Work Text:
Aaron Hotchner had always believed that conflict meant fracture.
Not intellectually. Intellectually, he understood that disagreements were inevitable. Healthy, even. People fought. People miscommunicated. People got angry and then repaired the damage afterward. He profiled people for a living. He understood the mechanics of emotional rupture and reconciliation better than most people ever would.
But understanding something clinically and believing it personally were two entirely different things.
Because somewhere beneath years of discipline and composure and carefully maintained control, there was still a man who remembered Haley standing in their kitchen looking exhausted and disappointed and saying, You are impossible to live with sometimes, Aaron.
And apparently, some words never really stopped echoing.
Which was why the silence from Emily Prentiss felt unbearable.
It had been six days since their fight.
Six days since she’d walked out of his apartment after their first truly ugly argument in nearly eight months together.
Not loud. Neither of them were loud people.
That had somehow made it worse.
—
It had started over Strauss.
Ridiculously enough.
Strauss had cornered Hotch after a meeting and informed him that Emily’s conduct during a suspect interview had bordered on insubordination. Hotch had defended her immediately—because the suspect had needed pressure applied—but afterward he’d privately asked Emily to be more careful.
Under normal circumstances, it would have been a ten-minute conversation.
But they hadn’t been having a normal week.
The case load had been brutal. They were exhausted. They hadn’t slept properly in days. Jack had gotten sick earlier that week, meaning Hotch had barely seen Emily outside the office because he’d spent his nights taking care of his son.
And Emily—already sensitive to feeling unwanted when people pulled away emotionally—had finally snapped.
“So that’s it?” she’d asked quietly in his apartment kitchen. “Strauss complains and suddenly I’m a liability?”
Hotch had frowned immediately. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“No, Emily. It isn’t.”
But she’d already folded into herself in that terrible way he hated. Arms crossing tightly. Expression flattening. Voice cooling.
“You know what? Forget it.”
“Emily—”
“You don’t have to manage me off the clock too.”
That had irritated him more than it should have.
“I’m not managing you. I’m trying to have a conversation with you.”
“Well, congratulations. It feels exactly like a performance review.”
The words had landed harder than she intended. He knew that now.
At the time, though, exhaustion and frustration had gotten the better of him.
And then Emily had said the thing that pushed him over the edge.
“Maybe this was a mistake.”
The words hit him like a slap.
Not because he thought she truly meant them.
But because she said them so quickly. So instinctively. Like the moment things became uncomfortable, she was already preparing to run.
Something sharp and tired rose in Hotch’s chest then.
“Do you know what’s unfair?” he asked quietly.
Emily blinked, startled by the coldness in his voice.
“You decide I’m disappointed in you before I’ve even finished speaking. You assume I’m pulling away the second we disagree.” His jaw tightened. “And then you punish both of us for something that only exists in your head.”
The second the words left his mouth, he saw it happen.
Emily’s face changed.
Not anger.
Not outrage.
Pain.
Pure, immediate pain.
As though he’d reached into her chest and touched something bruised.
Hotch regretted it instantly.
But Emily didn’t give him a chance to redirect.
“Okay,” she said softly.
Just that.
Okay.
Then she grabbed her coat and left.
—
Afterward, Emily convinced herself she was being rational.
That was the pathetic part.
She genuinely believed she was protecting herself.
Because relationships ended like this, didn’t they?
Not all at once.
Not with dramatic explosions.
With tiny fractures.
With disappointment.
With realizing the other person had finally seen enough of you to understand you were difficult to love.
Emily had spent most of her life waiting for affection to become conditional.
Her mother’s approval had always depended on performance. Diplomacy. Perfection. Presentation.
Former relationships had burned out once people realized she was guarded and stubborn and emotionally evasive when frightened.
And Hotch…
God.
Hotch was so good at loving her that sometimes it terrified her.
Because he looked at her like she was steady. Worthy. Safe to keep.
The fight had cracked something open inside her.
Not because he’d been cruel.
He hadn’t.
But because his words had exposed her too cleanly.
You assume I’m pulling away the second we disagree.
And worse:
You punish both of us for something that only exists in your head.
The horrifying thing was that part of her knew he was right.
But instead of making her feel understood, it made her feel exposed.
Seen too clearly.
And now she couldn’t stop thinking maybe he finally understood how exhausting she really was.
Too emotional. Too defensive. Too difficult.
So she’d done what Emily Prentiss always did when she feared abandonment.
She retreated before she could be left.
—
At work, they became painfully professional.
No lingering glances.
No secret touches when nobody was looking.
No coffee waiting on her desk in the mornings.
