chapter seven | OPERATION: WONDERLAND
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pairing | Aaron Hotchner x female! reader [no mentions of y/n, little to no physical descriptions]
disclaimers | Everything I write is intended as adult content. Please do not read if you are underage or sensitive to such. MDNI
This chapter contains descriptions of murder.
wc: 4.1k [not proofread]
mission identities | Aaron Hotchner as Professor Edward Thomas Jameson. You as Isabella Evans (rarely used, other than 'Miss Evans')
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chapter seven: kitchen calls
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The sun shone through the kitchen windows.
You had woken up to find Hotch already awake, combing through files and folders at the kitchen table. A cup of freshly brewed coffee steaming in front of him.
Without greeting him, you poured yourself a cup and slumped down across from him. He only glanced up briefly, without lifting his head, as you grabbed a file from one of the neatly stacked piles.
Hotch fished out pictures of the victims from the folder in front of him and spread them out in a row. He pointed to the girl on the far right, "Annabeth Mason, 20, only child. The body was found inside the bookstore where she worked part-time."
"That's Annie, she was Sophie's friend." You looked up to find him already staring, and he motioned for you to continue with a nod of his head, curious to learn what you had found out. Yet, trying to recall what you learned at the bar proved difficult through the haze that was your memory, no doubt thanks to the alcohol you had consumed like it was water.
You scrunched your eyes against the pressing headache. The effort it took to think was painful. Excruciating. Never again.
"She was smart, got good grades, and according to Sophie, she was my level of funny. Which makes me really sad for some reason." You shrugged, taking another sip of your coffee. The man across the table hummed, disapprovingly or amusingly, you were not entirely sure. They sounded the same through the pounding in your head.
"Stabbed and cut?" You asked, picking up the picture to look at her. There were no crime scene photos — apparently, they had gotten lost in the transferring process — 'gone', the lot of them. Pictures of six women were in front of you, the last one had yet to be identified. Though you supposed you would not have gotten your hands on a photo of the latest victim anyway.
"So, the unsub is sexually impotent," You speculated, placing the picture back where it was a moment ago, "Stabbing can be considered a substitute for sex, can't it?" Hotch nodded his confirmation. He took a sip from his coffee, eyes fixed on you over the brim of his cup as you thought out loud. "And cutting their faces could be some sort of projecting—like disgust or jealousy?"
Hotch leaned back into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, "We're not supposed to make a profile." Right. Just as you were not supposed to do anything else. What a stupid assignment.
What was the point of sending three agents on an undercover mission if none of them were allowed to interfere with anything that had to do with the case? It was unsettling to think about, that they wanted you to essentially be put on the map, to endanger you, without a way for you to ensure you got out alive.
"Yeah, tell me your theory." You mirrored his movements, leaning back into your own chair and crossing your arms. He scowled, like he was about to go off about how he obviously 'had no theory because you were not supposed to make a profile', yet there was a mischievous gleam in his eyes. You knew him well enough to know he did have one.
Hotch glanced to the watch on his wrist, before tilting his head to the side, mockingly, smirking, "Garcia will be calling soon." Before you could huff in annoyance at his exhibit of foul play, he pushed back his chair, got up and turned on his heel.
Instead, as the classy lady you were, you opted to call after him as he made it for the stairs, "Fucker." He only chuckled in response.
Penelope would be calling any minute now, like she had apparently done every day around 11 A.M. Perhaps you were a bit jealous, knowing Hotch was talking to her every day, while you had not been allowed contact with any of them. To 'make sure you made friends', or whatever the excuse that sounded way too similar to something your parents would say, was.
You sat on the counter, swinging your legs back and forth while you chewed on the slightly stale protein bar that served as your breakfast. The second helping of a cup of coffee in your other hand, serving as the other half of your breakfast. Balanced meal, some could say.
Hotch had left the kitchen to grab the laptop he had upstairs. In his home office. Because of course he had a home office. It made sense, you supposed, that he would, yet the difference in what the Bureau provided you and Spencer with, was not measurable. Not that it really mattered now that you were staying with him, in this two-story house that somehow only had one bedroom. Dang, that was unfortunate. Oh, well.
You had slept like a rock the few hours you got, despite the man being a snorer. And so, so warm. His arm had wrapped around your waist at some point during the night, his snoring face right by your ear, and still you managed to find it comforting. Like one of those machines with white noise or whale sounds, only real time, and without volume-control and off-buttons.
Your clothes were still at your dorm, which left little more than the clothes you were already wearing when you came. Hotch, ever the gentleman, had scratched the back of his neck and handed over one of his t-shirts after you got out of the bath he started, after… You shook your head to fight the blush creeping up on your cheeks. That seemed to happen a lot recently. Perhaps you needed to get a check-up, it could not be healthy to blush that much.
