okay so like obviously hotch lowkey doesnât believe in mentalist readers skills that sheâs got going on but consider the possibility of some asshole cop disrespecting her and hotch standing up for her??
.àłàż OPEN-AND-SHUT CASE
summary â hotch has been adamant since day one of you joining the team that he thinks everything you do is bullshit. you're thrown for a loop, however, when he stands up for you on a particular case. there's no way he's living this down.
pairings â aaron hotchner x mentalist!reader
pronouns â she/her
word count â 4.9k
note â this wasn't supposed to be a full-length case but i couldn't help myself. i'm just hoping now that i've done all this it doesn't flop lmao. masterlist can be found here
"WHEELS UP IN THIRTY." a pause. "yes, you're coming, too."
a groan escaped your lips. eyes flickering open, you stared up into the cold, calculative eyes of aaron hotchner. "it's an open-and-shut case," you stated simply. "they don't need us there."
"they've asked for our help and jj chose the case," hotch deadpanned. "you work here. you're coming."
"i consult here," still, you rolled off your leather couch and straightened up your vest. your smile contradicted every annoyance you had about having to fly all the way out to missouri. not like it was a long flight but still. it was the easiest case that had come across the desk in a while and yet somehow it was a BAU case. something about the local police department not having a clue, probably. you picked up the small black travel bag you kept beside your couch and moved into step beside hotch.
he walked alongside you through the bullpen with a stoic look on his face, his eyes dead ahead and not once glancing over at you. "the unsubâ"
"âis targeting young adults in the hazelwood area. the link between the eight victims is that they all grew up in the same children's home but the cops can't find anything that connects them to the staff that worked there, or the foster parents, etcetera . . . what?" you questioned like an afterthought when you caught hotch's side-eye, "i like to read."
you hadn't been at the briefing because you knew you'd hear it all over again on the jet anyway. you had snagged one of the files that garcia put together before it made it to the circle table and spent ten minutes scanning through the documents for all the relevant information before tucking the manila folder in your go-bag.
"clearly," hotch hardly raised an eyebrow.
"and if you read the case properly then you would also know what i know," you finally looked at him, flashing a blinding smile with a little skip in your step.
"which is . . ."
"the unsub is one of the kids from the home." hotch held the glass door open and you nodded in thanks as he held the door. once you were through, he let go and followed after you until he fell back into step.
"that doesn't fit the profile," hotch denied immediately. "this unsub isn't immature or displaying signs of trauma or mental illness. there's not even signs of revenge, which would've showed up in at least the first two victims. it's unlikely another one of the kids." he paused for a moment; you had a smile on your face as you listened to him ramble. "and, if it was, the first victim would've certainly been one of the caregivers."
when he finally finished, you spoke once again. "i think you're wrong," was all you said, smile turning tight-lipped. not another word was spoken on the way to the airfield.
"OUR UNSUB IS A white male in his late thirties," rossi said aloud to the surrounding hazelwood police that crowded in the bullpen. "he's going after this specific group of kids here." pointing to the board where a photo from a group home was printed out, now nine of the fifteen children in the photo were dead. the victims now were all roughly in their mid-twenties, as would be the remaining people in the photo that were under police protection across the town and the surrounding area. "which leads us to believe he was someone who either worked at the home during this time, or he could potentially be someone who lived at the home ten-ish years prior to these kids here."
you sat there shaking your head while sipping at your cup of tea. leaning back on one of the chairs, your feet were kicked up onto the desk belonging to chris, one of the quieter local cops that had been rather nice to you since you showed up. usually you clashed with the local cops because they had opinions on why you were wrong and unprofessional. chris had been the opposite, listening to every word you said and even writing some of your theories down in his little notebook.
honestly, you found it a little off-putting that he seemed to care about your opinion so much, but it was a nice change. not even your coworkers seemed to be as interested as he was half the time. something about you being an unqualified scam-artist or something, who cares?
"we're looking for anyone who has ever had a link to this home, but refine your search around anyone that worked there from 2003 to 2007," hotch added on. it was almost electric how he commanded a room. you noticed everyone else's eyes focused in on him like he was an authoritarian leader of the most obedient regime.
"gardeners, teachers, therapists, guidance counselors, social workers, nannies, cooks," emily listed off clearly, raising her hands as she spoke. she said it just slow enough for the cops to scribble it down in their notes. "it might not be anyone that had direct contact with these kids, it could be someone who noticed them from afar, for example."
reid cut in. "37.4% of child abuse perpetrators in this scenario are institution staff, and 36.5% are foster parents," he sported a tight-lipped smile that you only ever noticed from him when he shared his knowledge with the class. "it's more likely they are our unsub."
"what about the other, like, twenty percent?" you asked aloud, swirling the remaining tea around the too-white coffee mug. you had found it in the back of the cupboard in the break room because it had been the only clean mug. it was probably because it had some ex-cop's ex-wife on it (so you had been told via chris), but it didn't smell like coffee or have dead moths in it, so it was good enough to drink out of.
reid turned to look at you. "relatives of the victim."
one of the local cops snorted. "doubt that's the case here." one of his buddies scoffed out a laugh at the joke.
standing up, you hummed to yourself as hotch delivered the rest of the very wrong profile. you understood it, you weren't going to cut him off in front of so many people, but you knew it was false. all you had to do was wait for more evidence to fall into your lap to change the team's mind. you ignored the few sets of eyes on you as you made your way to the board that all the photos had been taped up on when reid went over victimology and the geographical profile with emily.
the one photo that stood out was the photo rossi had mentioned before. it was taken like a class photo, with all the kids, nine of whom now had a bullet messily lodged in their brain, lined up with the two primary carers stood at either end. morgan had been covering the faces of those who had been murdered with circular magnets to make it easier to see who was left when there were so many potential victims. six of them were still smiling brightly, their face free from a magnet, so full of life and an innocence that stole oxygen from your lungs.
one face in particular stood out, he had since the very first time you saw the image printed out in the case file back in quantico but you kept that to yourself. there was no convincing hotch unless you had a concrete enough case; he knew you could be right but he wanted to see that you could prove your theory first. and right now you had absolutely nothing but a very convincing gut feeling.
"penny for your thoughts?" rossi's voice had you blinking away your thoughts. the cops had scattered to canvass once the profile ended, and looking to your left, you noticed that emily and morgan were being instructed by hotch, probably to go visit the ninth crime scene, before he turned to talk to reid and jj.
you grinned at him, "my thoughts are worth way more than that, agent rossi," you said airily, waving your hand as you walked away to go sit back in chris' chair. he just shook his head like he seemed to always do whenever you opened your mouth.
the sun was setting on their second night in hazelwood. today had been profiling and chasing leads and dealing with the increasingly antsy police captain.
you didn't know his first name but his badge read 'andrews' loud and proud. he was the 'crime doesn't exist until it's in my neighbourhood' type, which was strangely counterintuitive considering he was a cop, but then again crime wasn't a huge part of life in this town. usually petty theft and traffic incidents were the most common . . . something like murder was an entirely different ballgame.
"where's your team?" andrews hadn't stopped pacing for ten minutes and thirty-seven seconds. the watch on your wrist had been your focus for that duration of time, watching him walk back and forth and mutter to himself like a madman. "why aren't you with them?"
you shrugged carelessly. taking a sip of unremarkably mediocre tea, you set the mug back down on chris' desk. he had gone with morgan and reid to comb through the first crime scene again, and that had been hours ago now. that only added tension to andrews' shoulders. everyone else was off doing their part. jj had set up a press conference for tomorrow and in the mean time was picking up takeout for dinner since it was going to be a long night. she had refused to be the only one heading back to her hotel room when the rest of the team was still working on the case, and thus she settled for making sure everyone was fed.
had you been given the option like she had, you'd be back in your hotel room by now. you had attempted it already but hotch's gaze was stern and that had you lowering yourself back down into chris' chair. the sudoku puzzle in front of you had kept you occupied for the past half an hour, and every now and then your concentration would be broken with someone asking for your opinion. you were fairly certain that opinion was just to keep you involved in their theories rather than your own, so you humoured them and minded your business.
"i've seen the crime scenes," you waved your hand, disinterested, "don't need to see 'em again. ah," you grinned to yourself, drawing a 2 into one of the boxes of your sudoku grid, "there it goes."
something in andrews turned red hot. "do you even care about this case, agent?" he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. you slowly set your pen down on top of the open page of your puzzle book. "all you've done is parade around acting like you fuckin' know everything; haven't seen ya be helpful once."
not an agent, you thought, for once thinking better than to correct him.
apparently you minded your business a little too well. you leaned back in your chair and stared up at him. his face was flushed with anger, the type of anger that had his forehead creasing and his knuckles turning white from how aggressively he was crossing his arms.
"and don't get me started on your psychic bullshit. get real, kid, that shit's complete bullshit," he carried on, each syllable getting louder than the last. you noticed hotch's back straighten, his words failing him as he cut himself off from talking to the rest of the team when he overheard andrews. "you're useless, only here to waste my time. we have a killer to catch, goddamnit!"
upon noticing the captain was losing his shit with you, hotch shed his blazer over the chair like he absentmindedly did every time someone questioned his team. you weren't sure he even knew he did it. and if he wasn't wearing a jacket, he would roll his sleeves up like he was about to prosecute.
you paid little mind to him, staring up at the captain and waiting for him to finish his little rant. "now that is where we agree," you nodded compassionately, "psychic's aren't real, glad we're on the same page."
that only seemed to infuriate him more. he took a step closer, his fist slamming down on the desk you were sitting at. the cop across the desk from you jumped but you remained still, not breaking eye contact with andrews once. not even when your tea splashed over and spilled across half of your puzzle book, and certainly not when hotch crossed the space in a matter of strides.
hotch pushed himself between where you were sat and where andrews stood, all diplomatic but his eyes burned with a rage you had never seen before. it was no secret hotch hated people being disrespectful towards his team, his family, but it was something you had never really thought extended to you. the team had been together for so long now and you sat parallel to the outside, not quite in but not quite out either. hotch had stuck up for jj a few weeks ago on a case in georgia, and then again for garcia in quantico when they had to consult the organised crime unit and one of their agents belittled her. hell, you watched hotch stand up for reid constantly. everyone had each other's backs . . . but this was all new.
"that's enough," his voice was firm. you could only assume it was his prosecutor voice that he kept locked away for moments such as this. he was calm, very professional, and yet kept all his emotions hidden behind a wall. including the anger you could see flaring his nostrils and ticking his jaw. your eyes flickered to hotch a little too swiftly. "you don't talk to my team that way, do you understand me?"
silence.
this was agent aaron hotchner, who had little faith in your skills, standing up for you on behalf of said skills. god, was the world caving in?
"i asked you a question," hotch spoke with a coldness that left little room to argue. not that anyone would dare to argue with a man as articulate as him. the air seemed to become scarce, sucking the warmth out of the room and leaving everyone to gasp in carbon dioxide in their final breaths. "do you understand me?" he left a pause between every word, his eyes narrowing into andrews' skull with enough pressure to melt his brain into mush. you couldn't help but bite the inside of your cheek, forcing your gaze off hotch and back on the shrinking police captain.
". . . yes . . . sir," andrews gulped so hard you swore you heard it. his adam's apple bobbed uncomfortably, his throat constricting like a python. he forced the words out like he didn't really mean them, but the sheer fact that hotch had gotten him to fold so quickly was admirable. he didn't utter an apology to you, not that you were looking for one, but he did scatter while clearing his throat rather quickly.
you spun in your chair to properly face hotch. he was barely a few inches away from your legs. his shoulders were tense, his shirt tight in specific places just enough to see the faint outline of his muscles hiding underneath. "i'm surprised," you drawled slightly, a gentle smile tugging your lips upwards like it always did. he wasn't sure if every smile was real. he couldn't read through you but he could work out that smiling was your first line of defence in every situation. "thought you also thought everything i did was bullshit."
maybe you were imagining things but you swore the corner of his mouth quirked upwards for a split-second, just enough to drive you insane. "i don't let people talk to my team like that," he answered in that professional manner he always did. maybe taking a sledgehammer to his tone would break through to something new, something he kept hidden deep down. "especially not the people we're helping out on this case."
"he ruined my puzzle book," you muttered, reaching for a tissue and dabbing it at your ruined sudoku puzzle. you hadn't even gotten the chance to finish the one you were working on yet.
"i know," was all he said.
"well," you bravely reached your foot out just enough to knock against his on the floor after an additional moment of silence. he didn't move, much like you figured would happen. "thank you."
it was the best you could think to say to him in this situation. hotch didn't believe in everything you did and that was okay, you were used to that, and so he hadn't defended you because of that, you were pretty sure, but because of the entitlement from andrews.
well, you were at least pretty sure that was the case. there was no way hotch had a sudden change of heart and suddenly thought your ex-scam artist skills and lack of qualifications made you an important asset to the team. that would be silly. and unrealistic. and very strange.
"jj's brought dinner," were you imagining it or was his voice softer this time? "go get someting to eat." he walked away before you could answer. you found your feet moving before your brain did, sliding out of the chair and heading over to where jj was already smiling at you.
she nudged your shoulder like she knew something you didn't. "i don't know what you did but i've never seen hotch look all soft," she whispered, impressed. "good for you, girl."
for once, you had absolutely nothing to say.
"WHERE ARE WE GOING?"
"for a drive," you said like it was obvious. as if you weren't currently behind the wheel of the SUV emily had the keys to. your two options had either been grab hotch's keys or convince emily, and the latter was one thousand percent easier than the former because that way you didn't get chewed out for stealing the keys again.
"hm, yeah," emily rolled her eyes at the obviousness. "a drive in a very conveniently located neighbourhood . . ." she checked her little notebook, "the neighbourhood belonging to travis kern."
hence why emily had been the perfect choice: she had a better attitude towards your skillset than the rest of the team did (reid not included, he had grown to value you but you also knew he would dob you in to hotch and rossi the second you asked), and that was why she so far hadn't tried to get you to stop the car.
travis kern was their serial killer. he was a twenty-six year old, antisocial personality that lived in a nice home on the edge of hazelwood. he had done well for himself since he turned eighteen and left the group home â had gone to college for computer science and coding and to this day worked from home. he made more money than the rest of the kids he grew up alongside, and considering their bodies had been found robbed, travis had been ruled out of being a suspect. that theory had been solidified when no missing money or jewellery was found in his house.
none of that was the reason you suspected him. no, it was the tears and the pleading with law enforcement to do something as if that meant a thing. going to his house would be the final step in you determining whether or not he was hazelwood's serial killer.
"felt like going for a late night drive," you smiled over at her, and then pulled into travis' driveway. the sun had long set on your third night in hazelwood and really didn't want to spend another night here. small towns weren't really your thing, not after spending so long enjoying city life. it was also really uncomfortable how everyone seemed to know everyone . . . mary who worked at the grocery store on the one side of town should not need to know carol's daughter's second-cousin twice-removed by name and home address on the other side of town. that was too odd for you to comprehend.
"this is just a social visit, right?" emily asked. she looked hesitant but in a way in which she didn't fully care. three days in, emily just wanted to head home to virginia and flop into her comfy bed. the motel beds had hard springs and a weird smell to them; if you knocking on travis' door solved the case, she would gladly tag along just for the chance to go home.
"totally," you nodded, turning the car off and hopping out. staring out at the house, you noticed the upstairs light turn on through the blinds. "keep that thing holstered," you gestured to the gun strapped to her waist. "we're just having a friendly chat."
"mhm," emily hummed, staring at you incredulously. the last friendly chat you had with a suspect led you to being momentarily held hostage for running your mouth. "sure thing."
you let emily knock on travis' door, and the moment it opened, you wedged your way through travis and the ajar door to get inside. emily sighed and travis spluttered.
"where's your security?" you asked, glancing around the inside of the main foyer. not a single picture frame was in sight, and the further you walked in through to the lounge room, you noticed just how bare it was. everything felt so devoid of life. not a single photo or accomplishment hung on the wall, not even any artwork. the one couch was bare, no pillows or throw blankets, and the coffee table only had the tv remote on it. you hummed softly to yourself before turning around.
"shift changeover," travis said, eyebrows furrowing together. "sorry, is there a reason you're here?"
"ah, sorry," you grinned, closing the gap between travis and yourself and holding your hand out for him to shake. he did so with a gentle tremor in his hand. "thought you'd want an update on the case."
it was like something changed in travis at your words. his shoulders lost their slight tension and his expression looked a little off. surely knowing that you're a potential murder victim wouldn't let you feel this calm so suddenly.
"yes, please," he let go of your hand and shoved them back into his pockets. emily shut the front door behind her, and the three of you migrated into the lounge room where you had just been snooping.
he sat down on the one end of the couch, and emily sat down on the other end. you remained standing on the other side of the coffee table, far enough from emily so that she couldn't drag you out of the house to silence you like morgan usually did. "we've found our suspect," you said it simply, like it had no weight to it whatsoever. "case closed."
emily's lips parted like she wanted to tell you to stop, but a quick look from you had her closing her mouth.
"really?" travis sighed in relief, dropping his head into his hands. "oh thank god," he glanced between emily and you. "thank you, thank you. oh my god . . ."
you wondered if emily could see what you could see.
"yep, case closed," you rubbed your hands together. "agent prentiss here will fill you in on all of the details . . . where's your bathroom?"
apparently you had broken down travis' resolve enough to get him to wordlessly point out the direction of the bathroom down the hall without a second thought.
emily cleared her throat, her glare coming down hard on you. all the details you had told her, and she was angrily cursing you for putting this on her to deal with. there weren't any details for her to run with because the killer hadn't been caught. improvising wasn't necessarily her strongsuit but you knew she'd make it work.
you walked down the bland hallway. it was tinged with yellow from age but otherwise it was as pristine as the rest of the house. it was strange; it felt more like a display house than a home.
the bathroom was on the right and you completely bypassed it for the door shut at the very end of the hallway. silently, you twisted the doorknob slowly, taking a quick peek inside through the tiniest crevice you could find.
there you found kaitlyn jones, one of the others from the group home, her hands and feet tied with rope, and duct tape over her mouth. she noticed the door open and her eyes blew wide, but you quickly silenced her by placing your index finger over your lips to silence her. you were just glad that she had recognised you from when she had originally come into the police station two days ago. she could've only been in travis' house for two hours since the police checked in that everyone was safe two and a half hours prior . . . something that travis would've known. brusining was starting to form up her arms, blooming at the base of her throat in a pattern that looked suspiciously like handprints. this MO was different from the others; none of them had been reported with any bruising.
this was something more personal, but that would be for the rest of your team and the local cops to determine in their interviews.
grimacing at her, you made a silent promise that you'd be back and hoped that she understood. as quietly as you opened it you shut the door, reaching into your pocket and pulling out your lipstick to leave a little note for emily to find. it was better the armed woman be the one to find kaitlyn rather than you.
you wrote 'EMILY' in large letters, thankful that you hadn't brought a nicer lipstick with you today, before retreating back down the hall, making a pitstop in the bathroom to flush the toilet and wash your hands before walking back out.
travis looked so incredibly at ease that he probably assumed he was in the clear. whatever emily had said worked terrifically.
"okay," you clapped your hands together as you entered the lounge room. emily's head snapped up to catch your gaze. you gave her a very subtle wink before travis could turn to look at you. "we're gonna head off . . . em," you looked back at her pointedly, "you said you wanted to go to the bathroom before we left?"
emily stood up, blinking rapidly. "yeah . . . yeah!" she nodded in understanding, "won't be a sec, sorry."
your shook your head at her as you took her spot on the couch. looking at travis, you waved your hand at him, "long drive, small bladder, you get it," you lied rather fluently.
emily pretended she didn't hear that.
you waited roughly two minutes, your gaze continuously drifting to your watch, until emily came back into the lounge room, this time with her gun unholstered and aimed directly at travis. "travis kern, put your hands where i can see 'em."
you quickly hopped up from your seat and moved away from travis, only stopping when you were behind emily. peeking out from behind her, you watched travis grunt and begrudgingly stand up, his hands behind his head, his fingers interlocked. "ha! see, emily?" you didn't mean to gloat but you were currently enjoying being right. "i told you all it was him!" you looked back at travis. "i knew it was you the second i met you. you have the house of a psychopath too, c'mon."
emily said your last name with enough conviction that you shut up. "yes, you were right," she rolled her eyes, but you weren't blind to the ghost of a smile across her lips. "call hotch."
"with pleasure," you stepped away and pulled your phone out of your pocket, hotch's contact the first one in your list of recent contacts.
the phone rang three times before he picked up. "hotchner."
"hotch, i have fantastic news for you," you gushed into the phone. emily had travis handcuffed and was leading him outside into the car. "yâ"
"does it have anything to do with the reason you and prentiss aren't here?" his voice was lower than usual, riddled with tiredness and something like annoyance.
". . . potentially," you sounded sheepish. "i promise it's worth it! we'll meet you at the station."
"you arrested kern, didn't you?"
the call lapsed into momentary silence. "okay," you said slowly, "i didn't arrest him, emily did! i just . . . kinda had a feeling it was him and then i found kaitlyn jones tied up in his spare roomâ"
he cut you off by deadpanning your first name. that silenced you immediately â hotch never called you by your first name. it was strangely warm in the cool tones of his voice. "we'll talk about this later," he left no room for argument, and your smile slipped for just a moment. the mask cracked. "but good work." he fell silent. then, begrudgingly, "you were correct . . . the profile was wrong."
you smiled warmly, a smile different to your usual one. "can you say that again?" you asked, quietly this time. "i wanna record it."
he didn't humour you. "i'll meet you at the station." but you swore you heard an uplift in his tone before he hung up.
good work.
you were correct.
and you were never letting hotch live those five words down. ever.
summary â the only reason you're still around is because you close cases. if you weren't as talented, hotch would have you gone in a heartbeat. or at least he thinks he would â you're convinced otherwise.
pairings â aaron hotchner x mentalist!reader
pronouns â she/her
word count â 1337
note â it's kind of a crossover with the mentalist!! reader is very similar to patrick jane in terms of role etc and i think that's the perfect match for hotch!! she's a consultant for the fbi and is not an fbi agent. i'm thinking of making this a miniseries anyway so if you have any requests please feel free to drop something in my inbox! <3
NEVADA WAS HOT THIS time of year. it had been early morning when the case came in and five hours later after touchdown in las vegas it was midday. the midday sun was brutal and yet here you stood in a delicate suit like the sun did no damage at all.
the rest of the team dressed more appropriately for the occasion. reid, hotch and rossi all had left their suit jackets in the car and had rolled up the sleeves of their button-up. morgan and prentiss dressed casually in black and white polos, and jj had a simple tank top on. the sun was no joke today on the california-nevada state line.
you hadn't been working with the team very long. it started a year ago when your family had been targeted by a serial killer and you had accidentally survived. with survivor's guilt a heavy weight on your shoulders, you did the only rational thing you could think of: worm your way into the fbi's behavioural analysis unit and help them figure out the case. you'd been kept on as a consultant for most cases ever since.
sometimes you bounced around as a consultant for other units, but the bau used you especially. you all had similar skills of reading people but there was something about the way that you figured out details quicker with less resources that made they keep you around more often. you supposed it help make their jobs both quicker and easier.
the only reason you were standing under the sweltering sun was because the bau owed the organised crime unit within the CBI a favour from about six years ago . . . you didn't question it.
the severed hand sitting three feet within the california border was all you needed to be able to do your job a little quicker than the rest of the bau.
"have we got an ID yet?" morgan had his arms crossed, glancing across the rest of the team while hotch was busy talking to the local police.
"not yet," prentiss looked back to see if she could read hotch's conversation from afar. "guess we get to hang out in the sun longer. fantastic."
"ah," you shook your head, "we have everything we need right here."
rossi scoffed. "sure, kid. we have a hand. what else do we have to work out here without forensic analysis?"
it was a challenge that you accepted without missing a beat. "probably a white man," that part was obvious by looking at the hand, morgan scoffed out a laugh, "mid forties. he wrote on his right hand," you said, noticing the black permanent marker on his skin, "so he's left-handed."
"or the killer wrote it as a message," reid spoke up. his curls were starting to hang limply across his forehead from sweat.
"maybe . . ." you shrugged, "but it's too faded, and the killer would've wrote it bigger for us to see."
rossi shook his head, muttering, "damn kids," he walked over to where hotch and jj were situated.
"this is gonna be gross but . . ." you knelt down on the road beside the hand and took in a deep breath. prentiss pulled a face as she stared at morgan to justify her reaction. he did so immediately by pulling the same face. reid just stood there blankly. "smells of almond oil moisturiser, musky cologne and tobacco. supple palms, maintained nails . . ."
"he's very wealthy," reid blurted out. you looked up and shot him a wink.
"correct," you agreed. "there's a faint tan line on the little finger from a missing pinkie ring, which suggests he's an extrovert in a job where extroverts thrive."
"so . . ." derek crossed his arms, looking at you expectantly. "what's your guess?"
"upper management in the gaming business," you suggested. "maybe the hotel business, but casinos make more sense given our location."
reid pondered over it for a moment. "it's not a bad guess. the gaming business makes up about twenty-eight percent of nevada's total employment."
"i'd believe that," you shrugged, standing back up. your eyes found morgan's, who was staring at you like you'd grown a second head. "you don't believe me."
"i mean, it's not like it's a stretch," he waved to the sign that said nevada on it. "it's kinda implied that someone with their hand cut off in the middle of the desert works in a casino. it's clear CBI thinks it's a mafia hit."
"and they cut off the hands of those stealing from the till," reid added as an afterthought.
"eh, maybe," you stood back up and moved a few steps away from the hand. hotch came over the second you did so.
"we have an ID," hotch cleared his throat. "prints say it's frank sullivan. he runs the aria resort and casino."
you didn't hide the wide smile that pulled across your lips. "my work here is done," you called over your shoulder, heading back to the separate car you had pulled up in.
hotch stared blankly at her. "where is she going?" he called out your last name as you walked off, and all you did was turn, wave, smile, and then continue walking to your car.
"she's gloating," prentiss rolled her eyes, her own smile starting to pull across her lips. "she knew all that before you said it."
HOTCH WAS FAIRLY CERTAIN you lived on their floor in quantico. you had a desk that was left empty except for a few random things locked in the drawers, but you were never occupying the seat. instead, you preferred the old leather couch you'd moved into the bullpen on your second day.
that's where he found you as he was leaving his office tonight. much time hadn't been spent in nevada, one day to aid the CBI with the profile and any other information they needed before they had the case under control and found the man responsible just as the team touched back down in quantico. he was leaving earlier tonight, the sunset peeking through the window above where you were laying on the couch.
"you're leaving early," you voiced as hotch got closer, your eyes not once opening. splaying on your chest was a book open upside down to preserve the page you were up to. the cover was so faded that hotch couldn't make out which one it was.
"how'd you know it was me?" he dared to entertain you; it was getting harder not to do so. you were so . . . odd, not in the way garcia was unique, but plain odd to the point where he couldn't help it.
"you walk heavier when you have somewhere to be," you finally flickered your eyes open, turning your head to look at him. he was as stoic as ever with his arms crossed and his stare sharp. you watched him for a second longer, "let me guess, you promised jack ice cream again?"
it was a damn good guess. hotch didn't let his surprise show. god forbid anyone tell you that you were right because then you would be far too smug . . . way too smug. "something like that," was all he said. "you leave the scene like that again and i'll work on your termination letter."
a chuckled bubbled out of your mouth before you could stop it. "you keep saying that, hotch, but . . ." you threw your arms up to gesture to the room around you, "looks like i'm still workin' here."
"mhm," his lips pulled into a thin line.
"you can admit you like having me around, agent," you sighed, your eyelids fluttering closed again. hotch noticed the way your eyelashes still had speckles of mascara that hadn't come off with the rest of your makeup. it glimmered gold under the warm sun. "y'know that saying . . . all bark, no bite . . . all 'i'm gonna fire you' but not actually doing it." you lowered your tone to mock his, and his heavy sigh told you all you needed to know. "goodnight, hotch."
"night," hotch muttered as he walked away from you without a second thought. your smile broke through brighter than it had before, a gentle shake of your head in amusement enough to lull you to sleep within the silent, sunset-painted bullpen.
summary â in which austin accidentally lets it slip that hasanâs faceless (yet public) girlfriend is the woman theyâre currently watching analyse the maps on CNN.Â
pairings â hasan piker x politicalcorrespondent!girlfriend!reader
pronouns â she/her
word count â 1893
note â i personally would have â6â4 jacked boyfriendâ as his contact name so that whenever weird men try to hit on me they see that but thats just me (and this reader insert ofc) (also this is nothing special just me rambling tbh â whatâs to say this political!reader doesnât become a mini series)
THE DAY WAS HERE. election day. not only was it the day your boyfriend had spent hours upon hours preparing for for weeks, but you, too. you were a political journalist and correspondent currently working the map for CNN during the weeks in the lead up to the election.Â
it was a big day for you. four years ago you were streaming your own map coverage to fifteen thousand people on twitch, accessing your sources across multiple states to provide statements on what was going on nationwide. being asked a couple months ago to run the maps in front of millions was certainly a step up, but it gave you control to speak objectively without bias unlike most of the other news anchors and correspondents that were pushing right-wing sentiment over any other coverage.Â
you hadnât seen hasan in a few weeks now unless you counted facetimes and tuning into his streams. youâd get texts while he was streaming and the occasional kaya video ( because apparently sheâd been whining with your leave ). it wasnât the same, but you were both incredibly career-driven people, so being hours apart by plane wasnât as daunting as it probably shouldâve been.
