#i feel awful all the time and i’m so sick of it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

luveline · 2 days

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𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

When someone hurts you, you and Aaron both need time to get better, and to put things right. fem, 8k

cw canon typical violence, graphic scenes and imagery of assault/battery, recovery, mentions of being sick, issues eating. established relationship, lots of angst and comfort, hotch being vulnerable, jack being sweet

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

You lay backward over the luxurious stretch of the couch and sigh as your spine gives a sharp crick. Your head feels heavy after a long shower, your arms ache from a day at work, but the feeling of soft cotton on your legs deters any moping.

I hope these are more comfortable, his note read, a white post it note stuck to a boutique bag. You wrap an arm around your waist remembering how Aaron’s message had made you feel: spoiled, and considered.

You’d mentioned in passing that all your pyjamas are old and rough as a consequence, thought nothing of it, and promptly forgot about the conversation entirely.

When Aaron finally comes home tonight, you’re going to give him a proper thank you. You can imagine his reaction to such a thing, his smile as he says it’s no problem, his eyes shuttering closed as you press a kiss to his cheek. You hadn’t realised how prevalent affection would become in your life after meeting him, but everything he does inspires love. Awful, soft, marshmallowy love where he looks at you and you want to sit in his lap.

You slide your phone up your chest lazily and click the button on the side to light the display. Aaron hasn’t claimed to know when he’ll be home tonight. All he’d said was to let yourself in.

It’s odd but not the worst thing in the world to be alone in his apartment. There’s less and less free space each time you visit as Jack begins to outgrow his and his fathers lodgings, but there’s never a stain or bad smell, the Hotchner apartment feels homey. You’re excited whenever you’re invited to spend the night with them.

Maybe some time soon he’ll ask you to move in, or better, to marry him. You’re not a hundred percent sure how you feel about marriage, about being someone’s wife, but there’s a great well of pleasure to be found in the idea that Aaron would want to marry you. He makes you feel loved already in a hundred different ways but the ring might be nice, like a symbol to signify how much you mean to him.

You rest your hand across your eyes. It’s silly to think of. Sillier to want so soon. You’ve been together for just under a year, and you have no false hopes about rushing into the future, but it’s certainly a future you want with him (and with Jack, too). He’s taking things slowly for a hundred different reasons but he loves you, and gifts like your new pyjamas cement that. He really listens to you.

Your phone rings a moment later.

You smile at the screen. It’s nice to be in love with someone who loves you too.

“Hey,” Aaron says when you answer, his voice warm even through the phone, “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“How come?” You sit up with a little start.

“It’s getting late, honey. I called Jess and Jack was already gone.” He doesn’t say anything further.

“Are you okay?”

“I wanted to hear your voice, I think.”

“Well, where are you?” You struggle to envision him speaking saccharinely like this where his colleagues could hear him. He’s nice to you often, but he’s a reserved man.

“I’m just,” —a crunching sound of metal, the trunk of his car closing— “about to get in the car. I’ll be home before ten. Can I have you until then?”

“I don’t see any reason to say no. But do you think you could come home a little faster? I have a crick in my neck.”

“And you want me to fix that?”

“You always fix my neck.”

“How have you done it?” There’s a sound you assume to be the car door closing, but you can’t hear anything beyond that.

“I have bad posture.”

“You have perfect posture.”

“No, it’s quite bad.”

He laughs loudly. It took some time to draw the humour from him but he isn’t as stony as you’d think, and for a while he didn’t have much worth laughing for, anyways. Whenever you hear it, you try to prompt it twice.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Aaron, it’s just like when you said my weird rash wasn’t weird.”

He laughs again, to your pleasure. “It wasn’t weird, it was a heat rash, I promise. You act like you’ve never seen heat rash.”

“One of us goes to hot cities all the time and one of us lives permanently in Virginia.”

“What are you talking about? Virginia’s far from cold. You’re being argumentative, I can see your smile in my head. I’m never going to fix your crick if you keep acting like that.”

“No, don’t be like that,” you laugh, tipping back into the cushions. “You’re always such a sore loser.”

“What did I lose?”

You can tell from his tone that you’ve promised yourself one of those hugs that borders on a straight jacket tightness, his face tucked into your neck as he asks you to repeat yourself. What did I lose? he’ll ask again, kissing your chin, the line of your jaw. Tell me clearly.

“It hurts,” you say honestly, “please don’t be mad. I really need one.”

“I’m not mad… I’m going under the overpass, my signal might cut out.”

“Okie dokie. Hey, did you eat? I can make you something for when you get home. I got groceries.”

“I’m not hungry, but you can make yourself hot cocoa, and I’ll drink it when I get there,” he says.

“Or I could make us both some?”

“It’s much more fun if I drink yours before you can, honey. You know that—”

You pause in the quiet, then hear a quick beeping. You pull your phone from your ear and find the call disconnected.

Cruel overpass, you think.

Sure he’ll call you back, you take your phone into his kitchen and set about finding all the things you’ll need for hot cocoa. One mug, because you should hate when he forces you to share, but you love the feeling of his fingers on yours as he takes it and the thankful kiss he dots on your cheek.

The kettle is uncomplicated. You toy with the stovetop, set the kettle on the burner, and let the temperature rise. It begins whistling lightly a mere thirty seconds later.

You click your phone on again. He’ll have passed through the tunnel now and will be calling you back any minute. You stare at the phone, hoping to summon him, slouched over the counter with the tin of cocoa powder by your fingers. The kettle whines with growing heat, but cool air kisses your back.

Goosebumps rise. Up and down the lengths of your arms, the back of your neck—

A sudden chill.

The lack of air comes before the hand, the pain a rush, a burst to be away from. Leather on your neck creaking without sympathy as a hand tightens and drags your body back against something hard.

Not Aaron. Your scream comes strangled under cruel fingers as you fight to move forward again, straight for the burner, the kettle shoved across the burner grate and exploding with scalding water, heat of the burner kissing your chest— you scream, only it’s worse than a scream, sound from the deepest part of you forcing itself past the heat at your neck as you try to fling yourself away from the pain.

You fall with a hard clout. “Stay still!” comes out enraged against the back of your neck. You drop to your knees, the pain lighting flaring up your chest, your gaze frantic as you search for a flame that isn’t there. You’re not on fire, you’re crawling and then scampering up into a standing position when the heavy weight drops itself on you again and smashes your face into the floor.

All your fight leaves you. Your ears ring. Your panic wanes but the pain stays alert in your mouth.

A hand grabs you by the back of the head and drives your face into the ground. It’s like light in your eyes and your nose, the brunt of it, the crack of your bone and the hot trickle of blood that swiftly follows. You gurgle in pain, spluttering and gagging against the linoleum, waiting for Aaron to turn you over and say sorry. It’s an accident.

Blood drains from your nose in spurts to match your racing pulse, so much blood you can see your eyes reflected in the dark stretch of it. Water drips down the front of the stove, your breath aches and begs, and your attacker takes a measured breath.

He flips you over. You can’t slide away, there’s nothing left in you, your head a second body as he raises something.

Your phone rings on the counter.

“Please, don’t,” you plead with a sob.

You pass out as the pain connects. Just as quickly as it started, your body takes the reins.

—

There’s a strange darkness waiting for you. Like waking before your alarm and stealing those last minutes, body aching, not wanting to get up and face the day. Aaron gets up early every morning, sometimes as early as four AM, and whenever you get up with him your eyes hurt for hours.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Hey, hey, I think your boyfriend’s coming.

What will he make of my handiwork?

You didn’t stay awake long enough for that one, did you? But you’re waking up now.

The pain is enough to wake you up again, a hot drag down the side of you to your hip and in. You aren’t aware of the sounds you make, but you can hear them. Your panicked squealing as the heat presses further and further in. Your crying, and your whispering, “Stop, stop.”