The shirt was so soft, kind of like those old college t-shirts you never throw away, purely because of how comfortable they were. Knowing him, it seemed likely that was the case. He did not seem like the type to go shopping for new clothes, especially when his old ones were still intact, or something like that. Oh, to have the mentality of a man in the current state of the economy. You would be rich.
"Have you eaten?" You asked him casually, as he walked back into the kitchen. He placed the laptop on the table and looked over his shoulder to where you sat on the counter. The simple question seemed to have confused him, based on the furrow of his brows and the slow blink. After a long moment, he shook his head, "Not yet, no."
It seemed like either he had forgotten you were there, or he simply did not expect you to ask him something so—domestic, despite it being a normal question. There was nothing more to it now than it would have been months ago. It was not like anything had changed between you, just two adults/coworkers/pretend professor and student who happened to have one night of really good sex. Wow, that had never been done before.
"Found some protein bars in the cupboards, want one?" You shrugged, finishing the last bite and swallowing it down with a mouthful of coffee. It was perhaps a little ironic to offer him his own food, but that was just another one of your many charms.
Hotch pointed to the wrapper you were very creatively folding into a square, "That's not food." How dare he. Snapping your head up to look at him, you crossed your arms over your chest and raised your chin in defiance, "I beg to differ."
He narrowed his eyes and stepped toward you, abandoning the project of setting up the laptop. The very project that would have been done minutes ago had it not been for the laptop making the executive decision to install an update.
It was obviously not caused by the man with the heavenly large, thick fingers pressing buttons accidentally. He certainly pushed your buttons accidentally.
"Go on. State your case. " He motioned with the very hand you were thinking about, as he slowly approached. Slow steps, like a predator closing in on a prey — and you were the perfect portrait of an easy target — a mesmerized prey, practically drooling at the sight of his hands. The way the sun cast its rays through the kitchen window made him look otherworldly.
"I would argue the amount of chewing I had to do to get through that bar is enough to warrant it as food." It really was stale, and it tasted like cardboard. However, the sad excuse for one singular dried berry on top, really sold it. Made it almost bearable. The cherry on top, if you would. If the cherry was raspberry and pulverized, to the point it should have been marked as a choking hazard if inhaled.
Hotch hummed, like he was pretending to consider your argument, though you knew better. He was still a few steps away from reaching you in his slow pace. It must have been his age catching up, or the physical activity of last night. Poor guy probably strained his hip, pounding into you at the pace he did. Whatever it was, the way he approached sent a shudder of adrenaline coursing through you.
"And I would argue that food is more than just chewing," He pointed to the wrapper you had dropped onto the counter again, right beside the half-empty cup of coffee you tired from holding, "That has not nearly enough nutrients and is not filling enough to act as a substitute for a full meal."
It was unfair how raspy his morning voice was, you did not have a chance. The court would vote in his favor from that alone. You huffed, pointing a finger to his chest as he stepped between your legs, "Objection, your honor. Hearsay. Opinion."
Despite sitting on the counter, he still towered over you. He grabbed your wrist from his chest and moved it to the counter as he leaned forward, caging you within his arms. "Objection overruled, darling."
Oh, no! How will you live?
"Where do I issue a complaint?" You grumbled, though a smile still manage to slip through. This was a serious case of abuse use of power and someone should know about it.
He hummed, his breath fanning across your lips. A reminder of where he had been, yet should not continue to be. The urge to reach out for him was getting increasingly hard to resist. It was a one time thing, and you were only here because of the mission.
There was nothing else going on between you, there was absolutely no reason to keep playing this game when you were alone. And, yet…
"You'll have to take it up with me." Hotch pursed his lips, to hide the smile threatening to make his face look ten years younger. Because god forbid.
The bags under his eyes had seemed to fade, despite the little sleep he had gotten. His shoulders were relaxed, not acting as ear protectors for the first time in years, probably. The man in front of you looked almost human, and a handsome one at that. It almost convinced you he was not a scowling robot with skin. Almost.
You rolled your eyes and sighed with feigned annoyance, "And let me guess, it needs to be double spaced, size 12, Times New Roman with footnotes?" Undoubtedly.
He smirked, his hand traveling up your arm, and landing on the side of your neck. His thumb trailed your jaw and dipped under your chin, pushing your face up closer to his. "Exactly, smart girl."
It was too early for this.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead before straightening, "I'll make us breakfast after we talk to Garcia."
Forehead kisses? Was he in love with you, or what? Damn. One night and the man was down bad.
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When Penelope finally called, she was bombarding you with questions and demands for a good ten minutes, yet she talked so fast, there was no room to reply. Which was too bad for her, seeing as she would not calm down long enough for you to actually tell her, or for her to figure out the very thing she wished upon a star for.
