THE MANY WAYS I'VE TRIED

Elle Greenaway stood on the threshold of the room at the Langham, listening to strains of music inside, vaguely familiar.

… you'll never know

The many ways I've tried…

She pressed the doorbell and the music ceased.

No sound came, but she could imagine Hotch approaching the door on tiptoes and silently looking out from the eyehole. She lifted her face to it, unsmiling. The key turned and the chain was lifted.

Aaron Hotchner opened the door. Elle irrationally expected him in a suit and tie, even on a Saturday afternoon at his own home. He was wearing a white polo and black tracksuit pants with a red stripe.

His first reaction, a surprised and delighted "Elle?!..." turned into a gulp as he took her appearance in.

The former BAU member wore military fatigues, her black hair in a bun under her cap. A camouflage duffel bag lay by her feet. She smiled. "Trick or treat."

"We're in July," Hotch replied, nonplussed.

"I joined the Marines."

Hotch was staring at her nametag. When he realized he was also staring at her chest, he quickly raised his eyes to hers. "This conversation's getting stranger by the second. What's in the bag?"

"Unidentified body parts. I thought you might help me."

Hotch looked appalled.

Elle burst into laughter. "Your sense of humour hasn't improved in ten years, sir."

"And yours has taken a turn for the black, Greenaway," he said in a lighter tone, but the legendary Hotch Frown – illegal in 49 states - did not leave his face. "Do come in."

Elle hefted the bag and stepped into the apartment.

"Come on, Hotch. I just got off the plane and I'm heading to my hotel. That's my luggage." She dropped it inside the door with relief. "I thought I'd stop by and say hi. It just came out silly."

It just came out like a massive case of nerves.

Hotch probably did not realize this, because the first ghost of a smile appeared on his face, cheekbones standing out. "Coffee?"

"Yes, if you don't mind."

He led her into the kitchen, padding on black espadrilles. Elle followed him and sat at the counter, legs dangling from the stool, while Hotch started up the coffee machine.

"It's easy to explain, actually," Elle began. This part, at least. "When I left the BAU I went back to New York. I stayed with my mother and tried my old job at NYPD, but I realized I wasn't satisfied. So I applied for the Navy. I thought they wouldn't take me because of my age. Turned out a behavioural expert was an asset. Two turns in Afghanistan did me good. Seems NY wasn't far enough to leave my issues behind."

"You do look fine," Hotch said over the hum of the coffee machine. He filled two mugs. "Sugar?"

"Three, please," Elle replied, sliding down from the stool.

Hotch carried the mugs into the living room and placed them on the low glass table in front of the couch, lit by the late afternoon sun. One mug had Abbey Road on it. The other had flowery kittens and rainbows. It probably came from young Jack Hotchner.

Elle draped her Army jacket over the back of the couch. She wore a dark green T-shirt under it. She dropped her cap on it; her bun was coming undone, and she gave it a quick tightening with the rubber band.

They sat, and Elle took the kitten mug. The heat was pleasant, despite the warm weather, and the coffee smelled good. Stirring it with a spoon, she nodded at Hotch's mug.

"The Beatles. That's what you were listening to when I arrived."

"Best boy band ever," Hotch deadpanned. He took a sip and turned to her in earnest, lifting his eyebrows. "Elle, why didn't you call ahead? How did you know I lived here, or that I wasn't at work?"

"I checked on you first. For all I knew, you might even be dead."

Hotch's face tightened. "Very thoughtful of you."

She studied him over the rim of her mug. In ten years, Supervising Special Agent Aaron Hotchner had lost those pretty-boy looks which had once made her wary of such a young unit chief. Strands of grey snaked through his black hair at the temples. His face was lined and craggy, not devoid of attractiveness, but he looked like he had also lost weight.

The dark frown over his brown eyes made her uneasy. More uneasy.

"Tell me about the team," she inquired.

"Haven't you been in touch with someone? JJ, Reid?"

"At first. Then…" Elle shrugged. "Maybe cutting off all contacts for a while was part of my self-therapy. And no, I'm not drinking anymore."

Hotch nodded, let out a slow breath and leaned back on the couch.

"This won't be easy," he began. "Gideon's dead."

"What?"

"An old unsub caught up with him last year. I'm sorry, Elle."

"Did you kill him?!"

"Dave did."

She had no idea who Dave was. "Good," she replied fiercely. Icy tendrils of fear and sorrow wrapped around her heart. Gideon? No way. If they had got to Gideon, no one was safe.

"And the others?" she asked, dreading the answer.

