Work Text:
You have been abnormally distracted today, bordering on rattled. Your legs have been aggressively bouncing up and down, luckily hidden by the enclosed cubby of your desk. The bullpen is busy, like always, people are clattering dishes around in the sink, having just taken a late lunch together in the kitchenette. There are manila folders breezing past your head, no doubt held in the steady hands of diligent agents, profilers, even. It’s amazing in a room full of people trained to notice the tiniest shifts in behavior, nobody has realized you’re practically shaking with annoyance behind your desk. Your anxiety and impatience have been building since last night.
It’s nothing, really. You just had to break your routine for a case, and you hardly had time to rush home for a few hours of sleep before you were needed back in the office this morning. You always do laundry on sunday nights, that way, all your favorite comfiest clothes and pajamas are ready for the week. You didn’t get to do that this week, and now you’ve had to wear clothes you reserve for emergencies. Your socks are too short and scratching at your ankles, your shirt is refusing to stay tucked in your pants, and the feeling of the fibers tugging themselves free, rubbing at your back is driving you up the wall.
Even the whirring sound of the air conditioning vent above your desk is starting to irritate you, normally, this would be completely bearable but today it’s the straw that broke the camel’s back, and you feel your nails grazing up and down your pant legs begin to hurt as your agitation only grows. You know you’re going to look like you’ve come face to face with a mountain lion if you keep this up, but the soothing sensation of the fabric against your nails is the only feeling helping you right now.
Just as you close your eyes, trying to take some deep breaths and recenter your mind, Derek begins playing his favorite game. It’s called desk-top drum solo and normally it makes you giggle as he passionately jams out with nothing but two pens and a few stacks of paperwork to assist him. Today, it makes you see red as your eyes fly open to see the smug grin on his face as he kicks off his distressing rendition of ‘enter sandman’ you’re up and out of your seat before you know it, snatching the pens from his hands and throwing them at his pen cup. He looks at you bewildered, brows drawn together as you angrily pant, stalking off to the bathroom to try to fix your wardrobe issues.
“What’s up with them?” You hear Derek asking Spencer as you skulk further from them, you miss Spencer's answer as you throw the bathroom door open, untucking your shirt for a moment’s reprieve from the pulling and bunching of it under your slacks. You huff, bending down to try to fix your socks but nothing short of removing them will stop the scratchy burning feeling of a thousand tiny fibers pricking at your feet. You lean against the cool wall for a moment, before you move back towards the door to lock it and turn out the light. Maybe, if you can just sit here, in the dark and quiet for a few minutes, you’ll be able to deal with everyone’s antics and the fact that every square inch of the bureau building ticks, creaks or beeps at you all day.
You go and sit on the lid of the toilet, trying gently this time to soothe yourself by running your nails over your thighs, and for a moment you think you might be able to take another three hours of this place. You’re quickly brought back to reality when the bathroom door handle jiggles, and then three swift hard knocks fall against the wood of the door. You exit the stall, trying to put your most personable smile over your strained face as you unlock and open the door.
“Hi Der- oh. Hotch? I’m sorry I was almost finished in here. I shouldn't be another minute.” Your boss was easily the last person you were expecting to be knocking on the bathroom door, but you in honesty forgot this was a space other people also may need to use. You take a moment to note the concern in his eyes as he takes in your appearance in the pitch black bathroom.
“Y/N, is everything okay?” Hotch’s voice sounds a lot gentler than his normal baritone as he studies your tousled appearance.
“I, um, yeah. It’s nothing, I just missed out on some sleep last night. I’m okay, really. I was just taking a minute.” Hotch pushes the door further open, stepping inside with you and turning on the light. You tuck your hands in your pockets, trying to give him a reassuring smile but you must be falling short because his brows only draw closer as he turns your answer over in his mind.
“Y/N. You really don’t have to do that with me. You don’t have to wear this, this mask over what you’re really feeling. Believe me, I’ve done it enough myself to know the damage it causes, it takes a toll. You can be honest with me. This clearly isn’t nothing if you had to run off in the middle of your tactical report to lock yourself in a dark bathroom. So, what’s wrong?” Damn him. Damn his piercing look that’s always able to cut through your layers of skin and bone, right to your core. Damn him for seeing right through you. You thought you did a pretty good job of masking your true dismay. But hearing one of your long-time heroes and close friends admit to having to do the same does make you feel less alone, less frustrated that you had to do it in the first place.
“I’m having… a day.” You let the corners of your mouth rest for once, not trying to pull at them like a puppet on strings. Hotch nods.
“You’re having a day. That’s okay.”
