Thank you so much for the reviews! Bowie28, I want to know how to earn five stars on your list on delicious, so suggestions are welcomed.

This chapter takes place during the events of "The Uncanny Valley." I am a little nervous about this chapter. Feedback and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated. I allude to a cognitive behavioral technique for managing cravings I theorize Reid is trying based on the fact that he wears a hair tie or rubber band on his wrist during season 5. Is it understandable? Too subtle?

This chapter is from Hotch's POV, switching to Reid's for a small section at the end.

Is it not a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing? Such a little thing! -J.R.R. Tolkien

Friday. For the first time since the funeral, Jack asked to do something other than watch videos of Haley. Aaron paused, briefcase in hand, and looked at Jessica. "We have a case," he said, and heard the helplessness in his voice.

"Go," she said firmly. "We'll be fine, right Jack? We can go to the zoo when Daddy gets home."

"You're gonna go get the bad guys, right, Daddy?"

"That's right, buddy."

"And when you come back you'll take me and Aunt Jessie to the zoo?"

"You got it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to his son's head. "Be good for your aunt."

There was something in his son's eyes, not happiness, but maybe the chance that someday, there would be.

Reid avoided touch. When they met officers at a new precinct, he placed himself behind the others and he would raise a hand in an open-palmed wave, never shaking hands, never close enough. Aaron had noticed it before. Yet in Atlantic City, as they profiled an Unsub collecting living, breathing dolls, Aaron realized there was one person he would allow in his personal space: Aaron.

He had worried, after the other night, that their body language would change. But they were professional, and he realized they were compartmentalizing, and doing it well. There were things he was more aware of: glances, Reid's proximity. At some point Reid had adopted the habit of folding his hands across his waste when he spoke in front of people, no longer gesturing and dancing his hands through the air as he talked. Aaron wondered when that had started and how he had missed it.

The pacing when they realized what Dr. Malcolm had done to keep his daughter quiet was something Aaron had never seen before. Reid stalked around the table, frowning, violence leashed as carefully as Aaron controlled his own. He watched the younger man.

"There are literally hundreds of therapies to help kids through loss. Electroshock is not one of them." Reid was insisting on interviewing Dr. Malcolm, and he felt his stomach drop. But he had to let Reid go, it was a lead, keeping him at the station and safe and away from the darkness was never an option. He had never let his heart influence his judgment. Haley's fury. You know, all he had to do was stop looking for me and you wouldn't be in this mess.

But tragedy only happened when they split up, when there was no one else to help. Tobias Hankel, Foyet in his apartment, Haley opening the gate for Foyet's endgame.

"Take Rossi."

"Hotch, let me go in. I can talk her down, and no one needs to get hurt. You heard the locals, they're focused on that fact that she's killed three people. They don't understand that she didn't mean to, that it was an accident."

He frowned, and knew it must be what Garcia had dubbed his Death Glare when Rossi's brows shot up. Reid regarded him calmly. "You heard what Prentiss said when we gave the profile. If she feels her collection is threatened or that she might lose her surrogates, she may react violently."

"I'm going to give her back the original dolls, Hotch. It was their loss that triggered this. When she gets them back, she's going to focus on those. She's going to ignore her surrogates, ignore me, she's going to ignore everything but those dolls."

"At least wear a vest, kid." Morgan looked dubious but he was doing nothing to stop this.

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose as Reid shook his head.

"She needs to see someone non-threatening, someone not in a position of authority. I'll tell her who I am, and who I work for, but other than that, I'm just going to be the person who gives her what she really wants. There's not going to be any violence, because I'm not going to threaten her collection. I'm going to give it back."

The lead detective walked over to them, already wearing his Kevlar. "We have snipers with heat scopes on two roofs."

Reid gazed at him. "You won't need them."

Aaron watched him go, feeling something twist in his chest as the slender figure slipped through the door carrying the dolls in their suitcase.

"He'll be fine, Aaron. He's coming into his own." Rossi looked at him with something like understanding, and Hotch nodded shortly and looked away before the other could find anything else in his eyes.

When he knocked on the door of the apartment above the coffee shop, he wondered if he should be here. It was late; maybe too late. But Jack was staying with Jessica tonight because he was asleep when the jet landed, the others had gone for drinks, and his own apartment was so empty.

