married!Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader
Genre: “enemies”-to-terrible-ideas, SMUT!!!
Summary: You save your coworker’s life and he fucks you as a thank-you? WOW! You can’t help but wonder how his wife feels about this particular expression of gratitude.
Warnings: MDNI (unprotected piv, ladyfingering, whipped cream maritozzi), infidelity, Aaron WHOREtchner, fertility talk nobody consented to, cigarettes, psychological warfare, toxic AF dynamics, Gideon in a robe jumpscare (my dick is hard). This takes place before s1, back when Hotch and Haley were trying for a baby, and Gideon was the Unit Chief!
Word Count: 8.9k (kill me?)
Dado's Corner: Idc if you think you’re too cool to reblog or comment and are just going to ghost-read this fic and move on with your day. TAKE A MOMENT to actually appreciate the details of the header (specifically the way it recreates the floor plan of a... messy hotel room) and tell me I’m a genius (example of the comments I expect to see: Wow, Phi! I can tell you spent valuable time of your life researching what hotel carpets look like. It looks gorgeous!). That said, tysm to my loves @alinathinkstoomuch , @sweetheartsocks & @hotchology for helping bring this fic back to life! And the biggest kiss to @pastelpinkflowerlife ’s brain for the request, I hope you enjoy it!
masterlist
amor fati
ˈa.mor ˈfaː.ti | noun (Latin)
1. The refusal to wish for another outcome; the deliberate choice to love what occurred simply because it did.
Riddle me this:
What’s stiff but short,
never quite your sort?
Promised grandeur, swore it’d last,
but finishes far, far too fast.
You hold it close. You curse. You pray.
It still disappoints you anyway.
You wish this verse were Hotch’s dick -
the length, the hype, the failing trick.
But fate’s a clown and luck’s a prick,
and once again you draw ________
(Solution: the short end of the stick.)
Which, frankly, was always short to begin with.
Because when the accommodation announces a last-minute room shortage (how professional…) and informs you that for five agents there are only three rooms available, Gideon, in his infinite wisdom as a cultured and experienced Unit Chief-
(conveniently the only one the BAU has ever had, so there’s no point of comparison… you simply have to accept him, his decisions, and his pending dementia)
-decides there is only one reasonable course of action.
He takes an entire double king-size honeymoon suite for himself. Morgan and Reid get shoved together into a double. And you?
You get Hotch.
Objectively the worst possible outcome of an already catastrophically fucked situation. The short end of the stick, anthropomorphized.
Eight glorious days of forced cohabitation follow.
Eight days of sleeping with the devil a few feet away, while you lie marooned on a twin bed whose mattress is so aggressively unforgiving you’ve resorted to medication just to remain a functioning member of society during daylight hours.
Add to that the long, soul-draining stakeouts - during which Gideon keeps pairing you with Hotch, possibly because no one else can truly stand him and you are, statistically speaking, the most expendable when the greater good requires a human sacrifice.
The package deal also includes: enduring his appalling small-talk skills, his despotic music taste, and an ungodly number of shared meals with Mr. I Won’t Order Fries Because I’m Eating Healthy and Have a Very Specific Meal Plan… who then proceeds to steal half of yours with his thick fingers anyway.
Somewhere along the way (between the stakeouts, the mattress, the fries, and the man) you feel another riddle forming in your head. Not in rhyme. You don’t have the energy for that anymore.
What kind of masochist would willingly sign up to endure Hotch's presence indefinitely and decide that yes, this is the man whose semen should be entrusted with the creation of another, smaller version of him?
Must be the money. Or maybe it’s the dick.
Still. How the fuck is this man married?
Unfortunately, you’re given ample time to sit with this mystery.
Because even though today you’ve wrapped up what is easily the most… draining… case of your BAU career, Gideon still gathers everyone into a circle after the local police briefing for his customary closing philosophical remarks and the ceremonial assignment of final paperwork.
And instead of offering an actual departure time (some vague window one to two hours after the speech concludes) he generously grants himself (and, by extension, all of you) an extra night.
Apparently, he doesn’t feel like flying more than three hours “this late.”
An easy, lighthearted choice for Gideon to make, considering he is not subjected to Aaron Hotchner at all. You are. Specifically, to his three precautionary alarms, each spaced exactly thirty minutes apart.
Every single fucking day, the first one goes off and Hotch is instantly upright and operational a full hour and a half before either of you needs to be alive. He never snoozes it. Not once. Which, frankly, renders the existence of the other two a personal affront.
And despite your very explicit death threats (turn off those alarms, Hotchner, or I will suffocate you with your own tie), once he is awake, alert, perfectly groomed, and already solving crimes in his tiny little head, he does not disable the rest.
He just… lets them happen.
You get violently jolted awake every single time you finally manage to drift off again. Instead of ninety blessed minutes of uninterrupted sleep, you’re served a shrill, inescapable reminder, on repeat, that you share a room with a sociopath.
You are exhausted. You hate him. You hate the alarms more.
And you have not yet accepted the horrifying truth that this will happen again tomorrow, unless you confiscate his phone right now, during this sacred window in which he would not even notice.
He is busy on a call with Haley. The masochist in question. Sorry. His wife.
“Aaron, did you massage both balls?”
It is, quite literally, the first thing you hear her saying the moment he answers. She sounds annoyed. Which makes sense, since you know he very deliberately did not call her yesterday.
“Haley-” Hotch starts, horror flashing across his face as he turns slowly toward you, as if only now realizing that you are, in fact, a sentient being fully equipped with functional ears.
He fumbles with the buttons, frantically trying to kill the speaker before your psyche suffers irreversible damage. The last thing you hear, before blessed radio silence, is: “You need to massage both of them very thoroughly, otherwise it’s useless.”
…Jeez.
You stare at the wall. And as you find yourself wondering whether he’s been dutifully performing fertility massages in the shower every morning (and, more alarmingly, whether that is in fact the intended function of the other two alarms) the need for a cigarette metastasizes into a matter of life-or-death urgency. Your hand moves on instinct, fishing the emergency pack out of your go-bag in record time.
You light one up before you even step onto the balcony, then turn back toward him so he can witness the full, indulgent, ecstatic pleasure of that first drag as it blooms across your face.
He lunges for you (and you’d swear the whole sequence unfolds in half-speed), one hand clapped over the phone’s speaker as he chokes out a strangled, “No, don’t-” just before you blow the smoke straight into his face.
Oof. Much better.
Hotch shuts his eyes.
He chases the hit the only way he can, dragging in a long, desperate breath through his nose. And somehow, knowing that even this pitiful approximation will never land the way it does for you only makes the cigarette taste sweeter.
A soft sound slips out of him as he exhales.
You make a concerted effort not to think about that.
“We made a promise.” He whispers, fixing you with one of his looks, holding the phone at arm’s length. “We were doing it together…”
Haley’s voice is still there, muffled through the speaker. He’s probably hearing her about as badly as you are, with the phone nowhere near his ear. He really is spectacularly bad at this husband thing.
You take another drag, deliberately angling it away from him, purely to deny him the pleasure. It’s achingly, intoxicatingly sensual to watch his eyes hunger after the gray ribbon as it billows and dissolves into the night, as though it owes him something he’s not allowed to claim.
“Well,” you say, “I think I deserve it after today.”
He studies you with those piercing dark eyes, openly concerned.
The longer the cigarette burns unused and Haley’s voice keeps echoing faintly from the phone, the more uncomfortable it all becomes. She calls his name. He doesn’t answer until the second time.
“Hey, honey,” he says at last, looking down. “You can tell me more when I’m back home. I really need to go finish arranging a couple of things. I’m sorry.”
Liar.
And still, you can’t get over the way his voice changes when he speaks to her. A lullaby reserved for the mighty, allowed to be soothed by it. A tenderness so dissonant with the man beside you it almost hurts to hear.
“See you soon.” He’s already moving toward you. “I love you.”
You need another drag.
He leans against the parapet beside you. Even as his gaze drifts toward the parking lot, toward the same anonymous cars you’re staring at, you can feel his warmth hovering a bare inch away on your right.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks quietly. Not as soft as before. But close.
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
“We don’t have to,” he adds. “Not now. If you don’t want to.”
Smoke blurs the license plates in front of you. Silence barely has time to settle before it’s broken by the rhythmic chime of Hotch’s fingers against the parapet. Sounds almost like bells. He always fidgets with his hands when he’s nervous.
“Are you about to tell me it’ll feel better if I talk about it instead of bottling it all up?” you ask.
You hear him sigh.
“No. That’s usually your line. I was going to ask you for a cigarette, actually.”
“You’ll ruin your streak,” you jest, but your hand is already fishing the pack out of your jacket.
“Well, you broke first. So technically, I already won… might as well start again on even ground.”
“Didn’t you say this wasn’t a competition, but you doing the right thing… setting an example…” You slide a cigarette out of the pack and immediately lose track of the lighter. You pat your pockets. Pants - no. Jacket - also no. “Moral high ground? What was it… wait-” You check inside the jacket again. The lighter magically reappears. Of course. You hold the cigarette and lighter out to him. “Oh, right. You were old enough to stop fooling around?”
He looks at you and takes the cigarette straight from your lips. Hollows his cheeks, kissing it passionately.
“What the fuck, Hotchner?” You swat his arm on reflex.
He doesn’t even dignify that with a response.
You watch, seething, as the trace of your lipstick on the filter marks his mouth when his wedding ring shifts the cigarette away. Hotch casually leans back against the parapet, elbows propped, gaze drifting toward the parking lot while smoke slips from his lips.
“That blue Honda’s from North Carolina,” he remarks, conversationally.
Fuck him. And fuck his stupid car plates. Another thing of yours he’s stolen.
You glare at him. He remains entirely unbothered.
“You’re acting like a child…” You scoff, roll your eyes, and surrender by lighting the cigarette that was supposed to be his. You don’t have the energy to spar with his bullshit right now. Frankly, you’re not sure how he does. Residual adrenaline, maybe. Speaking of which-
“Did you at least tell Haley?”
He hesitates. “I… couldn’t. Why do you think the cigarette is for?”
“You didn’t tell your wife that the reason we’re staying the night is because you ran straight toward a house with an active shooter and no protection, and that if I hadn’t chased your ass, you’d be coming home in a coffin?”
“You disobeyed Gideon’s orders by running after me,” he counters calmly.
“I - I - did?” You bark out a laugh. “I disobeyed Gideon? That’s your takeaway? What the hell is going on in that head of yours, Hotchner? Are you losing it?”
“Perhaps,” he concedes. “But for what it’s worth, I went in because I knew you had my back. I never truly put myself at risk.”
“You walked in to negotiate with a man whose finger was already on the trigger and aimed at your completely unprotected head, I wouldn’t call that ‘no risk.’”
“You took the shot first,” he smiles (smiles?) “Didn’t you?”
“You are fucking insane.”
“It was the only way. Four children are going home to their parents tonight because of us.” And tomorrow, he’ll go home to his wife (whole) because of you. “If we’d waited for SWAT, it would’ve been too late.”
He pauses. The gold of his wedding band catches the light, half consumed by the eclipse of his head bowed over it. “Also, I needed confirmation about whether your death threats were real. Turns out, when you had the shot to get rid of me, you chose to pull me out instead.”
He shifts closer. Ash slips from the end of his cigarette, falling between your hands, briefly wrapping around your finger before you wipe it against the parapet.
“You really thought I was serious?” You laugh. He can’t possibly be that naïve, can he?
“I thought you were a woman of your word,” he says, lightly. Almost teasing.
“Maybe I just didn’t want to deal with the extra paperwork.”
“Or maybe you care about me.”
You commit the single biggest, dumbest rookie mistake listed (bolded, underlined, and practically laminated) in the Big Book of Stupid Things Stupid Rookies Should Never Do: you turn toward him without thinking. Shit.
He greets you with a half-smile and smoke slipping from his nose.
You wish you were immune to Aaron Hotchner in moments like this - when he’s not posturing, not bragging, not currying favor with his superiors, but simply being himself.
Worse still is the way he looks at you now, as if he already knows the answer and is merely waiting for you to acknowledge it. He doesn’t ask for reassurance; your silence, or the way you hold his gaze, seems to be response enough for him.
“You should probably wash your clothes in the sink when you’re done with that,” you deadpan, tipping your chin toward his cancer stick. “And hope they dry by morning. If Haley finds out you’re smoking again, I’m not taking the blame.”
“I’m the only one accountable for my actions,” he says, almost playfully - like he’s reciting a line he knows you’d make him repeat if he didn’t already have it memorized.
“Exactly.”
“Could I borrow your hair dryer later?” he asks.
“No. You get to do this all by yourself. Like a big boy, Hotchner.” Your cigarette isn’t finished yet, but you can feel the tide turning - and you know if you let it drag on even a second longer, you’ll lose to him again. So you stub it out against the parapet before he can.
“Thank you.” he whispers, right as the ember dies against the metal.
“Whatever,” you shrug, but his half-smile infects your own anyway.
His pent-up look is so hideous it could turn anyone to stone. You’re fairly certain you’ve just fallen victim to the gorgon yourself, caught the moment you finally, truly see him. Oxygen moving through your lungs grows expeditiously viscous the instant Hotch takes a single step toward you.
Your footing, your exit strategy, the remark poised on your tongue, your awareness - all of it petrifies when his big hands rush to cup your face and his lips inevitably collide with yours as if it were nothing at all.
Paralyzed.
You feel the fine grit of every distinct particle of cigarette ash on his fingertips as they caress down your cheeks, the gold band on his finger resting against you as cold as your own unmoving skin, and yet the mere taste of the nicotine rush from his mouth sends you into sublimation.
Solid to air. Evanescent. Weightless, undone, no longer held in place by anything at all except his hands, roaming helplessly on your body, drawing you in flush against him.
“Hotch-” you warn him.
A gritty hum answers you - all you’re given before he shamelessly deepens the kiss, drawing your tongue into his mouth. Moans into you like a man starved. A fucking addict in withdrawal. You know gentleness is beyond him right now, even if he tried to reach for it.
Not that you could ask for it. Not that you truly want it. And certainly not from a man you are unavoidably aware belongs, irrevocably, to someone else.
“Say you don’t want me and I’ll stop,” he slurs, swallowing the words because he can’t quite bring himself to articulate them properly.
A lie by omission if you’ve ever heard one - offered just convincingly enough to let him pretend he’s granting you a choice, while knowing full well he’s already beyond the concept of stopping.
He never specifies what, exactly, he’ll stop. And it certainly isn’t the way his hand keeps finding the flesh of your ass, squeezing, palming, returning as if on instinct, each touch underlining how hollow his promises really are. Much like his head.
Does that little human brain of his even fire enough synapses to register the risk?
What happens if one of your colleagues - say, your boss, or Morgan and Reid - gets the bright idea to step outside for some air, or to investigate the suspicious noise that keeps punctuating the silence, one that sounds alarmingly like a very large hand smacking against an ass cheek every now and then, because a certain someone seems downright incapable of containing his enthusiasm while toying with his coworker’s ass?
No? Fine. Just you, then.
This is what happens when Hotch thinks with his dick. Not that you’re complaining about that particular executive function taking over. You love his dick… dickhead.
You love the way his mouth turns reverent at your throat, worshipping the pulse there, nipping at your earlobe. The way he nuzzles his profile needily along your cheek before pressing a wet kiss to your jaw, as you melt beneath his touch.
Not until you hear the soft slide of a window opening on Gideon’s side of the balcony.
Fuck.
You both jerk back against the parapet, snapping into an HR-approved distance in the narrow window of time you have to pretend nothing just happened.
“Thought it was your voices out here,” Gideon greets you, stepping onto his balcony in just an amenities robe and leaning against the railing.
Hotch’s swallow is way too loud. Neurotic. The sound ricochets in your ears and reminds you of all the other sounds your body is capable of making, if only the drop below were fatal enough to justify jumping.
(Has Gideon reached the age where he needs a hearing aid? Evidently not, given that he’s standing right here.)
“You two, really…” Gideon sighs.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. You can feel your heartbeat thudding high in your throat, the exact spot that’s probably still damp from Hotch’s mouth. You can visualize it catching the moonlight as Gideon studies you pensively.
You hesitate. Do you wipe it away now, or would that only make things worse - telegraphing nerves to the man who practically invented profiling, nerves you are very much not supposed to have unless you’re hiding something?
“I don’t care if you smoke,” Gideon says, unimpressed. “As long as you do it outside. You can stop looking at me like I’m about to ground you.”
You laugh it off, but the silence from Hotch behind you is perturbing in a way that settles straight between your shoulder blades.
“I just wanted to let you know I got a call from the pilot, we’re clear to fly back around ten tomorrow morning. Which means we’ll be in Quantico by lunchtime, if we’re lucky. You can tell your loved ones so they don’t worry - and call me instead.” Gideon smiles somewhere behind your head.
Ouch. Poor Hotchner, getting scolded by his own daddy.
“I will this time, Jason,” Hotch says, and as if on cue, his hand slides so that only his pinkie and ring finger touch yours on the parapet. The ignominious cold of his wedding ring against your skin sends a shiver straight down your spine. There is suddenly no oxygen reaching your brain.
Riddle me this: What the fuck is he doing right now? Does his dick actually get harder cheating on his wife right in front of his boss? What exactly is he trying to prove?
“You better do, Aaron,” Gideon adds.
Hotch still doesn’t move.
You don’t either - not without drawing attention to whatever bullshit this is. A power play? Some deranged display of affection you never asked for? Something subconscious unravelling inside his head?
For half a second, you consider whether it would pass as an accident if you shoved him off the parapet and made sure he landed headfirst. That would be subconscious too, wouldn’t it?!
“Well,” Gideon says, already turning away, “I’m going to tell the other two now…”
Gideon leaves. Authority exits stage left. Consequences, apparently, decide to loiter. Back inside, the last thing you expect from dick-measuring-contest Hotch is for him to be giggling.
You’re halfway through shutting the curtains to avoid any… inconveniences. No. Prevention. Still, not really. Damage control. Whatever.
“Hotch, really, I’m serious - what the fuck did you think you were do-” it becomes very difficult to finish a sentence when his lips surge on yours.
“Shh,” he murmurs, your face swallowed once more by the warmth of his broad palms.
Another kiss.
He cages you in, flush against the window and the curtain, and suddenly there’s nothing else - it feels like you’re embraced by nothing but him. He’s all you can see. All he lets you see.
“I don’t want to lose-” He shuts you up with a kiss. “-this. This… job.” Another kiss. He’s giggling again. “Because of you-”
His dimples cut deep into his flushed cheeks as he pulls back, and you’re struck by the inequitable certainty that he’s never looked more handsome than he does right now. (Okay. Maybe you keep that part to yourself.)
“Gideon could’ve seen you straddling me,” Hotch murmurs in your ear as his hand rides up your skirt. Heat creeps up your neck when he traces down the inside of your panties. He drags through your slick folds, applying more pressure with two fingers as he slides them over your core. “And still, he wouldn’t believe you get this wet for a married man.”
“Oh, you’re really flipping this, it’s you - fuck you,” you gasp as he circles your clit through the fabric.
“You think I’m wrong? You don’t sound like I’m wrong,” he sneers.
He keeps stroking your clit, wantonly picking up the pace. One of your legs hooks around his waist without a single conscious thought, and he catches it immediately, holding it tight as you drag him closer until there’s not exactly that much space left to pretend you don’t want this.
Your whole body arches into his touch, fingers clawing into his firm biceps, nails leaving crescent-moon marks as you bite back every sound, stubbornly determined not to give him the satisfaction. (Women used to fight for their rights, you remind yourself.)
“I’m just trying to thank you,” and he kisses you light as feather. Please.
“And how does your wife feel about the way you express gratitude?” you whisper against his ear, sultry on purpose. A breathy little note slips from your throat at the very end, purely to beguile him.
Hotch looks at you like the air’s been knocked clean out of his lungs. You smile back at him, achingly sweet.
He slurs your name in that galling, infuriatingly condescending tone as his hand drifts lower, pushing your soaked panties aside without a moment’s hesitation. Two thick fingers slide in far too easily, sinking deep in between your folds.
“Fuck-” you gasp. You hate yourself for even remembering just how devastatingly good he feels when he stretches you like this.
He slides all the way out, leaving your hips chasing his fingers on pure instinct, before deliberately returning to torment you - easing back in only to the knuckles while his thumb bears down on your clit.
“How would she feel,” you needle him, “if she knew how hard you got every morning this past week? Waking up in the same room as me… having to get up an hour and a half early just to make it go away?”
He manhandles you without warning, steering you farther into the room until the back of your leg bumps the desk. With a careless sweep of your arm, you send his rogue paperwork skidding to the floor (good luck reordering those, Hotchner) pages scattering across the carpet as you hop up onto the wood.
You fist the loose fabric of his shirt and yank him in. Spread your legs. Hook them around his hips. Feel the solid… weight of him press right into your wet core. He gets harder and harder at just that.
What. A. Loser.
In a rush, he strips your panties away.
You catch the way his pupils blow wide as he thumbs over the sheer wet spot with barely disguised hunger before yanking them off entirely. They land squarely on a report - what kind, you have no idea. Unlike a certain someone, you’re not nearly enough of a workaholic to identify paperwork by font alone.
Silver linings.
A breathless tangle follows - your teeth catching his lower lip, his hands crashing into yours as he reaches for your chest while you fumble blindly for his back, both of you too rushed and desperate to coordinate a single move.
“Did you want me to touch you-” he hums, his mouth wet against your cheek, middle and ring fingers pumping firmly in and out of your swollen gummy walls. A shiver tears through you. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the cold kiss of the ring every time his hand disappears inside you.
“Like this,” he adds, and his free hand comes up just in time to cover your mouth, smothering the moan you can’t stop when his fingers curl perfectly into your sweet spot. “Every morning you watched me step out of the shower just to grab my clothes?”
Okay. Fine. He can gloat. Annoyingly, offensively, he does look hot like that.
All wet hair and trailing droplets, hot steam spilling in behind him, lashes still damp and somehow longer for it. Water sliding down those slanted shoulders, down his - unfortunately - freshly shaved chest, until the whole room smells like his aftershave and, inexplicably, cherry blossom shaving cream.
(Aaron Hotchner is so feminist he can’t even escape the pink tax? Please. As if.)
Droplets trace the softer plane of his stomach, slipping beneath the towel slung obscenely low on his hips, the sharp V there catching the light and your attention alike. Something shifts beneath the fabric every time he moves...
And just when you think he’s done enough damage, he casually swipes the wet fringe back with one hand. No ring during the shower, so for a split second he still feels… available - at least in your head.
You don’t even bother feeling guilty as his biceps flex, swell, go indecently solid (sleeper build fully activated) only for that one stubborn, coarse lock to drop right back onto his forehead, like it’s doing this on purpose.
Hell yes.
Oh. Sorry. Right. You’re supposed to be humiliating him back - and you very pointedly refuse to examine whether the smug curve of his mouth right now is because he clocked exactly where your thoughts just wandered.
“When you touched yourself in the shower, were you picturing me like this, or your wife?”
He scoffs, but offers no defense. No denial. He just looks at you wary. Like you’ve just put your finger on something you weren’t meant to see so clearly.
And the way his thumb joins the motion at your clit, the way he keeps fingering you so sloppily that the obscene sounds of your body fill the room more than your own voice - as if that alone is his answer - feels less like a rebuttal and more like… a reward?
“Is that why you never take the ring off?” you cry out. “Does - oh my god - does it turn you on, fingering me with – fuck - that?”
The words snag in your throat and dissolve into a sound so filthy you didn’t know you were capable of making it (Gideon is, incidentally, still very much alive and sojourning on the other side of the wall). You go light-headed, stars bursting behind your eyes every time his fingers sink deeper.
“What, sweetheart?” he coos.
“-suck my dick and balls,” you choke out in one breath.
He might be laughing at that. Or maybe that’s just the rush roaring in your ears as you claw at his shoulders, cutting off circulation in a desperate attempt to haul him closer as heat pools low and molten in your stomach.
Your head tips back, pleasure flaring so hot it feels like you might combust. He’s there instantly, mouth at your neck, the other hand steady at your back, soothing the frantic pulse under his wet lips.
“I’ve got you this time,” he murmurs there (who cares?)
His words land like a spell; you end up knocking more papers off the desk, dizzy as the ecstasy crests. Your orgasm billows and crashes through you in tidal waves, sweeping you off your feet.
You feel your walls flutter around his fingers as he rides you through it, until your head goes limp on his shoulder, boneless, his hand still steady at your waist.
His fingers are slick and glistening with you. So is his wedding ring.
You catch the caprice in his eyes as he looks at you and shamelessly draws his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. He hums, indulgent, eyelids melting shut as he savors you, and releases them with a lewd pop, the ring nudged higher on his finger.
You wish it could choke him. You also wish he’d fuck you right now, because that was so, so, so hot.
All smug, he starts, “Are you alri-”
You don’t let him finish.
You press your hand flat over his mouth. His gasp comes out muffled, warm against your palm, leaving it faintly damp. On instinct, you drag your hand down his lips, the dazed, almost drunk look on his face making it feel inevitable.
You press your index and middle finger between his mouth, still carrying a trace of tobacco from your cigarette, and he accepts them without hesitation.
You feel his tongue slide along the inside of your fingers, the light scrape of his teeth as you push them deeper, the pull of his cheeks hollowing around them. Another broken sound breaks free when you finally pull them back out.
“Fuck, Hotchner,” you groan.
The whore smiles back. He loosens his tie and drapes it over the back of the desk chair. You shrug out of your top and fling it somewhere over his head, your hands skating over the firm slope of his shoulders, disastrously enchanted by him. You start on the top buttons of his shirt-
-and he stops you.
His hands clamp around your hips, hauling you to the very edge of the desk. He grabs a handful of your ass and pulls you hard against the rigid line in his slacks. You roll your hips instinctively, angling yourself just right to feel all of him. Oh, fuck.
“Can you feel what you’re doing to me?” he groans through clenched teeth, rocking forward and dragging himself over your folds, landing perfectly against your clit.
“No,” you lie.
He chuckles - you keep getting distracted by his dimples, which is frankly becoming a liability.
“Well,” he says, pleased with himself, “don’t worry. You will.” (Boooo! Disappointing rebuttal, Hotchner!)
If you hadn’t already fucked this freak while you were both drunk out of your minds, you’d tease him back - ask if he’s referring to the inevitable thirty seconds he’ll last once he’s inside you.
Unfortunately, you do know better. You know exactly what you’re dealing with. You might’ve even fantasized about it. So the swallow that tightens your throat is probably nerves. Or anticipation. Annoying either way.
He buries his face in the soft center of your chest, dexterous hands spanning your breasts through the bra, squeezing with something feral, unthinking (is he in heat?). He taunts you with kisses there, then trails his wet mouth upward along your clavicle, to your neck, where he nips and sucks at your skin with his teeth before soothing it with his silver tongue.
