He got there early without meaning to. His appointment was for ten but as he got into the elevator and checked his watch, he saw that it was only 9: 08. He realized he was far too accustomed to New York traffic where you had to get a taxi an hour ahead of schedule just to make it their close to on time. He finds himself comparing a lot of things about Virginia with New York from the coffee, to the hotdogs, to the cabs. He thought it was because he'd finally settled in somewhere, finally got the detectives to consider him a colleague and a friend, finally felt like this job might be permanent. So, he was a bit uncomfortable to leave his home and come all the way to Virginia on this particularly cold and snowy Wednesday. But not as cold as New York, he thought drily.

The bullpen was much like the precinct back home. Phones and fax machines, idle chatter as agents filled out stacks of paper work, even the usual playful banter followed by snickers. He found himself missing the squad room more than he expected as he brushed off bits of snow from his pant leg. His dark eyes assessed the clock ticking lowly on the wall and he realized he needed something to occupy his time.

"Excuse me." He approached a desk. They were in a different configuration from when he'd been stationed here all those years ago fresh out of the academy.

"What can I help you with?" The agent asked kindly. He was built, that much was for sure. His mocha brown skin was pulled taut over his large, nearly bulging muscles, but the smile he gave was anything if unthreatening. Two other agents looked up at them. The woman had hair almost as dark as his and the man looked younger than most and wouldn't meet his eyes.

He returned his attention to the brown skinned agent and offered a small smile.

"I'm looking for Agent Hotchner."

"Hotch?" The woman with dark hair asked. She wore a pensive frown.

"He should be in his office," The black agent said, pointing past a miniscule set of stairs and into a small office with the blinds closed.

"Thank you, Agent…?"

"Agent Morgan. And you?"

"Dr. Huang," he said, and the name sounded strange on his tongue. He hadn't introduced himself so formally in a while, there had never been a reason to. "But you can call me George."

"Nice to meet you, George."

"Likewise and thanks."

"No problem."

He could feel their eyes on his back as he walked up the stairs and knocked on the door. He heard a muffled allowance to enter, took a deep breath and turned the doorknob.

Hotch's dark eyes were fastened on him the moment he walked through the doorway.

"George," Hotchner greeted, rising from his seat, eyebrows raised in surprise. He offered his hand. He looked tired, George noted, dark hair disheveled, bags under his eyes. His suit was slightly wrinkled, tie loosened. Stacks of paper work lined his desk.

"Aaron," George retorted, leaning casually against the closed door. An aura of calm seemed to emanate from him, face serene.

"I thought you were in New York. What brings you here?" Hotch asked as he lowered his hand.

"Strauss." They both frowned at the mention of the section chief. George ran a hair through hair and let out a soft sigh. "But that's not exactly what you meant, is it?"

The unit chief smiled or at least attempted to. "No it's not."

"I got here early. I thought you wouldn't mine. I can leave though, if you're busy." Though the thought of leaving didn't appeal to him. It was calming to see a familiar face in a place where everything had changed.

"No, its fine." Hotch lowered himself into his chair. "Please have a seat." His tone was commanding without his knowledge, a symptom of the job. The shorter man offered an amused smirk but complied, fiddling boredly with the name placard on the desk.

Hotch regarded the smaller man. His hair was a bit longer since the last time he saw him, the same inky black. Plump rosy lips, thick lashes and full cheeks, still wearing what Garcia would consider "geek chic". He was still breathtaking; Hotch realized and hated himself for it.

"Still wearing ugly sweater vests I see."

George chuckled, mirth swimming in his dark eyes. "Better than the penguin suits," he muttered under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said, face the picture of innocence. The unit chief was not fooled but still amused. His smile broke away the emotionless mask he usually wore.

"How's New York?" Hotch found himself asking.

"It's good," Huang answered. "The people are nice enough, I've made some close friends."

"Seeing anyone?" His mouth was back to its unexpressive line. He could feel the air in the room shift and George gave him a look that most were unable to decipher. They had been colleagues once, friends, worked together on a few cases even. But there had always been a tension there, something neither man was particularly comfortable with deciphering.

"No, not really. There's been a few but nothing serious." When the taller agent looked up, his eyes were a few shades darker. George couldn't tell what caused it, stifling the nearly overwhelming urge to profile him. He didn't profile people he knew, or at least tried not to when he could help it.

"What about you?"

"Nothing serious. There's a lot to consider. I have Jack now so I can't bring people around that he'll get attached to if I don't think we're serious enough." He glanced over at the picture of Jack on his desk, mousy blonde hair and wide smile missing a few teeth. He looked perfectly happy to Hotch and that was something he didn't want to ruin with a string random women.

George nodded in agreement, slipping into his psychiatrist state without even realizing it. "Children get attached to things and people fairly quickly but only after they come to accept that a change is going to occur. Keep the line of communication open and don't be afraid to ask him any questions. And make sure he knows he can always ask you questions."

Hotch nodded, grateful for the advice though most of it he already knew. He looked at the doctor who seemed unaware of the fact, glancing around the office, watching the snowfall from the window. His sweater vest was truly hideous, sleeves pulled up to his elbows sometime during their talk revealing creamy soft skin and-

"Are those bruises on your wrists?" He found himself rising as he asked, circling his desk and approaching George. He seemed to tower over him, staring intently at the finger shaped purple marks marring the otherwise flawless skin.

"Oh it was an accident," George said nonchalantly, as if he was just remembering they were there. "One of the detectives got drunk, tried to kiss me, it was no big deal."

"Did you at least file a report?" He wanted to take the smaller, softer hands in his slightly calloused ones, rubbing the marks gently with his thumbs but he wouldn't and both of them seemed to be aware of it.

The doctor shook his head, self-consciously pulling the sleeves back down. "There was no need. He was going through some things and was incredibly apologetic the next day."

"He could try again, George," Hotch scolded, tone much sharper than he would've liked. This was much how their previous arguments started, Hotch not understanding how the smaller man could empathize with people who hurt others.

"I'm not a child, Aaron," George retorted, scowling.

Hotch sighed, seeming to deflate. "I just don't like the thought of anyone hurting you."

All the air seemed to be sucked from the room. Their breathing was loud in George's ears as he tried to piece together what his friend had just confessed. He couldn't breathe, cheeks reddening.

"Umm, thanks," he muttered oh so articulately.

Aaron chuckled, the sound felt foreign to the other man's ears, made him unnerved if only slightly. He glanced at his watch.

"I have to go," he said, rising from his seat and nearly knocking into the other man who was still standing by his chair. "It was good to see you Aaron." He was halfway out the door when Hotch called out to him.

"Look George…would you like to get a drink later and catch up? My treat." Hotch had never remembered being this anxious before and he hated it. He was calm, damn near emotionless any other time, so what was it about this man that made him act like stuttering teenager?

George seemed to consider the offer. "Catching up would be great but I don't drink."

Hotch didn't really drink either, but a bar seemed casual enough to not delve into things better left unsaid.

"Good, I don't either. See you at seven."

X

A/N: So what do you think? Should I continue? Feedback would be great so please review!