Protecting the nation from terrorist attacks is the FBI’s top priority. The Bureau collaborates closely to neutralize terrorist cells and operatives within the United States, assist in dismantling extremist networks globally, and disrupt financing and other forms of support provided to foreign terrorist organizations.
However...
When the situation becomes unmanageable, the JTTF is called to analyze and eliminate the threat.
Warnings: Spencer x Fem!reader, Hotch’s Daughter!Reader, age gap (9 years), sensitive topics. LONG CHAPTER. The scenes might be confusing but the format changes, a little difference
Nicki walked into the restaurant, scanning the room with quiet precision.
This wasn’t planned. Not really.
After everything that had come out—the confession, the almost-kiss-that-wasn’t, the years of unresolved tension—they had both unconsciously stepped back. Their interactions had shrunk into polite waves in hallways, brief exchanges in elevators, the kind of small talk that felt safer than honesty.
But avoiding each other completely?
Impossible.
They worked in the same building. Breathed the same air. Lived in the same orbit.
So when Spencer called and suggested they get breakfast together, it didn’t feel strange.
It felt… familiar.
Nicki spotted him near the window.
Spencer looked up at almost the exact same moment, like he had calculated the timing of her arrival down to the second. He raised a hand and smiled—warm, genuine, the kind of smile she hadn’t seen directed at her in a long time.
She walked toward him.
He stood up.
And for one brief, ridiculous second, both of their brilliant minds completely short-circuited.
Do we shake hands?
Wave?
Say hi?
They hovered awkwardly—
—and then, like magnets snapping into place, they both leaned in at the same time.
The hug was soft. Natural. Familiar. Too familiar.
They pulled apart just as quickly, both pretending it hadn’t lingered a second longer than it should have.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he echoed.
They sat.
And somehow, the conversation slipped back into place like no time had passed at all.
Nicki smiled more than she had expected to.
It felt easy.
Spencer hesitated for a moment before asking, “I read that Logan got a promotion at DHS.”
Nicki stilled slightly.
“Does that mean you’re moving too?”
She looked at him, surprised.
“That’s funny,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I thought FBI walls would’ve talked by now.”
Spencer’s expression shifted—more attentive now.
“We broke up two months ago.”
“Oh.”
The word came out softer than expected.
He frowned slightly.
“Wait… was it—was it because of what happened?” he asked, concern slipping into his voice.
Nicki shook her head.
“No, no,” she said calmly. “He wanted me to take a break from the JTTF. Move away.”
She gave a small shrug.
“I couldn’t.”
Spencer nodded slowly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said with a light smile.
A pause.
“Yeah,” she added quietly. “That’s my only big life update.”
She shifted the focus.
“What about you?”
Spencer relaxed slightly and began talking—about his recent visit with his mother, about her condition, about the small improvements and the moments that still terrified him.
Nicki didn’t hesitate.
She reached across the table and placed her hand over his.
The contact startled him.
The last time their hands had touched like that… was after her mother’s funeral.
Nicki braced herself for him to pull away.
He didn’t.
Instead, Spencer’s fingers curled slightly around hers, his thumb brushing gently against her skin.
Soft.
Nicki’s breath caught.
For the first time in years, it didn’t feel one-sided.
And that was far more dangerous than rejection had ever been.
The moment stretched.
Until it didn’t.
Spencer slowly pulled his hand back, clearing his throat slightly as reality settled back in.
“I actually… called you for something,” he admitted.
Nicki nodded, masking the flicker of disappointment.
Spencer launched into it—explaining the case, the network known as the Dirty Dozen, the four remaining anonymous operatives.
“The Sniper and the Chemist have been identified,” he said. “But the Snowman couldn’t confirm the identities of ‘Miss .45’ or the Bomber.”
Nicki leaned back slightly, slipping into work mode.
“So you think the Bomber might be in our files,” she assumed. “We might have leads, but we need more than a theory to run through the system. Material patterns, suppliers, something concrete—”
But Spencer shook his head, interrupting her. “That might be useful but I don’t need help with the Bomber.”
“Okay,” she said. “So what do you need from me?”
He hesitated.
And that hesitation told her everything.
“Actually… I need your help with the other one.”
Nicki frowned.
“The other one?”
“Miss .45.”
She blinked.
“Why would you need my help with a profile?”
“I don’t,” he said quickly. “I already built it.”
That only made her more confused.
“Then what—”
“I arranged a meeting with her.”
Nicki stared at him.
“…What?”
Spencer continued, explaining the profile—female, intelligent, manipulative, controlled. Someone who thrived in psychological dominance and emotional leverage.
Nicki listened carefully.
But something wasn’t adding up.
And then—
“I need you to do what you did with Damien,” Spencer said.
Nicki’s eyes snapped back to his.”You are asking me to interrogate you.”
“The second I built her profile,” he continued, “I knew I needed you...”
A beat.
“Your help.”
Nicki held his gaze.
“And by help,” she said slowly, “you mean…?”
Spencer hesitated.
“You share some… traits with her.”
Nicki leaned back, eyebrows shooting up.
“Wow,” she said dryly. “Is this an intervention?”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly. “You’re—”
He stopped, recalibrating.
“You’re a beautiful woman,” he said carefully. “With an intimidating presence. You’re highly intelligent. Detail-oriented. You anticipate reactions.”
Nicki didn’t move.
“And you understand how this works,” he added.
Her voice softened slightly.
“How what works?”
Spencer met her eyes.
“Getting into someone’s head,” he said. “And using that to get what you want.”
Nicki felt her face warm.
“You played a character with Damien,” he continued. “You disarmed him. Controlled the interaction.”
Nicki swallowed.
All of this—
Coming from him.
“You need me to roleplay her?” she asked.
Spencer shook his head slightly.
“I need you to guide me inside her head,” he said.
A small pause.
“And… statistically speaking, dating isn’t my strongest skill set.”
That made her chuckle .
Genuinely.
She looked down at the table for a moment, thinking.
Something inside her sparked.
Because this?
This was something else.
A chance to step into something dangerous. Something personal
Something she had imagined more times than she would ever admit.
A date. With him.
Nicki looked back up.
“Alright,” she said.
A small smile.
“Tell me everything you know about her.”
She leaned forward slightly. “And we’ll see what happens next.”
~~
“Spencer?”
He looked up at the sound of his name and found a woman standing beside the table, smiling down at him, her hand hovering in a small, tentative wave.
“Cat?” he asked, even though he already knew.
“Hi!” Her smile widened, bright and easy.
“Hi.” Spencer pushed himself up from his chair, drawing in a steadying breath.
“Hi.” She watched him stand, her gaze flicking over him, catching the nerves he couldn’t quite hide.
“Hello. Hi. Hi.” The words tumbled out of him, uneven and rushed.
“Nice to finally…” Cat leaned in, arms opening for a hug.
Spencer recoiled just enough to stop it. “Oh… sorry, I have a… a germ thing.”
“Oh.” The motion faltered. She drew back, a faint crease forming between her brows.
He rushed to fill the space. “I’m kind of weird with hu…hugs.”
“Sorry.” She let out a small, awkward laugh, her expression softening with apology.
Silence settled between them, heavy and immediate. Spencer shifted his weight from one foot to the other, licking his lips as if searching for words that wouldn’t come. Cat pressed her lips together, waiting him out.
“Can I sit down?” she asked at last, shoulders lifting slightly.
Spencer blinked, jolting back into the moment. “Yes, please. Oh, yeah. Of course.” He gestured quickly to the chair across from him. “Sit down.”
He waited until she did, then lowered himself into his own seat. She slipped off her black coat, revealing a turquoise dress underneath, smoothing it absentmindedly as she settled. The silence returned, just as uncomfortable as before.
Cat glanced at him, expectant. Spencer said nothing.
“First time doing this?” she asked, one eyebrow lifting.
“Yeah,” Spencer answered too quickly. “I mean, yeah.” He nodded, a little too emphatically.
“Yeah, I… I still get nervous, too,” she said, offering him a small reassurance.
“Really, it wasn’t until an hour ago that I was like, wait, we’ve been trading emails back and forth, but I still have no idea what this guy looks like.” Her gaze drifted away, landing somewhere near the table as she spoke.
“Hence the…..” Spencer gestured toward the single rose resting between them.
“I know.” She picked it up, turning it lightly between her fingers. “And then I was like, wait, he’s going to bring a red rose, so we need to go to a much nicer place, which is why I switched the restaurant last-minute.” The explanation spilled out as if she were convincing herself.
“Not a problem at all,” Spencer cut in, eyes wide, clinging to every word.
“And now I need to change and put something nice on for this place,” she continued, adjusting the fabric of her dress, “’cause I was totally underdressed, and my whole wardrobe makes me look like a Kardashian.”
Spencer narrowed his eyes slightly, concentrating, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.
“You don’t know who that is, do you?” she said with a small laugh.
“No, Oh, yeah,” Spencer replied, rifling through his memory. “Robert Kardashian. He got O.J. Simpson off. You… You don’t look like his daughter.”
“Yeah, no, I was making a joke about them,” she clarified.
“No, it was good,” Spencer said, a grin breaking through. “It was a good joke.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Cat admitted.
“It was funny,” he insisted gently.
They shared a brief laugh. Spencer’s gaze dropped, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his face.
~~
“You’re fidgeting, Dr. Reid,” Nicki said, her tone laced with quiet amusement. “Do I make you nervous?”
Spencer blinked.
The change was… jarring.
He had known her for years.
But this?
This was different.
It was controlled. Intentional. Almost predatory.
“I—I—no, I’m good,” he stuttered, adjusting his posture instinctively.
Nicki smiled.
Slow.
Knowing.
“Funny, isn’t it?” she said, lifting her glass and taking a small sip. “After all these years, I can still take the words right out of your mouth.”
Spencer swallowed.
“Don’t worry,” she added lightly. “I don’t bite.”
She leaned forward just slightly—enough to close the space between them without making it obvious.
Spencer cleared his throat.
“I think this isn’t going to work, Nicki—”
“You’re right.”
The interruption was smooth. Effortless.
“Maybe I’m being too pushy,” she continued, her tone softening just enough to feel disarming. “When really… all you need is for me to listen.”
Spencer frowned slightly, trying to recalibrate.
“Let’s start simple,” she said. “What’s your favorite color?”
The question caught him completely off guard.
He hesitated, then defaulted to logic.
“Well… technically, color preference is subjective and influenced by individual light perception, so—”
Nicki tilted her head, studying him like she was analyzing data in real time.
“You might not have a preference,” she said, cutting gently through his explanation. “But you gravitate toward cooler tones.”
She let that sit for a second.
“Which works in your favor,” she added. “They suit you.”
A faint smile.
“Especially purple.”
Spencer blinked, a small, involuntary grin forming.
“I—uh—thanks… wait.”
He stopped.
Something clicked.
Nicki leaned back again, the performance easing just slightly as she observed his reaction.
“She needs control,” she said, dropping the act just enough to explain. “The second you show uncertainty, she uses it.”
She gestured lightly toward him.
“I asked you a question I already knew the answer to,” she continued. “That way you think you’re guiding the conversation.”
A small pause.
“But I’m the one steering it.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“I lead you somewhere specific… and then I watch how you react when you realize it.”
~~
“Can we start over?” Cat asked, her energy shifting, brighter now. “Hi, I’m Cat.”
“Hi… Hi, I’m Spencer,” he echoed, a nervous laugh slipping out.
“It really is nice to meet you,” she said more softly. “In person, finally.” She bit her lip.
“It’s nice to meet,” Spencer replied.
Sensing his hesitation, Cat leaned forward slightly, taking control of the conversation.
“Tell me a little bit about yourself. Do you really have three PhD’s?”
Spencer’s eyebrow lifted. “Yes. Um, I…yeah, I do. I have three PhD’s.” He nodded, slower this time.
“What was your favorite book that you read last year?” she asked, trying to ease him further.
“Um, honestly, I’ve never read a book I didn’t love.”
Before he could elaborate, she cut in, her tone shifting with intent. “Tell me about your wife?” She rested her elbow on the table, leaning closer.
Spencer stilled. His eyes flicked away, scanning the room without focus. “If you don’t mind, I’d, uh, I’d rather not talk about her.” His voice dropped, quieter, smaller.
“Might as well get it out in the open, right?” Cat pressed. “That’s why we’re here. How long have you been married?”
“Four years.” His answer came flat and precise.
Cat nodded slowly. “When is she due to give birth?”
Spencer cleared his throat, discomfort tightening his posture. “Uh… A couple of… a couple of months.” He winced faintly, shifting forward, arms coming to rest on the table. “Should we talk about price now, or…” His voice dipped to nearly a whisper.
“Slow down Tiger. What exactly are we negotiating her?” Cat’s tone was playful, edged with something darker.
“You know,” Spencer said, eyes wide.
“I want to hear you say it,” she teased.
He licked his lips, nose scrunching as if the words themselves were unpleasant. “To have her killed,” he whispered.
When he looked back up, Cat was watching him with barely contained delight, biting her lip.
“Let me see your ring,” she said.
Spencer lifted his hand from the table, holding it out to her.
She took it delicately, turning it on his finger. “You know what that is? A noose,” she said with a scoff. “Only it doesn’t kill you all at once. It kills you slowly. Day by day. You ever feel that way?”
“I feel that way all the time,” Spencer admitted.
“Take it off,” she said.
“Why?” Spencer glanced down at his hand again.
“As a sign of your commitment. To me,” she added, a note of pride in her voice.
In his ear, Hotch’s voice cut in. “Alright, we have you over you’re her left shoulder. Do you copy?”
Spencer’s gaze flicked upward toward the camera. Subtly, he tapped his finger against his hand in response.
“24 Karat?” Cat said, drawing his attention back.
“Mm-hmm.”
“24K times four year,” she mused aloud. “Means this ring should be dinged and nicked. But this sucker is brand new.” Her posture shifted, her expression sharpening. “You’re not married.” A faint click sounded beneath the table. “Why are we here, Spencer?” she asked, her tone turning almost bored.
~~
Nicki didn’t give him time to settle.
“What if I tell you,” she began, her tone playful but edged, “that I can call your bullshit?”
She set the cup down.
“What would you do if your cover is compromised… by your physical reactions to me?”
Spencer didn’t answer immediately.
He studied her instead—her posture, her tone, the way she held eye contact just a fraction longer than comfortable.
Then he leaned forward slightly.
“Well,” he said carefully, “I would mirror your micro-expressions. Maintain equilibrium in the power dynamic.”
Nicki’s lips curved faintly.
“Smart.”
A beat.
“But not enough.”
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly as she dissected his answer.
“That works on most UnSubs,” she continued. “But not this one.”
Her fingers tapped lightly against the table.
“You’re dealing with someone who has already accounted for every possible variable,” she said. “Someone who made sure the odds are always in her favor before you even walk into the room.”
She leaned closer.
“So what is your next move?”
Spencer held her gaze.
“Then I adapt,” he said. “I do whatever is necessary to get out safely.”
Nicki’s expression didn’t change.
“And you don’t think she’s already thought about that?” she asked.
Her tone sharpened—less teasing now, more surgical.
“She doesn’t build plans with exits,” Nicki said. “She builds inevitabilities for you.”
A small pause.
“Her plan ends the same way every time.”
She tapped the table once.
Spencer’s jaw tightened slightly.
“Men haven’t stopped her before,” Nicki added quietly. “So why would she see you as any different?”
The question lingered.
Spencer didn’t flinch.
Nicki leaned back, resting her cheek lightly against her palm.
Her expression softened—but only on the surface.
“Unless you give her something she wants,” she said, her tone dipping into something almost flirtatious.
Spencer’s eyes widened slightly.
There it was again.
That shift.
That dangerous blend of control and allure.
Then, just as quickly, Nicki broke character.
She exhaled and shook her head lightly.
“You don’t actually give it to her,” she clarified. “You just make her believe you will.”
Spencer nodded slowly.
“Entrapment,” he said.
~~
Spencer leaned forward in his seat, closing the distance between them, his posture steadier now.
“We’re here because you belong to a network of four hitmen who’ve been operating in the shadows of the internet. You’re known as Miss .45. My team and I have been hunting you for months, and I knew that if I boxed you in. I could arrest you with as little resistance as possible.”
He delivered it calmly—controlled, deliberate. The composure seemed to grate on Cat, even as something in it amused her.
“Your team being the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI?” she said, more statement than question, already certain. “You guys are good. You’re the only ones that got close to us. But we got kind of close to you too, didn’t we?” Her tone turned teasing, baiting. “Hi Penelope,” she added lightly, then pressed her lips together. “Do you know why I’m so good at my job?”
“Because you kill without compunction or remorse,” Spencer offered evenly.
“That only gets a girl so far in life,” Cat replied. A faint smile touched her lips. “No, it’s because I think through every potential outcome and then I plan accordingly. You see I didn’t walk into your trap. You walked into mine.”
She watched him closely, searching for a crack, a tell. Finding none, she leaned in further.
“Where’s your head, Spencer? What are you thinking about?” She shifted across the booth, closing the space between them.
“I was thinking about entropy.”
“Mm-hmm.” She hummed as if listening, though her attention drifted elsewhere—her hand sliding slowly across his chest, then lower, testing boundaries.
“It’s the thermodynamic measure of the degradation of matter and energy in the universe. To put it another way…” His voice faltered as her hand crept dangerously close to his waistband.
“There’s your gun.” Cat’s smile turned sly, almost playful.
Before she could continue, a presence interrupted.
“Good evening,” the waitress greeted and waited for the couple to order.
“Hi, uh, you know what?” Cat said smoothly, not removing her hands from Spencer. “We’ve been having so much fun getting to know one another we’ll let you know when we’re ready okay?”
The waitress hesitated, faint annoyance flickering across the face before politeness won out. She nodded and stepped away.
“Thank you.”
Cat cleared her throat, resetting. “Now that we got that out of the way, will you do me a favor and tell Blondie McBlonderson over there at the bar to disappear.”
Spencer followed her line of sight until it landed on JJ.
“JJ, stand down,” Hotch’s voice came through.
Moments later, JJ rose and walked past their table toward the exit.
“Thanks for playing sweetie,” Cat called after her, settling back into her original seat as if nothing had happened.
“Reid, do not let her get up from the table,” Hotch instructed.
Spencer’s mind worked quickly now, recalibrating. “Alright, you’re in charge. Tell me what you want, and I’ll see if I can get it here for you.”
“Anything I want?” Cat tilted her head, intrigued.
“Anything you want,” Spencer repeated.
“Like a million dollars in unmarked bills. Maybe a plane to Aruba?” she mused, testing him.
“Is that what you want?” he asked carefully.
“And you’ll say you’ll bring it here, but the real plan is to distract me from what is, I’m sure an impressive law enforcement response just outside that door. Is that the plan?” Her satisfaction with herself was evident.
“That’s the plan,” Spencer admitted.
“Okay, let’s talk, but let’s talk about something interesting, at least. Tell me about me,” she said, almost playfully.
“You?” Spencer allowed a flicker of surprise, but he didn’t hesitate. “You’re a black widow hitwoman. You specialize in seduction and you’re patient. You learn everything you can about the men you’re hired to kill, physically, psychologically, and emotionally, because you want them in as compromised a position as possible, so they don't see it coming when you pull the trigger."
The words seemed to energize her. Cat’s eyes lit up, her interest sharpening as she leaned into it.
“And when I do it really well, they pull the trigger themselves.”
Spencer’s eyebrows lifted slightly at that.
“Give me your phone,” she said suddenly.
“Why?” Spencer asked, his tone cautious.
“Because I know what I want now. I want to play a game with you. You like games?”
“I do,” Spencer replied, his eyes narrowing as he tried to read her next move.
“Do you win?” she pressed.
“I always win,” he said, steady and certain.
“Give it to me,” she insisted.
After a brief hesitation, Spencer reached into his jacket and handed over his phone.
Cat’s fingers moved quickly over the screen, tapping with purpose. “Okay, here is my game. You have thirty minutes to answer every question I ask. And if you lie, I’ll know. Because I’ve spent the past ten years of my life studying men and their lies, before I kill them. Do you believe me?” Her gaze lifted to meet his, distant yet intense.
“I do.”
“That was true. You’re getting this.” A pleased smile spread across her face. “Now, here’s how we’ll know who wins at the end of the thirty minutes. If you win, you’ll drag me out of here in handcuffs. But if I win, you will escort me out, like a gentleman. To make sure I exit safely. What do you say Spencer? Think you can win this one?” She shifted slightly in her seat, restless with anticipation.
Spencer held her gaze, his eyes flicking between hers as if measuring every angle. Then he raised his left hand, curling his fingers in a subtle beckoning motion.
As she leaned closer, he suddenly lunged forward across the table, stopping just inches from her face.
“Considering everything you’ve put Garcia and so many people through, you’re going to have to shoot me in the face before you walk out of here.”
Cat didn’t flinch. Instead, a slow, satisfied smirk spread across her lips.
“Game on.”
~~
“Let me test you,” she said.
Spencer blinked.
“I need to know if you’re as ready as you think you are.”
He tilted his head.
“For what?”
Nicki held his gaze.
“Lie to me.”
There was no teasing in her tone this time.
Just challenge.
Spencer let out a small breath, almost amused.
“I can lie,” he said. “I have eleven years of FBI experience over you.”
Nicki’s lips curved, unimpressed.
“There are things you don’t even realize you’re doing,” she said lightly.
Spencer leaned back slightly, slipping into explanation mode.
“The human body exhibits involuntary micro-behaviors when fabricating information,” he began. “Changes in blink rate, vocal pitch, pupil dilation, muscle tension—”
“Spencer.”
He stopped.
Nicki leaned closer, resting her elbows on the table, her voice dropping just enough to make the moment feel intentional.
“Prove it.”
A beat.
“Let’s play a game.”
Spencer narrowed his eyes slightly, intrigued.
“What kind of game?”
“Two truths and a lie,” she said.
She shifted even closer now, close enough that he could catch the faint scent of her perfume—something subtle, but distracting.
“You tell me three things about yourself,” she continued. “Two real. One fake.”
She lifted a finger.
“But here’s the twist.”
“For each one, you don’t just state it—you tell me the story behind it. Details. Context.”
Another finger.
“I get to ask questions about each one.”
And then— “At the end, I tell you which one is the lie.”
He studied her for a moment longer.
Then nodded.
~~
“What do you want to ask me?” Spencer pressed, his focus unwavering.
Cat sank back into her seat, shoulders relaxing as if she had all the time in the world. “How you found me, of course? A professional learns from her mistakes.” With that, she started the timer.
Spencer’s eyes flicked briefly to it, watching the seconds begin to slip away. He exhaled, then began. “We got our big break in the case at the end of last year. I didn’t learn how big until I came back after some time off.”
“Why did you take time off?” Cat asked immediately, interest piqued.
Spencer didn’t acknowledge the interruption. Instead, he continued, moving straight into the memory—Hotch and Garcia calling a briefing.
“Stop,” Cat snapped, irritation cutting through her tone.
“What?” Spencer asked, glancing at her.
“You didn’t tell me why you took time off.”
“It’s not relevant,” he deflected.
“That’s not the game. The game is you answer every question I ask.” Her jaw tightened. “Is it a secret?” she added, her voice suddenly lighter, almost playful.
“No.” Spencer kept his expression neutral, forcing nonchalance.
“Is it dirty?” she teased.
Spencer frowned faintly. “No.”
“Then tell me,” she pressed.
“It’s not important to your story,” he said evenly.
“Out of curiosity, is it me you don’t want to tell or the people listening in?”
Spencer held her gaze, saying nothing at first. His cheeks hollowed slightly as he drew them in, buying himself a second while the timer continued its quiet countdown.
“Is this really how you want to spend your thirty minutes?” he asked finally.
“Yes,” Cat answered without hesitation. Then, just as quickly, she shifted. “No. Okay, so you were saying you showed up for work that morning and…” She gestured for him to continue.
Spencer picked it back up. “We learned that someone unexpected decided to talk…”
“And who would that be?” Cat interjected.
Spencer explained, recounting what their prisoner informant, Brian Cochrane of the NSA, had revealed to Hotch and Garcia—how each of the four hitmen specialized in different methods. Lastly describing the deadliest assassin of the four.
“Me,” Cat cut in, pride threading through the single word.
“Yes.” Spencer watched her carefully as she lit up, visibly pleased.
“Wow, that was really impressive. Yeah, the way you just made all those brilliant deductions, with all that information that was just handed to you on a silver platter. Quick question. Are you guys really profilers or are you just lucky.” Her tone began light, almost bubbly, but quickly flattened, the enthusiasm draining into something dry and unimpressed. “Because this, what I’m about to say…” She cleared her throat, straightening slightly. “is profiling. The reason you took time off from work was to deal with the same girl who broke your heart.”
“No,” Spencer replied, flat and immediate, though there was a darker edge beneath it.
His mind involuntarily thought about someone.
“The death of a parent, then.”
Spencer hesitated, just for a beat. “No.”
“Ah, hello. I’m getting close. It’s Mom or Dad in the Billiard room with a candlestick.” Her eyes locked onto his, searching for any reaction. Spencer met her stare, his expression carefully blank. “Oh, you’re mad at me, aren’t you?”
“Not even a little bit,” Spencer said, his voice measured.
“Yes, you are. I can tell.”
“No offence, but you’re not really worth getting angry at,” Spencer shot back.
For a brief moment, Cat’s lips trembled—barely there, but noticeable. Then she smoothed it over.
“So, you figured out what the four of us did, and then what?” she asked, steering them forward again.
“We profiled that you operated as spokes on a wheel. Somehow it had to be centralised. How you got jobs? Who paid you? Somebody did all that for you?”
“You found the Snowman, didn’t you?”
~~
After a round, she had guessed his lie without hesitation—clean, precise, almost surgical.
“Not fair,” Spencer argued, a faint crease forming between his brows. “You know me.”
Nicki tilted her head, studying him like she was still mid-analysis.
“Maybe I know you too well,” she said, a hint of challenge in her tone. “Or maybe you’re just easy to read.”
She paused—just long enough for it to land.
“It’s hard not to look at you.”
Spencer swallowed.
The shift in her tone didn’t go unnoticed.
Nicki leaned forward again, resting her elbow lightly on the table.
“The problem is,” she continued, softer now, “you make it obvious.”
She mimicked him slightly, not mockingly—but accurately.
“Your eyes—those big, observant, painfully honest puppy eyes—light up every time you tell the truth. And when you lie…”
She tapped the table once.
“You hesitate. Subtle for most people. But enough for me.”
Spencer straightened.
“No, I didn’t,” he insisted. “My body language was neutral.”
Nicki let out a small breath through her nose, half amused.
“This isn’t poker,” she said, slipping out of the persona completely now. “Again.”
She gestured toward him, inviting another round.
But Spencer shook his head, something shifting behind his eyes.
“No,” he said, more firmly this time. “Your turn.”
Nicki blinked.
Then, slowly, she leaned back in her chair.
“Oh?”
A small smile tugged at her lips.
“Flipping the dynamic. I like it.”
For a second, she looked like she might refuse.
But then she went quiet.
Thinking.
Really thinking.
Spencer watched her carefully now—mirroring her earlier intensity.
Nicki lifted her gaze.
“Fine.”
She held up three fingers.
“One,” she began casually, easing into it.
Then the second—another story, layered, detailed, believable.
Spencer listened, attentive, already building probabilities in his head.
And then—
Her third finger.
“I’m infertile.”
Silence.
Spencer blinked.
“What—” he stopped himself, recalibrating. “Oh. Okay.”
But his expression had already shifted.
That wasn’t just another fact.
That had weight.
Nicki, unfazed on the surface, continued—explaining the first two in full detail, giving him everything he needed to analyze.
Spencer asked questions.
Precise ones.
Clarifying timelines. Testing consistency. Watching for discrepancies.
Nicki answered all of them easily. Too easily.
Which made it harder.
Finally, Spencer leaned back slightly.
“I think…” he paused, eyes narrowing just a bit. “The first one is the lie.”
Nicki clicked her tongue.
“Damn it,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You are doomed.”
Spencer blinked again.
“Wait—” he leaned forward. “Was it the last one?”
Nicki exhaled, her expression shifting—less playful now, more… real.
“I know,” she said quietly. “It was a lot of information.”
She looked down at her hands for a second before continuing.
“It’s not entirely true.”
Spencer didn’t interrupt.
“But it might be,” she admitted. “I haven’t confirmed it yet. I just… connected the dots.”
Her fingers absentmindedly brushed over her ring.
“My treatment, the dosage increase, the hormonal side effects…” she shrugged lightly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Statistically, it’s a possibility. I haven’t had my period in a long time.”
Spencer’s voice softened.
“That’s not a fact.”
Nicki looked up at him again.
“It’s a lie hidden behind the truth,” she corrected.
A beat.
Then she leaned forward, back in control—back in teacher mode.
“You don’t create lies from nothing,” she said. “You build them from reality.”
She pointed at him, not harshly—but with intent.
“Use your truth as a weapon.”
Spencer held her gaze.
Something about the way she said it lingered longer than it should have.
Nicki leaned back again, resetting the space between them.
“Now,” she said lightly, as if they hadn’t just crossed into something deeper.
“Try again.”
~~
“Why’d you take time off from the FBI?” Cat asked again, her persistence sharpening.
“I’m not going to tell you.”
“Spencer, why did you take time off from the FBI?” Her tone firmed, more insistent this time.
Spencer held steady, his voice deliberately even. “You can ask me as many times as you want, and you can continue to waste your time, but I’m still not gonna tell you.”
“Then you’re cheating, and I don’t like cheaters.” She was reining herself in, but the frustration was starting to show.
“You don’t get everything you want, just because you’re pointing a gun at me under a table. You’re not the first killer to point a gun at me. You’re not even the first woman to point a gun at me. Sorry,” he added with a slight quirk of his mouth.