"We've all had our troubles," Hotch said. "García got shot but recovered. An unsub hooked Reid on drugs, but he shook it off, then he was shot too and suffered from headaches. He found a girlfriend but she was killed before his eyes."

Elle's dread and sadness grew. "I'm not sure I want to ask about Morgan."

"Morgan, heavens, where shall I start with Morgan? But he's indestructible."

Elle was watching him carefully. "What about you?"

"What about me." Hotch cleared his throat and drank some more coffee.

"You don't have to tell me," Elle said softly.

Hotch shook his head. "A madman targeted my family and me. He tortured me to within an inch of my life. He wanted me alive for maximum effect. A few months later he murdered Haley."

Elle covered her mouth with both hands. "Oh my God, Aaron..."

Hotch's smile was ghastly. "I still have Jack. He's my life, my future."

Elle gave him a tentative grin. "Is he here?"

"No, he's at summer camp with his aunt. I'll join him as soon as I can." He looked at Elle with a more natural smile. "And guess what? JJ is married and has two children."

"JJ!" Elle exclaimed, delighted. "Is she still on the team?"

"Sure."

"I'm so glad." Elle laid a hand on Hotch's shoulder. "Thank you. Thank you for leaving the best for last."

Hotch nodded in acknowledgement. He pulled himself back to the present with an almost physical effort. "So, Elle, what are your plans?"

Elle let her hand fall from him, counting on her fingers. "Tonight I'll crash at my hotel. Tomorrow I'd love to get in touch with the rest of the team. Then I'm off to New York to spend the week with my mother. And then I'll go back. They need me. Maybe more than FBI ever did."

"I doubt it," Hotch replied, rolling his mug between his hands. "But it sounds like you're doing an interesting job."

"Oh yes. It's tough, of course, and I also put in time in the field. When someone shoots up a street, I can help determining whether it's terrorists or a disturbed person."

"Just between us, I think all terrorists are disturbed."

"Exactly. It might be a non-PC opinion, but I'm gathering data for a paper on the topic."

"I'd love to see it when it's finished. It'd be very useful to us."

"You'll get it, don't worry."

They were talking like old friends, and Elle was bemused, considering he had threatened her with arrest after she shot the unarmed Ohio Rapist. Oh, boo-hoo. She had never regretted it. And she had not even shaken Hotch's hand after slamming her gun and badge on his desk ten years earlier.

Maybe talking about other stuff was for the best, after all. Maybe it was on Hotch's mind too, because he suddenly turned to her with a grave face. What he said came out of left field.

"Crash here."

"What?!"

"Forget the hotel. You can have my bed. I'll sleep in Jack's room."

"Hotch, I haven't… this is not… hell, you won't even fit into Jack's bed, unless your kid had a ten-foot growth spurt!"

He laughed, and she was laughing too, though she was not sure why. Hotch's laugh was infectious but unsettling – all those teeth, his eyes turning up at the corners.

"I mean it," Hotch added. "I think you came here first for a reason, and we need time to work it out."

"Oh yeah? And what would this reason be, sir?"

Now Hotch was totally serious. "You came here braced for a fight. You didn't want to call me ahead, otherwise you could have lost the momentum. You expected us to yell at each other the whole afternoon, and then you planned to sleep it off and put it behind you."

"Don't profile me, Aaron," Elle warned him sternly.

"I'm just guessing."

"I doubt you built your career on guessing, sir."

Hotch lifted one eyebrow, wryly. "You have no idea, Greenaway. More coffee?"

"Please. Now I need it!"

Hotch rose in a smooth movement and went to the kitchen to refill their mugs.

Elle thought he was buying time. She, too, needed a moment to regroup. Hotch was right. And the fight did seem to have gone out from her.

Hotch came back, put the smoking mugs on the table and sank back into the couch with a kind of weariness.

"I let you down, Elle. Twice. I'm not sure I could have done any different, knowing what I knew then. But I've spent all these years avoiding you, avoiding those four simple words: I made a mistake."

Elle rubbed her forehead. If Hotch had said those words, it would not have been an apology, or an admission of weakness. It would have been… human. And maybe she would not have stormed out of his office without a goodbye.

Maybe they would have stayed friends.

Then her mind latched onto something Hotch had said. He was surely talking about the experience he had gained since then. But that lowering of his voice, that glance away from her…

"What didn't you know then, Aaron?"

Hotch's gaze was lost into a bottomless void. When he spoke, she strained to hear him.

"The madman who tortured me. Haley's killer." His throat moved without sound. "He did… things to me. I've never told anyone. I don't…"

His voice dried up.