Ever the overachiever, Aaron Big Hairy Hands Hotchner somehow manages, all at once, to use your tit as a stress ball (for his pleasure and, infuriatingly, yours), leave you fairly certain he’s branded you with a hickey somewhere along your neck, and - drumroll - magically unhook your bra one-handed.
Wow.
If there were ever a clearer sign that this man is married, this would be it. His wife must be thrilled about this particular domestic skill of his.
If you had any real say in the matter - which you don’t, lacking the legal standing, the joint bank account, the stamina to tolerate his infuriating habits for the rest of your life, and the sincere desire to procreate with him - you’d still have to admit he’s devastatingly gifted with his mouth. When he isn’t using it to talk, obviously.
Case in point: the sound you make, embarrassingly louder than intended, when his tongue finds your peaking nipple, laving it slowly while his hand methodically toys with the other nub.
“If anyone knocks to complain about the noise,” he mutters against your chest, voice muffled and haughty, “you’re the one opening the door.” He nips down a little harder for emphasis, teeth adding just enough friction.
You choke on another sound.
“Shit, Aaron-” He smiles when you say his name. Fucking loser. “You’re so good.”
“I know.”
You roll your eyes. They promptly stay lodged somewhere behind your skull as pleasure floods in - because, infuriatingly, this is one thing you can’t fault him for. And sharing desks, rooms, fries (and, you hope soon enough, fluids), spending this much time prisoner in his orbit, has made you very good at profiling that smug-on-the-surface ass of his.
(Ergo, you recognize a praise kink when you see one.)
“No, Aaron,” you insist, breathless, “really. You’re so – so - good at this.”
He moans your name into your breast, shameless. His hand slides lower, bunching your skirt up in his fist until his fingers find your clit again, circling it slow - because he’s a giver, because he wants to earn it, because he wants to be told again.
Your eyes snag on the strained fabric of his grey (yum) slacks, stretched to its limits, the thick outline of his dick twitching in what you very reasonably interpret as pure, unfiltered excitement. The darkened spot right where the tip presses is an indulgent little detail… one you’d very much like to greet with your own tongue.
(See? Textbook.)
You bite your bottom lip. The fact that he still has half his shirt buttoned while you’re basically naked - especially once Inseminator 3000 (After Dark Edition) finishes with your skirt - feels profoundly antifeminist.
“Are you comfortable sitting like this?” he asks, those worried, wet-puppy eyes fixed on you as you work at his buttons, manhandling his arms like a Ken doll just to rid him of the stupid shirt.
“Sure,” you shrug, tossing it onto the growing disaster on the floor.
He pulls a face - constipated, like he’s just bitten into something violently sour (a casual Tuesday, really). You read it instantly as you should’ve folded it, the way he folded your skirt, now resting primly beside his tie on the back of the desk chair. Whoops. Maybe he should’ve asked his wife…
“Hotchner, you really have to wash that shirt later,” you blurt. “It really, really, really stinks like smoke.” You punctuate it with a wet kiss to his shoulder, then look up at him, brows raised.
“I– I will. Must be the cotton-” Right. The premium cotton. One hundred percent natural, hand-picked by virgins at dawn, spun into thread by blessed artisans in Italy, stitched by tailors who’ve never known hardship. Yada yada. Your ass. You can practically hear the obnoxious old-money flex echoing in your head - even if, for once, he isn’t actually doing it.
“Thanks for worrying so much,” he adds. There’s something faintly melancholic in his tone, a dissonant buzz like all his alarms going off at once, when he cups your chin and tilts your face up, pressing a kiss to your mouth that tastes far too earnest for your liking. He lingers, thumb stroking the corner of your lips.
Where did the hoe go?
“You still cool with this?” you ask - checking in, technically - while your hand has very much wandered to his boob chest and is now lowkey fondling it. It would be awkward if he suddenly remembered his vows while you’re halfway to tonguing his nipple, right?
“Absolute- Jesus Christ,” he gasps. In your defense, he has very sensitive nipples.
Belts, though - you’re like a magpie. There’s something about the thickness where the leather folds into the buckle that makes your mouth water.
You’ve noticed it - unfortunately, far too often - how the belts he wears always sit just right, cinching his hips so profanely well that when your fingers move there it feels like déjà vu. Muscle memory, born of how many times you’ve already fantasized about this.
Your hands tremble a little as you work the buckle, brushing the smooth, polished leather - and fine, before his laser-beam eyes can lock onto you, you set it neatly on the chair. The slacks follow. You are not, however, entrusted with the folding.
(Unsurprising.)
(Rude.)
The restraint this requires deserves a medal. There’s a very real side quest screaming at you to bury your face in that bulge. Damn.
“There,” you say lightly once he’s finished carefully creasing and fussing over a pair of grey slacks that softly smell like tobacco and… bear a damp mark. “Happy now, Hotchner?”
“Jesus,” he sighs. He catches your wrist (hot) and guides it closer to his erection (extra hot). Your hand flares like it’s caught fire. Flames race up your arm, fed by nothing but strong wind until the heat spreads through the rest of your body. “Touch me.”
(Oh, Jesus, touch me? Denial is a river in Egypt. Your husband is gay.)
You trace the damp outline at the head through his boxers, letting your hand glide up and down his thick length before circling back to thumb the tip again.
You’re not entirely sure whether the sudden clench low in your… body is because of the very beautiful dick in front of you, or because the breathy, high sound he makes does things to your clit… ears. Ears. Through the haze, you barely register him rushing to free himself of his boxers, moving so fast his dick almost bounces straight into your hands.
“Damn, Hotchner, you’re so impatient,” you tease - purely for psychological warfare, obviously, because wow. You hate clichés, you really do, but his dick somehow looks even better than the first time you saw it. (Probably because you were drunk. Probably.)
“Don’t lie to me, I know all you want right now is my dick stretching that tight little pussy.”
Ok…?
Who taught him that? Has he been watching porn since you last left him unsupervised? The comeback curdles in your throat, and you have too much pride to simply say yes. (Yes, please?)
He’s already gloating.
You’re bewitched by the way the gold glints and shifts as his fist works him in a few slow strokes. You find yourself wondering whether the cool bite of the metal against his overheated skin feels as good as it did when his fingers were inside you.
You lift your palm toward his mouth; he spits into it (hot.)
So much so that you’re fairly certain you’re slicking the desk beneath you (and you really hope he doesn’t point it out) as you pump him from the base, overwhelmed by the sheer, dense weight of him settling into your hand.
His mouth crashes into yours (less a kiss than an open-mouthed whimper) before he swats your hand away, breath breaking around a desperate, unfinished “Please, or I-”
Booooo.
His broad palm presses to the center of your chest, easing you flat against the desk, lifting one leg to rest over his shoulder. “Are you sure this is comfortable for you?” he asks softly, thumb tracing the side of your calf before he kisses it.
So much for the wild, rough sex you were expecting.
“I am, Aaron. Don’t worry about me.”
He answers with a smile that’s almost too sweet for the situation, then bends to claim your lips again. He drifts to your ear, and a shiver crawls up your spine to settle exactly where his mouth nibbles.
“How come you’re wetter now than before?”
He punctuates the question by slapping the heavy length of himself against your puffy clit. The sound is absolutely lewd. He does it again. And again - careless of the bow in your back, careless of everything - until you have to fight not to pout and whine when his heat leaves you as he straightens, attention snagged by something just out of sight behind your head.
“Something wrong?” you ask.
He shakes his head, mutters something that barely escapes his chest, then reaches past you. There’s a dull thump behind your head, like something hitting the surface of the desk face-down. Whatever it is, it does something to him.
He dips back down to latch onto your nipples, mouth hot and reverent for a heartbeat, murmuring, “God, you’re so beautiful,” before pulling away again.
You clap a hand over your own mouth to smother the sound when his bulbous head starts gliding up and down your folds, dipping not even an inch at your entrance before dragging back to your clit, grinding himself down again.
He spits where his flushed head presses to you. You can feel slick drip between your thighs like honey.
“Remember who’s right on the other side of the wall, alright?” he murmurs, tapping the wall twice with his knuckles.
“You’re so fucking fun- oh fuck,” you choke into your fist just in time as he finally buries all of himself inside you.
Then he pulls out completely.
“Told you to be quieter, sweetheart.”
“Are you this much of an asshole when you fuck your wife too?” you snap back.
He answers by slamming hard into you again, hard. Another billow of white-hot pleasure consumes your body. At least he commits to it.
Your head tips back, mouth parting, as if something molten and gilded floods you from the inside out, only to be battered by restless winds that toss you everywhere at once. You’re buffeted and doomed.
You feel your walls clench and clamp around him, stretching you so, so, good that you almost understand the appeal of patience - of tolerating his endless bullshit - if this is what his dick feels like at the end of the day.
He lowers himself over you, crowding your space. He looks massive like this, shoulders broad, body a wall of heat and gluttonous weight.
“Do you have such a dirty mouth with the other guys you fuck,” he asks, hovering near your lips, “or are you only mean with me?” He claims your mouth in the same breath, kissing you hard, loud, like he’s showing off.
You feel him twitch inside you, like his body is begging him to move despite the careful mask of control. He never sounds less than earnest when he says things like this - smug to anyone else, maybe, but there’s always that edge underneath. That selfish hint of jealousy. Like he hates the idea that you aren’t entirely his.
What a greedy man.
“You might be surprised, but I go completely quiet if I get fucked right.”
He bites his lip, that stupid, infuriating smile flashing the second anyone so much as tosses him the idea of a challenge into his orbit (no glove required this time since you’re letting him take it raw. Ok… this one really sucked).
His hand slides to your hip and he starts rocking into you with fervor, driving his dick in and out of you like he’s got something to prove to you. Your legs are already folded tight against your chest beneath his weight, the angle humiliatingly perfect, reducing you to a whimpering mess as your eyes roll back.
He nips at the swell of your breast when your back arches up into him, and suddenly he’s everywhere - so much so you can’t tell where he starts and where you end, and yet you distinctly feel all of him, every throbbing vein of his thick cock grinding insistently into your walls.
Your fingers scrabble for purchase, dipping into his shoulders, then his biceps, desperate for something to steady you as his pace turns rougher.
“Does this feel good?” he asks, and the wet, obscene sound of it all seems to echo inside your skull when his hand presses to your lower belly, claiming the undeniable proof of how deep he really is.
“Yes - yes, you do feel good – fuck - when you commit to it,” you cry, words loosening and tangling together, collapsing into each other like one of those impossible Irish place names - Glassillaunvealnacurra, (located in the county of Galway): Little green island of the mouth of the weir.
It’s never resonated more than it does right now, as he hits your sweet spot and you’re still fighting to sound coherent, to convince him you possess the vocabulary of a fully grown adult while your body very clearly has other priorities.
You start matching his rhythm, meeting him halfway, chasing it. Your walls suddenly clamp hard around him, like it’s all tipping into too much.
“Jesus,” he hisses through his teeth, mouth falling open. “Don’t do that too often, or I’m not lasting as long as you think I will.”
“Need a break, Hotchner?”
He hums back, pleased, then leans down for another kiss. You breathe into each other’s mouths, unguarded, eyes locked as if you’re both checking – (dick) measuring (contest) - the damage you’re doing.
It’s so hot.
A dark, knowing smile curls on your lips at the exact same moment it blooms on his. You tip your head forward and steal it from him with a kiss.
Centuries of literature about soulmates, angelic women driving chosen men to abandon their humanity for something metaphysical - and your own road-to-Damascus moment hits you now.
It lands clean, without splintering you into a thousand pieces: that with his very ordinary, almost classic Disney-prince smile, the too-big-and-pointy nose, the smug eyes, Aaron (does he even have a middle name?) Hotchner (title? lineage? the second? the third?) was probably engineered by a higher power (a woman, thank you Mama Hotchner) to be your perfect fuck… buddy? Colleague? Fellow associate?
Fuck friend, if you were friends. Because the two of you together fuck on an almost transcendental plane. And if he weren’t married, you might even have the nerve to tell him you’ve finally identified a purpose for his otherwise profoundly meaningless life.
“Oh my god- just like that,” you moan as he rolls his hips and finds you perfectly, the impact ringing straight through you.
He’s pistoning into you now, relentless. Something goes skidding off the desk - there’s a dull, graceless crash, then the muted shatter of something that sounds like glass swallowed by carpet. You’re too dizzy to look. So is he. He tips his head forward onto your shoulder, breath breaking against your salty skin.
You tense all at once, toes curling where your feet rest on his shoulders as his hand circles your aching clit. The rooftop vanishes. The same night where you were carelessly smoking, blurring license plates, opens back up, limpid and vast. You’re drenched in starlight, gilded.
The pain is sharp enough to pull sounds from your throat before you can stop them, but what follows is so achingly sweet you never want it to end. There is no part of you that wants escape from it. Your body yields, your thoughts scatter, your soul settles - finding rest nowhere else but in him.
“Aaron-” is all you manage.
It isn’t pain of the body alone, though your body does not escape it. It participates fully, trembling, responding. And yet what you feel goes beyond flesh.
“Wow… look at you,” he rasps. Your walls are still fluttering, pulsing tight around him, and he doesn’t let up - keeps thrusting, keeps stroking your clit with the same ruthless focus, staying with you through the last shattering waves of your ecstasy.
A thin, high sound slips from his mouth as you writhe, oversensitive, his rhythm turning frantic. He folds down over you, kisses your lips, then trails a wet path to your ear.
“Can I-” he asks, sheepish.
“Yes, Aaron.” Your hand slides over his back, tracing the broad muscles there, keeping him exactly where he is. “Please. Don’t move.”
You seal the unspoken (though you know exactly what he’s asking for) permission with a soft kiss to his mouth, lips flushed pink and swollen, unmistakably marked by how many times he’s already tasted you tonight.
He moans into it, hips jerking as you feel each pulse of his heat spill into you, the way he fucks his release deeper and deeper into your pussy, until he finally gives in - hollowed out - collapsing between the swell of your breasts.
“Do you think we’ll still be employed by tomorrow?” you ask, fingers slipping absently into his hair, threading there, even if whatever this is only exists on borrowed time.
You feel his chuckle rumble through your chest, low enough it almost kick-starts your heart again, like a defibrillator.
“Jason-” Oh, for fuck’s sake. Of course he calls your boss by his first name, absolute teacher’s pet. “-sleeps with earplugs ever since that case we had in Iowa,” he adds. “Remember the newlyweds?”
“Oh my god, yes. I could hear them all the way from the other end of the corridor,” you groan. “You were closer, right? Must’ve been hell.”
“You have no idea,” he says, chuckling again. “So… small mercies. At least on that front.”
“Right,” you huff trough your nose. “I don’t think we were that bad, though. Right?”
“Not bad at all,” he repeats, smirking.
You roll your eyes. You’re fairly certain he’s talking about something else entirely.
Still, he’s not quite as disposable as you imagined. Not when he’s careful easing you down from the desk, not when he takes his time cleaning you up with a tenderness you absolutely did not earn and certainly did not request.
Of course, any illusion of growth evaporates the moment he starts treasure-hunting your bra and panties from around the room, launching into a condescending lecture about procedure.
Apparently, even in the heat of the moment, garments should be discarded with intention - placed neatly and thoughtfully - rather than “launched indiscriminately,” thus sparing oneself the moral failing of later having to wear them “crumpled and compromised.”
“You know,” you deadpan, “if you wanted a souvenir, you could’ve just snagged my panties and tucked them into the Barbie Dream Closet you call a go-bag instead of inventing all of this.”
You watch, fascinated, as his face goes entirely, spectacularly pink in record time.
“I’m joking, Hotchner. Relax. No need to get all pent-up.”
Unlike his theory on orderly undressing, you’re increasingly convinced chaos is the superior system, everything is right where you can see it.
You spot your cigarette pack immediately (half-open, a couple already making a bid for freedom), sitting beside the wreckage of whatever just shattered on the floor, ergo, the mystery object that took a dive off the desk a few moments ago.
A frame. Is this Hotch’s?
You pick it up gingerly, trying not to bleed.
Your stomach may be folded clean in half, but you cannot deny that Haley looks absolutely ethereal in white.
Well.
You rummage for whatever that FBI-issued compartmentalization bullshit was supposed to teach you… anything that might buy you one quiet cigarette before guilt comes crashing in.
You slide the glass door open to the balcony and lean into the frame, letting the night breathe back into you.
“Want a smoke?” you ask.
“Sure,” he says, already positioning himself opposite you, back against the door, holding it ajar so the breeze drifts inside. In your head, at least, the airflow feels intentional, like physics itself is trying to draw a clean, hygienic, line between you.
He does that infuriatingly hot thing you only ever see in edgy rom-coms: lights your cigarette for you, cupping the flame with his broad hand, shielding it from the wind until you finally get your hit.
The flame flickers, and in that brief glow you catch how earnestly he’s looking at you, how soft his smile turns when your eyes meet. Shit. You blow the smoke outward like you’re supposed to, but the wind betrays you, curling it right back in, clinging to your clothes, your skin, drifting toward him anyway.
You pass him the cigarette. His fingers linger on yours.
You hate how reliably hot it is when he hollows his cheeks, how his face shifts from constipated to almost human (relaxed would be generous) the deeper the smoke settles in his lungs. The ritual repeats: he exhales into the night, the smoke loops back, and then the cigarette is returned to you, warm from his fingers. Back and forth.
Shared breath. Shared silence.
And you think – unhelpfully - about how he seems more faithful to you in these moments than to the person he’s sworn loyalty to. About how that same softness in his voice, the one he reserves for her, carries the weight of his biggest lies.
You wonder if one day he’ll manage to deceive you just as effortlessly as he’s deceiving Haley now.
Phi's Corner: I’m sorry, friends... my eyes gave up halfway through rereading this all in one go (instead of the tiny chunks I wrote it in), so if anything’s wonky or not flowing quite right… I’m sorryyyyyy I’m going to sleep now!!
I haven't even read this yet but I saw the notif and arose like a sleeper cell agent being summoned back to life. And can we take a moment here??
The banner. THE banner. Stunning, a work of art, the hotel room floor?? The dress-up-or-down-Hotch game?? The hot teasing gif choice?? MWAH. that's me slobber kissing you back. I cannot tell you how long I zoomed in on it and looked at every single corner. Which isn't necessarily new - I love banner art and I especially love yours for all the fic teases, which I then like to go back to after reading to put the pieces together hehehe
Anyway I'm off to read (during working hours) but I wanted to say thank you for writing my request!! I'm so excited to read it and I can't wait to see how you made it your own 💕
cw: shy!reader / naive!reader, hotch has a crush!! a bit of mutual pining
a/n: i feel like this is a little all over the place but i love a pining hotch too much so i just had to post it!!!
Anderson has been doing his case reports in the pantry for the past four hours. Perhaps it does have its perks– one, he’s closer to the coffee machine and two, he’s farther away from all the chatter that is coming from the place he should actually be working in– at his desk.
That’s because for the past four hours, the whole BAU team or what’s left of it– being Derek, Rossi, Garcia, and Reid– have been crowding the rows of desks directly across Hotch’s office. Occupying desks and chairs that are definitely not theirs.
The rowdy bunch has been debating, gossiping, and most importantly, profiling their unit chief for the past four hours. Figuring out which applicants impress him, disappoint him, or straight-up irritate him– all through his office window.
They’ve seen a total of seven applicants walk out of his office without a handshake, which is Hotch’s tell on whether he would consider that candidate or not. Out of those seven, two were way prettier than they were smart, three way too confident than they were competent, and two solely able to step foot in Quantico because of their last names.
As for those that did walk out with a handshake were… well.. non-existent. If anyone were to ask someone from the team, they’d insist that they don’t need a new member. They don’t need anyone new to replace the beloved ones that have left.
However, remembering the previous cases from the past two weeks– the truth is, they all felt a little like they were drowning. It felt like the more days that went by, the more cases there were to filter, solve, and close. The more killers there were to profile, hunt, and stop. The more reports there were to fill out, file, and submit;
Each member of the team was doing double the workload of what they usually handle which had started to take its toll on their health, both physical and mental. And Hotch being the responsible leader that he is, recognized what had to be done. Especially after Reid fainted while running and Morgan’s strength notably faltering while in a tussle with an unsub.
Now, the team didn’t know if it was perhaps because Hotch was measuring all these potential agents against Emily and JJ but none of them appeared up to his standard. Although accepting applications was his idea, judging by the way his brows had furrowed permanently they could tell Hotch was starting to regret it. Rossi, who knows Hotch a little better than everyone, could tell that he was about to give up.
He could tell by the way he had his lips pressed in a thin line for the past forty minutes unwaveringly.
He could tell by the way his shoulders were more obviously rising and falling, his breaths deeper- like he was calming himself.
He could tell by the way Hotch would stand with clenched fists, unclenching them slowly on his sides.
He could tell by the way Hotch was staring at the files, not reading.
But just as Rossi was about to go up to Hotch’s office so they could all call it a night. To give his friend a pep talk about being there for each other and how tomorrow’s another day. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees someone entering the BAU walking briskly.
The profiler in him skims over the figure quickly: 5 foot 3. Tiny. Mid-20s to early 30s. Young. Cardigan, jeans, sneakers, and a messenger bag. Is this kid Reid’s twin or what. Soulful round eyes, cute nose, pink lips. Pretty.
“Uhm, hi.. I’m here for an interview? with uhm.. Mr– Agent Hotchner, sorry. Could someone point me to his office? Please?” Interesting.
For some reason, none of the members of the team spoke, mainly surprised by the sudden addition of this stranger’s presence. One by one, like falling dominos, they slowly pointed to Hotch’s door. Simultaneously taking their precious time assessing whatever they can from what they’re seeing.
Their observations didn’t stray far from what Rossi had seen. You’re pretty. That’s the first thing one can deduce. The incredibly-adorable kind of pretty, Garcia thinks. You seem smart, the same way anyone knows boy genius is smart– darting eyes like you’re thinking at a thousand miles per minute. Like you’re studying your surroundings, assessing threats, friendlies, and potential threats.
You’re shy. You speak softly as if scared to intrude. Your movements are precise as if scared to impose. You stand still as if scared to take up more space than necessary. But your posture says otherwise. You may be introverted but your intelligence reeks in your diction and the way your head is held high, a part of you you’re sure of. Literally a lot like Reid, it’s creepy.
You’re young. Young enough to steal pretty boy’s title as the baby of the team if you were to be accepted. To be honest, you look like a college student. Like a straight A, extra credit, shy and quiet type of student– and they weren’t wrong.
You didn’t find anything weird about their behavior, the silence with which they responded to you. Probably because you were too nervous about your interview. Everyone knows the BAU is the team that’s the most difficult to get into, and that their unit chief’s the most intimidating man in the FBI that the Director himself avoids running into him altogether.
So it was definitely a surprise when you were called in by Erin Strauss. A fresh graduate from the academy, you had no field experience at all. You’d only been working as a forensic scientist for the Organized Crime Division for a little less than a year, and more often than not you were in laboratories and morgues. Mainly there as a junior consultant than anything, having the more seasoned agents out in the field, on active crime scenes.
Your gaze followed where they were pointing to, nerves permeating through your body. As you make your way up the stairs to get to his door, you’re trying to even your breathing- desperately. You don’t want to seem incompetent and inexperienced, pathetic even.
Raising your hand to knock, you take in one last deep breath. Suddenly aware of all the people watching you from behind, possibly profiling you– you knock. Loudly. Like you were trying to prove something, show false strength and confidence.
Maybe a little too loud, you realized. Shit.
You’re in your own head when the door whips open and you see him. You knew he was good looking. You’ve seen him on TV and in pictures but god they did not do him justice. Just as you were processing how good-looking he was and how it would be a crime to embarrass yourself in front of him, your body decides it’s time to let out that big breath you inhaled before knocking.
Now it appears you’re just blowing cool air into his chest, frozen while he stands there towering over you, most likely curious about why you knocked on his door so hard, why you are blowing cool air into his chest and more importantly, who the heck were you?
“Hi, I’m, uh, here for the interview. For, uhm, the vacant position at the BAU team, Sir– Agent!” clearing your throat you scramble to make a good impression, or at least salvage what’s been established.
Swallowing your pride, you bow your head in embarrassment, softening your voice as you say “Sorry, Agent Hotchner. What I meant to say is that I’m applying to be on your team. I’m here for the interview.” Looking up at him eye-to-eye, to hopefully convey your sincerity, you held his stare and his breathing stuttered.
Let’s be honest. Hotch just went through four hours of his personal hell, getting to know people he doesn’t want to get to know. Asking questions, engaging in small talk, studying mannerisms and language– all to assess whether that person could be the much needed addition to his team. And the last thing he wants right now, as it nears the end of the work day, is another applicant to entertain.
So Hotch, along with the rest of the team, becomes quite surprised when he moves his body out of the way to let you in his office when seconds ago he looked like he was about to give a very tempered advice at whoever just banged on his door.
While he gestures for you to sit walking around his desk to sit on his own chair, he convinces himself that it’s because he is a good person and because he would do anything to help his team even if it meant enduring another painful interview.
Definitely not because of your eyes. Or pouting lips. Or the adorable way blood rushed to your cheeks in embarrassment. Or your soft, soft voice that said his name in such a way that he’s dying to hear it again.
Nope. It is simply his duty to lead and care for his team, and that means interviewing you. Somehow.
-
It was quiet. You were nervous. It was obvious. He was waiting for you to talk but you’ve been staring at his tie instead of his face. You’re fiddling with your rings, wiping your palms on your jeans. And you were still very obviously trying to even your breaths.
Observing these were enough to make him soften his voice slightly as he spoke, “Could you tell me about yourself?” He said slowly and softly– soft enough that if the air conditioning was a little louder you probably wouldn’t have heard him at all.
Hotch became extremely conscious about coming across as demanding. He simply didn’t want to intimidate you further. He knew that if he wanted you to talk, open up, and present yourself justifiably, he would have to tread lightly.
Now, he didn’t know when exactly he had started to care about whether he came off as intimidating or not, nor does he know why he’s the one adjusting for someone applying to be on his team– but apparently the times have changed.
He’s brought out of his thoughts by your faint reply, “Well I, uh, have a bachelor in Psychology and in World Literature. Uhm, and.. I also have a Masters in Criminal Psychology but pursued Forensic Psychology for my doctorate.” You sounded almost hesitant to list all your achievements, which made him think you’ve probably been told once or twice that it is impolite to talk about such achievements to one’s face.
The thought of someone invalidating your achievements, your brilliance infuriates him. You’ve achieved so much so early in your life, you deserve to be celebrated. There’s a subdued smile on his face, hopefully one you interpret as encouragement to continue.
With a small smile gracing your face at his kind reaction, you added, “I only recently finished actually– I did it simultaneously with the academy’s progr–”
He cut you off, “Congratulations– sorry.” Too eager. Since when am I the one doing the impressing? “You like studying,” he observed. The smile on your face, although small, seemed genuine. Your face and your posture increasingly relaxed the more you talked.
You breathe out a laugh, “A little.. A little too much maybe.” Looking at your hands, rearranging the rings that adorn your nimble fingers.