Hotch sat next to you, with the intension of both fitting in the frame. His one hand was holding his third or fourth cup of coffee, while the other was firmly planted on your thigh. Despite your efforts to swat his hand away. Even if the efforts were half-assed squiggles in your seat, they were still efforts. You could not simply reach down, grab his hand and lift it away, like a crane on a construction site. Penelope would notice that.
Eventually she stopped chatting your ears off about how good you would look together. And eventually Hotch's hand left your thigh. So, eventually, you managed to breathe.
"Can we get a list of all the students the Wonder Island P.D interviewed?" You asked the magical lady on the screen, thankful the topic had moved to the case. It was possible that if the ones being interviewed were close friends with the victims, or even just classmates, it would be of help. Though, it was also likely the students who were interviewed had barely any connection at all, and simply wanted the attention. It happened a lot more than you would like. It made cases like this unnecessarily and annoyingly complicated.
Penelope shook her head, a sad smile on her screen-face, "I'm not allowed to send you anything related to the case. I'm so sorry, my loves." Of course. How could you forget? Not working the case, only assigned to work yourselves into the case, for no reason what so ever, it seemed.
"By who, the she-devil?" You grumbled. That lady could stick it—
Hotch raised an eyebrow at you, like he could hear your thoughts and did not approve of the direction you were going. He should have known better than to think you cared, especially when it came to Strauss. She could stick it far up her ass — actually, maybe that was exactly what she was already doing — sticking it so far up her ass it came out of her mouth. In the form of bullshit orders and assignments. It would explain why said orders and assignment were said bullshit.
The sunny day had you feeling poetic, apparently.
Turning to Penelope again, now with the newfound blessing of one of your many great ideas, you put on the sweetest smile you could manage, "If you send them over, I'll force him to watch Twilight." Finally, you had a way of getting him to watch it. He would undoubtedly refuse if you asked him, especially if he was sober. Hotch would probably despise the movies, but that was exactly what you hoped for.
"Blackmailing me?" Penelope narrowed her eyes onto her screen, to look at you, presumably, "My angel has grown dark wings, and I'm entirely enchanted by your sorcery. Faxing it over right this second."
You groaned, despite the victory of your very fair bargain, "Fax? Is that still a thing? Can't you just send it to my phone or something?" The world of technology had not come so far only for you to be faxed.
Only old men, like Aaron Scowls-a-lot Hotchner used fax machines. And, he probably still called it a 'telecopier'. God. To think you slept with the man.
"My gorgeous and oh-so-smart angel, you can't have case material on your little student girlfriend phone. What would your new friends think?" Penelope exclaimed with hand-movements, to really get the point across. You pursed your lips, straining to keep your mouth shut. It was hard to resist the urge to mutter a certain name and follow it by a string of very creative and original curses.
A giggle echoed from the laptop speakers, you looked back to find multiple pictures of colorful lanterns spread across the screen, along with some of a crowded bar, and a few more of an almost empty dance floor — except for two– Oh.
"This girl Lizzie is so cute by the way, you looked like you were having a lot of fun last night." Penelope zoomed in on the two girls dancing, tapped on her keyboard to enhance the blurry picture, and then slapped a bright pink sticker heart on top — of course.
"How do you– whatever." You gave up, knowing the magical powers of Penelope Garcia. She could find out anything, and the girl loved a night out. Obviously she would get her hands on pictures of you dancing at the bar.
"Anyway, my sweet loves, gotta get going. Miss you!" The call disconnected and Penelope's office disappeared from the screen. Well, that was one way to end a conversation. Abruptly.
Without another word, Hotch stood up and made for the stairs again — likely to grab the list from the fax machine — which was probably upstairs in his office. You took a wild guess.
A minute later, he walked back into the kitchen with a stack of paper in his hands. You furrowed your brows as you noticed the sheer amount. That was just the list of students? Raising from your chair, you stepped toward the man who stood still in the doorway, with his eyes focused on whatever it was he was holding.
He met your confused gaze with a soft smile — which might have confused you even further — as he handed the sheet of paper to you. Your mouth fell open as you took in the picture.
Penelope had faxed over a photo of the team, at the hospital, for JJ's birth. "Oh my god." You whispered. Awe and sadness competed for the look on your face, yet the mixed emotions manifested as a lump in your throat.
Hotch moved to stand beside you, to take another glance at the picture you were holding with shaky hands. "He's beautiful." He said quietly, carefully. Almost like it was a secret he did not want the whole world to learn. As if the words were heavy, and laced with a rawness of something he did not know of yet.
You lifted your head to meet his gaze and smiled softly, honestly. Your eyes shined with emotion as you whispered, "He is."
A moment of understanding, of sharing an unspoken weight, of nothing but you and him — you and him, along with something honest and real — something wholly particular and intimate, that only you shared.