“You’re really going to take this all the way, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” he nodded.
“So am I,” she shot back. “Look at my face. Does it look like I’m bluffing?”
“I know you’re not bluffing,”
Cat shifted again, sliding closer until she was at his side.
“I’m going to ask you one more time. Before you say no, I want you to consider something.” Her hand shot up, gripping his tie and twisting it tight, muffling the microphone hidden beneath. Her eyes flicked past him, landing on Rossi as he approached the table. “I’ll kill the Fed walking towards me first.”
Spencer’s eyes widened just a fraction, but he forced the reaction down.
“A stationary target’s easier to hit. After that it’s a free-fire zone.”
“Fine, I’ll tell,” Spencer muttered.
“Sorry, what was that?” she taunted, still holding his tie.
“I’ll tell you,” he said louder. Then, turning his head slightly, “Rossi, stand down.” His voice softened just a touch. “Please.”
Rossi hesitated, reluctant, but ultimately turned and walked away.
Cat released her grip, watching him go with open amusement.
Spencer straightened his tie, smoothing it back into place. “My mom had schizophrenia and the doctors changed her medication, which seemed to agitate her, and so I went to the treatment centre to help her.”
“That’s it?” she asked, unimpressed.
Spencer gave a small shrug. “That’s it.”
“You risked your life over mommy’s pills?” Confusion edged her voice.
“It’s the truth,” Spencer said simply.
She studied him closely, searching his eyes. “It’s part of the truth. You’re holding something back. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m gonna penalize you by adding ten minutes, and keep in mind the only reason you’re not dead right now is because I did learn something important.”
“Oh, really? What’s that?” Spencer asked, though internally he was already dismissing it.
“Your backup. I flushed them out. It’s just you and me now.” Cat patted his leg.
Spencer flinched at the contact, a brief jolt running through him—but beneath it, there was relief.
She hadn’t noticed Tara and Derek seated across the restaurant, quietly playing their roles as a waitress approached to take their “order.”
~~
Spencer didn’t look away from her.
Not this time.
Something in him had shifted—less hesitant, more deliberate.
“Can I be cruel?” he asked.
Nicki didn’t flinch.
Instead, her lips curved slightly, almost amused.
“You can be whoever you want,” she teased. “I just don’t know how much it’ll help you.”
But her eyes stayed on him—sharp, expectant.
Spencer nodded once, like he had already made the decision.
He took a breath.
Then—
“I constantly dream about Maeve.”
A pause.
“I relapsed after Emily’s staged death.”
Another beat.
And then—
“I wish you weren’t Hotch’s daughter.”
That one didn’t just land.
It cut.
Nicki didn’t move, but inside, her mind split that sentence into a dozen interpretations in seconds.
Resentment.
Guilt.
Deflection.
Or something worse.
Still, she kept her composure.
Professional. Controlled.
The game continued.
Spencer started with the first one—his voice quieter now, but steady. He explained the dreams. The frequency. The details he remembered. The way grief rewired memory.
Nicki listened, asking only a few questions.
She already knew. That one was real.
“Shakespeare called,” she said dryly, slipping back into character just enough to shield herself, “he wants his novel back.”
A beat.
“Next.”
Spencer exhaled through his nose and moved on.
He explained the second one—the period after Emily was presumed dead.
The coping mechanisms he wasn’t proud of.
Nicki’s expression didn’t soften.
If anything, she leaned in slightly.
“How much did you take?” she asked.
Spencer hesitated. Just for a second.And she caught it.
“This is your version of cruel?” she said, almost scoffing. “Telling me your sad story?”
That’s when he changed.
Spencer lifted his gaze and locked onto hers.
No deflection this time.
No intellectual buffer.
He went straight to the third.
“Every time you show up in my life,” he said, voice low, controlled, “you bring chaos with you.”
Nicki didn’t blink.
“You’ve gotten me in trouble,” he continued. “And no matter what I’ve tried…”
A step closer.
“You don’t go away.”
Now they were too close.
The air between them tight—charged.
“I wish you weren’t Hotch’s daughter,” he finished. “He doesn’t trust me anymore. He’s never said it, but I feel it.”
And then—
He reached up and grabbed her face.
Not violently.
But firmly enough to make it impossible to ignore.
“You ruined years of partnership.”
For a split second— Something flickered in Nicki’s eyes.
Recognition.
Then—She slapped his hand away. “If you wanted me closer you should’ve asked first.”
Sharp. Immediate.
“You got that off your chest,” she said, her voice colder now.
A wall, back in place.
Spencer didn’t apologize.
Didn’t step back.
“Make your guess,” he challenged.
Nicki opened her mouth—
Ready.
But the moment shattered.
His phone rang.
The sound felt jarring, out of place after everything that had just happened.
Spencer glanced at the screen, jaw tightening.
“I have to go.”
Just like that.
He stepped back, the distance returning all at once.
“Thank you for your help Nix.”
Professional again. Like none of it had been real.
Nicki brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, regaining her composure in seconds.
She nodded once.
Spencer turned to leave.
“Spencer.”
He stopped.
Turned back.
Nicki held his gaze—steady, unwavering.
“Don’t make me do this again.”
A warning. Not about the case. About them.
~~
“So, when we left off, the score was you had two of our guys and the Snowman. You must have thought you were home free.”
“No. If anything the case was harder,” Spencer said, his tone steady as he continued, recounting what the Snowman had told them.
From that, he explained, they shifted strategy—focusing on identifying the hitwoman through victimology. “But first we had to get the data that we needed from the Snowman. From that we could start to build the profile that would lead us to you. When we knew what we were looking for, the pattern was obvious.” He moved through it methodically, laying it out step by step, until he reached his role in it—going undercover as a husband who wanted his pregnant wife dead.
“You. You’re the flaw,” Cat interjected smoothly. “You’re not married, and you don’t have children.”
“I’m the person on my team who’s the closest to your age and I knew that if I lost control of the situation, you’d be more likely to negotiate with a peer.”
“You have zero control her. None,” she said coldly.
“I outflanked you from the beginning.”
“Some of your moves were pretty obvious,” Spencer replied, a hint of confidence slipping in.
“Such as?” she pressed.
“Such as showing up armed. Such as changing the venue at the last moment.”
“I needed a restaurant full of innocent in case this was a trap.” Her tone turned deceptively soft, almost playful as she toyed with him.
Spencer didn’t buy it. “If you really suspected this was a trap, then why show up at all? Even when you first laid eyes on me. From the bar. From outside. From wherever you were. You should have seen through me and kept on moving, but you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because you can’t get to the man you really want to hurt. So, you need to hurt any man who reminds you of him.”
Cat’s breathing shifted, deeper now, her chest rising and falling more noticeably.
“That’s kind of boilerplate psychology, Isn’t it? I’m just another girl with daddy issues.”
Spencer flicked a glance her way, careful not to linger too long. “You’d be surprised how many killers do what they do because of their parents. If it’s so boilerplate, why don’t we test that theory? How hard did you look for him?”
“Very hard,” Cat said, swallowing.
“And how disappointed were you when you realised that you will never find him?” Spencer’s gaze darkened, intensity settling in as he held on her. He watched the slightest crack form beneath her composure. “You needed some other outlet for your rage, and for awhile this worked, but it also tripped you up. Can I tell you a little secret?” He didn’t wait for permission. “Everything eventually falls apart. The trick is accepting when it’s over.”
Cat didn’t look away. She held his gaze, tension coiling tight, anger simmering just beneath the surface. When the timer rang, the sharp sound broke it—she glanced away for a brief second.
“Except it ain’t over, is it?”
Spencer folded his hands together on the table, grounding himself. “Do you really think I’m just gonna let you walk out of here?” The idea seemed almost absurd to him.
Cat shifted, her posture sharpening, no longer relaxed against the booth. “You profiled so much about me, except you forgot to ask the most important question. Why would I make you sit here for thirty minutes?” Her tone edged with challenge.
“Because you’re stalling,” he answered immediately.
“Then you don’t know me at all. Did you think I would show up here without an escape plan? Or is that what just another girl with daddy issues would do? Maybe if you hadn’t fallen victim to your own gender bias, and yes, all men have gender bias, even you Dr Reid. You would have recognised that your entire strategy was based on one faulty detail. Can you see it?”
Spencer considered her words, his expression tightening slightly as the implication settled. “You’re not here alone,” he concluded.
“And my partner? Less paranoid than you think.” A sinister smile curved her lips.
“You planted a bomb in the building.”
“I didn’t. My job was to keep your entire team, focused on us. So, he could do what he does best.”
“There are innocent people here,” Spencer said, alarm breaking through as his eyes instinctively scanned the room.
“Yes, there are.” Cat’s tone remained disturbingly calm. “So, let me remind you what we’re playing for. Not only will I walk out of here, but you will make sure I leave safely. And from where I’m sitting…” She turned her head, deliberately sweeping her gaze across the restaurant. “It looks like I’ve won.” She drew in a sharp breath.
Communication moved fast:
six C-4 charges
“You need to pay attention to this part. I’m going to tell you the terms of my victory. I want you to move all your backup away from this building. If I walk out of her and I see one cop, I will incinerate us all.”
The color drained from Spencer’s face. “I can’t do that.”
“Spencer,” Cat warned, her voice tightening.
“It’s not me. What you’re asking takes time,” he said, trying to reason with her.
Cat grabbed his tie again, pulling it toward her as she spoke directly into it. “This to whoever’s in charge. Unless you guys want to be responsible for the biggest FBI disaster since WACO, you will back off now.” She released it sharply, letting it fall back against his chest. Then, quieter, almost to herself—“Watch this,” she whispered to Spencer.
—
“Do not overreact. Do not rush. Simply give every patron their check and tell them this been an unforeseen problem in the kitchen that cannot be resolved their dinner has been paid for and they should leave calmly and at their earliest possible convenience.” Tara calmly instructed the staff. “Got it?”
All staff agreed and prepared to follow protocol.
“Great,” Tara said then turned to the waitress that was assigned to Spencer and Cat’s table. “You come with me.”
They approached the kitchen door and looked through the window.
“That table there, you leave alone.” Tara ordered handing the girl a check holder.
Once outside, the waitress opened the holder and read the check. Only to leave it in Derek and Lewis’ table.
—
“Look at that,” Cat scoffed, her gaze drifting past Spencer. “There they go,” she added, a mocking whine slipping into her voice as staff began calmly ushering patrons out of the restaurant, following Tara’s instructions.
“All we want to do …”
“Minimise the collateral damage. I get it. I’m not mad.” She waved it off lightly. “It will give the cover I need to slip out. I just need to know it’s clear, so do me a favour and tell your boss that nobody leaves until it’s safe for me to.”
Spencer flinched almost imperceptibly. In his ear, he could hear Hotch confirming that perimeter agents were pulling back.
“Well?.” Cat’s jaw tightened. “Spencer,” she tutted impatiently.
Spencer hesitated, wetting his lips before finally whispering, “You can leave.”
Cat didn’t waste a second. She grabbed her things and slid out of the booth—
“But you won’t.”
She stopped short, turning back to him. “I’m sorry?”
“Double or nothing. You need to sit back down,” Spencer said, his tone firmer now.
It was a gamble—one he knew everyone else was hearing in real time. In his ear, Hotch’s voice cut in, questioning him.
“Wow, now your stalling,” Cat shot back.
“You played your trump card, but I have one too.”
She hesitated, curiosity flickering—but only for a moment. “Thanks for dinner. I had fun.” She turned to leave again.
“I found your father,” Spencer called after her.
That did it.
She froze mid-step.
“No, you didn’t,” she said, though uncertainty edged her voice.
“Look at my face. Am I bluffing?” Spencer countered, throwing her own words back at her. “I’ll tell you where he is. But you need to sit back down and listen to the rest of my story.”
“No, tell me know,” she demanded. “Or I’ll…”
“Detonate that bomb?” Spencer cut in sharply. “You’re not going to do that, Cat, because then you won’t learn anything. You said you were good at your job because you think through every outcome. Well, guess what… so do I.”
Spencer watched her closely as she weighed her options, the tension stretching between them.
It didn’t take long.
Cat exhaled and slid back into her seat, her coat still draped over her arm. “Alright. Finish the story.” She sighed, settling in.
“To prepare for this dinner, I had to learn everything about you, starting with your real name. We checked foster care records assuming your name is Catherine, with a likely suspicious death for mom, and your dad most likely went away for manslaughter. Rampant abuse. You would have been in a world of pain. Your first kills were most likely in the foster environment. Garcia cross-referenced all the families that Catherine’s went into with accidental deaths of foster dads and focused on those that have multiple abuse complaints levelled against them. And then Ding. Catherine Adams. Daughter of Daniel Adams, who did in fact leave the country in 1987 but returned in 2012. Based on confidential records in rehabs and sober living houses, which in turned pointed us to flophouses and soup kitchens. He couldn’t put 24 hours together sober. And you can probably imagine my surprise when I discovered that he actually lives right here in D.C.”
Spencer enunciated each detail deliberately, watching as Cat clung to every word.
“Where?” she asked, the question coming out almost feverish.
“It’s not that simple. He was in bad shape when I found him. He didn’t recognise you.” Spencer’s tone softened, carefully measured.
Cat faltered. “He didn’t remember me?”
“The alcoholism shredded his brain. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not sorry. Sorry is what people say when they don’t understand.” She looked up at him, searching—and for a second, she caught something genuine. “Wait. Your mother—tell me.” Her curiosity sharpened again.
Spencer swallowed, the shift hitting him harder this time. “Is–is this part of the game?”
“No. The game’s over.”
He blinked rapidly, trying to steady himself, to keep whatever was rising from spilling over. “When I looked at her medical chart, it–it didn’t make any sense. The medication that they gave her should have been helping, but I couldn’t figure out what was making her so angry. So, I, uh, I went to see her. The moment I walked in her room; I saw it. For 3 seconds… She didn’t know who I was. I, um, I had her tested that morning, and I found out that night… That she had early onset of dementia. Most likely Alzheimer’s.”
“Did you test yourself?” Cat asked quietly.
Spencer’s gaze dropped to the floor.
“No, you didn’t. You were too scared.”
Spencer continued, his voice unsteady at first. “I thought I dodged a bullet when I turned 30 and didn’t have a schizophrenic break like her, but, uh, this is somehow bigger and scarier because I can actually see it happening. All the memories that we used to share are just dying. I can’t stop it. I can’t help her. All I can do is find people that I can help.”
His voice, though it began fragile, slowly steadied, gaining structure and control as he spoke.
“Is that really why you showed up tonight? To help me?” Cat scoffed, the softness gone as quickly as it had come. “Do you know how many men have told me that they wanted to help me? How do you think that worked out for them?”
In his ear, Spencer caught fragments of rising urgency—voices overlapping, tension spiking as the team worked to identify the bomber.
“You’re right,” he said quickly, adjusting, recalibrating. “You don’t need my help. You don’t need anyone’s help. You are completely in control.”
—
“Hotch, we might have a lead here.” Tara pretended to sip her martini as she scanned around.”
“She hasn't touched anything to harm the bomb.” Derek informed as his eyes stayed glued to Cat and Spencer.
Lewis and Morgan's eyes locked on the sheet of paper they had pieced together. The fragments aligned in a way that shifted everything.
The bomber could be another woman.
Their attention snapped up, scanning the room with new urgency—this time not for a man, but for a woman watching too closely, holding something she shouldn’t. A phone. A trigger.
Across the restaurant, a young blonde waitress approached the bar, dropping checks in a small stack with more force than necessary.
“Can you believe we have 2-grand checks and we’ll have no tips?” she muttered under her breath to the bartender. “Drake will earn more than us and he is a valet. We worked our asses off this week.”
The bartender smirked, offering a half-shrug.
Just beside her, seated at the bar, a woman in a dark blue dress sat too still. Her gaze flickered—subtle, but not subtle enough—toward Spencer and Cat’s table. In her hand, a cellphone.
Her fingers hovered.
Waiting.
Behind her, Tara and Morgan shifted their tone just enough—louder, more casual, a deliberate distraction. The woman’s attention wavered for half a second.
That was all it took.
The blonde waitress moved fast.
In one swift motion, she grabbed the woman, slamming her down against the floor, pinning her arm before she could react. The phone slipped—
Snatched mid-drop.
“Got it!” she called, tossing it cleanly to Morgan.
Morgan caught it and didn’t hesitate. One precise click—
The device went silent.
Disarmed.
Tara stepped in immediately, hauling the woman upright and securing her in cuffs.
Across the room, unnoticed in the chaos, the waitress slipped away, circling behind the bar, repositioning herself with quiet precision. From there, she had a clean line of sight on Cat.
At the table, everything had changed.
Cat was on her feet now, her arm tight around Spencer, the gun pressed firmly against his jaw. Spencer stood rigid, controlled, but the tension in his body was unmistakable.
From across the room, the undercover waitress reached down, pulling a firearm from her boot, steadying her aim.
Waiting.
Morgan’s voice cut through first.
“Reid, it’s time.”
Spencer’s eyes flicked toward him, a silent plea. “No.”
Morgan didn’t waver. “We don’t have a choice. We have to do it.”
Cat’s grip tightened, irritation flaring. She hated being out of the loop. “Do what?”
“Morgan, shut up,” Spencer snapped, trying to regain control.
“There’s one thing he hasn’t told you yet,” Morgan continued, deliberately drawing her in.
“That’s not true. He’s lying. Don’t listen to him,” Spencer rushed, his voice edged with urgency.
“What haven’t you told me?” Cat demanded, the gun pressing harder into Spencer’s jaw.
“Nothing. I told you–nothing! Nothing!”
“What don’t I know?” she repeated, unwavering.
Morgan didn’t hesitate. “We brought your father here.”
Cat froze, the words hitting harder than anything else.
“Here? He’s here?” Her eyes darted to Spencer, searching for confirmation.
Spencer said nothing—his silence louder than any answer.
“He’s right outside. Reid thought he needed every bargaining chip he could get.” Morgan kept his focus on Cat, though his gaze flickered toward Spencer.
“Morgan, I’m begging you, don’t. Don’t.”
“Every bargaining chip he could get to convince you to do the right thing.”
“How is this the right thing?” Cat challenged.
“Your father killed your mother. And there’s no statute of limitations on murder, so you really need to think about your options right now. You shoot him, I will kill you. Or if you surrender, you will live to testify against your father.”
“That’s not good enough.” Her voice hardened.
“We can arrange it for the two of you to drive into custody together, and then you can remind him of who you are.”
Spencer shook his head sharply. “If you give her this, she wins. Don’t do it.”
“Kid, I am trying to save your life. Now let me do that.”
A faint beeping from outside cut through the moment.
“They’re bringing him in right now,” Morgan added, pressing the advantage.
Cat’s gaze shifted back to Spencer. She studied him—really studied him this time—taking in the frustration, the anger, the disappointment etched across his face.
“You’re really upset about this, aren’t you?”
Morgan clicked his tongue softly. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, a chance to finally hurt the man who deserves it?”
Cat’s eyes flicked to him. “They all deserve it.”
“He deserves it the most,” Morgan said.
Silence stretched.
Then—decision.
“Only if Spencer escorts me out,” Cat said, a slow smirk forming.
“Deal,” Spencer answered, the word heavy.
The gun dropped.
Relief hit him all at once as he moved quickly, turning her, securing the cuffs around her wrists.
He guided her toward the exit.
Outside, the night air hit sharp and cold.
“Wait,” Cat said as they approached the police van.
Spencer paused.
She looked up at him, something shifting behind her eyes. “Ok, I’m ready.” Her voice softened slightly, her face inches from his.
Spencer blinked, then opened the back doors.
Empty.
He guided her inside, securing her to the restraints.
The realization hit instantly.
“You lied to me,” Cat said, her voice cracking—not with fear, but something closer to betrayal.
Spencer remained calm, almost gentle. “If it makes you feel any better, I really— I did look for him. But…I couldn’t find him, so, yeah, I did make it all up.”
“Not all of it,” she countered, studying him. “You don’t pull a story about a parent losing her memory out of nowhere. Your mother and the Alzheimer’s, that’s true. I won.”
“How so?” Spencer asked, holding her gaze.
“Because I will get out of here,” she said simply.
“Yeah, in 20 years, maybe, if you’re lucky,” Spencer replied.
She dismissed it with ease. “Yeah, that’s fine. You know why? Because in 20 years… I’ll remember your name, but you won’t remember mine.”
—
Once Cat Adams was taken away in cuffs, the adrenaline that had been holding Nicki together finally began to ebb.
She slipped into the restaurant restroom, pushing the door shut behind her with a quiet click. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead as she leaned over the sink, turning the faucet on and letting the cold water run over her hands before splashing it onto her face. The chill grounded her.
A breath in. A breath out.
She straightened, meeting her own reflection—blonde wig, makeup bolder than usual, eyes sharper than she felt. With a practiced motion, she cracked her neck.
“Nicole, can you hear me?” her father’s voice came through the earbud.
“Yes,” she replied, already reaching up to peel off the blonde wig.
“Great job, honey.”
"Thanks dad"
There was a brief pause—warmth in his tone, restrained but real—before the line went quiet. He’d likely signaled Garcia to cut the connection.
Nicki pulled the wig cap off, shaking out her dark hair, fingers combing through the strands until they fell naturally around her shoulders. She exhaled, tension slipping from her posture in increments.
The restroom door creaked open behind her.
She didn’t turn right away.
“Blonde is not my color,” she said, catching his reflection in the mirror.
Reid stepped inside, the door closing softly behind him. “I thought you looked the part.”
She huffed a quiet laugh. “For a second I thought I blew it when she spotted JJ.”
“Me too,” he admitted, almost sheepish.
“But we made it,” Nicki said, already moving. She loosened the buttons of the red waitress uniform shirt and slipped it off, tossing it onto the counter. Beneath it, just a simple black top—something more like her.
She felt it then. His gaze.
Not clinical. Not analytical.
Just… watching.
“You’re too quiet,” she said, glancing at him through the mirror. “I thought by now you’d be dissecting my approach. The whole ‘female bomber’ angle? I was right, by the way.”
“I’m sorry,” Spencer said, but his tone was distant, distracted. “I just… can’t stop thinking about something else.”
She turned to face him fully. “Oh? Should I be concerned?”
“You never guessed my lie.”
Nicki blinked, then scoffed lightly. “We already proved you can lie. Don’t get cocky.”
“Did you have an answer?” he asked, stepping closer.
She hesitated—just for a second—then nodded. “I did.”
“Which one?” His voice softened, but there was something insistent underneath.
Nicki rolled her eyes, but didn’t look away. “At first, I was sure the second one was the lie. You once said you thought about it… maybe you never actually did.”
Spencer’s brow furrowed. “But?”
She shrugged, something shifting behind her expression. “After tonight, I don’t really care which one was the lie.”
He frowned slightly. “Why?”
“Because it would mean any of them could be true.”
The words landed heavier than she intended.
She turned, grabbing her things, ready to leave—ready to end this before it turned into something else entirely.
“Was it the third fact?” Spencer pressed.
Nicki paused at the door, then glanced back. “Of course it was. And it’s fine—you said it to win the game.”
“I asked if I could be cruel,” he said quickly.
“I know,” she cut in, her tone softer now. “And that’s on me for playing along.”
A beat.
“But it’s done. Penelope’s safe. That’s what matters.”
“The second one is the lie,” Spencer said suddenly.
She stilled.
“You were right,” he continued. “But only because I didn’t give the full context of the third.”
Nicki’s expression hardened, something defensive rising fast. “I don’t want to know how much you resent me for everything that happened.”
Her voice wasn’t loud—but it carried.
“I was sixteen, Spencer. I should’ve known better. I got attached. I get it.”
His face shifted—regret, conflict, something deeper.
“It all became a butterfly effect after that… night,” she murmured, glancing down at her hand—bare now, no ring to ground her. Her fingers twitched, then began to crack one by one.
Spencer noticed immediately.
He stepped forward and caught her hand mid-motion. “Stop. It’s not worth it.”
Nicki’s eyes flicked to where their hands met.
“Because to you it wasn’t that big of a deal?” she asked quietly.
His grip tightened—not forceful, just firm. Protective.
“I wasn’t fully honest about the third fact,” he said. “Because I needed you to hear it—not the version of you playing a role.”
They were close now. Too close.
Nicki pulled slightly, and he let go, the loss of contact lingering between them.
“I do hate that you’re Hotch’s daughter,” Spencer admitted, voice low.
She stiffened.
“Not just for what you think,” he continued. “But because no matter what I do… you always have a place in my head.”
The air shifted.
Nicki inhaled slowly, steadying herself. “Thank you for your concern,” she said, composure snapping back into place. “But I think we’ve proven I can handle myself.”
She turned toward the door. “You and my dad don’t have to worry about every possible thing that could happen to me.”
Her hand reached for the handle—
And then Spencer grabbed her arm.
She turned, ready to protest—
But he didn’t let her.
His hand moved to her face, and before her mind could catch up, his lips were on hers.
It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t careful. It was years of restraint breaking all at once.
For a split second, she froze.
Then her body answered for her.
Her hands slid up his back, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened—familiar and entirely new at the same time. Every what-if, every almost, every suppressed feeling collapsing into this one moment.
Her sixteen-year-old self would’ve died for this.
Now—she held on.
Breathless. Certain. Unavoidable.
A knock slammed against the door.
“Anyone need a ride back home?!” Morgan called from the other side.
The moment cracked—but didn’t disappear.
They were still too close. Still holding onto something neither of them could undo.
“Sometimes you have to pick the gun up to put down the gun.”
Warnings: Spencer x Fem!reader, Hotch’s Daughter!Reader, age gap (9 years), murder, death, stalking.
Nicki woke up early to the sound of Logan’s alarm buzzing from the nightstand. It took her a second to orient herself—dim light, quiet apartment, the low hum of the city outside. Logan was already up, moving with the efficient, half-asleep precision of someone used to early mornings. He grabbed clean clothes and headed straight for the shower.
She padded out of her room, still groggy, rubbing her eyes—
—and froze.
Spencer Reid was asleep on the couch.
Not curled up comfortably either. He was sitting upright, one arm folded awkwardly across his chest, his head tilted at an impossible angle against the back cushion, glasses still on. His tie was loosened, suit jacket folded neatly beside him like he’d done it on autopilot. He looked… human. Exhausted. Soft.
Nicki smiled despite herself.
She tiptoed into the kitchen and started the coffee machine, hoping the noise wouldn’t wake him. It did.
Spencer stirred, blinking rapidly as his brain caught up to reality. “I—uh—” He straightened immediately, mortified. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“You stayed,” she said quietly, leaning against the counter.
“I thought I could watch the door,” he yawned, rubbing his face. “I may have… temporarily lost consciousness.”
She smirked. “Wow. Your dreams act like surveillance cameras now?”
He huffed out a weak laugh. “Apparently not very effective ones.”
“But thank you,” she added, softer this time.
He looked at her then. Really looked. Hair messy, oversized T-shirt slipping off one shoulder, eyes warm in the morning light. “Of course,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
She turned back to the coffee to hide the sudden heat in her face. “Coffee?”
“Yes. Please.”
She poured one cup, then another just as Logan walked out of the bedroom, towel around his neck, hair damp from the shower.
“Morning,” Logan said.
“Morning,” Nicki replied, sliding him a mug.
And just like that, she was standing there—barefoot in her kitchen—having coffee with her boyfriend and her first crush. The universe had a sick sense of humor.
She leaned back against the counter, grounding herself. “It’s been two days,” she said, switching into profiler mode. “Where would that body be?”
Logan took a sip, thinking. “He acted out of frustration. This kill wasn’t planned like the others. He may not have been careful—needed time to get rid of it.”
“Or,” Spencer added, setting his cup down, “he’ll use it as bait.”
They both looked at him.
“Trophy killers don’t always rush,” Spencer continued. “Especially when the real reward isn’t the act itself—it’s the reaction.”
Nicki nodded slowly. “His trophy isn’t the body. It’s me solving the puzzle.”
“Yes,” Spencer said. “Every delay increases the pressure. He wants you thinking about it. He wants control.”
“He needs to prove he’s smart enough,” Nicki added, pacing now. “Cunning. Worthy of my attention.”
Logan frowned. “So what does that mean?”
“It means,” she said, stopping, “he needs a bigger scene.”
As if summoned by the thought, her phone started ringing.
She answered instantly. “Dad?”
“Nicki, where are you?” her father asked, voice tight with concern.
“My apartment,” she said, confused. “Why?”
Before he could answer, a piercing alarm cut through the air.
The building alarm.
Lights flashed in the hallway outside her door. She moved toward it instinctively, opening it just as neighbors began spilling out—confused, half-dressed, murmuring to each other.
Logan and Spencer were instantly at her sides.
“What’s going on?” she asked into the phone.
“VAPD just notified us,” her father said grimly. “There’s a body on the rooftop of a building.”
Her stomach dropped.
“…Nicki,” he continued, slower now. “It’s your address. I’m on my way.”
The alarm screamed on, echoing through the stairwell.
Nicki didn’t move.
Somewhere above her head, Troy had finally made his point.
—
The entire building was swept top to bottom, twice.
Uniforms checked every apartment, maintenance closets, elevator shafts, fire exits, and the emergency stairwells. K-9 units circled the perimeter while techs replayed security footage frame by frame, zooming in on shadows, reflections, anything that could pass for movement. The alarms had triggered exactly as designed, yet no unauthorized access showed up on record.
Adonis had slipped in like a thought—quiet, deliberate, gone before anyone noticed.
Once the scene was cleared, a sharp knock echoed through Nicki’s apartment.
Hotch and Morgan stood in the doorway.
Nicki opened the door, and before she could say a word, her father checked if she was unharmed.
