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Derek rarely wears much in the way of clothing on his days off. That's just how he is. At most, he walks around in a pair of athletic shorts, usually with his school logo somewhere on the leg. He's a walking billboard for his athletic department. Today, he can't stop feeling like the shorts fit him a little more snug than usual. Walking from room to room picking up Hank's toys, texting with Penelope or thinking about the drills he wants to put his team through at their practice that night, he can't help stopping to stare at himself in every mirror he passes. Anything with a reflection catches his eye. He pauses, turns to one side, then the other, and pushes out his gut. He stares agape at that a moment, the horror of it, and then sucks it back in, sighing dramatically.
Hotch is doing his best to ignore it. Engaging in that conversation feels like a trap. He's noticed, of course he has, and the thing is...he likes it. Derek is still made entirely of muscle, his six-pack is the envy of everyone who sees him, but there's a little more rounding to his hips, a little more soft to grab than he used to have and Hotch likes it a lot.
“Am I getting fat?”
Hotch scoffs and shifts on the couch, not bothering to open his eyes. He's been trudging through a bout of insomnia that has him more than a little desperate for even ten continuous minutes of sleep, so he was taking some of Desiree's advice. Advice that Derek had warned him against repeatedly, but when you're desperate for sleep, you'll try just about anything. First Fran had given him some old wives tales that hadn't worked, and Sarah just told him to get a prescription for sleeping pills and stop messing around, Jessica echoed the sentiment wholeheartedly. They were the pragmatists in the family. He tried Fran's remedies first, it was easy enough to try chewing honeycomb or drinking warm milk or trying some special tea blend one of her friends from church made that tasted like sweaty gym socks, but he wasn't desperate enough to go to the doctor begging for a prescription to knock him out. That would just make him feel sick even if they did keep his eyes closed. (He promised her it was on the table...just not yet.) So, Desiree's advice had been next on the list.
“Weed,” she'd said with a little smirk. “I know what you're thinking Mr. Ex-Federal Agent but hear me out. Just a little puff or two. Shut that brain right off. Make you dumb as a box of rocks for a few hours but I bet you'll sleep.” So, he'd smoked a bit after breakfast. Just a puff or two. It doesn't really make him tired but it definitely shuts his mind off, and he can almost find his way to sleep without the endless noise.
Unless Derek moans about his muffin top, anyway. Without all of that static, Derek's voice cuts right through.
“Hey, you hear me? Earth to Aaron...”
“I'm sleeping...”
Derek launches an orange at him from the kitchen, just pops it into the air like it's a basketball and sends it flying across the room. It lands with a thud against Hotch's chest and rolls off of the couch without him even so much as trying to move out of the way or reach for it. Hotch groans at the distraction and curls up further beneath the blanket to avoid another assault.
“Come on. This is serious. Am I getting fat?”
“In order for that to be true, you have to actually have fat on your body and I don't think you do. Now me on the other hand...”
“You look great. You look happy. I look sloppy.”
“The Chicago Marathon is coming up...”
“Alright, how much of Desi's shit did you smoke, huh? I say I'm porking out and you suggest a marathon?”
“I've been thinking about running it. I could use another t-shirt.” The last part was said through barely parted lips, he was dropping fast. He only hoped Derek would get the hint.
“You think about a lot of things, it's probably why you can't sleep.”
Taking a deep breath, Hotch pulls the blanket all the way over his head. “I can't sleep because you won't stop talking.”
Derek is slicing up an apple, humming a tune that's been stuck in his head a week now. Some dopey little song from one of Hank's playlists, something about a bear named Stompy he thinks but at this point it's been in his head so long it only vaguely resembles the original song. It's become the beat of his existence though. He chops and hums, wiggling his hips in time with the funky little beat ,and for a moment he stops thinking about his muffin top. He thinks about Hank, about them eating popcorn together and watching movies, about his little family and their picnics in the park and how food is central to Sunday nights at his mom's house and Wedensday nights at his aunt's house and yeah...he's definitely putting on weight but it's for the same reason Hotch is. They're happy, and this is the stage of life they've found themselves in.
So, he should probably stop moaning about it and just accept that it's going to take a little extra work to feel good about his body in the midst of all of these good times they're having.
“I'm gonna go for a run. Come with me.”
Hotch, who was already drifting off into some dim and disorienting sleep, makes a disgruntled puffing noise and burrows deeper into his blanket cave. He's not even sure his legs would support him walking from the couch to the bedroom at this point let alone going for a run with Derek. And he likes running with Derek, too, but not now. Not like this. Derek would just have to carry him.
“I'll run with you tomorrow.”
That answer isn't what Derek was looking for. He wants to go for a run, and he wants to go with Hotch. The kids are with Fran for the day and he wants to do something, he's itching for some action. A run sounds nice, and then a shower...a really hot, steamy shower, the kind where he kisses the stubble on Hotch's neck and their bodies are slick and hands are roaming and now he's not even thinking about running, he's thinking about skipping all of that and getting some cardio in bed.
When Hotch doesn't say anything else, Derek sits on him, right on his legs, and Hotch groans sleepy and confused. If Derek doesn't let him sleep soon he might cry.
“Yeah, okay, maybe you are gaining some weight...” he grunts, shifting uncomfortably until he's made room for Derek to either lie down beside him or at least sit leaning up against him instead of on top of him.
“Told ya.”
“Are you eating?” He can smell toast, that enticing rich salty scent of bread and butter and almonds. And apple.
“What about it?” Derek asks around a mouth full of food and a smile. Yeah, he's hungry dammit. Hotch makes a judgy little noise from under the blanket that Derek doesn't like even a little bit. He huffs. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're a shithead, you know that?”
Hotch, from under the blanket, giggles. They're tired, loopy sounding things and Derek sighs. He's not getting a run or sex in the near future and he's feeling a little sulky about it, but he knows he needs to let Hotch sleep. The guy was desperate enough to smoke weed, he obviously needs it. “You laugh now. We're signing up for that marathon, asshole. We're doing it together, training and running.”
“Better check my life insurance policy first.”
“Oh, don't you worry about that sweetheart. You keel over at the 22 mile marker and me and the boys are set for life.”
“I won't even make it that far if you don't let me sleep...” Hotch whispers, a last desperate plea for quiet. Derek finally gives in. He takes his snack and heads out to the garage to finish eating and maybe lift some weights, sign them up for the marathon, devise a training plan. He has hours before he has to be at the football field and he has ideas.
He loves being a happy dad, and he loves being in a comfortable relationship...but the muffin top has to go.