It's Like Mulder Yelling For Scully This Entire Episode

i'll never get over how talented she is, her writing is just *chefs kiss*

Happy Birthday! I absolutely love your writing! Could you do number 5 from the first list

Thank you so much!! <3

This prompt was also requested by @kinqslcys so I hope you both like it <3

The prompt is "Did you just call me sweetheart?"

I reworded it slightly to fit the sentence/story to make it work :)

(I know this is a fluff prompt, but it very much turned into hurt/comfort and Aaron whump. I am who I am, ok?!)

To send me a prompt, find the info here!

-x-

Ichor

Words: 2.4k

Warnings: Canon typical violence/injury, frequent mentions of blood, hospitals

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

She hears the gunshot. 

It’s the first sign of trouble since they entered the abandoned building, intel telling them this is where their unsub would be. 

“What the hell was that?” Derek asks, his voice coming down over the earpiece, the same panic in his voice that Emily felt in her chest. 

“I’m just down the hall, I’ll go check,” she replies, “Is everyone ok?” 

She hears responses, Aaron’s noticeably absent, and she feels her heart beat faster in her chest. 

“Does anyone have eyes on Hotch?” She asks desperately, turning the corner into the room she’d heard the shot come from, her answer laid right out in front of her.

The unsub was on the floor, a bullet hole in his chest, and Aaron was slumped against the wall, his hands pressing into his abdomen as blood poured out from beneath his fingers. 

“Aaron’s hurt,” she chokes out, any pretence of being professional immediately out of the window, his first name slipping free like they were at home, curled up on the couch they had argued over in the furniture store when they purchased it, “we need an ambulance.” 

She hears Derek curse over her earpiece, shouting orders about needing a medic, but all of her attention is on Aaron. She lands on her knees by his side, one hand over his on his abdomen, the other cupping his cheek to make him look at her. 

“Hey,” she says, her voice shaky to her own ears, the pain in his eyes ramping her fear up even further, “you’re ok, we’ll get you out of here.” 

“He stabbed me.” He grits out his teeth, and she looks behind him and sees the knife next to the dead unsub. “He got the jump on me.” 

“That's ok,” she says, “everything will be fine.” She feels the blood under their hands and looks down, knowing they needed to do something before the ambulance arrived, far too much blood was already around them for her liking. “We need to get your vest off, so I can put pressure on it properly.” He shakes his head, ready to protest but she cuts him off, “we need to ok, you’re losing too much blood.” 

Aaron stares at her for a long second before he nods, and she kisses him quickly before she undoes the buckles of his vest, good enough to protect him from bullets, but not from the knife laying a few feet away from them. He shouts out in pain as she removes it, and she shushes him, her forehead against his.

“I know baby, I know, I’m so sorry.” Her eyes widen as she pulls back, the sight of the blood against his white shirt making her heart clench in her chest. He groans beneath her as she presses her hands hard into his abdomen, the feel of his blood pouring out beneath her fingers enough to make her stomach twist, a stain she was sure she’d never be rid of. 

“I love you,” he chokes out, his voice strained as his hand reaches out to cup her cheek, his fingers sticky with what she was sure was blood, “so much.”

“I love you too,” she replies, her throat tight, panic taking residence in her chest, “but we’re not doing that, we’re not saying goodbye,” she looks around the room, selfishly grateful for a second that it is still just the two of them, “where the fuck is that ambulance?” She all but shouts into her mic. 

“Morgan is meeting them out front so he can bring them right here,” Dave says, his voice so calm she thinks she’d strangle him if he was in front of her, his ability to keep it together when the man she loved could be dying in her arms too much to take. 

She looks back at Aaron, ready to try and assure him that help was on the way, when she sees his eyes drifting shut. 

“No, no, no, Aaron,” she says, shaking him slightly, “sweetheart, I need you to stay awake,” his eyes meet hers, a faint smile appearing before his eyes drift closed. 

When the medics arrive moments later, Derek in tow, she has to be pulled off of him. 

___

“Em?”

Emily looks up from where her gaze had been fixed on the ground, repeatedly counting tiles to keep her mind occupied, a fruitless attempt to stop the anxiety in her throat from choking her. Her eyes meet JJ’s, a kind smile on her friend's face as she lifts the strap of a bag into Emily’s eye line.

“I got your go-bag from the hotel,” JJ says, placing it in front of her, “I thought you’d want to change.” 

“I’ve got to stay here,” Emily replies, looking back down at the floor, her view of the tiles now blocked by the go-bag Aaron had packed for her, her clothes neatly folded in a way she could never quite achieve herself, “for when the doctor gets back.” 