He knocked again when there was no answer, and heard a crash, muffled, then cursing. He raised his eyebrows and waited. The light under the door broke, two shadows as of someone standing in front of it, and he kept his face impassive and turned towards the peephole.

After a moment, there was the sound of the chain being pulled back. The door opened to Spencer pulling his hand from his knee, wincing, and gesturing Aaron inside.

"What was the crash?"

In the dim light, from a single desk lamp by a chessboard that has been played to checkmate and covered in a fine layer of dust, the planes of Spencer's face looked harsher, older. The younger profiler made a face.

"Physical therapy." He gestured to the couch, leaving Aaron to remove his coat and hang it on a rack that held Spencer's jacket and purple scarf. Spencer moved towards a kitchen area, little more than a galley, his walk slowed and careful with the faintest suggestion of a limp. "Usually when we're on cases, I fall behind on the exercises I'm supposed to do. I was a little stiff tonight."

"The crash?" Aaron persisted, taking a seat on the couch. Forcing himself not to perch on the edge, not to clasp his hands or cross his arms across his chest.

Spencer reappeared with two mugs in his hands, joined Aaron on the couch. Coffee: the first sip was bitter and bracing and burned his mouth. He watched the other man lift the cup to his lips, the wide full mouth, he was staring and he couldn't help it.

Hazel eyes met his, the lips quirked into a smile that glinted into Spencer's eyes. "I fell. I was startled." Then, softer, "I'm glad you came. I—thought you might be with Jack."

"He's at his aunt's tonight."

A smolder started in those hazel eyes, and despite what he wanted, Aaron held himself still. He had gone too far, the other night, and Spencer had initiated it but he had pushed so far the other had begged him to wait. So he waited. He glanced at Reid's hands, still, and noted the irritated redness beneath the hair tie on his right wrist.

He wanted to ask if it helped, but the fact that the skin was damaged made Aaron think it probably didn't. The other man followed his gaze, frowned, and turned his hand so the reddened inside of his wrist faced down, hidden.

"I went through—a lot, after Hankel. I did it alone. Which wasn't the best strategy, it turned out." A murmur, Aaron could scarcely make out the words. Those eyes flashed back up to his. "I don't want you to be alone."

Then Spencer was moving, his hands hesitant, light, slipping off his suit jacket, soft lips pressing against his own. Aaron was determined to let Spencer lead, to relinquish some control, but his resolve crumbled when long slender fingers curled behind his neck and pulled him close. He let out the breath he had been holding, unknowing, sharing breath with the other man as Spencer inhaled, and he slipped his tongue into a mouth that tasted faintly of coffee and something indefinable, something warm and somehow safe. They were gentler this time, Aaron careful, and Spencer not pushing, not taking control away from the other man as though he understood that control was everything, was all he had.

Garments were slipping to the floor, and Aaron paused as the other man stood and gently tugged his wrist. Lips that curled up met his own, the tips of their tongues snaking out and meeting, barely touching before the tug on his wrist grew more insistent, and he stood and let Spencer draw him down the hall.

There were lights, dim but present in every room. The bedroom was no exception, books piled on one side of the bed casting shadows that climbed the walls. Navy curtains matched the bedspread, dark sheets, the bed not made. He whirled the younger man around and walked him backwards, hands moving underneath the FBI t-shirt, brushing a nipple and eliciting a gasp. Thin fingers tangled themselves in his his hair, not pulling but stilling his movements as the other sucked his lower lip, bit gently.

"Off." Spencer tugged at his waistband. He chuckled, felt a flash of surprise, a wave of guilt. But those eyes were looking at him, depthless compassion, and the guilt eased back down. "Off," the command came again. He started to unbuckle the belt but his hands were shaking. Spencer's hands pushed his aside and deftly removed the buckle, the side of his hand brushing Aaron's hardness as he lowered the zipper, and a noise he didn't recognize emerged from his throat causing Spencer to glance back up and the glint in his eyes was wicked.

Aaron leaned forward, holding the other's jaw and capturing his mouth, thrusting his tongue in roughly, dominating, kisses growing more heated and faster and breaking apart only long enough for Spencer to lift his arms while Aaron jerked his t-shirt over his head. He left the slender arms trapped in the sleeves, wrists caught behind his back in the folds of cotton. He pressed himself against the slender form, feeling hip bones and something else press sharply just below his own.

