I'm pretty much into a lot of fandoms, and even if I've written for myself since long ago, this time I'm going to share my works. You can call me Isa, Isabel, Izzy, Sissi. Hell, even Chabela. English is not my first language.
I drew my banner in digital btw¡
🌑 angst 🌕fluff ☄️sad ending ✨happyending
𝙼𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝
>>The Moon Boys (x reader)
Series
The Sighter (part 2 coming soon)
One shots:
A poems lament ☄️🌑
𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕
>>Fratt (x reader)
a/b/o dynamics:
The World Is What You Want It To Be (SERIES MASTERLIST) ON HIATUS
Soulmate au!:
Por la vida que soy libre
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚄𝚜
>>Joel Miller (x reader)
One shots:
Grief 🌑 ☄️
𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜
>>Steve Harrington (x reader)
One shots:
Warm feelings 🌕 🌑 ✨
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚘𝚢𝚜
>>Billy Butcher (x reader)
Drabbles
How you met them? And by consequence: How you met Billy Butcher?
@animatedglittergraphics-n-more is the owner of the dividers, thank you hun 🥰
Hey/I knew I’d run into you somewhere/It’s been a while
The text message from Aaron has sat glaring at you on your phone screen for the past hour.
Hotch (BAU) Sorry for hitting you with my cart earlier.
You don’t know what to make of it. It’s obviously an attempt to start up a conversation after four years, but why? Why, after all this time, does he think this is okay?
May or may not have just written this in an hour. Also may or may not be based off the new Taylor Swift song. Based on this ask!
Also lmk if y’all want a part two because this does have an unhappy(?) ending, so…
Warnings: angst, mentions of being pregnant, mentions of puking
Word count: a lil over 1k
HOTCH MASTERLIST || Don’t You (Part Two)
It wasn’t like in the movies.
You were foolish, you’ll admit, to think that getting your heart broken like this would be like the movies. Where he’d run after you, kiss you to make it better, confess his undying love, and beg for your forgiveness.
I'm going to go ahead and say that y'all are going to hate me at the end of this I fear, so sorry 🫣 (Also the parallel of this fic beginning with these two arguing and ending with them still at each other's throats but now it's all sweet and affectionate, be still my beating heart :'))
Warnings: our usual angst and some good fluff :)) but nothing that crazy
“Before you get all upset that I’m here, know that Strauss called for me, so take it up with her if you’ve got an issue.”
Aaron’s lips press together into a barely contained smile from his spot just inside the BAU bullpen. “You know the last thing I’m going to be is upset when I’m getting to see you.”
You narrow your eyes at his sweet talking and hum, walking right into his waiting arms. “That sounds awfully boyfriend of you for a Unit Chief.”
“Well,” he chuckles, kissing the top of your head. “I wear many hats.”
You bury your face in his chest to hide your smile. It’s been two weeks of properly dating Aaron Hotchner, and you still can’t decide whether you want to hide from him or run toward him. So you often end up doing both at the same time.
“You’re still on leave for another four weeks, though,” he reminds you. “So don’t get any ideas.”
You lift your head, pushing out your bottom lip. “So you mean to tell me you don’t want to see me all day every day?” You can barely get through the tease without smiling, especially when he rolls his eyes at you.
He presses a quick kiss to your lips. “Go to your meeting.”
“Fine,” you huff playfully, giving him another kiss. “But I’m coming back after I’m done. You’re not skipping lunch today. You were way too grumpy when you got home yesterday.”
He rolls his eyes again, affectionately, pulling you back in for a kiss.
At the cubicles behind you both, Morgan drops his pen. Emily stares with her jaw dropped open. Reid laughs at them both.
You giggle when you notice their expressions. “Sorry guys.”
Morgan holds his hands up in mock surrender. Emily does a similar gesture, laughing to herself. “No, no. Enjoy yourselves. We’ll just be here, wondering what parallel universe we got dropped into.”
“I think you mean an alternate universe, parallel universes actually--”
“Reid,” Morgan stops him with a look.
Spencer just grins, turning a page. “I don’t know why you guys are so upset. Personally, I’m enjoying this new side to Hotch.”
“Excuse me?” the Unit Chief in question raises his eyebrows.
You giggle beside him, definitely almost late for your meeting, but you don’t care. This is too good to miss.
Reid shrugs. “You’re happier now.”
And that. That melts your heart.
“The lovebirds!” Penelope’s sweet voice rings in your ears as she enters the bullpen with JJ in tow.
“Only one of us, because I’m about to be late for a meeting with the big boss,” you chuckle, moving to press a kiss to Hotch’s cheek. He leans down in perfect synchrony with you, and you hear Garcia muffling her delighted squeal. “I’ll be back!” you promise them as you leave.
You smile to yourself as you wait for the elevator, knowing that just behind you, Hotch is absolutely being grilled within an inch of his life.
To think that it hasn’t even been an entire year since you crossed paths with Aaron Hotchner again, and that at the time you thought it was still too soon, that you needed at least another decade before you’d be able to even think about tolerating him again.
And now look at you both. Lovesick messes. It’s ridiculous, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
The elevator ride to Strauss’s office is short, and you’re knocking on her door right on time.
From the moment you enter her office, you know something is wrong. Or at least, something is off.
“This came for you today,” she says simply, handing you an envelope.
Your eyebrows furrow as you peer down at it. Addressed to you, or rather, the building as a whole, with Attn: for you. And the return address?
“Richard Monroe sent this?” you blurt, looking up at Strauss in confusion. “But--”
“I know,” she nods. “It’s postmarked for just a few days before his death.”
You look at the date, finding that she’s right. So he did mail it himself, just before he was killed. As if he knew Carter was coming for him.
“It got lost in our mailroom for a bit since it was addressed to the general headquarters,” she explains. “But it finally came across my desk yesterday.”
You blink, nodding slowly, trying to piece together what it means, or rather, the reality of it. That you have, presumably, a letter from Richard Monroe, that he probably wrote days before his death because he saw it all coming. Somehow.
You might have answers. In your hand.
“I haven’t read it,” she continues. “I wanted to leave that up to you. But I think it goes without saying that if there is any information in it pertaining to Carter Robinson, I need to be made aware.”
You nod. “Of course.” There’s an open case regarding Carter ever since they found bodies buried behind the cabin. It seemed his secrets were deeper than he truly let on to you.
“And if you would like to not read it,” she says, though you can tell she can see that you fully intend to, “please pass it along to Agent Hotchner.”
Which, ironically, is who you thought this meeting was about in the first place. It hasn’t been a secret to anyone that you and Hotch are officially dating now, not even to Strauss, but Hotch told you he’d handle it. And since you hadn’t heard anything from her, you assumed he had it handled.
“When you return from your leave, if you wish to do so,” Strauss continues, “we will need to have a conversation regarding your relationship to Agent Hotchner.”
“Understood,” you nod, almost laughing at the timing and how you thought you had gotten away with it. “I’m assuming he will be included in said conversation?” The last thing you want is for her to get you alone and try to convince you to transfer or grill you about it but let him off the hook.
She doesn’t protest like you expect her to. “He will.”
“Alright,” you say, satisfied. “If that’s all, then I’ll…” you hold up the letter with a little wave.
She lets you go without another word.
When you return to the bullpen, everyone is exactly where you left them, your meeting only having lasted all of about fifteen minutes. Everyone is shocked to see you back so soon.
“Aaron?” you ask quietly, not wanting to alarm him -- or anyone -- because you’re not alarmed, you’re just…conflicted. “Can I speak to you for a second?”
He’s nodding and leading you up to his office with zero hesitation, getting inside and shutting the door and the blinds.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, both hands resting on your arms. “Did she--”
“Richard sent me a letter,” you say simply, because how else are you supposed to tell him? You hold up the envelope, staring at it like it’s not actually real. “Strauss said it got lost in the mail because he just addressed it to the headquarters, but they found it, and she--” You pause, looking at Aaron instead. “He sent me a letter.”
“Do you want to read it?” Aaron asks softly. “Or do you need me to?”
“No, no, I want to, I just,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead. “I need a minute.”
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s eat first then.”
Lunch comes and goes, and you’re no more ready to read the letter than you were before. You leave it in Aaron’s safe hands while you go back home to clear your head without the letter looming over you.
He brings it home that night, and you put it off again, worried about what you’ll find in it. The unknown of it all. So you focus on what you do know, and you let Aaron take you apart to his (and your) heart’s content.
There are dinner plans at Rossi’s the next night, so the letter doesn’t get read then, either.
What does happen, though, is you witness the raccoons for yourself once everyone has left and it’s just you, Aaron, and Rossi cleaning up the kitchen. Aaron practically flies to the glass doors to point at the creatures as they scurry away, once again scared by his presence.
“I told you I wasn’t lying!” He sounds so desperate that it makes you laugh. He really was hung up on you thinking he had made them up. (And truthfully, until you saw them yourself, you weren’t one-hundred-percent sure he hadn’t made them up, but with everything else going on, the raccoon incident was long forgotten and forgiven.)
It’s not until about a week after Strauss handed you the letter that you finally cave, setting it on the coffee table for Aaron to see when he gets home from work. He notices it when he walks in the door and goes to find you where you’re putting away your laundry in the bedroom.
“Is it time?” he asks.
You turn and nod, smiling sadly, walking into his waiting arms. “Sit with me while I read it?”
“Of course, honey,” he replies, as if it was ever going to be a question.
There, on the couch, with you curled into Aaron’s side, the two of you break the seal on Richard’s letter. You pull out the paper, thumbing over the dried ink before you start to read.
If you’re reading this, well, it means he caught onto me, it starts, and you immediately set it down.
Aaron rubs your arms to soothe you until you’re ready to pick up the paper again. Richard’s handwriting is neater than you expect it to be, and a strange mix of cursive and print. It’s really beautiful, actually, in a twisted way.
If you’re reading this, well, it means he caught onto me. You’ll know what that means if it’s true.
It’s wild to think this all started when you were just a baby. It’s wild to think I’ve known you since then. I don’t think you really remembered it, but your dad and I were buddies back then, even after he got himself locked away trying to find you. I always thought he loved you more than anything, but when he asked me to make sure you were safe since he couldn’t, I knew it for sure. He never wanted anything or anyone to hurt you.
When Carter reached out to me again wanting to find you, I told him to go to hell. We all knew that kid was twisted in the head, sort of like us but not really, and maybe it was something in his blood, but I don’t think so. It was different. But we knew we didn’t want him anywhere near you then, and I didn’t want him anywhere near you now. I made a promise to your dad to keep Carter away from you. So I kept Carter too busy to really find you, until he got too smart.
I promised your dad, but I made a promise to my daughter, too. And when that son of a bitch brought her into this, I had no choice. I had to turn myself in. It worked for your old man, so I thought it might work for me too.
Sorry for scaring you, by the way. I couldn’t let on with the truth. You were never supposed to know any of this, daisy.
You gasp, your grip on the page tightening as tears blur your vision. Daisy. The nickname jogs some long forgotten memory. A warm one, for once. Warm as the summers before you knew the truth.
Aaron presses a kiss to your temple, silently supporting you, thumbing the tears as they fall down your cheeks.
You were never supposed to know any of this, daisy. It was supposed to be a secret I kept to the grave because I swore to your dad that I’d die protecting you. And if you’re reading this, I guess I did.
Your dad always thought you were too good for him. He never wanted you to know about what he and I got up to. I’m putting his letter in here too, but you don’t have to read it. He gave it to me after he realized your mom was screening his letters. Can’t say that I blame her. Lila’s mom does, too. I get it.
We’re not good men, daisy. Whatever you get from this letter, and your dad’s if you read it -- we’re not good men. I don’t want you to mourn us.
We don’t deserve it.
The letter ends there, and the next page is in your dad’s handwriting. Dated from your eighteenth birthday.
“Is that--?” Aaron asks, and you just nod, sniffling as you wipe your eyes. “Do you want to--?” You nod again.
Because you have to read it, you suddenly realize. It’s the last one you’ll ever get from him.
You lean into Aaron a little more, and he holds you steady, pressing a loving kiss to your temple.
Daisy, the letter starts, I know I shouldn’t ask this, but can you forgive me?
Guys, it's our final chapter 😭 Don't fret! Because there is an epilogue coming day after tomorrow that'll be a nice little wrap up, but this is our end 😭🫶🏻 (I have a crazy lil author's note at the end that I didn't want you to read before, so enjoy that after all the angst!)
Warnings: emotions! so many emotions! i cried so hard writing this one so that is your warning! minor character death but not "on screen", i listened to "waiting room" while writing this but like...don't do that if you don't want to sob uncontrollably ok
“What are you going to do to them?” you ask, knowing how innocent and naive it sounds. That’s your point.
Carter leans into the fridge and grabs one of the Mountain Dew bottles. “We will shoot them. Simple. There’ll be too many to do anything else, though I guess I could knock the women out and strangle them later.”
You nod slowly, as if that makes sense, as if it seems like a good plan, even though it terrifies you to hear it. In reality, you need to know his every move if you’re going to keep your team safe, if they make it to this cabin before you can figure something else out. Not that you don’t trust them to be prepared for anything, but you’ve witnessed just how unpredictable Carter is. You need to do your part to be one step ahead, even if he’s been five steps ahead this whole time.
“Where’s my gun?” you ask casually.
He laughs through his drink. “You think I’d bring that shit with us here? God, no. I’m not a moron. It’s in that car we drove to the edge of the woods.”
“Wait.” You had sort of figured he ditched the car, given that it was a government vehicle and all. “You…did you carry me here?”
“Fuck no, I used the four-wheeler,” he says. He leans back against the counter, eyes narrowing. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”
You mirror his stance and lean in the doorway. “I like to know what I’m getting myself into.” You keep on taking mental notes. There’s a four-wheeler you can use to get down the mountain, you just need to get out of this house. Somehow.
He hums, eyes narrowing. “So you can help me.”
“Sure.”
He stares for a second. “I don’t believe you.”
You sigh. “I don’t know why you would.”
“I want to.”
“Okay,” you shrug. “Then just trust me.”
“Fine,” he says, but he doesn’t sound too happy about it right now. “I have a gun you can use, but I’m not showing you where it is. I need to shower first.”
You roll your eyes. “Right.”
“So,” he pushes off the counter. “Can I trust you to stay put? You know how dangerous these mountains are at night, and the sun is gonna set any minute now.”
Fuck. “I don’t exactly want to be dinner for the bobcats, so yeah. I’ll be here.”
“Good,” he nods. He pats his pocket and you hear keys jingling there. “And I’m taking these with me.”
You make a show of plopping down on the couch, kicking your feet up and leaning your head back. “Cool. I’m taking a nap.” You are sluggish, probably still the after effects of the drug he gave you, and you hope he takes it as that.
You hear him chuckle before going down the hall, so you’re in the clear. There’s movement in one of the rooms, presumably his bedroom, until you hear a door shut. After a few moments, you hear the shower turn on.
You stand up, eyes searching every inch of the room. There has to be something useful in this stupid place.
You’re getting out of here one way or another. There has to be a spare key to the four-wheeler somewhere, or a phone for fuck’s sake. A phone might be more useful. You could call Garcia and she could find your exact location easily.
But of course, the only phone you see is a landline that probably hasn’t been connected in years. He probably doesn’t even pay for any phone service here, if he’s as strategic as he’s shown you to be.
You hear the shower curtain move aside. The clock is ticking. Fast. You don’t know how quickly he showers, but you can’t imagine he’ll take long since you’re here. You’re surprised he’s showering at all, and that he didn’t handcuff you to a bed or something, but you’re glad he didn’t. You’re glad that, for whatever reason, he decided to trust you.
You spin in circles in the living room, willing your brain to come up with something. You check the drawers in the kitchen quietly, but there aren’t any spare keys -- or keys of any sort. It’s all random things, kitchen utensils, other household essentials that are no use to you right now.
Out of sheer curiosity, you try the front door. It’s unlocked.
Your eyes dart to the bathroom as you hear the water splash. With the front door cracked, you weigh your options.
You have no idea how far up the mountain you are, or where you even are. You have no idea what or who is around. The sun is just starting to set, so you’ll likely be out there in the dark for some time if you don’t make it down to civilization in time.
Or you can stay here, risk him drugging you to make you sleep through the night, or worse, risk saying something to set him off and risk him seriously injuring you like you know he’s capable of doing.
He’s my brother, you think with deep, deep sorrow. He’s your brother, and in the cruelest twist of fate, he reminds you exactly of your father.
And that is why you can’t stay. That is why you have to do what you didn’t do when you were younger, because you knew no better back then.
That’s why you run.
You don’t know how far you’ll make it, you don’t know if you’ll even make it anywhere worthwhile, but you know you can’t stay here. You know your chances are higher out there, with the possibility of running into a ranger, someone you can actually trust, with access to a satellite phone. You can’t stay here because you can’t change him, just like you couldn’t change your father, no matter how badly some days you wished that you could.
Carter is too far gone, and it seems he has been since he first kidnapped you when you were kids. It seems he’s always been this way.
Tears stream from the corners of your eyes as you run, the wind whipping against your face as you follow the path down the road, hoping you’ll find someone, but knowing there’s likely no one up here, not even any neighbors -- at least not for miles.
It’s gut wrenching, and you wish you never knew he existed. You wish you never had this knowledge that you have a brother, that you’ve had one this whole time, and there was nothing you ever could’ve done to save him. He was doomed from the start -- and maybe you were too, just in a different way -- all because of your father.
You glance over your shoulder quickly, worried you hear footsteps, but no one is there. No one but the trees, covering you, encouraging you to get away. We’ll hide you, they say. We’ll keep you a secret.
+++
“Garcia, give me an update,” Hotch says, hoping the connection hasn’t dropped as the trees thicken around them, swallowing the team whole.
“Keep heading straight,” she says. “You’re closing in.”
Hotch motions to the team to keep moving, and everyone picks up speed. With every passing second, the sun drops lower and lower, and they know time is limited. It’s dangerous in the mountains at night, especially without proper gear, but Hotch can’t care about that. All he cares about is getting to you, getting to the house with heat signatures in it that Garcia found. That has to be you.
“Woah, hold on,” Garcia’s voice filters through Hotch’s ears. “That’s weird.”
He doesn’t slow his pace, but he asks, “What are you seeing?” Rossi’s head turns at Hotch’s panicked question.
“The satellite updated, there’s only one heat signature in the house.”
Hotch nearly falls flat on his face. “She--”
“No, no,” Garcia says, and she almost sounds like she’s smiling. “I think she’s running. There should be a road to your right, follow it around the bend.”
Hotch motions to everyone and receives nods in return.
And that’s when he hears it. Sobbing.
Your sobbing. It breaks his heart to realize that he knows the sound so vividly and distinctly, but it’s you. It has to be.
“Wait!” he shouts to the team and everyone halts, listening. A knowing look passes between them.
They hear it. Sobbing, and running.
+++
What are the odds, you think, of running down this mountain and running into your team as they’re trying to get to you? Is it really so crazy to think that they’re on their way to you just as you’re trying to get away?
You don’t care how delusional it is, you try to imagine it. It keeps your legs moving. It keeps your fear at bay as you keep looking behind you, fearing you hear Carter behind you, but no one is there.
Until you come crashing into something hard.
Arms wrap around you and for a moment you think it’s Carter, that he caught up to you and got in front of you, but then you take in what you’re feeling. A kevlar. Strong arms. A cologne that only Hotch wears.
“Aaron,” you cry, your entire body practically giving out in his arms. You bury your face in his neck as he holds you up and you take a deep breath, gripping him like he’ll slip away any second. Like he’s a figment of your imagination, another after effect of the tranquilizer, and hell, maybe he is, but you don’t care. If this is a hallucination, you’ll take it. It’s a nice one.
“I’ve got you,” Aaron whispers and it sounds so real.
You distantly hear him giving orders to the rest of the team, telling Morgan and Prentiss to go with Rossi to the house. Reid stays with you and Hotch, talking to someone over the phone, and you realize it’s JJ.
“Do you have her?” Garcia comes into Hotch’s ears, frantic.
“I’ve got her,” you hear him say, and then you hear him sniffle. “I’ve got her, Penelope, thank you.”
“Is that Pen?” you murmur, your face still buried in Aaron’s neck with no sign of moving. “I knew she’d know what to do.”
“I hear you, my angel, I know,” Garcia’s voice is thick with emotion.
With every passing second, you realize this has gone on for too long, so the only explanation is that it’s real. You lift your head from Aaron’s neck, peering up at him with wide, watery eyes.
“Aaron?” you whisper, one of your hands cupping his jaw, fingers flexing against his face. “Oh my god, you found me.”
Tears slip from his eyes, wetting your fingers against his cheek. One of his hands covers yours, squeezing. “I’ve got you, honey, it’s me. We found you.”
Your head falls forward onto his chest, the emotion of it finally crashing over you. Your arms reach up to wrap around his neck, clinging to him ferociously now that you know he’s real, that this is real.
“I’m so sorry,” Aaron cries into your ear, arms wrapped around you just as tight.
“I never should’ve left,” you sob.
“I never should’ve let you,” he argues, muscles flexing, as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, to keep you against him forever. “We need to get you down the mountain,” he says, and without any hesitation, you feel him lifting you into his arms bridal style.
You have no energy in you to protest, and you don’t even want to. Your arms wrap around his neck for stability, and you let him carry all your weight.
Slowly, you hear Reid’s voice filter back in. “I see you guys, yeah, we’re coming down, Hotch’s got her, so we’ll be fine, we’ll meet you there.” A pause, then to Hotch he says, “The paramedics are waiting down there.”
“Good,” you hear and feel Hotch say. You keep your eyes closed, face turned toward his shirt as the world sways as he carries you down.
Your head grows dizzy as your body catches up with itself, the adrenaline finally waning, your heart finally settling now that you’re in Aaron’s arms.
You almost don’t hear the gunshot when it rings out, but your body tenses. The birds above scream and scatter.
You know what it means. Aaron does too. Neither of you say a word.
Once you’re down the mountain, Aaron reluctantly hands you off to the paramedics in the ambulance.
“Wait--” you reach out for him, thinking he’s walking away, but he sits down.
“I’m right here,” he says, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “They need to take care of you first, but I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
You nod, a wave of nausea passing over you, causing your eyes to close.
“He gave her something--”
“He said it was a tranquilizer,” you manage to get out. “Don’t know what kind.”
All of it is a blur. They say something, you feel a prick in your arm and your breath hitches, remembering before, but whatever they give you calms you down. You flex your arm at your side, searching for Aaron’s, and you find it, fingers loosely lacing with his. Everyone moves around you, and soon the rumble of the engine starting filters into your ears.
As the ambulance heads for the hospital, you rest your eyes, though you’re more alert than any of them are expecting you to be. But it’s because you have one thing on your mind, and your brain won’t let the thought rest.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?” you mumble after a while.
Aaron squeezes your hand. He doesn’t need to ask who you mean. “I’m sorry, honey.”
You nod, knowing it was inevitable. Knowing there was nothing you could do.
+++
You’ll hear this later from the team, but Carter was already gone when they made it inside the cabin.
They heard the gun go off while they were on the porch. Morgan had just shouted, “FBI!” when they heard it. When they knew.
Morgan found Carter in the living room. He likely saw you were gone, heard the FBI at his door, and knew he had two options. So he made a choice.
Part of the team is glad they weren’t the ones to do it, given the fact that they knew it was likely to end that way. But mostly they are sorry it had to end this way at all, knowing the pain it’ll cause you, and the years of guilt you’ll have to unpack.
+++
When you come back to yourself in the hospital, Aaron is sitting beside you, typing rapidly on his phone. You barely move and his eyes dart to you, phone immediately forgotten when he sees you’re beginning to stir.
“Hey,” he whispers, hands reaching for you, one stroking your face, the other resting on your arm. As if he’s still trying to be sure that you’re back in arms reach.
“Hey,” you echo, tears filling your eyes, the memories instantly coming back to you. “I’m--”
“No, no,” he shakes his head, eyes watering too. “I’m sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I wish I had found him sooner,” you cry, tears escaping as quickly as your eyes can fill with them. “I wish I had gotten to him before my dad did.”