“Em,” JJ sighs, crouching so Emily had no choice but to look at her, “the doctors said it would be a few hours, your clothes are covered in blood,” Emily can’t help but flinch at that, her eyes darting to the sleeves of her shirt, cursing her earlier self for wearing a light enough colour for it to show on, “I’ll come with you, and the guys will be here. If the doctor comes by, they won’t let him leave until you’re back.” 

Emily looks past JJ to Derek and Dave, who both nod in agreement, and then she looks back at JJ. 

“Ok.” She says, clearing her throat as she stands, her eyes meeting Dave’s “I’ll only be a few minutes.” 

JJ carries her bag for her, and Emily doesn’t reject what she would usually consider coddling, walking alongside her friend in silence as she guides her to the bathroom, her arms tight around herself. Holding herself together until she knew Aaron was ok, until he could do it for her again.

“I’ll wait out here, ok?” JJ says, handing her the bag as they get to the bathroom. Emily just nods in response and hopes that the smile she offers up is thankful.

She immediately walks into a stall, locking the door behind her as she sits down on the toilet, opening the go-bag with shaky hands. She doesn’t look at the t-shirt that once belonged to him, can’t bring herself to as the scent of it hits her nose, and she digs past to her own change of clothes. She changes quickly, grimacing at the slight tint to her skin where her shirt had stuck to her, glued down by his blood. She could still see it on her hands too, the skin bright red from where she’d scrubbed him in a mirrorless bathroom seconds after they arrived. 

She leaves the stall, her bag over her shoulder, and makes a beeline for the trashcan, throwing away clothes she knew she’d never get the stain out of, clothes she could never look at again even if it was possible. The grim pattern of Aaron’s life force forever splattered across it, a memory she would never be able to shake off. 

She washes her hands, and catches sight of herself in the mirror for the first time since they’d arrived at the hospital. She looked ragged, bags under her eyes caused by the stress, her skin pale, fear stripping anything else away. What catches her eye, what stands out against her pallid skin, is a thumbprint on her cheek, painted in Aaron’s blood. She can almost feel his desperate touch as she was trying to keep him awake, as if he was trying to press everything into her skin. A lifetime of love and happiness that might just be stolen from them, washed away like the blood down the drain. 

It burns her, a shadow of how it felt to have his skin pressed up against hers, his warmth ever-present in their home, in their bed. She wonders if when she wipes it off there will be a permanent mark left behind. 

For a moment she’s furious the others didn’t mention it, that they let her sit there with the blood of the man she loves tattooed against her skin, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. Recognition that it was an impossible thing to say, to tell her that what could be the last time he’d touched her was something she’d have to wipe away. She touches her hand to it, shaky fingers over the ghost of his touch, and she knows if she closes her eyes, she’d be able to still feel him there, his affection as familiar to her as breathing. 

She blows out a breath, and comes as close as she has to crying since she found him slumped against the wall. She shakes it off, doesn’t allow the preemptive grief to take over, and she starts the faucet again, washing her face with more force than necessary.

___

It felt like it had been hours since the doctor had come to tell them Aaron had made it through surgery, and asked if anyone would like to see him. 

She’d sent the others back to the hotel, promising that she’d call when there was any news, and stopping any suggestions that she should go with them in its tracks with a stern look. She sits in the chair next to his bed, her back aching from the discomfort of it, her hand firmly gripping his. 

It reminded her too much of a similar situation years ago. The sight of him in a hospital bed, recovering from what Foyet had done to him, the very thing that had made her realise what she felt for him was more than it should have been. Love that she had semi-successfully tampered down for years after that, sure that he could never feel the same way. 

Back then he hadn’t been hers. She couldn’t comfort or help him beyond what she had done, the practical ways he would allow. It’s why she’d driven him everywhere. Taken him to and from work and hospital appointments, forcing him to eat the snacks she’d brought specifically, a white lie on her tongue as she told him they just happened to be in her car. 

He was hers now, and she was his. And it made this worse because she now knew exactly what she would lose if she lost him. It was no longer a fantasy, or hypotheticals she would allow herself in the darkness of her bedroom, it was absolutes. He’d taken up parts of her that she hadn’t known existed, showing her love that she had long ago convinced herself wasn’t real, or at least wasn’t on the cards for her. It was beautiful, raw and real, and she knew one day it would tear her apart. The price for loving someone so completely the grief that had left her guarded for so many years, afraid to feel anything so sharply. 

He was worth it though, what they had built together in the ashes of their old lives was worth it, and if she lost him today, or 30 years from now, she could never regret it.

“Em?” 

She looks up at him, her name accompanied by a slight squeeze of her hand, the usual strength behind it lacking. She feels relief the moment his eyes meet hers, the tears she had been forcing back all evening welling in her eyes.