Was there no end to the horror?

"You don't have to tell me," she repeated gently.

The Fisher King had "done things" to her too, and even though they were not of a sexual nature, she had felt violated to the core. His fingers slipping into her gunshot wound…

No.

Hotch grabbed his mug with both hands and drank deeply.

"You may have wondered what I'm doing here while Jack is at summer camp," he went on, his voice steadier. "The team is due for a psych assessment. But The Powers That Be haven't set a date. That's a test, too. A test for me. I'm on their radar, I've been for a long time, and I'll never drop under. I have PTSD."

A different kind of rage flared up inside Elle. Rage born out of protection for her comrades, out of Hotch's newly discovered vulnerability.

"Hell, I bet the whole team has it, from what you tell me!"

"I'm their leader. Someone is waiting for me to crack." Hotch put the mug back on the table. The bottom rattled against the glass surface. When he lifted his left hand, it was trembling. "Maybe sooner than they expect."

Instinctively, Elle grabbed his hand. She cradled it between hers, steadying it, running her thumb on its fine black hairs until it was a warm, living part of a human being again, not a claw anymore.

She tipped her chin towards his mug. "That Abbey Road pic may be many things, but it's certainly no proof that Paul Is Dead."

Hotch stared at her. "What?"

"The famous Beatles conspiracy. At least the cigarette in Paul's right hand means nothing. You're a leftie too, you should know. In his wilder days, Paul smoked while he played, and he held the cigarette in his right hand as he strummed with his left. In my wilder days, I smoked with my left hand, and I'm a rightie - though I don't play bass."

"Ooo… kay," Hotch replied, nonplussed. "Stop channeling Garcia. This is pertinent how?"

"It isn't. See? I took your mind off the bad stuff."

Hotch smiled. "Thanks."

The sun had slanted away from the room, and Elle felt exhausted. Hotch's idea began to seem feasible.

"How about we grab some dinner and call it a day?" she asked.

Hotch let out a long breath. "Maybe that's better. Want to go out? I only have microwave pizza. Jack loves it, you know."

"After months of super-healthy military rations, microwave pizza sounds like a dream."

They talked about the respective opinions about the Paul Is Dead conspiracy in front of the TV, destroying three pizzas between them. Elle was glad to notice Hotch had not lost his appetite. They cleared the plates and puttered around the kitchen for a while, awkwardly. Elle was now so tired she did not have the energy anymore for a serious discussion with Hotch.

Everything had been said, anyway. Hotch had explained himself, as unit chief to special agent. He had not apologized to a little woman for putting her in danger. Elle respected him for that. She still thought he had been careless to leave her in the hands of the Fisher King, and later of the Ohio Rapist. Yet…

I made a mistake.

This was enough for her.

As she recovered her jacket and cap from the couch, Hotch carried her bag into Jack's room. Elle mused about the pictures on the bookshelves of his living room. Old family photos. Haley, of course. Jack everywhere in various stages of growth. He had turned out a handsome kid, with his mother's fair colouring and his father's fine-boned features.

One picture caught her attention. Hotch and another man stood alongside a proud Jack with a trophy in his little hands. All three were laughing. The other man looked middle-aged – well, more middle-aged than Hotch – with a greying goatee and a warm, lopsided Latin gaze.

Elle had a feeling she knew him from somewhere.

Hotch came up behind her. "That's Dave Rossi. We coached Jack for a soccer tourney. He topped the scoring chart."

A sudden recognition. "Dave… Rossi? THE David Rossi? Founding father of the BAU? Wow!"

"He's our new consulting agent. Yeah, maybe not so new."

Hotch sounded like he were stuck back in the times Elle had been with them.

A wave of renewed sadness. "Did he take Gideon's place?..."

"Nobody could take Gideon's place," Hotch said softly. Then he glanced at her, smiling. "Dave is reckless, bossy, mouthy, and has a heart twice the size of the Capitol dome. If ever, he took your place."

Elle laughed. "Thanks, I guess."

"He's a good friend."

"I'm glad of it."

A sudden decision.

Elle turned to face Hotch. "Let me sleep with you tonight."

Before Hotch had the time to look shocked, she added: "Sleep as in sleep. I'm used to sharing warmth with male comrades. Platonically. That's another way the service has been good for me. Not all men have cooties."

"I haven't changed my sheets in three days," Hotch replied tentatively.

"Three days? You're a regular slob, sir." Elle had a distinct vision of SSA Aaron Hotchner wearing an apron over his suit for housekeeping duties. "I'll risk the bubonic plague, if that's what it takes. But, Hotch…" She tried to verbalize her feelings. "Today I've led you down Elm Street Memory Lane. I'd like to make sure you don't have actual nightmares."