“I’m okay,” she said softly when he pulled back. “Are Jack and Aunt Jessica safe?”
“They’re back in Quantico,” Hotch assured her, his voice steady but his eyes still scanning her face for cracks.
Morgan stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room automatically. Then he froze.
“Reid?”
Spencer straightened instantly, looking like he’d been caught somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.
Nicki answered before he could. “He stayed the night. Too stay vigilant.”
Morgan lifted an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “Uh-huh. And what were you doing before Hotch called?”
“I made coffee,” Nicki answered before Spencer could, deadpan.
Morgan grinned. “Domestic.”
Hotch shot him a warning look and pivoted back to business. “Did you notice anything unusual last night?”
Nicki shook her head, then forced herself to be precise. “Everything was fine, the entrance security units, no package delivery notifications, alarms didn’t trip until this morning, and the surveillance didn’t catch motion during the night.”
“My theory,” Logan added, stepping closer, “is he slipped in during shift change. Used the emergency stairs. It’s the only blind spot that makes sense.”
Hotch nodded once.
—
The wind hit first—sharp, cold, carrying the smell of rain and metal.
The body lay near the center of the rooftop, already bagged but not yet moved. Multiple gunshot wounds. Clean. Efficient.
Nicki stared at it longer than she should have.
“This was the message,” Spencer said quietly from behind her.
Nicki didn’t turn. “I know where you live,” she said instead, the words settling heavy in the air.
She crouched near the coroner, scanning for something—anything—that didn’t belong. No symbols carved into skin, no objects placed on the body, no coded marks.
Nothing obvious.
But Adonis was never obvious.
Her gaze drifted outward, toward the edge of the roof.
That’s when she saw it.
A pot.
Pristine. Untouched by the weather. Perfectly placed, like it had always been meant to be there.
“Nick?” Logan called, hearing the change in her breathing.
She stared at the flower from a far.
White camellia.
Her chest tightened.
The world folded inward, dragging her backward in time.
Nine years ago.
Days after Spencer rejected her.
~~
She’d gone to the library just to disappear into something else—anything else. Her usual sections betrayed her. Chemistry. Philosophy. Quantum physics. All of it made her stomach twist.
She needed something unfamiliar.
Romance.
The aisle felt absurdly quiet. Paperbacks lined the shelves, dramatic covers, promises of love and loss and inevitability. It all felt too easy, too naïve.
Then she saw it.
A book slightly out of place, a white camellia as the main cover.
Love in the Time of Cholera.
She read the synopsis, scoffed under her breath at the cruel timing of the universe, and laughed—too loudly.
That’s when she felt it.
Eyes on her.
She looked up.
A boy. Her age. Stared at her for a second.
She took the book anyway. Checked it out. Left without looking back.
But that stare was enough to make him obsess over her.
~~
Nicki’s phone started ringing.
She didn’t need to look at the screen. It was him.
She answered.
“Hi, Troy,” Nicki said evenly. “Got your flower.”
Every head snapped toward her the second she said his name.
On the other end of the line, he exhaled—slow, reverent.
“I knew you’d remember.”
“It was a nice clue,” she replied, voice light, calculated. “Was that the first time we crossed paths?”
“Not for me,” Troy said softly. “But it was the first time you saw me.”
A pause. A breath.
“You were heartbroken. Standing there with a book about lovesickness, laughing at the cruelty of it all. You were… tragically beautiful.”
Logan stiffened beside her.
“All of this,” Nicki said dryly, “just to call me beautiful?”
“You deserve to hear it,” Troy replied, smiling through the line. “Which is why our story should begin.”
Nicki’s gaze drifted past the rooftop railing, instinct screaming before logic caught up.
Across the street—one building over—a window stood open.
A red dot appeared on the concrete near her foot.
“Everybody down!” she shouted.
Gunfire exploded.
Concrete chipped. Metal screamed. The team scattered, drawing weapons, diving for cover.
“Shots fired from the adjacent building!” Logan barked into his radio.
“Nicole, get down!” Hotch yelled, trying to move toward her before another shot forced him to duck.
Logan grabbed Nicki, yanking her back just as another round struck the wall.
Her phone was still pressed to her ear.
“Now you’re trying to kill me?” she demanded into the line.
“That was a warning,” Troy said calmly. Too calmly.
“The next is the Trojan War.”
More gunfire—this time from the opposite side.
“Spence, get down!” JJ shouted.
It clicked instantly.
Trojan War.
Helen.
Paris.
Nicki’s eyes locked onto Spencer.
A red laser dot trembled over the front of his vest.
“No,” she breathed.
She bolted.
“Nicki!” Logan shouted, chasing after her, firing toward the sniper window to force cover.
Her father’s voice broke through the chaos, raw and panicked, yelling her name.
Shots cracked again—close enough to feel the heat. They missed Logan by inches, slowing him just enough.
Nicki reached Spencer.
The gunfire stopped.
Silence fell like a held breath.
She was still on the call.
“What are you doing?!” Logan roared, furious and terrified.
Spencer reached for her instinctively, trying to pull her down—but she moved first, stepping fully in front of him.
“The first shot was to make me step away,” she said into the phone, voice steady despite her racing pulse. “But what you forgot is that you’re not the only obsessed one.”
The laser dot slid.
Centered on her chest.
“Nicki, move!” Logan screamed.
“No,” she said, not taking her eyes off the empty window.
She could feel Spencer’s breath against the back of her neck, his hands hovering, unsure whether to grab her or trust her.
“This is too dangerous,” he whispered urgently. “You need to take cover.”
“It’s supposed to be just you and me,” Troy finally said, the disappointment unmistakable.
“You want to talk face to face?” Nicki challenged, heart pounding. “Then you do it on my terms. He lives and we meet.”
A beat.
“Or shoot.”
For a moment—one terrifying, endless moment—she wondered if she’d miscalculated. If control mattered more to him than worship.
Then the red dot vanished.
Spencer didn’t hesitate.
He grabbed her around the waist and dragged her behind the concrete wall as they both went down hard, bodies colliding with the ground. Dust filled the air. Their breaths came fast and uneven.
Nicki looked up.
Spencer was hovering over her, one arm braced beside her head, the other shielding her torso.
They were inches apart.
“Everyone okay?” someone called, breaking the suspended moment.
One by one, agents emerged from cover. No more shots. No movement from the sniper positions.
Nicki pushed herself up and immediately found her father.
She expected anger. Orders.
Instead, he crushed her into his chest.
“I’m sorry,” she said into his shoulder. “I had to—I—”
“It’s done. He is in custody,” he murmured, holding her tighter than she remembered him ever doing. “You’re okay.”
She let herself breathe there, wrapped in protection without judgment.
But when she pulled back, her eyes found Logan.
He stood a few feet away, silent, something fractured and newly understood in his expression.
She had chosen.
Instinctively.
Publicly.
He wasn’t blind to it anymore.
The question lingered between them, unspoken and heavy:
Would being her guardian ever be enough—when her heart had already placed itself in front of another man’s bullet?
—
Finally, the BAU had a suspect in custody—and still, no one felt relief.
Adonis, now positively identified as Damien Gallegos, was taken without resistance. He was sitting on the curb across the street from Nicki’s apartment when the team found him, hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes fixed on her building like a pilgrim at a shrine.
He didn’t run.
He didn’t argue.
He simply stood when ordered to and turned around to be cuffed.
He said nothing.
Inside the apartment, the air shifted the moment they crossed the threshold.
One wall—floor to ceiling—was covered in photographs.
Nicki at different ages.
Nicki at graduations.
Nicki at crime scenes, blurred and distant.
Nicki with her father and Jack, and Logan
A meticulous chronology of her life.
Pinned beneath the images were handwritten notes, dates, headlines, medical annotations. Her kidnapping. Her mother’s death. Her academic research. The FBI Academy. Her first case. Her commendations.
Her pain, catalogued.
Her resilience, worshipped.
Morgan swallowed hard. Rossi turned away.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
Across the room, the television was on.
Nicki’s last therapy session with Dr. Mendez.
Her voice. Her posture. Her hands twisting the ring on her finger as she spoke about fear, guilt, obsession. About the violence in her thoughts and the discipline it took to cage them.
Kate froze at the doorway.
“Oh, Nicki…” she whispered, horrified.
Dr. Mendez, when contacted, was devastated. She had no idea one of her patients had planted a camera inside a small souvenir on her bookshelf—a “token of progress” Damien had gifted her years ago.
He had watched everything.
But even that wasn’t the end.
On Damien’s laptop, left open deliberately, a timer glowed against a black screen.
Counting down.
Garcia’s fingers flew over the keyboard, tracing code, access points, network paths.
The timer hit 23:15:08.
Counting backward.
“What is that?” JJ asked.
Garcia’s fingers flew. “It started at twenty-four hours.”
Hotch’s jaw tightened. “From when?”
Garcia swallowed. “From the moment he was arrested.”
Hotch leaned in. “What happens when the timer hits zero?”
Garcia looked up.
“I can’t find the command,” she said.
A choice.
A final move.
In the interrogation room, Damien sat perfectly still, eyes forward, expression serene.
Damien hadn’t wanted chaos.
He hadn’t wanted escape.
He hadn’t even wanted revenge.
He wanted control.
“She promised,” he said calmly, eyes lifting to the one-way mirror. “She challenged me. Said she’d talk to me. Face to face.”
A beat.
“I kept my end of the deal.”
The implication settled like ice in everyone’s chest.
Damien Gallegos wanted only one thing now—
For Nicki to keep her promise.
—
The Joint Terrorism Task Force had been looped in within the hour.
If he had built a 24-hour trigger into something—an explosive, a leak, a public spectacle—then this was no longer just a BAU case. It was federal infrastructure, city grids, transit systems, cyber divisions. Every possible angle.
Because Damien had designed it that way.
He knew Nicki.
He knew her work.
And he knew the only way to control her was to threaten what she protected.
—
Francesca and Nicki sat across from each other in a smaller conference room, Damien’s psychiatric file spread between them. Not “Troy Adonis.”
“He mirrored you,” Francesca said quietly, flipping through highlighted notes. “Look at the timeline. He started therapy two weeks after your intake.”
Nicki scanned the pages.
Copied coping mechanisms.
Adopted interests.
Shifted speech patterns after overhearing her sessions.
“He wasn’t just obsessed,” Nicki murmured. “He was getting into character.”
“He built himself in your shadow.”
Across the bullpen, Chasseur had headphones on, replaying Damien’s previous calls. Every inflection, every breath.
“Notice this,” he called out. “He elongates vowels when he’s emotionally triggered. ‘Beauti-fuuul.’ ‘Youuu.’ It spikes whenever she challenges his intelligence.”
Reid, pacing, nodded. “That suggests ego fragility. If she undermines his cognitive superiority, he destabilizes.”
Garcia and Logan were practically shoulder-to-shoulder at the tech station, fingers flying.
“I’ve tried power grids, municipal servers, traffic systems, hospital databases—” Garcia huffed. “It’s like he built a ghost.”
“He didn’t build it digitally,” Logan muttered.
No one felt safe.
Not after the rooftop.
Not after the sniper.
And the conversations kept circling back.
Her decision.
In the hallway, Kate finally said what others wouldn’t.
“I think that was brave.”
The room quieted.
“She profiled him correctly,” Kate continued. “She knew he wouldn’t shoot her. Not before he got what he wanted.”
She turned toward Spencer.
“And she saved your life.”
Spencer hadn’t stop thinking about it. He was still replaying the red dot on his vest. The shift of it. The second it moved to her chest.
“I don’t think it was bravery,” he said softly. “It was pattern recognition under emotional duress.”
JJ crossed her arms. “She gave herself away to save you.”
Spencer didn’t respond.
Because there was no scientific framework that made that easier to hear.
—
In the adjacent office, Hotch stood alone for a moment before Francesca stepped in.
He had stood like this once before.
When he realized his daughter had chosen this life.
Now he had to face something else.
She wasn’t just his daughter in danger.
She was an agent making calculated decisions.
And sometimes… he couldn’t protect her from those.
Francesca turned back to Nicki.
“He surrendered to talk to you,” she said evenly. “He wants proximity. Closure. Recognition.”
Hotch’s jaw tightened. “We would be sending her into the lion’s den.”
Francesca didn’t blink. “I believe you haven’t experienced your daughter’s interrogations. If anything, he’s walking into hers.”
A beat.
Nicki looked between them.
“I’ll get ready.”
—
In the bathroom, she locked the door.
The fluorescent light hummed softly.
Nicki placed her purse on the counter and stared at herself in the mirror.
No fear.
Just calculation.
She brushed her hair slowly, deliberately. Smoothed her expression. Applied just enough makeup to soften the edges.
He wanted Aphrodite.
Fine.
She would give him Aphrodite.
Finally, she stepped into the interrogation room and closed the door behind her.
The sharp fluorescent light cut across the metal table, illuminating the man sitting calmly in the chair. Damien lifted his head the moment she entered, as if he had been waiting for the exact second she would appear.
His green eyes met her brown ones immediately.
They didn’t look surprised.
They looked satisfied.
“Nicole Alexandra Hotchner,” Damien exhaled, almost reverently. “God… you’re like an angel. You almost don’t look real.”
Nicki raised one eyebrow, unimpressed.
“I’d be flattered,” she said evenly as she took the chair across from him, “but after everything you’ve put us through, it feels less like admiration and more like you’re treating me like a piece of meat.”
Damien smiled politely, as if they were discussing something trivial over dinner.
“My apologies if you feel offended,” he said smoothly. “But with a résumé as impressive as yours… this was the only way to get your attention.”
“Charming.”
“Come on, Nicki,” he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Take the chivalry. You have to admit… you were impressed.”
She gave a small shrug.
“You were crafty. I’ll give you that.”
His smile widened.
“But,” she continued calmly, “you still gave yourself up. And now you’re sitting in an interrogation room under federal arrest.”
Damien tilted his head.
“Yeah… well that part was your fault.”
Nicki removed her coat slowly and hung it over the back of the chair.
“I’m aware that in your mind everything somehow revolves around me,” she said. “But I thought it might be fair if we got to know you a little better.”
She opened the file on the table.
She didn’t actually look at it.
Damien noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
He liked performances.
So she gave him one.
Nicki began narrating his life story as if she were reading it aloud—his fabricated childhood, the convenient trauma, the identity he had carefully curated during his time under Dr. Mendez’s care.
His smile stayed in place.
But his eyes sharpened.
He was listening carefully now.
Waiting.
Then Nicki closed the file.
“But that’s the surface story,” she said quietly.
Damien’s fingers twitched slightly.
“You made sure Dr. Mendez only knew the details that benefited you.”
She reached into the folder and slid several printed photos across the table.
“Lucky for you,” she added casually, “I decided to return your chivalry.”
Damien glanced at the photos.
Yearbook pages.
School records.
Archived disciplinary reports.
“What took you nine years to collect,” Nicki said calmly, “took me about an hour.”
He leaned back, watching her with renewed curiosity.
Nicki cleared her throat theatrically.
“You were a theatre kid,” she began. “Big imagination. Loved mythology. Loved stories where you could transform yourself into something… powerful.”
She slid another paper across.
“And judging by the social reports and
counselor notes… not particularly successful with girls.”
She paused.
“Outcast.”
Damien smirked.
“That’s all I am?”
Nicki leaned forward slightly.
“You insult my profiling skills.”
His smile widened.
“During therapy you once compared yourself to Medusa,” she continued calmly. “You said everyone who crossed your path ended up destroyed. Anyone reading that note would stop there.”
She tapped the photo with her finger.
“But knowing what I know about you now… I realized something.”
Damien tilted his head.
“That we’re meant for each other?” he murmured.
Nicki leaned in just enough to make the moment intimate—but not enough for him to close the distance.
Her voice dropped.
“In Ovid’s version of the Medusa myth,” she said softly, “Medusa isn’t born a monster.”
Damien’s eyes locked on hers.
“She’s assaulted in Minerva’s temple.”
Nicki’s gaze didn’t waver.
“And suddenly,” she continued, her tone sharpening like a blade, “an incident in your high school records starts to look very interesting.”
She slid the final document toward him.
“A report that was quietly buried.”
Damien’s smirk froze.
“The victim’s name was never listed,” Nicki said. “But the timeline lines up perfectly.”
The room went silent.
Damien leaned forward slowly now.
His expression had changed.
Not anger.
Something darker.
“Say it,” he whispered.
Nicki didn’t hesitate.
“During your senior year,” she said coldly, “you were raped by two classmates.”
She held his gaze, refusing to blink.
Outside the interrogation room, behind the glass, the entire BAU stood motionless.
Because this was the moment.
The moment when Gallegos would either break—
or become far more dangerous.
—
Behind the double-sided mirror, the observation room had gone completely still.
No one spoke for several seconds.
On the other side of the glass, Chasseur leaned slightly closer to the monitor, studying the micro-expressions frame by frame.
“There,” he said quietly, pointing to the screen.
The replay zoomed on Damien’s face the moment Nicki said the word.
Raped.
His jaw had tightened. His pupils dilated. His breathing shifted.
“She startled him,” Chasseur observed. “That wasn’t part of the script he built in his head.”
He let the clip play again.
“As long as she stays in control,” he added thoughtfully, “she can break him.”
Logan didn’t look convinced.
He stood with his arms crossed, shoulders tense as he watched Nicki sitting across from the man who had stalked her for nearly a decade.
“Or that son of a bitch snaps at her,” Logan muttered.
Francesca glanced sideways. Logan wasn’t wrong. But he was a federal agent and had to act like it.
Damien had already proven he was capable of violence by proxy.
Across the room, Bosch shifted her weight and gave Logan a pointed look.
“Be objective,” he said calmly.
Logan didn’t move.
Bosch continued, her voice firm but measured.
“She’s not your girlfriend right now.”
A beat.
“She’s your coworker.”
Logan exhaled slowly through his nose but kept his eyes on the screen.
Bosch gestured toward the interrogation room.
“She has all the pieces,” she said. “She studied him, dismantled his identity, exposed his trauma.”
He nodded once toward Nicki.
“Right now he’s not controlling the conversation anymore.”
Damien shifted in his chair on the monitor, his composure trying to reassemble itself.
Bosch folded his arms.
“Now,” she finished, “he’s playing her game.”
An hour had passed.
Nicki had spent most of it doing exactly what profilers were trained to do: dismantling Damien’s narrative piece by piece. She had peeled back the mythology he wrapped himself in, reframed his trauma, and forced him to confront the reality beneath his carefully constructed persona.
But he was not easy to break.
He thrived in games.
And right now, he was still enjoying himself.
Nicki leaned back slightly in her chair, arms resting on the metal table as she studied him.
“Let’s stop pretending,” she said calmly. “You built an entire operation around symbolism. Mythology, riddles, performances.”
Damien tilted his head.
“You don’t spend nine years orchestrating something like this just to leave the ending simple.”
His smile widened a little more.
“You planned all of this like a puzzle,” Nicki continued, her voice sharpening.
She leaned forward.
“So tell me what the timer is for.”
Damien rested his elbows on the table and folded his hands together as if they were having a pleasant conversation over coffee.
“Something,” he said lightly.
Nicki scoffed.
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious,” he said with a small shrug. “But I’ll tell you what…”
He leaned forward now, his green eyes gleaming with amusement.
“You answer something for me,” he said, “and I’ll give you a hint.”
Nicki narrowed her eyes.
“What?”
Damien’s smile turned mischievous.
“Who’s the better kisser?” he asked.
Nicki blinked once.
“Ares… or Athena?”
For a brief moment the room went perfectly silent.
Nicki slowly turned her head toward the camera mounted in the corner.
She knew everyone was listening.
Her father.
Spencer.
Logan.
The entire BAU and JTTF
Damien watched her reaction with open delight.
Nicki looked back at him.
“Why?” she asked coolly. “Are you jealous?”
Damien chuckled softly but didn’t answer.
Nicki recognized the trap immediately.
He wasn’t just asking about romance.
He was testing control.
So instead of answering, she shifted the conversation.
“What would the answer mean to you?” she asked.
Damien leaned back comfortably in his chair.
His smile returned—slow and satisfied.
“It would dictate,” he said calmly, “how the game ends.”
—
Conference Room
“Who’s the better kisser? Ares… or Athena?”
The question echoed in the silent room.
Every pair of eyes slowly turned.
Spencer stood frozen.
For once in his life, the man who could recite entire textbooks from memory looked completely lost.
His brain was clearly working—rapidly, frantically—but nothing was coming out.
He looked like a deer caught in headlights.
Rossi leaned against the table with his arms crossed, watching Spencer with barely concealed amusement.
JJ tried to remain professional.
Tried.
But the shock was still visible on her face.
Because Damien hadn’t just asked a random question.
He had revealed something.
Across the room, Hotch spoke, his voice carefully controlled.
“What,” he asked slowly, “is he talking about?”
Spencer opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
“I… she…”
He stopped.
For perhaps the first time since joining the BAU, Spencer had absolutely no words.
Morgan slowly mouthed something to JJ.
I win.
JJ shot him a look that said this is not the time, but she was just as stunned as everyone else.
Across the table, Kate was the first to refocus on the screen.
“Wait,” she said suddenly.
Everyone turned back toward the monitor.
Kate leaned forward slightly.
“She’s answering.”
—
Nicki didn’t rush her answer.
She sat back in the metal chair, fingers idly spinning the ring on her hand as if the question didn’t carry the weight of an entire room listening to her.
“Logan is more experienced,” she said finally, her voice steady. “Definitely confident. He’s… everything someone could ever want.”
Damien leaned forward slightly, his interest sharpening.
“But?” he asked, unable to hide the curiosity.
Nicki inhaled slowly.
“Spencer was my first kiss,” she said. A brief pause. “Sort of.”
Her fingers continued spinning the ring as she spoke.
“I tried,” she admitted. “And he pushed me away.”
She gave a small shrug.
Damien’s eyes flickered with satisfaction.
“And?”
Nicki looked down for a moment before meeting his gaze again.
“And somehow,” she said quietly, “that kiss still haunts me.”
She kept it short. Deliberate.
Damien noticed the subtle shift in her posture—the tightening of her shoulders, the small hesitation in her breath.
He was studying her reaction.
Enjoying it.
Nicki leaned forward suddenly, her tone sharpening.
“Now give me the hint.”
Damien leaned back in his chair, smiling.
“I changed my mind.”
He turned his head slightly, looking away from her like a child refusing to share a toy.
“I just wanted you to admit that.”
For a moment, Nicki didn’t react.
Then she stood.
Slowly.
She began pacing around the tiny interrogation room, the measured steps of someone circling prey.
“That’s classic,” she said thoughtfully. “Evocative. Emotional bait.”She tilted her head. “I can see why you chose that trick.”
Damien watched her carefully.
“But you know what I would never choose?” she continued.
Her tone turned cold.
“What no one would ever want?”
She stopped directly in front of him.
“You.”
The word landed like a slap.
“You think you won?” she continued mercilessly. “They all won.”
Damien’s brows knit together.
“They?”
Nicki laughed softly.
“This was never about me,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “This was about everyone who ever hurt you. Everyone who mocked you. Everyone who called you weak and worthless.”
She leaned closer.
“And you know what, Damien?”
His jaw tightened.
“They were right.”
“I… am… not,” he stuttered, the calm mask cracking.
Nicki shrugged.
“You’re right,” she said casually. “You’re less than that.”
Damien’s breathing changed.
“Nicki,” he said, trying to regain control, “you and I are proof of how a drop of evil can damage a beautiful brain. We are what they made us.”
“No,” she replied simply.
She stepped closer.
“I’ve always been smart enough to stand on the right side.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“Maybe you were never meant to be the main character.”
“In fact… what they did to you wasn’t even enough.”
Damien slammed his hands against the table.
“How can you say that to me?” he snapped. “You were a victim too!”
Nicki didn’t flinch.
“You don’t see me blowing people up just to get alone time with a guy, do you?”
“I was a victim,” he breathed, almost pleading.
“And you’ll hide behind Medusa forever,” she replied coldly. “You think hiding behind riddles and timers and phone calls will earn my respect?”
“Nicki—”
“You’ll always be the same pathetic loser that you are!” she cut him off, leaning over the table so that she towered above him. “And you actually believed someone like you was on my level.”
His eyes burned with anger.
“And you think you’re on Agent Raymond’s level?” he spat. “Or Dr. Reid’s? You’re just as broken as I am.”
Nicki laughed.
“And here we are again.”
She straightened.
“They don’t feel threatened by you,” she said lightly. “They care about me.”
She pointed at him.
“We don’t even think about you.”
She smiled.
“And once this is over? We’ll all laugh about how stupid you were for thinking you ever stood a chance.”
Damien’s composure snapped.
“You won’t laugh,” he said through clenched teeth. “When the timer hits zero… the screams will mix with the stale air.”
Nicki froze.
Just long enough.
Then she smiled.
“That’s all I needed.”
She turned toward the door.
“Next time choose someone you can actually fight.”
The guard opened the door and she walked out calmly.
Outside, the entire team was waiting.
Nicki didn’t slow down.
“On the police report from the high school assault,” she said quickly, “the victim statement mentions that his cries for help were never heard in the auditorium.”
She looked around the room.
“Quote: ‘as if they mixed with the stale air.’”
Recognition spread across several faces.
Nicki turned to Logan.
“It’s at his high school,” she said. “Most likely the auditorium.”
Her voice hardened.
“And if I know this son of a bitch, it’s not symbolic.”
Or worse.
“We need bomb squad,” she finished.
Francesca nodded immediately, already moving toward the exit.
“You did it, great job Agent,” she said. “Let’s move.”
The team surged into motion.
—
The moment Nicki stepped out of the interrogation room and delivered the lead, the tension in the BAU command room shifted.
It wasn’t relief exactly.
But it was the first real breath anyone had taken in hours.
For the first time since the UnSub had been brought in, the team finally had something concrete.
The monitors still displayed the interrogation room.
Inside, Damien sat alone now.
The arrogance that had filled his posture earlier was gone. His shoulders had slumped slightly, and his eyes stared down at the metal table like the performance had finally ended.
“Wow,” someone muttered quietly.
No one immediately disagreed.
Across the room, Aaron Hotchner hadn’t taken his eyes off the screen.
He had watched every second of it.
Watched his daughter dismantle a psychopath piece by piece.
Watched her bait him, push him, provoke him just enough to force the slip that gave them the answer.
Beside him, Rossi gave a small, approving nod.
“She really is your daughter,” Rossi said, giving Hotch a light pat on the shoulder.
But he didn’t react right away.
His expression remained composed, but his voice softened almost imperceptibly.
“You should be proud.”
Hotch nodded once.
“I am,” he said quietly.
Then he added, almost to himself:
“I always have been.”
Without another word, he turned and walked toward the hallway Nicki had disappeared down moments earlier.
Meanwhile, several agents were still staring at the screen, trying to process exactly what had just happened.
JJ crossed her arms thoughtfully.
“I still don’t get it,” she said. “What exactly did Gallegos say that gave her the lead?”
A few feet away, Reid hadn’t moved.
His eyes were still locked on the monitor.
On Gallegos sitting alone in that interrogation room.
“Spence?” JJ asked.
Spencer finally spoke.
“He went full circle,” he said quietly.
Everyone looked at him.
“His trauma occurred in the high school auditorium,” Spencer continued. “He described it in his victim statement as a place where his cries ‘mixed with the stale air.’”
He nodded toward the screen.
“He reused the exact phrasing when he referenced the timer.”
Morgan frowned slightly.
“So the trigger is there?”
Spencer nodded.
“It has to be.”
The room went quiet again as the implication settled.
Then Morgan looked back at Spencer.
“You good, man?”
Spencer blinked, as if realizing everyone was looking at him now.
“Yeah,” he said quickly.
Too quickly.
He pushed away from the table.
“Excuse me.”
And before anyone could stop him, he walked out of the room.
Morgan watched him leave.
Then he glanced sideways at JJ with a small smirk.
“You know,” he said under his breath, “I still think that kiss counts as a win.”
—
That night, the JTTF moved fast.
Within hours of Nicki’s deduction, a tactical team and bomb squad were dispatched to Damien’s old high school. The building had been closed for the night, but the auditorium doors were forced open under police command.
The smell hit them immediately.
Old wood. Dust. And something metallic in the air.
The bomb squad swept the stage first. Then the catwalks above the seating area. Finally, one of the technicians noticed something unusual in the ventilation system that ran above the back wall.
A device had been fitted inside the ductwork.
Compact. Complex. And very real.
The timer on Damien’s laptop had been linked to a secondary trigger system hidden inside the bomb’s circuitry.
If the countdown had reached zero, the device would have detonated.
Inside a sealed auditorium.
Exactly the kind of environment where sound would “mix with the stale air.”
Exactly the place where Damien had once screamed for help.
They disarmed it with less than thirty minutes left on the clock.
When the call came through confirming the device had been neutralized, the entire command center exhaled.
The nightmare Damien Gallegos had built over nine years had finally ended.
—
Her father had insisted she stay with him for a few days after he picked her up from the crime scene that night.
She had expected the car ride to be uncomfortable.
Expected the lecture.
The one every agent eventually got from a loved one after a close call.
But it never came.
Instead, they sat in the quiet of his apartment kitchen while he made coffee.
Hotch set the mug in front of her and studied her for a moment.
“That was one of the best interrogations I’ve seen in years,” he said calmly.
Nicki blinked, surprised.
“You baited him exactly where his ego was most fragile,” he continued. “You forced him to reclaim control, and that’s when he slipped.”
She stared down at the mug in her hands.
“It was easy to get into a psychopath’s head,” she said quietly.
Hotch waited.
“What you saw in there...”
He didn’t interrupt.
“I had to be as cruel to him as he was to those victims,” she explained. “It was the only way to break him.”
Hotch nodded.
“I know.”
He took a sip of his coffee.
