|| rebloging fanfics and ranting <3 || || beth - 20s - she/her || || some fics are 18+ and will be marked as such. PLEASE be mindful || - . . . — bethnaberrie but wearing a moustache, sunglasses, and a trench coat
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
According to Anya, she and Giles are building towards a romantic and eventually sexual relationship that will help her find herself as an adrift nineteen-year-old human girl. According to Giles, a thousand-year-old ex-vengeance demon showed up in his house, roped him into her identity crisis, and refuses to stop calling her unexpected visits “dates” despite his best efforts.
But Anya isn’t the only one feeling adrift—both she and Giles are fresh off the heels of losing their life’s purpose. Is it possible they have more in common than they think?
“I wanna smoke,” you said, slurring the words, “anyone?”
You looked around the table as you stumbled to your feet—they all shook their heads and, all at the same time, murmured each their own excuses. Like a choir of denial.
JJ muttered something about waiting for Aaron and Dave to come back with everyone’s drinks. Emily was dragging Derek to the dance floor. Spencer—well, you didn’t want someone to go with you that much. You didn’t mind going alone at all, in fact.
So, you shrugged, plunging your hand into your purse to dig out the pack and made for the door. A little wobbly, perhaps, but that was the world spinning. Not your fault.
There was always someone smoking outside, and if no one wanted to join you, you would join them. It was always a great time, anyway. Guaranteed.
Something in common, an instant connection formed by a shared desire to ruin your lungs. What else could you possibly ask for? It was the perfect option for a drunken act of self love—well, the most perfect option one you had, considering your surroundings.
The only thing that could top lighting a cigarette between your lips, was a dick in your mouth. But you were in public. And despite your… influenced state of being, along with the pool between your legs (from just entertaining the idea for the split second it existed in your mind), you still managed to keep your control intact. Outwardly. For now.
The smoking area was a small patio (although, it was more like five planks of dark stained wood and a railing), and it was crammed. You really didn’t mind, it was like one giant group hug under the cloudy sky.
But the comforting embrace of people ended before you could even fish out the stick of cancer. The crowd pushed their way back inside through the door, the entire ground on earth shaking and trembling from the force of their steps. Had you not managed to press your back against the wall, you would have been stampeded. Like those bulls in Spain, or whatever.
You would have thrown your guts up.
Thankfully, the globe fell back into its slow waves, nothing more than a current affecting your balance.
With a sigh, you picked out a cigarette and placed it for safekeeping between your lips, while you patted your pockets for the lighter you were sure you had brought with you. That’s when the door swung open, drawing your attention to the broad shoulders of Aaron Hotchner (because that was all you could see, he really filled your vision) as he stepped onto the sad excuse of a patio.
“Since when do you smoke?” he said, more-so than asked, while leaning back against the wall. You took one look at him, at his messy hair and sideways grin, and you knew he was—well, whatever his version of shitfaced was.
“I don’t,” you replied around the stick and shrugged—then beamed with victory as you felt the square metal of your lighter shift against your skin, nestled right between your side boob and your bra.
“Here,” you giggled, picking the cigarette from your lips and lifted to the tips of your toes to reach him, “hold this.” Aaron didn’t even object, not moving an inch as you placed the stick between his lips.
With both of your hands free, and a wobbly landing back onto the soles of your feet, you started the complicated operation of digging your lighter out of your bra.
You made a victorious fist and raised it high in the air, showing the world your greatest achievement (fishing your baby blue lighter out of your baby blue bra, because aesthetics matter).
A small step forward, a lift back up to the tips of your toes, you lit the cigarette between his lips. He inhaled (just to make sure it caught, is what he told himself), before you reached up to take it. To place it between yours.
“Since when do you smoke?” you smiled, puffing the cloud of cancer out into the night. Shoulders dropping as the nicotine settled, adding another pattern of waves to ripple the ground.
“I don’t.” Aaron tilted his head, a boyish grin on his handsome face. A momentary (and very deliberate) distraction: an opening for his fingers to pluck the cigarette from your lips and return to his.
summary: after helping the mandalorian with a favor, he brings you a gift as a thank you. little do both of you know that this gift sparks a connection that neither of you can deny, and thoughts that din never considered before you.
tags/warnings: dual pov, no use of y/n cuz ew, alcohol consumption, mentions of medicine/contraceptives, a very tiny mention of being chased/hunted down, hella chemistry, fluff, language, jealousy, sexual tension, yearning, dirty talk, heavy makeout, biting, fingering, clit play, cunnilingus, breast play, slight choking kink, piv unprotected sex, praise kink, breeding kink, cream pie, helmet off, dark room sensory focused.
author’s note: listen listen LISTEN... I know, it's been a hot minute 🥲 Life happened and all that jazz. Tbh this has been in my drafts for a while but I decided to finish it now that the movie is out so this is probably canon divergent at this point lol. But when I tell you I ran away writing this, bitch I raaaan. To everyone who wondered what happened to that bottle of liquor in s3, this is for you pookies🫵🏻🙂↕️
**update** this fic is now on AO3! It's my first work on there at the moment but feel free to drop some love 😁✨
When you decided to make Nevarro your home, you expected it to be a rough place. A far off den of thieves, bounty hunters, and a sleazy connection to the old empire. Nonetheless, it was cheap so you convinced yourself you could put up with it. It wasn’t anything new to you. Plus, at the time, you really didn’t have anywhere else to go.
Thankfully, the reputation has drastically improved over the past few years. It’s not Naboo, but there’s a sort of gritty charm to it. Rebels became marshals. Bars became schools. Thieves became honest vendors. Hell, there’s even kaf shops here now.
You’re no stranger to drastic changes in this galaxy. You’ve beared witness to the rise and fall of an empire after all.
But receiving a bottle of wine at night from a notorious ex-bounty hunter is definitely a first for you.
“You’re… giving this to me,” you ask, dragging the question out.
The Mandalorian stands at your doorstep. Unreadable beneath hard shiny metal and illuminated only by the entry light of your home above your door. The chilly night air bites your cheeks but he stands unfazed.
“As a thank you,” he explains. “You were a big help to my kid and this was the only thing I had that seemed like something you’d enjoy.”
All you did was give his little green kid some medicine. It’s not like it was even your first interaction with the infamous hunter. He’s stopped by your apothecary a couple times. Passing by so swiftly you hardly even knew he was there if it wasn’t for the lingering stares from other customers. If you recall correctly, he only ever picks up supplies to replenish a med pack or bacta spray for wounds.
Until you suddenly found him at your doorstep the other night with his adorable little green baby in his arms. The poor little guy was running a fever, coughing up a storm, and had even refused food for over a day. Any parent would be frantic. And so you didn’t even think twice to let them inside.
Luckily your small shop is attached below your home, so you were quick to find the right tinctures for his illness. The Mandalorian paced circles in your kitchen as you administered the medicine and blotted his kid’s little forehead with a cool damp cloth. It took some time and a lot of reassurance to a very nervous father, but after a few hours the fever broke.
You sent them home with some herbal tinctures and even some homemade hard medicinal candies for stubborn coughs and that was it. Hardly any words were exchanged between you that night that didn’t pertain to the child. Only a heartfelt thank you, goodnight, and a promise to pay you back somehow. You assured him that it really wasn’t necessary, that you were glad to help.
You’ve admittedly always been curious about the man. With his stoic demeanor and a reputation that preceded him like lightening preceded thunder. He’s somewhat of a local legend, menace, and hero all wrapped up in one. And now he’s at your door. With booze. Definitely a man of his word, this guy.
“You’re giving this,” you repeat with astonishment. “This whole bottle, to me?”
“Yes,” he answers again. “Is it a special one or something?”
“This is Andoan wine,” you emphasize, holding out the clear glass bottle. “You can only find these on Coruscant now. Very delicious, very rare, very expensive.”
“Is it,” he asks nonchalantly. “I’ve never tried it before. But I hope you enjoy it.”
“You really don’t have to,” you tell him.
“I insist. I didn’t know the first thing to do so I appreciate your help.”
You chuckle. With your limited interactions, you’re starting to see that he’s short and to the point with his words. Almost like he’s not entirely used to speaking with people.
“I…” You nearly argue it again but decide against it. He really didn’t have to give you such a lavish gift for something any good person would do in a situation like that. It was only natural. But at this point, refusing him might come off as rude so…
“Thank you very much.”
The Mandalorian acknowledges your gratitude with a tilt of his helmet, then turns on his heels to leave without another word. And for some reason, you linger at the door. You watch him go down one step, then another, then-
“H-hey, Mando?”
Your sudden call stops him in his tracks on the stair case and he turns to look back over his shoulder. The dim light gleaming over his steel.
“Yes?”
“I…. w-well…”
You’re stammering. Just come out and say it.
“If you’ve never tried it… would you like to share it with me?”
He stands there silently looking at you and the awkwardness crawls your skin.
“I’m not busy at the moment and it’s not really in my culture to drink alone.”
Culture your ass. You just want to drink with him. It’s unclear why in particular but… you’re curious about him. Other than the company of his kid, he seems alone. You wonder if he prefers it that way or if it’s for another reason entirely. Either way, the offer was worth a shot.
There’s more silence and the only noise in the air comes from the gentle chirp of some lava crickets and the breeze brushing the trees in the street. And it’s in that moment that regret starts to burn in your stomach
He’s gonna say no. A pause like that doesn’t necessarily mean yes. But it would be rude not to offer, right? A bottle this nice doesn’t come by these parts and it’d be a shame to drink it alone. It’s reasonable to offer the gesture. After all, he went out of his way to come here from across town. It’s the least you can do to show your appreciation in return.
“Alright.”
The word that falls out of him so effortlessly hits you like a punch to the chest. Are you nervous? Absolutely. But how many people can say they shared a drink with the Mandalorian?
A few minutes later, you find yourself standing on your tip toes, grabbing a couple earthenware ceramic cups in your kitchenette cabinet while Mando stands in your living room. His helmet follows the various potted plants, momentos and knick knacks from your travels littered around your home. Even tracing his gloved fingers over some of them.
“You have a nice home,” he says. “I didn’t notice before. Very lived in.”
“Lots of junk,” you joke. “You can say it Mando, I won’t mind.”
“My place is still new. Doesn’t feel like a home just yet.”
“That’ll change over time,” you assure him. “After a while, your home becomes a collection of memories.”
His attention gets drawn to a particular item on your wall. It’s an old worn down canvas satchel bag that hangs on the wall. At one point it was a life line. Now it serves as a reminder that no matter how hard life gets, showing a little kindness can go a long way for someone.
“What’s this memory?”
“That? That memory is what got me here.” You smile to yourself as you wipe down the cups with a clean kitchen rag.
“A few years ago, I was on Pantora with just some spare change and the clothes on my back. I was desperate to leave so I ended up hitching a ride on a freight ship. I worked on the ship in exchange for a ride to Corellia. Their language was difficult to learn and I had a rough time getting things done because for some reason everything was written in the native language and not aurebesh. On a stop to Tattooine, I accidentally labeled a pallet of coaxium as a pallet of scrap metal. That “scrap” was sold to some Jawas and by the time everyone realized my mistake we were already halfway to the next planet.”
“Was that before you came the Nevarro?”
“That was the reason I came to Nevarro,” you clarify. “It was their next stop so they dropped me here.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, ouch,” you laugh. “Anyway, I guess one of the workers felt sorry for me and left me that satchel with a couple credits and some ration bars inside. Buuut my mistake turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Nevarro turned itself around. I have my own little business. I’m even able to save a little bit of money now. For the time being, things are comfortable. I’ve hopped around the system a lot as you can see. But… this is a place I can always come back to.”
“Something reliable,” he adds.
“Exactly,” you say softly, smiling at the sentiment.
You look up at him. And you didn’t notice as you were cleaning those cups that he’s now completely facing towards you. His visor is trained on you. And it’s then that you realize how small your home really is. Because Mando is broad.
His crossed arms accentuate his wide shoulders. His chest plate follows the lines of his trim torso. Even those plates of beskar armor can barely hide the bulk of his biceps. Your eyes briefly, briefly take a tour at his waist line before you realize how incredibly rude you’re being.
He’s a guest. And a customer. Don’t. Check. Him. Out.
Heat starts to rise in your cheeks. Focusing back on the cups, you round the kitchen counter and walk over to him.
“I’m sorry. All this talking suddenly got deeper and I feel like I haven’t really introduced myself. We’ve only ever passed by each other before,” you chuckle, shaking away the nerves.
In hindsight you should’ve just introduced yourself the other night, but truthfully you were in care-taker-mode and it didn’t occur to you at the time. Plus you didn’t think you’d have an encounter with the man again other than seeing him briefly in your shop every so often. But he seems like a nice enough person with the limited knowledge you do have with him. And after tonight you’re bound to cross paths again. So you happily extend your hand out and give him his cup along with your full name.
There’s a couple beats of silence and you’re starting to see that’s his default. But it doesn’t stop you from second guessing your words as if you’re crossing an unknown boundary. There’s a slight tilt downward with his helmet and he responds with a regretful “I’m sorry, but-“
“You don’t have to tell me your name,” you immediately add. “I know there’s… principles you must have. I just wanted you to know me. That’s all.”
Another beat passes before he finally reaches out to take the cup in his hand. He repeats your name and the way it comes out of his voice holds a whole new flavor. Soft and curious even through the warble of his vocoder. It’s almost like he’s seeing how it tastes.
You like it. You like it a lot.
“It’s nice to meet you.” The voice wears the vocoder like a veil but you still catch a hint of a smile by his relaxed tone. No real logical way to know for certain, just a gut feeling.
“Likewise,” you smile back.
“So,” he exhales. “You want to know how two Mandalorians drink?”
“Sure. Sounds educational,” you joke.
With a tilt of his helmet, Mando steps further into the living room area and you follow behind, cup and bottle in hand. Walking over to the couch, his gloved hand reaches for the small round pillow resting there. His smokey grey cape flows over his shoulder and for a moment you’re mesmerized by the movement. As he turns on his heel, his fingers release the pillow. Letting it fall to the thin rug with a muted poof.
“Right here.” Mando gestures to the floor and you waltz over to take a seat on the cushion, crossing your legs. It doesn’t escape your notice how he doesn’t grab the only pillow for himself. Opting for your comfort over his own.
He takes a minute to look around the room. Probably checking for anything reflective. Then with a swish of his cape to the side, Mando settles in the floor behind you. When his back presses against yours, you expect a wall of cold hard metal beneath the cape. But instead there’s warmth. Strong and firm, but still warm and giving.
“It’s customary to sit on the floor when drinking with a war band. Usually outside around a fire. When it’s just two, it’s back to back.”
“Aaah,” you drawl. “Very practical. I like it.”
The top of the bottle comes off with a pop and the rich scent caresses your nose like a hug. After pouring about two fingers worth into Mando’s cup you pour one for yourself and settle in.
“Are we drinking to anything tonight ,” you ask him.
“Not sure. How about…,” he pauses for a moment before deciding. “To that Pantoran who gave you the satchel.”
That makes you laugh out loud. But you can’t help but feel a little pleased at that. If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t be on Nevarro, wouldn’t have a home. And you definitely wouldn’t be drinking with Mando tonight. For that you’re especially grateful.
“You know what, yeah,” you chuckle. “To the Pantoran.”
Mando extends his arm back to reach your cups and you meet him halfway. Letting them touch with a soft clack.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
There’s an unclicking sound and you sense that he’s probably tilting his helmet back to drink. You ignore the small tinge of disappointment that he didn’t take it completely off. But it’s understandable. He doesn’t know you well. Even drinking like this with an outsider is probably a big deal for people of his creed. His back presses a little further against yours as he takes his first sip and you take yours.
The wine is rich and dry, and a bit smokey. But the underlying taste of tangy fruit blends well with the flavor. Going by the color, it has to have been bottled for a decades. The alcohol runs warmly down your throat and settles like smoldering ember in your stomach. It’s like no other alcohol you’ve ever tried before. Not even close.
“Hoooh,” he hisses after that sharp bite of alcohol.
“Yeah,” you agree knowingly. Already sensing that this bottle is getting finished tonight.
The conversations flow pretty easily after the first drink. He tells you about how his boy came into his life and how he suddenly found himself being his father. You tell him that you can only dream of having a parent like him because you never got to know yours. You half expected he would cut the interaction short and only accept one drink. But when you offer a refill, he gladly accepted which warmed you from the inside.
Admittedly you ask a few curious questions about his creed and he indulges you a bit. And he asks about how you got into medicine making. But for the most part you both stick to easier topics like current events on Nevarro, work, and food. Eventually two drinks turn into three and somehow you’ve both dipped into topics like past relationships. Which is dangerous territory after drink number three.
“It was baaad, Mando. I’m telling you. I mean, really! Who gives two shits who makes more money than who? Or am I in the wrong here?”
“Nah, definitely not,” he replies. His speech now more relaxed but a little raspy from the alcohol. “Honestly, he sounds like a little bitch if that was his main concern.”
“Yeah! Like, what is it with these men and needing to feel superior in such bullshit, inconsequential ways?”
“You seem strong willed. Weak men are intimidated by that.”
“Yeah well, then every man I’ve met in this galaxy was weak,” you groan. “I mean, c’mon. Am I that intimidating? Is it the yapping? It’s probably the yapping.”
“I think someone who’d be deterred by something that trivial doesn’t sound worth a damn anyway.”
With that, you let out a deep sigh and slump against the man behind your back.
“Eh, you’re probably right,” you exhale. You toss back the last little sip in your ceramic cup, savoring the flavor.
“You know what, it’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll just be that shop girl around the corner who throws herself into her work, makes her little remedies, and stays happily independent. I think I can live with that.”
A pause streches between you.
“You don’t sound too convincing, Shop Girl,” he teases.
“Shit,” you tsk.
You both wheeze with laughter, your bodies rumbling against one another and it’s so… relaxing. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t say much. Or that what little he does say is said with a sincerity you’re not used to. Or you’re drunk. It could very well be that.
But in a galaxy full of deceit and unknown dangers, it’s refreshing to talk with someone as honest as him. He’s authentic, unapologetically so.
“Hey so… can I ask you something?”
“You’ve been asking things this whole time,” he teases.
“I know, but… it’s technically a helmet question. And you can tell me to fuck off if it’s too much.”
Mando hums and the rumble reverberates through your body, nesting warmly in your chest. He’s settled comfortably against you and it makes you feel close enough to ask what you want to ask. After thinking it over he gives you permission.
“Can’t wait to hear this,” he sighs with a little amusement.
You smile. To your surprise, he actually has a good sense of humor. A dry, blunt one . But humor nonetheless. You run a finger over the rim of your cup, finding a little more courage.
“Mando… Have you ever kissed anyone before?”
It’s a simple enough question, right? It’s within the ballpark of the topics you’ve been discussing. And you’re both adults. It’s not like it’s inappropriate…Right?
Oh god, you really are drunk…
Regret rises with each passing second and you wonder why you even brought it up. It’s probably some kind of insult to his creed to ask something like that.
“Too much,” you broach gently.
“No,” he says softly. “You’re not exactly the first person to ask that. Doubt you’ll be the last.”
He pauses for a moment to find the right words. Then with a heavy exhale he gives you an answer to your insanely intrusive question.
“I was pretty young when I took the creed,” he states. “Ten, twelve maybe? Too young to be interested in those kinds of things. Never looked back since. To be completely honest, it’s not even something I really think about in adulthood. Never understood the hype.”
“Sooo, I’ll take that as a no.”
“No,” he breathes. “Never kissed anyone.”
Never kissed anyone? Never felt a person’s soft lips against his own or graze his skin? Does that mean he hasn’t gotten to experience more than kissing? Licking? Biting? Or…
Do not finish that thought…
“Huh… Well, that’s a shame,” you say without thinking, quickly adding “-but at the same time, I completely understand it too! I mean, it shows a lot of self discipline, you know? To resist that kind of… temptation. Most people don’t have any reason to be disciplined enough to stay chaste. I can admire tha-"
“I said I’ve never kissed anyone, I didn’t say I never fucked.”
Thank… the Maker… you’re not face to face. Because the way your eyes bulged just now would’ve been downright embarrassing had it been caught. He didn’t just say sex or even screwing. The Mandalorian fucks. The alcohol in your blood seems to conjure a brief glimpse of what that might look like before you find enough coherence to shew it away.
“…oh,” you breathe out, effectively stopping your rambling. “I-I guess I just assumed…”
A deep exhale blows out of his nose. He hums, seemingly entertained by the foot you’ve put in your mouth. But also making the air light between you.
“Well, you assumed wrong.”
The humor in his voice settles your nerves a bit. Thankfully there isn’t an awkward air at the sudden change to such a topic despite hardly knowing each other. And oddly enough, it feels easy to talk about it for that very reason.
“You’re rather chatty when you drink, Mandalorian. I feel like I’m learning all sorts of things about you tonight.”
“You’re right,” he breathes. “I spoke without thinking, I apologize.”
“No, It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. It’s a relief to know there’s a man under all that armor and not solid metal.”
He hums again and the noise stirs something in your chest.
“Well, even so… It’s late… Probably best if I stop drinking.”
You look into your empty cup. Then glance over to the bottle with barely a drop left inside. Something inside you wilts. There’s nothing to keep him here any longer…
“Yeah… Me too.”
You’re not sure if you wait for him to move first or if he’s waiting for you. But both of you remain still for nearly a whole minute. Silent and hesitant to end the night. As comfortable as it is, you feel Mando’s back lean away from yours and you miss the warmth. You turn on the floor to find him standing up as he adjusts his helmet clasp and places his empty cup on the table.
“You were right. It tasted better shared,” he admits. A satisfied smile curls your lips.
“If you learned anything about me tonight, Mando, it’s that I am always right when it comes to liquor.”
“I appreciate the hospitality.”
“I appreciate the company.”
You place a hand on the table as an anchor in an attempt to stand up and follow him to the door. But as you try to stand straight, the room spins and your knees buckle.
Nope. Not doing that.
You sit your ass right back down on that cushion before you make an even bigger fool of yourself. Quick to respond, Mando catches your free arm. Making sure you land back down safely.
“You ok,” he asks, concerned but with a hint of humor.
“Pfft. Yeah, I’m good. I think I’ll just stay down here for a minute,” you chuckle, running a hand through your hair and closing your eyes for a moment.
For sure you’ll have a hangover tomorrow. Shit. You work tomorrow. There’s a couple things you’re running low on, too. You’ll have to request an order through the trading guild. That’ll cost credits. Maybe if you get that Chiss man again you can manage a trade and he can throw in those dried flower buds for that tea that keeps getting sold out.
You know you’re already a bit dizzy. But behind closed eyes you feel like your head is swaying. Or rather… that it’s being moved. Something warm and firm holds your jaw up and when your eyes flutter open again you’re met face to face with dark silver.
The Mandalorian stands barely a foot in front of you. Visor fixed down on your face. Maybe the wine has made your brain slow but it’s only when you follow the path from his shoulder and down his outstretched arm that you realize what’s holding your jaw… is his hand.
With a subtle pass of his thumb along your cheek you can feel warmth starting to pool in your face. Awareness pricks the hairs on the back of your neck when you realize your position. Sitting on your knees, face barely level to his waist as a wall of steel and muscle towers over you.
“Your cheeks get flushed when you drink,” he mutters.
When I drink. Suuuure.
“Now you know,” you mumble without thinking. It grants you a satisfied hum from his helmet and you feel it travel through your ears and under your skin.
“Now I know…,” he repeats.
There’s no movement, no words. But there’s something thick in the air. It’s heavy and enticing. It’d be so easy to get wrapped up in it with any sudden movement. You look up at him through half lidded eyes and you get a gut feeling that they’re meeting his. You’re not sure what his are giving away. But yours have to be hinting something you’ve been trying to hide all night.
With a sharp intake of air, Mando steps back and releases your face. Your head drops a little at the loss of support and it follows his direction as he walks towards the front door with quick, heavy steps. With a press of a button on the wall panel, the door panels slide open and just before he steps outside… he stops. Not looking back, just standing there at the edge of your home with his stand still resting on the doorway.
“Don’t invite me in again.”
And then he’s gone. The door panels shut swiftly, leaving you alone and more confused than when he showed up at your door.
…what?
•
Din wishes he could say that the first thing he thinks about when he got home that night was his sleeping kid safe in the crib. Or at the very least about how incredible that wine tasted. But after he undressed and collapsed down onto his bed half drunk, the only thought he couldn’t stop thinking about as he stared at the ceiling was…
Damn… it’s been a while.
For the past few years, Din’s life has flipped around a number of times. Between barely scraping by as a bounty hunter, saving an orphan kid from an imperial psychopath, losing said kid, then having him return and be by his side to reclaim the Mandalorian home-world, there’s not much time to indulge those kinds of needs. But just because Din found himself being a busy father later in life doesn’t make certain things dead.
No. Everything felt very much alive and kicking by the end of that bottle.
Behind closed eyes, his room feels like it swirls. After that wine, his body feels loose and relaxed. Something he rarely gets to experience these days. Images dance across his closed lids. Delicate, slender hands around a handmade cup. A pink flush on smooth skin. Plump tinted lips between his fingers, softly parted and begging to be touched. The intrusive impulse to dip a finger between those lips was so strong he could feel his hand move into the action before he could even think to do so.
All thanks to that one question. That simple, innocent question activated a deep part of his brain that lay dormant. And then he decided to shatter the care free atmosphere by with a crass remark about sex.
Never in his life has he regretted saying something so fast. You barely even know each other. Admittedly, Din isn’t exactly a refined person, far from it actually. But after his third glass, any semblance of manners flew right out the window. His mouth did the walking with little thinking involved.
Yet, you didn’t get uncomfortable. You handled the slip up with humor instead of getting offended or something just as bad. Using humor to make the air light again. It surprised him how easily you did it. How easy the conversation was all night, really. It’s not everyday he’s able to let his guard down with another person.
Once he was aware of that, he became aware of everything. How late the hour was, how drunk you both were, and how your bed was right behind where you both sat. Only separated by a simple room divider. Even when he tipped up his helmet, there was a heady herbal scent from you that kept swimming in his nose and it was just as intoxicating as the wine. He couldn’t trust himself to stay any longer. And now, in the safety of his own home, he finds himself preoccupied with a mountain of questions.
What kind of person are you? What’s your daily life like? What other places have you seen? What troubles you? You seem to be rooted here in Nevarro for the time being. But from what you’ve mentioned about your past, you have a kind of nomadic life. What happens if he… if the kid gets attached and you decide to move on to another planet? But then again, it’s not like he’s not one to talk though is he?
Loyalty. Solidarity. These are things that have been etched to his core since childhood. But giving those things to something that could be fleeting? That’s a risk he’s avoided for most of his life. Those kinds of wounds never heal.
But as much as he tries to distance himself, it’s not always in his control.
Three weeks go by and they couldn’t end soon enough. When he offered to work with Teva (or Blue as he usually calls him) on a case-by-case basis, he figured they’d be more involved than the bounty hunting trade. He’s spent up to a month off planet at times in order to capture a quarry so it’s not exactly new to him.
But that was when he had the Razor Crest. With a cot to rest in, a weapons locker, and supplies readily at hand. In that regard, the N-1 leaves much to be desired. Plus Din’s back isn’t what it used to be and long rides in that ship are killer. And to add insult to injury, this last case with Zeb was especially complicated to resolve. It left him and the kid completely drained.
After finally landing back in Nevarro with fresh credits, there is absolutely nothing Din wants more than to just go home, bathe, and sleep for at least a day. But he’s got a very hungry green mouth to feed and there’s no way Din is fixing up any dinner tonight.
Street food it is.
“Alright, we’re making this quick. In and out. I’ll get you as much food as you want and you can pick out one sweet. Not five. One. Got that?” Grogu tilts his head at Din curiously from where he follows behind on the cobblestone street and he’ll just take that as a yes.
Dozens of food stalls are gathered at the main square in town as he approaches. Adorned with all sorts of neon signs, string lights and colorful banners. It’s a busy atmosphere filled with people laughing, vendors calling out for customers to stop by, and sounds of clanking and sizzling as they cook.
Din gravitates towards the skewers stand. He knows Grogu is going to down ten of them by himself so he opts for something easy, filling, and cheap. He catches sight of those spicy chunks of fatty meat searing over lava coals and his mouth waters.
“Okay, which onesss-“
Din reaches down to pick up his son only to find the street bricks.
“-Sssshhhhit,” he hisses under his breath, glancing around. This fucking kid. He knows better than to run off.
The crowd is thick and it’s getting dark. He scans through the sea of people and vendors but doesn’t find that familiar pale green.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
With a tap of his helmet side panel he switches to the tracking beacon screen. After enough scares like these he’s learned to have a tracker sewn into his clothes at this point.
Blinking red arrows come into his view and he follows the path. Not caring whose shoulders he budges or what food he knocks out of someone’s grip to get through. The red arrows turn yellow. He’s getting close but there’s still no visual of the kid and he’s starting to panic. He pushes through, scanning side to side and calling out his name in an orchestra of noises without reply.
Yellow turns to green and he’s still out of sight. He’s tiny and easy to miss. Grogu could be anywhere, he could be in any one of these stalls. What if he’s taken? What if someone else is tracking him? He could be picked up by a total stranger and taken away again.
Just as that thought crosses his mind, there’s a small separation in the crowd. Big floppy ears come into view and he’s definitely been picked up. But it’s no stranger that holds him.
“And here comes dad~” A voice soft as silk rings inside his helmet.
Relief floods his body as well as caution when he taps his screen clear. Only him. Situations like this only happen to him. It could’ve been Karga. It could’ve been anybody. But it had to be you that found him.
It was barely two minutes. But within those two minutes Din’s head flooded with every worst case scenario possible. And here he is. Happily babbling in your arms like he didn’t just give his dad a fucking heart attack.
“I know, I know,” you assure him like you can already tell where his head’s at, trying to speak over all the noise. “Don’t be too hard on the little guy. I already gave him a bit of a lecture for running around at night.”
Din wants to. It’s honestly his first reaction. But a cooler head prevails and he decides against it after a second thought. He reminds himself (once again) that Grogu is still young and that getting angry would only make things worse. What matters is that he’s safe and that he managed to find you.
“At least he won’t have to hear it twice,” he exhales, pushing out the stress sitting in his lungs. “Sorry about him.”
“No, no sorry needed. He’s smarter than he lets on. At least he ran to someone he knew. I’m glad I was around.”
Din opens his mouth to speak but ends up falling short with his words. Now that some of the stress has left his body, his eyes take you in at a second glance. Unclouded by the adrenaline.
Your hair is tied up with a pin with a few loose pieces falling at the nape of your neck and around your face. With the heat persisting into the night, you decided to wear a thin strap tank top that hangs low on your chest. It exposes miles of smooth skin, from your shoulders all the way down the arms wrapped around his kid. A dusty blue apron wraps around your waist over some baggy cargo pants so you must’ve came here right after work. There’s a glow from all the neon lights that adorns you and he has to will his mouth to move before he gets caught staring.
“Here.” He extends his hands to you. “I can take him back. Thank you for catching him. C’mon, bud. Let her get back to shopping.”
“It’s no problem,” you assure him with a smile. Your hands hooks under Grogus tiny arms and start to pull him off your torso. “Back to dad you go.”
But the moment he’s barely lifted, he cries out in protest with a shrill whine. Refusing to leave your side. You pull him back in instantly and run a soothing hand on his back.
“Oh! Okay, okay. You can stay with me for a minute,” you giggle in a sugary voice to Grogu. Bouncing him on your hip.
You both exchange a look of surprise (as much as his visor can give off anyway). What kind of person are you that Grogu prefers your embrace over his own father? He doesn’t know whether to be jealous or impressed.
But it’s getting late, they need to eat and get home and you probably need to get back to your own errands. Din’s hands extends again to take Grogu but you shake your head with a little smile. Letting him know it’s not an inconvenience to you.
“Here, wanna help me pick out some sweets?”
Grogu coos at your request, toying with the glittering silver chain pendant on your neck. You rest his kid on your hip effortlessly and the motion of it pinches something deep in Din’s chest. Turning to the assorted trays of sugared fruits on skewers, you list the various kinds for Grogu to pick out. Talking back with him like you can actually understand his little babbles. You answer him with “ooh, that’s a good choice” and “these are my favorites”.
Din just stands aside, watching the way you both interact and it’s admittedly a bit pleasing to see how natural you are with him. Most people think he’s a pet at first glance. Karga treats him like a newborn. Talking gibberish and doting on him despite him handling a 50 year old. You, on the other hand, just treat him like a regular kid. And it’s refreshing to see.
His son’s head spins back at his father with the biggest set of sparkling inky eyes and Din can see the pleading question in them. He tilts his helmet at him and reminds him “one”. Those large ears deflate a little and you giggle at the interaction. Din offers to pay for your skewer along with Grogu’s as another thank you for looking after his son (again). The vendor gathers the treats in paper wrappers to take to go.
You turn to ask Din something, but it’s covered by the noise of yelling and cooking. He tilts his head a bit lower to try and catch what you’re saying. Then, without hesitation, your hand finds purchase on the pauldron on his shoulder. Prompting him to lean in closer to you so you can speak within earshot.
“It’s been a minute since I saw you last,” you remark with a raised voice. “Everything good?”
Shit.
For a second he freezes. Partly at the lack of distance between you, but mostly because the last time he saw you he stormed out of your place like it was on fire without so much as a goodnight. You’re probably wondering what the hell that was about and he honestly can’t answer that himself. Although your expression seems more cheerful than troubled. He crouches closer to your ears and replies with caution, hoping to avoid the direction of that conversation.
“Yeah, we’ve been um… traveling a lot lately. I get contracted by the new republic pretty often these days. Leaving him behind with someone whenever I’m off planet for too long doesn’t seem fair to him so he’s always by my side no matter what.”
“Ah, that makes sense. You usually stop by for medkit supplies so when I didn’t see you last week I figured you were away.”
Din mentally smacks his forehead. Right. Of course you meant the shop. Because what else would you be implying to a fucking customer? You’re just making small talk. Something he has never really gotten the hang of. Seems pretty damn easy when he’s drinking though…
“We actually just got back. Too tired to fix something up so I figured I’d grab us something quick and easy before heading home.”
“Ugh. I feel that. When I get home I’m crashing on the first soft surface I see,” you groan, still bouncing Grogu on the curve of your hip. Those hips…
No. Stop it.
“Busy day,” he asks and your eyes roll upwards.
“Busy week,” you exclaim. “I swear I think about quitting at least once a day. But I like it too much. Plus it’s the only thing I’m any good at. Otherwise I’d probably be some kind of criminal.” You pause then laugh at the thought before adding, “then you’d probably have to hunt me down, huh?”
That… is a scenario that he already knows is going to stick in his brain for a while. It’s such an enticing thought that he doesn’t bother to tell you he’s not in that business anymore. A tiny part of him would much rather have you think he’d chase you. Obviously you’re not serious, but he can’t help but lean into the joke.
“I don’t know,” he says unconvinced. “Might be pretty easy to find you. All I have to do is look wherever there’s street food.”
A laugh bubbles out of you and there’s a strange feeling that radiates in his chest at being able to make you laugh. Pride maybe? No, more like… satisfaction.
“Don’t underestimate me, Mando. I know my way around the outer rim. I’d make you work for it,” you say. Taunting him with a knowing smirk.
A smile tugs higher on his hidden face. The thought of you making him work for anything will no doubt be food for thought later. And instinct tells him that might’ve been your intention. But two can play at this game.
You’re already nearly face to face but he inches even closer, almost close enough for metal to meet skin. Ensuring you catch every word right into your ear.
“I’d like to see you try, Shop Girl.”
Your eyes grow a little wider at the sound of your nickname and he takes pleasure at just how effective it is. It’s another reminder of that night. A name that was spoken within an intimate atmosphere that only the two of you occupied. And by your expression, that same thought crosses your mind too.
You bite your bottom lip in a smile. The same lips that were between his hands. The only lips he can’t seem to forget. The shape, the color, and how fucking edible they look. He’s even noticed how they pout a little when you’re concentrated on a task. More questions surface.
What do they feel like? What do they taste like? What makes a kiss so good that everyone can recall their first?
The bubble created is suddenly burst by the outside world. The stall vendor gleefully hands over the candied fruit over the counter in their wrappers and you take them with your free hand. Handing the mixed one to Grogu because he couldn’t decide on just one flavor. Reality returns to Din’s head and his thoughts immediately sober up.
What the hell is he doing?
He tears his eyes away. Even if you can’t tell, looking at you like that for too long feels wrong. You’re a good person, you’re trying to live a normal life, and what you’ve told him you’re not looking to get involved in any drama. He has to keep reminding himself of those things.
That same instinct to leave hits him again. Because that urge to do something he can’t take back flares up again and it’s best to not give that feeling any more energy. For both your sakes. He gestures his hand in a hand-him-over motion, signaling to you and Grogu that it’s time to go.
“Alright, time to go kid. Say goodnight.”
Grogu whines with a mouthful of sweets and a face covered in sugar and it makes him chuckle to himself. Din would normally find the defiance a little cute, if it wasn’t for the stunt he pulled earlier. You carefully hand him over with both arms leaning in close and again he feels another pinch in his chest at how carefully you exchange him.
Your bare arms graze against his clothed ones and he pulls away the second he has hold of his kid. He ignores the small current of electricity from the contact and maneuvers Grogu into the crossbody bag to his hip. Which, of course, makes him protest.
“Nope. You had your chance. Now you get the bag.”
“Aw c’mon,” you scold “He was just playing around. Now he’s in bag jail?”
First the kid and now you? He can tell his son no, but it might be a little harder to tell you that.
“Yeah, yeah. Maybe next time he’ll think twice about running off in a crowd,” he groans.
Once the kid is settled in the bag, you follow him down. Crouching down, you sit face to face with Grogu as he stuffs his face with the candied fruit. Resting your free hand on his fuzzy head as the other holds your own skewered treat.
“Kay, little rebel. Go stuff your face with some good food. And take it easy on your poor dad, alright? He’s not built for that kinda stress.”
“What’s that supposed to mean,” he asks, kind of amused by your ribbing. He can count on one hand the people who are undaunted enough to make playful jabs at him.
Your lips twist and your eyes take a tour up to your brows as you think of your reply.
“Hmm… just the way you get a little impatient sometimes. You were like that when you brought him over and paced my living room for an hour,” you chuckle. “You seem like the kind of man who gets antsy when something’s not in your control.”
A smile threatens to crawl his face. Pretty presumptuous. But he can’t deny how true that statement rings. Especially nowadays when it’s not just himself he has to worry about.
“Maybe so,” he replies with a hint of humor in his voice. “Patience isn’t really my strong suit. Although this one seems to enjoy testing it.”
“Patience is bitter,” you muse as you rub the top of Grogu’s head with your thumb. He coos with delight and the softest gaze glows on your face. Then from your crouched position, your eyes glance back up at Din and add, “…But the fruit is sweet.”
His jaw flexes beneath his helmet, and heat now courses through his veins.
That can’t be a good sign. He already enjoys your banter too much as it is. But that look just now was dangerous. It dredges up thoughts he shouldn’t have about you. Thoughts like kissing someone he barely knows. Feeling skin on skin. Showing you what a man like him can do to you compared to the boys of your past.
He saw it all over your pretty face when he held it in his hand. That flush on your cheeks, your dilated pupils. Hell, he even saw your heat signature rising in his helmet screen for fuck sake. There’s an attraction and that’s fine (and not completely unreciprocated) but it can’t be anything more than that.
You and him live completely different lives. There’s no need to uproot your peace and get involved in his complicated affairs. Even if something happened, it wouldn’t be long before the allure of the suit and mystery people usually perceive of Mandalorians would turn into repulsion.
That’s how it’s gone before. That’s the way it is.
•
You’re a bad person. A horrible human being and a shameless lowlife. Downright beyond saving.
I’d like to see you try, Shop Girl.
The damn sentence won’t stop replaying in your head. It’s not just a nickname. It’s a nickname he gave you. One that’s covered in underlying context and memories that only the two of you share. One that peppers your skin with goosebumps when it comes out of that raspy modulated voice. It’s even worse when your brain starts intrusively placing it in all sorts of sentences.
That’s it, Shop Girl…
You’re doing so well, Shop Girl…
Bend over for me, Shop Girl…
That last one has crawled into your dreams more often than you’d care to admit lately.
You need to get a grip. It’s just an attraction. You’ve been alone for too long and you’re getting all wound up over a smidge of attention. He’s just a regular decent person with a kid to take care of who also just happens to have an amazingly muscular body and a voice of sin. Simple as that.
Right. Simple.
After that night at the food stalls, the Mandalorian and Grogu have been visiting your humble Clinic Shop on a more frequently. Usually you'll see them a couple times a week if they're not on one of their long haul trips. Missions? Jobs?
It's not like Mando has any reason to let you know ahead of time. But when a week or so passes with no sign of silver or green, you can't help but feel a little down. You've come to look forward to seeing your regulars. But they grown to being your favorite customers.
And if you're being honest, theres a growing part of you that feels tied to the man in silver beskar. When he's here, the part blossoms. And when he's gone, it feels... wilted. It's unexpected and confusing to say the least. The closest feeling you could label it is homesickness. And truthfully, you're not really sure if you want to feel such a heavy thing towards anybody right now.
There's a lull in the store this hot muggy afternoon. You've already finished your prescription orders, restocked your shelves, even watered all the potted plants outside the entrance. Since you finally have some down time, you figured you might as well get to making some of your popular tea mixes.