“There’s handsome,” the dark voice says. “I’ve gotta go hide somewhere, does he carry after hours? I think I’ll find out.”

“Oh,” you say, feeling sickly. You attempt to curl into yourself, when did you turn onto your back? “No,” you mumble, lips wet with something hot.

“Honey?” a voice asks.

“Honey,” you repeat, woozy again, darkness falling in all over again, where it stays.

Honey, are you in here?

—

The window behind Aaron’s shoulder is cold. Rain patters fast like floods, thunder occasionally chewing through clouds, and Jack Hotchner cries sluggish tears into his dad’s shoulder.

Aaron has his eyes closed. They’ve been at this for a while. “Shh, shh shh, buddy,” he says softly, patting the bottom of Jack’s back. He’d sway him back and forth if his arms weren’t about to fall off.

Jack squirms closer, no room left between them.

“I know it’s scary,” Aaron says.

Jack just cries. This approach of quiet support isn’t working; Jack isn’t a baby that needs to be put to sleep, he’s a panicking little kid, and Aaron needs to change gears. He ushers him away from his chest and crosses his arm behind Jack’s back. Careful, he shifts Jack’s weight to free his other arm and brings his fingers up to the silky brown hair dropping onto Jack’s forehead.

“She’s okay,” Aaron says, stroking Jack’s hair. His little forehead is clammy. “She’s not hurting. I know it looks scary, honey, but… she’s just resting.”

Jack looks him in the eyes. “Her face.”

“I know.” He nods emphatically. “It’s hard to see. Blood isn’t nice. You don’t have to see her again today, not if it’s too scary.”

Jack lifts a hand to Aaron’s face. Clumsy but with clear attempts to be careful, he wipes at the skin under Aaron’s eye. Aaron bites back a smile.

“I look tired,” he says.

“Yeah.” Jack brings his hand back to wipe his eyes. He sobs as he does it. Aaron can’t describe the ache it gives him to see it.

“Buddy, I’ll do it. Let me wipe your face. I can do it.”

Jack drops his hands. Aaron turns his hand and wipes the smudge of Jack’s tears from hot cheeks, testing the waters with a little smile.

“I couldn’t see you under all those tears.”

Jack does a little smile back. “Yes you can.”

“I couldn’t! But now I’ve wiped all your face I can see you again. You’re handsome, did we know that?”

Jack giggles. He sniffles, and he presses his palm to Aaron’s neck. “I don’t want her to be sad, dad.”

“She’s going to be sad, because something scary happened, but it’s okay. I’m gonna take care of her.”

Aaron would offer to take him home, but they can’t go home. They may not go home for a long time —the team is still trying to work out how someone made it into the apartment without alerting the building’s security or Aaron’s internal system. And then escaped again without Aaron’s notice. Until then, Aaron has to make a decision about a safe house, for himself, Jack, and Jess, though she's extremely unreceptive to the idea.

Aaron has to look after Jack, and he needs to take care of you.

“What do you think, bud?” he asks, cupping Jack’s head in his hand. “Do you want to go home?”

“You said I can give her a hug.”

“If it’s too scary, we don’t have to. I don’t want you to get upset again.”

“I’m not scared. I want to give her the hug,” he says.

Aaron pulls him in for a hug of his own. “Okay, buddy. Just try to think of it like this. She’s where she needs to be to get better. Everybody here is looking after her. She’ll be okay soon.”

Aaron looks over Jack’s head down the hospital hallway. It’s a quiet ward, and here between the main ward doors and the hallway that leads down to the individual rooms there’s complete silence. Night is approaching quickly again, and with it comes Aaron’s panic. Your head turned into a puddle, your face lax of expression in the dark. He can’t stop finding the women he loves bloody and on their backs.

“Ready?” he murmurs. “Can you walk with me? My arms are tired.”

“Yeah.”

Aaron puts Jack down gently onto his feet. He neatens his hair, chucking him under the chin as he goes to see his smile. He’s so pretty, like Haley was, with shiny eyes. He’s a beautiful kid. Aaron takes his hand and together they make their way down the hallway to your room.

You’re sleeping.

Aaron herds Jack through the door and to the plastic covered chair by your side, where he lifts him up and sits him down. He stays between you both. Jack isn’t scared of you, just the blood, but he wants to show Jack that he’s going to protect him from anything he needs protecting from. He also desperately wants to touch you, and reassure himself that you’re still breathing.

He looks for your hand. Your pinky finger is splinted, but he can take it with care, give the palm of it a squeeze.

The blood matted in your hair has finally been washed away after a turbulent day, as well as the staining that marred your face. Your nose is broken, and looks it, the bruises so fierce your eyes have turned puffy and your top lip has inflamed. There are second degree burns in multiple places but most affectedly on your chest. There’s a stab wound at your hip, allegedly done with a small blade. It nicked your small intestine. The bandages laid over you are a lump under your hospital gown.

Aaron looks at you, and he feels a passionate disdain for himself. He wishes he could… be someone else. Someone who doesn’t have such a deep connection to a job that hurts the people around him, over and over. Haley used to say he was obsessed with being the hero, but this doesn’t feel heroic.

“Do you wanna give her your cuddle?” he asks softly.

Jack stays sitting.

He’ll have to give it to you himself. Careful, Aaron leans down over your prone body and presses a half kiss to your ear, the only place that won’t hurt.

You have an IV drip going into your arm, painkillers, an ECG monitor to the left. The room is white but busy, you’re a burst of colour against it all, your cuts and bruises, the evidence of violence he can’t remove. Aaron’s tired. He perches on the gap of bed by your leg and holds your hand, turning to Jack, who watches with a frown.

“She’s sleeping,” Aaron says.

“When can she come home?”

“In a few days.” He feels the pad of your hand, terrified of your broken finger but needing to hold a part of you.

“Why is she sleeping all day?”

Traumatic experiences are exhausting. “I think she might want to be alone, so she sleeps.”

“Should we go?”

Aaron shakes his head. “I think we should stay. When she wakes up again she’ll be happy to see us, because we’re not strangers.”

“We’re family,” Jack says. He’d liked that, when the nurse asked you how Aaron was related to you. Family only.

“We’re her family,” Aaron agrees.

If he somehow miraculously fell out of love with you, you’d still be family to them. You’ve given so much of your heart since you met them. Aaron wants everything you have to give.

You wake in a slow, slow upheaval. It takes effort on your part, the opening of sore eyes, the dreary decision to face your pain. Your hand jumps in his but relaxes when he shushes you, your slimmer fingers stilling under his rubbing thumb. For a split second, you keep your gaze half-lidded, jaw soft, like you’ve been indulging in a stolen nap.

Then your breath catches and you screw your eyes tightly.

“You’re okay,” he says, quietly, and not as lightly as he means to, “you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” in quick succession.

“Hurts,” you say, and gasp, a whine stuck in your throat.

He doesn’t know what to do. Jack shouldn’t watch this but he can’t leave you alone. “It’s okay,” he says, holding your wrist to stop it climbing up your bruised face.

You were worse the first time you woke up. Catatonic, then sobbing. You mumble and whimper now, pain threading goosebumps down your arms.

“It hurts too much,” you say. A sob falls out of you like you’ve been ripped open.

Aaron doesn’t think, but an instinct sparks. The pain, to hit you right out of the gate like this, to make you say something like that when you’ve always always made your problems small, must be torture. It must feel new and sudden all over again.

Aaron checks that Jack is alright and leaves the room. He looks down one hallway and then the other, but there’s no nurse around —he races to the reception desk and begs the two nurses there for help with you, “She’s in intense pain,” he says, grasping the desk.

The nurse he’s more familiar with clears her throat. “Mr. Hotchner, she’s already had enough motrin for two people at your request, she really shouldn’t need–”

“Pain is just as important to treat as the injury.”