âyouâre gonna be late to stream,â you laughed softly, fiddling with the cap of the bottle of water someone had gotten you. endless tabs were open on your laptop in front of you, following aspects of every state because there was still hours to go before the polls closed, so you were only needed in short segments for now to go over 2020 and 2016 county votes in particular states at a time.Â
âyouâre right,â hasanâs voice was slightly staticky through the phone. âi might have to focus on kornacki or fox news so that i donât spend too long staring at you.â
âaw,â you let go of your phone, holding it between your ear and shoulder to screw the cap back on the bottle. one of the directors caught your attention across the room, holding up his hand to say that she had five minutes before they were back on air again. âiâm back on in a few . . . iâll have your stream open on my laptop, though!â
âgood luck today,â hasan said softly as he started his stream, leaving it on his opening scene while his mic was muted. people were already flooding in by the thousands. âiâll talk to you in, what, twelve hours? i love you.â
âtwelve hours,â you hummed in agreement, âi love you more,â you sighed softly, noticing that the twitch tab was reloading to take her to his âstarting soonâ overlay. âgood luck.â you ended the phone call first, quickly putting it back on do not disturb and placing it over on the table that was full of analytical notes. the board that now had the map of the united states of america was lit up again, an empty canvas waiting for you to load up the old votes to load up projected blue and red areas.
TOO MANY HOURS TO count and three hundred thousand viewers into the election, hasan was still going strong. despite the pull to watching CNN more than he probably should, he managed to force himself to switch between fox news to laugh at republican propaganda and msnbc. though, he would one hundred percent lying if he said he didnât have CNN up on his second monitor.Â
things were steadily climbing, and josh ( ettingermentum ) was back after mike from PA left the call. josh, who had been raging on ( no seriously, no one had really heard him be that loud all day ) about how the democrats fucked up was finally broken up when austin joined the call, the atmosphere shifting.
christmas sign in full view and a cold slab of a slice of pizza being shoved into his mouth, austinâs discussion on if he was being sent to prison if the republicans dominated was dwindled until josh left the call to analyse the polls for twitter.Â
âugh, can we watch something else?â austin asked, barely swallowing his mouthful of pizza first. âall iâve done is watch fox today.â
âyeah,â hasan chucked humourlessly, clicking around mindlessly between tabs as he tried to find msnbcâs coverage. because the tabs were so small thanks to the fifty million twitter tabs he had open, he almost groaned in frustration when he accidentally clicked on the CNN tab.
 the tab where you were conveniently fiddling with the data of state of pennsylvania. it was already a dangerous game having you on screen when the chat knew what the silhouettes of you looked like â photos from behind of you walking with hasan, photos of your eyes after he tried to do your makeup, mirror fit checks with your face covered by the phone . . . chat only needed to be railroaded enough to work it out.Â
just as he was about to switch tabs again, austin opened his mouth. âoh, man, i miss her,â there was a shift in his tone, more than just him speaking without thinking. familiarity shone through. from the way he casually uttered your nickname to the sigh, it was probably worse than railroading. it was the train forgetting to slam the brakes on worthy.Â
hasan wisely kept his mouth shut as he switched to fox news â anything was better than CNN currently â and his eyes slowly zeroed in on the chat. question marks upon question marks until it eventually morphed into âholy shit she looks familiarâ and âgirlfriend reveal????â to âomg face revealâ and his breathing faltered.Â
someone switched the chat to emote only mode in the few moments he was silent for, austin thankfully following suit. glancing at his second monitor, you were still doing your thing, this time discussing the iowa flip from blue to red, completely oblivious.Â
âaustin,â hasan finally said, tone flat. there was no use making a big fuss out of denying it â that would just make it more obvious.Â
austin chuckled nervously, awkwardly. âuh . . . sorry, hasan. i didnât think about it . . . awkward.â
âclearly,â he grumbled, digging his fingers into his hair for a moment as he thought. the election was put on hold in his mind for a moment as he switched the screen to the full facecam. he wasnât going to directly deny or confirm anything, so instead he said, âtake what you will from what austin said. in saying that, donât go harass her, clearly she was faceless for a reason. anyway,â hasan cleared his throat, âmoving on, back to the election . . .â and he swiftly moved on like nothing ever happened ( while the mods were timing out anyone who asked about it for an entire week ).
âPENNSYLVANIA AND NEVADA ARE expected to be the closest as of currently,â you gestured to the map that demonstrated the slight wave from the blue shift. âweâre looking at about half a percent, but election night is full of surprises so . . . weâll continue to keep an eye on that for now.â the directors in the back signalled that the camera was no longer live, and you nodded and took a deep breath. the polls werenât looking as good as everyone had expected it would look for the democrats.
finally off the air for a much needed break, you wandered back over to your little table off to the side. notes were piling up, but upon noticing the spam of notifications flashing across your phone. weird, you thought, your notifications usually not showing up unless it came from verified accounts across all social media platforms . . . until you noticed that it was coming from your private instagram and twitter account. super weird.Â
and then the text from hasan.Â
6â4 SUPER JACKED BOYFRIEND: uhhh so austin accidentally told 300k people weâre datingÂ
6â4 SUPER JACKED BOYFRIEND: call me when ur done? so sorry
oh. on one hand the first part was exciting. three hundred thousand? it was a new viewership record for him. on the other? that means a shit ton of people knew the secret you guys had spent almost two years safeguarding. youâd wanted to keep your face out of everything because you had your own career and didnât want his to intertwine with it. a healthy work-life balance was keeping that shit separate, but it was only really time until people found out anyway. it wasnât the best kept secret, anyway.Â
still, you werenât mad. you sent off a quick text saying âitâs alrâ with a smiley face emoji and shut your phone off completely, shoving it off to the side and turning your laptop back on. youâd be back in california tomorrow, anyway, it could be dealt with then.
THE AIRPORT WASNâT AS secretive anymore. tired after only getting a couple hours of sleep because you got back to your hotel at some god awful hour this morning, it was an instant relief to see hasan waiting for you, dresses comfortably to not draw too much attention to himself â which was difficult because he was fucking huge.
either way, you had no energy to do anything but collapse into his waiting arms, letting him engulf you until you were suffocating. âthis is nice,â you mumbled. âsorry i didnât call, was so tired.â
âyouâre fine,â he promised, pulling you back slightly to look at him. âi missed you,â he slipped his hand into yours, and he took your suitcase with his other hand. it was nice to be able to publicly be in his presence without worrying, so much so that you leant into his arm, tiredness dragging your feet.
âmissed you more,â you said honestly, but there was more on your mind than just small talk. âwhereâs austin? motherfuckerâs been blowing up my phone.â
hasan chuckled, âif i hear him apologise one more time iâm gonna commit a hate crime.â he then shook his head, âhe wanted to stay at the house but i told him to come âround tomorrow . . . want you to myself first.â
you knew what that was code for, so you shook your head with a silent laugh. âlet me sleep first, god.â
and sleep you did. the house was silent thankfully so you were content tucked up in hasanâs arms, stealing him from clocking in with his twitch chat for ten hours in a fit of selfishness that you were entitled too.
âaustin mightâve saved our relationship,â you teased, trailing your fingers up his arm that was tightly wrapped around you, both on the verge of falling into dreamland. ânow we can go out on proper dates again.â
âyou can tell him yourself,â hasanâs arms tightened around her a little bit more, so full of warmth that the blanket was starting to render useless. âwhen he knocks our door down tomorrow morning.â
âaw, come on,â you tapped his arm a little harder, fighting the urge to gnaw on his forearm. âyou love him.â
âi love you, heâs just my side piece,â he kissed the side of your neck tenderly, ânight, baby.â
âgânight,â you mumbled back with a soft smile, the world drifting away for just that little bit longer until tomorrow rolled around. you could deal with your very public relationship then.
hotch where he comes home and he's been injured on a case???
ty for requesting lovely !!! aaron hotchner x reader, established relationship, reader and hotch live together with jack, brief mentions of typical bau crimes, aaron is mildly injured <3 fem!reader, 1.1k words
You and Aaron have a lovely little routine together, dictated by a couple of different variables. When you have Jack things are fast and giggly, school pickups and buffet style meals and homework done on the floor of the living room while Aaron does the dishes. Nights where heâs at his Aunt Jessâs are considerably slower, much quieter but no less affectionate.Â
Of course, there are times when you have the house all to yourself, Jack on a sleepover and Aaron at work. Those evenings you like much less; itâs nice to have time to yourself, chores and hobbies that need tending to finally getting time dedicated to them, but you canât help but miss your boys.Â
Nine times out of ten Aaron will call or text you to tell you heâs coming home, letting you know how far out he is, ensuring that one of you makes a promise about dinner; you either wonât wait for him to eat, or heâll pick something nice up on the way home. Sometimes, though, heâll find it more enjoyable to surprise you.Â
Youâre curled up on the sofa, blanket that youâd bought for Jack thrown over your feet, book in your lap. Itâs nearing sunset, Aaron has a paper bag of groceries in one arm and his work bag in the other. Jackâs at a sleepover according to your shared calendar on his cell phone, and you had the day off work, so heâs expecting a gentle quiet night of just the two of you.Â
You donât even notice heâs there until heâs discarded his shoes, jacket, tie and bags, coming to sit down with you on the couch. âAaron,â you brighten, soft smile beaming up at him. You look tired but happy, somehow impossibly prettier since he last saw you four days ago. âYouâre home.â
He gives you a matching smile, pulling your feet into his lap with a groan that insinuates more effort than it is. âHi, honey.âÂ
Now that heâs properly facing you in the low lamp light of your sitting room, your mouth drops open in horror. âOh my fucking god, what happened to you?â
Aaron would never say youâre overreacting, especially not when it comes to any anxiety directed at his job. Itâs a hard thing to watch him leave for work every morning, knowing that he might not come back, knowing that he might be called away at a momentâs notice for days. But heâd really been hoping to avoid this particular reaction to him coming home from Texas after four days there hunting a woman kidnapping young boys.Â
Thereâs a small cut on his cheek running parallel to his left eye but his right eye is bloodshot and the surrounding skin is turning a sickening shade of green.Â
âGot tackled,â he grimaces, more for your benefit than for his own. âHit my head on an end table. Not very glamorous.â Theyâd profiled only one unsub, but had raided the house of a woman who ended up having an alibi. The alibi in question, her two hundred pound boyfriend, wasnât meant to be there. Heâd helped Aaron up and apologised profusely, clearly of the mind that he was going to be arrested for assaulting a police officer, but Aaron hadnât cared, brushing him off to go and call Penelope. That had been almost two full days ago, and Aaron had been sincerely hoping that it wouldâve faded by the time he got to see you again. He tells you as such â minus the last sentiment â and watches how your face does not fill with warmth and relief, but instead a deep frown.Â
âTwo days ago?â You ask him, scrunching your body up almost self-consciously, pulling your feet off his lap and bringing your knees to your chest. âAnd you werenât going to tell me?â
Aaron hovers his hand over your foot like he wants to reach out and grab you again, haul you into his lap and murmur sweet nothings to make you forget all about the bruising on his face. You know itâs a little naive of you to expect Aaron to disclose all the grimy details of his job, you usually prefer he doesnât. But heâs such a sweetheart, and knowing that heâs being tossed around by criminals doesnât do well to ease your already worrisome mind.Â
Aaron sits with it for a moment before speaking up softly. âI am sorry,â he says. âI never want to worry you about my work but I suppose I do often struggle with where the line is between privacy and secrecy. It is never my intention to alienate or hide from you.â He offers his two hands out for yours, giving you more than enough space to take them. âIâve never found a good balance on what to share, I might need some help with it if thatâs okay.â
Your expression softens almost immediately, because of course it does. Aaron could commit arson and sound perfectly sincere. You suppose youâd prefer it over the poor communicators youâve dated in the past, but it does make it frustratingly hard to stay angry with him. âYeah, okay, sweet talker.â
He tries really hard not to smile too wide. âPerks of the job.â
âIs that concussion one, too?â You snide, letting him take your hands in his. Theyâre calloused and bigger than yours, and you love nothing more than when theyâre on you. Youâre pretty sure Aaron isnât concussed; youâve seen him with a concussion or two over the years, and heâs acting annoyingly level about the whole thing.Â
Aaron nods importantly. âI get it because Iâm the boss.â You crack a smile despite yourself and Aaron relaxes visibly. âThere she is.â
You scowl at him and it makes his heart soar. âDonât âthere she isâ me. Iâm annoyed with you.â
He wants to kiss the frown right off your face, and heâs almost certain you would let him. Youâre the loveliest creature heâs ever beheld, urges screaming at him to tug you back into his lap and plant one on you. âYou should be. Iâm very sorry.â
You huff. âWhatever. Go shower. You smell like crime.â
Aaron uses this excuse to half-stand, pressing a kiss to your forehead. âCan I make you dinner when Iâm done? I bought things for minestrone.â
Stupid SSA Hotchner and his bruises and his apology and his soup. You look down at your lap, suddenly embarrassed about the fuss you have and will continue to make. âCan I sit in the bathroom while you do?â Youâll sit either on the floor or on the closed toilet lid, behind the shower curtain, just in wanting of being close to him.Â
âOh, beautiful girl,â Aaron sighs into your hairline, offering you a hand to help you rise from the couch and then making sure his next kiss hits your mouth. âIâd like for nothing more.â
The first sign something was wrong was the growling.
Not the terrifying, earth-shaking demon kind Dante was used to hearing during jobs.
No.
Tiny growling.
Tiny angry growling.
You looked up from the kitchen sink slowly, already suspiciously quiet in the office for the last five minutes, which, with Dante and your daughter involved, usually meant property damage.
ââŠHoney?â you called carefully.
Another growl answered you.
Then Danteâs absolutely delighted laughter erupted through the building.
âOh my God!!! sweetheart do that again!â
You dropped the dish towel immediately.
The Devil May Cry office looked like a tornado had passed through it.
Pizza boxes were overturned. One of Danteâs coats had somehow ended up hanging off the ceiling fan. Ebony and Ivory were safely locked away thankfully because apparently even Dante had enough survival instincts to babyproof firearms around a half-demon toddler.
And right in the middle of the chaos stood your daughter.
Tiny.
Furious.
Glowing.
Little crimson horns poked through her soft white hair while a thin tail lashed violently behind her. Her eyes glowed bright demonic gold as she stood atop Danteâs desk in footie pajamas covered in strawberries.
She looked genuinely terrifying.....if she wasnât three feet tall.
âShe bit the table,â Dante informed you proudly from the couch.
Your jaw dropped. âShe WHAT?â
âShe got mad because I said she couldnât have ice cream before breakfast.â Dante snorted loudly. âThen boom.... tiny Devil Trigger.â
Your daughter pointed a chubby little finger at him and hissed.
Actually hissed.
Dante burst into another fit of laughter. âOhhh sheâs got ATTITUDE.â
âDante!â you snapped while hurrying toward her carefully. âDonât encourage her!â
âSheâs adorable!â
âSheâs demonic!â
âSheâs our demonic.â
Unfortunately, he had a point.
Your daughter stomped her foot angrily the second you got close, tiny claws scratching against the desk surface. Smoke puffed dramatically from her nose like an offended little dragon.
âOh no,â you whispered. âBabyâŠâ
Her glowing eyes immediately filled with tears.
And just like that the terrifying demonic rage melted into distressed toddler emotions.
âMama,â she whimpered. Your heart shattered instantly.
You scooped her up carefully despite the claws and tail whipping around anxiously. Her little horns bumped against your shoulder while she buried her face into your neck, sniffling miserably.
Danteâs laughter softened immediately. âAww, câmere bug.â He stood from the couch and approached slowly this time, much gentler than before. âHeyâŠhey, youâre okay.â
âShe doesnât know how to turn it off,â you realized softly.
Your daughter whined pitifully as another tiny growl escaped her hiccups.
Dante crouched beside you both, resting his chin against the top of her head thoughtfully.
âHuh,â he muttered. âYâknow, my first Devil Trigger was way messier.â
You gave him a look. âNot helping.â
âJust saying, sheâs doing great.â
Your daughter peeked up at him with glowing eyes, little lips wobbling. ââŠDaddy?â
Dante melted instantly, completely.
âOh I am SO screwed,â he whispered dramatically, clutching his chest.
Despite yourself, you laughed softly and then your daughter sneezed.
A burst of demonic energy exploded outward in a tiny shockwave that sent papers flying everywhere and launched Dante backward into the jukebox.
The entire office went silent.
Dante sat there sprawled against the machine staring at the ceiling for two seconds before slowly grinning. ââŠOkay,â he said proudly. âThat was kinda badass.â
And now your daughter was officially exhausted, that was the real problem. It wasn't the horns, not the glowing eyes. Not even the tiny tail currently wrapped tightly around your arm like an anxious cat.
She was overtired, overwhelmed, and emotional â which apparently mixed terribly with dormant demonic instincts.
The Devil Trigger itself had started flickering now.
Little sparks of crimson energy blinked unevenly around her tiny body while she sniffled against your shoulder miserably. Every few seconds the horns would shrink slightlyâŠthen pop back out again when she got frustrated.
âOh honeyâŠâ you whispered, rubbing her back carefully.
Another hiccup escaped her as a tiny puff of smoke followed it.
From across the office, Dante watched thoughtfully while leaning against the jukebox heâd been blasted into ten minutes earlier. His expression had finally softened from amused chaos into something gentler.
Experienced.
Because unlike you, Dante remembered what it felt like.
The overwhelming rush.
The fear.
The emotions that got too big too fast.
And judging by the tiny scrunched expression on your daughterâs face, she was scared now too.
âHey, bug,â Dante said softly.
Your daughter looked up immediately at the sound of his voice, golden eyes watery.
Dante held his hands out toward her slowly. âCâmere for a sec.â
She hesitated then immediately reached for him.
Dante took her carefully against his chest, one large hand supporting the back of her head while her tiny tail wrapped around his wrist instinctively.
âThere she is,â he murmured.
Your daughter whimpered quietly. âDaddyâŠstuck.â
âI know.â Dante sat down on the couch with her curled against him, his hand slowly rubbing up and down her back while the office lights buzzed softly overhead.
âYou wanna know a secret?â he asked quietly.
She nodded weakly.
âThe first time Daddy transformed, I cried too.â
Your daughter looked up at him with wide glowing eyes. âYou did?â
âOh yeah.â Dante nodded seriously. âWhole thing was a mess. Screaming, breaking stuffâŠprobably looked uglier than you too.â
A tiny giggle escaped her through the sniffles.
âThere it is,â Dante grinned softly. âThatâs my girl.â
The energy around her flickered again.
Danteâs expression shifted slightly then, becoming more focused. More careful. âAlright,â he murmured. âListen to me, sweetheart.â
She stared at him intently.
âYou gotta breathe.â
âI am breathing.â
âYouâre panic breathing.â Dante tapped her nose lightly. âSlow breaths. Câmon. Like this.â
He exaggerated one deep inhale then a slow exhale.
Your daughter copied him shakily.
Again & again as the red glow around her dimmed slightly.
âThere you go,â Dante praised immediately. âSee? Youâre controlling it now instead of letting it control you.â
You watched quietly from nearby while your daughter focused entirely on Danteâs voice.
It hit you suddenly then how terrifyingly good he was at this.
Not because he was powerful.
But because he understood her.
Dante rested his forehead gently against hers rocking her gently. "Being part demon doesnât make you scary,â he told her softly. âOkay? It just means your feelings get really big sometimes.â
ââŠLike you?â
Dante barked out a laugh. âOh sweetheart, unfortunately yes.â
Another tiny giggle and this time the horns shrank noticeably.
Dante immediately pointed dramatically. âAYYY there we go!â
Your daughter gasped, reaching for the top of her head.One horn remained as the other was now gone.
She concentrated again with the most serious little expression imaginable.Tongue sticking out slightly, tiny fists clenched.
And with one final flicker of crimson light the remaining horn disappeared as tail vanished next.The gold faded from her eyes until they returned normal.
Silence settled over the office.
Your daughter blinked once.Then immediately burst into tears again. âI DONâT WANNA BE SCARY.â
âOh, babyâŠâ you breathed.
But Dante pulled her close before you could even move.
âHey.â His voice came firm this time. Certain. âLook at me.â
She sniffled hard.
Dante brushed messy white hair from her forehead gently. âYou know what I saw today?â
Your daughter shook her head. âI saw my kid do something incredible.â
Her lip trembled. âBut I got angryâŠâ
âEverybody gets angry.â Dante shrugged. âHell, your Uncle Vergil built his entire personality around it.â
A startled laugh escaped you from across the room.
Your daughter giggled weakly too soft hiccups as her tiny hands clutched his shirt.
Dante smiled softly before kissing the top of her head. âYouâre not scary, sweetheart,â he whispered. âYouâre Sparda blood.â
Your daughter curled closer against his chest sleepily while he held her securely in his lap.
Five minutes later she was fully asleep.
Tiny snores.
Sticky strawberry pajamas.
One little hand gripping Danteâs shirt tightly.
Dante looked down at her with this quiet overwhelmed expression, his voice soft.ââŠShe got your nose.â
summary â in which oscar wasn't exactly ready for the world to find out that he had a girlfriend, but he can't find it in him to be upset about the outcome when one slip up exposes the secret (au where oscar likes to stream)
pairings â oscar piastri x fem!oc
pronouns â she/her, labelled as his girlfriend.
word count â 2253
note â this whole layout is stolen from @love-quinn . love her literally more than anything!!!! also this is just me emptying out my short wattpad drafts on here <3
IT WAS A TYPICAL summer break.
after settling back home and taking a few days to rest and recover from the first half of the season, oscar found himself sat at his computer, streaming to thousands because of his newfound, downtime hobby.
really, streaming was just an excuse for him to play games and be his entertaining self while doing it . . . and also because his lovely girlfriend had told him to stop annoying her while she cleaned their home.
annoying in the sense that he wanted to help but did it wrong, kept trying to distract her from the tasks at hand so that her attention could be on him instead, and was disturbing her alone time â after she'd explained that she just wanted some time for herself because she'd spent the last few days relaxing with him, he'd kissed her cheek with a smile and headed upstairs to stream.
he'd really got lucky with his girlfriend. she was a florist he'd met back in melbourne a few years ago when he was buying flowers for his mum to apologise for not calling her for a week ( it wasn't on purpose, of course, but it was a mistake he wouldn't make again ). she'd helped him pick the right flowers because he was clueless and then he had turned the charm on â learning her name, and also learning that she finished her shift at four-thirty and was free afterwards. the rest was history.
SHE knew oscar was streaming after he'd sent her a text. that had been two hours ago, and she hadn't seen him entering the kitchen for water or something to eat since.
"explain to me how he's always hungry but forgets to eat," she muttered under her breath. dropping the rubber gloves onto the dining table, she walked past that and into the kitchen to prepare something for him to at least snack on.
it was a difficult relationship for them outside their maisonette in the uk. She was nervous about people finding out that she was the lucky girl dating oscar piastri, and oscar, despite wanting to have her by his side at events, was happy to keep the secret just for the few that they could trust because he wasn't entirely ready either. some of the drivers on the grid knew, a few of his team knew, and their families knew. it seemed like a lot of people to know about something they were keeping secret, but everyone kept their mouths shut and mentioned nothing about it to the public.
the only one who did talk about oscar and relationships was his teammate in interviews, and that was only to tease oscar by saying that he wasn't in a relationship and could 'pull no bitches' because he knew that oscar couldn't defend himself and say that he could â not that he would call her a bitch though, not even as a joke. it just wasnât in his vocabulary.Â
she threw together a simple mix of greek yogurt, berries and granola to the correct portions and filled up a glass of water before heading up the stairs to the open space â the study that had become his streaming and trophy room, and a little living space that was perfect for basking in the sun under all the windows above.
to her surprise, it was quiet. quieter than usual. usually she could at least her murmurs through the door when he was streaming because the walls werenât necessarily thick. but there was nothing but silence to be heard, and she couldn't think of a time their house had been this quiet.
as silently as possible, she walked down the short hallway and stopped outside of the study, setting down the bowl and the glass and cringing when they made a soft clink against the glass table outside the door.
out of curiosity, she moved closer to the door, pressing her ear against the wood and waiting to hear a faint rustle or oscarâs voice to break through the void. silence.
it was an uncharacteristic silence that left her feeling uneasy. she knew nothing would be wrong, but it wasnât right for full-blown silence, not even with how introverted he could be on rest day.
oscar, despite his own level of quiet, was still the louder of the two, leaning more into his ambivert side when he felt like it while she stayed comfortable as a full-time introvert. she never raised her voice above its usual quiet tone, not unless it was around oscar or one of her other friends and they had coaxed it out of her through jokes and laughter. the only time oscar was ever really this quiet was when he was tired or asleep or sometimes when he was eating dinner.
uh, she thought when she was met with nothing, do i knock? no, that makes it look like someone's here . . . um . . .
with one last thought, her simple idea was to open the door just a little, just enough so that it was barely obvious and so that she could look through the tiny gap to see if he was alive and breathing in there.
with a slow motion, she managed to turn the doorknob without a sound, and once she had it unclipped, she kept it still for a moment so that she could take a breath and let go of the one she had been holding.
she pushed the door a little as slowly as possible, and it was working, but she just needed to move it a little more so that a gap could form between the door and its frame.
there was something she had asked oscar to do months ago when he was back home with a two week break between races. it had been something so simple. it was just to oil the hinges in the house so that the doors would stop creaking every time they were moved. he'd told her he'd fixed the issue ( which she knew meant that he had asked his mum how to fix it ) and it hadn't been brought up again.
however, it was clear now that he hadn't fixed the hinges.
very colourful words circulated through her mind as a soft creak echoed through the quiet home, and more specifically, through the room that probably had a stream going. fuck. shit. motherfucker. fucking hell. what the fuck. son of a bitch. piece of shit door.
through the crack now in the door, she could just see her very much alive boyfriend sitting at his desk chair with his headphones on, and was . . . whispering? and, just to her luck, he had the camera positioned a little over more today, and the door was in frame.
OSCAR quit whispering ( because someone in the chat said that their cat was asleep and that was his default, sarcastic answer ) the second his eyes scanned his chat and saw multiple messages that read out the same thing: the door moved. it took him a few seconds to comprehend it, but then his head snapped over to the door and noticed that it was just barely ajar.
"one sec," he quickly said and then muted the microphone. once he was sure he was muted, he spun in his chair to face the door, covering half of his mouth from the camera so that no one could read his lips. "Hey?â he didnât sound frustrated, just warm and soft all the same. âyou there?"
"they saw, didn't they?" he heard the quiet voice of his girlfriend on the other side of the door. "i'm sorry, i was just trying toâ"
"hey, no," oscar shook his head, voice soothing. "it's alright, baby, it's alright. i can play it off as something if you'd like . . . or you can come in and say hi. up to you." he didn't want to sound like he was pressuring her. they had been dating for almost two years now, and they had kept it quiet for this long. if she was ready, he was happy to show her off.
"uh . . ." she faltered. "i mean . . . do i have to talk much?"
"not if you don't want to," he answered gently. "we don't have to do anything you don't want to do."
but she thought about it, and looked to the granola bowl next to her. why not? "okay."
"okay," oscar turned back to his computer and unmuted the mic. "i have someone for you lot to meet. be nice.â
a few seconds later, the door opened a little wider, and she could now be seen in the corner of the camera's reach. taking a deep breath, she picked up the bowl and the glass with slightly shaky hands and took a few cautious steps into the room.
oscarâs eyes lit up the moment he saw her, his pupils almost forming hearts at the sight. so warm, so soft, so mellow. "aw," he stood up from the chair and took the food and drink from her. "thank you."
"you always forget to eat," she mumbled, refusing to look at the computer and instead keeping her eyes on him. he set the items down on his desk before moving back over to her, and once he was close enough, she clasped onto his forearm.
"was an accident, i swear," he shot her a quick smile before slowly walking her over to his set up. "chat, i guess this is . . ." he looked back at her, wondering if she was comfortable with sharing her name, and when she shook her head, and shot her a reassuring smile. "twitch chat, this is my lovely girlfriend. and lovely girlfriend, this is my twitch chat."
She lifted her free hand to give a little wave, "hi," she said, clutching oscarâs arm a little tighter. her reflection stared back at her on the screen â she'd straightened her soft pink curls today because it was easier to maintain until she had time to wash it, and she was still in the old, paint-splattered clothes she normally wore when she spent the day cleaning.
her eyes caught the chat that was quickly speeding past much to her dismay, but what she had found actually served to make her smile. people were being nice. there were greetings and people saying she was pretty, and wondering how oscar of all people managed to pull her. it was strange to have so many people commenting about her, but it was the kind of strange that she was starting to find nice.
after a minute of watching the chat roll by while oscar made small-talk, she mentioned that she would see him after he finished streaming before leaving the room.
"HEY," OSCAR CRAWLED INTO bed, laying on his stomach and looking up at her.
she, who had showered and started reading in the time it took oscar to finish streaming, glanced down at him from where she was sitting. she slid the floral-decorated bookmark in between the pages she was reading and closed the book.
"hi," she smiled as soon as she saw him, moving her hand to sit in his soft hair. "how was your stream?"
"good," he smiled back at her, his eyes crinkling slightly. "everyone loved you, y'know?"
she shrugged, "i thought they'd be scarier," she admitted. she wasn't blind to the treatment that fans gave to their favourite's partner â it happened in every sport, and every career of a famous person. it would probably get worse when she went out with him in public, but almost every chat message that she quickly read when she had been in that room with him had been positive. that made it a little less terrifying.
"aw," oscar propped up his chin with his hand. "don't worry, i'll protect you," he winked at her, but she just rolled her eyes.
"you ran away from a bee yesterday, osc," she reminded him, voice deadpan, "telling me to kill it before it killed you. it was nowhere near you."
oscar tutted. "if i can see it, it's a threat."
she giggled and dropped her hand from his hair to pick up her book once again. as soon as it was in her hands, she glanced back up at oscar in confusion when he pushed down on her knees so that her legs were flat against the bed.
with one heavy movement, he rolled over so that he was on her legs, wiggling a little so that he was laying between them on his stomach and his head was pressed against her stomach. "go back to reading," he mumbled, closing his eyes. "g'night."
she glanced over at the clock on the bedside table that displayed four pm. it was definitely too early for him to have a deep sleep because otherwise he'd be waking her up all night, so she'd be waking him up when she finished reading. "sleep well, my love," she leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead before flipping her book back open.
