Aaron Hotchner was notoriously stubborn. The man was an immovable force when he wanted to be.

It was an endearing trait sometimes, like when he insisted you go out for your monthly date night, or when he insisted on spending the evening with Jack, despite the paperwork he'd brought home.

This morning, however, as he lumbered from one end of the room to the other, pinching the bridge of his nose because he swore it would ward off the headache, you could say with certainty that his stubborn nature was borderline frustrating.

He was clearly sick. If the headache wasn't enough, then the congestion and the scratchy throat should have been the indicator that Aaron, as aloof as he would like to pretend to be, was unwell. He couldn't even remember where he'd put his tie down—the one he currently held in his hand.

"I'm fine," he insisted as if he'd read your mind. "God damn, where did I put that thing down!"