(2) Mixed Signals

"Here you go." Aaron pushes a mug across the table towards you.

"Thanks." You smile and take a sip. Wrinkling your nose, you put it back down.

"Something wrong? I made it how you always drink it."

Covering you mouth, you clear your throat: "I don't know, it tastes weird. Maybe because Rossi brought me this super fancy coffee every day." You try to play it off.

Aaron raises an eyebrow: "It's possible that your taste changed."

"No, no, I'm sure it's fine." You stubbornly take another sip, trying hard not to show that you don't like it.

"I can make-"

"It's fine!" You shout louder than intended. Aaron's lips tighten.

"Sorry." Groaning, you rub your hands over you face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you."

He takes a deep breath: "Look, I'm trying my best here. My girlfriend died on me – you died in my arms. I went through hell as well."

"I know." You tell him with a small voice.

"Do you though? Because so far you didn't once ask how I have been."

You mouth falls open, your heartrate increasing as you get angry. Leaning against the table you hiss: "Oh, I'm sorry. I must have been concentrating too much on training to walk, because my muscles literally disintegrated while I was in a coma, to remember to ask how you have been holding up with sitting next to my bed."

"Or my name, for that matter. "Aaron shoots back.

Falling back in your chair, you quietly stare at him. Tears start to form in your eyes, your head is spinning.

"Leave." You tell him as long as you still can keep up a steady voice. Scoffing, he gets up. After taking a few steps towards the hallway, he turns back and puts his hand on the table. Staring you down, he tells you with a toneless voice: "You're welcome, by the way."

Taut, you ask: "What for?"

"For saving your life."

- - - - - - - - -

It's only downhill from there. After your fight with Aaron, you feel like you lost your last connection to yourself from before. Before. That sound so dramatic. By now, it has been maybe three weeks since you were shot. That's like half of the time you were hold hostage in Mexico. Somehow, in your current state, you feel way more isolated. Maybe it's because you still feel like a stranger to yourself.

It does get better. There are moments when you are completely present and feel like yourself. However, most of the time, it's exhausting.

You visited the BAU once. Manly, because you had to talk to the director and a psychologist. It was nice seeing the others without being in the awkward situation of lying in a bed. In the university, however, you have been a few more times. It distracts you. It makes you happy. Lecturing, talking to students, that are the times you feel like yourself. When you and your work become the same thing. Everything else is…painful. Literally and figuratively. Your neck is way better. You see a doctor every other day to clean the wound and make sure everything is okay. You could do it yourself. But you don't want to look at it. Your neck may be better, nevertheless, the rest of your body is still struggling. It often hurts to move; you cannot walk as fast as you would like to – which drives you crazy. You often get headaches. You tried to drive one time but gave up before you even reached the end of the street. Now your student assistant picks you up and you use a cane on days it's especially difficult to hold yourself up. It's like you aged twenty years. Kind of fair, though, considering that you were dead.

The team kept sending you texts, which was nice. They stopped when you told them that you would call when you're ready. You haven't called them. You called Aaron once though, a week ago. He didn't pick up, but called you back the next day. You didn't answer. Since then: nothing.

You're not sure if you even want there to be something. You don't have to go back. You could just move on with your life, return to the university fulltime. But it's never that easy, is it?

Today, in the morning, during a lecture, someone came in late. You heard the door to your right open and for a second you were convinced it was Aaron. Like that day he came to pick you up. The day you first kissed. A lifetime ago.

When your eyes landed on the student who opened the door to join the class, you wanted to sit down on the ground and cry. However, you just gulped, took a deep breath, and went on. During the same lecture, a student asked: "Will you tell us about the case you got the injuries from?"

Everyone raised their head from their notes when that was said and stared at you. Clasping your cane, you stared right back. It took you a few seconds to formulate an adequate answer that didn't include swear words. In a way, it is a legitimate question. So, you told them: "If it makes sense for what we're discussing, yes."

After the lecture, your assistant came over: "Are you okay? You look like you're in pain."

You smiled: "I am in pain." Before she could react, you added: "Would you kindly bring the papers to my office and then pick me up at the main entrance? I'd like to go home."

"Yes, Professor, of course."

You had to take your time to walk outside. Stubbornly, you kept standing during the lecture. The price being, your legs hurting like hell, forcing you to rely on the cane even more. After making sure your suit looks alright, you leave the lecture hall. People still look at you when they walk past you. Surely, they always looked, maybe greeted you, but now they look differently. They stare. Quietly. Questioning. Colleagues interrupt their conversations as if whatever they were talking about could appear rude to you, even though the topics usually had nothing to do with you. You feel like you're constantly being monitored. It is already difficult for you to figure out how to behave and how to move, this just makes it worse.

Every day, you come home from work, you take off your suit (suits are easier to put on than jeans and alike and you still look professional and honestly you quite enjoy wearing them, they are powerful), carefully put it away, and then you just sit on your sofa and cry. The suits are like armor and as soon as you take them off, you collapse. Is that how Aaron feels? Why he wears them?

Aaron. The name haunts you. No other word have you repeated more often in your head than his name. Forgetting it felt a thousand times worse than literally being shot in the neck. That wasn't your fault; forgetting the name of your (ex?) boyfriend though, feels like it is. Or was being shot your fault as well? You decided to throw yourself in harms way. No. Stop that. You didn't pull the trigger. The stupid fucking stalker bitch did.

After your daily cry session, you get up, groaning as always, and make your way to the kitchen.