“It’s part of the job.”
A small pause.
“Our job.”
—
A week later, life looked normal again.
At least on the surface.
The case had burned through everyone.
The sleepless nights, the psychological strain, the fact that the threat had been so close to home—it had left marks.
But it had also revealed things.
Things people hadn’t said out loud before.
Nicki and Logan had tried to move forward. Tried to pretend nothing had changed.
But they both knew better.
It felt like trying to glue a shattered mirror back together. The cracks were still there.
Logan wanted something different now.
He wanted her to step away from the obsession, the life that had nearly gotten her killed.
But Nicki couldn’t.
Not when so much of her world still revolved around the same place.
The same team. The same man.
And they both knew it.
It was only a matter of time before the truth caught up with them.
One evening, they sat across from each other in the quiet of her apartment.
No anger. No drama.
Just reality.
“So this is it?” Logan asked softly.
Nicki swallowed.
“You’re amazing,” she said. “And I’m insane for doing this.”
She forced a small smile.
“But I can’t.”
Logan nodded slowly.
“We’d end up resenting each other,” she continued. “You’d resent me for wanting this life . I’d resent you for making me give up something I love.”
Another quiet moment passed.
Logan leaned back slightly and let out a breath.
He already knew.
“He loves you too,” Logan said calmly.
Nicki froze.
“I know he does,” Logan continued. “He just needs to admit it to himself.”
Warnings: Spencer x Fem!reader, Hotch’s Daughter!Reader, age gap (9 years), murder, death, stalking.
Spencer and Nicki walked into Quantico side by side, steam curling up from the coffee cups in their hands like a quiet ritual. Somewhere along the way—without naming it, without negotiating—it had become their truce. Coffee before work, whenever they were both stateside. No expectations. Just something steady.
They were mid–conversation already, voices overlapping the way they always did when they forgot the rest of the world existed.
“On our last case, the suspect was a butterfly,” Nicki said casually.
Spencer slowed half a step, brow furrowing. “A butterfly… as in the butterfly effect? Small actions, large—”
“No,” she cut in, clearly pleased with herself. “Clutterbug.”
His face lit up instantly. “Right—the four-style organizational system. Visual organization, high visibility, low concealment.”
“She kept everything in plain sight,” Nicki continued as the elevator doors slid open. “Evidence, tools, drafts. No attempt to hide anything. My guess? Undiagnosed ADHD. Out of sight, out of mind—so everything stays visible to maintain cognitive continuity.”
“That’s… deeply alarming,” Spencer said as they stepped inside. “Especially when the plan involves building a weapon.”
“Extremely,” Nicki agreed. Then she tilted her head, studying him with mock seriousness. “You’re a cricket.”
He blinked.
“Crickets collect information obsessively,” she explained. “They observe, catalog, cross-reference. You hoard data.”
“I do not hoard data,” Spencer protested, already gearing up to defend himself as the elevator slowed.
The doors opened on Nicki’s floor.
“See ya,” she said lightly, stepping out.
“You’re a bee,” Spencer called after her.
She turned.
“You generate the structure,” he added quickly. “You design the system and make sure everyone else executes it.” He pressed the button for his floor. “Queen bee.”
Nicki rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth lifted before the doors slid shut, sealing off the moment—and the tension that always lingered just beneath the surface.
She headed toward her desk, already pulling her badge loose, when a familiar presence fell into step beside her.
“You disappeared this morning,” Logan said quietly. “Again.”
“I told you I’d commute with Spencer for a few days,” Nicki replied without slowing.
“It’s been three months,” Logan said, jaw tight. “He can go to therapy without you holding his hand.”
She stopped walking.
“Logan,” she said evenly. “Is there something you actually want to say?”
They stood there, the hum of Quantico moving around them.
He exhaled sharply. “You know what.”
She studied him for a beat, then nodded. “Your jaw’s clenched, your breathing’s shallow, and you’re compensating with posture.” A pause. “You’re jealous baby?”
His silence confirmed it.
“If you start trying to limit who I talk to, we’re going to have a problem,” she said calmly. Then she leaned closer to his ear, voice dropping just enough to be dangerous. “But for the record—jealousy looks very good on you.”
She winked and turned away.
“Case briefing,” Logan called after her.
“We still have five minutes,” she replied over her shoulder. “Bathroom.”
She kept walking.
Logan followed.
…
The apartment was quiet in the way only late nights ever were—too still, too clean. Outside, the city hummed faintly, distant sirens and traffic softened by glass and height. Inside, Nicki stood at the dresser taking her pills while Logan loosened his tie and set his credentials on the nightstand with practiced ease.
It had been weeks since the last real threat. No emergency calls. No red alerts. The calm felt unnatural, like the pause before something cracked.
Logan broke the silence first.
“I was thinking,” he said casually, like he wasn’t about to tilt the axis of her life, “that maybe we should move to D.C. together.”
Nicki’s fingers stilled for half a second—just long enough to notice. Then the ring spun again.
“That’s… far,” she said carefully.
“I know,” he replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. “But I’m heading back to Homeland Security full-time. It makes sense. You could come with me. Maybe start your next PhD.”
She turned to face him, brows knitting together. “You say that like I can’t do both.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I’m very capable of managing multiple degrees and a federal job,” she said, voice sharpening. “I’m not exactly drowning.”
Logan huffed a quiet laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. I’m sure you could discover Cleopatra’s tomb and still make it to the hair salon before noon.”
There it was. The edge.
Nicki felt it settle in her chest, familiar and unwelcome.
“I’m not leaving Quantico,” she said plainly. “You know this is my dream. Why are you even suggesting this?”
He leaned back, rubbing his jaw. “Because sometimes dreams turn into cages. And maybe you’re holding onto things that don’t serve you anymore.”
Her stomach dropped.
“Did my dad put this in your head?” she asked.
“No,” Logan answered quickly. “But I’m not blind either. And he’d agree with me.”
Nicki crossed her arms. “Me being here is the reason things between us work,” she started—then stopped, realization snapping into place. Her voice dropped. “This isn’t about my past.”
Logan didn’t answer.
Her eyes narrowed. “This is about Spencer.”
A long pause stretched between them.
“He stole your medical history,” Logan said finally, words tight. “He accused you of kidnapping his girlfriend. And you just—what? Forgave him? Like it never happened?”
“He was grieving.”
“Poor genius,” Logan shot back. “But somehow you’re the one excusing everything.” He exhaled sharply. “You have a fucked up dependence on him, Nick. It’s not normal.”
She opened her mouth to defend herself—to dismantle the argument piece by piece—but her phone buzzed sharply on the nightstand, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Nicki picked up the phone, irritation flickering into focus as she answered.
“Dr. Hotchner,” a calm, authoritative voice said. “This is Section Chief Mateo Cruz. I’m calling regarding an emergency situation. Local authorities have flagged a possible serial killer on the area, and we need you on-site immediately.”
Her posture shifted instantly. “I’m happy to help,” she said, professional instinct kicking in, “but isn’t this BAU jurisdiction? Why am I being pulled in?”
Across the room, Logan’s phone chimed. He glanced at the screen—and went still.
“Based on preliminary evidence,” Cruz continued, “we believe the UnSub is attempting to gain your attention specifically.”
Nicki’s grip tightened around her phone.
“We need you at Quantico as soon as possible to ensure your security.”
Logan looked up at her, unease written across his face as he read the message again.
Get her to safety!
Nicki felt the calm shatter completely.
Whoever this was—
Dedicated his murders to her.
…
Inside the Section Chief’s office, the air felt heavier than the rest of Quantico—muted lights, sealed blinds, the low hum of security systems working overtime. Nicki stood across from the desk while Logan lingered a step behind her, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Section Chief Mateo Cruz didn’t waste time.
“About a month ago,” he began, sliding a thin folder across the desk, “Virginia PD received an anonymous email. No sender trace. One attachment.”
Nicki opened the folder.
The photograph hit immediately.
A body—posed unnaturally still—sat inside a mall photo booth. The curtain was half-drawn, the plastic seat smeared faintly with blood. The fluorescent lighting flattened the horror into something almost staged.
“The caption read,” Cruz continued evenly, “‘I spy.’”
Nicki leaned closer, eyes scanning details with clinical speed. Her breath hitched—not panic, not fear. Recognition.
“The victim is wearing a gold star bracelet,” she said quietly, then turned the file so Logan could see.
Logan stiffened. “That’s...”
“A week later,” Cruz went on, “911 received this call.” He nodded to Agent Diaz, who pressed play.
The room filled with static, then a calm operator’s voice.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“I want to report a murder.”
“A murder? Can you describe what happened?”
“Well,” the caller said lightly, almost amused, “I did it. And that’s all you need to know.”
“Sir, can I get an address?”
A pause. Then a soft laugh. “What’s the fun in that?”
The line went dead.
Diaz stopped the recording.
“The body was found at the Hampton Carousel,” Cruz said. “Five gunshot wounds. Execution-style.” He slid another photo forward. “But this is what we missed at first.”
Nicki’s eyes dropped to the evidence image.
Spent shell casings—neatly arranged.
Each one engraved.
Together, they spelled her name.
N I C K I
The room seemed to tilt, just slightly.
“There was something else” Cruz admitted.
He clicked a remote, and surveillance footage filled the screen. The carousel spun slowly, pastel horses rising and falling in gentle rhythm. Families passed in and out of frame. Then—moments before the body was discovered—the speakers crackled to life.
Love Today by MIKA began blasting on the ride’s speaker.
Bright. Upbeat. Obscenely cheerful.
Logan’s head snapped toward Nicki. “I don’t get it.”
She hadn’t even realized she was nodding.
“Life in Cartoon Motion was the first album I’ve ever bought.”
Nicki stood perfectly still, absorbing the cascade of information—each detail slotting into place like a puzzle designed specifically for her mind.
“Dr. Reid highlighted that detail.” Cruz folded his hands. “Nicole, we brought you in partly for your protection. But more importantly—this UnSub is escalating. The symbolism is tightening. The references are no longer general. They’re personal.”
He met her gaze directly.
“You may be the only one who understands his puzzles.”
“You want her chasing a psychopath who’s carving her name into bullets?” Logan stepped forward, voice sharp. “Absolutely not.”
Before Cruz could respond, Nicki stood.
“Let’s build the war room,” she said simply.
Both men stared at her.
She was already moving toward the door when a familiar voice stopped her cold.
“Let me guess,” Nicki said without turning, hand still on the handle. “Agent Hotchner is against the idea of me joining this case?”
She opened the door.
Aaron Hotchner stood there, unreadable as ever.
Nicki exhaled once, steadying herself.
“Hi, Dad.”
…
It was settled.
Director Bosch had signed off on Nicki’s temporary integration into the BAU task force, the authorization coming down with the quiet finality of someone who knew better than to argue with inevitability. The moment the decision was made, Logan followed her into the bullpen without hesitation, sleeves rolled up, already pulling cables from his bag.
“If we’re doing this,” he muttered, “we’re doing it right.”
He set up the smartboard himself, fingers moving with practiced efficiency, configuring feeds and access points to make Penelope’s job easier. The second Garcia plugged into the server, the room came alive—maps lighting up, timelines unfolding, surveillance stills blinking onto the board.
Penelope took a breath and launched in.
“So far,” she said, tapping a key, “we have no direct correlation between victims. Different ages, backgrounds, locations. No shared employment, no shared social circles. Which means—” she looked at Nicki apologetically “—the only consistent variable is you.”
JJ leaned forward, elbows on the table. “This guy reports his own crimes, kills in heavily populated areas, and leaves cryptic messages only Nicki can interpret.”
“He likes spectacle,” Morgan added. “High visibility, public settings, built-in audiences. Wouldn’t shock me if arson was in his résumé too.”
“And he’s obsessed,” Kate Callahan said calmly, eyes never leaving the board. “Specifically with Nicki.”
Hotch’s jaw tightened. He sat at one end of the table, Nicki mirroring him at the other—two versions of the same stillness, separated by years and circumstance.
“What concerns me,” Hotch said evenly, “is how close you’ve been to a psychopath for him to know such intimate details.”
The room went quiet.
Morgan broke it first. “What about the Supermax subjects from your dissertation? Any chance one of them is pulling strings?”
“I already checked,” Logan said, answering before Nicki could. “All are still in isolation. She used an alias during research, and most of them were granted limited amenities for cooperation—but none of them have the access or cognitive capacity to coordinate something like this from inside.”
Nicki tilted her head. “Most of them couldn’t tie their own shoes.”
Morgan snorted despite himself.
“Then,” Rossi said slowly, “the most likely scenario is that you know this guy.”
Nicki’s smile faded.
“Or,” Spencer added quietly, finally speaking up, “you shared a moment with him. Something that felt insignificant to you—but meaningful enough to him to trigger fixation.” He hesitated, then continued, voice careful. “Statistically, three out of four victims know their stalker. Current or former intimate partners are the most common.”
Nicki turned toward Logan. “I’ve only had one name in my dating history.” Then she exhaled. “But I see faces every day.”
“An arrest gone wrong?” Kate offered.
Nicki shrugged. “All of our arrests go wrong.”
“Nicole.”
Her father’s voice was sharp—warning wrapped in familiarity.
Before she could respond, Penelope gasped softly.
“Um—guys?” Her fingers flew across the keyboard. “I just got a priority alert from local 911 dispatch.”
Everyone looked up.
“The caller is requesting to speak directly with Nicki.”
“No,” Hotch said immediately. “Absolutely not.”
The conference phone began to ring anyway—shrill, insistent, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Nicki stood.
Every eye followed her as she crossed the room. She paused briefly beside Spencer, grounding herself in his presence, then picked up the receiver.
“This is Dr. Hotchner,” she said calmly.
A young man’s voice answered—light, almost playful.
“Nicki, Nicki,” he said. “Did you get my messages?”
“Yes,” she replied.
A pleased hum on the other end.
“Good. Then the next part is waiting for you in McAfee Knob.”
She tightened her grip on the phone.
The line went dead.
…
After a long, tense discussion—one that started as an argument and ended as a negotiation—Hotch and Nicki reached an agreement.
She would go to McAfee Knob.
Not alone. Not unprotected.
A vest was strapped tight against her ribs, an earpiece fitted securely, perimeter teams fanning out ahead and behind. Too many agents for a “hike,” too much silence for comfort. The Blue Ridge air was crisp, the trail deceptively calm, as if it hadn’t already been claimed by someone who wanted to be seen.
Nicki walked uphill until she matched pace with Spencer.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
They walked for a few seconds in companionable quiet before he spoke again, softer. “Sorry for interrupting your sleep. I feel like this is my fault—”
She waved him off. “Please. JTTF’s been slow lately. This is basically cardio with puzzles.”
That earned a small smile.
“How did you know Love Today is my favorite song?” she asked, glancing sideways.
“You lit up when it played in your iPod,” he said. “You also forced me to listen to MIKA’s entire album.”
“Forced?” she gasped. “You’re welcome. Your music taste needed help. You were twenty-seven and emotionally committed to Beethoven.”
“Beethoven is consistency,” he replied solemnly.
She laughed.
“Nick!” Logan called from ahead.
They quickened their pace. Logan stood near a clearing, motioning everyone forward. In the middle of the lookout—laid out with deliberate neatness—was a children’s game scratched into the ground. Chalk lines, stones placed carefully at intersections. Beside it, a folded piece of paper.
Are you still in the game?
“Hopscotch?” JJ said, incredulous. “For hikers?”
Nicki crouched, eyes scanning the markings. “Not regular hopscotch.” She pointed. “Those symbols—this is algebraic notation.”
“Hopscotch for math nerds,” Morgan muttered.
“Could be a distraction,” Hotch said, already scanning the tree line. “He might still be here.”
Nicki and Spencer didn’t hear him.
They were already calculating.
“Negative nine,” Nicki said quietly.
“Two hundred fifty,” Spencer added a beat later.
Logan frowned. “That means…?”
“It means he’s trying to play smart,” Nicki said.
“The spacing is wrong,” Spencer said, standing. “The squares are too close, mirrored in opposite directions.”
Across the clearing, mounted on a metal stand, were binoculars.
Her stomach dropped.
“It’s azimuth and elevation,” she said, already moving.
She adjusted the binoculars, inputting the numbers without hesitation. One breath. Then another.
She looked.
Her jaw tightened.
“Body,” Nicki said flatly.
The mountain stayed silent.
…
Hotch and JJ headed to review the victim—timeline, identity, last known movements.
Morgan and Reid disappeared toward the morgue, already arguing quietly about wound trajectory and signature versus staging.
Nicki stayed behind with Logan at the smartboard, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail . Kate Callahan worked nearby, pulling surveillance logs and location data, mapping Nicki’s known routines against the victim’s movements.
Nothing overlapped.
No gym. No café. No lecture hall. No courthouse hallway.
Dead ends everywhere.
Logan typed rapidly on his tablet, jaw tight. “How are you holding up?”
Nicki leaned back in her chair, eyes still on the board. “Like Selena Quintanilla.”
“Aww,” Garcia sighed. “I loved her.”
Logan shot Nicki a look. Really?
She shrugged. Humor was cheaper than panic.
Then her shoulders dropped.
“Okay,” she said more quietly, fingers worrying the edge of a marker. “Not gonna lie—I feel awful.”
She exhaled. “My dad’s worried. Jack’s safety is suddenly a factor again. And I feel terrible that Spencer has to deal with stalker bullshit twice in one lifetime.”
Logan’s hands paused mid-typing.
He rolled his eyes, just slightly, and turned back to the tablet without responding.
The silence stretched—thick, uncomfortable.
Nicki glanced around.
Callahan was suddenly very interested in a case file that didn’t require that much attention. Garcia’s screen brightness mysteriously dimmed as she pretended to reorganize files she had alphabetized years ago.
Perfect.
Her personal life had officially become bullpen knowledge.
Nicki straightened, jaw setting.
Great. Another mess to manage—one she couldn’t solve with equations or patterns.
And somewhere out there, someone was watching.
…
The break came fast—and wrong.
The system flagged a fingerprint on the last victim.
A clean hit.
Too clean.
Everyone in the room felt it at the same time: the quiet, collective pause that followed a gift from an UnSub who had been playing games from the start.
“A flaw,” Morgan muttered. “Or bait.”
SWAT was dispatched anyway.
Dominic Marchetta. Mid-thirties. No priors that justified escalation. Lived alone. Kept his head down. Close enough to Nicki’s known routes to raise concern—but not enough to scream obsession.
Nicki was already reaching for her vest when her father stopped her.
“No,” Hotch said firmly. “You’re staying back.”
“Dad—”
“You are his target,” he cut in. “That’s not negotiable.”
She tried to step out of the SUV anyway.
“No discussion” His voice cracked the command channel.
Logan leaned in, quieter but no less firm. “He’s right. This isn’t safe.”
Nicki bristled, jaw tight, but stayed put—slamming the door harder than necessary. Kate remained with her in the van, eyes forward, radio up.
The team breached the apartment.
Minutes dragged.
Nicki stared out the window, every muscle wound tight—
Then she saw movement.
A man scrambling down the fire escape.
Her breath caught. “That’s him.”
Before Kate could react, Nicki shoved the door open. “He’s escaping!”
She followed—gun raised, footwork clean, instincts razor-sharp.
Then—
Impact.
A body slammed into her from the side. She hit the ground hard, rolling, reacting on muscle memory alone. Elbow. Knee. Twist. She got a strike in—
“He told me you’d beat the shit out of me,” the man sneered on the floor.
She grabbed her cuffs and was about to seize him but he pulled a taser.
She didn’t have time to fully recover.
The shock ripped through her leg, locking her muscles, breath tearing out of her chest. She collapsed, vision stuttering.
Dominic turned to run—
And didn’t get far.
Logan came out of nowhere, full force, kicking Dominic back into the pavement with a sound that echoed down the alley. Morgan was on him seconds later, cuffing him as SWAT swarmed in.
Hotch and Reid reached Nicki at the same time.
“For God’s sake, Nicole,” Hotch said, gripping her arm.
“I’m fine,” she snapped—already pushing herself upright.
She limped straight toward Dominic as they hauled him up.
Before anyone could stop her, she drove her boot into his knee joint—sharp, precise.
Dominic screamed.
Logan grabbed her immediately. “Hey—hey—enough.”
“Fair is fair,” Nicki said coldly.
Then Spencer froze.
He was staring at Dominic’s hand.
“We have a problem,” Reid said quietly. “His finger is missing.”
The room stilled.
Dominic laughed through the pain, eyes flicking to Spencer.
“You must be the Athena?” he sneered.
Reid blinked. “What?”
And just like that, the arrest stopped feeling like the end of the game.
…
Marchetta wasn’t the killer.
He was a courier. A mouthpiece. A fake lead placed just convincingly enough to buy the real UnSub time.
And the worst part? He knew it.
Back at Quantico, Dominic Marchetta sat comfortably in the interrogation room, hands cuffed, posture relaxed—too relaxed for someone who had just been tackled, tased, and arrested.
“He’s not talking,” Hotch said to the room, arms crossed. “Won’t answer a single question.”
“Let me guess,” Morgan muttered, “lawyered up?”
“No,” Hotch replied flatly. “He asked to speak to Athena, Ares, and Aphrodite.”
A beat.
“…Is he high?” Morgan asked.
Reid’s brow furrowed instantly. “Greek mythology,” he said. “Athena—goddess of wisdom and strategy. Ares—god of war. Aphrodite—love, beauty, desire.”
Nicki exhaled through her nose, already annoyed. “Oh my god. He’s so cheesy.”
Every head turned toward her.
She pointed first—without hesitation—at Spencer.
“Wisdom.”
Spencer blinked.
Then she pointed at Logan.
“War.”
Logan raised a brow. “I don’t—”
“And unfortunately,” she added, turning toward her father as he stepped into the room, “that leaves—”
She pointed at herself.
Hotch stopped short. “…charming.”
The room went dead silent.
Hotch stared at her like he was deciding whether to ground a grown adult federal agent.
“Dad,” she sighed. “It’s not literal. It the killer’s delusion. He wants us play along.”
Rossi leaned back in his chair, amused. “Well, that’s a first. Most guys just want to be Zeus.”
Penelope’s voice piped up from her tech nest. “Wow. We’resuddenly in a Percy Jackson fever dream.”
Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why those three?”
Nicki folded her arms, eyes distant now—working.
“Because that’s how he has seen us. Strategy, violence, and desire. Brain, muscle, and object.”
“Object?” Logan repeated sharply.
Nicki didn’t look at him. “Me.”
…
“I was looking online for some quick cash,” Marchetta said, leaning back like he was telling a bar story. “Came across an ad. Real minimal. Finger wanted.”
The room stilled.
“How much was it for a finger?” Nicki asked, tone flat.
“Five grand,” he said, almost proud.
Logan said sarcastically. “A deal.”
“You get less for a kidney,” Marchetta added helpfully. “So I emailed him. Told him I was his guy.”
Reid nodded slowly. “So you sell him your finger, but you still show up in our system. That means he wanted you traceable. What else did he ask for?”
Marchetta grinned and tilted his head toward Spencer. “Now I get why he called you Wisdom. He told me to get myself convicted, then escape just enough to get caught by the FBI. Said Aphrodite would come for me.”
Nicki’s brow arched sharply. “He told you he’d plant your fingerprint at a murder scene?”
“Yep.”
“Which gives you an alibi,” Logan said. “Did you ever see him?”
“Once. Masked. Whole dramatic thing.”
Nicki’s eyes dropped to his hand. The gauze was loose, fraying at the edges.
“Who bandaged your finger?” she asked.
Marchetta smiled at her. “He did. Said, you’ll notice.”
Nicki didn’t ask permission. She grabbed the loose end and carefully began unwrapping the gauze.
Everyone leaned in.
Numbers appeared, written directly onto the gauze in neat, deliberate ink.
Spencer’s breath hitched.
“This is a code,” he said.
The smartboard churned through database after database, algorithms flickering as Penelope rerouted queries at lightning speed. So far—nothing.
“We can’t solve it,” Logan said, standing beside her. “Either there’s a key we don’t have, or it’s a random set of numbers.”
“It’s not random,” Hotch cut in sharply. “He cut off a finger so Nicki would find it. This is a test. He’s measuring her.”
Rossi nodded. “Whatever the reference point is, he knows she can crack it.”
“Those numbers could point to anything,” JJ said, frustration creeping in.
Nicki stepped closer to the board, eyes scanning the two columns. “Left column never goes higher than three hundred. Right column doesn’t pass one-fifty.”
Spencer’s head snapped up. “Then it’s a book cipher. Two-number pairing—page and line, or page and word.”
Nicki froze.
“Oh my God,” she said quietly. “It’s my research.”
Everyone turned to her.
“My final draft,” she continued. “No more than three hundred words per page. Final version was exactly one hundred and fifty pages.”
JJ stared at her. “You remember the structure?”
Nicki didn’t look away from the board. “I remember everything.” She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second. “Twenty-seven, thirty-two… that’s I.”
Spencer was already there, his own memory locking in. “One-twenty-six, eighty… will.”
Before they could continue trading answers like a synchronized metronome, Logan uploaded Nicki’s research file into the system.
Penelope hit execute.
The smartboard populated instantly, decoding the sequence at machine speed.
Nicki stared at the message, pulse steady but eyes burning. Not fear—recognition.
A challenge.
“He’s put us on the clock,” Hotch said grimly. “And he’s daring you to beat him.”
Midnight loomed, the clock bleeding seconds into silence. No new leads. No calls. Just pressure.
Hotch and Nicki stood alone in his office, the lights dimmed, the city reflected in the glass behind them.
“If I don’t figure this out, he will…” Her voice faltered despite her effort to keep it steady. “What if I make him a deal?”
Hotch turned sharply. “I won’t let you do that. We don’t know who we’re dealing with.”
“Then I need to figure out who he is,” she pushed back, frustration cracking through. “But it could be anyone. Everything connects, and nothing makes sense.”
“Then we reset,” Hotch said calmly. “Square one. What does he gain?”
Nicki exhaled. “Control. Proof. He wants to show he’s smarter than me.”
Hotch studied her. “Sound familiar?”
She gave a weak, humorless smile. “Me.”
He didn’t smile back.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered.
“No,” he interrupted gently. “Listen to me. What if the UnSub shares a trauma similar to yours?”
She frowned. “Which one?”
“Any of them,” Hotch said. “What if he saw himself in you—and now he’s reenacting your PTSD?”
Nicki’s eyes widened, gears clicking violently into place.
“That would mean…” She inhaled sharply. “I have a profile.”
They walked back into the war room together, tension following like a shadow.
Nicki didn’t waste time.
“I think I know how he knows me.” She moved straight to the smartboard. “Penelope—can you pull my medical file?”
Garcia hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then she nodded and complied.
“Nine years ago,” Nicki began, voice steady but distant, “I started therapy at Dr. Mendez’s facility. PTSD diagnosis that evolved into… complications. I talked. A lot. About my mother. About fear. About intrusive thoughts. Everything.”
She turned back to the team.
“Every single clue he’s used? I talked about it in therapy.”
Kate stiffened. “You’re saying Dr. Mendez—”
“No,” Nicki said firmly. “I would recognize her voice. Masked or not. This is someone I’ve never spoken to.”
“Then who?” JJ asked.
Nicki paced once, then stopped.
“He’s young. Around my age. Male. A show-off. He didn’t distort his voice digitally—he performed. He wants to be heard. He suffered a similar trauma around the same time I did. Maybe saw my case in the news. Maybe attended the same clinic.” She looked up. “He followed my recovery.”
Spencer leaned forward. “That aligns with folie à deux—a shared delusional system. He could’ve formed a parasocial bond with you just by observing.”
Hotch narrowed his eyes. “You said he followed your footsteps. What do you mean?”
Nicki’s hand tightened around her ring.
“Time to be honest,” she said quietly. “After my mother died, I coped by obsessing. I fixated on a person. Watched them. Studied them. Tried to understand how they functioned when everything felt broken.”
Her gaze flickered—briefly—to Spencer, then to Logan. Neither spoke.
“I stopped when therapy began,” she continued. “But then something else took its place. Violent scenarios. Imagined crimes. Imagined killers. Motives. Entire narratives. Dr. Mendez diagnosed me with sociopathic tendencies, I’m in controlled medication now.”
Silence swallowed the room.
“That,” Nicki said, turning to Garcia, “is the guy we’re looking for.”
Garcia’s fingers flew.
Databases cross-referenced. Medical facilities. Age ranges. Trauma timelines.
The screen flickered—
—and locked onto a name.
TROY ADONIS
The room froze.
Rossi exhaled slowly. “Greek fiend.”
Nicki stared at the screen, jaw tight.
“Athena,” she whispered. “Ares. Aphrodite.”
She looked up.
“He didn’t just study me,” she said. “He became me.”
And somewhere, seconds away from midnight, Troy Adonis was waiting to see if she was fast enough.
Logan and Penelope tore through every database they could legally—and creatively—access. Medical records, aliases, burner IDs, shell accounts.
As expected.
“He attended therapy under an alias,” Garcia said, fingers flying.
“Of course he did,” Logan muttered. “The bastard gave himself a stage name.”
Minutes to midnight. They had a name, a profile, a ghost.
Then Nicki’s phone rang.
12:00 a.m.
Hotch didn’t hesitate. “It’s okay. Answer it. Keep him talking. Garcia will trace.”
Nicki crossed the room, plugged her phone into Garcia’s system, and put it on speaker.
“Hi, Troy.”
“Nicki,” his voice came through, almost petulant. “You were supposed to stop me.”
Her gaze flicked up—and locked with Spencer’s for half a second.
“Well,” she said coolly, “it’s hard to remember someone who had very little significance in my life.”
A pause. Then a soft, humorless laugh.
“Insignificant?” Troy asked. “That’s what you call the only man who was ever truly interested in the real you?”