A second nurse puts her salad down with raised brows. “Do you want to overdose her?”

“Excuse me?”

Aaron has always seen himself as a gentleman, but the argument that ensues is tricky to navigate while remaining respectful, and he’s no closer to better treatment for you by the end of it. He gives each nurse a disapproving glower and takes his phone from his pocket, turning on the spot, ready to call whoever it is he needs to call for a second opinion. He’s not gonna listen to you cry when there’s no need.

He pushes the door open with the phone still clutched in his other hand. Jack’s climbed onto your bed. He cuddles your face, sitting by your pillows and bent over you protectively.

Aaron lets out a breath.

“It’s okay,” he says, his arm behind your head and his arm on your shoulder. “W’gonna take care of you.”

“I know,” you say, crying without sound, shaking under his arms.

His cheek smushes against your forehead. Your eyes are closed and your face braced for contact Jack doesn’t make, careful not to hurt you as he rubs his cheek into your skin. Your blankets are falling off of you from the squirming and your bruises shine with tears in the light, but Jack has calmed you down some.

Aaron shouldn’t have left Jack with you. He’s been so scatterbrained since he found you when he should be the opposite, but Jack is doing better than Aaron managed alone.

“I’m sorry for crying,” you say slowly. “I’m hurting, but it’s not bad. I’m okay.”

“That’s good. You have a big scratch on your face, and bruises.”

“I know.”

“Dad says you have a bruise on your tummy too.”

“I got lots of bruises, but it’s okay. Don’t worry about me.” You bring your hand up injured and uncaring to rub his leg. “You’re being a really brave boy, thank you.”

A tear rolls down your cheek.

“It’s teamwork,” Jack says. “I hug you and you hug me.”

“Is that what you want? You want a hug?”

“I want to go home,” he says, hugging you harder.

You grasp his arm loosely where it’s just under your chin. “Jack, can you move your arm?” you whisper.

Your breath comes quickly, but Jack moves his arm away from your bruised neck and you try to calm yourself down.

Aaron jolts himself back into action. “Sweetheart,” he says, rushing to sit Jack back and give you more space. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He watches. Not sure what to say. Not sure saying anything is wise. You squint at him through your lashes, eyes opening slowly, your mouth a line pressed hard to stop from crying.

“I think it's time for Jack to go home,” he suggests gently.

“Yeah,” you say, eyes swimming with tears.

“No.” Jack squeezes your head again, to your panic.

“Jack, buddy, please don’t touch her neck,” Aaron says, grabbing Jack from your pillow.

He erupts into tears again. Frantic and vying for you, Aaron tries to calm him and he kicks against his chest, tears turning to disgruntled sobs at not getting what he wants. You wince, pressing your face completely into the pillow.

Aaron carries Jack from your room, phone in hand.

—

Is she breathing? Can she talk?

I don’t– I don’t know, I don’t– She’s breathing. Honey, can you hear me? I don’t know what to stop. I don’t know where it’s all coming from.

Where’s the worst of the blood?

It’s everywhere.

Abdominal? Chest?

I can’t tell. I can’t tell.

Mr. Hotchner, you can’t panic. Does she have a chest wound?

Yes. Yes, but–

Is she conscious? How’s her pulse? Be ready to start chest compressions.

Honey, can you hear me?

Your name said clearly.

“Hey, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” you murmur.

“If you need a minute, that’s okay.”

You cover your mouth with your hand. Emily Prentiss has a soft voice like your boyfriend’s when she wants to have it. She’s never spoken to you like this, none of his colleagues have, but since the incident, everybody treats you like you’re made of glass.

Cognitive interviews are meant to happen immediately after an accident, but you weren’t up for company. Aaron promised this would be on your terms, that Emily is the most practised, and that she’s reaped the most information from them than the rest of the team. So far, it’s worked to drag bad memories to the surface.

“Maybe we should start from the beginning.”

There isn’t a beginning. There’s just conversation. Aaron’s hand on your heart and his shaky voice, so unlike him.

“Okay.”

Emily reaches for your hand. She smiles, and her nice features get nicer. That’s another thing they all share, good looks. “Okay. What did you notice, in the kitchen? It’ll help if you close your eyes,” she reminds you.

You close your eyes.

“What stuck out?”

“Nothing,” you murmur. “I’ve been in there lots of times, and nothing ever changes.”

“Nothing? Not even the drawings on the fridge?”

“Jack’s particular about his best work, even if I think they should all be on display.”

Emily’s voice turns to a shard of itself. “What did you do? Can you take me through it step by step? Make yourself a cup of hot chocolate.”

“I never got that far.”

“What did you do?”

“I filled the kettle.”

“What kettle?”

You don’t understand the need for specificity, but you answer. “Aaron got it for me, when he… he told me he loved me, and when we got home he’d bought me a kettle and a bunch of stuff to make my being there easier. The kettle, because… he said something about superheated water. How the microwave can be dangerous, and this would be easier than a pan.”

“Alright. Okay, and what did you do after that?”

“I put the kettle on the stove.” You lit the burner, and heat kissed your palm, and suddenly the room had felt cold. “I got goosebumps.”

“When?”

“The kettle started to whistle, and it was cold.”

“And then–”

“Then he grabbed me.”

“Yeah,” Emily says softly.

You touch your nose. “I tried… He didn’t feel like a person. He didn’t feel like someone I was fighting, it was just painful.”

“Like he was quick on his feet?”

“He was silent. I didn’t hear him until I made him fall.”

“How big did he feel?”

Your stomach churns. Big. He’d felt big.

Where’s the worst of the blood?

“He said he was going to hide,” you remember.

“He said that? He said ‘hide’?

“Yeah. And he asked me if Aaron carries after hours.”

“When was this?”

It’s a headache. You try to remember more, because that’s what they need right now. If you ever want to go home, if you want Jack to go home, you need to remember more. The BAU are good, but nobody can make a map out of slivers.

“That was at the end,” you say.

“After he stabbed you?”

You wince. “Yes. After.”

“You’re doing so good,” she praises, “I just want to fill in the gaps.”

“I can’t remember. I was unconscious.”

“When Hotch found you?”

“No, before.”

“Before?” she asks.

You’re sick of sitting there with your eyes closed. Sick of your hands shaking with nowhere to hide them, and sick of feeling sick, your nausea as present as the stinging pain of your burned wrist against your sleeve each time you move.

You open your eyes and look around the conference room for something interesting. How nice would it be to think of something else for a few minutes?

“He called it handiwork when he cut me. Asked if I thought Aaron would like it,” you say, bordering monotonous as your gaze fizzles, unfocused, across the room.

“Okay, Y/N. Okay. I know you’re tired.” She reaches for your hands to squeeze at the same time. “You did really well. Any details at all are details we can use to find him.”

You’re not in the mood for talking anymore. Tears burn your eyes, waiting for a blink to set them loose.

“I want to see Aaron,” you confess quietly.

“I’ll find him for you.” Emily stands but bends, the dark of her hair a contrast to her pale face. She’s lovely, and her hand is gentle on yours. “Are you okay? Can I get you something to eat?”

So Aaron’s not keeping that to himself. “I want to see him, please.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

This is a horrible room. It’s not their fault, but the big white board is tacked with bad photos of grisly cases —currently your own. You stare at a photograph of your blood in the kitchen and don’t know what to do. Should you look away? You hadn’t realised you bled so much.

You turn your chair toward the door. Emily looks back as she leaves and smiles at you softly, but your eyes are already moving to the smaller dry erase board by the doorway. It’s ‘Hotch’s turn to clean up on Thursdays. How strange that they make the boss clean the conference room.

You can picture him picking up coffee cups and wiping down the table. You can always picture Aaron.

You can see him hovering over you, his hand pressed to the bloody mess of your hip to stop the blood.