“I know, honey, I’m sorry,” Aaron says softly, shifting closer in the chair, but it’s not close enough.
“Come here,” you move over on the bed. “Can you hold me?”
He doesn’t care that the bed isn’t exactly big enough for both of you. You’ve asked if he can hold you, so that’s exactly what he’s going to do. He’s in the bed and pulling you into him faster than anyone can tell him no.
You tuck your head into his chest, sobbing as you fist his shirt, careful of the IV in your arm. “He was too far gone,” you can barely get the words out, “or I would’ve-- I would’ve tried to help him--”
“Shhh,” Aaron cradles your head, breathing shaky as he listens to you. “There was nothing you could’ve done.”
You know that. You do. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less, knowing that everyone is gone now. Your dad, your mom, and now your brother, who you only found out existed just yesterday.
God, was it really just yesterday?
Somewhere in the midst of your cries, a nurse comes in to check your vitals. All are fine, aside from your heart being a little fast as you’re worked up from crying.
But Aaron calms you down. It takes a minute, but soon your breaths even out, and the tears slow.
“Where is everyone?” you sniffle.
“They’re outside in the waiting room,” he says. “Do you want me to get them?”
You nod against his chest. “Don’t leave though.”
“I’m not,” he assures you. “I’m just going to text Dave.”
The team was clearly waiting for the go ahead to come visit you because barely a minute after Hotch texts, there are soft knocks on your door.
“Come in,” Hotch calls out, helping you sit up against his side.
JJ, Emily, Spencer, Dave, and Derek (with Penelope on the phone) filter in quietly, smiling softly when they see you.
“Alright, here she is,” Derek says, passing his phone to you.
“Hey Pen,” you say.
“Hi my sweet angel,” she answers, voice cracking. “You’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” you nod, trying not to let the emotions pull you under again. “Movie night when I’m back?”
“Done,” she says instantly. “Your pick.”
Hugs are passed around, everyone squeezing you tight and fighting tears.
When Dave gets to you, you see he has tears in his eyes, and that’s enough to make you lose it again. You wrap your arms around him, sniffling into his neck.
“Thank you for finding me again,” you murmur.
“Anytime, kiddo,” Dave whispers, rubbing your back. “I hope we don’t have to do this again,” he teases, making you laugh, “but if we ever do, I’ll always find you.”
“I hope we don’t do this ever again,” Derek says sincerely. “That’s enough excitement for the next decade.”
“I agree,” JJ laughs, leaning her head on Emily’s shoulder.
“It’d be a statistical wonder if it happened again,” Reid says, rocking on the balls of his feet. “But please don’t.”
You laugh, wiping your face as you lean back into Aaron’s side, his arm curling around your shoulders protectively. “Don’t worry guys, I don’t plan on it.”
His arm tightens just a little, a silent promise that you hear clear as day. I don’t plan on letting you go again.
You watch as practically all of the profilers notice Hotch’s arm around you, the way he pulls you closer, and the way you don’t argue one bit. If you weren’t so exhausted from the last twenty-four hours, you’d crack some joke about the two of you having gotten over yourselves, or about how the two of you can slightly tolerate one another’s presence now.
You will tell them soon. There’s time. And it’ll make a good story, one to laugh about one day, once all the dust settles.
For now, you let your eyes slip closed as the conversation continues around you. A smile tugs at your lips when you hear their back and forth, and you think, they found me. In more ways than one.
~~~
a/n: little author's note for the end here: i suppose now is a good time to tell you guys that this fic was loosely based on family lore :) so very loosely i shall end with based on a true story
Warnings: angst! more of the truth! carter is insane!! the team will not stop until they find you safe and sound!!!
Supper is chicken soup and bread. You had wondered what you were smelling and why it smelled so good, so homey.
Your entire body is weak, not to mention your legs, so you reluctantly let Carter help you walk to the kitchen table. Your stomach betrays you and growls loudly when you spot the steaming bowl.
“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Carter says, helping you sit down. “I’m crazy, but I’m not that crazy. Besides, you’re family.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Right.”
“What do you want to drink?” he asks, turning toward the fridge. He opens it and leans down, peering inside. “I’ve got water, sweet tea, Coke--” He pauses, craning his neck to look at you. “Or are you weird like Dad and you drink Mountain Dew?”
“Water is fine,” you say, leaning over the bowl to inhale the steam, completely ignoring his family bonding attempts.
Carter looks back into the fridge, dejected. “You used to like sweet tea. Used to drink it all the time.”
“You didn’t seriously kidnap me to take a trip down memory lane, did you?”
He shrugs, grabbing two bottles of water. He twists the caps off and sets one down in front of you. He flops into the other chair, leaning back. “Maybe I did.”
You take the water only because you know it hasn’t been tampered with. “I know you didn’t.”
“Maybe I did.”
“You put in too much effort just for that,” you counter with a raised eyebrow. “Recreating all of Dad’s crimes, calling it a game--”
“No, no, I didn’t call it a game,” Carter interjects.
“No? Then what was the gambit about?”
“Oh, that was mostly for me,” he shrugs. “I’m always one step ahead.”
“I’m getting that,” you grumble, taking another sip of the water. It’s slowly making you feel better, but you know what you really need is food. You’re just not sure if you want to take that gamble yet with the soup, especially considering he hasn’t touched his yet. “Where are we?”
“Somewhere in the mountains,” he waves his hand. “It’s not important. We won’t be staying here long anyway.”
Your stomach roils again and not from hunger. If he moves you to another location, you know what that means. You know the statistics. You can practically hear Reid reciting them now.
“What are we even doing, then?” you ask, trying to sound curious and not accusatory. “Playing pretend as a happy brother and sister?”
“It doesn’t have to be pretend,” he says, clearly on the defensive again. “We used to get along.”
“Yeah, before you kidnapped me.”
“I did what I had to do,” he scoffs. “Dad wouldn’t talk to me! He wanted nothing to do with me!”
“Well I can’t help that!”
“You could’ve!” Carter shouts. “He loved you. God, he loved you so much. But wanted nothing to do with me. You’re just as much his kid as I am, and he treated me like I was nothing. But you?” He pauses, lets out a cruel, sad laugh. “You were everything to him.”
He had a real funny way of showing it is all you can think, but you know if you say that out loud it’ll just make Carter even more upset than he already is.
“Recreating all this stuff, giving you a trail to follow, it was all for you,” Carter says, leaning forward onto his elbows, sounding strangely sincere. “I’ve been looking for you ever since you moved away.”
“Why?” you whisper. What could I possibly have that would be worth all this?
“You knew him,” Carter says, like it’s always been that simple. “He raised you--” you try not to laugh at that. “--he worshipped you, and you don’t even realize it, do you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you throw caution to the wind and rip off a piece of bread, stuffing it into your mouth. “He was never around when I was a kid. He’d disappear for days and show back up like nothing happened.”
“At least he cared enough to go back,” Carter says. “At least he didn’t shut you out.”
“He might as well have,” you mutter, eating more bread, wanting to dip it into the soup but unsure if you can trust it. “It was like he was two completely different people. And when he disappeared, he was gone, but when he came back--”
“For you,” Carter interjects again.
You shake your head. “I don’t know that he was ever coming back for me as much as he was just trying to save face. Lay low so the police didn’t catch on in Georgia.” You give Carter a look, something you probably shouldn’t do. “I’m sure you know all about that.”
The lines of Carter’s face harden into a scowl. He looks too much like your father in that moment. “I wouldn’t be the way I am if he hadn’t shut me out in the first place.”
“Well, again,” you lean back in your chair, “I can’t help that. You have a problem with him, I get it, but he’s dead. Do yourself a favor and make peace with it and move on.”
He laughs loudly. “What, like you have?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “Exactly like I have.”
“So, going into the FBI, that’s because you’ve moved on?” Carter argues. “And not at all because of some guilt you feel? For being his daughter?”
Your jaw clicks when you clench it. It doesn’t matter that he’s right, that you’ve always known, deep down, that you went into the FBI -- and wanted specifically to be in the BAU -- because of some guilt that is built into your bones.
“Better than becoming just like him,” you reply, your voice low. “I hate him.”
Carter laughs. “No you don’t.” He picks up his spoon, dipping it into his soup. Steam billows up again, but slower now. “Eat. It shouldn’t scald your tongue now.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Don’t be a child,” he mutters, glaring up at you. “Eat.”
+++
“Found the car,” Morgan says over the phone. “He ditched it completely, even left her gun and badge inside.”
Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. “Right.”
“We can’t see any other tracks, man,” Morgan says. “We’ve got no clue where he went from here.”
“We’re looking into some cabins around where he and Doug were for long weekends,” Hotch explains. “We’re not having much luck, but Garcia’s trying to narrow the area.”
“Want us to meet you there?”
Hotch glances at Rossi who nods once. “Yeah, I’ll send you our coordinates. I’m gonna call Garcia, see if she has anything else we can use.”
“Good idea. See you when we get there.”
“Bye,” Hotch says, hanging up to immediately dial Garcia. “Do you have anything?”
“My finger was hovering over your speed dial just as your call came in, do you have a sixth sense?” Garcia’s voice echoes sweetly down the line. “I’ve been looking into Carter’s financial records and honestly, it leaves little to be desired, I mean, you’d think this dude doesn’t even have a life. I’m talking he goes to work and that’s it--”
“Penelope.”
“I know, I know, so it got me thinking, if he’s not using his money from his bank, then what is he using?” She pauses. “Are you guys still with Doug?”
“Yes, he’s right next to me,” Hotch says. “Why?”
“Ask him if he knows where his credit card is.”
Hotch mutters a curse under his breath before turning his head toward Doug. “Do you have a credit card?”
Doug just gives Hotch a confused look. “What does that have to do--”
“Do you know where it is?”
“I haven’t used the damn thing since--” Doug stops short. “Dammit.”
“Just as I suspected,” Garcia continues. “Well, you can tell Doug his credit card has been in the hands of one Carter Robinson for six months now and he’s been running it up like nobody’s business, including continually renting a cabin for the last six months and it does not look cheap.”
“Garcia, the coordinates to the cabin,” Hotch urges.
“Already sent them to your devices, and to Morgan, they’ll meet you there, and Hotch?”
“Yes, Penelope?”
“Be safe,” she whispers. “And bring her home.”
“We will,” Hotch promises. “We’ll call you as soon as we can.”
“Thank you,” Garcia says.
Hotch punches the coordinates into the GPS and starts the engine.
“Where are we going?” Doug frantically buckles his seatbelt.
Hotch flicks the lights and sirens. “To get my agent back.”
+++
You eat as little of the soup as you possibly can, just enough to settle your stomach and get it to stop gnawing at your spine. It’s just regular soup, as far as you can tell, and because you waited for Carter to take a few bites first.
He takes it as a peace offering, seeing you eat. He relaxes.
If you have any chance of buying yourself some time and the team more time to find you, you’ve got to keep Carter relaxed. And talking.
“So,” Carter says, once he’s settled into the recliner in the living room and you’re on the couch. “I wanted to ask you what you thought -- about everything.”
There are a thousand ways you could answer this, and a thousand ways you could set him off again.
“Well, it took me a while to figure it out,” you start.
“Because it was that good?” he asks, sounding hopeful.
“Yeah,” you say automatically. “Yeah, because it was that good and because I thought I was making things up.”
“I knew you wouldn’t remember much,” he says, mostly to himself. “I knew I had to jog your memory somehow, I just didn’t realize how much. But I knew you’d get there eventually.”
“Right,” you nod slowly. “When we got that first note, that was when I was starting to think something was up.”
“I knew I’d have to make it obvious to you,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t ever get it, but then I saw you talking to Darlene, and I knew she wouldn’t be able to help herself.”
So he was watching you the whole time. “And what Darlene said is true?”
“Of course it’s true,” Carter scoffs. “He told my mom to get the hell out of town and she just listened to him! Didn’t even try to fight it when he said he wanted nothing to do with us. Well, I wasn’t going to let him get away with it that easily, not when I knew I could be in town with Doug whenever I wanted.” He paused, getting worked up again, this time all on his own. “Dad had no right trying to keep me away from you. We’re family! Flesh and blood.”
And yet we couldn’t be more different. “I had no idea back then.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Carter says, then shakes his head. “I can’t fault you for that, not then. I was his best-kept secret, at least to you and your mom.”
“If I had known,” you pause, choosing your next words carefully, “I would’ve told him to let us hang out together more.”
“Really?”
You nod. “I always wanted a sibling.” Not entirely untrue. It got lonely being an only child, especially one with a father who was never around and a mother who was just as gone because of how preoccupied she was with her husband’s whereabouts.
“I knew it,” Carter says, biting back a grin. “See? He ruined everything, and so did his so-called friends by keeping me from finding you--”
“His friends?” you blurt. “Who?”
“Of course you wouldn’t know,” Carter says, but not unkindly toward you. “Even locked away, Dad had ways of keeping me from finding you after your mom moved you away. Richard, best friend Richard, always closer to Dad than Doug was, always his right hand man, always your protector. I always knew I’d have to get rid of him before I could get to you, but then I thought, maybe it was the only way to get to you.”
Your mind reels with the new information, with the holes in the story that are being filled just as quickly as new ones appear. That it was less your dad’s friend looking for you and more keeping an eye on you so that nothing happened to you, so that someone like Carter wouldn’t get close enough to harm you. Again.
“You--” You can’t even form a complete thought. “Richard had been protecting me?”
“It was a lightbulb moment, honestly. And in doing everything to keep me busy, he earned himself a place on the FBI’s Most Wanted. I knew if something happened involving him, the FBI would come running. It was only a matter of time.”
“So you kidnapped his daughter so the exact same chain of events would happen,” you repeat slowly.
“Well, not exactly,” Carter shrugs. “It was a happy accident that you happened to be in the FBI, especially the unit they sent after him. I had my suspicions, but really I just wanted Richard off the board because I knew he was the last obstacle standing between me and you.”
“You do realize that because I’m in the FBI, my team is looking for me right now,” you reply, not trying to sound accusatory, just. Trying to get him to see the facts.
And to keep yourself optimistic. They’re going to find you. They have to.
He chuckles. “They won’t find us here. And even if they do find this cabin,” he stands up, stretching his arms, “we’ll be long gone. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
You glance around for any clocks and find none. The sunlight tells you that it’s sometime in the afternoon, you just don’t know how late. Probably close to the evening now. How long until sunset? What happens then?
“What are we going to do?” you ask hesitantly. “If we’re leaving here, then what’s the plan?”
He grins, looking down at you. “Think of it as a long overdue vacation. We’ll finally get to catch up on each other’s lives. We can go wherever we want, do whatever we want. Finally get to be the brother and sister we were always meant to be.”
His final statement makes your brain stall. “Meant to be?” you ask carefully.
He nods seriously, eager and wide-eyed. “Come on, you feel it too, don’t you? I know you’re in the FBI, but I was a cop, big deal. You can’t run from who you are. You can’t run from your blood.”
You shake your head, but you finally understand. He thinks you’ve strayed from your true path, from your path together as your dad’s children, as children of a serial killer. He thinks you’re meant to be just like your dad was. “Carter, that’s not…that’s not true. My team--”
Carter suddenly steps toward you, pointing a finger that you know could turn into a strangling grip around your throat any second. He looks so much like your father that it sends a shock through your system. “If your team even thinks about taking you away from me, they’ll get what they deserve,” he growls. “You’re coming with me. I let everyone keep us apart for too long. I won’t let it happen again.”
“But I’m not--” You shake your head. “I’m not like you -- or Dad.”
“But you can be,” he says, grabbing your shoulders. “If Dad had just let me talk to you when we were younger, he would’ve seen. We could’ve started back then. We wouldn’t have lost all this time.”
You shake your head slowly. It’s probably only going to upset him, your protesting, but you can’t let him think you’ll go wherever with him without a fight. You’re not a kid anymore.
“You’ll see,” he says, squeezing your shoulders. “You don’t understand it right now, but when-- if your team gets here, you’ll see.”
“What do you mean?”
“If they find us, we can’t let them leave alive,” he says simply. “You’re going to help me kill them.”
+++
Following the coordinates that Garcia sent, Hotch drives faster than he ever has before. Clearly Morgan does as well, because just a few moments after Hotch parks at a mountain lookout, Morgan comes squealing in on two tires.
“This is as far as the road goes,” Hotch explains while everyone jumps out, strapping on their bulletproof vests. “We’ll need to continue on foot from here.”
“What about me?” Doug asks.
Hotch shares a look with Rossi, tightening the straps around his waist. Sirens wail in the distance, the backup that Hotch had Morgan call for.
The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part thirty-nine
Yet another part that I wrote and rewrote and rewrote, so I hope it reads better than its first draft!!
Warnings: angryyyy hotch, angst ofc, prob inaccurate after-effects of drugging
Hotch knows he’s probably bruising his knuckles with how hard he raps his fist on the front door to Doug’s cabin, but he doesn’t care. Reid passes an alarmed look to Rossi who just shrugs because honestly? This is still tame behavior considering how Aaron is feeling inside.
Doug Wright spends his days in a cabin in the woods where no one ever bothers him. Service is spotty at best up here, and drops off in particular down this street, which explains why Doug hasn’t answered any of the FBI’s calls. Or anyone’s, really, because after Garcia’s digging, she found a number that attempted to call Doug nearly sixty times in the last week. She was unable to trace it.
Hotch’s money is on that number belonging to Andrew Robinson.
But when Doug doesn’t answer his door after the first round of knocks, Hotch starts to get angry. He can see Doug’s truck in the driveway, for fuck’s sake.
“FBI!” Hotch slams his fist into the wood. “Doug Wright, we know you’re inside!”
The door flies open not a second later, revealing an equally pissed off Doug. “Quit the fucking racket,” he snaps. “What the hell do you want?”
Hotch flashes his badge, not that Doug even looks at it because he’s too busy glaring up at Hotch. “We need to talk about your son.”
Doug isn’t a short man, but he’s shorter than Hotch, and clearly tries to compensate for it by puffing out his chest. “I don’t have a son.”
“Fine. We need to talk about Carter Robinson.”
Doug barks out a laugh. “I haven’t spoken to that kid in years.”
“Maybe you should move somewhere with better service then,” Hotch shoots back, pushing past Doug and entering the house. It’s a typical cabin in the mountains of Tennessee, hunting rifle displayed on the mantle, a TV mounted above it, across from a recliner.
“I didn’t invite you in here!” Doug goes after Hotch, screaming and cursing up a storm. “Get the hell outta my home!”
Hotch glances around at the photos on the wall, on the side tables. He finds Robinson’s face with ease, and pictures of Doug’s Deli. Confirmation that this is the right person to be speaking to, because why else would Doug have pictures of his son still on the walls if he didn’t keep in touch with him, even a little?
Hotch turns to face Doug. “Do you remember when Carson Adkins shot a hole in the floor of your deli?”
“Of course I remember,” Doug spits. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“And do you remember who the bullet was for?”
“For Carson’s goddamn ego, that’s who,” Doug bites out. “What is this about?”
Reid, Rossi, and Hotch share a silent conversation, deciding who should make the first move. Hotch made the decision in the car to hold off on telling Doug exactly why they’re here -- that Carter has kidnapped you a second time -- until it’s clear whether or not he knows, and when he’s at a vulnerable enough spot that revealing it will get him to give them the information they need.
“Do you remember the girl he kidnapped when he was younger?” Rossi asks, and it’s obvious from his tone that he’s fishing to see if Doug even knows about it at all, or if it really has been a secret all this time.
“He didn’t hurt her!” Doug protests, as if that was the question Rossi asked him.
“Did you know he had taken her?” Rossi asks.
Doug opens his mouth, flounders. “Yes,” he finally admits. “But I told him to let her go! I was gone for the day, I don’t know what got into him, kidnapping Carson’s daughter of all people--”
“So you knew it was your son while we sat here and had a manhunt out for him, and you said nothing.” Rossi steps closer to him, eyes narrowing. “Do you have any idea the kind of trouble that sort of thing gets you in?”
“He let her go unharmed!” Doug shouts again, as if it makes any difference, as if it fixes any of this.
“That doesn’t fucking matter!” Hotch yells, using every ounce of strength he has to not throttle Doug. “He’s been obsessed with her his entire life, he’s been following her every move since she joined the FBI, and it’s led us here. All because you didn’t turn him into the proper authorities when you should have.”
“You have no right to come into my home and criticize how I parented a boy that wasn’t even mine!” Doug argues, glossing right over the mention of Carter being obsessed with you and still stalking you to this day. “I was the closest thing that kid had to a father after Carson told his mom that he wanted nothing to do with them! I ain’t perfect, but I won’t sit here and let you make this out to be my fault.”
“Doug,” Reid gets his attention calmly. “We’re not trying to criticize how you raised him, or for your choice to do so. It’s an admirable thing to do, to choose to take on a kid that isn’t yours because you see they’re in need.”
Reid’s calm demeanor does nothing to soothe Doug, who only seethes and growls, “Then what the hell are you doing here?”
“We need to find him,” Rossi says. “And you’re the only person who knows where he might be hiding.”
“Well, I-I don’t know,” Doug scoffs. “And I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with--”
“We know Carson Adkins is Carter’s real father,” Hotch says, watching Doug’s reaction for confirmation. They don’t actually know for certain, but Doug’s reaction is as good as a DNA test.
Doug’s eyes well with furious, solemn tears. “I tried to protect him from that man,” Doug says quietly, mournfully. “But Carson Adkins is a cancer. He infected that boy the day he was conceived. I thought I could stop it by helping to raise him, by being the father figure he needed, but I couldn’t. He was drawn to Carson. There’s something in his blood, I tell you. Something evil.”
Hotch cusses under his breath and turns to face the wall. The pictures of Doug with the deli, of Doug with a younger Carter. He looks like a normal kid. He looks happy, free, even loved. How does all of that change? How does he become what he is today? Is it something in his blood? Is it?
“Doug… When exactly did you last speak to Carter?” Reid asks, still taking on the calm presence in the room.
Aaron turns and glances at Doug, whose chest is heaving from the screaming match they’ve just had. Aaron knew Doug was lying earlier when he said he hasn’t spoken to Carter in years, he just doesn’t know how much of a lie it is until Doug confesses a timeline that makes Aaron want to scream.
“Six months ago,” Doug starts quietly, “we met up for breakfast at a diner down the mountain. He had been calling me constantly and leaving voicemails, and I was ignoring him, until--” He stops himself.
“Until?” Hotch urges, as recognition flares in his mind, and in Reid and Rossi’s eyes. Six months ago, your transfer to the BAU was approved. Five months ago, Richard Monroe’s daughter, Lila, was kidnapped on your first day.
“He left a voicemail telling me that he found her again,” Doug says, hanging his head. “He lost track of her when her momma got her name changed, and I thought he’d never survive it, but then one day he moved on. And I thought, that’s the end of that.” Doug sighs, dragging a tired hand down his face. “I had no idea he had been silently looking for her all these years until he told me. I never fathomed that he’d find her again.”
“Well he has,” Hotch deadpans. “He’s taken her again and we need to know where he might’ve gone.”
Doug’s eyes go wide and his head snaps up. “Jesus Christ,” he covers his mouth. “He’s kidnapped her again?”
“Think, Doug,” Rossi steers him back on track. “Where could Carter have taken her.”
“I-I don’t know.”
“That’s not good enough,” Hotch snaps. He’s hanging onto his composure by a very thin thread that frays more and more with every useless word that Doug utters. “Think. A vacation home--”
“I ain’t rich enough for that--”
“Something special to him,” Hotch barrels on. “He’s been trying to get her attention for months, trying to find her for years, and now that he’s got it, he’s not going to risk anyone interrupting him. Somewhere remote. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere that would have meaning to him, maybe for both of them.” Hotch stares him down, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Give me a good enough answer and I might think about getting you a deal.”
“A deal? For what?”
“For knowingly withholding information about a kidnapped child’s whereabouts,” Hotch yells. “Now think.”
Doug shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he groans, rubbing his temples. “When he had her the first time, it was at my house, but I sold that house--”
“The address, Doug,” Hotch barks.
Reid takes down the address and texts it to Garcia. “He drove in the opposite direction, though, guys.”