At the edge of the bed, Spencer's knees hit, and Aaron controlled their fall onto the bed, not letting Spencer's knees twist, not putting pressure on it, and the younger man arched against him, hands still trapped behind his back.

"A-Aaron." It was the second time he had heard that, this time a breathy moan, and Spencer's breath hitched as he shivered.

He let himself explore the body beneath his, biting, sucking, tugging gently at a nipple with his teeth as he pushed the slender form farther onto the bed. Spencer arched again, his eyes fluttering, and Aaron felt a leg curve behind him, pulling him closer.

He jerked the flannel pajama pants off slim hips, not untying them, down to Spencer's ankles, where they were kicked off. The knee curved back up behind him and he grasped the straining erection. The only clothing still between them was the undershirt Aaron wore.

His own erection throbbed against his lower abdomen. Spencer pressed into him, a delicious friction, as he grasped the t-shirt in a fist, tightening the impromptu bonds. A shaky sigh. He kissed and breathed his way down the other's shoulder, down his right arm, pressing his lips into an area where the veins were more prominent, where there were white marks and greyish blue marks, old and stiff and corded. He looked up when the body beneath him stopped breathing again, saw that Spencer was biting his lip and staring at him with wide eyes, glassy with desire, and a hint of—fear? Shame?

"Hush, it's okay," he whispered, raising up to meet the other's lips and erase the barrier before it could slam down between them. Another sigh, a murmur he he couldn't hear that tasted like, thank you, and he pulled the t-shirt down and away to free the other's hands.

Hands that stopped when he whispered, No, left his shirt, God, yes, Aaron understood scars. They both did. Aaron closed his eyes, let his head drop for a moment, and then gentle hands were pulling his face up, comforting as he had given comfort, reassuring. "It's okay, this is fine, this is good."

He let himself sink into those reassurances.

Long fingers fluttered over to the night stand, bring out a box and some lube. He checked. "They're expired."

Spencer threw his head back in the pillows, making a frustrated sound, and then he felt slender arms around his neck, pulling him down, and a voice low and rough with need was murmuring in his ear.

"You're clean, I'm clean, we've both had the FBI physical-"

"Are you sure?"

"Please-"

So he coated a finger with lube, eased his finger around and through the ring of muscle, was unsurprised when Spencer was almost painfully tight and tensed underneath him.

"Are you sure? We don't have to-"

Before he could slip back out a grip strong enough to bruise gripped his shoulder while the other grasped his wrist, holding him there, the knee was still wrapped around him with a heel pressing into the small of his back. Frantic, breathy kisses were pressed into his neck, his jaw, his mouth.

"Yes, please, I want this, I want you-" The whispers broke but the eyes, dark, never left his.

He nodded, caught Spencer's mouth with his own, lips moving, devouring, as the muscles slowly loosened and Spencer relaxed. Another finger, a grimace.

"I'm hurting you," he protested.

But a hand gripped his wrist again, hazel eyes flashed into his. "Don't you dare." A breathless laugh. "It's good pain."

Aaron had never done this, never bottomed, but he knew it hurt. When the muscles loosened again he gently scissored his fingers, watching Spencer moan, his head fall back, long lashes fan against his checks.

After a few more moments, "Enough." It was a gasp, the eyes were still closed, breath fluttering. "You. Now."

He pulled his fingers out now, coating himself liberally in lube—the bottle had been opened but was mostly full—controlling himself, pushing past resistance, slowly, feeling white heat compressing him until it was all he could do not to move, not to bury himself in it in one swift thrust.

"God—Spencer-you're so tight-"

"I know." He almost laughed at the impatience in the bitten words, stroking up the thighs, the ribs, how could a grown man be so thin? Playing with nipples that were hard, twirling them in his fingers to give his lover something to focus on, something besides the discomfort, something besides pain. Slender fingers fisted in the sheets, the head whipped to the side.

It was taking too long. Oh, he wanted it— "Spencer—I'm not sure we should-"

The head whipped back around, eyes dark with emotion, amusement, sex, pain. "If you leave me like this, I will kill you. And I know how to hide the body."

Something else was there, desperation, certainty, need.

Aaron nodded slowly. "Okay—just-relax-" He spread more lube on his hand, reached down and grasped Spencer's flagging erection, stroking it slowly, back to hardness.