With a cup of coffee in hand – you figured out that you like it less sweet now – you're staring out the kitchen window. Your house is so quiet. Sometimes a door is moved by the wind coming through an open window and your first thought is that it's Aaron walking in. Which is stupid.

"Fucking stupid." You curse under your breath and empty the cup. Forcefully, you put it down, grab your cell, and leave.

- - - - - - - - -

Rush hour just ended as the taxi makes it's way into D.C. No way in hell could you, in your current state, take the metro; it felt even less possible to call your assistant to drive you into town for your private affairs. So, taxi it is.

Your heart it is galloping when you get out the car. You haven't walked down this street in months. You consider getting take-out. It would be really awkward, however, if you would get rejected and then, like the sad, pathetic idiot you are, would have to eat alone at home while staring at the extra portion.

"Fuck, listen to yourself." You whisper scream. It rankles you how harsh you are, how relentlessly you scrutinize yourself. Cursing under your breath, as a way to aggressively give yourself confidence, you enter a Thai to get food. The bag in one hand, your cane in the other to hold yourself up, you make your way to Aaron's apartment complex.

"Please be home." You mumble on your way up in the elevator.

When the automatic doors open, you walk straight to the apartment door and knock before you can talk yourself out of it. Your heart is about to jump out of your chest as you wait. You don't know if you waited for ten seconds or minutes but eventually, the lock clicks.

You are greeted by a disheveled looking Aaron. His eyes are dark, and you see that it takes him a few moments to realize who you are. When the realization hits, he smiles for just a split second before his face gets stern again. Your eyes dart over his face.

"You have a beard." You blurt out.

"Yes." Is all he says.

"Well, I have food. Can I come in?" Holding up the bag, you silently wait for him to decide.

Aaron's eyes wander up and down your body. You try your best to keep up a proper posture. Finally, he says: "Okay."

You let out a relieved sigh: "Great."

Slowly, you walk past him and to the kitchen. After you put the food on the counter, you lean against it and wait for Aaron to say something. Without looking at you, he gets plates for the food and says: "You look good in a suit."

It makes you giggle quietly. The sound irritates you. You clear your throat: "Thank you."

Either he didn't hear it over the sounds of the clatter of the plates or he decides not to react to it. Whatever it is, he goes on to ask: "Do you want a beer?"

"No, thank you. It doesn't mix well with my meds."

"Oh, sorry, I didn't think about that."

"Don't worry about it."

You're concerningly polite with each other. Too formal.

"The beard looks great on you." You add after a pause.

"You think so? The team says it make me look mischievous."

"That's not the word I would use, and you're certainly no Loki, but sure, somewhat mischievous."

Now Aaron lets out a chuckle. Walking over to the dinner table, he asks: "What word would you use?" Instead of answering, you pretend to be fully concentrating on the task of sitting down. Not that you could do it effortlessly anyways, but you certainly were able to answer him if you tried.

His arm brushes your shoulder when he puts the plate in front of you. One could think that both of you would twitch at the sensation. You don't though. You lean into it. Slower than necessary, Aaron leans back up. The way your body, and his for that matter, react to the contact, shows how touch starved you are. It sends shivers down your spine, and you get more excited than you probably should. He only brushed your shoulder. Maker, calm down.

You start to laugh.

Aaron sits down. Furrowing his eyebrows, he asks: "What is it?"

"I-" You manage to stop laughing to say: "I used to tell myself to be professional when I was around you, and to calm down, you know?"

"Really?" He sounds amused.

"Oh, yes. It was quite difficult." You admit and chuckle, allowing yourself to reminisce for a second.

He shakes his head and eats a few bites. Then he remembers the question you didn't answer: "So, what word would you use?"

Holding the eye contact you decide that you have nothing to lose: "Hot. Among others."

His smile brightens: "I see a recurring theme here."

"Yeah, well…" You clear your throat and keep eating.

The exchange lightened the mood, made it less formal. The serious conversation you need to have, however, tangibly hovers above you.

"I'm sorry, Aaron." You say straight out the gate.

His head shoots up, visibly surprised, he stares at you.

"I was an asshat."

"Oh." Is all he says.

"You seem surprised."

"Yes."

"We're back to one-syllable Hotchner?"

He chuckles again. You take it as a good sign.

"I didn't expect you to apologize. You…are not very apologetic. Which-" He lifts his hands when he sees you raising an eyebrow. "Which I think, most of the time, is a good quality. Especially in our line of work."

"Our line of work? I'm a professor."

"We both know that you're way more than that. Just because you don't bear the title Agent doesn't mean you aren't one."

"I think the entire Justice System just got really angry at you."

"Fine. Let's call it medical profiler then."

You smile and your heartbeat picks up in speed again: "I really like that."

"Does that mean you are planning on coming back?" He sounds anxious.

Your eyes dart to your cane and back: "I don't know if I am able to."

"Please." Aaron leans against the table. "After the shit you already survived, there is no way you won't be able to come back if you want to."

You stare at the almost empty plate in front of you and swallow hard. Eventually, you muster up the courage to look up and tell him: "Everything I survived was with…We always did it together."

"What makes you think you have to do it alone now?"

Flabbergasted, you don't know what to reply. He continues: "There is an entire team of Special Agents waiting for you, ready to give their life to protect you."

Your breathing becomes staggered as tears fill your eyes. Aaron reaches across the table, and you grab the hand he offers you.

"You're not alone. If you want to, you never have to be alone again."