Hotch’s face has softened. He didn’t notice by how much, but it has relaxed a lot more the longer he observes you, everything about you. He commits your every movement to his memory, every mannerism, chalking it up to some part of his assessment. Words that describe you flashing in his head: introverted, intelligent, beautiful, accomplished– He hasn’t read your file. He gave up on reading files three candidates ago and has been relying on his profiling skills to get him through.
But there’s something about you. Something that he can’t figure out, can’t name or explain. He felt it the very first time your eyes met, which isn’t even an hour ago but feels damn near to ages ago. He’s feeling it deep in his bones– a tingling feeling, an electric current, a rush of excitement. His heart has been beating slower yet louder. He feels it strongly in his chest.
It had made him silent for a minute, so you look up from your hands subtly to check if he’s alright. For a second you were worried that he had said something that you just didn’t pick up on, and he’s been waiting for you to respond.
But as your eyes meet again, he feels he’s suddenly in unfamiliar territory, treading powerful waters, and he can do nothing but go along with it.
You’re surprised by the look in his eyes, but the sudden silence is at the forefront of your mind and you try to diffuse it, “Uhm–”
He cuts you off again, “Tell me something about yourself that I won’t read on your file.” He had the same idea- to talk. But for you, it was to diffuse the silence you thought was a dead giveaway of how disastrous your interview’s turning out to be. To him, it was to get somewhere, anywhere.
He’s got this weird feeling– a desire to get you talking more, even though soon enough there will be an awakened part of him that is certain there will be more talking in store for you two in the future.
“What?” You don’t know why you said that. You understood what he said. Now you probably helped him affirm in his head that you’re ditzy and possibly the least reliable candidate to make agent.
But..you just caught him looking at you like he was in love with you. Now you’re officially crazy. Dark, compelling eyes calling to you– it threw you off. It wasn’t even the usual sickening look of love, it was more of this serious, earnest yearning- almost pained.
-
Now while the two of you were battling awkwardness and inexplicable feelings, the team was watching the whole thing unfold through his office window like a silent film. In fact, Garcia and Derek were already sharing a bowl of popcorn he ran to microwave the second they all saw Hotch’s entire existence falter at your presence.
“What– what is happening? They’re barely talking!” Garcia worries. You’re tiny and adorable, and you look so kind and so incredibly soft and fragile. She just wants to protect you regardless of having met you less than briefly, minutes ago.
“Baby girl, look closely. Both are just nervous, blushing idiots. They’ve just gotta push through this. Aren’t I right?” Derek’s smart mouth smugly adds. Looking to Rossi for any confirmation that he had guessed right: Hotch has a crush.
Ever the skilled lip-reader, Reid comments “It’s been six whole minutes and Hotch has only asked her to tell him about herself.” He ponders for a moment, tilting his head “And judging by his relaxed jaw movements, gestures, and the decreased amount of strain his neck shows, I’d say he’s speaking softer than his usual volume.”
Essentially Hotch’s best friend, every member looks to Rossi for his reaction. If they need any sort of confirmation that they’re reading their boss man right, they only ever have to read his right hand man Rossi who wears how he feels and what he thinks like Garcia wears her individuality.
But Rossi’s only looking back at Reid with twinkling eyes and a smug smile growing bigger by the second. He lets out a quiet laugh, turning back to see Hotch smiling at the girl who is unaware of the fool grinning at her, “Addition to the team my ass– he'll be adding her to his life."
does someone want a hollanov fic list that's just my personal latest/best reads? no? well you're getting it anyway.
ain't nothing but mammals explicit, 7k, oneshot. exquisitely nasty. sweat kink, couple sex that you can only have with the person you allow yourself to be unfiltered and human with.
blood upon the snow unrated, 13k, complete. have you thought about shane getting into fights? great, here's eight chapters of exactly that.
i like jane for you mature, 17k, complete. hayden and ilya accidentally switch phones. they swear to not intrude on each other's privacy. they break that promise within the hour. it works out pretty okay.
ilya rozanov's 2017 dating wrapped teen, 1k, oneshot. ilya drops hints to his team about his relationship via presentation. they don't really catch on.
au mauvais moment mature, 5k, oneshot. shane gets an abortion while he's dating rose. they're pretty okay at handling it. i support the number of abortion fics in this fandom wholeheartedly. he would Not keep that thing.
shane hollander goes casual (he's so cool and unbothered) explicit, 15k, complete. shane has a hoe phase (with spreadsheets). ilya attempts not to explode from jealousy.
never was much of a romantic explicit, 5k, oneshot. hollanov fight over ilya suggesting shane sleep with other people, fuck, and make up. they are aggressively in love, and jealous, and shane has a speech that made me audibly cackle. i already posted about this one but it deserves another mention.
KNOCKOUT! series of (currently) two fics, both complete. explicit, 9k total. hollanov fuck around with pain kink in their reliably unsafe, but definitely fun way. a very loving anthem to masochism and sadism that made me smile in demented glee
logged in gen, 3k, oneshot. shane and ilya reconnect after rose via letterboxed.
vibes are not data teen, 18k, complete. wyatt and ilya's bromance, wyatt's adhd, and pattern recognition getting one over hollanov's secret keeping skills. every relationship in this was so loving and refreshing and i adore it
like one of your girls explicit, 5k, oneshot. shane has a lot of feelings about being another one of ilya's many hookups. some of them aren't nice. a strong dash of internalized homophobia in this one, folks
for a split sec, i was a train wreck explicit, 18k, complete. ilya gets injured, stays at home, gets into tarot, and tries not to spiral into madness. it's mostly a successful endeavor.
dust bowl explicit, 8k, incomplete. transfem shane, who's been ilya's girl for longer than she's known she's a girl at all. definitely angsty, but by god, am i having feelings about it.
morality clause gen, 13k, complete. canon through yuna's eyes, also dealing with the more technical aspect of being shane's mom-ager.
one sunday morning mature, 8k, oneshot. ilya gets injured. shane shows up to take care of him. neither of them are sure what feelings they're allowed to be having about this. set early in canon.
connecting the dots mature, 7k, oneshot. hayden thinks lily's a dominatrix. surprisingly, this theory does fit in a lot of ways, except for all those other ones where it definitely doesn't.
fuck the news unrated, 3k, oneshot. hollanov gets outed in episode two. they try to survive. reveal fic
(wild and fluorescent) come home (to my heart) unrated, 3k, oneshot. ilya suggests putting down shane like an old dog, but mostly scott hunter. this is a normal conversation to be having with his boyfriend's newly-met mother, surely.
we'll be afraid of nothing teen, 8k, oneshot. ilya calls shane boring all the time, but he's not sure it means the same thing on the ice than off it. more than that: he's pretty sure it means something pretty bad. misunderstandings and a lot of feelings about shane's autism.
the secret society of stick handlers series, ongoing. the gay nhl players have their own groupchat. it's pretty okay, if you don't mind the chaos.
you get me explicit, 10k, oneshot. shane's pretty good at yoga, and plenty flexible- flexible enough that sucking his own cock is more of a possibility than a fantasy, really. ilya's about to make that into a reality.
little more close explicit, 2k, oneshot. cnc. shane wants ilya to do a scene with him. they have a good time.
drive it like you stole it explicit, 12k, oneshot. ilya gets injured and gets horny about it.
edit: there's a second and third one because i'm normal and can be trusted with an ao3 account
MIND CONTROL MADE EASY, OR HOW TO BECOME A CULT LEADER.
Aaron Hotchner x reader
genre : unresolved tension (sort of), complicated ambiguous and confusing feelings, pretentious metaphors, lots of cult-y things
summary : Don’t you want devoted followers? Who welcome you into their compound. Offer you answers wrapped in faith, and pretend to guide you towards the truth ? Who give their bodies to you, their loyalty, their love. Like a cult does for its prophet. Like you do for Hotch. Like Hotch does for the job. You and Hotch came to profile devotion but you find yourself drowning in it. Since the death of God, there’s been a vacancy open.
You could fill that void. Here’s how.
notes : this was inspired by season 4 episode 3 (my favorite episode but don't quote me on that) and this specific video.
word count : 5.3k
Peace on earth,
Will you die for me ?
The Arizona desert is staring at you through the car window. Miles and miles of dusty brown with patches of green. The cacti look like spears grazing the sky. Brandished by the ground like spiky green scepters.
Discreetly, you turn your gaze towards the rearview mirror. To look at Hotch. His eyes seem to be a reflection of the desert outside. Specks of brown and green blending together. Even his furrowed eyebrows mimic the cacti.
His hand rests gently on the steering wheel. He took off his suit jacket a while ago, it got too warm in the car. His sleeves are rolled up. You can trace the veins on his forearms with your eyes. There's a fading mark on his ring finger.
"It still feels weird that he suddenly agreed to an interview," you say pensively.
He briefly glances over at you through the mirror. His hand taps the wheel.
"He's trying to control the narrative," he replies. "Inviting the Bureau makes him look cooperative. Rational."
You hum. Your fingers bend the top corner of the file.
"Right. Just your regular polygamist cult leader letting in the FBI like it's a PR event."
Hotch lets out the ghost of a smile. More accurately, his lips fighting against his frown and winning for once.
You go back to the file on your lap.
Joseph Applewhite, late 50s, former college theology professor, fired due to his increasingly unhinged theories in the late 80s. Goes by Uriel now. Hebrew for God is my light. Prophet (as he so originally refers to himself) of God and founder of the Church of Jesus Christ of the Blue Veil since the mid 90s.
The closest town to their compound (Oatman, Arizona, population : an impressive 135 people) is 45 miles away. People in Oatman said that the cult members occasionally come into town to invite folks to celebrations. Friendly, polite, though a bit quirky. Noted that they always come in pairs. Always two men or two women. And they never split up.
Not that much is known about the Church of the Blue Veil. They've kept to themselves for the past 20 years. Until a reporter made a couple of articles regarding some of their … unsavory practices. Mostly about the leader's 3 wives. Nothing that outrageous by cult standards. But enough to make him finally open the gates.
Eat me
This way
The end.
"You have… peculiar tastes in music," he says after a while.
"Is 'peculiar' Hotch-speak for bad ?"
"That's not what I said."
"Well you only listen to the Beatles or narrated government reports, so it's no surprise that you'd find Jim Morrison 'peculiar'." You reach and slightly twist the black volume knob on the dash in defiance. The speakers crackle softly before the sound rises.
He sighs. Exasperated and fond. He reaches to twist it back down immediately. His fingers brush against yours.
Your eyes meet his. They really look like the desert. They're warm. And vast. And slightly out of reach.
He lowers his hand. You twist the volume back up again.
"Are you sure we're going the right way ? This is the third time we've passed that wonky cactus," you joke.
"That cactus bends to the left. The other two we've passed bend to the right," he says deadpan.
You know he's joking, in that dry and stern Hotch way. But he's also so uptight that it's entirely plausible that he has actually been cataloging the desert foliage.
"Can I drive on the way back?"
"No," he says in a final tone. You can see the dimple on his cheek.
The sun shines harshly on the white and blue buildings of the compound. The blue walls almost blend in with the sky, like they’re trying to reach towards it. Everything looks blinding. The light reflects mercilessly on the white. There’s a sort of ivory eerie halo. Even the cacti look out of place. Like prison bars made of grass.
When you get out of the car, a group of the cult’s members greets you. They’re all smiling brightly. It’s like everything here is made to be so bright that you can’t see anything. The sunlight, the walls, even their too eager smiles that show an unnatural amount of teeth.
The way their smiles stretch looks uncanny. It’s friendly, but almost too friendly. Like they’re forcing their lips to cover as much of their faces as possible.
“Welcome to our home,” one of them says. You’re not even sure which one. Maybe all of them at the same time. They’re still smiling, calm and serene. But you can feel their eyes staring deep into yours. Like they’re looking for something. Or trying to remember you.
Another one gestures for you to follow. Their arm lifts up stiffly. You can see a thick blue line painted on the palm of their hand. You turn your head towards Hotch. He gives you a subtle nod, and gently puts his hand on your lower back.
As you walk, the members explain to you how the compound works. There’s a communal garden with vegetables (corn, okra, tomatoes, a dozen of different species of cactus…). A school. A small line of pale houses on the left side. A chapel.
The chapel is entirely blue from the outside. It says ‘Holiness to the Lord. The House of the Lord’ in big white letters. The door is ajar. You see children playing next to it excitedly. Young girls, maybe 7 or 8 years old (kids kind of all look the same age). They’re wearing linen dresses. They stand out against the chapel walls. Like little white angels in a world of blue. One of the girls peeks inside through the open door. She’s pointing towards something, in a sort of naïve childish glee that seems at odds with the place.
You poke Hotch with your finger and nod towards the children.
The members lead you inside a building.
“Uriel our Prophet, is in the teaching room”, they say.
You pass by a deep blue pool on the way. Your reflection ripples across the surface – and Hotch’s besides it. For a moment, the water blurs the outlines and kind of makes it look like your bodies are blending with one another. One shape, one shadow.
One of the members notices you staring.
“This is where we perform baptisms. When a person is ready to accept the Lord’s teaching and open their hearts to Him,” they say in an almost reverent tone. Maybe reverent isn’t the word. You can feel that this is deeply emotional to them. As if they’re remembering their own baptism.
Hotch is also looking at the pool. You can’t tell if he also sees the way your reflections merge and separate as the water moves. Together, apart, together, apart.
“This way.”
They lead you towards a narrow hallway. Everything is still painted white and blue. Except now, the colors are surrounding you too closely, it feels oppressive. You almost expect a pair of blue and white hands to come out of the walls and strangle you.
You step closer to Hotch. Your arm brushes against his, for a fleeting moment. He looks at you and gives you a barely perceptible nod.
A door opens.
Joseph Applewhite – Uriel – sits with his back straight, on a modest wooden chair. He’s surrounded by 3 women. They’re standing next to him like three ivory statues. Smiles carved on their faces. Eyes empty.
The room is deceptively bare. A cross hangs on the wall behind his chair. Wooden benches face him. It’s reminiscent of a church but not quite. There’s no pulpit. The chair he’s sitting on is completely opened towards the benches.
His eyes settle on you. They’re incredibly sharp. His face looks calm and serene. You feel like he’s dissecting you open.
He smiles. That same odd smile.
“Welcome Agents. I’m glad you could make it,” he says. He sounds friendly, at ease. But his gaze is anything but.
Hotch steps forward. His hand briefly brushes against your arm. “We appreciate you agreeing to this meeting.”
Uriel’s smile flickers wider for a second, before settling back in its previous unnatural state.
“The truth is precious to me. I’d like to do everything I can to preserve its sanctity,” he explains calmly. You notice a couple of his followers nod their heads.
“Please take a seat,” he offers and motions towards the benches. He stands up without a word and the three women (his wives presumably) lift his chair and place it closer to the front bench.
Before you can move, the followers who guided you here all walk towards the benches and sit down, leaving the first one conspicuously empty.
Next to you, Hotch watches them. He doesn’t seem tense per se. Just quietly observing and calculating what the best approach here would be. His index finger lightly taps the top his thumb. You glance at each other. Play along first and see where this goes.
You both sit. The bench feels polished. Too polished. Like everything else in this place. The wood is oddly cold. You pull out a small notebook and a pen. Hotch is surveying the room. He glances briefly at your notebook.
This guy’s a narcissist trying to prove himself. So it’s better if you seem like you’re actually interested in his … doctrine ?
“Can you tell us more about your church ? What do you believe in ?” you start, trying to sound genuinely curious.
Uriel leans back against his chair. His eyes are shining with thinly veiled amusement, or perhaps with pleasure. One of the wives besides him answers you.
“Our church is a refuge and a guiding light for God’s children, in a world shrouded by dark forgetfulness. We believe that each of us was once part of the Lord’s embrace,” she begins.
She keeps glancing at Uriel while she’s talking. He gives her a subtle encouraging nod.
“The Lord sends us to earth to test our soul, how pure and holy it is. When we descend from heaven, we pass through the veil of forgetfulness. So that we forget our time by His side. Our lives are a path that guides us back to Him. Through signs that help us remember that we are His children,” she continues.
Uriel smiles at her approvingly. You see her blush. Almost like a rehearsed scene, another of the wives continues.
“Our Prophet Uriel, was chosen by the Lord to help us see and understand the signs He sends us. For us to open our hearts and our souls and to remember our true nature. Only then we can shed the earthly and embrace His light.”
Cult leaders tend to be so… unoriginal. It’s like they’re all reading from the same manual. Step 1 : pretend to be Jesus. Step 2 : God said to give me all your money. Step 3 : get a bunch of wives.
Hotch leans forward slightly. “Could you explain what type of signs you’re referring to?”
You’re waiting for wife number 3 to answer since that seems to be the scenario they planned. You tap the pen lightly against the top of the notebook. Ready to jot down anything useful.
But instead, Uriel speaks. “The signs are God’s whispers to His children. He reaches to us three times. Each sign is a deeply personal and unique message that resonates with our soul. You have to understand His three signs in order to remember your existence in the arms of the Lord. And the Lord entrusted me with the duty of helping His children understand the signs.”
He sounds sharper, more assertive. He’s trying to size Hotch up.
“Without understanding these signs, one remains lost, trapped in the veil of darkness. Unable to return to the Lord.”
Hotch doesn’t falter. His jaw is tight, his eyebrows furrowed. He straightens his back. He crosses his arms against his chest. He looks as imposing and intimidating as ever.
You tilt your head slightly.
Hotch and you come to an unspoken agreement. You need to pretend you’re receptive to this bullshit and he needs to keep challenging him.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what were your three signs ?” you inquire.
Uriel turns towards you, pleased that you’re asking him. He clasps his hands in front of him.
“I don’t mind at all,” he says.
He looks up to the ceiling, reverently.
You don’t turn around but you feel the followers sitting behind you shift.
“The first sign came to me in the wake of betrayal. Those who rejected the Lord’s wisdom ridiculed me. And in despair, I prayed to Him. The Lord guided me to his word, to scripture. In a gust of wind, the Book opened to Isaiah 42:6.” He holds your gaze. It’s different from when you first came in. It’s like he’s trying to hypnotize you.
“ ‘I, the Lord, have called you in righteousness; I will take hold of your hand’,” he recites.
How incredibly convenient…
“ ‘I will keep you and will make you to be a covenant for the people and a light for the Gentiles’.” The rest of the followers continue with him. It sounds like one single voice.
Their voices resonate in the small room. It’s creepy. You and Hotch look at each other.
“The second sign… Nature herself became His messenger. Three butterflies encircled me. Exactly three times. To remind me that earthly life is but ephemeral and that true eternity is with God,” he continues.
Hotch shifts slightly next to you. His leg brushes against yours. Barely.
“And the third one was when I was finally ready to receive His grace. At dawn, after a long night of work, I felt a sudden shift within myself. I felt this urge to look in a mirror. And— ” he starts, leaning forward.
He’s staring straight at you. It’s making your skin itch. You unconsciously move closer to Hotch. As if to put a barrier between you and his gaze.
“—instead of seeing a tired and defeated face, I saw … myself. Not as flesh, not as you see me now. But as God himself sees me. A blue and endless light. For a breathtaking second. I felt the veil lift off of my face. And then I remembered. I heard God call my true name. Uriel,” he finishes, his voice thick with emotion. Somewhere between true faith and vanity.
You hear someone take a small breath in the back. Like they’re so moved that it took all the air in their lungs. A whisper : “All glory to the Lord”.
Besides you, Hotch lifts his hand to his face. He looks pensive. Uriel observes him. He seems to notice something on Hotch’s left hand that amuses him.
Hotch breaks the silence. “And you believe every soul receives three signs ?”
Uriel nods. “Every child of God.”
They keep repeating that. You scribble down ‘children of god?’ on your notebook and softly tap under it with your pen. Hotch discreetly reads what you’ve written down and gives you a nod.
“Are there people who aren’t children of God?” you ask.
This is classic cult tactics. Create an external enemy, get an ‘us vs them’ mentality. This also gives a solution to discredit dissidents or non-believers. Very neat stuff.
“You’re very perceptive,” Uriel says. The corners of his mouth curling into something akin to satisfaction or pride. “No, not all who walk the earth are of God.”
There’s a low murmur behind you. One of the wives bows her head, as if the mere idea deeply pains her. So they do have other expressions besides smiling!
“The devil tries to confuse us. He sends corrupt souls that try to blend in with us. They’re here to lead us astray, to prevent us from understanding Him. But they cannot hide from the righteous eyes of the faithful.”
He pauses. To let what he just said sit. For drama. For theatrics. It seems to work on his followers even though they’ve probably heard this spiel a million times.
Hotch taps the bench twice with his finger. He’s signaling you to keep going.
“How do you tell them apart ?” you probe.
“When you look into their eyes, you feel a certain dissonance or discomfort. Even if you aren’t enlightened yet, as a child of God, your soul remembers your brothers and sisters. But for the devil’s children, there’s no divine remembrance,” he explains.
“Tell me Agent, have you ever felt like you didn’t like someone for no explicable reason ? They perhaps made you feel uneasy without doing anything,” he continues.
Well, yes. There’s one of those people right here, sitting in front of you.
“Yes. I can’t tell you why, I just – I mean. Yes.” You play along.
Uriel suddenly stands up. He makes his way over to you. Lifts up his hand towards your face. It hovers just a breath away from your cheek. You can feel how cold the air is between you. You try your best not to flinch away in disgust. You feel Hotch stiffen next to you. You place your hand gently on his knee. As if to say ‘don’t worry, I got this’. You don’t even realize that your thumb is softly tracing the seam of his pants.
“You’re feeling it in your spirit,” he begins softly. “Your soul is crying out. Your heart is open. I can see the blue surrounding you.”
His hand is still hovering near your face. He does a cross in the air above you. Like he’s blessing you. You hear a few of the followers exhale, like they’re witnessing a miracle. One of them starts to clap. The others soon follow. You feel the warmth of Hotch’s leg under your palm. You squeeze his knee. He taps your hand once, worried but still holding back.
“In time… your eyes will open as well and you will remember.”
He walks back to his chair. You let out a small breath. Hotch quietly squeezes your hand before letting go.
The clapping dies down. Uriel doesn’t speak for a moment. He keeps looking back and forth between you and Hotch. Like he’s reading something unspoken, private.
“It’s a beautiful thing isn’t it Agent Hotchner ?” he finally says. “Loyalty. Faith. Devotion. Love.”
Hotch doesn’t respond. His jaw tightens. You can feel the air shift around you. There’s a suffocating silence.
Uriel tilts his head mockingly. “I imagine your work requires all four. You believe your purpose to be absolute. Unshakeable. Ethics, justice, morality.”
He leans back in his chair. The wood creaks a bit. It’s like he’s suddenly decided to drop the mask. The smile on his face this time, as cunning as it looks, is entirely real.
“And yet… here you are. Sitting in the sanctuary of a man you believe to be immoral. Because your faith in your work is strong enough to bend your beliefs. To bend you.”
His eyes settle on Hotch’s left hand. He points to his own ring finger.
“Even your body remembers what you’ve sacrificed.”
Hotch’s fingers curl defensively. As if to hide the fading mark. You’re not sure he’s even aware of it. Your fingers, your hand, your entire being is itching to touch him. You feel a sharp tug in your chest. Like Uriel’s pressing his finger directly on your sternum.
In a way, you can’t help but agree with what Uriel says. Hotch is a walking reminder of how much you sacrifice for the BAU. He’s somewhere between a High Priest and a devout zealot. The first to bleed, the last to rest.
He turns to you next. With cruel interest.
“And you. You see it. You watch him carry the burden of responsibility. And you tell yourself that your loyalty is born out of respect. But is it?”
Before you can answer, Hotch cuts in, voice low but firm.
“Don’t confuse loyalty with blind obedience.”
Uriel lets out a laugh. Then he looks at you curiously. “I can see the way your hands blindly reach for him. To steady you. To ground you. Tell me Agent. Does your heart know the difference between devotion… and desire?”
You feel your chest tighten. You don’t respond. You can’t. Not only because anything you say he’ll find a way to twist, but because you’re not even sure how to answer. Or perhaps you do, and that scares you even more. You pretend to write something down in your notebook.
But Hotch leans forward slightly. Controlled. Calm. Steady.
“Projection is a powerful tool,” he counters, tone clipped. “Especially for men who mistake vanity for revelation.”
Uriel’s smile wavers for the first time. It returns, but thinner now. More obviously performative.
“Everything you talk about. Your signs, your revelations. It’s all about you. Your reflection. Your suffering. Your name,” Hotch continues without missing a beat.
Uriel narrows his eyes. You can hear disapproving whispers behind you. The three wives are glancing at him anxiously, like they’re waiting for him to explode.
“You speak boldly Agent. But not all those who challenge the Lord walk unscathed,” he warns lowly. There’s a thinly veiled edge to his voice.
“And not all who speak his name are prophets,” you answer.
Uriel’s eyes flick to you. Something dark passes in his expression, but he doesn’t take the bait. Not directly.
Instead, he straightens against his chair. Slowly and deliberately. Like he’s getting back into character.
“Perhaps,” he says. “Or perhaps… your presence here today is a sign. For one of you.”
You hear some quiet gasps behind you. The atmosphere shifts again towards awe. A sign ? Is he trying to spin this into one of your or Hotch’s supposed revelations ? Is this guy serious ?
You risk a look at Hotch. He doesn’t turn to look at you but he nudges your knee with his. Let this play out.
“Tonight, two of our own are to be wed, under the Lord’s direction. A blessed union and a sacrament of faith under His benevolent eye.”
He stands up and spreads his arms wide. He’s trying to gain back some sense of control. With the way he’s standing, he sort of looks like a scarecrow. Long and thin, lost in white and blue fabric, arms spread.
Some of the followers start whispering again. You can’t catch what they’re saying but you recognize the excitement and fear in their tone. A kind of reverence that borders on superstition.
“I believe,” he continues solemnly, “that it is no coincidence that the Lord has called upon you to join us today. I believe He has called you for a purpose greater than a mere investigation. For God’s law precedes man’s.”
The Lord hasn’t called you to investigate anything. Uriel, or let’s be serious, Joseph Applewhite, is the one who asked you to be here. In a sort of sick power play to clear the polygamy allegations. Which he’s not doing a good job of clearing up so far.
He finally clasps his hands in front of him.
“I would like to invite the both of you. To witness our joy and our obedience to Him.”
It’s not a request. This is a test. And you’ve already said yes by not saying no.
The inside of the chapel looks beautiful. The crystals on the windows reflect the sunlight in thousands of tiny blue droplets of light. It looks like the way the light ripples among the waves in the ocean. It’s almost holy. It makes you feel small. In the way that realizing that there’s an infinite world around and above you makes you feel small. Maybe this is why these people so fervently believe.
When your gaze meets Hotch’s, you think of Uriel’s words. His entire face is bathed in this serene blue light. You can’t help but yearn to caress the shiny blue dots scattered on his face.
You know it’s just the light. It’s physics. But you feel, despite you, that for even a moment, you understand. The complete devotion to another person. You understand why they long to give themselves so blindly. You’re still looking at Hotch. At the lines on his face. At the tiny scar on his chin. At the skin around his lips that looks slightly too pink and slightly too dry.