On the back counter, you have a variety of dried herbs, flower buds, tea leaves, and a few large mixing bowls. The scent in the shop is incredible right now. Swirling around on the wind propelled by the metal fans around the shop. Spiced and aromatic with a hint of fruitiness. You let the smell fill your lungs and relax your body as you place measured scoops of the mix into small paper bags. A bead of sweat tracks down the back of your neck. Even with pinning your hair up and the strapless wrap you chose to wear today, the heat of the day still clings to your damp skin.
A cool glass of that Andoan wine would be so good right about now...
Maybe it was instinct, or maybe there really is some kind of invisible tie. But something makes your head tilt to the side and glance at the open entrance. And it's then that a glint of sliver light reflects on the stucco walls. A flutter of anticipation strikes through your chest and your eyes are locked at the entrance. Then, that familiar Silver T-visor and a pair of floppy green ears peek around the corner.
The smile that spreads across your cheeks is so big it almost hurts.
"Hey," you exclaim from the back of the store. You leave your station and excitedly make your way across the store to the pair as they step inside.
“It’s been a whi-“
“Ah ah, sorry," you cut Mando off mid greeting, halting him with your pointer finger. "Grogu gets first dibs.”
Mando shakes his head but you can tell he's humored. Turning his hip to the side and giving you access to the canvas crossbody where Grogu resides.
“Even though I'm a regular customer," Mando retorts.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that sounded a teensy bit like jealousy. You smirk, giving eyes only to the little green baby.
“Not when you’re as cute as him.” You say, placing Grogu on your hip and giving him little scritches on his wrinkled head.
“Isn’t that right, Kid. Mando wishes he could be half as cute as you.” The child coos at you and Mando shakes his head. But you can tell by his body language that he's at least a little amused.
You walk back to the back counter with the kid in your arms and Mando in tow behind you. And the feeling you have in this moment is oddly... domestic? You're not entirely sure if that's the right word. In your life you've never experienced domesticity. But you figure it's similar to that homesick feeling you get.
You place Grogu on top of your station and pull out an herbal lollipop from your apron for him. You like to keep a few handy for kids and they also help with coughs. The kids inky eyes gleam as he babbles and plunges the sugary candy in his mouth.
"Any chance that delivery for those new Pharmakits arrived yet," Mando asks, leaning a hand on the counter next to you.
"They did," you nod. "Any chance you're planning on taking on an army on your next trip?"
He shrugs, tilting his helmet to the side in that way he does when he's being aloof.
"Doesn't hurt to keep one on hand. You never know."
You hum in acknowledgment but inside a pit forms in your stomach. The danger he faces whenever he goes on these "jobs" isn't lost on you. Lately, it's been on the back of your mind more often than not. On his last visit, when he asked about ordering stronger meds and triage supplies, it hit you just how much his long absences affect you. And just the thought of never seeing him or his little boy again stirs up something vile inside.
“You seem to be busy today,” he remarks, pointing out all the open jars and mixing bowls with various dried leaves and herbs.
His remark takes you out of your thoughts. You must've been silent a second too long for him to change the subject like that. With a deep inhale and slight embarrassment you shrug off the negative thoughts and ground yourself back to reality.
“Yes and no. I’ve been restocking while it’s dead to keep busy.”
He leans in a bit to get a closer look at the contents of the bowl. Close enough for you to catch the scent of smoke and musk on his clothes.
“You’re mixing… tea?”
You hum a yes and nod.
“Tea can be used for lots of medicinal purposes. Many people prefer natural remedies to pharmaceutical ones. I try to have a mix of both.”
“So this is medicine?” You sway your head to the side, trying to think of the best way to explain the purpose of the tea.
“Kiiind of. You could say it’s preventative.”
“What does it prevent?”
“Pregnancy.”
A clearing of his throat follows your answer. You turn toward him with a smirk and a raised brow but his visor has now turned away your face.
Most fearsome bounty hunter in the outer rim, everybody.
“You asked, man,” you chuckle with a shrug.
“Guess that’s on me,” he says.
“This is actually one of my best sellers,” you tell him. You grab the wooden scoop and raise up the floral mix, letting the various petals and herbs rain back down into the bowl. The motion makes the sweet scent drive up in the air. “I have customers tell me they don’t leave the house before their daily brew.”
“I’m glad business is going well for you,” he deflects, making you fold your smile in your teeth. And suddenly your brain sees a prime opportunity.
“You know, Mando…,” you drawl as you mix the petals. “If you’re ever in a pinch and you need some, I could give you a sample.” The way his helmet jerks to face you almost breaks your nonchalant smile.
“That’s um… very generous but it’d be wasted on me.” His body straightens stiffly and you can tell the topic makes him a bit uneasy. But you press on anyway.
“You sure? You can never be too safe. I’m sure any visitors would appreciate it.” He sighs deeply and turns away, shaking his head in annoyance.
God, this is too much fun. Teasing him is so easy. If it wasn’t for the helmet you bet he’s sweating right now. He might look cool and collected. But after drinking with him, you know there’s in fact a man under all that metal.
“I’m sure,” Mando confirms. “I'm not seeing anyone at the moment.”
And there’s the answer you’re looking for.
Was it a bit sneaky? Yeah. Yeah, it was sneaky. But it rules out the theory that reason he told you not to invite home again was because he’s currently taken. It’s still an enigma as to why. But honestly there’s still the gut feeling that you did something to make him uncomfortable that night.
Maybe you crossed a line with one of your questions. You tend to ask a lot of questions. Your filter also isn’t everybody’s flavor. Even so, you had a great time talking, even joking around with him. You’ve come to cherish that night in your memory. And the thought that you obliviously might’ve said something to offend Mando in any way makes your chest ache.
But if that was the case then why has he been stopping by your store more frequently since then? He always says he’s restocking his med kit but you get the feeling there’s more to it than that. Almost as if he’s checking up on you. Making sure you’re doing ok. And above all, that’s what scares you.
It’s scares you how good that thought makes you feel.
“Picking up an order!” An unfriendly voice bellows from the entrance where a Trandoshan man in fine robes stands waiting. “Name’s Samir T’ar.”
It takes a second to snap back into action. But you slap on your best customer service smile and leave your task for later. Rounding the corner past Mando and the kid and walking to the Medicine Cabinet. Wiping the non-existent dust on your hands on your waist apron.
“Hi, yes! I’ll grab that for you right now.”
The Trandoshan stands waiting at the counter as you sort through the assorted orders in the glass case. Looking for the right name tag and plucking the tied linen bag. You dont turn your eyes toward him, but Mando’s pressance is all your body is aware of. You can tell he’s miandering through the shop, looking at various items on the shelves. Which, to you, is a bit funny since hes been here plenty of times by now.
Is he playing the curious customer right now because there’s someone here?
You rest the tied bag next to the register as you run the total. All while the Trandoshan taps his clawed fingers impatiently on the check out counter.
“‘Kay with the compounded medicine and the herbal soak salts, that puts you at… fifteen credits today.”
“It was twelve the last time.”
“Yyyeesss, some of the ingredients for the meds were hard to come by this time around. Outer rim shipping routes, and all that,” you smile, trying to humorously reason with the man.
“And that’s supposed to be my fault? Just make it the same price as before and I’ll be on my way already.”
Ugh, great. One of those.
“I understand where you’re coming from, really. But fifteen is pretty fair considering the initial cost of acquiring ingredients of this high quality. Can’t beat the price compared to those New Republic clinics-"
“Nonononono," he waves with both hands in disapproval. “I’m not paying a single credit more for something I can make myself.”
That’s kind of the point of it buying here, right? To save yourself the trouble of making it?
“Sorry. Price is firm," you say confidently but kindly. "Buuut, how about if I throw in a couple sample heating pain patches. Free of charge,” you chirp, unfazed by his condescension.
Work with me, guy. There’s a man packing heat in the back…
“How about I give you ten for the order and leave? I don’t need you to peddle your-“
It’s a hand that shuts him up. Not yours, as much as it twitches to swipe that bag and toss in it the trash. No. This hand is big. Leather clad. And planted firmly on the counter between you and the customer.
“You can pay the fifteen or you can leave. But what you won’t do,” Mando leans in towards the Trandoshan for effect. “-is talk to her like that again. Make your choice.”
With his chest pressed to the back of your shoulder, you struggle to not squirm. You can feel his heat on your body. His frame eclipses yours from behind. The smell of gun smoke and musk caresses your nose and you die a little inside. But it’s his words that make you want to melt into a puddle.
He didn’t just ask, he demanded for you to be treated with respect. Not that you can’t hold your own when it comes to defending yourself against snarky customers. But the way Mando didn’t even hesitate to intervene on your behalf. It stirs up all sorts of thoughts.
Oh maker, you really are a shitty person. The man stands up for you and all you can think about is how hot he sounded.
The Trandoshan swallows hard. Mando might as well a knife to the guy’s throat with the look of silent terror on his reptilian face. Without even breaking eye contact with Mando, he stuffs his clawed hand in his pockets, and pulls about 20 credit chips without counting. Letting them clatter on the counter as he tosses them.
“H-here,” he stutters. “Fifteen is fair.” With that he snatches his order from the countertop and makes a hasty exit.
“Have a nice day~,” you sing-song as he scurries out onto the street.
You shift your eyes up to Mando, his palm still pressed flat against the counter with his other hand thumbing his belt. His visor follows the customer as he leaves and you can tell that his body language doesn’t relax until the he’s completely out of sight.
“Fucker…,” he mutters under his breath. When he finally turns his visor to you, he finds a knowing little smirk on your face.
“What?”
“You know, if you really wanted to scare him, you could’ve just pulled out your blaster.”
His visor turns away and he takes a step back as if he’s been caught doing something out of character. And if it wasn’t for his confident stance, you’d almost say he got a little flustered just now.
“I didn’t like the way he spoke you,” he grumbles. Which only makes you giggle.
“You’re right,” you agree with a serious tone. Slamming your palms on the counter. “That’s the last straw! I’ll have to close and resort to a life of crime after all!”
Although you can’t read his face, his body language says it all. He tilts his head to the side in a way that can only mean “are you fucking kidding me” and it only makes you smile harder.
“C’mooon, it’s funny,” you say. But he’s still not charmed.
“Does he always treat you like that,” he asks like he needs to know for certain.
You fold your lips between your teeth to hide your smile. He’s concerned for you and you can’t help but bathe in it. At least for a little bit.
“And if I said yes?”
“I’m being serious.”
“It’s fine, Mando. It’s really not a big deal for me. Look, if I let every snippy customer get to me, I wouldn’t have a business. I’m a big girl. I can fight for my honor all on my own, don’t you worry.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Yeah? What is your point then?”
He steps in closer. Forcing you crane your neck to face him. Your backside unconsciously presses against the back of the counter and you’re pinned. He’s impossibly close. Close enough to see your eyes reflected on the inky black screen. Knowing he’s captured your full attention, he hits you with a bombshell that devastates you.
“I wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you when I can do something about it,” he says crystal clear, lowering his voice. “If someone gives you trouble, they’ll deal with me before they mess with you... Understand?”
That shuts you right up. Your playful expression falls, now replaced with silent astonishment. He keeps saying things that reach deep inside you, making your chest tight. Words like that make it hard to breathe.
You feel utterly captured and it’s no wonder he was the best hunter in the outer rim. Because even though he’ll defend your honor and call you sweet nicknames… all he has to do is stand his ground in front of you to make you feel like prey. And fuck, do you wanna be caught…
“Ok,” you breathe when you find the courage. “I understand now.”
“Good…”
Silence streches between you and it feels as though you’re both waiting for something to happen. Something that feels like it’s been teetering on the edge since the night you drank together. It’s connected and deep in a way you’ve never experienced before. You can tell it’s something he’s afraid to say out loud.
What you’re both afraid to say out loud.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t add anything to his statement. He’s got you locked in his gaze with no escape. And for a moment you wonder if he’ll take hold of your jaw again. Goosebumps rise to your skin because it wants so badly to close the gap.
Suddenly, a call rings from the vambrace on Mando’s forearm, abruptly breaking the tension. At first he hesitates to address it, still locked onto you. But after the second ring he lets out an aggravated sigh and steps away to check the incoming call.
You walk back to your work table and mixing bowl of tea to give yourself something to do while your breathing returns to normal. Scooping a measured cup from a large jar of dried leaves before adding it in.
Grogu sits with his little feet dangling over the table, now finished with the lollipop and looking at the candy-less stick with droopy ears. And before Mando turns to look, you sneak his son another herbal lollipop from your apron.
"Don't tell your dad," you whisper, pressing your index finger over your lips. Which earns you a happy little "Batu" in understanding.
Mando is pacing around now. Conversing with a gruff sounding Lasat. You don’t eavesdrop per se, but words like “new lead”, “investigation”, and “high-risk” get your ears to perk up.
“Shit,” he sighs deeply once the call is done. Planting his hands on his hips.
“Work call?”
“They like to keep me busy, that’s for sure. Best not keep them waiting.”
“R-right! The pharmakits."
You walk towards side of your shop in the back closet where your new inventory sits in their delivery crates. Grabbing one case but then after a second thought grabbing another before turning back and handing them to Mando. When you return Grogu is already back in his father's tote still nursing his treat.
“Couple things," you disclaim, handing the cases to him. "Keep these in a dark cool place if you can. Heat can spoil some of the medicine. And if you ever find yourself needing the epibacta, I’d advise you to take in a safe place. This dose will knock you out cold for a while. Emergencies only.”
He takes the cases by the handles and gives you a nod of understanding.
“I appreciate it. I’ll try to avoid needing it.”
“Just… be safe.”
“I will…”
Another beat of silence. At this point it's starting to feel like you're waiting on the other person to break the ice. But after a moment, he clears his throat.
“Well... Until next time, Shop Girl.”
“Until next time,” you repeat.
He really should stop calling you that. But you just can’t bring yourself to stop him. What do even tell him if he asks why?
You turn to the holopad on the front counter and check the inventory list to give your hands something to do. Chewing your bottom lip as walks towards the exit. One step, then another…
“And thank you,” you quickly add before he steps out. His foot stalls just before reaching the street and you tap on the screen pretending not to notice. Your eyes glance up to him, catching his helmet peer at you over his shoulder “…for stepping in.”
“Anytime,” he says softly. He step out into the street and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You lean on the counter with your chin propped in your palm, now free to watch them go without notice.
Grogu turns back to look at you one last time, his tiny arm fighting against the fabric of his bag before popping out and waving at you. The adorable gesture makes you giggle. The little guy must know exactly how stinking cute he is. You wiggle your fingers back at him from behind the counter. Mando takes notice of his kid, turns his head back, and finds your gaze.
For a moment, everything’s frozen. People cross and mix in the street between you. Life seemingly goes on like any other day for everyone in town. But in your eyes, there’s only him. Only bright silver fills your vision. After a moment, Mando raises a hand for a final farewell, and in the next, he’s gone. Blended into the crowd.
An ache spreads in your chest, and that confirms it. You can’t deny that what you’ve been pushing down for months isn’t just an attraction. Strangers can be attracted to each other but he feels like anything but.
You like him. You like how you feel when he’s around and how safe his presence feels. You like that little skipped beat you get when something you said earns even the smallest chuckle from him. You like that he trusts you around his kid.
And you love that he keeps coming back.
You’ve tried to rationalize as just a simple customer acquaintance. But you can’t keep kidding yourself. Its always felt more than that. And you want to know more about him.
At the end of the day, you roll down the metal doors of your humble apothecary and walk the same 15 steps up to your home as you do everyday. You bathe, put on your most comfy shirt and sleep shorts, make yourself a simple meal, and wind down for the night. It’s been your routine everyday since you made this place your home.
Only tonight, despite all your trinkets, all your memories, and all your comforts, tonight your home feels a bit empty. Like something important has been removed and you can’t place what it was. With your dinner bowl in hand, you almost take your seat on the couch before thinking twice on it and choosing the floor of your living room instead tonight.
You actually find it to be pretty comfortable. More grounding. You only wish you had something warm to lean back on.
•
Din thought Guild Master Greef Karga had an inflated ego. But High Magistrate Greef Karga makes that Karga look like a Jedi monk.
He finds himself sitting on a leather chase with his legs propped on the window ledge in Karga’s high tower office. He watches him spread and maneuver a 3D hologram model of Nevarro and the town. His voice filled with ambition as he explains all his new projects for the upcoming year.
“We’ll put the lodges here, here, and here. They’ll have access to the hot springs in the crawling canyons and docks will be built around the water edges. I’ve spoken with that lovely Twi’lek bathhouse owner and she’s spending her best architects to Nevarro as a personal favor to me. It’s going to be the jewel of the rim I tell you!”
Much of the dialog goes over Dins head. Mostly because he’s dead tired and currently operating on less than four hours of sleep. They only landed a couple hours ago from another grueling mission. He partly listens to Karga’s plans, partly watches Grogu quietly sit on the hologram table as he stuffs his mouth with blue cookies his “uncle” has given him. But mostly, Din gazes out one of the many windows in his 360 degree office. Watching the sun set over the canyons and turn the sky a dusty pink.
The shiny bronze protocol droid shuffles around the office with a silver tray with two crystal glasses of spotchka. He offers a glowing glass to Karga who gladly takes it. Then the droid starts to approach Din with the platter, offering him a glass as well.
“Uh no no, he doesn’t drink,” Karga quickly corrects, taking a momentary pause from his plans. The shiny droid fumbles a bit, flustered, then offers an apology before scuttling away with the tray.
Mando doesn’t even bother to correct them. Too much energy. It’s true, he’s never accepted alcohol in front of Karga. Especially in those early guild days when trust was low. But even to this day, Din doesn’t drink around people.
Well… most people, that is.
An image of last time Din saw you pops into his head. That thick, slightly mussed hair tied up with a hair stick. Dewy skin. All smiles and laughter. You wore a deep blue torso wrap that time, His eyes kept following the lines of your collar bones and all that exposed skin seemed to glow in the reflected sunlight in the shop.
And those lips. Those goddamn pink tinted lips that he can’t get out of his head. If that’s not the definition of beauty he doesn’t know what is.
Your teasing is something he’s growing used to. But that day you pushed too far. You weren’t taking him seriously and you shouldn’t be the only one who gets to tease, right? When he cornered you against the counter, he made it known just how serious he was about defending you. That flush came back to your cheeks and your breathing had picked up. You had no idea, but your eyes had found his and it made heat pool in his lower abdomen as he got lost in the color of them.
In that moment, Din wrestled back the impulse to lift you up on that countertop, spread those perfect legs and-
“-Right, Mando?” Karga’s voice interrupts just as that train of thought was getting good. Din turns his visor over to him.
“Hmm?”
“You just agreed to let the kid spend the night here.”
“Right. Yeah,” Din scoffs. “Was that before or after I sold my ship to the Jawas,” he replies in a gruff tone. Karga doesn’t find the sarcasm amusing.
“Alright, alright.”
“Maybe I’ll sell them my armor while I’m at it.”
“I get it,” he exclaims. “You weren’t even listening! I was talking about the space port proposal and I can’t even tell where you clocked out. That's not like you, Mando.”
“I’m tired. I just got back from a long trip.” Kargas eyes glance between Din and the window he's been looking out from.
“I wouldn’t say tired. More like… Distracted.”
He says the word with an insinuation Din would rather do without.
“It’s nothing,” he deflects.
“Hey, you know me, Mando. I’m not one to judge,” Karga says, throwing his hands in the air. “If there’s anything on your mind I’m all ears. Money, politics, work, women-“
“There’s nothing to discuss. I’m fine," Din deadpans.
Kargas covers Grogus ears, who is too preoccupied by his munching to mind.
“Sounds like you need to get laid.”
Maker...
“You’re sordid,” he grumbles, shaking his head and turning back to the window. Karga just laughs. Amusement written all over his wrinkled face.
The arguments were one of the main things that changed between them over the last few years. Now they bicker like two old friends instead of two business associates. But one thing that has never changed is the way Karga tries to pressure him into revealing things out of him. Imperfectly human things.
He’d offer Din all sorts of things like spice or Twi’lek bathhouses just to see if he was capable of being tempted. And right now… there’s only one other person Din can think of capable of doing that.
“You know what I think? I think you’re starting to outgrow this lone wolf lifestyle of yours,” he speculates. “You’re a father now. Don’t you think the little one needs a mother?”
Dins helmet swivels back to Karga.
“Don’t you think you should stick to governing your town?”
“I was just getting to that," Karga exclaims excitedly. "You know we really should consider moving a few of the-“
“Here we go…,” Din sighs to himself.
What should’ve been a quick visit has turned into a one sided yap session. It’s been a couple weeks since he left and he’s eager to re-supply for his next run with Zeb. He’ll need to head to the square at some point as well. His home is in desperate need of a re-stock. And of course, a visit to the clinic probably wouldn’t be a bad idea if he’s already in the area.
Even from up here, your store can be seen at the far corner of the plaza. And every couple minutes, he can see you. Popping in and out of the small store and rearranging some of the potted plants outside. People greet you from the street and you turn to wave back.
It’s getting harder and harder to find excuses to go there that sound necessary. Last time he was there he picked up two new pharmakits, even though another two regular medkits sit unopened in his home. He’s been buying that energy tea you make, despite him being a kaf drinker his whole life. He keeps going back for shit he really doesn’t need. But if he was pressed to give a better reason, it’s mostly because he feels a need to check on you.
True, Nevarro has become significantly safer, but that doesn’t make it safe. Especially for a woman living completely on her own. You’re a kind hearted, giving person in a galaxy that does nothing but take. And someone like that should be protected. He’s looked the other way too many times in the past and he doesn’t want to be that person anymore. And plus the kid enjoys the visits.
Sure, the kid. Keep telling yourself that, Din…
A chiss man with a floating pallet of goods approaches your shop entrance and your attention turns from watering the plants to greet the vendor with a bright smile. You speak animately. And it would normally be endearing, if it wasn't directed towards another man. In the privacy of his helmet, Din grimmaces.
He shouldn’t be surprised. You’re well traveled, knowledgeable. It’s no wonder you’re able to buy products from so many places. But this particular vendor is getting a bit too close for Din’s comfort.
As usual, you talk with much enthusiasm. Sparking a conversation with the man. It’s clear you’re familiar with each other by the body language you both give off. And he’s not sure if it’s because you regularly get inventory from the man, or something beyond that.
You turn around on the balls of your feet to dip back inside the shop and as you do you’re completely oblivious to the way the Chiss’s head tilts to the side so his crimson eyes can roam your backside. And the only reason Din caught it was because the binocs in his visor seem to have unconsciously been turned on by his finger on his vambrace.
You return to with a small wooded box and open the lid to show him mineral salts, the kind he’s seen you make herbal soaks with. The vendor offers a large lidded glass jar of some kind of dried purple flower buds from his cart. With the added exchange of some credit chips, there’s more talking and smiling. Something he said makes you laugh as you sign his holopad and Din has to flex his fingers to stop them from clenching into a fist.
Enough. Stop watching.
The mental check forces Dins attention to shift back to whatever Karga keeps droning on about. You can associate with whoever you damn well please. It’s none of his concern who you do business with or what your personal life is like. Din nearly turns his visor away. But out of the furthest corner of his eye, he catches something he can’t tear away from.
The distance between the Chiss and you has suddenly shrunk. The moment unfolds in slow motion as his eyes chew on every second. The Chiss steps closer to lean down then…
Din’s arms uncross when the Chiss leans in close to your face. And before he knows it, the fucker plants a quick peck on your cheek. And you return it! The whole exchange lasts less than a second before you wave each other goodbye and he goes his separate way. You return inside with the product like nothing and Din sits there, completely rattled.
What… the fuck?
Was it a casual kiss? Did you even know that he was checking you out? If you did, was that a friendly goodbye gesture or was it flirtatious? That son of a bitch gets to walk around with bliss on his cheek all day now. Oddly enough, that’s what puts Din over the edge. A complete fucking stranger knows how your lips feel and he doesn’t.
Never in his life has he harbored thoughts like these. It’s downright pathetic. He feels corrupted.
“Fuck it,” he growls to himself beneath his breath.
“-Anyway, back to my point. I was considering having a port built for- hey!”
Before Karga has a chance to monologue further, Din has picked up his son from the edge of the desk—grubby hands still clinging to the bag of cookies—and has placed him right into Karga arms.
“I need you to watch over him for the night. I’ll come back for him in the morning.”
“Okay then? Fine by-.” Din doesn’t bother to listen because there’s no ending to that sentence that matters to him in this moment. He makes his exit, the slide doors opening as he nears them.
“Hey! Where do you think you’re going all puffed up like that?”
“I need to settle something,” he tosses back before letting the doors shut behind him.
The sun is getting low and a few other vendors are starting to take down their signs and close their doors. You’re probably getting ready to close up for the day yourself. Hopefully he’s able to catch you before then.
Each step on the cobblestone is heavy with purpose. And it's not unoticed the way several people on the street see an armor clad Mandalorian and scurry out of his way with a petrified look on their faces. But right now he doesn't particularly care. Right now everything in his head is clouded with the exception of one objective.
From a couple stores away, you catch him approaching from your peripheray. And he's not sure how to describe it, but it's like something in your body language softens when you see him. Your shoulders become less tense, your eyes gleam, and you cast him that bright toothy smile that could stop any man's heart.
“Ah! Hey! It’s been a while, Mando! How’s-“
“I need to have a word with you.”
Both your expression and your hand freeze momentarily in place, minus a suspicious quirk in your brow.
“Okaaay, you have my attention,” you chuckle, but there’s a nervous tone riding on it. “What can I do for you today?
“I need to speak with you," you tells you bluntly. "Privately.”
Confusion paints across your face and your smile falls a bit. Understanding how serious his request is.
“Like, right now,” you ask hesitantly.
“Preferably, yes,” he answers.
“Ok, yeah sure. Um… I’m just about to close up and we can head upstairs in a minute.” You start to turn away but then quickly turn back to him and immediately add “or we can go somewhere you’re more comfort-“
”It’s fine,” Din quickly interjects, stopping that train of thought. “This won’t take long anyway.”
You blink at him a couple times and give him a quiet “ok then” before turning around and preparing your shop to close.
Seems that Din’s command from his last visit was taken seriously. Regret over those words washes over him. If he’s being honest, being inside your home again sets off several red lights in his head. But he’s already on the verge of blurting out something teetering on the edge of his brain. Better to wait until he’s behind closed doors and away from any prying eyes. Or flirtatious vendors. This shouldn’t be complicated. He’ll make it quick.
He decides to wait around the corner of the shop where the stone steps meet your front door. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed and his finger nervously tapping his arm brace. After a few minutes you round the corner with your bag over your shoulder and lead the way into your home. Instinctively, he looks around for any eyes before entering and closing the door behind him.
“So where’s your boy,” you ask, tossing your bag on the couch and walking towards the kitchen. “I have to say I’m kind of surprised not to see him on your hip. You seem inseparable.”
Your voice is chipper but he can tell by your stiff body and lack of eye contact that you’re not entirely comfortable. For a moment Din reconsiders this encounter. But no. The sooner he this bug out of his system the better.
“He’s… spending the night with a friend,” he answers. Grabbing one of those ceramic cups from the cabinet, you fill it with water from the sink and he’s starting to think that you’re only doing that to keep your hands busy.
“Aaww, a sleepover? Is it his first-”
“If you don’t mind,” he cuts off. “I’d like to get to my point.”
“Oh… Y-yes, I'm sorry. I’m rambling,” you say sheepishly. “I’m just…,” you take a deep breath, rest the cup of water on the counter, and lean back against it. Eyes fixed to the floor.
“…it’s just what you said the last time you were here. And the way you approached me earlier, you seemed kinda… I don’t know, upset? I know you don’t wanna be here so I’m wondering what I did to upset you that you’d come here.”
Damn it… He’s such an asshole.
He should’ve never said that. You've been thinking this entire time that you’re at fault for his shitty social skills. Truthfully, with the way that wine had his head so deliciously foggy, he had to leave before his body did something it was aching to do, begging him to do. But how does he even begin to explain that?
“You didn’t do anything,” he answers immediately. But thinks on it once more. “Well… technically you did. But I’m not upset with you.”
“You’re not,” you ask him sheepishly.
“I’m not,” he assures.
A beat passes in silence as you chew over his words.
“Okaaay,” you say with a smirk, “now you really got my attention.”
That mischievous tone travels through Din’s helmet, in his ears, and settles warmly in the pit of his stomach. Something about the combination of your sweet voice and relaxed shift in your body language makes this whole interaction even more nerve wracking.
“Sooo, you wanted to talk to me about something I did?”
“Right.”
“Okay, sooo...” He feels you urging him to continue but now Din finds himself more cautious of his words now. If you’ve been silently worried about offending him the last thing he needs is for this to come off wrong way.
“It’s… a bit hard to explain,” he exhales. If he could pinch his brow right now he would. “To put it plainly, the night we drank together, you said something that’s been… stuck in my head.”
“Was it the thing about the name?”
“N-no.”
“Was it the Pantora story?
“No.”
“Was it the comment about knowing my liquor? Because I like a drink from time to time but I don’t have like a problem or anything-“
“No- Can I finish,” he asks impatiently.
“Okay, okay. Sorry. Go ahead.”
“When we were drinking, and talking… we said a lot of things and got into some deep conversations. And at one point, you asked me if I ever kissed anyone before. I said no back then because… I've never given it any thought in the past. But now it’s got me… curious.”
Your quirk your brow at him.
“Curious how?”
“I want to know what it’s like,” he answers plainly.
“… Sorry, what?”
“I need this… curiosity out of my head. It’s driving me crazy and I need it out of my system. So I figured… since you’re the one who mentioned it in the first place, you can help me kill it.”
“You’re… Okay so, hold on…,” you say with a shaky breath. “Are you… asking me to kiss you?”
“That’s… an oversimplification. But yeah.”
“You’re asking me to be your first kiss? Am I understanding you right?”
Maker, you ask a lot of questions. Are you always like this? You did the same exact thing when he gave you the wine. On any other day it would’ve been endearing but he didn’t anticipate the conversation lasting longer than a minute. Now his request sounds more and more lecherous with each passing second.
“I won’t bother you again after this. You have my word. It’s completely casual. Just killing a curiosity.”
“There’s a preeetty common phrase about curiosity and loth cats that goes differently.” A giggle tumbles out of your mouth on the tail end of that sentence and humility crawls under his skin.
“Sorry to waste your time.” He starts to turn towards the nearest exit when you step in to stop him. Placing a hand briefly on his arm in the space between his armor and the contact sends a current of electricity up his spine.
“No wait, don’t be like that,” you toy with him.
“I’m not laughing,” he spits. But you still have the nerve to giggle.
“It’s okay, Mando,” you laugh assuredly.
“No, it’s not. It’s ridiculous. I hate it. I hate that you put this in my head.”
You fold your lips between your teeth to try to hide your amusement. But you still can’t help but crack a smile a little at his frustration. He basically just confessed to having this obsession for months and he can tell by your smug expression that you’re enjoying how incredibly uncomfortable he is about this.
“You’re right. I’m… sorry,” you say under your breath. Trying to fix your face.
There’s a beat of silence. Stepping in closer, he tilts his head down to you. Locking you in his gaze. He takes pleasure in being nearly a full head taller and the way your breathing picks up before he says in a low gruff voice…
“No, you’re not.”
You smile behind your hand as your eyes dance across his visor, unknowingly locking eyes with the man beneath. You know you’re not sorry, just like he knows he’s not particularly sorry either. It’s not just this moment. It goes back to every interaction you’ve had together. The banter, the nicknames, the visits. He’s as much to blame as you are. And then… you slowly you shake your head, agreeing with him and confirming his suspicion.
Fuck, you’re cute. He hates that he loves how cute you are. He hates himself for not being stronger.
“Ok,” you nearly whisper. Looking up at him with the sweetest eyes. “I’ll help you.”
•
“Is all this really necessary?”
Din currently sits on the floor of your living room. The same spot as last time in fact. Your were the one that insisted on it and honestly he couldn't bring himself to tell you no. Since he sat down in the soft carpet, you've been flitting around your home turning off lamps, closing blinds, and covering any reflective items. Which, admittedly, he's greatful for. But the more time he spends here, alone with you, the more he's not going to want to leave.
“It’s not everyday you get your first kiss, Mando. I wanna make sure it’s a good one. I wish I could re-do mine.”
Gloves fingers flex and stretch restlessly on his knees as you approach the last lamp sitting on a side table in the living room and pause.
“Are you sure about this?”
Fuck no he’s not. But the sooner he does this, the sooner he can find some normalcy in his head again.
“Flip the switch," he says in a low modulated voice.
You fold in a growing smile before taking a deep breath and flicking the switch. Bathing the entire home in inky darkness. The silhouette of you through turns to hues of thermal green and red, carefully maneuvering through your living room by memory before finding your seat in the floor in front of him. And with slight hesitation, Din reaches up to remove the last barrier he has.
“Can you see anything?”
“Not a bit,” you answer.
With that confirmation, he unclasps the chin strap and slowly lifts the helmet up and off. He blinks several times to adjust his vision before finding the outline of the table and placing his helmet there. On the return, his head bumps into your outstretched hand. Not knowing that you had moved.
“Agh.”
“Sorry sorry,” you pull away. “Give me a moment, I’ll find you.”
Your hands search in the dark for him. He can’t see much but he can tell your hands land on nothing by the way the air between you moves and he doesn’t feel any contact on his person. So he reaches out, bumping into your arms and taking hold of them. Following the line of your forearm until he reaches your hands.
“Here," he murmurs. Gloved hands wrap around your wrists and gently lift them up. He guides your hands forward until…
You let out a small gasp when your hands find the warmth of his bare face. Soft and giving as opposed to the cold, unyielding beskar. Their movements are slow and explorative. Running your thumbs over his stubble. Surprisingly his hands don’t release their grasp. His leather clad digits press against the racing pulse in your wrist as his thumbs run over the back of your palm.
“This help?”
“Yes, thank you,” you whisper.
From sound of rustling on the rug, Din can sense your body leaning in. Your breath brushes over his skin for a moment before something warm presses against his chin and it takes a second to register that it’s your mouth. You ease him into the build up and he’s greatfull for it. Jaw. Then cheek. Then just grazing the furthest corner of his mouth.
And then… contact.
At first it doesn’t feel like much. Just something soft and warm pressing against his mouth. What most people refer to as a peck, he assumes. But it’s when you barely pull back and return for another that a shiver wracks his skin. Your lips lock in the return, molding together in perfect unison. And it’s fucking electric.
Just by feel alone, he senses that your lips are slightly open. So he mimics you. Giving his jaw just enough slack to respond as you go in again. The sensations have his mind in a thick fog. The soft flesh, the sweet taste, the faint suction. His skin feels like there’s live wires going off underneath. Giving in completely, he finally returns the kiss. Pressing into it with more confidence.
You hum against his mouth, and he dies a little inside.
That’s when the real hunger builds. There’s a slow simmering heat rising between you now. Without thinking, his hands grip your wrists a little harder. Pulling you in closer. The kiss grows a bit stronger with each return back into each other with no loss of contact. Lingering longer and breathing against one another.
He feels your head tilt more to the side and again he mimics your movement. The break only lasts a fraction of a moment. But in the re-entry, the tip of your soft tongue happens to brush his mouth. Sweet wetness coats his bottom lip and it’s in that instant Din feels all restraint leave his body.
Taking your face in his hand, he kisses you open mouthed, inviting you in. Your tongues slowly graze one another and if he fucking died in this moment he’d be ok with it knowing that he got to know how you taste.
The hunger becomes unbearable. Soon enough the breathing becomes heavier and the air becomes hot. Your arms end up wrapping over his shoulders, pulling him deeper and he’s more than happy to dive further. Another small noise escapes your throat and the vibration travels through his entire body.
He needs to feel you. To taste you. Devour you. He needs you.
A break for air is the only thing that throws him back into semi-consciousness as you pull away. The heat built up between you makes him dazed. Hot breaths fill the small space between your lips as you lean your forehead against his.
“Mando?”
“Yes,” he responds in a raspy whisper. A few moments pass as you collect your words and catch your breath.
“Is this really just about curiosity…?”
Your words lean more towards a statement than a question. There’s no point in denying it now. As much as he tried to convince himself or rationalize his strange request, he does feel a pull towards you. Much more complicated than just attraction. The more he sees you, learns about you, and talks with you, the more… inevitable you feel to him. There’s a gravity to you that he can’t escape from. Nor does he want to.
“Yes and no.”
“What does that mean?” The breath of your question brushes the heated skin of his cheek. And right now, he can't think of any answer that wouldn't give him up.
So he lets it fly.
“It’s not just the kiss I’m curious about.”
The silence in the air is thick. The only thing between you are the sounds of both of you catching your breath. It’s possible he might have ruined everything with that one sentence. But it’s the truth. It had nothing to do with the kiss and everything to do with you. Your kindness, your banter, your hospitality. All of it.
There’s no way of telling what you’re thinking at the right now. It’s in this moment that he wishes the lights weren’t out so he can at least read your expression. But then after what seems like an eternity, your forehead nudges against his and you blow a deep sigh of relief. Arms still draped over his shoulders.
“Oh good… I thought it was only me,” you confess with a skittish laugh.
And that tightly pulled restraint finally snaps inside him when he hears that.
Without any hesitation, he dives back in. Kissing you like a man starved. Just like that night, he feels drunk. Only this time it’s on the taste of you and the feeling of your hands finally on him. It’s that thought that drives him to rip off his leather gloves and toss them aside without breaking contact once. His bare hands find your waist and the strip of bare skin between your shirt and linen pants.
“Is this what you meant,” you pant. “When you told me not to invite you in again.”
“Yeah... it is.” He pants the confession as his mouth trails down the line of your jaw and finding your neck in the dark.
“That’s a relief,” you chuckle. “I was worried I offended you.”
“The only thing that’s offensive is that I can’t see that pretty pink flush on your face right now.”
“Should I get a blindfold,” you tease.
What a fucking woman. The mental image of you in a blindfold, only a blindfold, pours fuel on an already blazing fire. But for now, he’s more than ok feeling his way around tonight.
“Next time.”
It comes out of his mouth confidently and without hesitation. Because you both know there will be a next time. He’s bitten into the forbidden fruit and now he’s addicted to the taste.
With a simple shift, his hands dip beneath the thin fabric of your shirt and find the delicious heat of your soft belly.
"Lay down for me."
With your arms draped over his shoulders, you eagerly comply. Slowly dragging him down with you. He careful not to press all his weight on you—being crushed by beskar would definitely kill the mood—but it doesn't stop you from pulling tighter. Craving connection. All while Din rains wet kisses and soft bites upon your pulse.
So this is what your skin tastes like. Slightly salty, sweet, and smooth between his teeth. He might eat you whole if he’s not careful. He nips at the skin of your exposed collar bone and you writhe. Arching to press your chest to his. So he decides to give it some attention.
“Take it off," you pant with an neediness that drives him pull the damn shirt off in one swift motion.
His bare hand crawls up your sternum. Exploring the valley of soft skin free of any restricting fabric. The moment his fingers find the stiff peak of your bare breast he pinches eagerly. Earning the sweetest little whimpers from you as his mouth works on the other nipple. Biting and sucking the soft point. He can’t see a thing in the dark, but what’s lacking in sight is made up by sound with the delicious breathy moans you let out for him.
“Mando…”
Fuck, does he love the way you call out for him. Every touch, kiss, and suck he gives elicites the most gorgeous sounds out of that perfect mouth. The sounds to straight to his cock, now painfully stiff. It's tempting to just dive into you right now. But he's waited this long. So why not take his sweet time with you. With his face still burried between your breasts and you fingers raking through his hair, Din feels a press of your hips against his armor. And he needs more.
“Shop Girl…”
The nickname doesn’t catch your attention. You’re either too lost in the moment or too breathless to answer. It’s only when he uses your given name that your body perks up and you give him a raspy “yeah?”.
“Do you want this," he asks.
His right hand has found its way to the waist band of your work pants. Ready and waiting for your answer. You try to grind against his hips but he presses your hips down firmly. He knows damn well neither of you want to stop. But he needs to hear it. There's no going back after this.
"Is this ok?"
He doesn't know if you're unsure. Or if maybe your trying to meet his eyes through the darkness. But there's a long pause. Only the sounds of heavy breaths and the pulse beating hard in his ears. And every second that passes has him hanging on the edge of madness.
"Yes...," you finally breathe. "I need you."
She needs me.
The words leave him winded. Months of questions and pining suddenly feel well worth the wait just to hear those words. They not only affirm going further, but the bond that's been steadily growing between you. Not a single ounce of hesitation survives after he hears that. And with one hand, Din loosens the tie of your pants and dives in beneath the fabric of your underwear.
By feel alone, Din manages to pull your pants down to your thighs and you kick them off your feet. His hands roam over all the smooth exposed skin and he can only imagine how perfect you must look if you feel this good. The tips of his fingers finds the dampness between your legs, running along the seam, and he slowly pushes inside until his knuckles meet your entrance.
You release a soft gasp and he swallows it with a deep kiss. You both sigh into each other's mouth. As if you need the other to even breathe. Din's lips never leaves yours as he does an experimental curl against the fleshy part of your walls and you arch your body against his.
“This where you need me," he huffs against your lips. "Right here?”
“Right there... Perfect..."
"I wanna taste you." The confession comes out before he can even think about it.
"Then taste me, Mando."
