Usual disclaimers: Wow, how I wish that these characters were mine, the show would be so freakin' awesome, but they're not, yada yada

This is my response to the Valentine's Day Challenge on CCOAC. Given the fact that it's being written for SussiRay, the Queen of Elegant PWP, I've opted not to embarrass myself by trying to cover the same territory. So, T for language.

It is in four short chapters and will be posted in its entirety by February 14th

My assigned pairing, Hotchner and Prentiss

My assigned song prompt: "Physical," Olivia Newton-John

My assigned plot prompts: candlelight dinner, single red rose, lace underwear

A Whole New Level of Pathetic

Chapter One

Meet Mr. Sensitive

Aaron Hotchner, veteran of dozens of SWAT standoffs, hundreds of confrontations with armed psychopaths, and a thousand courtrooms, stared uncertainly at the blonde woman raging in his kitchen and wondered how in the hell he had become translocated to the Planet of Pissed-Off Chicks.

Really.

Because this was his third feminine tantrum of the morning, and it was only seven-forty. He hadn't left his house. He hadn't shaved. He was still in his bathrobe, for Chrissakes. And they all seemed to presume that since he was a profiler, he was automatically interested in – let alone attuned to – their needs, their wants, their frustrations. A Mr. Sensitive for all seasons, with no issues or hot buttons of his own.

He sighed heavily. They can't all be on the rag today, can they?

At least, none of them had been actually yelling about him. Not yet, anyway. Just at him, Mr. Sensitive, the hapless recipient of their outrage at someone else - outrage that they confided to him at top volume garnished with Anglo-Saxonisms.

Even Douma, the cleaning services rep who twice a week rescued his house from complete chaos and sepsis – Douma, for whom English was a third language, after some native African tongue and French – had singed his ears this morning with four-letter words she used like a native. Hers had been the first call, with apologies for running late, which quickly deteriorated into a rant about the thoughtlessness of sons, of whom she had eight, five of them still living at home with her.

Followed quickly by Prentiss, that most professional of agents, calling to remind him she had meetings at Hoover throughout the morning and she would catch up on her reports whenever she made it in to Quantico. She was under some unidentified pressure at the moment – both Aaron and David had noticed it – but, being Emily, she wasn't much for the whole sharing bit. Although she had certainly let him know over the phone precisely what her opinion was of a handful of Hoover Building bureaucrats.

And now it was Jessica Brooks, Haley's sister and Jack's caregiver when Aaron himself was unavailable, driven incoherent - but not, alas, speechless – by her boyfriend-almost-fiance-at-least-until-now, Lionel. Lionel, who had plummeted from one true love to scum-sucking shitheel asshole by suggesting that Jessica … go have a nice dinner at Berceuse with one of her gal pals?

Gotta be a hormone storm out there somewhere.

"Well, fine," Jessica stormed. "You think it's such a fucking nice idea, you go have a fucking candlelight fucking dinner! Knock yourself out!" She slammed down a mauve engraved gift card on the kitchen counter and stomped off to collect her nephew.

Tempting as it might have been to flee – and he entertained the notion several times in the ensuing ninety seconds – he stood his ground to ensure that his son caught none of whatever vibes his Aunt Jess was leaking that morning. But no, Jess was all warmth and good humor when she returned, holding Jack's hand with her right hand, and a large shopping bag tucked horizontal under her left arm. The odor of Elmer's Glue assaulted his nostrils as they passed, probably from some school project Jack had done while the team was still in Oregon.

Relieved at the return to normality, he picked up the small rectangle of pasteboard. "Don't forget your gift card," he called after her.

She didn't so much turn as spin, with an expression he thought he had seen on demons in horror flicks. "Take it," she spat. "Take it, pitch it, burn it, shove it up–" She glanced at Jack and backed down on both the volume and the fury. "Or take somebody out to dinner. Do something to patch up your own goddamn miserable social life."

Ah, he thought, folding his arms across his chest and leaning one hip against the center kitchen island as he watched them leave. That went well.

He glanced at the card – Jess was turning down a completely paid-for candlelight dinner, good for tonight only, and valued at $300. Even in DC, and even at Berceuse prices, you could have a pretty good time on $300. He started to throw it away, then halted – three hundred is three hundred, and surely she'll change her mind – then stopped completely.

Art project crap littered the wastebasket. Scraps of pink and red construction paper. Silver ribbon, gold glitter, and pieces of white paper doily.

He checked the date on the invitation: Monday, February 14, 2011.

Ahhh. The pieces begin to come together.

Jessica is expecting a ring from Lionel. Lionel invites her to an elaborate candlelight Valentine dinner at Berceuse. Jess can see he-went-to-Jared's in her future. Lionel cancels out to visit his ex-wife, who totaled her Harley and is in the hospital. Lionel says, "Take a girlfriend."

Aaron can see castration in Lionel's future.

My own miserable goddamn social life, he thought bitterly. Really? She thinks that my social life is that pathetic?

Then it hit him that he literally knew nobody he could properly, and with expectation of an acceptance, invite to a Valentine's Day candlelight dinner at Taco Bell, let alone Berceuse.

OK, so she had a point there.