He looks so composed, so steady, so painfully unreachable. Like an altar you’ve built in the shape of a man. And maybe that’s part of the appeal. How he never takes anything from you, how he never asks anything from you, but you’d give yourself wholly to him anyway. It feels like you’re praying in an empty room. And still, you kneel.
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me ? not in grief, not in betrayal, but in longing. Longing so intense it hurts. Is this what Uriel saw in you ? This desperate desire to give yourself to him?
Hotch lowers his head towards yours. His suit jacket rustles softly. It’s making you think of waves crashing against rocks. You feel the warmth of his breath against your temple. The warmth of his hand where it almost touches yours. His voice is low and reassuring when he whispers to you. “Don’t let him get to you.”
You want to listen to him. You want to do as he says.
The room begins to hum in anticipation.
A soft jingle of bells breaks through the stillness. The door opens.
The little girls from earlier step through in pairs, white linen dresses, flowers nestled in their hair. They’re carrying bell shaped flowers that seem to be chiming with each of their steps. Pale and fragrant blooms, the petals look like soft porcelain curled back into a holy trumpet. The seams, for lack of a better term, where the petals meet each other, almost remind you of hands clasped in prayer. It seems fitting. Angel’s trumpets for little angels in white.
But not all of the flowers droop in reverent arcs. Some of them point towards the ceiling instead of down. Their stems seem shorter, their petals tighter, no longer clasped in prayer but clenched in a tight fist.
You hesitate. Angel’s trumpets. Devil’s trumpets. They look the same. Brugmansia and Datura. Same botanical family, same poison. The only difference is the direction in which they point. Almost like their names are only a matter of angle, or perspective. Devotion and delusion, blooming from the same root.
Their smell no longer feels pleasant. It’s suffocating. You scratch at your throat.
Hotch catches your wrist. His touch is gentle but firm. You finally feel the warmth of his hand on your skin. The roughness of his palm, the scars on the pads of his fingers, like furrows in the desert sand. His thumb rubs the inside of your wrist in a soothing motion.
He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even have to. He just holds your gaze. Too long for it to be innocent. Too long for you to be able to think about anything else but how brown his eyes are. Like the wood of the church benches. Worn down, by years of quiet devotion and sacrifice. But still steady. Familiar. A place to rest.
You put your hand over his. You shouldn’t but you can’t bring yourself to let go. He doesn’t move his hand either. So you just stay like that. You wonder if this is more about anchoring or restraining yourself. Still, your hand fits nicely against his.
The cult members are dressed like ghosts. Some of them wear thin blue cords looped across their shoulders or tied around their waists. One cord for each “sign” they’ve received. Many are wearing veils, translucent tangles of thread that hang on their faces like breath on a mirror. Only the fully corded are barefaced. Everyone else wears their supposed forgetfulness like mourning.
You glance at your hand. At how it’s still tangled with Hotch’s. How both your fingers form a sort of jagged desert mountain. Your hand on top of his. Not to dominate or to submit. Just to be close to him. For one foolish second, you wonder how many cords you’d need to wear if this (if he) were your religion. How many signs you’ve imagined, or ignored.
He slips his hand into yours, to hold it fully. In perhaps his own quiet way of admitting that there’s something more than blind faith between the two of you. You glance up and find him already looking at you. His gaze looks disarmingly gentle.
“Later,” he mouths to you before letting go.
The ceremony itself is mostly uneventful. No dramatic blood oaths, no weird creepy chanting and no one started levitating either. Joseph Applewhite made his little smug and theatrical speeches, with a side of creepy smile and unsettling eye contact (he irks you so bad you decided to refuse to call him by his made up “true name”. also, how convenient that it’s a fancy biblical sounding name and not something like Bryce or Brock. now that would be original. god’s new prophet Chad and his Holy Church of the Righteous Frat-bros.)
The bride, her cheeks so red that they look purple in the chapel’s light, keeps alternating between staring at Joseph and the groom, with the same committed intensity. But her eyes aren’t focused on either of them, not really. She sort of looks lost in her sea of devotion, so much of it pouring out of her that it seems like what she’s actually devoted to is the idea of devotion itself, not a belief or a person. It’s not the same.
In short, typical cult-y wedding, straight from the ’10 steps to make your own cult’ manual.
You wait until no one’s watching. You reach down and take one of the fallen flowers from the floor. It’s an angel’s trumpet. Or a devil’s who cares. The stem is still warm from the little girl’s hand. You tear the petals apart. Slowly, deliberately, one by one. Like a gruesome ‘he loves me, he loves me not’. Or like pulling pages from a holy book you don’t believe in anymore. No one notices. Not even Hotch.
When you step out of the chapel, it feels like breathing for the first time after being underwater for too long.
The drive back is mostly silent. You rest your head against the window. You can see your reflection on the glass. It’s distorted, blending in with the brown and green of the desert.
Hotch let you pick the music even though it’s technically his turn.
You stop at a small diner to eat. The coffee’s bitter and burnt, the fluorescent lights flicker too much, and the waitress moves around like a ghost. You discuss the cult, agree on a rough profile, make a preliminary insular group threat assessment. Business as usual. You lie when he asks if you’re fine.
Outside, the sky’s almost violet. You lean against the car while Hotch looks for the keys. He still won’t let you drive. He’s standing so close to you, he’s the only thing you can see. He leans in. Carefully, slowly. His thumb brushes your cheek. Everything in you screams to close the distance. To let yourself drown in him, into his quiet strength.
You want to. More than anything. You can feel his breath on your face.
But you pull back. Not far. Just enough.
Because even if the mirror between you and the cult members is jagged, it’s still a mirror. You still see yourself in it, twisted and blurred, but it’s still you.
Your heart hurts, like it’s growing spikes inside your chest. Like it wants to punish you for betraying its longing. You softly trace his lips with your finger. It trembles lightly.
Hotch holds your gaze. He doesn’t look wounded. He looks… patient, gentle. As if he understands why you’re holding yourself back. As if he expected it.
You think maybe that’s faith too. To wait without question. To believe there’s something sacred in the not-yet.
i can't tell you how happy this makes me!!!!! i wasnt raised religious so that type of almost 'blind' devotion is so fascinating to me. i mean in the sense of how people believe (or love) something intangible or someone so deeply that they’d sacrifice so much for it to the point where it seems illogical. also in the way hotch devotes so much of himself to work that from the outside looking in, it almost doesn't make sense WHY he'd give up this much for it. like it blurs the lines between conviction and fanaticism. anyways, sorry for yapping so much lol. you really really made my day, thank you so so so much for taking the time to read it and for your comment <333333333
✿ wet introductions: meeting your best friend's dad normally involves crying and flashing him all in the same night, right?
꩜ thoroughly dealt with: you're angry with aaron for missing an important event, so naturally, he fucks the anger out of you.
꩜ lap it up: tweezing your boyfriend’s eyebrows is a totally valid excuse to make him come in his pants, right?
꩜ game night, ruined: one question you refuse to answer gives you the best sex of your life.
✿ light blue shirt: hotch's dad bod has been driving you crazy and it only gets worse when he pulls out your favourite light blue shirt that you hid from him.
꩜ filthier flat-pack thoughts: your boss rejects you the first time but what happens when he's the one in charge? (part 2 of filthy flat-pack thoughts).
✿ filthy flat-pack thoughts: you had taken the day off to get yourself settled into your new apartment, not expecting hotch to show up at your door and offer a hand.
✿ part of the job: you go to a party to make hotch jealous and, in the process, end up butt-dialing him mid-make-out with another guy…oops.
✿ apple slices & silent vices: it started out as a sleepless night and a midnight snack, and ended with your bodyguard standing between your legs in your dad's kitchen.
The 4 encounters between Aaron Hotchner and Doctor!Reader and the 1 time everything changes.
#slow burn #it's honestly so slow so long #why can't they just kiss and call it that omg
A/N: I tried to make it as gender neutral as possible plis forgive and ignore any slips.
"Very romantic of you to visit me in my workplace but I WORK IN AN ER PLEASE STOP FINDING REASONS TO BE SEND HERE" vibe. "If you walk into here one more time i will sit have a cup of tea and watch you bleed out" vibe
If the genre is funny this is it hopefully. will it make sense canon wise? probably not. will it be medically accurate? definitely not, i'm no med student i just watch HOUSE MD and has google on shortcuts.
my most sincere apology to all med student out there ( love to have you guys clarifying any mistake though )
You never really forget The Justice Department guy
There is something special about being a 2nd year medicine student and posting guard at the ER of your mom's hospital at 1 A.M in the morning. Most students your year don't even care about getting clinical or shadowing experiences yet, busy cramming for their exams, but their moms aren't Deans of Medicine. The hospital has been busy lately, and your mom believed you could use an extra hour or so (or a 16 hours shift) of experience, just helping out where you can.
Well you aren't exactly useful, no doctors in their right mind would let a med student handle things directly, they just don't kick you out because you share a last name with their boss, and it bothered you a little bit how they look at you and are unwilling to order you around.
That's fine. You needed to study anyway. Maybe that's why you remember that day so clearly, the stress of the upcoming exams on pathology and immunology-the professors couldn't have made med school more fun so they decided to put it on the same day- or the stuffy air down that hallway, or the smell of antiseptic that you're already so used to- that's how your family smells like- or the blinding white fluorescent light, or that one particular man that rushed up to you out of nowhere, pulling your attention away from your notebook.
"Justice Department," He panted, pulling out his badge and quite literally shoved it into your face. Even when you were almost on the verge of shivering under the 24/7 air conditioning, he was clearly sweating, a layer of sweat on his forehead and the few strands of hair that sticked to it. "I'm here to look for-"
"Sir, this is not exactly visiting area-" You cut him off, pushing the badge out of your face. "Are you alright?"
"No no, there's.. there's a case that just went into here, a fight- uh-" He seemed distressed, his hand subconsciously find its way to the bridge of his nose, rubbing, and his expression dropped. For the lack of better memory recollection, he really looked like a sad puppy. "A bar fight, I-I- I really need to talk to the victim."
"Okay I'm gonna need more information than that," In case he hasn't noticed you're a useless med student yet, you decided to try help anyway, putting your notebook aside. "You just described about 40% of the patients we receive here every ni- What's that?"
"What's what?"
".. That-? Oh god." The hospital's floor isn't always the neatest, but it's gonna be hard to not notice a drop of fresh blood on the white tiles. And another, just behind where the Justice guy was standing. You stood up and looked over his shoulder, and as a medical student you're sure you've seen the weirdest things really, but this guy.
".. Is there supposed to be a knife on your back at all time?"
"A- A knife-?" He also glanced back over his shoulder, as if the blood dripping and the wound wasn't his. There was a small blade, embedded in his right shoulder, the blood was staining outwards onto his black suit but the small patch of darker black isn't really the first thing that catches one's eye. "Ohhhhh I was-"
"You have a knife on your shoulder." There isn't anything else you could think of saying to him, your hands hovering over the blade not entirely sure what to do. Sure you ace all your tests, but that doesn't mean when a guy walks in like this it's any easier. "Uh-Uhm- You can walk- Yo- follow me, please."
There wasn't any available doctor that you could see in the perimeter, and you can't leave the guy bleeding for too long, so you figured it would be alright to take it into your own hands.
"Uhm- Sit still, please, Mr..?" You dragged him into the nearest empty treatment room and seated him down, examined the wound as you carefully removed the blade, getting nothing but a slight whine.
Tough dude.
"Hotchner. Aaron Hotchner."
"Okay Aaron.. this is going to.. hurt." Why do these federal guys have to wear so many layers? You tried your very best to lift his right arm and take his blazer off. He flinched slightly away from you and muttered a louder pained groan. By the time you peeled his blood-stained shirt off his open wound, he let out a sigh of relief that it's over.
"You should feel lucky it's a small blade.. and it was only caught there because of your clothings." It wasn't as bad as you thought, thank god for that because you can't afford a federal guy dying on you yet, as you sat behind him and pushed a gauge over his bleed, your other hand cleaning up the blood that already ran down his back. "How do you not know-"
"I was in the fight." He blurted out, taking in a deep breath when you applied the pressure on the stinging wound. "Well I didn't- didn't cause it, I just got caught in between, you know."
"Of course, I know a District Attorney's job description is not bar fighting."
"How'd you kno-"
"I watch the news, and you shoved your badge in my face, it's hard not to notice." You chuckled, lifting the gauge as the bleeding has slowed and started to drag an antiseptic-soaked cotton around the wound, getting a few more "ow"s from him."It's gonna be a few stiches but you're gonna be fine. But, is there any other wound I should know of, Mr Prosecutor?"
"Pre-Pretty sure not."
"Sure? Cuz I don't think you'd ever know there was a huge ass wound on your shoulder if I didn't point it out." You applied numbing cream around the area and went over to get the cart of tools, coming back to poke him a few times and make sure he can't really feel it. "Stay away from water for 48 hours, you can wash yourself, but keep this area dry."
You tried not to let him see how nervous you were -real skin very is different from the rubber ones you get to practice on- as you threaded the suture hook through his open wound, getting a nod and a hiss as he took another deep breath, before letting it go slowly.
"Avoid exercises.. like running around and fighting in bars, and change the dressing once every day at least." You gave yourself a second to sit still and repeated about a few thousands silent encouragement before you pulled the thread over with the forceps, slowly getting the tempo to work up his long slashed wound. "Do you have someone who you can call here and I can show them how to?"
".. No."
"Roommates? Wife? Girlfriend?"
".. No." You finished up the last stitch and stood up, just in time to catch a glimpse of his frown as he was thinking, and then how he shook his head.
Maybe you also remember that night so clearly because the guy was really handsome. The type of handsome that makes you question how he doesn't have anyone that can take care of him. The type of handsome that makes you want to see him again.
"Is everything okay?" So much, apparently, you were caught staring.
"Ev-Yeah-? Yeah!" You can feel your ears burn up as you turn to discard the forceps and all, your hands feel so fidgety you're sure you almost dropped the box of dressing." That's.. that's quite inconvenient.. you'll have to schedule time to go to a nearest clinic and they'll take care of it,"
"That'd be here. Do I need to schedule an appointment?"
"Luckily, no, we operate on a walk-in clinic system, so just come in, fill the form.."
You came back and dressed the closed wound, taking extra time and care to make sure it lines straight. Aaron Hotchner isn't a fool, he could tell you were someone inexperienced, or at least you haven't done this enough time to hide the way your fingertips graze his skin nervously, almost afraid to press too hard. But seeing how enthusiastic-worried, concerned, even- you were about his wound, he couldn't find the heart to call you out.
".. and you're done." You gave him a tap on his left shoulder and packed a few more wound dressings and antiseptic medication into a bag, just almost breaking a sweat thanking god that he hasn't realised you're just an unlicensed med student."You wouldn't need medicine, but the pharmacy is just across the hallway if you think you'll need painkillers."
"Mhm," He nodded, and then his gaze remained on you. Like, for a really long time, a really long silence, and you didn't know anything better to do but to stare right back at his eyes, his big brown eyes.
" Is.. everything okay?"
"Mhm.. Huh-? Oh, yeah, yeah. It's okay. Thanks." He snapped out of it at your question, standing up to get dressed in his now dried shirt. He took the bag and the form to pay, and left, and you stood and looked at the door of the treatment room long after he's gone.
That was the first time you met Aaron Hotchner, a young, promising and handsome District Attorney with a smile that you could never forget, who came in with a knife on his back. (You probably won't forget the first patient you broke a questions chunk of regulations for, either)
This is your job?
The years go by so quickly and so frantically your mind never wandered back to that almost ridiculously hilarious encounter. You're now a resident doctor, training to specialise in surgery at another hospital across the city-a rebellious of sort act as you try to stay as far away from your mother's hawk eyes as possible- and has been legally suturing people's wound together for a while now, thankfully.
Every day is the same series of tasks for you, running errands and tests or getting histories for the supervising doctors, shadowing diagnostics, watching-and if the surgeon really likes you-helping with surgeries, buying coffee, delivering coffee, paperworks, trying to calm angry patients, more paperwork, learning the skill of eating your meal in 5 minutes, more paperwork. It's all mundane, and infuriating sometimes at the bottom of the hospital's feeding chain, but you'd rather swimming your way to the top than surfing on mommy's board.
Not everyday you get approached by a familiar face.
"FBI," It was the same gesture as you remembered, a wave of deja vu gushed over you as you looked up from the clipboard you were holding. "We believe the man we're looking for is working in this hospital- please don't look around yet, we don't want him to know we're looking for.. him."
The same voice, perhaps a bit deeper and a lot more formal, but the warmth and the richness is one you rarely hear. The same face, only minus the handsome smile and plus some wrinkles of age, and a frown as he looks around before his gaze landed on you.
"Nice to see you still putting badges in people's face." You dropped the clipboard and sighed, putting hands on your hips to cooperate. "How can I help?"
"You know-?" The agent next to him- that is if he's even an agent, he looked like a 14 years old kid with sticks for limbs- observed the exchange and whispered.
"Yeah.. we've met before." He quickly looked you up and down, but there wasn't time for some catching up chit chats, as he cleared his throat and reached his hand over to your lower back, softly guiding you away to a quieter corner of the ER. You couldn't help but notice the warmth as his palm press against you, his head lowered down as he almost whisper to you. "We're looking for a man who would have just recently moved here, a month maximum. He'd be arrogant, quick-tempered, and often disrespect seniors, step out of lines. He'd be white, in his late 20s, single, the first person you could think of when I give you a description of a douchebag that seems to be here to prove that he's better than everyone-"
"... Oh god- there-" You listened carefully, and slowly an image formed in your mind of a person you know. You gasped, instinctively wanting to look around but Aaron has already spotted that and gestured you not to. " There's a guy that just came here a while ago, he's newest in the team, and you know- we residents are the bottom of the hospital- but he, he roams around and always acts without reporting to the seniors, and he'd even be angry and throw a tantrum in the locker room to people who're given chances he's not-"
"We need a name."
"Josh- Joshua, Joshua Greens, he- he should be observing a surgery right now, you'd find his name on one of the room's register sheet-"
"Reid," Aaron Hotchner looked across to the other Agent and nodded, and the guy was on his way.
"It's nice to see you again." Aaron's voice brought you back as his hand stroked down your back once, and only then you'd notice you've forgotten to breath for a few seconds, probably because you've been working around a murder for several weeks now. "It's gonna be okay, we're good at our job."
"I'm surprise you remembered me."
"It's hard to forget a nervous med student trying to save your life."
"You knew-" Your gasp was met by his low chuckle and a slow nod. So you've not only broke hospital regulations years ago, you've done it in front of a State Prosecutor. Way to go.
"I see you're actually a doctor now."
"And you are...FBI."
"Yeah, the Behavioural Analysis Unit, It's an.. interesting career choi-" A loud noise of chaos from across the room drew both of your attention, and before you could reacted, Aaron told you to stay back and pulled out a gun. The other agent was being held at gun point by a shape that you could only guess is Josh's, and Aaron was slowly approaching them, trying to say.. something.
The rest was a blur, anyone would be shaken at the sight of so many guns. You only know Aaron was talking a lot, conversing with Josh, convincing him to let go of the younger agent as he dropped his gun, and then some more talkings-is that how the FBI do their job?- and then at some point Aaron was wrestling with Josh, before the doctor almost got his face slammed to the ground, arms behind his back in defeat, and several more agents rush into the room with even more guns.
"Hey, you okay?" The amount of time Aaron Hotchner's voice pull you back to reality must be a subject of research at this point, there's something about how you instantly could grip onto that sound and everything in front of you become clear again. "You seem to have a habit of not breathing. I think a doctor can tell that's not so good."
"I-" You tried to speak, but he was right, you had no air, and needed to take a deep breath to rebalance yourself. "I guess I forget sometime- you're bleeding again."
"Huh?- Oh." He frowned before his hand reached his temple, touching the wet trail of blood and bringing it to vision to see the crimson stained on his finger. He must have got this from the UnSub. "That's.. that's great that I'm bleeding in a hospital, right?"
"Can you walk?" Professionalism beats all kind of fear as you suddenly feel your limbs gain power again, looking around to drag him to the nearest open bed, sitting him down and pulling out a tiny flashlight from your front pocket, flashing it at his eyes as your hand pry his eyelids up. "Normal pupil reaction time, do you feel nauseous?"
"No."
"Headache?"
".. Well, would it hurt if someone bash you in the head with the grip of a gun-?"
".. Right." You grins, only a guy like this would have the spirit to be sarcastic at this time. You put the flashlight away and carefully lifted some of the hair on his forehead. It was a blunt force wound. "Is there any double vision? Do you see me clearly?"
"Yeah.. yeah, I do, I just feel a bit light-headed."
"Why do you always have to be injured when we meet, Mr- Agent Hotchner?" After the preliminary assessment, you pulled a nearby cart over and started to disinfect the wound, it feels insanely familiar, but of course, you've done this before.
".. Just Aaron would be fine." He hissed and scrunched his forehead at the feel of the colder liquid, it causing a stinging pain on the side of his head. "I'm just making sure our doctors stay in business."
"Well I can tell you we'd be much better off without your injuries." He lifted his eyebrows slightly and almost curved up in a smile as a response to you, sitting still and patient as you clean and bandaged him up. "Ever consider subscribing for a membership card? Not a lot of non-chronic outpatient visit us twice, you know."
"I really hope I wouldn't have to see you again." He seemed like almost a different person, the frown on his eyebrows before was gone, and the smile you remember is of back. You can tell when someone's relaxed, and Aaron Hotchner was the kind of man to rub that on everyone else around him, making you comfortable as well. "Not in this circumstance, I mean."
"Believe me, I'm not so happy to see you here either." You tapped his forehead as you finished, shaking your head in disapproval but can't hide a smile. It's just.. nice to look at him. Maybe because he's handsome, still, it's nice. "Again, keep water out for 48 hours, try not to get hit there again, please try not to get hit at all, change the dressing everyday, I will prescribe you some antibiotics and anti-inflammatories,-"
"Legally?"
"Legally, this time. I can show you my practicing license if you need, Mr Former-Prosecutor."
His gaze lowered to his phone as it buzzed, probably some updates from the team. He was meant to call them, but a certain doctor dragged him away too quick. "I need to- go."
And before you could oppose to it, he was gone, and something bothered you for a really long time as you watch him rush outside.
He didn't get his medicine, right??
There's something about this Aaron Hotchner, every time you find yourself crossing path with him you find yourself in some strange situation, and you find yourself not thinking stuff through. Like how you didn't think it through before you arrived at the reception of the FBI headquarters at Quantico, how you didn't think riding up the elevator to the BAU's floor, how you didn't think standing there with a visitor lanyard and a bag of pills, how you couldn't come up with a reason when he was standing in front of you again, how you still didn't really register the whole thing on your ride home, or how you try to make yourself forget the sight of a golden band on his ring finger.
Aaron Hotchner was planning to return and get his medicine laters, only remembering that he forgot them at the door of his office. He'd never actually expected to see you coming here to give it to him directly, though. It was a surprise, a pleasant surprise, as he saw you for the first time not in the work attire but much more casual and relaxed. Anywhere else and he'd kept you around to talk, but knowing the nosy nature of his team, he could only gave you his contact card before you left. He returned back in his office and opened the bag, and a certain gush of warmth filled him as he saw the notes that were sticked onto the boxes.
Very neatly written.
"Augmentin. Antibiotics. Take 2 pills twice a day, before breakfast and dinner."
"Aspirin. Pain and inflammatory. 2 pills before a meal if needed, do not take more than 2 every 8 hours."
"Antiseptic. Used when changing the dressing."
"Anti-scar cream. Apply around the wound before a new bandage."
Hand me some adderall because why ???
Sometimes you still pull out the FBI business card that you tuck away in your wallet and occasionally fidget it in your hands.
Aaron Hotchner. Supervisory Special Agent. Behavioural Analysis Unit. Quantico, Virginia 22135.
And the phone number on the other corner that you've never pulled the courage or an excuse to call, even when it's saved in your phone, and probably your memory as well.
To be perfectly honest with your feelings, you might just have felt a flutter or two for him that day. But you were young, not to mention he was probably engaged or married at that time, and time has passed, and it has died out. You've finished your residency and is now a proper doctor, a trauma surgeon who barely has time to sleep, not to mention time to think about a silly crush years ago.
"Emily Prentiss?" You walked out of the surgery hall and pulled off your mask, calling in the direction of the waiting room without looking up from the form you needed to complete. Long surgeries like these has been a part of your job for years now, but they always leave you exhausted, groggy and aching afterwards.
"Here-! Is she alright?"
"Patient suffered a gunshot woun-"
Wait doesn't that voice sounds familiar? The same register, the same ringing warmth you remember faintly in the deepest corner of your back mind. You looked up, and there he was, the same strands of hair that fall on his forehead, the same brown eyes -big brown eyes- the same cheekbones, the same mole on the right side of his nose, the same Aaron Hotchner.
" Is she alright?" Noticing your pause, he frowned and pressed further. Something stirred inside of you. Whoever that Emily Prentiss was, she must be someone very important to him. There were traces of blood on his shirt, his hand and his face, you doubt it's his blood though. She must be really important that he seems to doesn't care about cleaning up. She must be.. really important.
" She- well, patient suffered a gunshot to her chest, that and severely internal bleeding, the bullet was .45 cm away from a major artery in which case there was nothing we could do- but thankfully, the surgery was successful, and she wouldn't have made it if not to the timely first-aid-"
You caught him stare directly at you, and at the good news, let out a breath he's been holding back.
She must be really, seriously important. Wow that's inconvenient.
"- the patient is in recovery now, she should wake up in a few hours, I advise her staying here for a few days until we clear her."
"Thank you.. thank you.." He muttered a series of those under his patchy breathings, pulling out his phone and dialled, immediately informing the other end of the news and said he was going to stick around until she wake up. He doesn't seem to recognise you, and you're not sure what's making you more comfortable now.
Gosh. This is hard to watch.
"You.. have blood on you." You pointed out as soon as he finished, pointing at the red blotch on his shirt. "I hope..not yours?"
"Blood?- Oh. Oh, no, no, this was.. this was hers." He raised his hands to look at them, his shoulder slumped slightly and the frown on his forehead slowly disappear. "Do you have somewhere.. I can.. you know, wash it off?"
"Bathroom's at the end of the hallway, on your right." You pointed in the direction and sighed. The shift and the surgery has taken everything out of you, and you're too exhausted to even see straight, not to mention spending mind power over a silly crush you had years ago. If he doesn't recognise you, then it doesn't hurt to pretend neither do you.
The guy that you totally have never met before stumbled less than 5 steps away before he stopped, his hand propping himself standing against the wall, and a few disorientating motions, before he collapsed.
Just when you were planning to go get some coffee and go home. Just when you were deciding whether to get Thai takeouts or Chinese for tonight. Just when you're planning the next days you have off-duty, he just had to collapse then, does he?
To be fair, you'd be quite surprise at this point if you two met and no one is hurt in some way.