“We’ll still check it out,” Rossi says, glancing at the address and trying not to let it overwhelm him. You were just down the street that whole time. You were just a few streets over from your parents’ house. How had they not found you all those years ago?
“Where else?” Hotch presses.
“There’s-- We used to take vacations up here, in these mountains,” Doug rambles. “We just rented the same cabin every year, but I didn’t own it.”
“Where?” Hotch says through gritted teeth.
“I don’t remember the exact address, but it’s-- It’s maybe an hour’s drive from here--”
“You still remember how to get there?” Rossi asks.
Doug barely gets the chance to nod before Hotch is gripping him by the arm and hauling him to the door. “In the car. Now.”
“But it’s been years since I’ve been there--!”
“You said you remember it,” Hotch snaps, pausing just outside the car. “And if you even think about purposefully taking us to the wrong place, there will be consequences, do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal, Jesus,” Doug scoffs.
Reid and Rossi climb in the back while Doug sits passenger, and Hotch tries not to bend the steering wheel while he drives.
+++
Your head is pounding, and you’re only waking up because you’re being jostled around to all hell.
Carter grunts, losing his grip on you. “Fuck.”
“What the hell…?” your words are slurred as you hit the ground, wood underneath you. “Carter?”
That makes his grip falter entirely, and you groan when the back of your head slams into the hardwood. Whatever it is, because you’re outside still. You can hear the birds chirping.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Shit. You know my name?”
“I r-remember you,” you breathe, eyes rolling into the back of your head.
He lets out a noise, somewhere between a bitter laugh and a scoff. “No you don’t. That’s the whole problem. You haven’t remembered a damn thing. Fucking-- Sit up.”
You don’t move, your body is full of lead.
He groans again, attempting to lift you and failing. “You’re heavier than you were twenty years ago.”
“Thanks,” you laugh is breathy, bordering on hysterical. What the fuck did he give you?
Your body sways, or at least it feels like it, while the time passes, and Carter says nothing to you, just sits next to you from what you can tell with your blurred vision. You can’t tell if the sun is making your vision hazy or if it’s just the drug, whatever it is.
You drift off and when you wake again, the swimming in your vision has left you. The sun has moved. And you’re alone.
But you can’t move, so running is out of the question. All you can do is lay here, turning your head to get a look at where you are.
You’re on a porch. That’s the wood you’ve been feeling. It looks like its attached to a log cabin, probably in the middle of nowhere, and you shove the doomed feeling that it elicits down as far as you can.
They’ll find you. They will.
You think of your last conversation with Aaron. The frustration. The anger. And the whole time, he was right. It wasn’t safe there, and now look at where you are.
You shouldn’t have driven away with him in the car. You should’ve gotten out, screamed, done something other than drive to a gas station and given him the opportunity to do this again. You’re not a kid anymore. You should’ve known better this time.
Tears prick at your eyes and you blink them away. There’s no time for crying right now. Crying won’t get you out of this.
You turn your head and look out across the porch, to the woods. Nothing but trees fill your vision. You have no way to know where exactly he’s taken you.
“You’re awake! Perfect timing!”
Your head lazily rolls to the other side, eyes narrowing as Carter stands above you. Time for what?
“I made supper, come on,” he says, bending down and extending his hand.
“I can’t move,” you mutter. “What the fuck did you give me?”
“Just a tranquilizer, it should be wearing off now, come on, try,” he gestures with his hand expectantly.
You have options. You can grab his hand, pull him down, get on top of him, force him to answer questions and tell you where the hell you are. But that’s what you’d do if you weren’t full of a tranquilizer right now.
The more likely option to succeed is that you accept his hand, you stand up, and you try to calmly get some answers out of him.
You lift your arm, grabbing onto his wrist so he can grab yours and pull you upright. Just sitting up has your head spinning and stomach lurching, an involuntary gag leaving your throat.
“Sorry,” he grimaces. “A side effect is nausea.”
“You don’t say,” you say in between heaving, taking a deep breath to calm down. “A simple ‘Hey, we should talk’ would’ve been a lot nicer than drugging me.”
“Please,” he scoffs. “Like you would’ve agreed to talk to me.”
You turn your head to look at him. He has your father’s eyes. How you never saw it until now, you don’t know, because it’s so obvious. The same color. The same slightly crazed look, even when he’s acting suspiciously tame right now.
“I would’ve,” you finally say. “When Darlene told me--”
He scoffs again, louder, dropping your wrist so violently that your grip loosens. “Darlene, the town gossip.”
“She told me that you’re my brother,” you talk over him until he stops, staring at you with wide eyes. “I wanted to talk to you about it.”
“And here I thought I was going to break the news to you over supper,” he mutters, clicking his tongue. “Guess that saves us some time.”
“Why didn’t you just reach out? Normally?”
“Why’d you change your name? Why’d you have to run away from me?”
“It was my mom’s decision, not mine,” you snap, finally getting some of your strength back. “I was a kid!”
“Well I was too!”
His raised voice sends a shock to your head, a sharp pain prodding behind your eyes that makes you hiss in pain.
He doesn’t apologize for it. Just curses under his breath.
“Come on,” he says, extending his hand again. “Supper’s getting cold.”
+++
The cabin Doug remembered is occupied. By a family. It’s an AirBnB now.
Hotch has Rossi wait in the car with Doug while he and Reid go check out the cabin, and thankfully the family staying there has no issue letting them walk around. They check everywhere, the upstairs, the downstairs, the basement, the storm cellar. All empty. No signs of you or Robinson.
“We’re sorry for the intrusion,” Hotch apologizes to the wife again. “Thank you for letting us look around.”
“It’s no problem,” the husband says, gripping his wife’s hand in one and his daughter’s in the other. “We hope you find whoever is missing.”
“Thank you,” Reid murmurs, waving goodbye.
By the time they get back into the car, Rossi is already on the phone with Garcia, asking her to look into any cabins in the area that were recently bought. Or rented. Or anything. Anything at all.
“Most of them are little AirBnBs now like that one,” Garcia says regretfully. “But I’m digging, don’t worry.”
“Thank you Garcia,” Hotch sighs, picking at his fingernails. It doesn’t help that Garcia’s words are choppy because of how spotty the cell service is up here.
“We’re gonna find her, boss.”
“I know,” Hotch says. Because he’s not going to stop moving until he finds you.
The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part thirty-eight
For some reason I've had to rewrite this chapter (and the next couple) because they didn't feel right so here's to hoping that I got it right with this draft 😭
Warnings: another motherload of angst so sorry, drugging (that is probs not accurate but oh well), Hotch's ever-growing guilt
You’re barely sitting in the driver’s seat of the bureau vehicle for two minutes when the passenger door opens and someone slides inside. You expect it to be Hotch. It’s not.
“Officer Robinson,” you say, keeping your gaze straight ahead, though you glance in the mirrors. All around you, officers are still peeling out of the parking lot to go on patrol -- likely to look for him. It’s no coincidence Robinson just got in your car, in civilian clothes, right at this moment. You crank the engine. “Joining me to the airport?”
“Thought you might need an escort,” he says. “And someone to drive the car back to the precinct.” Sunglasses don his face and he has a baseball cap pulled over his head. Just like that day in the car with Hotch, when he chased the two of you down that long stretch of road. “Drive.”
You do. You’re not an idiot. You need to be careful about this. You need to think about your next move, so as not to risk angering him and having a gun pressed to your temple.
“Saw you storm out of there pretty angry,” Robinson says while you drive, heading toward the airport. “Was it that guy again?”
“What guy?”
“Your boss,” he chuckles. “Agent Hotchner.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah. We don’t get along.”
“Not what I hear.”
“And what do you hear, Andrew?”
“Oh, we’re on a first name basis, are we?”
“Might as well be,” you reply, drumming your fingers on the wheel. You wait a few seconds before feigning forgetfulness, raising one hand and smacking the wheel. “Shit. I’ve gotta call the pilot.”
“What?”
“It’s fine,” you wave him off, hitting Garcia’s speed dial before he can stop you. “The pilot isn’t just living on the jet, you know. We have to actually get somebody to call him before we fly.”
“Right,” Andrew scoffs, but he’s getting antsy already. You can see it in the way his left leg bounces, the way his jaw twitches.
“Oracle of all things knowledgeable, hello gorgeous,” Garcia’s sweet voice rings out. “What can I do you for?”
“Hi Pen,” you chuckle. “Can you do me a favor and call the pilot? I’m heading back to Quantico, looks like I’ll be keeping you company in the bat cave.”
She hesitates for a moment before replying, and that’s when you know she’s picked up on your tone and weird wording. Because she’s Penelope Garcia, and no matter what she says or thinks, in your eyes, she’s as much a profiler as the rest of the team.
“Wonderful news, my sweet!”
“Officer Robinson and I are heading to the airport now, be sure to let Aaron know.”
“Will do, my angel. Is Officer Robinson flying with you, so I can let the pilot know how many will be on board?”
You glance at Andrew from the corner of your eye. He’s chewing on his fingernails. “Nope, just me.”
“Alright, see you soon!”
“Thanks Garcia,” you say, hanging up with a sweet, sweet smile.
If you know Pen, and you do, then she’s calling Hotch right now, telling him something is off about you. All you need to do is get somewhere safe and wait. The police cars and other bureau vehicles will fly into the lot within minutes.
“Mind if we stop for gas?” you ask, looking over at Andrew. “And grab some snacks. It’s a long plane ride.”
“They don’t have snacks on that fancy jet of yours?”
“None that I like,” you scrunch up your nose, already getting into the turn lane for the gas station. “I need something from here, you know. Something that tastes like home.”
That clearly strikes a nerve, and if Andrew didn’t know before that you know his little secret, then he definitely knows now.
You pull into the gas station, an old rundown Shell, and you hope it’s one where you have to go inside to pay, but it isn’t. You don’t let that deter you, though, as you park and pull out the BAU credit card from your wallet.
“I’ll just be a sec,” you tell him. “Did you want any snacks?” He says nothing, just stares straight ahead. “Suit yourself.”
You step out of the car and insert the card into the reader, typing in the zipcode. The car does actually need gas, which works in your favor, buys you more time.
Just as you’re about to grip the nozzle, Andrew’s hand beats you to it. “Where are my manners?” he says. “A lady never pumps her own gas. Go have a seat.”
You shake your head. “These cars can be a little funny,” you say, a lie. “You’ve gotta watch the gauge.”
“Then I will,” he smiles.
“Fine,” you mutter. “But I’m staying right here.”
“Suit yourself,” he mimics you from a moment ago, switching places with you so he’s closer to the gas tank.
You lean back against the car door, watching the numbers go up as gas fills the tank. You try to discreetly glance around the empty lot, hoping someone will be coming soon, hoping Garcia has traced your phone or the car and told them exactly where to go. But you don’t even hear any sirens yet. You cross your arms over your chest, watching the numbers again as they climb. You’re running out of time.
The gas pump clunks as it stops and you flinch, earning a raised eyebrow from Andrew. He leans over to glance inside the car at the dash, and when he pulls back, you feel the tiniest of pricks on the side of your neck.
You hiss and immediately step away, your hand flying up to your neck.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, shaking the nozzle before replacing it. “Get stung by somethin’?”
“I hope not,” you reply with an irritated glare.
“Why don’t I drive?” he says, pressing the button for no receipt. “Since I’m just dropping you off.”
You don’t have it in you to argue with him as you walk around the hood of the car, hopefully in full view of the security cameras at the traffic light. You hold onto the car as you walk, your footsteps growing slower with each one. The air begins to feel…thick.
You nearly trip with your next step, almost falling over entirely if it weren’t for the door right there. Somewhere in your panicked, sluggish state you managed to dig your phone out of your pocket, your hands working on autopilot to press one of the speed dial numbers. Aaron’s. Because he’ll help. Aaron will know what to do. You just need Aaron to get here.
“You won’t be needing that anymore,” Andrew’s voice swims in your ears as your vision blurs. You reach for the passenger seat, but it’s so far away now. Your phone leaves your hand easily, your muscles all lax.
You blink slowly, just barely registering the sound of your phone hitting the sides of the metal trash can. You try to climb away from the car, but Andrew lifts you up and hauls you into the backseat, flicking the child lock before slamming the door on you.
He’s a blurry streak as you watch him walk around to the driver’s side. Your hands shake as you reach for your gun on your hip, aiming it at him when he sits behind the wheel. But in your drugged state, you forget to flick off the safety. It takes nothing for Andrew to lift the gun from your fingers and tuck it between his knees.
“Just lay down, sis,” he says, adjusting the rearview. “We’re going for a drive.”
+++
When Deputy Laneman’s car comes flying into the Shell parking lot, the store clerk comes outside, hands waving. A few officers’ cars are already around, lights flashing and turning people away when they try to turn into the lot.
Laneman skids the car to a stop between two pumps and Hotch jumps out before the engine even shuts off, JJ not far behind him.
“Hey!” the clerk yells. “What the hell is going on?”
“Mike, did you see a woman here with a man, another officer?” Laneman asks.
“No,” Mike says. “Just your men tearing up my drive like it’s the damn Indy 500.”
“Think, Mike,” Laneman urges. “Did you see Andrew?”
“Andrew?” Mike pauses, looking skyward. “Yeah, actually, I think it was him. Had his sunglasses on, but he was with a woman. Not unusual for him, though, you know how that kid is.”
“We don’t care about his sex life,” Hotch interjects harshly. “Do you have cameras?”
“One, it ain’t great,” Mike says. “What’s this about?”
“We need to see that footage,” Laneman says. “Now.”
“Alright, come on back. You’ll have better luck with the traffic camera, I’m telling you.”
“You go ahead and look at the footage with the deputy, JJ. I’ll call Garcia and get her to look at the traffic camera,” Hotch says, already pressing his phone to his ear.
But he’s not calling Garcia, not yet. She said your phone was still here. So where the hell is it?
He pulls his phone away from his ear as it rings, trying to listen for yours. His ears lead him to the trash can at pump three, and when he looks down into it, he sees it. His face, lit up on your screen.
Something wretched tugs at his heartstrings, seeing that photo. It’s a close up that you took of him the first time you met, ten years ago. He expects his name in your phone to be what it used to be: Hotch (BAU). But it’s not. You’ve changed it.
Aaron is all it says. He reaches in and grasps your phone, pulling it out. He goes to your call log, sees your call with Garcia, but sees something else, too. Something else that makes it feel like his chest is ripping open.
You tried to call him. It must’ve only rang once, or barely began to, because he didn’t receive the call on his end. But you tried. You’re in trouble, and you called for him.
Tears sting his eyes as he pockets your phone, returning to his previous task. “Penelope, I need you to look at the traffic camera outside the gas station,” he instructs once she picks up, having no time for pleasantries.
“One step ahead, boss, I am just about to get my hands on that footage.”
Hotch’s smile is watery. “Thank you.”
He waits for her confirmation that she’s got it, and while he is, the rest of the team comes screeching into the lot, the cars practically on two wheels.
“She was here,” Hotch relays the information to Reid, Morgan, Rossi, and Prentiss. He pats his suit pocket. “I have her phone, he tossed it in the trash, probably when she tried calling me. I didn’t get the call, but it’s on the log, so she definitely tried. Garcia’s getting the footage from the traffic cam--” His words stop short when he hears Garcia gasp loudly on the other end. “Penelope?”
“Sorry sir, I’ll…I’ll send the footage, but it’s--”
“What is it, Garcia?”
Hotch can hear the emotion in Garcia’s voice as she speaks, “Oh my god, I think he drugged her.”
Morgan pulls the footage up on his phone just as Hotch turns around, pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the tears from escaping. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. You were supposed to be in Quantico. Safe. Away from all of this.
Instead, by telling you to go, Hotch might as well have handed you over to the unsub himself.
He inhales shakily, hanging up on Garcia and taking a walk to the far end of the lot. Distantly, he hears one of his team members’ phones ringing, Garcia probably calling one of them instead.
With his back to his team and the officers, Aaron can’t keep the tears at bay, and they flow heavy and warm down his cheeks, despite how hard he bites into his knuckles to keep himself grounded.
How could he do this to you? Why couldn’t he have just listened? Why couldn’t he have just kept you by his side until they brought the unsub in? Why did he have to push you away?
Why did he let you walk away?
It’s going to haunt him for the rest of his life, this guilt. He knows it. It’s going to follow him around like a soul-sucking shadow, always curled around his shoulders.
“Aaron.”
“Not now, Dave,” Aaron bites out, voice weak and broken. He waves his hand over his shoulder at his well meaning friend. “Just-- Give me a second.”
Dave doesn’t listen. He rounds on Aaron and stands face-to-face with him, a frown settling into his features.
“It’s not your fault,” Dave says.
Dave is wrong this time. Aaron knows it. But he doesn’t say it.
Instead, he says, “I told her to go.”
“That doesn’t make this your fault,” Dave argues. “You had no way of knowing--”
“But I told her to go,” Aaron cries, shaking his fist at Dave, as if anything is going to make him understand this feeling. “I should’ve told her to stay. She didn’t want to go. But I told her she had to. I told her it wasn’t safe here, but I should’ve never let her go, I should’ve-- I should’ve gone with her.”
“Aaron,” Dave tries. “Aaron, we will find her.”
Aaron has no doubt about that. Because he doesn’t know what the hell he’ll do with himself if they don’t find you. But as for what shape they’ll find you in, he doesn’t know. Carter didn’t hurt you when you were a kid, but that doesn’t mean he won’t now. The circumstances are different this time around.
He feels like his ribcage is being forced open, like his own heart is trying to escape because it’s ashamed of his actions, ashamed that he would tell you to go when his heart was screaming that you should stay.
“Garcia is tracing the GPS in the car,” Dave says. “We’re not going to stop until we find her. We need you to help us do that.”
“I know,” Aaron nods, sniffling, wiping his nose on his arm. “I know.”
Dave shakes his head, offering a comforting hand on Aaron’s shoulder.
“God,” Aaron chuckles, but it turns into more of a sob. “She’s never going to forgive me for this.”
All Dave can offer then is a frown, his hand squeezing Aaron’s arm.
After a few deep breaths and wiping his face, Aaron steels himself enough to return to the team where they’ve huddled near the gas pump where you and Andrew Robinson were last seen.
“They went north,” Morgan says, pointing toward the road. “Garcia has tracked them as far as the state line, but she isn’t getting anything anymore.”
“He probably figured out how to disable the GPS,” Reid says.
“Or he ditched the vehicle,” Prentiss adds.
“Morgan, take Prentiss and JJ and drive to where Garcia last traced them. Knowing our unsub, he probably switched vehicles. Call the local police and have them meet you there, we don’t know what you’ll find,” Hotch instructs. “JJ, I want an APB out on the vehicle and Robinson. If he’s not taking backroads, someone has definitely seen him.”
“On it,” she nods, stepping away with Morgan and Prentiss, already typing on her phone as the three of them jog toward the car.
Hotch pulls out his phone and starts dialling.
“What are we doing?” Reid asks, sharing a glance with Rossi.
“We’re flying to Tennessee,” Hotch says while it rings, his previous distraught tone being replaced with one much more lethal. “Doug hasn’t been answering his phone and I’m tired of waiting.”
+++
When you peel your eyes open, the car is still moving, and you have an awful twinge in your neck from where your head is half hanging off the backseat. Not to mention, your head is absolutely pounding.
But when you try to move your limbs, you can’t.
Panic immediately sets in, just as quickly as the realization does. Andrew is driving you God knows where, and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it because you can’t move. You can’t even make any noise, not that he’d hear you, because he has the radio blasting.
An old Beatles’ song comes on, and you don’t know the name of it, but part of you is glad it plays. It makes you think of Aaron, and the image of his face is enough to make you not panic as your eyelids slam shut again.
The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part thirty-seven
I am soooo sorry for what you're about to read. Genuinely so sorry
Warnings: the motherload of all angst tbh, if you're conflicted abt whose side to take (reader vs hotch) good bc me too, everything will be fine I promise!!!
Dave takes one of the bureau SUVs back to the hotel to grab the rest of the team. Aaron tucks you into the passenger seat of the other and takes you for a drive to help you calm down, and because he’s at a loss for what to do next. You want to go to the precinct, but he’s not sure you’re ready yet.
Or maybe he’s not ready. Maybe all he wants to do is drive straight to the airstrip, call the pilot on the way, and take you home-- back to Quantico.
He wants you somewhere safe, and right now it seems like the safest place is the BAU offices. He wants you there, working with Garcia, in a protected federal building. He wants you far from here, far from whatever caused you to sob so hard you couldn’t stand.
But he doesn’t think you’ll agree to do that, especially not with this new piece of information -- that still isn’t entirely clear to him because you’ve only just begun to calm down. He wants to wait for your breathing to even out before he tries to ask another probing question about what happened in the diner with Darlene.
He takes another left turn, driving in circles at this point, his brain doing the same. Eventually, you take one last shuddering inhale before your breathing smooths out. Your hand reaches for his and he takes it with a small smile, glancing over to make sure you’re okay. Your response is a drained, barely-there smile.
“Can we head to the precinct now?” you ask, sniffling once, but your breaths remain calm and steady. “We need to try to reach him.”
Aaron’s heart clenches. “Reach who, honey?”
“Officer Robinson,” you reply, eyebrows furrowing like you’re not quite registering what you have and haven’t told Aaron yet. “I need to talk to him. I think he’s…”
The pieces click together in Aaron’s mind, the fragmented words you were crying through earlier. “Your brother?”
You nod slowly. “Darlene said she wasn’t sure because no one ever saw a paternity test, but it was one of the rumors around town that was…too specific to be just a rumor. Too much of it lined up.”
Aaron squeezes his hand. He doesn’t like how shaken up you were when you came out of that diner, and he definitely doesn’t like that it was because of something Darlene said. After yesterday, he doesn’t trust what that woman says, but for some reason you do, and for the life of him, Aaron can’t wrap his head around it.
But he doesn’t want to say anything about it right now and risk sending you into another panicked state so quickly.
“Okay,” he says instead, turning to head back to the precinct. “We’ll talk more about it at the station.”
You nod and settle down into the seat, pulling his hand closer to you, curling around his arm as little as you can.
+++
You’re feeling slightly more yourself when you enter the precinct, albeit absolutely exhausted from being awake since five and then your emotional whiplash talk with Darlene.
The team is waiting for you and Hotch in the small conference room. You’re not sure how much Rossi has told them, but judging by some of their expressions, you can assume he told them enough.
“Here, why don’t you sit?” Hotch moves to pull a chair out for you.
“I’m fine,” you wave him off, but you don’t miss the concern that flashes in his eyes before he relents. You stand up by the board, by the letter the unsub wrote to you and left on Richard’s body, by the bracelet of childish charms that now make perfect sense. “Do we know where Officer Robinson is?”
No one answers. You turn your head and meet Rossi’s eyes, expectant.
“I’ll go ask the deputy,” he nods, disappearing from the room.
“Doug’s son isn’t his -- biologically,” you begin, looking up and tapping the Doug’s Deli newspaper clipping you tacked up yesterday. “But he treated him like his own. And Doug never married Laura Robinson, but they did have plans to elope, until Doug found out about her affair. They had been living together and trying for a baby when Carter -- Officer Robinson’s first name -- came along. Doug figured out the kid wasn’t his, but he was willing to look past it -- the lies, the infidelity -- when he found out who the real father was. But Laura didn’t want to.” You pause, crossing your arms over your chest, some futile protective gesture. “She moved back to Georgia and took Carter with her. Except that Carter sometimes spent weekends with Doug, and no one could understand why Laura let him do that, until Darlene figured out one day who Laura was coming to see.” You inhale sharply. “My father.”
Morgan is the first to blurt out “What?”
Emily is next with “Wait.”
“So Robinson is your…half-brother?” Reid says slowly, and skeptically.
You open your mouth to respond, but you don’t get a chance before Rossi is returning with the deputy in tow.
“Can I ask what all this is about?” Deputy Laneman asks with a tick of his jaw.
Hotch speaks up. “Deputy, we just need to speak with Officer Robinson and ask him some questions.”
“About?”
Hotch levels his gaze, clearly irritated already with how defensive Laneman is. “This case. Richard Monroe’s death. Officer Robinson called it in, did he not?”