Hotch nodded slowly. "I still have them anyway," he admitted. "Do you?"

"Yes."

"I'll change the sheets."

"Don't you dare. Go to sleep, Hotch. You won't even notice I'm there."

Elle washed and changed in Jack's tiny bathroom. Her pajamas was Army issue, green tee and shorts. When she padded into Hotch's bedroom, he was perusing a dossier by the light of his nightstand lamp. He wore a black tee and, undoubtedly, black shorts or pajama pants.

Elle was so worn-out she just slipped under the covers. "Don't worry about the light," she muttered, and did not even hear his reply. She was out like a rock in a fraction of a second.

Noise. Loud noise. Unknown noise from above.

Elle rose on one elbow, dragging herself out from a dream of Jeeps and mortars and IEDs in the desert. All her senses were alert in the darkness. She did not know where she was.

"What the hell…"

A movement by her side. The light on the other nightstand came on.

"Elle? You all right?"

"Hotch," she muttered, remembering. "What is this racket?"

He was silhouetted against the light, his hair standing up. "Upstairs neighbour. Works shifts. Runs the washing machine when he can."

Elle fell back on the pillow. "Fuck the washing machine."

"Language, Greenaway. Want earplugs?"

"Nah." Elle was slowly coming back to her surroundings. "Did I wake you up, Hotch?"

"No. I wasn't sleeping."

Damn. She should have known that Hotch was not used to platonic sleepovers.

"I'm not making things better for you." She sat up. "I'll go sleep in Jack's room."

Hotch took her arm. "No. Please."

She lay back and felt him turn on his side. His arms went around her.

"It's all right, Elle. You're safe."

Elle was not used to being held by a man in a regular bed. She was not a fan of men at all, since her early experiences. For a while she had even believed she was a lesbian, but a couple of experiments had disabused her of that notion. She had decided she just hated love and sex. Forever alone, as the Internet meme said.

She was a bundle of knots. So was Hotch.

"You're safe too," she whispered, placing her hands on his shoulders.

It was like that afternoon, their hands entwined, slowly working off the tension, only now it was their whole bodies. She lay with her head on his shoulder, his cheek on her hair. He undid her bun and slipped the rubber band off, his fingers massaging her scalp. Her hair came down to her shoulders. Their breath slowed down, their muscles relaxed.

They could have slept that way forever.

Until Elle pressed her lips between his skin and the collar of his black tee, still believing it was platonic comfort.

Hotch kissed the top of her head.

Elle turned her face up. Hotch's eyes were closed. His next kiss fell on her cheek.

I'm not doing this. Not with Aaron Hotchner.

Yet she was, and she wanted it. She had not imagined it would feel so good.

Hours went by as their lips searched each other's face and neck and shoulders, apparently at random. It might have been a whole summer of Saturdays when Hotch's mouth found hers.

The lips of the grim BAU chief were unbelievably soft and soothing. "Elle," he whispered in his quiet, breathy voice.

Days, months turned until their tongues touched. Elle was lying underneath Hotch, caressing his shoulders and back. He did not slip his hands beneath her tee until whole ages had passed.

Stars were born and died when Hotch asked for permission at Elle's most secret entrance. She lifted her hips and granted it – after quasars made their revolution.

Never like that, with no man, ever. Elle gasped her breath to the heavens, Hotch murmuring her name in her ear, shivering in a way that made her go crazy.

The whole universe slid back to the Big Bang when Elle grasped Hotch's neck and screamed Aaron, Aaron, giving his upstairs neighbour a good reason to complain in his turn.

After more uncountable ages Hotch found his breath again, looking down into her eyes, smiling his stunning smile by the nightstand lamp. Sweat had never felt so comfortable, like a thin silk garment. He was so beautiful, so desirable. He made her feel like the most desirable woman in the world.

They reset the universal clock and started back at the beginning, small kisses all over, then deeper kisses, then gentle touches, then... then…

Sunlight was streaming into the bedroom. Naked, Hotch lay on his side, his arm across Elle's waist.

She opened her eyes, took stock of the situation. Her whole body pulsed with unexpected passion, for Aaron Hotchner of all people.

She slipped gently from underneath him. Hotch did not wake up, but a small hoarse sound escaped his throat. Elle felt a stab of desire deep inside her.

She kissed his temple. "Aaron," she whispered, her lips against his ear.

He stirred, then settled back with his hand under the pillow, snoring softly.

