Archive of Our Own

At work, you know that your partner deals with all kinds of psychopaths. Abusive boyfriends, men who have scratched their initials into their victims, and more scenarios that he certainly keeps to himself.

You prefer it that way; Aaron is a possessive man sometimes, and you don’t want to draw any sort of association between him and the criminals he hunts. He’s a good man in both intention and action, and he always has been.

When he’s possessive, it’s in a good way. It’s an arm around your waist at company parties when some FBI hotshot eyes the swell of your breasts in a dress. It’s a hand holding yours in public, or an arm offered before you walk up a flight of stairs together.

It’s in your sex life, the way Aaron groans louder than ever whenever you say, “I’m yours,” and the way he fills you up with grunts of “Mine,” spilling from his lips into yours. 

You’re your own person, and you both know that. You and Aaron are mature, developed adults who are well past your years of thinking that partnership is needed to complete you.

The fact that he does complete you, makes you another person- a better person- beyond yourself is really just a bonus, at this stage in your life. His possession just proves it.

He worships you, calls you late at night from hotel rooms strewn across the country, showers you with attention whenever he’s home. He respects you, supports your career, and makes every decision with you instead of for you. The two of you look at houses together, discuss the future together, and you know that your opinion is just as valued as his- if not more.

So when he gets possessive, you don’t mind. You’ve encouraged it once or twice, flirting at the bar with a stranger before Aaron returns back from the bathroom just so you can feel arms encircling your waist and a kiss to your ear, followed by “Who’s your new friend, sweetheart?”

He doesn’t possess you like he wants everyone to know that you belong to him. He possesses you as though you already do, and that anyone else in the world is at fault for not seeing how head over heels the two of you are for each other.

It’s protective, in a way. Sure, you could always stand up for yourself when you get catcalled walking down the street. But the sight of Aaron striding towards a parked car, knocking on the cracked-open window, and saying “Want to try that again?” with his badge clipped to his suit isn’t an image you’ll grow tired of anything soon.

Aaron possesses you like something more cherished and loved than a trophy, like something he can’t believe is his. He doesn’t hide you away from the world, plastered in ‘for your eyes only’ signs. He shows you off, kisses you in public, and he’ll smirk at everyone in the place- especially anyone who’s tried to flirt with either of you, women and men alike on occasion- when you inevitably pull him towards the door with both hands in his towards the end of the night. It doesn’t matter what moves they try, or how flirty they are. He goes home with you, and it’ll never be any other way.

You’re his, in every way except legally. The two of you belong together, you belong to each other. It’s an intertwinement of souls, if you’re trying to get poetic about it; you make each other better, celebrating on the good days and uplifting on the bad. You’re two whole people, combining to form some deity of love beyond what you could ever be alone. Two hearts forming one massive one, instead of two halves of the same heart.

You know how lucky you are to have him, to have this side of him. When you’d first started dating and met his team, you heard joke after joke about what a hardass he could be, and Derek had even wished you luck in drawing a smile out of him.

It’s hard for you to picture Aaron’s face painted with anything less than a broad grin.

He’s told you time and time again that you make him better; a better man, a better person, a better partner than he thought he could be. The crumbling of his first marriage, months after he joined the FBI, has certainly played into those insecurities.

You’ve always been up for the task of reminding him that you’re the lucky one; particularly because to you, it isn’t a task at all. You’ll do any work, say anything he needs to hear, in order to break down those walls of fear and resentment he’d built up over the years before meeting you.

The progress that the two of you have made has been astounding, to say the least. Still, sometimes during a late dinner or while watching TV you’ll ask him what he’s thinking about, and he’ll mumble, “Not sure how I got so lucky.” 

No matter how many times you echo the sentiment for yourself, he’s never stopped saying it.

————

You’ve talked about the future before. You’ve discussed houses, career changes, and even whether you want to have kids, but you’ve never broached the subject of marriage.

It’s Aaron who brings it up first, of course. It’s nice to think that you’ve added to his confidence, but the truth is that he just feels comfortable approaching you about anything; there’s no credit to take, and you wouldn’t take it even if he tried to give it to you.

“What are you doing?” He asks as a greeting when he gets home, pressing a kiss to your temple as he passes by the kitchen table. His gun is set in the safe, and his briefcase is stowed out of sight; work is left at the office.

“That new car I’m buying,” you answer, half-distracted. You’re not focused enough to keep your attention on signing the stack of papers in front of you, and you catch him by the tie and pull him down for a proper kiss when he moves to pass you again. “Mm. They’ve got me signing away my life, here. My hand is going to cramp up soon. How was your day?”

Aaron grabs you a glass of water, setting it down in front of you. “Poor girl. You should invest in a new pen,” he suggests, watching the inkflow falter when you sign yet another page. “It was alright. Dave has Morgan and I going over to watch the game. I’d rather stay home, but he’s got a flatscreen.”

“At this point, I might just invest in a stamp with my autograph on it.” You sigh dramatically for comedic effect, and he chuckles. “It might not be as legal, but it would be easier. When are you leaving?”

“Right away. I’ve been called on to pick up pizza and beer.” Aaron pulls his suit jacket off, replacing it with a brown fleece quarter-zip overtop of his dress shirt. The white collar peeks out of the top, teasing you until he tucks it back under the fleece. “I wouldn’t go for a stamp, by the way. That’s a waste of an investment.”

“Because it’s illegal? Ugh, I knew it,” you groan, and Aaron laughs again while he digs for his car keys in the pocket of his suit jacket.

“I’m not going to speak on the legality. That’s between you and the car dealership,” he advises. “But I’m going to change your autograph, and I’ll do it long before that stamp runs out of ink.”

Your eyes widen a fraction; that’s not what you were expecting to hear, but it’s not unwelcome. “Oh. So, uh, I’ll stick to pens, then.” Your voice is hopefully more level to his ears than it is to yours, but he doesn’t seem to notice the twitch of your lips fighting a smile.

“I’ll bring you some of the good pens from work, if you remind me tomorrow. I’ll see you later, sweetheart. I love you.” He leans down to kiss you again, soft and sweet and smiling into it.

“Love you too,” you murmur when he breaks away. “Drive safe, root hard, whatever you men do at games. Call me if you need a ride, okay?”

Aaron promises to do so and leaves with another little smile in your direction. The door shuts behind him, and your own face breaks into a grin. It feels like another door has been opened, and you can’t wait to see what’s behind it.