“He was on patrol that night, I scheduled him myself, he wasn’t anywhere he wasn’t supposed to be.”
“Be that as it may, deputy, new information has come to light, and we need to speak with him,” Hotch says. “And if you continue to keep us from doing so, I might start to think you’re the one who needs to be questioned next.”
Laneman works his jaw. “Fine. Robinson’s off today. I’ll call him.”
“Have officers go to his house,” Hotch says. “We need to speak with him urgently, and I don’t want to risk him not seeing his phone.”
Laneman looks ready to spit fire, but he agrees. “Fine. I’ll send some men out to his house.”
When the deputy leaves the room, Hotch watches him go, narrows his eyes. He waits a beat.
“Morgan, Prentiss, go with the officers to see if Robinson is at home,” he instructs quietly. “Rossi, take Reid and join the officers on the patrol, look for Robinson’s car, anything around the area at any restaurants, stores, gas stations, the gym-- just find him. JJ, get ahead of the press if you can, I don’t know that I trust this to not get out with how Laneman is acting.”
You’re not surprised to find that this leaves you with Hotch -- and JJ, though she steps out into the hall to handle phone calls, and to speak with the remaining officers about keeping this under wraps.
You finally sit down, leaning your head onto one of your hands. “This is-- If this is true, Hotch.”
“I know,” he sighs, sitting down next to you, reaching for your free hand. “Let’s just find Officer Robinson first and ask him some questions.”
“What if what Darlene said is true?” you whisper. “What if he is my brother?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he says, squeezing your hand. “We don’t know that it’s true. We know Laura is his mother, that he was raised in Georgia, but we don’t know for sure yet that he--”
“But everything she said, it--” You shake your head, pulling your hand from his, and a stricken expression crosses his face as you start to pace the length of the room. “It makes sense. And I-I remember him. I remember a young boy. Laura used to live here and date Doug, had an affair with my father, and-- They were friends! He was friends with Doug, yet he had sex with Laura and ruined their friendship, a child comes of it and he tells her she can’t stay here, not with a kid now too, because my dad had met my mom by then, and they were engaged by then. So he kept going to Georgia to see Laura, and she kept coming here, and he was-- I don’t know, was he murdering the women in Atlanta because he felt…guilty? Do you think he felt guilty about having an affair? Is that why he went after sex workers? He saw them as a representation of his own infidelity and killed them for it.”
You spin around to find Hotch still sitting, and his expression is pained. His eyes narrowed in concern, a frown set deep in his lips.
“What?” you nearly snap. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Sit down, please,” he whispers, gesturing to the chair you were just in.
“No,” you murmur, shifting your weight on your feet. “Because I feel like whatever you’re about to say is just going to make me stand up and pace again, so. What is it?”
He sighs, but he remains sitting, not challenging you. “I think you should go back to Quantico and work on the case from there with Garcia -- if you feel comfortable continuing to work on it.”
You stare at him. And stare. And stare.
When you don’t speak, Aaron stands slowly like you’re a frightened animal that he’s worried he’ll spook. “I think you need to take a break. This case is wearing on you. You couldn’t walk earlier, honey--”
“Don’t call me that right now,” you snap.
He nods, but continues. “I think you want what Darlene says to be true because you want to be able to trust someone from your past. You want to have someone like her in your life, someone who remembers your past and can give you the answers you need, but I’m not certain that she’s a reliable source. I think she’s harming you more than she’s helping--”
You ignore the fact that he’s profiling you within an inch of your life and instead take a jab at him. “So you’re just sending me away? That’s it? That’s your solution?”
“That’s not-- It’s not about me sending you away, it’s about keeping you sane, and keeping you safe.” He gestures at you. “You’re exhausted.”
“And no one else is?”
“No one else on this team is hunting for their kidnapper,” he says, “or brother.”
You glare at him. “So you do believe Darlene? Or you don’t? Which is it?”
“I think what she says holds some truth,” he admits, albeit reluctantly. “We just need to figure out how much truth before we jump to any conclusions.”
“Like sending me away.”
He sighs. He looks away from you. “I have been thinking of broaching this subject since we got here. That first night when you had a panic attack and couldn’t read the letter.”
You fume silently. Clearly he’s already made up his mind and nothing you say will change his decision. He can’t exactly force you onto the plane, but if he doesn’t want you here, why try to stay?
“Why are you pushing me away?” you ask outright, unable to keep it in. It sounds ridiculous and you know it does, but here you are.
You’re already walking a thin, vulnerable line after finding out the man who kidnapped you when you were younger might actually be your half-brother, and that his motives maybe weren’t as sinister as you had always been told to believe. But in fact, they were the actions of a neglected child begging to be seen by his father -- something that, God help you, you can relate to.
But to have Aaron suggesting this, wanting you to go back to Virginia, all under the guise of thinking it’s safer, well. You don’t know what to make of it. Other than the fact that it hurts.
“I’m not,” he says quietly. “I’m not pushing you away.”
“Then why does it feel like it?” you protest, angry tears beginning to break. “It just feels like that night at Dave’s house all over again.”
Aaron tilts his head, completely lost now. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, every time we get close, you just--” You wave your hand. “Something happens. The ‘racoons,’ if those were even real, and now, the day after we have sex, you want me gone?”
“The racoons were real! But-- You’re the one who snuck out last night,” he reminds you. “I’m the one who woke up to an empty bed.”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t have agreed to let me speak to Darlene again!” you cry. “Because I knew you wouldn’t have let me go alone! And you still didn’t.”
“And I’m glad I didn’t!” he fires back. “Because you couldn’t even walk when you got out of there!”
“I would’ve been fine!” you protest. “I’ve dealt with this without you before, I would’ve been fine this time!”
Aaron watches you, tears brimming his own eyes, and you have no idea why. He’s the one telling you to go. He’s the one doing this to the two of you. He’s the one ripping the two of you apart.
“I don’t want to go back to Quantico,” you say quietly, sniffling. “But if you tell me to go, I’ll leave.” Leave, quit, resign, walk away. They’re all the same. Aaron knows it just as well as you do. “So?”
He doesn’t want to say it. You can see it all over his face. All he has to do is say stay here, don’t go.
But he doesn’t.
“Please,” he says, voice quiet, broken, the syllables all jagged. “Go back to Quantico. It’s safer for you there.”
You nod once. That’s that, then.
“I can drive you,” he offers.
“No,” you’re quick to reject it. “No, if you’re forcing me to go, I can drive myself.”
“I’ll call the pilot--”
“I can do that myself, too.”
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please. I’m not doing this to slight you, or-- or to punish you. Please tell me you understand that.”
“I’ll head to the hotel and grab my things,” you mutter, ignoring his pleas as you head for the door. “Then head straight to the airport.”
“Let me know when you land in Quantico, at least. Please.”
You laugh, a bitter sound as you twist the handle. “Sure. Let me know when you find my brother.”
+++
Aaron sits in the conference room, the resounding slam of the door from when you left ringing in his ears. He wants to give you space. He told you to leave. He knew you wouldn’t like it. He doesn’t even like it. But it’s for the better.
But the look on your face, when he told you to go. It’s going to haunt him for years.
He waits a few more moments before following your path out of the room and into the bullpen. He glances around, but he doesn’t spot you anywhere, so he heads outside.
After scanning the parking lot, he curses under his breath. The other bureau vehicle is gone, which means you’ve already left for the airport. Alone.
Aaron had hoped to find you still sitting in the driver’s seat of the car, so maybe he could’ve tried to apologize, at least tried to mend some of this before you left, but he’s too late. He waited all of three minutes, and he’s too late.
He knows if he tries to call you right now, you’ll just send him to voicemail. And if he goes to the hotel to intercept you there, he risks making this worse and losing you forever. All he can do is wait for you to tell him that you’ve reached Quantico.
He heads back inside, passing JJ and asking her to call the pilot and let him know he’s needed soon. Just in case it slips your mind, but really it’s Aaron wanting to help. To take one more thing off your plate, even if he knows it’ll upset you when he finds out JJ called the pilot.
Still, Aaron tries to let it go. He goes back to the conference room, pacing in front of the board just like you had, and glancing at his phone every five seconds, looking for text messages from you that won’t appear.
He caves about fifteen minutes later and tries to call you, but the line is busy. You’re probably talking to Garcia, telling her you’re heading to Quantico and talking shit about him in the same breath. If you are, he doesn’t blame you. He waits.
Aaron waits, and waits, and wishes he knew what he was doing. Wishes he knew exactly where you were.
JJ comes into the conference room, eyebrows furrowed down at her phone.
Hotch looks up. “What is it?”
“The pilot,” JJ shakes her head. “I gave him an ETA for her based on when she left, but he said she still hasn’t shown up at the airstrip. Have you talked to her?”
“No,” Hotch says regretfully. “She was angry with me when she left, so she’s not speaking to me.”
“I’m trying to call her now,” JJ nods, phone pressed to her ear. But she pulls it away all too quickly. “Voicemail.” She tries again, and gets the same outcome.
Hotch, against his better judgement, and fueled by some delusion thinking you’d send JJ to voicemail but answer him, tries to call you. It cuts out, goes to voicemail.
His phone starts ringing a second later, and he jumps, thinking it’s you, but it’s not. “Garcia,” he answers.
“Hey boss,” she says, sounding concerned. “I was just-- She told me to call you and let you know that they’re on the way to the airport.”
Hotch’s spine straightens. “They?” He puts the phone on speaker, placing it on the table between him and JJ. “Penelope, who is they?”
“She said, ‘Officer Robinson and I are headed to the airport, be sure to let Aaron know.’ She sounded like she was reading off a script, Hotch, it was creepy. I don’t like whatever this is--”
“Penelope,” he says slowly, trying to keep his own composure as JJ’s eyes widen. “I need you to trace her phone for me.”
“Oh, trust me, I started doing that as soon as she started speaking, I knew something was off,” Garcia says, keyboard already clacking, and Hotch has never loved her more than he does in this moment. “I’ve been digging into Andrew Robinson some more too, I know we ruled him out initially because he wasn’t raised there, but I’ve just been looking around. His real name is Carter, though, and get this, he spent a lot of time in that town with--”
“Doug, we know,” Aaron interjects, not unkindly, just fucking stressed. “Doug treated him like a son because he was in a relationship with Robinson’s mom before he found out about the affair, but he wanted to look past it.”
“Woah. But I can’t find anything on Carter’s real father, it’s like the guy doesn’t even exist--”
“It’s Carson Adkins,” Hotch sighs. “Or Darlene thinks it is, and I’m starting to think she’s right. Garcia, do you have eyes on her?”
“Her phone says she’s at a gas station not far from you. They must be getting gas or something, they haven’t moved.”
“Thank you,” Hotch exhales, grabbing his phone and leaving the conference room, heading straight for Deputy Laneman’s office. “I’ll call you with updates.”
“Be safe, sir.”
“Thank you,” he says, hanging up as he opens Deputy Laneman’s door without even knocking.
“My men just spotted Officer Robinson at the Shell on Hickory,” Laneman says, already standing and setting the phone down. “He’s--”
“With one of my agents, that I just sent home,” Hotch finishes, giving Laneman no room to question him on it. “She’s in trouble.”
The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part thirty-six
I feel like I can't say a damn thing in this note because we get answers in this chapter and they are 🫣🫣 Anyway happy reading!
Warnings: angst so much angst, Hotch being his way too overprotective self but also he has good reason, oh southern gossip you are so special to me but so damaging sometimes
Aaron sleeps like a rock. You’re not sure if it’s a combination of general exhaustion and coming down from the sex, but he doesn’t move at all when you sneak out of bed around five a.m.
You pull some pajamas over your body and step out into the hallway, typing in Darlene’s number that she gave you. You think about just sending a text, but at the last second, you hit call.
It rings twice. Halfway through the third, the line connects. “Y’ello?”
“Darlene?” you whisper. “It’s me.”
She laughs, and you hear glass clinking. She must already be in the kitchen. “I figured it was you, kid. You’re lucky I’m an early riser.”
“Sorry,” you grimace. “I didn’t think.”
“It’s alright, sweet pea,” she replies. “I’m at the diner just getting started on today’s pie. What do you need?”
You chew on the inside of your cheek, unsure of how to ask. Unsure of what to even ask. “Actually, it might be easier if I come to the diner.”
“Door’s open,” she says. After a beat, she adds, “Are you okay, kid?”
“Yeah, yeah,” you rush to ease her concern, though you don’t know why. It’s obvious something is on your mind. Why else would you call her at five in the morning? “I’ll be there soon.”
“Just you?”
You glance over your shoulder at the shut hotel room door. Where, just beyond it, Aaron sleeps peacefully. Peace that you know will be disturbed when he wakes and finds you gone. “Yeah,” you say. “Just me.”
As quietly as you can, and with pausing every few seconds when you think you hear Aaron stirring, you put on some clothes and shoes, strapping your gun to your hip just in case and covering it with your shirt and jacket. You grab the note pad every hotel has and write a quick note to Aaron, just in case: Gone out to grab some breakfast. Be back in a bit. You leave it on the nightstand next to his phone.
You grab the keys to the car and your purse, leaving the room like a ghost. The hallway is empty, yet you still look both ways to ensure the coast is clear before heading for the stairs.
Once downstairs, you can finally breathe, nodding to the woman at the front desk. She tips her coffee toward you in greeting, though there’s a slight twinge of confusion in her brows.
You’re nearly free, but you turn the corner, and you almost jump out of your skin.
“Bit early for breakfast,” Rossi says from the lobby chair, glancing at his watch for emphasis. His other hand rests comfortably around a complimentary cup of hotel coffee. “Going somewhere?”
You just cross your arms over his chest. “Spying on me?”
He chuckles. “I heard every word of your conversation, kiddo. I was already awake, but hotel hallways echo.”
“I’m just going to see Darlene,” you explain, even though he clearly knows that already. “I left Aaron a note.”
Dave raises an eyebrow, but you know he’s not surprised about Aaron being in your bed. “He’s not awake?”
“No,” you reply, though with every ticking second, it becomes more of a possibility. You must’ve caught him deep in REM sleep because he doesn’t normally sleep that hard. “Dave. I need to do this -- alone.”
He sighs. “What does she know?”
“More than she had time to tell us yesterday,” you say. “And I wasn’t expecting to run into anyone I would know here, let alone anyone who would remember me or my parents, so I wasn’t prepared. But I am now.”
“Questions that can’t wait another couple hours? Or even for someone to go with you?” Rossi argues, though with him it’s much clearer that it comes from a place of worry, of fatherly concern.
“Yes,” you reply confidently. “And questions that I need to be alone to ask her. I think Hotch being with me scared her and she wasn’t saying everything she could’ve.”
Dave sits up in the chair. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” you shake your head. The elevator dings and your eyes dart toward it, but it’s no one you know. “Please.”
“Alright,” Rossi relents. “Where are you going?”
“The diner Hotch and I went to,” you say, your feet already moving toward the doors. “Across from the train tracks. I’ll be back in an hour, two tops. Seriously.” You pause at the doors, turning back to look at him. “If Aaron asks, don’t let him come after me. I’ll be fine.”
Rossi nods once, though he doesn’t seem happy at all about agreeing to this. “Okay.”
“Thank you,” you breathe, pushing through the doors and sprinting to the car.
+++
Aaron wakes half an hour later to an empty bed. He had heard you get up, but in his half-asleep state, he thought you were just going to the bathroom.
Clearly, he was wrong.
Once it sets in that the bed is cold and you are gone, he practically flies around the room, checking for you in the bathroom, behind the curtains, outside in the hall. But you’re nowhere.
He takes long strides to his phone, checking for texts that are nonexistent. His eyes glance next to the notepad. A simple note. You’ve gone out for breakfast. But when did you write this? It’s barely six a.m. now, how long have you been gone? Why didn’t he notice sooner?
He dials Rossi’s number and his friend answers on the first ring. “Where is she?”
Rossi hesitates. It’s enough to convict him in Aaron’s eyes.
“Dave,” Aaron bites out, already searching for pants and a shirt. “Where did she go?”
“She’s coming back,” Dave says, as if Aaron gives a fuck about that. You’re out there right now, alone, in the town you were first kidnapped in, when the unsub is no doubt out there too, probably watching your every move. “She just needed time.”
“Time for what?” Aaron puts Dave on speaker while he gets dressed faster than he ever has, rivaling his time when the BAU gets a call in the middle of the night. He pauses. “Did she go to see Darlene?”
Rossi is quiet. Aaron curses.
“I don’t like this, Dave,” Aaron hisses. “Darlene lied to us. She said Doug had a son, and he doesn’t.”
“Why would she lie about that?”
“I don’t know!” Aaron cries. “But if she’s hiding something, or not telling the truth on purpose, I don’t like it, whatever the reason for it, and--”
“Okay,” Dave sighs. “I’ll drive.”
+++
Darlene is waiting outside the diner when you arrive, a cigarette pursed between her lips. She smiles when she sees you park and cross the tracks.
“I hope you still know how to bake,” Darlene says while she stomps out the cigarette. “I need an extra pair of hands.”
“Put me to work,” you grin, kind of relieved at the prospect of talking while doing something with your hands. It’ll take the pressure off, keep your hands occupied. “Can I ask you some questions while we work?”
“I’m an open book,” she promises, pulling open the door. “Ask away.”
You follow her inside and back to the kitchen, tying the apron around your waist when she hands it to you. You wait for her instructions.
You’re mid-way through heating the pie filling on the stove when you pitch your first question. Or, rather, the first statement.
“Our technical analyst did some digging,” you begin, “and she found that Doug doesn't have a son.”
Darlene chuckles, but it’s a bitter and hard sound. “Well, then I guess Doug got his wish.”
Your head turns at that. “What do you mean?”
She just sighs, continuing to work the pie crust on the counter. “Doug’s son, Carter, isn’t biologically his. Carter’s mom was having an affair, and when she had Carter, Doug knew it wasn’t his. She tried to say he was, but Doug didn’t believe her.”
“Wow,” you say, because you can’t think of anything else. “So that’s why his name wasn’t on the birth certificate. It was just his mom.”
Darlene nods. “That’ll be why. So, Carter lived with his mom over in Georgia, and occasionally spent time with Doug here. I don’t honestly know why his mom let him do that, I guess because she and Doug loved each other, and for what it’s worth, Doug was willing to look past the cheating.”
“What?”
“Yes ma’am,” Darlene continues to nod. “Doug was prepared to look past it all and stay with her and raise Carter as his own since his real father was not in the picture anymore, but she didn’t want that. She moved back with her mom in Georgia and took Carter with her, but let him visit with Doug. I always thought she did it when she needed a babysitter and her mom was busy, 'cause she knew Doug would always say yes. He loved that kid.”
“Loved?” you raise an eyebrow. “Not anymore?”
“They don’t speak anymore, last I heard,” Darlene says, shaking her head. “It’s a shame. Doug moved away to Tennessee a while back. Carter,” she glances at you carefully, adding, “you might remember him, actually, I’m sure he hung out with your dad and Doug at those bonfires your daddy always threw. Back when they could stand to spend an evening together.”
You shake your head. “It’s all so vague. I think I’ve blocked most of it out, or at least, my mind put such a sheen on it that I can’t really see any of it clearly anymore.”
“Oh, hon,” Darlene frowns, arms twitching like she wants to reach out and hug you. “Well, I suppose that’s for the better. There’s a lot of stuff that I hope you don’t remember.”
You decide to fish for one of them. “Does my dad shooting the floor Doug’s Deli ring any bells?”
Darlene curses. “It does.”
“Do you have any idea what that was about?” you ask, desperate to understand. “All I’ve got is that my dad was looking over my shoulder when he shot the floor, but I don’t know who he was looking at. Doug?” You pause. “Carter?”
Darlene shakes her head, but you get the feeling that she isn't exactly denying your guesses. “None of us really know what happened that day,” she admits. “But after it happened, me and Cindy tried to have an intervention with your mom. She didn’t take it well, or, I guess she took it better than we expected her to, but she still didn’t leave him.
“And Doug…I don’t think Doug ever forgave him for shooting a hole in his trailer. It was obvious who the bullet was meant for, and it was obvious that your father was crazy enough to do it, but you were with him.” She shakes her head again. “I know that’s the only reason Carter is still alive today.”
“Because I was there?” your eyes are wide. “My dad was going to shoot him but didn't because I was there?”
“The boy was obsessed with you!” Darlene cries. “Just absolutely enamored with you, and your father hated it. Oh, it riled him up worse than anything when he’d invite Doug over and Carter came too.”
You still don’t understand. “My dad hated him…for having a crush on me?”
“Yes,” Darlene laughs, then shakes her head. “No. Well, sort of. It wasn’t a crush. It wasn’t like that. He was obsessed with you. I think he meant well, a lot of people did, he was just a little too eager and a little too old for you, too, even to be friends. Five years makes a big difference at that age. And it was just,” she pauses, rolling the crust over the pan. She shakes her head again. “He meant well.”
You narrow your eyes, staring down at the boiling fruit as you wrack your brain for any memories of a Carter, of a boy a little older than you, looking at you a little too much, trying to spend just a little too much time with you. Your brain conjures a murky vision of a face, and sandy blond hair, but nothing much else. Nothing you can confidently say means anything.
“Do you know where he is now?” you ask tentatively. You feel like Darlene would’ve already mentioned it if it was information she was willing to disclose, and the fact that she hasn’t is beginning to worry you a little. “We’re gonna try to speak to Doug too,” you add, as if to tell her we’ll find Carter one way or another. You don’t want to believe that she’s hiding anything from you intentionally, but she won’t quite look at you, and she’s leaving obvious holes in her explanations.
You wait patiently, listening to her sigh, cuss under her breath. “He doesn’t go by Carter anymore. But he’s around.”
“Around?” you question, your heart lurching to your throat. “Darlene. What does ‘around’ mean exactly?”
“It means, you’ve prob'ly already talked to him,” she says, as if each word pains her to say. “It’s Officer Andrew Robinson, honey. That’s Doug’s son.”
+++
Dave parks the car in the lot across from the tracks, right next to yours. When Aaron goes for the handle, Dave locks the doors.
“You need to wait,” Dave scolds him, free hand reaching out and gripping Aaron’s shoulder like he’s a flight risk -- because he is. “She needs to do this alone.”
Aaron knows his friend is right, but it pains him to not be able to lay his eyes on you, especially after last night. It was always hard, he’ll admit, being away from you, but the feeling has only grown stronger.
He doesn’t know what he’s going to do. His gut tells him more and more with every passing second that it isn’t safe for you here anymore, not right now, but he doesn’t know if he’ll survive you being far away from him.
But if they find this unsub, and it’s the same man that has been taunting and following you all these years, Aaron doesn’t know what he might do to him -- and if he wants you to see that side of him.
+++
The world sways where you stand, and you narrowly avoid dropping the wooden spoon and splattering hot fruit everywhere and on the both of you. You sit it down on the spoon rest, leaning onto the counter for stability.
“Officer Robinson?” you repeat quietly. “Why…” you shake your head, almost glaring at Darlene because why? “Why didn’t you say anything before? When we were first talking about Doug’s son, why didn’t you mention that he’s still here? I don’t understand why you’d-- why you’d keep that from me.”
“Oh, honey,” Darlene’s frown deepens, wiping her hands on a towel. “Because it took so long for that boy to let you go after you moved away -- we didn’t know if he’d make it, honestly, he was that heartbroken. And when you showed up in here and didn’t mention him at all, I thought-- Maybe he didn’t recognize you, and maybe you didn’t recognize him, and maybe that’s all for the better. We all thought his infatuation with you was harmless back then, but when he heard you moved away and then we heard nothing about you ever again, it was…like he thought you had died.”
All you can think right now is: I wish I had. I wish I wasn’t hearing any of this.
“You should’ve said something,” you hiss, ripping the knot out of your apron and yanking it over your head. “This is an ongoing investigation, Darlene! My boss wanted to have you arrested for withholding information when he found out Doug didn’t actually have a son!”
“But Doug does!”
“Not on paper!” you shout, hating that you’re yelling at her like this, but you’re too frustrated, you can’t stop it from boiling over. “Cart-- Robinson might be Doug’s son in his eyes, but he’s not on paper, and Doug was never married!”