Glancing back to the picture of JJ holding her baby boy, you noticed the team all around her. Rossi stood beside the hospital bed, kissing the top of her head. Emily was holding up two fingers and smiling brightly right beside them. And Derek — you sunk your teeth into your slightly trembling lip as you saw it — Derek was holding up pictures of you, Hotch and Spencer. So you could all be there.
Handing the photo back to the man next to you, you pointed to Derek, "Look, we were there." They had made sure you were. It filled your heart with a different emotion, longing, for the home the BAU had become. You missed them. Dearly.
Hotch smirked, the same way he did when he was about to say something out of character, or make a joke that targeted you. His favorite side-hobby, it seemed. "Good, I was afraid he would come into this world and know a moment of peace, of not seeing your face."
"Fucker, my face is nice. It's the nicest thing about me." You crossed your arms and glared up at him. He clicked his tongue and tilted his head to the side, with a cockiness you were seeing more and more. It sent shivers down your spine, landing right between your legs. A reminder of where he had been, and where he would be again if he did not stop looking at you like that.
"Yes to the first, not to the second." He licked his lips slowly as he looked you up and down. You were about to demand to know what he thought the nicest thing about you was, however the satisfied grin on his face told you enough. The blush on your cheeks made a reappearance, and you had come to terms with it. Around him, there was no use fighting it.
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It had been hours since talking to Penelope, yet you were still sitting on the kitchen table across from Hotch. Now, however, you had eaten. He had made you breakfast earlier, which was — to your very offense — delicious. It was almost good enough to make you wish it could be like this every day. Almost.
Your focus was interrupted by your phone, buzzing on the counter top behind you. Hotch lifted his head from the file he was reading, and watched as you got up to grab it. "It's Lizzie." You declared, reading the caller-ID lit on the screen. He nodded and motioned for you to take it.
Stepping out of the kitchen, you accepted the call.
"Lizzie?" You greeted, though it was more of a question than anything. The concern in your voice was clear as day. In the little time you had known her, you learned she was a texter. She hated calling and avoided it unless it was absolutely necessary. Naturally, you were concerned.
There was a quick rustle on the other end before you heard Lizzie's voice come through the phone. "Bell, they've sent half the campus home and canceled classes for a week. Where are you?" She sounded winded, like she had just ran up five flights of stairs. It certainly added to your concern.
The words echoed in your mind as she spoke, and you furrowed your brows, trying to make sense of it. "What? I'm with–," You stopped yourself from saying the name sitting on the tip of your tongue, "I'm visiting someone. What's going on? They sent half the campus home?"
You heard Lizzie take a few steps, followed by another rustling sound, as if she was sitting down on her bed. "Yeah, and they sent them checks, apparently. But, honestly I'm confused." You waited for her to go on, to elaborate. To help ease your own growing confusion.
A moment of silence passed as she collected her thoughts. "From what I've seen from my window," She quieted to a hushed whisper, "Only the boys have been sent home."
You turned on your heel, quickly walking back to the kitchen to grab a pen and write down what she said. Hotch got up from his seat and moved to stand beside you as he noticed the look on your face.
"What?" You asked, again. Scribbling down notes for the man next to you to read. "I don't understand. Why would they do that?"
Lizzie was quiet for another heartbeat, taking deep breaths on the other side, by the sound of it. "I don't know, but I saw that boy—Spencer, he was carrying his things out from the building as well. I thought you should know. You're friends, right?"
The mention of Spencer caught you off guard. Pen stopping mid-sentence.
Had he been sent home? What the fuck was going on?
You shook your head to clear your thoughts, if anyone would know about the situation, it would obviously be him. "Yeah, I'll call and ask him what's going on. Thanks, Lizzie, for telling me."
She sighed softly from the other end, "Stay safe, Bell. If Professor Jameson starts acting sus, promise me you get out. You can stay in my dorm instead."
"I prom– wait." The reply came out before you could register the words she had said. She knew you were with him? You bit the inside of your cheek as you tried to come up with excuses. Anything at all that would logically explain your whereabouts. It seemed you were awful at your job, considering the very reason you were there — and the reason that she was to believe — were the same.
Lizzie chuckled, as if hearing your thoughts. "I'm not stupid. Just, be careful, okay?" She spoke, and you could practically hear her smile. Before you could promise, she ended the phone call.
"What's going on?" Hotch questioned as soon as you put the phone down. He searched your face for answers you did not have as you read over the half written notes in front of you.
You furrowed your brows and sighed, "I'm not really sure, but something is not right."
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sorry for the wait!! I've been feeling awful the past week, so please forgive me if this feels rushed
if you liked this, please consider liking and reblogging, it fuels my little ego!
let me know your thoughts and if you have anything you would like to see! your comments and messages are everything to me<3
love, millie<3
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