"also," his voice was quiet, riddled with tiredness at the words he needed to mumble out before sleep stole him.
"mhm?"
"'m proud of you for earlier. forgot to tell you."
her heart warmed at his words. with a newfound smile on her face and a flutter in her chest, she flipped through the pages of her book until she found her bookmark and carried on reading, the only sounds being that of the pages and the soft breaths from her sleepy boyfriend on top of her.
summary â the pr stunt feels like it's going too well when you're less focused on promoting your careers and too busy up after hours.
pairings â franco colapinto x actress!reader
pronouns â none, but fem!presenting
word count â 1788
note â 18+ MDNI. i found this plot in my drafts and completely forgot about it so here it is :)
"GOD," HIS GROAN WAS deep, one that he had been holding in for hours. "thank god that is over now."
"mhm," you hummed absently. the world outside seemed to drift by into darkness without an afterthought, too caught up in mobs of cars and desperate paparazzi as dusk melted into starry darkness.
the hotel was nice. it was an expensive suite in cannes' JW marriott hotel. it was far too big of a room but it was spacious enough to keep distance from franco for moments like this, where he was pissing you off.
he'd been receiving the silent treatment for the past few hours and it was driving him insane. in all the months that this stunt had been going on for, this was the quietest and most distant you had ever been. franco was losing his mind in your silence, his thoughts cloudy in the sensory deprivation you were stranding him in.
all because he wouldn't hold your hand.
the whole reason he had accompanied you to the cannes film festival was to support you with your acting career and so that you didn't have to go alone. that was his entire purpose: you went to his F1 races where you could, and he went to your events with you where he could. the pr stunt was to boost your careers, and yet here he was refusing to uphold the image that months of hard work had gone into.
sighing, franco crossed the room to where you sat on the window seat. you looked ethereal under the stars, still dressed in that gorgeous, strapless gown of sparkles and silk. your makeup was the same sparkly silver to match, but all he remembered was wanting to taste the bubblegum pink lip gloss coating your lips in a delicious shine. "i'm sorry, mi amor."
his heart stuttered when you didn't spare him a glance. you kept your gaze locked on the window, a gentle pout on your lips like he had truly shattered your heart into a million pieces. like you weren't being dramatic and petty because he couldn't do one thing for you.
what else good was he for? his image was a good thing for you at the moment, but holding your hand was where he felt the line had been crossed? how silly considering the paparazzi had photos of his tongue down your throat on his side of the williams garage in miami.
witholding from sighing again, franco crossed the room until he was kneeling on the floor beside your knees. his suit jacket had been discarded long before entering the hotel room, and the top button of his shirt had been undone at the same time that he loosened his tie. hair messy now that the event was over for the night, he looked up at you with eyes so gorgeous that it was better if you kept staring out the window.
"tell me how i can fix it . . . please," he was borderline pleading with you for something, anything. his fingers twitched, begging to embrace any part of you he could touch. "i'll do anything," he breathed, "just tell me what to do . . ."
you took a breath that felt cold, one that rattled the inside of your chest and sent fuzziness up your spinal cord and into your brain. "you don't have to like me," your voice was quiet, a contained that you only seemed to keep within your private life, far from the extroverted persona you showed to the public. "but we need this to work, franco." with a slight shake of your head, you added, "if you've met someone, tell me so we can call this whole thing off without the embarrassment."
you had been under the suspicion that franco had met someone new for at least a month now. he had become distant in a way that was so unnatural. ever since the two of you had met, physical touch hadn't been an issue. hell, he held your hand when the cameras weren't even around, sometimes he'd even loop his arm through yours while you were walking together. that had been erased since the beginning of the month and it left a sour taste in your mouth. you didn't want to be embarrassed by having the public catch on first before anything was confirmed. they were vultures and you wanted the upper hand.
"you're clearly not interested in this anymore," you finally turned to face him. his eyes sparkled in the moonlight in a way that made him so beautifully picturesque. they were a watercolour that shimmered delightfully with all the words he couldn't say, a melting shade that bled blue into green into hazel and gold. "you could've just told me that instead of being distant. communication is kinda the whole point, y'know?"
oh, no. oh, no, no, no, no. this was not what he had thought had crossed your mind. it actually hurt him to hear your pretty voice say such sad words.
"no," he breathed, shaking his head like his life depended on it. his fluffy hair lost the position it had been tampered to sit in as the hair product finally broke its bond on the amount of hold it once provided. you thought his hair looked better this way, anyway. "tell me you don't believe that."
you scoffed, glancing back out the window for a moment. the crowds were starting to disperse from below, the hotel security managing to finally get them under control. it released a certain weight from your bare shoulders. "how can i not believe that?" you questioned.
and suddenly franco felt like the idiot. the whole time he had no idea that you were truly hurting from his actions â the actions that he hadn't even realised were harmful in the first place.
"god," he said your name like a prayer in the dark. "i never meantâ" he cut himself off when words failed, reaching out to grasp your hands with his own. your eyes found him once more. "i'm sorry."
it was breathy, undertones of a certain desperation that struck through every syllable. it was the most sincere apology he had ever given, so much so that he felt it tear through his heart.
your stare was quite blank, a gentle, very subtle tilt of your head told him that you weren't on the same page as him. confused, you waited for him to elaborate.
"it became so real," franco spoke hardly above a whisper, carefully squeezing your hands like you would disappear. he watched your eyebrows knit together. "i thought that if i distanced myself a little more than it wouldn't hurt so bad when it was all over."
"what are you saying . . ." you trailed off. you knew where he was going with this but you needed him to spell it out to be sure of it.
you needed to know you were on the same page, the same paragraph, the same line and the same word.
"i love you," he blurt out like it had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for months. little did you know, it had. "i didn't mean to fall in love with you and now i'm scared of losing what we have because i stupidly just admitted that this is so real to me. i can't play pretend anymore . . ."
you shocked him by kissing him so fiercely it was like a fire had sprouted from the ashes of your annoyance. you rose from the seat and collided into him with so much force that it sent him letting go of your left hand to stabilise himself before he tumbled over entirely. it took him a quarter of a second until he melted, your embers sparking his own fire into existence. he coaxed you into straddling his lap fairly easily, your dress bunching awkwardly on either sides of him. in the brief glimpse he got before closing his eyes again, the fabric draped across him and the ground was such a sight that he wished he could commit it to memory.
his fingers felt through your dress as if he could reach skin, scrambling for whatever he could grab. it was messy desperation that he swore he wouldn't ever fall into when you deserved nothing less than being treated like the gorgeous angel you were. it was hard to think that now when you had been the one to start it.
"i love you," you mumbled into his lips, sliding further up his lap until you heard a pretty sigh of desperation escape him. his lips were parted and were starting to puff up from how hard you had kissed him. if you looked closer, you swore you would be able to see the imprints of your teeth in them. "thought you hated me . . ." you gasped quietly when he moved under you, his head lolling as your forehead fell forward to press against his shoulder.
"never," he breathed, leaning forward to chase all the access you had just granted him to your neck. "you're everything to me." his teeth sunk into your skin and your eyes rolled, too hooked on the feeling you had been praying to experience for far too long now. there would be marks too high to cover properly tomorrow but you couldn't stop him now, nor did you want to.
really, nor did you care.
"'m gonna do this properly," he promised, breathless. with your eyes closed, you shivered when you felt one of his hands trace up the inside of your thigh. small, teasing patterns, just enough to frustrate you into silently begging for something, anything. "gonna take you out on a nice date and ask you to be my girlfriend. gonna make this real . . ." a quiet sound escaped your throat when he found the waistband of your dainty, lace underwear. he snapped it against your skin twice before daring to explore lower. "tomorrow, yes?"
you were almost so lost in everything that was him that you didn't hear him until his fingers stopped. "hm . . .? yeah," you agreed haphazardly, blinking rapidly to try bring yourself back to reality. it was impossible to achieve when his lips connected with your jaw. "tomorrow . . . perfect."
the expensive, plush rug under you was the perfect invite for you to gain back just enough willpower to push franco until his back was flat against it, the long fibres tickling the sides of his face. nimbly, you worked to loosen his tie enough to tug it off before working on the buttons of his shirt. your lips met back in the middle once more like perfect magnets, the perfect entanglement to make every other thought vanish into nothingness.
oscar piastri x yn! aerospace engineer | request â here
fc: nailea devora
âââ oscar masterlist !
note â (manips made by me) thank you for the request angel <3 also i watched "project hail mary" and im obsessed... reblog's and comments are always appreciated â€
Liked by friend1, user2 and 18,362 others
yourinstagram When I started going to college for Aerospace Engineering it was a dream of mine to have the opportunity to work on something of this magnitude.
After 3 years of work Artemis II will launch on April 1st!!
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user1 you're so cool omfggg
friend1 im so proud of you ily
->yourinstagram ily thank you for going on so so so many coffee runs with me <3
user2 what a job!!
user3 wait i'd love to hear you talk about working on it!!
->yourinstagram i may be in a video soon!! đ
->user4 eek i can't wait
user5 actually an insane concept wow wow
user6 something you worked on going to the MOON!!!
mclaren In honor of the upcoming Artemis II launch, Oscar sat down with Y/n L/n a Aerospace Engineer who worked on Artemis II to talk about the similarities between Formula One cars and rockets and their shared love of space.
Click the link in our bio to watch the video!
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user1 waitttt im sat
user2 my two favorite interest in one
yourinstagram It was such an honor!! Thank you for having me and thanks to Oscar for being such a pleasure to talk to.
->oscarpiastri It was an honor to talk to you as well! Hopefully if there is a next time we can go longer than 30 minutes!
->yourinstagram Im sure we could work something out đ
->user3 watching this space btw
->user4 i'd be here for this lowkey
user5 so fun hearing the science behind both their jobs
user6 a 30 min long video of nerd talk, i loved it
user7 you have two drivers yk
->user8 if you watched the video.... THEN you'd know he said norris wasn't feeling well
->user9 like!! why comment without all the information
summary â working with your fiance has never proven to be an issue before. it becomes one when you learn from your coworkers that apparently there's a surprise waiting for you at home.
pairings â frank langdon x fiancee!nurse!reader
pronouns â none, but fem!reader
word count â1475
note â i never really intended to write for langdon but this has been sitting in my drafts since i watched season 1 so i figured why not finish it now lmao
IT WAS A RARE occasion that ER wasn't entirely overrun. the pile-up on the highway had been sent the pitt's way hours ago at the beginning of your shift, but now that everyone was stable, it was rather calm again. it was mid-morning, and the sky had been bright blue the last you saw it. ducking out into the ambulance bay to catch a breath after a particularly aggressive patient not too long ago, the clouds were starting to draw in for early-onset rain. there were clothes hanging out to dry in your backyard; you were hoping the dark clouds would roll on to somewhere else instead of hanging around.
the waiting room was still full â because when wasn't it? â but it felt good to finally be able to breathe again. all the current emergencies had beds and everything else was under control for now. the probably thirty seconds of freedom started now and you weren't going to waste a single second of it.
the break room was empty. all the sounds of the ER disappeared behind a muffled wall once the door shut: the beeping, the cries of agony and medical terminology being shouted were white noise that faded out once you entered the break room. it was rare to find anyone actually utilising the room, but you were in desperate need of a snack while you had the chance.
"congratulations," the voice behind you startled you as you opened the cupboard. turning, dana stood there, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. she didn't step inside the room as if it were a bad omen that taking a second for a break would cause a mass casualty to occur. instead, you took two granola bars out of the cupboard and tossed her one that she caught. "thanks, kid."
"congratulations for . . .?" you trailed off, tearing the plastic off the bar. it wasn't the best granola bar in existence but it did the job when you were desperate. the only annoying part about it was when the doctors ate them all (even the one's that weren't in the ED) and didn't bother to tell anyone they needed to be restocked. it had been the nursing staff's idea to start stocking them in the break room after all.
the last set of congratulations you had received had been a few months ago when frank proposed to you. you were ninety-nine percent sure dana had been among the first to congratulate you when she caught you wearing a stunning engagement ring after work one evening.
dana's eyebrows furrowed. "the newest member of your family," she said as if it were obvious. your eyebrows furrowed because frank and you were not expecting a kid and had no plans for that any time soon. "the dog," she continued when you looked confused.
it didn't help when you were still confused after she explained.
"jesus, you didn't know . . ." it wasn't really a question that she muttered but a statement of realisation instead. "langdon was goin' on about it like the two of you had decided to get a dog together."
your lips parted but no words came out. clearing your throat, you tried again. "apparently not," you coughed, "so . . . there's a . . . dog?"
dana grimaced. "i've said too much, apparently. your fiance has gone around tellin' the entire department that you two've gotten a dog; tried to get some opinions about it. figured you knew because he told robby that you both decided it was a good idea when robby said it wasn't."
the granola bar didn't feel as important anymore. with a sigh, you wrapped the plastic back up over it and shoved it in your pocket. "oh, great. he with a patient?"
dana gave you that motherly look she always seemed to hand out when she could tell something wasn't one hundred percent okay. "he just discharged his," she told you. quieter, she added, "go easy on him, kid. he's just excited about the two of you startin' your life together. it's sweet."
"sure," you agreed. you loved frank but sometimes he did things while forgetting to communicate them to you. a dog was a big commitment, especially with your jobs, and though you appreciated the gesture he was trying to make, it was still a lot to process.
you caught him easily. he had just dodged around a crash cart being moved back to its usual spot when your hand caught his elbow, gently tugging him to keep him in place. frank's mouth went to open, but the second he caught your eye, his lips closed and every one of his features softened. "hey, baby," a soft smile pulled across his face.
this was more than enough PDA in the workplace. you kept your personal life separate from your work, you both learnt early on to compartmentalise to keep the relationship healthy, so you grabbing him to catch his attention was a lot more than he expected. "hi," you flashed him a tense smile. his eyebrows furrowed slightly. "we need to talk."
"uh," frank looked around to make sure there wasn't anything else he had to do, but the ED was pretty much under control at the moment. his elderly patient with hypernatremia was the last on a list of cases he currently had to look at before he was going to move into helping out with triage. the last time he had seen you was when you were smiling with emma while helping re-dress a patient's wound. the patient was a woman in her mid-thirties who was terrified of hospitals, and so every extra second you had was spent making sure she was comfortable. "yeah, okay," frank nodded, following behind you as you walked out into the empty stairwell up to the roof.
the second you crossed your arms over your chest, frank gulped. "uh . . ." he trailed off, "are you okay?"
"frank," not langdon, no, frank. what you called him at home and in the parking lot before walking into the ER. compartmentalisation seemed to have drifted out the window. "i need you to be honest with me."
"yeah, yeah," he said with no hesitation whatsoever. his hands hovered awkwardly, desperately wanting to place them on the sides of your arms but unsure if that was crossing a boundary. you didn't look impressed; he was toeing a delicate line here. "of course. what's up?"
you weren't exactly sure how to word it, so it all just came out at once. "when were you gonna tell me you got us a dog? apparently you told everyone but me which isn't totally fair but also we both work really long hoursâ we don't have time to look after a dog, frank, andâ"
you cut yourself off with a sharp breath. "a dog is a lot of commitment and responsibility and i think it's really sweet that you want to start a family with this dog but . . . the poor thing's gonna end up neglected and sad."
frank waited until you finished your little rant, not wanting to interrupt until he was sure you had finished talking. only then did he speak.
"okay . . ." he trailed off, slow and steady. his hands found your arms and you all but melted. "i haven't gotten us a puppy, i promise," he spoke quietly, a sort of gentleness that you found comfort in back home in bed while reruns of some old show lulled you to sleep.
"but dana saidâ"
"i asked a bunch of people what they thought about getting a dog and everyone pretty much told me it wasn't a good idea," he explained. "i'm guessing what i said got tangled up down the grapevine of eavesdroppers." that part earned a snort out of you.
"okay, good," you sighed in relief, "because i'm not ready for that kinda commitment yet. plus," you gestured around you, "we're busy people. we gotta start out with, like, a fish or something. as a trial run."
"yeah?" frank smiled, a chuckle slipping from between his lips. it was airy and light and it made you mirror his smile. "we can get a fish, honey. i'd get you a million fish if you wanted it."
your face scrunched up, your smile staining permanent. "let's just start with one for now."
"yeah," frank breathed, "good idea. we'll go on saturday, hm?"
"sounds perfect," you mumbled, and suddenly you were being pulled into his chest. compartmentalisation be damned, sometimes it was nice to be held by your fiance at work. "i love you."
"i love you," he kissed the top of your head before pulling away. "i would never make a decision that big without you, okay? i promise."
you nodded and took a step back. "good," you crossed your arms as you watched frank fluff up his hair. "you better tell them we settled on a pet fish."
A/n: two likes is enough for me! Also I am happy knowing that non of my favorite characters die now đ€Ł.
The power outage hit without warning.
One moment the halls of the Jedi Temple were bright and steady, polished floors gleaming under soft light, the next, everything dropped into darkness with a sharp, unsettling hum as the systems cut out.
Emergency lights flickered on seconds later, casting the corridor in dim red strips that made everything feelâŠwrong.
You stopped walking immediately. "I hate this..." you huffed.
On either side of you, Captain Rex and Fives slowed too.
âJust a power fluctuation, maâam,â Rex said evenly, though his posture shifted, subtly more alert.
âYeah,â Fives added, glancing down the hall. âNothing to worry about.â
You narrowed your eyes into the dimness. âThatâs exactly what people say right before something is wrong.â
Fives snorted. âRelax, Princess,â he said, reaching to his side before pulling out a spare blaster andâvery casually, handing it to you. âHere. Just in case.â
Rexâs head snapped toward him. âFivesââ
âWhat? Itâll make her feel better.â
You took it instantly. ââŠI do feel better,â you said, inspecting it with interest.
Rex stared at both of you like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. âThat was a mistake,â he muttered.
You ignored him, holding the blaster with far too much confidence for someone who absolutely should not have one.
The three of you continued down the hall, your footsteps echoing softly in the quiet. The Temple felt⊠different in the dark. Bigger. Emptier.
You were just about to complain again when a shape moved.
Right in front of you.
Tall.
Cloaked.
Silent.
A hand reached out from the darkness, soft muttering and....you screamed and pulled the trigger.
The blast echoed loudly through the corridor.
There was a heavy, sudden thud as the figure dropped.
Complete silence.
Your chest heaved as you stared at the body on the ground, blaster still raised, hands shaking slightly.
ââŠHe startled me!â you snapped defensively, before either of them could say a word.
Fives and Rex rushed forward at the same time, boots hitting the floor hard as they came to a stop over the body.
Fives froze. ââŠOh...."
Rex leaned down slowly. ââŠOh.â
There, sprawled on the floor in an undignified heap, cloak pooled around him, was none other than Supreme Chancellor Palpatine.
Very much dead.Very much shot....Right in his chest.
You lowered the blaster slightly, still breathing hard. ââŠHe was reaching for me!...muttering like a lunatic!!"
Fives blinked as he looked down at the body then towards you then, very slowly, reached out and took the blaster from your hands. ââŠOkay,â he said carefully. âIâm just gonna...take this back.â
Rex, meanwhile, nudged the body with his boot and with a hum he nodded. ââŠHeâs dead.â
âYes, Rex,â Fives said flatly. âWe can see that.â
Another pause.
ââŠWe should report this,â Fives added.
Rex looked around the dark hallway, to the body then at the conveniently open maintenance hatch a few feet away then back at Fives. ââŠOr,â Rex said slowly, âwe donât.â
Fives turned to him. âRexââ
âWhat?â Rex shot back, already grabbing the body under the arms. âItâs the best option we have!â
âRex!â
âBesidesââ Rex grunted as he started dragging Palpatine across the floor, boots squeaking faintly with the effort, â....who walks up on a princess in the dark wearing a black cloak?!â
You immediately pointed at him. âRight!â
Fives stared at both of you like he was losing his mind.
Rex reached the hatch, popped it open with his foot, and without another word dropped the Chancellorâs body down the chute.
There was a distant, echoing clatter.
Then nothing.
Rex dusted his hands off like heâd just taken out the trash.
Fives pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose like he had a headache. âUnbelievable.â
You crossed your arms with a huff, chin tilting up as you puffed your cheeks out. âI mean, didnât Eno Cordova say he was like⊠evil anyway?â you said matter-of-factly. âI listened to a lot of what he saidâhe had that whole vision thing about the Jedi Order falling and the Empire rising, and no one listened to him.â
Fives blinked at you. ââŠYouâve been eavesdropping on Jedi historians?â
âThatâs not the point,â you snapped. âThe point isâhe couldâve been right.â
Rex crossed his arms now, nodding slightly. âHe was wearing a cloak.â
âExactly!â you said, gesturing dramatically. âAnd didnât he have that creepy obsession with Anakin?â
Fives made a strangled sound.
âI mean,â you continued, completely serious, âif you really think about it, I basically just saved the galaxy.â
You turned with a little huff, hair flipping over your shoulder. âYouâre welcome, by the way.â
Silence.
Long.
Painful silence.
Fives slowly looked at Rex.
Rex looked back.
ââŠWeâre not telling General Skywalker,â Fives said.
âAbsolutely not,â Rex agreed immediately.
ââŠOr General Kenobi.â
Rex shook his head. âDefinitely not.â
You glanced back at them, unimpressed. âOh, please. Heâd just lecture me about âreckless behaviorâ and âconsequences.ââ
Fives let out a slow breath.
ââŠYeah,â he muttered. âThatâs⊠exactly what heâd do.â
From somewhere deep in the Temple, alarms suddenly started to blare, distant voices rising, confusion spreading as security systems tried to reboot and locate the missing Chancellor.
All three of you froze.
ââŠWe should go,â Rex said quickly.
âYes,â Fives agreed. âImmediately.â
You straightened, completely composed again like you hadnât just accidentally assassinated the Chancellor of the Republic.
âYes, I think thatâs wise,â you said, already walking ahead of them.
They fell into step behind you, both far quieter than before.
ââŠThis is bad,â Fives muttered under his breath.
Rex nodded. ââŠThis is very bad.â
Up ahead, you glanced over your shoulder with a small, satisfied smile.
âOr,â you said sweetly, âitâs the best thing thatâs ever happened.â
Fives groaned. âUnbelievable.â
The lie spread faster than the power outage had.
By the time the Temple lights flickered fully back on, the official story had already taken shapeâpolished, tragic, and just believable enough to stick.
âA cloaked figure,â one guard repeated, scribbling notes.
âIn the dark,â Rex confirmed, perfectly steady. âWe gave chase.â
âLost him in the lower corridors,â Fives added, tone just strained enough to sound frustrated instead of deeply concerned for his own future.
You stood off to the side, arms crossed, expression composed in that effortless, royal way that suggested you were merely inconvenienced by the entire situation.
âYes,â you said, with a small sigh. âVery dramatic. Very suspicious. I was quite startled.â
The guard nodded, scribbling faster. âOf course, Your Highness.â
From across the room, Anakin squinted at all three of you.ââŠYou...lost him?â he repeated slowly.
âYes,â Rex said.
âIn a straight hallway?â Anakin pressed.
ââŠIt was dark,â Fives said.
Anakin looked unconvinced.
Behind him, Obi-Wan stood with his usual composed posture, hands tucked into his sleevesâbut his gaze lingered on you a second longer than necessary, as if checking for something unseen.
ââŠYouâre certain youâre unharmed?â he asked quietly.
You waved a hand dismissively. âPerfectly fine.â
Anakin made a face. âYou screamed.â
âI was startled.â
âYou fired a blaster.â
âInstinct.â
âYou never listen when people say not to take weapons.â
You turned toward him, narrowing your eyes. âThat sounds like a personal attack.â
Ahsoka, off to the side, was visibly vibrating with interest. "This is the most interesting thing thatâs happened all week,â she whispered
Meanwhile, Fives was sweating.
Rex was calm.
You were thriving.
And then a presence entered the room.
Eno Cordova stood near the back, hands folded behind him, head tilted slightly as he observed the scene with unsettling patience.His gaze moved from Rex⊠to Fives⊠to you and something in his expression said...He knows.
Fives saw it first. ââŠOh no,â he whispered under his breath.
Rex followed his line of sight. ââŠOh no.â
You turned and immediately straightened, offering your most composed, diplomatic smile. âMaster Cordova.â
He inclined his head politely. âYour Highness.â
Silence stretched between you.
Cordova stepped closer, slow and thoughtful, eyes flicking briefly toward the guard still writing down the report. âA unknown cloaked figure, you say,â he murmured.
âYes,â you said smoothly.
âIn the dark.â
âVery dark.â
âAnd you gave chase.â
âWe did.â
âAnd yetâŠ...he vanished.â
âLike a shadow,â you added.
Cordova hummed softly. ââŠCurious.â
Fives swallowed.
Hard.
Because Cordovaâs gaze shifted again, this time lingering on your hands⊠then flicking, almost imperceptibly, toward the direction of the lower maintenance levels.
The chute.
Then back to you.
And he smiled.
Just slightly.
âOh,â he said quietly. âI see.â
Fives made a choking sound.
Rex stared straight ahead like a man facing his end with dignity.
You blinked once. ââŠSee what?â you asked, tone perfectly innocent.
Cordovaâs smile deepened just a fraction.âNothing,â he said lightly, turning toward the guard. âOnly that⊠in times of uncertainty, the Force often guides events in unexpected ways.â
The guard nodded like that meant something.âYes, Master.â
Cordova gestured vaguely. âI believe this âfigureâ may have used the confusion to escape through the lower systems. Waste processing, perhaps. An unfortunate but effective route.â
Fivesâ eyes widened.
Rex went very still.
You stared at Cordova.
Cordova did not look at you. ââŠWeâll note that,â the guard said quickly, writing it down.
Anakin frowned. âThatâs oddly specific.â
Cordova gave a small shrug. âA hypothesis.â
Ahsoka tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly.ââŠHuh.â
Obi-Wan, meanwhile, watched Cordova with quiet interest but said nothing.
Because nothing was technically wrong.Just⊠suspicious.
Cordova stepped back, hands folding again behind him as he met your gaze one last time and for a brief moment there was something ancient in his eyes.
Something that had seen this coming.Then, softer, just for you âYou are⊠exactly where you are meant to be.â
Your lips parted slightly.
Then he turned away, as if nothing had happened.
Fives exhaled so hard it was almost a wheeze. ââŠHe knows,â he whispered.
Rex nodded once. ââŠHe knows.â
You straightened, smoothing your outfit like you hadnât just had your entire secret silently acknowledged and protected. ââŠWell,â you said lightly, âthat worked out.â
Fives stared at you. âThat worked out?â
âYes,â you said, already turning to leave. âWeâre fine.â
âWe are not fine.â
âWeâre completely fine.â
Behind you, Anakin was still frowning as he watched you whisper between the two clones.ââŠI donât like this.â
Ahsoka grinned. âI do.â
Obi-Wanâs gaze flicked briefly to you as you passed him, lingering for half a second longer than necessary. ââŠBe more careful,â he murmured quietly.
You didnât slow, just lifted your hand in a small, dismissive wave. "I always am.â
Fives groaned behind you. âUnbelievable.â
And at the back of the room, Cordova smiled to himself.
WE NEED KRYPTO INTERACTING WITH DAREDEVIL READER NOW!!
.àłàż BABYSITTING
summary â krypto is not clark's dog. if he was, she would have absolutely never dated clark in the first place. that dog is a nightmare and she is not happy that he will be staying in their apartment while kara is off on another bender.
pairings â clark kent x daredevil!reader
pronouns â she/her
word count â 3401
note â no you don't get it i was SO excited when i saw this one!!! masterlist for daredevil!reader here
SHE WAS NOT IMPRESSED.
superman was standing in her living room. he smelled of sulfur and it was making her nose itch. to make matters worse, there was a far worse stench beside clark, and based off the general sense she got from it, there was a dirty dog slobbering over clark's cape and subsequently the carpet she had vacuumed this morning.
she was far, far, far from impressed. honestly, she was more astounded than anything at the sheer fact that clark was wearing shoes inside their home let alone the gross-smelling dog. she cringed at the way his slobber sounded as it hit the floor in another wet glob.
"clark."
her voice was stern, much like he only ever really heard when he accompanied her in court. clark's face scrunched up at his name alone. "i'm sorry."
"no," she paused, "you're not."
clark sighed. "i don't wanna look after him either," he promised, trying to yank his cape back from krypto's mouth. krypto just yanked harder. "but kara's . . . y'know . . . and she dumped him on antarctica. he keeps tearing the robots apart andâ"
she had met kara once and it was when she all but crash-landed on their balcony one morning asking for her dog back. krypto had not been with them then and so she had made kara up some breakfast and sat her on their couch on the balcony so that the yellow sun could wake her back up to reality. when she had gotten home from work, kara was gone and clark had left a note saying he was with her, and that had been months ago.
she did not want to meet krypto. she was not a dog person in the slightest, or any animal really, and clark knew that. it wasn't that she hated them, it was more so that she grew up without them and then spent years after being blinded relearning how to move through life again, so pets were completely out of the question.
this dog in particular seemed to be an entirely different breed. and he was certainly not helping clark's case here when she already wasn't an animal lover.
"why is it dirty?" her lips pulled together into a line. "and slobbering everywhere. i just cleaned in here today and i know that your shoes are on the carpet."
clark wasn't trying to hide that but he had flown in through the open balcony covered in chemicals and dirt and whatever else krypto had managed to get him into. "look, i'm sorry," he sighed, bowing his head slightly. "i'll clean the carpet before i go to work tomorrow, heck, i'll clean the whole house again."
her eyes widened. "krypto is not staying here while you're at work. you're not leaving me with that thing all day. i just cleaned and he's clearly out of control and i have so much work to do and . . ."
clark hung off every word she said, not daring to cut her off on her frustrated rant. "i wouldn't ask you unless i was desperate, honey, believe me," he hummed gently when she finished. her chest rose and fell a little heavier than usual, and clark could only frown knowing that he had caused this. "i'll try tire krypto out so he isn't a handful tomorrow, okay? i'm sorry."
she knew in her heart that it was impossible to be mad at clark for long. she loved him so strongly that it hurt to huff and puff when she could be understanding instead. it was a compromise she had made long ago and it was times like this where it was imperative she harnessed that mindset. so, with a sigh, her shoulders lost their tension. "fine," she mumbled. "only 'cause i love you, though."