“Hey you,” she says, offering him a shaky smile as she stands, sitting down on the edge of the bed, lifting his hand so it was clasped between the two of hers, “how are you feeling?” 

“Terrible.” 

She nods at him, sniffing as she moves one of her hands, her knuckles running down his cheek. 

“You lost close to half your blood volume, so I think that's to be expected.” 

He hums, squeezing her hand again. “Are you ok?” 

She chuckles dryly, shaking her head. “Physically, yes. Emotionally? Not at all. But I’ll be ok.” She leans forward and presses her lips to his, a quick thing just as a final reassurance to herself that he was ok, that he’d recover. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, Em.” He smiles at her, his gaze slightly hazy due to the medication in his system. “What did the doctors say?”

“Well,” she says, shifting to look at him a bit better, needlessly rearranging the blanket over him, “the knife knicked your liver, and you lost a hell of a lot of blood, but they said you’ll be fine. It’s a long recovery though.” 

“Nothing I haven’t done before,” he says, his thumb tracing over her hand. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Of course.”

“Did you call me sweetheart earlier?” He asks, a curious smile on his face, “I’m sure I heard you say it.”

She tries to hide her smile by biting her lower lip, but she fails to hold it back. “Yeah, I did.” 

“You’ve never called me that before. Usually, it’s honey, or big-” 

“I was panicking,” she says, cutting him off, aware that the nurse sitting at the desk just outside his room could probably hear everything. She narrows her eyes at him slightly, aware that he was just trying to cheer her up, to bring the usual playfulness they had when they were alone, “and…I don’t know. I like it when you call me sweetheart, it just kind of slipped out.” 

“It’s not a criticism, I like it,” he says, his eyes drifting shut, “I like being your sweetheart.”

She laughs, shaking her head at him. “You’re lucky I love you, otherwise I’d tell Dave you said that.” She presses a kiss against his forehead and settles back into the chair next to his bed. “Get some sleep, I’ll be right here.”

“Love you.”

“You too.”

“You too…”

He drifts off and it takes her a moment to realise what he’s getting at, rolling her eyes despite the fact he can’t see her, his eyes already closed. 

“You too, sweetheart.” 

-x-

Tag list:

@ssa-sparks, @lukeclvez, @lyds102, @glockleveledatyourcrotch, @hotchnissenthusiast, @danadeservesadrink, @ssamorganhotchner, @emilyprentissisgod, @freesiasandfics, @emilyshotchniss, @thecharmingart, @paulitalblond, @hancydrewfan, @camille093, @whitecrossgirl, @moonlight-2-6, @rawr-jess, @florenceremingtonthethird, @jareauswife, @ms-black-a, @sneetchestoo, @aubreyprc, @zipzapboingg, @psychopath-at-heart, @criminalmindsgonewrong, @fionaloover, @kinqslcys

Join my tag list here!

the bau as mbti types

spencer reid - intj: the architect

elle greenaway - enfj: the giver

aaron hotchner - istj: the inspector

jennifer jareau - infp: the mediator

derek morgan - entj: the commander

penelope garcia - enfp: the champion

jason gideon - isfj: the protector

emily prentiss - intp: the thinker

david rossi - estj: the director

ashley seaver - isfp: the artist

alex blake - infj: the advocate

matt simmons - istp: the crafter

kate callahan - estp: the persuader

tara lewis - esfj: the caregiver

luke alvez - entp: the debater

(the titles of the mbti types don’t fit exactly, but i feel like the descriptions of the types do fit)

meirl

thomas: “hello my dear🥰”

the way I would die on the spot if he said that to me

hotch: i need some serotonin

prentiss, standing up, only to sit back down: i didn’t remember what serotonin was until after i stood up, so i was deadass about to go get you some

EMILY PRENTISS & AARON HOTCHNER and their complete lack of personal space

Charlie Lastra really said “Stephens, if you’re the villain in someone else’s love story, then I’m the devil” and “if you’re the ‘wrong kind of woman,’ then I’m the wrong kind of man” and you expected me to not fall for that shit?

delusional post for s18:

to give the cm writers a chance to finally right their wrongs, emily dates a 6’2 prosecutor with huge hands and has a son from a previous marriage and is partial to designer ties and recently acquired reading glasses 👀

maybe he sometimes texts her in the morning or at night when he knows she’s working a case or smth and can’t take a phone call idk

pick up what i’m putting down, writers. pick. it. up. ✍️

hotchniss instagram (soft launch edition)

this is the first time i've done this – feel free to leave requests!

Bonus:

unsub: let’s be real, you are a monster and you’ll never know real fear

hotch: first of all, have you heard director erin strauss yell at you, full fucking name?

prentiss, sipping her juicebox next to hotch in the interrogation room: agent hotchner’s got a point, you know