“It’s okay,” you whisper to yourself, wanting to break from the memory, following Aaron’s example. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” You repeat it into your hands, head tilting down. You sink until your knuckles touch your knees.

That’s all he says when you panic. He’ll say it over and over again until you can breathe right. I have you, I have you, you’re okay.

He’s much quieter this time. You hear his footsteps, his familiar gait, your head pounding too hard to move. Aaron makes a sound between a sigh and a hum, like he’s saying a sorry hello as he kneels in front of you. His hand takes your face, rubs softly over your ear.

“My head’s just hurting,” you murmur.

He doesn’t respond. You sit together for some time as your mind races with bad memories, your fear a rush of goosebumps down the lengths of your arms and thighs. It’s hard not to think about what happened, mostly because you’re still a walking bruise, your stitches sting when you move, the blisters on your chest ache, all of it inescapable. But it’s your anxiety that plagues you most. You’re in a constant state of dread.

You had no idea someone could hurt you as badly as they had until it happened, and now you’re desperate not to be hurt again.

“You have to look after me,” you say eventually, throat sore with how awful it feels to say.

“Yes, I do.”

“Please don’t let me get hurt again.”

Total silence. You sniffle at his lack of an answer, only slightly comforted by his hands at your wrists now, pulling them from your face. “Let’s sit up,” he says, standing himself. “Come on, let’s sit up. You shouldn’t be putting so much pressure on your abdomen.”

You lean back and everything aches like a stretch after a long run or a bad night’s sleep.

Aaron pulls a chair next to yours. When he sits, your knees are pressed in between one another’s thighs, so close he could hug you. You might need one. He’s given you a ridiculous amount of them each day, some for him and some for you.

He has with him a takeout box and a bottle of water.

“Here,” he says, popping the seal of the drink. “Three sips.”

You feel like crying, but you drink. He opens the takeout box to reveal a normal looking sandwich already cut into two halves, but he takes a plastic knife from his pocket, peels away the wrapping, and cuts the sandwich again into quarters.

“I’m gonna be sick,” you say.

“No, you’re not. You won’t be.” He presses the sandwich flat with his hands and holds it to you until you take it. “Please, Y/N. You only have to eat what you can.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Please.”

“Did Emily tell you about my interview?”

He reaches for your thigh. Mildly unlike him when you aren’t at home. You assume it to be a tether for your sake. “No. Is there something you think I should know?”

“I don’t want to say it again.”

“Then you don’t have to. Someone will tell me when I get back.”

You pinch the fluffy bread in your hands, eyeing wearily at the wet insides. “Can I come with you?”

“You’re having trouble in the cognitive interviews, you won’t want to hear what we have to say.”

You split the sandwich in half again, watching as salad and mayonnaise ooze from the bread.

“If you don’t eat, you won’t get better,” he says, a touch stern.

“I can’t eat when you won’t let me come with you.”

“I’m not the only person capable of protecting you. I…” He circles your wrist before you can make a mess. “Can you please eat it?”

You take a bite to appease him, your stomach roiling, food wet and cold on your tongue. You eat the whole quarter queasily, a lump at the back of your throat begging you to stop.

Aaron takes an empty hand and rubs it tenderly. “Thank you,” he says, that rubbing turned more forceful, his hand journeying to your elbow and back again.

It’s sweet how attuned he is to your needing his touch, but mortifying. This entire experience had been embarrassing from start to end. Couldn’t defend yourself, can’t get to grips with it, and can’t keep anything down. Aaron looks at you and your bruises and you wonder if he’s seeing you with blood matted in your hair, or hearing you beg for him to get you something stronger. All you’d wanted was a sedative.

“I’m far from the only person capable of protecting you,” he says.

“You saved me,” you say. You mean it in every sense of the world.

“…This is my fault.”

“I want to be with you,” you say honestly. “I don’t feel okay by myself right now, I just need you, or I feel so sick I wish that I died.” The anxiety is marrow deep.

Aaron looks gutted. “Don’t say that.” His hand goes back to yours, back to tenderness. “I know you're scared.”

“Then why won’t you listen?” you ask weakly.

“I’m listening to you,” he says, his tone a dulcet, pleasing softness you’ve never ever heard before, “I need you to be safe, and I need Jack to be safe, and I can’t do that while he’s still out there.” His brows pinch together, agonised. “I’m sorry you’re scared. I didn’t protect you. But I won’t let anything happen to you again.

“I love you. Please believe that I’m doing what’s best for you right now.”

You turn your head away. He cups your cheek regardless.

“I love you,” he says again.

“I know.”

“No, I love you.”

He’s saying sorry.

“I love you,” you mumble back.

“How are you feeling? Is anything hurting more? Weeping?”

Your eyes are heavy at his touch. “You only looked at me a couple of hours ago.”

“Alright. Can I kiss you? I need to go.”

You don’t answer. Aaron kisses your chin, your jawline, the type of roving, teasing kisses he’d give as he squeezed your sides, only he doesn’t squeeze you, he can’t without hurting you. His hand hesitates just above your deepest wound.

His bright kiss works to spark a modicum of life back into you. Not a lot, but enough. It was likely his intention, some quick prodding kisses to remind you of something happy between you both.

You curl your fingers over his hand and turn your face for a chaste peck. He smiles, the curve of his lips evident and relieving against yours.

“Someone will take you back to the safe house, okay? Give Jack a kiss for me,” he says.

You nod. Aaron strokes your cheek.

—

Your assailant could have killed you while you were vulnerable, but he didn’t. “He assumes he’ll have another chance,” Emily surmises.

“That’s cocky,” JJ mutters.

“It’s telling,” Aaron says. “But he won’t.”

The coaching has been extensive. You, sick, a breath from tears and hurting, your shoulders in his hands and his grip too tight. If someone tells you I’m dead, you wait. If Morgan tells you I’m dead, you ask Rossi. If he says I’m dead, you ask Emily. You can’t believe the first thing someone says. No one is going to move you from this safe house to another without seeing me first. If I do get hurt, you and Jack will be moved separately. You will always get my confirmation before you’re moved.

I’m not gullible, you’d said, wincing at his sharp tone.

It’s not about that. People will lie, and they will lie well. They will talk their way into the house if you let them. You can’t let them.

I won’t.

He’s racing against a countdown, because no matter what he says, what you know, or how many agents wait outside your house, sometimes it’s a force of will.

Foyet didn’t need much more than that.

He admittedly feels on surer footing knowing where you are. The decision to guard you without putting you in WITSEC is aching and scary but better, too. He knows where you are. He can be there in ten minutes. No guessing games, but no hiding for you either.

Your dread is taking over everything you do. Today’s the first day since you came home almost two weeks ago that you could function without a live-in nurse or Jess there to look after Jack, and already he’s worried, because he’d convinced you total honesty was what’s best for the both of you, and so your texts are candid.

One an hour for his sake, more if you're up to it.

Threw up my beta blockers. Jack misses you, he wants to make you a Lego boat and fishing rod, but I’m not sure how to do it. Please make sure you eat dinner.

Your next message makes him smile, thankfully. I’m kidding about the dinner thing. Ha. I had one of those gels you got for me, and Jack wants fries, so I’m making waffle fries.

He texts back quickly. Eat dinner. Please tell Jack I miss him too, and don’t worry about the boat, he’ll work it out. Then, feeling awful, he adds, I love you

Aaron should go home. He’d feel better if he knew he was there to help you keep your medication down, but if he leaves… He knows his team will give you everything they have, but he has more. He can fix this.

He can’t fix this, god, his head hurts badly. You’re covered in cuts and bruises and burns and he thinks he can make up for that? You’ve been brutalised. Aaron can’t believe this is happening again.

He rubs his brow.

“You okay?” Emily asks.