He can hear the smile in your voice. The taunt. And he's more than happy to reciprocate it.
He rises above you and you whine from the lack of contact. But the loss doesn't last long. Because before you even can register what he's doing, his head has already lowered between your legs.
"What are you- ah."
That gasp you let out when his mouth envelops your pussy is downright tortured. Good too know you were just as desperate as he was.
"Fuck! I thought you meant... You were gonna... Shit..."
No fucking way would he be satisfied tasting you on just his fingers. The sweet tangy flavor explodes over his tongue and he groans. Fucking hell, you taste good. He doesn’t even know what the hell he’s doing but that’s sure as shit not stopping him. He drowns in you. Lapping and sucking on your swollen little bud and loving the way it makes you cry out. Two thick fingers pump into your wet heat as you melt in his mouth. Such a fucking treat.
You writhe beneath him. Squirming and clawing at anything to hold on to as he works you up. Eventually your hands finds his hair again. Taking a fistful and pressing his face further against your cunt. The sting on his scalp makes his cock twitch in his flight suit and he groans.
“You want me to make you come, Shop Girl," he mumbles against you.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“Make me come, Mando... Please…”
He doesn't break pace, doesn't falter, doesn't change a damn thing what he's doing because he can feel close to the edge you are. You tighten around his digits as the pump in and out. And with a firm suck on your clit you let out a strangled gasp.
"Oh Fuck! Fuck! Mando!"
Your breathing becomes short and shallow. Panting so hard right before holding your breath and tipping over the edge with a strangled cry. You come long and hard. Trembling so much he has to hold you steady by the hips.
Through the waves of your climax, Din continues to eat you. Lapping at your perfect pussy like it's wine and he doesn't waste a single drop of you. Even sucking and licking his fingers clean as you lay breathless before him. They come out of his mouth with a wet pop and he can’t help but let out a small breathy laugh.
“I’ve always wanted to try that…” he confesses.
You let out your own exhausted little laugh and he can already tell he wants more. More laughter, more of those pretty sounds, more of you.
It's with that in mind that Din starts pulling his cape off.
Piece by peace, he silently removes his armor. And after a few moments, a second pair of hands joins in. You fumble in the dark with his chest piece first. Helping him out of his armor one section at a time. They fall to the carpet with a soft thud along with the crumbling pieces of the restraint he’s built since that first night.
There’s no signs of stopping. You keep giving him more. More heat. More yearning. More questions.
What makes you laugh? What gives you pleasure? What makes you feel good and whole and satisfied? He needs to know.
And now that he’s gotten a taste, there’s no way he’s leaving here tonight until you’ve both had your fill.
•
If this is what happens when you invite the Mandalorian into your home, let your door never close.
Getting to your bed was easier than you thought it’d be in pitch black darkness. The only thing keeping your ‘bedroom’ separate from the rest of the home is a wooden lattice divider from the ceiling to the floor.
He lays you down on the soft futon on the floor and you open for him like a flower. Two strong palms drag and paw all over your body as his mouth works magic on yours and it makes you dizzy with desire.
Maker, he’s so good with his hands.
His body separates from you only to remove his flight suit and you whine at the loss of contact. Naked and panting for him. Within seconds he’s back on top of you and the feeling of his bare skin against yours makes your head spin. With everything so dark you wonder if this is even real. Maybe this is all a fever dream.
“Are you gonna show me how Mandalorians fuck this time,” you tease against his lips. Calling back to when he showed you how they drink. With your bare legs around his hips, you tease his resolve by running your inner thighs over his sides and you’re rewarded with a low hum. The hand supporting your neck slowly drags forward to find the base of your throat.
“You don’t need to know how Mandalorians fuck.” His wide grip gently squeezes the sides of your throat, just enough for you to feel the power in those hands. “Just how I fuck.”
Holy shit. You thought him gripping your jaw was hot. But this? This might’ve awakened something you didn’t even knew you wanted.
A whimper escapes you only to be muted by his mouth again. His tongue swirls with yours with a hunger you’ve never knew was there these past months and it’s such a relief to know that you weren’t the only one pining.
Mando’s mouth travels to your cheek, then jaw, finally finding purchase on your neck. Biting and sucking as his body presses into yours. He’s insatiable right now. There's no doubt that you'll find yourself covered in marks when the lights come back on.
You’re so lost in the moment that you almost don’t notice when something hard and warm presses against your inner thigh. Out of nowhere, a thought you haven’t even considered before decides to pop into your head at the very last minute.
“H-hold on!”
Your hands find his shoulders, urging him to pause. His lips unlatch themselves from your neck the second you blurt it out. Instantly propping himself above you with his hands on either side of your head.
“You want me to stop?,” he pants.
“No… Hell no. It’s just…”
How do you even begin to ask this?
“Um… I know I probably should’ve asked earlier but… you’re human, right?”
Mando blows out a low chuckle, understanding your underlying meaning. He feels human, from what your hands can tell anyway. He could be like his kid for all you know. It’s not that you’re not willing to go Inter-species, but your experience is mainly human. Plus with the lights off it’d be pretty difficult to figure out fitting things.
Taking your hand from his shoulder, he presses it against his chest where you can feel a dusting of hair. His skin is hot, damp with a thin layer of sweat and his breathing is heavy. He continues to lead your hand further down his torso so you can feel every hill and valley of his muscles. Eventually your hand hits a trail of hair down the middle and then…
Oh shit.
His hand guides you along the length of his cock. Encouraging you to explore every ridge from the thick base all the way up to the damp tip. He’s stiff and hot in your palm. When you give him a firm squeeze he groans and twitches in your grip.
Oh shit.
“Does that answer your question?”
The human part, definitely. Fitting is still debatable.
He lets you handle him. Giving you free rein to tug and tease as he bucks into your hand. He groans with pleasure and the power trip you feel knowing exactly how you affect this fiercely disciplined man makes the pulse between your legs throb harder. After a minute, his hand snatches yours to a halt, making your grip around his cock tighter.
“Show me where you want it,” he demands in a gruff breath. And you do just that. Pressing the damp tip against your clit. The contact sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.
“Inside,” you plead. “I need you inside me.”
With an impatient huff, his hand comes down to take hold of your leg behind the bend of your knee. Spreading you wide and teasing your entrance before pushing himself inside. You gasp at the initial stretch, digging your nails into his shoulders. Mando curses under his breath and as he pushes you worry for a moment if there’s an end to him.
It’s slow, deliberate. Feeding his cock into your tight cunt until he’s pressing the limits of your walls. You shudder together when he’s completely sheathed and his hands grip your hips so hard his fingers dig into your flesh.
“Mando…” You throw your head back. Arching your whole body, waiting it to adjust to him. “Fuck!”
“I knew it,” he pants. “Fucking knew you’d feel good…”
He splits you in half and before you’re even ready the first hard thrust hits you. You whimper from impact and he thrusts again. Pinning you down by your hips to keep you at the perfect angle. Soon he sets a steady pace as he fucks you into delirium. It’s too much, he’s too much. Yet you moan and whine for more like each thrust might be the last. He feels incredible and you can only claw at his trim waist as it moves for you.
“That’s it… Good girl… Taking me so well… I wanted this… I want you to know every part of me.”
His words plunge into your chest like a dagger. Laced with a meaning that goes far beyond sex. Because you feel it too. You wanted him to be closer. You wanted him to know your name, know you. Even if it took this long to get here.
You feel one hand find your leg. Hiking it up so the back of your thigh lays flat against his chest. His hand drags up and down, caressing the soft flesh without losing a beat with his thrusts. A kiss presses on your calf and your head feels like it’s spinning. One moment he’s rearranging your insides and the next he’s giving your body sweet affection.
Tension builds in your core. Growing tighter and tighter with each hard thrust. Usually the second orgasm is more elusive to chase on your own. But this man is about to push you right into the next one not five minutes after the first one.
“Don’t… Stop…,” you pant. “Don’t stop, I’m so close, Mando…”
“Come for me... Let me feel you."
Then it comes. Tensing your entire body before coming down like a crashing wave. It’s spreads through every inch of your body, making you pulse and shake beneath his frame. You cry out in the midst of the euphoria, clinging to his shoulders, and everything feels so right. He moans along with you, feeling every tight pulse around his cock and letting you ride out the remaining waves.
“That’s two now, Shop Girl. You gonna give me a third?”
You let out a breathy laugh, still coming down from the clouds.
"I... I'm not sure I can," you chuckle.
"Yeah, you will," he pants. Amusement lacing his raspy voice.
Without out warning, Mando takes both your legs. Placing your calves over his shoulders as his leans forward. Folding you in half. And with one hard thrust, his cock drives back into you at a deeper angle. Your back bows and you swear you see stars in the blackness of the room. His lips land on the corner of your mouth and kiss their way to your lips. Offering a soft apology after the roughness. His strong arms are propped around you and you feel eclipsed under his broad body.
Soon his rhythm picks up. Becoming more desperate as he chases his own release. The room fills with the sound of your bodies meeting and you don't think you've ever heard anything more perfect. His panting picks up, his moans become louder, and the quivering breaths he makes when he finds a particularly deep spot will no doubt live in your mind rent free forever.
“You wanted me bare, didn’t you,” he huffs, pressing his damp forehead to yours.. “When you offered me that tea? You thought about me coming inside this perfect cunt, didn’t you.”
Caught red handed. Sure, you wanted to know if he had a partner as well. But the thought did cross your mind when he cornered you against the counter. You wanted to know how he felt bare, with nothing between you. Even dreamt a few times about it.
“Yes… Fuck, yes! Please! I want it!”
“You gonna come with me, Shop Girl? Hmm?”
“Maker, Mando! I’m right fucking there, please! I… I’m… ah-“
His firm hand grips your jaw. Whipping your face back to him so he can cover your mouth his. He kisses you deep, open and messy. No technique, just raw desire as he eats you alive. You moan and whimper against his mouth with each debilitating thrust he makes. He drives into you faster, harder. Relentlessly pushing you closer to the edge.
When it arrives, the orgasm hits you at full force. Wracking your whole body in convulsions as you scream, actually scream against his mouth. Your toes curl, your nails dig into his back and your cunt squeezes on to him for dear life like he’s never allowed to leave again.
Mando hisses through his teeth and he's right there with you. Ramming into you with relentless force as he chases his own release. His face dives into the crook of your shoulder and his arms scramble to take hold of you and he loses control. Letting out a sharp groan as he comes.
“Fuck.. Fuck,” he shudders in your ear. “Agh!”
His hips jerk against your body, driving himself as deep as you can take him. You feel his cock throb as he pumps into you again and again. Filling you to the point of spilling out and it’s... everything. Connected in such a profound way you’ve never felt before. In this moment, it’s hard to tell your bodies apart. You’ve melted and mixed and you never want to separate.
You ride it together, mold together, lose control together because you both knew it’d come to this. In the end this was inevitable. And in a galaxy filled with unknowns, in this you can be certain. A connection like this is few and far between. It’s real and raw and rare. Resisting that feeling was never an option, so why try?
Even in the climb down he doesn’t stop. Those hard demanding thrusts slow to a gentle drags as if he doesn’t want to finish yet. Hands glide all over each other’s bodies, soothing the other. All along his tense shoulders, you pepper soft kisses to his skin. Easing you both down from the clouds. He hums in the decent and it lulls you into an exhausted bliss.
Everything feels hazy and soft. You’re not sure how long you stay melted together like this. Minutes? Hours? But it’s needed. After a while, the breathing becomes steady and a soft, drowsy satisfaction settles between you.
“That’s the first time someone's come inside me,” you quietly confess. For a moment, Mando absorbs what you just said. Then you feel him prop himself in his elbows above you.
“Really?”
“Yeah…,” you breathe. Running your hands up the sides of his neck and resting them on his stubbled face.
“You know… since we’re sharing firsts tonight.”
He smiles and this time you’re able to know for certain by the feel of it in your hands. Leaning down, his forehead finds yours in the dark and you don’t think you’ve ever felt so whole before.
“I’m your first, huh,” he breathes. “I like that.”
There’s so many layers to this man. Quiet and withdrawn. Rough and demanding. Soft and caring. Each one is a trait you’ve come to cherish. You’re not sure if you love this man. But you’re definitely starting to fall for him. You can explore that treasure box later though. For now, you’ll take tonight for tonight and let whatever comes next between you arrive in its own good time.
“Me too, Mando...”
•
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💕 THANK YOU FOR READING 💕
If you enjoyed my notes app delusions, please reblog, add a comment, drop insane reaction pics. I love seeing all your interactions, thoughts, and support on here. Might consider posting my works on A03 as well but we’ll see. Much Love! 🥰
Audentes fortuna iuvat (lat. Aeneid, Book X, Virgil): fortune favors the bold. Success and luck are more likely to come to those who take risks and act decisively rather than to those who hesitate or play it safe... though that's much easier said than done.
Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader
Genre: middle-aged coming(...)-of-age with painful YEARNING ✴︎ WC: 4,7k
Summary: For his 40th birthday, the team (though he only cares that you contributed) gives Hotch a gift card to a hairdresser. What begins as an errand becomes an intervention when two opinionated salon regulars diagnose everything that's gone wrong in his love life #loser!
Warnings: Hotch's POV! Workplace power dynamics, emotional constipation so f severe it's a miracle the man is still alive, and enough self inflicted paralysis to make you want to bang his head against a wall! Nothing gets resolved!
Dado's Corner: as requested by the lovely @sweetheartsocks I am back! Je suis back! Sorry in advance for the flowery prose and for being suuuuch a bore, but Hotch's inner monologue simply refused to sound any other way in my head (obnoxious piece of-) I hope you enjoy it!
masterlist
Aaron has never been confronted with the shallowness of his friendships at work quite so abruptly - nor taken it as such an unmistakable sign that perhaps, if he isn't comfortable enough to fully let his guard down, he ought to start relinquishing people a little more of himself - as when his so-called work "friends," for his fortieth birthday (one of the big ones… allegedly), present him with a gift card (?) to a hair salon (???).
Is he truly that uninteresting? That monotonous?
Truthfully, he would've been more than delighted had they handed him yet another tie, just like... the other birthdays, and the occasional "since we're all doomed to spend Christmas hundreds of miles from home working a case, we might as well exchange presents and collectively indulge the notion that we're one big family" Christmases (a premise he has yet to find particularly convincing.)
Really, there is no need to reinvent the wheel merely to spare oneself the accusation of repetition if the alternative can only be described as... particular (let's put it that way).
But, of course, it's not as though he can outwardly express himself on the matter - it simply wouldn't do for a gentleman like him. That is his first justification, at any rate.
The second - and, if he's being intellectually honest, the real one - is that it was you who placed in his hands the very same glossy piece of cardstock his fingers now can't help but instinctively return to, idly turning it over and over as his thoughts inevitably drift back to the infectious zest illuminating your face the moment you first handed it to him, and to the almost garrulous advocacy with which you championed its merits.
That, more than anything, leaves him strangely unsettled. What, precisely, had prompted such a remarkably specific idea in the first place? Had he really mentioned, if only in passing, that his fringe was beginning to grow a little too long? Or had he merely seized upon the observation as a convenient excuse to prolong the conversation with you, never quite realizing he was doing so - nor, more importantly, that you had been paying attention all along?
And, as always, guilt proves astonishingly easy to come by. Guilt that, despite every indication suggesting the idea of "switching things up this time" had been yours from the very beginning (he doubts either Jason or Derek would've devoted nearly as much thought to so seemingly inconsequential a detail), he nevertheless remains so... conflicted (let's put it that way, part two) over what, objectively speaking, ought to amount to nothing more than a matter of personal taste.
Nevertheless, he would be lying if he claimed he wouldn't defend to his very last breath the... opinion (let's put it that way, part three) that gift cards are the very epitome of the extinction of the age-old art of gift-giving.
It was, after all, a gift from the French people to the Americans, dedicated in 1886, to celebrate friendship and the ideals of liberty and democracy, that allowed the Statue of Liberty to become the enduring emblem of one of the world's most celebrated metropolises, drawing throngs of people every single day, to this day, simply to behold it. If nothing else, it stands as proof that a gift, at its very core, is an act of interpretation. Through the chosen object, one is afforded a fleeting glimpse into the way another person sees them.
What, then, do people see when they look at Aaron Hotchner? More importantly... what do you see?
That is precisely why the whole affair leaves such a bitter taste in his mouth. A gift card has always struck him as little more than a lazy (there, he said it) escape hatch to evade the responsibility of interpretation altogether, essentially placing the burden of choosing back into the recipient's own hands.
Because if a gift is truly an interpretation of another human being, what does the absence of one imply?
Is there truly nothing about him that lends itself to interpretation? Or is this simply another indication that he isn't worth the effort? That he is, after all, exactly what he has always suspected himself to be.
Just... a boring man. Your boring boss.
Whatever he may be, however, he has come to terms with the unfortunate reality that gift cards, unlike his own existential crises, come with an expiration date. Better to cash it in while the rare alignment of a free afternoon and the schedule of a very busy Unit Chief still permits.
That is...
It has been a while.
The longer the gift card languishes in his wallet, the longer he remains... uncut (his fringe, of course... that is), and the more he finds himself missing the pleasant reassurance that came with the simple ritual of expressing gratitude for the countless ties he has accumulated over the years. All they required was a script.
Lift the box to his chest as though trying it against his suit, in front of everyone.
Offer some suitably appreciative remark about how "the material is very nice" (when, more often than not, the fabric was merely... adequate - or, in particularly desperate circumstances, tactfully redirect the compliment towards the pattern instead).
Wear it to the office the following day. Let everyone see it in use. Allow them to congratulate themselves on a gift well chosen, register his appreciation, and, with any luck, let the entire affair conclude with the least amount of ceremony humanly possible.
Easy, right?
Again, he's never been to therapy, but he is reasonably confident that his experience in a closely related profession entitles him to identify this final stage, in professional terms, as closure - a fundamental step in allowing everyone to move on from a day he'd much rather strike from the face of the earth altogether and, ideally, never acknowledge again.
This time, however, closure proves considerably more demanding.
In order for his colleagues - and, more importantly, you - to see that he has, in fact, made use of the gift, he must first reconcile himself with the altogether more daunting prospect of walking into somewhere that isn't a barber's.
However irrational the thought may be, he cannot quite shake the lingering question of what his late father would've thought had he lived long enough to witness his son willingly crossing the threshold of a place redolent of argan oil and florals instead of the familiar scent of shaving cream.
If further evidence were required, it arrives almost immediately.
Judging by the intermittent glances cast in his direction, the whispered remarks exchanged behind bold manicured hands, and the latest issues of Vogue and Cosmopolitan serving as increasingly unconvincing disguises beneath the drying hoods, it doesn't take a profiler to discern that men like him are hardly the customary clientele of establishments quite so whimsical.
"You can make yourself comfortable over here, honey. I'll be with you in just a minute," offers the woman he quickly identifies as the proprietor - or, at the very least, the senior hairdresser - guiding him towards a chair immediately beside another client.
Fortunately for him, she is already halfway across the salon tending to one of the women beneath the drying hoods before she has the opportunity to witness the rouge creeping across his cheeks, faithfully reflected in the mirror by the wholly unexpected experience of being addressed by an unsolicited pet name.
(Why? His name is quite literally written in the appointment book. They had even asked him to spell it over the phone when he made the reservation. Surely one does not go to such lengths merely to default to honey the moment the customer walks through the-)
"First time here, honey?" interrupts the woman seated beside him.
The odds of escaping this establishment without engaging in small talk have just dropped precipitously.
"Yes, ma'am." (At least he still has his manners.)
She appears to be somewhere in her sixties - not a day younger, by his estimation. (Watch your phrasing, Hotchner.) Not that it's a bad thing. (Hardly a salvageable recovery.) Women of that generation have always seemed to take to him rather quickly. Once they decide he isn't nearly as intimidating as his expression initially suggests, they become remarkably easy (or, perhaps more accurately, easier) to talk to.
"Get a perm. It'll soften your face. You look way too serious," she says. (Easy doesn't necessarily mean untruthful, apparently. Why waste time with pleasantries when you can simply be... brutally frank with a complete stranger?)
"No wonder there's no ring on that finger." She nods knowingly toward his conspicuously bare left hand. "Trust me, sweetheart. Women like a man who looks approachable, at the very least. And you don't want to wait too long, do you?"
(What a remarkable way of reinforcing one's deepest insecurities.)
"I'll think about it," he says, which is about as polite a way as one can communicate that the eighties have, unfortunately, come and gone. "Thank you for the suggestion."
He offers a courteous smile to round off the exchange. Crisis averted. Diplomacy and kindness, he has always found, carry one remarkably far.
His attention returns to the catalogue spread across the vanity. Why anyone should require quite so many options remains entirely beyond him. More remarkable still is the industry's uncanny ability to distinguish - and name - what, to his admittedly untrained eye, appear to be little more than four variations of the same haircut.
"Politician?" the mystery woman asks a moment later, with just enough disdain in her voice for him to notice.
"Not exactly, ma'am. I work for the Department of Justice."
She furrows her brow. "And what exactly does that mean?"
He hadn't realized he'd been particularly elusive. "I'm an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."
"A real one, or one of those strippers?"
(No comment...)
What, precisely, about him had suggested the latter? Are there truly enough people in Washington claiming to be FBI agents that stripper emerges as a plausible alternative? Of all the cities in the country, surely the nation's capital ought to be the one place where introducing oneself as an FBI agent is taken at face value.
"I fear I'm just a real one, ma'am."
At least that earns him a laugh. And not just from the woman who, despite eventually introducing herself as Ruth, continues to exist in his mind as Mrs. Brown. Addressing her by her first name after scarcely ten minutes of acquaintance feels... presumptuous. (Whether she'd agree with that assessment is beside the point.)
His initial theory that he possesses some inexplicable gravitational pull for women of a certain age (the phrasing, once again, leaves much to be desired...) is promptly reaffirmed.
Barely a moment later, a woman fresh from the washing station - with damp hair and newly touched-up roots concealing the grey - introduces herself as Mrs. Jones before settling into the empty chair beside him.
He suddenly finds himself feeling... tactically enclosed.
The next twenty minutes are devoted to a generous (and that's putting it kindly) symposium dedicated to the collective shortcomings of their respective husbands, the latest gossip surrounding Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillippe apparently calling it quits, and a feisty debate over whether Jennifer Aniston's split had been the greater national tragedy.
(With all due respect - which is to say, none whatsoever - fuck you, Brad Pitt.)
By the time he commits the unforgivable mistake of mentioning that he's been surviving almost exclusively on Thai takeout for the past two months (paperwork has a remarkable talent for multiplying once one becomes Unit Chief), simply to contribute to an otherwise harmless discussion about dinner, Mrs. Jones has already extended a formal invitation to what she repeatedly describes as a private cooking class - an arrangement Mrs. Brown wholeheartedly endorses with a deceptive wink.
He isn't entirely convinced that's all she means. Still, for everyone's sake - chiefly his own - he chooses to assume her intentions are every bit as wholesome as advertised.
Whether it's the impressive diameter of the rollers balanced atop Mrs. Brown's head, the chemicals developing her perm leaving him just shy of light-headed, or the fact that he has spent months refusing the Bureau's mandatory sessions with the staff psychologist for fear of accidentally letting your name slip under hypnosis-
(Do they even use hypnosis anymore, or did that fin-de-siècle practice die somewhere around the 1920s? Well. He could've answered his own question if only - no. He shall not indulge in such cheap, self-destructive thoughts.)
-he cannot quite tell.
What he can imagine, however, is that this being the first setting in which he doesn't feel threatened (well... comparatively), where being verbose on matters of the heart seems not merely tolerated but warmly encouraged, he realizes far too late that the entire subject has somehow been inexorably enchanted out of him, one conversation at a time.
He really ought to study these ladies' interrogation techniques, because he doesn't realize the damage has already been done until the honeyed sound of your name escaping Mrs. Jones's crimson-lined lips snaps him clean out of the spell.
"So... is she the woman you're hoping to impress with a fresh new haircut?" she asks. Now that is what one calls facing one's worst fears head-on.
"She's just a colleague..." he mumbles, sounding altogether less convincing than he'd intended.
"Nah-uh." (A remarkably concise way of saying, Your lies are terrible, Hotchner.)
"I have a son," Mrs. Jones reprimands. "Don't think you can fool us that easily."
The inevitable "So... how long have you two been together?" follows, much to their disappointment proving to be founded on an entirely incorrect assumption.
"You're not?" Mrs. Brown blurts.
The crestfallen expressions reflected back at him in the salon mirrors speak for themselves. Their visible disappointment only propels the conversation into an even more perilous line of inquiry.
"Well, it's obvious you like her."
"Does she know?"
Never - not in all the countless scenarios his catastrophizing mind has rehearsed over the years - would he have anticipated the reaction his quiet no receives.
"Oh, Aaron," Mrs. Brown groans. "Come on. Don't be such a pussy. Just tell her, stupid!"
He can't, in good conscience, tell her she's wrong. At some point, continuing to deny the obvious begins to feel more insulting to their intelligence than protective of his own pride.
"I'm technically her boss now," he admits, hoping that particular detail might finally put the matter to rest. "Not just a colleague anymore. It wouldn't be appropriate..."
He doesn't even make it to the end of the sentence.
The two women immediately cut him off, visibly outraged by what they evidently consider the flimsiest excuse imaginable, talking over one another with such enthusiasm that distinguishing who said what quickly becomes impossible.
"That's bullshit."
"Life's too short." (An unbearably saccharine sentiment... and, sure, not an entirely untrue one.)
"You'll regret it! Take it from someone who should've fucked Bruce Springsteen at Glastonbury in '69. My life would've turned out very differently." (He has absolutely no idea how to process that confession.)
The cacophony leaves him with no opportunity to mount a defense. Their overlapping voices merge into a relentless chorus of thoroughly deserved scolding, leaving him feeling as though the slimy pulp of an overripe tomato has just burst across his face before a particularly unforgiving Elizabethan audience. Oddly enough, he can't even bring himself to resent their fervor.
There hasn't been a single night in recent memory when he hasn't found himself staring at the ceiling, wondering whether he should have done something to make his feelings for you even marginally more obvious than quietly leaving a cup of coffee on your desk each morning.
Never mind that doing so required crossing the entire bullpen because his desk happened to be on the opposite side. At the time, even those tiny gestures - perhaps too tiny, considering how much more he could have gotten away with then than he ever could now - had felt almost recklessly daring, back when you were simply colleagues and every decision he made wasn't yet burdened by the title that now preceded his name.
Not that he's ungrateful, nor that he hadn't worked toward the position he now holds. Quite the opposite. But he's never been able to shake the conviction that becoming Unit Chief owed more to circumstance than merit. Gideon's departure after Boston had left a vacancy that someone needed to fill, and Fortune, more than anything, had happened to point in his direction. Even now, he isn't entirely convinced he's earned the title.
And so the promotion became yet another subsection in an already exhaustive catalogue of reasons why pursuing you would be irresponsible. And yet...
He had come so close.
He doesn't have long to indulge in the familiar ache before Mrs. Jones, in a far gentler tone than her companion's, asks, "You've at least told her you're finally using the gift, haven't you?"
Mrs. Brown doesn't even allow him the dignity of answering. "CALL HER. NOW."
It's... not entirely a terrible idea. Calling would undoubtedly be too forward, but perhaps... a text?
If nothing else, it would provide him with a perfectly legitimate excuse to contact you, thereby violating - depending on how generously one chose to interpret Section D of the Bureau's Human Resources Manual - the clause discouraging supervisors from fraternizing with their subordinates outside the workplace.
Granted, even a text message could, in theory, be construed as incriminating. But perhaps opportunity itself, if not quite a loophole, could at least serve as an alibi.
Audentes fortuna iuvat, after all.
Good afternoon. I thought you might like to know I'm finally making use of your gift.
(Too formal?)
I could tell it was your idea, so I thought I'd let you know I'm finally using it.
(That rather unhelpfully suggests he's devoted an altogether unreasonable amount of time to determining the provenance of a birthday present. Which, while true, is hardly something one admits voluntarily.)
Do you happen to have a preference for well-groomed men?
(Absolutely not!)
I can't decide between the haircut on page two and the one on page four. Since this was your gift, I thought I'd ask which one you prefer.
(Too indecisive.)
Should I go bald?
And surely, the latter is nothing more than a hyperbolic lapse born of sore thumbs due to the mounting frustration after typing, deleting, retyping, and redeleting one failed morsel combination after another on his T9 keypad. He takes considerably more care deleting it, unwilling to risk you receiving such a text that would do absolutely no favors for his already precarious case (literally, that's the last thing he needs).
He realizes, to his own surprise, that he doesn't mind being spoiled just a little bit by the head massage in the slightest. In fact, he yields to it with such an alarming lack of resistance that he hardly recognizes himself. It lasts far longer than anything his usual barber would ever think to indulge him with, and even as it finally begins to wind down, he catches himself wishing for just one more minute.
(Is this the greed they warn about in the Bible?)
He'd forgotten how... quiet everything feels when the tension finally leaves his forehead. Perhaps Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Jones aren't entirely wrong. A weekly appointment of this sort might genuinely improve his quality of life. There is, after all, nothing inherently frivolous about wanting one's hair professionally styled.
He can already picture himself walking into the Monday morning briefing with a perfectly disciplined slick back - or, better yet, having finally subdued that obstinate cowlick once and for all, so his fringe might learn to remain where it belongs instead of collapsing across his forehead the moment he sits down.
It would certainly make meetings with Strauss marginally less irritating. And, if nothing else, the team would be spared the sight of him absent-mindedly brushing the same lock of hair out of his eyes every five minutes.
Having done the arithmetic, he determines that this particular vice would cost him no more than taking up smoking again - and would be considerably kinder to his lungs, of course.
Surely he can permit himself one small indulgence every now and then.
Do ut des - "I give so that you may give" - is a Latin phrase used to describe a relationship founded on mutual exchange, in which one party offers a good, a service, a favor (anything, really) with the expectation of receiving something of comparable value in return.
More importantly, it is the first law of gossip.
As much as Aaron would prefer to remain a silent beneficiary of the latest feuds and alleged infidelities destabilizing Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Jones’s knitting club - including, regrettably, the resulting minor STI outbreak among elderly patients frequenting emergency rooms across north-west Washington, a detail he could have lived quite comfortably without - there inevitably comes a point at which listening alone is no longer sufficient.
Gossip, after all, is not a spectator sport. Once the ball lands in his court, he is expected to return it with something at least equally scandalous, and he doubts Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Jones would be particularly captivated by any of the very few things currently happening in his life.
Is he truly this much of a bore? Is his domestic life really so uneventful that the only source of intrigue he can summon is the ongoing mystery of the newspaper thief plaguing his apartment building - along with the increasingly elaborate theories he has developed regarding the culprit’s identity?
Perhaps what they would rather hear (or, more likely, what they expect to hear) are the sort of scandals and buried Bureau secrets capable of ending careers and securing a hypothetical whistleblower a very comfortable payday, should they ever find their way into the public domain.
Needless to say, the matter is far too delicate to weigh against whatever trust he may have developed in two women he's known for scarcely an afternoon. Much as the unwritten rules of gossip insist he owes them a suitably juicy contribution, there are simply some stories he refuses to gamble with.
Fortunately, he is granted a few precious moments to consider how best to deflect the conversation when the unmistakable chime of a text message cuts through the women's expectant stares. He has never been so grateful for a distraction, even if that gratitude lasts precisely as long as it takes him to retrieve his phone.
✉︎ How are you enjoying your gift?
He cannot quite suppress the sudden sensation of ice congealing in his veins when he realizes the message is from you. Did one of his previous attempts accidentally send? He does not even want to entertain the possibility, much less begin interrogating himself over which one it might have been if it. And yet, he cannot bring himself to open the conversation and verify it immediately, either. Would replying too quickly make him seem desperate?
There are certain truths one can postpone for another thirty seconds without significantly altering the course of human history.
Not that he is afforded such a luxury.
Your message provides a distraction only in the sense that it immediately becomes the ladies' newest object of fascination. And, judging by the heat he can feel creeping up his neck and spreading across his face, he is hard(ly) in a position to deny it is anything unremarkable.
"Well?" Mrs. Brown prompts.
He refuses every one of the excessively enthusiastic - and increasingly romantic - responses she proposes he send. Still, she has a point about not leaving you waiting when your message has presented him with a rare opportunity to speak to you privately.
Privately being a relative term, considering that, from the corner of his eye, he watches both women slide their glasses down their noses to get a better look at the screen. There is evidently no way to exclude them from the proceedings.
He opens the conversation with some apprehension and is relieved to find no evidence that any of his previous, abandoned attempts at contacting you were accidentally sent. Which means you texted him first, entirely unprompted. The question is why.
With the reluctant approval of his two newly appointed confidantes, he settles on a simple:
How did you know? -A.H.
Nothing overly revealing. Barely anything at all, in fact - just enough to keep the conversation open and surrender control of where it goes next to you. (He elects not to examine that particular thought too closely.)
You type faster than he expects. The moment the first message appears, the answering rush is so immediate that his vision seems to blank for a fraction of a second.
✉︎ Your name disappeared from the Bureau messenger for the first time EVER while Gideon’s still online AND doing overtime??? Idk about you, but that sounds like elite investigative work to me. If I were Unit Chief, I’d reward it with a couple extra days off and maaaaybe a raise… just saying
A second (second?) message follows before he has finished reading the first.
✉︎ How much did you pay him to stay behind and cover 4 you, btw?
Either Mrs. Jones or Mrs. Brown remarks that the length of your reply is supposedly a very good sign. He is too thoroughly absorbed to determine which one of them said it. As far as he is concerned, the fact that you replied at all is a sufficiently good sign.
He reads both messages again, apparently incapable of stopping until the words have fully wound themselves around his mind. Then a third time, as though another pass might grant him some sudden epiphany regarding the significance of the excessive question marks - or the prolonged maaaaybe. Surely there must be some obscure branch of numerology devoted to the repetition of the letter a four times.
"What are you staring at, stupid? Reply," Mrs. Brown orders.
Aaron elects not to address the insult.
I didn't pay him anything. Apparently, several people were unusually invested in getting me out of the office today. -A.H.
"That's it?" Mrs. Brown scoffs. "Come on."
"Tell her to meet you in your office after work to collect her reward," Mrs. Jones proposes, raising her brows.
"That would violate several regulations. I can't simply-"
He cannot bring himself to finish the sentence. Even setting aside the obvious professional and ethical concerns - and there are many - he has no desire to reduce whatever exists between the two of you to something so foolishly stereotypical. He would not approach you that way even if it were permitted. Which it very much is not.
"You have to give her something," Mrs. Brown insists. "How is she supposed to know you feel anything for her when you speak to her like that?"
"I don't-"
"You do!" she cuts in. "And if you want this to go anywhere, you're going to have to take a risk eventually. You can't keep sitting around waiting for something to happen on its own."
Mrs. Jones regards him with an almost maternal softness before asking, with complete sincerity, "Do you want your situation to change or not?"
The question brings him up short. Does he?
He has spent so much time considering everything that could go wrong - what it might cost you both, how easily his authority could render even the most sincere advance coercive - that he has never allowed himself to think beyond it.
He has never asked what he would choose if those obstacles ceased to exist. Never considered that waiting, too, is a choice - and one he has been making every day.
Does he want his situation to change?
He… does not know.
The hairdresser has finished styling his hair now. There is perhaps more gel in it than he would have preferred, but he is hardly going to ask her to wash it all out and begin again when several clients are already waiting. Besides, for all the apparent transformation promised by the gift card, remarkably little has changed.
He still wants you. That much remains uncomplicated.
Why, then, does wanting something to actually happen between you feel like an entirely different matter?
Fortuna fortasse audaces iuvat; eum autem iuvare non potest qui nullam ei occasionem praebet. (Fortune may favor the bold, but it cannot favor a man who never gives it the opportunity.)
Summary: You just moved to a new neighborhood together, and while strolling the streets, Hotch helps an elderly lady with her groceries, which inturn makes your emotions go crazy.
A/N: I'm not gonna write them having a baby, so please don't request it.
The late-afternoon sun hung low over the neighborhood, painting everything in that soft, honeyed light that made every ordinary moment feel like the opening scene of the next, big, family film. Today was moving day, and moving in with someone else was a big thing on its own, but moving in with your best friend, your partner, your everything... who also happened to be the man who signed your paychecks, was a whole different level of nerves you’d never imagined the move to hold.
You walked hand-in-hand with Hotch down the street, checking out the neighborhood. And despite wearing jeans and a t-shirt, he still looked impossibly composed. You tried hard not to stare at the way the shirt stretched just right across his shoulders, the way it framed his pecs, the way the slight breeze kept yugging at the dark strands of hair that had escaped his careful styling this morning in his apartment.
Hotch was mid-sentence, telling you about Jack’s latest obsession with building Lego Technic sets that “actually had functional landing gear”. You were excited for Jack to come back from camp next week, for him to see his room that was so much bigger than the one in his dad’s place, for him to see the backyard with the combined slide tower and swingset Hotch was determined to have built before his son’s return.
Every few steps, his thumb swept absently over your knuckles; it was a small and unconscious habit he had done ever since your first day, a habit that still sent butterflies rioting through your stomach, even after all this time.
You were so busy cataloguing the tiny details of the neighborhood, the picket fences, the old trees framing the street, the flower bushes about to bloom, the washing drying in someone’s yard. And the tiny details of him, how the faint silver at his temples only made him more handsome, the way his eyes crinkled when he glanced sideways to check if you were laughing at his dry delivery of a joke, so busy that you almost missed her.
An elderly woman stood at the edge of the crosswalk, cardigan buttoned neatly, silver curls pinned under a beret. And two bulging canvas grocery bags, one resting on the seat of her walker and the other at her feet; one handle had given up and split, spilling a few apples onto the sidewalk. She was trying valiantly to scoop them up while keeping the second bag from toppling, her shoulders trembling with the effort as she steadied herself on her walker, and something inside your chest squeezed tight at the sight.
Before you could even open your mouth, Hotch’s entire posture shifted. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, murmured “Hold on, love,” and crossed the street in a couple of long strides.
You watched, rooted to the spot he had left you in, as he crouched beside her without a hint of hesitation. His voice was too low for you to catch the words, but you saw the way her face lit up, surprised that someone had come like a knight in shining armor to help, then relieved, then delighted as he gathered the fallen apples one by one, tucked them carefully back into the torn bag, then lifted both sacks with one hand as though they were filled with feathers instead of canned goods and produce.
When she tried to protest, he simply offered his arm with that small, courtly incline of his head that belonged in a different time and age from today’s ego-centred society. She smiled and gave a grateful pat to his forearm before pointing to a house three doors down as she steadied herself on her walker, preparing to push it forward one slow step at a time. Together they walked toward the house, his long legs shortened their stride to match her careful shuffle, his free hand hovering at her elbow in case she needed steadying. He listened to whatever story she was telling, nodding, chuckling softly once, the sound carrying back to you like velvet, and when they reached her little porch, he set the bags down gently, waited until she’d unlocked the door, then stepped back with a polite tip of his head that was somehow both old-fashioned and achingly tender.
By the time he jogged back to you, cheeks faintly flushed from the breeze and exertion, you were already burning.
Hotch stopped in front of you, his eyes searching your face with that familiar mix of concern and curiosity. “Everything okay?”
You didn’t answer with words.
Instead, you fisted both hands in the soft cotton stretched over his chest, yanked him down those last few inches, and pressed your mouth to his in a kiss that was all heat and hunger and helpless adoration at what you had just witnessed.
When you finally pulled back, just enough to let you both breathe, your forehead rested against his, the words spilled out in a rush, low and fervent and completely serious.
“Put a baby in me! Right now! Tonight! Yesterday! Whenever you want... just... please!”
Hotch froze. One heartbeat. Two. Then his brows lifted, that slow blink of genuine shock you so rarely got to see anymore, because nothing ever surprised that man, followed by the softest huff of startled laughter against your lips.
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice gravel-rough and amused, one big hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck while the other settled possessively at the small of your back, “what just happened?”
You swallowed, cheeks flaming, but you didn’t look away. Couldn’t. Not when he was standing there looking like every late-night fantasy you’d ever had about him, sleeves pushed to his elbows, forearms corded from years of holding the world together, eyes soft and dark and only for you.
“I watched you,” you whispered, fingers still twisted in his shirt, “carry her groceries like it weighed nothing. I watched you make sure she got inside safely. I watched you smile at her like she was the only person in the world who mattered in that moment. And I...” Your voice cracked; you had to swallow again. “God, Aaron, it was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. You’re so good. So kind without even trying. And all I could think was... I want that goodness in a tiny person who has your eyes and your hands and your heart. I want to make a baby with you so badly it hurts.”
For a second, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just stared down at you like you’d rewritten the stars. Then his expression melted as he pulled you flush against him, arms banding tight around your waist until there wasn’t an inch of space between you.
“You,” he murmured against your temple, lips brushing skin with every word, “are going to be the death of me.” Another soft kiss, this one to the corner of your eye, where happy tears had started to gather from how sweet he had been to that old lady. “And if watching me help someone cross the street is what gets you this worked up, then I’m never letting another senior citizen struggle on my watch. I’ll carry every damn bag from here to Richmond if it means you look at me like that.”
You laughed and tipped your head back so he could kiss you properly this time. When he finally eased back, his thumb swept tenderly beneath your eye, catching the moisture threatening to spill.