Nicki’s jaw tightened—but she kept her tone even.
“Maybe you’re right,” she lied smoothly. “Maybe we can figure this out. Just tell me where you are.”
“Would Agent Hotchner really let you come alone?” Troy asked.
Hotch stood, already moving—but Rossi and Morgan stopped him.
“I’ll go,” Nicki said firmly.
Another pause.
“All right,” Troy replied. “But tell me something first.” His voice sharpened. “How does it feel to know you failed?”
The line went dead.
“Thirty-one seconds,” Garcia said breathlessly. “Just enough. He wanted you to find the next clue.”
Her screen lit up. “I’ve got him—storage facility parking lot.”
They moved fast. Lights. Sirens. Weapons ready.
But when they arrived—
Blood.
No body.
“Search everywhere,” Hotch ordered.
Nicki crouched, eyes tracking the scene. Then she stood.
“It’s not here,” she said, pointing. “Tire marks.”
“He took the body,” Logan said, already calling Garcia. “I’ll get traffic cams—locate the vehicle.”
He moved away.
“He’s changing his MO,” JJ said, uneasy.
“He killed impulsively,” Spencer added, turning to Nicki. “The victim wasn’t the message this time.”
Nicki swallowed.
“He’s saying this kill is my fault.”
…
After hours of combing through the storage facility, Nicki was finally escorted home by her father. Two units were posted outside her building, another at the end of the block. Quantico didn’t say it out loud, but everyone knew: she was no longer just a consultant or a profiler—she was the target.
The next day passed in a strange, stretched silence. No calls. No messages. No body released.
Adonis was waiting.
By ten that night, the quiet felt heavier than the chaos.
Spencer cleared security and walked down the narrow hallway of Nicki’s studio apartment building. He hesitated for half a second before ringing the bell.
Footsteps. Then the door opened.
Logan stood there, shirtless, towel slung over one shoulder.
“Reid,” Logan acknowledged, neutral but alert.
“Raymond,” Spencer replied, fidgeting with his sleeves. “I—uh—I didn’t realize you lived here.”
“I don’t,” Logan said. “Not officially. I’m moving to D.C. in a few weeks. Nicki figured there was no point in me renting when she’s… well.” A pause. “Good with numbers.”
“Of course,” Spencer said, nodding. Of course she is.
From inside, Nicki walked into the kitchen, barefoot, wearing an oversized T-shirt, her hair still damp from a shower. She froze when she saw them.
“Spencer—hi,” she said easily. “Is everything okay?”
“I—uh—I came to—” he started.
“Nick,” Logan said quietly, a warning.
She glanced down, registered the situation, groaned softly. “Right. Pants.”
She disappeared into her room.
“Come in!” she called from the closet.
Logan stepped aside and let Spencer in. The apartment was small, lived-in—books stacked everywhere, case files half-organized, a chessboard abandoned mid-game.
Nicki came back wearing leggings, tugging at the hem of the shirt.
“Hi,” she said again, softer now.
“Hi,” Spencer replied, cheeks pink.
Logan grabbed a shirt from the back of a chair and pulled it on. “You guys get a lead? Or is this a social visit?”
“Not exactly,” Spencer said. “But something about the UnSub won’t leave my head.”
Nicki leaned against the counter. “Let me guess. He’s jealous of you and Logan.”
Logan’s jaw tightened.
“Something like that,” Spencer admitted. “The Greek mythology—it’s not just theatrics. His alias gave it away. Ares was Aphrodite’s partner… but she fell in love with Adonis.”
Nicki’s eyes sharpened. “And Athena versus Aphrodite—restraint versus passion.”
“He doesn’t want to defeat you,” Spencer said quietly. “He wants you to choose him.”
Nicki exhaled. “So he wants me to love him,” she said, air-quoting.
None of them said the obvious parallel out loud.
Troy wanted Nicki the way Nicki once wanted Spencer—desperately, obsessively, disastrously. Spencer knew it. Logan felt it. And Nicki pretended not to.
They added the insight to the working profile, mapping it into the case file. Eventually, Nicki yawned—long, uncontrollable.
“You need to sleep,” Logan said gently.
“I don’t want to,” she argued. “If I miss something—”
“You won’t,” Spencer said. “We’re here.”
After more protesting than necessary, she finally agreed.
“Excuse me,” Nicki said, heading to her room. “Good night.”
“Night, Nix,” Spencer said.
She smiled at him—small, tired, real—then kissed Logan’s cheek. He cupped her face briefly.
“You’ll be fine,” he murmured.
Her door closed.
Silence settled in.
Then Logan spoke.
“I’ll be honest, Spencer. I don’t like you.”
Spencer didn’t flinch.
“Part of it is how she looks at you,” Logan continued. “And part of it is that you don’t have to do anything. Your presence is enough for her.”
“There is nothing going on,” Spencer said firmly.
“That’s the worst part,” Logan replied. “And that’s not even what I meant.” He took a breath. “A few months ago, you were willing to break her using her most vulnerable memory. And she still can’t let you go.”
“With all due respect,” Spencer said, voice tight, “you have no idea what I went through that day. Desperation blinded me.”
“Not justified.”
“I would never hurt her again,” Spencer said, unwavering.
Logan studied him, then nodded once.
“Good. Because if this Adonis situation escalates, he might hurt you to keep her to himself.”
Spencer frowned. “Me?”
Logan already knew the answer.
“If that happens,” Logan said evenly, “I will do whatever it takes to make sure she’s okay.”
Spencer nodded.
“I know my word probably doesn’t mean much to you,” Spencer said slowly. “But if I have to kill Troy Adonis to keep him away from Nicki, I will.”
Logan leaned back, considering him.
“I respect that,” he said at last.
Spencer nodded back.
And somewhere down the hall, Nicki slept—unaware that two men who loved her in very different ways had just silently declared war to a psycho.
“As iron is eaten away by rust, so the envious are consumed by their own passion.”
Warnings: Spencer x Fem!reader, Hotch’s Daughter!Reader, age gap (9 years), mentions of medication and mental health issues, kidnapping, stalking, violence and death.
Nicki became an agent the hard way—by earning it. Every requirement, every evaluation, every test meant to break candidates down only sharpened her resolve. She passed the psychological screening with guarded honesty, the written exams with ease, and even the physical qualification that had made more than one recruit drop out halfway through. Her obsessive need to overachieve pushed her further: martial arts classes before dawn, firearms training late into the night, gun qualifications drilled until muscle memory replaced doubt. Logan trained with her whenever schedules aligned, correcting her stance, timing her draw, pushing her limits.
By the time she received her credentials, there was no question left.
Dr. Nicole Hotchner was now Special Agent Hotchner—licensed, cleared, and officially assigned to the Joint Terrorism Task Force.
Fieldwork suited her. She was sharp under pressure, instinctively analytical, capable of reading a room the way others read maps. Most operations were long and unglamorous—overseas surveillance, encrypted communications, financial trails that took weeks to unravel. Desk work dominated her days, but when things went active, she was decisive and unflinching.
She was based out of Quantico now.
Closer to ghosts she hadn’t quite outrun.
Her father tried, in his own rigid way, to repair what had fractured between them. Small steps. Measured conversations. Neutral ground. But every time her phone rang with a case briefing, his worry bled through the stoicism. Every departure felt like another risk he couldn’t control.
The BAU had changed, too. Prentiss was in London. Agent Blake had joined the team, and Nicki found herself drawn to her—long conversations about linguistics, radical dialects, the subtle differences in rhetoric that signaled escalation. When time allowed, Nicki stopped by the BAU floor, familiar hallways stirring memories she never fully unpacked.
One afternoon she came by to remind her father about dinner with Logan. It wasn’t casual anymore. A year in, the relationship had settled into something solid, something public.
Outside the office, Garcia leaned toward JJ, whispering with conspiratorial delight.
“I looked him up,” Garcia said. “Is he as good-looking in person?”
“Yes,” JJ answered without hesitation. “Nicki definitely has good taste.”
“I’ll be honest,” Morgan added, folding his arms, “it bugs me that Mini Hotch and Pretty Boy hasn’t happened. I’m gonna lose that bet.”
“Oh c’mon, from what I know,” JJ replied, “Raymond was an outstanding soldier and now a solid agent.”
“And hot,” Garcia said, turning her tablet around to show a picture. “Hello, muscles.”
“They’ve been together for a year,” Alex chimed in, lifting her ring finger meaningfully. “You think this dinner is for…?”
“What dinner?” Reid asked as he walked up.
Garcia killed the screen instantly. “Nothing.”
“Mini Hotch’s here,” Morgan said, nodding toward Hotch’s office.
“Huh,” Reid said, adjusting his bag strap. “They must’ve stopped the L.A. threat she mentioned. The one involving a contagious virus. It was a mutation between a fever and hemorrhagic—”
JJ shot him a look.
He stopped.
Right on cue, Nicki stepped out of Hotch’s office, exchanging quick smiles and updates with the team. Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen.
“Gotta run,” she said, already turning away.
She disappeared down the hallway, boots clicking with purpose.
“Just yesterday she was grounded doing homework next to Reid,” Rossi said quietly, watching her go.
“That’s adorable,” Alex smiled.
“Now she hunts terrorists in heeled boots,” Morgan joked.
Everyone chuckled.
Everyone except Spencer Reid, who stayed silent, eyes fixed on the empty doorway—remembering when everything between them had been simpler, and far more complicated all at once.
-
One late night, with a rare stretch of free days ahead of her, Nicki chose to spend the evening at her father’s place with Jack. She could have stayed in her apartment downtown, could have slept in and avoided the quiet tension that still lingered between her and Hotch—but she wanted this. Normalcy, or at least the closest version of it they could manage.
Jack was already half-asleep on the couch, cartoons murmuring softly in the background. The kitchen light was dim, the air filled with the faint smell of coffee that had long gone cold. Nicki and her father talked about ordinary things—Jack’s school, paperwork, a case Hotch had wrapped earlier that week. Small, careful conversation, like walking across thin ice.
Then Nicki asked the question.
“Have you dated anyone after mom?”
Hotch stiffened almost imperceptibly. He cleared his throat, eyes dropping to the mug in his hands as if the answer might be waiting at the bottom.
“No, I really haven’t thought about it.”
Nicki nodded, accepting it without pushing, though something about his tone confirmed what she already suspected.
“Well that explains why you are all overprotective with Jackie and I.”
He finally looked up, giving her that familiar, warning stare—the one that used to silence rooms and suspects alike.
“Just try to do something fun,” she added gently. “You don’t have to be so serious.”
The words lingered between them.
Hotch didn’t respond right away. His gaze drifted past her, unfocused, pulled inward by a memory he never spoke about but never escaped either. Haley’s voice, steady and soft, echoing in his mind. Her last request. Her insistence that he live, that he show their children love instead of loss, warmth instead of fear.
He swallowed.
Across the room, Jack shifted in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and the sound anchored him back to the present. Hotch looked at his daughter—grown now, hardened and brilliant, still carrying scars he knew he could never fully heal.
And so the day came when her father called with a careful tone that immediately gave him away.
He needed her to babysit, if she was available. He had a “previous engagement,” as he put it—measured, vague, and entirely unconvincing.
Nicki rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. Progress, she supposed.
“Sure.”
Her plan was simple: movies for Jack, case files for her. A quiet night. Normal. She settled Jack on the couch with blankets and popcorn while she skimmed through old investigations, mentally dissecting motives and methods. Nothing urgent. Nothing gripping enough to anchor her thoughts.
That was when the idea struck.
Logan was busy that night, deep into a late operation briefing for the Attorney General. So she called the one person who had always been her constant.
“Hello?” Spencer answered.
“Lately I have a lot of things in my mind, but Jack and I think that board game could be great,” Nicki said casually. “Besides, he misses his uncle Spencer, right?”
“Yeah,” Jack chimed in with his high-pitched enthusiasm, leaning into the phone.
There was a pause on the line. Then, simply, “Sure. I’m on my way.”
“Prepare your loser face,” Nicki said, hanging up before he could protest.
An hour later, the three of them were seated around the table, a game of Clue spread out between them. It was deeply unfair—two FBI minds versus an eight-year-old—but neither Nicki nor Spencer had the heart to crush Jack’s enthusiasm.
The game ended with Jack “magically” winning. Both adults exchanged a silent agreement to let it happen rather than risk a flipped board and a very loud meltdown, from two geniuses.
Jack was ecstatic.
Nicki glanced at her phone. 11 p.m.
“Dad is going to kill me. Go get ready for bed.”
Jack groaned but complied, dragging his feet dramatically up the stairs. After multiple reminders, a toothpaste battle, and one last request for water, her brother was finally in bed.
She went back downstairs to find Spencer standing awkwardly near the kitchen counter, hands folded like he wasn’t sure where to put them.
“Coffee?” she offered.
“Please,” he said. Neither of them drank alcohol. Coffee had always been their neutral ground.
They talked easily at first—about the game, about Jack’s win, about recent cases. Familiar territory. Safe.
Then came the inevitable shift.
“How’s Logan?” Spencer asked.
“Good,” Nicki said. “We had dinner with my dad last week and everything went well.”
She paused, then added, “What about you—anything, anyone?” Her fingers began spinning the ring on her hand, to distract her from the future answer.
Spencer hesitated.
“Actually, for a few months I’ve been talking to someone.”
“Oh,” Nicki said softly.
“I really can’t say anything else, but yeah, it’s great,” he added.
Nicki kept her eyes on the ring, spinning faster now. Spencer noticed immediately.
“Now I feel like I shouldn’t have mentioned that…” he said.
“What do you mean?” she looked up at him. “I’m glad you found someone and you are happy.”
“You don’t seem comfortable,” he admitted. “Is it because—”
“No, it’s not. I’m just… medicated.”
“What?” His concern was instant, unfiltered.
“Yeah, it’s part of my PTSD treatment,” she said quickly, trying to move past it.
“Is the doctor licensed?” he asked, alarmed.
“Yes, don’t worry. She knows what she’s doing.”
“You sure?” he pressed. “SSRIs can be dangerous in experimental dosages.”
“I’m fine. They actually help me,” she said, firmer now. “Anyway, it’s kinda late and my dad will be here any minute.”
And just like that, Spencer was gone—coat on, concern lingering in his eyes, words left unsaid.
Nicki retreated to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She leaned against the sink, breathing slowly, deliberately.
Then she looked up.
Her reflection stared back at her—composed, controlled, distant.
She didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror, again.
And that scared her more than she was willing to admit.
-
Suddenly, everything changed forever.
After months of letters passed like contraband secrets and phone calls made from public booths at carefully staggered times, Spencer and Maeve finally chose a date. A real date. Neutral ground. Public. Safe—at least as safe as it could be with a stalker lurking in the background of every thought.
When she didn’t arrive on time, he told himself not to panic. Trains ran late. Schedules shifted. Anxiety distorted minutes into hours. Still, he checked his watch—once, twice, then compulsively. He scanned faces, cataloged movements, listened for her voice in the static of the crowd.
Nothing.
The pit in his stomach grew heavier with every passing second.
His mind jumped immediately to the one variable neither of them could fully control.
The stalker.
Heart pounding, Spencer rushed to the nearest payphone. His hands shook as he dialed the number Maeve was supposed to use.
The phone rang.
Once. Twice.
Then a click.
“Hello. I have a collect call from Adam Worth,” the operator said.
Spencer froze.
The name hit him like a physical blow. Adam Worth—the alias. The specific reference.
“Yes,” Spencer said immediately, breathless. “I accept the charges.”
“Please deposit two dollars for the first two minutes.”
His hands fumbled through his pockets, through his bag, spilling coins onto the concrete floor. He scooped them up clumsily, fingers numb, and fed them into the slot one by one.
“Thank you,” the operator said.
The line clicked.
“Hello?” Spencer said quickly. “I’m still here.”
For a moment, there was only silence. Then—
“Zugzwang.”
The voice was distorted, filtered through electronics and intent. Calm. Deliberate.
Spencer swallowed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Can you please repeat that?”
“Zugzwang,” the voice said again, clearer this time. Savoring the word.
Spencer’s blood ran cold.
Zugzwang—a chess term. A position where every possible move only makes things worse. Where doing nothing is impossible, and doing anything leads to loss.
The stalker had chosen his word carefully.
And Spencer understood immediately.
Maeve was a piece on the board.
And so was he.
-
After hours of investigation —Maeve’s parents, her coworkers, her ex-fiancé—the pieces still refused to settle into anything coherent. No one could explain how the stalker had gotten so close.
The ex-fiancé had handed them the photographs. Dozens of them. Intimate, invasive, cruel. Each one felt like a violation.
As they walked down the hallway outside the interview room, JJ slowed, one photo still clutched in her hand.
She held the photo up between them. Maeve’s face had been violently blacked out—obliterated—but not smeared, not streaked.
“I don’t get it,” Spencer said, studying it. “The message is obvious. I’m obliterating you. We already knew that.”
“No,” JJ replied, tapping the photo with her finger. “It’s not about the message. It’s about the medium.”
Spencer frowned. “What do you mean?”
JJ met his eyes. “Spence… that’s black eyeliner.”
The realization hit him instantly, sharp and nauseating.
“The stalker is a woman,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
JJ nodded. “That’s why she disguised her voice on the phone. That’s why Maeve let her into her loft.”
JJ’s expression hardened. “She thought what we thought that her stalker was a man. But the question is, how can this UnSub have known about Maeve and you?”
~~
A few years ago.
Spencer was sitting across from Nicki at a small table, a chessboard between them. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, legs tucked under the chair, brows knit in concentration.
“You’ve never played before?” he asked, genuinely surprised.
“I know the rules,” she replied. “Just never played. People at my school prefer Uno.”
Spencer smiled, launching eagerly into an explanation about openings, middle games, endgames—about how chess was less about pieces and more about anticipating intent.
He set the board. “Let’s try a game.”
They played in silence for a while. Too much silence.
Then Nicki made her move.
Spencer struggled.
He stared at the board, at the position she’d forced him into, his options collapsing one by one.
“I thought you said you’d never played,” he said slowly.
“I haven’t,” she replied calmly. “But I did read about the Pillsbury Attack. It’s very efficient. Easy checkmate.”
He blinked. “You’re evil.”
She smirked.
Gideon passed by, drawn in by the tension. He glanced at the board.
“Pillsbury?” he asked.
Nicki grinned.
“Nice moves,” Gideon said, continuing on his way.
Nicki’s smile faded as she noticed something off.
“Hey,” she said, leaning closer. “One of your pieces moved.”
Spencer shrugged innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You cheated,” she accused.
“As far as I remember, it was always like that.”
“I remember it differently,” she shot back.
“Maybe your photographic memory isn’t as accurate as you think.”
She gasped.
“He’s full of tricks Mini Hotch,” from across the room, Morgan looked up. “Never play cards with him. You’ll hate him.”
“Or board games,” Elle added.
“Don’t blame me for knowing how to play a game,” Spencer said defensively.
Nicki tilted her head. “What about Twister?”
Spencer opened his mouth—then stopped.
Morgan laughed. “Now that I’d pay to see. You didn’t even pass your physical training Pretty Boy.”
Spencer frowned. Nicki giggled.
~~
Spencer swallowed hard. Then last months encounter at Hotch’s apartment.
~~
“Lately I have a lot of things in my mind, but Jack and I think that board game could be great,” Nicki said casually. “Besides, he misses his uncle Spencer, right?”
-
“Actually, for a few months I’ve been talking to someone.”
“Oh,” Nicki said softly.
“I really can’t say anything else, but yeah, she’s great,” he added.
Nicki kept her eyes on the ring, spinning faster now. Spencer noticed immediately.
“Now I feel like I shouldn’t have mentioned that…” he said.
“What do you mean?” she looked up at him. “I’m glad you found someone and you are happy.”
“You don’t seem comfortable,” he admitted. “Is it because—”
“No, it’s not. I’m just… medicated.”
“What?” His concern was instant, unfiltered.
“Yeah, it’s part of my PTSD treatment,” she said quickly, trying to move past it.
“Is the doctor licensed?” he asked, alarmed.
“Yes, don’t worry. She knows what she’s doing.”
~~
Nicki sat across from Reid in an interrogation room that felt far too small for the history between them.
The metal table separated their knees by only a few inches. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A camera blinked red in the corner.
He had called her an hour earlier—his voice clipped, controlled, asking if she was in town, if she could help him think through something. She’d heard the strain beneath the words and agreed without hesitation.
Now she understood why he hadn’t explained over the phone.
He told her everything.
Maeve. The missed meeting. The payphone. The distorted voice. Zugzwang.
By the time he finished, Nicki’s hands were folded neatly in her lap, her spine straight, her face unreadable.
“Oh my God,” she said softly. “Spencer… I’m so sorry.”
The words were right. The tone was gentle.
But something was missing.
Spencer noticed.
No restless movements. No tapping fingers. No sharp inhale to hold back emotion.
“So far,” Spencer said carefully, “we’ve profiled the UnSub as—”
“A woman,” Nicki interrupted, trying to lighten the air. “Wow. Female stalkers are statistical unicorns. That narrows things down fast. Are you thinking coworker? Friend? Someone in her professional circle?”
“No,” he said sharply.
“Okay?”
“Because,” he continued, leaning forward, voice steady but cold, “the UnSub knows about my relationship with Maeve. Details I never shared publicly. Which means she knew me.”
The silence stretched.
Nicki’s breath slowed. Her eyes flickered—not with guilt, but with understanding.
“Oh,” she said quietly. “That’s why we’re alone.”
Spencer didn’t answer.
“You think I did this,” Nicki said, disbelief threading through her voice. “You think I kidnapped her.”
“You were the only person I talked to about Maeve,” he said. “And when I told you about her...”
“I already explained that—”
“I know,” he cut in, reaching into his bag and throwing a folder onto the table.
It slid to a stop in front of her.
Her name stared back at her in bold black letters.
Nicki’s jaw tightened as she opened it.
Psychiatric evaluations. Therapy notes. Redacted summaries. Diagnoses she had worked years to compartmentalize.
“Why do you have this?” she asked, voice sharp now.
“The last time we saw each other,” Spencer said, “you told me you were medicated for PTSD. But no approved PTSD treatment causes the physiological effects you described. The ring. The dissociation. Fidgeting, distracting your body from reacting to triggers.”
He held her gaze.
“And I noticed something else. You talk about your mother’s death without emotional distress. But when we talk about that night—you react.”
Nicki’s fingers curled around the edge of the table.
“You have no right—”
“Of course I do,” he said evenly. “Because according to Dr. Mendez, you developed an unhealthy fixation on me.”
The word fixation landed like a slap.
Nicki cracked her neck, a slow, controlled movement, then took a deep breath.
So this was it.
He’d found the thing she never wanted him to see.
“Fine,” she said quietly. “You’re right.”
Spencer blinked, caught off guard.
“I did,” she continued. “I developed harmful tendencies. I felt rejected, inferior, replaceable. So I compensated. I tried to become your equal—intellectually, professionally, emotionally.”
“Sociopathy?” Spencer asked, a flicker of revulsion breaking through his composure.
“Yes,” she said plainly. “High-functioning. Managed. I would imagine violent scenarios—not because I wanted to hurt people, but because I needed to control the outcome. I needed to picture myself stopping the worst thing that could happen.”
Spencer stared at her, shaken.
“I hated myself for it,” she went on. “After George Foyet told me I’d turn out like him, I panicked. I begged for help. I stayed in treatment. I still am in weekly therapy.”
“How am I supposed to believe you?” he asked hoarsely, pulling out a single page from the folder. “Here—you admit you followed me. For weeks. After you ran out of my apartment.”
Shame finally cracked her armor.
“Yes,” she admitted. “It’s true.”
His jaw tightened.
“But it was to hurt my ego. I just… needed to know if you were okay without me. And when I saw that you were—I stopped. I moved on.”
“With Logan?” Spencer snapped. “A carbon copy of your father? The daddy issues are practically highlighted in your file.”
Then she turned and left with Logan, the door slamming shut behind her—leaving Spencer alone with the realization that the game was far more personal, and far more dangerous, than he’d imagined.
-
Nicki was a storm of emotions she didn’t have time to process.
She was angry at Spencer. Angry at herself. Angry at the way old wounds kept ripping open no matter how carefully she stitched them shut.
Right now, though, there was no room for any of that.
A credible mass-shooting threat had been identified at a university in the Midwest. The JTTF had mobilized in under an hour. Tactical teams were already en route. Students were being evacuated in waves. Every second mattered.
Nicki adjusted the strap of her go-bag as the team moved across the tarmac toward the jet. Her mind was locked on maps, entry points, potential shooter profiles—
“Nicki.”
Francesca’s voice cut through the noise.
Nicki stopped. Francesca stood a few steps back, phone still in her hand, her expression unreadable in that way that always meant bad news.
“I just got off a call with-” Francesca said carefully. “Your father.”
Nicki’s stomach dropped.
“You should call him.”
She didn’t argue. She stepped away from the team, turning her back to the jet, and dialed.
It rang once.
Twice.
“Nicole,” Hotch answered.
“Are you okay?” Nicki asked immediately. “Is Jack okay?”
“Yes,” he said. “We’re both fine.”
She exhaled, relief fleeting.
Then he cleared his throat.
“This isn’t about us,” he said. “It’s about Spencer.”
Her jaw tightened.
“If this is about an apology, I don’t care,” she said, the words spilling out faster than she meant them to. “Whatever he’s dealing with, I’m not a punching bag. He crossed a line.”
“I know,” Hotch said quietly.
There was a pause on the line. Too long.
“Nicki,” he continued, his voice lower now, heavier. “This is about last night. Spencer confronted Maeve’s stalker.”
Her breath caught.
“We identified her as Diane Turner,” Hotch said. “She took Maeve hostage weeks ago. Spencer didn’t know until it was too late.”
Nicki closed her eyes.
“Maeve is dead,” Hotch said. “Diane killed her… in front of Spencer.”
The world seemed to tilt.
The roar of jet engines faded into a distant hum. The cold air burned her lungs as if she’d forgotten how to breathe properly.
Dead.
Maeve—who had only existed for Nicki as a name, a shadow, a source of quiet jealousy she never fully allowed herself to acknowledge.
Dead.
“I—” Nicki started, then stopped.
Her mind tried to do what it always did—analyze, compartmentalize, protect.
It failed.
“He’s not okay,” Hotch added softly. “I know you’re angry. And you have every right to be. But I wanted you to hear it from me.”
Nicki swallowed hard.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said, her voice barely steady.
They hung up.
She stood there for a moment, phone still pressed to her ear, staring at nothing.
Then she turned.
The jet loomed in front of her, engines ready, ramp lowered. Logan stood at the base of the stairs, watching her with concern etched across his face. He hadn’t heard the call, but he could read her body language—he always could.
This mission needed her.
So did someone else.
Nicki took one step toward the plane.
Then she stopped.
For years, she had trained herself to
She clenched her jaw.
For once, there was no clear protocol.
Only a choice.
And whichever path she took, something was going to break.
-
Nicki stood at the entrance of the building she had once fled from, soaked to the bone and convinced she would never return.
The night everything fractured.
Now she stepped inside by choice.
The hallway smelled the same—old carpet, disinfectant, burnt coffee. Time had passed, lives had shifted, but grief had a way of anchoring places in amber. She moved slowly, each step deliberate, until she reached the stairwell and climbed to the familiar floor.
Halfway down the corridor, she stopped.
Penelope stood outside one of the apartments, carefully arranging a small bouquet of sunflowers beside several others already wilting in quiet devotion.
“Oh—hi,” Garcia said, startled, eyes widening behind her glasses. “Wow. I was not expecting to see you.”
“Me neither,” Nicki replied softly. Her gaze flicked to the door. “Has he… come out at all?”
Garcia shook her head, lips pressed together. “No. I’ve been checking in, bringing food, movies, anything I can think of. He won’t answer.” Her voice cracked despite her effort to keep it light. “I just don’t know what to do”
Nicki nodded, professional instinct briefly surfacing. “That’s not unusual. Acute grief plus trauma—it can shut someone down completely.”
“Right,” Garcia said, latching onto the explanation. Then she hesitated, guilt surfacing. “Nicki, before I go… I need to say this. I was the one who pulled your medical file. It was wrong. I shouldn’t have. He was spiraling and I panicked.”
Nicki met her eyes. “It’s okay. Truly. You were trying to help him. I don’t blame you.”
Relief washed over Garcia’s face. “Thank you gorgeous. And… good luck.” She squeezed Nicki’s arm gently before walking away.
Nicki remained there, staring at the closed door.
For a moment, she wasn’t twenty-something, highly trained, armed with degrees and field experience. She was eighteen again—shaking, rain-soaked, abandoned by the world and desperate for one person to open a door.
She lifted her hand and knocked.
Nothing.
She knocked again.
Still nothing.
But this time, she heard movement inside—subtle, cautious. Proof of life.
“Hey,” she said quietly. “It’s me. Nix.”
Silence.
“I don’t really know how to start,” she continued, voice steady despite the knot in her chest. “The last time we met, we yelled in each other’s faces. I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I know none of it makes sense.”
No response.
She exhaled and slowly sat down against the wall beside the door, knees drawn up.
“I’m not here to explain grief,” she said after a moment. “You don’t need a lecture or a textbook breakdown of trauma. That would be cruel. And pointless.” A faint, humorless breath escaped her. “God, this is painfully Greek-tragic, isn’t it?”
She rested her head back against the wall.
“My dad called me. The team’s worried. He asked if I could help because—well—I know what it’s like to lose someone violently. To survive when someone else doesn’t.” Her voice softened. “And I also know what it’s like to grieve alone.”
Inside, she heard a shift. The unmistakable sound of someone sliding down until their back met the door on the other side.
“I won’t let you do that,” she said firmly. “So I’m staying. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to open the door. I’ll just be here.”