Aaron Hotchner can't remember the last time he slept. The case was a tough one, tough enough to keep the team on their furthest edges and even ended in Emily and a gunshot, and he couldn't rest or take time to deal with the way his ear was ringing violently until his teammate is safe. Perhaps the only good thing that day was to see you again, how could he possibly forget that presence? He doesn't know you, nor has he talked to you all these years, but something about you showing up makes him believe that his team member is in safe hands, and he was thinking of ways to say thank you before the light went blinding in his eyes and he lost all feelings.
When he woke up he was on one of those mobile beds in the hallway, an IV hooked to his forearm.
"Oh there you are." When he sat up and looked around, you were sitting with your back against the wall right next to his bed, peeling a tangerine with a cup of coffee. Tasty dinner.
" I-"
"You passed out because your blood sugar plummeted, and probably due to exhaustion as well. We're just giving you some sugar in the IV." You stood up and stretched, reaching the back of your hand to pressed against his forehead. "Does the FBI not pay you enough to eat? You're so lucky, you're still intact because I'm not allowed weapons outside the operating room."
He blinked a few times, his gaze following your hand, not yet knowing what to say, so you took the liberty to continue, breaking the tangerines into small pieces and hand him one.
"You can leave when you finish this pack, Miss Prentiss is in room 308 now. Eat this as well."
"You-" He looked so.. dishevelled, barely catching on the reality of what has happened.
"Eat, and meanwhile," The only reason you're still here is the clipboard that you left next to his bedside, as you picked it up again and pulled out a pen from your front pocket. "I just need you to sign this form for the patient. She is your... wife?"
The word almost came out with all the petty jealousy you've tried to keep in check, as you lowered your voice and took a deep breath. Why is it so hard to convince yourself that he and his relationships has nothing to do with you?
" No, no, no, we're not-" He was still holding the tangerine piece, and struggled to find the words after just waking up. "Prentiss's a team member. I'm her Unit Chief, I-I can still sign it right?"
"Oh." That felt.. good? Something quiet down inside of you, not that you know why or what it is or what it means, but some weights on your shoulders just flew away at his correction. "Yeah you can, just fill in the informations and take it to the desk."
"Okay, I will." He nodded and take the clipboard, and you watched as he quickly scanned its pages, before putting the pen down. Your eyes followed his each movements closely, and you can't help but notice the missing ring, the faint tan line around its reminiscence." It's nice to.. see you again, anyway, it's not the best impressions I'm leaving I suppose?"
"You remember?" Your stomach turned and twisted, not in a bad way, but in a way that brought a little smile to the corner of your lips.
"I have a really good memory, doctor, plus it's hard to forget..." He frowned and pause for a second, handing your pen back in search of the correct phrasing. ".. you."
"I'd rather not see you in these situations again, Agent Hotchner. I didn't have plan to OT today before you came along and passed out."
"I'm sorry." His lips curved up in a smile -the smile you've seen only a few times now but somehow you feel like you remember it- as he muttered, before an approaching person drew both your attention.
It was another FBI agent, his name was.. something Morgan. He brought a travelling bag over to Aaron and immediately turn to you to ask about his and Emily's status. He's gonna be alright, you reassured, Emily's going to recover, but it's just gonna take longer and she shouldn't be running out in fields in the foreseeable months. Your job there was done, and as much as you didn't want to, you pulled yourself out of the frame.
You can't help but to feel someone's eyes watching as you leave.
".. Isn't.. that the person that came visit-"
"No. Go check on Prentiss, I'll be fine."
"... Ooookay Hotch," It doesn't take a profiler to see the way they talked and have educated guesses. "But that doctor is cute-"
"Go check on Prentiss, Morgan." Aaron frowned. He can make his voice sound tough and cold, but he can't hide the feeling of the side of his cheeks and his ears burning up at the comment. Morgan's not entirely wrong.
"Sure, I got her for tonight," Morgan gave up the banter and patted his shoulder twice. "You should go home and rest."
Nice to meet you without blood as an accessory.
Life brings unexpected things.
For one, the next day you came to work you were greeted with a bouquet of flowers, a bundle of blue beauties with hydrangea, delphinium and some more you can't name with little white baby breaths, and a note of gratitude, signed -A.H. Aaron Hotchner, you mumbled to yourself as you put it in a temporary vase.
For two, you have became hilariously and almost unbelievably close to Emily Prentiss. A part of your job is to check up on post-surgery patients to see if there were any complications, and somehow that woman just captured you, and slowly you find yourself spending lunch breaks around her, hearing about the work at the BAU, the kind of criminals they deal with, her boss- you'd always secretly notice these details more, storing them in a file labeled with his name in your head- and in exchange you'd tell her about yours, how ridiculous the hospital is, how overworked most of you are, how happy you are to know you're doing things to save people. Perhaps that's what pulled you together, the way you both would give everything you have to save a life, even if it's at the cost of your own.
"Come on you have to be there," Recently, in between your break times, you'd be occupied on the phone as a particular lady tries to convince you to go to a party at her home. Turns out she's just moved into the city right before she almost died in your operating table, so it only makes sense to have you at the home warming. "You can't be that busy, how's Friday night?"
".. Uhm.. Friday.. I have a surgery scheduled at 7,"
"Seriously? I've been trying to schedule this for a month." Everytime you're free, she'd be on the BAU jet- they have a jet, for god's sake- to some far away states for day, and when she is free, your surgeries would line up with no time to even eat.
"Okay I can clear out Saturday night.."
"Mhm, spill."
".. Did I tell you I hate you profilers?" You only sighed once, but nothing ever escape her acute observations. "It's just a date but I don't want to go that much anyway, my.. my mom set it up, I'll just say an emergency came up."
"I'll set you up with better dates. Saturday, 6pm, my place, alright?"
"Yes ma'am, I can't promise to be on time."
"You will. FBI's order."
"Argue with my boss' ass, baby."
You're not a huge fan of parties, really. The last ones in your memory are the ones hosted by your mother, some fundraising things for the hospital, and teenage you just had to put on nice things and say nice things and be a nice thing. That was horrible, so horrible it makes you stand outside of Emily's apartment having a moment to gather courage.
"I'm so glad you've made it!" She's been released from the hospital a few weeks ago, and now she's fully recovered all her glory, opening the door and pulling you into a squeezing embrace. "Only 32 minutes late, but I'd say that's your personal best."
"The traffic is brutal at this hour, Em, I thought I died out there."
The party is not a huge one, just Emily's closest friends- that's mostly just the BAU- and some neighbours that she's managed to extend the invitations to. She doesn't let you take a moment to breath before she starts dragging you around to each of the agent.
"SSA Derek Morgan, and Technical Analysis Penelope, and Technical Analysis Kevin Lynch."
These three have already gotten half a glass down for themselves and in party mood, and you faintly remember Derek from the quick encounter at the hospital, giving them each a warm smile and firm handshake.
"SSA David Rossi- actually, today we call him Chef Rossi, and Dr. Reid is his sidekick today."
Emily pointed in the direction of the kitchen and it was busy in there. There's a man in charge- you'd guess that's David Rossi- and a kid no older than 20 running around, clumsily doing all the little parts, washing and chopping. You've also seen him before, the guy who got held hostage a while ago.
"Isn't he too young to be a doctor?"
"27 and 3 PhDs, I know right." Another voice came from behind you and there was a beautiful blonde woman, and a little boy with featured almost copied and pasted from her.
"This is SSA Jenifer Jareau, JJ and this little bundle of sunshine and nice things-" Emily said as she leaned down and picked up the boy. "Is Henry."
They are all amazing people and you had no problem holding conversations with, and Rossi food was to die for. The party felt less and less like a chain around your neck and more like a warm embrace from a family of cool people. But you can't seem to notice someone's missing, at least you'd hope he would be there.
And a person who you didn't want to be here was actually here.
"It's surprising to see you here," He approached you with two glasses of champagne when you were hanging back, taking a break from all the walking around. You can't remember his name, but that's the face that showed up in your last dinner with your mother, that's the guy that you were supposed to go out with today.
"Why are you here?" You gave him a glare, couldn't be more unbothered but politely rejected his drink offer, looking around for help.
"I live upstairs. My date cancelled on me last minute today, so I guess why not."
".. Right." You can't see Emily in the perimeter, and was starting to feel nervous. You don't like how close he was wandering into your personal space, you just don't like him, perhaps.
"I could show you around if you want-"
"No, thanks. No."
"Come on, the party's almost over anyway," Whatever that's giving this guy the idea that you're so into him is really strong, so much that he reached out his hand and grabbed your wrist. "And the night is lon-"
"They said no." Another hand reached over and gripped on the dude- for a lack of better name- forcing him to release his grip on you, as you took a step away, you collided with a steady figure behind. "There are at least a dozen of federal agents around you, so I suggest you take a step back."
The same register, the same ringing warmth, the same cocky, bossy tone that you remember.
" You're not.. injured this time, are you?" You held your wrist in your other hand and rubs around it softly after the creepy guy is gone, that's until Aaron noticed it and take it into his hand to massage around your reddened wrist softly.
"No," He got rid of the scary face and smiled, looking down before back at you. This is perhaps the first time you've seen him in casual clothings, a polo shirt gives a much different Aaron Hotchner than those suits and ties, one that you silently take in and keep in memories "I'm pretty sure I'm healthy this time. It's nice to see you, again, doctor."
"Isn't it strange we keep meeting?"
"Indeed it is, I guess the universe just send you just in case I somehow collapse again."
"Are you? I swear to god this time I'll leave you bleeding on the ground."
"I'll try not to, then."
The rest of the night he was by your side, as if either of you were worried that something similar will happen again, and you talked about .. well everything. He only left a few times and return with a plate full of little finger snacks for you, or when your drink needed fillings. It was the first time you really had time to talked, about the time he came in with a knife, or the time there was a psychopath in your hospital, or several times he came to check on patients and he caught glimpses of you running around.
"You were always so busy."
"Not as busy as you were, so busy you forgot you just fainted a few minutes ago."
"Ah- right, sometimes I do forget that, you know? The work is.. abnormal, sometimes you care so much about others you forget about yourself."
He doesn't exactly see you often, but each time he takes in new details about you. For instance, this time, your eye bags got a little darker, your hair was longer and more unkept. There's an overwhelming need to... take care of you, though that might just be overstepping.
At some point in the night, when the people have fewed, Emily started to unbox the homecoming gifts and one of them was a vinyl player and her favourite vinyl, Disintegration by The Cure -to your surprise, she was a goth girl at core- and she immediately wanted to try it out, and her empty living room became a make-do dancing floor. Aaron Hotchner didn't waste his chance to ask for your hand on his shoulder, whispering a low "may I?" before his are on your waist, your face almost leaning onto his chest and him speaking low right next to your ear, almost intimately.
There's almost nothing you both haven't talked about, comments and compliments on Rossi's food, your recall of the last time you saw Dr Reid and how he only seemed younger, the faint scar on the corner of Aaron's forehead, down to the very little details of what you've done at work today.
It's his eyes.
You look up to his smiling eyes, his big brown eyes, and just lose the grip on time and what's happening around, swinging around slowly to the music and giggling to his chest until you're tipsy.
"Let me take you home." His hand carefully hug around your lower back as he leaned down and whispered, realising how your steps are slower, your reaction time get longer. "You're quite so drunk."
"Mhm.. you brought the wine, didn't you? Good wine.."
"Yes, good wine, but that's enough wine for you, don't you think?" His hand strokes up and down your back gently as he leads you away from the crowd- barely a crowd now as many people's left already- towards the door.
".. I can drive..?" Your steps stumble to follow his, poking his arm around you constantly.
"I'm literally a cop. You want to drunk drive?"
".. Wrong, you're FBI."
"Yep, and you're sitting an FBI car back home."
He grabbed your coat and draped it over your shoulders, putting a hand firmly holding around your back and get you out of there, under the watching eye of several BAU members. Now that's some office gossip they want.
It didn't take much effort as all, you followed him quite obediently, much to his surprise.
"Aren't you scared I'll.. kidnap you?" He opened the passenger seat to the SUV and lent a hand to help you get on, leaning over and buckle your seat belt, so close he could feel you breathing onto his ear.
".. You?" You tilted your head slightly and wrinkle your nose. "I'd let you. I'd follow you, see, I am already."
He lifted his head and couldn't hide a smile, taking your coat and place it over your legs before closing the door and walking over to the other side.
The car ride back to your place was gentle, you were starting to feel tired and struggled to find a place to rest your head, for which Aaron sat closer to the edge of his seat and lent his shoulder, and you leaned across there since. Your hands fidget, trying different radio frequencies before you settled on one that was playing jazz. Then Aaron started to drive with one of his hand, the other laying palm-up on the control board between you two, letting you poke at it to your own entertainment.
".. There used to be a ring here." You whispered, your fingers grazing to his ring finger, the faint tan line that you remembered isn't there anymore, there's visibly no trace left. "The second time.. I met you, there was a golden band."
"There was." He wasn't planning to hide anything from you, his fingers curled up slightly to lightly touch against yours, his eyes still on the road.
" Was that-?"
"I was." You didn't pull away, and Aaron took that as a sign to reach his fingers up further, taking your hand in his and rubbing his thumb against your skin, testing the water to see if you'd let him lock his fingers with yours.
"What happened?" Perhaps your curiosity got the better of you, or it was just uncertainty. This doesn't seem like a guy who would do all that dancing and laughing and all the gentle touches with someone if his wife was still home, is he?
"We.. divorced, I guess it happens. And she.." It wasn't the type of conversation he planned to have with you this late at night, it's not the type of conversation he's had with many people as well. ".. passed away."
"I'm sorry." You flinched, feeling a little guilty at the heaviness in his voice and wanted to pull away, but he held onto your hand a little tighter.
Stay.
Stay, please.
"It's alright. Being sorry isn't going to change it, or do you any good."
The tension in the car got much thicker for the rest of the ride home, and you insisted he drop you off at the front of your complex, that you're sober enough to go up by yourself.
When you pulled your hand away from his and your head left his shoulder, there is coldness. He's gotten used to the weight and the presence of you in such a short time, so used that he's unhappy to let go, all of the sudden he found himself wanting something a little bit more, but he's probably scared you away for good tonight.
What was he thinking? You're young, you're promising, your little giggles ring like music to his ear and you're so kind, so gentle, you get along with everyone so well, and there's a whole future ahead of you.
And he's just baggage.
You two exchanged "good night"s, but none of that is of any importance. He looked at the shape of you as you walked away and disappear into the building, your last sentence still echoing in his head, perhaps one that he haven't been able to explain for himself, not yet.
"I think you still miss her."
My turn
The past few weeks have been shit.
Perhaps it's your mentality, but it feels like patients and surgeries keep coming your way one after another, each hours long and each left you more drained than the last.
The ass boss you keep telling Emily about stayed on your ass, closely scrutinising your operations and paperwork, as if she wanted to eat you alive the instant you make a mistake. You're starting to doubt if your mom sent her as a spy on you.
You started skipping meals, your sleep schedules turned upside down sideway up inside out twirling around and sometimes even disappear into a non-sentient void, with only coffee, energy drink and a scary amount of adderall.
It got so bad that you start relying on Emily to bring you food some days, and she honestly doesn't mind it if it's a day she is not away.
"Where's your boyfriend?" She'd occasionally sit in the doctor's break room and watch as you devour something that she's picked up earlier for you. Mostly takeouts that you're too busy to even order.
"Who-" You mumbled with a mouthful, looking up to catch her eyes. "He's not my boyfriend."
"Oh." She faked an amused exclaim, leaning her cheek against her hand. "Have you told him that?"
That's the worst part.
Aaron Hotchner has been trying to reach you, and you've been trying to avoid him. In your phone lies buried his message that was sent just minutes after you left that night:
"Hi, this is Aaron. Emily gave me your number. Let me know when you get home safely -A.H"
Of course you know it's his number, you've had it memorised for years. You, of course, didn't let him know anything.
Some days you'd come to work having flowers sent to you again, the same shop as the one before, cards with sometimes no content except his initials. When Emily can't make sure you're eating regularly because she's all the way in the middle-of-no-where, there would still be food ordered to you, and you don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to know who it came from.
You can't justify why you're avoiding him, you just can't pull yourself to answer his text message or even think about that night. It feels wrong. He saw something in you, and you had fun together, that's for sure, but only a few sentences that night and his hesitation when mentioning his ex-wife gave you everything you needed to believe that he's not over it, and you're not going to be someone's replacement.
But still it feels terrible. You miss the way he mindfully listen to you, to all the little details of whatever it is you were talking about. You miss the way his arms held you. You miss the way his voice is so soothing and gentle as he speaks about himself. You miss his silly smile, the little dimple you can vaguely see sometimes if you make him smile hard enough. You miss him.
Today was an extra terrible day.
There was a 12 years old girl who was on your table today, a gunshot wound to her abdomen. It would have been simple and when the case was reported to you, she was still stable, and it wouldn't have been any different if you didn't suddenly discover an embolism that formed because of the shattered fragments, a deep-vein pulmonary embolism that you could not have done anything in your power to change.
There was nothing else you could have done. You've done everything right and yet there is nothing that could have saved her.
She was only 12.
It broke your heart to walk out of that operating room, only have just taken off your gloves soaked in her blood a few minutes ago and now having to face her parents and tell them their daughter's died.
"We've done everything we can." You always say that, and the parents never believe you. They don't scream, and they don't hit you, but they look at you as if you've taken away their precious little girl and shattered to pieces. The pieces that cut you as well.
You picked out a resident that was under your supervision and told him to make sure the parents know what to do with the paperwork before dragging your legs toward the locker room.
How ridiculous. Their daughter died a few minutes ago and all this hospital care about is some forms to be signed.
She's not the first patient that died on you, patients die all the time in this hospital, actually, but perhaps it's the fact it was out of your ability, or maybe the other personal things that have been going on, or anything, it just hits you so much harder than any cases before.
You opened your locker and took a bottle of water, sitting against the nearest wall and hug your knees to your chest. Your throat is dried after all those long hours but you can't find the strength to even open the cap. You felt cold sweats on the back of your neck and pushed your hand against your forehead.
Great, great time to be sick as well.
You can't tell how long you've sat in that locker room alone, but you realised you were almost falling asleep when footsteps woke you.
"You're .. not supposed to be here." He looked messy. In his blazer and a tie, you could only guess he has just came here from work, but his tie was loosen and he was panting, like he has been running around. "It's a staff only'-"
"Can you shut up for a second?" It was the first time in years he has ever raised his voice like that to you, his eyebrows furrowed into an irritated frown as he kneeled down next to you, one of his hand pushing your hair back and another pressed against your forehead. "Emily called you 4 times, how long are you planning to go living like that without telling me-"
"Why do I have to tell you? Do you car-" You haven't spoken to know how hoarse your voice has turned out as you tried to turn your head away and pushed against him.
"Yes I do, actually. I really do, in case you need me to spell it out," He seems unshaken by your confused look, his tone is still harsh as his each syllables ring clear in your mind, his arms slowly crawling around you "I do care about you, and.. and I've been a coward who's unwilling to deal with his own emotional burdens, and I don't know how I'm gonna start sorting that out, but I know that I want to- I know I will, and I do know for sure that it hurts to see you like this."
He probably said some more things, but you find yourself leaning into his chest and cocooned by his warm scent, and you just can't help the tears as you clutch onto his shirt. He held you the whole way through and let you punched his chest, pulled his shirt or whatever you needed to do, his hand stroking up and down your back in slow motion as you babbles almost incoherently about how it sucked to avoid him, how it sucked at work, about the little girl who died.
He only repeated the same thing over and over again, "You've done everything in your power. It's not your fault.", repeated again and again as he softly kissed your head and muttered into your hair like it was a blessing, a reassurance, a sincere lullaby, the most truthful thing in the world, until you calmed down.
"Can I take you home and take care of you this time?" He asked, leaning his forehead against yours, very concerned at how hot it was. Who did you think you were, pushing yourself onto the edge and even further like this? "I think it's time for me to repay all those times you've treated me, doctor."
".. Isn't it double illegal for a federal agent to be taking advantage of his power to go freely into doctor only areas?"
"Isn't it double wrong for a doctor to not take care of themselves and get sick?"
After the a life of loss and tragedy, Aaron Hotchner finds himself at home in the most mundane moments.
TW: implied physical abuse, childhood abuse.
A/N: Inspired by an OTP prompt on this website, there is a lot of speculations that went into Aaron's childhood in this piece, I just took the canon details and interpreted it my way. Just wanted to write out what MY MAN DESERVE 😭
How do one learn to love?
Aaron Hotchner could tell you the textbook answer for that, actually, the answer would be quoted from one of the books he co-wrote on developmental psychology and applications in criminal profiling:
"Parenting is necessary for the regulation of emotions and behavior. The first lessons a child receive about how to behave socially and how to form connections with others in the community came from observing how mom and dad interact with each other. The household is a trial preparing the child for the society he or she will enter in the future."
The Hotchner household was a model American household, even an ideal one in some people's opinion. Richard Hotchner was a star lawyer in a successful law firm, a respectable career. Elizabeth Hotchner was a smart and beautiful woman who took good care of the home, made amazing pies, got along with the neighbours. Aaron Hotchner grew up with everything he could have been asking for, a good education, a roof over his head and meals on the table, a father who taught him that the way to fulfilment in life is to work hard and get into a respectable position-like his- and a mother who taught him that sometimes it takes one to sacrifice for a home.
And that was exactly what he did.
He spent his earliest years of school being the star student, always bringing home a good report and good comments from the teachers. Every time he didn't, his father would make sure to toughen him up and lead him back to the right track. Young Aaron Hotchner learned that actions have consequences, and bigger things were to be expected of him. So he focused.
When he was 15, Sean Hotchner was born, and he would finally understand what his mother meant. His father business would begin to decline, arguments would increase and end with his mother pressing ice packs to her bruises, his infant brother crying in his crib. Young Aaron Hotchner learned that he could stand up in between them and it didn't matter who the anger landed on, but his mother would not cry so much and his brother would sleep soundly. So he took it.
That was his idea of love, of family, and of his place in this world. Things needed to be a certain way, and he will be the one making sure of that.
He loved Haley, he was comfortable knowing the relationship they had would fit the criterias: She was beautiful, she was a nice girl, nice family, they were high school sweethearts who stayed together and formed a little, lovely family.
When Richard Hotchner died when he was 21, he stood in front of his father's headstone for 5 hours swearing he would never be the same. He would not tear his family apart, he would not let his wife cry, he would not let his children have to run away and shut the door to block out their parent's arguments. He's lived his life since like it's a balancing act, always on the edge to do the most in everything, to be the best, to put everyone above himself and ask for nothing in returns. Love has been tiring.
And when his marriage fell apart, and when Haley passed away, his world view crashed. He threw himself into long hours work, struggling to even look Jack in the eye and know that the boy has turned out like he did. His house was unkept, his habits fell apart, and no matter how many people he saved out there it wouldn't matter, because home was no longer a place he was brave enough to call his.
Until you.
Aaron Hotchner wouldn't be home for days if he could, Jack would be staying at a relative's, and when he finally does return, he finds himself stumbling through the dark and empty house devoid of any sounds or signs of a family, exhausted. The silence felt like his childhood home again, the places where photographs were, the dust on the floor and cupboards, he dreaded every second of it.
Closing the door of his office and dropped his go-bag on the floor after just landed from a case in another state, Aaron Hotchner found himself with a feeling he seemed to have forgotten: homesickness. Ever since you walked- well, really, opened the door yourself and made yourself comfortable- into his life, things have changed faster than he had time to gotten used to. You convinced him to bring Jack back home, promised him you'd take care of him and teach him to properly honour the memories of his mother, not hiding away in somebody else's house. And now every time he's in the driveway he can see shadows running around the house, when he's at the doorstep he could already hear Jack's giggles with one of the games that you always seem to magically come up with to tire him out before dinner time, and when he pushed the door open he's met with a faint smell of home-cooked dinner, the sweetness of the fresh flowers that you'd buy and arrange in vases around the house every week, the scent of Jack's shampoo as he runs towards his father -his hair still wet- and wraps those tiny arms around his legs. Suddenly he found himself longing to return somewhere.
Aaron Hotchner has lived with guilt for so long it would feel out of place if he wake up without it. It's like carrying a burden so long you start to think you deserve it. It started with the bruises on his mother's skin at the end of an argument about his tuition fees, and the first people wrongfully put away while he sits helplessly as "Prosecutor Hotchner", and the victims he dealt with day to day as he became an SSAIC- Supersotory Special Agent In Charge, a mouthful title- and Unit Chief, and every night he came home he would look into Haley's eyes and she'd be in pain, he would have missed something important, again. The guilt never went away, rather it occupied his every waking thought, and he carried it until the imprint scarred deep in his skin.
When he can't come home early, which is most days, he'd quietly make his way into the bedroom to find you, and as much as he insists against it, you'd wake up and heat leftovers up for him. He never has time to eat after a long day, and more often than you'd like him to, he'd just skip that last meal. He'd quickly get a change of clothes before standing at the door of Jack's room, it calms him just seeing the boy safe. By the time he's out you'd already be done, just a light night meal for him as you take the seat next to him, leaning into his shoulder almost drowsy and tell him about Jack's day.
"I'm sorry," He'd listened and whispered only when you're done, turning and place a kiss on your hair.
"For-wwhat..?" Your words would be slurred together and muffled as you spoke into his shoulder.
"For coming home this late all the time- you don't have to wake up and baby me, you know? I can make my ow-" He feels guilty. Being home late is his own problem, and he's dealing with it alone forever.
"But itsno funn to make your own food.. at night.. right?.. you've had long day.. and then come home.. best i can do is.. let youknow ya aint alone.." Aaron takes pride in his ability to read people, years of experienced and a naturally-gifted sensitivity and ability to pick up things since he was young, but still, after years of knowing you, he still find it hard to believe you held no grudges having to do all this.
"Because I.. I care.. it's easy to take care of someone.. you care for.. you know.. care," You'd answer if he ever asked, and it sounds silly but it was always genuine. You'd only ask to take one of his hands while he eats, holding it in between yours and softly caressed over his palm, the back of his hand, the callouses that time has given him. You'd call them his "Olympic medals".
"Which sport could those possible be for?"
"Well.. catching serial killers sounds pretty sporty to me... this one is for being a great leader.." You'd mumble, your finger tracing over each one." This one for being there for me whenever I need you.. this one is Best Dad Ever.."
All the things he would never call himself, you'd constantly remind him that he's doing fine. That being home a little later doesn't make him a bad partner or a bad father, and it doesn't mean he has to miss out on Jack's life (you'd make him sit through it as you scroll through your phone's gallery and recall the day in pictures). That he doesn't need to be a certain perfect person to be a good human being, to allow himself some mundane happiness and forgiveness, that he only needed to be Aaron Hotchner here and you'll take care of the rest.
When he's away on longer trips you always send him photos of Jack-him going to school, him going grocery shopping, him playing the recorder, whatever it is that day- for him to look at once he arrive at his hotel room, some days he'd be lucky and get a voice message.