“One,” he said quietly, voice thick with promise. “We start with one. And we practice, a lot, until we get it right.” His mouth curved. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Every night after that, if you want. I’m yours, sweetheart. Whatever future you want, I’m already all in.”
You buried your face in the warm crook of his neck, breathing him in and felt the last bit of the tension from the move uncoil inside you, replaced by something bright and certain and so full of love it almost ached to even think about not having right here, right now.
“Take me home, Hotch,” you whispered against his skin, smiling when you felt him shiver at the old nickname. “I want to start practicing right now.”
He laughed again and scooped your hand back into his, lacing your fingers so tightly it felt like a vow.
“Anything you want,” he promised, tugging you gently down the sun-dappled sidewalk toward the house you shared, toward the life you were building one ordinary, extraordinary moment at a time. “Oh, and Mrs. Carrigan invited us for tea tomorrow.” You just smiled and gave his hand a squeeze, confirming that you were delighted to be introduced to her tomorrow.
Getting drunk and absolutely hanging all over Spock. I'm talking like you're sitting in his lap, giggling in his ear, one hand fiddling with his hair, and the other playing with one of his hands, twining your fingers together, then pulling them apart over and over again. Jim tries to remove you gently because he's worried Spock’s uncomfortable, only to be VERY quickly waved off by Spock himself. Fully like, “Unnecessary, Captain. I think it's best to keep a close eye on her, and I find it much easier while she's occupied here.” And Jim just gives him this shit-eating grin which he pretends not to notice.
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
professor!assistant!hotch x trainee!fem!reader
Genre: “enemies” to ??? with loooooads of bickering! CASE FIC!
Summary: During your training at the academy, Gideon offers a golden ticket to the BAU to "whoever" dominates class... (even if his obvious choice falls on a certain genius with eidetic memory). While you keep trying to impress the real FBI daddy (Gideon. Obv.), you also have to work your way through Agent Hotchner’s odd… zip. Mentorship.
Warnings: MDNI (there are 2 seconds of grinding), discussions of real cases (San Francisco doodler and a reinterpretation of the Colonial Parkway murders), unreliable narration, reader cries twice... and Hotch spends most of this story being a PIECE OF-
Word Count: 28.1k (a light read indeed...)
Dado's Corner: after finishing HTGAWM, I got inspired to write an AU where you’re in the same FBI Academy class as Reid… and, as you can see from the word count, it kind of spiralled. I’m not even joking when I say I’ve been secretly working on this for +4 months, trying to make every single part rhyme, so… pls let me know if you like the case-fic format?
masterlist
There’s an old saying (well, old as of now) that goes: you don’t realize you’re in a sausage party until you’re already trapped in one.
Granted, this doesn’t apply universally. You can’t exactly sham shock when you walk into your very first lecture in behavioral science hosted by none other than FBI (that word should’ve rung a bell) legend J. (as in Jason) Gideon and suddenly clock the ratio.
You may have misled yourself with the word behavioral. So much psychology. So little pew-pew guns. Which implied, naively, that actual brain usage would be required to succeed. And since consistent brain deployment is not exactly a statistically dominant trait among male specimens, the probability of a sausage party should’ve been low.
And yet. Hope is a powerful delusion.
Nothing screams sausage party quite like the good old FBI Academy in Quantico. Three versus twenty-four is… not ideal. It could be worse, sure - but it’s bad enough that the three of you instinctively sit next to each other. Out of solidarity? Perhaps. Survival feels much more accurate, though.
You’re still settling in when you overhear the murmur in front of you.
“Agent Cavenaugh transferred from the BAU to lead a team in ViCAP. The BAU’s running one agent short now,” says Unidentified Sausage #1 to Sausage #2.
“Agent Who?” Sausage #2 asks.
A third sausage chimes in. This one is sporting such an exemplary bowl cut that you consider submitting his headshot to Webster’s as the official visual definition.
“SSA Matthew Cavenaugh was the very first agent Rossi and Professor Gideon added after founding the unit. Specializes in sex crimes. He’s the one who caught the Daytona Rapist in under forty-eight hours-”
You don’t even have to look to know he leaned forward without being invited. The micro-tension in the other two’s jaws says it all. Apparently, no one likes a know-it-all sausage. Not even other sausages.
“He identified the unsub through victim pattern clustering and-” Yes, yes. Applause and confetti to this one Agent Cavenaugh for solving something in under forty-eight hours… boring!
And while we’re on terminology - can this even be called a sausage party if it’s just twenty-four sausages and minimal garnish?
Meaning - there’s something strange in the air. Electricity. Maybe an actual loose wire sparking somewhere behind the walls. Or maybe it’s just the collective voltage of concentrated male ego trapped in an enclosed academic space with poor ventilation and worse self-awareness.
Rumor has it Gideon is… particular.
Which, for people who did not accidentally stumble into the last ten minutes of one of his conferences last year and decide on the spot to reorient their entire professional trajectory, may be discouraging. Not everyone hears “temperamental genius” and thinks sign me up. So yes, perhaps the whispers filtered out a few of the faint-hearted.
Still. With all due respect, this course has fewer attendees than the excruciatingly dull crisis negotiation crash course you endure on Wednesdays. And that’s what’s strange. You can’t quite articulate it, but something just feels off.
“Good morning-”
Everyone instinctively double-checks their posture the second the door swings open and Jason Gideon strides in looking like a man who remembered he had a class approximately thirty seconds ago. He’s already halfway to the board before the door finishes swinging behind him.
Gideon doesn’t even apologize when the door nearly takes out the poor unfortunate soul trailing him.
The man sidesteps just in time to avoid being flattened and then - as if nothing unusual has happened, or more accurately as if nothing could have happened - takes up position beside the desk with the rigid composure of a Swiss Guard assigned to guard the Pope.
After approximately three seconds of observation, you have no doubt that this man has never experienced joy a single day in his life.
You’re not sure what’s more concerning - the complete absence of visible personality, or the fact that the only identifiable traits he seems to have are being tall and relentlessly committed to his job. He is, frankly, a little (very) terrifying.
He’s conventionally attractive, sure. But you’re not entirely convinced how anyone is supposed to cope if he brings that exact same constipated expression into the bedroom.
Gideon, on the other hand-
He’s… striking. In a way that feels hostilely out of place in an academic setting.
Even standing next to what you assume is his assistant - a much younger man (sausage number… you’ve lost count) with raven hair shellacked into place with an excessive amount of gel, dressed in the crispest black suit you’ve ever seen, tie included, for a class that technically starts at eight in the morning - Gideon still looks like he got dressed while thinking about something infinitely more important than impressing a room full of rookies.
Civilian clothes. Slightly rumpled, too. Oddly, it makes the whole thing feel more… intimate.
“I don’t know what terrible things you’ve done in your lives that resulted in you wanting to be seated in this room… but you’re here. Which already separates you from several hundred others who are not.”
It’s remarkable how Gideon manages to sound vaguely insulting while his body language remains ever so casual, like he’s chatting with friends over a beer.
“My name is Jason Gideon. This is Behavioral Analysis.” (As if anyone in this room didn’t already know that.) “Unlike many of my colleagues at this Academy, I’m not particularly interested in teaching large groups of people who will never use what they’re being taught. So before this course was announced, we reviewed your files.”
His gaze sweeps the room. The authority Agent Gideon carries is so destabilizing that even in the fraction of a second his gaze lands on you, it’s capable of both drying up your throat and setting your face on fire before he’s already moved on to dissect the next person.
“This room is what remained. So… congratulations. At some point in your very short professional lives, each of you managed to do something that suggested you might be capable of thinking. But the bad news is that behavioral analysis has very little to do with what most of you think profiling is.”
At that point, Gideon casually reaches over, grabs his assistant by the arm, and physically steers him away from where he’d been standing beside the desk. Surprisingly, the assistant allows this public manhandling with the resigned expression of a man who has clearly endured this maneuver before.
Gideon positions him in front of the class and gives him a single approving pat on the shoulder. The man looks… unexpressively elated.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, this is SSA Hotchner.”
Hotchner gives a brief nod to the room.
Gideon leans in and mutters something close to his face. You reconsider what you once believed were perfectly respectable lip-reading skills, because all you manage to catch is the beginning of an “Aaron-”, and only because he doesn’t lower his voice quite fast enough.
Hotchner responds with… yet another nod.
Apparently, his conversational style consists entirely of silent acknowledgments delivered in increasingly microscopic increments, since the man has yet to open his mouth even once. Either that, or if he does open it, the only thing that will come out is a bark. (Woof.)
Still, this line of inquiry becomes far less interesting when Gideon abruptly exits the classroom without warning, leaving the untalkative assistant (now the professor) behind to take the room hostage. Woah.
The only thing that feels certain now is that Coconut-Head Sausage is about to burst into flames if Agent Hotchner keeps openly squaring him like that. You didn’t even know swallowing could be audible, but evidently sausages do produce a remarkably distinct gulping sound under pressure.
“Unlike many of your other instructors at this Academy,” Agent Hotchner begins (so he can speak) “the Behavioral Science course is not designed to familiarize you with the theoretical frameworks of criminal psychology. We already expect you to be familiar with the foundational concepts. That knowledge is the minimum requirement to succeed in this class - and to participate in it.”
You already preferred him when he wasn’t talking.
Sausage #1 raises his hand… or rather, lifts it halfway and immediately starts talking, because apparently being a man comes with the optional feature of waiting for permission switched off.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa-” Ah. The animalistic register. Astounding. “Isn’t this a beginner course? You’re not gonna, like, teach us the types of serial killers and stuff like that?”
Agent Hotchner makes the face of a man who has just realized that the saying there are no stupid questions, only stupid answers is, in fact, complete bullshit. Still, he somehow keeps his expression composed enough.
“Agent Gideon and I introduced several modifications to the course this year,” he replies evenly, “with the objective of providing you with a more extensive understanding of both advanced theory and - more importantly, as Agent Gideon would argue - practical application. Not every unsub - that is, unknown subject - is a serial offender. However, every serial offender begins as an unknown subject.”
Ouch. A clean, surgical correction of Sausage #1’s terminology.
“- and every offender we study,” Hotchner continues, “will present a distinct behavioral structure.”
Coconut-head sausage in the very front row raises his hand. Unfortunately for him, Sausage #1 is operating under the assumption that manners are for lesser men.
“What do you mean?”
At least he hasn’t asked why it takes an extra thirty seconds to decode whatever Agent Hotchner is trying to say. The man speaks in such an aggressively formal register it sounds like he rehearsed the whole thing in front of a mirror beforehand like a fucking loser.
“I mean-” he repeats, probably on purpose. (You wonder whether, while selecting which tie best suited the occasion this morning, he also factored in the level of stress a room full of rookies would inevitably inflict on him) “each week you will be presented with either an active BAU investigation or a previously adjudicated case. You will be provided with the relevant materials, which you will analyze in order to formulate a working offender profile. If called upon, you will then defend your reasoning in discussion with us.”
Us. Will Agent Gideon actually be present for any of these discussions? Or was that dramatic appearance his entire teaching contribution for the semester? Why isn’t he here now?
Coconut Head raises his long, skeletal arm again, waiting to be acknowledged. This time Agent Hotchner allows it.
“Would the level of participation - and the accuracy of the conclusions we present - affect the final evaluation determining whether we pass the course?”
Oh. Someone has clearly been studying Hotchner’s linguistic operating system.
“Good question, Agent Reid.” Woah. So Agent Hotchner really did read everyone’s files if he already knows Coconut-Head’s name. That wasn’t just an intimidation tactic. “Yes, continuous performance will factor heavily into your evaluation. Additionally, this year the highest-performing trainee in this class will be offered the opportunity to work with the BAU. We are currently operating one agent short on the team. As you-”
But whatever clarification follows is immediately swallowed by the room detonating. (Figuratively, unfortunately.)
The collective reaction of twenty-four sausages discovering that their wildest professional fantasy might materialize two years ahead of schedule produces a level of noise that renders the rest of poor Agent Hotchner’s sentence completely unintelligible.
“…Cavenaugh-”
“…they’re replacing-”
“…that Daytona case agent-”
Somehow, it’s only thanks to the immediate explosion of sausage chatter around the room that you manage to piece together what he actually said. (Sausages can be useful sometimes… who would’ve thought.)
The competitive tension in the room begins thickening almost immediately. You’d bet Agent Hotchner’s perfectly sculpted hair this is about to devolve into one spectacularly unhealthy environment, and you are not thrilled about spending the next several months watching grown adults regress into elementary school tactics.
Starting with the way Agent Hotchner manages to silence an entire pandemonium with nothing more than a controlled gesture of his hand.
“During the semester,” he says, “you will also rotate through observational assignments with the BAU, based on your performance record. Consider those opportunities to demonstrate your capabilities.”
Like… real cases? With real agents?
“But remember this: in the field, you will not be solving theoretical exercises. You will be dealing with someone’s life. I would strongly encourage you to keep that as your priority - rather than impressing us. That, is what will make you a good agent.”
That’s a very noble sentiment. Because announcing that one person in this room gets a golden ticket to the BAU and then asking everyone not to compete for it is obviously going to work. That’s like handing someone a winning lottery ticket and saying, “Now remember: money isn’t everything.”
Sure thing, Agent Hotchner. We all live in a beautiful, ethical utopia where humans are famously immune to ambition. You almost envy that level of optimism.
Life must be incredibly peaceful when you believe things like that.
There’s an old saying (actually old this time) that goes: never meet your heroes.
You’d like to add a footnote: especially not when they come accompanied by a suited-up assistant with terrifying eyebrows who can somehow turn one perfectly innocent question from the teacher’s pet (or assistant’s pet, since Gideon has been mysteriously absent for the past hour and a half) into a thirty-minute legal dissertation on every statute Ted Bundy managed to violate on the night of his arrest.
You’re just that lucky… the exact moment your brain finally starts surrendering to the sweet, merciful pull of unconsciousness, Gideon materializes again in the projector beam.
“Everybody,” he says, as if he never left, “conference room in ten.”
That’s it. A man of very few words, apparently, because before anyone can attempt the radical concept of asking for clarification, he vanishes again. Hotchner follows him out immediately, just as silent. How riveting.
Also worth noting: there are, conservatively speaking, about twenty conference rooms in this building complex. Surely it would have been unreasonable to specify which one out of the two dozen we’re supposed to meet in.
And of course, given the delightfully competitive atmosphere Gideon and Hotchner have so thoughtfully cultivated, teamwork is clearly not an option. No one even considers coordinating, so all you can do is… take a guess.
Instinct (common sense) tells you Gideon probably doesn’t mean one of the Academy lecture halls. The man already seems to have forgotten he was teaching this class once today, so there’s no reason to believe he suddenly developed the organizational discipline required to reserve a room in advance for a group of trainees he clearly does not give a shit about. Much more likely, he meant the actual BAU conference room.
Perfect. Problem one solved.
Problem two: you have no fucking idea where the hell it actually is, other than somewhere in the impossibly sprawling Federal Towers on the opposite side of where you currently are at the Academy. And time is not on your side.
You’re slightly (generously speaking) hoarse from running through a maze of entrances, being redirected by a series of equally unhelpful people who have all, somehow, pointed you in completely different directions before funneling you… here. By the time you reach the right lobby, you’re running on fumes.
In a rush, you shove your name at the secretary just long enough for her to slap a visitor badge onto your chest, gesture ambiguously (is she… is she fisting…?) toward the elevators, and dismiss you without a single word, not even a hint of which elevator you’re supposed to take. Good enough?
You pick one at random. There isn’t enough time to rely on the Tibetan method. The building is far too sprawling for logic to be useful, which leaves luck as the only operational strategy.
The elevator stops at six consecutive floors. Every time the doors open you lean halfway out to check whether you’ve accidentally arrived at Accounting, Counterterrorism, IT...
Finally, the doors slide open onto the BAU floor. You step out just in time. Only about half the class made it.
If the behavioral science class qualifies as a sausage party, then the BAU, at first glance, operates on an entirely different scale of sausage production. This is industrial level. A full processing facility.
Agents - all of whom somehow look and dress suspiciously like Agent Hotchner to the point you begin to wonder if this is actually a family business - move everywhere in very expensive dress shoes. There are so many of them cutting across the floor at once that you and the other trainees end up squeezed into a corner near the parapet, safely out of the traffic pattern.
Papers move constantly from desk to desk, to printer and back again. The combined cacophony of keyboards and mouse clicks firing off in every direction is already making you consider forcing every single agent into a constricting shirt, one by one, just to make it stop. Even your internal monologue is struggling to compete.
This place has a way of stripping you of your individuality and blending you into the average of the rest of the sausages.
All it takes is one quick glance into those vacant eyes to realize every trainee standing beside you is imagining the exact same thing at the exact same time: which one of these desks might someday - hopefully very soon - become theirs.
Which one out of the horde of messy corner desks clustered in the middle of the open floor plan will eventually hold their stationery, their photographs, their case files. Small attempts to reclaim some personality from the slow bureaucratic suction the Bureau seems determined to apply to every last one of you. At least, that appears to be how most agents here cope.
Except for one.
The desk on your far right looks like it belongs in an entirely different building.
Immaculately clean. So aggressively clean, in fact, that the gigantic framed picture of the American flag with a bald eagle becomes agonizingly visible to your sleep deprived eyes. As if this place needed any additional reinforcement of nationalism.
Does anyone here truly benefit from having an extra American flag within arm's reach at all times?
If this man (it has to be a sausage, because no woman alive would willingly decorate a desk this bleakly) were not obnoxious enough already, there is also a glass paperweight with the White House trapped inside it. Why.
But the real offense sits neatly arranged along one edge of the desk, positioned so that every single one of them is visible while still occupying the absolute minimum amount of space possible. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Seven trophies. Seven trophies and not even a picture. Ouch.
“Out of all these guys, who do you think is the loser overcompensating for having no friends with official validation from the Bureau?” you ask the bright-eyed assistant’s pet. (You forgot his name already. Coconut-head sausage.)
“That would be me.”
The voice comes from directly behind you, from a sausage standing exactly where your back has been comfortably leaning against the parapet.
You would have to be spectacularly obtuse not to recognize it after spending the better part of the day hoping it would choke on its own legal jargon while explaining statutes and procedural bullshit. You suddenly feel a profound reluctance to turn around.
Unfortunately, you have to.
The terrifying lack of space between Agent Hotchner’s thick eyebrows and his eyes makes you seriously consider employing the classic prey strategy of playing dead in the hope that the predator will lose interest and wander off. Although, admittedly, it may already be too late for that.
Realistically speaking, on a scale from one to ten, how hopeless are your chances of winning the grand prize of working here if you’ve already managed to land yourself on the professor’s assistant’s kill list on day one? Especially factoring in the teeny tiny detail that this is also the very first impression he has of you.
“Where’s the rest of the class?” he asks in that particular annoyed tone that implies everyone in the room already owes him something.
A verbal response is somewhat out of the question at the moment, so you lift one shoulder in the universal gesture for I have absolutely no fucking idea, while his terrifying eyes remain fixed on you, patiently waiting for a satisfactory answer that, unfortunately, does not exist.
He sighs, disappointed, as if you are personally responsible for wasting precious time he could have maybe spent polishing his seven already spotless trophies. He pulls out his phone and calls someone, about something you are far too deep in survival mode to even attempt to overhear.
Agent Hotchner’s eyes stay locked on you for the entire duration of the phone call. (Play dead. Play dead.)
“While we wait for the rest of your colleagues to catch up, I could walk you through the BAU and show you around,” he says, projecting his voice.
There must be a glitch in the matrix, because you just witnessed Agent Hotchner raise the slightest corner of his mouth. You suddenly understand why he never does it. The deep dimples carved into his cheeks soften his face so much he ends up looking disorientingly approachable. Too bad the gay (as in joyful. Allegedly.) expression disappears the second his eyes land back on you.
You are so fucked.
Still, you can take a small amount of comfort in the fact that if your assessment of Agent Hotchner’s trophies had been wrong, he probably would’ve corrected you, right?
There are three different clocks on the wall opposite where you are sitting in the conference room. If Agent Hotchner hadn’t positioned himself directly beside you at the side table, you could at least enjoy the small comfort of verifying with physical evidence that Gideon is, in fact, late across all three time zones: DC, London, and Tokyo.
You have to admit, that takes a special kind of talent. It’s a shame the whole thing is just an adynaton.
“The case we’ll begin with today is an unsolved series of homicides that occurred in San Francisco between 1974 and 1975,” Gideon says, switching on the TV of the conference room.
You cannot decide whether it is more uncomfortable taking notes while standing or doing it with Agent Hotchner’s cold breath hovering somewhere near the side of your neck. You attempt a cautious glance in his direction from the corner of your eye, but your gaze ends up meeting his.
Shit.
Luckily, it seems you both arrive at the same silent agreement to pretend that never happened, judging by the way you simultaneously snap your attention back to Gideon at the exact same moment.
Still. Is a person not entitled to take their own notes in peace, free from judgment, especially while representing the federal government of the so-called free world? Is that truly too much to ask? These are American values, Agent Hotchner. He, of all people, should be the first to respect and defend them.
(Hopefully… perhaps the bald eagle was a façade all along.)
“Five confirmed homicide victims. Possibly more we’re unaware of. All male. All between the ages of twenty-five and forty-two.” (Okay Gideon, could you please slow the fuck down. You are not a typewriter.) “All connected to San Francisco's gay community in the mid-1970s. Each victim was stabbed multiple times, between-”
(Slow. The Fuck. Down.)
The sudden weight of a single thick, very hairy finger pressing lightly on your notepad makes your pen wobble across the page.
What the fuck does this man want from you now.
“The title is victimology, not victims,” Agent Hotchner murmurs. You stare down at the page, where his middle finger (is he flipping you off?) is currently pointing at your hastily scribbled heading.
You decide not to dignify the correction with a response, mostly because something tells you he would not appreciate the very sincere “fuck you” you are wholeheartedly reserving for him.
“The first body was found in a secluded area around 2 a.m. near Ocean Beach, a well-known hookup spot within the queer community at the time. No identification on him, but fingerprints later identified the victim as Gerald Cavenaugh.”
If you had a penny for every time that last name had surfaced today, you would have two pennies.
Which is not a lot, but it is still enough to make ex-BAU poster boy Agent Cavenaugh personally responsible for the minor cardiac event you experience every time Agent Hotchner's breathing pattern changes slightly behind you while you write something he might not agree with.
“The caller who reported the body to 911 gave no name.”
You underline the detail.
In some cases, offenders may initiate contact with law enforcement following the crime. Indeed, the call can serve multiple functions: facilitating the discovery of the body, asserting a degree of control over the sequence of events, and reinforcing the offender’s internal perception of dominance within the narrative.
Your stomach churns.
You hate that you are starting to second-guess your own reasoning, purely because the simple act of underlining something in your notes seems to trigger a full butterfly-effect cascade, set off by nothing more than the shift of air beside you when, out of the corner of your eye, you catch Agent Hotchner raising a single eyebrow at the page.
Maybe he thinks your reasoning is stupid. (Maybe it really is?)
Or maybe the caller just did not want to identify himself because being seen at a queer hookup spot at two in the morning in the 1970s carried consequences far worse than being considered a witness (or even a suspect) in a homicide.
You write down context, just to make sure you do not forget it.
“The second victim was twenty-seven-year-old Joseph Stevens, known as Jay, a drag performer. Before he was identified, police treated the case as a mugging because his wallet was missing from the scene. His body was found in a dark alley roughly an hour’s walk from North Beach, where his car had been left outside the bar where he worked, which now suggests he may have left willingly with the offender. At the time, however, investigators did not consider the murder connected to the first case.”
“Even in San Francisco, in 1974, the police did not treat everyone equally,” Agent Hotchner mutters under his breath. Groundbreaking. A sausage recognizing systemic inequality. (So lame.)
“No kidding,” you murmur back.
You lose a good portion of whatever Gideon says next thanks to this unexpected Hotchner allyship. You wish you had the institutional authority to stab his large hand with your pen just to discourage further collaboration.
“…the third victim escalated into significantly more overkill. The crime scene was reported to be so bloody it approached near decapitation. Then a cooling-off period of nearly a year. In 1975, another body was recovered on the beach-”
“Is this the cold case of the San Francisco Doodler?” Coconut-head sausage cuts in. (There we go.)
Gideon turns to him with a proud little smile (you hate it here), then follows it with a quick glance toward Hotchner, his expressive brows lifting ever so slightly. The exchange might be silent, but it is by no means subtle.
You swear there is an entire conversation happening in that look. Using girl code in a room full of sausages would have been a brilliant strategy… if only it were actually just sausages sitting here.
It is all there, in the very specific way Agent Hotchner’s mouth pulls into that obnoxiously restrained smirk. The kind of expression a man only allows himself when he gets to say I told you so without actually saying it. Maybe what he is really saying is, ‘Look. I told you he would be impressive.’
“‘Yes, Agent Reid, you are correct.” You can hear the smile in Hotchner’s voice. You see green.
Was everyone supposed to recognize this case on sight? Are you the only idiot in the room who did not walk in with a pre-installed encyclopedic knowledge of obscure 1970s homicide investigations?
“It’s interesting that they only form a task force at this point,” Reid continues, visibly energized, which is… maybe a little tone-deaf. “Up until then, the cases of SFPD were worked by shift. Investigators would handle whatever came in and then pass it along, so information became fragmented across reports with no continuity. That structure makes pattern recognition extremely difficult. Once this body is found and the similarities become undeniable, SFPD consolidates the cases into a single investigation and assigns a dedicated task force, identifying the presence of a serial offender only at that stage.”
#WhoCares (It is actually interesting. You just did not know that. Still.)
#DoYouWantACookie
#YourHopesToWorkHereAreGone because Gideon is nodding along the entire time, not even attempting to conceal that proud smile. Please. You’re not sure it’s even worth the effort to continue listening as attentively to the rest.
“The next victim was a nurse. The body was found on the same beach where the first victim was recovered, but in a different location. There were signs of a struggle, which may explain the increased blood at the scene. Like the previous victim, he had been seen at a gay bar prior to his death. The same bar. There were also reports of a man lingering outside the establishment, sketching patrons as they entered and exited.”
Oh… so that is why the press called him the Doodler. You have to admit, it is possibly the least intimidating nickname a serial killer has ever been given.
“By the time police began focusing on this individual, there was another victim. June 1975. Male. Severely decomposed. The body was almost mummified, which meant no usable fingerprints. The medical examiner estimated the body had been left in shrubbery between ten days and a month.”
You pause over your notes. The so-called cooling-off period suddenly feels… questionable. Was it really a year? Or was it just a year before anyone bothered to connect the dots? High control, or just low attention? This investigation looks sloppy as hell.
“The most interesting aspect of this case, in my opinion, is that more than one victim survived,” Gideon says.
You cannot help but notice Agent Reid nodding along like this is the most obvious thing in the world. He does not even need to take notes.
“The first survivor arrived at the ER stabbed and covered in blood. He refused to file a report. Refused to cooperate if his name would be attached to the case. He was a European diplomat.”
High-profile job, higher risk of being outed. Once again, context doing half of the unsub’s job for him.
“He stated he met the offender around two in the morning after eating at a diner near the same bar where the suspect had been seen sketching. The offender accompanied him back to his apartment, spent an unusual amount of time in the bathroom, and when the victim approached the door, he was stabbed in the back with a steak knife. During the attack, the offender said, ‘All you guys are alike.’”
Every single sausage perks up. Finally, something they can take apart: motive + projection. Clean labels they can assemble into a profile in seconds. You are certain half the room already has theirs ready.
You would bet twenty dollars on it with Agent Hotchner, if only he were even remotely capable of fun. He is probably wondering why you have written down one single sentence and are not scribbling furiously like everyone else.
“The same statement was later reported by another surviving victim, who lived in the same apartment building as the diplomat and also remained anonymous. Police linked the attacks through that phrase. A third surviving victim later emerged, a public figure, an actor, who ended the encounter early after noticing a knife in the offender’s pocket. He would not come forward publicly either.”
Of course he would not. Because why would anyone, in this context.
“A suspect was eventually brought in following a tip from the secretary of a psychiatric doctor. He had been treated in the psychiatric department of the same hospital where two of the surviving victims were treated. According to the tip, during sessions, the suspect confessed to the murders.”
You are not a prosecutor, but you still jot down ‘doctor-patient privilege -> cannot be used to incriminate’ out of instinct more than anything. Out of the corner of your eye, you feel Hotchner shift slightly.
Is he still reading your notes? For fuck’s sake.
He mutters something that is completely incomprehensible.
“What?” you say. (As in what the fuck are you saying, but streamlined for public consumption.)
He glances toward Gideon, still talking, then back down at your notebook with that terrifying glare. One slow exhale through his nose (neuron activated), and suddenly your notebook is no longer in your hand.
You’re left fuddled by how quickly it happens. The fleeting warmth of his fingers brushing yours barely registers against your skin as he confiscates your property, and somehow, you end up meeting his gaze.
For a split second, he looks almost human. The words get stuck in your throat, and not just because, for once, your self-preservation instincts are doing their job and reminding you not to mouth off to someone who outranks you in every conceivable way.
Agent Hotchner pulls out his own penisfrom his jacket. A nearly dead black ballpoint. Which is… something, considering the Rolex on his wrist.
For some reason, you find yourself smiling at the realization that, from this one tiny detail, you now know his jackets - and probably his pants too, because go big or go home, right - are custom-made just to accommodate the fact that he’s left-handed.
Which immediately makes you wonder what other microscopic adjustments he insists on controlling, far beyond just inner pockets.
He writes quickly. You spot an asterisk appear next to your note, but then his hand is too broad, covering whatever War and Peace footnote he’s adding underneath. When he hands the notebook back, it almost looks like he makes a deliberate effort to grip it by the short edge this time, ensuring there is absolutely no repeat of the accidental finger contact.
He lifts his brows, gives a small nod. Look. Not a single word is exchanged. And you are simply respecting his very real aversion to interrupting Gideon’s dissertation with something as offensively mundane as small talk.
There is an entire science behind handwriting that you wish you knew, if only to explain why Agent Hotchner writes like a girl.
Annoyingly pretty cursive. No hearts over the i’s, unfortunately. Tucked neatly under your line, like an actual footnote, taking up the least amount of space possible, he has written:
Tarasoff v. Regents of the University of California, 1976, California Supreme Court. Communications made in therapy are generally protected under doctor-patient privilege and cannot be subpoenaed as evidence. However, if a patient poses a serious and imminent (underlined) threat to an identifiable (underlined) victim, the clinician has a duty to warn or protect, and confidentiality may be breached in that context. Outside of that exception, the records remain privileged.
Oh! You drag your pen over the parts he underlined. “So the reason they couldn’t arrest him, and the case went cold, is because they couldn’t identify another victim? Like… a specific person. A name?”
Agent Hotchner’s smile (with a sliver of actual teeth… he looks so stupid) tells you you’ve landed exactly where he wanted you to go.
When his eyes catch the light, unobstructed for once by those permanently disapproving eyebrows, they are a surprisingly warm hazel. It almost distracts you from the fact that this entire legal framework might have helped a serial offender stay free.
A light tap of his index finger against your notebook. Pay attention. Okay, just say you’re boring next time, Agent Hotchner.
“He had originally sought treatment because of his attraction to men,” Gideon continues, reading from the file. “During police interrogation, he denied being the killer… but not everything. He claimed he had been ‘reformed.’ Said he had struggled with same-sex attraction since he was thirteen. Said therapy had cured him.”
Gideon closes the file. Not a good sign. “Now build me a profile of the unsub.”
Oh, like this? Without even taking you to dinner first?
“The unknown subject is organized. Probably above-average intelligence, since he is comfortable approaching strangers in public,” says Unidentified Sausage #1.
Gideon tilts his head, unimpressed. Next.
“Sexually conflicted,” offers another voice from somewhere in the back. “He targets men because he hates that he’s attracted to them.”
You wince at the phrasing. Gideon does not look impressed either.
“Mission-oriented, since he used the word cured when he was interrogated” says another sausage.
“No,” Agent Reid cuts in, “actually, the variation in the presentation of the victims suggests an emotional escalation - or, more accurately, a devolution - rather than a real consistent ideological mission. The increasing level of overkill indicates affective dysregulation, most likely tied to some sort of unresolved internal conflict. It could be interpreted as a kind of behavioral rehearsal, like an attempt to destroy a part of himself he’s unable to either reconcile or integrate.”
That one lands much better, as Gideon’s expression is no longer bordering on disgust… he’s actually nodding along.
“Yes. We’re on the right track.”
They keep going. Intelligent. Repressed. Ashamed. Organized. Socially competent. White-collar. Possibly religious. Probably from a strict background. Hates effeminacy because he associates it with his own desires. Targets gay men as symbolic stand-ins for himself. And none of it is wrong.
“Hotch, want to give it a try and tell them what they’re missing?” Gideon asks. (Wait. Does Agent Hotchner actually let people call him Hotch, or is that some bizarre little pet name that exists exclusively between the two of them?)
Hotchner shakes his head first, like he’s trying to play it cool, but being this close to him lets you catch the small glint in his eyes that betrays how badly he wants this.
“The offender is organized enough to approach victims without raising suspicion, but once the violence starts, he loses control. That suggests he’s not fully directing what’s happening in the moment. It’s more likely he’s acting out something that’s been building internally for a long time, and once it starts, it overrides everything else.”
Yeah… figures. Nobody is truly shy if they clear their throat before beginning the sermon. And he keeps going.
“The level of overkill points to that loss of control. Each stab is releasing tension. It regulates him, at least temporarily, and gives him an ephemeral sense of control he doesn’t otherwise have. This is why he presents as a power-control offender with sadistic features, rather than a classic hedonistic sadist.”
Woah. Okay. Show-off Agent Hotchner. With a mind like that, it makes sense why he is the way he is (an obnoxious cocksucker? Just… unfortunately justified.)
And judging by the way every sausage in the room suddenly looks like they’re collectively reconsidering their entire sexuality for the first time in their lives… well. What is that even called? What do you even call that feeling? That kind of humbling admiration you get when someone is so undeniably good at what they do that being completely outmatched starts to feel… a little attractive?
“If the victims operate as symbolic proxies, the violence becomes an attempted psychic eradication of something in himself he can’t tolerate. Desire is experienced as destabilizing or humiliating; gratification is followed by dysphoria, and the violence is his way of restoring balance. That also explains the nature of the attack. The penetrative violence may be compensatory - a way of addressing perceived inadequacy, whether psychological or sexual. And as we’ve seen with this type of offender, it can also function as a physical substitute for release-“
“Intelligence level?” Gideon cuts Hotchner off in the middle of everyone practically drooling over their notes. (You’ve jotted down a few terms too… proxies, dysphoria. Look at you. Sounding like you actually know your shit.)
“Well, his social presentation appears constructed. He relies on observation and the mirroring of others’ behavior to pass as socially competent, which requires strong pattern recognition and adaptive learning. If he can read interactional cues well enough to appear safe - even disarming - and persuade victims to bring him into their own homes, his functional social intelligence is likely above average, possibly high.”
You… don’t know. You’re not convinced he has to be a genius when the police themselves were enforcing moral codes in San Francisco at the time.
Gideon nods once. “Everyone agrees with Agent Hotchner?”
A wave of collective nodding.
Really? Maybe they just don’t have the balls to disagree with someone who has seen more than all of you combined. Maybe you’re wrong. Gideon somehow keeps scanning the room anyways, face by face, until he gets to you.
“You don’t seem convinced.”
Your throat dries instantly. Oh. Oh no. Is he talking to you? Directly? Your eyes feel like they are about to drop out and do a flip.
“Um. Yeah, I-”
Gideon raises an eyebrow, like that is some kind of behavioral green light for you to keep going. And of course, Agent Hotchner turns toward you at that exact moment. You can feel the heat radiating off his suit, which is not helping you think straight in the slightest. What if you really play dead? Also… why does Agent Hotchner smell so nice now that he is this close?
What do you even say?
How do you politely disagree with someone who is infinitely more experienced than you, in proper English (optional), while also acknowledging that the very fact you disagree probably means you’re the one who’s wrong?
“I… disagree.” Whoops. It even comes out sounding more like a question. Great. You immediately drop your gaze to your notes. There is absolutely no universe in which you are making eye contact with a room full of people currently holding metaphorical pitchforks. One word does stare back at you, though.
Context?
Ocean Beach. North Beach. Same bar. Same reluctance to report. Same police force that did not care until the body count became a little too inhumane to ignore.
“I don’t think he’s smart,” you say. Shit, that sounds even worse out loud. “The unsub. Not Agent Hotchner.”
A chuckle from Gideon. You can practically feel Agent Hotchner’s gaze spear straight through your skull.
…too late to play dead?
“I think we’re profiling him as if he’s operating in a vacuum. He’s not… not really. The social context is doing part of the work for him, since his victims are already conditioned not to report, not to identify themselves, not to trust the police, to the point that they would rather bleed out than come forward. That definitely lowers the risk of the crime.”
“Can you tell me the definition of a low-risk and high-risk crime?” Hotch cuts in out of nowhere, turning sharply to lock his eyes onto yours. (Is this his way of dismantling your entire point just because you didn’t fully agree with him?)
You swallow. You really wish they had covered the basics first, like any normal course, instead of throwing you into this golden-ticket, performative guesswork with no theoretical foundation to stand on.
“It’s… about exposure, I think… like… how likely it is that the offender gets seen or interrupted. So a high-risk crime would be more public, or involve victims who are reported quickly. More witnesses… more chances something goes wrong.”
You hate the way Agent Hotchner is looking at you. You can practically read not good enough spelled out in those shadowed pupils.
You’re sure the concept is there. You have it. But the certainty starts slipping the moment you catch fragments of Reid’s perfectly polished, textbook answer being muttered under his breath, like the question had always been meant for him.
“And low-risk is the opposite,” you push on. “More controlled, less visible… victims who maybe aren’t reported immediately or aren’t taken as seriously - like in this case - so there’s less pressure on the offender.”
You have never wanted a room to detonate as badly as you do right now. Is there a window nearby? Something structurally unsound you can quietly launch yourself through?
“Partially.” The way he says it somehow sounds a lot like you suck. “You’re describing the outcome. Be careful to define the mechanism.” (What in the corporate bullshit is this?)
And then he proceeds to say something that, to you, sounds exactly like what you just said… only dressed up in much fancier language… except that this time everyone and their mothers are nodding along. If there’s some nuanced, groundbreaking distinction in whatever he’s saying, you are clearly not getting it.
“You should watch the words you use, they can shift the meaning entirely. Even earlier, you phrased your point in a way that made it sound like you were attributing his success to a passive set of circumstances, rather than to his skills and his active exploitation of the context he’s operating in.”
Bitch-
“No, I mean - yeah, he understands the system. He knows where to go, how to approach, how to use those environments to his advantage. He’s not just stumbling into it or something… but that doesn’t automatically make him highly intelligent. He’s choosing victims who are deprioritized from the start in police investigations, and that lowers the risk before he even does anything.”
You can hear yourself looping. Same point, slightly rearranged, again and again, and he still looks unconvinced.
“The point is…” you try one last time, “the system is already doing half the work for him. Does that make sense?”
“It does to me.” (THANK YOU, DADDY GIDEON, THANK YOU) “I was waiting for that. Thank you.” J. - as in Jason Gideon, one of the founding fathers of behavioral science, the man who practically coined the concept of the ‘serial killer’ - is thanking you?
It feels electric… even if he barely spares you a glance before turning back to the class.
“Everyone sees the elephant so clearly that they start describing it in such detail they forget it is standing in a room to begin with.”
(What the hell does that even mean.)
“The reason we start with victimology, and with contextual and situational analysis, is to keep ourselves from jumping to conclusions and overcomplicating things just to sound clever. You all want to talk about high IQ, intricate planning, sophistication? Fine. Keep going and you’ll end up nowhere while putting more innocent lives at risk.”
You don’t miss the way Gideon’s gaze keeps flicking toward Hotchner. At this point, there’s no mistaking it. He is, in fact, calling his own assistant/protégé/puppy/whatever an idiot without ever actually saying the word, and doing it in front of the entire class like it’s nothing.
So the rumors about Gideon were true.
“I’m looking at a moron who got lucky and keeps getting away with it because his victims are low risk in the eyes of the system. You’re all so busy building him into something impressive that you’re missing what’s right in front of you.”
You almost feel sorry for Agent Hotchner. None of this is technically your fault, but there is absolutely no universe in which you’re turning around to look him in the eye right after he just got publicly dismantled.
He’s already terrifying under normal circumstances. You have no interest in discovering what he looks like when he’s actually enraged.
Safe to say, you are no longer factoring in his endorsement for your future employment here. (Possibly ever since… the desk comment.)
You viciously envy every princess who ever spent years locked away in a tower by their evil stepmother.
At least they had the luxury of solitude. None of them had to endure it in the company of two frat boys, trapped in a forgotten, dusty room in the Federal Tower, sentenced to paperwork duty by the ever-charitable Agent Hotchner, while Gideon is… somewhere (which raises the real question: does Gideon even know where Gideon is?)
If surprise is the path to knowledge, then at this point you should be smarter than Gideon’s favorite golden boy, Agent Reid.
Because you never expected to become more knowledgeable about what a frat party looks like (without ever having set foot in one), thanks to Agents Millstone and Kepler, who have been excessively, relentlessly proving they peaked in a house that smelled like sweaty balls twenty-four hours a day…
…than you are about whether any of the metaphorical mental sweat you’re pouring into these consultation profiles - that may or may not ever be read by anyone who matters - is actually worth anyone’s time or resources.