Time passed.
Nicki talked—not at him, but into the quiet. She rambled about nonsense: obscure studies, ridiculous statistics, half-baked theories, things she knew he’d normally interrupt to correct. She smiled faintly at the irony.
“Am I boring you?” she asked gently. “You probably already know all of this. But just—are you alive in there?”
A thin piece of paper slid out from under the door.
Yes.
Her chest tightened.
She stared at the word for a long moment before speaking again.
“There’s something you might not know but I think you deserve to,” she said carefully. “And I hope it doesn’t come off as selfish.” She swallowed. “You were right about Logan. He gave me safety. Structure. Protection. And maybe that’s what I needed.”
A pause.
“But it wasn’t what I wanted,” she said, voice trembling now, “you’re still the most important person in my life. And even after a whole year, he couldn’t change that.”
She rested her head.
“I love you,” she said simply. “Not in a way that demands anything. Not now. Maybe not ever. But I love you enough to sit here and help you put yourself back together, one piece at a time.”
Silence.
The sky outside darkened, sunset bleeding through the hallway windows. Nicki finally stood, stretching stiff legs, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” she said quietly. “Or the next day. Or the next. You don’t get rid of me that easily.”
She took two steps away.
The door opened.
Nicki turned.
Spencer stood there—unshaven, hollow-eyed, grief carved deep into his features. He looked exactly how she expected him to look. Exactly how he shouldn’t have had to.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
She crossed the distance in a heartbeat, and he folded into her, arms tightening like he might fall apart if he let go. Nicki held him just as fiercely, anchoring him.
“An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind.”
Warnings: Spencer x Fem!reader, Hotch’s Daughter!Reader, age gap (9 years), sensitive topics, discrimination, mentions of suicide. This is fiction, I apologize if any of these topics are close to any personal experience.
Three years later—
The room hummed with controlled tension. Whiteboards were crowded with timelines, maps, and red-string connections that led nowhere. The case had stalled in the most dangerous way possible.
They had the terrorist.
They did not have the bomb.
“Our now dead UnSub was in possession of cobalt-60,” JJ said, flipping through her notes. “Radiological dispersal device potential. Dirty bomb.”
“And no secondary location,” Morgan added. “Which means he planned for redundancy.”
“The problem,” Rossi said grimly, “is that we caught the guy before he wanted to be caught.”
Before anyone could respond, Hotch stepped back into the room, his expression already telling them the news wouldn’t be good.
“Orders came down from the Attorney General,” he said. “The Joint Terrorism Task Force is joining us as a liaison.”
A collective groan moved through the room.
“Of course they would call in the Damaged Goods,” Rossi muttered.
“Damaged Goods?” Emily asked, arching an eyebrow.
“That’s what we used to call them back in the day,” Rossi explained. “Agents with traumatic pasts, high-risk profiles. Violence junkies.”
“For a unit to still be active,” JJ said carefully, “means they’re effective.”
“They’re a crisis-response team,” Reid added. “Their involvement usually means the situation can’t be neutralized through standard profiling alone. Historically, they started in the 1980s as an anti-robbery...”
Emily crossed her arms. “So yes. We’re being punished.”
A sharp knock cut through the room.
“We like to think of it as a succor resort,” came a voice from the doorway. “But don’t take it personally. You’re wired to look at only one side of the story.”
A tall woman with striking red hair stood framed in the door, posture confident, eyes sharp.
Hotch rose immediately. “May I help you?”
“I assume you’re Agent Hotchner. Your reputation precedes you,” she said, extending her hand. “Supervisory Special Agent Francesca Bosch, Joint Terrorism Task Force Unit Chief ”
Hotch shook her hand, professional but guarded.
Bosch glanced around the room, acknowledging the team with a brief nod. “I’d love to exchange pleasantries, but we’re on a deadline. If you’ll follow me, my team has set up a war room next door. We’ll brief you on what we’re actually dealing with.”
The emphasis was not subtle.
They followed her into the adjacent conference room.
Several people stood ready—tablets in hand, screens already lit.
“Everyone,” Bosch said smoothly, “this is my team. Senior Special Agent Elijah Chasseur, our foreign culture and ideology specialist.”
The older man looked up from a pastry, nodded politely. “Bonjour.”
“My Security and Tracking Specialist, Special Agent Logan Raymond.”
A younger man handed tablets to each BAU member without slowing. “Live updates.”
Reid lifted his printed file slightly. “I already have—”
“Too bad,” Raymond said flatly, leaving the tablet in his hands and moving on.
Bosch turned toward the last figure in the room—still facing the smart board, arms folded behind their back.
“And lastly,” Bosch said, a note of pride in her voice, “our Extremist Patterns consultant.”
The figure turned.
The room shifted.
“Dr. Nicole Hotchner,” Bosch continued. “Or as I call her—Nickipedia. Our expert in… well. Everything.”
Silence fell like a held breath.
The woman standing at the front of the room was taller now, sharper. Gone was the raw grief, replaced by something colder, more deliberate. Her posture was precise, her expression unreadable.
Aaron Hotchner felt something twist painfully in his chest.
His daughter.
The one he hadn’t seen since Christmas.
The one he’d failed to protect.
The one he barely recognized anymore.
From the second row, Spencer Reid stared, frozen, at the girl who had once run into the rain from his apartment.
Nicki didn’t look at either of them.
“Let’s begin,” she said calmly, unfazed by the room full of staring eyes.
She turned to Agent Raymond. “Pull up Phase One.”
The screen lit up behind her.
Nicki stood at the front like she belonged there—because she did. Logan handled logistics with clipped precision, breaking down how modern extremist cells acquired resources without traditional funding trails: cryptocurrency laundering, shell charities, stolen medical isotopes rerouted through civilian contractors. Elijah followed, calmly dissecting ideological origins, explaining how domestic radical violence differed fundamentally from foreign-based extremism.
And Nicki tied it all together.
She spoke about generational shifts. About how terrorism had evolved past martyrdom fantasies into something colder, more strategic. Less about dying for the cause—and more about surviving to watch it unfold.
When she finished, the room was quiet in that tense, professional way that meant everyone had been listening—even if they didn’t want to admit it.
Rossi broke the silence.
“We’ve been doing this job for years,” he said bluntly. “Why are we having a terrorism lecture?”
Francesca inhaled, preparing to answer—but Nicki spoke first.
“Because after reviewing your case file,” she said evenly, “we concluded your deceased UnSub is a decoy.”
A ripple of resistance moved through the BAU.
“Almazri?” Nicki continued. “He was bait. His murder wasn’t the event—it was the distraction. The real terrorist is still operational.”
Immediate pushback followed. Profiles were defended. Timelines questioned.
Nicki didn’t argue.
She turned back to the smart board and pulled up surveillance footage from a storage unit linked to the suspect. Grainy video played: the suspect lifting a large crate, walking with steady steps.
“That box contains explosive material,” Logan said flatly. “High-grade. Unpredictable. And he’s not even winded.”
“Maybe he’s just cold,” Emily countered. “Or suicidal.”
“Except that theory doesn’t hold,” Nicki replied calmly.
Reid leaned forward, instinctively engaging. “Statistically, most terrorists with suicidal ideation exhibit escalation markers—impulsivity, emotional volatility—”
“True,” Nicki said, nodding once. “But there’s a distinction. Suicide as ideology versus suicide as despair. This subject doesn’t fit either. Which is why we believe he was never meant to participate in the act.”
The room stilled.
“As far as I’m aware,” Hotch said sharply, breaking in, “you are not an active FBI agent, Dr. Hotchner. If you’ll excuse us, my team needs to build a profile.”
Nicki held his gaze for a brief second—something unreadable passing between them—then reached out and shut off the board.
“Fine,” she said simply.
“Good work,” Francesca said to her team without hesitation.
Then, with a careful glance between father and daughter, she added, “Agent Hotchner. Dr. Hotchner. A word in private, please.”
The door closed behind them.
Silence lingered.
“Bon chance, little girl,” Chasseur said lightly as he passed, Raymond following close behind.
“Just like old times, Hotchner drama,” Morgan muttered.
JJ shook her head, still stunned. “How did this even happen?”
“This is what she always wanted,” Reid said quietly. “Her research—it mattered to her.”
Emily glanced at him, sympathy flickering across her face. “Reid—”
“Excuse me,” he said abruptly, standing and leaving the room.
-
Inside the adjacent precinct room, the air was thick with tension—unspoken history pressing in from every corner.
“Agent Hotch…” Francesca began carefully.
“I heard nothing about you for months,” Hotch cut in, his disappointment sharp and unmistakable, “and now you’re working for the JTTF?”
Nicki’s mouth curved into something bitter. “Last time we spoke, you didn’t want to hear about my research,” she said, irony laced through every word. “This opportunity came because of it. So why bother updating you?”
Hotch’s jaw tightened. He shifted his attention to Bosch, his tone turning clinical, prosecutorial.
“And you—she is not qualified to be an agent. She doesn’t have clearance for cases like this.”
Francesca didn’t flinch.
“With all due respect, Agent Hotchner,” she said evenly, stepping forward, “I’m a board-certified psychiatrist with multiple certifications in radical violence and behavioral analysis. I am more than qualified to speak for my unit.” Then, without hesitation, she added, “Your daughter conducted one of the most impressive independent field investigations of this decade. Her findings directly contributed to updated federal threat models. She earned her place and as far as I can recall we have no time to waste.”
Nicki stood between them, arms crossed, face unreadable.
“May I have a moment alone with my daughter?” Hotch asked.
Francesca nodded once and stepped out, closing the door behind her.
The silence that followed was brittle.
“Well,” Nicki said dryly, “that sucked. You just made me look bad in front of my boss.”
“We had Christmas dinner together,” Hotch replied. “You could’ve just told me.”
She laughed softly, without humor. “Based on your reaction? No, I couldn’t. You’ve been very clear about how you feel regarding my choices.”
“You have to understand,” he said, voice tightening, “I almost lost you once. And now I find out you’re hunting mass murderers. You’re acting recklessly.”
“Please, Dad,” Nicki scoffed.
“Excuse me?”
“You didn’t look for me,” she said flatly.
“Your mother was murdered.”
“And I was buried alive,” Nicki shot back. “Foyet told you I was dead—and you believed him. I woke up being comforted by Spencer and Emily because you were too busy being questioned for beating him to death. And now you want to lecture me about recklessness?”
Hotch opened his mouth. No words came.
“I—”
“We need to rebuild the profile to get the location,” she said, already turning away.
Before rejoining the war room, Nicki stepped outside the precinct, drawing in a deep breath of cold city air, grounding herself.
“You cut your hair.”
Her spine stiffened. The voice pulled a memory she hadn’t invited—rain, breath, his hands pushing her away.
“Dr. Reid,” she said, turning.
“That was a terrific briefing,” Spencer said sincerely. “You handled it effortlessly.”
“Thanks,” she replied, twisting the fidget ring on her finger, a practiced distraction. “Sorry if I interrupted you.”
“I’m… kind of used to it,” he said, a faint pout ghosting his expression.
Silence settled—awkward, fragile.
“About, um… last time,” he began.
The memory flashed sharp and unwanted. She spun the ring faster.
“Don’t mention it,” she said quickly. “You were right. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
His gaze dropped briefly to her hands.
“If you ever need to talk—”
“Nick,” Logan called, approaching briskly. “We’ve got a lead on the suspect’s last known whereabouts.”
Logan’s eyes flicked to Spencer for half a second, then back to Nicki.
“Let’s check it out,” she said, turning decisively.
They headed back inside—unfinished words left hanging in the cold air behind them.
Back in the war room, Logan pulled up the suspect’s final movements, the map blooming across the smart board in clean, precise lines.
“Vehicle GPS places him here,” Logan said, zooming in. “He worked for a municipal transportation agency. No priors. No missed shifts. He drove from his home to the storage unit, then straight to this warehouse.”
Two locations blinked on the screen like open questions.
Silence followed—until it broke in a familiar, uncomfortable way.
“The ideological markers still point overseas,” Rossi said carefully. “Immigrant background, Middle Eastern community ties—”
Nicki turned sharply. “That assumption is messed up,” she said, voice calm but edged. “Violence doesn’t need a passport. If he were the bomber, why kill him? Why erase a willing martyr before the act?”
Francesca nodded. “That’s the flaw. Operational logic doesn’t support a lone extremist. Someone cleaned up a loose end.”
JJ entered briskly. “The wife is here.”
Morgan and Prentiss stood, already shifting ready for interrogation, but Francesca raised a hand.
“I want Raymond and Chasseur to take this,” she said. “Elijah lived in Lebanon for twenty years. He understands cultural nuance—and Logan has military interrogation experience.”
Tension rippled through the room. A silent challenge. Then Hotch gave a curt nod.
“Do it.”
As the door closed behind them, Nicki stayed behind, reorganizing the board—photos sliding into clusters, timelines tightening, assumptions quietly stripped away.
“Damn, Mini Hotch,” Morgan muttered, stepping closer. “This looks like a sci-fi movie.”
Nicki smirked. “I helped design the specs. We may not have a Garcia, but we compensate.”
“It looks like it thinks for you,” JJ said.
“A system can correlate,” Nicki replied. “But a mind decides what matters.”
Emily studied her for a moment. “So how did you land this gig, Nicki?.”
Before Nicki could answer, Francesca stepped in.
“Last year—Chicago Bombers. Homeland flagged an anonymous tip,” she said. “Dr. Hotchner identified the Zarkov brothers before they were even suspects.”
Rossi frowned. “They were caught after the bombing during a crossfire with the police”
“Yes,” Nicki said evenly. “But their explosives showed poor training. Too amateur.”
“They were seen together, then splitting up,” Spencer added automatically. “Witnesses recognized their clothing.”
“The younger brother killed the older one,” JJ said.
“It was an accident,” Nicki corrected. “Panic escalation.”
“And then he hid in a stolen car,” Morgan said.
“He did,” Francesca confirmed. “Until she convinced him to surrender.”
The room stilled.
“You made him give up?” Emily asked.
Nicki shrugged. “I didn’t negotiate. I reframed his profile and gave a different approach.”
Spencer’s eyes lit faintly. “He wasn’t suicidal,” he said. “He was terrified.”
“We have a problem,” Logan said. “The wife is telling the truth, she’s not involved on this.”
Rossi stiffened. “How could she not know she slept on the same bed as a terrorist?”
“But,” Chasseur added, wiping his hands on a napkin, “she mentioned something useful. The last few days before his death, he wasn’t coming straight home. He said he was spending time with coworkers. Late nights. Off the books.”
Nicki turned back to the board, already moving pieces.
She opened, the tracking system of all employees of the agency and a name stood up. Bingo
“John Allen took the same root to the same spots as Almazri.”
“Ok so he had an partner” Hotch asked from the door.
“No,” Logan looked up a name. “John Allen died in combat five years ago.”
Logan tapped the screen. “His ID is still pinging in the system. Someone is using his credentials to access restricted transport routes.”
A silence fell, heavy and unsettling.
Nicki turned to him, eyes sharp. “He was the pawn.”
Reid nodded, gaze fixed on the screen.
“And whoever is doing this… moved him exactly where they want.”
-
Once the team identified the man who had stolen John Allen’s identity, the rest came quickly. An address. A door kicked in before dawn. Handcuffs snapping shut.
In the interrogation room, Morgan and Raymond worked him hard. No empathy, no soft edges. Just pressure.
He didn’t break the way they expected. Instead, he straightened in his chair, eyes burning with conviction. He spoke of loyalty, of sacrifice, of a country that used soldiers until they were disposable. He said he would die a patriot. He said they would blame immigrants. He smiled when he said it.
Behind the glass, Hotch stood with Francesca, already several moves ahead, mapping contingencies and bomb-intercept scenarios. The man in the chair was loud, angry—and useful. But he wasn’t the endgame.
Back in the war room, the rest of the team watched the feed in silence.
“For him, being a soldier meant being a hero,” Nicki said finally, her voice steady but edged. “But to the government, he was just doing the bare minimum for his country.”
Reid nodded, adding statistics and case precedents without looking away from the screen, reinforcing her assessment.
“So he needs to make a statement,” JJ said. “Which means it should be somewhere important.”
“War brings peace,” Reid and Nicki said at the same time.
They paused, exchanged a brief look, then continued as if nothing had happened.
The break came fast.
NYPD burst into the room with an update: a suspicious van had been abandoned near the United Nations.
Everything erupted into motion. Bomb squad. Tactical units. Sirens and radios. Orders flying.
Everyone deployed—everyone except Nicki.
She stayed behind, officially still a consultant, sitting alone in front of the smartboard as body-cam footage streamed in. Her leg bounced, restrained energy crackling under her calm exterior.
A knock sounded.
Spencer stepped inside.
“Hey.”
She glanced over. “What are you doing here?”
“Your father sent me to escort you to a safe place in case anything,” he said.
She smirked faintly. “And he knows I’ll never snap at you.”
She powered down the smartboard, synced the feed to her tablet, and stood.
They walked together toward the waiting NYPD vehicle that would take her back to her hotel, rain-slick streets blurring past the windows.
“I can feel you want to say something,” she said.
“I’m amazed by how much you’ve achieved after all these years,” he admitted. “You solved this case.”
“Well that’s my job,” she joked. “Not officially until March, but close enough.”
“I already heard the Zarkov story,” he said, then hesitated. “But how did Bosch recruit you?”
She didn’t answer right away.
“Logan—he is—we have been going out for a while,” Nicki finally said. “He was the agent who supervised my sessions with the inmates. We became close. A few months ago he stepped in for Agent Yaric during her maternity leave. He put a word for me with Bosch.”
Spencer looked disappointed, the reaction subtle but unmistakable.
“That explains his apprehension towards me,” he said dryly. “Does he know?”
“He knows you were my closest friend,” she said, meeting his eyes. “And I know what you are about to say—yes, we will tell my dad.”
“Do you think…?”
“Oh yeah, dad will be furious about compromising and unprofessional behavior,” she cut in. “But Logan’s spot is temporary. He’ll go back to Homeland Security, and I’ll stay in the FBI once I finish the Academy.”
Spencer smiled, just a little. That meant she’d still be around.
Then her phone rang.
Logan.
She answered.
“Nick, it was a rodeo clown,” he said, sirens wailing behind his voice.
She and Spencer exchanged a look.
Then Spencer’s phone rang.
Her dad.
Whatever they thought they knew—it wasn’t enough.
They started throwing out locations, symbols of patriotism twisted into something violent. Monuments. Stadiums. Icons.
Then Nicki froze.
“If I was him,” she said slowly, “I’d do something that reopened previous wounds.”
“What…?” Spencer asked.
She leaned forward toward the driver.
“Officer, please turn left and redirect to The Memorial.”
“I have orders from the FBI to take you to your hotel,” the officer replied.
Nicki turned to Spencer, eyes searching his face. She already knew what this would cost them. Hotch would be furious. With both of them.
Spencer met her gaze, then nodded once.
Reid notified the team the moment Nicki finished speaking. Radios crackled to life, units rerouted, sirens cutting through traffic as everyone converged on the same point.
They were scanning the streets for anything out of place when a large van blew through a red light ahead of them.
“I believe I was right,” Nicki joked, gripping the seat as adrenaline surged.
They closed the distance fast. The car swerved once, then abruptly stopped.
An SUV screeched in behind them—Hotch, Bosch, and Rossi spilling out almost before it fully braked. The driver was dragged from the truck and taken into custody after some resistance.
Nicki didn’t wait.
She ran straight to the back of the van. Spencer shouted her name, tried to grab her arm—but she was already there, already pulling the doors open.
Inside, in plain sight, sat the bomb.
“I found it!” Nicki joked.
The digital timer glowed red.
4:15 minutes.
“Step out of there, Nicole!” Hotch shouted as he came up behind her.
Francesca was already calling the bomb squad, her voice sharp and controlled, but the response came back fast—they were at least two minutes out, stuck in traffic.
“Nicole!”
Nicki ignored him. She pulled out her phone and dialed.
“Nick, where—” Logan started on the other end.
“Know how to diffuse a bomb?” she asked casually.
There was a beat of silence. “Send me a picture and describe the bomb.”
She tried to do both at once, hands steady despite the ticking clock. Spencer moved in beside her without hesitation, crouching low, helping identify components, calling out wire colors and trigger mechanisms. Behind them, Hotch’s voice rose, sharp with fear, ordering them out, ordering them to stop.
2:30 minutes.
Logan’s voice came fast now, clipped and precise, walking them through the steps. Nicki and Spencer worked in tandem, their words overlapping as they analyzed the device aloud.
“You are sweating,” Nicki noted.
“How could I not? My heart rhythm is through the roof and—” Spencer started listing his vitals out of habit.
“If we weren’t staring at a cobalt 60, this could be a great group bonding exercise—”
“Focus.” Logan said on the other line.
With a pocketknife and shaking fingers, they disconnected the detonator.
Thirty seconds.
The timer froze.
“It stopped!” Nicki yelled, and without thinking she threw her arms around Spencer.
He hugged her back just as tightly, the sudden rush of relief making them both unsteady, laughing breathlessly on the edge of collapse.
“Get the hell out of there!” Hotch shouted.
They scrambled away from the trunk just as the bomb squad arrived and took over, sealing the area, lifting the device away.
The threat was gone.
Hotch pulled Nicki aside, his composure finally cracking.
“Do you know how stupid that was?” he demanded. “How can you do this to me, to your brother?”
Anger flared in her chest, sharp and familiar. But she’d just saved the city of New York. So instead, she kept her voice level.
“You don’t see how important this is for me, Dad,” she said. “I’m sorry if I disappoint you every time you see me, but finally I found my place. I hope one day you can come to terms with that.”
“I can’t lose you too,” he said quietly, and then he turned away.
Francesca approached next, her expression unreadable.
“You jolted,” she said. “Maybe you were right, but that was way too risky.”
“That bad?” Nicki asked.
“You did better than I did when I joined the FBI,” Francesca admitted. “You need to work on your impulses Nicki.”
“I’ll comment it with Dr. Mendez,” Nicki replied, already half-defensive, half-accepting.
“Alright, let’s wrap it up,” Francesca said. “But I think someone is looking for you.”
Nicki turned and saw Spencer explaining the sequence of events to the BAU team, hands moving animatedly. He glanced over and smiled at her.
She took a step toward him. But another voice distracted her.
“Nick, thank God you’re okay.” Logan’s arms wrapped around her tightly. She hugged him back as he exhaled shakily. “I was freaked out. I almost thought I would hear the explosion.”
“You doubted me,” she teased.
“I—” he kissed her forehead. “was scared.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She leaned into him, but her eyes drifted past his shoulder.
Spencer Reid was already walking away.
And as she watched him go, a thought crossed her mind, sharp and cruel and honest.
I hope moving on was worth it.
⏭️NEXT EPISODE
Author’s note: Our character is now a strong and independent genius. And taken. Drama
"Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion to death."
Warnings: Spencer x Fem!reader, Hotch’s Daughter!Reader, age gap (9 years), Death, mentions of r.pe, sensitive topics, etc.
Flashes of memory tore through her mind in fragments—faces, screams, her father’s voice raised in anger, Spencer’s quiet patience, the sound of metal closing above her.
Then—
White.
Pure, blinding white.
A rush of air hit her lungs like fire. Clean. Cold. Real.
She gasped violently, sucking it in as if she’d never breathed before. Her eyes flew open and the world rushed back all at once—light, movement, sound.
She screamed.
The sound ripped out of her chest, raw and unrestrained, the kind of scream that carried everything she hadn’t been able to feel while trapped in the dark.
Hands grabbed her shoulders—not rough, not restraining, but grounding.
“Nicole—Nicole, you’re safe,” a woman’s voice said urgently. “You’re safe.”
Her vision finally focused.
Emily Prentiss.
Emily’s face was tight with relief, eyes shining, hands steady despite the tremor beneath them.
Nicki surged forward, panic snapping back into place. “He’s going for them!” she screamed. “He said—he said he would—”
“Hey,” another voice cut in.
Soft. Familiar.
Her breath caught.
She turned.
Spencer stood there, pale and exhausted, eyes red-rimmed, curls disheveled like he’d run his hands through them a hundred times. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Hey,” he said again, closer now.
The moment she saw him, something inside her finally broke.
She lunged forward and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his chest. He froze for half a second—then his arms came around her, strong and warm, holding her like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go.
She clung to him, fingers twisting into his jacket.
“You’re real,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Yes,” he said, voice thick. “You’re okay.”
She pulled back just enough to look at them—Emily, Spencer, the paramedics hovering nearby, the open earth behind them.
“Thank God you got my clues,” she breathed. “How did you guys find me so fast?”
No one answered.
The silence stretched—heavy, loaded.
Emily exchanged a glance with Spencer before gently meeting Nicki’s eyes.
“Nicki,” Emily said carefully, “it’s been three days.”
The words didn’t register at first.
“There’s no easy way to explain everything that happened,” Emily continued softly.
~~
“I tried. I’m sorry. He found her…”
The words barely register at first. Hotch’s heart slams against his ribs as he crouches beside Sam, blood seeping through his clothes, the metallic smell sharp in the air.
“What are you sorry for?” Hotch’s voice rises, panic bleeding through his control. Something is wrong—deeply wrong—and his instincts are screaming at him to move, to act. Why did he think he could come back here? Why did he think this was over? “Are they safe? Was Nicole checked? Sam, tell me what happened.”
Sam’s breathing is shallow, uneven.
“I don’t know how he got in.”
“Sam. Does he know where Jack, Nicki and Haley are?” Hotch presses, gripping his shoulder.
“I didn’t—”
“What about their phone numbers? Can we call them on their safe numbers?”
“It won’t matter,” Sam gasps. “I tried, Hotch. I’m so sorry.”
Sirens cut through the air before Hotch can ask anything else. Paramedics swarm in, pushing him back as they work quickly, efficiently. Sam is loaded into the ambulance, oxygen mask secured, monitors beeping steadily.
Hotch doesn’t hesitate. He climbs in after him, desperate for answers, desperate for something solid to hold onto.
Minutes later, his phone rings.
“Foyet called Haley from Sam’s phone,” Hotch says grimly when Derek answers.
“Alright, we’ll get Garcia to trace it.”
“He told her she was compromised and I was dead. We need to get to Nicole before he tries to contact her.”
“I spoke with Nicki this morning,” Spencer says, voice tight. “Is she’s still on campus?”
“I already sent a unit to locate her and bring her to safety.” Hotch answers as the ambulance screeches to a stop.
It isn’t enough.
Spencer pulls out his phone, fingers trembling just slightly as he dials. Voicemail. Again. Still nothing.
Something is wrong.
“Have you called Haley?” Emily asks.
“No. He said to throw her phone away and to buy a disposable.”
“Hotch, we’re gonna come get you right now.”
“No, Anderson’s bringing me a car. I’m hoping that she’s just gonna call me, at least, to check.”
“Foyet posed as a marshal and even called from a number that Haley recognized. She’s not going to call because he scared her. That’s what gets him off. The fear.”
“No, he paralyzed her,” Emily says quietly. “He overwhelmed her and now she trusts him. Where do you think he would take her?”
“Witness Protection had her living in New Jersey,” JJ says.
“He has a head start. He could be there now.”
JJ’s phone rings. She puts Penelope on speaker without hesitation.
“I got a trace on Foyet. He’s bouncing between a few towers.”
“Where?” Hotch demands.
“Fairfax County.”
“He’s still local?”
“Send the coordinates to my phone. And can you check Nicole’s location?”
“Done,” Penelope says.
“Sir, Nicki’s last location registered was on the I-95.”
“Was she planning on coming to visit?” Emily asks.
“No.” Hotch knows. He knows because of the silence between them, because of the argument that never healed.
Oh God.
The team glances at Sam’s burner phone—still active, still local.
“Why isn’t he on his way to New Jersey?” JJ asks.
“Wait, that phone’s on?”
“Yes.”
“Hotch, we can’t locate Nicole. Hotch?”
The line goes dead.
“He hung up.” A second tone cuts in. “What is that noise?”
“Hotch is calling Foyet,” Penelope answers.
-
“Agent Hotchner,” Foyet says calmly.
“If you touch them—”
“Be gentle like I was with you? What the hell took you so long? I was beginning to think this phone was dead or something.” A pause. “Why so quiet? You usually lash out when you’re frustrated.”
“I’m not frustrated. You’re more predictable than you think.”
“Am I?”
“You didn’t know where Haley was so you made her come to you and then get Nicole to join them.”
“You make me sound lazy.”
“It’s just another way for you to show control. Your mother tried to protect you from your father but she wasn’t strong enough. You hated her for that, didn’t you? You decided that all women were weak.”
“Those are your words, not mine.”
“Weren’t you nine when you killed them?”
“It was a car accident.”
“That you couldn’t take credit for. That had to be hard for you. Poor George got another chance. The little orphan was saved by the wealthy, sterile Eastside couple, the Foyets. The story should have ended there.”
“I don’t believe in fairy tales. Do you?”
“That’s the thing, George. This isn’t a fairy tale. You don’t have to write this story. You don’t have to do any of this. I know you’re exhausted…”
Hotch kept talking about him.
“You know what I’ve been thinking? Haley looks pretty good with dark hair…”
Hotch’s knuckles go white.
“Where’s the little man? Oh. There he is…”
Then—
“By the way, your daughter, gorgeous. And gave me a hard time. She’s the worst to locate. Always traveling, always working. Just like daddy.”
“If anything happens to them” Hotch warned.
The room freezes.
“Nicole is non reachable and he knew her schedule. Maybe she is already with them,” JJ says.
“No,” Spencer says instantly. “She wouldn’t have fallen for his bluff. She knows his file from heart. Something happened to her.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Rossi says carefully.
A phone rings.
