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The motel looked like it had been assembled from leftover parts of better buildings. The ice machine outside their door rattled every few minutes like it was coughing up a lung, and the fluorescent sign in the parking lot flickered with a faint electrical buzz that carried even through the thin walls. Middle of nowhere Montana, population barely enough to justify a sheriff’s department, and yet somehow enough horror to keep the BAU busy for the foreseeable future.
There had been a brief standoff at the front desk when they arrived. Too few rooms. A high school basketball team passing through. A plumbing issue that had taken out two bathrooms. By the time the dust settled, agents were doubled up in configurations that would have made a college dorm supervisor nervous.
Hotch stood just inside the doorway of their assigned room, jacket folded neatly over his arm, expression neutral as he took in the single bed and the couch that looked more decorative than functional.
Rossi set his overnight bag down with a quiet thud. "Well," he said, surveying the scene, "this brings back memories."
Hotch closed the door behind them. "I’d hoped we’d outgrown those."
"Speak for yourself," Rossi replied. "I look exactly the same."
Hotch glanced at him, dry as ever. "That’s one word for it."
The room smelled faintly of old carpet and industrial cleaner. The bedspread was patterned with something that might have once been flowers. The couch was short, narrow, and slanted slightly downward at one end like it had given up on life years ago.
Rossi walked over and pressed a hand to the mattress. It dipped with a tired sigh. "I call the bed."
Hotch didn’t even look at him. He set his bag near the small desk and began loosening his tie. "Of course you do."
"Tradition," Rossi said. "Ten years ago, I always took the bed."
"Ten years ago you were a founding member and I was the new guy."
"And now?"
Hotch draped his tie over the back of a chair. "Now you’re the senior agent and I’m Unit Chief."
Rossi grinned faintly. "So nothing’s changed."
Hotch didn’t answer that. He crossed to the window and pulled the curtains back just enough to check the parking lot. Habit. Always habit.
They had shared rooms before. Dozens of them, across states and seasons and cases that still lingered in the back of Hotch’s mind like unfinished sentences. Back when the team was just him, Rossi, Gideon, and two agents borrowed from other units who had quickly learned that the BAU operated in a different orbit. Back when he was younger, less certain, still trying to prove that he belonged at the table.
Back when exhaustion had a different weight.
"I’ll take the couch," Hotch said finally.
Rossi made a face. "That thing? Aaron, I’ve seen corpses with better support."
"I’ve slept in worse places."
"That’s not a compelling argument."
Hotch shrugged out of his jacket and hung it carefully in the closet. "It’s one night."
"Minimum of three," Rossi corrected. "Sheriff said lab results won’t be back until Thursday."
Hotch paused, did the math in his head, and nodded once. "Three, then."
Rossi watched him for a moment, reading the quiet tension in his shoulders. They were all tired. The case had started ugly and only gotten worse. A remote stretch of highway, missing women, a killer who knew the terrain better than anyone. The kind of place where the wind swallowed screams.
"Fine," Rossi said. "You take first shower. I’ll even let you have the last of the hot water."
Hotch gave him a look. "That’s generous of you."
"I’m a generous man."
The shower, as it turned out, had a complicated relationship with the concept of heat. When Hotch stepped under the spray, it was lukewarm at best and dropped to outright cold within minutes. He stood there anyway, letting the water run over him, eyes closed, hands braced against the tile.
The day replayed itself in fragments. The crime scene photos. The husband who kept insisting his wife would never hitchhike. The empty field where they had found the latest body. He felt the familiar tightening in his chest, the quiet calculation of timelines and patterns and probabilities.
He forced himself to breathe.
It was only when the water turned fully frigid that he shut it off. He dried quickly, pulled on a gray T-shirt and sweatpants, and stepped back into the room, steam trailing faintly behind him.
Rossi looked up from where he was flipping through a case file. "Still alive?"
"Barely."
Rossi snorted and rose, grabbing his own clothes. "My turn. If I’m not back in ten minutes, assume I’ve frozen solid and notify next of kin."
Hotch sat on the edge of the couch once Rossi disappeared into the bathroom. The cushion sagged immediately under his weight. He shifted, tried to find a position that didn’t feel like it was actively plotting against his spine.
The pipes groaned as the shower started. A moment later came the sharp intake of breath that could only mean cold water.
"Jesus," Rossi muttered from behind the door. "They’re piping this in from the Arctic."
Hotch allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile.
