Author's note: Here we go. First venture into writing for the first time in years - reviews are much appreciated, feedback welcome.

This is also my first ever Criminal Minds fic. I'm a diehard Hotchniss shipper, but one of the reasons I love this show is that I feel the characters (and actors) all have such great chemistry with each other. It's a joy to watch and even more of a joy to see the intricacies/possibilities of every friendship and relationship. Re-watching it again, I've noticed that there's a lot of fluidity and potential in the show, and that's definitely something that makes it one of a kind.

This might be a one-shot; might be a two-shot. We'll see. I didn't envisage it as belonging within a specific season, but I'd say it runs concurrent to S3/S4.

(Disclaimer: Any mistakes are my own etc, etc, no beta etc etc; hopefully years of working as a proofreader somehow reduces the possibility of slip-ups but I make no promises as my brain is old and tired. And yes, I'm British. Sorry if I've missed out some 'z's.)

It starts off innocently enough. A barrage of mundane (mildly delirious) thoughts that his brain, sluggish from lack of sleep, sifts through as he half-dozes on the jet.

Hotch.

Hotchner.

Hotch.

He doesn't recall the moment someone first used the abbreviation, or even when he'd started responding to it. Fresh out of law school seems about right, he muses; it sort of followed him after that, a natural progression as he eased into new assignments and shed initial formalities. Sometimes - when he's dog-tired - he almost forgets the extra syllable exists.

If he's completely honest with himself, he revels in the implied affection that comes with the team using this nickname. It's endearing, too, that each member has their own way of using it; how, in general, his name sounds completely different when spoken out loud by any two given people at any given moment.

Rossi uses it the least; although calling him 'kid' is a thing of times past, it's still a preference and it slips from mouth as he smirks from behind a glass of near-priceless scotch on those lonelier, darker evenings. Morgan drawls his name out smoothly, all wolfish grins or furrowed brows depending on the occasion - and on just how far he's willing to push a point. Garcia's caffeinated staccato down the phone is a welcome dash of warmth and color; then there's Reid, whose eyes widen with childish delight after every prank Hotch half-heartedly chastises him for. He always observes with amusement as the young man lingers on the 'tch', cheekbones accentuated, as if the name was another fact to mull over.

JJ's got her own nickname. That's something they share; something good and solid and wholesome - even though it probably provides some basis for the mom and dad office jibes that are often directed their way. She speaks his name with authority, reassuring and stern all at once - and he can't help but feel a rush of pride at how she's second-guessing herself less, unaware of how solid and indispensable she's become; someone who'll stop at nothing to protect her own.

She's a giver and a giver and occasionally he worries there no scrap of care left for herself.

And Prentiss-

'Hotch'.

His eyes snap open, and he glances up. Hears himself grunt softly in acknowledgement as his gaze meets long lashes and impossibly dark eyes.

This one is almost dangerous, he thinks, abruptly refusing to delve into exactly why he feels that way. All he knows is that it's always push-pull when it comes to her.

Most days, her voice slips over carefully chosen vocabulary like silk, or smoke. He knows that isn't quite the right descriptor but if he allows himself to think of the exact words he's looking for, it'll open up a can of worms that should probably stay firmly - and permanently - closed.

'We're landing soon.' There's hint of amusement in her gaze; as if she's basking in the knowledge that she'd pulled him back from the brink of something.

He looks out the window, observes the runway through the drizzle, and quirks his lip up in response.

—

The team stagger off the plane minutes later, exhaustion and relief written on their faces. He watches and winces as Reid's lanky form almost collides with JJ, close to knocking her off course. They're all spent; he's made it clear that he doesn't want to see any of them set foot in the office until a healthy 10am. Prays - not for the first time - for the demons and killers and night stalkers get the memo and take the night off, too. He'd be out of a job if that wish had been granted every time he'd made it.

Goodbyes are exchanged in the parking lot, but as he shuffles to his car (grimacing as he remembers that he still hasn't managed to clean the remnants of a strawberry ice-pop Jack had accidentally dripped on the back seat) he hears a flutter of a chuckle.

'Hope you're planning on taking your own advice.'

She'd parked a few meters away from him, it turns out. He shakes his head because of course she manages to make exhaustion look elegant; leaned languidly against the frame of her vehicle, her slender hand braces against the open door as she lingers and gives him an unintelligible look. Somehow, she knows about the stack of paperwork that's wedged in his kitchen drawer; that makes him smile.

'Goodnight, Prentiss.'

'Night, Hotch.'

As he turns off onto the main road, he thinks about the way his name unravels from her tongue, how she drags out every syllable as if she's savoring honey. Irresistible.

At the back of his mind, the coil of something that he's been batting away stirs. Languidly, like her.

Fuck.

—

Voila! Hope you enjoyed! have a vague idea of where I could take the continuation. We'll see; if you have any strong feelings one way or another, let me know!