“That’s your wife. Hold, please.” He puts Hotch on hold to answer Haley. "Mrs. Hotchner."
"I'm here."
"Open the gate and I'll drive in."
"Okay."
You can only assume she does.
"Aaron? I really gotta go."
Moments later—
“Guys, campus security registered Nicki leaving campus with Foyet.” Penelope’s voice breaks. “That was… six hours ago.”
Silence.
"Alright, Foyet has to be in control," Derek says. "He had Haley come to him."
"Where would he take her?" Spencer asks.
"He'd want Hotch to find him, to see where he was, and to see what he did. He said something on that call that told Hotch where to go."
"Reid, what did he say exactly?"
'Haley's hair looks good dark. She's lost some weight. ... It must be because of all the stress you caused her.... Where's the little man? Oh, there he is now. ... Do you think he likes Captain America because of you? By the way, your daughter, gorgeous. And gave me a hard time. She was the worst to locate. Always traveling, always working. Just like daddy... That's your wife on the other line. Hold, please. ... Hi. Open the gate and I'll drive in.'"
"Open the gate?" Rossi asks, confused. "It would be someplace with the biggest emotional impact for Hotch, and Haley has access to the gate."
"It's their house," Rossi got the clue. "Where they used to live together.”.
Time to move.
-
Then the line reconnects.
“Foyet,” Hotch says.
“Aaron? You’re okay?” Haley’s voice trembles. “Is Nicole with you?”
“They are locating her, I’m fine.”
“He said that… Oh, Aaron.”
“He can hear us, right?”
“Yes, I’m so sorry.”
“Haley, show him no weakness, no fear.”
"I know. Sam told me all about him. Is he, uh--"
"No, Sam is fine.'
"Aaron, Aaron, Aaron. Is that why your marriage broke up? Because you're a liar?" Foyet says from a distance.
"Don't listen to him, Haley."
"I have Sam's service phone right here. They sent out a mass text about his death. You can take a look if you want."
"He's trying to scare you."
"Did you even tell her what this was about? About the deal?" Foyet teases.
"He's just trying to make you angry, Haley."
"She should be. Nicole’s gonna... d-i-e because of your inflated ego."
He speaks softly when he spells the word 'die' and you can only assume Jack is in the room with them.
"Ignore him, Haley," Hotch urges.
"I'm sure you don't want her to know this part either. All he had to do was stop looking for me ano you wouldn't be in this mess.”
"Don't react."
And then—
“Maybe if he wasn’t so stubborn, you wouldn’t have to dig out your daughter.”
The air leaves the room.
“What is he talking about?” Haley gasps. “Where is my daughter?”
“I took care of her.” Foyet turned to her. “Don’t worry, you’ll see her in a bit, or not”
Everyone listened.
"Tell Jack I need him working the case."
"What?"
"Tell Jack I need him working the case."
-
Hotch’s voice cracks as he clings to the only thing he can still save.
"You're so strong, Haley. You're stronger than I ever was. I know you didn't sign on for this."
"Neither did you."
"I'm sorry for everything."
"Promise me that you will tell them how we met, and how you used to make me laugh. They need to know that you weren't always so serious, Aaron. I want them to believe in love because it is the most important thing. You need to show them. And Promise me that you’ll get them back."
"I promise," Hotch cries.
-
Reid’s mind snapped into sharp focus, cutting through the noise, the panic, the fear clawing at everyone’s throats.
“He’s not using past tense,” he said suddenly, louder than the sirens around them. “If he’d already killed her, he would be speaking in past tense.”
Morgan glanced at him from the passenger seat. “Or maybe he’s just bluffing. Messing with Hotch’s head.”
Reid shook his head, already replaying the words over and over.
“You’ll see her in a bit… or not.’” His voice dropped. “That’s conditional. He’s not done with her.”
No one argued. They were already speeding toward Hotch’s house, every agent bracing for what they might find there, when Garcia’s voice burst through the comms—high, frantic, shaking.
“Oh my—oh my—someone check your email. Now. Please, now.” Keys clattered wildly on her end. “An anonymous account just sent me a link.”
Phones were grabbed, screens lit up.
“It’s a video,” Garcia breathed. “It’s Nicki. She’s—she’s alive.”
The car seemed to lurch as if everyone inhaled at once.
“Garcia,” Reid said, forcing his voice steady, “put it on full volume and describe what you’re seeing.”
“She’s… she’s in a really tight space,” Garcia said, swallowing hard. “Barely enough room. It’s dark—just two thin strips of light. She’s repeating something over and over.”
“You think she’s in the house too?” JJ asked.
“No,” Morgan said immediately. “He wouldn’t make it that easy.”
“Dig,” Reid said suddenly, the word snapping into place. “He said dig her out. He didn’t mean she was dead. He meant she’s buried alive.”
Reid’s leg bounced uncontrollably now, adrenaline flooding his system. “If she’s buried underground, she has maybe five hours since the lid was covered. Every breath she takes is reducing the oxygen available to her.”
“She keeps repeating something,” Garcia said. “I’m filtering out the echo… okay—wait—I think I’ve got it.”
Everyone went silent.
“From New Jersey. Twenty minutes. Three stops. Left. Left. Right. Trees. Three miles. Check dirt.”
“She’s describing the drive,” Reid said instantly. “She’s building us a geographical location.”
Garcia was already typing. “I can map a twenty-minute radius from the Virginia line. Two left turns, then a right.”
“That’s still a lot of ground,” Rossi said.
“She’s buried,” Emily added. “So it has to be open land.”
“And trees,” Garcia said, fingers flying. “North of the national forest—wait—I’m narrowing it down.”
“That’s still miles of terrain,” Rossi said grimly.
“We split up,” Reid said, voice tight but unwavering. “She doesn’t have time.”
Outside, the sun dipped lower, shadows stretching across the roads and forests ahead.
Somewhere beneath that earth, Nicole Hotchner was still breathing.
And every second mattered.
-
“Hotch! He’s dead, Hotch. Come on, it’s over man. It’s okay, it’s over.”
Morgan’s voice barely registered. Hotch shoved past him, adrenaline overriding reason, his boots pounding against the stairs as if instinct alone knew where to go. He didn’t hesitate, he moved straight toward the home office.
By the window sat the old storage bench.
Hotch dropped to his knees and lifted the lid.
Jack was inside—small, curled, wide-eyed, but untouched.
“I work the case, Daddy, just like you said,” Jack said, his smile shaky but proud.
Hotch’s breath broke. He pulled his son into his arms, holding him tighter than he ever had before.
“You did a great job, buddy.”
Jack leaned back just enough to look at him.
“What happened to you, Daddy?”
“I’m okay,” Hotch said, though his voice betrayed him. “I want you to go outside with Ms. Jareau. Okay?”
“Come here, sweetheart,” JJ said gently, stepping forward and taking Jack into her arms.
As she carried him away, Morgan’s voice cut through the room again—urgent, sharp, alive.
“Hotch, Nicki is still alive.”
The words hit him harder than any blow.
Morgan raised his phone, put it on speaker, and turned the volume all the way up. The room filled with sound—thin, distorted, fragile.
Nicki’s voice.
Weak. Strained. But unmistakably hers.
She was singing.
One of the songs Hotch used to play on vinyl when she was small, when she would sit cross-legged on the floor and sway like the music lived in her bones. Each lyric came out slower than the last, breath stretched thin between words.
Hotch sank to his knees.
“Reid, Prentiss, and Rossi are on their way,” Morgan said, his voice tight.
“Where is she?” Hotch asked, tears spilling freely now, his eyes fixed on nothing as his daughter’s voice filled the room.
“We know she’s in the National Forest,” Morgan replied. “Rescue teams are already searching.”
Hotch stood abruptly, the song still playing, and turned toward the hallway. His chest felt like it was splitting open.
“You find her,” he said, voice breaking into something raw and desperate. “You listen to me—you find her.”
He walked into the old bedroom, the one that still smelled faintly like a life that no longer existed, and wrapped his arms around Haley. He held her for the last time.
-
The search spread through the forest like a slow, desperate tide.
Two hours passed. Flashlights cut through trees and dirt, radios crackled with updates that all sounded the same.
“Nothing here.”
“Negative.”
“Just trees.”
Hope thinned with every step.
They’d divided the land into three-mile radius from the forest entrance, each team moving outward in widening arcs. Leaves crunched under boots, branches scraped skin, sweat mixed with fear.
“Everything looks the same,” Rossi’s voice came through the walkie, edged with exhaustion. “Reid—what were her last words again?”
Reid stopped walking.
His chest tightened as memory surged forward. “Check the dirt,” he said suddenly. Louder. Sharper. “She said, ‘check the dirt.’ She must’ve left us something.”
Lights dropped instantly, beams sweeping the forest floor with renewed urgency.
Five minutes passed.
Then—
“Wait,” Emily said, breath catching.
Something glinted beneath her flashlight.
She knelt and picked it up carefully.
A gold star charm.
Nicki’s bracelet.
Emily’s head snapped up. Her gaze tracked the disturbed ground nearby—subtle, almost invisible if you weren’t looking for it. A patch of dirt darker than the rest. Touched. Packed down.
She pressed her boot against it.
Metal rang back.
“She’s here!” Emily shouted. “Send the dig team—west side, now!”
She dropped to her knees and started clawing at the dirt with her bare hands, nails filling with soil. Seconds later, Spencer was beside her, then Rossi. No one waited. No one hesitated.
Flashlights shook as more agents converged. Shovels hit the ground. Dirt flew.
The lid came into view.
“Pull!” someone yelled as officers worked the seal loose. Hands strained, metal groaned—and the barrel was forced open.
Inside, curled and motionless, was a young woman.
Nicki.
Her skin was pale, damp with sweat. Lips tinged blue. Chest barely moving.
They lifted her out gently, laying her on the ground.
Reid dropped beside her instantly, fingers trembling as he checked her neck.
“I’ve got a pulse,” he said, voice tight with terror and relief. “It’s faint—but it’s there.”
He looked up, eyes blazing.
“We need paramedics. Now.”
~~
The hospital room was quiet in that way only places of recovery ever were—machines humming softly, fluorescent lights too bright for grief.
Emily and Spencer stood near the foot of the bed, carefully filling in the gaps Nicki couldn’t remember. They spoke gently, choosing their words like stepping stones over deep water.
Nicki stared at the wall, eyes unfocused, absorbing fragments rather than a full story. Then her gaze lifted slowly, fear surfacing all at once.
“She’s dead?” Her voice was small, almost childlike. Then it broke. “My mommy is dead?”
Emily’s heart clenched.
Nicki swallowed hard, breath shaking. “Wait—the last thing I remember from…” Her voice cracked. “Did you check—was I…?”
“No,” Emily said quickly, firmly. “There were no signs.”
Nicki flinched anyway. “But he—”
“He was messing with your head,” Spencer said softly. He rested a careful hand on her shoulder, grounding without overwhelming.
She nodded once, mechanically, like she understood. Like she didn’t.
It was only the beginning.
-
Days later, the sky was gray and unmoving as the Hotchners buried Haley. The service passed in a blur of murmured condolences and quiet sobs. Hotch stood rigid, holding Jack’s hand tightly, anchoring himself to the only thing keeping him upright.
Jack didn’t fully understand. He asked where Mommy was. Why she wasn’t around.
Nicki didn’t speak at all.
She stood beside her father, dressed in black, eyes empty. Her body was present, but her mind was somewhere else—running different scenarios, rewriting moments, calculating paths that might have ended differently.
If she’d listen to her father.
If she’d checked her room before entering.
If she’d been… smarter.
Her fingers were clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
Then she felt it—a hand slipping into hers, warm and steady.
She turned.
Spencer was there, eyes soft behind the grief, saying nothing. Just staying.
-
Time passed, but grief did not soften—it sharpened.
Nicki stayed with her father and Jack, folding herself into the role of protector the way she always had. At night she slept beside her little brother, one arm curled around him like a shield. But sleep betrayed her. Memories came back vivid and unrelenting—the darkness, the pressure, the voice. Over and over.
And the worst part was knowing he’d been right.
What filled her now wasn’t fear. It was anger—hot, restless, corrosive.
One night, without thinking, she slipped out of the apartment and into the rain. She walked with no destination at first, letting the cold soak through her clothes, grounding her, punishing her. She walked until the city blurred into something familiar, until she reached the only place she thought might still feel safe.
She stood at the door and knocked.
Spencer opened it, hair disheveled, eyes heavy with sleep. The moment he saw her—soaking wet, trembling—he fully woke.
“God, Nicki, it’s pouring out there,” he said, immediately pulling her inside. “How did you get here?”
“I walked,” she said simply.
“Why?” He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a towel, draping it around her shoulders.
“It just—it won’t stop,” she said, voice breaking. “Every day I see his face. I see myself in that barrel. And I keep thinking about how I couldn’t save her. How my dad just… gave up on me.”
“Don’t say that,” he said, wrapping the towel tighter around her.
“Don’t excuse him,” she snapped softly. “I know I wasn’t his priority.”
“He was under stress,” Spencer said carefully. “Foyet’s intention was to hurt all of you.”
“No,” she sobbed. “What he told me was right.”
Spencer stilled. “What did—”
“That’s why I came here,” she said, looking up at him. “All the time, all I feel is anger and sadness.”
He started to explain—grief, trauma, the stages of mourning—but she shook her head, cutting him off.
“What I mean is… I’m not okay most of the time,” she said quietly. “Except when I think of you.”
She stepped closer.
“I—” he began.
“Why should it have taken almost dying for me to notice how much you care about me?”
“Nix,” he said gently, panicked, “you’re confused. I’m not—”
She kissed him.
He froze, then pulled back immediately.
“You’re too young,” he said.
She leaned in again. “I’m an adult,” she whispered.
“Your dad—” he said, hands still at his sides, not touching her.
“He doesn’t care about me,” she said, desperate, closing the distance again.
That was when Spencer knew—this wasn’t clarity. It was pain searching for relief.
“Stop, Nicole!” he said firmly, pushing her away.
She stumbled back, stunned. Only one person ever used her full name like that. Her father.
“I thought…” she whispered.
“You’re not okay,” he said, voice steady but aching. “You’re grieving. You have PTSD. Nothing is happening—you’re in pain.”
Reality rushed in all at once.
“You’re right,” she said, brushing wet hair from her face. “I don’t know why I did that.”
“You need help,” he said softly.
“Yeah. I should…” She slipped the towel off her shoulders. “God, I’ve never felt so stupid.”
“No, you’re not,” he said quickly.
But she was already stepping back, tears filling her eyes.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Let me call Hotch—”
“No no, I’m sorry,” she said, and turned, bolting for the door.
He reached for her, but she was already gone—vanishing back into the rain.
And she wasn’t the only one left broken that night.
-
Just like that, something delicate shattered.
Nicki stopped answering Spencer’s calls. She didn’t reply to his messages, didn’t acknowledge the quiet apologies and worried check-ins that piled up unread. Instead, she did what she had always done best—she compartmentalized. She buried herself in coursework, research, anything that kept her mind occupied long enough not to drift back to the barrel, the darkness, the voice.
Back at college, life resumed its rhythm, but she didn’t.
She began attending weekly therapy sessions, sitting across from a professional trained to listen while she tried to put words to grief, rage, and the violent images that intruded without warning. She spoke about her mother. About fear. About survival. She did not speak about everything.
Because some things, even she didn’t know how to explain.
Patterns emerged—fixations she couldn’t shake, an unsettling ease with emotional detachment, a tendency to observe pain rather than feel it. After a few moments of frightening clarity, she recognized the signs for what they were.
Sociopathic tendencies.
The realization didn’t scare her as much as it probably should have. It fascinated her.
Her father knew she was in therapy. He did not know what lived behind her eyes.
Their relationship became a minefield. One part of her resented him deeply—for the control, for the distance, for the choices that had led them here. Another part of her understood, painfully, that he was one of the last anchors she had left.
That only made things worse.
Hotch grew more paranoid by the day. Jack was protected, cocooned. Nicki was monitored, questioned, restricted. Every decision she made was scrutinized, every risk magnified.
One night, she said it aloud.
“I’ve been thinking about moving forward with my investigation.”
The argument that followed was inevitable. Voices rose. Accusations flew. Fear masqueraded as authority.
And Nicki snapped.
She walked out mid-sentence, heart pounding, hands shaking—not in fear, but in certainty.
She was nineteen. And she was done asking for permission.
Princeton offered her housing on campus in exchange for assisting with research. She accepted without hesitation. She packed quickly, efficiently, leaving behind a space that had never quite felt like home since the funeral.
She didn’t say goodbye properly.
Instead, she called Aunt Jessica. Checked on Jack. Made sure he was okay.
Hotch stood in the doorway of an empty apartment afterward, heart breaking in a way no case had ever prepared him for. He loved his daughter—but he could not support the path she was choosing.
And Nicki, for the first time, chose it anyway.
The envelope arrived like any other—thin, official, unassuming.
Hotch barely glanced at it at first. Princeton mail. Academic updates. He would have ignored it entirely if her name hadn’t caught his eye.
Nicole Alexandra Hotchner.
Psychology. Extremist Idealism MD-PhD
He sat down slowly, a familiar weight settling in his chest as he opened the newsletter. His eyes skimmed the page, then stopped.
Her research had been approved.
Not by the FBI.
Not by any internal ethics committee he trusted.
By Homeland Security.
His jaw tightened as he read further, each line landing like a blow. Special clearance. Federal cooperation. Access granted to high-risk inmates under supervised conditions. Language carefully crafted to sound responsible, necessary—progressive.
The title stood out, bold and clinical:
“Massive Murders: Is It a Human Trait or a Learned Behavior?”
Hotch’s hand trembled.
He read it again. Slower this time. As if the words might rearrange themselves into something less horrifying if he gave them another chance.
They didn’t.
A sharp sound cracked through his office as the book in his hand flew across the room, slamming into the wall. Papers rattled. A pen rolled off his desk.
“How could they?” he muttered, pacing now, anger burning through fear. “How could she?”
Homeland Security didn’t see a girl who had been buried alive. They didn’t see a daughter who still woke up screaming, a mind fractured by trauma and rage.
They saw a resource.
And she had let them.
No—she had chosen this.
That realization hurt the most.
This wasn’t rebellion. This was something darker, something colder, something that felt frighteningly intentional.
Hotch stopped pacing and stared at the framed photo on his desk—the one taken years ago, when the world hadn’t carved itself into her bones.
He didn’t recognize her anymore.
And for the first time since Haley’s death, the fear that gripped him wasn’t for losing his family—
It was for what his daughter might be becoming.
⏭️NEXT EPISODE
Author’s note: emotional damage:( and again timeline, but everything for the plot.
“How good and thoughtful he is; the world seems full of good men--even if there are monsters in it.”
Warnings: Spencer x Fem!reader, Hotch’s Daughter!Reader, age gap (9 years), violence, mentions of addiction, kidnapping and a lot of bad things
Nicole stood in the narrow doorway of her new dorm room in Switzerland, suitcase at her feet, mountain air drifting in through the open window. Aiglon College rose around her like something carved out of stone and discipline—ancient, immaculate, and utterly unforgiving.
Saying goodbye to her parents at the airport had been harder than she expected. Haley had held onto her too long. Jack cried watching her walk away. Hotch had said very little, but the way his hand lingered on her shoulder told her everything he didn’t know how to say.
Still, the part that stung the most wasn’t leaving home.
It was leaving her only friend.
She had to learn how to start over. Again.
Despite his technophobia, he had reluctantly agreed to text. It became their compromise—short messages, once or twice a day. Just two friends pretending distance didn’t matter.
⸻
DrReid:
I think I’m getting the hang of this…
How is Aiglon College?
Nixhotchner:
do you remember high school being a war zone?
DrReid:
war zone?
NixHotchner:
here we are not humans, we are machines
the courses are cool though
DrReid:
I was 12 when I finished high school
NixHotchner:
showoff
Anyway anything new over there?
DrReid:
A lot actually, Elle quit.
NixHotchner:
Yikes
DrReid:
Long story, but there is a new agent coming for interview
⸻
A few days later—
NixHotchner:
I’m binging Doctor Who like you told me
Surprisingly factual but kinda trippy
DrReid:
Really? What version?
NixHotchner:
original duh
DrReid:
Duh?
NixHotchner:
Dad told me Strauss hired an agent from Interpol. Fancy
DrReid:
yeah
NixHotchner:
gotta go doc, lab hours
⸻
Weeks passed.
Then—
NixHotchner:
Mornin doc
Hello? u there
Are u okay
No response.
Break approached fast. She told herself he was busy. That cases got heavy. That silence didn’t always mean abandonment.
Still, the knot in her chest refused to loosen.
When she landed back home, Haley picked her up from the airport with Jack bouncing excitedly right next to their mother.
“Oh my God, Jackie, you’re so big,” Nicole laughed, lifting him into her arms.
“Look at you, baby,” Haley said, pulling her into a hug. “How is it possible you got taller?”
It was true. Nicole had grown a few inches. She stood at five foot nine now—more composed.
The next day, Haley drove her to Quantico to surprise Hotch.
The halls felt familiar. Comforting. Faces lit up when they saw her.
“Nicole?”
“Hey!”
JJ hugged her. Morgan teased her. Gideon smiled quietly.
Then—
“Where’s Spencer? I got him a book.”
No one answered. Too loyal.
Her heart dropped.
She walked fast toward her father’s office, knocked once, and pushed the door open.
“Guess what, Dad? I got expelled,” she said lightly. “Kidding.”
Hotch looked up surprised by her voice.
“Nicole?”
She crossed the room and hugged him tightly.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “Emily—this is my daughter, Nicki.”
The woman in front of his desk stood. Black hair, pale skin, sharp features .
“I can tell,” Emily said, shaking Nicole’s hand.
“Every girl wants to be told they look just like their father,” Nicole replied sarcastically. “But you’re not wrong. Firstborns tend to share most physical traits with the opposite-gender parent. Unless they’re miracle babies—then the genetic code adapts to—”
“Honey,” Hotch interrupted.
Emily smiled awkwardly. “Wow.”
That night, over dinner, Nicole told her parents everything—classes, professors, friends, achievements.
Then—
“Where is Spencer?”
Hotch hesitated.
“Nicki…”
“I’m worried,” she said quietly. “He stopped messaging me. Maybe he’s tired of me.”
Haley looked down at her plate.
Hotch sighed. “During our last case… Spencer was kidnapped and tortured by the UnSub.”
Nicole froze.
“Is he—”
“He was injected with a narcotic,” Hotch continued. “It caused an involuntary addiction. He’s on rehabilitation leave.”
Her eyes burned.
The next days blurred together.
On her last night in town, Nicole convinced Penelope Garcia—after much pleading—to give her Spencer’s address.
She didn’t sleep.
Instead, she made a profound research on withdrawal, and once she was ready she sent him a package.
⸻
A month later—
DrReid:
Hi, Nix. I would like to apologize for disappearing.
NixHotchner:
It’s alright. Hope you are better
DrReid:
I got your present.
Not to be ungrateful but it’s a lot of candy
She smiled through the phone screen.
⸻
Later that year—
DrReid:
I read your final paper. Garcia printed it for me. It’s great.
NixHotchner:
I know. Thanks
DrReid:
Are you alright?
She stared at the phone for a long moment.
NixHotchner:
my parents are getting a divorce
DrReid:
I’m so sorry to hear that.
NixHotchner:
I saw all the signs, and I’m still in denial
I think I need to go study. I’ll message you later.
She put the phone down before he could reply.
—
A year passed faster than Nicole expected.
Switzerland blurred into exams, ceremonies, and sleepless nights—and then suddenly she was standing in a cap and gown, sunlight spilling over the mountains as her name echoed across the courtyard. Aaron and Haley had flown in for the ceremony, pride written all over their faces even as they stood a little apart from each other now. Jack waved enthusiastically from the front row, completely unaware of the gravity of the moment.
Nicole graduated at the top of her class.
Again.
There were awards. Commendations. Quiet murmurs from professors who already spoke of her in future tense.
Back in the States, Washington, D.C. waited for her—applications, interviews, a new stage of her life looming closer than ever. But not before one last celebration.
David Rossi’s beach house in the Hamptons glowed warmly against the night, light spilling out onto the sand like something out of a memory she’d never quite trust herself to keep. The BAU team filled the space easily—laughter, teasing, clinking glasses. Family, in the way they had learned to be.
Dinner was long and loud. Champagne followed. Speeches came next.
Haley spoke first—about resilience, about watching her daughter grow into someone formidable. Aaron followed, his words measured but unmistakably emotional, pride barely contained beneath his composure.
When the applause finally faded, Nicole slipped outside.
The ocean stretched endlessly before her, black and vast, swallowing the moonlight whole. The salt air cooled her skin. She breathed deeply, grounding herself.
“Hey.”
She turned.
Spencer stood a few feet away, hands tucked awkwardly into the pockets of his jacket, long curls softer than she remembered, eyes gentler.
“Hey,” she replied.
They stood there for a moment, the sound of the waves filling the space between them.
“I hope you don’t find this weird,” he said suddenly, reaching behind him. “But I got you a graduation present.”
He held out a small box.
“You shouldn’t have,” she said honestly.
“Emily and JJ helped me choose it,” he added quickly, almost sheepish. “I—I needed guidance.”
She smiled and opened the box.
Inside lay a delicate bracelet, gold catching the faint light, a single small star charm resting at its center.
“You’re giving me a gold star?” Nicole teased, warmth blooming in her chest.
“Too much?” he asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice. “I was trying to give you something that—well—reminds you of your accomplishments.”
“It’s perfect,” she said softly.
She slipped it from the box and held out her wrist. “Can you help me? I’ve become fond of the long nails.”
“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer.
His fingers brushed her skin as he fastened the clasp—large hands, careful and precise, touch unexpectedly gentle. She felt the warmth of him, the closeness, the quiet concentration.
Then—his hand lingered.
Just barely.
Her breath caught.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
For a split second, the ocean disappeared. The noise from the house faded. All she could feel was the sudden, undeniable awareness of him standing there—grown, steady, familiar and unfamiliar all at once.
Her heart skipped.
As expected, Nicole moved faster than the system was designed to allow.
What was meant to be a four-year college program collapsed into two as she collected credits like coupons—double courseloads, summer terms, independent studies negotiated with professors who stopped questioning her after the first semester. She was majoring in Mathematics. Numbers never lied to her. Numbers didn’t talk down.
She added languages almost absentmindedly—French refined to fluency, German conversational, Russian still rough but improving.
Something was missing.
Being back in the States helped, at least on the surface. She saw her mother more often, helped with Jack when Haley’s schedule overflowed, cooked dinner, folded laundry, learned how to be present in small, quiet ways. Haley tried—really tried—but exhaustion clung to her like a second skin.
Her father, on the other hand, remained distant.
Not absent. Distant.
Their relationship reduced itself to holidays, stiff hugs, and sporadic phone calls that felt more like briefings than conversations. Nicole learned not to expect more.
Until one of those diners cracked something open.
She’d been thinking about it for months—circling the idea like a predator that refused to strike until it was sure. Change her major to Psychology. Not theory alone, but application.
After weeks of deliberation, she finally told him.
She showed him everything she wanted. MD programs. PhDs. Dual tracks. Research-heavy routes, clinical options, federal pipelines. Her laptop screen glowed between them, filled with tabs and possibilities.
Hotch’s expression darkened with every scroll.
“No,” he said flatly.
Nicole blinked. “What?”
“Nicole, you are brilliant,” he continued. “Don’t waste it endangering yourself.”
Her jaw tightened. “It’s not wasting it.”
“It is,” he said firmly. “This line of work destroys people.”
“Talking from experience?” she shot back.
He stood, pacing now. “I’ve seen what it does. I’ve buried friends. I’ve watched people break. I will not watch my daughter walk into that.”
“So you’re forbidding me?” she asked quietly.
“I’m protecting you.”
“No,” she snapped. “You’re commanding me.”
He stopped. “Because I’m your father.”
And just like that, the restraint she’d built for years shattered.
“You dedicated your entire life to this job,” she said, voice shaking now. “You sacrificed your marriage. You sacrificed being home. You missed birthdays, school events—me.”
“That’s not—”
“And now you’re standing there telling me I can’t do it?” she continued, eyes burning. “You can look me in the eye and say I’m not good enough?”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to,” she said bitterly. “You’re afraid.”
His voice rose. “Because I don’t want to bury my daughter one day!”
Silence followed—thick, suffocating.
Nicole swallowed hard. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Something broke that day.
Not loudly. Not completely.
But enough.
And it was only the beginning.
Nicole moved forward anyway.
Despite her father’s very clear objections—warnings, really—she applied to a joint master’s and doctorate program rooted in behavioral research. Not field work, not active profiling, but close enough that Hotch had called it what it was.
A death wish.
She framed it differently. Research meant distance. Control. Observation without a gun in her hand.
The acceptance letter came faster than expected.
Now, on a crisp autumn morning, Nicole walked across campus with her phone pressed to her ear, leaves crunching beneath her heels, mind already racing several steps ahead of her body.
“Nix,” Spencer said carefully on the other end. “You’re asking for something that requires multiple layers of clearance. And you are supposed to be under the radar under Hotch’s orders”
“I know,” she replied. “Which is why I’m not calling him or Morgan.”
A pause.
“And Rossi would never do it behind his back,” she added. “Emily barely knows me well enough to risk her career. JJ would laugh in my face.”
Another pause—longer this time.
She stopped near a fountain, watching students pass, unaware of the weight of the conversation happening inches from her ear.
“I need approval to interview five inmates at ADX Florence,” she continued, voice calm but precise. “SuperMax. Controlled environment. Monitored sessions. No physical proximity without restraints. Princeton already approved the research design. They’re funding the security. I’m not improvising here, Doc.”
He exhaled slowly. “Nicki… SuperMax holds the worst criminals in American history.”
