Work Text:
The first sign must've been that he was looking for signs.
The surest indicator that something's off is the scavenger hunt for cosmic reassurance. Should I do this? becomes less of a question and more of a symptom.
Jack's at a sleepover, again. Or, more accurately, he's temporarily relocated to whatever house currently boasts a dog, a working game console, and parents who still engage in open warfare over board games. Which, to be fair, is understandable. Other houses are louder. They have the momentum of lives happening out loud. At Jack's age, he envied that in other kids too. The ones who had to shout to be heard across the dinner table. The ones who had kitchen chairs that always had someone sitting in them. He just never thought he'd pass that envy down, what an awful secondhand coat.
Marrying Beth had seemed like the adult solution to a spreadsheet of domestic problems. He would step back from work. He'd been thinking about it for a while. If it came down to it, of course.
They'd move somewhere with sidewalks and yard signs. Crayons on the asphalt. A real neighborhood.
Maybe that's what Jack needs.
And wherever Beth's work took her, sure, they'd go. He didn't care. He told himself that, anyway. It was supposed to be easy. Is easy.
Right?
At 1:07 p.m., Jess calls. His phone lights up on the kitchen counter beside the sticky remains of breakfast. He picks up mid-sigh.
"Aaron, that's good news."
He stares at the tile grout. "You... think? I mean, it's only been five months, I know, but—"
"No, I mean, it's great," Jessie assures, then. "You told Jack already?"
The syrup bottle sticks to his palm. He doesn't even like honey. Why did he stuff his waffles with it, why? Why does he pretend to like Beth's jokes most times, is he... is he being a bad person for wanting things to be stable and good, and making an effort? He thinks about Jack's reaction and sees a smile and a 'cool dad', and none of those are signs to not marry Beth. "I'm actually waiting to hear a yes. You're the first one to know."
"Right. You want my opinion," she replies. "It's a beautiful ring."
"I bought it last week. Small store in Rockville," he mutters. "I just..."
The sentence breaks in his mouth before he gets to the part that would've made it make sense.
His fingers slip. The bottle lands with a thud on the kitchen counter, rolls an inch, and stills.
He stops talking.
Haley's face flares across the inside of his eyeballs.
For one wild, completely rational second, he considers hanging up.
He doesn't.
He breathes.
"Do you think—"
"Haley would be happy," she says, cutting in gently, yet firmly. "To see you're moving on. I can assure you of that."
He doesn't want a blessing. He wants—
He doesn't know what he wants.
—
No sign, of course. No cosmic wink, no conveniently timed song on the radio, no pigeon flying into his windshield to shout: "Hey, man, maybe don't do that."
Just his phone in his lap, screen dimming. Emily's chat thread is still open. Has been since before he even put the key in the ignition. Hasn't moved.
The last thing he sent (two months ago, exactly) still sits there. Obviously.
Leave the poor man alone. We miss you.
He'd sent it in reply to a message that read:
This sheriff we met keeps facially demonstrating his distaste for coffee with sugar and I keep offering it. It made me think of you.
He'd laughed, at the time. And of course, instead of saying something that meant anything, he lobbed back a pronoun big enough to hide behind.
We miss you.
Not I.
And that's the part that sits wrong.
Because she knows exactly what it means.
It means: I'm not supposed to say I. It means: if I say I, you'll know too much. It means: the others miss you, too. It means: please don't ask how much of that sentence is them and how much is just cowardice.
It means I, and they both know it.
He turns the screen off. Drops the phone facedown on the passenger seat.
Crap.
Yeah. That's probably why she stopped texting.
Timeline checks out.
And it doesn't help, this... guilt. That corrosive sense of owing her something. Not in a real way. Not in a way anyone could invoice. But it's there.
It's ridiculous.
There was never anything. Not even the vague shape of a thing. Not a drunken maybe. Not a middle school note with boxes to tick. No implied subtext scribbled in the margins.
Just a long, unclaimed maybe. A slow-cooked almost.
And now he's sealing it off. Quietly. Signing away rights to a thing that technically never existed. It's deranged, honestly, how sad that makes him.
She should know, he thinks. Wherever she is. London, Singapore, the goddamn moon, she should know. That the ghost of a relationship they never had is officially being exorcised.
He doesn't know if that makes sense. Probably doesn't.
Still.