When he looks up, JJ is gone.

“I’m fine.”

“It��s okay if you’re not.”

He’s not fine, but he knows what she’s asking. “I’m okay enough to do this,” he says.

It’s hard not to confuse you with memory, your hurting similar to his own, your situation one that he’s already lived. Haley will haunt him for life. It doesn’t usually feel as punishing as he fears he deserves: he gets to remember the best parts of her everyday. He sees her in Jack all the time. He sees her in you, occasionally —you’ll touch his hair or rub his arm like she would’ve done, and it doesn’t make him miss her any more than he does, he’s not in the business of wishing you weren’t yourself, he loves you, but he remembers her. Aaron remembers how he failed her every day.

He can’t fail you, too.

“Is it ever easy?” Emily asks.

Aaron looks around for a bottle of water. “Is what?”

“Being in love.”

He thinks about it. “I must make it look hard.”

She laughs softly. “Sometimes, yeah.”

Maybe that’s not fair, then, to you. For him to make it seem difficult to love you. To fail to correct Emily when she asks.

He chooses his words carefully. “Loving her is the easiest thing in the world. But… I continue to work a job I know makes me hard to love in return.” And that puts you in danger.

It doesn’t feel wrong to be sincere. Perhaps it’s easier with Emily. She saw so much of him during Foyet, and she’s family, truly. He can tell her how intense it’s felt.

“Well, it doesn’t seem hard for her,” Emily says.

He shakes his head.

She continues regardless, “Even during her cognitive, she mentioned the first time you told her you loved her. When it was over she wanted to see you over anything else.”

But I put her here, he wants to say. Or doesn’t want to say at all, but instead knows with surety.

“She can’t eat if I’m not home,” he says. What a thing to do to someone. “It’s my fault.”

Emily smiles, hair slipping off of her shoulder as her expression turns to playfulness. “I think you’re seeing it all wrong. Something bad happened to her, and you’re so safe to her that you make it better when you’re with her. That’s not fault, Hotch. Just love.”

He turns his attention back to the board without another word.

—

When the day comes, when they find the man who hurt you, you’re sitting at home with Jack Hotchner in your lap. You’re laughing at his laughing, cartoon fish on the TV, and Aaron’s got a gun in his hand fifty miles away. You both giggle, nearly in hysterics as the safe house living room glows pink and red, Jack’s favourite character swimming hurriedly across the screen, as Aaron negotiates the arrest.

Usually capable of mediation, Aaron finds his patience completely unravelled. He offers the UnSub two choices: he surrenders now, immediately, and he keeps his life, or he deliberates and Aaron kills him.

He has reason to believe the UnSub will try again, of course. Will keep hurting you until it sticks.

He goes home satisfied.

“Dad’s home!” you say excitedly, your movie long finished, your thighs numb and stitches stinging where Jack has leaned against you. You encourage him off of you as the front door closes, the cold air from outside rushing in.

“Honey?” Aaron calls.

“Yeah!” You stumble into a standing position, sure you look about as disgusting as you have since the situation began, promptly sitting back down as head rush hits.

Jack races for the door, meeting Aaron in the hallway with a whoosh. “Hey!”

“Hi, junior g-man, what are you doing?”

“We watched Finding Nemo,” Jack says, “and now I’m hugging you, duh.”

“Duh. Well, I need to talk to Y/N for five minutes. Can you wash your hands for dinner?”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine.”

You hear the sound of a light kiss, and then Jack rockets across the hallway and up the stairs. Aaron walks into the doorway, tie still knotted but with no suit jacket, and you know what he’s going to say before he says it. He wears a strange expression.

“You got him?” you ask.

He puts a white bag on the coffee table, looking down at you fondly. “I got him.”

“How did you find him?”

He crouches down in front of you. He’s so careful to be harmless to you now, so tentative. “You’re not the only woman he hurt. We dealt with him in the past. From the information you gave Emily during your interview, and the information he left behind, we found him… If you weren’t as brave as you are, I couldn’t have kept you and Jack safe.” He holds your knee. “Thank you.”

You stare at him. Staring, wondering what he means. “Brave?”

“Brave.”

“I’m a coward.”

He shakes his head. “No. You’re not.”

All you've done for days is cry and throw up and bleed, literally. You’ve ruined clothes and sheets, thrown up in his lap, terrified and aching. Each time was met with the same gentleness. A kiss on the cheek, or a hand rubbing your back. Is that bravery? You feel like a baby.

Aaron’s brow is relaxed. He takes your two legs into his hands, and he looks at you with a reverence that leaves you breathless.

“You’re hurt forever because of me,” he says quietly, you strain to hear him, “because of who I am, and what I choose to be.”

“How can you say that? It’s not your fault.”

“It wouldn’t have happened to you if I hadn’t missed his MO the first time.”

“You’re not putting the knife in anyone’s hand,” you argue.

“But it keeps happening.”

His hair shines dark and wet. It must be raining outside, the safe house walls are thick, the windows shuttered permanently, you haven’t heard a peep. You stroke it back from his forehead.

“Remember… when we first got together, and you told me you were sorry for how hard being with you could be. And I said it was okay, that it wasn’t hard, and you said it would be?”

“I remember,” he says, practically mouths.

“I was so afraid when...” You swallow roughly. “I still am. But not– not of you. Not of what you can do. When you told me it was going to be hard, I thought, well, it’s worth it, because I really liked you then and I love you now.” Tears collect in your eyes. Safe. I’m safe. “And you look after me, so– so–”

You stop as your voice turns to glass, worried you’ll make a fool of yourself and cry in his hands.

“I didn’t want this for you,” he says.

“Nobody wants this. Bad things happen to everyone, but who has someone like you to look after them?”

He breathes out heavily. “Please… don’t cry.”

You wipe your cheeks, taking a lengthy pause before you say, “I’m okay now.”

He looks at you in silence.

“Come and sit with me,” you say, scrubbing your cheeks, hot tears cooling on the backs of your hands. “Your knees.”

He actually smiles. It changes his entire face. “What about my knees?”

Aaron sits on the couch next to you atop Jack’s blanket, a bag of pretzels tipping between your leg and his. You attempt to rake his damp hair into submission as his fingers run against your thighs, fishing for pretzels to put back into the bag.

You’d like for him to grab you and kiss you harshly, give you one of his straight jacket hugs, some roughhousing, but you won’t get that from him until you're better, and even then, it’s up in the air. So much has changed.

But not everything.

“I love you,” you murmur, fingertips scratching down behind his ear to the back of his head.

He turns to you, sagging with relief and exhaustion. “Kiss?” he asks quietly.

You nod. He holds your cheek, and you close your eyes at the same time for a kiss. It’s not a lot, but you have time. He can give you another one when you’re both better recovered.

He pulls away. You open your eyes, finding his closed, his face downturned. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Was Jack good?”

“Jack’s always good.”

“Did the nurse have anything to say about your chest?”

“She said it’s healing okay. That I need to use, uh, scar patches when they start to scab.”

“I can get those.”

“I know, I knew you would.”

He gathers you up for a hug. For a moment, you think he’ll move on, that the end of your nightmare will kill his remorse, but he breathes in, nose wedged against your cheek.

“Do you think that tonight, we could pretend it didn’t happen?” You’d like to just sit with him, press your hand to his chest and doze. It’s the first night in a while that you’ll feel completely.

“Yeah. I can do that.” He hugs you rather tightly. “Do you want to see your present?” he asks, relaxing his grip.

“My present?”

He grabs the bag on the coffee table and places it in your lap. “I’m worried it’ll remind you of bad memories, but I wanted you to have nice things then, and I still do.”

In the bag, there’s a pair of pyjamas. Very different to the ones you’d been wearing when you were attacked, they were girly and sweet, soft in your hands, these are sturdy. Still soft, but thick. The shirt is short-sleeved and the pants cuffed at the ankles, a hoodie tucked underneath them, and a packet of minky socks.

