couch for your husband to come home. You had taken the rest of the day off and had come home to have a serious talk with Addie. She cried and you cried, but it helped her a lot.

You told her when Aaron got home she could talk to him about it too and said if she had any questions about her father she could always ask you anything. You decided to leave Jack for Aaron. You had already made your point and would let Jack explain the situation to him.

Aaron gets home around eight, a sigh leaving his lips as he walks in.

“He sweetheart.” He says as he trudges through the living room.

“Hey babe.” You murmur giving him a kiss. He sags against you on the couch and practically curls around you. “Long day?”

“Without you? Always.” You smile, albeit half heartedly.

“What happened with Jack?” He asks as he runs his fingers through your hair.

“I told him I’d let him explain it to you. Go easy on him though, he had a good reason. You’re also going to need to talk to Addie.” You say softly. He tenses against you, easily putting two and two together. He doesn’t look happy as he stands and presses a kiss to your forhead.

“I’ll meet you in bed soon.” He says and you nod. You hear him go up the stairs and you yourself head to your bedroom.

Aaron heads to Jacks room first and listens to him explain. He obviously isn’t letting Jack get away with being in a fight, but he understands. He’s even proud of him in a way. He stood up for Addie like a big brother should. He leaves Jacks room feeling conflicted. He heads to Addie next.

“Honey?” He asks tapping on her door. She looks up, hee eyes sad.

“Hey dad.” She whispers. He walks in and plops on the side of her bed.

“I never want to replace your dad. I know we’ve had this talk. But he will always be your dad. And just because he’s gone doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate him on Father’s Day.” Aaron says softly and Addie throws her arms around him.

“Thank you. But I have a dad here with me. I have two dads, just like Jack has two moms, and that’s okay with me.” Aaron smiles and kisses Addie’s forehead before tucking her in. She whines about being too old but he just laughs and turns off her light. He makes his rounds to Isaac, and Sophie, and soon is walking into your room.

“So how mama bear on a scale of 1 to 10 did you go on the principal today.” You shrug bashfully.

“I say he deserves it. I also say you know me too well to ask that question.” He nods and shucks his suit jacket and tie off. He collapses on the bed and places his head in your lap.

“Our kids are pretty awesome aren’t they?” He asks and you laugh nodding.

“Yeah they are.” You lean down to press a kiss to his lips, never will you tire of kissing him. He looks pensive for a moment. “What’s goin on in that mind of yours?”

“Let’s have another one.” He says and your eyes blow wide.

“What?” You ask him like he’s crazy.

“Let’s have another.” You laugh, but can’t help but feel warmth spread through you at the idea.

“Really?” You ask and he nods. “Yeah okay, let’s do it.” You exclaim.

“Should we start now?” He asks wiggling his eyebrows as he somehow pins you beneath him. It feels like a deja vu to last night, but you giggle into his kisses.

You can’t help but be excited at the prospect of growing your perfect family.

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The end <3

Thanks for reading!!!