“They might as well have been,” Darlene scoffs. “The two of them were living together, they had plans to elope before he found out about the cheating!”
“But they didn’t!” You don’t even know why you’re arguing with her about this. These are trivial details now; none of these matter. All that matters now is calling Officer Robinson in for questioning, and so you can get a good look at his face, and really hear his voice. “I need to get to the precinct. I need to-- I need to leave.”
“Sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
You feel her hand reaching out for you, but you flinch away from it. “Darlene,” you exhale sharply. “I am going to do all that I can to make sure you don’t get in trouble for any of this, but you cannot tell me any more lies. I don’t care what the rumor mill says, I don’t care what anyone ‘might as well have been’. This is a homicide investigation. I need facts.”
“Then I need to tell you one more thing,” Darlene says, wringing her hands nervously. “And I know you said you don’t care about the rumor mill, but that’s part of what this is because it was never confirmed -- or...none of us ever saw a test.”
You wheel around, eyes narrowing. “A test for what?”
+++
The plan had been for Dave and Aaron to discreetly pull away when they first see you in the front of the diner, so as not to alert you to the fact that they’ve been watching and waiting. But when Aaron sees you flying out the front doors, tears streaming down your face and mouth open, choking on a sob, he doesn’t give a fuck about any sort of plan.
He opens his car door and launches himself out of the seat, practically jumping over the train tracks entirely to reach you because you can barely walk. He thinks the worst: that you’re physically injured, that the unsub was in there hurting you.
When you meet him halfway, in the middle of the empty street, he expects you to be angry with him for being here, for coming along when Dave told him that you asked him specifically not to, but you’re sobbing too much to say anything. You’re clinging to him with all your might, knees buckling, raw, angry, screaming sobs coming out of you. Sounds he’s never heard anyone make, sounds he can’t believe are coming from you, and it’s shattering his heart into pieces, splintering all over his body.
“Come on, I’ve got you,” he focuses on getting you somewhere else. He lifts you into his arms when he realizes you can’t move much more, and carries you bridal style over to the car.
Dave is already out of the car and opening up the back seat so Hotch can set you down. You’re still clinging to him when he does, arms refusing to unlock themselves from around his neck.
“Honey,” Aaron cries, tears stinging his eyes just from seeing you like this. He presses a kiss to your forehead, tucking you into his chest, shushing you. “What’s going on?”
You try to get the words out, but your chest is heaving, your sobs won’t relent. All Hotch and Rossi can make out is one word: brother.
The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part thirty-five
Guys 👀👀 GUYS!!! 🤭🤭 Only took 35 mf chapters but we are finally here!! Enjoy 🫶🏻
Warnings: SMUT 18+ only mdni!!, p in v, oral (f recieving), slight edging, these two just can't stop bickering for five seconds, angry but tender sex, Aaron being a little shit and R giving it back to him, protected sex for once (GASP i know), slight size kink (no one is shocked)
The late evening creeps in when Garcia finally gets back to you about what she has found on Doug.
The rest of the team have since gone to the hotel to check in and get settled, since only you and Hotch did so earlier, leaving you with said Unit Chief alone in the conference ro om at the police precinct. To say the air between the two of you has been tense puts it lightly. And it only gets worse the second Garcia delivers her findings.
“What do you mean you’ve found nothing on Doug?” You nearly drop the fry you’re holding, you and Aaron just finishing up dinner when she called.
“I mean, there’s nothing, lovely. He lives in Tennessee now in a little cabin outside Nashville, he doesn’t run the deli anymore, he’s retired, and he’s got a squeaky clean record, not even a speeding ticket. I’m sorry kids, even his credit card bills check out fine. The only questionable thing -- purely for the sake of his health -- that I can find is that he spends way too much money at a local coffee house.”
“What about his son?”
“I looked into that as well, and…I’m sorry, but it doesn’t look like he has one. He’s not listed as the father on any birth certificates, never paid any child support, he’s never even been married.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” you pick at your fingernails. “Darlene said--”
“Thank you Garcia,” Hotch says, abruptly ending the call.
You shake your head. “I don’t get it, she said--”
“I’m having Garcia look into Darlene as well,” Hotch admits quietly. “After this, I think it’s warranted.”
“But Doug has a son, Aaron.”
“Garcia just said--”
“No, you’re not listening to me,” you interrupt. “He has a son. I remember him. I know he does.”
“Listen,” he sighs. “It’s been a long day. I think we should head back to the hotel, get some rest--”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I think you’re tired,” he says carefully. “I think you’ve had a long day. I think being back here is as mentally exhausting for you as it is physically, and I think you’re starting to confuse yourself.”
“Confuse myself?”
He rubs his forehead. “I don’t mean it in a negative way--”
“What other way could you possibly mean it?” you scoff. “If you say you mean it in a caring way, I swear to God, Aaron.”
He says nothing.
You gather your things, and Hotch does the same, neither of you saying anything as you turn the lights out and leave the conference room for the night. Most of the officers have gone home, including the deputy, but a couple have stuck around, watching you and Hotch as you leave, no doubt looking to be in the middle of a lovers quarrel.
The drive back to the hotel is dead silent, and you’re glad you’re the one driving because you need something to do before you ram Hotch’s head into a wall.
When you park at the hotel, you slam the car door on your way out of it, not even bothering to look back and see if he’s following you inside. You stomp your way up the stairs, only not slamming the door to your room out of respect for your neighbors, but God.
He just keeps doing this. He keeps doubting you. You know it was twenty years ago, and you haven’t been back here since then. But now you have and now memories are being jostled loose and you have to trust them. Why else would they be so vivid if they weren’t real?
You don’t care what he says. You can trust Darlene, you know you can. She would not lie to your face -- because why would she? What purpose would that serve? What would she gain from that?
Nothing, that’s what, but instead, Hotch thinks she lied and now needs to do a background check on her to see all her dark secrets that she’s apparently hiding.
You scoff at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. It’s ridiculous.
You need to talk to her again -- alone. How exactly you’re going to do that with Hotch breathing down your neck the whole time, you don’t know. You’ll figure it out tomorrow, you guess.
You tug your shirt over your head, tossing it in the corner. You’re just about to unbutton your pants when you hear soft knocks on the door. You tilt your head toward the sky, knowing exactly who it must be.
Still, you answer the door -- after a quick check through the peephole to determine that you’re correct. Aaron’s eyes dart to your chest in surprise before landing back on your face.
“My bag is still in here,” he says, and the effort he’s using to keep his eyes on your face is straining his voice. “And Dave kicked me out.”
“Right,” you deadpan, opening the door further and nodding him inside. “I’m gonna shower.”
“Okay.” He shuts the door, flicking the deadbolt. “I can sleep on the floor.”
You roll your eyes, heading into the bathroom. “I’m not making you sleep on the fucking floor.”
“Well, you don’t exactly sound like you want to sleep next to me.”
“Profiler of the year, everybody,” you announce to the room.
He looms behind you, meeting your eyes in the bathroom mirror. Meeting your glare. You drag the makeup wipe down your face, looking away from him when you start to feel the heat in his eyes settling into your gut.
You know you’re standing here in your bra, but he can’t look at you like that.
“I’m mad at you,” you say instead, quiet as you toss the wipe.
“I know.” But he doesn’t sound sorry for it.
“You’re doing it again, Aaron,” you exhale, turning around and leaning back against the sink, crossing your arms over your chest protectively. “You’re thinking I’m not capable--”
“No, no,” he steps into the bathroom, into your space, getting dangerously close to breathing the same air as you, “that is not what I’m doing--”
“Yes it is!”
“Nothing about this is me thinking you’re incapable, or bad at your job, or whatever your head is telling you.”
“Well then enlighten me, because my head is just telling me what I’m seeing, clear as fucking day.”
He fucking laughs at you. “You know what you’re doing?”
“What?” you snap, tilting your head up at him, challenging. “What am I doing?”
He leans over you, placing both hands on opposite sides of your hips, effectively pinning you to the sink. It makes your traitorous heart fluttter. “You’re angry at me again for helping you.”
Your lips are just barely ghosting his when you hiss, “Oh, fuck you.”
“Yeah,” he leans even closer, kicking your legs apart and stepping between them, “I think I will.”
You don’t have a second to spare before Aaron’s lips are on yours, hot and heavy and claiming. His hips press into yours and your lips part in surprise at how hard he already is. He takes the opportunity to lick into your mouth, coaxing you open for him, and you’re gripping his arms for stability, feeling his muscles straining with the weight of him as he holds himself up against the sink. He takes a step closer, as if he can get any closer to you, his arms wrapping around you to lift you up and onto the sink.
“Fuck,” you moan, opening your legs wider for him, locking your heels together behind his back and pulling him into you. The action surprises him, his footsteps faltering and hips stuttering when you grind into him.
He reaches behind you and unclips your bra with one hand, pulling the straps down and tossing it away. Your hands claw at his shoulders, trying to convey what you can’t say because words aren’t working right now. He understands, though, he always understands you, and continues kissing you while he unbuttons his shirt with one hand. You shove it over his shoulders and down his arms, wasting no time before you grab the hem of his undershirt and pull it upwards.
Your hands smooth over his chest, whining into his mouth because finally, finally you can feel him. The hard ridges of the muscles in his shoulders, chest, his stomach. Your nails bite into his skin as you fight to pull him toward you, and he hisses, but he doesn’t stop you, he growls into you, going for your neck.
“Aaron,” you gasp, one hand going to the back of his head, tugging on his hair. “I’m still mad at you. This doesn’t-- Fuck, this doesn’t mean I’m not mad at you--”
“You’re always mad at me,” he breathes hot into your ear, nipping at your skin. “It’s so--”
“Frustrating?” you giggle.
“Sexy,” he groans, going back for your lips. They’re going to be bruised in the morning if he keeps this up.
You’re just about to ask for more when he reads your mind and picks you up off the counter, heading back into the room. You have no idea how he doesn’t knock into the doorframe or trip over anything because he doesn’t stop kissing you to look where he’s going.
He topples you both onto the bed, laughing when he nearly crushes you. You’re giggling at his face, the way he went from blissful to genuinely concerned he was going to crush you underneath him.
“These need to come off,” you grin, going for his belt and undoing it.
He lets you push them down his hips, all while he’s unbuttoning yours and tugging them away. Both pairs land in a pile somewhere, and just when you’re about to pull him back up to your face, he kneels down.
“No,” you whine, trying to pull him up by his shoulders, but it’s no use. “Aaron, stop, I need you inside me.”
“I will be,” he whispers, licking his lips, his eyes not at all focused on your face. He tongues at your clit through the fabric of your panties, and it sends such an electric shock through you that your back arches and your hips lift toward his mouth. “Fiesty,” he smirks, easily pinning your hips down with his hands.
“Stop teasing,” you protest. “Just fuck me already.”
“I said I will,” he chides, pulling your panties down and placing them on the floor. “First, you’re going to let me taste you.”
“You can do that after--”
“Just shut up and let me,” he pauses to nudge your clit with his nose, his breath hitching. He grabs your hips and pulls you into him, getting comfortable. “God, you are so--”
“Frustrated,” you quip, ready to kick him, but your heels just barely tap his back as he keeps you in place.
He smirks against you, dragging it out for another few seconds, and just when you’re about to seriously yell at him, he dives in.
“Fucking shit--!” you curse, squirming against him as he starts at an unforgiving pace, tongue flicking against your clit and hands keeping you right where he wants you with no chance of escape. You feel your climax coming at a frightening pace. “Aaron, I’m gonna--”
He stops. He comes up for air, looking up at you with a dumbass grin on his lips that are shining with you. “What’s the matter?”
“You little shit--”
He returns to your core, starting a little slower while the remnants of your previous ruined orgasm simmer just below the surface. He inserts one finger, then two, opening you up for him. He slowly increases the speed until you’re right on the edge again, and you expect it to be ruined, expect him to break away with some witty little smile, but he doesn’t. He throws you right over the edge and doesn’t stop. If anything, once you start cumming, he goes faster.
You’re kicking his back now, wanting him to stop and yet keep going until you cum again, and he knows it. He knows exactly how you work. He slows down, letting you ride it out on his mouth until you’re just worked up enough to go again, and then he crawls up your body.
He kisses you sweetly, tongue darting between your lips without preamble. You can taste yourself and it’s somehow the hottest thing ever when you’re tasting it off his tongue.
“I don’t have any condoms,” he admits against your lips. “We don’t have to--”
“In my bag,” you gasp, hand reaching out beside you and gesturing toward it. “I think I have some.”
He pulls back, raising an eyebrow at you with that damn smirk. “Seriously?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you grin, tapping his cheek lightly. “Could’ve been for someone else.”
They’re not. They’re not really in there for anyone, you just like to be prepared for anything. But Aaron doesn’t need to know that. The flash of jealousy that you get in his eyes is just delicious.
Silently, he goes to your bag and grabs one, crawling back over you on the bed, condom in hand. “Who were they for?”
“Anyone,” you shrug, fingertips trailing up his arm. When you see he’s still staring you down, you whisper, “No one.”
“That’s what I thought,” he mutters, ripping the packet open with his teeth. He rolls the condom on and hauls your hips up, positioning himself right at your entrance.
When he finally pushes in, your eyes immediately roll back, but he stops. “Look at me,” he says, and you do, forcing your eyes to focus on him. When you do, you’re rewarded with him thrusting the rest of the way in, stretching you just right. His hips meet yours and he exhales shakily, stomach muscles flexing with how he holds himself back.
“Aaron,” you groan, gripping his shoulders. “Please.”
“I need a second,” he says through his teeth. “You’re so warm.”
“You’re so big.”
He hisses, leaning over you, inadvertently pushing further in and you gasp. “Sorry, sorry-- was that a good noise?”
“You’re so deep.”
“Good deep?”
You nod, lifting your hips, allowing him to slip in just a little bit further. “God.”
“I know, honey, I know,” he whispers, capturing your lips again. “Can I move?”
“I might start drawing blood if you don’t,” you laugh, digging your nails into his arms just slightly for emphasis.
“Okay, okay,” he laughs breathily, pulling his hips back before shoving in. You both curse, clinging to one another like your lives depend on it.
“Don’t hold back,” you tell him, right into his ear when he buries his face in your neck. “Fuck me, Aaron.”
He needs no further permission. If you thought his pace earlier was unforgiving, this is something else entirely. You’re thankful he’s on top of you because you need something to cling to, and that something is wrapping your arms around his neck.
You can barely form words, let alone anything else as he rams into you so hard that you move upward on the bed. One arm holds himself up while the other wraps around you, holding you in place against him. He’s already as deep as he can be, and you want more. You lift your hips and meet his thrusts, gasping when his movements stutter and you feel his hold on you tighten just that much more.
When you reach your peak a second time, it forces a choked moan from his chest, and he falls over onto his elbows, lips mashing into your forehead. His hips keep working lazily, dragging in and out, riding out your orgasm.
You’re barely calmed down when you’re lifting your hips again, willing him to start moving again. He laughs against your neck, pressing a loving kiss there before he starts up again, slamming into you.
“One more,” he rasps, one hand snaking down to rub your clit. “Can you give me one more?”
You don’t know, but something tells you he won’t accept that answer, and you don’t want that to be the answer. You want to cum around him again and to feel him cum in you, even if through the condom.
“Come on, honey,” he murmurs, lifting his head to watch you, slowing his hips so his thrusts are easy and deep. “One more.”
When you shatter around him this time, it pulls him under too, and feeling him twitch inside of you makes your head spin and body arch into him all over again.
He’s still cumming when he presses more of his weight onto you, and you sigh contentedly, feeling him all over. Chests heaving, rising and falling against one another, you shut your eyes and try to memorize this moment.
After a beat, he presses a kiss to your neck and asks, “Are you still mad at me?”
You roll your eyes, pulling his face toward yours to kiss his lips. “Yes,” you smile against him. “A little.”
The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part thirty-four
Back to our regularly scheduled programming! 🤭
Warnings: our usual angst, these two are starting to bicker again (emotions are running high!!!), more pieces of our puzzle and a new face 👀
You have got to stop agreeing to being trapped in a car with Hotch for an afternoon. Neither of you have an entirely pleasant time when you’re like this (read: the car chase, the many arguments). Except all those times before, Hotch had been driving. And this time, you are.
“Let muscle memory guide you,” he says, buckling himself in.
“Aaron, I didn’t drive when I lived here. I was a kid.”
“Just trust me.”
You glare at him, but you buckle yourself into the driver’s seat all the same. “Fine.”
Forget the fact that you didn’t drive when you were here -- because you left when you were thirteen -- but you also hardly remember living here. The memories are so hazy and broken.
It’s so complicated. This place is as much home as Washington state, yet you only lived there in your teenage years. When you really think about it, deep down, this town is home. This is the place you’ve always felt called to, while simultaneously being the one place you sought to avoid for the rest of your life. You hardly remember living here, years of blocking out memories and only seeing these streets in your nightmares, and yet, you remembered where to turn to go around the back of the schools late last night. You remembered where to go to find your old house, despite it being a library now.
“Where are we going?” Hotch asks casually, resting his arm on the console in the middle.
You readjust your grip on the steering wheel, squeezing so hard it hurts a little. “Don’t know.”
You turn down a side street, then another, weaving through the backroads until you’re at a spot you remember. The train tracks.
You turn into the small area under the bridge. It’s a proper paved parking lot now, but back then, it was just gravel that served as extra parking for the strip across the tracks. A hair salon, diner, general store, and body shop all lined up next to the fire station.
“My mom used to get her hair done here,” you murmur, nodding across the way. “Woman named Cindy. Looks like it’s a…” you squint your eyes, then roll them. “Of course it’s a vape shop now.”
Hotch chuckles. “Yeah. And a pool hall.”
“That used to be the general store,” you say. You scan the other doors. The body shop looks like it’s still in use, though the garage has a cardboard CLOSED sign duct taped to it right now. And the diner-- “No way.”
You open the car door with zero warning to Hotch, who scrambles to exit the car with you and join you outside.
“No way it’s still open,” you almost laugh. So much has changed around here, you’re relieved to see something that is familiar.
“Will you please watch where you’re going,” Hotch mutters behind you, clearly bothered by you clambering across the train tracks without even looking or listening.
“Oh, please, they’d have the bells ringing,” you wave him off. “They didn’t even put the crossing arms up until a couple years before we moved.”
He’s still muttering behind you, and you have to fight the smile that wants to crawl up your face.
You at least look before crossing the street, even though no one is out. It’s a little strange, considering it’s lunch time, but everywhere looks pretty barren.
A red and blue Open sign is lit up in the diner’s window, though, and that’s all you need to see.
The bell above the door dings as you and Aaron enter. As with any small town, all the heads turn to see who just walked into the local diner.
You meet the eyes of an elderly couple sitting at the counter, and a waitress on her break with headphones jammed in her ears. The woman behind the counter doesn’t look up from the coffee she’s brewing.
“Sit anywhere you’d like, I’ll be over in a second,” she calls out.
Hotch moves toward the booth right by the door, but you stop him instinctively, saying, “The AC leaks there.” You pause. “Or it used to.”
The woman hears you, turning her head and raising an eyebrow. “She’s right,” she says. “It ain’t much, but some folks don’t like their pie being waterboarded.”
You snicker. Hotch looks simultaneously amused and out of his depth.
“Here,” you nod to a different booth, just a few away from the elderly couple. “We won’t freeze to death here -- or get waterboarded.”
Hotch slides in across from you. “You’re remembering this place?”
You nod, looking all around you. The tiles are the same colors, though they’ve probably been replaced. Same with the booths. The coffee pots certainly haven’t had an upgrade, but you’ll bet the coffee is good. You never had any as a kid, but you loved the smell of it, and sometimes your mom would let you have a sip of hers.
The woman behind the counter reads your mind, coming over with two mugs and filling them near to the brim with black coffee. She steps back, looking down at you with narrowed eyes. “You from here?”
“Uh…” You let out an awkward laugh, moving the mug closer to you. “Kind of.”
“Kind of?” Her name tag reads Darlene. You don’t recognize her face, but she is an older woman, so maybe you saw her when you were younger, if she’s worked here that long.
“It’s complicated.”
“Ain’t it always,” she sighs. She looks at Hotch. “What do you want, sugar?”
“The coffee is fine,” he says.
Darlene glances back at you, her face asking this is the company you keep?
“We’ll have today’s pie,” you say with a smile.
“It’s cherry.”
“That’s perfect.” It’s not. You hate cherry pie. But the last thing you need is for the two of you to get zero information because Hotch is too busy being Mister Guard Dog.
“Alright,” Darlene turns on her heel. “Holler if you need anything. Dee, y’all ready to pay?”
The elderly couple behind Hotch nods and waves some cash at Darlene. They argue about how much they’re tipping and it makes you laugh.
“Lighten up a little,” you lightly kick Hotch’s leg under the table.
“Sorry,” he says, finally cracking a tiny smile. “You don’t like cherries,” he whispers.
“Shhh!” you hiss. “That’s not the point. The point is, she seems like she might know me--”
“I noticed.”
“--or maybe remembers my mom or something, so I want to try to ask her some questions--”
“Okay.”
“But I can’t do that if you keep acting like…that,” you give him your best glare. “Be nice.”
“I am nice!”
“Sure.”
Now he gives you his best glare.
The couple pays and leaves, the old man holding the door for his wife despite her grumbling about it. The waitress on her break gets up and heads outside after them.
Darlene walks over with two slices of pie -- apple pie. She sets them down in front of the both of you, grabbing another mug from the counter, this one already full of coffee.
Hotch glances at you, then back to Darlene as she pulls up a chair and sits at the end of the table.
“Alright, out with it,” she huffs, nodding toward you. “There’s only one reason you’re back in this town and there’s no way it’s good news.”
You blink. “You know who I am?”
“I’m not that old, sweetheart,” Darlene laughs, but it’s good-natured. Homely. Reminds you of your mom. “You and your momma used to sit at that booth over there before Cindy colored her hair and trimmed yours. Until the AC started leaking and your coloring book got water spots all over it, and Lord, you were a sight that day.”
“Was I upset?” you chuckle. “Wait-- You used to have red hair!”
“I did,” Darlene nods, pleased that you remembered. “Black covers up my grays better. Anyway, of course you were upset, those were fine art! You were calmed down with a slice of apple pie, though.”
You lower your eyes to the plate before you. “Caught.”
“You never used to have trouble asking for what you really wanted,” Darlene comments. “Not with your mom, anyway.”
Across the table, Aaron tenses.
You pick up your fork, stabbing at the pie to occupy yourself. “Was I…ever in here with my dad?”
Darlene nods very slowly. “Once or twice.”
“What was his behavior like?” Hotch asks.
Darlene cuts her eyes to Hotch before looking at you. She gestures at him with her coffee. “Is he serious?”
“We’re investigating something in town, and it’s-- I think it’s a big spider web and my dad is at the heart of it.”
Darlene sighs, takes a sip of her coffee, looks out the front window. “I told your momma she needed to divorce that man. She needed to get him the hell away from you. And when we heard you were kidnapped, we just knew it was him--”
“My dad didn’t kidnap me,” you interject. You don’t know why you’re defending him, or why you feel like you should. “He was missing, he turned himself in to help find me.”
“Turning himself in was the least he could do after he let that man take you,” Darlene hisses.
Your mind reels, replaying her words. After he let that man take you.
“You know who it was?” Hotch questions.
“We have some ideas,” Darlene scoffs. “Rick, for starters. They met here once, started talking all funny and laughing too loud-- They were drunk at 10am. Prob’ly high too. I kicked them out. Told them they could go drink on the train tracks for all I cared.”
“Rick?” you ask. “Do you remember his last name?”
“Started with an M or an N,” she shrugs. You and Hotch share a look. “Hell, it’s been twenty years, honey. I’m still not convinced you’re not a ghost. We all thought when your mom took you away from here that you’d never set foot near this state ever again -- for good reason, too.”
“Believe me, I tried,” you laugh bitterly. “Do you remember anyone else he met with here?”
“Doug,” she adds. “He used to own the deli on the other side of town. He and your father never got along, though, I don’t know why they kept trying to be friends. He was here with his son when your dad walked in. That was the second time I kicked your dad out of here, and it was for good that time.”
