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The house was quiet.
Not the uncomfortable kind of quiet, but the one that settles in after midnight, when even the world seems to have surrendered to sleep.
Outside, snow fell slowly, blanketing Washington in white and swallowing every sound.
Inside, the Christmas tree was still lit, soft lights glowing warmly but failing to chase away the cold that had settled deep in Aaron Hotchner’s chest.
He sat on the couch, jacket still on, hands tightly clasped in front of him.
He’d been there longer than he wanted to admit.
Christmas had always been complicated.
Once… it had been something else. Jack half-asleep on the couch, Haley teasing him for checking emails even on Christmas night.
Now, it was just another date carved into the calendar like an old wound that refused to heal.
He hadn’t cried after dinner.
He hadn’t cried when he put away the unopened gift Jack had left before going to his grandmother’s.
He hadn’t cried when he turned off the kitchen lights.
But now—alone, with the clock creeping past midnight—something inside him finally gave.
The breakdown wasn’t dramatic.
There were no sobs, no fists pounding the table. It was quiet.
Controlled.
His shoulders tensed, his breathing faltered, and a crushing pressure built behind his eyes.
One tear fell.
Then another.
Aaron bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut as if that might hold together everything he’d been carrying for years.
He didn’t hear the door open.
Gibbs came in without a sound, as he always did. He’d stopped by to drop something off—maybe a bottle, maybe just to make sure Hotch wasn’t alone—and found him like that: folded in on himself, breaking in a silence that hurt worse than any cry.
Gibbs didn’t say his name.
He didn’t ask what was wrong.
He set his coat down, crossed the room, and paused for a moment beside him, assessing without intruding.
He’d learned over the years that Hotch didn’t need words when he got like this. He needed… presence.
He sat down next to him.
At first, Aaron didn’t react. He stared at the floor, breathing unevenly, trying to pull himself together out of sheer habit.
Then he felt a firm hand on his back, warm even through the layers of fabric.
That was enough.
The wall finally collapsed.
Aaron leaned into Gibbs without realizing it, as if his body had made the choice before his mind could catch up.
Gibbs wrapped both arms around him, pulling him close until Aaron’s forehead rested against his shoulder.
He didn’t let go.
The hug wasn’t gentle or tentative. It was solid. Grounding.
The kind that said I’m here without a single word.
Gibbs rested his chin on the top of Aaron’s head, one hand pressing between his shoulder blades, the other steady at his side, holding him when the shaking started.
And it did.
Aaron clenched his fists in Gibbs’ shirt, breathing in deep, uneven pulls as if the air refused to come all the way in.
Tears soaked the fabric, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t try to stop them.
Gibbs didn’t move.
The clock kept ticking.
Snow kept falling.
The lights on the tree blinked softly in the dark.
—You don’t have to be strong here —Gibbs murmured at last, so quietly it barely disturbed the air between them.
Aaron shook his head, unable to answer.
The pressure in his chest loosened just enough to let him breathe without pain.
They stayed like that for a long time. There were no speeches about moving on, no promises that everything would be okay.
Gibbs didn’t try to fix anything, because he knew there was nothing to fix tonight.
He just held on.
When the shaking eased and the tears faded into bone-deep exhaustion, Gibbs adjusted his grip, shielding him better, as if he could protect him from the entire winter with his arms alone.
—Merry Christmas, Hotch —he said softly.
Aaron closed his eyes.
For the first time in years… he didn’t feel alone.