Actually, correction. In this situation, you are the resource sitting behind the (modest) pile of case files on your desk, already four rounds of rejection deep.
First, they’re the cases Agent Hotchner doesn’t deem worthy of BAU field supervision, so they get passed down to the senior agents in the bullpen. Rejected. Then to the office agents. Rejected again. Then to the interns. Rejected again. And finally, to you and the two frat-boy sausages ergo, Student Agents on Office Duty. (S.A.O.D. but the O is silent.)
Apparently, this is a privilege reserved for the students on Gideon’s radar. A chance to apply theory neither Gideon nor Hotchner - devout believers in innate genius - ever bothered to teach. The profiles you work on are allegedly taken into account for the final evaluation, which, considering the semester is almost over, should be reassuring.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. (It is not.) It started smelling like sweaty balls in here too the moment you first realized - thankfully weeks ago - that none of this is actually being tracked.
The consultation files you’re working on don’t carry any identifying number - nothing that links a profile back to its author, since none of you technically works at the BAU. (Oh, and at the end of each shift, everything gets also dumped into a single pile by some designated intern. #Yay.)
Not that anyone cares enough to fix it. No one has the time to follow how many cases you’ve worked, whether your profiles were accurate, or if you’re improving. And even if they did, these cases are simply not worth the effort.
You could be brilliant. You could be completely wrong. You could be reworking the same case file you already touched days ago by accident because someone messed up the piles again - which would not even be the first time.
Functionally, it makes no difference.
In the grand scheme of things, you are indistinguishable from Agent Kepler, still the reigning ASU keg-stand champion to this day, and at the exact same time, you are still four degrees of separation away from Agent Reid, who has been out in the field with Gideon since week one.
There has to be a silver lining. In your case, it’s small.
You always pick the desk with its back against the wall separating you from an even dustier storage room filled with what look like untouched relics from the 70s, where – supposedly - the original interrogation tapes that kickstarted the BAU, conducted by Gideon and Rossi, are kept.
(Rumor has it there’s even one on Charles Manson… too bad no one is cleared to get in there).
Anyways. Everyone knows all archives are haunted. You don’t know what, exactly, inhabits this one, but you decide to take your chances. With the heel of your foot, you start tapping against the wall in semblances of Morse code.
HELP ME. ANYONE? (You keep tapping. Again. And again. Okay, maybe too many times. At this point it’s less about expecting a response and more about needing something to hold on to.)
So much so that you’re halfway convinced you’ve finally gone coocoo-bananas - somewhere between Agent Millstone saying the word “chick” for the thirty-sixth time and the slow, irreversible erosion of your will to live - when something taps back.
WHATS (You’re almost sure that last one was an S.) WRONG?
You’ve hit the jackpot.
There’s a very real possibility that one of the janitors is in there. Earlier, you saw Mr. Specter on duty in the south wing (which, honestly, feels thematically appropriate given the ghost situation). He’s a big Madonna fan. Solid guy. If there’s anyone who can get you out of here, it’s him.
You are so excited you rush through it, hoping it still makes sense-
FRAT BOYS.
The prince of your story is finally coming to rescue you from your exile, armed with his trusty mopping cart and - he did promise he’d show you once he got it done - a brand-new tattoo of Madonna’s face inked onto his strong, double-jointed (!) forearm.
At last. Salvation. Natural light from the full-height windows in the corridor spills through the narrow crack of the door, cutting into the darkness and outlining your rescuer from behind-
…in a custom-tailored suit?
Wait. No. No. Go back. You’ve successfully avoided him for months, and now-
“Agent-” You despise the way he says your name, so monotone. “I need you.”
Talk about a double meaning… although, if he sounds this deadpan even on his 2 a.m. calls, you doubt it’s ever convinced anyone to sleep with him.
“Grab your go-bag and meet me in the lobby as soon as you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
It sounds like an invitation. Badly phrased, sure - low effort, even lower enthusiasm - but still. An invitation to the grand royal ball is still an invitation to the grand royal ball.
Field work! Actual field work! Finally, after months of exile in the administrative oubliette, you’re being presented to court, summoned, no less, by the highest order of behavioral aristocracy (Gideon? It has to be Gideon.)
Agent Hotchner does not strike you as someone who hands out opportunities for personal growth, and even if he did, you’re fairly certain you’d be last on the list. If you made it onto it at all.
“Be quick,” he deadpans. Ah yes. The carriage awaits. He looks… faintly disgusted. Incredible. The only redeeming quality you’ve managed to identify in Agent Hotchner is his remarkable consistency in proving you right.
Farewell, frat boys. Hello, Supervisory Special Agent Aaron “still bitter about your day-one comment that got him indirectly embarrassed by Gideon in front of the entire class” Hotchner. What a gentle reminder that rock bottom always has a basement!
Because there is absolutely no universe in which Agents Millstone and Kepler would have greeted you by checking the time on an expensive Rolex, as if you’d taken an eternity to reach the lobby, with that same restrained disappointment already settling on their faces.
(What now.)
“It’s going to be a two-hour drive…” So the basement of rock bottom also has a basement. “And we’re already running late, so I grabbed dinner for you from the cafeteria. We won’t be making any stops.”
You offer him a strained smile. He doesn’t even bother to return it. Instead, he just hands you the bag with the incriminating items. You peek inside. A sandwich. A water bottle. And… some nuts. Wow. Dazzling.
“Thank you-” There’s an incidental, teeny-tiny brush of fingers as he pulls his hand back.
“I’m good right now,” you add quickly. It’s also something-past five in the afternoon, but his eye contact always feels so accusatory that it keeps shaping more words out of your tongue whether you like it or not. “Maybe later. Thank you, though.”
“No food inside my car.” (Then why the fuck did he even-)
You don’t say it lightly when the only viable survival strategy left is to shove a handful of nuts into your mouth and hope for the best - as in, basic sustenance - while he keeps walking at least one foot ahead of you like you’re being escorted to trial.
He reaches the car first and lifts the trunk open with one hand, letting out a small, offended grunt of effort, only to immediately steal your go-bag from your hand - an involuntary brush of fingers - and place it inside alongside his. His eyes flick to the goodie bag still in your hand (maybe stare less and talk more next time, Agent Hotchner.)
“Want some nuts?” you offer.
He shakes his head, already rummaging through his own bag for files, completely uninterested. You feel the very strong feminine urge to poke at whatever remains of his emotional range.
“Why, you don’t like nuts?”
Nothing. You’re not even sure how to interpret the expression on his face - disappointment? Disgust? - because he doesn’t give you enough to work with. The most you get is an exhale through his nose as he stares at the bag like he’s actively solving the trolley problem.
“You can keep the water,” he decides, extending it toward you. Wow. They should really start calling him Aaron Philanthropist Hotchner, the way he’s graciously granting you permission to consume beverages in his vehicle. Your fingers brush his again.
“Watch your head,” he adds, closing the trunk - despite you being very clearly outside of guillotine range.
He walks all the way around to the passenger side and opens the door for you…
Not to be mistaken for gallantry, of course. There is no soft, romcom-type eye contact (honestly, you’re not even sure he’s capable of that) just a very deliberate avoidance of your existence as he stares, visibly pissed off, somewhere into the void while you get in.
(Don’t worry, Hotchner. The feeling is mutual. You don’t want to spend two hours locked in a vehicle with him either.)
“We’re going to Yorktown, here in Virginia.” Hotchner hands you the generous gift of two thick case files as he starts the car. “There’s a stretch of road called Hemlock Trace. It’s a heritage drive with old logging paths-”
He reaches behind your headrest to reverse out of the parking space. The warm note of tonka bean - something he must’ve put on his wrist - finally comes alive this close, the saccharinity drawn out by the heat of his skin, leaving the lingering ghost of a touch just behind your neck.
“So… isolated, no lighting and all that?” you blurt, as if rushing him might make him get back to a normal, respectable distance faster. What an annoyingly inviting scent for such an uninviting man.
He’s taking up entirely too much space. All you’re left with is the sharp line of his profile - the prominent nose, the furrow between his brows, the way his lips press into a thin line as he concentrates - while he maneuvers the car effortlessly.
You can’t help but wonder how many people he’s managed to fool with his looks into overlooking the fact that he’s a complete dickhead.
“Exactly,” he says. “It’s heavily frequented during the day, but at night it becomes very secluded. Every mile or so there are gravel pull-offs - during the day they’re used by hikers, fishermen. At night…”
“They’re a great hookup spot,” you finish. You catch the way his eyes flick to you in the rearview mirror. (What? Is hookup a restricted term now?)
“And I’m guessing it’s a damn jurisdictional nightmare,” you add, quickly going through the file. “Northern stretch falls under the Williamsburg Historical Greenway Authority, so park rangers… then Yorktown County, then East Jamestown, then it skirts the county line before jumping back to state near the dam… and some sections are state patrol too?”
You glance up, catch Agent Hotchner’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Just for a moment. He meets your eyes for half a second, then returns to the road.
You exhale. “That’s a mess. Who the hell even responds when something happens out there?”
Hotchner cuts you a sideways look, eyebrows already pulling into that unfortunately familiar disapproving line.
“If you keep reading like that for three hours, you’ll get carsick,” he says. “I can walk you through the case. No need to dig into the file until we get to the crime scene photos.”
Maybe you should turn this into a drinking game… with water. Take a shot every time Agent Hotchner is a condescending piece of shit, or quizzes you on entry-level theory like he’s still not entirely convinced you belong here. At least that might be marginally more entertaining than whatever the hell this is.
He flicks another glance at you. Probably annoyed you haven’t granted him the basic courtesy of a response. Too bad.
Then he launches into a tangent - something about historical jurisdictional boundaries and how they evolved, which, sure (not so sure), fascinating (at best), if you had signed up for a lecture and not… whatever this passive-aggressive road trip is.
You tune in and out. Hemlock Trace is a grey zone. That’s the headline. The rest is him connecting dots across decades because he’s personally stung by poorly drawn county lines. Honestly, as long as he’s got it figured out, you’re comfortable outsourcing the entire problem to him. Afterall, if he can get this worked up over something this minor, he probably knows what he’s talking about.
#Trust4AgentHotchner
#YouRefuseToSpendThatMuchEnergy
From what you do catch, though, the gist is… bad. If a call comes in vague - “on the Trace,” “near the river,” “past the cemetery,” “one of the overlooks” - dispatch can burn precious minutes just figuring out who the hell is supposed to respond.
“The first victims are from October of last year. Mara Vale and Elise Hargrove. Found three days after their disappearance near Briar Bend Overlook.” Agent Hotchner keeps his eyes on the road as he reaches across your seat to tap the file in your lap. You feel the weight of his thick middle finger against your upper thigh. “If you look at the map, it’s a turnout near the south river embankment. And from the photos, the vehicle hasn’t fully gone over.”
You glance down. His finger is still there. It looks… deliberately positioned (the vehicle… it could never be the finger), guided into place with just enough care to nearly vanish, but not quite?
“Mara was forced into the rear cargo area. Elise remained in the back seat. No obvious signs of sexual assault. Both were strangled and have incised wounds to the throat, deep enough to nearly decapitate them, but there’s minimal blood in the car.”
“So that was done post-mortem?” you ask.
“Or the bodies were staged back into the vehicle. Also, their personal effects were still inside. The interior had been doused in diesel fuel, but… there was no ignition.”
“Wait. If the unsub wanted to destroy the evidence, why didn’t he actually set it on fire? If he only wanted the police to think he meant to, why go through all that trouble just to… what, fake it?”
“You should be able to answer that yourself.” (Well, you should be able to shove your head up your ass, Agent Hotchner.) He cuts a glance sideways, one brow lifting. “So?”
Oh, he’s serious. “Panic?”
“Was that a question or an answer?”
You almost roll your eyes. Unfortunately, this condescending asshole is currently your best shot at a golden ticket. “Panic,” you repeat. “Maybe.”
“You can do better.” He tuts. (Water shot number… what, six?) “Besides, someone who maintains control over two victims long enough to strangle both of them successfully doesn’t suddenly panic. Does that scene look panicked to you?”
“…Yeah. Okay. Fair.” You glance back down at the photo. “Maybe I’m overthinking it… but you’re saying that with years of experience. If it reads as disorganized to me, it could read that way to local law enforcement too. Especially if they don’t look past the surface.”
“That’s not how I’d phrase it, but you’re circling it.” God, you hate this game. You can feel him evaluating you. “So, assuming he’s organized… why do it?”
“Contamination,” you say, making a conscious effort not to let it sound like a question. You’re not in the mood to hear him grumble again. “He used strangulation, so there’s a higher chance of leaving fibers, trace - more physical evidence than if he’d used something like a gun-”
“Staging,” Hotchner cuts in. “You’re not wrong about contamination, but if that were the primary goal, he would’ve followed through with the fire.”
“But if he had set it on fire, it would’ve drawn a lot more attention… more resources, more pressure, maybe even federal involvement earlier instead of local police treating it like an isolated case.” You glance at him. Agent Hotchner looks back in a way that suggests he’s used to people folding (#:D) and agreeing with him before he even has to argue. “So… it kind of makes sense he left it like that. He still messes with the evidence, but without making it… obvious.”
“What you’re describing is what we call staging. In standard police training it refers to the act itself, but in behavioral analysis we also factor in the-”
“Behavioral analysis?” you cut in, chuckling. Although, judging by the glare you get back, he probably doesn’t find it funny… God forbid anything resembling a joke be uttered in this moving metal box.
He exhales through his nose. “Agent Reid also noted the driver’s seat had been pushed farther back than Mara would have needed-”
“Agent Reid?” It’s out before you can catch it.
“Reid and Gideon came in earlier this morning. They requested additional support and-” He cuts himself off. Right. So he’s not exactly eager to explain why you are part of that equation. Good to know. Still, on the upside, that means there’s now a very real, very terrifying chance you might end up in front of Gideon in the field.
#NoPressure.
Agent Hotchner’s hand misses and lands briefly on your knee. He mutters something that unclearly passes for a sorry, then shifts back to the photo - a truly fucked-up, low-quality excuse for an image that, with enough imagination, might be the car interior. His finger ends up on your lap again (man…).
You focus on the image. Someone should really fix the fax machine settings.
“You should’ve noticed that Elise’s wallet had been pulled from her bag and left open on the front passenger floorboard,” he says, “and the driver’s side window is partially open.” (If he can see all that in this visual crime against humanity…)
“Why are you saying I should’ve?” you cut in. “The quality su-”
“Because Agent Reid did.”
You catch Hotchner’s smirk in the rearview mirror. Fucking bastard. This is his version of entertainment, isn’t it? Too dignified to sit down and watch reality TV like a normal person. (Though, to be fair, you’d love to discover he secretly watches Jersey Shore. Realistically, however, he’d probably prefer something more crowd-pleasing, like Survivor.)
So instead he manufactures his own. You (underdog? generously speaking), thrown into a one-sided competition against the fan favorite (i.e., Gideon’s favorite), Agent Reid.
And while we’re apparently handing out observations like points on a scoreboard… can Agent Reid also deduce the fact that Agent Hotchner isn’t wearing an undershirt? Because you can. (You refuse to elaborate.)
(Nice D cup, by the way.)
“Wait… if that’s what you’re seeing in the picture,” you say, dragging your focus back where it belongs, “couldn’t the open driver’s window suggest she was asked to pull out her wallet by someone in a position of authority? Like an officer or park patrol?”
“Maybe,” Hotchner replies. “Or it was staged to look that way. Remember, the seat was repositioned. It’s more likely someone trying to imitate law enforcement than-”
Yeah, okay, okay, you got it. (How much would those jugs bounce if he went over a very big bump?)
Again, you don’t even watch that much Survivor, but you’re pretty convinced that in any respectable competition, if people are supposed to compete, they should at least be facing the same challenges.
So how is it that Agent Reid gets to accompany Gideon to the medical examiner - after they finally recover victim set #6, Jenna Sloane and Luke Danner - while you’re stuck at the precinct with Agent Hotchner, building a geographical profile?
(Easy. What happens if you just… drop the two Gs from rigged and say what’s left out loud? Yeah. Exactly.)
Of course, if you actually want an answer from Agent Hotchner that contains anything resembling useful information on why the fuck you’ve never assisted Gideon on a case alone while Reid has, multiple times (aside from the very obvious producer bias toward certain contestants), you have to wordsmith all the fun out of the question.
Absolutely no visible jealousy toward a genius with an eidetic memory.
“Agent Reid has a doctorate in chemistry. He’s more useful in that setting, especially if the local examiner overlooks something given the degraded evidence and he’s already .”
With hands that big, it’s no wonder Agent Hotchner excels at grasping at straws… an impressive amount of bullshit, no less.
“They’ll fax the medical report over shortly, if that’s your concern,” he adds.
“Yeah… sure.” From his tone alone, you know he’s already clocked that your concern has absolutely nothing to do with the efficiency of a fax machine. So really, what’s the point of holding back? “Do you think Gideon will ever bring me along for something? Next time?”
“I think you should focus on the geographical profile,” Agent Hotchner barks back (woof woof.)
Man. Sorry for asking a perfectly reasonable question.
Ants crawl up the tips of your fingers when he steps closer and settles on the edge of the desk, just inches behind you. You catch how the longer lace of his polished leather shoe (tied three times, fucking overachiever) just happens to rest squarely on top of your foot as Agent Hotchner just… looks at the map. Takes it apart without touching a single pin.
You don’t think you’ll ever get used to how loud his silences are.
“Don’t you feel you’re missing something?” he asks.
“I-”
Agent Hotchner shrugs off his jacket, casual as anything. Time stretches and wraps around the movement with the fabric that pulls and tightens along the very noticeable lines of his arms. Your heartbeat knocks the words loose in your throat.
“I- wait… we’ve got the first victims, Vale and Hargrove, found in their car at Briar Bend Overlook on Hemlock Trace, near the York River to the north…”
You point at the map, tracing the route as you speak. Maybe walking him through it will make it click. If there is something you’re missing.
(There is. There has to be. He wouldn’t just stand there like that otherwise… would he really be that much of a bitch to let you waste time second-guessing yourself when there could be actual victims out there?)
“Then, further down, the fourth set - Halpern and Whitely - their bodies are still the only ones missing. They were last seen on cameras along Route 17 near the James River, but the car turned up all the way back at Kingfisher Overlook on Hemlock Trace - again, slightly southeast, past the York River…”
Hotchner crosses his arms. You seriously doubt that that seemingly oversized shirt allows for full range of motion where it actually matters. You can clearly see his-
“So… I think these are the primary anchor points - Briar Bend and Kingfisher. Both overlooks directly on Hemlock Trace, vehicles left in place…”
“You’re approaching the cases as a geographical cluster rather than a series of isolated scenes,” he says. Duh? Is he dumb?
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t a question.” His arms tighten where they’re crossed, an elusive shift that probably indicates irritation - unearned, as far as you’re concerned - but all you can really register is how much more tolerable he’d be if he leaned into that whole… endowed cleavage situation a little more often. “That’s your premise. You should’ve stated it from the start. Otherwise, ‘anchor points’ doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah… I mean, it’s obvious they’re correlated, or what’s the point of doing a geographical profile, right?”
“Not everyone you’ll present your work to will have the same skill set you do,” he replies. “It’s good practice not to take anything for granted, especially in smaller counties where local law enforcement isn’t used to collaborating with the FBI.”
“Okay, but I’m saying it to you right now, so why do I have to spell it out…?”
“Can you just move on?” he pinches the bridge of his aquiline nose, the motion pulling his tie taut, swallowed right between his chest in a way that is…
Tie : tits = G-string : butt cheeks? The tie is Agent Hotchner’s tits’ G-string.
“The other sets deviate from Hemlock Trace, but the second, third, and fifth all cluster along the James River delta. It’s like his hunting ground shifts south.”
You gesture across the map, tracing the coastline instead of the roads.
“Take the second set, Mercer and Beck. They were found washed ashore about a hundred feet apart on the James, near Crescent Marsh Overlook. That’s… roughly twenty-five minutes from the Trace, but it’s still part of the same river system, just one county over.”
His sharp eyes latch onto every word you say, and still, he hasn’t told you what you’re missing. You even try to give him space to step in on purpose (pretending oxygen is actually reaching your brain by doing what normal people do, like… you know, taking a breath), but… nope, he doesn’t take it. Agent Hotchner just keeps watching you. Impassive.
In the radio silence, you notice Detective Bush (also known as Detective “nice to work with you - and no, before you ask, I’m not related to the President, do you really think I’d be stuck here busting my ass catching these motherfuckers if I were?” Bush) step in beside the desk, step in beside the desk, just inside the outer orbit of Hotchner’s personal gravitational field.
He’s immediately greeted with the full Hotchner experience: a quick, irritated glare… and then straight back to the map. Charming.
It’s already rare enough for the FBI to be welcomed into a case like this in a town like this. It’s even rarer that someone like Bush has been so consistently helpful, actually nice, during your days stuck here at the precinct while Agent Reid and Gideon go off doing cowboy shit, occasionally letting Hotchner tag along for what increasingly feels like a VIP sausage party.
Bush shoots you a smile. Aw. He’s so nice!
He’s brought coffee, without you even asking. Two cups, actually - one for you and, technically, one for Hotchner - but the difference is… telling. He knows your order. As for Hotchner… eh. You’re not entirely convinced Agent Hotchner has ever acknowledged his existence long enough for that to even be possible.
(You have, unfortunately. Dark as a moonless night. In one word: stale.)
Indeed, that’s the impression you get when Bush carefully barricades the drinks between himself and the human embodiment of constipation that is Agent Hotchner. A tactical retreat. Understandable.
“There are also a bunch of donuts in the staff lounge if you-”
“Maybe later,” Hotchner cuts in, that same clipped, dismissive tone. For some reason, he keeps his eyes on you, not even bothering to look at the man he just interrupted.
“You guys onto something?” Bush asks gleefully, pointing at the map.
You open your mouth to answer, but Hotchner beats you to it with the most aggressively monosyllabic response possible.
“Geographical profile.” (An impressive feat, considering it has seven syllables.) He turns just enough toward Bush, like he’s expecting him to take the hint and disappear on his own. This is fucking embarrassing.
“Um… I was saying…” you clear your throat, trying to intercept before Hotchner decides to piss all over the place to mark his territory in the precinct, “that, if we factor in the other victims who weren’t killed in pairs - Grant and McClain - the pattern of the unsub still kind of holds. Sure, in both cases their vehicles were left off Mercury Boulevard, but what matters is that both bodies were recovered from the James. Even McClain, whose car was farther from the riverbank.”
You gesture toward the map again. “So… from that, it looks like even when he moves away from the main route, his comfort zone still pulls back to the river system-”
“…he keeps dumping the victims in the river post-mortem, most likely using his own vehicle, and choosing locations that offer both seclusion and controlled access to the water. The lack of trace evidence in the victims’ cars after the first homicide suggests he adjusted early, he’s no longer risking transfer at the initial scene.”
Hotchner cuts in as he pushes off the desk and steps in beside you. There’s barely a hair’s breadth of air between the cuff of his suit and your arm. #Yay.
“But even then,” he continues, “he attempted to submerge the vehicle. And in the fourth set, K9s picked up a trail that extended into the water, which suggests he used a boat. There were no rental records for that time frame, so it’s likely he owns one-”
“Fishing, boat maintenance… anything that would justify repeated access to those sites and that level of familiarity…” you cut in. You know. Because you were supposed to say all that, not him.
Agent Hotchner’s hand lands briefly on your shoulder as he reaches past you, stealing the marker you were just about to use to map out the triangulation. His dry-ass pinkie grazes yours.
“…which suggests he’s local and operating within a defined comfort zone,” he finishes.
You’d call it cute, the way you’re apparently finishing each other’s sentences after working this closely for days… but it’s less teamwork or chemistry, and more that you’re certain he just doesn’t trust you to get there on your own.
He grabs the oversized ruler (your ruler, the one you had to specifically ask Bush to track down) and draws a clean triangle across the map and shades the area in. “Latest set: Sloane and Danner. Down to Mercer and Beck along the western shore of the James. Then across to McClain on Mercury Boulevard.”
“Clustered activity within a defined geographic comfort zone… somewhere in here.” He hands the marker back, a brief, cautious pat on your shoulder as he looks past you at his Kandinsky knockoff on the map. “That’s what you were missing.”
“If you’d let me get there, I was about to triangulate-” you bite your tongue before it gets professionally suicidal. (Not that it matters. At this point you might just be delusional.) You don’t get why he suddenly decided to get impatient and bulldoze right through what was supposed to be your practice.
“Triangulation is the only tangible product of a geographical profile,” he cuts in. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Also, the area he just boxed in is what, two hundred square miles? Completely unmanageable. No one’s coordinating a search zone that size and calling it actionable, so what the fuck-
“Without it, it’s just words thrown in the air,” he adds, condescending.
Bro.
“Man, behavioral profiling is basically just words thrown in the air and hoping for the best-”
Your blood is already boiling too much to be intimidated by the killer glare he shoots your way.
“So it means the killer lives in that area of the triangle?” Detective Bush ambushes from directly behind the two of you.
“Yes,” you turn toward Bush. “Also, maybe we can narrow it-”
“No,” Hotchner cuts in at the exact same time. “It means the unsub operates within that area. That’s different.” (Does he even hear himself?)
“But you just said the unsub’s a local,” you huff. “If he operates there, he has to live there. You know… definition of local.”
“Not necessarily. You still need to define the circumference through those points before you can narrow it down. The primary search radius would be five to ten miles from the center of that circle.”
Oof… boring! They did not do all of this in Law & Order.
He tilts his head toward the marker in your hand - an invitation, which in his language translates directly to an order - for you to do it yourself.
“If he lives within that area, it’s likely within a short driving distance of the centroid, but not necessarily at its center. Most organized offenders maintain a buffer zone.” Yada, yada, yada. Tracing a circle. Real profiler shit.
The fundamental theorem of Euclidean geometry says that through three distinct, non-collinear points, there passes one, and only one, circle. Given those three points (i.e., the three crime scenes Hotch just picked out on the map), you’re supposed to find the center of that imaginary circumference first, using some geometry trick you absolutely learned at some point and have since… well... whoops.
So… admit defeat?
You nudge the marker sneakily slow (if you move slow enough, the predator won’t eat you?) toward his hand. He’s very hot. His hand is very hot. The confused and hazily sympathetic microexpression that crosses his face does absolutely nothing to help.
“You don’t remember the construction?” he asks, beating you to it.
His tone is… sweet. Almost honeyed, if that’s even possible. It pulls you straight back to that first day, when he scribbled Tara-something at the bottom of your notebook and, for a fleeting moment, seemed… not a complete bitch. You don’t think you’ve heard this version of him since.
It’s beguiling enough that, for a single tick of his very silent (because it is very expensive) Rolex, neither of you lets go of the marker. Awkwardly sandwiched between your hands. Not quite as awkward as the way his smile softens his features, in a way that reads almost… fond? Like your complete lack of geometrical competence is somehow endearing to him.
(Aw. You don’t know shit a first grader would. Cute. Give me a second, I’ll call Gideon so I can finally get rid of you, xoxo.)
“The center of the circle is the intersection of the perpendicular bisectors of the triangle’s sides,” Bush chimes in, punctuating it with an enthusiastically loud, double bro-smack to Hotchner’s shoulder.
Safe to say Hotchner did not expect that. He jerks (he hates physical contact that much?) but then immediately snaps back at the poor detective into his usual homicidal expression. Spell broken. Midnight strikes. Hotchnerella exits the ball, probably drops his FBI badge instead of a glass slipper, because to him efficiency matters more than mystery.
Beneath the pure terror in the glance Bush flicks your way, you catch the quick did I do something wrong? in his eyes… but you don’t get the chance to answer. Hotchner calls your name.
“A word.”
Can Agent Hotchner count? Just asking.
Because “I hope you’re aware there’s a very high probability - given that the unsub targets locations along county lines, across different jurisdictions and park services, and consistently leaves the victims’ wallets in the car - that we could be looking at someone in law enforcement”…
…is definitely more than one word. He is so confusing.
“I thought we ruled that theory out on day one,” you say. And also - if it has to be someone - Detective Bush is the last person it could be.
Did he forget you’re the one juggling York County, James City County, Gloucester County, Williamsburg, the National Park Service, Virginia State Police, and every fucking local department in a fifty-mile radius? (Likely. Considering he handed you this mess, he probably did forget how much coordination it actually takes just to figure out who even responds to a call out here.)
What exactly makes him think that, out of all the cop sausages working this area, it’s Bush?
“I’d discourage you from engaging with him as much as you have been,” he says. Is that his business? “We need their cooperation, but you should limit what you share until we have an official profile to present.”
“Cooperation isn’t one-sided,” you huff.
“If we’re called in, it’s our case. We set the parameters. We don’t owe them full disclosure before we’re ready.” His face softens all of a sudden (has he finally heard himself?) His broad hands settle on either side of your arms, like he’s trying to reassure you. (Reassuring what, exactly?)
“Look, I’m not suggesting we mislead them. Just… hold back a portion of our working theory until it’s confirmed. It helps avoid misunderstandings… besides, you can never be too sure.”
Your spidey senses are screaming there’s a subtext here he’s politely refusing to spell out.
“I do think your read on him moving south is solid,” he adds. (Oh, wow. Actual praise from Agent Hotchner that is not wrapped in legalese nor buried under ten layers of condescension? Someone check the fucking temperature in here.) “I’d prioritize narrowing search areas along the southern stretch of Hemlock Trace, especially along the riverbanks, even if the latest victims turned up further north.”
You nod. “Cool.” (You are the opposite of cool. You are thriving.)
His hand lingers, again, at the side of your arm.
“Good job,” he says, almost like an afterthought, then he’s already stepping away.
Bro.
You’re grinning like an idiot. You would, theoretically, be doing backflips in the middle of the precinct - if
a) it weren’t full of people,
b) you knew how to do a backflip in the first place, and
c) you hadn’t just spotted Gideon and Reid’s SUV pulling back in outside the window.
And the fact that Reid already has the front pieces of his bowl cut tucked behind his ears (his go-to coping mechanism) tells you everything you need to know. Not good.
“So?” you ambush Agent Rigged the second he drifts toward the water dispenser. You glance past him, Gideon and Hotchner are already talking behind the glass door. “How did it go?”
Reid sighs. “The bodies were already in the process of skeletonization, and it’s been less than two months since they were left out in the woods. The examiner couldn’t determine a definitive cause of death… I think I saw trace marks consistent with stabbing on the female victim, but it could also be postmortem damage from scavenging animals.”
Basically, the fucker you’re looking for didn’t even bother burying them - just covered them with an electric blanket from the victim’s car and left them out in the open. Which means he was confident no one would stumble across them, and comfortable enough with the area to pick a spot two miles deep in the woods, just off a busy Interstate 64.
Overconfident, local, comfortable in the area... nothing new.All you can really contribute to Reid’s beautifully structured monologue is:
“Man, that sucks…” You’d pat him on the shoulder, if only he didn’t despise physical contact even more than Agent Hotchner. And unlike a certain someone, you actually respect your peers’ boundaries. #DreamTeammate
No, but really… it does suck. A killer’s still out there, and it means you’re stuck here longer than you ever signed up for.
“There are donuts in the staff room, by the way,” you add.
Nothing boosts morale quite like Agent Bush’s entire table’s worth of donuts. Very generous of you, really, sharing something that isn’t even yours. (You desperately need the good karma.)
Also… if - hypothetically - you just happened, completely innocently, to deliver one of those cop delicacies straight into Gideon’s hands so he could personally witness how amazing you are… and if that involved strategically leveraging a man’s sacred bond with a custard and strawberry jam-filled long donut (he seems like a classic, old-man-flavors kind of guy)… who’s to say that wouldn’t translate into solo field opportunities with the Jedi Master himself?
“Do you think Gideon likes donuts?” you ask, trying to make it sound like an afterthought.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him eat,” Reid shrugs.
…Not as helpful as you’d hoped.
Through the glass, Hotchner’s eyes magnetically entangle with yours, then slip right back to Gideon the second you notice. Cool. So he’s definitely talking about you.
You just hope he does you the basic human courtesy of leaving out the whole geometrical-construction humiliation. Then again, you don’t even know why you’re still holding onto the idea of making the cut when Agent Reid exists.
You’re losing so much of your training just by being here…
“Williamsburg brought in a suspect.” Ah. Gideon. Always the bearer of good news. “From what they told me, he had contact with the solo male victim - Grant - the night of the murder. I don’t think he’s our guy, but he lives within the area Hotch and…”
He’s staring at you. The same man who will correct anyone within a five-mile radius for calling his golden boy Agent instead of Doctor Reid, and yet - not to play the victim - you have the vague suspicion he still hasn’t memorized your name.
“…you traced on the geographical profile today, so it’s worth a try. I told them to hold him until we get there.”
Reid tucks his hair behind his ear. He does it again on the other side. He’s nervous about the interrogation.
You know it because you’ve seen what happens when he’s put in that position. The last time local PD brought in a suspect and he had to assist Detective Bush without Gideon or Hotchner there, his hands were already trembling before it even started, and he spent the entire interrogation tripping over his own words.
…Safe to say it didn’t go well.
He does have one thing going for him, though - excellent timing. No one who actually matters was there to see it. (And yeah, sure, the guy they brought in turned out to be innocent. Minor detail. Almost beside the point, really.)
Still, failures that go unwitnessed don’t exactly count against you. Which must be nice.
Gideon notices it too. His gaze flicks to Reid, then, unescapably, lands on you. It feels less like he’s seeing Reid and more like he’s seeing you seeing Reid, which is…one hell of a mouthful.
You don’t know whether to feel included or exposed. For all it’s worth, he’s finally noticing you - just… not independently of someone else. You almost preferred it when he corrected people for calling Reid “Agent” instead of “Doctor”, while still not remembering your name.
“Hotch also found a case in the cold files out of Henrico that matches our unsub’s modus operandi,” Gideon says. “Vehicle left in the woods with keys still in the ignition. Bodies located by following a blood trail from the car, hidden under a blanket. Same as our latest victims.”
“The case is from August 2000,” Hotchner - Hotch - adds. “Could be our unsub’s first victims.”
“A road trip, then,” Gideon nods. “Henrico County should have more documentation on the case. We’re still working with limited data, but this could give us direction. We need to go through those files as quickly as possible and minimize the window before he strikes again.”
And who, in this room, just so happens to read at an inhuman speed of twenty thousand words per minute while the rest of you peasants struggle through two hundred?
Reid already looks like he’s won the lottery. Win-win. He gets to disappear into a pile of old, fucked-up case files and spend quality time with Agent Hotchner, completely free of interrogation pressure or performance anxiety. Meanwhile, you-
Gideon flicks his hand vaguely in your direction. “You-” Oh, this is painful. He’s trying. He’s really trying to remember your name. He just… can’t. “…you go with Hotch.”
Son of a-
“Oh, and Aaron- if it gets too late, you were a prosecutor do… something.” He does that thing with his hands. The mystical wave that translates to figure it out I do not have the time (but I trust you.) “Convince them to hand over the files… tell them we’ll bring them back. I don’t know. Improvise.”
And so great is the folly of mortals that, when they obtain things that are of little importance and low value - certainly recoverable - they accept that these be charged to them; yet no one who has received time considers themselves indebted in any way, even though it is the one thing that not even a grateful person can ever repay.
Damn. You have to give it to Aaron Hotchner… his stupid no music in the car rule does have one very specific effect.
Not even five minutes into the drive back from Henrico, the silence catapults you into a full-blown moment of existential clarity, where you start auditing every decision you’ve ever made and realize that, at every possible intersection, you somehow took the wrong turn.
You should’ve skipped the shower this morning and gone straight to breakfast early, caught Gideon alone before the line formed instead of showing up late and getting swallowed by the crowd.
Yesterday, you should’ve used that extra hour to keep up with your linguistics class instead of obsessing over the casefiles, hoping for some miraculous epiphany that would finally impress him.
Maybe you should’ve applied to a different course altogether instead of being stubborn enough to choose behavioral science in the first place - or at the very least, on day one, you should’ve just agreed with Agent Hotchner when Gideon asked, even if it wasn’t true.
Maybe then, every time Gideon paired you with him on this case, it wouldn’t feel like walking on thin ice. Maybe you’d even be allowed to play some music.
And to think, when you first started, you were euphoric at the mere possibility of getting out on a real case earlier than expected.
Blessed be those who keep fighting a losing battle. Condemned be those who refuse to fight at all.
But what’s the point of fighting, of pushing yourself to be the “best version” of yourself, when you already know that version still won’t measure up? Are you any less for recognizing your limitations? Or are you only less for not having recognized them - and surrendered - much earlier?
“Are you alright?” Hotchner asks.
Not now. You can’t believe you’re so fucked up that even his most monotone delivery imaginable manages to siphon all the oxygen out of the car. You need to calm down. And you need to do it quietly, so he doesn’t notice (that would be so humiliating.)
You can feel the lump in your throat.
“Yeah.” Your eyes start to tickle. Why the fuck is this igniting a crying response? He doesn’t even care.
“So?”
“So what?” You bite the inside of your lip, turning your face up toward the window so your eyes won’t give you away.
He exhales sharply through his nose… is he mad at something? “What’s the difference between theories of criminality and theories of crime?”
Oh. You must’ve missed that. You shrug. Who cares.
“I don’t know.” Your voice sounds brittle. You can’t help it, you keep fucking up. You’re not even strong enough to stop your stupid lips from trembling like a fucking child. “Does it matter?”
You’d love to evanesce into the line of loblolly pines outside if only to escape the reflex of checking him in the side mirror anyway. There’s something about his eyes that midwives the truth out of you, forces air back into your lungs whether you want it or not.
“I really try, you know. I study in whatever spare time we have, I try to keep up with everything else, I try to-” you swallow. You want to carve out your eyes from your skull. “-to not fall behind because you and Gideon just… assume we already know everything, and I try to balance it with everything else I’m supposed to keep up with.”
You choke on your own laugh. Why are you even laughing?
“But does it even matter? Any of it? The rushing, the effort, the constant catching up - if Gideon’s already decided who he wants? Why do you keep doing this? With these stupid questions. Every single time. Just to me.” stupid, stupid hiccups. “Not to Reid.” can you at least have control of your own body? You sound so stupid like this. “And I’m never enough. It just-” again? “-it just makes me feel so stupid.”
Ouch. You can already tell this is going to become part of the nightly ritual - replayed on a loop right before sleep, with full-body, teeth-clenching secondhand embarrassment. Great. Another flawless wrong turn.
“And nobody cares when Reid’s wrong. Or if he can’t even handle a gun. Or if he falls apart in an interrogation. He still gets picked. Hic. Every time. Hic. Oh, fuck this. Because Gideon wants him. Because he actually cares about his growth - and no one else’s. Hic. And I’m sorry you have to deal with me every fucking time, because I fucking suck at this. Sorry for being so pathetic right now-”
Hotchner glances at you every few seconds, but only through the rearview mirror. He’s so visibly uncomfortable at this whole thing it would almost be funny, if you weren’t busy choking on your own breathing.
“I swear I don’t even know why I’m saying any of this. I can’t do one fucking thing right. I don’t usually cry in a superior’s car like a fucking child.”
He looks like he’s never been issued a single guideline on how to handle a situation like this in a Bureau-approved way, so he defaults to… nothing. Impassively stares at the road. (God forbid the U.S. government finds out he’s capable of empathy. Or, you know, any human emotion at all.)
“Sorry, but you’re so bad at this,” you let out a broken laugh.
Still, he doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t even usually drive with both hands on the wheel, but he is now… probably because he has no idea where else to put them. (Up his ass, maybe.)
“Really, it looks like you don’t even know what to do.”
He lets the silence stretch, before flicking a quick glance at you in the rearview mirror, like he’s checking whether you’re actually done with the bitching and moaning.
“I wish I could help you with that,” he says. “But it’s not my call to make those decisions.”
Useless and humiliating. This is exactly why you shouldn’t have broken down in front of Agent Hotchner. What the hell were you even thinking?
“Yeah, I know… sorry-”
“There are tissues in the compartment to your side.” (…) He reaches for his phone. It’s almost impressive how quickly he dials, considering the size of his thumbs versus the microscopic keyboard.
“How much do you need?” he murmurs, his voice so low it’s almost not there at all as the line begins to ring.
“What do you mean?” (What is this, are you on a quota now? Limited tissues per emotional breakdown?)
“Hey, Jason,” Fuuuuuuuuuuck.“I’m seeing some traffic on I-64 near Richmond.”
You turn to him immediately - what? there’s no traffic - you mouth. He cuts you off with a quick lift of his hand.
“That’ll slow us down, thirty minutes, more or less…” he adds, already steering toward a rest stop sign. “Sure. Keep me posted.” And he hangs up. “If you need more time, just tell me… I can probably stretch it to an hour.”
“I-” you genuinely don’t know what to do with that. He wouldn’t lie to a superior. He definitely wouldn’t lie for you. And yet. “I’m fine… you didn’t have to lie… what if- what if Gideon finds out?”
He shrugs. The dildo of consequences never arrives lubed, and yet Agent Hotchner seems completely unbothered by this particular development - so unbothered, in fact, that he breaks his own no food in the car rule without what appears to be a second thought when he silently pulls into a rest stop and refuses to acknowledge any of your increasingly mortified apologies.