“Were they arguing?” Hotch prompts.
Darlene nods firmly, pure hatred in her eyes. “Shoutin’ at each other like they had nothing else better to do. In front of God and everybody.”
“Do you remember what they were arguing about?” Hotch asks.
Darlene nods again. At you.
“Me?” you sit back, confused. “What about me?”
“Oh, we all had opinions, honey, about your father. Sometimes people got loud about it. Them two were going at it because Doug thought Carson was a bad father -- hard to argue with -- and Carson made some jab at Doug for being divorced before their baby was even born-- It was awful. It didn’t get too far before the sheriff came in. We were dating at the time, he was on his way for lunch and happened to walk into something more.” She shakes her head. “God, I haven’t thought about this in decades. I’ve thought about you, honey, I’m so glad to see you’re doing so well for yourself.”
You smile fondly, then falter at her wording. You look at Hotch and your eyes widen. “Oh! Oh, Darlene, we’re not--”
“We’re not together,” you and Hotch say together, waving it off.
Darlene glances back and forth between the two of you, eyebrows raised. “Right.” She sips her coffee. “Anyway, Mary will be back from her smoke break soon. I figured it was something you didn’t want anyone else listening to.”
“Yeah, thank you,” you chuckle. “I’m an FBI agent trained to read people, and you’ve read me pretty damn good ever since I walked in.”
Darlene’s smile turns smug. “Not hard at all to read you.” She turns her head to Hotch. “You either, sugar. Loosen the tie, it’ll choke you one of these days.”
Hotch offers a tiny laugh, nodding. “Thanks.”
“And eat the pie,” Darlene says to the both of you. “I made it this morning, don’t waste it.”
“Yes ma’am,” Hotch says, picking up his fork.
You eat your pie in silence, trying to process all the new information Darlene has given you. The waitress comes back from her break and heads through to the back of the diner.
Darlene comes over and refills your coffee. “It’s on the house,” she says, “and don’t argue with me.”
“Alright, fine,” you hold up your hands. “Can I give you my phone number?”
“Of course.”
“If you remember anything else that you think might be important, don’t hesitate to call,” you say, handing her your card. “Or…if we could just talk? I don’t really remember much, but I’d like to hear some stories, if you want to share.”
Darlene rests her hand over yours. “Always, sweetheart. Let me give you some pie to go.”
“I’d love that,” you murmur. “Thank you.”
She comes back with two to-go boxes of pie, and you know without a doubt that there are two slices in each, but you don’t dare say anything about it.
“We should get going,” you say, reaching for the boxes, but Hotch takes them instead. Darlene notices. “Thank you for everything. And if you can think of anything else--”
“I’ll send you a text so you’ve got my number,” she promises, squeezing your arm. She turns to Hotch. “You two take care of each other.”
“We will,” he says with a smile, but it’s strained. You can tell. You narrow your eyes, but you don’t say anything about it. Not yet.
You wait until you’re outside the diner, back across the tracks and under the bridge. You come to a stop in front of the car, blocking his path to the passenger seat.
“Do you want me to drive?” he asks.
“No, I want you to tell me what’s going on,” you retort. “Out with it. What do you not like, what are you sensing, why do you not like Darlene?” you tick each question off with a finger.
Hotch sighs, setting the to-go boxes on the hood of the car. “I just think we should be careful.”
“Hotch, she’s the first -- and maybe only person left who remembers my dad, my mom, me, and you’re worried that she’s the unsub?”
“No, that is not what I said,” Hotch argues. “I said we should be careful. Yes, she remembers you and your family, but that does not mean we should throw caution to the wind and immediately trust her every word. We should look into her.”
“You--” You almost laugh. “You seriously think she’s a threat? She gave us names, Hotch. She gave us new information, pointed us to Doug’s Deli -- that was the place I was at with my dad. We need her. She’s harmless, trust me.”
“I do,” he replies. “You know that I do. That’s not what this is about.”
“If you say it’s about protecting me,” you roll your eyes. “I lived in this town once, Hotch. I can handle being here again.”
“You were a kid the last time you were here, I have no doubt you can handle yourself now, just as I have no doubt that the unsub is here, and is watching.”
You pause, open your mouth, close it again. “You’re paranoid.”
“And you’re not?”
“Sure, I’m scared, I don’t exactly enjoy being back in the town that holds some of my worst memories, but we can’t afford to be paranoid, Aaron. We can’t give the unsub that kind of power.”
“We certainly can’t afford to be so lax with our trust that our guards are down.”
“Darlene is harmless,” you protest. “Don’t make her out to be someone she’s not.”
“You should take your own advice,” he fires back. “Remember you haven’t seen her in over twenty years. You didn’t remember her until she sat down. Are you even one-hundred-percent sure she’s the same woman you think you remember?”
“That’s enough,” you snap. “I don’t need you questioning what I do or don’t remember, I do that to myself enough.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but you cut him off.
“Get in the car,” you mutter, pushing past him to head to the driver’s side. You yank the door open so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t come off the hinges.
Hotch gets in silently, setting the to-go boxes on the backseat.
“Don’t ask where we’re going,” you say quietly. “I just need to drive.”
+++
Hotch doesn’t dare speak while you drive. He hardly breathes, if he’s honest. He answers texts from Dave and Morgan, nothing of import. And when Dave asks how the two of you are doing, Aaron deliberately ignores the message.
He watches where you drive, taking note of the streets you pass, when your eyes linger a little too long on certain buildings at stoplights. But you don’t say a single word. You sit there, driving around like a ghost. It’s unnerving.
The first thing you do say is “This used to be a dirt road” when you turn down a side street. Hotch hums, but he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know if you want him to.
You’re too quiet, though. You keep turning your head to get a look at both sides of the road as you drive. No one is out here; it’s all fields on either side.
Then, out of nowhere, you slam on the brakes.
“What?” he says, hand instinctively reaching for you. He turns to look behind the car, but there’s no one. It’s just the two of you out here.
“I think…I think my dad dumped bodies out here,” you whisper. “I’ve seen it in the pictures, but this used to be a dirt road because…there used to be horses up there. We’d stop and I’d feed them. I don’t even know if he knew the owners or anything. I never thought to question that, we were just…spending time together.”
Hotch opens the GPS and reads the road name, and you were right. He’s seen the name pop up before in the files he’s read about The Strangler. Two bodies were found here, but it was strange. While your father did occasionally dump bodies off back roads, it was mostly schools. The bodies were believed to be his victims purely because of the location and the way they were killed, but only after the fact, after they found out Carson Adkins was The Strangler and lived here.
Obviously, you and Hotch both know that sometimes serial killers dump bodies in places they consider to be sacred, places they return to time and time again to relive the kill, revisit the bodies, feel that high all over again. And if the unsub is married with kids, it sometimes means places where the family would spend time together, the killer blurring the lines.
But your father never did that. All of his confirmed victims were found in Atlanta or California, places you never touched. It doesn’t align with his profile to dump bodies here, where he’d spend afternoons with you, who he clearly adored. He wouldn’t taint this area.
So who would?
“We need to look at those cases again,” Hotch says, “the women he dumped on this road.”
“Why?” You turn your head toward him, furrowing your eyebrows. “We can’t backtrack or we’ll never get ahead of this guy.”
“You said you and your father spent time together here, feeding the horses, bonding together.”
“A few times, yeah, but,” you shrug, “I don’t know that that means much.”
“He wouldn’t have tainted this area with his crimes,” Hotch says. “He loved you too much, that’s obvious in those letters. It would make no sense for him to dump bodies here, where he spent time with you.”
“But someone else would, someone jealous, or just upset with my dad--” You pause. “We need to get Garcia to look into Doug. Now.”
The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part thirty-three
Coming up for air from my other one shot idea for today's Gambit update as promised 🤭
Warnings: our usual angst but more about r's father that is 🫣, bits of fluff here and there, local cops being local cops, that's about it i think
Hotch knows this is inappropriate. He knows this is so beyond unprofessional. He knows a “no fraternization” seminar is certainly in his future if this goes any further.
But when he sees you lying there, sleeping soundly, he can’t bring himself to care. He’ll deal with Strauss, with HR, with anyone who tries to make this something it isn’t.
He doesn’t know why he’s thinking ahead like this — because the two of you haven’t talked. Richard Monroe turned up dead, the unsub left the body outside your old school, and you had (and fought off) a panic attack and somehow remained standing. You have no idea how strong you are.
Hotch tucks the blankets better around you before forcing himself to sit in the desk chair and go over some files while you rest. Rossi texts him updates from the precinct — nothing viable — and not-so-subtly asks how you’re doing.
She’s sleeping, Aaron types back with a slight eye roll. Dave certainly gets even nosier with every passing day.
How did you manage to do that? is Dave’s reply.
Aaron turns his phone over and doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks over his shoulder to check on you, but you’re fast asleep, little puffs of air escaping your lips peacefully.
He turns back to his files. They’re coming up empty so far, and it’s starting to worry him.
Yes, the majority of these officers were raised here, but aside from some charges that have since been dropped and were clearly the result of teenage ambition, there is nothing untoward, nothing to suggest that one of them might know more than they’re letting on.
Frustrated, Aaron grabs his phone and steps outside into the hall, keeping the door open a crack, and his back pressed against it protectively. He dials Rossi.
“Aaron?” Dave answers.
Hotch keeps his voice quiet, “I’m not finding anything. Some vandalism charges from spray painting the playground, from egging a police officer’s car, all while teenagers. That’s nothing to write home about.”
“I agree,” Rossi sighs. “It’s the same here. Small things, no indicators of the kind of behavior we’re looking for.”
Hotch rubs his forehead. “We’re— We’re grasping at thin air, Dave.”
“We’re still missing something.”
“How can we be missing something still? After all this time?” Hotch fights to keep his voice low. “I can’t leave her alone. I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“I know you do,” Dave says quietly. “You sure it’s not mixed with something else?”
Aaron sighs. “I don’t know.”
“Have you two talked?”
“Yeah,” Aaron murmurs, a fond smile toying at his lips. “We have. But—” Your fucking raccoons interrupted us and she hasn’t acted the same since. “Obviously we were interrupted with Richard’s death, and…” He trails away, shaking his head. “Now isn’t the time.”
“Now might be the time,” Dave argues. “To let her know how much you care. How much you’re worried about her.”
“She knows, trust me,” Aaron says. “She was angry with me for making her get some rest—”
“You did spring that on her.”
“Because you know she wouldn’t have agreed if I tried to ask.”
“Maybe,” Rossi muses. “Or maybe you could try something new, try talking to her before making an executive decision about her. You did it on the jet.”
“Right.” Aaron sees his friend’s point. Maybe you would be more open-minded about his help if he would talk to you first, especially now, after getting things out in the open about how he was trying to help all those years ago. The jet was different; it was in relation to work. And as much as he tries to convince himself that ordering you to nap is also considered work, he knows it isn’t. He knows it’s something else. “I’ll try.”
“Good,” Dave says. “You should try to rest too, if you can.”
Hotch thinks back to earlier. You had told him he needed to rest too, and he hadn’t planned on it, but maybe he should. Maybe an hour.
When Aaron heads back inside, you’re on your side, eyes cracking open.
“Hey,” he whispers, shutting the door. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”
“C’mere,” you murmur, obviously still half asleep. “Y’gotta nap too.”
He smiles. “Alright. I concede.”
He strips his suit jacket and tie off but leaves his pants and shirt. He’s just about to crawl into bed beside you when you give him a funny look.
“You’re gonna wrinkle your clothes.”
“It’s fine.”
“That can’t be comfy.”
“It’s just a nap.”
You shrug, snuggling further into the pillows and shutting your eyes. Hotch sighs.
He takes off the dress shirt, and hangs it over the back of the desk chair. When you don’t move, clearly drifting off again already, he strips down to his boxers, draping his dress slacks over the chair too.
He sets his phone on the nightstand before sliding into bed beside you. You might be half-asleep, but you move closer to him instantly, curling into his side and sighing happily. Aaron wraps an arm around you, chuckling softly as he tucks you into his chest.
+++
You hate being back in this town.
You wake with a start, the gunshot in your dreams still echoing in your ears as if it happened just now. One quick glance around the room tells you it didn’t. You’re in bed, in a hotel room, and you’re alone.
Well, almost alone. There is currently a koala clinging to you in his sleep in the form of Aaron Hotchner.
You laugh softly as you try to twist in his arms, but have no luck. You don’t even know what time it is, but knowing Hotch, he set alarms, so you can’t be late for anything.
You let the comfort of that — and his arm around your waist — lull you back to sleep again, even if for just another few minutes. And it was the worst idea you’d had all day.
This time when you wake, you manage to fling yourself out of Aaron’s arms, sitting up so suddenly that he is woken with a jolt.
“What is it?” He’s alert instantly, the man and agent that he is. His hand comes to rest on your shoulder.
“Sorry,” you laugh it off. “You ever have a dream and wake up, then fall back asleep and the dream picks up right where it left off?” You’re rambling and you make no sense, but that doesn’t matter. “We should get back to the precinct.”
You stand up and head for your work clothes still hanging up where you left them. You’re barely touching the fabric when Aaron is behind you, hand on your shoulder again.
“Talk to me,” he says. “What happened in the dream?”
To his credit, he doesn’t try to turn you around to face him. You don’t think you’d be able to speak if he did.
“My um,” you pause, clearing your throat. “My dad almost shot me. It was real.”
You hear him sigh. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his hand dropping down to your arm, thumb rubbing your skin gently. “It wasn’t real, it was just a dream.”
You shake your head. “It was a dream, but it was also…a memory.”
His motions falter. “What do you mean?”
You start shaking your head again. “It’s stupid, it’s probably my mind twisting my memories because I learned about what my dad did and now everything is tainted with that—”
You stop to catch your breath when Aaron says your name, his voice quiet, broken.
“We were getting lunch together,” you murmur, taking the clothes off the hangers just to busy your hands while you speak about this. “It was a good day.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t even know,” you huff. “We were having a good day. Mom had gone to run some errands, Dad took me out for lunch, it was the weekend so I was just surprised and happy he was home. We went to my favorite sandwich place nearby— It’s probably not even here anymore. But I was just eating, he was talking. I guess I said something wrong?” You don’t even realize Aaron has turned you around until he’s taking both of your hands in his, trying to meet your eyes. “I don’t think I even knew he had his gun on him — I knew he had one, that’s normal for a family in Alabama, but like, shotguns. For hunting deer. Not a pistol.”
“He tried to shoot you?” Aaron prompts.
You nod. Shake your head. Nod again. “He shot the floor. He was looking over my shoulder.” You pause. “And then we left, and when I got up I saw that it was— It was so close to my foot, Aaron, he nearly shot me.”
“And you left— Was he angry with someone that worked there?”
“I don’t know, I was too shocked by the fact that he shot the fucking floor where my feet were,” you snap, yanking your hands out of his. You wipe your palms on your shirt.
“What was the place called?”
“I don’t know, something Deli,” you shake your head. “It was in a trailer— Does this even matter?”
“It might, we can look into it,” Hotch says, keeping his hands by his side. “Why don’t you take a shower?”
“Hotch, I don’t have time—”
“What will help you calm down?” he asks. “What can I do?”
You sigh. “What time is it?”
Hotch looks like he doesn’t want to answer, but he does anyway. “Almost 11:30.”
“Okay. Can you—” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I don’t fucking know what to do.” You breathe shakily. Then, you ask him something that surprises the both of you. “Can you tell me what to do?”
He nods slowly. “Take a shower,” he starts. “It’ll help. I’ll get dressed. I’ll call Rossi and tell him what you told me, we’ll get Garcia to look into it. Do you remember how old you were?”
You shake your head. “Elementary school, I think.”
“Okay, that narrows it down, good job,” he says softly. “We’ll leave when you’re ready and get back to the precinct and go over everything with the team. Find some new leads and we’ll follow them. We’ll get this guy.”
You nod. “Okay. Okay, I’m gonna—”
“Shower,” he says, one hand coming up to your arm again, guiding you toward the bathroom.
You walk with him, pausing just outside the bathroom door to turn around. You hesitate for a moment before throwing your arms around his neck.
He stumbles for a second before his arms encircle your waist, squeezing you tightly against him. As if a promise to protect you from anything bad that will ever come your way again.
“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling back to press a kiss to his cheek.
You’re into the bathroom and shutting the door before Aaron can even register what just happened.
+++
The team is waiting for you and Hotch when you arrive back at the precinct. You don’t necessarily look well-rested, despite your nap, but you do feel marginally better, and Hotch had you change clothes instead of wearing the same ones from before. A fresh start. A reset.
“What do we have?” you ask casually, hoping the team of profilers will pick up on the fact that you do not want to talk about you being practically ordered to get some sleep.
“They have mostly clean slates,” Rossi starts as Hotch shuts the conference room door. “Some petty theft, some vandalism, mostly from teenage years. One officer has a sexual harassment charge that I’m eager to ask about.”
“Who?” you ask. Not that you think that officer might be the unsub you’re looking for, but it’s all you’ve got so far.
“The deputy,” Rossi says. “Laneman.”
“Wait before questioning him,” Hotch interjects, just a touch of warning in his words. “I’m not sure I want these guys knowing we’re investigating them just yet. We need their help while we can get it.” He pauses. “We need to ask them about Adkins. Watch their behaviors, see if anyone recognizes the name or knows maybe more than they should.”
“How are we going to do that without it being suspicious?” Prentiss chuckles. “As far as they know, we’re just investigating Richard Monroe and his death.”
“And the guy was a serial killer, I’m sure they’re wondering why the hell we’re even being called here to investigate,” Morgan adds. “He had a lot of enemies, a lot of victims’ families that would’ve had more than enough motive.”
“But it’s the letter,” Reid says. “It— At times it almost reads like a suicide note, other times like an apology to you,” Reid looks at you, “but for what? And if it isn’t Richard who wrote it, if it’s the unsub, a suicide note makes sense, to make us think Richard killed himself, but the overkill immediately rules that out. It’s like—” Reid pauses and makes a face, stopping himself.
“What? What are you thinking?” Hotch asks.
“It’s almost like our unsub had this all meticulously planned out from the beginning, step by step, right down to this moment, but something threw a wrench in his plans and…that’s why there was such a brutal overkill.”
“Like he and Richard were part of a team to find her, until Richard bailed—” Morgan starts.
“Because the unsub brought Lila into it and Richard said he promised that he wouldn’t,” you finish. “Richard didn’t write that letter. The unsub did. Richard didn’t visit my dad in prison. I visited Richard. This unsub must’ve visited Richard as well, wanting to find out how to get to me, and—” Your eyes go wide and you turn toward Hotch. “The car chase.”
“Richard told the unsub we’d be there,” Hotch says. “Told him the exact time. It had to be approved in advance, he would’ve known in advance.”
“This unsub wasn’t friends with my dad, not as close as he and Richard must have been, or someone else the unsub witnessed being friendly with my dad— But he wanted to be. He wanted my dad’s approval for some reason. He wanted to be noticed by him,” you carry on, not sure where you’re going, but hoping it’s going somewhere. “And my dad must’ve written him off. Didn’t give him the recognition he was looking for, and it upset him. So he kidnapped me to get his attention.”
“And your father made it very clear that he wasn’t happy with whoever took you,” Rossi adds. “So that upset the unsub further. He wasn’t getting validation, he was getting contempt.”
“We’re just talking in circles here,” you sigh, propping your chin in your palm. “This feels like everything we’ve already known.”
“Assumed, and now it’s confirmed with behavior,” Hotch says softly. “But we are going in circles. We need to find out what these men know about Adkins.”
“Leave that to me,” Reid smiles, a little too deviously for him.
“Really, genius?” Morgan chuckles. “What are you going to do?”
“Ask them if they’ve heard of him,” Reid shrugs. “In my own way.”
Everyone shares looks.
Emily tilts her head with a smirk. “This is going to be good.”
+++
It’s like a well-orchestrated dance, the way Hotch rounds everyone up to set the scene for Reid to interject. The plan is to begin giving the profile, and Reid is going to start one of his rambles, this time about how the infamous serial killer Carson Adkins was from right here in town.
Rossi, Hotch, Prentiss, and Reid stay at the front of the room, while you, JJ, and Morgan hang around the sides, gauging reactions from there.
You’re not even sure what you’re going to be looking for. You wouldn’t be surprised if any (or all) of them have heard of your father. They obviously have no clue you’re his daughter, which is how it needs to stay, but unfortunately for everyone, your father is famous for his killings, and for turning himself in when you were kidnapped.
You can’t even count on two hands the number of articles you read that argued he had a heart because he turned himself in for his daughter. You don’t know that it was any indication of him having a heart or not, but you do know that he killed all those women and somehow wanted you to be safe.
Two things can be true at once, you guess, but those two things? Some days it just makes no sense.
“As you’re all aware, the victim, Richard Monroe, had been on the FBI’s Most Wanted for some time, so he has no shortage of enemies,” Rossi starts.
“This rings true in the injuries Richard sustained,” Prentiss continues. “It was the very definition of overkill. Whoever is responsible, they held a grudge against Monroe, probably for many years.”
“Do you think it could be like a family member of one of his victims?” Officer Hunt asks.
“I said save your questions for the end,” Deputy Laneman scolds with a huff.
“It’s alright Deputy,” Hotch says with a nod. He looks at the officer that spoke up. “It’s possible, yes, we’re looking into the whereabouts of the victims’ families.”
“But there could be some victims we don’t even know about,” Reid chimes. “So we’re not sure.”
“This guy is angry,” Morgan says from the other side of the room. “That kind of anger doesn’t just go away with getting revenge. We think he’ll slip up again.”
“So you’re sure we’re looking for a man?” another officer — Smith, you think — questions.
“We believe so,” Hotch replies. “White male, mid-30s to mid-40s, most likely the same build as Monroe, if not slightly larger. Monroe put up a fight, but was ultimately overpowered. This suggests our unsub was able to subdue him by brute force before continuing to injure him post-mortem.”
“Richard Monroe was just one of the famed and known serial killers in this region,” Reid begins, and just by the tone in his voice, you know where he’s heading. You scan the officers carefully, even the deputy who stands not far from you, arms over his chest like a shield. “Actually, uh, did you guys know that Carson Adkins, The Strangler, was from this town? His home was not far from here—”
“That’s enough, agent,” Deputy Laneman all but growls.
You cut your eyes to him, not moving your head, not wanting to raise any suspicions.
Hotch, however, fully turns his head to glare at the man. “Deputy, may I speak with you in private?”
“Whatever it is, you can say it in front of my men.”
“No, I think we should speak in your office,” Hotch gestures to the door. “After you.”
The deputy almost looks like he’s going to put up a fight, but he doesn’t. He clicks his tongue and bulldozes into his office, leaving the door ajar for Hotch to follow through. Hotch doesn’t look at anyone as he goes, and you can tell he holds himself back from slamming the door.
A tense silence settles over the room.
Reid, in all his blessed awkwardness, clears his throat. “Uh…sorry.”
Officer Robinson chuckles. “Don’t be sorry, kid, he’s a hothead.”
“We’ve all heard of him, though,” Officer Smith says. “The Strangler, I mean.”
Everyone pipes up in agreement.
“Even I’d heard of him, and I’m not from around here,” Officer Robinson adds. “He’s a boogeyman here, y’know? Almost like a myth.”
You swallow around the strange lump in your throat. Your father, a boogeyman in your hometown, even as a ghost.
“Yeah,” another officer, Whittler, laughs. “My brother used to tell me if I wasn’t quiet at night The Strangler was gonna jump out and get me.”
Everyone laughs, punching each other's shoulders in agreement with similar childish laughs.
You roll your eyes and head back toward the conference room. None of them are taking this seriously. You need a new angle, one that doesn’t involve asking any of these officers for insight. Clearly they won't be helpful.
+++
Hotch finds you, alone, in the conference room after his rather unproductive discussion with Deputy Laneman.
You’re staring at the board, at the photos of Richard’s body, at the photos of the charm bracelet and letter since both have been sent off for prints.
Hotch doesn’t even get to ask what’s upsetting you before you tell him.