He stretched out experimentally on the couch. His feet hung off the end by several inches. He adjusted, bending his knees, then turned onto his side. The armrest dug into his shoulder. The back of the couch creaked ominously.
This was a mistake.
He stared up at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster. He had slept in his office more times than he could count. On airplanes. In hospital waiting rooms. On the floor of an unsub’s house once, after a standoff that had stretched into dawn.
He could handle a couch.
The bathroom door opened with a soft click. Rossi stepped out, toweling his hair dry, already in a T-shirt and pajama pants. He took one look at the sight of Hotch folded onto the couch and stopped.
"You’ve got to be kidding me."
"I’m fine," Hotch said.
"You look like a contortionist who lost a bet."
"It’s adequate."
Rossi tossed the towel onto the desk. "Get your ass in the bed."
Hotch didn’t move. "Dave."
"I mean it."
Hotch pushed himself up slowly, sitting on the edge of the couch. "We’ve managed before."
"Yeah," Rossi said. "We have."
There was a beat of silence. Ten years ago hovered between them like something half-remembered but not entirely forgotten.
Hotch met his gaze. "You remember what we used to get up to when we shared a bed."
Rossi exhaled through his nose, a quiet, almost amused sound. "Aaron."
"It wasn’t exactly… innocent."
"No," Rossi agreed. "It wasn’t."
Back then, it had been different. Long nights after cases that left them both wired and hollow. Hotels in cities that blurred together. The kind of closeness born out of shared trauma and the need to feel something other than the echoes of violence. It had never been about romance. It had been about grounding. About proving they were still human.
Comfort sex, Rossi had once called it, half-joking.
They had never talked about it beyond that.
Rossi crossed his arms now, leaning against the wall. "My intentions are pure," he said lightly. "I promise not to ravish you."
Hotch’s mouth twitched despite himself. "That’s reassuring."
"I really just want you to get some decent sleep. You look like hell."
"That’s your bedside manner?"
"You’re welcome."
Hotch hesitated. He hated needing things. Hated the quiet acknowledgment that he did, in fact, sleep better when he wasn’t bracing against empty space.
Rossi saw the calculation happening behind his eyes. He softened, just slightly. "It’s not ten years ago," he said. "We’re not those guys anymore. We’re just two tired agents in a bad motel. That’s it."
After a long moment, Hotch nodded.
They pulled back the covers, the mattress dipping as they climbed in on opposite sides. The bed was small, not quite twin but not generous either. They settled on their backs at first, staring at the ceiling, leaving a careful inch of space between them like a treaty line.
The room felt quieter now. The ice machine’s rattle faded into background noise. Somewhere in the distance, a truck passed on the highway.
"This reminds me of Tulsa," Rossi said after a while.
Hotch huffed softly. "The motel with the neon cowboy."
"That’s the one. Gideon refused to sleep under the blinking sign."
"He said it felt like being interrogated by a rodeo clown."
Rossi chuckled. "You ended up with me that night too."
"I remember."
They fell into an easy rhythm of recollection. The early cases. The arguments with Gideon about profile wording. The time one of the borrowed agents had tried to microwave fish in a shared suite and nearly caused a mutiny. It was lighter than the day had been. Softer.
Eventually the conversation thinned.
Hotch turned onto his side, facing away from Rossi. The mattress shifted with the movement. He folded one arm under his pillow, breathing slow and deliberate.
It felt awkward. Too aware of the warmth at his back, the presence of another body in the narrow space. He told himself it was fine. Professional. Controlled.
A minute passed. Maybe less.
Then the bed dipped again, just slightly.
"Dave," he said quietly, warning in his tone.
Rossi ignored it. He shifted closer, careful, deliberate, until the inch of space disappeared. He draped an arm lightly over Hotch’s waist, not tight, just enough. His chest pressed against Hotch’s back, solid and warm.
Hotch tensed for a fraction of a second. "Dave."
"Relax," Rossi murmured. "I’m not starting anything."
Silence.
"I know you," Rossi continued, voice low in the dim room. "You always slept better like this."
Hotch exhaled slowly. He could feel the steady rise and fall of Rossi’s breathing, the uncomplicated weight of him. It was grounding in a way he hadn’t expected. Familiar.
This wasn’t ten years ago. There was no urgency, no sharp edge of grief driving them together. Just exhaustion. Just trust.
After a moment, the tension eased from his shoulders.
"Just sleep," Rossi said.
Hotch didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His breathing evened out gradually, the rigid line of his body softening against the mattress.
Outside, the neon sign flickered on and off. The ice machine rattled once more and then fell silent.