“Yeah, it’s hard to explain but none of my clothes fit right, because I wasn’t able to do my laundry, so I’m wearing my emergency clothes and they’re scratching me and I don’t know if it’s because I’m tired or because…” You push down the urge to tell Hotch the truth about how you recognise this sensory nightmare of a day you’re having. He can connect the dots himself without a doubt, but saying it would only make him label you that way. “I don’t know.” You look at your shoes, unable to face the judgment or confusion you know you’d find on his face.
“I’ll be right back.” He’s out the bathroom door before you can ask what he’s doing. You look at yourself in the mirror, wondering why he’s being so nice to you, seeing the bags under your eyes are twice as prominent as usual and you’re less used to your neutral face staring back at you than you’d like to admit. Hotch is back in a flash, knocking once before pushing the door open.
“I know the feeling you’re talking about, I’ve made it a habit ever since I started buying my own clothes to only buy ones that feel… friendly, no scratching, no tags against your neck. I even have my tailor make sure they fit me just right. So, these might not fit you perfectly, but at least you can stop feeling every single thread trying to tear your skin?” Hotch says, neatly rummaging through his go-bag he placed unceremoniously over the sink until he finds a dress shirt, socks, some pants and a quarter-zip. He holds them out to you, offering you his own clothes in favor of your own.
You struggle to believe that he really understands your predicament as well as he claims to, but when you place a hand on the clothes and another underneath, taking the pile, you feel that the material is so soft and delicate, just right. Your fingers brush against Hotch’s as you search his eyes for any sign of resentment or curiosity, the two reactions you’re most used to when you try to explain your particular needs. You find neither, actually you find him looking at you like your admission may have brought him some solace of his own, knowing you’re in the same shaky boat he struggles to keep afloat himself. He’s delighted to be able to help you balance your own.
“Thank you, Hotch. Really, thank you so much.” You continue studying his face, never having noticed just how warm you feel under his gaze.
“Not a problem, I’ll let you change.” He takes his go-bag, carrying it over his shoulder out of the bathroom.
You’re frozen for a moment, but eventually you move to lock the bathroom door once more, beginning to take off your god-forsaken clothes. You can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when you feel the cool air against your burning skin. You take Hotch’s button-up, putting it on before realizing his sleeves are swallowing your hands whole, no problem, you roll them up. Luckily, you’ve always preferred your shirts with thicker cuffs, so the pressure around your wrists of the layered cotton feels delightful compared to your too-tight shirt of your own. The pants quickly present themselves as an issue, your feet swimming in a pile of fabric, you hike the pants further up your hips before tucking the excess fabric back up inside of each leg, your hands rub together when you revel in just how nice it feels to have your legs loosely covered with the breezy fabric. You put on the socks once again marveling at how nicely the elastic hugs you instead of strangling your ankles.
You definitely don’t look nearly as professional as you’d normally like, but you’re so cozy and comfortable now as you slip Hotch’s quarter-zip over your head, covering the all-too-big dress shirt that cascades over the pants. You let the sleeves of the quarter zip conceal your hands as you they stim by your sides. You pop your shoes back on, feeling a hundred times better. You’re barely able to mask your glee as you unlock the bathroom door, grabbing your own clothes and pulling the bathroom door open once again, peering out into the bullpen. You’re surprised to find it mostly empty, the prying eyes of all your desk-buddies nowhere in sight. You catch sight of Hotch descending the stairs from his office.
“Y/N! Up here.” He gestures to his own office, waiting so he can walk side by side back up the stairs with you. “I kindly suggested they go get themselves coffee and doughnuts. Here, let me take those.” Hotch grabs your clothes from you, placing them on the side table by his couch where you now notice very familiar paperwork and pens have made their home on said couch. “I brought your work up here, figured this was a far more quiet, calming environment than the hectic swarm of badly-perfumed agents and fluorescent lights down in the bullpen.” You look at him with what can only be called barely contained adoration, noticing he wasn’t expecting you to answer him as he looks at you a moment longer before rounding his own desk and taking a seat.
He knows. He just knew you’d be feeling a bit nonverbal since your morning took such an aggravating turn earlier. He picks up his pen, scribbling away at his own folders. You feel a genuine smile overtaking your face as your cheeks flush pink, and you take a seat on his couch, picking one of your favorite pens from the pile on the coffee table and getting back to work. You hope he understands the immense weight of your gratitude hanging in the air as you’re able to be freely yourself in his quiet office, doing your work peacefully under the dim lamplight. Of course he understands, you think to yourself. He’s Hotch.