Elle smiled. She sat up, swung her legs from the bed, got up and made her way to the main bathroom. She stepped into the shower. She was sorry to wash Hotch's scent off her. Memories would be harder to wash off. Hotch's body, his gentleness and eagerness, his pleasure and hers, nothing else…

She would think about the rest later.

As she was drying her long dark hair with a towel, she heard Hotch's voice from the hall, slightly frantic. She had not heard the phone ring.

Oh fuck. A case. Or the psych assessment. On a Sunday morning?

She wrapped the towel around her. It did not close in front.

Damn.

She tried to slip into Hotch's blue bathrobe, and drowned into it. The guy had at least a foot of advantage over her.

Oh, what the hell.

"I've always thought TV was silly," she muttered as she towelled herself dry. She opened the bathroom door. "The heroine covers herself after sleeping with the hero, I mean, what? They had SEX. She shouldn't…"

Three pairs of staring eyes and three gaping mouths greeted her.

Hotch stood by the open door in his black tee and shorts. At the threshold, two men gawked at her, one dark and stout, the other one fair and lanky.

"Elle?!" Spencer Reid shrieked.

"Reid?!" She matched his alarmed contralto.

SSA David Rossi stood there in a hunter's vest, a couple of fishing rods in his hand. "Oh no, not again," he exclaimed. "I can understand Garcia and her hacker, but you?!"

Elle grasped the biggest cushion on the couch. She stood with knees together, hunched down, trying to cover herself with it.

Reid stepped back behind the door jamb. "N-nice to see you, Elle," he called from the dark safety of the corridor.

"You too," she shouted back.

Hotch glared at Rossi. "Does NOBODY phone ahead any more?"

"I thought you'd like to come fishing with us," Rossi said, matter-of-factly.

Hotch covered his eyes with his hand.

"Agent Rossi!" Elle stammered, hero-worship surfacing from the depths of her embarrassment.

Rossi recovered his aplomb. "Call me Dave," he said, his voice husky and amused.

Elle stepped forward with hand extended. The cushion slipped.

Rossi yelled: "DON'T TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF THAT!"

Hotch turned to his two colleagues. "No, I won't come fishing with you."

"Okay, okay, don't get your panties in a bunch!" Rossi tipped two fingers at Elle. "Your taste is impeccable, Aaron. Yours too, Elle!"

"The moons of Saturn aren't far away enough for you right now, Dave," Hotch growled.

Slam.

"And your sense of humour has improved!" Rossi's voice came from outside the closed door.

Hotch thumped his forehead against it.

The long and winding road

That leads to your door

Will never disappear

I've seen that road before

It always leads me here

Lead me to you door

"Aaron…"

Hotch turned towards her, his face unreadable.

"This was awkward," Elle said.

To her surprise, Hotch laughed. It did not look uncomfortable any more. "This is the best morning I've had in years."

He handed her a plaid blanket from the couch. He had an advantage on her, really – he was almost dressed. Elle dropped the cushion and quickly wrapped herself in the blanket.

"I guess I've overstayed my welcome," she said.

"No." Hotch stepped forward and gathered her in his arms. "No, Elle. Stay."

The wild and windy night

That the rain washed away

Has left a pool of tears

Crying for the day

Why leave me standing here

Let me know the way

Elle leaned her head on his shoulder.

"I'll call them back," Hotch said. "And Garcia, Morgan, JJ. Would you like to have lunch with us?"

Elle lifted her black eyes to his. "Will you be embarrassed, Aaron?"

"Totally. As of…" He checked a non-existent watch on his left wrist. "… now, the whole BAU knows. But I'm ready to risk it. Will you be embarrassed?"

"No." Elle touched his face. "Aaron - I'm leaving for Afghanistan in a week."

"I know."

"I might stop here in DC for one more night next Sunday. But then…"

Hotch bent and kissed her brow. "I've waited ten years. I can wait some more. I'm sort of old-fashioned that way."

Many times I've been alone

And many times I've cried

Any way you'll never know

The many ways I've tried

"I don't know what I can give you, Aaron."

"You gave me plenty. All else is a bonus."

Elle stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly. "Let's get dressed, then."

"Wait. It's not lunchtime yet."

With one of his all-cheekbone smiles, Hotch slipped his hands beneath the plaid and around her bare waist. Elle laughed and raised her hands, enveloping him within the safety of the blanket and her arms.

But still they lead me back

To the long winding road

You left me standing here

A long long time ago

Don't leave me waiting here

Lead me to your door…

THE END

(Credits: The Beatles, "The Long and Winding Road", 1970)