"aw, i love you more," clark beamed, his teeth so pearly white that they'd be visible in a dark room. "i'd hug you, but . . ."
she understood. she did not want whatever situation he had ended up in transferring onto her through a hug. "shower first," she then tilted her head down towards krypto. "i'll . . . make up a bed for the dog." clark didn't miss her grimace as she walked towards the laundry for old blankets.
SHE WOKE UP TO krypto laying in the little space between clark and herself in bed, and worse, he was snoring. loudly.
with a groan, she lifted her pillow from behind her head and slammed it over her face. "clark."
"i know, i know," clark sighed, yawning as he sat up and stretched. "krypto, bad. get down," he pointed to the floor, but all krypto did was wag his tail and roll over. his tail was wagging so hard that it was vibrating the bed and jumbling up the inside of her head. "now."
krypto did not move.
"clark, i can't do this all day," she whined, voice muffled by the pillow. "he doesn't fucking listen. seriously, what does kara teach this dog?"
"nothing," clark grumbled, rolling his eyes. "last time i saw kara, krypto was slamming her head into the concrete. like, broke through the concrete."
"and you're living me with this thing?" she sighed, removing the pillow. clark's eyes were staring back at her from above, she could feel him above her and so she pushed his head away and sat up. "i'm miserable."
"just . . . pretend he's not there," clark shrugged off like it was nothing, pressing a kiss to her cheek before getting out of bed to get ready for work. "that's what i do."
her head snapped in the direction of the dog, a gentle tilt to her head. she could hear krypto panting, could smell his disgusting breath a little too close for comfort. she was going to have to wash everything he touched . . . and that meant she probably wasn't going to get all the work she wanted completed done today. "no wonder he's badly behaved," she muttered, not trying to hide her remark from clark but not really caring whether he did hear it or not. "you don't pay attention to him."
"no, my cousin is the problem," clark shook his head. he slipped off the navy blue shirt he'd fallen asleep in and replaced it with a white button-up. she sighed annoyingly at krypto being her obstacle to her trailing her fingers up clark's muscled arms this morning and reluctantly rolled out of bed. krypto stayed perched up on clark's pillow like he owned the bed. "i'm just the babysitter."
"i'm the babysitter," she complained with a roll of her eyes, reaching out to pick up her red glasses off her nightstand. she put them on and krypto barked immediately.
"fuck," she jumped, reaching subconsciously for the batons she usually kept on her belt . . . the belt she wasn't wearing because she wasn't currently the daredevil. it was becoming a worse habit with the current climate of what luthor was doing to metropolis. "they're glasses, krypto, jesus fucking christ . . ."
clark snorted, "that's not very godly of you." he caught the pillow she threw, and she caught it without a fumble when he threw it back at record speed. a laugh tumbled out of him when he caught the edge of her smile.
the cross around her neck probably agreed with him, but she tucked it back under her shirt and moved to her side of the closet to pick out an outfit. she didn't need to wear anything too fancy today, just comfy pants and a cute blazer because she had a few zoom meetings with clients to attend. and now, by the looks of it, she had a dog to clean up after all day. she did not have the time or the patience for this.
"i go to church more than you do," she argued, which really wasn't much considering she didn't go as much as she probably should anymore, "you don't get an input on what's godly."
holding his hands up in surrender, clark coughed out a laugh as he slipped into the bathroom. "fair point," his voice echoed off the tiles, each scrubbed pristinely white. "want me to make you breakfast before i go?"
it was sweet. clark loved cooking breakfast because it meant he could make a different variation of pancake every other morning, as well as refining his skills in making the perfect eggs. oh, and bacon, too, and don't forget the cereal . . .
he loved breakfast. he claimed that ever other meal of the day was so boring, and that was one thing that she loved about him in particular. she was almost certain that one of the very first things that made her fall in love with him was the breakfast he made her for brunch after she stayed the night at his for the very first time. he made it with so much love that it was like she was scooping it with a spoon straight out of his chest.
"mhm, no, it's okay," she shook her head, running her fingers across the fabrics of her blazers until she found the right one. it was black with red stitching, perfect for when she occasionally wore it with a loose, crimson tie. today wasn't the day for that, she would clasp a ruby necklace around her neck in its place instead. "make sure you eat before you leave."
it was a throwaway comment she tossed over her shoulder as she set her outfit off to the side (very well away from the bed where krypto lay with his ears perked up) and left the room to set up her office for the day. no matter how many times clark had mentioned that he didn't necessarily run on the same sustenance that a human did, she still made sure he ate and slept and did all the human things the same as she did. he loved her for it, a gentle smile always pulling across his lips at how much she cared.
the jingle of a metal tag against a metal cilip echoed behind her, paws in an unruly jumble against the floor as krypto followed closely on her heels. with a huff at how much she knew that his collar was going to annoy her today, she chose to ignore the dog until she made it into her office. krypto flew past her and hopped up on her chair, his tail wagging and his tongue out, panting happily. she paused, her head tilting (unknowingly) in the same direction that krypto's did, as she listened.
she sighed. loudly. "krypto," she moved towards the dog, "get down."
krypto didn't move. shoulders slumping, she reached out towards krypto's collar and guided him down from her chair. "go find superman," she huffed. "he's basically your owner, not me."
like he weirdly understood, krypto lowered his head, whined loudly, and then sulked out of the room in search for clark.
her head fell into her hands. "thank god," she mumbled before straightening up and setting up her desk with the appropriate case files and her calendar for the day ahead.
CLARK HAD PRESUMABLY PUT krypto in his place before he went to work. she had managed to get a good chunk of work done in the two hours since he had kissed the top of her head to say goodbye before leaving for the daily planet.
she had already made it through two meetings with clients and had a third meeting with the opposing counsel for settlement negotiations in a couple of hours. until then, it was mainly research and putting together arguments for an upcoming trial. it wasn't going to be a difficult case, her metahuman client was going to plead guilty to manslaughter after an incident in his apartment building, and that was probably the most effort she currently needed to put into any of her work.
she heard paws sinking into the carpet and a slight jingle of metal. head tipping back in frustration, she sighed and shoved her braille display to the side. "what do you want from me?"
a quiet woosh of air and krypto was sitting by her feet. she scooted her feet a little away from him. "i fed you," she deadpanned, crossing her arms and slumping back into her chair. "clark flew you. what else could you possibly want from me?"
she couldn't exactly go take him for a walk to tire him out. not only was he a special kind of dog, he also wouldn't behave enough to look like some sort of guide dog. no one would suspect she was daredevil, but they would surely still find it odd that a blind woman could control an insane dog. her name was too big around metropolis to get away with pretending not to be blind like she sometimes used to.
the silence swallowed her. she liked the silence because it meant she could focus on the calming noises from outside their apartment. the faint hum of neon signs, the engines of the cars below and the rumble of planes overhead . . . it was the kind of peace she found when she could finally relax, but today she had a dog sitting in that silence with her and that made it all the less peaceful.
she sighed once again, this time louder. "i have an idea." in an instant, she was up out of her chair and navigating through to the little laundry room. "you're either gonna leave me alone or i'm gonna bath you," she spoke as if krypto was going to respond with words. all he did was stare with his head tilted and his ears up. he didn't move, so she whistled and tapped the edge of the wide laundry sink. "c'mon, up."
krypto hopped up into the sink quite quickly. she wasn't sure if he understood the implications of him being keen to have a bath, or if he was even aware of what a bath was, but she kept her heart and her thoughts on a steady thrum, not wanting him to pick up on this being something out of the ordinary. with a grimace, she reached out to hesitantly pat krypto's fur. "jesus christ," she muttered to herself, "dude, you feel disgusting."
krypto's little noise sounded like one of wonder, as if he was asking what she meant by that. she shook her head, "you'll feel better after a bath, trust me. i need to ask your mother if she washes you because this is like, gross, krypto."
this time he barked. she quickly shushed him and moved to sift through the cupboard below the sink for the correct soap. this soap was particular in that it was unscented and gentle on the skin, and she assumed that it would be okay enough for a dog. especially a dog that wasn't from this planet. he would be fine. plus, he had that much grime on him that this wash probably wouldn't get every single bit of dirt unless he let her doing a second, third, and maybe even forth wash.
carefully, she ran the warm water until it was lukewarm, and let it fill up the bottom of the tub. krypto immediately began to splash around, and she would be lying if she said she hadn't cracked a smile. "krypto!" she exclaimed as he splashed water up at her face. "you're making a mess," a quiet, short chuckle escaped her, "god . . ."
she made gentle work of easing krypto into a pleasant bath. she started off slow with lathering him in soap until he seemed rather pleased by the feeling of her scrubbing him, and by then he was leaning into her touch with a dopey grin, tongue flopped out of his mouth like this was heaven. it was scarily out of character for the insane dog, it kind of put her on edge, waiting for the moment where he flipped out and started running around the apartment soaking wet and barking.
that moment didn't seem to arrive. instead, she rinsed him off. "i'll bet anything that that water looks like pure dirt right now. is that right, boy?" krypto grumbled out a noise that she took to be a yes, and she shook her head as she pulled the plug on the sink.
once the water drained completely, krypto did the unthinkable. he shook himself like a madman, water flying absolutely everywhere at the super speed he did it at. she ducked and tried to shield herself with her hands, spluttering out a laugh of disbelief at the sheer audacity of the dog. this was her first time washing a dog let alone any pet, she didn't think through the possibility that water would become a projectile.
"okay, that's wash number one," she told him gently, keeping her voice level as she wiped her face with the nearest towel she could find. it was a good thing she had taken off her blazer an hour ago when she started feeling a little too warm. the shirt she was wearing had suffered tragically. "i can still feel the dirt on you. at least one more wash, okay?" one more wash meant one more massive shake, but she had at least five minutes before she had to mentally prepare to go through that again.
krypto didn't move when she turned on the tap again, so she sighed in relief and took that as a promising sign.
WHEN HE GOT HOME, clark expected the apartment to be in shambles. he had been preparing for the worst, having stopped by the shops on the way home to pick up red tulips and a box of chocolates to apologise.
so when he got home and krypto was lounging quietly beside his girlfriend on the couch while she reread her braille copy of jane eyre for what felt like the hundredth time since clark had gotten it for her. clark blinked, quietly shutting the front door and locking it behind him, and setting his bag down on the floor. once he took off his shoes and placed them next to his bag, he silently trudged into the lounge room, staring unblinkingly at the sight before him.
"who are you and what have you done with krypto?" were the first words that tumbled clumsily out of his mouth as he took off his glasses and set them on the coffee table. "why is he so clean?"
"gave him a bath," she shrugged, sliding the bookmark between the pages she was up to and setting down the book. clark closed the distance between them, leaning down to kiss her tenderly. it lingered a second longer, and krypto's ears perked up at that. clark hesitantly pat krypto on the head, listening to his tail as it thumped against the back of the couch. "i don't think he's ever had one before."
"mhm," clark hummed, this time kissing her hairline before moving to the other side of the lounge room to put his phone on charge. he caught a peek into her office and saw that krypto's dog bed was no longer in the lounge room but instead by her desk inside her office. a smile pulled across his lips at the sudden change of heart she seemed to have during the day, but he knew better than to comment on that. it was better to let a sweet moment play out as if he never saw it. "want me to get you two anything before i shower?" he asked. he couldn't contain his stupid smile at seeing his prickly girlfriend with the dog she swore she disliked hardly twenty-four hours ago. he set the flowers down on the kitchen counter to put them in a vase after he showered and made his way towards their bedroom.
she only shook her head, shooing him away with her hand as she picked up her book again. "we're fine," she hummed, "thanks for the flowers."
we're fine. however she had tamed this dog, clark had no clue, but the fact that krypto had somehow won her heart in the process was a whole other can of worms he didn't have a can-opener for. with one more glance back at the uncharacteristically silent superdog (who looked so sleepy on top of the blanket he was laying on), clark made his way down the hallway with a larger smile than he wanted her to be aware of.
summary : when you're taken by an unsub who holds a peculiar grudge against your father, seven minutes make a hell of a difference between life and death.
warnings : angst with maybe -45% comfort, kidnapping, torture, mentions of harm being done to other people, completely made up plot btw so no spoilers for the actual show, spencer losing his shit, established relationship
word count : 9.5 k
a/n : as usual, not proofread ! probably about season 10-11!reid as in looks reference but the plotline is all over the place so uhm sorry abt that i was legit js pulling shit from my criminal minds memory bank and shoved them all together... so yeah defo not season-wise accuracy. (the crash is based on s13 so lil spoilers on that... and i also looked up every technical term i could think of to make spencer sound accurate so uh) enjoy !
Spencer's hands are careful as he fastens your bulletproof vest over your chest, his brows furrowed. The fluorescent lights of the bullpen wash him pale, catching the faint shadows under his eyes from too many nights spent buried in files.
âYou tightened it too much,â you mumble, wincing as he tugs the straps.
âItâs supposed to be tight,â he says automatically, not looking up.
âPretty sure breathing is also supposed to happen.â That finally earns you a glance. Not amused. Just worried.
âYou joke when youâre nervous.â
âAnd you lecture when you are.â
âIâm serious.â
âSo am I. My lungs would like to file a formal complaint.â His mouth twitches despite himself, but it disappears almost immediately. Spencer smooths his hand over the front of the vest one last time, checking for gaps like he doesnât trust the fabric to do its job properly. You study him for a second.
âYou know,â you say quietly, âmost people just say âbe careful.ââ
âI did say that.â
âThree times.â
âBecause you ignored me the first two.â A snort escapes you, but it fades when you notice the way his fingers linger near your ribs. Restless. Anxious.The case had gotten ugly fast.Three victims in four days. All connected to the Bureau in some way. Retired agents. Informants. One federal prosecutor. And now the unsub had escalated from taunting the BAU to targeting your father directly. Aaron Hotchner had made enemies before. Plenty of them. But this one felt different.
Personal.
The unsub had been sending photographs for weeks now. Grainy shots of Hotch entering Quantico. Jack at soccer practice. You grabbing coffee outside the bullpen with Spencer. Watching. Waiting. The latest message had arrived that morning.
Tick tock, Hotchner.
And underneath it:
What hurts worse? Losing your team⊠or your daughter?
Hotch had gone frighteningly still when Garcia read it aloud. Youâd watched the muscle in his jaw tick once before he started assigning teams like the world wasnât tilting beneath his feet. Now the bullpen buzzes around youâagents moving quickly, radios crackling, Emily and JJ arguing quietly over routesâbut Spencer still hasnât stepped back.
âSpence,â you say softly. His eyes flick to yours immediately. âIâll be okay.â The problem is he doesnât answer. Because Spencer Reid has seen too many people promise that before bleeding out anyway. Behind you, your father emerges from his office already shrugging into his jacket.
âWe hit the road in two,â Hotch says. The entire room shifts instantly into motion. Spencer finally lets go of your vest, though reluctantly, like peeling his hands away from something important.
âYou stay with Luke,â he says firmly. âDonât split up. Donât go anywhere alone." You blink at him.
âWow. You and my dad should start a podcast.â
âIâm serious.â
âYouâre always serious.â
âThatâs statistically inaccurate.â That almost gets a real smile out of you.Almost. Then Hotchâs voice cuts through the bullpen again.
âLetâs move.â You reach up and pull Spencer down towards you, catching his lips in a quick kiss as your dad, Luke, Walker and Emily all walk towards the black SUV's waiting for you downstairs.
The kiss barely lasts two seconds.
Still, Spencer chases it for half a heartbeat when you pull away, his hand catching briefly at your wrist like heâs fighting the urge to keep you there.
âBe careful,â he says quietly. You soften a little at the look on his face.
âSpence, weâre literally just surveilling a warehouse.â
âThat statement significantly increases the statistical likelihood something catastrophic is about to happen.â Luke snorts from beside the elevators.
âHeâs got a point.â You roll your eyes, backing toward the bullpen doors.
âYouâre all dramatic.â Hotch appears behind you, expression unreadable but tired in the way only your father can manage.
âMove.âAnd just like that, the momentâs over. Everyone scatters into motion.
The unsubâs name is Daniel Kessler.
Former paramedic. Former military. Smart enough to stay ahead of the BAU for six weeks and angry enough to make mistakes.
More specifically: angry at Aaron Hotchner.
Three years ago, Hotch testified in a corruption case involving Kesslerâs brother. The brother went to prison. Died there eleven months later.
Kessler blamed Hotch.
And now bodies were piling up across Virginia with surgical precision and handwritten messages left behind at each scene.
The latest lead had come fastâa possible location tied to one of Kesslerâs shell companies just outside Quantico. Which was why the team was mobilizing so quickly. Three SUVs. Hotch and Rossi in the first. JJ and Tara in the second. You, Luke, Emily, and Walker in the third. Spencer stayed behind with Garcia to monitor incoming intel. He looked miserable about it.
At first, the drive is almost painfully normal. Walkerâs driving. Emily sits shotgun flipping through case notes while Luke scrolls through updates on his phone beside you in the backseat. Rain taps softly against the windows. The highway stretches dark and endless ahead of you. Your phone buzzes.
SPENCE
You forgot your scarf.
You smile despite yourself.
YOU
Tragic. Iâll hold a funeral later.
Three dots appear immediately.
Then:
SPENCE
Funny people are statistically more likely to survive traumatic situations.
You bark out a laugh. Luke glances over.
âPretty Boy?â
âUnfortunately.â Emily sighs dramatically from the front seat.
âYou two are disgusting.â
âYou say that like you havenât watched them stare at each other for ten straight minutes in briefing rooms,â Walker says.
âI have,â Emily replies. âThatâs why I said it. I've also watched them pine for each other for years. This sudden shift in dynamics is weird. I honestly liked it better when Reid was all stuttery and shy around her."
"We didn't pine." You grumble, shifting in your seat. Four separate looks immediately get directed at you. Luke actually lowers his phone.
âBe serious.â
âHe wrote you a six-page apology because he accidentally snapped at you once,â Emily says to absolutely no oneâs surprise.
Walker snorts from the driverâs seat.
âReid used to look like he was being held hostage every time she touched him.â
âHe still does sometimes,â Luke says.
âOkay, wow,â you mutter. Emily twists slightly in her seat to look back at you.
âSweetheart, he once walked into the glass conference room wall because you smiled at him.â
âThat happened one time.â
âTwice,â Luke corrects. Walker laughs.
âNah, my favorite was the coffee thing.â You narrow your eyes.
âWhat coffee thing?â
âYou brought him coffee every morning for like eight months,â Walker says.
âBecause he forgets to eat when heâs working.â
âAnd Reid started memorizing your coffee order after day two,â Emily adds smugly. Luke points between all of you.
âSee, this is why none of us were shocked when they finally got together.â
âYou were all shocked,â you argue.
âWe were shocked it took this long,â Emily corrects. Emily cackles. âYou're dating a textbook.â
âA very pretty textbook,â you mumble before thinking better of it. Unfortunately the entire car hears you. Walker makes a wounded sound.
âOh, thatâs disgusting.â Emily clutches her chest dramatically.
âNo, let her continue. This is healing me.â You flip her off from the backseat. Rain continues tapping softly against the windshield as the SUV speeds down the dark stretch of highway. The radio crackles quietly every few seconds with updates from the other cars. Somewhere ahead, Hotch and Rossi are already discussing entry routes. JJâs voice cuts in briefly over comms before fading back out. For a moment, everything feels strangely normal.
Easy.
Luke elbows you lightly.
âYou know Reid almost called Hotch Sr when he asked permission to ask you out.â Your head whips toward him.
âWhat?â Emily bursts into delighted laughter.
âHe did.â Walker nearly misses the curve in the road because heâs laughing too hard now.
âNo he did not.â
âOh, he absolutely did,â Emily says. âHotch just stared at him for like ten full seconds while Reid visibly aged.â Luke deepens his voice badly in imitation. ââAgent Hotchner, respectfully, I was wondering ifâââ
âStop talking,â you groan.
ââif your daughter would potentiallyâââ
âYouâre all dead to me.â Emily wipes tears from under her eyes.
âYour father looked so uncomfortable.â Walker grins into the rearview mirror.
âHonestly brave of Reid. Iâd rather fistfight a bear than ask Hotch for dating permission.â
âHe didnât ask permission,â you defend automatically. Luke raises an eyebrow.
âHe absolutely did.â Luke laughs. And for one perfect, stupid second, everything feels fine.
Then you see it. Up ahead. Small. Sharp. Metal glinting beneath the headlights. Your stomach drops instantly.
âWalkerââ Too late. The SUV hits the spike strips hard. The sound is explosive. All four tires blow at once.
"Shit !" Walker jerks the wheel violently as the vehicle fishtails across the slick highway. Emily shouts something.
"Everybody hold on !" Luke grabs for the handle above the door. Your seatbelt locks brutally across your chest as the world spins sideways.
Thenâ Headlights. Blinding. A truck horn screamingâ And impact. Metal shrieks. Glass detonates. Your body whips sideways so hard your vision whites out completely. Something slams into your ribs.
When you wake up, you canât breathe. Pain hits first. Not sharp. Everywhere. Burning agony flooding through every inch of your body like someone poured gasoline into your veins. A broken sound leaves your throat. Smoke curls through the crushed SUV. Your head lolls sideways. Everything looks wrong. The windshield is gone. The dashboard is crumpled inward. Blood streaks the windows. Your seatbelt digs painfully into your chest. For a second you canât understand why your left arm wonât move properly. Then feeling rushes back all at once and you nearly black out again.
âFuckââ Your voice comes out shredded. You force your head up. Emilyâs slumped against the passenger door, unmoving, blood running down the side of her face. Lukeâs crumpled awkwardly beside you.
Walkerâ Walkerâs head hangs at an angle that makes your stomach twist violently. Too still. Far too still.
âWalker,â you croak. No response. You try again, panic climbing your throat. You reach forward, wincing at the pull of your seat belt, shaking him. âWalker!â His entire body slumps forward, head landing on the steering wheel with a deafening thud. You bite back the bile threatening to spew out of you, your vision tunneling as you jerk back. Your chest caves inward.
Oh God. Smoke thickens around you. The car groans. Somewhere outside, people are shouting. You fumble clumsily for the seatbelt release with trembling fingers. It finally clicks. The second it unlatches, your body pitches forward violently and agony tears through your side hard enough to make you scream. Somethingâs wrong. Something is very, very wrong. You look down. Blood. So much blood. A jagged piece of metal protrudes from beneath your ribs. Your vision flickers.
âNo no noââ The driver-side door suddenly jerks open. Cold rain floods in. A man appears beside the wreckage wearing EMT gear. Reflective jacket. Medical gloves. Calm eyes. Relief crashes through you so hard you almost cry.
âMa'am,â he says firmly. âStay still.â You nod weakly.
âMy-My friends - Please you have to-â Your eyes dart around, trying to catch a glimpse of the other cars. You can see smoke and fire from somewhere behind you, and panic claws up your throat. "Oh, god- my-my dad is in- please, you have to-"
âWeâll get them,â he says quickly. âI need to move you first.â Your brain feels slow. Foggy. He cuts through your vest with terrifying efficiency. Strong hands slide beneath your arms. Pain explodes through your abdomen as he pulls you free from the wreckage. You scream.
âI know,â he says soothingly. âI know. I got you.â Rain pours down around you. Lights flash red and blue across the highway. Your head lolls weakly against his shoulder as he carries you toward the ambulance. You can barely keep your eyes open. Your body feels heavy.
Wrong.
âDad,â you mumble. âNeed my dadââ
âWe already got the two other cars evacuated. We have extra RA's en route to escort your friends to the hospital. Your father is waiting for you there.â the EMT says. You nod, rain soaking your clothes. He loads you onto the stretcher. The ambulance doors stand open behind you.
Thenâ Movement. Across the wreckage. Another SUV. Crushed against the guardrail. And stumbling out of itâ Hotch.
Your father can barely stand. Blood runs down the side of his face. One arm hangs limp. But the second his eyes land on youâ Pure horror floods his expression.
âSweetheart !â Your breath catches.
What ?
Your breath catches. The EMT had said Hotch was already at the hospital. Your stomach drops so violently it almost makes you vomit.
No.
No, noâ
Hotch stumbles forward through the rain, slipping against the soaked pavement as he tries to run toward the ambulance. Rossi is behind him shouting for medics, for backup, for somebody to stop the vehicle, but your fatherâs eyes are locked entirely on you. On the man beside you. And suddenly you understand. The EMTâs hand tightens on the stretcher rail.
âWait,â you whisper. Hotch sees your expression change.
âNo!â he roars. The ambulance doors slam shut. The sound nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. Panic detonates through your body. You jerk upright instantly despite the agony ripping through your abdomen.
âStop the fucking ambulance!â you scream, scrambling backward across the stretcher. Pain tears through your ribs so hard your vision whites out, but adrenaline keeps you moving. âStopââ The EMT grabs for you. You swing first. Your fist cracks against his jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways. For one glorious second, he actually looks surprised.
âBitch,â he mutters. You lunge for the door handles. Your blood-slick fingers almost catch them before he hauls you backward violently. Agony explodes through your side and a scream rips out of your throat. Outside the tiny rear windows, you can still see your father. Hotch is running after the ambulance. Actually running. Broken. Bleeding. Desperate.
âDad!â you sob, slamming your palm against the doors. âDad!â The ambulance swerves sharply.
The EMT hooks an arm around your waist and drags you back against him with brutal force. You fight instantly, elbows flying despite the pain.
âGet the fuck off me!â you choke out.
âJesus Christ,â the man snarls, struggling to keep hold of you. âYou really are his kid.â Something cold presses suddenly against your neck. A syringe. Your blood runs cold.
âNoââ The needle plunges into your skin. You gasp sharply and shove at him harder, but your limbs already feel wrong. Heavy. Slow. âNo no noââ The man restrains you easily now, forcing you back onto the stretcher as the sedative floods your bloodstream. Your vision starts swimming almost immediately. Outside, through the blurred back windows, you see Hotch reach the ambulance for half a secondâ His hand slams against the rear doors as he screams your name.
âNo !â The sound breaks something inside you. Then the ambulance surges forward. And your father disappears into rain and flashing lights. Your body stops cooperating.
Your arms feel numb.
Your heartbeat echoes strangely in your ears.
The EMT pulls off his mask calmly while you struggle weakly beneath him.
Not an EMT.
Kessler.
You recognize him now. The eyes. Cold. Empty. Patient.
âYou shouldâve stayed still,â he says, almost disappointed. Your mouth wonât work properly anymore.
âYouâŠâ you slur weakly. Kessler sighs, pushing you flat against the stretcher as your body goes limp beneath his hands.
âRelax,â he murmurs. âYouâre bleeding internally. This is keeping you alive.â You try to fight him again anyway. Your hand barely lifts. Kessler watches you with detached fascination.
"Let's see if Aaron Hotchner's precious daughter is more important than putting me behind bars." He grabs another needle and grabs you arm.
You try to fight back- God, you try.
But your body feels like it's been filled with concrete, like your veins are hardening with every passing second, weighing you down.
Kessler grins.
"Sweet dreams."
-----------------
"Aaron- Aaron, listen to me-" Rossi is waving his arms in front of Hotch as real sirens flood the space. Emily crawls out of the car, coughing and bleeding from her temple, her hand pressed to her side as she limps her way over to Luke's side of the car and tugs him out. JJ stumbles from another wreckage, waving her hand in front of her face as she coughs, a large gash running down the side of her arm. Tara doesn't look badly hurt, just concussed as she stumbles down the stretch of highway, her hand pressed to her head in confusion as Derek helps her forward.
And Aaron Hotchner can't fucking breathe.
"N-No, we- we have to go after her." He rasps, shaking his head. "The ambulance didn't have a license plate but-but it was him. It was him, Dave." Rossi grabs Hotch hard by the shoulders.
âAaron!â Hotchâs chest heaves violently. Rain pours down his face, mixing with blood from the cut at his hairline. His eyes are locked on the empty stretch of highway where the ambulance disappeared into the storm.
âThe ambulance didnât have plates,â he says again, voice shredded raw. âIt was him. Dave, it was fucking him.â Behind them, chaos erupts across the crash site. Actual EMTs flood the highway now, shouting over each other as they move between the wrecked SUVs. Red and blue lights flash violently across twisted metal and shattered glass. Somebody yells for extraction tools. Another medic shouts about fuel leakage. Walkerâs body is finally pulled from the front seat. Emily sees the tarp being unfolded and stops dead.
âNo,â she whispers. Luke catches her arm before she can stumble forward. JJ presses a trembling hand over her mouth, blood still running down her forearm. Tara stands dazed beside Derek, one hand against her temple as she tries to process the devastation around her. For one horrible moment, nobody speaks. Then the highway explodes back into noise.
âAaron,â Rossi says again, more firmly this time. âTalk to me.â Hotch looks like he can barely breathe.
âShe saw me,â he rasps. âShe looked right at me.â His voice breaks on the last word. Daveâs stomach twists. Because Aaron Hotchner does not break. Not like this. âShe realized it wasnât real,â Hotch says, staring blankly down the road. âShe started fighting him.â Emily looks up sharply.
âWhat?â Hotch drags a hand over his bloodied face.
âHe was dressed like an EMT.â His breathing turns uneven. âI thought she was being transported until I sawââ He cuts himself off hard. Too late. Rossi catches it immediately.
âWhat did you see?â Aaron closes his eyes for one second too long. When he opens them again, thereâs something almost haunted sitting behind them.
âShe was hurt.â The team goes still.
âHow bad?â JJ asks quietly. Hotch swallows.