The point is, Aaron Hotchner struggles balancing his life at home and his work duties, and most of the time his choice is work, and it leaves him ever so more guilty of being an absent shadow. You make sure he's not, always telling Jack about how his father is out there saving the world and he's only doing so because he loves the boy, always telling Aaron everything as if he was just there in the home, and appreciates when he is, not blaming him because he wasn't there.
"Aaron-!" Your voice ring through the living room at the sight of him, and once he looked up he'd find you running towards him with a towel in hand, your arms reached down and capture the little rascal, squatting down to his height and throwing the towel on his hair. "Gotchu little guy, game!"
You light up the room wherever you were, since the very first time he met you. You were kind, and you were gentle, Jack fell in love with you after the first hour he spent making paper flowers with you- the DIY bouquet is still on display on a shelf in Aaron's office. Aaron Hotchner never saw himself being able to be in love again, but the way you would take care of the house and make sure the fridge is always filled with his and Jack's favourite drinks and snacks and every corner would be illuminated with a soft ambience and music would always be playing softly in the background, mostly Beatles and Old Brits Pop Rock, he finds himself wanting to come home.
His mind would fill with thoughts of you and Jack on each turns and each stoplights: how your lotion and shampoo smells as you'd slide your arms around his waist and nudges your head into his chest, how his nasal cavity will be filled up with the scents of you as he lays kisses down your hair, how Jack would then be next, showing him a new toy you got him or a new painting he's done at school that day. He missed how he would take a shower and the water would be hot, the towels would be fluffy as you've just done the laundry earlier that day, and he could let himself relax, eating dinner with you two and hearing more of Jack rambling about his day- he has been really talkative lately, and you always make sure to fill his day with meaningful activities, shopping, crafting, cleaning, painting, one day Aaron even came home to his drive way full of chalk paintings.
Work was work and family was family, there was a distinct line that can't be crossed. Some days Aaron would come home, heavy on his shoulders are the victims he's failed to save or the officers that was caught in the crossfire, and he had to push it all down, hide them away. What was he exactly scared of, he didn't know, but he knew Haley hated it whenever his phone ring at night, how she would sigh before letting him go, Haley hated it whenever he brought files home to just take another look, as if he hasn't spent enough time looking at them. He loved her, and did everything in his power to keep it away from her, locking it away as it slowly destroys bits and bits of him.
And when dinner is over, Jack would be doing his homework and you two would be sharing the dishes- if the case ended well that day he would share some details to your curious ears, and if the case didn't the talk would be about your day, new flowers or new recipes you found that you'd want to try, anything to keep his mind lighter.
At night he would find himself doing some light reading next to you, a habit he picked up because the sheer amount of books you've brought into the house is unimaginable, like a dragon hoarding gold and jews in its new liar. One day he'd pick up a short book that interested him, and when he finish that another, and another. Tonight you were sitting against the headrest, your head leaned on his shoulder, one of your arms hooked around his and the other slowly flipping the pages as you read. It's a textbook you've just found in the local library today, he was also surprised when he saw it, because it was one of the first books that he co-wrote as a young profiler.
You'd put it away soon, however, when Jack finds his way into the room and climbs onto the bed, snuggling himself underneath the blanket and between you two, pushing into Aaron's hand a book of his own. Classic Fairytales: A Collection. You've been reading it to him when his father was away, but looks like you'll remain an audience tonight.
"Hm? This one? Alright," Aaron also put downs his book, and turns down the night lamp, flipping through the pages to find the story that Jack wanted tonight." The Wizards of Oz, by L. Frank Baum. Ready? Okay..Once upon a time, in a small farmhouse in Kansas, there lived a sweet and adventurous girl named Dorothy..."
He would read slowly, his voice always had this calmness and a bit breathy, so many times you've joked about how he could make a fortune doing ASMRs, to which he would always replied "What's ASMR?"
"... When they finally arrived at the Emerald City, they got to see the mighty Wizard of Oz..." Every few pages he would dart his eyes over to Jack, and finally when he sees the boy has closed his eyes and his breathing has slowed, he would lower his voice even more. Your eyes were also closed, to his surprise, as you have long found yourself comfortable using his shoulder as a pillow, and drifted asleep to his voice without even knowing. Multiple times you've done that, but each time it makes his heart flutters like the first time.
You trust him enough.
You find his voice calming.
And you just look rather cute doing that, though sometimes you drool on his shoulder. Still.
Nothing can fix what has already been broken years ago, and nothing can sooth the worries of what will happen. But Aaron Hotchner feels content, with his two favourite people on the face of the Earth next to him. And loving them, caring for them, is the easiest thing he has done his entire life.
For them, he'd allow himself to be selfish, to want to finish work just a bit earlier and drive home.
Because thanks to them, he has a place where he doesn't feel alone, where he doesn't feel guilty of all that he could not be, where he was welcomed and taken care of unconditionally, where he could call home.
Aaron Hotchner x fem!BAU!Reader, Part 3 of Longing gazes and Bloodied history
TW: torture, injuries, blood, weapons, blood, lots of blood
A/N: The last part because I have this thing when if I come up with a story line i need to resolve it as soon as possible before I pick up more cutesy fluffy prompts in my drafts so here goes.
December someday, 2008
Somewhere, sometime
The floor felt cold.
You woke up with an evident thirst. Your lips are so dry they felt like bleeding. They probably are, you taste blood. Or is that the blood from your gum? It could be, because it's really stinging and uncomfortable right now. Your head feels acute pulses of pain with every waking thought and every slightest movement.
Where is this?
You lifted your face, the back of your neck felt numb, as hard as you try to recall the feeling of your limbs to move, you only discover your wrists are tied together behind your back. You were laying on a floor- a tiled floor- in a dark room, coiled up with almost no strength left.
Where am I?
You pushed yourself to turn and anchor your body, pressing your upper torso up against the nearest wall and whimpered in pain as you sit up. Your eyes were adjusting to the darkness, there weren't much to see. The ground was damp of a thick liquid, blood which you could guess came from you. Each cell and each muscle of your body ached violently, some open wounds across your legs and stomach started to get to you as you regain consciousness. They burn.
Okay well this sucks.
December 16, 2008
3:37 pm
Before Aaron Hotchner could realise what was going on around him, he found himself sitting at the opened door of an ambulance, a medic standing in front of him and bandaging the side of his head up, saying...some things, some words come through, some don't, something about his ear drums, about acoustic something.
Oh. Acute acoustic trauma. Yeah I have that.
There were people running around. There were noises, which only hurt his head more. There were cars, and then there was his team. Reid, Rossi, Prentiss, Morgan, JJ,.. JJ.... and..?
You.
Where are you?
"Hotch, are you alright?" His hearing was clearing up, but still it took everything in him to hide his whimper as Prentiss ran up next to him. "You said your ear was-"
"We.. we got the profile-" He cut her off before she could continue. He did, sort of, lie about his clearance. The doctor said he should take it easy and reduce the field works, but he could not stand there and watch you go in alone, could he?
"Yeah, the profile was wrong-" Reid caught up not too long later, on his hand a notebook he recognised. Your notebook. He had a chance to look inside it once, that's where you keep details of each crime on a pocket-sized object, so you can work on the case anywhere even without the huge, ugly, "piss-coloured" FBI files. "We assumed "The Fairest" meant the most beautiful one, and that's why we assume the subject of interest was a woman- but-"
"But it didn't make sense. All the witnesses were sure there were no strange or familiar men suspicious around the victim house. The only common string between all the victims is-"
"Elise Sherlyn." Hotch mumbled, closing his eyes and frowned. There was something off about that woman. Something he can't really tell, perhaps it's the way she was calm looking at the crime scene photos and only acted surprised or disgusted when someone was looking at her, or the way she was so incredibly interested in him, the way she knew he lived in this city, the way she can recite words by words from the book he co-wrote, or the way the case was going almost too perfectly, a staged kind of perfect. He only wanted to observe her, which is why he gladly took her offer on the morning coffee.
"Sir- we have one of your agent missing and Chief Sherlyn is also not inside." One of the SWAT members came over and reported after they have cleared the house. The warehouse was empty, literally empty, except one envelope addressed to "The Fairest".
His breath hitched at the confirmation. He was hoping the feeling of you stripped away from his arms was an illusion, a delusion in the midst of his pain, but reality has settled. He's lost you, and it's his fault.
"Reid," He reminded, gesturing at the notebook.
You must have already figured it out.
Smart girl.
"Oh- Uhm- well the word fair doesn't only mean beautiful, it could just as likely just mean fair. If the suspect is Elise, who is, forgive my choice of word, incredibly obsessed with you, Hotch, it makes sense. The surname "Hotchner" has a Germanic origin and it quite literally translate to "fair judge" or "the objective one". Hotch, you are The Fairest." Reid turned to a page in the notebook and showed it to Hotch. The content of the letter was copied down to a T, the phrase "The Fairest" was in the centre of a bubble as you tried to decode what it meant. In one of the bubbles connected to it, there written "Aaron Hotchner."
"Garcia just checked. This warehouse is registered under the name of Rogand O'Neil. He died 30 years ago." Morgan spoke up as he was on the phone with Garcia, the situation was heavy on all of them that they didn't bother with the normal flirts. "He was Elise Sherlyn's grandfather."
"Okay this- this resets all our profile." Aaron ran a hand through his hair and tried to comb it away from his forehead as he gathered the very last strength he had. "Elise Sherlyn knew I was here when I was younger, chances are she met me then- and- and then I moved back to Virginia, law school, she followed. She started killing 7 years ago,"
"When you got married." Rossi added. Now it's making sense. "That was the first stressor, and the victims all resembled Haley at different ages. She couldn't be with you, so she took the anger out on those she believed were Haley in her delusion."
"Right," He sighed, his breathings heaving. Aaron was at the centre of all of this, he couldn't help but felt responsible. "What's the second stressor-"
"Your divorce. An encouragement, less of a stressor. The boxes were to draw your attention and bring you here, remember? "These are the tokens of my devotion", "I know you will find me", "Only I can understand you," She wanted you to come here." Reid quoted from the letters. He's been staring at them for hours, enough to memorise each strokes.
"Okay I am here. Why cause a chaos? Why doesn't she just take me?"
The group fell into a silence. They have had suspicions. Rossi was the first to notice the way sometimes Hotch would drive you home, and how it got more and more frequent. The day you were injured, Hotch asked Prentiss where the nearest pharmacy was before heading back to the hotel, she made an educated guess. One time you accidentally used Hotch's mug and he didn't ask for it back, Morgan saw that. But they knew better than to poke into it, you both deserved a little bit of privacy to sort it out.
But Aaron's world was crashing inside his mind. Elise knew. Elise knew about them, and that's why you were taken away.
He is why you're in danger.
December someday, 2008
Somewhere, sometime.
It might have took you a good 45 minutes to finally breath properly and sit without falling over. Your training at the academy gave you a fairly good skill at time estimating, but it could be way off because of your injuries, who the fuck knows?
The team probably is aware that you're missing, so that's.. that's good. Let's just hope they are good at their job, eh?
You can tell from the fatigue that you've lost a fair amount of blood. There's a distint sharp pain on the back of your head, a blunt force wound that you felt everytime your neck lost strength and your head hit the wall, which is probably why you passed out black. Your wrists were bound with thick robes, and there were nothing on the walls to even try create some frictions to try get it off. Your wounds were shallow, none of them seem to be bleeding still, but you'd worry more about them getting infected.
Suddenly the door from across the room opened slowly, and the ear-buzzing sound of heels on tiles woke you upright.
That particular annoying sound of heels.
"Didn't expect this, did you?"
That particular annoying bitchy voice.
"I was a bit worried when I researched about your reputation, you know," Elise kept walking that way- you're convinced either she doesn't know how to wear a fucking heels or she just want to annoy the shit out of you- until she was standing in front of you, drawing out a blade and waging it like a toy. "But when you all agreed on that profile, I just knew I was right."
"What? That you're an attention seeking who-"
A sharp pain landed on your cheek as your head turned side way from the impact, the corner of your lips feel wet again with warm blood pooling from the inside.
"That you are unworthy for him." She sneered. "Your team is stupid, you'll all drag him down. You are stupid,- you're ugly, weak, and pathetic- what did he even see in you?!"
Another one, she switched the blade to the other hand and slapped the other side of your face, her hand conveniently land on your head and grip your hair as she kneeled down and lifted your face up.
".. Someone.. someone who can pick the right lipstick shade.. for her skin." You swallowed the liquid that was collecting in the back of your throat and smiled up at her. God you love the face she has then.
December 16, 2008
4:53 pm. Cullman city Police Station.
Aaron Hotchner crossed his arms and stood in the corner of the briefing room as the team gave all available police officer an update on the situation and a searching order for Elise Sherlyn.
Elise.
Elise.
He knew the name was familiar. The first year of his work in the FBI, he was invited back to his law school for a lecture, and there was one girl that made an impression. A bad impression, in the sense that she was incredibly clingy, obsessive even. He never remembered her name, but he remember returning to his car and there was a music box on the passenger seat. It played "Für Elise." He got rid of it, and it stayed as a memory in the back of his mind ever since.
"Elise Sherlyn's apartment is empty. We found several more letters addressed to "T- well, you, and her journal, but nothing else." Prentiss and Reid came back with several items, and immediately got into the process of analysing all the letters again.
"We know she's been missing for 2 hours, give or take, that gives up 12 hours to find her alive." Aaron spoke up finally, now that he's sure his voice won't come out as shaky, as much as his mind is. "I want all available manpower, we have requested the closest field office to send backups but they won't be here for at least 3 more hours. Register with your grid search leader as soon as possible and if you find anything do not engage, report. If you're not, try to search abandoned warehouses, properties under Sherlyn's name and her grandfather's."
The office soon goes much quieter, not a good kind of silence at this time, Morgan and Prentiss also went out to the field and the rest are busy forming a profile again from scratch.
"I understand if you want to step ou-"
"Step out? Why?" Rossi pulled Hotch aside and instantly could tell he was on edges. They exchanged eye contact, and if took only a second for Hotch to realise the same. "Okay- Okay.. I may be slightly emotional involved-"
"Very, emotionally involved."
"Okay- but, we don't have time, Dave." He pleaded. It's irrational, in any other case he would advice himself to step down. He is a victim here, the victim should not interfere with the investigation. It's irrational, but he'd rather take the risk." It's all my fault, and we don't have time, David, she-"
"We'll find her, I promise,"
"We have to."
December someday, 2008
Somewhere, sometime.
She took her time and took her anger out on you. After she slapped you side by side until your ears were both ringing with a static sound and you were spitting blood on the floor, she wiped her hands and press the cold metal blade against your cheek, dragging it lightly over your skin.
"Just wait until he really sees you...Wait until I destroy you, let's see if you can still run your mouth then,"
You're not really scared of her. Perhaps it stems from you not liking her to begin with, as you looked up to her and didn't even bother avoiding the blade, cracking a laugh (as satisfying as it is to see her face turns, laughing really hurts when you've been kicked a few times in the stomach)
"You'll be in jail- or worse, my team will shoot you dead. You won't be with him, and he'll forget about you just like he did, but me? He will never forget me, the one who died because of hi-"
"You're wrong!" You took a risk and made a guess, and it definitely hit a nerve as her knife hand shivered, the blade pressing with more pressure and leave a trail of blood on your cheek. The stressor 7 years ago probably had to do with Aaron, and the fact he didn't even blink twice when he met Elise, it's possible he's not even aware she was stalking him. You just hope the team can also figure this out. "He- He'd never forget me, I was the only one-"
"Who could understand him? Who could challenge him?" You smirked and immediately spoke to cover up the whine from the blade on your skin, reciting the letter. "If you were, he wouldn't have left you and returned to Virginia, would he?"
Bingo. The silence tremble was everything you could ask for.
"If you were as good as you claimed, you wouldn't have been stuck in this city. 7 bodies, you think 7 bodies on your hands is something special? Please give me a break, we deal with so many criminals much, much better than you. You think Aaron Hotchner like the gifts you prepared? This case is nothing, now that I'm gone, they're gonna find you-"
"Shut up!" She yelled, reaching for a clump of hair at the back of your head and slammed you against the wall, pushing you back down laying before she pushed her sharp heel against a half-closed wound at your waist, forcing a pained gasp out of you. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"
If Aaron was here he'd probably scold you for going completely against the textbooks on how to behave in hostage situation, but you know she doesn't have the gut to kill you, not yet. The other girls were civilians, and she could cover her tracks, but you were an FBI agent, and there are dozens of other officers looking for her. Your best chance is to rile her up, and wait for her to make a mistake.
".. Is- Is that all?"
December 17, 2008.
0:06 am. Alabama Police Station.
It's been 20 hours. Or something like that, Aaron Hotchner has not had a moment to stop and look at his watch. The letters they found gave no leads at all, just longer ramblings about her delusions and how life would be if they were with each other. He's seen cases like these since the dawn of his career, but still can't shake the chill in his spine when it's his turn as the target.
"Hotch, you're the only one who can think- what places were important to you when you still lived here?" The geographical profiling yield no useful result, at all, as much as Reid tries to go through and through it again and again. The only clue they have now is Aaron. "She'd be in places that she thinks is significant to your relationship."
"I- It's been 40 years or something, you expect me to remember?" The time he spent in Cullman was.. one of the less memorable periods of his life. Rather, Aaron Hotchner would like to forget about it if he had a choice, not sitting in a conference room and walking backwards straight into it.
"We want you to try. Nothing is useless." Prentiss urged. They were getting relentless, and worried. Too much time has passed and there has been no sight or result from the police.
".. Okay, okay, well, I was sent here to study at St. Bernards Preparatory School, Reid, where is that on the map?" That was where he spent most of his time, there wasn't much a 14 years old boarding student can do back then.
".. Uh... St. Bernards.." Reid squinted his eyes and drew a circle with a red marker, tilting his head. It's not even in the area he expected.
"No.. No no, that's not right." Aaron approached the board and took a closer look. That's not really how he remembered it. "Garcia, I don't remember but I think the school might have moved location and renovated- we're looking at a St. Bernards in the middle of a forest area-"
"Copy that... got it! North outskirt of the city, just off highway 31, it's just an abandoned structure now, there were plans to rebuilt on it but it's never been approved."
" That's it.. that's it." He traced his finger on the map to where Garcia said and it all came back, the highway, the sceneries, the fields of crops. Nothing really changed, and yet everything has.
December 17, 2008
0:53 am. The old building of St. Bernards Preparatory School.
You woke up once again. This time, she's tied you up on some sorts of structure like a punching bag, your feet barely touching the cold floor. Your consciousness is waving, it feels like a dream, a really, really slow and uncomfortable one.
It's cold. It must be night.. or the fact most of your clothes are either torn or ripped apart, but it is cold. Your wounds were burning up, and there was a sheer layer of sweat all over your skin, but you shivered still.
You miss Aaron. You miss how he would always bring an extra jacket since the season changed after learning you didn't like to wear yours. He'd bring an extra and throw it over you when he deemed it's too cold.
Elise Sherlyn has been toying with you. She'd beat you up, cut you up, keeping you awake with splashes of ice cold water and let you feel pieces of your skin come apart. Your ankles are probably broken or dislocated, either way it's numb now. To be honest you can't feel much from your hips down anymore. Blood has dried on the side of your face, and the loss of blood has been keeping your mind lighter.
At least.. at least I don't feel so painful.
At some point you think she threw a mirror at you, some of the broken shards shoved their ways into your skin and lodged there, so each and every slightest movement now is pain. If her MO is still the same, you're probably still dripping of blood from a cut deep enough she left on you now, and you're going to bleed out, soon.
You're exhausted, really. Your cheeky responses stopped a while ago, and now you can't even feel the strength to move. You thought you could hold up until they find you, but you were getting colder, and sleepier, and every moment could be your last.
Is this what.. it feels like? Dying?
You drift in and out of consciousness. One moment you'd hear the sound of your blood dripping into a puddle on the ground. Another you'd smell Aaron's shampoo linger on you as he rubs his head against your neck. Another moment you'd see the victims you failed to save since the beginning of your career- you remember them all- they look at you, all with pity.
You're gonna be like us now. This is what it felt like.
You curse the world. Why can't it be quiet and let you live your last moments in peace? You've been hallucinating sounds so much you've given up on trying to tell which one is real and which one is not.
When Aaron Hotchner arrived at the disfigured and crumbling building, he knew exactly where to go. There was only one place where he used to spend most of his time, reading books on law and psychology, writing letters to his mother that would always go unanswered. The library would be to the left wing of the school, and his heart dropped when he saw you alone in the middle of the empty room, blood all around that he could only assume is yours.
He didn't think twice but to rush towards you and cut the robes holding you up, letting the shards of glasses on the floor hit him he did not care, there was only one thought on his mind and that'd be you. He lifted you onto his arms and laid down, his hand frantically goes to your neck in search for a pulse and he yelled into the radio calling for EMTs.
He didn't feel like breathing. He called out for you, again, and again, holding your head up and press his hand against your neck. The only light source he had were the 2 flashlights of the SWAT members covering him, and only that was enough to reveal countless wounds and bruises on you, so many bleeding site that he didn't know where to begin.
He felt helpless, your blood staining his hands, and your life slipping away in front of him like that.
December 17, 2008
5:43 am. Cullman Regional Medical Center
Elise Sherlyn was found in one of the old classroom. She was convinced you were dead, or sooner or later, will be, and she wasn't going down peacefully. A SWAT member was shot in the shoulder before Morgan took her down. She was pronounced dead at the scene. The room was filled with images of Aaron Hotchner, documenting his life, almost. His first day at St. Bernards. His graduation. His law school days, prosecutor days. There were files on his cases. It's like a teenage girl's room dedicated to their idol, but taken to an extreme and further.
The EMTs found a really weak pulse after they found, clamped your worst wounds and did CPR, so they took you out and to the nearest hospital, and immediately into surgery. Aaron Hotchner did not leave your side until the nurses had to physically block him from going in, that's when he realised what he was doing, apologised and went to clean himself up. His hands were soaked in your blood, his clothes were as well.
By the time team arrived, they'd find him in one of the treatment rooms, still sitting in his blood-soaked clothes as his vein was hooked onto a needle and his blood taken away for immediate transfusion. You simply lost too much blood, and there was too little time to request blood from another hospital. Luckily he was an O-, universal donor.
Then it was waiting. Waiting for any news on your surgery felt like an eternity for him, as he paced around the waiting area.
There were things he weren't sure about before, there were thoughts that crossed his mind when he pulled you into his arms those late nights, when he watched you sleeping next to him and feeling every part of him wanting you closer, when you avoid him at work in the morning as if nothing happened, when his mind tore itself apart about his feelings towards you and the risk it had on your career- your bright career. He wasn't sure, and it would be unfair for you if he led you on thinking it's something more, but the moment he felt so much pain upon seeing you in such state, he could not be more sure.
About why his heart ached so much when you avoided him, if only for half a day. About why he lost his cool so much, though he had no trouble keeping a calm demeanour all those years. About why he finds it so easy and effortless to take care of you. About why he feels heat literally fuming from his head whenever someone else hit on you.
Because he loves you.
And the world wouldn't start moving again until that light in front of the operation room turned off and a nurse walked out calling your name.
And the world wouldn't start moving again until the nurse explained what happened to you- physical trauma caused by blunt forces and sharp objects, several broken bones, a ruptured lung, extensive blood lost were only the surface of it- and announced the surgery was successful.
And the world wouldn't start moving again for him until he was sitting next to your bedside and holding your hand.
You were hooked on various IVs and machines, a bandage covered up to half of your face as one of your eyes were injured by the mirror shards. Your lips were dry, cut and bruised. Almost all part of your skin were covered in some sort of bandage, if not then scars and healing wounds, and it broke his heart to think about what you endured just because he was careless and didn't protect you in time.
The team came to visit but you haven't woken up yet. They didn't stay long, after failing at convincing Aaron to leave, knowing that even if he's acting like he usually does, he's been holding your hand all the time before they came knocking.
For once in his life, work didn't matter. It wouldn't matter if you were gone.
December 20, 2008.
8:20 am, Cullman Regional Medical Center.
Aaron Hotchner has practically lived in this hospital for days now. At the beginning he wouldn't sleep, only leaving very briefly for some time to get a change of clothes or some food to come back, and then catch a shut-eye laying on his arms next to your bed. The second night, at Rossi's threat, he spent the night at a nearby hotel room as the team flew back to Quantico. It was a big case, big on paperwork when one of the agent is injured, and they wouldn't do much sitting around as well. Even then he didn't find himself sleeping soundly, he'd rather spend time in the hospital room, knowing how much you hated them. You've always said they felt so cold and distant, and you'd hate to be in one alone with the stiff beddings and the way everything is eerily white and muted of colour and the fluorescent light overhead. He can't change any of that, but he can at least be there when you wake up.
It felt like a long, a really long dream.
You were briefly awake when the EMTs were surrounding you and pressing against your wounds, mostly thanks to the pain. You can't remember much past that, and there was no light at the end of the tunnel, there was no one telling you you're gonna die, there was no deceased relative who showed up, so you guess you weren't dying yet. Your eyelids felt heavy, but you wanted to wake up.
If that bitch isn't dead I'm going to make sure she is.
And there was the team. There was your job. And there was still Aaron.
At first all you saw were bright patches of colours blurred together, and it takes a long while for your vision to come into focus and for you to realise one of your eyes was still in the dark- probably bandaged up.
And then you saw Aaron Hotchner. He looked.. unkept. He's gotten rid of the suits and tie and opted for a quarter-zip, his face was unshaven, and clearly exhausted. You could bet he looks worse than you right now.
"You're awake.." His attention shifted right back at you when he noticed you trying to move, ending his call right away and made sure you stayed down. You haven't seen him smiling like that in a long time." You're awake.. you.."
"...You look...terrible, Hotchner." You forgot how to talk for a second, and your voice came out really hoarse, possibly because you have been severely dehydrated for a while, but nothing can hide the playful tone.
"You should see yourself," He chuckled back, brushing your hair off your face as he leans down and laid a series of soft kisses on your forehead, feeling like a huge weight just disappeared.
You're alright. You're gonna be alright.
"... Aaron," It took you by surprise, the way his touch felt so gentle, the way he didn't hesitate to pour his affection out on you, and the way his hand immediately cocoons yours.
But it wasn't bad.
You didn't have the strength to stay up for long, and falling back asleep to his thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand and his mouth against your temple mumbling reassurances wasn't all that bad.
"I'm here."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"You're gonna be fine, I promise. You're so strong, you're doing so well."
Aaron Hotchner x BAU!reader, Part 2 of Longing gazes
TW: (an attempt at) Fictional crime, deaths, injuries, violent, angst, sexual components, etc. Read at your own risks, minors in your best interest dni
A/N: Watch me try to write up an appealing case. It's a continuation of my previous storyline, but can be read independently regardless. Time and dates and events may not be canon-accurate but that's the point of fiction isn't it. All details and names and such are fictional, any similarities to the real world is purely coincidental. It's really more of a focus on the case than the ship.