“They’re just laughing,” you say, disgusted. “He’s a boogeyman,” you mock. “Our unsub is not in this precinct, clearly. They’d all run away screaming if he was.” You pause, finally turning to look at him. “What about the deputy?”
Hotch shakes his head. “He definitely has some anger issues and is probably aggressive when he’s drunk, but it’s not him. He thinks we’re wasting time by being here.”
“Wasting time? We haven’t even been here a full day yet.”
“I know,” Hotch says. He studies the pictures again. “What are we missing?”
You snort. “Everything, apparently. Every time I think we’re about to get a grip on this guy, it turns out he’s somewhere else entirely.” You chew on the inside of your cheeks. “Did Garcia ever look into the deli?”
“It’s on her list,” Hotch sighs. “I still have her looking into every officer’s background here, just in case.”
You nod. “It was nothing special, anyway. Except that their pickles were homemade.”
Aaron shares a soft smile with you. “Still. I’ll have her look.”
“And the victims’ families?” you ask with a smirk. “Or was that just to keep them thinking we’re not at all digging into their credit histories and tragic backstories?”
Aaron rolls his eyes at you, still smiling. “That was the truth. It’s on Garcia’s list.”
You raise your eyebrows with your grin. “Remind me to get her one of those big baskets of chocolates when we get back. And a bouquet of roses.”
He chuckles. “Funny, I was thinking of getting one of those for you.”
Your breath stutters a little as you turn toward him, realizing with a shock that he’s being sincere. “Well,” you knock your shoulder into his arm lightly. “Sorry to ruin your master plan.”
“You’re forgiven,” he replies, his fingers grazing the back of your hand.
The door to the conference room flies open and you yank your hand away, returning to crossing your arms over your chest. Hotch straightens and resumes his Unit Chief demeanor.
He waits until the door shuts behind JJ, Prentiss, Morgan, Reid, and Rossi before asking their thoughts on the officers.
“They were too busy laughing about a boogeyman to even suspect any sort of connection,” Morgan snaps. “I mean, seriously, how are we supposed to get anywhere if these guys don’t even seem a little concerned that whoever killed Richard Monroe might kill someone else?”
“I know,” Hotch sighs. “Prentiss, Rossi, go back to the dump site, see if there’s anything we missed. JJ, check on the bracelet, see if they’ve made any headway with the prints, if they haven’t, try to get it sped up if you can. Reid, Morgan, I’m having Garcia look into some of the families of Richard Monroe’s victims, help her determine anything suspicious, make some phone calls, see where everyone is.”
“What about us?” you ask.
“We’re going to drive around,” he says. “I want to see if any place jogs your memory. And see if Carson Adkins truly does haunt this town like the boogeyman they say he is.”
The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part thirty-two
Hello again 😏😏
Warnings: 18+ mdni we know the drill!, but before that: oh no these two are arguing again (it's sleepy/silly arguing tho!), our usual angst with the case, GASP only one bed, massage turns inappropriate, fingering, idk how to tag this stuff anymore, he puts you to sleep with his fingers idk!
The team sets up shop in one of the interrogation rooms at the precinct. It’s small, but necessary, especially after what you asked Garcia to look into. Regardless, though, Hotch tells everyone that he wants this kept quiet for now, especially given the location.
It’s strange, you’ll admit, being in your hometown. You can’t say that you’re surprised things ended up here. You figured the unsub would lead the BAU here, especially if your suspicions about it being the same man were correct. And you think it’s safe to say with absolute certainty now that this is the same man and he had to have been friends with your father in some capacity. Somehow.
“Garcia is looking into all of the officers currently working here, and those that were here twenty years ago,” Hotch explains quietly. The door is closed, but the walls aren’t soundproof, and everyone needs to be as careful as they can.
“Do you think it could be one of the officers here?” Reid asks.
“I don’t know,” you reply. “But I know that growing up here, a lot of the time, the police would turn a blind eye if you were friends. That’s just how it is here.”
“They’ll cover up anything,” Morgan comments with a small scoff. “Even murder.”
“Maybe,” you murmur. “I have no idea, but until then— Do we have the letter and bracelet?”
“Yeah, it’s here,” JJ says, sliding both across the table. “They found some prints on the letter, but they’re a direct match to Richard’s.”
“Figured,” you mutter, ignoring the letter to slide the bracelet closer instead. You pick it up, thumbing over the charms through the bag. A heart, an initial — not an L, like you’d assume if it was for Lila — instead it’s…the first letter of your middle name. “Huh,” your eyebrows furrow as you study the letter.
From beside you, Hotch softly asks, “What is it?”
You show him the charm. “The initial. If it was for Lila, it would be an L.”
“Right.”
“But instead it’s—”
“Your middle initial.” Hotch straightens up. Neither of you notice the way the rest of the team give such wild looks in Hotch’s direction because he knew your middle name with zero hesitation. “Do any of the other charms mean anything to you?”
You shake your head. “I mean, not really, the heart is too generic, the—” You pause on the flower. The same flowers that used to grow in the front yard of your childhood home. And then another charm to represent a hobby you had as a kid. “You don’t think this was…meant for me?”
“It’s his gambit,” Hotch says. “Instead of a note, he’s left this.”
You drop it onto the table, hand shaking. “Okay. Okay, so it’s definitely the same person because these are—” You look up at the wide eyes of your team members. “These are all charms that meant something to me as a kid. My dad called me by my middle name all the time, especially— Fuck.”
“What?” Aaron leans down, trying to meet your eyes. “What is it?”
“Especially when I did something he didn’t like,” you explain weakly, rubbing your forehead. “He’d— He’d have friends over for a bonfire and if I was too loud or didn’t get him a beer quick enough, he’d call me by my middle name to get my attention.”
You hear Hotch take in a tense breath, stepping away from you for a moment. You look up and see him raking a hand down his face — he’s angry.
“I-I don’t remember who was at those bonfires,” you blurt, feeling the need to explain yourself. You meet everyone else’s eyes, everyone else who will look at you. “It changed every time, I think, maybe, I don’t—”
“Slow down,” Derek’s voice cuts through your panic. “Sit down, come on, and breathe, you’re fine.”
Aaron pulls a chair out for you, the only indication that he actually cares in this moment. You sit and stare at the bracelet, at the letter, at these clues that make no sense and almost seem useless.
Rossi glances at his watch. “I’ll go grab breakfast. We’ll need the fuel. Any takers?”
“I’ll join,” Emily nods.
As the two of them leave, you tear your eyes away from the evidence and look at the floor. “What time does the sun rise?”
“Six thirty-four,” Reid replies automatically. “So in thirty minutes.”
“Okay.” You look around for your cup of coffee, finding it when Hotch hands it to you. “Thanks.”
He nods in acknowledgement, but he doesn’t sit. Instead, without a word, he leaves the room.
When the door shuts, you sigh, propping your arm on the table to rest your head in your hand.
“Hey,” Morgan says.
“What?” you mutter.
“We’re going to get this guy.”
“Before he gets me?” you let out a dark laugh, opening your eyes when Derek doesn’t join in. “Sorry.”
“Hey, listen to me,” he rests a hand on your shoulder. “No one is getting you, okay? Not on my watch, not on any of our watches. Alright?”
You nod. “Okay.” But it’s like chasing a ghost. You don’t know who this guy is, but he knows you, and he knows your every move, somehow.
The door opens again but you don’t move.
“Here,” Aaron’s voice is as soft as his hand when he rests it on your shoulder. The other hand places a banana and granola bar down in front of you.
You look at the food and then at Aaron, surprise written all over your face. You thought he left because he was frustrated or angry with you and this case — not because he was getting food for you.
“But Dave and Emily are getting food,” you respond dumbly as he takes a seat next to you.
“And you’re shaking right now, so you need to eat,” Aaron replies, so matter-of-fact, and begins opening the granola bar for you.
“Oh. Thanks.” You take it and bite into it, immediately realizing how much you needed something sugary and substantial on your stomach — something other than shitty coffee.
Derek’s phone starts ringing through the silence and he picks up with a sigh, “Give me some good news, babygirl.”
“Good news, and bad news,” Garcia’s sweet voice comes through the speaker, the volume turned low so you’re all huddling around Derek’s cell. “None of the current officers were there when dear old Dad was getting up to his crimes.”
“Figures,” you shrug.
“However,” she continues, “quite a few of them were born and raised in that little town.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” you reply. “Loads of people never leave here.”
“I’ll send their names to your devices,” Garcia says. “Heads up, though, it is all but…two officers.”
“All but two? Baby, that’s the whole damn department,” Morgan groans. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“Oh, I know,” you can hear Garcia’s smile. “I’ll keep digging for anything suspicious. PG out.”
“Okay, everyone pick an officer and start reading. Reid, we can’t print anything, I don’t want to risk any of the officers here seeing that we’re investigating them now,” Hotch speaks quietly. “Keep yourselves alert.” He pauses, eyeing you for a second. “As alert as you can.”
You refrain from asking what the hell was that look for? as you take out your tablet to start reading.
+++
Once Rossi and Prentiss return with breakfast, everyone digs in and goes silent as the team reads. Hotch leaves for a moment to speak with the other officers, likely to keep them “in the loop” and away from questioning the team on what exactly they’re doing.
It isn’t long before you see the sunrise through the windows, though, and you start to get restless.
When Hotch returns the second time and settles down next to you, you elbow him in the arm to get his attention. He raises an eyebrow.
“When are we going to the dump site?”
Everyone’s heads lift at your question.
Hotch glances briefly at the team before back at you. “We can go when you’re ready.”
You share a look of pure shock with the rest of your team. “Really?” you ask, and at the same time Derek says, “Seriously?”
Hotch pushes back from the table. “Sooner the better. Everyone else, uh, keep reading. Call me with any updates you have.” He nods to Rossi who gives one nod back.
Which, in turn, gives you nothing.
But you don’t question it. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and all. If you try to argue about why he’s letting you go to the scene this easily, it might turn into him not letting you go at all. So you keep quiet.
You follow Hotch out to the car in silence. He pauses briefly to tell the officers that the two of you are heading to the scene, but that’s all.
You keep giving him sideways glances while he drives. The fact that he put up zero fight is unnerving you.
He parks outside the schools and you climb out, not wanting to waste a single moment, just in case he decides to flip on you.
No one is around, save for the crime scene tape, so you and Aaron have full rein of where you can go. Hotch, still in his eerily quiet mood, lets you take the lead and walk wherever you want.
Richard’s body has since been moved to the morgue, but there are markers where he was. You go there first, studying the area in the growing sunlight.
Just as you worried, he was laid right next to the small opening in the woods where you used to walk with your dad. A path that has since grown up, but you can still see where it used to be. You wonder if that is part of the message. If that’s a testament to how close the unsub was with your father.
“My dad walked me home from school a couple of times,” you say, not really to Hotch, even though he is just behind you. You wrap your arms around your torso, the air still slightly chilly before the sun fully rises. “It was through these woods.” You point to the small clearing where the path was. “I thought it was so cool, my dad picking me up and we got to walk home. Through the trees,” you chuckle. “When you’re a kid, you think your dad is the coolest person ever, you know? Or at least I did.”
Hotch’s footsteps sound softly on the grass as he moves to stand beside you. “Did your dad ever have a friend walk you home?”
You shake your head. “No,” you exhale. “But he usually did have friends over when he’d pick me up. It was never weird, though, not like what you’re probably thinking.”
“What am I thinking?”
You cut your eyes at him. “Pedophilia. Grooming.”
His face gives nothing away, which tells you that’s exactly what he was thinking. “I’ve worried about it.”
“Me too.” You don’t look at him as you admit it.
He’s quiet for a long moment. “Did you want to see anything else?”
You look around at the trees before you, all the markers of where his body was. The crime scene tape. The playground not far off.
“No,” you finally say. You don’t know what you were expecting to feel or gain from coming back here, but you’ve gotten nothing. You turn your head to look at him. “Can we make a detour? I want to see if my old house is still there.”
He nods, his arm reaching out to guide you as you walk back to the car. “Sure.”
+++
The house isn’t there anymore.
The street is, but most of the houses you remember have been torn down and three have gone up in their place. Everything is so crowded that it makes you cringe.
“That’s so…sad,” you sigh, sinking down in your seat. “It’s been so long, though. I don’t know why I didn’t expect it to change.”
“It’s okay,” Aaron says softly, hand reaching out to find yours where it rests on your thigh. “It’s hard.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, tipping your head back. “It’s fine. We can head back now.”
He squeezes your hand and turns back onto the main road. You shut your eyes for just a moment, pulling his hand closer to you.
You feel yourself slipping into sleep, so you jolt yourself awake, blinking at your surroundings, focusing on his driving. You realize where you are with some relief; still about fifteen minutes to the precinct.
Until Aaron makes a left turn when he should’ve gone straight to head back to the police station. You clock it immediately.
“Where are we going?”
“To the hotel.”
“What? Why?”
“So you can take a nap.”
“What?” you turn your entire body toward him. “I don’t have time for a nap!” You don’t care that you almost fell asleep a few minutes ago and that he definitely noticed — there’s no time.
“I’m making you take the time,” he says firmly. “Because if you don’t, your body will, and I don’t need you passing out at the precinct or in the field.”
“Hotch—”
“I’m not arguing about this.”
“I’m not even sure I’ll be able to fully fall asleep,” you mutter, slumping back into your seat. You jolted yourself awake a second ago. You’ll likely do it out of sheer panic if you try to nap right now.
“Then we’ll just sit in silence.”
“We?”
“Well I’m not leaving you at the hotel,” he scoffs.
“What, so you’re just going to watch me sleep? That’s creepy, Aaron.”
“No, I brought my tablet, I’m going to read,” he explains calmly, but with just enough bite in his words that you can tell he’s getting irritated with you.
“Why do you get to read?” you snap. “You’ve had the same amount of sleep as I’ve had.” Maybe even less, you want to throw in, but you don’t.
“I’m fine,” he says.
But you’re not letting him get by that easily. “Nuh-uh, Hotchner. If I’m being forced to nap, then you are too.”
“Am I, now?”
You nod. “Yep.”
He chuckles. “Okay.”
The hotel he pulls up to is a nicer one, definitely built after you and your mom left town. You only remember there being motels around here, and not very nice ones.
You don’t really pay attention as Hotch checks in, too busy being pissed off that he grabbed your go-bag and called ahead for an early check-in, all under your nose. Is that why he was leaving the room so often, while the rest of you were going through files? And is that why he seemed so nonchalant about letting you come to the crime scene?
You’re silently fuming the entire elevator ride, even more so because he doesn’t say a damn word to you.
He unlocks the room and holds the door open for you, and somehow that adds to the irritation, so you barely wait for him to be a few steps in behind you before you spin around, ready to lay into him.
He only sighs and sets the room keys down on the counter of the kitchenette next to the two of you. “What now?”
“What now?” you mimic. “You’re joking, right?”
“Does it look like I’m joking?” he deadpans. He points behind you. “Go get some rest.”
“No.”
“Are you serious?” His voice is too calm. “Are you starting a fight about this?”
“No,” you protest, but it’s your weakest one yet. “I just don’t get why everyone else gets to work while I’m being forced to take a nap.”
“Because everyone else got more sleep than we did and looks more awake than you do, that’s why.”
“That shouldn’t matter,” you snap, but it makes no sense, not even to you. “I’m just—”
“You’re just going to lay down and take a nap,” he says again, pointing behind you. “Now.”
You roll your eyes, turning around to just get the hell away from him, except—
There’s one bed.
You freeze.
Aaron looms right behind you, his voice gentle in your ear. “I can go to a different room tonight. I only grabbed this one because it really was my intention to read at the desk while you get some sleep.”
You nod slowly. You’re still halfway pissed with him, and now halfway pissed with yourself because you don’t want him to go to a different room tonight. You want him here. In this bed.
But you can’t ask that of him.
You silently rifle through your bag to find a t-shirt and shorts to change into, at least so you don’t wrinkle your work clothes beyond recognition. You head into the bathroom to change.
By the time you come back out, Hotch is sitting at the desk facing the wall, his tablet out and briefcase open with other files. He smiles softly when he sees you, but tucks his head back down.
You hang your work clothes up and then slip under the covers, wondering if you can fake sleep for an hour and call it a day. Something tells you he will be able to tell you’re faking it, though.
So, instead, you toss and you turn. And Aaron, frustratingly, does nothing about it. He keeps his fucking head down and nose in the files. He doesn’t utter a word.
You turn again, this time fully onto your stomach, pressing your face into the pillow. It has that hotel detergent smell that is both soothing and nausea-inducing at the same time.
You don’t even hear Aaron move, which is why you nearly jump out of your skin when suddenly his voice is right by your ear. “Are you trying to suffocate yourself?”
“Are you trying to scare the shit out of me so I never sleep again?” you retort, turning your head to the side. He’s crouching beside you, one hand coming to rest on your back between your shoulder blades. He’s looking at you all soft again, so all you can think to say is “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. You’re cute when you’re fighting sleep.”
You glare at him. “I am not fighting sleep.”
He starts rubbing circles on your back. “What can I do to help?”
“Not make me sleep,” you mutter. “I’m restless because there’s too much to do.”
“You’re restless because you’re exhausted from having a panic attack on barely four hours’ sleep, but sure,” he replies casually. “There’s too much to do.”
You glare at him again. You hate when he’s right and you especially hate when he reads you like an open book.
“What do you normally do?” he asks. “Listen to white noise?”
You feign thought even though you know the real answer. Because the real answer is masturbate. The real answer is give yourself an orgasm (or two or three) so that by the end of it, you’re floaty and sleepy enough to knock out within minutes.
But you can’t do that when he’s right here. Obviously.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“Nothing,” you say quickly — definitely too quickly. You turn and bury your face into the pillow again. “Just let me suffocate, if I pass out then I’ll be asleep.” You turn your head toward him and crack a small smile. “Go back to reading. Stop staring at me.”
His hand keeps rubbing circles, but this time it moves to the small of your back. “Can I propose something?”
There’s a heat brewing behind his eyes, the same that you saw last night. You nod slowly against the pillow, whispering, “What?”
“What about a massage?”
You smirk, turning your head. “A massage? Seriously?”
“Or I can just do this,” he shrugs, still rubbing your back gently. “You’re tense.”
“Thin ice, Hotchner.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just shut up and lay there.”
Something wild burns in the pit of your stomach that you barely manage to contain. You bury your face into the pillow and hope he won’t mention it.
He doesn’t.
He shifts so he’s sitting next to you on the bed, and it isn’t long before you feel the pads of his fingers digging into your shoulders. You are tense, and you hadn’t even realized. Another moment of him reading you like a book.
You push your face further into the pillow, if only to muffle the groans that nearly escape your mouth.
“Stay still,” he chides softly when you squirm, trying to escape his fingers and escape the noises he’s drawing out of you.
You’re too late, though. One particularly harsh dig into the muscles of your shoulder has a moan escaping your lips before you can stop it.
Aaron freezes. You freeze.
“Fuck” is all you hear him say before he starts up again.
And you have all of two seconds before you’re moaning again, your back arching.
“You can’t make those noises,” he says, and for some reason, he sounds out of breath.
“I can’t help it,” you snap — or maybe you whine; you don’t know the difference at this point. “Jesus Christ,” you groan, eyes squeezing shut. “Aaron—”
“Don’t.”
The next noise you make is incoherent and the closest to a whine after another rough dig. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
He hesitates. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” you exhale deeply. “Feels good.”
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
You nod. “Yeah.”
“Did it feel good last night?”
Your breath hitches. “What?” The question is muffled by the pillow, so you don’t expect a reply.
But he does. “Last night,” he starts. His hands soften, just ghosting along your spine. “I heard you. After we went to bed.”
Mortified doesn’t even begin to cover how you feel. His fingers dip, toying with the hem of your shirt, with the idea of his hands slipping under the fabric.
“Did that help you fall asleep?”
You nod slowly.
“Can I?”
He’s barely through asking when you answer. “Please.”
You start to roll onto your back, but his hand splays across your spine, gently pressing you into place.
“Just stay there for me,” he whispers. “But let’s get these off.”
You lift your hips to help him tug your shorts and panties down. Something about the soft timbre of his voice already has you feeling floaty, but it could be the lack of sleep. And the anticipation. All of it.
You feel the bed shift again as he maneuvers around you, kneeling at the end, his palms spreading your thighs gently, reverently.
You’re not entirely sure how this angle is going to work, but clearly you don’t need to worry about it. Aaron’s fingers are skilled as they dance across your folds, finding your clit with ease and applying pressure that has you moaning all over again.
He plays your body easily, as if he’s always known it and known how to make you sing. One hand keeps your legs spread, a gentle pressure on the inside of your thigh, while the other slowly inserts a finger inside you.
He doesn’t keep you wanting for long, one finger becoming two. You’ve always admired his hands, stared at his fingers for maybe a little too long, but it’s something else entirely to finally have them inside you, stretching you like this with only two. He works slowly, expertly building your pleasure before he curls his fingers, nailing that spot inside you with precision.
“Oh fuck,” you hiss, your muscles tensing.
“You’re supposed to be relaxing,” he scolds softly, his hand moving from your thigh to press down between your shoulder blades.
You mutter a string of noises that somewhat resemble words, breaking off into a loud moan when he adds a third finger, the new stretch igniting something molten inside of you. “Aaron,” you gasp.
He shushes you. “Don’t fight it.”
His fingers speed up but lose none of their precision. You must be a sight, squirming and flailing on the bed as he keeps you pinned down easily, with only one hand. The show of easy strength pisses you off as much as it makes you burn hotter, your orgasm approaching with startling quickness.
You have almost no warning before your body implodes, the shocks of your climax sending shivers all over you. Aaron eases you through it, fingers slowing as the high subsides.
You melt into the mattress, sighing deeply. He takes his fingers from you and goes quiet.
“Go to sleep,” he says gently, pulling the covers back over your body. “At least an hour.”
You murmur something into the pillow, you think, but you’re too exhausted to remember.
The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part thirty-one
Just another note that I'm going to be updating every Monday until the fic is finished! 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻
Warnings: panic attack, the usual angst, just more of the case nothing too bad methinks!
When you touch down in Alabama, everyone parts ways into separate cars without any words, all laser-focused on their tasks.
Your lips have seen better days. You’re gnawing on them relentlessly, tasting blood but being unable to stop. You’re in the passenger seat next to Hotch and he keeps glancing over at you, but you keep your eyes forward.
The ride is silent.
“Take a left,” you mutter, almost on autopilot. “Goes around the back of the schools. Closer to the woods.” Your dad always took this route on the rare days he drove you to school in the morning. Less traffic.
Hotch nods and flicks the signal, turning like you said.
As the road goes on, you start to see police cars lined up and waiting, all with their lights on. Crime scene tape decorates the place like neon signs in the dark. And you want to throw up.
As soon as the car stops, you stumble out, reaching for your badge to flash to the officers. You’re far ahead of the rest of your team and you know it, but you have to get there, you have to get up there, you have to see Richard’s body and the rest of the scene.
Officer Robinson stops you when you introduce yourself. “Wait. Did you say L/N?”
You freeze. “Yes. Why?”
Hotch comes to a stop beside you. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a note, with your name on it,” the officer says, nodding his head at you. “It was in his pocket.”
“His pocket? We told you not to touch anything,” Hotch all but snaps at the officer.
“Hey, we didn’t get that call until after,” Officer Robinson defends, raising his hand. He’s a younger guy, but he clearly has a fire in him. “We didn’t touch it with our bare hands, don’t worry. CSI has it in a bag.”
“I need to read it,” you say. “Where is it?”
“Over there,” Robinson jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “So. You’re the BAU.”
“Yep,” you mutter, running off toward where he pointed for CSI. You don’t have time for small talk with some random police officer.
You don’t even glance over your shoulder to see if Hotch is following you, but you know he is. His fast footsteps are loud even as you walk on grass.
“Where’s the letter?” you ask, and all you get are blank faces in the dark. “The letter. That was on his body. It’s addressed to me. Where is it?”
One confused face pipes up, “Uh, who are you?”
You flash your badge, and that makes everyone start moving. The letter is in your hands within seconds. But it’s not the unsub’s writing. There isn’t a gambit in sight.
You see your name. You look to the bottom and see the signature. Richard Monroe.