âI donât know.â Lie. Everybody hears it. Aaronâs jaw tightens violently. âThere was blood,â he says carefully, like each word physically hurts. âA lot of blood.â Emilyâs face drains of color. Luke curses under his breath.
âShe couldnât move properly,â Hotch continues hollowly. âHe had to carry her." Nobody says anything after that. Because they all know what that means. Then headlights tear onto the highway. A black SUV brakes hard across the shoulder. Spencer is out of the vehicle before it fully stops moving. Garcia barely gets the car in park before heâs sprinting after him.
âHotch!â Spencer shouts, panic already threading through his voice as he takes in the wreckage. âWhat happened?â Garcia steps out behind himâand freezes completely.
âOh my God.â The highway looks apocalyptic. Smoke. Rain. Crushed SUVs. Flashing lights reflecting off blood-slick pavement. Spencer eyes scan frantically across the scene.
JJ.
Emily.
Luke.
Tara.
Derek.
Rossi.
Hotch.
His stomach drops. Because youâre not there. Spencerâs breathing changes instantly.
âWhere is she?â Nobody answers quickly enough. And terror detonates behind his ribs. âWhere is she?â Emily looks away. Garcia starts crying immediately. Spencer stares at them.
âNo.â Luke steps forward carefully.
âReidââ
âNo.â The word cracks out of him violently. âWhat happened?â Hotch finally steps toward him, rain dripping from his ruined suit.
âKessler staged the crash,â he says hoarsely. âHe took her.â Spencer just stares at him. Like the sentence physically does not make sense.
âTook her?â he repeats faintly.
âThe ambulance was fake,â Rossi says grimly. âHe disguised himself as an EMT.â Garcia lets out a broken sob behind them. Spencerâs face goes completely white.
âWhen?â he asks.
âLess than four minutes ago,â Luke says. âLocal units are already searchingââ Spencer looks immediately at Hotch. Not Rossi. Not Emily. Hotch. Because Hotch saw her last. And Aaron realizes Spencer already knows that too. Their eye contact lasts half a second. Itâs enough. Spencerâs expression changes instantly.
âHow bad was she hurt?â Hotch doesnât answer quickly enough. Spencer takes a step forward. âHow bad?â Aaron looks wrecked. Actually wrecked.
âShe was conscious,â he says carefully.
âThatâs not what I asked.â
âAaron,â Rossi warns quietly. But Spencer doesnât look away from Hotch. Hotch exhales shakily through his nose.
âThere was blood.â Spencerâs breathing stutters.
âHow much?â
âI donât know.â Another lie. Spencer hears that one too. And suddenly he looks furious. Terrified, grieving, furious. âShe couldnât move on her own,â Hotch admits quietly. âHe carried her into the ambulance.â Garcia breaks down harder behind them and Derek crosses the space immediately to grab onto her. Spencer physically sways where he stands. For a second it looks like he might actually collapse. Then his face hardens into something sharp enough to cut glass.
âWhat direction?â Hotch blinks.
âReidââ
âWhat direction did he go?â
âEastbound,â Hotch answers carefully. Spencer immediately turns toward Garciaâs SUV. Hotch grabs his arm before he gets two steps. âYou are not going alone.â Spencer jerks free instantly. His eyes are glassy with panic now.
âYou let her get in that ambulance.â The words hit like a gunshot. Silence crashes down around the wreckage. Spencer looks horrified the second he says it. Because he knows exactly who he just said it to. A father who watched his daughter get kidnapped while injured and bleeding. Hotch recoils anyway. Not angry. Just devastated.
âI know,â he says quietly. That destroys Spencer more effectively than shouting ever could. His face crumples. Rain pours around all of you in endless sheets as sirens scream across the highway.
And somewhere out thereâ Youâre alone with Kessler.
--------
When you come to, the first thing you feel is that the pain at your abdomen has lessened.
Itâs still there.
Deep. Burning. Wrong.
But dulled somehow, like your bodyâs been wrapped in cotton. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy as you force them open. Darkness swims above you for a second before dim industrial lights sharpen into focus overhead. Concrete ceiling. Rusted pipes. Water dripping somewhere nearby in slow, echoing intervals. Your wrists jerk instinctively.
Metal rattles. Cold panic slams into you. You're strapped upright to some kind of steel chair bolted into the floor. Thick restraints pin your wrists and chest in place. Your injured side throbs violently when you struggle, making black spots burst across your vision.
âEasy. I bandaged you up but you're still actively bleeding out.â The voice comes from somewhere ahead of you. Kessler steps into view calmly, sleeves rolled to his elbows like heâs in the middle of an ordinary workday instead of holding an FBI agent hostage. Your breathing quickens immediately.
âFuck you,â you rasp. He actually smiles faintly.
âThatâs usually the morphine talking." Morphine. That explains the floating feeling in your limbs. You look down quickly. Your vest is gone. Soaked bandages are wrapped tightly around your abdomen beneath a gray thermal shirt that definitely isnât yours. Thereâs dried blood everywhere. Along your arms. Beneath your fingernails. Across the floor near the chair. Your stomach twists hard.
âHow longââ
âThirty-six minutes since the crash,â Kessler answers smoothly. Ice floods your bloodstream. The team. Your dad.
âWhere are they?â you demand. Kessler ignores the question entirely. Instead, he walks toward a camera mounted on a tripod across the room. And your blood runs cold all over again. âNo.â Kessler adjusts the lens casually. âNo no noââ
âYou know,â he says conversationally, âyour fatherâs reputation in the Bureau is fascinating. Aaron Hotchner. Untouchable. Unshakeable. Men like him always think they understand sacrifice until it becomes personal.â Your restraints clatter violently as you fight them.
âYouâre insane.â
âProbably.â He doesnât even blink. Then he reaches beside the camera and wheels something large into frame. A timer. Digital.
Bright red numbers glaring through the darkness.
00:59:48
Your stomach drops.
âWhat is that?â Your voice cracks. Kessler finally looks at you directly.
âThe amount of time your team has left.â He grabs your arm, sighing as he squeezes and IV bag and mounts it onto the stand beside you.
âKesslerââ
The dosage is regulated electronically.â He taps the pump beside the bag. âSmall increments over time. Once the drip reaches completionâŠâ He shrugs lightly. âMulti-organ failure. Cardiac arrest shortly after.â
Your mouth goes dry instantly.
âNo.â
âThe fascinating thing about poison,â he continues conversationally, âis how personal it feels. Bullets are loud. Explosions are chaotic. But poison?â He tilts his head. âPoison makes people wait.â
Your stomach twists hard enough to make you gag. You stare at him in horror. Then fury detonates through you.
âYouâre a fucking coward.â Kessler hums softly.
âAnd yet your father still canât catch me.â He presses a button. The camera light turns red.
LIVE.
âââââââââ
The BAU bullpen is chaos. Medics move between injured agents while tech analysts flood every available screen searching traffic cams, road footage, satellite hitsâanything. Nobodyâs winning. Hotch stands in the center of it all like a ghost. Still covered in blood. Still soaking wet from the rain. Spencer sits at Garciaâs station beside her, fingers flying across the keyboard so fast they blur. His hands are shaking violently.
âNothing,â Garcia whispers tearfully. âNo ambulance hits, no hospital pings, no traffic camsâhe scrubbed everything.â Emily presses gauze harder against the cut on her temple.
âHe planned this for months.â
âNo,â Spencer says instantly. Everyone looks at him. Spencerâs eyes stay locked on the screen. âLonger.â Before anyone can respondâ Every monitor in the bullpen flickers. Static crackles. Garcia startles violently., fingers flying over her keyboard, trying to figure out how this is happening. Then your face appears onscreen.
Bruised. Bloodied. Restrained.
The room stops breathing.
âNo,â Hotch says faintly. Your head lifts weakly toward the camera, disoriented and terrified and alive. Spencer goes white beside Garcia.
âNoâŠâ The digital timer flashes beside you.
00:58:03
âWhat the hell is that?â Luke breathes. Then Kessler steps into frame. And the entire room explodes into motion.
âTrace it now!â Emily shouts. Garcia is already typing frantically.
âIâm trying!â Kessler looks directly into the camera.
âGood evening, Behavioral Analysis Unit.â Kessler smiles like heâs hosting a lecture instead of a hostage broadcast. Garciaâs hands fly across the keyboard.
âI canât get a lockâheâs bouncing the signal through multiple serversâoh my God, oh my Godââ
âPenelope,â Emily snaps, though her own voice shakes. âFocus.â
âI am focused!â Onscreen, Kessler slowly circles your chair. The camera quality is grainy but clear enough to show the blood staining the bandages around your abdomen. Clear enough to show the IV line running into your arm. And the transparent liquid steadily dripping through the tube. Spencer goes completely still beside Garcia.
Not calm.
Worse.
The kind of stillness that means heâs trying very hard not to completely lose his mind. Your head hangs weakly forward before lifting slightly at the sound of Kessler speaking. Your eyes look unfocused. Drugged. Terrified. The bullpen falls silent. Even the analysts nearby stop moving. Because this isnât just being streamed to the BAU.
This is public.
News stations are already picking it up. Social media feeds explode in real time across nearby monitors. Millions of people watching an FBI agent tied to a chair with a countdown beside her.
âAaron Hotchner,â Kessler says smoothly, looking directly into the camera. âYou know, I expected someone taller.â Hotch doesnât react outwardly. But Rossi sees his fist tighten. Sees the blood dripping from where Aaronâs fingernails cut into his own palm.
âYou built your career profiling monsters,â Kessler continues. âYou taught agents how to think like predators. How to anticipate violence.â He tilts his head slightly toward you. âBut you never considered what happens when someone decides to study you instead.â Your breathing trembles onscreen.
âKesslerââ you rasp weakly.
âShh.â He adjusts the IV line almost tenderly. âYou donât need to talk right now.â Spencer physically flinches. Luke swears violently under his breath.
âThe poison entering Agent Hotchnerâs daughterâs bloodstream,â Kessler says calmly, âis administered incrementally through an automated pump system. By the time the timer reaches zeroâŠâ He smiles faintly. âWell. I imagine your Dr. Reid can explain organ failure better than I can.â All eyes snap toward Spencer automatically. Spencerâs face has gone corpse pale. But his voice still works. Barely.
âIt depends on the toxin,â he says mechanically, eyes glued to the screen. âIf itâs ricin-based or synthetic colchicine compounds, systemic collapse would begin gradually. Respiratory distress first. Then cardiovascular instability. Seizures. Multi-organ failureââ
âSpencer,â JJ says softly. He cuts himself off instantly. Onscreen, your eyes flutter shut for a second too long.
âHey,â Kessler says sharply, gripping your jaw hard enough to force your head back up. âStay awake. It's not fun for our viewers if you die right now." You whimper, trying to inch away from him. He chuckles, low and mean. A broken sound leaves your throat as your body jerks weakly against the restraints. Spencerâs breathing changes instantly.
âWhat just happened?â Emily demands. Spencer stares at the screen.
âThe poisonâs already active,â he says quietly. Garcia looks horrified.
âBut thereâs still fifty-seven minutes leftââ
âThe timer isnât for symptom onset.â Spencer swallows hard. âItâs for fatal dosage completion.â Nobody speaks. Onscreen, Kessler steps back toward the camera.
âYou have one hour,â he says conversationally. âFind me before the drip finishesâŠâ He shrugs. âAnd maybe she lives. But I should warn you,â he continues. âRemoving the IV incorrectly triggers the failsafe.â He taps the side of the electronic pump. âAnd if the line stops prematurelyâŠâ Another small shrug. âThe dosage accelerates.â Garcia lets out a strangled noise.
âThatâs impossible,â Luke snaps.
âNo,â Spencer says faintly. Everyone looks at him again. Spencerâs eyes stay locked on the screen. âItâs not.â Hotch spins around, his chest heaving.
"Garcia, get me a list of Kessler's known adressesses, a list of his spending info- maybe he rented out a place- i want everything you have on him, now !"
Garcia is already moving before Hotch finishes the sentence.
âIâm on it, Iâm on it - okay- okay - â Her voice is high and strained, fingers slamming across the keyboard like sheâs trying to outrun panic itself. Multiple windows open and collapse across her monitors. âKnown addresses are mostly burned, he went dark after his brother's death but - thereâs financial ghosting here, offshore shells, prepaid infrastructure - heâs not staying anywhere with a paper trail -heâs not staying anywhere period -â
âFocus,â Rossi says sharply, but even he sounds strained now. Emily is already leaning over her shoulder.
âWhat about municipal access points? Abandoned government facilities?â Luke shakes his head.
âWeâre checking transit grids already. Heâs not static - heâs moving through infrastructure, not occupying it.â Spencer doesnât blink.
His eyes are locked on the screen. On you.
00:53:18.
Your head droops again, just slightly, and Spencerâs breath catches so hard it sounds like it hurts.
âHey,â JJ says quietly, noticing him. âReid, stay with us.â But he doesnât answer. Because his brain is already somewhere else. Already rebuilding everything Kessler just showed them.
The IV pump. The feed latency. The lack of metadata. The stabilization pattern. Spencer swallows hard.
âHeâs not in a building,â he says suddenly. Garcia looks up.
âWhat?â Spencerâs voice tightens.
âThe signal stability - thereâs too little fluctuation for a fixed structure. No HVAC interference, no power grid variance, no reflective bounce patterns consistent with concrete reinforcement -â Emily frowns.
âThen where is he?â Spencer doesnât look away from the screen.
âMobile containment unit,â he says. âOr a retrofitted transport shell. Something insulated enough to mask environmental noise.â Luke curses under his breath.
âLike a van.â Spencer shakes his head once.
âBigger.â Silence. Hotch turns slowly.
âBus?â Rossi suggests grimly. Spencer finally looks at them.
âNo,â he says. âSomething that can support medical-grade equipment, power draw for a stabilized livestream, and internal temperature control without drawing attention.â Garciaâs hands freeze mid-type.
âOh my God.â Emilyâs voice drops.
âA mobile medical unit.â Rossiâs jaw tightens.
âAmbulance.â Spencer nods once. But it doesnât feel like relief. It feels worse. Because that still leaves too many possibilities. Too many jurisdictions. Too many vehicles. Too much ground to cover while the clock keeps bleeding out.
00:53:04.
Onscreen, Kessler steps back into frame brieflyâjust enough to adjust something near the IV stand. You flinch sharply. Harder this time. Hotch makes a sound low in his throatâbarely audible, but it cuts through the room anyway. Spencerâs hands curl into fists at Garciaâs station.
âGarcia,â he says quickly, voice suddenly urgent. âCross-reference registered medical transport units within a fifty-mile radius of the crash corridor. Anything that went off-route in the last hour.â
âIâm already - â Her screen updates rapidly. âGot it, got it - Okay, thereâs twelve possible matches - â
âTwelve,â Luke repeats sharply.
âWe donât have time for twelve,â Emily snaps. Hotch steps forward again.
âCut it to three,â he orders. âNow.â Garcia swallows hard.
âI can filter by signal - give me thirty seconds - â
âTwenty,â Hotch says. Nobody argues. Because on the screenâ You shift again. Barely conscious. Barely holding on. And Spencer Reid, who has spent his entire life turning chaos into patterns, suddenly looks like heâs staring directly into something he cannot solve fast enough.
Garciaâs screen updates again. Once. Twice. Then locks. Her breath catches so hard it hurts.
âIâve got him,â she says. Nobody speaks. Hotch turns instantly.
âWhere.â Garcia swallows.
âAbandoned agricultural zone outside Leesburgâold county service land. Thereâs a decommissioned livestock processing facility on the property. Signalâs cleanest thereâheâs stationary.â Spencer is already there before she finishes the sentence.
âHow far?â he asks immediately. Garcia glances at the route mapping.
âForty-six minutes,â she says quietly. The number lands like a gunshot. Silence. Emily shakes her head once.
âWe donât have forty-six minutes.â Rossi is already moving toward the SUV.
âThen we donât waste a second.â Hotch stares at the map like he can force the distance to shrink through sheer will. Spencerâs voice breaks through again, sharper now.
âHow longâhow long until completion?â Garciaâs fingers tremble over the timer feed.
âFifty-three minutes,â she whispers.That finally shifts the math in the room. Because everyone understands it at the same time. Forty-six minutes to reach you.Fifty-three minutes until the drip completes.
Seven minutes.
Thatâs all theyâll have once they get there. Seven minutes to find you. Seven minutes to neutralize Kessler. Seven minutes to keep you alive. Hotch exhales once, slow and controlledâbut his eyes are shattered.
âLet's move,â he says. The SUVs tear down the highway in formation, sirens splitting the night open. Inside Hotchâs vehicle, no one speaks anymore unless they have to. The countdown is on every screen.
Every phone. Every live feed Garcia refuses to close.
00:52:41.
Spencer stares at the map overlay like he can bend it into something faster. Luke grips the seat hard enough to go white-knuckled. Emily keeps her eyes forward, jaw tight, blood still drying at her temple. Rossi drives like a man refusing to accept physics as final. Hotch doesnât move.
Doesnât blink. Doesnât look away from the road even once.
âForty-six minutes,â Luke says quietly, almost to himself. Spencerâs voice is barely audible.
âThatâs if nothing goes wrong.â Nobody responds to that. Because they all know what it means.
------------------
00:07:00.
Your body feels like lead.
Your veins are on fire.
Your mouth has gone dry, and you can barely breathe- every breath sounds like a rusty rattle of child's mobile. Your vision flickers in and out like a broken signal. Your body isnât yours anymore. Itâs heavy in the wrong places, light in others. Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints, but thereâs no strength left behind it.
The IV pump beeps steadily beside you. Too steady. Too calm. Like it doesnât care that youâre dying.
You groan, trying hard to stay awake, to stay concsious.
They're coming for you. They have to be.
The room hums with fluorescent light and something worse underneath itâyour heartbeat, irregular now, stumbling against the poison like itâs losing the argument. Kessler circles you slowly, hands behind his back like heâs inspecting something he built.
âDo you know what your father hates most?â he asks lightly. Your head lolls a fraction toward him. It takes effort just to keep your eyes open.
âPeople like you,â he continues. âNot weak. Not careless. Just⊠loved.â Your throat tightens. Spencerâs name tries to form in your mind and doesnât quite make it. Kessler steps closer, studying your face like heâs waiting for something interesting to happen.
âYouâre very difficult to break,â he says thoughtfully. âThatâs what makes this worth watching.â The IV pump beeps again. Too steady. Too final.
Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints. Kessler leans in just slightly.
âI wonder how long it takes,â he murmurs, almost curious. âFor Aaron Hotchner to choose between duty and family.â Your stomach drops hard.
âDonât,â you rasp, but itâs barely sound. He smiles faintly.
âOh, he already has.â And thenâ The doors behind him explode inward. Not an opening. An impact.
Wood and metal snap as tactical force hits the room like a wave.
âFBI! DOWN!â The shout is immediate chaos. Hotch is first through, weapon up, eyes scanningâlocking instantly on you like everything else in the room ceases to exist.
âAaron!â Rossi calls, sweeping left. Emily and Luke split right. Derek comes in hard behind them, already moving. Kessler barely has time to turn before Hotch has him pinned against the nearest surface, gun pressed high, voice ice-cold.
âDonât move.â Kessler actually laughs once. Spencer doesnât even look at him. Heâs already across the room. Everything else collapses into noise and motion behind himâHotch securing Kessler, Rossi shouting commands, Emily cuffing him downâbut Spencer doesnât register any of it. He reaches you like gravity finally remembered him.
âHeyâhey, hey,â he breathes, hands shaking as they go to your face immediately. âIâve got you. Iâve got you.â Your eyelids flutter.
"Spence ?" He nods, hands working at your restraints atfer he softly tears the IV out of your arm.
"Yeah, yeah, it's me. I'm here, alright, i'm here." Your body falls forward, exhausted, the second those restraints stop holding you up, your body folding like itâs been waiting for permission to collapse. Spencer catches you before you hit the ground. Immediately. Completely.
âNo - no, no, no - hey, hey, hey - stay with me,â he says, voice cracking violently as he pulls you into him. âStay with me, okay? Stay with me-look at me.â Your head lolls against his chest. Heâs on the floor now without even realizing it. One arm under your shoulders. One hand pressed hard against the bandages on your abdomen like he can physically stop whatâs happening inside you. He looks up, his eyes frantic.
"Derek ! Derek !" He calls as Hotch and the others disappear outside, pushing a cuffed Kessler with them. Derek's head snaps over and his face drains of color.
"Holy shit." He gasps, his chest heaving. Spencer chokes on a sob, pushing your hair away from your face.
"We-We need an ambulance. She-She's losing blood, she-" He gasps in a breath, shaking his head. "Heâs got to haveâheâs not carrying something like this without a reversal agent.â Spencer doesnât look away from you. âShelves,â he says instantly, voice raw but focused only on survival. âLookâlook everywhere. Cabinets. Lockboxes. He wouldnât leave it unbalanced.â Derek moves immediately. The timer ticks down like a taunt.
00:04:53.
Derek rummages through shelves, cabinets, drawers, cursing under his breath as he throws things on the ground. You clutch weakly at Spencer's vest, your hands shaking.
"Spence.." He shushes you, pressing his lips to your forehead.
"Hey, hey, don't talk, okay ? You're going to be fine. Just fine, okay ?"
"I-I'm so cold." You manage, shivers coursing through your body. Spencer grimaces.
"I know, baby, i know." He looks up. "Derek, where the fuck is that antidote !" Derek rips open another metal cabinet so hard the hinge screams in protest.
âIâm looking, Iâm looking!â he snaps back, breathless, scanning shelves packed with medical bags, vials, and sealed containers that absolutely should not be here. âThis guy is insaneââ
Spencer hears none of it anymore. All of it narrows down to you. To the way your fingers are trembling against his vest. To the shallow, uneven rise of your chest. To the way your skin feels wrong beneath his handsâtoo cold, too fast to lose heat.
âIâve got you,â he repeats again, but itâs not steady anymore. Itâs breaking apart at the edges. âIâve got you, Iâve got youâjust stay with me, okay? Justâjust stay with me.â Your head tips slightly against him. And for a second, his entire body goes rigid.
âNo,â he whispers immediately, like he can undo it with the word alone. âNo, noâheyâlook at me. Look at me.â
Your eyes barely open. Barely there. But they do. And it ruins him.
âGot something!â Derek suddenly shouts from the far side of the room. Spencerâs head snaps up so fast it hurts. Derek holds up a small locked case - medical-grade, reinforced, labeled in a way that makes Spencerâs stomach drop immediately. âIs this it?â Derek demands. Spencer doesnât even hesitate.
âYes. Yes, thatâs it - bring it here, now!â Derek slams it down beside them and Spencerâs hands are shaking so badly he almost fumbles the latch. The lock clicks open.
Inside: syringes. A sealed ampoule. A vial clearly marked in clinical print- ANTIDOTE.
Heâs already drawing it up.
âWhere do Iââ
âHer arm,â Spencer says instantly, tearing his own focus into something sharp and functional because if he doesnât, heâs going to fall apart completely. âRight arm - no, no - left - there, there - â Derek moves in, steady hands taking over what Spencer canât control anymore.
âIâve got it,â Derek says low. Spencer nods too quickly, not letting go of you for even a second. His other hand stays pressed to your shoulder like an anchor. âOkay,â Derek says. âInjecting now.â The syringe depresses. For half a second, nothing happens. Then your body jerksâjust slightly. Spencer makes a sound thatâs halfway between a gasp and a sob.
âHey - hey, hey,â he says immediately, hand cupping your cheek. "You're gonna be okay." But you're still slipping somewhere he canât follow fast enough. âIâve got you,â he repeats again, but now itâs desperate. âIâve got you, Iâve got you, Iâve got you - please - please donât do this - â Derek looks up sharply at the doorway, where JJ stands frozen.
"We need medical backup now!â JJ nods, rushing away.
Spencer sobs, then immediately chokes on it, pressing your hand tighter against his chest like he can force you to stay by sheer will alone. Footsteps thunder back inâHotch, Rossi, Emily. Hotch sees you on the floor. And something in his face breaks cleanly. But Spencer canât look at him. Canât look at anyone. Because youâre right there in his arms and still not safe.
âHey,â he whispers, voice collapsing completely now, tears spilling down without permission as he holds you closer. âHey, hey- donât leave me. Donât leave me, okay? Please - please donât leave me.â Your fingers twitch once.
Weak. Barely there. But itâs enough. Spencer grabs your hand immediately like itâs a lifeline.
âYeah,â he chokes out, crying openly now, forehead pressing to yours. âYeah, thatâs it. Thatâs it. Come back to me. Come backâplease, just come back to me.â Your shiver, a soft whimper drawing from your lips.
"I-I'm tired." You manage, shaking your head. Blood from your abdomen is still soaking your shirt, your pants, and Spencer is shaking.
"You-You can't sleep, baby. You have to- You have to stay awake. Keep your eyes open." The antidote has taken effect. The colour that had drained from your skin over the hour is coming back, and your breathing has returned to a normal pace. And the pain flooding back into your body is unbearable. You can feel the blood pumping out of you from your abdomen, and you groan weakly as you try to press your hand over the wound, only to find Spencer's hand already lodged there. You gulp, bringing your hand up to softly touch Spencer's cheek.
"Yo-You came for me." You rasp. Spencer chokes on a laugh, a desperate, wet thing.
"Of course I did." He mumbles. "How could I not ? God.." He gulps, shaking his head. "I love you." You smile, holding back tears as you cough. Your body trembles with shivers, and you groan.
"I-I'm sorry." You rasp, shaking your head. Spencer's heart drops. He shakes his head.
"Hey, hey- no. Don't apologise, you're going to be just fine, okay ? Y-You're going to be fine." You nod, smiling through the pain. You want to believe him.
You really do.
The antidote is working.
Derek said it is. Spencer knows it is. But youâre still so cold. Still shaking in his arms like your body canât decide whether to stay or let go.
Spencer sniffles, brushing your hair away from your face.
"The ambulance is gonna be here any minute. They're going to make you all better. Okay ?" You nod.
"Okay." You say, forcing a smile, choking on the blood that creeps its way up your throat. "I love you, Spence." You rasp, shaking your head. Spencerâs heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic, desperate drumbeat of denial. He tightens his grip on your hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your cold knuckles.
âDonât you dare say that like itâs a goodbye,â he orders, his voice a raw, broken thing. âItâs not a goodbye. You hear me? Itâs an âIâll see you in a minute.â Weâre going to have so much to talk about. Y-You're gonna rub this in my face, yeah ? Brag about how you-you survived this and i panicked for nothing.â Heâs rambling, his brilliant mind reduced to a single, primal function: keep you here. Keep you with him. Your eyes are still on him, but theyâre starting to lose focus, the light in them dimming like a candle in a draft. The smile on your lips is a ghost, beautiful and terrifying.
âSpenceâŠâ you whisper, and itâs the worst sound heâs ever heard, thin and reedy, threaded with the liquid rattle of fluid in your lungs. âItâs⊠so quiet.â He doesnât understand what you mean. The room is chaos-Hotchâs clipped commands, Derekâs frantic pacing, the sound of JJâs voice on the phone with dispatch. But then he realizes. For you, the world is collapsing. The sounds are fading, the pain is receding, and all thatâs left is this.
Him.
âNo, no, itâs not quiet,â he argues, his voice rising in panic. âItâs not. Just listen. Listen to me. Iâm right here. Iâm so loud, remember? You say I never shut up. So just⊠listen to me. Stay with me.â Heâs pressing harder against the wound in your abdomen, a futile, desperate attempt to physically hold your life inside you. His hand is slick, warm, and the smell of copper fills the air, thick and suffocating. Itâs the smell of his failure. Your breath hitches, a shallow, wet gasp.
"Tell⊠tell my dad⊠Iâm sorry.â The words hit Spencer like a physical blow. Dad. Hotch, who is standing just feet away, right behind that door, pacing and shouting orders. Spencer canât call for him. He canât give him that. He canât acknowledge the world beyond the circle of his arms.
âYouâll tell him yourself,â Spencer chokes out, tears streaming down his face, dripping onto your cheeks. âYouâll tell him tonight. When we get home. Weâll order Chinese food and youâll tell him youâre sorry for worrying him, and heâll pretend to be mad but he wonât be, and weâll all be fine. Weâll be fine.â Your fingers, the ones heâs holding, twitch weakly. Your grip loosens. The pressure is gone. âNo,â he whimpers, a sound so pathetic and full of pain it doesnât even sound like him. âNo, hold on. Hold my hand. Donât let go. Donât you let go of me.â Your eyes open again and you nod. He smiles, kissing your forehead. And then, through the cacophony of his own despair, he hears it. Faint at first, then growing stronger, clearer. A high, insistent wail that cuts through everything else.
Sirens.
Relief so profound itâs dizzying crashes over him. Itâs the cavalry. Itâs the answer. Itâs another chance.
His head snaps up, his tear-blurred vision finding the window ahead.
âDid you hear that? Theyâre here. Theyâre almost here.â He looks back down at you, his face breaking into a wild, desperate grin. âYou hear that, baby? You hear that? The ambulance is here. Theyâre here. Youâre going to be okay. Youâre going to be okay.â Heâs laughing now, a wet, hysterical sound of pure relief, staring at the window as the red and blue lights start to show.
âWe did it. We made it. Just hold on. Just a few more seconds. Please, just a few more seconds for me.â He looks back at the doorway, expecting to see the paramedics burst through with their bags and their machines and their magic. But the sirens are still distant, screaming down a street thatâs too far away.
He looks back down at you. And the world stops. Your eyes are still open, but theyâre not seeing him anymore. Theyâre fixed on a point just beyond his shoulder, glassy and vacant. The shallow rise and fall of your chest has stilled. The hand heâs clutching is limp and cool in his.
The silence in the room is absolute.