“Thank you,” you say.

Thanks for everything, for saving you twice, for taking care of you at your worst, and for wanting you to have something comfortable to wear at the end of it. To have experienced an abjectly cruel battering will leave its marks in your forever, but you meant what you told him. He looks after you, and you love him.

He kisses your shoulder. “You don't need to say that.”

He doesn’t add anything else, his nose pressed to your shoulder, his hand on your hip. Whatever goes unsaid can be felt in the other’s touch.

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u for reading!! it’s been a long time since I wrote a fic for hotch and it’s hard to write him being vulnerable but I hope this is alright anyways and that you enjoyed :D please consider reblogging if you did enjoy it (cos that way my fics get shown to more people <3) ❤️

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner oneshot #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic

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winterrrnight · 2 days

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midsommar with bsf!Rafe and reader who at a certain point sneak out and start reminiscing how they would always do the same when their were little.

I'm in love with the way you write them, I'm truly in awe at the level of intimacy you can create with those two. expect so many more asks from me because I'm hooked and ilyyy

since we’ve now established this is the sweet sweet🦉anon, I really love this req (and all the other ones you sent) so so much 💘🥹✨ I loved writing this sooo much and I hope you like it tooooo xx thank you so so much for your sweet words I love you from the bottom of my heart 🥹

bsf!rafe who sneaks out of midsummer with you for some alone time… <3 listen to sexy to someone by clairo, cause, well, it’s clairo!!!! <3 cw: suggestive content (as always, no smut!), mentions of skinny dipping, weed consumption, references to canon events from the midsummer episode in S1 <3 for @ladyinbl00d who today absolutely made my day with her beautiful words and who was also honored with the sneak peek to this �� i love u davi you’re my whole world 🤍

part of this little universe <3

it’s that time of the year again; peak hotness accompanies the sixth month of the year, as everyone dress up and come together for the awaited holiday: midsummer.

you are accompanying rafe; as you always do for this holiday, your arm looped into his as you both walk out along with the rest of the camerons. both of you are adorned in matching shades of baby blue, and you have a little flower crown fixed on the top of your head. rafe passes you a small smile as he leads you along with his family, everyone around you all clapping and cheering for the most powerful family on the island.

the celebrations continue to happen around you, and in between you and rafe get separated; him going with his friends for some ‘business’ (you caught the air that he got JJ kicked out), and you with your friends just simply talking and chatting, sipping away on your mocktail.

amidst your conversation with your friends, you feel an all too familiar hand brush your side, slowly trailing under the slit of your dress to gently graze your bare thigh. you feel him breathing down on your neck, and for a second, just for a second, you feel yourself completely lifted away from the conversation with your friends – but you quickly ground yourself back.

“hey,” he says softly into your ear. the conversation between your friends doesn’t essentially stop; this isn’t a rare sight for them.

“hey,” you murmur, rafe’s arms now wrapping firmly around your waist from behind, his chin resting on the crook of your neck.

“come with me,” he says softly, pressing the most subtle kiss behind your ear. his tone isn’t a request and it’s also not a command; but you know there is absolutely no room for argument. you give him a nod of your head and excuse yourself from your friends and follow him out, him making sure no one, especially his dad catch you both leaving.

he leads you to the nearby beach which is almost completely empty as everyone is gathered for midsummer, where you both sit down next to each other on the sand, the waves lapping up till your feet under the darkness of the night sky.

a breeze blows past you two as you both sit silently next to each other on the beach, the sound of the waves filling your ears. you hear the flick of a lighter and turn your head to rafe to see him lighting up a weed joint, watching the momentary golden glow. he hands you the joint after taking a hit himself, and you take a deep drag, blowing out a plume of smoke after that.

“I fuckin’ hate midsummers,” rafe mutters, as you pass him the joint and he takes a hit. “all that attention to my dad, everyone is always asking me when i’m going to start at the company… same bullshit each time. I’m so sick of it.” he takes another hit of the joint, letting out a cloud of smoke before turning his attention to you. “but this…” he says, his voice now starting to take on a softer tone as his fingers curl around yours, “this is the only good thing each time.”

you smile softly at him, squeezing his hand back as he hands you the joint back and you take a hit. he watches you intently; watches how your lips wrap around the end of the joint, how you take a deep drag, and how you let the smoke roll off your tongue releasing it into the air. he takes your intertwined hand and presses a soft kiss to the back of your knuckles.

“thank you for coming with me, seriously,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to the back of your hand before letting it go.

“of course,” you smile, handing him the joint back. “there’s nothing you have to thank me for,”

rafe acknowledges your smile with one of his own before hitting the joint. a beat of silence passes over you two before rafe speaks up again.

“I love how we do this each time,” he says with a smile, the joint dangling in between his lips, “this sneaking away from everyone. right now, my dad must be giving some lame ass speech using words like ‘power’ and ‘integrity’, and will smother all his love on ms. sarah there, and everyone would practically be eating out of his hand.” he snorts, shaking his head. “it’s nice to get away from that suffocating place to get a breather. you’re the only one who understands.”

you scoot closer to him and rest your head on his shoulder, and his hand comes to rest on your thigh right under the slit, where he gently traces small circles against your flesh, his touch almost featherlight.

“you remember when we sneaked out from the celebration the first time?” you start. “we were, what, 8? and your dad was so desperate to make you meet all his business associates but your little antisocial ass was just not having it,”

he lets out a chuckle at your words, nodding. he pulls the joint from his lips and slots it in between yours. “I had more than enough of business talk that night. and you were the only one who caught the look of uncomfort on my face. you helped me sneak out from there and we came right to this beach, and we shared a pack of sour patch kids.”

you laugh softly at the memory, letting out some smoke before holding the joint between your fingers. “yeah,” you say. “and it just became a tradition over the years. we used to share candy, and now we’re sharing a weed joint. we really leveled up our game huh?”

rafe chuckles with you, both of your laughters mixing together in a symphony just like they always have all these years. “we certainly did,” he says. “I’m proud of us you know?” he teases, his fingers continuing to trace circles on your thigh.

“I am too,” you grin, taking a hit of the joint again.

“but my favorite one was when we were 18,” he says. “when we went skinny dipping in the water,”

you laugh at that, nodding. “that was… that was really something huh?” you murmur, getting comfortable against his shoulder.

“mhm,” he hums softly, looking at your head resting on his shoulder, and leaning down to kiss your temple softly. “it was really good,” he murmurs.

you look up at him, your eyes flicking down to his lips for just a second before going back up to his eyes. “you know…” you start speaking, and you can feel the subtle start of the influence of the thc over your thoughts, “i wouldn’t mind doing that again,” you whisper.

rafe looks down at you and catches your subtle glance at his lips. “you wouldn’t?” he whispers back, a smirk starting to slowly pull his lips.

a coy smile spreads on your face and you shake your head. “I wouldn’t, no,” you murmur.

the small smirk on his face turns to a full grin as his fingers reach out to your shoulder, trailing over the strap of your dress. he starts to slowly tug it down, the strap now hanging off your shoulder. rafe feels his heart starting to thump in his chest, and he knows, oh he just knows what the night has in store for you two.

“well then…” he mumbles, leaning down to press the softest kiss on your exposed shoulder.

“... what are we waiting for?”

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eirianerisdar · 2 days

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Hiiiii I’ve only just seen it but if youre still doing the directors commentary thing I was gonna ask about Icarus? :) and the ⭐️ for whatever part you choose

(and just wanted to say your writing is so beautiful, I’m loving reading it so much thank you for sharing <3)

Oh ye I'm going to go on an absolute rant about Brocedes

An excerpt from chapter 30 of Icarus, when Lewis has just strained his newly regrown wings on a highly unadvised first flight after having grown out his primaries again for the first time in sixteen years, and runs into Nico by chance on an old clifftop haunt of theirs above Monaco. It's purely mutual pining in that uniquely Brocedes way

For the uninitiated, Icarus is an F1 wingfic that covers most of the grid, with the theme of wing trimming as a representation of unhealthy practices in motorsport forced upon drivers.