He picks up the phone before his frontal lobe can mount a defense. Types one word. Hey. Tosses the thing facedown on the passenger seat again.
He starts the engine.
Drives.
-
He considers kneeling the second he sees her at the door.
Right there, in front of the building, before the restaurant, before the valet, before the ambient lighting and waitstaff with opinions about microgreens. Just: do it, get it over with, like ripping a very expensive, very permanent Band-Aid.
But no. Not because he's scared. Please. He's just, how do you say, not a live-audience proposal kind of guy. The place is going to be full of people who clap when your crème brûlée cracks. He doesn't want to be someone's Instagram Reel titled "She Said Yes!"
But Plan A dies on the sidewalk.
Maybe there's a saint for this kind of situation. Or a cupid with a bone to pick, screwing with his knees. Because every time he thinks about lowering himself to one, they seize up.
Beth looks at him. Crooked smile, curious eyes. She's already suspicious.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he lies. Not well.
In the parking lot, they talk about Jack. Summer camp. His son's absurd plan to go to Oregon for three months. Beth laughs, and Hotch tries to laugh with her, but his ribs feel too tight and his chest is holding a muddy and uncooperative something.
He glances at the sidewalk again. Imagines doing it here. Marry me. There you go. Romance.
"Let's go in," Beth says. "Can’t lose the reservation."
And he says okay.
Because... yeah.
-
"You know, I was thinking we should talk," Beth says, right as he's mid-bite into a shrimp dumpling, and, ohh. That's the tone. The official one. We have a problem tone.
He finishes chewing. Sets the chopsticks down. Her shoulders are squared. Okay. Here we go.
"Are you okay? These days? I've noticed you seem... distracted."
He scratches at his throat with his left hand. "I..." He smiles, or tries to. "I'm fine. Just—"
And then his phone buzzes.
His whole body goes still, except for the traitorous flick of his eyes toward his lap. He would skydive off a forty-story building without a parachute if it meant getting to that screen faster. He sure pulls it out.
"Sorry," he mutters, thumb lighting the screen before the apology finishes forming.
Emily.
And below her name, the message:
Back in D.C. for three days, the message reads. Next one is: Could you get me someone to tell me the statistical probability of someone dropping their cheat sheet in a chocolate fountain two minutes before going on stage?
He clears his throat, the sound of amusement being swallowed whole. Doesn't smile. Just flips the screen down and turns back to Beth with a nod toward the wine list.
"See, there's that Syrah you liked," he offers, tapping the page.
Beth perks up. She loves talking about wine.
Maybe if they stay in that lane things won't veer.
His phone vibrates again.
Then again.
Then again.
Beth gives him a look after the sixth one. Not quite annoyed. But close enough.
He mutters another apology and picks up the phone, thumb already unlocking it before he finishes standing.
Checks the screen:
If I end up viral looking drunk on YouTube or Twitter it's because I am
Then:
I bumped into your hot friend we met in Texas. She asked about youuuu
Then:
I said you were probably making your goody girlfriend hump your leg while you finish the biweekly reports.
Followed, why not, by:
Sorry about that :((.
And the last one:
Come pick me up. I don't feel so good
-
"What took you so long?" she grumbles, teetering backward with one heel in her hand and the other still attached to her ankle.
They pass through the gate.
A security guard gives them a look.
Hotch stops. Turns.
"They almost convinced me to blow dice into someone's hand," she mutters. "I'm not that person anymore."
"You sent me three blocks ahead," he explains.
"I had to ask Garcia to find you," he adds.
"I sent the right address."
"Clearly not," he murmurs, just peace and calm enough to trigger the full force of her eyes finding on his face, closer, dilated, still trying to free her foot with the tiniest bits of grunting, wine-softened. His breath catches stupidly. Just for a second.
"Can you stand still?" he says. "I can take this off for you."
She plants her foot, hand bracing on the security guard's shoulder.
The man smirks. Hotch... allows that. Just drops to one knee.
His fingers graze the strap. Her skin is so cold. Silky.
He swallows.
Gets the buckle loose. Fast. Efficient.
Except...
Except he's still kneeling.
In front of Emily.
At the end of a day he thought couldn't get more symbolic.
If this isn't a sign, he thinks, what the hell is? The universe is being aggressively literal now. Insufferably smug.
He glances up.
She's looking toward the street, eyes narrowing at his car.
"I can't believe you brought your girlfriend."
Ah. Right. That detail.