âNo,â he whispers. The smile is gone from his face, wiped clean away. âNo⊠no, no, no, no, no.â He shakes his head, a sharp, jerky motion of denial. âHey⊠hey, look at me. Look at me. Theyâre here. The ambulance is here.â He shakes you gently, then a little harder. âHey.. hey, look at me. Youâre not allowed to do this. Youâre not allowed to leave me. You hear me? C'mon, this isn't funny." He shakes you."Come on! Look at me.â But you donât. You canât. The sirens are closer now, screaming, a piercing, torturous sound. Theyâre the sound of hope arriving seven minutes too late. The door bursts open. Emily is the first one in, her face flushed and triumphant.
âSpencer! The ambulance is here, theyâre coming, theyâreââ She stops. Her eyes find Spencer, cradling your still body on the floor, and she sees everything. The blood. The stillness. The absolute, soul-crushing devastation on his face. Her triumphant shout dies in her throat, replaced by a small, choked gasp. Hotch is right behind her. He takes in the scene with one sweeping, all-seeing glance. He sees Kesslerâs handiwork, he sees the discarded antidote, he sees Spencer on the floor. And then he sees you. He doesnât make a sound. The unit chief, the man who faces monsters for a living, simply breaks. His shoulders slump, his face goes slack, and all the color drains from his skin. He stumbles forward a half-step, his hand reaching out, then falling back to his side. He knows. Emily rushes to Spencerâs side, her hand hovering over his shoulder, afraid to touch.
âSpencerâŠ?â He doesnât answer. Heâs lowered his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body wracked with huge, silent, violent sobs that shake him to his core. He holds you tighter, rocking you back and forth, a desperate, rhythmic motion.
And Spencer Reid - who has spent his entire life understanding loss in theory before he ever had to survive it in practice - lets out a sound that is not human.
It rips out of him.
Raw.
Shattered.
âNo - no, no, no, please - please, please - â He pulls you closer instantly, like he can reverse it if he just holds you tighter.
"Reid." Derek's voice echoes around the small space. Spencer shakes his head. Spencer doesnât hear him anymore.
Doesnât hear Emily crying.
Doesnât hear the radio chatter suddenly erupting outside as the medics arrive too late.
He just holds you. Like if he stops, even for a second, the truth will finish settling. Sirens flood the building outside. Red and blue light strobing through the broken doorway.
And still -Spencer is whispering your name into your hair like itâs a spell.
Like itâs the only thing left that still makes sense.
The paramedics finally burst through the doorway, their practiced efficiency grinding to a halt as they take in the scene. No one moves. No one breathes. The paramedics slowly back out of the room, hushed whispers echoing in the small space.
Spencer looks up, devastated.
"No.. No, where are they going ? They-They have to save her, they-"
"Reid." Derek rasps again, wiping at the tears falling down his face. He looks back down at you like itâs instinct, like he can anchor himself in you. But you donât move. Not even a tremor. Not even the smallest betrayal of life returning. Just stillness. Heavy and final.
Spencerâs breath stutters.
Once. Twice.
Then completely stops behaving like it belongs to him.
His hand shakes as it smooths over your hair. So careful. So tender. Like youâre made of glass and heâs terrified of what happens if he presses too hard.
Emily makes a sound behind himâsmall, broken, human.
âSpencerâŠâ she tries again, stepping closer like she might physically pull him out of it. But he flinches at her voice like it burns.
âNo,â he snaps instantly, sharper than he means it. Then it collapses immediately into desperation. âNo, noâdonâtââ Hotch is still at the doorway. Still completely still. Like something inside him shut off in self-defense the second he understood. But his eyes donât leave you. Not once. Not even when Rossi puts a hand on his arm and squeezes like heâs trying to hold him together by force. Spencer presses his forehead to yours again.
Harder this time. Like proximity alone can reverse biology.
âI got you,â he whispers, voice breaking into pieces now. âI got you, I got you, I got youââ His sentences stop making sense. They turn into fragments. Into breath. Into something raw and animal and terrified. âI didnâtââ he chokes, pulling you closer like he can physically shield you from the truth, âI didnât get here fast enough. I didnâtâI didnâtââ
Derek steps forward again, slower this time. Careful. Like approaching something sacred and shattered.
âReid,â he says quietly. âKidâŠâ Spencer shakes his head violently again.
âNo,â he says again, but weaker now. So much weaker. âNo, no, no- Just - just help her. Just - just fix it. Fix it - please - â His voice breaks completely on the last word. And then he tries again, because Spencer Reid has always believed that understanding something well enough means you can change it. âIf I - if I give her CPR - if I - if we - â His hands move like they donât belong to him anymore as they lay you down on the ground, flat on your back.
One presses to your chest. Wrong. Desperate. Begging.
âNo!â he shouts suddenly, panicked, frantic. âNo, no, I canâ I can do it. I can fix it. I can- I can-â His voice disintegrates mid-sentence. Because your body doesnât respond. Because nothing changes. Because time doesnât care how hard he tries. And thatâs when it hits him all at once.
Not gradually. Not gently. All at once. Spencer goes completely still.
His hands freeze where they are on you. His breath catches like itâs been hooked on something sharp. He falls backwards, his hands coated in blood coming up to press against his eyes as he sobs. Emily is by his side in an instant, pulling him into her, rocking him as Derek sniffles and gets to his feet, walking over to your and softly guiding your eyes shut. Hotch swears under his breath, wrecked sobs escaping him, and he turns away from you, gasping for air as he rushes out into the night. Luke, Tara, JJ and Rossi have gathered in the doorway, watching as Derek grabs a folded sheet from one of the drawers and lays it down over you, clearing his throat.
"The- uh, the EMT's should come back in here. Take-" He clears his throat, "Take her to the morgue."
The timer beeps behind them like some sick alarm clock. They all look back and the flashing numbers.
oh my god. i started reading this this morning before work and had to force myself to stop reading before i was late. the SECOND i got home i finished it and oh my god. i'm feeling every emotion ever. i love love LOVE your writing sm omg
The thing about Aaron Hotchner was that most people only ever saw one version of him.
The BAU version â unit chief, immovable, the man who walked into the most horrific situations the country had to offer and came out the other side with the particular composure of someone who had decided a long time ago that falling apart wasn't an option. She knew that version. She worked beside it five days a week, had done for years, had watched rooms full of hardened federal agents adjust themselves when he walked in.
She also knew the version that was currently standing in their kitchen in a grey t-shirt and sweatpants, hair not yet done, reading the back of the cereal box with the focused attention of someone who had run out of other things to look at while the coffee brewed.
She loved both versions. She loved this one more.
Sunday mornings had a particular quality in their house.
The week had its own rhythm â early starts, late returns, the specific weight of the work they both carried home in ways neither of them fully acknowledged. Sunday was the exhale. The day the phones stayed on silent unless something genuinely catastrophic happened, when the case files stayed in bags and the badges stayed in drawers and the house was just a house with two people and two kids in it.
She'd been awake since seven, which was late by BAU standards and practically sleeping in by any other. Lyla â eight months, the most recent and most significant development in the Hotchner household â had woken at six thirty, been fed and changed and put back down with the practiced efficiency of two people who had learned to function on fragmented sleep, and had somehow gone back to sleep, which still felt like a miracle every time it happened.
She was on the sofa with her coffee when Aaron came downstairs.
He looked at her. At the coffee in her hand. At the monitor on the cushion beside her with Lyla's sleeping form on the screen.
"She went back down?" he said, quietly.
"Twenty minutes ago."
He exhaled with the specific relief of a parent who has been given unexpected time. Went to get his own coffee. Came back and sat beside her, close, his shoulder against hers, and they both looked at the monitor in the companionable quiet of people who had learned that silence together was its own kind of conversation.
"Jack's still asleep," she said.
"He'll be up by eight."
"Eight thirty if we're lucky."
Aaron looked at his watch. "We have twenty minutes."
"Mm." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "What do you want to do with twenty minutes."
He pressed his lips to her hair. "This," he said simply.
She smiled into her coffee.
Jack came down at eight twenty-seven, which she noted with quiet satisfaction.
He appeared at the bottom of the stairs in his socks â nine years old, hair doing several things at once, carrying the particular energy of a child who had woken up with something already on his mind and was waiting for the right moment to deploy it.
"Dad," he said. Before hello. Before anything else.
Aaron looked up from his coffee. "Good morning, Jack."
"Can we go to the park today?"
"Good morning, Jack," Aaron said again.
Jack processed this. "Good morning." A beat. "Can we go to the park?"
She pressed her lips together. Aaron held his expression with the discipline of a man who had maintained composure through federal interrogations and was now applying that skill to parenting a nine year old.
"We'll see," Aaron said.
"That means yes," Jack told her, very seriously, as if she needed the translation.
"It means we'll see," Aaron said.
"It means yes," Jack said again, to her specifically, and then went to the kitchen to find breakfast with the confidence of someone who had correctly read the situation.
She looked at Aaron. He looked at her.
"It means yes," she confirmed.
"It means we'll see," he said, and took a sip of coffee, and she could see the specific suppressed thing at the corner of his mouth that was Aaron Hotchner not quite smiling.
Lyla woke up at nine.
She heard it on the monitor â the small sounds that escalated quickly, the ones that meant I am awake and I have opinions about it â and started to get up, but Aaron was already moving.
She settled back and watched him go upstairs and listened to the sounds from the monitor shift â Lyla's escalating sounds, then his voice, low and even, the specific tone he used with her that she'd never heard him use anywhere else. Not the unit chief voice. Not even the dad-of-a-nine-year-old voice. Something softer than both.
He came back with Lyla on his hip, the baby flushed from sleep and looking around with the wide interested expression she had when she was taking stock of a room.
Jack looked up from his cereal. "Hi Lyla."
Lyla looked at Jack with the specific attention of someone who found him deeply interesting and slightly overwhelming.
"She's doing the face," Jack said.
"What face," Aaron said, sitting down with her.
"The face where she's thinking about crying but she hasn't decided yet."
Aaron looked at Lyla. Lyla looked back at Aaron. Some wordless negotiation happened between them â she'd watched it happen before, this specific communication that existed between her husband and their eight month old â and Lyla apparently decided against crying and grabbed for Aaron's coffee mug instead.
"No," he said, moving it. Calmly. Firmly.
Lyla looked at where the mug had been. Looked at Aaron. Reached for it again.
"No," he said again.
She watched this from the sofa with the warm, private amusement of a woman who had watched Aaron Hotchner profile serial killers and was now watching him be outwitted by an eight month old.
"She's going to keep trying," she said.
"I know," he said.
"She's very persistent."
"She gets it from you," he said, without looking up.
"She gets it from you," she said.
He moved the mug to his other side. Lyla leaned across his lap trying to follow it. He caught her with one hand, entirely unhurried, and repositioned her against his chest. She grabbed his t-shirt instead and apparently decided this was an acceptable substitute.
Jack watched all of this with the expression of a nine year old who had seen it before and found it funny and was old enough to be slightly subtle about it.
The park happened.
Of course it happened. It had always been going to happen.
They walked â Aaron with Lyla in the carrier, her beside him, Jack ranging ahead on the pavement with the particular freedom of a child who had been given the parameters of stay where we can see you and was testing the exact edges of them. The morning had turned into the kind of Sunday that felt like a gift â warm enough, quiet, the particular quality of a neighbourhood that was also having a slow morning.
She walked close enough to Aaron that their arms touched occasionally. He didn't reach for her hand the way he might have before Lyla â both hands occupied with the carrier straps â but his arm pressed against hers in a way that was its own kind of contact, steady and familiar.
"Reid called yesterday," she said.
"I know. I spoke to him."
"He's convinced he found something in theâ"
"Sunday," he said.
She looked at him.
"No cases on Sunday," he said. Not a rule exactly â more like a request. The particular request of a man who had spent enough Sundays inside cases to understand what it cost.
She looked at Jack up ahead, currently examining something on the pavement with intense focus. At Lyla on Aaron's chest, drowsy again already, one fist curled in the fabric of the carrier.
"Okay," she said. "No cases."
He looked at her briefly. Something in his face that was the Aaron version of warmth â not effusive, never effusive, just present and real and entirely for her.
"Thank you," he said.
She bumped his shoulder with hers.
They were back by noon.
Jack had run himself to a reasonable tiredness. Lyla had graduated from drowsy to properly asleep in the carrier and had been transferred to her cot with the held-breath care of two people who had learned that this specific manoeuvre required complete commitment.
She was in the kitchen making lunch when Aaron came back downstairs.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her. She was aware of it â she was always aware of him, occupational hazard of marrying someone trained in observation â and kept doing what she was doing.
"She's down," he said.
"I heard." She glanced back at him. "How long do you think?"
"Hour, maybe."
"Jack's watching something in the living room."
"I know."
She turned back to the counter. He crossed the kitchen and stopped behind her, his hands coming to rest at her waist â not pulling her in, just there, the simple weight of them.
She leaned back slightly. He rested his chin on her shoulder.
They stayed like that for a moment. The kitchen quiet around them, the faint sound of whatever Jack was watching in the other room, the house doing the Sunday thing.
"This isâ" he paused, and she knew the pause, the one where he was finding words for something he didn't usually put into words, "âthis is the thing I come home for. You know that."
She turned her head slightly, enough to look at him sideways. He looked back at her with the expression that was entirely his â the Aaron-at-home expression, the one the BAU never saw, the one that was just him without any of the armour.
"I know," she said softly.
He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. Slow. Deliberate. Not the brief Sunday morning kind.
She stilled.
"Aaron," she said. "Jack is in the next room."
"I know where Jack is," he said, against her neck.
"Lyla could wake upâ"
"She just went down."
"Aaronâ"
"I'm just standing here," he said, entirely innocent, his lips still at her neck.
She turned around fully. Looked at him. He looked back at her with the expression that was the closest Aaron Hotchner got to openly suggestive â controlled, certain, the particular quality of a man who had decided something and was waiting for the situation to allow it.
"Tonight," she said.
Something moved in his face. "Tonight," he agreed.
He stepped back. Picked up the plates. Started setting the table like nothing had happened.
She turned back to the pasta and smiled at the wall.
Aaron Hotchner, unit chief.
Aaron Hotchner, setting the table on a Sunday morning with that expression on his face.
SUMMARY: Rossi has to face his own past when the new case reminds him of you - a girl whose parents' murder he had once investigated. When the unsub sets his sights on you, both you and Rossi have to accept that you've always been each other's family. That revelation puts Spencer in a tight spot. A veteran FBI profiler is hardly an agreeable father-in-law.
In short: Rossi kind of has a daughter, Spencer is kind of in love and you're kind of in trouble.
WORDCOUNT: ~ 6k (idk what happened)
Rossi can't remember the last time he felt so sick. It isn't just the twisting, piercing feeling in his stomach that brings back memories of suspicious food. As something deep inside his chest clenches painfully, the man continues to look at the pictures inside the folder. His hands tremble noticeably.
The features, the eyes, the hair - all of it seems too familiar for his liking. The victims look just like you. Not to mention, they live around the same neighbourhood in Manhattan.
He looks at his watch again. Is eighty minutes really such a long stretch of time? Every minute he spends on this god forsaken jet is another minute heâs not watching over you. Those bastards need less than a minute to grab someone and take them away. He could already be lateâŠ
Hotchner easily picks up on Rossiâs agitation.
âWhatâs wrong?â
Rossi tosses the file on the table and lets out a ragged sigh. His eyes flicker towards the window. Glass skyscrapers and baux-arts buildings peek from behind milky clouds. Somewhere out there is the unsub and you. Hopefully miles apart.
âHave you heard of Anthony Beauford?â Rossi asks, his gaze returning to Hotchner.Â
Aaron is staring back at him with a stern expression. Metaphorical cogs inside his head are turning swiftly, as heâs trying to listen to what David isnât saying. âProfiler profiling a profilerâ sounds like a drama school exercise.
âTony the Executioner,â Spencer chimes in. He was just leaving the bathroom when he heard the conversation. âKidnapped, tortured and killed seventeen couples in less than two years. During his interview, he claimed he was saving children from their âevil foremenâ. His parents, James and Caroline Beauford, used to prostitute Anthony in exchange for drug money.â Only after sharing a piece of his vast knowledge does Spencer realise something. âRossi, you worked that case, right?â
âI did.â His voice doesnât carry pride, only shame. âCaught the bastard but I was too late.â He shakes his head, ever so slightly. Old disappointment resurfaces. âThe couple was dead. They left behind a daughter.â
Hotchner glances at the macabre pictures inside the folder. The connection is obvious.
âAnd she looks just like the victims,â Aaron says the quiet part out loud.
âLives in the same area, too,â Rossi adds. Thereâs no point in hiding the truth from his colleagues. Whether he wants to or not, they will find out anyway.
âYou kept in touch with her?â Spencer asks. His question is more out of surprise, rather than uncertainty. David wouldnât know where you live if he didnât call you every now and then.
âShe was just a kid,â Rossi explains. As though these five words could absolve him of any crime he could have accidentally committed.
âAll of them were,â Hotchner argues. âSeventeen orphans but you care only about this one.â
Rossi doesnât answer right away. He stares at the skyline of New York outside the window. The buildings grow bigger as the jet lowers its flight. Youâre so close, yet so far away from him.
âShe wasnât like other kids,â he speaks up after a while. âSure, she did cry and miss her parents but she did something no one else did.â Rossiâs gaze returns to the two men in front of him. âShe said she forgives me.â Hotchnerâs and Spencerâs sudden change in expression makes David think back to that conversation with you. Heâs quite sure he also made an equally confused face. âThat itâs okay because even Spider-Man couldnât save Uncle Ben and Iâm no superhero.â An airy chuckle brushes past his lips. âI couldnât just move on and forget her, not after that.â
Something shifts in the way Aaron is looking at Rossi. What used to be suspicion is now a profound understanding. Fathers have a curious, innate ability to recognise other fathers through the smallest tics.
âI know you want to keep her safe, Dave.â Hotchnerâs tone is surprisingly soft. âI would do the same thing for Jack.â The man exhales, his lips pressed into a thin line. He knows that Rossi wonât like what heâs about to say. âBut right now, she might be our best lead to catch the unsub.â
âHotch is right,â Spencer interjects before Rossi can dismiss the suggestion. âIf heâs after similar-looking women from the same neighbourhood, she might know him already.â
David looks between Spencer and Hotchner, weighing his chances at convincing them otherwise. His shoulders fall as he sighs. As much as he doesnât like it, Rossi knows that they are right.
âAnd we will ask her about that,â he says. âAfter we get her someplace safe.â
Hotchner nods in response. In some cases, compromise is the best you can get. One of those is children.
Youâre watching the world outside the shop window with a fond smile on your face. Living in a big city can be tiring and intimidating but thereâs always a silver lining: Manhattan doesnât wait, it doesnât crumble. If you take a day longer to respond to an email or ask for an extension on your manuscript, the Big Apple will continue as it always has. Even when you feel that the world is shattering under your feet, the rats of New York still squeak and dine in garbage cans. As long as Manhattan moves on, maybe you can too.
A ringing phone pulls you away from your thoughts and back into reality. As you look at the caller ID, you canât help but sigh in contentment. You pick up the phone, happy to talk to him. Like you always are.
âHey, Dave! What-â
âWhere are you?â
The question stumps you. As does the demanding tone of his voice. Itâs more of an order than an inquiry.
âIâm at Bread & Batter, as usual,â you answer slowly. Your eyebrows furrow. âWhatâs going on?â
âCan you look around the shop?â he continues. Still unsure what to make of this bizarre phone call, you lift your gaze, searching the crowd. âIs there anyone suspicious? Maybe someone you recognise? A regular, maybe?â
Trying to look candid, your eyes trace every face within your sight. Nothing in particular grabs your attention. The girl who works Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays is remaking sandwiches. The boy who usually works with her and makes obvious passes at the girl is wiping down a table. The square-jawed man with thick glasses is drinking an americano, typing on his computer and handwriting notes once in a while. There is also a woman, probably in her 40s, who always wears something red. Sheâs sitting at the same table she always does and nibbles away at the crepe cake she always gets. The recent addition to familiar faces is a man around your age, probably a university student. He keeps absentmindedly stirring his chai tea while reading a thick textbook. Nothing about the customers is suspicious - at least in laymanâs understanding of the word.
âThere are a few regulars and the staff,â you say. Most of these people you know from sight but have never learnt their names. âEverythingâs normal. Why are you asking?â
âI need you to stay there, no matter what happens.â Thereâs a tremble to Davidâs voice but you assume itâs just a quirk of technology. Everyone sounds a little different over the phone. âDonât talk to anyone,â he stresses. âDo you understand?â
You canât help but look around you once again. Your gaze meets that of the man at his computer. He gives you a polite, though awkward, smile and nods as a way to acknowledge your familiar presence. On any other day, you would slightly raise your glass as a silent greeting. Today, however, you cower away. Your eyes flicker back to the street on the other side of the window. Suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable, you make a futile attempt at burrowing yourself further into your corner booth. In a city of millions, you find yourself too visible.
âYouâre scaring me, Dave.â Your voice is quiet, fearful. Could someone be eavesdropping on your conversation? âWhatâs going on?â
âIâm sorry, kid. Itâs justâŠâ He hangs his voice. The moment of silence makes your heart race. People donât do that when they deliver good news. No, they need a second to think about how to sugarcoat reality. âYou fit the type of a bad guy weâre looking for,â Rossi says, his voice strangely flat. He means to hide his true emotions, accidentally sounding robotic. âEverything will be okay, I promise.â Words spoken in a soft tone calm you down slightly. Somehow, he could always talk you down from panicking. âJust stay put and donât go anywhere until I get there, alright?â
âOkay,â you whisper.
âIf anything happens, Iâm just a phone call away.â
Nervous and confused, you fail to stop your half-hearted joke from slipping out:
âJust donât take a coffee break on your way.â
You hear an airy chuckle on the other side of the phone. David has told you many times how strange and wonderful it is that your reaction to a crisis is cracking bad jokes. In his words, âcrisis exhibits peopleâs true characterâ.
âI donât like coffee breaks without you, kid,â Rossi says before the call is disconnected.
You squeeze the phone in your hand. The only thing you have to do is wait for David to show up. He is worried, so he will surely come as fast as he can. You just have to stay put. Thatâs easy, very doable. Thereâs nothing to be afraid of when youâre in a public place, waiting for someone. After all, this isnât the first time heâs rushing to get to you. Heâs yet to be too late, to leave you hanging.
Everything will be fine, like he said. You just have to wait.
Despite your relentless questions, Rossi is more than reluctant to indulge you with any specifics regarding the murders. He doesnât see the point in letting you know what the unsub does to his victims, before and after their death. This doesnât concern you in any way because you will never be close enough for the man to hurt you. At least, thatâs what he keeps telling himself.
Walking through the precinct, you feel his hand against your back, nestled between your shoulder blades. Rossi is gently guiding you through the mob of policemen, family members and potential witnesses. Always a step behind you, he has the perfect view of anyone coming into your vicinity. One of the officers comes up to him but before he can say anything, David barks out a ânot nowâ.
Entering the conference room, youâre met with curious eyes studying you from head to toe. Five FBI agents, suddenly frozen in time. Like a lodge of judges, they seem to be deciding your fate. Looking past their unreadable expressions, you see a large glass board. Something is scribbled in different coloured pens. The random words mean nothing to you. Your focus shifts to pictures. At first, itâs hard to discern what is shown in the photographs. Thereâs mostly beige, brown and red. The longer you stare at the pictures, the more you realise what youâre actually looking at - body parts.
âMy God,â you whisper. âAre those-â
A woman with shoulder-length dark hair circles her arm around your shoulders and turns you around to look at Rossi and the busy policemen behind the door to the conference room.
âYou donât want to know, believe me,â she says. Seeing her hardened expression, youâre inclined to trust her words.
Rossi gives you an apologetic look. Thereâs almost a sense of pity in his dark eyes. He might not say it but you have a pretty good guess what heâs thinking about - he thinks itâs unfair that you have to go through this mess again. To feel like thereâs a beast stalking you in the shadows. Only this time, he will make sure he has the upper hand.
âYou stay here,â Dave orders, âIâll bring you something to drink.â
âYou donât have to.â
âI know,â he answers casually, before leaving the room and disappearing among rushing policemen.
Unsure what else to do, you sit down at the table. From what you know, and that isnât a lot, the only danger this killer poses to you is strictly theoretical. Sure, you do look like his victims and live in the same area but you would notice a maniac stalking you, right?
The tense silence continues for a minute or two. The rest of Rossiâs team doesnât know how much heâs told you or how much heâd want you to know. They look between themselves, quietly deciding what to do now. Do they carry on as though you werenât there? Or should they immediately start questioning you?
The short period of indecisiveness ends when Spencer shows you a photograph of a familiar face:
âHey, do you know a guy named Mike Simmons?â
The answer is stuck in your throat as your gaze slides off the picture and focuses on Spencer. You know his name only because Rossi once mentioned that you would probably get along with him. What Dave forgot to mention, however, was that Spencer Reid is unfairly pretty. The soft brown eyes, slightly parted pink lips, and coiffure of dishevelled hair. Despite his anxious demeanour, you notice the quiet strength residing somewhere deep inside him, put to slumber until danger appears. You know that type of man: rarely defends himself but will put his life on the line for others, no hesitation or questions asked. Unfortunately for you, itâs this very kind of man that makes your knees weak. Maybe itâs good that youâre sitting.
âThatâs her neighbour.â Rossiâs voice makes you tear your eyes away from Spencer and look towards the glass door. âLives one floor below, apartment number seven,â he continues, while putting a paper cup of coffee and a chocolate bar in front of you. Youâre surprised to notice that he remembers your favourite brand. âHis brother, Patrick, was arrested several times for domestic violence.â
You look at Dave with squinted eyes. Rossi may be a federal agent and a fantastic profiler but heâs not an oracle.
âHow do you know that?â you probe, crossing your arms on your chest. Curious glint dances in your eyes. âDave, are you cyberstalking me?â
His eyebrow quirks as he hears the question. âI have better things to do, kid,â Rossi answers. He almost sounds believable. âI only asked our technician to make sure you live around good people.â
You nod slightly, pondering his words. If it were anyone else, youâd be calling the police. The fact that itâs Dave looking out for you, even if he doesnât have to, makes comfortable warmth spread through your body. Maybe guardian angels do exist?
âI donât know if thatâs extremely invasive or extremely nice,â you say.
âYeah, dads tend to be like that,â the dark-haired woman chimes in. She and two other men exchange amused looks.
âA dad would beat that guy with a baseball bat,â Rossi argues. âI didnât.â
âBut you thought about it.â
âThatâs not a crime.â
Jokes and niceties end there. What follows is two hours of detailed questions, often unconnected. Someone asks about work colleagues and then another person inquires about the clothing brands you wear. Itâs beyond your understanding how those pieces of information can help them catch a murderer. Even so, you brave through the almost-interrogation. Every now and again, Rossi asks if you want a break. You keep telling him youâre fine, but he seems to believe he knows better. After every thirty minutes, he makes others leave you alone for a moment. Itâs in those short pauses when he lets his strong resolve slip. For just a second, you can see the sadness inside him. He doesnât have to say anything; you know it - Rossi would do anything to have you safe and sound in your apartment, blissfully unaware of the madness surrounding you.
Little did you know, the invasive questions were only the beginning of the second-longest night in your life:
âAbsolutely not!â
Rossiâs words are the first thing you hear after returning from the bathroom. You were gone for no longer than five minutes and yet the calm conference room has suddenly turned into a war zone.
âThis might be our only chance to catch him,â argues the man in the suit. His unmovable stoicism is unnerving.
You feel a warm hand being gently placed on your shoulder.
âMaybe we should ask the girl in question, boys?â
Everyoneâs eyes turn to look at the dark-haired woman beside you. Itâs impressive how easily she can command a room full of men.
âMe?â you ask sheepishly, still confused about the topic of the conversation. Why would they be talking about you and catching someone?
âYouâre a smart one, sweetheart,â begins the dark-skinned man. âIâm sure youâve figured out that you share a lot of characteristics with the other victims. We think that this unsub is already aware of you, probably watches you and a few other girls. Our best chance to arrest this guy is to catch him red-handed. You can help us with that.â
âYou donât have to do it, kid,â Rossi chimes in. Judging by the tone of his voice, he means you canât or shouldnât do it. Anything that puts you in harmâs way is stepping over the line.
âI know,â you answer.
Silence fills the room again. Their eyes are fixed on you, waiting for the answer. The prospect is terrifying but you know you wonât be able to live with yourself if you donât even try to help out. Not every girl on the block has a grumpy FBI agent looking over her shoulder. A personal tragedy brought you a guardian angel with a goatee but itâs not a fair exchange. People shouldnât go to pits of Hell just to find a sense of safety and belonging.
âCan you promise me that Iâll be fine?â you ask. âThat youâll be close by all the time?â
âHey, kid, look at me.â The dark-skinned man gives you a soft, yet confident look. He gives the impression of someone who doesnât back out of a fight. He may not start them but he always finishes them. âI promise that not a single hair will fall from your head.
âAlright,â you say under your breath. âIâll do it.â
Rossi immediately starts walking in your direction. âIâll go with you.â
âNo.â The commanding voice of the suit-wearing man makes David stop in his tracks. âIf you visit her regularly, the unsub definitely knows you. Reid will go.â
âM-me?â Spencer repeats, vaguely pointing his index finger at himself.
âIf you let anything happen to her,â Rossi warns in a stern tone, âIâll bring that baseball bat.â
Spencer only manages to answer âyes, sirâ in an absent voice. Something about the way he clenches his jaw makes you think that he knows Dave isnât just joking. The baseball reference might be amusing but the sentiment remains unchanged: if Spencer is anything but perfect at his job tonight, he will wish it were the unsub who gets their hands on him.
Standing on the balcony, you close your eyes. Cool breeze fans against your shivering skin. Your ears are filled with music from nearby bars, laughter of drunk friends and late commuters losing their patience. Thereâs a distinct smell in the air, one you could never name. Itâs the fragrance of millions of lives carrying on, of tears shared by strangers on the subway and of street vendors opening up their small business as the nightlife goes into full swing. Maybe the smell belongs to the very spirit of the city, the unmistakable genius loci of New York.