December 15, 2008.
"BAU team, conference room in 10, please."
It felt like a blink of an eye, but months have passed since having Aaron Hotchner at your doorstep late at night in secret became a frequent event.
He doesn't text, nor call, but always showed up at the right time like he knew your schedule by heart, your place on day-offs, your hotel room sometimes on long cases, and back to his place occasionally. And every single time, you'd know him by the sound of his knock, you'd know what to expect, there was never much happening anyway besides him aching kisses onto your lips, spinning your world into a whirlpool with his bruising touches, and then leaving like he never even existed in the proximity.
And you don't blame him. It is better that way.
There was no sweet talkings, there was no dinner dates, no fancy gifts or flowers- he was keen on reminding you, and himself, that this should not get any more than purely physical- the most intimate moments between you are when you watch him fall asleep, reaching your hand quietly into the air trying to memorise the paths of his outline, breathing to the rhythm of his chest rising and falling, letting the night fell on you both, and for a moment, it felt like he was yours to have. You learned more about Aaron Hotchner in the silence than you've ever learned about anyone talking.
But it wouldn't tear you apart every time you wake up without him if the line was that clear.
He never mentioned it again, but his confession back when this all started never stopped echoing in your mind. He did care, in the most minute details, enough to make you second guess the meanings but enough to be casual. He would make sure you had something to eat the mornings after, or staying up a little longer to give you a massage. He was the one to always be there the earliest if you're ever admitted to a hospital in a case, and he would stay through the nights, changing your bandages or bringing you anti-scar creams. Sometimes when you find yourself waking up from a nightmare, you could recall almost faintly his soothing touches and gentle voice, whisperings "you're gonna be okay," over and over again (you could never tell if it was a dream, and you never asked)
Right, but it's nothing, still, right?
If a tree fell in a forest but there were no ear to hear it, did it ever make a sound?
If there was a relationship but you acted like it didn't exist, was it ever there?
"There's been a series of...brutal murders in Cullman, Alabama, and the local police was hoping we could put an end to it before the next victim turns up dead." You settled down to your usual seat on the round table just when JJ was pulling images up on the screen. Snapped you right back to reality.
7 women. No connection. All taken when they were planning vacations, so by the time people suspected they were missing, it was already too late. Some were never even filed missing, they were just found dead.
".. In parts." You shifted through the case file dropped on your desk this morning, couldn't help but scrunch your face, even for you having seen plenty of crime scene photos, it was brutal. "2 latest victims were.. eh-hem, cut in parts, and those pasts were boxed and mailed to the police."
"An escalation? A message? Is the UnSub trying to be seen?" Rossi suggested. Textbook, right? The UnSub was probably feeling undervalued, unseen for their amazing "works", and sent their products to the police as an open challenge.
"The other 5 bodies are still not recovered fully. They were found all over the place, dumpsters, lakes, buried on the side of roads, but always missing-"
"Missing some sort of body parts and their reproductive organs. There's no way we can tell if there were sexual components involved,"
"We might be dealing with an UnSub that's either extremely disturbed, guys we're talking Jack the Ripper level of brutality here, or proficient in counter-forensic measures-" The air in the conference room was thick, there are already a lot of victims on the table and they were already steps behind.
"Or both, and worse. Wheels up in 5," Hotch always had that calm and commanding air surrounding him, almost as if nothing really happened between him and a co-worker, a part of you can't help but felt.. disappointed. You wonder if sometimes he looks at you and felt the same.
Is it strange that carrying a go-bag and a case file fulled of extremely horrifying images onto a jet 3 or 4 times a week became such a normal work thing for all of you? You supposed it is, but there was not time for your mind to wander. The seat hasn't even warmed up to you yet when the preliminary profiling started.
"Okay Garcia, tell us about the victims." Aaron- well, in this context, he's Hotch for you- led, leaning against the seat opposite to yours as the team gathered around the make-shift table, laying out photos.
"Esme Frederick, Maisy Santiago, Audrey Leach, Paula Phillips and Lydia Blevins. Esme was murdered years ago, I tell you, like- 5 years ago, the only reason why we think they are all connected is the same MO, and they were all discovered and pronounced dead- listen to this spooky part- exactly a year apart from each other. January 19th."
"The UnSub's intention?" It was the first time you've seen such thing. Some serial killers kill on dates of significant to them or something similar, but having dates a year apart, manipulating when the victims are found- it might be worse than you expected. "Or just really really really weird coincidences?"
"Well whatever happened there stopped, because Chloe Palmer was killed just a week ago, Chantelle Connor, 3 days ago, completely random dates but same MO." Garcia voice spoke up from the computer, you can tell even so far away that she's shaken by the details of this crime, by the mere cruelty of it.
"Thanks mama, we'll call you when we land," Morgan sat next to the window and reached to end the call as they were taking off, before his hand landed back on his temple. "Okay so we have a second stressing point. Something, someone, made the UnSub felt the need to kill faster, a month earlier than planned, shorter cooldowns."
"Okay if the UnSub is the type to find meanings in doing everything- killing these women as a.. ceremonial, annual celebration, almost, then there must be meaning in the act of sending their body parts to the police right? In gift-boxes even." It's clearly an organised killer, so it's just hard to believe he only did it for kicks.
"All victims were white female, the youngest was 17 and oldest 34, blonde hair. That's it. Everything else is out of place, different jobs, different marital statuses, different backgrounds, different social ranks-"
".. 17.. my god," You muttered to yourself as Reid laid the photos of 7 women out on the table, analysing the victimology to work backwards. It happens, but you never really felt less sick seeing those young girls have their entire lives taken away from them.
It was a short 3 hours flight, and the team ended up working on their respective specialties. JJ stayed on the phone with each of the sources of media in Alabama- it is still a mystery to you how she gets signal up here- to make sure they has a lid on the information and keep it away from the public until further notices. Morgan and Rossi continued to investigate the methodologies of the crime, the torture details to see what that tells them about the UnSub. Reid and Prentiss are both experienced and educated in linguistics and geographical profiling, and the UnSub left them a good amount of coded messages with each box sent to work with.
That would leave.. you and Hotch? You have just realised now you weren't sure what Hotch's specialisation was, perhaps it was a little bit of everything. You wouldn't say you were actively avoiding him for the past few months at work, but working directly with him felt difficult. You couldn't look him in the eye, but instead kept your gaze on the files laid out on your laps.
"A-All the women shared similar inherent characteristics, it's safe to assume someone in the UnSub's life is the role model for all of these, someone they couldn't take their anger out on for some reasons, so they took it out on people that looked like her instead."
"I'll inform the local police as soon as we land to get us a list of names, but-" Surely Hotch would also notice the strange thing here.
"Their age is weird. See, we have the youngest victim, Esme was 17, and Lydia was turning 39, those are two drastically different brackets. It's like.. I can't lay a hand on it,"
"Well let's hope you can before we have another box addressed to the FBI, for now, close the files." You seemed lost in your thoughts, as Aaron leaned over and tapped the table in front of you quietly, lowering his voice." We're landing. It's cold outside, so be careful."
See, it's that again. That sudden gentle demeanour in his voice as he reminds you of such a simple thing, and he expects you to not be crazy about it?
You zipped up your puffer jacket, even in the car, having not expected "cold" to be this cold. Even inside the police station with heating, you could still feel the frost clinging on your finger tips as you trace the autopsy reports of the 7 victims.
"Elise, Elise Sherlyn," Said the female officer that greeted the team at the door, reaching her hand out to firmly shake with Hotch's before showing them where to set up." I'm the lead officer on this case- well, that's if we had much of a case, 7 bodies and no tangible lead, we were hoping you guys could put this thing to rest."
"We'll try our best, uh- can we get 2 or 3 boards in here please?" You put down your messenger board down on the desk and looked around. It's nice, they were nice enough to set apart a room for the team." I'll go back through the victimology to give you a list of attributes and we want you to release that to the media, warning these people to be careful, set up a tip line to see if anyone suspicious was approaching them lately."
"Is the killer already hunting?"
"At this rate? 2 victims in a week? We can't always be too careful."
As soon as the boards were ready, Hotch was also done assigning everyone off. Some went to the sites where the women were discovered, some went to check on the boxes that were delivered, Reid was to do his magical colourful map thing, and you would do your victimology analysis thing before Hotch takes you over to the morgue for further details.
The board was filled in almost no time, you prefer to put up all the information and connect them with strings, help you see things better.
The cases from years ago don't give you much to work with. 7 years is perhaps enough time for a city to forget one tragic murder. Everyone gotta move on. But you were able to lay out somewhat of a timeline profile of the killer nevertheless. Years ago, possibly around the time of the first murder was the first stressor. Something happened that made the UnSub develop a violent grudge towards a woman who looked like these victims. January 19th must mean something.
"The BTK killer sent taunting letters to the police to satisfy his own ego of being better than all of them. The Zodiac Killer also sent letters, but I can't recall any that sent their trophy to the police." When you are in need of some references, Reid seems to always just pull it out like he memorised it before you asked. Cheeky genius.
"How are you working on the messages?"
"It.. This might sound strange, but the 2 messages feel like a love letter almost. Like something you'd write along with a box of jewellery to give on Valentine Day. The subject being addressed, "The Fairest", is constantly praised and these body parts are.. gifts? Here, read this,"
My Fairest, I remember you once again at the sight of the first snow. This a token of my devotion, for I have nothing but the longing for our reunion.
My Fairest, I know you would be finding me sooner or later, because we are always meant to meet. Only I can see you for all you are, only I can challenge you, only I can love your twisted minds, for we are but faces of the same coin. I await.
Creepy.
"Fairest as in, most beautiful?" You took the ziplock bags containing the pieces of paper and put them up against the ceiling lights. Good paper, a wax stamp, typewriter. It's already processed, there were no prints or anything useful.
"We would assume, it's just-"
"-a pretentious love letter. See how they use these weird turns of phrases, "I have nothing but" or "I await" instead of "I'm waiting", they're trying to sound more sophisticated for this person. They probably look up to this person, admire them, and they are aware of the knowledge that they are coming?" Prentiss spoke up as she came up to the board and highlighted the phrases. "It's one of those that "kill for love"."
"Kill off the competitions that looked like his lover?" It didn't sit right with you.
"Perhaps kill off those that were something his lover can not be. Maybe his lover suffered some sort of tragedy, and he believed these women needed to suffer for it."
The team ran with that assumption for the first day. They were looking for a male, 30s to 40s, the first stressor is probably something that happened to a very dear female figure to his life, which lead him to kill and sacrifice these women who he saw as competition of his subject, him getting rid of them for her sake. The police were instructed to increase patrolling, search abandoned warehouses, and look into ViCap for previous offenders with a history of violent crimes, whose timeline line up with the first murder.
By the time the briefing was over it was nighttime, and the team decided to call it a day and checked back in the hotel near the station. You can't help but notice how Hotch didn't need a map to know his ways around the city.
"I lived here before." His voice was less tensed now that he's off the job. "Before I even went to high school, I think I was.. 14? When I moved here. Nothing's changed much for 30 years."
"You've lived here? I thought your family was from Virginia?" Reid was in one of the backseats, curious as he leaned forward.
"They were. I was here in a boarding school."
"Wo wo wo, you were in a boarding school?" Now he's got Morgan's attention." Remind me to call up Garcia and dig some photos on this guy's boarding time after we're done with the case eh?"
"You won't find any."
"My girl is good-"
"You won't find any, do you hear me?" Hotch put on a little bit of a voice and sneered back jokingly, knowing his word won't change much. Prentiss' yearbook photo was out a while ago and nothing can really be a secret in this little nosy unit anyway.
You stayed quiet the entire ride, head leaned on the glass and let the city night poured into your eyes. So this is where he was, growing up. You can't help but to imagine a teenage Aaron, sent away from his family to live all alone in a strange city. It must have been so lonely.
December 16, 2008.
Every day that you wake up without a call reporting another victim is a good day. You came down to the station at 7:04, looking around and seeing Aaron was the only person that has arrived before you.
Having coffee with Elise.
It didn't take a profiler to see the way she was trying to make moves on Aaron Hotchner since he stepped foot in this office. Her intricate make up with a red shade of lipsticks that didn't match her tone well, her enthusiasm, getting "everyone" coffee but only asking Agent Hotchner, the way she positioned herself the closest to Aaron whenever, wherever. She didn't even try to hide it.
And it's not like any of your business, but you can't help but felt bothered. It's unfair, you're here giving everything in you to keep his secret like a dog with an oath of loyal, and he clearly saw the way Elise Sherlyn feels about him, and he was enabling it. He didn't warn her to keep a distance, he never spoke against or cut in the middle of her sentence as she freely interrupted each and any of the member in the briefing, giving a "try" at the "cool" ways of profiling. He was even standing and chit-chatting with her over morning coffee about going to the same law school.
It's irritating. You pretend to not see them on your way in, walking straight into the office and almost threw your bag across the room. It's alright, there are victims who could be in danger. There are people more important than Elise.
By 7:30, the entire team has arrived and were getting updated on any new information. The police found a suspicious warehouse on the outskirt of the city and was waiting for the BAU, SWAT was already waiting. There were also some witnesses, neighbours of the victims, who came forward and hoped they could help.
"The autopsy indicated that the victims were tortured extensively before and after they died of blood loss. The process of cutting up the bodies were post-mortem, but the cuts were clean, we're looking at someone who's experienced or educated medically." You volunteered to go with the SWAT team on the raid. Something inside you still felt unease about this case, even when the profile was going well. Something didn't sit right, and you needed to be there to know.
Reid, Rossi and Prentiss would be heading to the witnesses' and try to get as much information as possible, while the rest of you geared up and prepared to raid the warehouse.
"There is a high chance the UnSub knows we are after him and is not in the warehouse, he's extremely intelligent and organised, but do not put your guards down." Hotch briefed the SWAT team before you all headed over, but you were not in the mood to listen to him. Your instincts tell you there's something you missed, and the face Elise was there didn't help you calm down and think it through properly at all. If anything, her flimsy heels clinking on the floor would be against some sort of protocols and make you want to smash it against her face.
Okay. You're here to catch killers, not to become one. Breath in. Breath out.
It was dark inside, despite it being daylight out, the air was heavy of disinfectants, odd. It smelled more like a hospital than a farmhouse. There were no windows, just hallways and storage rooms.
"Clear."
"Clear."
Hotch doesn't understand what's up with you this morning. You were always further away from him than usual- than he wanted- and you were distracted. Not in the off-the-job way, but seeing you frowning and looking out into nothingness and get lost in your head, he knows you're thinking of the case. He trusted your ability as a profiler, and your instinct, at times, were sharper than his.
But what kind of instinct required you to abandon your normal place on his passenger seat and travelled on a different car? What instinct made you go on your own down the hallway of the warehouse, when normally you'd stick by his side and cover him?
Strange. It felt really uncomfortable when he thinks about it, but he blamed it on the stuffy air of the warehouse and loosen his tie slightly, turning to follow you instead.
The only room left is the last one down the hallway, you held your gun in your hand steady when you saw Aaron stepped forward and gave you a signal that he was gonna open the door.
"Hotch, Hotch, Eagle calling Hotch can you hear me?" Garcia's voice was heard from Hotch's earpiece, she sounded... worried. On your side, it was Reid, and you continued to walk into the dark room and couldn't hear Garcia anymore.
"Copy, I'm at the warehouse-"
"Is Elise Sherlyn with you?"
"Elis-? No, not that I can see-"
A loud series of noise flooded and filled the room, the radio signal got cut off and you confusedly called out for Spencer again and again to no avail. You heard something dropping behind you, as Aaron held the right side of his face and groaned in pain. Ever since the explosion, his acute acoustic trauma hasn't had time to properly heal. His ear buzzed painfully, and everything around felt like they were spinning in circles, if he wasn't near a wall he would have collapsed. The pain throbbed in his head, his vision blurred into a mush and it stung to even pry his eyes open.
Shit.
Shit.
He's lost sight of you.
"Hotch-! Hotch?" He didn't knew how long it took, and Morgan's voice sounded muffled and echoed at the same time and even that hurt, as Morgan rushed his way into the room and held Hotch by the shoulders, guiding his way outside after seeing the stream of blood running down from his ear and jerked his earpiece out.
"Hotch? Can you hear me? Hotch? We got the profile all wrong, Hotch."
You and big man has a little yoga session as a part of a wellbeing program you designed. He arrived at work the following morning, and the steps have never posed such a challenge. Maybe he'll learn to take more day -offs.
A/N Inspired by, you guess it, Dharma and Greg, the yoga episode. You bet yourself i'm not writing AH angst anytime soon that man's life is angsty enough.
Aaron is a well exercised man, and that would be an understatement.
Ever since you've met him he's never missed a week without paying at least 3 visits to the gym (given his paid gym time as an FBI agent, fair enough). If he doesn't have time for some, he'd leave bed an extra hour early to go for a run around the park, or sometimes you'd just wake up to him finishing his workout in the living room. That, plus all the running and chasing on the field, you wouldn't worry about his health.
He's beyond fit.
But you never exercised together before.
He's never done yoga, either.
Without saying, you're excited about the idea. Whether or not you get Aaron-time is very dependent on luck and the schedule of disorganised psychopaths- which, to your experience, is extremely unpredictable and unreliable. You'd be over the moon if you get a call from Aaron saying he'd get the weekend off, and you'd make sure no second goes to waste.
"And your brilliant date idea this time is... doing yoga?" Aaron kept his eyes shut drowsy, turning on his side and sneaking his arms around to anchor around your waist, mumbling into the blanket you shared.
He is normally an early bird, but this early?
"You sound skeptical," You've just sat up and now you can't go anywhere, leaning over to position your palms on both his cheeks and squeeze, trying to massage his face awake. "Or is this too much of a challenge to Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner? Does he want back out?"
"Who said.. said anything... about backing out?" You could never imagine the hard-ass Aaron Hotchner at work that the team describe, because here he is, sleepy, stubborn, wrapped around your finger. And every time you tell the team that he's a sweetheart at core, they stare at you like you've been drugged." I'm awake.. awake.. I'm awake.."
"You're awake?"
"Almost," He muttered, his arms adjusting slightly before he pulled and had you landing right back laying on his chest, one of the hand found its way up your back and hold behind your neck, pressing you down to his dozy morning kisses. He didn't even have to open his eyes to find you. "Now I'm awake."
You insisted that he wake up, get dressed, that the morning cuddles can wait, and as much as he dreaded the sight of you leaving his arms, he did in the end. One of his rare happiness comes from seeing you happy, doing things that make you happy, doing things with you, and if it's waking up at 5:20 am to catch the sunrise out on the porch so be it.
You were in the kitchen, finishing up the pre-exercise snacks when you heard him coming down. Now this is an Aaron Hotchner that you don't see everyday.
Hair barely combed and not styled into the usual bureaucratic-suitable slick. A t-shirt baggy enough to allow his movements, but if you look you can still see way it sculpts his physique underneath with the right movement. Sweatpants, you literally cannot recall the last time he wore these, and this might be his only pair.
You're so getting him some more of those.
"G'morning goodness," You turned to take the plates and place them on the dining table. Avocado toast, and a simple smoothie, just some light snacks to start the day off. "Look at you,"
"Morning baby," He's seen those eyes and heard those tones forever, the way you look at him, smitten, with all the adoration in the world, makes him feel like he's just any ordinary man, with a person who loves him, for all he is.
Wasting no time, he wandered over behind your back and slides his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder and brush his lips against your neck. "Look at you."
"I made snacks," Your hands conveniently find his and he took his chance to tug them both beneath his embrace, swaying you around softly as he nodded, acknowledging you, murmuring a "thank you" before letting you go and sit. He usually doesn't have time to grab anything more than a bland bagel before heading off most days, so this is new. ".. Not coffee?"
"Nope."
"Is this a part of the-"
"Yep. No coffee, you've already had plenty working those long cases, did you know it could increase your chance of diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, liver damage?"
He stared at you, his eyebrows frowning for a split of a second before he lifted the cup and took a sip, and liked it. "Just so you know, you sound like Reid,"
"If you want, I can have one of these waiting for you every time you get home before 10 pm." His expression tells you everything you needed to know, an indescribable sense of warmth and accomplishment fills you at the knowledge of something so simple.
He liked my smoothie. Gosh I feel like a teenager having a crush.
"You're driving a hard bargain," A smile curled on his lips as he took a bite from the crunchy toast as well. Being well cared for is a strange feeling. He never really gotten used to it, especially when it's from you, who always seem to know the right thing to do, but it feels nice. "Can we do 12?"
"11."
An exaggerated groan from him signalled your victory as he quickly finished up his portion, letting you ramble about what they were going to do today. He has never been able to toughen up and argue with you on any matter, you have a way to his heart and he knows that. He lets you, as odd as it sounds, he finds a certain comfort in letting you guide him sometimes, in putting his trust in someone and not get hurt.
"Okay sit, and cross your legs," You've already set up the mattresses over in the living room, drawing the curtains to let the earliest rays of sun pour in and open the window to the dewy air, not something Aaron gets the sit down and enjoy often.
"Music as well?" He commented, referring to the soft meditating music you played before sitting down in front of him, showing the proper crossed-leg pose that he scanned and tried to mimic.
"You signed up for the full package, I give you the whole package." You can't help but smile at his excitement in this, having warned him the night before that it's not easy as it sounds. "Okay, now, close your eyes, and focus on your breathing."
"... Oka-"
"Shushhh, not used to receiving orders are you?" You scolded, checking once more he has got his eyes closed before guiding his breathing into a rhythm of deep, mindful breaths.
"Inhale through your nose... Exhale... Inhale, feel the air... Exhale... Imagine it's you relearning how to breath, feel the sensation from your finger tips, up your arm.."
The warm up was, to Aaron's expectation, surprisingly pleasant. His shoulders felt light of the constant tension he held unconsciously, slower breaths gave him a chance to slow down and even noticed the early songbirds outside, and his ear wasn't ringing. It was pleasant, maybe he would try this more.
"Good?" There are minute giveaways on Aaron's expressions that you've learned to notice. The way his shoulders drop slightly lower, his brows and forehead not frowned into wrinkles. He's relaxed. "Okay now we're gonna stand up,"
He muttered in agreement and pulled himself back on his feet, closely looking at you and mirroring your movement as you put your hands together at the chest, feet firm on the ground.
Inhale. Slowly lift your arms over your head, stretching them upwards and backwards for as far as you can. Lean your hips forwards, slightly arching back.
Aaron was as stiff as a tree trunk. Or whatever that's this stiff. You did it yourself as an example before peeking over at him. At least he gets points for efforts, right? You walked over, next to his side, and put your hands one behind his back and one on his chest, gently pushing him to lean back.
"I'm gonna fall- nope, nope- I am gonna f-" To be honest it is hilarious to hear the slight fright in this voice as he struggled to find a point of balance.
"You're not gonna fall, I got you,"
"Honey, I'm almost as good as twice your size. You don't got me."
"This is only, like, the first pose, get yourself together Agent,"
Exhale. Drop your arms and lean your chest forwards. Bend down at the hips and reach for your toes. Try to keep your knees straight.
"Touch your toes pretty boy." At this point you can barely hide the laughter behind your words, trying to keep calm.
Hey, it's not your fault, he looks close to a 90° angle, there's a good distance between the furthest reaching tips of his fingers to his arched-up toes and he was not getting anywhere further down, even with your help, even with your hand on his back applying a slight pressure, even with his knees bent.
"Okay- okay, this is as far as it goes."
Inhale. Wrap your hands around your ankles- okay, maybe a slight adjustment, as Aaron is nowhere near his ankles- wrap your hands around the furthest part of your legs you can reach. Lift your chin, back arched.
"Are you-? Are you absolutely sure?" The instruction left him looking over at you, questioning. That's not humanly possible, is it?
"Yes I am. You can do this."
He anchored his hands on somewhere below his knees, lifting his face up slowly and as much as he can, arch his back. You don't push him, just admiring the oddly humorous way his back remains in a stiff curve, his whole body slightly shaking trying to not crash forwards.
Exhale. Put your hands down to the floor.
"I can't- even reach my ankles, sweetheart," Already his breathing was getting laboured, as he stressed on the position of his hands." You'd think i am some kind of- magical super rubber human to have it on the floor-"
"Just do it, I got you-" You gave him a little shove.
Put your hands down to the floor and step your feet backwards one by one. Put your body in a plank position.
Finally one he was somewhat familiar with. This isn't much different from the push-ups that he usually does anyway, so it's a moment for him to finally catch his breath.
"Tired yet?"
"Not a bit, baby,"
Inhale. Lower your chest to touch the mattress.
Exhale. Lower your hips and legs all down to the mattress, slowly lift your chest up.
He had the strength to do it, but not the flexibility. His elbow was bent still and he's barely lifted his torso up, but "that was as far as he could".
Inhale. Lower your chest down to the mattress. Hips upwards in an upside down V shape.
He gave you another confused stared before somewhat getting into the position, his knees bent, his back curved, and a little shaky.
"Not very good on your balance, huh?"
Exhale. Lift your right leg up, keep your knees straight.
It's a humbling experience. For years Aaron has been relatively happy with how fit he was, and domestically, slightly competitive about it as well. He can't help but to admire you for these, having seen you done these routines before and assuming they were easy.
They weren't. He lifted each of his legs, each were wobbly and he struggled to keep it straight, only with you lending a supportive hand.
Inhale. Lift your leg and stretch, place it down next to our hand on the mat.
"Wh-Next to where?"
"Your hand baby," You squatted down next to him and tapped on the mat, next to where his hand was, almost giggling seeing sweat already forming on his forehead. Bet he didn't think it was this difficult. "Here."
Almost fell over flat on his face, not quite near his hand yet, an audible groan as he struggle this stretch so far, but he's...gonna be fine.
Exhale, keep your front knee bent, the other one straight, lift your torso, arms upwards next to your ear.
"Okay.. okay," He mumbled to himself a reassurance before gaining balance with his oddly placed legs, slowly lifting his arms up and raised them as much as he can without tumbling over.
You offered a hand, holding both his hands and pulled his arms upwards bit, only letting go when he was losing balance, using your hands to hold his shoulders in place.
"You're doing amazing, Mr Hotchner,"
"Of course, Mrs Hotchner.. of course, of course."
It was only an hour- normally he doesn't even feel tired running around the park for almost two- until the end of the session and he was beat.
Is it exactly exhausting? No. But it sure was sore in placed he never even knew could be sore before.
Favourite part? Definitely the muscle de-tensing part as the end, as you instruct him to lay down on the mattress and your hands work its magic on him. Starting at the knots on his shoulders, you applied just enough pressure, down the path of his spine, and leg muscles, and arms, all while he laid cheek down to the mattress, almost purring feeling the tension evaporate.
You pulled him to sit up and kneeled behind, giving his neck and shoulders the attention he deserved, casually also leaning to peck on his lips a few short kisses every time he leans his head backwards.
"Wanna give me a review? How'd you feel?"