He comes back with water (extra electrolytes… exactly the kind of thing you’d expect him to buy for someone who just cried out half their internal fluids) and silently invites you to take from the very precariously wedged bag of chips he’s balanced between the cup holder and the emergency brake. Structurally speaking, it’s a crumb disaster waiting to happen. It’s so out of character you suspect this is somehow another one of his psychological tests.
“I’m sorry for… you know. My whole pity party.”
You’ve probably apologized a thousand times already, but how does it go? Better sorry when you can’t be safe. Or something like that. (:P)
“It’s okay,” he soothes you, as if he’s afraid the cars passing behind might hear him. And that’s it. Still no defense or commentary on the - admittedly lame - accusations you threw at him.
You both stare out through the windshield.
The James River cuts somewhere beyond the line of trees, one of the unsub’s two preferred hunting grounds. This rest stop sits right on that exedra where I-64 pulls away from the river by barely a mile, and the towering loblolly pines give way to rows of cars and massive parked trucks, some stacked with stripped trunks.
There has to be a sawmill nearby.
Your face is starting to feel crunchy now that the breeze has dried the tears, but the air here still sits eerily against your skin. Even with all of downtown Richmond between you and the water, the river refuses to be ignored. It invades everything, dampening the air. You’d know it was there even if no one told you.
Thirty miles east, along this same stretch of I-64, is where Sloane and Danner were found, the same bodies Gideon and Reid went to see today, hoping to find something and coming back with just a hole in the water.
That probably explains the knot in your stomach.
“Can I be frank with you?” Hotchner asks, out of nowhere.
“Shoot.” Your eyes drift to the line of parked cars. What are the odds one of them belongs to him? Reid would probably have a number ready.
“For what it’s worth, I think you have good instincts… and that’s not something anyone can teach. You either have it or you don’t.” He reaches into the bag of chips like this is just… a casual conversation you’d have with someone who isn’t built like a closed door.
“But you’re severely lacking on the theoretical side. Same as most of your peers,” he adds, slightly muffled, because apparently Agent Hotchner does talk while eating. That’s… disorienting new. Like he’s letting you see a part of him that feels… intentionally unpolished.
At least he covers his mouth.
“Because you don’t trust your own process. A solid theoretical backbone would give you something to anchor to.” he adds. A dig, delivered between bites of chips - almost funny, if it didn’t still sting exactly like one.
“I would study the theory if you actually gave us the time to do it… like any other course.” You emphasize it by reaching into the bag yourself. He immediately warns you to keep the crumbs to a minimum (old habits die hard…)
“Instead of all this extra office work and ‘practice’ - which, yeah, it’s useful, I’m not saying it’s not - but it creates this… divide where the whole competition aspect makes it impossible for anyone to admit they don’t know something. No one’s going to ask for help if that automatically puts them out of the running… that’s not an excuse but-”
You reach for the bag at the exact same time he does. You’re not even looking until your fingers almost close around his wrist. You stop short.
“…but?” he prompts.
“I-” you clear your throat, staring anywhere but at him… or his hands. “I forgot.” The veins on his hands are so prominent…
Trying to bond with Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner comes with its own… very specific set of difficulties. Especially when he seems completely unbothered by saying things like-
“You’re capable of getting to the right place. You just don’t always know why you got there. So you keep going, stacking more questions on top of it - questions that come from insecurity - until you end up somewhere else entirely. And when you don’t get immediate validation, you keep every option open instead of committing to the one that was already right.”
He keeps glancing at you every time he reaches for the chips, like he’s making sure you won’t go in at the same time. There’s something almost endearing about it - when your eyes meet, his lips (now dusted with a few salt crystals) press into a thin line, and he gives a quick, restrained nod, like he’s quietly thanking you for letting him go.
His dimples are kind of adorable.
“You won’t always have someone there to confirm you’re right. On the job, you make the call. You have to be sure… and precise. That’s why I’m pushing you.” He gives you the smallest smile at the end, stingy with it, as if he’s either being earnest or refusing to overindulge.
He starts licking the salt off his thick fingers. Your eyes are drawn to the reflection of the quick gesture in the rearview mirror. There’s something about the ease of it, the complete lack of self-consciousness when his tongue flicks over the top of each digit, that gets under your skin a little. Like he has no idea how that reads from the outside.
And then, as if none of that just happened, he opens the door and steps out of the car without so much as a glance back. He’s so profoundly puzzling it’s starting to feel organised.
The more you replay his silence from earlier, the way he let you talk without interrupting, the more you realise that you were wrong. He’s not bad at this at all. If anything, he’s too good. Like letting you unravel first was intentional.
And for someone who operates with that kind of control, how does he not lose it in a job like this? It would be nice to know. But your gut tells you the control might just be the façade.
“I have something for you.”
He’s back before you can overthink it further, a worn tin box in his hands - the same one you’ve always seen tucked into his briefcase. The metal creaks softly as he forces it open, the veins in his hands standing out with the effort. He’s wearing the proudest, most idiotic smile.
Inside, two thick stacks of flashcards in plastic cases, so overstuffed they nearly spill out the moment the lid lifts. At first glance, they look like they’re all in his handwriting.
“Not to brag,” he says, which is exactly what someone says when they are absolutely about to brag, “but I was pretty well known for these when I was a trainee. Some of them are still circulating.”
How humble. He goes on to name-drop some apparently legendary agent – YouHaveNoIdeaWhoThatIsButYouNodAnyway - who, according to him, got top marks in behavioral science thanks to these exact cards.
“Wow, you’re…” such a dork. “…so cool.”
“My advice,” he says, keeping his head down… probably hoping you won’t notice the way the apple of his cheeks have gone bright pink right after being called cool. (He’s actually being nice. You cannot laugh in his face.) “is to shuffle them and go through every single one at least three times a day. Don’t make copies because I will find out. And most importantly, keep your hands clean when you use them. Put them back in the tin when you’re done. No food or drinks nearby. And never - ever - take them out of the plastic sleeves.”
So… basically, wrap it before you tap it. “…Are you trying to pass these down to your firstborn?” you joke.
“I would be honored if my son decided to follow in my footsteps-”
Why is he such a loser? “Do you even have someone to have a son with?”
He glares at you. Safe to say, you did not think that through. “Don’t get too comfortable.”
That’s because he doesn’t want to admit he has no bitches. Who would hit that?
When, exactly, is the appropriate moment to inform Agent Hotchner that your insistence on pushing for a stakeout today (despite fully expecting Agent Reid and Gideon to take the glory and go themselves) is based primarily on a dream? Which may or may not have occurred while you were briefly unconscious on top of the case files (forty-five minutes to an hour, so technically a nap).
A dream involving a gigantic, electric-blue trout with Belgian waffles for tires and suspiciously large hands, knocking on a willow tree. Behind which, Agent Hotchner was hiding, wearing a voluminous curly wig with a full blowout and a like a virgin bridal ensemble, complete with the boy toy belt.
It’s not in any FBI manual you’re aware of, but if you interpret it - suspend all prejudice, given you are, admittedly, clueless - the knocking could tie into the preliminary profile. An unsub with voyeuristic tendencies, approaching victims while they’re inside their vehicles, possibly initiating contact.
So. Knocking (on windows?)
Then you add the whole “knock on wood” thing. Luck. Which, considering the situation (and the very real possibility that Agent Hotchner might not appreciate your… oneiric genius), you’re probably going to need.
Put the two together, and it almost (barely) reads like an omen that this might be the right moment to act. You’re still not entirely sure how the electric-blue trout or Agent Hotchner in a Madonna costume fit into any of that, though.
Maybe some things simply aren’t meant to be profiled. Like how you’re not meant for stakeouts.
“Has it been three hours yet?” you ask Agent Hotchner. You’re staring so hard at the dashboard just to stay awake you’re pretty sure you could triangulate every single speck of dust in this car… which is concerning, considering when you first got in you would’ve sworn it was spotless.
He checks his Rolex. “Almost an hour.”
Almost an hour. You can feel your inhibitory brakes already gone. You choose to blame it on the psychological whiplash of discovering that Agent Hotchner wears prescription glasses - and, worse, that he chose tonight to ambush you with them.
Dainty, rounded silver frames - completely dissonant with the rest of him - soften the defined lines of his face, suggesting a version of him that might, theoretically, exist off-duty if you squint hard enough and indulge in a little wishful thinking. They look really good on him. But this is not where you wanted to go.
“Don’t you think the Rolex is a bit… out of character for-”
For pretending you’re a horny couple parked out here to have sex in his hunting ground.
But because you are, clearly, the ideal stakeout partner anyone could ever hope for - the kind the BAU should be fighting over, the obvious superior choice over Agent Reid for a permanent position and lifelong stakeout companionship with the delightful human being that is Agent Hotchner - you stop yourself from proceeding any further.
Out of sheer, unparalleled generosity, you spare him. You’re convinced that if you actually say the word sex out loud, Hotchner might have a stroke. (And, given the complete lack of signal out here, you’d be the one stuck performing CPR and then explaining to emergency services how exactly that happened. Hard pass.)
“-this situation?”
You have to remind yourself that everything that happens tonight will need to be documented in an official report and may be subject to review.
“You mean it’s too obnoxious?” he asks, completely serious. You do, in fact, think it’s obnoxious in general to have something on your wrist that costs more than a car, but-
“Yeah… I mean, a man wearing a Rolex isn’t exactly the type who ends up in a parked car-” having sex. But again: stroke. Best not to risk it. “-because he ran out of better options.”
“What if my character-” (Aw. My character. What is this, did scary Agent Hotchner used to run DnD campaigns in a past life, or did boredom get him shit-talking too?) “-likes the risk of breaking the law?”
His argument is full of holes. And sure, every hole is a goal, but…
The fact that his brain immediately jumps to breaking the law instead of just saying having sex in public tells you everything you need to know. He’s probably one sentence away from citing the exact statute, subsection, and every possible penalty attached to it.
“I hope you’re a good actor,” you shrug.
He cuts you a sideways look. The scary tightening between his brows - even if softened by the warm yellow light catching on the frames - is enough to tell you you’ve offended him. Damn it. What a pussy delicate ecosystem. Makes you wonder how much of you he could take. (You are bored.)
“Because even if my character were desperate for some dick-” Quick check: his face doesn’t look like it’s drooping on one side yet. Good. Still alive. “- and willing to overlook her partner’s complete lack of fashion sense, no one is choosing that orange sweater if they’re trying to look sexy.”
“It’s burgundy,” he deadpans.
“No, man. You must be colorblind. That is clearly orange.”
“The color looks warmer because of the yellow light in the car,” he defends his infallible thesis. “And it fits the situation.”
Still not saying sex. Incredible. Wait! Is that why, in your dream, he was dressed in full Like a Virgin bridal drag? Because he’s actually-
“It’s… put together. Not trying too hard,” he adds, gesturing at himself (the fact that his hands hovers around his knockers confuses you for a second), then the car.
He’s lucky you’re fluent in whatever the hell this cryptic, repressed dialect is supposed to be. Car sex equals casual outfit. Casual hookup. Low effort, no need to impress. As opposed to, apparently, the formalwear required for sex in an actual bed.
“Is that your college T-shirt under the sweatshirt?” you’re proving your point. You had to buy a whole miniskirt to commit to this bit (currently regretting it, given the way the leather seat is sticking to your skin), and he shows up dressed for Sunday service? “Because I’m not convinced anyone’s buying this. Who even has sex wearing that many layers?”
“If you profiled criminals with the same accuracy you apply to this… petty analysis, you wouldn’t need any of my notes.”
“So I’m the petty one?” you ask, unable to stop the smile tugging at your mouth. You’re unsure whether more offended or impressed by this side of him.
“You started it,” he shrugs, his gaze nailed to the road ahead - on the complete nothingness of the black mass of the trees swallowing even the moonlight.
You catch the fractional delay before he looks back at you, as if that might absolve him - as though you wouldn’t still be looking at him, that telltale smile already ghosting across his face. He doesn’t even attempt to retreat into his usual austere composure… probably because he knows he’s been made.
It’s too much. You can’t stand looking at him for too long, so you lean forward and - completely unauthorized - pry open the glove compartment.
“What are you doing.” Hotchner doesn’t even bother to shape it into a question.
“If we’re trying to attract a maniac - or at the very least not look more suspicious than we already do - we need music.”
You sift through the contents. His glove compartment is so meticulously organized it takes almost no effort to retrieve the entire collection: one, two, three CDs. And if there’s one song threading through your head right now, it’s Like a Virgin by Madonna - the association growing less metaphorical by the second, given what you’re holding.
From left to right: The Beatles Anthology 1, Etta James’ At Last (the album - unfortunately, it is not at last for these choices), and 80s Greatest Hits.
You would pay good money to hear the story behind any of these.
“Go on, which one of these is your sex playlist?” you ask, fanning them out. You generously give him the dignity of choosing his own humiliation. It’s so bleak you don’t even want to guess this time.
“We’re in a public spot in the middle of the night… if we were to have sex, the priority would be not drawing attention from patrol units… music is the last thing you’d want to play unless you want to be arrested for public indecency.”
Right… he reroutes the entire conversation into logistics… which can only mean two things: he’s either deliberately dodging the question, or he’s never had sex in a car.
You give him the benefit of the doubt. “You don’t strike me as the type to raw dog whatever the radio decides to throw at you at night. So one of these has to be your sex playlist.”
You watch him, weighing your options. What’s worse? Getting pounded to Yellow Submarine, IIIIII WANT A … Sunday kind of love, or Girls Just Want to Have Fun (Is anyone actually sure Agent Hotchner is capable of having fun?)?
You catch his eyes flicking - more than once, and not as subtle as he probably thinks - toward the CD in the middle. Well… you would’ve never pegged (… #:D) Agent Hotchner as the hopeless-romantic type.
He shifts forward all of a sudden, leaning across your side of the passenger seat to dig back into the glove compartment. And that’s… very close. All you get is a distracted, almost too-formal “excuse me” from him. All you can see is the back of his head. All you can feel is the weight of his broad hand pressing into the soft part of your bare upper thigh as he steadies himself.
Absolutely nothing to unpack there. You stare straight ahead, very deliberately not reacting, because acknowledging it would mean thinking about it, and thinking about it feels like… something? Nothing?
He sits back upright a second later with… a cassette. A Walkman. And a pair of earphones. He nudges his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with one broad finger.
“Oh. So you’re old - oooold school.”
No, seriously, what is this? Is he one of those music snobs who insists every occasion demands a specific analog format? Like sex somehow requires the gritty authenticity of a cassette? Is this a generational heirloom? Passed down from one Hotchner to the next?
What worries you is that he doesn’t even answer. He just glances up at you with a smirk as he slides the cassette into the Walkman. You… don’t like that. That, or the way his dimples sit at the corners of his mouth. Mischievous does not belong on Agent Hotchner’s face. It looks wrong. Unsettling.
Because what, exactly, does someone like him have to be mischievous about? (You can’t tell.) His hand is too big, covering most of the cassette, but you catch a glimpse of the label as it disappears into the player. Brudos.
He abruptly reclines his seat all the way back.
“What the fuck are you-” You don’t even make it to the end of the sentence.
“Do you want to be productive and learn something while we wait,” he says, propping himself up slightly on his elbows, “or do you want to keep asking questions I’m not going to answer?”
You just stare at him. There are… several things happening right now. You’re not entirely sure which one deserves priority.
Agent Hotchner slides one side of the earphones into his right ear. “This is the original interview Agent Gideon and Rossi conducted in ’89 with Jeff Brudos,” he continues.
(What the-)
“The Lust Killer,” he adds, like you might need clarification. Of all the things you’re confused about right now, that is not one of them.
“Yes, I know who he is… how did you even get that?” you ask. But from the look he gives you, you can already tell this is one of the questions he’s not going to answer. Fine.
You have to play his game. You recline your seat all the way down too, matching him, letting him make the next move.
It’s just that - horizontal (…) - he suddenly feels closer. And hotter. Objectively hotter. Thermodynamically speaking, of course (you know… heat transfer, science, behavioral science, tomato-tomahto.) Nothing weird.
Now that he’s away from the direct light of the rearview mirror and feels like a brawny fallen tree among the dark pines towering above you, you can see that his sweater is, in fact, exactly as he said - burgundy, not orange. (Whoops. Point for Hotchner.)
Proximity makes you notice things you couldn’t bring yourself to before.
The corner of his mouth lifts, like he’s pleased with himself, as he hands you the other earphone. Your fingers brush. Which is… entirely explainable given how thin the cord is. The eye contact, however, is rather less so.
“See?” he says absentmindedly. “I’ve always said you’re more perceptive than anyone else in the class. More than some of our agents.” (Whore.)
“When?” (He is 100% shitting you.)
“More like to whom would be the appropriate question.” (Your mom?) No shit. Wait.
“…Gideon?” you ask, a little too quickly. No, really. There’s no way. He has to be fucking with you.
“Don’t let it get to your head…” he deadpans. And then he presses play. But he does that thing again. That small pause before turning his head back toward you, that selcouth private smile still sitting there.
(But hey! Gideon knows you’re perceptive.)
“…and I advise you to take notes. These recordings stay with me.” He winks.
This is going to be fun.
This is not fun.
Mainly because there are, in fact, no words - none of the hundreds of thousands available in the English language - that adequately capture the experience of lying inches away from Agent Hotchner while attempting to take notes on one of the most infamous serial killers who also has a foot fetish… especially when he pauses the recording and asks:
“What’s the most notable thing here?”
You really thought you were past the pop quizzes. It’s just… difficult to snap back into place when the truth is that the most notable thing is the fact that, when he turns to look at you, the distance shrinks even further, and you can’t take your eyes off even his most meaningless details. The single delicate white eyelash on his left eye. The wear along the edge of his glasses.
The longer you stay this close, the more intoxicating whatever the hell he decided to put on today becomes. He must’ve changed it. It’s not his usual. There’s something warmer about it now - the smoothest, buttery oud with a vanilla dry-down - that makes you a little stupid.
You wonder if this is what he wears after dark and you’re only noticing it now, or if it’s one of those calculated “what would my character wear” decisions. Maybe it’s always been like this, and you’ve only just started to pay attention.
You shake your head.
“The third-person tactic Gideon uses with Brudos is pretty smart… at one point, instead of asking, ‘Why did you kill them?’ - which already shut him down when Rossi tried it - he reframes the question so Brudos isn’t forced to own the acts directly. I believe he said something like, ‘Do you think the killer planned his attacks?’ So it feels like Brudos is helping the FBI build a case against someone else… but by speculating, he starts talking about planning, fantasies, decisions, escalation… he’s really just describing his own process.”
“Yes, it’s projection… good catch.” He smiles at you. It almost makes you want to keep being right. “After studying Brudos, I’d say the real reason he responds to that isn’t about appearing as the ‘good samaritan,’ but about preserving his ego. Externalizing the behavior allows him to maintain distance.”
It’s nice to listen to him talk. And somehow, when he does, he lowers his voice down, as if he won’t risk being overheard by the moon while discussing classified material. It’s just you and him, but in this car, it’s his parish.
“His crimes are tied to fantasy and fetish, and his sense of self depends on not fully integrating those acts into his identity. So, when you structure the interview that way, you bypass that resistance - and that’s when you get the most information… why am I not seeing you write this down?”
Stop bitching. You’re not taking notes because the logistics are completely fucked. One set of earphones (clearly designed for a single human head) split between two people means any attempt to move even half an inch in the name of comfort or legible handwriting goes straight into the pit.
So, without really thinking about it, you inevitably end up turning onto your left side because, truly, entirely by accident, the only stable surface still within reach for your notebook becomes… Agent Hotchner’s bicep. What a terrible, terrible inconvenience.
He doesn’t even seem to mind.
“Do you think we’ll have to use that third-person strategy with our unsub too?” you ask, mostly to make this situation feel less awkward. “Or is he going to be more like… Kemper, who couldn’t shut up about his murders?”
The warmth of his breath brushes your space as he turns his head. You can see the sculptural lines of his neck tightening as his bewildered glance peeks over his shoulder at you.
Nothing. He must not have heard you.
“Hotchner?” you prompt.
He gives a quick nod, as if you’ve just caught him in something. “You tell me… also, you can call me Hotch. I’ve told you,” he adds. The words slip out his tongue in a low susurrus.
Whatever makes you comfortable, Crotch.
“I just want to know what you think, Hotch.” It really doesn’t roll off the tongue well. You tilt your head up at him. Happy now?
Hotch looks down at you. His gaze drifts over your face for a moment, before settling back on your eyes.
“What I think doesn’t matter.” He glances down vacantly, shaking his head. He must’ve used less product tonight, because the raven strands he’s been absentmindedly pushing back all evening fall perfectly loose across his forehead again. He’s sort of pretty like this.
“God, you’re so lame,” you deflect.
His head snaps back up, one brow arched in disapproval. “Try that again.”
He glares at you - dead serious, except for the glint in his eyes behind the lenses that betrays he’s not entirely serious. Pussy. Exactly like that, he breaks into a single chuckle, looking back down with a soft smile. (Agent Hotchner has a sense of humor?!)
He hastily resumes the interview. (What a party pooper… but maybe for the best this time. It was starting to feel buzzy.) The problem is you can’t really escape him. Every time you try to write something, you’re doing it on his arm.
It’s a universal law, right? The harder your prefrontal cortex goes don’t go there, the faster your limbic system ignores it, the amygdala flags it as alarmingly relevant, the reward circuitry lights up, dopamine does its thing, and suddenly your entire operating system downgrades to: huh. That’s… firm.
You want to touch it, see how beefy he really is. Especially when he’s so nosy he keeps leaning in a little too close to check what you’re writing, like it’s stronger than him - and he gets so focused he ends up catching his bottom lip between his teeth without probably even realizing it.
Anyways.
Brudos - the lust killer - is a difficult subject to interview, mostly because of how evasive he is. He lies constantly to protect his ego. He tells Gideon the cuts on his wrists are from a jealous girlfriend chasing him with a knife for sleeping around with college girls, instead of admitting they’re fresh from being jumped in prison.
And sure, every subject they’ve interviewed over the years has their own way of responding - truth, lies, silence - and those patterns are what eventually shape the categories of offenders. But with someone like Brudos, getting him to talk about anything real - especially the parts that threaten his sense of masculinity - is a different kind of challenge.
The cross-dressing. Stealing clothes off neighbors’ lines. The fetishes that fed into the killings. The hundreds of size-16 shoes in his garage that he insists belong to his “shopaholic wife.” He won’t go near any of it. To get him to open up, to actually push past the surface and into his psyche, there’s a moment in the recording where Rossi and Gideon shift tactics. Out of nowhere, they bring out a shoebox.
You can hear it immediately. The way the tone of his voice loosens up, how he starts offering more gore details without being pushed as much as before. It’s like the object unlocks something in him - like he’s drawn to it, hypnotized, and in that state he forgets to hold back.
It makes you wonder what that would look like on video - whether he’d keep talking while his eyes stayed fixed on it, locked onto his own object of desire, like everything else in the room had just… dropped away, but also, most importantly-
“Is that why Gideon always says everyone has their own shoe?”
“Here I’ve been thinking he was just passionate about footwear for the past seven years,” he shoots back.
His crow’s feet crinkle when he chuckles. Your gazes meet somewhere in the middle, both of you turning at the same time. You’re kind of incapable of looking away. His mouth parts a touch, softening the line of it, before he gives you a small smile and tips his head back against the seat. His eyes drift up to the ceiling of the car.
“Sometimes I don’t understand what Gideon says,” he adds, idly, as he pulls out his earphone and, just as casually, starts peeling off his burgundy sweater over his head.
The fabric drags on the way up - some obnoxiously expensive wool-cashmere blend that probably does wonders for insulation but absolutely nothing to tame the static, clinging like it’s in no rush to let go as it hauls the shirt underneath with it, riding it up almost to his sternum.
It exposes the soft, flushed creases of his stomach as he shifts upright. His lower belly tips perfectly halfway over his belt buckle. You shamelessly follow the dark, curled trail of hair that starts there, spreading along the defined cut of his V-line before slipping out of sight below-
“Do you think we’re the unsub’s shoe tonight…?” You swallow. The yellow overhead lighting of the car casts a baroque play of light and shadow over his veined arms. Woah. The slut show is only barely toned down by the fact that his glasses have climbed up clumsily and now rest endearingly crooked on his forehead. “You know… I mean… that thing he desires so much that it makes him reveal his true self without even realizing it.”
The dopamine hit of having been right about him wearing his Georgetown Law University (since 1789) shirt under the sweater is ephemeral. Your eyes immediately latch onto an opaque patch on the side of his biceps. Is that…
Hotch folds the sweater and places it under his head like a pillow. He lets out a breathy sigh of relief when his neck finally sinks back against the seat. “What makes you so sure he wasn’t aware of revealing himself, and not that he chose to? That he accepted giving parts of himself away because it got him what he wanted? And that the repression, the lies he built to protect what he didn’t want seen, is exactly what ends up making him obvious?”
You roll your eyes. He really can’t help himself. Peacocking 24/7 or he’ll die.
“Yeah, okay, okay. You’re good.” Your gaze doesn’t move. You’re very aware you’re staring at the patch on his bicep. And you’re even more aware that he knows you are.
“You’re going to be great too, if you give yourself more time,” he says, almost reprimanding, but it softens at the end with a small smile. (You figure, at some point, you’ll build immunity to whatever that does to you.) “And I wouldn’t be here with you if I didn’t agree with your theory about the unsub circling back to his original hunting ground, now that the press is calling him the Hemlock Trace Murderer.”
How generous of him. And while anything remotely resembling praise from him still sends an embarrassing flutter through your chest, it’s… somewhat undermined by the fact that your eyes keep flicking from his face right back down to the patch on his arm with a kind of embarrassingly childish fixation you should’ve outgrown years ago.
He sighs. “Nicotine patch… I’ve got another one here.” He taps his right trapezius with the opposite hand. (You really shouldn’t be watching that as closely as you are.)
“…Aren’t you supposed to just use one at a time?”
It’s a strangely mundane thought, all things considered. But then again, the real shock isn’t that SSA Aaron Hotchner - future-FBI-director-in-the-making - is, apparently, at the mercy of something as ordinary as nicotine. It’s why he gives it away.
Why he tells you about the second patch, about the fact that his addiction is worse than it looks, when you never would’ve noticed in the first place. If anything, you’d expect him to minimize it, not… casually make it worse.
He could’ve easily kept that entirely to himself and preserved the illusion.
He’s always been very good at that. Up until now. Because this isn’t him. Not the man who’s always trying to make himself smaller - now leaning back and lacing his hands behind his head, taking up as much space as possible, like he’s finally allowing himself to.
The swell of his bicep, the tease of hair at the cuffs of his shirt, the thick vein running along his arm - he looks statuesque. Always so composed and immovable, even in the way he relaxes. He’s the one who trained you not to miss, to account for every signal before forming a judgment.
Which is exactly why you don’t miss the way his eyes drop to your bare legs every time you shift, uncross them, or adjust how you’re sitting. The way his gaze latches where your skin starts to feel warm and sticky. How it lingers before he recalibrates and pulls himself back. Like he’s aware of it, choosing not to linger when he can feel his control starting to slip through his fingers.
Too bad he keeps falling for it. It’s embarrassing how predictable it’s become.
He’s the one who’s been drilling it into you from day one - choose your path, leave no room for hesitation or doubt. Say it clearly. Some other pretentious bullshit. And make sure anyone listening understands exactly where you stand.
Anyway, Agent Hotchner must be proud of you when you deliver your conclusion directly on his lips. For once, he’s got nothing to correct you about.
His mouth tastes like he’s been wanting you for a long time but is still trying, stubbornly, to take it slow, to keep himself from showing you just how much. He’s giving you mixed signals - except for the way one broad hand steadily cradles your face, not letting you go.
You can feel the grit of the calluses he’s grown over the years from gripping a gun too often dragging lightly against your heated skin. You wonder if he can feel your own hands learning that same language against his neck.
He rests his forehead against yours, brushing the tip of his nose against yours to catch a breath.
“What are we even doing?” he murmurs. He bashfully ducks his head to chuckle. His laugh shouldn’t sound like a siren call that makes you wish you’d claimed him sooner.
“I don’t know,” you laugh. (Old habits die hard.)
“I swear, I usually don’t do this-”
Oh. Shut the fuck up already. You move before you can think better of it, climbing into his lap. Your skirt rides up your thighs as you straddle him, and you rush back to his mouth, kissing him just to shut him up, because you know where he’s going with this.
One more word about how principled he is - how he’s not that kind of man, how he’s never crossed that line with a trainee because he’s too respectful - and you’re going to fuck him just to wear him down, even in the most underwhelming pair of underwear you own.
Now that doesn’t seem like a bad idea at all…
He turns the kiss unexpectedly tender, far too tender for the way his hands dig into the flesh of your thighs, pushing you further onto his lap. You feel your eyes roll all the way up toward the starry sky as the movement makes the cold metal of his belt buckle brush against your pussy.
You bite your lip to keep from making a sound too soon, but you can’t stop yourself from instinctively chasing the ecstatic coil of pleasure again, canting your hips against it. There’s something about the difference in temperature that knocks the air out of your lungs; it’s so good it’s almost painful.
He’s so… wow. Your hands don’t know where to settle, overwhelmed by how much of him there is beneath you. They roam greedily - over the softness of his stomach, up to the solid breadth of his endowed knockers chest, down the curve of his bicep, and along as much of the tense muscle of his back as you can reach (you’re almost certain you’ve found that second nicotine patch exactly where he tapped it earlier).
You can’t seem to choose one place, can’t seem to get enough, when you’re already riding white-hot waves of pleasure just from imagining how the hard line of his dick, skimming against your inner thigh, might feel where you admittedly, desperately want him - fantasizing about the way he could stretch your pussy so, so, so well.
Agent Hotchner - no, Hotch – absolutely terrifying, Aaron? (Woah, woah, woah. Are you even allowed to call him that?) The male specimen deepens the kiss, and something breathless slips out of you the second his tongue finds your mouth. It’s that sound - yours - that does it. His hips jerk up into you, unguarded, (casually?) hitting your clit just right, like his body moved to his own accord. Another moan slips out of you.
You only manage to catch your breath when his mouth leaves yours, tracing a fiery, wet path down the length of your neck before finding that one spot that turns your back into a bow, while your fingers tangle tighter in the coarse hair at the nape of his neck, scratching - anything to keep him right there.
And still, it’s not enough. It’s never enough. He’s the only person who can make your blood boil with irritation even while you can feel how soaked your panties are for him, slick dripping down your thighs, while he’s still playing careful and keeping those damn hands laced in a God-honoring way around your waist like he’s afraid to take more.
Does he fucking need a diagram of the erogenous zones of a woman?
Perhaps he needs a little guidance.
You grab his hand - trying very hard not to dwell on the fact that it’s so much bigger than yours, rough with calluses (seriously, someone in the Bureau needs to get this man some hand cream), yet unexpectedly softer along the back, where a faint scatter of hair does something mildly distracting to your brain - and drag it, impatiently, up over your ribs.
Your breath hitches when you finally press his palm where you’ve been wanting it, molding it over the curve of your breast like - there, see? Not that hard.
A muffled laugh ghosts against your neck where his mouth is still busy. “I was just trying to be respectful.” (Just trying to be a virg- no. Better to keep that one to yourself.)
He pulls back, propping himself up on his elbows, a little short of breath (is he the kind of man who waits until marriage or-?). His glasses are completely fogged up, hazed over with the same warmth clouding the inside of the car. A genuine (underline genuine - you’d never laugh in his face…) snort slips out of you at the sight.
“Can you not?” he frowns, reaching for them, but you slap his hand away before he can even try.
“Nope.” You really lean into the p. You take the glasses yourself, lifting the hem of his T-shirt to wipe the lenses clean, far more thoroughly than necessary, merely to stretch the time. The brush of hair along his stomach keeps tickling your hand.
He’s smiling like an idiot, holding your gaze (like a whore) while you settle the glasses back onto his face, lightly brushing the hair at his temples back. A few strands of white are starting to show here and there.
He mutters the smallest “thank you.”
You don’t think you’ve ever heard him say it like that… but you also can’t help the soft, gooey feeling settling in your limbs at how cute (is that appropriate?) - pretty (better?) something along those lines - he looks.
His mouth is a little wet and pouty from the kissing, his cheeks warm and rosy, his hair completely messed up from your hands. There’s a piece at the top sticking straight up like an antenna. He looks… kind of ridiculous. And yet you can’t look away.
It could be twenty seconds or twenty full minutes - time does that strange, elastic thing - where you’re just there, sitting on his lap, staring at each other while his hands move slowly up and down your thighs. He’s so grounding.
“There are patrols at every entrance to Hemlock Trace… right?” you ask. You don’t want to fuck this up. Would acknowledging it turn him closed off all over again?
He hums back, lazily. He needily tilts his chin up, like he needs you back, silently urging you to keep kissing him. He’s so starry-eyed when you cave in and lean down to press your lips to his.
“If they see anybody come in,” he props himself up for another chaste kiss, “they’ll tell us, like we’ve planned.” Another kiss. “The radio signal is the only thing that works here.”
The warmth of his fingers keeps moving farther and farther inward along your upper thigh. You’re surprisingly squirmy as you feel his thick digits press against your cunt.
“Even if the unsub stole a police radio to keep up with us, he’d still have to find his way in here,” he says.
The fabric of your panties clings to your skin more than his fingers ever could as he starts spreading the honeydew up and down your folds, teasing you with more pressure every time he comes across your core. He can still draw sounds out of you even while avoiding your clit.
“And if someone gets close, we’d hear the noise of the car,” you add. You’re both trying to convince yourselves it’s going to be okay. “So…”
“Only if you want.”
So this is what it comes down to.
You’ve just discovered that the fastest way to stop second-guessing yourself - to pick one path and not spiral into a thousand competing theories - is thinking with your pussy. A sort of speed-dial Occam’s razor. Questionable margins of error. Still, technically consistent with the holistic idea: when faced with competing hypotheses, choose the one that requires the fewest assumptions.
It all holds up beautifully until a National Park Service guard starts sweeping a flashlight toward the car and you’re reminded that 14th-century logic only works if your hypotheses are actually… you know, thought through.
“Did you remember to redirect the National Park Service to New Kent County tonight and reassign Virginia State Police to Hemlock Trace?” he asks, not quite looking at you, warm hazel eyes tracking the beam of light instead. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temples.
Old habits die hard with Aaron Hotchner. Second-guessing you is basically foreplay at this point.
“Of course I did,” you mutter. “Right after you and Gideon delivered the profile… there’s no way National Park Police should be here unless-”
Oh. In the mild haze of almost getting laid, you may have both overlooked one very small, very critical detail: the unsub could already be inside the perimeter - or on foot - in which case, no, you wouldn’t hear a damn thing coming.
The beam of light vanishes. Moonlight bleeds back in, catching on something beyond your peripheral vision. Golden, shoulder-length hair concealed beneath the brim of a beige Stratton hat, refract the pale light in ruptured winks that never quite let you see him whole. He raps his knuckles against the driver’s window, but the sound lands as if it’s right beside your head.
“Are you two having fun in there?” comes a muffled voice from outside.
“Don’t even try to start-” Hotchner warns you.
If Midas turned everything he touched to gold, your touch makes things rot. Gold, famously, doesn’t. And yet, you’ve managed to corrupt even the FBI’s golden boy.
Aaron Hotchner - the man who keeps his academy notes like heirlooms for a hypothetical inexistent son who might one day follow in his footsteps, the man with a career and an actual future to lose - just ripped the arrest report out of your very replaceable rookie hands and put himself on the line for up to five years in prison to falsify it.
All to cover what the two of you were doing in that car. The same thing that got the unsub close enough to matter in the first place. For you. When you have… what, exactly, to lose?
“But I started-”
“Go help Reid with the chain of custody paperwork,” he barks - not even looking up, eyes locked on the form. (Woof.)
Ten minutes.
That’s all that’s left before Wade Miller - the motherfucker - is done with the polygraph Gideon insisted on. Ten minutes until Gideon walks out of that interview room, and his face alone will tell you everything: whether Miller’s heartbeat finally betrayed him over the twelve people he killed… or whether he saw you and Agent Hotchner violating several extremely clear HR policies the night of the arrest, and your future is about to become prosecutable.
“Do you think it means anything that Miller has a Virginia license plate reading E-M-R-A-W?” Reid asks.
You’re not really listening. Your eyes keep drifting toward the desk across the room, where Hotchner sits as composed as ever, looking completely unbothered while doing something you genuinely never thought you’d witness him do.
“EM-RAW?” you echo absently. “As in… eat them raw?”
“…Yeah. Now it makes sense.”
Nine minutes.
Agent Hotchner lifts his eyes from the file. He scans the room like he’s searching for the source of a disturbance before inevitably landing on you. Even from across the room, you can feel the disappointment - the flare of his nostrils, the tilt of his head silently telling you to focus.
(What are you even supposed to be focusing on anymore?)
Oh. Right. You’re supposed to be working. You log into the laptop. Your fingers hammer uselessly against the keyboard, though you can barely feel the keys over the lingering memory of the rough stubble along Hotchner’s jaw.
“I asked the technical analyst to dig into Miller,” you begin. “Married for eight years, but apparently his wife suddenly left with their two-year-old son and never came back. Happened around two months before the murders of Vale and Hargrove on Hemlock Trace.”
Detective Bush appears beside Hotch’s desk carrying a paper cup you assume is coffee and gives him an easy pat on the shoulder before walking off.
“That would fit as a primary stressor,” Reid nods. “If she’d filed for divorce officially, we probably would’ve flagged him sooner.”
You catch the quiet “thank you” slipping from Hotch’s mouth before he blows across the surface of the drink. Your eyes follow the large hand wrapped around the cup, every movement suddenly slowed by the simple fact that he’s under your scrutiny.
“Bummer,” you mutter. “I’m sure there are, what, like… three divorced fishermen in all of Virginia. Should narrow it down nicely.”
“Statistically, approximately 17,000 licensed commercial and independent fishermen operate in Virginia’s coastal regions,” Reid replies immediately. “Based on state divorce rates-”
The data isn’t nearly as crucial as latching onto the way Hotchner’s Adam’s apple works when he swallows. The way his shoulders loosen afterward, the visible exhale leaving him like a man finally getting his fix after hours of withdrawal. The way his tongue flicks discreetly across his upper lip - like even that tiny act would violate some etiquette manual he’s sworn allegiance to - catching the trace of coffee there.
Something ugly twists in your stomach at the thought that maybe you’d gotten a little too attached to the ephemeral idea of that mouth being yours too.
“I just hope the saliva DNA they pulled from the Belgian waffles he was eating in the car matches the partial profile we found on the victims,” Reid sighs.
Ew. You really didn’t need the mental image of Wade Miller’s syrup-slick fingers while you were trying to handcuff him.
“Yeah,” you mutter, “but it still won’t be enough. We never recovered a full print. And even if the marine rope in Miller’s truck matches the fibers from the first pair of victims, it’s still circumstantial. Same as everything else we’ve got. If we actually want to keep him, we need a confession, otherwise he’s just gonna walk right back out of here in less than twenty-four hours.”
“Technically, law enforcement can usually hold a suspect for up to forty-eight hours before they have to formally charge or release him. Virginia follows the constitutional standard established in County of Riverside v. McLaughlin in 1991, which set that general probable-cause window after a warrantless arrest.”
If you close your eyes, either Hotchner has consumed your psyche down to the cellular level or Reid’s cadence is genuinely starting to sound like his whenever he slips into one of those dense legalese monologues. (Reid doesn’t irk you nearly as much, of course.)
That’s beside the point. What’s really sitting glacial at the base of your spine is the realization that Wade Miller - who barely existed a few hours ago outside of a hypothetical profile - has already become someone you know more intimately than Agent Hotchner.
You know Miller’s divorce timeline. His fishing routes. His eating habits (the fucker desperately needs to incorporate more fiber.) His preferred brand of marine rope (which is objectively pathetic, though maybe still less pathetic than keeping exactly three CDs rattling around in his car). The contents of his electric blue truck down to the smell. You know he picked up a second job at a sawmill, which explains why he felt just as comfortable navigating deep wooded areas as he did the riverbanks you originally believed were his primary hunting grounds.
Hotchner remains vexingly evasive about anything that isn’t related to work.
Is he avoiding the… um… subject because it meant nothing and there’s nothing to say? Or because it meant enough that he doesn’t trust himself to talk about it at all?
Is it even your place to ask? You’re still on the clock. 5 minutes. Your job is to understand men like Miller. Not to sit here trying to profile the exact emotional significance of Agent Hotchner letting you kiss him. And then kiss him back. And then…
You grip the computer mouse hard enough that you’re sure you could crack the plastic if you really committed to it. The burnt office coffee hanging in the air doesn’t stand a chance against the warm, saccharine smell of him hovering over your shoulder, intoxicating you like the most addictive narcotic.
“What are you two talking about,” Hotchner asks, “that’s preventing you from keeping up with your work?”
Always a dick.
“I was just saying that putting Miller on a polygraph before even attempting a proper interrogation is a stupid idea.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Reid turning toward you looking absolutely blanched by the statement. Which cannot possibly be low blood sugar - you literally just watched him ingest a coffee containing roughly four tablespoons of sugar).
Jeez. You’ve long suspected Gideon’s preferred teaching method involves psychologically conditioning his protégés into a permanent state of sacred improv-rule “yes, and” obedience, whereas your dynamic with Agent Hotchner has somehow evolved into the oxymoronic “no, wait” or, on particularly inspired occasions, “absolutely the fuck not” (the “the fuck” being more spiritual than grammatical).