A smile appears on your lips as you take in a deep breath.Â
You open your eyes when you feel a jacket being placed around your shoulders. The soft padding tickles your exposed skin.
âYou looked cold,â Spencer says in a low voice. Only now do you realise how close he is to you, as his warm breath brushes against your neck and cheeks.
âThank you.â You can only hope that the dim twilight hides your blush from him. âItâs lovely, isnât it?â
His hands remain on your shoulders. With each of his breaths, you can feel his chest against your back.
âYeah, I guess it has⊠its charm.â
You look up to meet his gaze and immediately regret it. Low lights of the street glisten in his brown eyes, making them look almost gold. Cold wind tugs gently at his curls, swaying them to the ever-unchanging rhythm of the ocean. The yellow hue from your living room lamp gathers around his head, creating something resembling a halo. Is this what the artist saw before painting his first angel?
âYouâre a terrible liar, you know that?â You try to hide your fluster with a giggle. If Spencer is aware of your ruse, he doesnât let on. âLook, if you lean just right over the railing-â
A strong arm wraps around your waist before your head can leave the safety of the balcony. âMaybe donât do that.â Spencer pulls you back against him. âIâd like to avoid Rossi with a baseball bat, if itâs all the same to you.â
For a moment, you wonder if he knows how hard heâs making things for you. Can he feel your heart rapidly thrumming against your ribs? Can he hear his own name being called in the breath he so easily steals from you?
âFine, then you lean over.â You feign indifference. Grown women shouldnât lose their heads for some guy theyâve known for less than a day. Then again, Spencer isnât just âsome guyâ, is he? âIf your head is far out enough, you can see it.â
Spencer strategically pushes you behind him. With one hand propping him up against the railing, he cranes his neck as far as possible.
âIs that the Brooklyn Bridge?â he asks. If you didnât know any better, youâd assume the strange uptick in his voice is awe.
âOne and only.â
The quiet moment doesnât last long. Spencer seems to notice something in the street below. He gets up immediately, pushing you further into your home.
âYou know, maybe we should go back inside,â he says, still staring at whatever caught his attention.
He closes the balcony door and locks it. Checks the lock twice, then pulls the curtains. Just to make sure no one can get inside this way, Spencer puts a chair against the door. The back of it prevents the handle from being pushed all the way. Turns out thereâs some truth to action movies.
The two of you stand there, in the middle of your living room. Unsure what to do now. Having a cute guy all to yourself would be great in any other circumstances. The longer you stay idle, the more awkward this situation will become. Remembering that Rossi thought youâd get along with Spencer, you start looking around your apartment. What can a genius FBI agent have in common with you?
Your gaze falls on the shelves right behind Spencer. Black-and-white casings litter the wall from the floor to the ceiling. There may be a way to make this strange arrangement more comfortable and the hours of the night to pass faster.
âYou wanna watch something?â you ask him. âI have an embarrassingly large collection of old movies.â Flustered, you point at the shelves behind Spencer.
Curious, he turns around only to let out a surprised gasp. He definitely saw the wall of cassette tapes when he entered but now he can really look at it.
âKurosawa, Hitchcock, Huston, Curtiz,â he reads the labels. âBiggest names of the New Deal Era.â
âSpoken like a true connoisseur,â you nod in approval. âSo, Casablanca or The Maltese Falcon?â
A half-grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. If it wasnât for the brown doe eyes staring at you, youâd say Spencer looks cocky. âHumphrey Bogart fan?â
âI guess I like handsome men with firearms,â you tease.
The comment must strike a chord in his heart as Spencer stands still. He blinks quickly, finally realising that he does, in fact, fall into that category. He desperately wants to say something and keep up with your banter but he remains quiet. As much as he likes where your thoughts are going, he very much dislikes the idea of Rossi finding out.
Against his better judgment, Spencer sits down on the couch next to you. If only his body allowed him, heâd sit on the opposite end. His yearning heart, however, sat him right beside you, thigh brushing against thigh. The opening scene rolls when he feels your head against his shoulder. A comforting smell of lilac and vanilla takes over his senses. How weird would it be if he just stuck his nose in the crook of your neck and drowned in that fragrance?
The movie continues but Spencer canât focus on anything happening on the screen. His mind is occupied by you. Heâs all too aware of the way your body is positioned against his. Treading the waters, Spencer puts his arm around your shoulders. You respond immediately, tucking in even closer to him. Your head fits just right under his chin.
You feel a strange sensation as though someone is watching you. Maybe youâre just starting to be paranoid, or maybe thereâs more to it. In any case, you lift your eyes from the screen. Youâre expecting to see Spencerâs profile, his attention on the TV but the view is a lot nicer - heâs already staring down at you when your gazes meet. The tips of your noses brush ever so gently with each breath.
âNot watching the movie?â You whisper.
âCanât focus,â he answers, voice equally low.
âWhat are you thinking about?â
His fingers trace faint circles on your arm. Those brown eyes stare at you with purpose, as though Spencer is attempting to read your mind. If he could, heâd probably see only himself.
âHow much I want to risk getting my head bashed in with a baseball bat.â
A giggle escapes your lips. Spencer canât help but smile at such a sweet sound.
âIf it hurts, I will kiss it better,â you promise.
Spencerâs other hand trails up your thigh before its fingers find your jaw. Heâs caressing you softly, still debating whether he should indulge himself. What if the baseball bat wasnât rhetorical?
Any doubt he might have disappears when he feels your soft lips against his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. His thoughts turn fuzzy and, even if he wanted to, he couldnât possibly string a coherent sentence.
With a firm, yet gentle hold on your jaw, Spencer presses his lips against yours. He inhales deeply, the smell of lilac and vanilla not only surrounds him, but penetrates his very spirit. Fixing the angle, he kisses you deeper. A strange hunger pulsates inside him, its greed only growing with each stolen peck. You let out a whine and Spencer takes that as the highest form of approval. He pushes his knee between your thighs, forcing you to lie on your back underneath him.
Breathless and completely smitten, you need to use all of your willpower to turn your head to the side. While youâre trying to catch your breath, Spencer isnât so keen on taking a break just yet. His lips leave warm, wet kisses along your jaw and neck.
The sound of your giggle makes him suddenly stop, if just to look at your angelic, blissful face.
âYouâre definitely getting that baseball bat,â you whisper.
Spencer laughs along with you.
âIâll worry about that later,â he breathes out against your ear before continuing his ministrations.
Before the moment can get any more explicit, someone knocks on the front door. Heavy, angry bangs echo through the dimmed apartment. Spencer and you immediately stop your affections, exchanging worried looks.
âIâm not expecting anyone,â you say.
âExcept for the unsub,â Spencer adds.
âYou think itâs him?â
âThereâs only one way to find out.â
He gets off you and stands up from the couch. Before Spencer can take another step towards the front door, you grab him by the shirt.
âWait.â That panicked tone of your voice makes him consider cradling you in his arms again. You will definitely be safe if the unsub has to shoot him first. âYouâre not actually going to open the door for a deranged murderer?â
As gently as he can, Spencer pries away your trembling hands. He gives them a reassuring squeeze.
âItâs either that or Rossiâs baseball bat,â he attempts to joke. The humour falls flat as you notice his own anxiety.
You donât think itâs important at the moment to tell Spencer that Dave does not, in fact, own a baseball bat. When everything is over and both you and Spencer are okay, then youâll tell him. Surely, the two of you will laugh about it and soon forget about the joke.
The banging on the door repeats. This time, the hits are even stronger, making the pane bend under the pressure.
âI know youâre in there!â comes a scream from the other side of the door. âI just wanna talk, sweetie!â
Still sitting on the couch, you curl your body into the tiniest ball possible. Maybe if you tuck your knees a little closer to your chest, you could simply disappear. You would find yourself in some faraway place, where the man behind the door can never reach.
âLet. Me. In!â He punctuates his howls with forceful bashes against the door.
With a weapon drawn, Spencer stands in the hallway. Heâs standing right in the middle of the distance between you and the unsub. Each bang on the door makes him jump slightly. Whoever is trying to get inside doesnât sound like a man possible to kill with just one bullet. Spencer will have to take his chances.
âHey,â he calls out. âYou want to talk to that girl who lives here, right?â
The banging suddenly stops. After all this commotion, silence should be welcome but it feels rotten through and through. This is the calm before the tsunami.
âWho the Hell are you?â answers a hoarse voice behind the door.
âIâm uhâŠâ Spencer hangs his voice. With a quick look over his shoulder, he checks up on you. Curled up on the couch, you look like a wounded animal, begging to be spared. âIâm her boyfriend.â
Silence.
Then, a crash.
The front door bursts open as a large, burly man stumbles inside. He roars in a way so inhuman, blood curdles in your veins. Whoever barged into your home is not a person - hasnât been for a long time. Even though he looks identical to the maintenance man who always greets you and warns you when the weather gets cold.
Spencer knows that words are futile. Wasting no time, he shoots the unsub straight in the chest. The man stumbles, falls on one knee. He stares at the dark spot on his black t-shirt. Blood seeps through the material, quickly spreading. Still, he manages to get back up on his feet. Another shot is fired, this time into the intruderâs back.
The unsub falls on the ground. Any other person would surely be dead but as heâs proven already, he can take much more than an average man. The corpse, like a boutique mannequin, lies motionless. Black puddle spreads across your hallways at a terrifyingly quick pace. Screams, footsteps and sirens all merge into one uproar. A painful ringing fills your ears, accompanied by rhythmic echoes of rushing blood.
You canât feel your hands or your feet. Everything is terribly numb. Has it always been so cold in here?
Spencerâs face appears before you. His lips are moving but you canât hear a word he says. You see his eyebrows furrow with worry.
âI want my dad,â you choke out.
He continues to stare at you in confusion. Youâre not entirely sure what he finds so hard to understand about your wish. Then, his face lights up, as though some divine force granted him the understanding of basic English.
You feel your lips moving against your will. They form the same four words over and over again but you donât know if youâre actually saying them out loud. The ringing is deafening.
Time seems to slow down as youâre watching Rossi rushing to you. He holds you close against his chest, shielding you from the macabre scene taking place in your hallway. Your face is hot and wet. When did you start crying?
The ringing in your ears slowly subsides as you begin to make out hushed promises:
âIâve got you, kid. Iâve got you. Everything is alright, youâre safe with me.â
Feeling circulation return to your extremities, you put your arms around Rossiâs neck. One of his hands is caressing your back in soothing motions, while the other firmly holds your head against his shoulder. Even if you wanted to, you couldnât look at the intruderâs body. Here, in this little cage of Rossiâs doing, you feel small and vulnerable. Strangely enough, it isnât scary. It feels good to let him see you so raw and helpless.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Spencer standing behind the couch. Apologetic, glossy eyes donât dare leave you for a second. Fearfully, he reaches out to you. His fingers brush against your shoulder blade.
Rossi looks at this little sign of affection with reasonable suspicion. He looks between Spencer and you, quickly realising just what had happened before the fatal confrontation.
âI donât need to give you all that fatherly talk, do I?â Rossi asks, watchful eyes glued to Spencer.
âWhat-â Confused, Spencer gives him a doe-eyed look. âWhat fatherly talk?â
âThe baseball bat rule,â the dark-skinned man chimes in. He doesnât even try to hide his amusement. âYou break her heart, he breaks your neck.â
Spencerâs expression falls, his already pale face turns into a shade of grey. It turns out that the rhetorical baseball wasnât rhetorical after all.
âYeah, something like that.â
âI, uhâŠâ Spencer trails off, trying to gather his thoughts after one of his colleagues just promised to maim him. âI think we should get her out of here.â
As much as Rossi is reluctant to have you out of his sight when youâre in such a fragile state, he knows itâs for the best. Besides, he doesnât actually want to bash Spencerâs head in. That means he needs to delegate somebody else to take care of you. In some way, Rossi is glad that this somebody is none other than Spencer Reid. Any other man might not realise what it means to Rossi to leave you vulnerable.
âCome on, kid,â he whispers into your ear. âGo with Reid, heâll take care of you.â
For the second time that day, Spencer answers with a âyes, sirâ. Only this time, his voice isnât absent. Thereâs a sense of awareness, a heavy weight, to his response. Neither Rossi nor Spencer means something temporary. Here, on the couch of your apartment, they make an agreement - father-in-law to son-in-law.
âI donât want to look,â you argue in a meek voice.
âYou donât have to,â Spencer reassures you softly. âThe paramedics already took him.â
Rossi watches as Spencer takes your arms and hangs them around his neck. As though you are without a will, your body follows the young man wherever heâs leading you. One of Spencerâs hands keeps your forehead glued to his shoulder, the other holds you securely around your waist. The two of you walk out of the apartment without you ever seeing the entirety of the aftermath. Perhaps itâs for the better.
As Derek, Spencer and you are gone from his sight, Hotch makes his way to Rossi. A faint smile dances along his lips. Once again, thereâs that glint of profound understanding in his eyes - the look of a father recognising another father.
âYou lied to me,â he says, forcing a cold tone.
Rossi looks up at him from under furrowed eyebrows. âExcuse me?â
âYou said you donât have children.â
David Rossi looks around the living room. His eyes wander along the titles of movies from the 1940s, self-help books and a single picture frame beside the TV. The photograph shows you and Rossi at your graduation. How come he sees the truth only now?
you feel a deep affection for the little girl who wanders into the store you work at unaccompanied and a deep vitriol for her seemingly neglectful father. when she is given over to the custody of her uncle, it's easy to see he's way out of his depth. less easy to see how completely obsessed with you he is. Â Â Â Â Â ( 9.6k words )
warnings : gun mentions, clear neglect of lena on baz's part, reader has an extremely strained relationship with her father, parental abuse, food insecurity, age gap (reader is twenty eight, pope is thirty-nine), mandatory tag for employee/boss relationship but mostly not really 18+mdni cw smut, reader is a bit of a perv (just a bit!!), female masturbation, voice kink/voyeurism? not sure how to tag it? inappropriate use of a platonic voicemail?
note : back to my roots with a long pope fic this is the first full length fic i've written since valentine's day why did nobody tell me???? i do intend for this to be a multi-part fic but that depends on if anybody reads this so if you like it please consider reblogging/commenting i actually worked so hard on this one and i'm really proud of it so i hope you enjoy!!!!
The craft store on Fern Road has been there ever since you could remember. Nestled between a hair salon and a bakery right in the middle of Main Street, it doesnât get a whole lot of natural light once you venture past the huge open windows. Surrounded by a U-shape of shelving around all three of the back walls, most of the middle of the store is taken up by display tables or large metal crates of stock. Thereâs a system, so meticulously organised you could probably recreate it with your eyes closed.Â
Notebooks go on the left wall; A5 bullet journals on one end and A2 canvas sketchbooks on the other and everything else in between. Planners, calendars, to-dos to stick on the fridge, everything had a place. On the right wall were the art supplies, paint at the back and crayons at the front, organised by skill level, price point and colour. The back wall was for the more novelty items, mostly things that you only buy one or two of. Hot glue guns, easels, even a sewing machine thatâs been collecting dust since you were in high school.
It had been there the day you got the job; fourteen years old and itching for something to keep you occupied outside of your house. Mrs. Rayskel had been a lot more involved in the operations of the store back when you had first started as its only other employee, but now she mostly leaves you alone.Â
The middle sections are the ones most likely to entice a child, you think. Huge metal crates of stuffed animals, short, open cabinets of bracelet making kits and paint by number books. Thereâs a table right as you walk in that has hundreds of different types of pens in dividers on the outside, the entire area of the surface taken up in thick sheets of paper meant for testing pen types, but really just being a place for kids to draw.Â
Youâre assuming thatâs what brought in the little girl sitting on the carpet now. Itâs pouring with rain outside, early afternoon in the middle of the week, and you havenât had anyone come in all day. You donât mind the slow periods. You keep your work station clean and organised (one of the perks of being the only employee is you donât have to worry about someone else fucking up your shit), you have your crochet projects to keep you company at the desk. Most of the time you put on a calming playlist of royalty-free music and mind your business until the early evening when you close. Mrs. Rayskel only works weekends now, so youâre in every other day from 8:30am to open until 3:30pm to close. Youâve got about two hours until you need to start your sweep (assuming anyone comes in at all), checking the pen caps have been put on, replacing sample paper, rotating stock for visibility, when you spot her.Â
Sheâs quite small, canât be older than seven, sitting on the plush rug by one of the windows. You hire a carpet cleaner every three months to treat the floors here, and you know it hasnât been very long since the last time. Still, when you approach, you only bend down on your knees. âHi.â
You hadnât heard her come in, and youâre not even sure if you were in the store when she did. You couldâve been in the bathroom, or taking a few minutes out the back door, or completely zoned out at your desk.Â
âHi,â she says back, shy. Sheâs wearing a purple raincoat that seems to have done a very good job of protecting her from the downpour, her dark hair sitting loose around her shoulders. In her hand is a stuffed unicorn toy, and discarded in front of her is a pegasus. âAm I in trouble?â
You frown. âNo, of course not. Youâre not in trouble.â Where are her parents? Youâre not sure if sheâs old enough to be in school yet, but itâs close enough to midday that she should be there if she is. Itâs not particularly cold outside but water is flowing down the gutters like rivulets, and you havenât seen anyone walk by in almost an hour. âWhatâs your name?â
She shrinks in on herself slightly. âIâm not supposed to say.â Right, donât talk to strangers and all that. That doesnât help you.Â
You nod slowly, careful not to come on too strong. Sheâs quiet, most unaccompanied kids you get in here are little hurricanes, impossible to miss. Youâre not even sure how long sheâs been here. Surely not longer than ten minutes.Â
You tell her your own name as a gesture of goodwill, pointing to the name tag clipped to your sweater. âI work here,â you wave your hand awkwardly at the rest of the store.Â
She likes knowing your name, you can tell. She says it softly, stuttering over one of the syllables, before eventually shuffling in her seat and speaking up again. âIâm Lena.â
Okay, you can work with that. Step one is establish trust, step two is locate her guardians. Step three might be call CPS if you canât get those two done before you close but the likelihood of that happening is extremely low. You have kids wander in here by themselves all the time, just not usually quite so young.Â
âHi Lena,â you say gently. âCan I sit with you?â
She nods politely, still looking like you might scold her, and your heart aches for this girl. âIâm sorry for touching your toys,â she says as you cross your legs.Â
You couldnât care less. âThatâs okay. Do you want to play?â
Lena perks up, still hesitant. âCan I?â
âSure!â You try to give her your softest, kindest smile. âDo you want me to play with you?â
Thatâs what really gets her, like she hadnât been expecting you to offer your time. âCan we play with the ponies?â When she smiles one of her bottom teeth is missing. You never want to let her go.Â
âWe can play whatever youâd like.â
Lena carefully gathers the unicorn and pegasus into her lap, examining them with great care. She hands you the pegasus. âThis one is yours,â she says, smile threatening to take over her entire face.Â
You accept it seriously. âWhatâs her name?â
Lena looks at you like you havenât been paying attention properly. âShe doesnât have one. Her name got taken by the evil magic unicorn.â She holds up the unicorn for emphasis. âShe has to get it back.â
You havenât played pretend like a little girl since you were one, but it was pretty easy to get back into the swing with Lena. Never just a game, always a full world with rules that spring forth fully formed, buried beneath layers of stories of princesses and ghosts. You remember how it felt to hold all of that in your head all at once, never about good prevailing over evil and instead how it felt to be betrayed, or forgiven, or loved.Â
You let her hold onto that for the next thirty-eight minutes until the bell above the door rings again.Â
âLena.âÂ
Lena smiles up at the man dripping onto the welcome mat just inside the door. âHi, Daddy.â
Pretty much all bravado youâve had about tearing Lenaâs guardians a new one, simmering and stewing the longer this poor girl sat here with only a stranger for supervision, disappears immediately when you look up at Lenaâs dad. He smiles politely at you in a way that scares you more than anything, barely glancing at his daughter. Youâve been yelled at by customers before, but based on the lump on this guyâs left hip you think this man might not be the yelling type.
âI thought I told you not to wander off,â he says, uneasy smile on his face. You think you might have read him wrong; not the type of man to yell in front of someone else.Â
Your metaphorical grip on the little girl in front of you tightens in panic. You had thought this entire time that what you wanted was for Lenaâs parents to come and collect her, and of course you donât want for them to have abandoned her. But there seems to be no secret third option where they just misplaced her and theyâre worried sick and they took their eyes off her for a second and when they looked back she was gone. âWe need to get home.â
Lena looks up at him like for a second she doesnât recognise him.Â
This man is clearly her father, or at least another relative. They bear a striking resemblance, the features Lena is still growing into looking sinister and cruel on the older man. You wonder briefly if heâs always looked like that. If there had been a time when her father had been a kind and loving man.Â
Right now at least she looks like she knows different than to argue with him. âOkay, daddy.â
She looks at you, the same smile on her face that heâd given you. It looks lovely and gentle coming from her. âThank you for playing with me.â
You donât want to let her go - least of all without offering some big act of kindness. You want her to remember you, if she ever needs something to hold onto.
âDo you want that one?â You gesture at the unicorn in her hand and hold out the pegasus. âYou can have them both.â Youâll take it out of your paycheque. Hell, youâd give her the whole damn crate. She had been so excited to have someone to play with.
Lenaâs dad is already halfway out the door as she stands up, brushing her knees off. âNo, thatâs okay.â She leaves the pony on the floor. âThank you for playing with me.â
Sheâs gone before you can figure out what to say.Â
You close up quietly, doing all your normal checks. Youâre not quite sure what to do with yourself, mind stuck on the little girl with the purple coat. You donât know whatâs going on between her and her father. Thereâs a high likelihood that heâs just having a bad day, that heâs usually warm and affectionate and not someone his daughter has to be scared of. You donât know this man, and you donât know his daughter.Â
But you recognise the look on her face when her father showed up. Sheâs so small, barely up to your hip. You canât imagine being her parent and not being obsessed with her. Sheâs clever, and articulate, and the story she dreamed up with those two stuffed toys shows that. Her father had a gun on him on a Thursday afternoon, in the middle of Main Street. Sheâs so little, she canât comprehend cruelty.Â
She has to make up evil creatures to process things.Â
You think about her for a few days after she leaves. You kept both the stuffed animals behind the counter; it felt wrong to put them back on display. Who knows, maybe you could have been reading way too far into it anyway.Â
ââ
You never really learned how to shop. It wasnât really a skill that you thought youâd have to learn, you supposed. Adults know how to do it, youâll probably figure out how to eventually. At twenty-eight, you figure itâll come to you any day now.Â
The store is always too bright, even though you always come in the evenings. Harsh, fluorescent lighting makes you feel like youâre somewhere more important than in your body. Youâve been standing in the cereal aisle for longer than you need to, one hand down by your side holding your basket against your calf, the other hovering over a box youâve already picked up twice.Â
$4.49
You turn it over, reading the nutritional label like youâre expecting anything called âCinnamon Raspberry Crunchâ to be even a little healthy. Most of the other cereals, less sugar, sit right beside it, all about a dollar cheaper.Â
You put the first box back.Â
Your basket has exactly three things in it: bread, milk, and a packet of penne that goes on sale every two weeks. You donât need anything else, you never really plan on getting much. But youâve been thinking about this stupid cereal for days now, since you last came in and passed it on your way out. You could just buy it. Youâre almost thirty.Â
You canât explain it, canât verbalise, canât even articulate for your own peace of mind the unease that comes from that box of cereal. Your chest constricts and you canât form any rational argument other than the fact that thinking about buying it makes your head hurt.Â
Your phone starts ringing. The timing is almost funny.Â
You let it ring two full times, trying to control your breathing. You never understood how some people can just take a deep breath before doing something and feel braced for impact. Itâs never really worked for you.
âHi, dad.â Your voice wobbles.Â
Your father doesnât bother saying hello on the other side, instead waiting. You think it might have been the amount of time it took you to answer the phone, but you donât bring it up because you hear how ridiculous it sounds even in your own head. âYou took your time.â
You shift your weight, glancing the other direction down the aisle to make sure thereâs no one else around. âIâm at the store.â
âAt this hour?â You can practically hear him deciding what version of himself he wants to be today. âI suppose you are a busy girl.â You donât know what to say to that so you say nothing.Â
He doesnât need you to talk to keep the conversation going. âMaking good choices?â
âYes, dad.â You feel like a little girl. Your father never knew what much to do with a girl. Heâd call you sport and drag you places like fishing. âI know.â
âYou have a few bad habits,â he says, like heâs spoken to you face to face even once in the last five years. You donât think he could pick you out of a lineup if the cops asked him to. âNever quite grown out of them,â he says gently.Â
You stare at the shelf in front of you like it might save you from this conversation. âI know.â
Thereâs that silence again.
âYou donât have to stop,â he says, voice dripping. Disappointment slides into his tone like it knew it was expected. âIâm trying to help you.â
âI didnât mean to snap.â Itâs been a long day and you know you have a pile of laundry to fold when you get home. âIâm sorry.â
Your father exhales, long and slow. You have the entire time to ruminate while heâs making his mind up. There really is no rhyme or reason to him sometimes, it is left purely up to his whim. Sometimes a mood you think is a good one can sour in an instant. Youâve known him for how long and you just canât get a read on him.Â
âAnyway,â he breezes past it. âI called because I realised you never paid me back for your electric bill last month. Remember? I covered it because you were short.â
Your car had died and youâd blown most of your savings on getting it fixed, leaving you short on your electric bill for the month. Your father had been practically a last resort, first spending hours researching all possible public transit routes to see if there was any way you could make it work. Youâd given him the money back immediately when youâd been paid. Asking your father for anything has always made you feel like youâre disappointing him and when it comes to your dad disappointment can look like a lot of things.Â
One time when you were really little there had been a party at your house. You donât remember what it was for â just that it had been really important because your dad said it was, and that meant everything had to be right. You remember more of the buildup than the party itself if youâre honest. The air was tight, so quiet that not even the house dared settle. Every day you would take the school bus home and every day youâd drag your feet longer and longer, anything to avoid getting home.Â
Your father is a perfectionist, you tell people now. Highly strung. Particular.Â
You remember being made to eat dinner on the porch that week, plastic plates balanced on your knees. You werenât allowed at the table, your dad insistent you would make a mess. You didnât think you were a messy child but your dad isnât the kind of person you argue with. He hated cleaning up after you â that part, at least, had always been made clear.Â
The night of the party, the house filled up in a way it never had. There had been too many people, all too loud, all of them laughing like your house wasnât riddled with landmines intentionally set to detonate around your father. You stayed outside, sitting on the stoop, watching the older boys from the neighbourhood ride their bikes up and down the street under the orange glow of the streetlights.Â
You could hear everything going on inside. Glasses clinking, voices rising, your fatherâs laugh louder than you had ever heard it before. Then a sharp sound, one that you knew could only come from the vase on the dining table being knocked over.Â
You had known what that meant, even back then. Something small goes wrong and everything else follows. The night would fold in on itself, people would leave too quickly.Â
You could hear someone inside begin apologising and all you could picture was your father standing there, shoulders tight the way they would always be right before he snapped.Â
âDonât worry about it,â he said, like it was nothing at all.Â
You didnât come inside until you were sure the last person had left; nobody came to make sure you were in bed. You have never been sure of where you stand with him.
So youâre careful when you speak up again. âI did pay you back.â
He hums. âI donât think so.â
Youâve barely been able to afford gas this month because of the extra money being taken out of your account. Your job is consistent and pays you pretty well but you still work retail
âI did, I transferred it. Iâll check-â
He cuts you off with your name, sharp and steady. âOkay, calm down. You donât have to get upset. If you say you did then Iâm sure you did.â He clearly doesnât believe you. You donât mind him being wrong, but to assign you facets of yourself that donât really exist is what spikes your heart rate.Â
âDad-â
He doesnât let you cut him off. âNo, I wonât keep you. If you can pay me back when you get paid, Iâd appreciate it. Maybe this will take you to be a bit more responsible with your money, hey? Love you, kiddo.â He hangs up after you repeat the sentiment weakly, leaving you staring at the cereal, burning up under the fluorescent lights.Â
ââ
Youâve become somewhat of a creature of habit as you enter your late twenties. You have your small, solitary hobbies â your crocheting, your crafts, your scrolling through social media and seeing which of your high school friends are getting engaged. Spring breaks into summer and you spend the next couple of weeks preparing for the summer rush. The rain settles, giving way to a dry heat that has you grateful your carâs air conditioning hasnât gone yet.Â
The storeâs air conditioning is fairly reliable and since youâre the only one who works no one ever messes with your settings. The store is kind of a hangout spot for some younger kids who have clearly been set loose for the first time. They come in for the ever-rotating collection of board games, and you become somewhat of an unpaid babysitter.
You donât mind, though. Most of them are polite and well-behaved, and youâve always loved being around children. Most of the time theyâre a lot nicer to be around than adults. Thereâs no small talk, no worrying about filling the silence, or being annoying. Most of the time, the type of kids who want to come into a quiet store and draw or play chutes and ladders for hours, they just like when adults pay attention to them. You hope you can make them feel important, even if itâs just for an afternoon. Education had been something youâd considered going into once you graduated high school but the workload and the student loans and the decisiveness of the whole thing had been too daunting and eventually youâd put it off for so long it didnât seem worth pursuing anymore.Â
You keep the two ponies under the counter, kept safe from stock rotations and curious children by your careful hands. You protect them from dust, keep them safe. It feels a bit silly to keep them there, keep them clean and ready. You canât bear to separate them.
