Say It (Hotch x Reader)// ✔

Motion Sickness

Summary:

A small reveal leads you back to working with your former unit - the BAU. What does that mean for your relationship with Hotch?

Notes:

Hey y'all. I'm back with a new chapter - have been watching a lot of Elementary these days (my comfort show) so that's gonna be my inspiration for the following chapters. I didn't take time to edit this correctly and i'm sure its poorly written lmao but thnx again!!

also title from Phoebe Bridger's song ofc

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The alarm blaring from the bedroom, heard through the open door of your bathroom brings a smile to your lips. You check yourself for a last time in the mirror and decide that you'd have to wear a scarf today, the weather outside just a bit below zero. To your evident surprise, Hotch remains sprawled over the bed, white bedsheets loosely draped over his body covering his sweats and the tank top he's still wearing from last night. The alarm hadn't made him leap out and get dressed quickly as per usual. He's only moved a tad, his eyes open, and he's calmly looking at his phone with that same attention span you're always envious of. He stops though when you enter the room, eyes trailing up and down your figure and he smiles.

"I thought I was the early bird" he says with a mocking tone, "You always complain about my alarms". His morning voice is deeper and gravellier than his normal one.

That reminds you that the scarf is not only necessity for the weather but also to hide the markings on your neck left over as a souvenir (and heated reminder) by him. You'd never thought of Hotch as being territorial in any aspect of his life, but you were quite surprised, and more pleasantly so, of finding out that he was over this - over you. You shake your head, feeling your face already flushed from the memories of last night.

"I guess I got used to them. My natural clock can predict it now"

"Lucky" he says with a hint of a smile.

You shrug in reply and he watches you make your way in the room. From the wardrobe, to check what to put on and deciding on a turtleneck and jeans, opting instead in adopting a more casual style - to the chair at your desk picking up the files spread there and putting them into the bag at the feet of the table. You plop down on the bed at his knees, not wanting to get dressed yet and his hands drop the phone in a swift motion, stretching to reach out for you instead.

"You're not keeping my shirt?" he teases, sitting up and he goes straight for it, pulling you in swiftly in a kiss. It's lingering and sweet. When he parts away your eyes remain closed, not quite ready to think about anything else but him for a split second longer.

You're donning his shirt – not the white button-up he'd chucked on the floor last night in the heat of the moment, as you'd already put it in your washing machine – but a black one he'd left a week ago.

"I think the cold would suck the soul out of me if I did" you raise an arm up, showing off the short sleeves and he smiles.

"I'll bring you a pullover next time" he says and you shake your head – again that same territoriality, and the only kind you appreciated. He lets you go and you stand up, making your way to the opposite side of the bed. You scroll through the emails on your phone, showing him your back. The bed shifts under your weight and his – and you feel him move behind you.

"What's your plan this week?" you ask without looking up. Your attention is razor-sharp on the new update from Junie, a report on the last trails of Reus in Great Britain. He'd disappeared without trace after that first contact – first and last one when he'd been seen in a CCTV camera. That entire month spent in Scotland Yard had been fruitless too. Trying to retrace his possible entrances and exits to the country was fruitless. It was almost like he'd been dropped with a parachute smack in the middle of London – not even cabs, Ubers, or whatever else left to track him around the city. Not one character testimony either in the bar where his last victim had been spotted. Nothing at all. If it wasn't for that one footage of his face flashing the camera before following the girl back to her house, you wouldn't have been able to tell where he'd been. It all felt like mockery in a way – he'd joined a few groups in France, galivanted around trying to rob banks and failing, just to show up in London not long after, no future plans of his in sight. You open the PDF file but it is too heavy for your phone so your frustration is visible in your features and mannerisms as you drop it with a thud over the bedside table. You turn then, remembering the silent promise you'd made to yourself and Hotch. The major block between any of the relationships you've ever had was the job. If it wasn't for the scheduling, it was the commitment. And if it wasn't for the latter, it was because you'd started, after Revi's death, to carry everything that happened on the job back home. You don't want that with Hotch. Not only because you don't want to hurt your own chances and be the saboteur, but also because he doesn't deserve it. He does the same, leaving the phone on the other side. His worried eyes scan your face and there's something he wants to ask. It's etched over his furrowed eyebrows, and the way his mouth is parted open. Yet he doesn't. You don't want the unspoken questions to hover in between you, deciding instead to narrow the distance over the bed. He meets you in the middle. His hand tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, while his other one comes to rest over your knee.