“I’m aware.”
“These aren’t case studies,” he said. “They’re predators.”
“And that’s why they’re valuable,” she replied. “I’m studying cognitive pattern evolution in long-term isolation for terrorists. You of all people know how rare that access is.”
“That doesn’t make it safe.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
He was quiet now, and she could practically hear the gears turning in his head.
“I can’t,” he said finally. “It’s not that simple.”
She swallowed, then softened her tone. “Please. Just think about it. Take your time—but not too much.”
She glanced at the clock on her phone. “According to my calculations, I’m already ten minutes behind schedule.”
Before he could respond, she hung up.
Her dorm building loomed ahead—old stone, ivy crawling up its sides like it had something to prove. She climbed the steps, keyed in her code, and pushed the door open.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Her bag slid off her shoulder as her eyes landed on a figure standing near her trophy stand—back to her, hands clasped behind him as he examined her achievements like museum artifacts.
She froze.
He turned slowly.
Older. Controlled. Eyes sharp with something that wasn’t curiosity.
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he said calmly. “Are you as stubborn and egotistical as your father?”
Nicole sat in rigid silence as the car tore through the highway back toward D.C. As the driver was pressing his gun against her ribs.
The engine’s steady hum was almost hypnotic. The smell inside the vehicle—old leather, metallic, wrong—made her stomach twist. She kept her gaze fixed on the windshield, jaw clenched, forcing her breathing into something slow and measured.
He, on the other hand, never stopped talking.
“Your father practically begged for it,” Foyet said casually, as if discussing the weather. “I gave him a chance. A clean one. And he led you—your little brother—your mother—right to me.”
Nicole turned her head just enough to give him a sideways glance.
Nothing else.
He laughed softly. “God. You really are his daughter.” His eyes flicked toward her. “I can tell you’re a bitch.”
He paused, mock-polite. “Apologies. We’ve just met. You don’t know who I am.”
That was when she finally spoke.
Her voice was calm. Flat. Precise.
“George Foyet,” she began. “Born 1973. Abusive childhood. Early head trauma. Serial escalation after first kill. You fake injuries to insert yourself into investigations.”
His grip tightened on the wheel.
“You’ve killed—what—thirteen confirmed?” she continued. “More unconfirmed. You have scars on your abdomen from self-inflicted wounds meant to mislead medical staff. You developed chronic hypertension and untreated nerve damage after the last incident.”
She turned fully to him now. “Would you like me to confirm your newly acquired diseases too?”
The smack came fast.
Her head snapped sideways, pain blooming sharp and hot.
Before she could recover, rough hands shoved a bag over her head, plunging her into darkness. The world narrowed to sound and motion as the car surged forward again.
“Did you clean it after the last victim?” she asked, voice muffled but steady. “Because if not—gross.”
He didn’t answer.
Nicole focused instead on counting turns. The incline of the road. The time between stops. She forced herself to map the drive in her head—northbound acceleration, then a gradual deceleration, gravel crunching under tires.
After several minutes, the car stopped.
The passenger door flew open.
She was yanked out and slammed hard against the ground.
“Jesus Christ!” she gasped.
The bag was ripped from her head.
Dirt.
Trees.
Nothing but wilderness stretching endlessly around them.
“C’mon,” Foyet said pleasantly still pointing at her. “Let’s have a chat.”
Her hands were bound. It took everything she had to push herself upright, legs shaking as she stood.
“I was planning this,” he said as they walked. “Something big. You know my work.”
“Your best option was a hike?” she shot back.
He stopped abruptly and turned to her. “You’re making me regret no putting a bullet in your skull.”
Then his tone shifted—curious now. Interested.
“Where is my mom?” she asked. “Jack?”
“I’ll deal with them later” he shrugged. “I can even tell them you are already dead to ease the pain.”
“How considerate.”
“There’s something about you Nicole,” he continued. “I did some digging. Your history.”
Her chest tightened.
“You have everything you need to become like me,” he said. “You’re smarter than your father’s pathetic coworkers. You already show volatile traits. Bad management of emotions.”
“All I need is a trigger?” Nicole asked quietly.
He smiled.
“Trauma,” he said. “The worst kind. Big enough to erase any trace of humanity.”
They walked farther until the ground dipped.
A hole.
A metal barrel half-buried in the earth.
“See,” he said, gesturing with his gun. “If I end your life right now, the fun stops.”
Nicole swallowed.
“I’m giving you a slightly open door,” he continued. “You’ll become what your father hates. You’ll be the reminder that he could never stop me.”
“You’re Schrödinger-ing me,” she muttered.
He chuckled. “Simple. You go in. If the FBI is smart, you live. If not—your daddy gets VIP tickets to the premier of your death.”
She faced the barrel then turned around. And tried to distract him.
“I’m not going in there,” she said evenly. “I’m too tall.”
Meanwhile, her hands tied behind her were trying to pull something from her wrist.
He leaned in. “Here is only death. There, you have a chance.”
She stepped closer to the barrel.
Too easy.
Something struck her head—hard.
Her vision exploded into white as she lost balance and fell face down
“I’m sorry you’ll miss the best part,” Foyet said distantly. “But it’s part of the plan.”
She used all her will to secretly leave her bracelet close to where he was going to bury her.
“Just think about your genius friend.”
She felt him pulling her clothes.
The world went black.
-
Nicole opened her eyes to darkness.
Not the soft, empty dark of sleep—but something tight. Pressing. Real.
Her first instinct was to move. She couldn’t.
Her shoulders brushed metal. Her knees were drawn in too close to her chest. The air felt thick, stale, wrong. Two thin vertical slits of light cut through the darkness above her, barely enough to outline the curved walls surrounding her.
And then she saw it.
A small red light.
A camera.
The realization hit her slowly, like ice creeping through her veins.
The barrel.
Underground.
And the camera—that was what he meant.
Her father wasn’t just meant to know about her death.
He was meant to watch.
Her pulse spiked, panic clawing up her throat—but she forced it down. Forced her breathing to slow. Forced her mind to take control before her body betrayed her.
“Okay,” she whispered hoarsely.
Her voice echoed faintly, swallowed by the metal.
“Enclosed space. Underground,” she murmured, grounding herself in facts. “Approximately twenty-one percent oxygen. Carbon dioxide accumulation will increase with respiration. Panic accelerates hypoxia.”
She swallowed.
“Steady breaths.”
She inhaled slowly through her nose. Held it. Exhaled through her mouth.
Again.
Her chest burned almost immediately, her lungs demanding more than she could give—but she refused to rush it.
Think.
Foyet wanted an audience.
Which meant this wasn’t just a grave. It was a message.
Someone might be listening.
She closed her eyes and forced her memory backward, replaying the drive like a film strip.
“From New Jersey,” she said quietly. “Twenty minutes. Three stops.”
She paused to breathe.
“Left. Left. Right.”
Another controlled breath.
“Trees. 3 miles.”
Her throat was already dry.
“Check dirt,” she added, voice wavering but precise.
She repeated it again. And again.
Each time she finished a sequence, she took one slow breath, conserving what little air she had. Her head began to ache, a dull pressure building behind her eyes.
She imagined someone listening.
She imagined Spencer.
Please, she thought—understand me.
Time blurred.
Her body grew heavier, limbs tingling as if sinking into the metal beneath her. Sweat slicked her skin, stinging where she was injured. Her vision pulsed, narrowing.
She fought it.
Then she remembered something simple.
Something human.
Singing kept you awake. Regulated breathing. Focused the mind.
Her father’s records and his high school crush on Susanna Hoffs.
She smiled faintly despite herself.
“Close your eyes,” she sang softly, voice trembling but steady,
“Give me your hand, darling…”
The words echoed strangely around her, warped by the curved walls.
“Do you feel my heart beating?”
“Do you understand?”
She sang through the dizziness, through the burn in her lungs.
“Do you feel the same?”
“Am I only dreaming?”
Her voice grew weaker, slower.
“Is this burning an eternal flame…”
The darkness pressed in.
Her eyelids fluttered.
And then—
Nothing.
⏭️NEXT EPISODE
Author’s notes: yes, I got this from The Rookie. I love crime/police shows.
Timeline is kind of wanky but it all is supposed to happen between season 2-3 and 5 so maybe 2ishyears. At the end of this chapter the original character is 18
“Some minds are too sharp to stay unnoticed—and that kind of attention always comes at a cost.”
Warnings: Spencer x Fem!reader, Hotch’s Daughter!Reader, age gap (9 years), for now.
Spencer Reid walked ready to join the bustling BAU headquarters and be immersed in case files and caffeine-induced concentration. Suddenly, the rhythmic hum of everyday chaos was disrupted. A tall, striking girl shook his world, both physically and metaphorically.
While both were rushing to get in the elevator, their sides crashed. "Sorry" said Spencer in a low voice. "What floor?" he asked, but she was already reaching for the button labeled 4 after scanning her visitor pass.
“Um—same floor,” the guy already inside said, voice tentative.
“Ok,” she cut in, eyes forward, jaw tight.
“So” A pause. “Are you… lost?”
She shot him a look, sharp but not cruel. “Do I look lost?”
“No. I mean—statistically speaking people who enter federal buildings with elevated cortisol levels are either lost or—”
“—late,” she finished flatly.
“Yes,” he said quickly. “Late.”
The silence stretched. The elevator hummed.
He glanced at her pass. “Nicole Hotchner?”
“Just Nicki,” she corrected. “And yeah.”
“Nicki.” His eyes widened. “You must be Hotch’s daughter.”
She sighed. “Everyone always says it like that.”
“Sorry. I just—sorry.” He pushed his hands into his pockets. “I’m Spencer.”
The doors opened.
“So,” Nikki said immediately, stepping out. “Where’s my dad’s office?”
“Uh—end of the hall, right side. But he’s not there right now.”
She stopped, turned back to him. “He’s not?”
“No. He’s in a meeting with—well, technically it’s confidential but also public record if you file a—”
“Never mind.” She exhaled, then visibly forced herself to unclench. “Hey. Sorry for snapping in the elevator.”
“That’s okay. I didn’t—take it personally. People snap under stress. It’s a sympathetic nervous system response.”
“Still.” She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
He stared at her hand like it was a live wire.
“Uh. I—Handshakes actually transmit a significant number of pathogens. On average about—”
She raised an eyebrow.
“It’s not you,” he rushed. “It’s just statistically safer to—”
“To what?” she asked.
“To… kiss,” he blurted.
She froze. Then smirked. “Five minutes and you already want a kiss?”
His face went red instantly. “No—I mean—not like that—I was talking about mucosal membrane contact versus—I should stop.”
She laughed despite herself. “Relax.”
At that exact moment—
Aaron Hotchner's stern arrival interrupted their brief interaction. "Nicki, what are you doing here? You are supposed to be in school."
She silently handed him her suspension slip which described how she humiliated her Chemistry teacher in front of the class.
Hotch looked at the paper, then at her. “My office. Now.”
She turned to Spencer. “Nice meeting you, Germaphobe.”
Spencer politely excused himself leaving father and daughter alone.
Inside Hotch’s office, the door shut.
"Nicki, you can't keep doing this," Hotch began, his tone firm but not devoid of concern.
She leaned against the desk, meeting his gaze with unwavering determination. "Dad, I'm just tired of being held back. I finish assignments faster than anyone, and my teachers can't handle it. Mrs. Richards admitted to grading me down to keep me in line with the others."
Hotch frowned. “Did you speak with the Principal?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He told me that I humiliated her and needed to apologize.”
“Did you?”
“No, I corrected her,” Nikki shot back. “There’s a difference.”
“Nicole, you can’t challenge every authority figure who frustrates you.”
“Why not?” she demanded. “If they’re wrong, they’re wrong.”
Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose. “You can be right and still be polite.”
She crossed her arms. “So I’m being punished for being smarter.”
“You’re being punished for how you handled it.
“And she gets away with it because she’s the adult.”
Hotch looked at her for a long moment. “You’re my daughter. I raised you better than to break the rules.”
She met his gaze without flinching. “Then maybe the rules need better logic.”
“I’ve heard enough.”
Outside the office, Spencer Reid stood frozen in the hallway, clutching a file, eyes wide.
“… okay,” he murmured to himself.
-
As Hotch and Nicki engaged in a serious discussion in his office, the rest of the BAU team took advantage of the brief break to engage in some light-hearted banter about the situation.
Derek Morgan leaned over to Elle Greenaway, a mischievous grin on his face. "Hotch is dealing with mini Hotch. Seems quite heated."
Elle chuckled, nodding. "I never thought I'd see the day. Wonder how he's holding up in there."
Morgan chuckled, shaking his head. "And she's a looker, too. Didn't expect that from Hotch's genes."
JJ, standing nearby, smirked. "They have the same angry face. It's like looking at a female version of him."
-
Hotch, with a stern expression, ordered, "Nicki, go straight home. You're grounded."
"Seriously?" Nicki exclaimed, frustration evident in her voice. "At least check the assignment!"
"I have a case to work on, Nicki," Hotch replied firmly.
An agent knocked on the door, "Hotch, they're ready for the case briefing."
Hotch stood up, acknowledging the urgency. "I'll be right there."
Nicki, infuriated, crumpled her assignment and tossed it into the bin near the door. "Fine! Don't bother. I'll deal with it myself. Again." She stormed past Spencer, her footsteps echoing in the hallway.
-
Dinner was tense in the way only the Hotchner household could manage—quiet on the surface, sharp underneath.
Nicole sat stiffly at the table, shoulders squared, fork moving mechanically through food she wasn’t hungry for. Across from her, Haley watched her with concern carefully disguised as patience. Aaron sat at the head of the table, posture straight even at home, as if his spine never fully left the Bureau.
“This isn’t just about today, Nicki,” Haley said gently, breaking the silence. “It’s about all the phone calls and suspensions. We are worried about this pattern.”
Nicki scoffed under her breath. “So now I’m a pattern.”
“Nicole,” Aaron warned.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she shot back, finally looking up. “She graded my paper unfairly.”
“That doesn’t justify your tone,” Hotch said. “The way you spoke to her—and the way you spoke to me in my office—was unacceptable.”
Haley leaned forward. “Honey, being smart doesn’t give you permission to be disrespectful.”
Nicki’s jaw tightened. “You don’t get it. Everyone just looks at me like I’m a problem. Like I’m some kind of freak.”
“Baby…”
“If I don’t defend myself who will?,” Nicki argued. “What is the point of being gifted when you won’t have my back?”
Hotch’s expression hardened instantly. “Everything your mother and I do—every long night, every sacrifice—is for you and Jack.”
Nicki flinched at the name.
Jack. Always Jack.
She didn’t say it, but the thought burned anyway. How easy it was to be the sweet, quiet one when you can’t talk. She was always the difficult child.
Nicki stood abruptly. “It’d be nice to have someone actually stand up for me.”
Silence slammed down
Haley inhaled slowly. “Maybe… maybe you could spend some time at your father’s office while you’re suspended.”
“I need to work,” Hotch said automatically.
Haley shot him a look—the kind that didn’t need words—then turned back to her daughter. “Can you go to your room, honey?”
Nicki didn’t argue. She picked up her plate, scraped the food into the sink, and walked upstairs without looking back.
Haley pushed her chair back slightly. “Aaron, I’m exhausted. I’m juggling two kids while you’re barely involved when you are home.”
“You know it’s not true,” Hotch replied. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“You’re always doing the best you can,” Haley snapped. “But it’s never enough for this family.”
The argument escalated quickly, voices overlapping, words sharp and unresolved.
-
Nicki layed on her bed staring at the ceiling, music humming softly through her headphones, drowning out the muffled sound of her parents’ voices downstairs.
Thirty minutes later, the door creaked open.
Aaron stood in the doorway.
She pulled one earbud out.
“You’re coming to work with me,” he said simply.
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
“I’m sorry if it feels like we’re not on your side,” he continued, voice steady but quieter now. “Once your suspension is over, we’ll both go to your teacher’s office and discuss that assignment. And… we’ll start looking for a better school for next year.”
That made her sit up.
“A better school?” she asked cautiously. “Like a military school?”
“Don’t give me ideas, Nicole.”
She smirked faintly—until he reached out and took her iPod and phone.
“Hey—”
“Get some sleep,” he interrupted. “We leave at six. I’ll give these back to you tomorrow. Just don’t tell your mother.”
He leaned down, pressed a brief kiss to her head, then turned toward the door.
“Good night, Dad,” she said softly.
“Good night.”
-
Seven a.m. sharp, Quantico loomed tall and unwelcoming beneath a pale Virginia sky.
Nicole stepped out of the car with her hands stuffed into the pockets of her hoodie, eyes scanning the FBI Academy like she was sizing it up for weaknesses. The building felt colder than the outside air—clean, controlled, serious. Her father walked beside her, already in work mode, jaw set, badge clipped neatly at his belt.
“This isn’t a punishment,” Hotch said as they passed through security.
“Right,” Nicki replied dryly.
He didn’t argue.
Inside the BAU floor, Hotch gave her a short, efficient tour. “My office is there. Bathrooms at the end of the hall. Break room across from the conference room.”
She nodded once, committing everything to memory without comment.
He stopped near the bullpen. “Everyone—this is my daughter, Nicki. She’ll be helping out today.”
A chorus of greetings followed.
Nicki responded with small nods, uncomfortable with the attention. Her eyes flicked toward a familiar face.
The guy from the elevator.
Spencer.
She lifted her hand in a brief wave.
He waved back, smile tentative but genuine.
“She’s here to help,” Hotch continued. “File returns, copies, running paperwork—whatever extra hands we need.”
A blonde woman stepped forward and gestured toward the copy room. “Come on, I’ll show you where the thrilling world of paperwork lives.”
Nicki followed without a word, the hum of printers and phones filling the air as they walked.
Meanwhile, Derek got closer, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Family drama?”
Hotch exhaled slowly.
He turned toward Reid. “Can we talk privately?”
Inside Hotch’s office, the door shut softly.
“Nicole is suspended from school,” Hotch began, choosing his words carefully.
Reid nodded slowly. “She seems… intense.”
“She is more than that. When she was in first grade, her school psychologist informed us that she was presenting advanced abilities for her age. They called it HPI.”
Reid’s eyebrows lifted.
“She has an obsessive compulsion to correct mistakes,” Hotch continued. “But she’s defensive. Authority figures trigger her—especially when she feels underestimated.”
Reid hesitated. “I can relate to that.”
Hotch pulled a crumpled document from his desk drawer and handed it to him. “This is the paper she was suspended over yesterday. She claims her teacher capped her grade deliberately.”
Reid took it, already scanning.
“I wouldn’t ask,” Hotch said quietly, “but I need her to feel like someone is on her side. Can you check if her version is accurate?”
“Of course,” Reid replied without hesitation.
Hotch expected him to leave, maybe review it later.
Instead—
“Well,” Reid said, eyes widening slightly. “For starters this isn’t high school chemistry.”
Hotch blinked. “What do you mean?”
“She used advanced stoichiometric modeling,” Reid said quickly. “And cited peer-reviewed journals. She didn’t just apply the concept—she expanded it. This is… honestly, it’s criminal she got a B.”
He continued, animated now. “Her analysis is ambitious. She cross-referenced multiple sources, avoided logical fallacies, and her conclusion—”
“Reid,” Hotch interrupted.
“Yes?”
“This means she was right?”
“Entirely.”
Hotch nodded once. “If you excuse me, I need to make some calls.”
Reid hesitated. “Sir—”
“Thank you for your help Reid.”
Reid left the office, still holding the paper for a moment before carefully setting it on Hotch’s desk.
He stepped back into the bullpen—
And nearly tripped over the fact that Nicole Hotchner was sitting in front of his desk.
Chin propped in her palm, flipping through an old case file like it was a Teen Vogue magazine.
“Uh—” Reid stopped short. “That’s—classified.”
She didn’t look up. “Relax. It’s a closed case.”
He stared. “How did you even—”
“You left it on top,” she said casually, eyes still scanning. “Not so secret.”
He swallowed. “You—shouldn’t be reading it.”
She finally looked at him, one eyebrow lifting. “It’ll self-destruct?”
“No—it’s just—”
She stood smoothly and handed him the file. “You think they caught the wrong guy.”
His mouth fell open.
“…Yes,” he said quietly. “How did you—”
“The timeline doesn’t fit,” she replied. “And his identity contradicts the pattern.”
Ten minutes later, the bullpen looked… different.
Agents who had been scattered across desks and coffee machines now stood clustered around the whiteboard, drawn in by a voice that was calm, sharp, and far too confident for someone who still technically counted as grounded.
Nicole Hotchner stood at the front, marker already uncapped.
“Okay,” she said, tapping the board once. “You think this guy killed all these people. But that’s not possible.”
She drew a vertical line down the board, splitting it in half.
“According to the file, he doesn’t show dissociative identity traits, and there are no sexual orientation tendencies.”
Morgan folded his arms. “So? We have him on video at every crime scene.”
She glanced at him slowly. “Do we?”
Her tone was flat, unimpressed.
She pulled up the still frames from the surveillance footage. Dates and times appeared in the corner of each image. She drew arrows above them.
“See something odd?” she asked, turning slightly toward Reid.
Reid leaned in, eyes narrowing. “The palm trees.”
She smiled. “Yes.”
“The dates,” he said. “The timestamps don’t match the wind course.”
“Exactly!”
An older agent—Gideon—stepped closer, curiosity replacing skepticism. “Explain.”
Nicole inhaled once, grounding herself. This wasn’t school. This was real. And she was ready.
“Look at the trees,” she said, zooming in. “They’re blowing from south to north.”
Blank stares.
Reid stepped in smoothly. “In Los Angeles, wind patterns shift seasonally. Summer winds move northward from the Pacific. Late fall, they reverse.”
Elle frowned. “How can you tell direction from a still image?”
Nicole didn’t even look at her. “Look at the footage.”
Then she turned back to the pictures. “The camera faces west. There’s a church in the frame. Churches face east.”
They all looked at Reid again.
“Historically,” he said, nodding, “churches were built facing east—toward Jerusalem. Dating back to the eighth century.”
Morgan ran a hand over his head. “So the footage is doctored.”
“There’s more,” Nicole said quickly, momentum building. “There’s a pattern—but not only from the victimology.”
She turned to the board and began writing initials.
“Victim one: G.G initials. Greta Garbo. Found in Mon Rue parking lot—Monroe.”
No reaction.
“Victim two: Maria Magdalene,” she continued. “Dietrich. Found near where Chasen’s Restaurant used to be—DiMaggio.”
Silence.
Nicki started making simple voguing hand gestures trying to give them a clue.
“…Madonna?,” Elle said slowly.
“Vogue,” Nicole replied. “The UnSub is quoting Vogue.”
Morgan blinked. “That’s… insanely specific.”
“And completely inconsistent with your suspect,” Nicole added. “This guy doesn’t strike me as someone who cares about Madonna beyond her sex appeal.”
She paused. “Which means he’s not your guy.”
Gideon straightened. “We need to reopen this case.”
Before anyone could respond—
“Nicole.”
Hotch’s voice cut through the room like a blade.
She froze.
“What did I say?” he asked quietly, his look enough to make the room tense.
She sighed, capped the marker, and handed Reid the pen and the file. “Alright. So you made mistakes. I fixed them. Now I gotta go.”
She toward her father, already bracing for the fallout.
Behind her—
“Just when I thought no one could outsmart you, pretty boy,” Morgan said, staring at the board.
JJ watched Hotch and Nicole walk away together. “Imagine those dinner conversations.”
-
Later that evening, Nicole sat in one of the extra chairs beside Spencer’s desk, legs tucked under herself, a thick hardcover book resting open in her hands.
It was one of his.
She read with intense focus, eyes moving, occasionally pausing to tap the page as if arguing with the author in her head.
Spencer watched her from the corner of his vision, unsure how to start.
“About this morning,” he said finally, voice careful. “Did you get in trouble?”
She didn’t look up. “I got lectured.”
“That sounds—mild?”
“About confidentiality,” she said flatly. “Which is suggestive, at best. The media already knew everything I read. But I think my dad needed to turn it into a lesson.”
Spencer nodded slowly. “That’s… understandable.”
She snorted softly. “It’s annoying.”
There was a pause. Spencer fidgeted with a pen.
“I know what it’s like,” he said gently. “Being… gifted. Being treated differently.”
She closed the book halfway and finally looked at him. “Not a gift.”
He blinked.
“It’s not a gift,” she repeated. “I obsess over every problem I see. Every inconsistency. My mind never shuts up. It’s like it’s spinning out of control.”
She gestured vaguely at her head. “Now imagine being a teenage girl and seeing you defects multiplied by a hundred.”
Spencer swallowed. “I—well—I was enrolled in college at twelve. I didn’t really fit in. I didn’t really have… friends.”
“But you survived,” she said. “You joined the FBI. You walk into a room and talk, and everyone listens.”
He opened his mouth—
“You’re a genius,” she continued. “And you’re likable.”
She looked back down at the page. “I open my mouth and everyone hates me.”
Spencer hesitated. “To some extent… I can relate to that.”
She shook her head. “Not really.”
He stiffened.
“All I mean,” she said more quietly, “is that this high potential thing might help me professionally one day. But right now? It just makes everything harder. Connections. Relationships. Conversations.”
Spencer’s chest tightened. He searched for the right words, the right statistics, the right reassurance—
“Reid,” JJ called from across the room. “Conference room. Case review.”
He stood quickly. “I’ll be back,” he said, then added, trying to smile, “and I’ll test you on that book.”
She smirked faintly. “Bring it.”
He disappeared into the conference room, leaving her alone again.
Nicole reopened the book, eyes scanning the page—but this time, the words blurred slightly as she replayed the conversation in her head, wondering if for once, someone actually understood.
She returned to the lecture.
-
Day two, late night. Spencer sat at his desk with a half-empty cup of coffee, mind only half on the report in front of him.
Nicki hovered nearby, arms folded, rocking slightly on her heels like she was deciding whether to say something or walk away.
She chose the first.
“My dad talked to Mrs. Richards,” she said casually, though her eyes flicked toward him. “About my paper.”
Spencer looked up immediately. “And?”
“He told her it was poorly graded,” Nicole continued. “Objectively. Obviously.”
A small, genuine grin tugged at Spencer’s lips. “I’m glad.”
She shrugged. “Thanks. By the way.”
“For… confirming chemistry facts?”
“For being on my side.”
The words landed heavier than she intended.
Spencer nodded once, a little awkwardly. “Of course.”
She leaned against the edge of his desk. “Now my parents are looking at boarding schools.”
His smile faltered. “Boarding schools?”
“Like the X-men,” she joked. “Specialized programs. Small class sizes. Ridiculous tuition.”
“Oh,” he said. Then, softer, “So… you’d study abroad?”
“Possibly.” She tilted her head. “I did the psychometrics, level tests, and IQ evaluations. Nailed them. They already offered me a slot.”
“That was… fast.”
A silence stretched between them.
Spencer tried not to overthink the faint sense of disappointment tightening his chest.
“What was your score?” he asked carefully, as if it were just another neutral data point.
She smiled—sharp, knowing. “I knew you’d feel intimidated.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I’m kidding,” she added quickly. “Relax. You still have an eidetic memory. Mine’s just photographic.”
His eyebrows lifted despite himself. “That’s… still impressive.”
Before he could ask anything else, footsteps approached.
“It’s late honey,” Hotch said firmly. “It’s time to go. See you tomorrow Reid.”
She straightened. “Okay.”
She reached into her backpack as she stood, pulled something out, and placed it neatly on Spencer’s desk.
“Goodnight big brains,” she said.
Then she turned and followed her father out without another word.
Spencer frowned, then unfolded the paper.
Numbers stared back at him.
His breath caught.
“…190?!”
-
Nicki's visits to Quantico became more frequent, her presence a regular part of the BAU's rhythm.
One evening, as the team gathered to reunite on the jet, Morgan couldn't resist teasing Reid and Hotch. "You know," he began, a mischievous glint in his eye, "I have this feeling that in the future, Reid here might just end up being your son-in-law."
Hotch raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of amusement and incredulity. "She's only 16, Morgan," he retorted, a hint of protectiveness in his voice.
Morgan chuckled. "C’mon, Hotch. It's just puppy love. Reid's like her cute nanny," he said, nudging Spencer playfully.
Spencer's face flushed, and he stammered, "Morgan, that's not—"
"Lighten up, pretty boy," Morgan interjected, still laughing. "I'm just messing with you."
After a long week of working on a case, the team was back in Quantico. Nicole was back in the bullpen. Her suspension ended but she decided to spend most evenings there. Doing homework, helping her dad with paperwork, and solving puzzles or made-up cases that Spencer prepared to keep her entertained.
However, Spencer couldn’t let go of Derek’s words about Nicki’s possible infatuation with him. And the team's constant mockery. He’d always feel guilty, he was 25 and she was still a teen. Nothing about their relationship had felt platonic, until everyone started pointing out that he was the only person Nicki opened up to.
Finally, one day his curiosity got the better of him, decided to address the elephant in the room. "Nicki, can I ask you something… personal?"
She looked up from her homework, her sharp eyes meeting his. "Shoot"
He hesitated for a moment, then blurted out, "Are you infatuated with me?"
Nicki blinked, clearly not expecting the question. Her response, however, was characteristically direct. "Sure," she said.
Spencer's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "And does that make you uncomfortable?"
She shrugged. "No, it's a normal reaction in individuals. It's not like I'm in love with you, but I do appreciate looking at you."
"Oh," he replied, trying to keep his tone casual despite the awkwardness he felt.
Noticing his discomfort, Nicki tilted her head slightly. "You are my friend.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Spencer's mouth.
⏭️NEXT EPISODE
Author’s note: got kinda inspired and yes some parts are based from other shows, since I’m not a genius. I just needed a plot for these two.