The summer rush comes and goes and with it comes the back to school rush. You end up paying your father back a second time, too busy with work to have the energy to deal with the stress of it. You donât think he has your address, but you also didnât think he had it the last time heâd shown up at your place.Â
Itâs perhaps the first day of the slow season, early in the afternoon, right after all the kids have gone back to school. Youâve done all the restocking, youâve done all the normal cleaning, all the normal admin. Youâve even gone as far as to dust all the baseboards, youâre that desperate for something to do. Muscling through the boredom, youâve finally settled in your comfy chair behind the desk, crochet project on your lap and calming music playing through the speaker connected to your phone.Â
The bell twinkles as the door is shoved open and you donât even really have the time to look up before your name is being called, bright and warm. Sheâs not wearing her purple raincoat but you would recognise Lena anywhere. She looks at you sheepishly, like sheâs just considered the idea that you donât remember her.Â
Youâre sure it must be something awry with you. So desperate for connection, to find the innate good, to understand everything in your life, youâve always been incredibly quick to attach. Perhaps not attach exactly, you think, youâre probably less attached to Lena than perhaps the idea of her. You donât have the best memory, itâs not photographic or eidetic or anything, but you remember faces and names. You remember people in your kindergarten class, and adults who showed you kindness, and customers you had completely mundane interactions with. You wonder often what it says about you the memories your brain has decided to latch onto, what has shaped you into who you are. Your preschool teacher scolding you for talking during nap time when you hadnât been, being abandoned at the bus stop by a friend who promised sheâd wait for your bus before beginning her walk home. One time, you had been maybe seventeen, down by the waterfront after a vicious fight with your father. You donât recall what the fight was about, but you remember the little boy you had seen by the waterâs edge. He had a bucket filled with seashells, and his grandmother was sitting on the sand helping him decorate a sandcastle with his findings. Eventually sheâd stood up, dusting herself off, and told him they had to head home for dinner with his mama. The boy had cried something awful, tears and sobs, begging his grandma to just help him find one more shell. One more, just one more. Is it odd you can recall the moment with perfect clarity, feeling your own heart split in two just at the sound of his upset?
Lena has grown since you last saw her, and if she hadnât referred to you by name you wouldâve thought youâd projected her likeness onto a new girl. She beams at you with a missing tooth, skipping forward as if itâs been five minutes instead of five months.Â
Sheâs flanked by a man who is new to you, not the same guy who had come to collect her last time sheâd been in. Heâs staring at you when you look away from her, holding the door open for her to come inside and making sure he catches it before it slams. Blue eyes stare straight into you deeper than you think youâve ever really looked into yourself, and he doesnât look away at being caught.Â
Heâs thick, broad in the shoulders and stocky in the chest. You squirm under his gaze, feeling suddenly like youâre doing something wrong by looking at him. Your chest stirs and youâre completely aware of every single one of your limbs.Â
âHi, Lena.â Her smile widens impossibly far for such a small face. Your heart does the same thing. âHow are you?â
She seems more forthcoming this time, telling you all about how sheâs just started second grade, the friends sheâs been making, how hard the classes are. She talks with a level of familiarity about her life the way only a second grader could, like it would never even occur to her that you wouldnât have anything to compare it to. You discard your crochet project, scooting your chair forward and leaning over on your elbows to make sure she knows youâre giving her all your attention.Â
Well, almost all of your attention. The man she came with stands directly behind Lena, arms crossed as if heâd expect you to try and hurt her, and his eyes stay trained on you. Youâre not sure if heâs just a starer â some men are; how creepy it is depends on how long it goes on before he tries to talk to you â or if heâs watching for something.Â
You kick off where youâre leaning, wondering if he might stop if you move. âI have something for you,â you feel foolish already. Chances are sheâs forgotten, or she doesnât even like horses anymore, or she didnât even at the time but they were her only option. âPeople bought all the other ones but I remember you liked these ones.â You look like a fool holding out the two stuffed animals in your hand, not even knowing if she wants them. Lenaâs eyes light up at the sight of the ponies but she doesnât move towards them.Â
Instead, she looks up at her bodyguard. âCan I, Uncle Pope?â
Lenaâs uncle Pope finally tears his eyes from you, looking down at her. His mouth pulls into a small smile, strained like heâs not used to doing it but fond like he canât help it anyway. âYeah,â his voice is crackly and quiet. âHow much are they?â He looks back to you.Â
You wonder if he thinks youâre going to quiz him on your eye colour or something. You shake your head, practically tripping over your own actions to get ahead of yourself and skip through the first part of interactions. âNo, itâs fine. Theyâre for her.â
Lena gasps, collecting them both into her chest with an iron grip. She thanks you and doesnât have to be reminded, eyes shining. You get the idea that Pope has heard about the two of them before. He watches her glee, affectionate an albeit untrained smile widening on his face. âDo you want your pen things?â
Her eyes widen to saucers. âI can still have them?â Pope nods and Lena practically shoots off towards the stationery section, leaving the two of you alone. He turns to orient his body towards her instinctively, but heâs standing so close to you that you can smell his aftershave. It sends a hot feeling from your chest to your stomach.Â
His hair is thick and unruly, such a rich copper it almost looks brown in the warm lighting of the store. His curls look well loved but less well maintained and you find your mind stumbling forward again; what hair products does he use? Does he like it touched? Does he have anyone there to touch it? What would it feel like?
âShe talks about you a lot,â Pope says, sounding like whatever the opposite of conversational is. He speaks like he regrets it retroactively, aching for solitude but subjecting himself to small talk with strangers. âPractically begged me to come here since she has a half day. I told her if she did all of her homework she could get some of those pens.â He mimes using a pen. âYâknow the ones, they smell like all the different stuff? Bananas and apples and crap?â
You nod. Theyâre just called scented markers, but you donât feel the need to correct him. You picture him at a kitchen counter, trying to coax his niece into finishing a reading log with scented markers. You know Lena has a father, a man that she at least called âdadâ five months ago. What happened to him? Why isnât he bringing her to get sniff pens? Is he still around, with his concealed carry and his seemingly cold indifference? Thatâs probably unfair, you donât know this man, and Lena had clearly loved him.Â
But she looks far happier today than she had the last time you saw her, you canât lie to yourself about that.Â
âSheâs a good kid.â You have to assume. Sheâs lovely, incredibly easy to be kind to, but you donât know her when it really comes down to it. âSeemed like she was having a hard time last time I saw her.â You shrug with an indifference that feels completely unnatural. âI wanted to do something nice for her.â
Pope looks over at her, taking the caps off the sample markers to smell them, then down at you. You feel real juvenile with your little crochet stars in your lap, youâre planning on making bunting out of them, sitting there in your work outfit. Heâs clearly older than you by a significant amount, heâs probably got a respectable job, maybe a wife. You wonder what kind of family they are, both of them so different from Lenaâs father. Perhaps youâre being unfair, maybe it wasnât a gun, and maybe heâd just been having a bad day. You want to ask Pope about him, but you bite your tongue.Â
âYou didnât have to,â he says gruffly, looking down. He doesnât have a wedding ring on, and the fact that you have noticed makes your cheeks warm. âLot to do for someone elseâs kid.â
You feel a little bit scolded, shrinking into him. This man clearly cares a lot about his niece, perhaps more than her father, you want him to think youâre good for her. Want him to like you.Â
Youâre sure it has nothing to do with the fact that his biceps are too big for his shirt and when heâd been staring at you all the blood in your chest had stalled.Â
âI didnât mean to overstep,â you say cautiously.Â
He blinks at you. The expressions that heâs shot your way have been nowhere near as emotive as the ones heâs given Lena which is to be expected on a certain level, but heâs really been giving you nothing.
He looks at you for so long you have to be the one to break eye contact. Lena bounces up to the counter, marker pigment around her nose with a pack of scented felt tip pens. âOh, Lena,â you say, eyes darting back over to her uncle. Heâs looking down his shoulder at her. âYouâve got pen on your face.â
âSorry,â she frowns, scrubbing at her nose with the back of her hand. ââSâit gone?â She juts her head back to present to you.Â
You bend down to rummage through your purse, fishing out a pack of face wipes from the bottom. âHere,â you pull one out of the package and present it to her. âDo you mind if I wipe it off?â
Lena shakes her head, curls bouncing wildly. Sheâs got beautiful, dark hair, and she clearly didnât get that from her dad. She doesnât look much like Pope at all, and you donât remember her fatherâs face with as much clarity as youâll recall her uncleâs, but you donât see much of a family resemblance between the two of them. He could be from her motherâs side but given that Lena is clearly mixed youâd made an educated guess that the two of them were brothers.Â
âThank you,â she enunciates, nodding slightly on each word. You wipe away the pigment gently, catching sight of the way Pope watches you out of the corner of your eye. Youâre not sure if youâd been overstepping when youâd brought it up but youâre pretty sure it qualifies now. You finish up, curling the wipe in your hand and sitting back. Lena looks up at Pope with a toothy smile. âAll better?â
He nods at her. âBe careful with them. We canât go to grandmaâs if youâve got pen all over your face.âÂ
He doesnât have that way about him that people who spend a lot of time around kids usually do. None of the fake niceties in the voice, thereâs clear affection there and heâs good with her, but thereâs a level of clumsiness there. The love had come naturally but the mannerisms are still forming themselves. Easy and wrought with the deception of labour in the same breath.Â
Heâs holding a twenty out to you and you realise with a start it's for the pens. âRight.â Your face gets hot and you stand up to escape the feeling. You take the twenty, your fingertips tingling where theyâd connected with his. Theyâre rough, calloused, and they donât shy away from yours. You reach for the key to unlock the cash drawer in the till to get him his change.Â
âKeep the rest.â
He says it in a way that makes you not want to argue with him. You ignore that instinct.Â
âTheyâre four dollars.â
He stares at you again. âYou have a tip jar, donât you?â
Technically, sure. Thereâs a jar there thatâs labelled for tips, but people rarely leave cash in it. You know his name but you feel wrong saying it. Yours is displayed on the badge you have clipped to your top. You tell him anyway, changing the topic.Â
Pope blinks, eyebrows furrowing. âEveryone calls me Pope.â
âWell, Pope,â you say as if you hadnât collected that and tucked it away the second that Lena had referred to him. âThatâs like a two hundred percent tip, so.â You turn the key and the drawer pops out. You tuck the twenty away and hand him back a ten. $5.15 with tax, $4.85 tip. "Happy?â You dump the coins in the jar. He frowns, which is more of a reaction than youâve gotten the entire rest of the time, so you take that as a success.Â
Lena tugs on his sleeve. âAre we going to Grandma Smurfâs now? She said I could go in the pool, sâlong as I wear sunscreen.â
Popeâs frown deepens slightly but he manages to fix his face before he looks down at her. âWe can go now. You sure?â Lena nods resolutely.Â
You watch them go, Lena turning around to wave at you at the door. Pope looks right at you and raises an arm in goodbye. Thereâs a vein that runs down his arm and you have to duck behind the counter, mortified. When you make your ascent theyâre gone but your face is still hot.Â
You spend the rest of the night thinking about Lenaâs uncle Pope. You wish youâd introduced yourself with your surname so heâd been inclined to do the same. He hadnât given you any indication that he had liked you in any way, so youâre not sure exactly why heâs got you all hot and bothered. Heâs at least a decade older than you, if not more, but you canât argue and claim thatâs not your type.Â
He probably wouldnât have captured your attention so severely if he hadnât been so good with his niece. It had been something that youâd realised rather suddenly a few years ago; that you were no longer a girl but rather just a woman. Youâd felt your whole adolescence that you were too young to be an adult. Mrs. Rayskel had hired you two days after you had turned fourteen, so when you woke up one day and realised that you were actually an appropriate age to be working, in your mid twenties. That youâre not a young adult, instead, an adult. An adult who thought she wouldâve been in a relationship secure enough to at least be thinking about having children. Men your age donât want to settle down, at least none of the ones youâve ever met have.Â
But an older man with a niece he clearly adores? You have to slap yourself in the middle of stirring your pasta to stop yourself from perving on this poor man. You wonder if heâd mind.
ââ
You spend maybe two weeks having your heart race every time the door to the shop opens, and are rewarded for your diligence when eventually Pope does return, this time without Lena in tow.Â
Youâre actually working this time, restocking the board games in the corner. Youâre mostly hidden behind a shelf so youâre able to pretend you havenât seen him and thus, act adequately nonchalant as he finds you.Â
âOh, hi.â Youâre kneeling on the floor restocking the bottom shelf and despite the fact that your skirt ends at your calves you tug it down self-consciously. âLenaâs uncle, Pope, right?â
He nods slowly, so slow itâs like itâs something he needs to process. He looks marginally less happy this time and you know itâs probably because his niece isnât with him but thereâs a small spark in the back of your head that whispers his frown is directed at your outfit. Youâre being ridiculous, he doesnât give a shit what youâre wearing. He offers a hand and you donât even think before taking it. His hand is so much bigger than yours, and the vein on his arm bulges as he helps you stand. âEverything okay?â
You dust yourself off, looking down at your ruffled socks against your boots. Itâs still been fairly warm during the day but you have errands to run after sundown. Youâve come to the conclusion about Pope that he might just be a quiet man. Itâs not any disdain for you or anything youâve done, heâs just a pensive man.Â
âWhatâŠâ he clears his throat. Pope leans up to tug on a patch of his hair at the back, centring himself and speaking up again. âWhat do you do when youâre not at work?â
You perk up a little bit. Thereâs no way⊠heâs not asking you out, right? Itâs probably that he wants to know which crafts you engage in, maybe he needs gift ideas for Lena. The answer is embarrassingly sparse, and you definitely paint yourself as a bit of a homebody. âCrochet, drawing, I watch documentaries sometimesâŠâ you need to work on how you present yourself. If he wanted to go out with you before he probably wonât after this. âThen errands mostly.â
âYou donât have a boyfriend? Kids?â He asks bluntly.Â
âUh⊠no. Why?â
He has the good sense to look sheepish at his abruptness. âLenaâs my brotherâs daughter.â You can hear every breath he takes, heavy and with a heaving chest. That answers that question then. âI donât know how to take care of her, thought this shit was meant to be easier. Thought all the hard parts about parenting were diapers and tantrums and sheâs got neither of them. All I had to do was make sure she ate and did her homework and said please and thank you.â He lets out a hot rush of air. ââS not like that at all.â He shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling.Â
You have no idea what he wants you to say. Did he come to vent â for parenting advice? Did he assume you must have kids based on how you acted with her?Â
âAll that shit was fine when she had her mom and dad but now,â he looks down at you, and for the first time since you first met him thereâs a different emotion behind his eyes. You donât have very much to go off, canât even name his baseline, but from the fluttering eyelashes and the furrowed brows this looks very much like a man out of his depth finally confiding a fear. âNow I have to look after her. Have to, get to.â He shakes his head. âI donât know how he did it. But I have to work, and she needs someone to watch her after school, and the sign out there says you guys shut before four in the afternoon.â
You raise an eyebrow at him, more surprised than anything. âYou want me to⊠babysit her?â
Pope seems to realise that this is an odd request. Perhaps not the most appropriate, either. He clears his throat and pulls again at the curls on the nape of his neck. âYou can tell me to get lost.â
âNo, justâŠâ you feel like if you donât shut your mouth he might realise how strange this is. Most people would like to vet a babysitter, Iâm a random adult youâve met once, how do I know youâre not insane and wonât just dump her here and run away? âYou want me?â
Pope gestures to you, your pretty skirt, your general disposition. âShe likes you.â He shrugs stiffly like the action is something unfamiliar to him.Â
âWhen would you need me?â As much as you like Lena and as much as the thought of having him in a position where youâd need to see him every day makes your heart palpitate against your ribcage, this is your job. You canât quit it for this, definitely not before youâre sure itâll shake out. âLike after school? Iâm usually here until four-ish.â
âShe finishes school at three forty-five, itâs only three blocks. You have a car?â You nod. âGood, a license?â You nod again. âIf you need to stay here to finish up she can take the school-bus here, stops down the street.â He points out the window, youâre too preoccupied looking at the way his shirt strains at the arm to see the bus stop. âIf you can, you pick her up from school, bring her back here or to your house or the park or my apartment or wherever. Keep her entertained, make sure she does her homework and eats her veggies. Sometimes Iâd need to work late, so sheâd need to spend the night with you and youâd have to take her to school. You can do it at my place or if you want to keep her at your apartment thatâs fine. School starts at nine but she can go in at eight if you need to be here. Plus weekends. Not every day, and not always that late. I justâŠâ he looks almost embarrassed to need the help. âI can pay you.â
Youâd hope so, for all that.Â
âLena mentioned her grandma?â You ask gently. âDo you think Lena could stay with her some days?â
He looks at you as if heâs surprised you would bring her up. âNo, I donât want her around my mom.â He sniffs, looking away from you. âIf you donât want to just say it. Donât have to make shit up to help me. I could give you fifty bucks an hour â what do you make here?â Itâs not fifty bucks an hour, you can say that right now. âDouble on weekends and for nights. Plus money for anything she needs, gas money for you to pick her up, money for dinner and whatever.â Heâs almost breathless. âI can pay you.â
What the hell does this man do?
âPope. Itâs a lot to ask,â you say. âI can definitely take her on the weekends, and probably a couple of days after school. I donât know about nights, but depending on where you live I could maybe swing by in the morning and help her get ready for school, drop her on my way?âÂ
Pope looks back at you, some semblance of a smile twitching the corner of his lip upwards. Itâs the kind of smile that makes it impossible for you to not smile as well, which is surprising considering it still doesnât make him look particularly happy. For a guy this steely, you suppose any amount of joy on his face makes you smile.Â
âWhy donât I give you my phone number, and we can talk about this while Iâm not at work?â What Pope and Lena probably need is a nanny, or at least someone who can full time devote themselves to Lena. You have a job that, while it awards you a lot of freedom, is something you couldnât live without. And while you adore Lena, and youâre sure thatâll only grow with time, you need the money desperately.Â
Pope reaches for you and after drawing a complete blank, you realise he wants your phone. âOh, sorry. I left it on the desk.â Your father has been calling you, upset that youâd fallen asleep last night and forgotten to reply to his message. You know what itâll be, either asking you for something or scolding you. You havenât the energy to entertain him at the moment. The two of you swap information and when he hands you your phone back he lingers.Â
âDo you like this job?â He asks quietly, cocking his head and studying your face. You nod, lost for words with him so close. One step further in and youâd practically be chest to chest. âWhen you were a kid you wanted to be a⊠craft girl?â
You canât hide your snicker, ducking your head, and he frowns like youâd yelled at him.Â
âNo,â you admit. âThis isnât what I wanted to do when I was little. I wanted to be a teacher.â Youâve never really told another person that, never had another person to tell. By the time you graduated high school you were lucky if your father noticed you hadnât been home in days, and when you finally moved out at twenty heâd looked at you like heâd forgotten you even lived there. Now he calls you every week, which is nice of him, but you wished in the decade itâs been since you last saw his face youâd developed a thicker skin. Or at least the ability to not cry whenever he hurts your feelings.Â
Popeâs eyes light up. âSee, youâre perfect.â He tilts his chin down to mirror yours like the two of you are sharing a secret. âThis is basically like being a teacher.â
You laugh again and this time he doesnât seem so offended. âGoodbye, Pope.â
This time when he leaves he doesnât turn to wave at you, but it gives you ample time to watch him cross the street to his car. Thereâs a man there who snickers and punches Popeâs chest when he gets in, but Pope doesnât even bat an eye, pulling the car out and meeting your gaze right as he reaches the edge of the window.Â
You look down at your phone. âPope CodyâŠâ you muse, looking at his contact information. Youâre surprised he offered his surname at all, the longer you speak to him the less he seems the type. You smile down at it and startle, caught, at the sound of the bell. Your phone slips from your grasp and you bring up your other hand to catch it before it hits the floor. The app closes in the fuss, and with it goes his unsaved contact information. âShit.â You hiss, looking up at the customer, a mom and two little boys who thankfully donât look like they heard your expletive and put your phone down on the counter. You can only hope that he texts you first, you suppose youâll find out if he expects you to make the first move.Â
ââ
Itâs late when your phone rings. So late, you know itâs not Pope. So late youâre going to regret this in the morning when you have to get up and clean your apartment in the morning. Youâre not not going to sleep, youâre just not trying very hard. Youâre sprawled out on your bed, watching the ceiling fan spin, trying to fight off a headache.Â
Itâs your father, heâs the only man with the audacity enough to call you at midnight on a Friday night. Youâll call him back in the morning, he has no way of knowing youâre awake to ignore him. Youâre so exhausted, your sheets are so warm and smooth, youâve been teetering on the edge of consciousness for a while now. The vibrating doesnât even catch up to you until itâs almost finished ringing.Â
Your phone screen goes black again, plunging the room into the sub-darkness that only comes from the whole city being asleep. Then, it lights up again with a text.Â
Huffing, your face pressed against your pillow, you slap the mattress on your side until you finally wrap your hands around the device.Â
You have 1 New Voicemail.Â
Your father has never left you a voicemail. Spam callers might, but usually theyâre unintelligible. Your phone will have taken a transcript as best it can, and you squint at the brightness. It streaks right past your retinas and into the core of your brain, making your headache worse.Â
Uh hey itâs pope Codyâ
You scramble up until youâre on your knees, heart rate spiking. You canât be laying down, not with your ears ringing the way they are. Based on the paragraph itâs not a super short message, and you bite your lip with delight when you see itâs almost a full minute.Â
Thereâs a feeling in your chest you canât get rid of, canât deep-breath or count-to-ten away. Itching for movement, you feel your hand start wandering up of its own accord from where itâs resting on your thigh upwards, slipping under the hem of the big t-shirt youâd been intending on sleeping in and finding your nipple. You toy with it almost distractedly, stuck in limbo of being desperate to rake your eyes over his words and wanting to hear him.Â
God, how tragic are you? Your nipples are both hard already and perhaps itâs just from the breeze drifting through the open window but you also feel a throb of neediness light up your core. You roll onto your back, clenching your thighs together. This is a line you shouldnât cross. Sure, itâs late, youâre horny, whatever. But this guy is about to be your boss, you should be able to listen to a voicemail without needing to touch yourself.Â
Heâs such a serious man, you canât imagine what heâd say if he saw the state of you, shirt lifted just below your breasts, soaking a damp patch into the front of your panties. The only way youâre going to be able to get through the message is going to be to get yourself off first like a teenage boy trying not to get a boner on a first date.Â
Popeâs also painfully awkward and it really does it for you. From the way he moves, to the faces he makes, to the way he talks. Fuck, the way he talks. You let your phone rest on your chest and your other hand finds its way down underneath your panties.Â
You havenât been fucked in a while but youâre way more turned on than you have any right to be. You donât bother teasing yourself, pressing the flat of two fingers against your clit. Your hips buck at the feeling, clearly more untouched than you thought.Â
Your fingers arenât as thick as his, and you canât help the perversions that cross your mind at the thought of Pope. How would he touch you? Would it be clumsy? Heâs pretty assertive, perhaps that would overtake the awkwardness. You let a whine escape your bitten lips into the darkness of your bedroom as you rub your clit.Â
Fuck this, you reach for the phone blindly, half blinded with the vision of his hand shoving yours out the way. You fumble for the button, but after a little while his voice rings out in your bedroom.Â
âUh,â he coughs. âHey, itâs Pope Cody.â Two of your fingers slide inside, your other hand coming to replace the fingers at your clit. The position is awkward but you canât focus on anything but the sound of his voice, already humiliatingly close. His voice is low and the phone quality crackles but it mimics the grooves of his voice well enough you donât even care. âLook, I know itâs late but do you think you can call me in the morning? I donât know how this thing usually works, the whole babysitter thing.â His fingers would probably get deeper than yours, but you curve them slightly until they hit your sweet spot.Â
Frustrated with the limitations the fabric is giving, you pull both your hands out and shove your underwear down your legs, letting it slip off your foot and onto the floor of your bedroom. âAnd you sound like you know what youâre talking about.â
âFuck,â you hiss, drawing your fingers from your hole and fucking them back into yourself slowly. He seems like the type of man who would take his time, or maybe thatâs just you projecting for slowing down so you donât cum before heâs even done talking.Â
âAnd Iâm sorry about ambushing you at work, it felt like the best place to come talk to you. I wonât come by again, if you donât want. But I want to see you.â
Youâre only halfway through it and you can already feel an orgasm forming. Itâs downright sinful the things you want him to do to you.Â
âI need to talk to you, I mean. About Lena. And about⊠yeah. I know this is probably stupid as shit but Iâm way in over my head here so⊠Whatever it is you want to do, Iâll do it. You want more money?â
You bring the hand rubbing your clit up to your mouth to sink your teeth into the back, instead grinding on the palm of the hand youâre using to finger yourself. The walls in your apartment are thick enough you donât have to worry about making a small amount of noise, but you donât need Erin and Carlos from next door to hear you whining. âAnything you want. Anything.â You can practically feel him breathing into your ear. Anything you want.Â
He says your name, low and deep and you tip into your orgasm, back arching against your sheets and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. Theyâre clenched shut, white filling your vision, and his face lives on your eyelids. Those big, sad eyes. Thick fingers and thicker arms.Â
Heâs gruff, and unsmiling and awkward and stiff, but Pope doesnât seem like the kind of guy to get hung up on rules. Heâs older than you, and heâs about to be your boss, and you realise with a thrill that you donât think that would stop him if he wanted you.Â
âOr if you donât want or, or you canât or whatever. Then if you know anyone, or like, a way I can find a babysitter? I donât fuckinâ know⊠Thanks for the help. Iâm around, if you want to call me when youâre not asleep. Okay.â He ends the message without a goodbye.Â
Your eyes are practically glued shut, walls fluttering around your fingers as your breathing slowly returns to normal. How the fuck are you meant to work this job? You canât even listen to the man talk for a full minute without soaking through your underwear.Â
You donât remember falling asleep, you wake up with a rumpled shirt and a new pair of panties you mustâve slipped on in a daze. Itâs a Saturday, so you donât have to get up if you donât really want to. You have chores to do and sleep to catch up on, you can hear the faint sound of rain picking up outside. Perfect circumstances for a day at home, resetting and fixing yourself up on one of your two days off.Â
Instead, you roll over and immediately reach for your phone.Â
Hey, sorry! I fell asleep and didnât get your call. Iâm free today, Iâd love to see you. You chicken out and tack onto the end and Lena! I can come over to your place or we can meet somewhere else?
You barely have time to close your eyes again before your phone is vibrating in your hand, once, then twice. The first message is an address. The second: give me an hour.Â
You roll back onto your stomach and try to stop yourself from screaming into your pillow.Â
girl you KNOW i need a part 2 when you eventually get to it <33 i've been excited about this since you told me about it and you did not disappoint (duh) because oh my god. and the way you write pope is always so perfect like idk how you manage to get it so spot on ily
sneaking around on a case đ€đ„°đ„° cw; bau fem!reader, established relationship, a lot of fluff <3
Your alarm barely had time to ring before you reached over and killed it, fingers moving on instinct, afraid the sound might carry through the walls and wake up the neighboring team members. For a moment, you stayed perfectly still, listening, half-expecting footsteps in the hall or someone to burst through the door with far too many questions.
Outside, the day is already heavy; mist clings to the windows, and a dull gray light seeps into the room, casting everything in a slow, gloomy haze. It'd be all too easy to fall back asleep, especially with the sound of rain hitting the window.
You stretched, a small noise leaving the back of your throat before you turned, facing Aaron. He lay beside you, his features calm and unguarded in sleep.
A small smile tugged at your lips, your expression softening as you took him in with a quiet gentleness that made your chest ache.
"Aaron." He stirred at his name, one arm finding you and drawing you closer. Tightly. A breathless laugh escaped you, "I have to get up."
He groaned, groggily asking, "what time is it?"
"It's nearly six," you whispered, a hand reaching up and running your thumb across his cheek. It's rough with the faint layer of overnight stubble. "I have to get back to my room."
You didn't typically do this - share a room when on a case. Usually, the two of you were better about keeping certain boundaries in place. But given the gruesome nature of the case, sleeping alone hadnât felt like an option. Alone in the dark, with nothing to ground your thoughts, your mind had too much space to run and fill in the worst possible images.
It was around midnight when you finally gave up, throwing the covers off and slipping down the hall to his room. You knocked once, and the door opened almost immediately - like Aaron had been lingering on the other side with the same idea, moments away from making the trip to your room instead.
He sighed softly into his pillow, bargaining, "ten more minutes."
"Ten more minutes means risking a potential run-in in the hall." Your eyebrows lifted, a knowing, playful note in your voice. It also didn't help that youâre wearing his t-shirt - a dead giveaway. "Besides, I need to shower."
âShower here?"
You let the question remain unanswered, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his lips. He hummed softly against your mouth. "Go back to sleep," you instructed, your voice a murmur. "You can get at least another half hour in."
"I don't think anyone'll be up at this hour."
"Better not to risk it."
You eased out from under the covers, careful not to jostle him, his t-shirt slipping lightly against your skin as you straightened. But youâd barely taken a step when his hand found yours. His fingers curled around your wrist, tugging you gently back onto the mattress and drawing you in. His mouth met yours in a slow, deep kiss.
You melt back into him; limbs loosely tangled, feet brushing beneath the sheets as the kiss lingered - absentminded in the way only half-awake affection can be. His hand drifted lazily along your side while your breathing settled into the same slow rhythm. The moment felt unhurried, suspended in that hazy space between sleep and morning, like the day could wait a little while longer.
When the two of you pulled apart, Aaron spoke with smug satisfaction. "Looks like I got my extra ten minutes."
You huffed a laugh, "you're persuasive, I'll give you that."
Before he can draw you back in again, you quickly gathered your things. You moved carefully through the darkness, watching your step to avoid stubbing your toe on any furniture, not wanting to subject Aaron to the brutal glare of the lights just yet.
You glanced back before exiting. Aaronâs propped up on his elbows now, watching you. His hair's a mess - even more disheveled now thanks to your hands - poking in different directions.
"And Iâve gotta give you time to get yourself together. I know the effort it takes to make sure you look distinguished instead of just sexy."
He chuckled at your teasing, warmth flickering in his expression as his brows knit slightly. "Same time tonight?"
"If youâre lucky," you replied, a definite yes hidden in your tone as you gave him a look that didnât try very hard to be stern. "Iâll see you soon."
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