No quiet moments beside each other on the jet.
To everyone else, nothing seemed wrong.
To Rossi, it was glaringly obvious.
He watched them during a briefing one morning while Morgan spoke at the board.
Emily looked exhausted.
Hotch looked miserable.
Neither one looked directly at the other.
Rossi sighed internally.
Idiots.
—
The case took them to Oregon.
A series of abductions. Remote terrain. Long hours.
By the second night, Hotch started noticing things.
Emily missing details during discussions.
Her reactions delayed by a second too long.
Dark circles beneath her eyes growing more pronounced every hour.
Then she nearly fell asleep on the car ride back from a witness interview.
Her head jerked violently upright halfway through, eyes unfocused with disorientation.
Hotch’s chest tightened immediately.
Because Emily Prentiss did not fall asleep unintentionally.
Not ever.
And suddenly he remembered every night she’d spent tangled against him over the past several months.
The way she unconsciously sought warmth in her sleep.
The way she relaxed only once his arm settled around her waist.
The way she often woke from nightmares, and only became calmer when he touched her.
His stomach sank.
She wasn’t sleeping.
Not really.
And somehow that hurt worse than the silence.
—
That night, after the team dispersed to their hotel rooms, Hotch stood outside Emily’s door for nearly two full minutes.
Then finally knocked.
There was movement inside. Slow movement.
The door opened halfway.
Emily looked startled.
Then immediately guarded.
“Hotch.”
His chest tightened at the formal tone.
“You look exhausted,” he said quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You almost fell asleep standing during the briefing.”
“I said I’m fine.”
He studied her carefully.
Hair loose and messy. Eyes hollowed by fatigue. One hand gripping the edge of the door tightly enough for her knuckles to pale.
She looked miserable.
And suddenly none of his pride mattered anymore.
“Emily,” he said softly, “please let me in.”
Something in her face cracked.
Just slightly.
But enough.
She stepped aside.
—
The room was dark except for a bedside lamp.
Emily sat on the edge of the bed while Hotch remained standing for a moment, taking her in carefully.
She wouldn’t look at him.
That hurt too.
Finally he sat beside her.
Close.
But not touching.
“What’s going on?” he asked gently.
“Nothing.”
“Emily.”
Silence.
Then finally, in a painfully small voice:
“I can’t sleep.”
His heart nearly broke.
“Since when?”
She shrugged.
“A few days.”
“A few days,” he repeated carefully, like he couldn’t quite believe she was minimizing it.
She stared at the carpet.
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
Another long silence.
Then she whispered the thing she clearly hated admitting.
“I got used to you.”
Hotch blinked.
Emily’s face burned with embarrassment immediately.
“This is humiliating.”
“No,” he said instantly. “No, sweetheart, it isn’t.”
Her eyes closed briefly at the endearment. Like she physically needed it.
“I sleep better with you there,” she admitted quietly. “And after the fight I just kept thinking… if I got too used to it, then when this ended—”
Hotch stared at her.
“When what ended?”
She finally looked at him then, eyes tired and painfully vulnerable.
“This.”
The fear in her voice shattered him.
“Emily…”
“You were already frustrated with me,” she whispered. “And I know I can be difficult and defensive and—”
“Stop.”
The firmness in his voice startled her silent.
Hotch exhaled shakily and rubbed a hand over his face.
“Is that what you thought this was?” he asked quietly. “The beginning of the end?”
Her silence answered him.
And suddenly everything made horrifying sense.
The withdrawal.
The distance.
The way she’d looked hurt instead of angry after their argument.
Hotch felt sick.
Because while Emily had spent the week convinced he no longer wanted her…
He had spent the week convinced she’d finally realized he was impossible to live with.
That Haley had been right.
That eventually everyone became exhausted by him.
He laughed softly then.
Not humorously.
Just tired.
“We are catastrophically bad at this,” he murmured.
Emily blinked at him.
Hotch finally reached for her carefully, fingers brushing against hers.
“When you pulled away,” he admitted quietly, “I thought you’d decided I was too difficult to be with.”
Her eyes widened immediately.
“Aaron—”
“I know I can be controlling. I know I get consumed by work. And after the argument…” He looked down briefly. “I thought maybe you saw me differently afterward.”
Emily looked horrified.
“I never thought that.”
“Well,” he said dryly, “apparently we’re both idiots.”
A startled laugh escaped her then.
Small.
Tired.
But real.
And God, he’d missed that sound.
The tension in the room finally eased slightly.
Hotch lifted a hand slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away.
Instead she leaned into his touch almost desperately when his fingers brushed her cheek.
His chest ached immediately.