But seeing Reid’s complete inability to openly disagree with a superior for the first time makes you a lot less jealous that you never got the chance to spend that much time under Gideon. (Literally…)
(Sure, Hotchner looks fully capable of vaporizing a person when he frowns like that, but so far he hasn’t actually done it. Statistically, your odds remain decent.)
“Why?” Hotchner asks. Oh, come on. Is that not so fucking obvious?
“There’s a high chance the results come back inconclusive if Miller’s a sociopath,” you reply.
“We don’t have enough evidence to conclude that.” Always so calm.
He’s annoying. (You want to rip his expensive clothes off with your teeth.) But you can also tell by the way the dimples carve into his otherwise composed face that he’s provoking you on purpose. (Doesn’t he have anything more important to do than psychologically tormenting you during working hours?)
“No one’s ever needed a formal diagnosis to acknowledge the possibility,” you shoot back. “If he’s emotionally detached enough - or genuinely believes his own delusions - the test not only becomes completely useless, but we also waste hours telling a potential serial offender exactly which questions we care about. You know that.”
“All throughout my career, I’ve seen people confess before the machine was even attached, more often than you’d think. The process itself creates pressure. We made him wait all night, too - I saw it myself, he’s becoming more susceptible. And Gideon clearly knows what he’s doing.”
His voice is so soothing it almost works, but he still doesn’t seem to understand what you actually mean. (Then again, even Aaron Hotchner is a sausage first and foremost.)
It’s not really about whether Miller is a sociopath. Or whether Gideon’s strategy technically makes sense. It’s the fact that the deeper you get into behavioral science, the more you start realizing there’s significantly less science involved than people like to pretend and a far more alarming amount of luck instead.
Everybody in this field talks about profiles and probabilities with such absolute certainty that eventually you’re expected to stop noticing how often the outcome still boils down to whether another human being arbitrarily decides to crack or not, and there’s absolutely nothing you can really do to control any of it except sit here hoping the odds land in your favor this time.
Cool. Apparently that’s just how this works. But if that’s the case, then why the hell wouldn’t you choose the option that gives you the highest possible chance of success?
“You believe interrogating him first would’ve been the better move?” Hotchner asks, softly resting a hand on your shoulder. In public?
“Yes!” His hand is still there.
“Based on?”
Oh, so he’s choosing to be a dick while simultaneously, and very out of characterly, transmitting body heat through that huge broad hand resting on your shoulder.
“He’s an attention whore.” (Wade Miller might not currently be the only man in the room with that particular affliction.)
Okay. You might actually be completely fucked up, because there is no conceivable reason you should find only Aaron’s - ew. Absolutely not. Back to proper nouns. Agent Hotchner’s - discomfort around swear words this endearing.
(Sorry, Reid. He’s technically the first person in the room to visibly regret the sentence, but unfortunately his reactions simply do not hit the same.)
Must be something about the addictive restrained disapproval of it all.
The way Hotchner instinctively crosses his arms - thank you, freedom, finally, though you admittedly already miss the weight of his hand on your shoulder - like physically containing his reaction is the only thing preventing him from acknowledging what you just said out loud.
Dayum. The Bureau ought to sanction all of his fitted dress shirts in the interest of workplace functionality because it is objectively difficult to maintain a professional disagreement under these conditions. (You should’ve fondled those knockers when you had the chance.)
Then there’s the eyebrow raise. That silent paternalistic look telling you to elaborate. The fact that you somehow understand exactly where the line is with him and keep dancing one inch from it anyway.
“The press starts calling him the Hemlock Trace Killer, every patrol unit in the state is crawling all over the Trace even though we’ve repeatedly said his actual hunting grounds were more likely riverbanks and deep wooded areas, and instead of choosing literally any other isolated stretch off the James that would’ve been safer, that dude goes right back to the exact road attached to his name.”
Hotchner doesn’t comment on it, nor does he counter with one of his usual Socratic follow-up questions. The absence of a reaction prickles under your skin so badly that you get the physical need to push further purely for the satisfaction of provoking one.
“I don’t know about you, but that’s sounding a lot like this revolutionary little concept introduced around 1900 by an Austrian psychologist named Freud called ego.” You shoot him a cheeky smile and nearly get drunk on the irritated huff of air that leaves his nose.
“Freud didn’t formally introduce the structural model involving the ego until 1923,” Reid cuts in.
You hope he’s doing this because he feels comfortable enough around you to interrupt your bullshit and not because being trapped between you and Hotchner has triggered some kind of intellectualized third-wheel trauma response. (Sorry, Reid. Spencer. Whichever level of acquaintance currently permits him to publicly fact-check you.)
“…In The Ego and the Id. And the philosophical concept of the ego predates Freud by… quite a lot, actually. Freud didn’t invent the concept, he was inspired by-”
The only thing apparently capable of stopping Reid in the middle of an academic deep dive comes striding into the room roughly two minutes - practically unheard of for a man who treats punctuality like an optional social construct - before anyone would’ve expected him back from the interrogation room.
Gideon.
Without preamble, he starts sweeping case files off the desk and shoving them into Hotchner’s briefcase. (Gideon, famously opposed to earthly possessions. Or at the very least to carrying his own.)
“Pack everything. We’re done here.”
What?
“What about Miller’s polygraph?” Hotchner looks pissed. He fixes Gideon with a stare so intense that you’re the one getting goosebumps. You keep forgetting how genuinely terrifying Hotchner can look when he’s angry (probably because, completely absentmindedly, he’s also pushing his jacket back to plant one broad hand on his hip.)
(Whor-)
“Inconclusive.”
The disgust that flashes across Hotchner’s face is ineffable.
“So Miller walks out of here with no charges?” You can hear the strain underneath Hotchner’s voice from the raw effort of trying to force Gideon into giving one concrete answer for once in his life. You don’t know how he manages not to lose his temper with him. How he keeps all of that frustration leashed so cleanly beneath the surface. Always so mighty, Agent Hotchner.
“Most likely.”
Hotchner follows him toward the victim board. “Jason… it’s him. We can’t just let it-”
“They’ve got it from here, Aaron. We’ve done everything we could.” The absent pat he gives Hotchner’s shoulder afterward feels as intimate as Judas’ kiss.
One by one, the notes disappear from the board. Your handwriting. Reid’s annotations. The overlapping circles. The highlighted river access points. Hours of profiling. Then the map itself.
Nothing but bare cork.
There are moments when you get so busy dissecting how fucked up Wade Miller is that you forget he came out of a fucked up system to begin with.
You’re going to miss the breeze of the loblolly pines drying your cheeks. The distant smell of burnt coffee. The steady sound of Agent Hotchner’s dress shoes getting closer across the concrete.
He brushes dust and dirt off the outdoor step with one hand before sitting down beside you.
“I haven’t seen you drink anything all day,” he says, lowering his voice to a quiet susurrus.
“Thanks.” It’s all you can manage while waiting for your words to return to you.
If only he knew how terrible caffeine is for hydration… but you like the warmth of the cup against your fingers. You rotate it in your palms, waiting for it to cool enough to drink, and a strangled huff slips from your nose when you realize he gave you his own mug. The obnoxious FBI logo stamped across it is something only Aaron Hotchner could consume from sincerely.
He tilts his head toward the mug. “They give a bunch of these out every year at the anniversary event… they also have caps, if you’re interested.”
He says it with such dead seriousness that it makes you laugh.
“I’m good.”
“Are you sure? Rumor has it they’re doing lunchboxes this year too…”
You can tell by the woebegone little smile tugging at his mouth that he’s only leaning into the joke to distract you from… all of this. It’s nice nonetheless. Even if it’s fabricated. Unlike the angle of his hand resting respectfully against the concrete beside him, pointed unconsciously toward your thigh like it doesn’t know what it’s allowed to do.
You wish you could turn off your ability to read microexpressions and body language for, like, five consecutive minutes. Especially when it comes to him.
“Did you pack everything?” he asks.
“Yeah… I was just out here for some air. I was about to head back-”
“There’s still time. It’s okay… that’s why I’m here too.” He exhales softly. “They’re putting surveillance on Miller around the clock. He won’t be able to hurt anyone, you know?” The only thing reassuring is how much his voice is mending you from the inside out.
“And that’s okay for you?”
“Fuck no…” He chuckles.
He pulls a pack of lame-ass Marlboro Reds from his jacket pocket. Not a fresh pack either, judging by the worn paint along the corners and the softened cardboard from repeated use. He taps the top absentmindedly with his index finger. Like a clock ticking. It looks so small in his hands.
“You can smoke, don’t worry, I’m totally cool-”
The ease with which he flips the pack open using only his thumb makes it so obvious he’s been a smoker for a very long time.
“God, I wish…” He tilts the box toward you with a laugh. There are no cigarettes inside, just a nearly finished stash of nicotine gum.
The vein running along his hand flexes with the effort of his much larger thumb pushing one piece free from the foil. Every trick in the book to fool his brain into thinking it’s still getting what it wants, apparently. Coming outside to chew them probably helps too. Easier to satisfy the ritual without other people noticing the weakness attached to it.
Except he keeps choosing to let you see it every single time he gets the chance.
And he’s right - there’s still something uncanny about watching someone as tightly controlled as Aaron Hotchner reduced to bargaining with himself that makes it impossible to stop staring at him. There’s something so ineffable in the way his features seem to rise toward the idea of Beauty itself when he lets the restraint slip for even a second.
You’re going to miss this too.
You swallow and tighten your grip around his mug, clinging to the warmth of it more than anything else. “Would you sign my references for internships? I know I’m not getting the spot here, so… probably better to try my luck somewhere else.”
“You’re not doing your internship with the BAU?” Genuine surprise slips into his voice. “You can get fieldwork even during your first year as an office agent. It’s not nearly as paperwork-heavy as people think-”
“Honestly, I don’t know if I can after this one,” you cut him off, instinctively placing your hand over his fingers to stop him.
His head lowers at the contact. Slowly and uncertainly, he parts his fingers until his ring finger hooks clumsily over your hand. His thumb brushes softly along the side of it, ever so tenderly.
“You keep proving to me every day why I couldn’t have made a better choice picking your file for the course,” he says, gently. “More than I even expected.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Gideon lets me select one trainee every year,” he smiles. Why is he so handsome? “I’m the one who reads the applications, afterall.”
“Really?” Oh no. Oh, fucking shit. Why is that so embarrassing?
He nods. “I still remember your CODIS section. You wrote about expanding DNA indexing to include deceased offenders whenever possible in order to identify links to unsolved homicides. You argued that even decades later, families still deserve the chance for closure.”
“That part was barely even about behavioral science,” you mutter weakly. Your whole face feels hot in the uniquely violating way it probably would if he’d somehow gotten access to your diary from when you were twelve.
“And that’s exactly why it stood out to me,” he says, still caressing the side of your hand. “Most people can talk about behavioral science. But usually when someone mentions CODIS, they only focus on the scientific value of it. You were thinking about what it meant for the families afterward. So I hope you believe me when I tell you that you already have everything we need. And I’m not saying that because you and I- because we-”
His eyes drop to your joined hands. He shakes his head once with a disbelieving chuckle, but he still doesn’t let go.
“I, uh- yeah,” you mumble. “I got it.”
You watch color immediately rise across his cheeks, bright pink climbing all the way up to his ears.
“Besides-” he clears his throat, “Gideon just got called onto a bombing case in Boston. That’s why we’re leaving.”
“You’re not going with him?”
“He asked me to stay behind and coordinate while he’s gone. He said it could take a couple of weeks… which technically leaves us one extra agent short.”
Then, before you can fully process what’s happening, he leans down and presses a quick kiss against the side of your head as he rises to his feet.
“I expect your internship curriculum on my desk by the time we’re back in Quantico,” he says. “And don’t forget my notes.”
The grin he gives you afterward looks so unexpectedly boyish that you consider the logistical feasibility of biting him. (Respectfully.)
“Can I keep your flashcards for another week?” you ask. “I still can’t get the legal section into my head.”
“Five days. And I can help you go through it on the drive back.”
Oh. The drive back.You don’t think you’ve ever been this happy about the prospect of getting into a car with Agent Hotchner.
“I hope your excitement is for the tutoring,” he deadpans, stepping backward toward the precinct doors, “because if it’s for anything else, I believe you’d be very disappointed.”
He’s right.
You do need tutoring from him, because you still have absolutely no idea how to legally interpret the wink he gives you before disappearing back inside.
Maybe change into your nicer pair of panties this time. You know. As a precautionary measure.
SUPER GIGA MEGA HUGE BIGGEST thanks to my beloveds @hotchology and @sweetheartsocks for helping me and putting up with my wips throughout this journey... I tried to be as secretive as possible and not spoil too much, but I believe you’ve already read 80% of the fic... sorry, my loves
If you want to know more about the real case that inspired this fic, I strongly recommend reading this incredibly detailed wiki article (it’s also where I got the maps from!)
Okay I am so sorry that I am so late, this took me d a y s to read because of my work schedule. Now it is after three in the morning of day four(?) and I just finally finished it.
Phi, there will never be words accurate enough for me to praise your writing and how excellently you characterize Hotch. Literal goosebumps, I swear. This is an unbelievably wonderful blend of comedic timing and serious, story-driven exposition??? Holy shit??
Like…girl, this is literally over twenty eight thousand words AND A CASEFIC?!?! It’s full of all the criminal mindsey goodness that a regular episode has WITH the added bonus of it being YOUR WRITING !! I am in my GLEE !!
So. Yeah. Hotch is hotch and Phi is phantastic (that was so lame but I don’t care)
as requested, the reader has she/her pronouns in this one! <3
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The war felt like it had gone on forever. You'd been stationed here since god knows when, and every time there seemed to be some light at the end of the tunnel, it was thrown back tenfold by one thing or another. War was hell for everyone involved. As a doctor, it was even worse.
You were the only female doctor stationed at the 4077th MASH unit in Korea. In itself, that had been hard enough. Being taken seriously was a task, though you had quickly earned the respect fo your colleagues after some very long nights producing nothing but miracle works alongside your fellow doctors. In particular, Doctors Pierce and Hunnicutt took right to you.
Hawkeye and BJ were the only things keeping you sane in this war. Long shifts to the point of exhaustion had always ended in a comforting round of drinks in the swamp, or if they were feeling fancy, Rosie's bar. There, laughter and tales ensued until you all couldn't keep your eyes open. One night in particular, you'd fallen asleep on Hawkeye's shoulder, and all you remembered was him carrying you back to your tent, trying not to disturb you.
Pierce always was sweet on you. You brushed it off of course, knowing that he was sweet on everyone in this camp, especially the women. Every other night he was trying to sweet talk his way into their tents, with differing levels of success. This was one of the reasons you avoided your own feelings for the doctor. It had taken a while, manifesting slowly, but as quick as you could blink all of those emotions had hit you at once.
You were sure you loved Hawkeye, and after a small talk with BJ, you knew. Knowing you couldn't tell Hawkeye straight, you settled for just enjoying being around him. The fleeting touches, the way he would hold you when you two were laughing, the way he took the time to listen to you. There were so many things Hawkeye did that made your love for him fester. Slow dancing in the dark, those vulnerable moments he had with you where you held him as he cried, the times he would brush your hair and get you through the bad mental health days.
You were each other rocks, soulmates in every form.
"You know, you could just tell him," BJ had suggested one day, as you both sat at in the swamp, enjoying a peaceful moment for a change. "Get it out of your system, because otherwise it's gonna carry on eating at you, and that's not healthy."
"And how do you suppose I tell him, Beej? You think I just blurt out that I love him and give him a heart attack, or do I draw it out so it can kill him slowly instead?"
BJ laughed at your analogy, though he knew your question was rooted in doubt.
"Look, all I'm saying is it might be better for you, Doc. Maybe it'll alleviate some of your stress, too."
"I wish it was that simple, but I can't just tell him straight, you know?"
As you finished your sentence, the door swung open and Hawkeye sauntered in, leaning in front of your chair and resting his hands on either side of it, almost caging you in.
"Tell me what?" he inquired, assuming correctly that the conversation was about him.
"That I think you're really bad at darts," you replied, though it came out more like a question.
Darting you eyes over to BJ as you gave your panicked response, he smiled and shook his head, mouthing the word 'smooth' at you before sipping on his drink.
"Bad at darts?" Hawkeye began, in his fake macho voice. "I have never been so offended before, by such a pretty maiden. I challenge thee to a duel at dawn!"
As you giggled at his antics, he leaned back down and sat on the bed next to your chair, his leg bumping your own and staying in close proximity.
"And by duel at dawn, I mean I'll crush you in a game of darts the next time we're at the bar, princess."
You raised your brow. "I accept, and I am so going to beat your ass!"
The days couldn't go by quick enough, most of them seemed to drag on. It had been unusually quiet in the camp, with very few casualties coming in. It gave everyone some down time, some very well earned relaxation. You mostly hung with the boys, or took to some reading in the fields under a tree. It was away from people, quiet and reserved.
"Lovely day, you've picked a great spot," came a voice, breaking through the peace. Looking up, you already knew who it belonged to.
"How'd you find me out here, Hawk?" you asked, a smile on your face. You weren't mad he was here, it could have been someone much worse.
"I knew you come here to read sometimes, so I figured with the nice weather that you would want to be alone for a bit." Hawkeye shrugged and sat next to you.
"If you think I want to be alone, why have you come here?"
Hawkeye's face grew a little sullen, before he answered quietly, just loud enough for you to hear him.
"Because I can't stand being alone."
You sighed, not an exasperated one, but one of sadness. You hated seeing him so vulnerable, though you were grateful he was. You gave him a space to open up, and to let out all those thoughts and feelings he had, be them good or bad.
"Come here, Hawk," you beckoned him closer,
Hawkeye was laying down in front of you, his head on your stomach and body between your legs. He faced outwards towards the field, and you rested your arms around him for a moment. One hand ran through his black hair and the other held the book. You began to read aloud, just letting him rest with you. Hawkeye's hand lay on your calf, thumb rubbing gentle circles onto your skin. Occasionally, you would lean down and press a soft kiss into his hair, letting him know you were still there.
It felt like forever had gone by, but it had perhaps been an hour or so. You had given up reading by the end of that chapter, instead opting for a friendly cuddle with the doctor instead. You'd switched up positions, Hawkeye now leaning against the tree with you tucked into his side. One arm around your waist, the other holding your hand. There was nothing between you but honest feelings, and this was a different Hawkeye than you had ever seen before.
"Hey," his voice broke the silence. "Fancy that duel tonight at the bar?"
You looked up with sparkling eyes. "What a perfect way to finish a good day off, with beating you at a game of darts, my good sir."
Hawkeye just laughed along, no real sarcastic quip back at you.
"That's great, me and BJ will pick you up at your tent at say, seven?"
Nodding, you gave his hand a small squeeze. "I can't wait."
That seven o'clock meeting never came.
Instead, an accidental shelling of the camp had taken its place an hour prior, whilst everyone was getting ready for their respective evenings. The camp was chaos, and the doctors were in their whites and ready to operate. Not how anyone's plans wanted to go, but this was the war for you. Unexpected, callous and vicious.
Triage had started and Hawkeye was through two patients, highly focused on his work and moving like clockwork with Margaret at his side. Without taking his eyes off his patient, Hawkeye called out to BJ at the table behind him.
"We're missing a doctor, Beej. You know why she isn't here yet? I didn't see her with the injured."
BJ took a second to respond, closing up a stitch. Taking a breath in, he looked down at his table before answering Hawkeye.
"I don't know, maybe she's already at the bar waiting for us."
Hawkeye didn't reply, but took it as a hopeful sign. It allowed something in him to relax, knowing that you were safe. Nobody else did this to him, nobody made him feel this way. He hadn't worried about someone so much in his entire life.
The hum of the operating room rang, the only chatter really was the doctors asking for tools and the sorting of paperwork and scans. It was heavy with focus in the air, and BJ called for his next patient.
Klinger and Father Mulcahy brought BJ his new patient, and his eyes widened as the nurse beside him changed his gloves.
There you were, bloody and battered with a wound in your side. It looked pretty bad, but not as bad as some he had seen today. Frozen, he looked you in the eye as you stared up at him with a smile. Nodding, you let him know you were okay, before turning your head to the left and looking at the back of Hawkeye. Biting your bottom lip, you turned your attention back to BJ and shook your head.
BJ knew what you meant, nodding himself in acknowledgement. He knew you meant not to tell him, because if Hawkeye knew you were here on the operating table, he would lose it. You were put under, and BJ worked fast and relentlessly on your wound to get you out before his friend turned round.
Luckily, it was a success, and not long after, the casualties were done. Everyone was fixed up and the doctors were given time to rest. BJ made the rounds with his clipboard, checking everyone in each ward, when Hawkeye came up to him looking frazzled.
"You okay, Hawk?" BJ asked, ticking off on his sheets as he went.
"I can't find her anywhere, Beej. She's not in her tent, she isn't in ours and she isn't at the bar. You don't think she's.."
"No," he interrupted, before Hawkeye sent himself into a spiral with his own thoughts. "Come here."
BJ brought Hawkeye into the back room, filled with far less patients. There were only four people in this one, and as Hawkeye scanned the room, he saw you there at the end. You were fast asleep, looking angelic. Your hair spread over your shoulders, framing your face that was so relaxed and soft. Peacefully, you lay, and Hawkeye all but ran to your side. Pulling up a chair, he was cautious to keep his voice down despite his panic, taking your hand in his own.
"When did she get here, I didn't see her? I could-"
"I operated on her just fine, Hawk. Klinger and the Padre brought her in whilst you were working on that young kid, I didn't want you to worry or panic so I handled it. Nobody wants to work on those they care about, so I did it for you."
Without taking his eyes off you, Hawkeye nodded and looked up at his friend.
"Thank you," his voice was low. "Really, thanks. I appreciate you, Beej."
The young doctor smiled, giving Hawkeye a pat on the shoulder in support. "No need to thank me. You would have done the same if that was Peg."
"You know," Hawkeye started, looking over to you and brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "Until I thought I'd lost her, I didn't realise how much I love her. Beej, I can't even explain the fear I felt when she didn't walk through those doors. I don't think I could live without her. I love her."
Kneeling next to Hawkeye, BJ checked your clipboard and hung it back, before turning to his friend and smiling.
"I know. I know you love her, Hawk. I'd wager a good bet she probably feels the same. Tell her some time, go for that darts game when she's feeling better and tell her."
It was a week before you were back on your feet and ready to go, and thankfully it hadn't been too busy in terms of casualties. Since the shelling, the camp was once again fairly stable, and you had been recovering really well. You could move, walk and tie your shoes again, but the boys had helped you most of the way.
Hawkeye hadn't left your side, and when you woke he was the first face you saw. You knew nothing of what he had confessed to BJ either, but he had told you how relieved and happy he was you were alive. Telling him the same, Hawkeye hung around you most days, changing your bandages and making sure you were eating and hydrating all the same.
"So," you asked him one day, pulling him from his writing for a moment. "You want to go for that darts game now? Preferably without a bomb this time."
Hawkeye looked up and laughed. "Well, nice to see your sense of humour wasn't damaged. I'd love to, that would be nice actually."
You turned to BJ with a beaming smile, asking him the same question. BJ looked over to Hawkeye for a second, before placing his newspaper down and taking a sip of his drink. Then, he smiled and shook his head.
"Ahh, not tonight. Think I'm going to get an early night or something, read some more of my book and write home. You two kids go on ahead, though. I'll beat the pair of you another day."
Disappointed a little but still happy to spend some time with Hawkeye, you nodded at him and stood, hand on the door with your head turned back to him. "See you in about an hour hours at the bar? I just need enough time to shower and change."
"Sounds good," Hawkeye replied. "Can I come with you?"
You choked out a laugh, answering him before closing the door.
"Rude!"
An hour had passed and you were in your tent ready to go. You had done your hair up nice, put some make up on and your favourite outfit. It was the most human you had felt in so long. The war had afforded you few luxuries, just like everyone else, but you made do with what you could and you hadn't done a bad job. You felt pretty for the first time in a week, and it felt good. You made your way to the bar in wait for Hawkeye.
It was really quiet for once, you had expected more people to be in for a late drink. Instead, it seemed there was only a few people at select tables. Sitting at the bar, you didn't have to wait long before Hawkeye made his entrance.
Scanning the room, the dark haired man looked for you and when his eyes met you at the bar, he just stood still. You were yet to see him, your body mostly turned into the bar, but he could see you from the side and you looked incredible. He had never seen you dressed so nice, and the way your hair looked and your face lit up in the light made you look like a priceless painting. Willing his legs to move, he made his way to you.
"Evening," his voice rang, and you turned fully to face him. "Well, might I say you look absolutely beautiful tonight. Really, you look stunning."
Blushing, you took him in yourself. He was dressed much smarter than normal, in a proper suit instead of his usual Hawaiian shirt. He'd put in some effort, even styled his hair. Hawkeye was always handsome to you, but this was something else.
"You look handsome too, Hawk. Really smart I'd say. Dressed up awfully nice for someone about to lose a game of darts."
He laughed at your quip, but waved it off. "How about we forget that game tonight and gang up on BJ and beat him next week. Tonight, let's focus on us."
Leading you to a table, he placed a kiss on your forehead and headed to the bar to order some drinks. Over those drinks, you laughed and joked and told each other stories about growing up and shenanigans from each of your lives. You felt like you knew him so much more, you finally got to know Benjamin. Hawkeye was fun and loud and silly, but tonight it felt like you heard all about Ben instead.
Hawkeye felt the same. He had heard so many tales about your life that he could write them all into a book. He took everything in, desperate to know as much as he could about the woman he loved. Your favourite colour, what your favourite food is, how you like to relax. What you were like growing up before the war, he wanted to know it all.
The night went on with chatter, and it hadn't gotten much busier than since you came in. Hawkeye took your hand in his own, thumb stroking the top gently as he looked into your eyes.
"Hey," he started. "Hey, about last week. I have something I want to tell you."
You sat up, a little worried. "Am I dying, Hawk? I am a doctor, I think I would have noticed."
Hawkeye chuckled, shaking his head. "No, but if you interrupt me here I might just kill you myself."
Feigning offence, you nodded with a smile and let him continue.
"When I saw you in that bed, and Beej told me he had to operate on you, I was so relieved. I know BJ is a great doctor and you were safe with him, but I was so scared I'd lost you. I didn't even know you needed surgery until he brought me in to see you after the night was done. Since the shelling, I was scared you were dead."
"Hey," you comforted him, seeing a small tear fall from his eye. He only cried in bad situations, when the stress got too much. Wiping it away, you held his face. "It's okay, I'm here. It's over now."
"I know that, but I can't stop thinking about it. If Beej wasn't here, would I have lost you? I can't live without you now, you know? You've become my rock, and I live every day with the knowledge that at least you're in my life and that makes all of this okay. You make the war easier to handle. Without you, I don't know what I would do."
You just let him get it all out, keeping his face held in your palm. Hawkeye's eyes met yours again, glistening and his face full of honesty. Far from the joking man he was twenty minutes ago, he was serious.
"You wanna dance?" you asked, standing and holding your hand out as the music took a slow turn. Before he could think properly, his own hand found its way into yours and you were on the dance floor. Hawkeye's arms wrapped around your waist, his slender arms keeping you close. You could feel his fingers brush against your skin as your arms rested on his shoulders. Your eyes met, and for the first time in so long, you both felt completely content.
Hawkeye took a breath in, his gaze not straying from your own.
"I love you."
Your heart fluttered. Never did you think you would hear those words from him. Your face broke into a smile, tears forming in your eyes as much as his. Taking his face into both of your hands, you placed your foreheads together as Hawkeye's kept his arms around your middle.
Before he could protest, or pretend he didn't say it, you chimed back.
"I love you too, Hawkeye."
You pulled back to look at him, and his eyes darted from your own to your lips, asking permission to kiss you. You leaned in and he closed the gap, finally letting out every built up emotion between you. The kiss was so gentle and soft, but held so much passion behind it. His hands wrapped themselves in your hair, your own coming to rest at the nape of his neck.
After what had felt like an eternity, you pulled back to look at him. The tears were gone, and he looked at you with wonder. He looked at you like you were the only woman who mattered to him, the only one who even existed. He looked at you with so much love and care, and straight up adoration.
"I am the luckiest man in Korea right now," he whispered, pulling you in for another short kiss.
"Luckier than Radar will be if he comes in tonight, that's for sure," you replied with a cheeky grin.
"What?" the doctor asked, and you nodded your head over to the bar.
"They're out of grape nehi."
Bursting into laughter, you moved closer and held the doctor in your arms, basking in each others company and allowing yourselves to be loved.
You were soulmates, and you were meant to be together. No amount of war was ever going to rob you of your love.
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Summary: Hawkeye is finally coming home to Crabapple Cove, and he’s intrigued to meet you, the person his father has mentioned in his latest letter.
Word Count: 1,004
Warnings: Fem!Reader (couldn’t keep this one entirely gender neutral, sorry)
Home at last, and with some reading material to boot. Mail call came just before the announcement that the Korean Conflict had ended. Hawkeye didn’t care about the technicalities of how nor exactly when it had all happened. All he knew was that it meant he’d be headed back for Crabapple Cove with his father's latest letter in his hand. It was dated one month back, and Hawkeye frowned. It was never usually so late. Must have gotten lost for a time. His only worry was that of his father not having heard from him in that length of time. But he’d be home to remedy that soon enough. He ripped the envelope open and began to read.
Dear Hawkeye,
Since the last time I wrote you, a young woman has moved into town. She fits right into our little cove. I think you’d like her. She’s got your wit and she’s pretty easy on the eyes too. She comes in and checks in on me every once in a while. Whenever you get home, I’d like you to meet her. Sorry to keep this one so short, but I look forward to hearing back from you as always.
Love, Dad
The letter was the only thing he’d talk about on the flight back home. It drove anyone within earshot nuts. Who was this woman? What was she doing spending so much time with his father? These were only a couple of the questions Hawkeye posed to his rather lackadaisical captive audience, both of which remained unanswered, by the people on the plane, and himself.
Despite needing a good rest, the conundrum of you, this mysterious newcomer to his hometown, plagued him so that sleep evaded him. He was running on fumes when he inevitably had to switch planes to make the last leg back to Maine. It was on that connecting flight that he finally got a bit of shut eye.
Yet even Hawkeye's unconscious state didn’t prevent you from creeping into his dreams. Knowing so little about you, his mind couldn’t form a solid picture, your appearance changing every time he looked at you in his dreams. First you were a busty redhead, then a plump blonde, and finally a tall, statuesque looking brunette, and somehow he was sure all of them were wrong. His father didn’t paint the most descriptive picture after all.
Somewhat refreshed after his rest, but no less perplexed about you, Hawkeye was back in Maine. It felt surreal. Impossible even. But he was home. He’d been shuttled by several kind strangers from the bigger city to his cozy little Crabapple Cove, not having had time nor thought to arrange being picked up at the airport. His childhood home, at once familiar and foreign, stood before him. A perfect little slice of the American northeast.
As he approached the door, he heard a woman's voice. It wasn’t one he recognized, so you —the woman from his father's all too perplexing letter— had to be the source. He put his hand on the doorknob and though he suspected it would be unlocked, it almost felt as if he were breaking and entering, so he knocked instead.
The blessed sight of his father's face when the door opened was enough to bring Hawkeye to tears. It felt like decades since he’d seen his father's smile in person. They shared a good cry and some equally good laughs standing there at the door and finally, Hawkeye was ushered inside.
You first laid eyes on the tall, lanky man, prematurely graying, no doubt from the stress of being a doctor in a war zone. Yet the emotions held in his eyes made you think of him as kind, warm, and loving despite it all. You’d of course heard as much from his father, but you left it to yourself to make your own judgment, seeing how the old man might be a bit biased towards his pride and joy. But from first impressions, it seemed he hadn’t been exaggerating when referring to his son's good points.
You were introduced shortly after Hawkeye was brought inside. You could tell he was surprised to find you there. As he’d concluded, you weren’t anything how he pictured, but he didn’t find himself disappointed. Besides, your care for his father in his absence lifted his image of you so high that you could look like an orangutan and he’d still find you beautiful. Not that looks we’re as important to him as they had once been. Now he valued a good laugh and conversation much more than just a pretty face.
His father had been right about one thing, you did fit right in. And not just to the small community of Crabapple Cove, but you fit into his family as if you’d always been there. He’d never seen his father get on so well with anyone like he did with you. You were practically a daughter to him already, even after such a short time. Hawkeye had to admit he was impressed by that. Really, everything about you had impressed him.
"So, will we be seeing more of you," Hawkeye asked as your visit drew to a close and you got up to leave.
You smiled and it was a smile that make Hawkeye feel weak in the knees, though maybe it had been all the cramped seats on the ride home, he tried to reason with himself. "I'll be around," you answered noncommittally, waiting for Hawkeye to ask to see you again. You knew you wanted to see him.
"I’m going to need a better answer than that," he teased.
"Then ask a better question." Your polite smile changed into a more teasing sort of grin, and if Hawkeye believed he was capable of falling in love that fast, he would have pinned it to that very moment.
"Alright then," he replied. "How about you come back for dinner? It’s been too long since I’ve had food that’s edible. I’ll cook."
genre : smut with feelings, established relationship, riding gideon's thigh, gideon has a big [redacted]
summary : Sunlight drifts through Gideon's cabin, brushing the edges of a tender love. Between the rustle of pages and the whisper of leaves, hearts linger close, learning the gentle rhythm of each other. Moments fold softly into one another, like birds settling into their nests, fragile and warm.
notes : honestly, i feel kind of nervous about this one, im not entirely sure why lol. take a shot any time you see the words ‘warm brown eyes’ on this blog (alcohol is bad for your health!). most most moooooost special thanks to the lovely @ssa-dado!! <33
word count : 2.7k
Sunlight caresses the leaves of a tree. It's beautiful and yet strangely sad.
Some of the rays reach you through the cabin's window.
A bird sits on one of the branches. You're not sure what kind of bird. Jason always says that the first thing you should focus on is the silhouette.
The bird flies away before you can ask him. The sun gently brushes his skin. His ring shines lightly.
You like hearing him say bird names. He smiles softly whenever he tells you.
Sometimes, the names are a bit… funny. But he never acknowledges it. He says "that one is a Great Tit" or "no, darling this one is a Woodcock" like it doesn't sound like anything naughty. You wonder why so many birds ended up with such peculiar names. Maybe it's actually hornithology.
He turns the page of his book. The light slips through his lashes like it does with the leaves outside. It does something to your heart. A terrible sort of fondness.
His eyes look impossibly gentle like this. Warm brown like the bark of a tree. You like to imagine at times that the two of you are like two leaves growing side by side.
You're not really reading your book. Jason gave it to you. It's a play about love. Trelawny of the Wells. It's not that you don't like it. You'd just rather try reading him.
The lines of his face. The creases in his shirt. The gray streaks in his hair.
He's absentmindedly running his hand up and down your calves. His glasses slowly fall down his nose. You lean forward to push them back up for him. He smiles at you. And presses a gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist.
There's a little indent on your skin from the metal frame. It fades quickly, but you can't help but wonder if with time, it ever might not.
You trace the ribs of the couch's corduroy.
Jason's cabin is a Great Chaos. Books sort of branch out everywhere. Stacked, leaning, some of them open at odd pages. A framed print of a bridge hangs slightly crooked on the wall. A gray tapestry above it. Some of the threads brush down on the edge of the wooden frame.
A small coffee table. One lone brown chair.
And surprisingly, lamps. Tall ones, small ones, some with shades slightly askew. Too many perhaps.
Like he can't bear to not see everything clearly.
You think of his cabin as a Guide to Gideonology. You don't understand all of it yet. Like a bird perched just long enough for you to recognize its silhouette. A thought paused here, a memory placed there. And even if he doesn't always tell you what it means, he lets you read everything.
"You're not reading," he says. His lips pursed. His brows drawn together. It looks like a frown but you know it isn't one — just quiet curiosity.
"I'm distracted."
He laughs affectionately. He looks very sweet like this. The way his face wrinkles with mirth.
"What's distracting you darling?"
The lines on his face remind you of the rings of a tree.
"You are."
He pinches your calf lightly and shakes his head at you.
You've come to learn that he gets quite bashful at this sort of thing.
"How am I distracting you?"
"You're handsome," you tell him as you lean forward again.
You gently kiss his cheek. He lifts his hand to caress the top of your head. His fingers feel warm in your hair.
You take the book from his hands. Place the bookmark you gave him in between the pages.
Jason often leaves his books facing down, or folds the corners. As if properly closing it would sever the branches between his mind and the paper.
A breeze whispers between the leaves outside. Your knee brushes against his thigh. He tenderly runs his knuckles on your cheek.
He leans back against the couch, for you to settle on his lap.
The corduroy creases behind him. He puts down his glasses on top of his book. They always leave a little red line on the bridge of his nose.
"What do you think of the play?" he asks.
His hand carefully rests on your lower back. Bringing you a bit closer to him.
"I'm not sure," you say pensively. "It's sadder than I expected."
You play with the collar of his shirt. Pull at the fine white threads sown into a button.
"I thought you might say that."
"Why do you like it?"
Your finger slowly traces the lines of his neck. He cups the side of your face and deliberately tilts it towards his. He kisses you softly. His lips firm but tender. A little chapped.
He rests his forehead against yours.
"Finish the book first."
You pout at him. He chuckles lowly. You feel it against your mouth.
He places another chaste peck to your lips.
"Can't you tell me now?"
He lovingly smoothes down a few strands of your hair.
"It's yours to read," he tells you.
You're not sure what he means.
You think sometimes that he's quietly distant. Not rejection, but a certain restraint. Jason is steady, almost stubbornly so. Like he doesn't want to turn the pages for you. So that you can find things on your own, and get closer to him… gently. The way seasons change the colors of a tree.
"Take your time. I won't be going anywhere," he adds.
You look at him for a moment. Crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. Fleeting red on the bridge of his nose.
Your lips brush against his. He runs his thumb over your lips before he kisses you again.
And again.
And again.
His arms tightly wrapped around you.
You can't think of anything else besides him. How warm he feels. How he smells a bit like wood and a bit like laundry. How his tongue softly brushes yours.
You feel him smile against your lips when you let out a quiet moan. He pulls back just enough to breathe you in. Your lips ache.
He kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the line of your jaw.
Your fingers curl into his shirt.
He says your name softly. Barely a whisper brushing against your ear.
One of his hands settles firmly on your lower back. His thumb tracing circles over the fabric of your shirt.
His eyes on yours, he guides you to straddle one of his thighs.
You feel the fabric of his pants between your legs. He presses you against him.
You kiss him just as he starts carefully helping you rock back and forth. Letting you find your rhythm on your own but encouraging you in his way. His other hand rests on your thigh, lightly caressing your skin.
You can't help but think of how broad he is, with each roll of your hips against him. How solid he feels beneath your hands. He is… sturdy.
You press your forehead where his neck meets his shoulder. Your breathing coming out in soft pants. It makes the hairs on his chest rustle.
You can feel the couch's corduroy under your knees. His thigh flexes for a moment. Giving you more friction as your clit drags against the raised muscle.
The cotton of your panties sticks to your skin.
"Jason," you moan.
"That's it, doll," he praises quietly before pressing a kiss to your hair.
You grind down on his thigh with a little more pressure. Pepper a few kisses along his neck. Let your teeth graze his collarbone. You'd like to etch yourself into his skin. The way lovers carve their initials into the wood.
He pinches your chin between his fingers and gently kisses you. His arm tightens around your waist. His watch presses against your back.
He drags you up and down his thigh with more insistence.
"Does it feel good?"
He's looking at you so tenderly it makes your cheeks warm.
You nod as you pull him back to you. Your arms wrap around him. You play with the short hairs at the back of his neck.
He takes a small breath when you bite his lip. Bounces his thigh a few times. The sudden jolts cause a couple of surprised moans to escape you. He discreetly smiles.
"Don't tease," you pout.
He laughs and shakes his head with a muffled laugh. "I wouldn't."
You quirk a doubtful eyebrow at him.
"I promise," he reassures you with a small kiss to the tip of your nose.
You leisurely grind your hips. Each drag of your clit against him makes the pleasure build up.
It's a bit overwhelming.
You don't think anything about Jason could be that way, not intentionally. It's just that even he can sometimes forget to hold back. You like to think that it's tenderness that escapes him.
His fingers press into your thigh, feeling every little tremble. Your hips begin to stutter as you feel yourself gently getting closer. Your consistent rocking growing more erratic.
"You're making a mess doll," he murmurs. You wonder if there's a damp spot on his pants from how desperately you're rubbing yourself on him.
You feel your thighs trembling, throbbing between you and the solid, steady muscle pressing up in response.
You needily whimper his name one last time as you let go. He uses his grip on your waist to rock you a little further to let you ride it out.
You feel his lips on your forehead. Under your eyes. On your cheeks.
"You did so well for me," he whispers.
His hand slips underneath your shirt to help you take it off. You feel his warmth on your back. The ridges of his ring. It tickles.
You unbutton his shirt. You think you pulled on the threads a bit too much earlier because the first button threatens to fall when you undo it.
You stare at his chest. Run your fingers over the hair covering it. There's a few silver streaks here too.
A little soft, a little strong. And entirely comforting when your palm presses into him.
The sun kisses his skin. Little patches of light that move when the branches do. A bird passes by the window.