=====

A shape appears out of the rising sun, brown-white sparrowhawk feathers silhouetted against the dawn.

Unlike Lewis’s haphazard landing a minute earlier, Nico’s is elegant and precise; he comes out of his dive twisting in a perfect diagonal to the clifftop, one wingtip brushing the ground and the other pointed towards the sun, and lands on silent feet. He is wearing a tailored flight-suit that fits him as well as his race suit used to; the small backpack slotted between his wings has a molded plastic shell for better aerodynamics.

Nico folds his wings, and stares.

“Lewis?” he says, shocked. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis is suddenly all-too aware of the dirt ground into his skin, smeared over his t-shirt and ratty running sweats. His wings are caked with sand and grime from his less-than perfect landings; his palms are smarting with a dozen shallow cuts from hauling himself back up onto the clifftop.

He finds his voice. “What are you doing here?”

It comes out more accusing than Lewis intended. Nico’s face closes; his sparrowhawk wings flatten against his back.

“I come here often,” he says. “I fly up here every morning.”

Lewis doesn’t miss the implication that he is the intruder here, not Nico.

Lewis doesn’t know why that hurts so much. Maybe because he shouldn’t feel so out of place here, in this little sanctuary tucked against the Monaco cliffs where he and Nico had watched the sun rise and set so many times.

Nico ventures closer. His eyes are on Lewis’s wings. “You really did it,” he says oddly. “You grew out your wings.”

Lewis sets his jaw, raises his chin. “Yeah,” he says challengingly. “What about it?”

Nico flinches and looks away. His chest rises and falls faster than usual.

It would seem that even after all this time, Lewis still knows how to get a rise out of Nico. Lewis should feel vindicated, but he doesn’t. Something about the way Nico is holding his wings makes Lewis feel sick.

Nico crosses over to a flat-topped rock a careful distance away and sits. The two of them face the sunrise like they have done so many times years ago. The wind that ruffles both their feathers brings with it the scent of the sea.

Lewis closes his eyes. The sun sears his skin, turns the backs of his eyelids orange-yellow. There is so much he wants to say, but he doesn’t know where to begin. He could start at Abu Dhabi, at that awful Sky interview. He could go back to 2021, when he had finally admitted to himself and to the press that he could have been a better teammate to Nico.

He could go back to Barcelona 2016; the ache in his shabby wings in the garage, and the brief moment of blessed, cool relief when Nico had brushed a hand through Lewis’s wing.

It was the last time either of them had touched each other’s wings. Their crash and DNF at Barcelona had snapped the last threads that held them together as flock.

Lewis waits for Nico to say something, but Nico stays silent. It stings.

Lewis sneaks a glance at his former flock, finds Nico already looking at him – not at his dirt-smeared face or messy braids, but at his wing plumes, pooled carelessly in the dust at the base of the rock he is seated on.

In the dawn light, Nico’s clean, well-brushed feathers are painted in peach and ochre. Lewis bristles, waits for Nico to make an unsavoury comment.

But Nico just clasps his hands together in his lap, tight enough that the knuckles go pale. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Your wing plumes are longer than I remember,” he says hoarsely.

Oh. Lewis looks down at them, at his draped double-cloak of gold, white, and maroon.

“Yeah,” he says. A gust of wind blows dirt over the end of one of his plumes; he nudges it carelessly with the toe of his trainer, but only succeeds in matting the feather ends with even more dirt.

Nico makes an abortive motion towards Lewis.

Lewis looks at him sharply, watches Nico fold his hands into fists on his knees. Nico’s face is pinched.

Lewis breathes through the bitterness. He knows he is intruding on Nico’s space by being here. It’s just that a part of him thought that he would still have a place here, where they had shared so many happy memories.

He can’t even leave; his wings still hurt too much to chance anything other than a glide.

Nico’s feathers rustle as he stands. “I’m going to head back,” he says quietly. “You coming?”

Lewis shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “I’m going to sit a while longer.”

The flight muscles of his right wing ache dully; he shakes it out carefully, fighting a wince.

Nico is suddenly standing within arm’s reach, blocking out the sun. “Your wing,” he says, frowning. “You’ve got flyer’s cramp.”

“It’ll pass,” Lewis snaps, folding his wing back against his spine even though that makes it hurt worse. “I’ve got it handled.”

“You shouldn’t fly back alone,” Nico says seriously. “Come on, let’s go. I’ll even let you get there first.”

Lewis tenses at the implication. He hates competition not treating him seriously – Nico most of all.

“I’m fine,” he says testily. “It’s just the thermals. I rode them up, I’ll find a way between them to glide back down again. I’ll manage.”

“The thermals?” Nico frowns over his shoulder at the dizzying drop down towards the sea. “Where did you fly here from?”

Lewis works his jaw. “The beach,” he says.

Nico turns on him instantly. “The beach?” he exclaims. “Are you fucking – you can’t have unsheathed your feathers more than a few days ago!”

Lewis doesn’t reply, but Nico reads him anyway.

“Oh my God,” Nico stares. “It hasn’t even been a few days, has it? This is your first fucking flight.”

Lewis jerks his chin. “What about it?”

Nico puts his face in his hands. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Are you insane? Who flies up a cliff for their first flight in sixteen years? Do you want to die?”

Lewis hates to admit it, but laying it out like that puts it into perspective. He isn’t usually one to take such risks. He let his hunger for freedom override his common sense.

“That’s it,” Nico says. He jerks his head towards the cliff edge. “I’m making sure you get back without killing yourself. Let’s go.”

Lewis looks at the edge of the cliff. The wind has picked up even more now that the sun has fully risen; bits of rock and dirt swirl in the wind to tumble off the lip.

He doesn’t want to name the feeling that roots him in place.

Lewis Hamilton has never been one to admit fear.

Nico strides over to the cliff edge, draws a sharp line in the dirt with the toe of his flight boot. “Come on,” he snaps. “I’m not leaving unless you’re with me.”

Something about that phrase twists Lewis’s stomach, uncovers a bitter wound.

Because Nico had left. He’d left Lewis to race on alone.

“What is it?” Nico says. “Is your wing still cramping?”

Lewis shifts his wings. “No.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Lewis opens his mouth, closes it again. Looks away.

If there’s anything he hates most in the world, it’s looking weak in front of Nico Rosberg.

“I don’t think I can make it,” he admits.

Nico stills. “What?”

Lewis breathes a bitter laugh. “I know what it sounds like,” he says, looking down at his dirt-splattered wing plumes. “But I’m gonna be honest with you, man. I don’t think I can make it.”

Nico doesn’t respond. He looks like a statue stood on the cliff edge, his golden hair a halo around his head, his wings of carven marble.

Lewis runs his scraped palms together. “I don’t know the thermals,” he says, swallowing the shame. “They’re so different from what I remember. I keep getting pushed higher. My flight muscles aren’t strong enough to fight my way out if I get caught in one.” He gestures at himself, at the dirt ground into his wings, his clothes. “I barely made it out of the clouds and back here.”

Silence, save for the cry of gulls in the harbour below and the whistling wind.

Flight boots stomp against dirt and rock as Nico stalks over, grabs Lewis by the collar, and shakes him, hard.

Lewis’s hands come up automatically, but Nico has already let go. Lewis watches as Nico turns in a flare of sparrowhawk feathers to pace the dirt of the clifftop.