“I should’ve come to you,” he whispered.
“I didn’t exactly give you a chance.”
“You don’t have to protect yourself from me.”
Her eyes glistened slightly.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“No,” he said softly. “It isn’t.”
For a moment they just looked at each other.
Months of secrecy and trust and growing love sitting heavily between them.
Then Hotch glanced toward the bed.
“Come here.”
Emily looked exhausted enough to cry.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
He climbed into the covers first and opened his arms.
The hesitation lasted barely two seconds before she folded against him.
And the second she settled into his chest, Hotch felt her entire body release tension she’d apparently been carrying for days.
Her face buried against his neck.
One arm wrapping tightly around his waist.
Hotch held her carefully, one hand moving slowly through her hair.
“It’s okay,” he murmured softly. “I’ve got you.”
Emily exhaled shakily.
“I hate fighting with you.”
“I know.”
“I thought you were pulling away.”
“I thought you were pulling away.”
Another exhausted little laugh.
Then silence.
Not painful this time.
Just tired.
Hotch kept stroking her hair rhythmically as her breathing gradually slowed.
At first, she fought sleep without realizing it.
He could feel it in the tension that still lingered faintly in her shoulders. The occasional tiny shifts against him. The way her fingers curled tightly in the fabric of his shirt like she was afraid if she loosened her grip, he might disappear.
And that nearly undid him.
Because Emily Prentiss was one of the strongest people he had ever known.
She stared down serial killers without flinching. Walked into danger with terrifying calm. Held herself together through trauma that would have shattered most people.
But love—being loved—still frightened her enough that one argument had convinced her she needed to prepare for abandonment.
Hotch lowered his head slightly, pressing a quiet kiss into her hair.
Immediately, her grip loosened.
Trust.
Even now.
Even hurt.
The realization settled heavily in his chest.
Emily’s breathing slowly evened out against him. Her body softened by degrees, exhaustion finally winning over anxiety. One of her legs tangled unconsciously with his beneath the blankets, seeking closeness even in sleep.
Hotch watched her carefully the entire time.
The faint furrow still lingering between her brows.
The dark circles beneath her eyes.
The exhaustion carved into her face after days without proper sleep.
And beneath all of it, something achingly vulnerable.
He knew now that when Emily got scared, she did not lash out.
She disappeared.
She withdrew so nobody could watch her break apart.
The profiler in him understood it immediately. Defensive distancing. Emotional self-preservation. If she left first—if she detached first—then maybe rejection would hurt less when it inevitably arrived.
But the man in love with her only felt devastated that she had ever learned to survive that way.
Hotch tightened his arms around her slightly.
Carefully.
Protectively.
And for the first time in days, Emily made a soft, sleepy sound of contentment.
It wrecked him.
Because he realized with sudden, painful clarity that he would do almost anything to protect this woman from pain.
Not just physical danger.
That part was instinctive. Immediate. Violent, if necessary.
But this?
This quiet ache inside her that constantly waited for affection to vanish?
That was harder.
How did he protect someone from a wound carved into them long before he arrived?
How did he convince her that disagreement was not abandonment?
That she didn’t have to earn softness from him?
That she could be angry and frightened and difficult and stubborn and still be loved completely?
Hotch rested his cheek lightly against the top of her head.
Haley had once accused him of treating emotions like problems to solve.
Maybe she had been right.
Because part of him immediately started cataloging solutions.
Communicate more clearly.
Don’t let arguments sit unresolved.
Notice when she starts retreating into herself.
Remind her verbally what she means to him.
Don’t assume she knows.
Especially not after conflict.
And perhaps most importantly—
Stop expecting her to read his silence correctly when silence had hurt both of them all week.
Emily shifted slightly in her sleep then, face pressing closer into his throat.
“Aaron,” she murmured drowsily.
Not awake.
Just seeking him.
His chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt.
“I’m here,” he whispered immediately.
Her breathing eased again within seconds.
Hotch stared up at the dim hotel ceiling for a long time after that, one hand still moving slowly through her hair.
And somewhere in the quiet darkness, he made himself a promise.
Not that they would never fight again.
They would.
Not that he would never hurt her accidentally.
He probably would.
But he would never let pride keep him from reaching for her again.
Never let silence grow where reassurance should be.
Never allow Emily Prentiss to lie awake for days believing herself unloved when he desperately, irrevocably loved her.
Eventually, exhaustion began pulling at him too.
But before sleep finally claimed him, Hotch looked down one last time at the woman curled trustingly against his chest.
And very gently, so softly she would never remember hearing it, he whispered:
“You are never going to have to earn being loved by me.”