You lean in, letting your lips follow the path of light across his skin.
His head falls back against the couch and you can see his throat move when he swallows.
You let your hand drift to his belt. The leather feels weathered, like bark rubbed smooth by time and touch.
You take out his cock.
Even if it isn't necessarily the longest, Jason has the prettiest, fattest cock. It's thick (almost too thick), veiny, with a slight curve, feels heavy in your hand.
In your hornithology guide, it would deserve its own page. You're not quite sure on the name though. Gideonian Cock-of-the-Rock. Or maybe Jason's Dickcissel.
He probably wouldn't find any of those funny.
You stroke him languidly a few times as you lick the column of his throat.
He pushes your soaked panties to the side. His fingers circle your clit a few times before moving down. He pumps them in and out, stretching you. You can hear his palm sloppily hitting your skin, even if it's partly muffled by the cotton.
He takes his fingers out and pushes them into your mouth.
You suck on the digits, running your tongue over his knuckles, tasting yourself on his skin.
He groans and pulls you into an open-mouthed kiss. His tongue tangling with yours messily. You feel his chest raising raggedly against yours.
When he pulls back, a thin, glistening string of saliva bridges your parted lips.
He holds out his palm between you and rasps. "Spit."
You do as he says, eyes locked on his. He wraps his slicked fingers around his cock. Veins pulsing under the makeshift sheen. Stroking languidly from base to tip with a low groan.
It's always a stretch when he first starts pushing into you. He rubs and circles the head of his cock between the wet folds of your pussy.
You feel every inch filling you, clenching greedily around him. You feel so so full you don't think anything else could ever compare.
He eases up when you start scratching at his chest, your fingers digging into his biceps.
Somehow, you think the sound of your shaky moans and hitched breaths only make his cock stiffen even more. He tries to distract you from the stretch. Running his hand up and down your side. Kissing your scrunched up nose.
He nudges your knees apart a bit more, and buries himself inside you in one smooth stroke.
You're clinging to him. Nails carving his skin. You can feel every ridge, every pulse of his thick cock inside you.
It's a lot for him too. You can tell from his breathless moans. From his furrowed brows. From the way his hand almost trembles on your back.
"Fuck," he groans.
It almost feels wrong, hearing him curse. Even he looks a bit surprised by it. As if you've pulled something unguarded out of him.
"What are you doing to me darling?" he wonders out loud.
He lets you adjust to him. You're desperate for him to move.
"Please," you whine.
He waits for another moment. Maybe to let himself adjust.
His breath hot against your neck. He starts with measured thrusts. Hips bucking up into you, slow and deep. Dragging every inch with deliberate control.
But you do feel a faint strain in his breath, a subtle hitch as he paces himself. It reminds you that the years aren't only written in the lines of his face.
His hand wraps lightly around your neck, fingers threading into your hair as he draws you down for a kiss. His pace falters just a bit. Fingers trailing drown your neck to your chest. The ridges trace your skin like the gentle grain of wood.
His palm flattens over your lower belly, pressing with deliberate pressure.
It's too much.
You grab his wrist with a whimper, in instinctive protest.
"Let me, doll. It'll feel good," he says.
You hesitate for a moment. Fingers tight on his wrist. His touch making his cock feel impossibly deeper. Impossibly thicker. You give him a small nod.
He picks up his tempo just enough. His hand on your belly intensifies every clench around him. Sweat gleams on his furrowed brows. A drop slides down his nose and falls where the two of you meet.
The coil in your stomach is so tight it's almost painful.
"I need you — please," you moan desperately.
"You have me my sweet darling," he shushes you.
He fucks into you until you're all but a trembling mess in his lap.
Your entire body goes rigid then starts instinctively writhing to try and ride out the waves of bliss coursing through you.
He grits his teeth, his eyes falling down to where his cock still pounds into you. A white circle around the base of it.
His hips stutter. Quiet moans spilling from his parted lips.
He pulls out urgently and guides you to your knees. Quickly stroking his cock. His fingers twist in your hair, gently tugging your head back.
"Open for me angel."
You open your mouth, eyes locked with his. Raw with desire. Hunger. And restraint. Still.
The head of his cock is flushed a deep red. His thigh tenses under your hand. He tightens his hold on your hair, pulling you to his cock.
He cums with a sharp inhale. Spilling down your throat. You do your best to swallow it all.
He guides you up gently as his chest heaves. Hairs sticking to his damp skin. Pulls you to his lap again, arms wrapping around you safely. Stroking your back, cradling your head against his shoulder. His lips press soft kisses to your temple.
"My girl," he whispers softly.
You hold his hand. Let your fingers run over his. Unconsciously perhaps, you linger on his ring.
He brings your hand to his face and places a chaste kiss to your knuckles.
"Please be patient with me," he tells you.
You give him a small smile. Joy perches within you like a bird settling in its nest.
"Okay," you say simply.
You turn your head to look at him. His cheeks are a little flushed.
4 times hotch acts like a father figure and the 1 time he most definitely does not.
bet u wanna meet the reader! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
pairing: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader
warnings: fem!reader, slow burn, age gap (reader is 20s, hotch is late 40s, iktr), dbf!hotch, power imbalance, boss/subordinate dynamic, mutual pining, daddy issues (reader... prob also hotch), fluff, hurt/comfort, touch starved reader, garcia sending dirty texts!!, reader having dirty thoughts!!, reader sending hotch a suggestive pic by accident whoops!!, they are sooooo down bad for each other
wc: 6.8k (shewww stfu already gurl)
1 THE NUCLEAR OPTION
Aaron Hotchner looks very, very out of place standing in your bedroom.
Not inappropriate. You want to be very clear about that. You are two fully grown adults with fully operational frontal lobes and a respectable understand of professional decorum.
There is nothing scandalous happening here beyond your own imagination, briefly supplying an image of him against your headboard before you swatted it away like a cat attempting to push a glass from a countertop.
It’s just… visually disorienting.
He’s all severity and slate-gray composure now in a room rendered in blush and cream and the kind of girlish optimism that suggests you refuse to let your job bleach the color out of you.
He doesn’t fit, to put it plainly. Not physically (the man has shoulders like a structural beam) and definitely not symbolically.
Despite this, he takes his time as he scans the space with a clinical neutrality that feels less like judgment per se and more like being positioned beneath an unforgiving forensic lamp, dusted for prints you didn’t realize you’d left behind.
Is he analyzing this? Is he building a psychological profile right now based on the chipped mug of pens beside your bed and the stuffed bear you can’t seem to get rid of? The half-burnt vanilla candle on your nightstand that, yes, you absolutely lit knowing he was coming — all of it suddenly looks childish.
Embarrassing. Juvenile.
This is how people die.
Not from shame, exactly, though that’s certainly trying its best, but from being comprehensively, devastatingly perceived by a man whose entire job is to see through facades.
He offered to wait by the door. Kindly. Considerably. With that quiet, unfussy courtesy that makes you sure, in the fullest sense of the word, he holds elevators open and always returns his shopping cart with solemn civic pride.
You should’ve let him. Really.
But no, instead of choosing the sensible option like someone who understands the boundaries of time, space, and self-preservation, you made a mistake. A fatal, irredeemable mistake.
You waved him in.
And now, instead of standing respectfully beside your umbrella stand and politely pretending that driving you to the airport isn’t already a favor beyond what his job requires, Aaron Hotchner is in your bedroom.
What did you offer in exchange for this selfless act of transportation? Not coffee or gas money. Oh, just full unfiltered access to the inner circle of your private life.
You shove another sweater into your suitcase.
“I promise I usually plan better than this,” you say, “but I got caught on a call with my landlord trying to determine whether my oven is gas or electric, which I apparently never clarified in three years of tenancy.”
You hesitate, already regretting the admission, because he is a man who knows the make and model of every government-issued vehicle he’s ever driven.
“In my defense,” you tack on quickly, “it functions. I press a button, it produces heat. We’ve maintained a very mutual, low-communication relationship.”
One of his eyebrow lifts, just enough to suggest that he has several thoughts and is choosing the kindest one.
“That’s the sort of thing you really should know,” he says, and there’s the faintest hint of dry humor threaded through the words, as if he’s allowing himself a single inch of amusement. “I can take a look when we get back.”
You let out a laugh that sounds suspiciously like nervous air leaking from a balloon you’ve been gripping too tightly.
“That’s — you don’t have to — you really don’t have to do that,” you rush out, tripping over your own politeness. “You are not responsible for my… appliance literacy. Or the alarming gaps within it.” You gesture helplessly at the room, at the half-packed suitcase. “You’re already doing so much. If I start assigning you household infrastructure, I’m pretty sure that qualifies as abuse of power.” You pause. “Not that I have any. Power, I mean. Very famously not in possession of that.”
He doesn’t bother disguising that same for of amusement this time that touches now his mouth.
“I’ve done worse favors.”
You squint at him.
“I feel like that says more about your life than it does about me.” You study him for a moment, then let your shoulders ease despite your best efforts. “Still. Thank you. I really do appreciate it.”
The words come out sincere, and for half a second the eye contact holds in a way that feels less professional and more… something else.
Which is your cue to flee into safer territory.
“Anyway, I am really excited about this conference. The keynote speaker is incredible. I’ve read three of her papers, and the case studies she’s presenting are the kind of things I used to read in grad school like they were campfire ghost stories.” You pause, reconsider. “More academic ghost stories. Less paranormal. Still pretty grim, though. Just… fascinating grim.”
He lets your excitement taper off unanswered, glancing down into your suitcase before lifting his eyes back to you.
“It’s going to be cold.”
You frown at derailment of the conversation. “...Yes?”
“You need a coat.”
“I have a coat,” you reply, pointing to the quilted white thing draped over your desk chair.
It has gold buttons. It is elegant. It is, admittedly, constructed with more outer-appearance than insulation.
“A real coat.”
“It is real,” you insist, because it exists, and you have worn it outside, and therefore it satisfies the basic criteria of outerwear under the laws of physics.
“You’ll freeze.”
You want to keep arguing.
You want to explain that the coat you chose is mostly warm, that it performs adequately under reasonable atmospheric conditions, that packing the bulky, government-issued tundra shield he likely considers appropriate would have required sacrificing something essential.
Like your backup flats, the only pair that doesn’t turn conference halls into endurance trials, or your travel straightener, which is less about aesthetics and more about appearing competent in harsh lighting.
But the look he gives you — so mild on the surface, so pointed beneath — drains the rebellion right out of your lungs.
Suddenly, it’s not about fashion or function. It’s about the existential need to not disappoint him.
You cannot afford to lose even a sliver of the regard he has chosen to extend to you.
You hoard his approval the way a crow gathers bright scraps of tin and glass, tucking them into the hollow spaces inside you, convinced that if you collect enough of it, it might one day harden into something sturdy enough to stand on.
So you sigh, equal parts petulance and submission, and turn back toward the closet in search of something thicker.
You sift through your wardrobe and grab a soft navy peacoat. You smooth your palm over the fabric as if presentation alone might improve its chances, then hold it up with the careful hesitation of someone submitting evidence to the court.
You don’t speak, but your eyes ask the question plainly: Is this acceptable? Does this restore confidence? Does this prove I can anticipate basic survival?
He studies it for no more than a second before the verdict arrives in the form of a single shake of his head.
You exhale slowly, already holding a small, private funeral for your pride, and reach into the back of the closet for the final option.
The nuclear choice.
The coat you swore would remain undisturbed unless meteorologists began using phrases like “artic blast” or “polar vortex.”
It’s fleece-lined. Excessively practical. It is also deeply, almost maliciously unattractive.
It swallows you whole, reduces your silhouette to an amorphous mass, and renders you less woman-on-business-trip and more sentient sleeping bag with ambition.
He nods, once. “Atta girl.”
You hate how effortlessly those two words melt down the structural integrity of your independence liquefying into dopamine-slush.
He’s an asshole, you decide.
Because you are entirely certain he knows what it does to you, how his approval lands like a controlled substance you never consented to trying, let alone craving.
Sometimes you suspect he enjoys it, just a little, watching you attempt to maintain dignity while your internal self is spinning barefoot through a field of daisies, drunk on validation.
You duck your head quickly, hiding the smile that threatens to surface, and shove the coat into your suitcase as if you can compress the feeling along with it.
“You always this stubborn?”
You wrinkle your nose.
“I prefer the word… determined,” you say, keeping your tone light, flippant even. Then you exhale. “But yes. Probably.”
“I don’t want you getting sick.”
You freeze for a second before looking at him. He’s already watching you with that stupidly hot expression that means something, but never tells you what.
Your throat tightens around something inconvenient. “Okay.”
He nods once, satisfied, like the matter has been properly resolved.
Then, almost as an afterthought, “Wear it on the plane.”
You huff a small breath through your nose.
“You’re surprisingly bossy for someone who isn’t technically supervising me right now.”
“Think of it as preventative strategy.”
You shake your head, but the smallest smile slips through despite yourself as you reach for the coat anyway. Because if his concern is the motive, then anything else suddenly feels… unnecessary.
And maybe a little unkind.
2 FORTY-TWO AND FORTY-THREE
The hotel is… not what you prepared for. You’d braced yourself for something sensible. Industrial carpet in a shade of brown that exists solely to forgive stains. The smell of disinfectant doing its honest, blue-collar best to mask a thousand anonymous overnights. Clean sheets, sure. Functional plumbing, ideally.
Maybe a little plant in the lobby that some waters too enthusiastically out of obligation rather than love.
Instead, there’s marble everywhere. Gold accents. Furniture that looks as though someone fluffs it between guests on a strict hourly rotation.
It’s almost funny, the budgetary whiplash between “active serial killer in rural nowhere” and “please observe our institutional excellence.”
Apparently, when the FBI wants to project competence, it does so in chandeliers and imported stone.
“Did you manage to sleep on the flight?” you ask, hoping it sounds completely normal coming from your overextended mouth.
Which you are, to set the record straight. Normal. Very normal. A model of composure. The very portrait of workplace appropriateness.
Not, for example, someone who, five minutes ago at the front desk, briefly entertained the likelihood of an overbooking error and the subsequent moral dilemma of one room, one bed, and a shared look of well, this is unfortunate.
You did not, under any circumstances, imagine saying something graceful like, “Oh, I don’t mind the couch,” while secretly hoping there wasn’t one.
You are a rational human being, after all.
If your thoughts briefly detoured into logistical fantasy, that is simply narrative conditioning from too many romance novels dog-earred on your nightstand teaching you that proximity plus tension equals destiny.
It is not a reflection of your character.
Probably.
Although the fact that your first instinct in a crisis is self-sacrifice for the sake of optics is… interesting. Something to unpack later. Preferably never.
“Enough,” he answers. “I wanted to make sure you did.”
Your pulse somersaults. You can’t figure out why.
“Oh. I did,” you assure him.
“Good.” He inclines his head slightly. “Long day tomorrow.”
“Right,” you nod. “Can’t have me falling asleep mid-panel and drooling on a nationally recognized criminologist. That would be deeply damaging to the Bureau’s image.”
You tuck your hands into your coat pockets, hiding the nervous flex of your fingers, and lengthen your stride to keep pace with him.
He manages to walk with such an unrushed confidence that somehow never looks like an effort, and you fall into step beside him like you’ve been trained to it.
The hallway stretches ahead in muted tones and hotel anonymity, the carpet thick enough to swallow the sharp click of your heels as though it understands the value of discretion.
“I’ve reviewed your grad work,” he says calmly. “You’re more likely to correct the panel than fall asleep during it.”
You freeze.
“You have?”
It comes out before you can moderate the enthusiasm.
Of course he has, you remind yourself quickly. He does not tolerate blind spots. You are an allocation of federal resources, and he is meticulous about ensuring his investments are strategically sound.
Still, the idea of him reading your thesis — your painstakingly footnoted, cross-referenced, over-edited labor of love — feels intimate in a way you hadn’t anticipated.
You remember the nights you folded yourself around your laptop, hair twisted up, rereading paragraphs until the words blurred, muttering about theoretical frameworks and definitional clarity like they were moral obligations.
You rewrote the introduction twelve times because it didn’t sound authoritative enough. You panicked over whether your sources were recent enough. Influential enough. Impressive enough.
Did he think it was disciplined? Did he see how hard you worked to make it unimpeachable? Did he notice where you rushed the methodology section because the deadline was breathing down your neck? Did he recognize the case study you were secretly proud of, the one you worried might read as ambition masquerading as competence?
“Yes.”
He looks at you, and for one breathless, precarious second you’re convinced he’s going to add something more. A descriptor. An evaluation. Something you could cradle later in private.
A word like “impressive,” perhaps. Or even “solid.”
You’d take solid. Solid is dependable. Solid can be examined from every angle at midnight while you’re brushing your teeth, replayed and replayed until it wears smooth.
But he offers nothing else. He simply holds your gaze, and the silence lengthens until it becomes reflective, until you can see yourself inside it.
The flicker of expectation you tried to mute, the hopeful tilt of your expression, the subtle widening that betrays how badly you wanted confirmation.
You’re suddenly hyperaware of how readable you must be, how clearly you hunger for the thing he chose not to give.
He looks away first and keeps walking, and you’re left wondering whether the silence is mercy, sparing you from overinvestment, or leverage, something he’ll deploy when it serves him best.
You quicken your pace regardless, because composure feels optional and you are, inconveniently, invested in every unsaid thing.
You close the gap between you more quickly than necessary, nearly brushing his shoulder when he stops in front of two identical doors.
Forty-two and forty-three.
Twin thresholds to separate, responsibly partitioned realities, as if a number on a plaque is enough to define distance.
“Any preferences?” you ask, gesturing between the rooms.
As if you aren’t very intune with the fact that whichever number you take situates him precisely one wall away, separated by drywall, wiring, and the thinnest possible illusion of propriety.
“Take this one,” he says, already extending the keycard. Forty-three.
“Okay,” you say instantly, because apparently your default setting when he gives you direction is cheerful compliance.
Pavlov would have had a field day.
You glance toward his door, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Should I be concerned you’re assigning yourself the superior territory? Is it the presidential suite? Hidden minibar advantage?”
He nearly smiles, but it never quite materializes.
“Yours faces the main corridor and the elevators. Mine faces the exterior exit.”
You blink at him, confused by the specificity.
“If something happens,” he continues, “I want you between both access points. That gives me visibility from either direction.”
“You’re planning for something?”
“I always plan for something.”
“I suppose that shouldn’t shock me.”
And it doesn’t, not really, because this is a man who could probably draft a contingency plan for a power outage in a room full of generators, who once paused outside a crime scene long enough to reroute you around a thin patch of ice you hadn’t seen, hand hovering near your elbow, just in case gravity decided to make an example of you.
Planning is his default state, his resting pulse, his love language if he had one he’d admit to.
But you’ve started noticing, and you wish you hadn’t, how the calculations seem to grow sharper when you’re involved, how his posture adjusts if you’re nearest to a door, how he subtly corrals space so you’re buffered from whatever could go wrong.
It’s probably subconscious. It has to be subconscious. You are not the axis around which his vigilance rotates. You are a member of the team. A junior one at that. This is leadership, not preference. Protocol, not protectiveness.
“No,” he agrees calmly. “It shouldn’t.”
You lift the keycard toward the reader, already angling yourself toward the door, but he moves a half-step ahead of you. His hand closes around the handle before yours can, body stepping between you.
You look up at him. “What are you doing?”
“Checking.”
He says it like the answer should have been self-evident, like you’re the one lagging behind for needing clarification, and then he’s stepping into your room before you are.
You watch as he moves through the space.
The deadbolt is tested. The chain latch examined. He leans in to inspect the peephole alignment, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes the doorframe, and you have the deeply inconvenient thought that this is what intimacy apparently looks like in your life — a man assessing sightlines and entry points.
His gaze tracks the ceiling corners next, scanning for blind spots. The bathroom door opens, lights flick on, the shower curtain is drawn back in one motion. Closet doors slide open and closed.
You hover near the entrance with your arms folded loosely, doing your absolute best impression of a person who is not secretly going, wow, okay, so this is what it looks like when a man is competent and terrifying and also, unfortunately, really, really attractive while doing the least romantic task imaginable.
You need to get a grip.
“It’s not exactly a cartel safehouse,” you offer.
“No,” he agrees evenly, checking the window latch. “But it’s still a point of vulnerability.”
He presses the window once more.
Satisfied with the resistance, he steps aside only then, as if you’ve been waiting for clearance.
“You can go in.”
You tilt your head. “Permission granted?”
“Recommendation,” he corrects.
“Right.”
He turns toward the hallway.
“Call me if you need me.”
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? You could call him for a hundred legitimate reasons. You could call him because the lock jams. Because the heater rattles. Because the hallway feels too quiet.
You could call him for none at all, just to hear his voice confirm that the wall between you is only drywall and not distance.
3 EFFICIENT ENERGY ALLOCATION
You know something is wrong the second you open your hotel door. Or, fine, not something. Someone. More specifically, him. Hotch.
There are two small lines gathering between his eyebrows, deepening incrementally the longer he looks at you, like he’s sketching blueprints for a cathedral of disapproval.
You know that look. You’ve built a secret mental archive of his face, categorized and cross-referenced with devotion, the way other people collect vintage wine or heirloom china.
This particular arrangement means he’s thinking too hard. Which is either excellent or catastrophic, and with him, the margin between those two things is gossamer-thin.
It’s a tell, though he would sooner walk into oncoming traffic than admit he has any.
And you would never correct him on it. You are not nearly foolish enough to forfeit your single, fragile advantage in this — whatever this is.
Because in the market of Hotch, he is always running four moves ahead on a chessboard you're still trying to locate.
And the longer he stares, the more your confidence begins to dissolve like sugar melting into coffee until you can’t even remember it once existed in defined, crystalline pieces.
Your body, traitor that it is, moves to compensate: spine straightening without permission, vertebrae aligning themselves one by one, chin tipping upward a fraction as though the geometry of good posture might function as armor.
Your hand finds your hair. Smooths it back over your shoulder. Corrects, with careful fingers, a flaw that was not there a moment ago. That would not exist at all, actually, if his eyes hadn’t passed over you and invented it.
“Is there a reason you’re looking at me like that,” you ask, attempting breezy and landing somewhere closer to ambitious intern pleading her case before a tribunal, “should I be concerned?”
He doesn’t answer right away and the silence manages to gather density. It pools in the corridor between you, thickening by the second, and you hold out for what feels like a respectable amount of time before your mouth makes a unilateral decision.
“Did something smudge? I knew I blinked weird during mascara and I made a judgment call that it was probably fine and I think we're both seeing how that turned out. This is what I get for rushing.”
For a second, something almost like disbelief crosses his features, there and gone, a brief constitutional crisis behind his eyes, as though he’s carefully sorting through his available responses and selecting the least inflammatory one.
“Your mascara is fine,” he says finally, and the economy of it, the complete lack of reassurance beyond the bare clinical fact, is so extraordinarily him that you almost want to write it down.
His eyes move downward again before finding yours again, the crease between his brows intact and now, you think, accompanied by a friend.
“I’m trying to determine,” he continues, “whether you were aware of the temperature outside when you selected that outfit.” He looks toward the end of the hallway. “It’s fourteen degrees.”
You frown and glance down at yourself, suddenly hyperaware of every seam and hem. Pencil skirt. Tailored, modest, entirely appropriate. Blouse tucked in neatly, sleeves buttoned to the wrist.
Tights, which are admittedly optimized somewhat more for aesthetic cohesion than for any serious confrontation with polar endurance, but which are nonetheless indisputably, demonstrably present.
And the jacket he chose. You draw it closed around yourself now, pulling the lapels together with both hands, turning just slightly toward him. Here. Look. Proof. You followed the parameters. You incorporated the feedback. You are, in this moment, the living embodiment of a person who listens and learns and shows up correctly dressed, and you would like that acknowledged, please.
“I was aware.”
“Then I’m concerned about your definition of the word.”
“I’m wearing layers.”
His brown eyes drop once again. Slow with the unhurried certainty of a man who has never once been rushed by another person’s discomfort, and comes to rest at the hem of your skirt, right where it grazes your thighs, and simply remains.
Every hair on your body stands at full attention, a physiological standing ovation for the specific quality of being looked at by him. Your hands want to move — to the hem, to the lapels, to anything that might constitute a defensive action — and you refuse them, one by one, with great effort and limited success.
No. Absolutely not. You will not flinch. You will not fidget. You will not give him the satisfaction of watching you fold, because the moment you reach for that hem is the moment you've lost, and you are already losing enough in this conversation.
He exhales slowly, the kind of exhale that has a whole paragraph in it, before he speaks. “The skirt is short.”
“It’s not —” you begin, warmth rushing up your neck before you can determine whether it’s indignation or something more humiliatingly self-conscious steering the ship.
“It’s appropriate,” he says, and his voice has shifted, gone quieter, the hard edge filed down like he's recognized he's overshot and is now carefully correcting course. “I’m not criticizing it. That’s not —” He stops. Starts over. “You look exactly as you should.” He presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose. Closes his eyes for just a moment. “I’d just prefer you not be miserable on the walk over.”
You stare at him, running a rapid internal audit of your available emotional responses and finding the inventory deeply unhelpful. Mortification is one option. Gratitude is another. They are not, as far as you can tell, mutually exclusive, which is its own problem entirely.
You shouldn’t have to feel both things simultaneously before eight in the morning, that seems like a violation of something, some basic covenant between a person and their day.
You are going to need significantly more caffeine before you can be expected to feel things correctly.
“I am aware of how temperature works,” you reply, gently defensive but not sharp, “and I do, in fact, possess the ability to identify discomfort before it becomes life-threatening.”
“I don’t doubt your ability to recognize discomfort,” he says. “I doubt your inclination to admit it when you’re experiencing it.” The brow tightens, just slightly, just enough. “You have a habit of tolerating more than you need to.”
There's nothing wrong with what he said.
That's the problem with what he said. You recognize yourself in it with the specific, sinking clarity of someone who has just been handed a mirror they weren't expecting.
You reach for your smile. The reliable one, the soft, deflecting smile you've been deploying since approximately the third grade, and let it do what it's always done. Cover the crack. Keep the walls presentable. Move things along before anyone gets a good look at the load-bearing ones.
“I wouldn’t call it a habit,” you reply carefully. “More like… efficient energy allocation.”
“Is that what we’re calling it.” It isn’t a question. A hint of dry amusement surfaces in his expression, not a smile exactly, just the suggestion of one, the ghost of one haunting the corner of his mouth, as he relents. “All right.” His tone softens. “I’ll defer to your… methodology.”
You beam at him with a brightness that is frankly disproportionate to the exchange. Wildly, embarrassingly disproportionate. You don't care even a little.
“Great. Perfect. Wonderful.”
He is, unfortunately, completely correct.
Fifteen minutes later, the wind finds you like it has a personal grievance, carving straight through your layered confidence, making a thorough and public mockery of your efficient energy allocation.
You keep your chin up and your expression neutral because you would genuinely rather fossilize in place than give him the satisfaction.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t point, doesn’t raise an eyebrow, doesn’t deploy a single syllable of the told-you-so he has absolutely, irrefutably earned.
He simply pauses mid-stride, unwinds the scarf from his own neck and wraps it around you with both hands.
You try not to kiss him.
4 HIS FLOOR OR YOURS
The conference has been going on for three hours and forty minutes, which feels less like a span of time and more like a psychological experiment designed to test how long a human being can remain upright while their soul quietly slips through their ears. Two hours and forty minutes beyond what your attention span contractually agreed to when you walked in with your notebook.
During the break, Hotch had taken one look at you, at the restless rotation of plastic between your hands, at the brittle way you were holding yourself together, and said, in the tone of a man who had already made the decision and was merely informing you of it rather than requesting your input, come on.
So now you’re walking to get lunch, which would have been entirely pleasant, almost restorative, even, sunlight, fresh air, the gentle reward of carbohydrates after too much bureaucratic endurance, if Garcia hadn’t chosen this exact moment to text you something that demands both your full visual attention and the majority of your remaining cognitive function.
The text reads, in its entirety:
how’s the conference bestie!!!!! followed immediately, without waiting by: and before you say “informative” or productive” or any other word that means you’re reflecting… i want to know about the OTHER curriculum. the one where it’s just you and hotch and a hotel and no rossi chaperoning.
Your face heats to 380 degrees, a temperature at which most metals would begin to warp. You type with your thumb as you walk, squinting against the glare on your screen.
garcia.
A breath.
GARCIA.
You delete that. Too much.
the conference is going fine, there is no other curriculum, we are colleagues attending a professional development event and i would like you to reflect on what you've said.
You pause. Add:
also rossi wasn't chaperoning he was just. present. there's a difference.
You read it back. Delete it because now you sound like someone with something to prove. Add it back because you do, in fact, have something to prove. Mainly your innocence. Allegedly.
Hotch shifts slightly closer to navigate a narrow patch of sidewalk and you physically rotate your entire torso away from him like a sunflower turning from the light, except the opposite of that, and hit send.
The response comes through in the time it takes you to exhale.
there's a difference !!! yeah the difference is whether or not you end up on his floor or your floor tonight babe
You read it twice. You read it twice because the first time your brain just skips, like a record catching on something, and the second time it processes it fully and that is infinitely worse.
Because now you’re thinking about it. Now the thought has a foothold and it is making itself at home, spreading out, getting comfortable, putting its feet up, and your imagination, which we’ve already covered is your most disloyal organ, starts filling in details you did not ask for.
Carpet burn. His chest pressed flat against your back, his rough breath against your ear, telling you what to do, how to do it, what to feel.
You guillotine the thought before it can finish forming. You do. You absolutely do. You are doing it right now.
You type back one handed, the response dissolving and reforming as your fingers fumble, something about how Garcia is clinically unwell and should be investigated by her own team, your attention fractured by the screen and the pavement you assume will continue existing beneath your feet.
You don’t see the curb.
You don’t see the car.
You don’t see anything at all until Hotch’s hand finds your arm and the world snaps back into focus all at once, as the vehicle tears through the space you’d been about to occupy.
The wind of it grazes your knees.
You look up at him because you don't know what else to do and immediately wish you'd looked literally anywhere else.
His eyes darken and move over your face with the rapid, assessing quality of someone running a systems check.
Pupils. Color. Responsiveness.
And when he’s satisfied that you are intact and present and not currently dying, something shifts.
Hotch doesn’t soften exactly, that’s not the right word for it, more like reconfiguration. A rearrangement of something that had gone momentarily, dangerously loose. The aftermath of relief rather than relief itself.
His thumb moves once against your arm. Small. Probably involuntary.
“Are you all right.” Once again not quite a question. The tone of a man who needs confirmation of a thing he's already determined to be true.
“Yes,” you say, which comes out smaller than you intended.
His hand finally releases your arm.
“Put your phone away.”
You do as you're told. Immediately, without deliberation, without the small internal debate you’d normally stage on principle.
It disappears into your pocket with the speed of someone who has just been reminded that the universe has consequences.
Garcia can wait. Garcia, in fact, has forfeited her right to immediacy, because Garcia and her terrible timing almost got you killed, and she is going to receive a text later when you are safe and stationary and no longer shaking slightly in a way you hope isn’t visible.
“You sound like my fa —” you start, because apparently you are constitutionally incapable of letting a silence exist peacefully, and then your brain catches up to your mouth approximately three words too late and the sentence just stops.
You don't finish it. You can't finish it, actually, because finishing it would require you to say out loud the thing you were about to say out loud, which was to compare hotch to your father, which you were apparently fully prepared to do two seconds ago and are now prepared to die before doing.
You swallow the rest of it. Redirect your gaze to the middle distance, to some fixed and blameless point that isn't his face, and devote every remaining resource you have to convincing your expression to do literally anything other than what it's currently doing, which is, you are fairly certain, everything.
You feel him look at you. There’s a particular quality of his attention when he’s already understood something and is giving you the grace of not saying it out loud.
He knows. He absolutely knows.
Neither of you says anything. You keep walking.
+1 FOR SCIENCE
The scolding had gone well, you think. You’d communicated the full extent of your feelings about Garcia’s role in the near-death-by-crosswalk incident with clarity, and she had said okay you’re right i’m sorry in the sincere tone she reserves for when she actually means it, and that should have been the end of it.
That was the natural ending. But then, approximately four seconds later, as if the apology had simply been a brief administrative detour:
but do you even own any lingerie just in case… this is a completely unrelated question, purely for science.
And somehow, through a conversational sequence that had felt, step by step, almost reasonable, that is how you have arrived at this.
Hotel bed. Nearly eleven. Cross-legged in your white lace pajames with your hair loose and your phone held aloft at an angle you’ve adjusted three times now, trying to produce a photograph that communicates see, I have perfectly good taste, this is both comfortable AND attractive for the benefit of a woman who treats every piece of information she receives as a potential future weapon.
Garcia had said prove it with the energy of someone issuing a formal declaration of war and you had, apparently, accepted the terms without reading them.
The fourth attempt is the one.
You know it immediately. The angle is right, the light is doing exactly what you wanted it to do, the lace sits exactly as it should and you look, if you’re being objective about it, genuinely pretty.
Soft and warm and settled in yourself in a way that doesn't always come naturally, in a way you don't always feel entitled to, and something about the photograph catches it, holds it still, makes it documentable.
You open the conversation. Tap the photo. Hit send. Set the phone face down on the duvet with the kind of pleased energy of someone closing a chapter, pouring yourself a glass of water from the sink, taking a sip, allowing yourself eight whole seconds of serenity.
Then you pick the phone back up because Garcia hasn't responded and this is wrong, this is factually incorrect behavior for Garcia, who has never in the entire history of your friendship allowed more than thirty seconds to pass without a reply, whose response time is frankly less a reflection of effort than of some innate physiological gift, and you look at the screen and —
The background of the conversation is wrong.
The contact picture is wrong.
Something is wrong with the name at the top of the conversation in a way that your brain, in an act of profound self-protection, declines to process for three full seconds.
Sits there cycling through increasingly implausible alternatives, searching for any exit ramp from the conclusion that is, despite everything, the only one available.
And then it arrives. All at once, the way bad things do, complete and total and horribly clear.
Hotch.
Garcia.
Recent conversations, right next to each other, because they would be, because why wouldn't they be, because the universe has a personal investment in your suffering and an excellent sense of comedic structure.
The photo is delivered.
For science sits beneath it.
And you sent it to your boss.
You make a sound that has no letter equivalent, something that exists purely in the register of visceral horror, and you are off the bed before the sound has finished leaving you.
Think, you need to think.
Option one: he's asleep. It's late. Hotch is a disciplined, regimented person who almost certainly has a consistent sleep schedule because of course he does, because he is Hotch, and maybe, maybe, he'd put his phone on silent and gone to bed and hasn't seen it and won't see it until morning at which point you will have already faked your own death and started a new life somewhere without extradition.
Option two: his phone. You could get to his phone. His room is right beside yours. You could be there in twenty-two seconds, and hotel door locks are — okay you don't actually know how to pick a hotel door lock but you could figure it out, probably, under sufficient duress, and this qualifies as sufficient duress —
A knock sounds at your door.
You stand in the center of the hotel room and you do not move, do not breathe, do not produce any sound or evidence of biological function whatsoever, because if you are very still and very quiet then perhaps the universe will lose interest and move on to someone else.
Maybe it's not him. Maybe it's housekeeping, at eleven at night, which, yes, is not when housekeeping comes, but hotels are unpredictable, stranger things have happened, you are not ruling anything out.
Maybe it's the person in the next room who miscounted doors, maybe it's someone who has the wrong floor entirely, maybe it's — your phone screen lights up.
Open the door.
You stare at it. It stares back.
You open the door and immediately wish with every fiber of your being that you hadn’t.
Not because of the expression on his face, though that’s — that’s a lot, that’s an entire situation, his jaw tight and his eyes doing something you’ve never seen them do before, moving over you in a way that starts at your face and doesn’t stay there and snaps back up with the control of a man making a conscious decision.
Not even because of the grey t-shirt. The sweatpants. The fact that Hotch, your Unit Chief, apparently exists in soft cotton after hours like a normal person, which is information you are placing in a box, sealing the box, and sliding the box to the very back of a shelf you will not be visiting tonight.
No. It’s the silence that does it.
He just looks at you. Says absolutely nothing, makes no move to explain himself or fill the space or give you anything to work with. It presses on you with considerable force.
“It was an accident.” The words come out before you've decided to produce them, falling over each other with the graceless urgency of someone trying to outrun a consequence. “I love this job. I'm good at it, I mean, I think I'm good at it, I hope you think I’m good at it, and I know this looks insane, it is insane, but please — please don't make this into something that ends my career, I was just trying to win an argument with Garcia about whether I owned ling — Uh, nice pajamas and —”
“Garcia,” he interrupts.
You blink. “What?”
“The argument.” His words are careful. Doing a great deal of structural work beneath the surface. “It was with Garcia.”
“Yes,” you say. “About whether I — yes.”
“About the pajamas.”
“About whether I owned any.” You are aware you’re not improving the situation. “Nice ones. She implied I didn’t and I — it was a matter of principle.”
He looks at you for long enough that you become acutely, specifically, inventory-level aware of every square inch of white lace currently within his line of sight.
And the awareness moves over you in real time, square inch by square inch, because he is. He is doing exactly that. Looking at the neckline and the hem and everything the light is enthusiastically illuminating and then looking at more of it, and you stand very still in the doorway of your hotel room and breathe very carefully and wait for him to say something, and he doesn't, and the looking continues, and it has a temperature.
“You’re not losing your job,” he says. His voice has done something you can't quite name. The professional remove still present but thinner somehow, like fabric that's been washed too many times. “That was never —” He stops. Edits. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“I really am sorry,” you say, which is true, which is entirely true, which is also complicated by the fact that he’s standing in your doorway and you have now run out of layers to hide behind, literally and figuratively.
“I know.” He says. “I came because I wanted to make sure you were —” a pause, brief and loaded, “ — all right.”
“I’m glad you did,” you say, which comes out quieter and more honest than you intended, stripped of the deflection you’d normally wrap around something like that. “Come, I mean. I’m glad you came.”
You become very interested in a point just past his shoulder and then make yourself look back.
“For the record,” he says, “you won the argument.”
“Hotch —” His name comes out barely a whisper.
“You did.”
“That’s not —” you start, “I don’t need you to —”
“I know you don’t need me to,” he says. “That’s not why I said it.”
“Why did you say it?”
He moves first.
Or maybe you do.
Or the wanting does, finally, after months of being firmly managed.
Later you might look for the beginning and find only that the distance was there and then wasn’t. His hand comes up to your face with that steadiness, that particular Hotch steadiness that you have been watching without permission since the day you met him, the kind that says I have considered this and I am not afraid of it, tilting your chin up.
And then his mouth is on yours.
And here is what you were not prepared for: that it would feel like being returned to you. Not given, returned.
Like something you’d been missing your whole life without knowing what it was called, without having a word for the specific absence of it.
Your father’s approval delivered at arm’s length, your college boyfriend who never quite saw you, every authority figure you’ve ever rearranged yourself for in hopes that this time, this time, it would be enough.
And Hotch, who has been watching you with those eyes for months, who has noticed the necklace-tugging and the over-apologizing and the way you look at him when you think no one’s looking, who has known, who has known —
It is nothing like what your imagination built. Your imagination was not working with sufficient information.
It is exactly like the thing you've been most terrified of wanting, because wanting things this much has historically been the setup for not getting them, and you are so tired of not getting them, and for a moment, for this moment, there is only his mouth and yours and the feeling moving through you in waves you can’t name and don’t need to.
Finally.
You lean into it with everything you have. Every feeling you've filed under inadvisable. Every careful professional distance you've maintained. Every time you looked away first. You stop looking away. You give him all of it, and he makes a sound low in his throat, vibrating through you.
Then he stops.
Goes still first, and then pulls back by degrees. Slow, almost reluctant, like something being peeled away rather than removed.
His forehead drops to yours just for a moment, his eyes closed and his breath uneven and his hand still at your jaw.
You don't move. You barely breathe. You are terrified of breaking it and equally terrified of what exists on the other side of it, and so you stay very still in the small sacred space of his forehead against yours and try not to want more than you're being given.
What comes next is his eyes opening. Finding yours. And in them, underneath the want that he’s no longer quite managing to conceal, something older settling back into place like sediment after a disturbance.
You can see it.
Something that was always going to come back. Responsibility settling through him like silt after a tremor, like a tide reasserting itself, the accumulated weight of everything he is and everything he thinks you deserve and every reason he has been filing this under don't from the very beginning.
You can see exactly where it lives. In the careful way his jaw sets. In the incremental straightening of his posture, degree by degree, a man rebuilding his architecture in real time, becoming your Unit Chief again by visible effort.
His hand leaves your face last.
“I’m sorry.” His voice has gone hard again, a professional distance reassembling itself word by word. “That wasn’t —” a pause in which several things clearly occur to him and are discarded — “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“It's okay,” you say, which is both completely true and completely insufficient. “I'm — please don't apologize, I —” you hear yourself, recalibrate, attempt something in the vicinity of normal. "I'm sorry too. For the photo. For all of —” another vague gesture, this one encompassing roughly the last hour of your life — “this.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“Okay,” you say, because what else is there.
You both stand in it for a moment that lasts too long.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says finally.
“Yeah.” Your voice is remarkably steady. You’re proud of it. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
You stand in the doorway until the corridor is empty and then you close the door and press your back against it and stare at the ceiling of a hotel room that feels entirely different than it did an hour ago.
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