Not until the hands had released the bedsheets, running down his back, catching in the soft cotton of his undershirt as Spencer's hands spasmed against him, did he start to move.

He was slow, careful, pulling the erection in his hand in time with his thrusts, and Spencer hissed and his features clenched. "Don't stop-"

They moved together, one organism, pieces of a puzzle locking together to finally make sense.

Broken nonsense syllables were spilling from parted lips, lids fluttering, interspersed with moans. They shared a rhythm, too long, not long enough, hovering on the edge-

And the Spencer cried out, "Ah-ah-ah!" his voice crescendoing with each exclamation, he shuddered, and Aaron felt muscles constricting and rippling around him. Come exploded between them, on Spencer's stomach, chest, on Aaron's undershirt, and he allowed himself to pick up the pace as Spencer collapsed utterly boneless beneath him, thrusting hard, again, three times, finally reaching his own orgasm with a strangled shout.

Hazy bedroom eyes blinked open and met his as he collapsed on the thin form, rolled to the side to let Spencer breathe.

In the glow he found something, a part of himself he had known was missing after that night spent with Foyet, something he had known was lost but had been unable to shape, to define, to remember. He was no longer trapped, raging, helpless, he was Aaron Hotchner, and somehow Spencer had found him and given him back to himself.

Eyes were watching him, gentle hands were wiping his cheeks, a quiet voice was murmuring to him. "Hey, hey, it's okay, you're fine, everything is going to be okay, I promise."

He believed those words, that voice, that hand. Without any savagery he yanked his dampened shirt up, over his head, balling it up and cleaning the body beside him before discarding it on the floor.

A glance at his scars, eyes flicking back to him, acknowledged, accepted, and somehow that meant more than what they just shared.

"Thank you," Aaron whispered, catching the hand. The body beside him shifted, easing closer, half-prone and draping a knee—the bad knee?-up over his legs, sprawling, seeking comfort. Something pressed against the corner of his mouth as he closed his eyes.

"You are very welcome." But he wasn't sure he had heard that, he might have dreamed it, he had closed his eyes to sleep and for the first time in a long time he sensed no nightmares lurking in the darkness.

When he awoke, the light was brighter, redness streaking through the space between the curtains. A hand was stroking his collar bone, the touch barely palpable, and when he looked, he saw Spencer awake and watching him. There was contentment, but guarded, a question in those eyes.

He ran a hand over his face. "I have to get Jack-"

The hand stilled but there was no response. Finally: "Okay."

"I promised him, before we left for the case." Aaron looked back at those eyes, those bottomless eyes that gave him everything, where disappointment was warring with understanding, looking as though a question were answered but not as hoped.

"It's not that," he reassured, clasping the hand over his collar bone. "If I could—but I promised Jack we'd go to the zoo today, with Jessie." He felt worry and guilt that he had caused that look in Spencer's eyes.

But understanding melted away the disappointment, and he wondered what he could possibly have done to deserve that. Nothing, nothing in his life. But he saw it, and he sighed with relief.

"If you—visited tomorrow, you could bring Diet Coke and Mentos," Aaron offered, not meeting the other man's gaze.

"You want me to teach your son how to blow things up?" He looked up to a wry smile, the pulled an answering smile from Aaron.

"It's not exactly the homicidal triad," he murmured, against lips that met his own.

Eyes closed, a sigh, a stifled yawn. Aaron felt a chuckle rumble through his chest, and this time no guilt chased it. "Go back to sleep." He pressed his lips to the smooth forehead. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

A smile. A nod.

A promise.

Later that morning, Spencer squinted against the sunlight as he approached the chessboard, peered down at the wooden pieces. "I see checkmate in twelve."

The boy looked up, studied the board, frowned. "No way."

Spencer thought about last night. About Aaron. He thought about their last case, and that even after everything, all Samantha had needed were her dolls and she was happy again, or as happy as she could be. Gideon didn't have to stop playing, he thought. The end might be the same, but each game is different.

I don't have to stop playing.

"Here. Let me show you."

He sat down, to an incredulous expression, dawning joy as their hands darted across the board, to the timer, back, no time to think, just knowing.

In life, unlike chess, the game continues after checkmate. -Isaac Asimov*

*This is the quote actually used at the end of "The Uncanny Valley" (Season 5 Episode 12)