Nico snaps to a halt, glares down at Lewis. “I can’t fucking believe what I’m hearing,” he hisses. “You’re not some damsel in distress. You’re Lewis fucking Hamilton.”

Lewis stares up at Nico’s furious face. This isn’t what he expected at all.

“Lewis Hamilton doesn’t back down from a fight,” Nico snarls. “What the fuck happened to you? You always said you could do anything as long as you pushed hard enough. So get up. Push.”

Lewis bristles. “Easy for you to say,” he spits. “You’ve had six years to learn the air patterns and train up your wings. Don’t pretend we’re on equal footing.”

Nico’s face whitens. For a moment Lewis thinks Nico will punch him; but Nico only exhales and looks over his shoulder at the cliff edge.

“It’s not as complicated than it looks,” he says abruptly. “It’s just that new building down where the road splits, and that paved road cutting through the trees there. It breaks up the current that used to flow down from–”

“Thanks, Nico,” Lewis says sarcastically. “I’m sure that’ll be really helpful when I’m trying to navigate something I can’t see.”

“Just–” Nico closes his eyes briefly. His voice softens. “Just stay on my wing,” he says quietly. “I’ll guide you down.”

Lewis looks at the cliff edge. He swallows.

Nico’s eyes are a clear, intense blue. “I won’t leave you,” he says. “I promise.”

Like that fucking meant anything the last time you said it, Lewis thinks. Some of his thoughts must show on his face, because Nico’s eyes shutter.

Lewis grits his teeth. He feels like an arse.

He feels the wind run through his still-aching wings. “What if I fall?”

Nico’s face hardens. He looks for a moment like he did when he met Lewis’s eyes across the garage as they got into their cars in Abu Dhabi 2016. It is a look that says try me, and I will prove you wrong.

“Then I’ll fucking catch you,” he spits.

The promise settles in Lewis’s bones.

Nico’s anger and determination is something Lewis knows too well. This, he can trust.

Nico’s straightens. The sun suffuses his hair, outlines his wings with gold. He holds out a hand to Lewis.

“Come on,” he says. “We’ve got this. Clear air all the way down.”

Lewis looks at Nico’s hand before him – the familiar grooves of his palm, the finger-webs turned pink in the sun. The hand that Lewis had once thought nothing of holding in his own.

He reaches up, and takes it.

======

Director's Cut:

I had this scene planned very early; I held on to it for a solid four months before the plot progressed to the point that this happened. The thing I most wanted to get across in this scene, the first proper scene where Lewis and Nico are properly speaking face-to-face instead of just pining, is just how much they both care about each other even if it all comes out toxic.

The way I planned this conversation is that every single thing that comes out of Nico and Lewis's mouths is misinterpreted as hostile. Even body language is misinterpreted.

A few examples:

1. When Nico says, “I come here often. I fly up here every morning," he means I often return here, to this place of good memories with you, because I miss you.

Lewis takes this to mean that Nico thinks that Lewis is in his space, and that Lewis doesn't have a right to this shared space they used to have as teenagers.

2. Nico ventures closer. His eyes are on Lewis’s wings. “You really did it,” he says oddly. “You grew out your wings.”

Lewis sets his jaw, raises his chin. “Yeah,” he says challengingly. “What about it?”

Nico flinches and looks away. His chest rises and falls faster than usual.

Nico's trying to find some common ground here. He never thought Lewis would give up speed to regrow his wings. Nico had been harbouring hope that maybe they'd be able to heal if both of them weren't dead-focused on racing anymore; but Lewis is so used to Nico using everything as an insult he takes it badly.

But he still cares about Nico enough that he can tell when he's gone too far. Nico at this point in the story has gone through a full wing crisis because of Lewis, and Lewis isn't aware of it.

3. But Nico just clasps his hands together in his lap, tight enough that the knuckles go pale. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Your wing plumes are longer than I remember,” he says hoarsely.

Oh. Lewis looks down at them, at his draped double-cloak of gold, white, and maroon.

Nico makes an abortive motion towards Lewis.Lewis looks at him sharply, watches Nico fold his hands into fists on his knees. Nico’s face is pinched.

Lewis isn't used to having full-grown bird-of-paradise plumes. He nudges them with his foot because to him they're just his feathers; he'll go and clean them later. for Nico, he's positively screaming to preen Lewis's wings. He's sitting there going insane with yearning while Lewis mats his feathers in dirt.

4. Nico turns on him instantly. “The beach?” he exclaims. “Are you fucking – you can’t have unsheathed your feathers more than a few days ago!”

When Nico finds out Lewis has got flyer's cramp and that Lewis isn't sure if he can make it back home without falling, he defaults to anger. He's actually furious because he's terrified that Lewis could have fallen to his death, but Nico, like Lewis, defaults to anger to mask his fear. Lewis does the same.

5. Flight boots stomp against dirt and rock as Nico stalks over, grabs Lewis by the collar, and shakes him, hard.

Lewis’s hands come up automatically, but Nico has already let go. Lewis watches as Nico turns in a flare of sparrowhawk feathers to pace the dirt of the clifftop.

Nico snaps to a halt, glares down at Lewis. “I can’t fucking believe what I’m hearing,” he hisses. “You’re not some damsel in distress. You’re Lewis fucking Hamilton.”

Lewis stares up at Nico’s furious face. This isn’t what he expected at all.

“Lewis Hamilton doesn’t back down from a fight,” Nico snarls. “What the fuck happened to you? You always said you could do anything as long as you pushed hard enough. So get up. Push.”

This is something integral to Nico Rosberg: he has absolute faith that Lewis Hamilton will back down for nothing. That no matter what the world throws at him, Lewis Hamilton will push. All Nico's anxiety about Lewis still hating him or overstepping and snapping this fragile connection that's forming evaporates because this is Lewis fucking Hamilton who Nico knows through and through and Nico will die before he lets Lewis be anyone other than himself.

6. He feels the wind run through his still-aching wings. “What if I fall?”

“Then I’ll fucking catch you,” he spits.

The promise settles in Lewis’s bones.

Nico’s anger and determination is something Lewis knows too well. This, he can trust.

This is Nico saying I'm with you until the end of the line. It's a declaration of if you fall I will fall with you. Lewis doesn't fully get the emotion behind it yet - there's still too much ingrained hurt there - but he can see Nico's anger and determination. The same anger and determination that allowed Nico to beat him in 2016. This, he can trust.

7. Nico straightens. The sun suffuses his hair, outlines his wings with gold. He holds out a hand to Lewis.

“Come on,” he says. “We’ve got this. Clear air all the way down.”

Lewis looks at Nico’s hand before him – the familiar grooves of his palm, the finger-webs turned pink in the sun. The hand that Lewis had once thought nothing of holding in his own.

He reaches up, and takes it.

I swear I had this section planned out almost word-for-word for four months. The image of Nico with his blond hair and sparrowhawk wings offering a hand to Lewis, offering to parlay, offering to help. It's the first time neither of them have been fully alone. It's the first moment that shows there might be a possibility of healing.

Clear air. Flying in formation, like they used to drive in formation on victory laps. Nico is Lewis's guide back to flight and freedom. They'll push each other higher, like they did when they raced each other.

Lewis lets go of his hurt and bitterness for the first time this whole conversation. He lets himself trust again. He reaches up and takes Nico's hand.

I wanted above all to show how toxic and hurt their dynamic was, but how enmeshed it was - how if both of them decided to take a little step forwards, healing was possible.

It's just the first little step towards the healing we've been seeing in the rest of the fic.

You can read more Icarus here.

Send me an ask with a scene or set of lines from any of my fics and I'll give you a director's commentary! Or, send in a ⭐star⭐ to have me select a section I've been dying to talk about!

#f1 #brocedes #brocedes fanfic #f1 fanfic #f1 wingfic #f1 wing au #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #icarus #my post #writing #fanfic #replies

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