“What?” A gasp leaves your lips before you can stop it. Why did he write you a letter? And why did the unsub leave it on Richard’s body?
“What is it?” Hotch asks, materializing beside you.
“It’s from Richard,” you say, the words feeling foreign on your tongue. You haven’t even read the damn thing yet, still reeling from the fact that it’s from someone you didn’t expect. “It’s— I can’t read this.”
“Let me,” he says gently, trying to take it from you, but you won’t let go.
“No, it’s fine,” you snap. His hand jerks away from yours. “I’ve got it.”
Faintly, you hear Hotch say to the other CSI agents, “Can we have a minute? Please?”
They scatter quickly, but your eyes don’t look up from the letter. From Richard’s letter. That you still can’t fucking read.
“Look at me.”
You shake your head. “Don’t.”
“You’re trembling,” Aaron whispers. “You’ve been staring at that letter and you can’t read it. You need to breathe.”
“I’m breathing fine—”
Your heart stutters when big hands cup both sides of your jaw, tilting your face up to look into Hotch’s brown eyes. Where you might’ve found anger before, you only find deep concern and care.
“You’re panicking,” he says softly. It’s not accusatory, he’s not mocking you, he’s stating it. Because somehow he knows that right now you don’t really know what’s going on in your head and body or anywhere, and you need the statements. You need someone to just tell you what’s going on. “You’re shaking. I know you’re scared. I know that where we are makes that worse. But I need you to be here. Because if you can’t be present, I will have no choice but to send you home. Not because I want to,” he interrupts your already brewing protests at the mere mention of sending you away, “but because I cannot in good conscience as your Unit Chief keep an agent of mine here when she is unable to even breathe or read because an aspect of the case has her panicking. Understood?”
You nod your face in his hands. “Understood.”
“Good,” he murmurs, the softest of smiles crossing his lips. He moves his hands and somehow, your eyes do seem less clouded. “Now, what does it say?”
You take in a deep breath and look back down, your eyes scanning the words and this time actually reading it.
“It’s—” The words are legible and you can understand them, but they almost make no sense to you. “It’s about my dad.”
“Your dad?” Hotch inquires, leaning closer to you to read with you. “He was friends with him.”
“No wonder he…” Your eyes skim further. “No wonder he recognized me. He visited my dad in prison. My dad talked about me. Showed him pictures. After I stopped writing letters, he…” You read more. “Maybe he wanted to find me.”
“So he had a serial killer looking for you?”
You shake your head. “A friend. To him, it was a friend looking for me.” No one had caught on to what Richard was doing yet back then. You look up at Hotch, confusing brimming as you read a confession. “But— But we know it wasn’t Richard killing those women, he was back in custody.”
Hotch nods, face stern as he reads. “We know it wasn’t him. Someone wants us to think that it was.”
Your eyes move further. Richard confessed for the women in Mobile, the ones strangled, but he was in custody. It makes no sense. This won’t hold up in court, not when there is confirmation that he was at the prison on those dates.
“We need to get this to Reid,” you tell him. “There’s something in here that I’m missing. All I’m getting is he was friends with my dad, which makes sense all things considering, I kind of had a feeling, but this confession…why even write it when it’s known that he was in custody when the murders happened? It won’t work, but if it could, why would he do that? Was he friends with the unsub? Trying to take one for the team?”
Your phrasing stops both you and Hotch in your tracks, your eyes locking together.
He nods firmly. “We need to get it to Reid.”
You let him take the letter from you this time. “Where’s Morgan and Prentiss?”
“They’re looking at Richard’s body—” You barely hear the end of his sentence before you’re off, finding Derek and Emily’s forms in the dark with their flashlights.
You hear Hotch curse behind you as he tells a CSI agent where to get the letter to. And then you hear his damn footsteps chasing you down.
Morgan’s eyes are wide when he spots you coming, and the fucker steps in front of you, blocking your vision. “Hey. Hey. You don’t need to see this.”
Your glare might as well be lethal. “Don’t tell me what I don’t need.”
“I’m serious,” Morgan’s voice is calm, even. His eyes glance behind you, no doubt finding Hotch’s. “It’s too much for her.”
“What about it could be too much for me at this point?”
Morgan looks at Hotch, desperate. “Come on, man.”
To his credit, Hotch doesn’t try to argue with you. “Let her see.”
Morgan looks ready to throttle his Unit Chief, but he steps aside, gesturing for you to go ahead.
“Thank you,” you mutter to the both of them, walking forward and squatting down next to Emily.
Richard’s body is against a tree, tossed down like he was nothing. Even in the dark you can see how much blood is covering him. Emily is studying something on Richard’s body, something tucked into his shirt pocket.
“Looks like the chain of a necklace,” Prentiss murmurs. “Or a bracelet.”
“Can you grab it?” you ask, raising your hand. “No gloves.”
“Yeah,” she nods, reaching forward to tug on it. Slowly, she lifts it out of the pocket, and it is a bracelet. One with little charms all over it. “Huh.”
“Weird,” you say. “Do you think it was for Lila?”
“Maybe,” Emily says softly. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you swallow as you nod, your eyes roaming over Richard’s body. “He was strangled. And shot in the head. And stabbed. A little dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Prentiss scoffs, turning over Richard’s hand to find bloodied knuckles. “Definitely a struggle.”
She hands the bracelet off to be bagged. You stand and stare down at Richard, a weird wave of sadness creeping over you. You don’t know why. It’s not like he was a good person; it’s not like your father was, either. But they were friends. He was probably the last person who was a friend to your father, the last person that you maybe could’ve talked to one day and actually tried to ask questions about your dad. And now he’s dead.
You look away from him, turning back toward Hotch and Morgan who are standing back. And who stops their conversation as soon as you look.
Whatever. You ignore it. You have a bigger question. “Was there anything with gambit on it? Anywhere near here?”
“Nothing that we’ve found,” Morgan says.
“Then how do we know this is our unsub?” Prentiss asks from beside you. “I mean, we know it is, but he didn’t leave his mark. Why?”
“I don’t know,” you chew on the inside of your cheek. “He left a letter and a bracelet. What are those supposed to mean?”
“Let’s get to the precinct for now,” Hotch says. “Go over both of those and get a better look.”
“And some coffee,” you mutter, rubbing your forehead. “Can we come back here when it’s light out?”
Hotch studies you for a moment. “Sure. But they need to get his body out of here.”
“I know, I just,” you pause. “Want to see the rest of the scene in the light.”
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”
You nod, walking away. When you pass by Hotch, he follows beside you.
Neither of you see the odd, knowing looks you get from Emily and Derek, both wondering where the hell all the hostility went between you and Hotch. When this is a time that the two of you might normally be at each other’s throats, you’re both…soft. It’s weird, but they leave it alone for now.
+++
Officer Robinson was the one who found Richard Monroe’s body. He returns to the precinct as the rest of you do, and you’re the first to question him about it by the coffee machine.
“I heard about it on the news, when he escaped,” Robinson explains. “My wife’s into all the crime stuff, so she usually tells me,” he jokes. “But I knew when I saw his ID that I recognized him. Had to phone it in.”
“Thank you,” Hotch says genuinely, standing beside you. Then, just slightly skeptical, “What were you doing outside the schools so late?”
Robin chuckles. “Well, kids are rowdy these days. They TP’d the playground a few weeks ago. We’ve had someone on duty come stroll by every night or so since then, just in case. They’re just kids, you know, it's harmless fun, but that’s hell to clean up, especially after the morning dew.”
You smile. It’s funny, you never TP’d the playground, but you definitely snuck over way too late with your friends when you were twelve to ride the swings just a little too high. Your mom was not happy when she caught you sneaking back into the house, bruised and limping from taking a jump too risky.
You realize now just why her eyes were so wide with fear that night.
“I understand,” you reply. “I’m glad you were around.”
“Me too,” Robinson says seriously. “What’s all this about the letter?”
You glance at Hotch, unsure of just how much the BAU wants to let these small town officers in on the case. He senses your hesitation and takes over.
“We believe this might be connected to another case we’re currently investigating,” Hotch explains. “But unfortunately, it’s confidential. I’ll let you know more when I’m given the go ahead from my superior.”
It’s very clever wording, and it works.
“Hey, fair enough,” Robinson holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I get the politics, I don’t wanna be in the middle of that.” His phone rings in his pocket and he groans. “Speaking of. I gotta take this. Yeah, this is Robinson.”
He leaves with his phone pressed to his ear. You stay huddled around the agonizingly slow working coffee machine, probably standing just a little too close to Hotch.
“I forgot how friendly the officers are here,” you murmur. “Well, in any small town, but here especially.”
Hotch nods. “They can be.”
“Guess that’s why my dad got away with a lot,” you shrug. “Everyone was friends here. Everyone had each other’s backs.” You pause, looking up at Hotch. “We should—”
“I’ll get Garcia on it.” He steps away to make the call.
It’s a long shot, any of the officers still being here from when you lived here with your mom and dad. But maybe not impossible to track them down if they didn’t move far. And then they might know something. Anything.
You’ll take anything at this point.
The coffee finally finishes and you pour two cups, making one for yourself and one how Aaron likes it. You don’t even think of the implications of doing so almost instinctively until you turn and realize some of the team is watching you with almost horrified expressions. Well, Rossi is just smirking. The others, aside from Reid who isn’t even looking, look beyond confused and you can’t say that you blame them, especially not when Hotch comes back and takes the coffee from you with a soft smile.
“What did Garcia say?” you ask, wanting desperately to talk about the case and ignore the watchful eyes.
Hotch, with his back to the rest of the team, says, “She’ll look into it. If they’re bothering you, just let me know.”
You roll your eyes. “Of course they're annoying, it’s what I love about them.” You try your hardest not to move your lips. “But I just made you coffee.”
“You did,” he murmurs with a little smile. “Thank you.”
“I’m not supposed to do that!” you hiss.
“Why not?”
He’s teasing you. He’s absolutely teasing you right now to somewhat lighten the mood, and it’s working, but damn if it also doesn’t make you want to smack him.
With your lips. On his. Repeatedly.
You’re going to give yourself emotional whiplash if you continue like this.
Speaking of, a thought pops into your head, and as you tend to do recently with Hotch, you blurt it. “Do you think the unsub might’ve been jealous?”
Aaron’s eyebrows furrow a little. “Jealous?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, trying to figure out where you’re going with this. “Like, Richard’s letter just talked all about being close friends with my dad. If the unsub knew me when I was little, maybe he was jealous of that friendship?” You shake your head. “I don’t know where I’m going with that.”
“No, but it’s something,” Aaron says. “Wanna go share it with the team?”
“I probably should stop hogging you,” you joke. “They’ve been staring this entire time.”
It does indeed feel like I'm edging y'all and for that I apologize 🤣🤭 These two will have their moment very soon!
Warnings: so sorry to deceive u abt the smut bc it's so short it's just f!masturbating, even still 18+ mdni pls!!, Rossi being a little shit, angst (what's new), cutie moment on the jet, welp! the unsub is back!
Hotch doesn’t know what noise he heard, but he heard something — he swears he did, absolutely nothing would’ve made him stop kissing you, unless it was dire. He heard a crash outside, or something, he’s not sure, but it was enough. It was enough to make him panic, to think the unsub was outside, here to grab you—
Except, it was nothing, because now he’s standing on the patio watching two raccoons scurry away, frightened by the security light they triggered and the frantic six-foot human who nearly shattered the glass doors wrenching them open.
Aaron’s phone rings in his pocket, making him flinch, but when he glances at it, he sees it’s only Rossi.
“Yeah,” Hotch answers.
“I got a security alert on my phone, should’ve warned you about the raccoons, sometimes I give them my leftovers,” Dave almost sounds amused. “And why did you call earlier? You two kill each other yet?”
Hotch thinks back to just a few minutes ago, both of you attacking one another, for sure, just not in the way Rossi thinks. “Do you seriously give the raccoons leftovers?”
“Of course I do.”
“Okay. Well.” Hotch rubs his forehead. “I’ll let you go—”
“What’s the matter with you?” Dave presses, no doubt smirking. “You sound like you’re out of breath.”
“Nothing,” Aaron replies.
“Oh, I see—”
“Goodnight, Dave.”
Aaron just barely hears Rossi laugh through a “goodnight” before he hangs up the call.
He takes one more second to right himself before he heads back inside, shutting the patio doors and triple-checking that they’re locked securely.
When he finds you again in the living room, he knows. The moment is gone. The air shifted. You’re standing. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe not.
“Did you see anything?” you ask, but you barely sound like yourself. Your words are detached.
“No, it was just uh,” he pauses, shaking his head, “raccoons. It was nothing. Sorry to spook you.”
You nod, a jerking movement like you’re barely holding it together. Aaron thinks for one moment that you’re having another panic attack, but this looks so different. It’s not that. He doesn’t know what this is.
“Listen,” you start, and then you pause, wringing your hands. “Let’s…not talk about what just happened.”
He furrows his eyebrows. “What?”
You shake your head. “We can blame it on the wine. The fancy dinner. The…being stuck in this house together for the weekend.” You take a deep breath. “Let’s just…blame it on that and forget it happened. Okay?”
Not okay. Very much not okay, not for him. He finally spent time with you that didn’t involve clenching his jaw so hard it popped, shared malicious glares, and even venomous words. He finally worked up the courage to kiss you. He finally got to have you, and now you want to forget it even happened?
“Aaron?” you ask, looking up at him expectantly, and you don’t look like you want to forget this. You look…hurt.
But he can’t figure out why. And you don’t seem to be in the mood to tell him right now.
But he can’t just agree to forget this.
“Can we talk about this tomorrow?” he asks quietly, tone bordering on pleading. If you try to protest, he might get down on his knees and beg for you. “Please.”
Aaron sees you start to bite the inside of your cheeks. It’s something you’ve always done to stop yourself from getting too emotional. He wishes you weren’t doing it right now. He wishes you would show him, wishes you would tell him what’s the matter. What changed.
“Okay,” you agree softly. “Tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” he says automatically.
“Goodnight,” you murmur, barely looking at him before you head for the stairs.
Aaron is frozen in place while he waits for your footsteps to reach your room. He shuts his eyes with a sigh when he hears your door shut as well.
+++
Raccoons. That’s the excuse he goes with? Raccoons?
It’s not that you’re doubting him — you absolutely are — but even he has to admit that that sounds fake. Raccoons, seriously?
Hearing that only confirmed for you that the two of you need to forget whatever happened on the couch. Or, at least, you were convinced, until you saw the look on his face when he asked if the two of you could talk about it tomorrow instead. He looked…well, he looked like you had just twisted a knife in his heart. And that wasn’t what you thought you were doing.
It doesn’t matter right now. Right now, you need to calm yourself down, get ready to sleep, and actually relax enough to do so. You need to sleep at least eight hours tonight. These sleepless nights of barely four hours rest are not sustainable, not like this.
It’s really just another excuse to get in bed as early as possible in hopes of being unconscious as soon as possible. Because you can’t think about what just happened, or how it felt to finally have his hands touch your skin beneath your shirt. How it felt to touch him, to get so close, to feel him underneath you and almost do something about it. How it felt to hear how much he liked it, how much he liked you.
It makes your head spin.
You don’t know if it’s better or worse that things didn’t escalate further. On the one hand, it feels good that you didn’t go too far. There’s less to regret.
On the other hand, it feels like you only got a mere taste, a tease, and now you’re hungry for more — hungrier than you were before.
You wander around the room like you’ve forgotten where you are or who you are until you eventually settle down and put your pajamas on. You get under the covers. You shut your eyes.
And your mind puts you right back where you were barely an hour ago. Hips rocking over his, his fingers digging into your skin, his choked moans as you nip at his neck, your own whines as he cups your breasts, pinching your nipples just barely, teasing you, keeping you warm, keeping you wanting for more.
You let your imagination take the reins. It’s hard not to fantasize after that. You imagine what might’ve happened had he not gotten up so quickly. Would your hand have finally snaked its way into his boxers, gripping him gently, tugging enticingly? Would he have been able to hold back? Would he have flipped you both, pinned you beneath him—
You don’t realize that your hand has found its way into your panties until you narrowly manage to cover your mouth on a moan. Your eyes fly open, listening for any movement, any sign that Aaron might’ve heard you. Disappointed, you find silence.
But your imagination returns. Images of Aaron with his face between your legs has your hand moving faster, fingers slipping inside, curling, your back arching just at the idea of him pulling you into his mouth, as if he could crawl inside you and still not be close enough.
You add a third finger, the fantasy shifting to Aaron moving inside of you, hitting you in all the right places, the places you can’t reach, not even with your vibrator.
You bite down on the heel of your palm to stifle the sound when you fall over the edge, the orgasm shocking every cell in your body.
Heaving, you try to quietly regain your composure. You’re satisfied, slightly, the fantasy still swimming beneath the surface. It’s not even close to the satisfaction you’d feel if he was here, finishing what he started.
But it’s all you have, so you roll over, hoping the post-orgasm bliss will at least help you fall asleep faster.
+++
You wake in a haze, your phone ringing loudly from the nightstand. The room is dark, the sun having long gone to sleep, and you have two seconds of blissful confusion before the realization sets in.
That ringtone. Emergency recall.
You scramble to answer the call, but it cuts off, a new one coming through, JJ’s picture lighting up your screen. “Hello?”
“Richard Monroe is dead,” JJ blurts. “They just identified his body an hour ago. We have to get to Alabama.”
You stand to your feet. “Alabama? What do you mean? He was in Alabama?”
“Yes,” JJ rushes out. “Can you notify Hotch? I’ll call the others. Plan is to meet on the airstrip in an hour. They’re fueling up now.”
“We’ll be there in thirty,” you promise, ending the call as your feet are already carrying you across the room.
You bang on his door, giving him five seconds before you plan to open the door. He’s opening it for you in three.
He has his phone already pressed to his ear. “Richard Monroe.”
“Dead in Alabama,” you hiss. “If it’s in fucking Huntsville, Aaron, I—”
“I’ll call you back,” he says to whoever is on the phone. “Strauss wants us there immediately.”
Your eyes go wide. “You just hung up on Strauss?”
“I said I’d call her back,” he defends. “Did JJ call you?”
You nod. “She’s calling the others. We’re leaving in an hour.”
Hotch hesitates when you say we and you already know where this is going, so you stop it while you can.
“I know what you’re going to suggest, and no,” you say firmly. “I’m going. Don’t even try to make me stay back with Garcia.”
“This could be a trap—”
“I’ll be fine,” you insist. “Because I’ll be with you.”
That looks like it knocks the wind out of him, and you know exactly why. But you can’t talk about that right now.
He knows it, too. He holds your gaze for just a moment too long. Every second that ticks by is a second you two don’t have to lose.
“We need to go,” you murmur, trying to break the trance. “Can you be ready in five?”
He nods. You nod.
Without a word, you turn and retreat back to your room. You shut your door and move faster than you even think humanly possible, throwing your pajamas off and throwing on a work outfit. You cram a few extras into your go-bag, not bothering with any makeup or anything before walking out with your bag and shoes in hand.
Hotch meets you downstairs, ready to go. You slip your feet into your shoes and follow him out to the car.
“JJ said we’re meeting at the airstrip,” you say, scrolling through the groupchat. Everyone is awake and on their way. Garcia is already headed to the BAU office to get set up.
Hotch doesn’t acknowledge your statement. Instead, he says something else that makes your stomach turn. “Strauss said his body was found near Huntsville.”
You curse loudly, rubbing your forehead. “What the hell are we walking into?”
“I don’t know,” Hotch says automatically.
You keep massaging your forehead, trying to soothe the brewing headache. A hand squeezes your free one out of nowhere.
You lift your head to look at Hotch, almost in shock, but when he goes to pull away, you turn your wrist and lace your fingers together. A silent question that he hears. He squeezes your hand in response, lifting your hands to kiss your knuckles.
He doesn’t let go for the rest of the drive.
+++
The air on the jet is tenser than you’ve ever felt. Garcia is already at the office, video calling into Hotch’s laptop that now sits on the table between you two. Morgan is just across the aisle, leaned against the couch and he can’t sit still. Reid is next to Hotch and Emily is next to you.
Rossi eyes you warily from the little kitchenette where he stirs a cup of coffee.
“Okay, crime scene photos have been uploaded to your devices,” JJ says, handing a file of hard copies to Reid and placing an extra copy down on the table. “It’s all we have at the moment, they’re not touching anything until we get there, just snapping pictures and keeping it blocked off.”
You grab a picture just so you can glare at something. But when you get a good look at it, you drop it like it burned you.
“What is it?” Hotch says immediately.
“Is his—” You pause, your throat constricting. “Is his body outside an elementary school?”
The sound of Garcia’s frantic typing stops abruptly. “How did you know that?”
All the police have said is that Richard Monroe’s body was found dumped at the edge of the woods near Huntsville. But you know those woods, that edge in particular. Because you used to walk through them when you were younger if you were walking home with a friend. There were times — rare times — when your dad picked you up from school that the two of you would take the shortcut through those exact woods.
“Because,” your voice shakes, “I used to walk through those woods. They’re outside the elementary school I went to.” As if you need to prove your point and your credibility, you continue, “There’s a junior high next to it. Or there used to be. It’s probably called something different now—”
“You’re right,” Garcia says, rattling off the names of the two schools you went to.
The jet is quiet for just a moment.
“This isn’t a coincidence,” Rossi says.
Your eyes lift and you meet his gaze with a solemn nod. You’re both thinking the same thing. “My dad dumped bodies outside schools,” you explain. “When he wasn’t dumping them in abandoned lots or dirt roads, it was outside elementary schools. This is as direct as a message gets.”
Hotch shifts anxiously in his seat across from you. You know he’s battling with sending your ass back to Quantico, but you also know he’s learned by now that you will only be angry with him if he does that.
“We’ll go to the crime scene when we arrive,” Hotch says finally, though he won’t look at you. “Dave, take Reid and JJ and get set up at the precinct. Morgan, Prentiss, and I will go to where his body was dumped.”
“Where am I going?” you ask, ready to let the annoyance seep into your words.
But you barely feel any annoyance at all. Because of Hotch’s reply.
“That’s your decision,” he says softly. “It’s up to you. We’ve always known this case was closely connected to you, but it’s getting closer. You can go with Dave to the precinct, come with me to the crime scene, or I can have the pilot take you back to Quantico. I can arrange for agents to escort you and you can work at the BAU office with Garcia. But it’s up to you.”
You blink. He’s not saying any of this in a frustrated way. No, it’s genuine. It’s caring.
“Thank you,” you whisper. “If it’s alright, I’d like to go to the crime scene.”
Hotch nods, his eyes unreadable. “That’s fine.” After another beat of silence, he glances at his watch and sighs. “We’ve got roughly forty-five minutes left in the air. If anyone needs sleep, I recommend you do so now. I’m not sure when we’ll check into a hotel.”
Or if we’ll sleep at all, you add in your head to yourself. You don’t see yourself getting a single second of sleep until you catch this unsub.
Garcia hangs up and everyone disperses, curling into seats and couches in desperate attempts to catch just a little rest.
You and Hotch don’t move from your spots.
Well, you don’t move. He does. It starts with him nudging your leg underneath the table. You don’t look at him. He whispers your name. You don’t even blink.
You hear him sigh before he slides out of his seat and switches sides, taking the now empty seat beside you. It makes you smile, just a little.
And then Aaron, the man that he is, is sliding down in his seat, leaning his body toward yours. You have no idea what he’s doing until you move to turn your head, and he guides you down to his shoulder.
“Sleep,” he whispers. “You need to get some rest.”
You smile, nuzzling your face into his shoulder. “You do too, you know,” you murmur.
“I know,” he says, then leans his cheek onto your head. “I will.”
You let your eyes slip closed then, but not before wrapping yourself around his arm, pulling him into you, just needing to hold onto something. Anything.
Aaron’s hand slips between your knees, the touch not at all sexual, yet somehow more intimate. The level of comfort he’s providing, how easily he fits into your space, how right his body feels when it fits to yours, not even in a sexual manner. This is just the two of you existing, trying to squeeze in some sleep before everything else crashes down around you, and it’s perfect. It’s as easy as breathing.