"Hm.. I'd say I could give you 5 stars," He closed his eyes, man knows how to enjoy a good time, and muttered quietly, waiting patiently for you to be done with it before turning and sneaking his arms around you, lifting you back where he wanted you, in front of him straddling his sides.
" It was really, really nice," A hand comfortably found its way around your waist, his chin resting just in the middle of your chest as he looks up." and I really, really appreciate you doing all that for me."
"Okay, that'd be.. $500?" You were all too used to his affection, feeling him rubbing circles on your back as your hands find and ruffle up his hair.
You never got your $500.
Instead he just flipped you over laying down on the mattress and climb on top of you, tickling and kissing you until you gave up. He has long memorised the map of your body, where your tickle spots are, where to and not to touch, he could get you defeated blindfolded if he wanted. That's Aaron Hotchner, he gives everything his full, undivided, devoted attention. Be it work, or you.
It was supposed to be a 2-days-weekend that you could spend with Aaron, but Sunday morning you woke to an empty side of the bed and someone stumbling out in the living room. You dragged your sleepy feet out to find Aaron already dressed with his briefcase, leaning over the dining table to write you a note- well, struggling to lean.
"Oh- did I wake you honey?"
"... Work?"
"Mhm," He dropped the briefcase on the table and walked towards you- you can't help but notice the way he walks was strange, stiff- as he placed hands on your hips and leaned his forehead against yours. "I'm sorry,"
".. It'mkay.. where to?"
"No where. I need to catch up on some paperwork at the office, so I'll be back by 6. No serial killer today."
".. Mhm.. mhm.." All he heard was your sleepy replies, he could guess somewhere the lines of "you broke promise you do chore" and "it's okay i'll wait", but he was just glad you understood.
Now just when you thought you could get a bit more sleeping done, just finished pulling out one of Aaron's old sweatshirt to cuddle with, just put on your sleepy songs playlist- your phone rang.
"Mom, can you come in today?" It's Emily. "Dad is acting really, really weird-?"
"G'morning Emily Prentiss," You mumbled into the pillow." You do know I'm not your HR department and it's like.. 9 in the morning on a Sunday, right?"
"HR can not solve this." A while ago, you visited Aaron once in the office to give him some files he left at home, and allegedly, he was a "completely different person" after that. Ever since then the team would invite- beg, more like- you to come over whenever Aaron is a bit too tense and being a bully. "HR is scared of him."
".. Give me 45 minutes... you want some cupcakes and coffee?"
"Also HR won't do that." Emily snickered from the other end of the line. "Please, please, please be hurry he's killing us all with red tapes."
It all started when Aaron Hotchner woke up that morning. Feeling sore. Really, really sore on his lower body. Must be the yoga.
And it was fine, really, a little bit of discomfort is not worth him complaining over, really, but when he was standing in fronts of the 7 steps of stairs from the bullpen to his office in Quantico, he was starting to get irritated. His legs felt stiff and movements up and down that stairs didn't help with all the mistakes found in paperwork he needed to deal with, all the time the team was acting out of line. He doesn't usually let his emotions control how he work, but some days he could be more strict than others.
Especially going down the stairs. Going down, was painful. His legs didn't felt like his anymore and for the first time he needed to grip on the railings and slowed down, gaining a few inquisitive looks from the team which he replied with his drill sergeant frown-stare.
The day felt dreadfully long before he faintly heard your cheerful voice outside in the bullpen, going around giving the team some snacks and their choice of drink- you've always been so nice like that, it's adorable.
"Agent," It was only moments until you were at his door, knocking signalling your arrival. He didn't stand up and greet you like he usually does anymore, and you could tell why.
"Yoga's not as easy as you thought, eh?"
"I love you but please wipe that cheeky grin off before the team knows about this."
(Established relationship, possibly a violation of the FBI's working place relationship policies)
Quite literally you falling flat down the stairs of the BAU out of exhaustion and Aaron didn't handle that very well.
A/N: This is so silly 😭 I love writing up silly prompts to indulge myself sorry not sorry
Maybe you should have stayed at home when you woke up with a fever. Maybe you should have asked to stay back at the precinct office instead of heading out into that scorching heat.
You deeply regret it now.
At first it was bearable. You put your mind to the case and pushed through the raging pulses after pulses of headache. From time to time you found yourself losing balance and stumbling, trying to ease the tension by massaging your temples but it wasn't a strange occurrence. The team has had back-to-back cases for the last 2 weeks, you'd be surprise if anyone isn't tired.
But it's alright. It's gonna be fine, you tell yourself as you chucked down some efferalgan you sneaked out to get from a nearby pharmacy when the team was on lunch break. It's just a bit of a fever, and the team needs you.
The amount of files and evidence to analyse is just ridiculous, so much that you and Spencer had the biggest conference room in this tiny police station in the middle of nowhere just to stare at diaries and journals and books and try to decode messages and draw maps, oh, and isn't it interesting that it's also in another language? Multiple different languages? Ancient languages? Latin? Middle English? So your team literally cannot switch in and help?
Even Spencer was feeling stuffy and overwhelmed, spending dozens of hours straight living off coffee and energy drinks.
Gosh you hate those smart serial killers that always try to make everything a game, and now you have to play it, while actual lives are being pawned away with every second you waste.
They had hotels room but no one was in the mood for sleeping, not when 2 teenage girls were missing and others possibly dead. Emily was kept busy, dropping in and out with a couple of dictionaries, it's really rare to see Emily not being the multi-language genius. Spencer Reid was.. being Spencer Reid. Apparently he was fluent in Middle English, a bit in Latin and he needed like 5 minutes to memorised the dictionary, so he doesn't count. JJ was busy keeping the press under control- and god as under-appreciated as she is, that job is a hell hole. Garcia is on your line 24/7, and the rest are out in crime scenes, trying to craft a working profile.
This is the unglamourized side of working in the BAU. Sometimes you go for hours, feeling like you are running around in circles, getting absolutely no where.
The only reason you were able to make it to hour 29 of reading cheesy ass Middle English poetry and figured out a location that was hidden between the lines was how considerate your boss was when he made sure you had snacks and drinks coming to the door every few hours, and your boyfriend sending messages to your personal phone no matter where he was.
"Drink water. -A."
"Get some sleep, it's late, you can't do anything tired. -A."
"Want takeouts? Chinese or Thai? I'm dropping by a store, gonna get you some cereal to munch on. -A."
"Drink water. I know you're not. -A."
Oh yeah, you dating your boss is story for another day.
For today, what's important was staying on the line and praying you called the right shot as the SWAT raided the place. For today, what's important is hearing the team report that the UnSub is under control and the girls are safe, heading to the hospital. For today, what's important is looking through the one-way mirror knowing the UnSub is seated there, that you and the team put him there, and he will not hurt a single soul again.
31 hours of Shakespearian language ends with a ride back to Quantico and suddenly you're carsick.
Whohoo you're the universe's favourite profiler.
You've never had such a bad car sick before. You always ride Aaron's car and you trust him on the wheels. But this time every turns make your stomach turns, every tiny bump make you want to lean over the window and just throw up the non-existent food. You closed your eyes, leaned your head against the glass,
"Are you alright?" In this stolen moment of privacy of a car ride he could let down his guard and expressed his affection on you a little more openly, reaching one of his hand over to find yours.
".. Yeah, I guess I just.." You kept your position still and put your hand on his arm, your fingers crawling its way up to his palm and weave into his.".. need some sleep."
"Okay. I'll wake you when we're there," He curled his fingers to hold steady onto your hand and pulled it towards him, laying a kiss on the back of your hand muttering a "love you" before putting it back down and let you rest." You've done good work."
"Do I get a raise?"
"Unfortunately, no, but I can do chores for a week if that makes you feel better."
"Deal,"
The ride back to Quantico was ultimately uneventful, and painfully exhausting as you stayed silent and tried to sleep the nausea off, but failed. Each time you're drifting away you feel your body jerked yourself awake, the adrenaline from the case hasn't quite faded, and the sickness would rush right back.
Fun.
You gave yourself a minute to wake up, a minute of indulgence as you reached over to your boyfriend and nudged into his neck, letting his hand rubs comforting circles on your back and hearing his encouraging murmurs, before he's back being your boss.
Because your boyfriend now is the pile of report you needed to fill about the details of the case, and you've been doing this for months. Write about how you got the case.. about driving there.. setting up.. about details, evidences.. the UnSub.. but then the words start to slur together, crooked and messy and you find yourself having to reread lines of texts because you didn't remember what you just wrote. Oh Boss Hotchner will scold you so hard over this, but fuck it. You just want to get the bureaucracy done with.
After approximately 30 minutes of struggling, you piled up a few remaining files and headed towards Aaron's office. He can take care of this for you? right? Just a little favour.
He wasn't in his office, so you placed it on a corner of his desk and scrambled around for a sticky note, drawing a pouty face on and that would be enough for him to know what to do. It's a little secret privilege you earned going out with the Unit Chief.
Now with absolutely nothing left work-related in your responsibility, your mind slowly went into shut down mode. You had to grip on the railings of the elevated platform to not just fall flat on your face walking out of his room, but the stairs weren't so nice to you.
It seemed to have something to do with the change in heights. Your vision goes blurry with a bright light, and you felt yourself miss a step and the only thought in your head was "fuck this is gonna hurt bad, really bad"
"Hey-!"
It didn't really hurt?
You pressed your eyes together and then strained to keep them open to see that you've just conveniently landed right down to Aaron, some files was on the ground after he threw them to come get you the moment your momentum was heading downwards. He had a hand holding your lower back and slowly kneeling down, letting you sit on the stairs and holding your head up with his other hand, brushing your hair out of your face. His eyes stared right at you. Pure panic.
"Hey hey hey, you alright? What's wrong honey?
Honey.
Honey?
HONEY?
You falling gathered the attention of the rest of the BAU in the bullpen alright, and now everyone heard the word slipped out of his mouth.
"I'm.. alright-" There are clearly bigger problems, you might be dizzy, but you can feel Emily and JJ peaking from their desks and staring at you. You can feel Derek's smirk from across the room.
"No you're not,- I'm so sorry I should have known- you're spiking a feve-" He doesn't seem to have came to sense with what he was saying yet, his full attention on you as his hand lands on your forehead and instantly felt the heat, his tone scolding before you cut him off.
"Hotch."
Eye contact was exchanged. You looked over to the bullpen, and his gaze followed. A very entertained mass, waiting to see what they both had to say about this.
"JJ did you hear what I just-" Emily dropped the file she was working on and stood up, going over to stand next to JJ's desk, smirk evident, crossing her arms
"Oh yes I did, I'm pretty sure I did..."
"No you didn't." Hotch resumed his normal frowning work face and removed his hand off you, still kneeling next to you.
"Yeah sure I didn't, honey," Derek wasn't gonna let this slip. He'd thought in a team full of profilers they would have known if their team members were dating, especially if their boss was, but turns out these sneaky lovebirds are good.
"Shut up-" Now the entire situation has replayed once again in his mind and Aaron has realised what he said, in a moment he was so worried about you falling that he forgot the situation.
"Okay honey,"
"Derek Morgan-"
"Easy, easy honey,"
"Why are you calling him honey- Oh. Oh." Rossi was just walking out of his office, leaning against the railing as he take one look at the situation, and it came to the experienced agent. He was always the one to encourage Hotch to "get a date" and "move on" and everything, but this was unexpected "Oh."
"Stop Oh-ing, Dave. There's nothing to Oh abou-"
"Oh-oh someone owe us all drinks and a story." Amongst the many rules and protocols that the BAU break on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis, this workplace romance is nothing but some scandalous gossips, the kind of gossip that Spencer seems to need a while to catch up on, and the kind of gossip that Garcia will squeak loudly and clap her hands excitedly over.
4k words that I definitely didn't get from one of my dreams
A/N: Try the playlist for a full experience of POV me writing this. This was a pretty self-indulging fic because I love this man and I've been having dreams, barely proofread, also me trying out different text formatting on tumblr, really wish the italics could be a bit more distinct.
Summary : pretty complicated post-divorce situationship, it's even more complicated with a man who is not known to understand his own emotions
June 16th, 2007.
2:27 am
“This is a mistake.”
You should have seen it coming.
You saw it coming.
Nothing spoke louder than the rumble in your chest every time he walked pass your desk and asked if he could help with your report so you can have a free night.
When he offered his calloused hand to you to help you walk into the crime scene terrains, your skin ached with burning sensations to linger on his, and hours later you’d lay awake at home reaching out to your ceiling, trying to feel it again but all you feel is as if you’re trying to reach for the sun. It hurt, even from that far away.
It’s so hard to keep anything to yourself when you live amongst the most perceptive people on the planet, you’ve learned that the hard way since you joined the BAU, but you guess no one expected you to have feelings for Aaron Hotchner to profile you for it.
He loves his wife, you’re not stupid, are you?
You told yourself that as well, pretty sure you did. But still you found yourself looking up from your case files and look across the round conference table to where his voice is, more often than you needed to.
When you sat in his passenger seat, head on the glass window, you always found yourself stealing glances through the mirror and a part of you die a little bit every time pretending that note of cologne is yours to have.
He will never be, and you know one day you won’t be strong enough to accept the truth in your face.
And nothing will speak louder than a guilt of the inevitable.
“We shouldn’t,”
You remember the rhythm of the rain that night in the alley next to the police station, the smell of the city on concrete and ashes, the cold and damp wall you press your back against as you try to shelter away from the rain. The case was especially rough on you after you made the wrong call and failed to save a hostage. Her blood was still stained on your hands as you struggled to light your last cigarette, wrinkled from being stuffed in your back pocket. Even the lighter seemed to be fighting against you, chanting curses in your ears with every failed click:
You can’t save anyone right.
You can’t love anyone right.
You were too focused on the sounds in your head to know Aaron was approaching. He hasn’t got out of his bulletproof vest, but his hair and shirt inside were soaked wet. It was months later when you knew he ran out into the pouring rain to find you, so quick he forgot a coat or an umbrella.
Too much has been lost. He can’t lose more.
In your memories his voice was muffled. You can’t make out what he was trying to say, not like it was of any importance. But you do remember his hands on your cheeks, and you didn’t realise you were crying until he lifted your face up to face his and the tear's pooled over your eyes, blurring the blinding street lamp and blurring him.
It didn’t make help you love him any less. He would never know that it wasn’t the victim that died in your hands that made you broke down in his arms and whimpered hopeless “why’s” over and over again, it was because of him (or rather lack thereof)
“I know,”
You knew.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
It was just a late night, too late to call anyone who could help, and your car broke down. You were just about to crash in the lounge of the BAU when Aaron found you.
It was just a ride home, he’s always been nice to everyone and you reminded yourself to not think of it as anything special.
It was just a conversation. You two were colleagues, and in the BAU, that’s practically the same word as family. He told you things are just a bit tough at home, which is why he’s been a little too tense at work as well.
“We shouldn’t be doing this.”
Wow smartypants.
You’ve never thought of that.
It wasn’t like you could have said no when he said he could help you carry a box of files up to your apartment. It wasn’t like you caught him looking in the elevator and could have just looked away. It wasn’t like you could have pushed him away or acted any differently when he dropped the box to the floor at the door and crashed his lips to yours, when you back slammed against the door and you put a hand hovering over his cheek.
You imagined it would burn to touch.
It did.
He didn’t linger, pulled away the moment it came to sense in his head what was going on, but he was towering over you still, his forehead so close to yours you could have sworn they were touching.
“I’m sorry-”
He kept whispering, as if those words would make this any less wrong. As if it would make you want him any less. Perhaps he wanted you to push him away for good, and that’d be a sign for him to walk away.
But you didn’t.
You closed your eyes, pain in your chest space at the thought of watching him leave.
You felt his hands left your waist, slowly, anyone else and you would have believed they did it against their will.
He took a deep shaky breath and nudged his forehead against yours once more before he was no longer there. The warmth was gone.
“This won’t happen again- I’m sorry.”
You couldn’t remember how long you stayed there after he left.
You were staring at the elevator from which he left, having your back against your door, and then slowly sliding down until you were sitting on the ground and hugging your knees, weeping like a child in the dark hallway until the tears are tired of falling.
No one would come, no one would know.
No one had to know about tonight.
December 11, 2007
11:23pm
You didn’t come to work for a week since it happened, and no one asked anything. Aaron was smart enough to make it easy for you, to make sure the team knew you were just sick and needed time to rest after such a case.
But you can’t hide at home forever. You want this job. You want to go out there. You miss the thrill, you miss the feeling of saving people, knowing you’ve defeated a little bit of evil in this world.
And, as twisted as it is, you miss Aaron.
It’s just amazing how long you both have managed to hide it away and acted like normal co-workers. Months of briefings, dozens of flights and drives back and forth around the country, a handful of life threatening experiences and takeout dinners. The secret was rather simple.
You avoid him, and he avoids you, and you both rarely ever ends up in the same space for too long.
As long as no one ever talks about it again, it’s as good as never happened.
And for a while you’ve got it off your chest. People all make mistakes, right? You were vulnerable, he perhaps was as well, and a kiss meant nothing if it didn’t happen. It was just a mistake. A dream.
“Anyone up for a beer today?” Morgan throws his leather jacket over his shoulder and pushed his chair into his desk. Having just returned from the Wilkinson case, the team mostly too wasted to work, but not tired enough to waste a good night.
“How about 5? I sure am.” Emily tapped on your table and bring your attention up to her, raising her eyebrow once to ask if you were coming along.
“Send me the address, I’ll catch up when I’m done."
“Princess if you’re trying to use that as an excuse to not go again-” Morgan came around your desk and put his hands on your shoulders, squeezing once and swaying you back and forth. “It won’t work this time, huh? You’re pushing yourself.”
“I promise. I promise I’ll be there, I promiseeeee,” You’ve just recently received some extra job responsibilities after the annual evaluation, and is just trying to balance things out, and that means a fair amount of going through files.
“Okay busy-bee, you better,”
The office goes peacefully quiet after they left. You sighed and put your face in your hands, even Reid is going out to party and you just flood yourself with work to avoid thinking about a stupid kiss. What are you, a lovestruck teenage girl?
Okay, truth is, you really didn’t want to go. You find yourself getting tipsy way too easy to hangout with them heavy drinkers, and JJ and Garcia always seem to be ready to get secrets out of you. Last time they found your senior yearbook photo. This time, you have too much hiding to risk it.
“Agent Hotchner,”
You heard Anderson’s voice from across the room. It wasn’t because you had a keen ear or something, it was just a certain someone’s name you still haven’t quite manage to stop feeling things for. He was at the door with Aaron, handing him a parcel and Aaron scribbled on the delivery sheet.
“Thank you.” He looked at the parcel on his hand, he frowns so much all the time that you’ve started to think that’s his neutral reaction. You can’t help but realise he’s a bit… disturbed? Confused? It’s a profilers force of habit you think, to get lost trying to understand everything.
“Staying so late?” So lost you didn’t notice he was looking back at you, caught you staring.
“Said you.” You only managed to give him a friendly smile. “What’d you got there?”
He looked down back at the parcel, and though you can’t quite see clearly, let out a breath before he spoke across the empty bullpen.
“Haley.. Haley’s filed for divorce. We’ve separated since.. June.”
Aaron Hotchner knows very much that what happened that night months ago was real. He’s replayed it times and times over again in his head. Was he perhaps frustrated as the previous case ended on a bad note? Was he frustrated that Strauss was still standing in his way leading the team? Was he frustrated at himself about what happened back home? He lost his cool, and for a moment he just wanted you. You’ve always brought a certain sense of peace to him- someone in the profession who shoulders the same burdens, someone kind and caring, someone undoubtedly a pleasure to be around. He just isn’t sure of his emotions anymore.
When Haley left he felt empty.
That should describe it.
More or less he knew the day would come, since his suspension, since those days he would be at home but almost constantly riled up and tense, since those arguments that have started.. well, for forever, since he no longer feel the dread of missing his wife when he leave in the middle of the night but rather a sense of calmness at his office. It can’t be help that he doesn’t love Haley anymore- well, not like the way he knew, at least. The glue holding the family together was Jack, his motivation was Jack, his reason was Jack, but now Haley’s took him away and he can’t do anything but accept.
Alright. Pen down. Maybe this is better for all of them.
December 22, 2007
10:01 pm
You can’t remember the last time you got a whole weekend off. Morgan is off to some bar, Reid’s back visiting his mother, and everyone seemed to have plans to savour these precious days, but there you were, curled up on your couch on a Saturday night. The TV was playing some sort of reality show, it’s not like you paid it any attention. You poured yourself another bit of scotch, window open and cigarette lit, and your mind isn’t quite yours.
You haven’t stopped thinking about Aaron since the last time you talked.
What’s the big deal anyway? What if he’s divorced? It’s not like it’s any of your business- it’s not like it’s your fault, is it? It’s not like that will change anything or give you a chance.
It was never meant to be.
The alcohol should have gotten to you by that point, because your front door was banging and you didn’t seem to notice it the first time. God curse whoever is at the door at this ungodly time. You can’t even get drunk and sad alone anymore.
“Coming-!” You dragged yourself up, and the dizziness hit you like a hammer in the head, making you stumble your way through the living room as you yelped. “You know- it’s just a door- hitting it harde-”
“I tried to call. You didn’t pick up. 6 times.”
Aaron Fucking Hotchner was at your door.
Thanks, universe.
“Is it a case- ? I- have my bag-”
“No.”
It happened quicker than a second. His hands cupped your face in an instant and he walked you backwards into the room, muffling you with his open-mouthed kiss. He guided your face to a side and you complied, letting him pry your mouth open and suck on your lips, over and over again until you felt a sharp pain in your chest devoid of air.
“Tell me to stop.” He breathed into your lips as he held your face still, his forehead leans down against yours as he pushes you up against the cupboard at your apartment entrance, a sort of pleading tone you’ve never even imagined coming out of him. “Tell me-”
“Is it still a mistake if it happens twice?”
“I’m sorry.” There was a long silence and his mind was a blank state. He found himself in his car, needing to just go for a breather away from the empty house. He found himself mindlessly driving this way. He found himself in front of your apartment before he knew it, and now this. He wasn’t really thinking. For a man that understands others, he sure can’t seem to read himself.
“Are you going to leave now? Again?”
“If you want me to, I can-”
You closed your eyes and reached your hands up to put on his cheeks, pushing yourself forward and planted a kiss on him again, long and slow. If this is what it came down to be, so be it. Who do you want to fool? You desired him, for months, agonising over accidental touches and stares lasting longer than they should.
Now he’s in front of you.
“What if I want you to stay?”
December 23, 2007
8:34 am
Hangover is a bitch.
His hands eased at your cheeks and slid down to hold you by the waist, pulling you flat against him as his lips devoured you down to his pleasure, to yours.
And that also happened. Your head was in a frenzy. Like if there was music playing inside, but music of a bad teenage metal band.
He led you to stumble your way through your own house, careful enough to not let you stub against any of the sharp edges. He spent his time dipping the water, laying gentle kisses down your jaw and underneath, as if he was afraid he’d be a little too rough and you will disappear.
You looked around. The side next to yours on the bed is empty, the pillow is placed neatly in its place. You reach your arm over. It is still warm.
He took you to bed, each of your moans and the way you lifted your arms to wrap around his neck was a confirmation for him to kiss a little longer, intruding his tongues and clash with yours, sloppy and messy.
Your clothes from last night was carefully folded and placed on the nightstand, besides a cup of water, a bag of medicine and a note,
You allowed yourself to surrender, bending to his will, letting his hands slid down your thighs and tucked at the hem of your nightgown, letting it be pulled off above your head. His lips never left you, letting your swollen lips rest he would go for the thin skin of your neck, and downwards between your collarbone, drawing a straight line on your naked skin. No words were exchanged, this is an illusion you’ve both been building for yourselves in this little sacred place, a little sanctuary of pleasure so fragile that a word of reality might shatter it all.
“Drink water. Breakfast is outside. Drink the vitamin B for your hangover. Take 2 Aspirin after food if you need something stronger.
-A.”
There was also a box of Plan B, much very kind of him.
He had you bare in your own sheets, intoxicated by his forbidden touches, your hands finding their ways to strip his jacket off and tossed his shirt aside, giving your nails later the freedom of digging into his back when he took you for his pleasure. It was long, cautious, it was pent up desire, at times he would grip or thrust a little too rough, frustrated perhaps, and then muttered into your skin a lullabies of “sorry”s, slowly rubbing circles around the area of skin that he might have bruised.
You lifted yourself up by the elbow and sat up on the edge of the bed, holding your head to not fall face down. Your skin was littered with love marks, bruises near the hips, and you can’t seem to really shook off his scent on you, in your room, on the pillow next to you. It’s fleeting. Too little to have happened but too much to be just a dream. Putting on the nightgown again and dragging yourself out to the living room, you are met with a sandwich and a bowl of neatly cut fruit, some that came from your fridge and some definitely just bought this morning. No sign of him, you still wonder if that was for the better or worse.
December 28, 2007
1:22 am
Things hasn’t really changed. You spent a day to fix yourself up before arriving at work on Monday, and cases after cases of abduction, murders, tortures and talking to victims and filling in report forms and bureaucracy and much much bloodshed and organs and everything gruesome successfully left you no time to think about the complications between you and Aaron.
But certain things definitely aren’t the same anymore. In moments where you find your mind wandering, force of habit leads you to glance across the room to find Aaron, and you’re sure you saw him looking at you as well on occasions. He stopped assigning you two in groups anymore, always having a perfectly sound reason with it to save you both from any suspicion. It always help that killers seem to be much more motivated at the end of the year, you find yourself spending more time on the jet and in motels than at home.
Today is one of those days.
You struggled through the key and dropped your go-to bag on the ground, only now when your back hits the uncomfortably stiff mattress of the motel did you realize you have been tense all day. Things have only got worse since the morning when you have just landed and almost had to get hospitalized when the suspect you were interviewing just got a little too.. angry. You insisted you were fine, and after the medic confirmed it wasn’t anything serious, you head out almost instantly, straining and stretching yourself thin interviewing witnesses, reading files over and over again, and most annoyingly, trying to do your job around this one young sheriff who just can’t stop being an annoying asshole hitting on you. You skipped a meal? Or two? Replacing food with a fair amount of crackers and shitty coffee, chucked some pills for your stomach ache at the middle of the day and has not had an appetite since. Must be really nice being a federal agent.
You came to the door after your shower in just an oversized tee, drying your hair carefully with a towel. It feels almost like Deja Vu how recently all the times you’ve open doors you’d see Aaron Hotchner.
“Have you eaten?” He hasn’t moved from his post, lifting a bag he got on one hand that seemed to be some sort of takeouts and eyed you up and down, stopping just before it goes lower than your shirt.
“I’m not really hungry-” You fought to avoid his eye contact, blocking him at the door but your stomach betrayed you and told him otherwise.
“I’m sure you’re not. But it’s wonton soup.”
You’ve always felt like he had a power to open up anyone and read them like a book, and sometimes you find yourself being a children’s comic book in front of him. You surrendered, stepping away from the door to let him in and ended up eating from the plastic bowl on the single-sized bed, him almost sitting on the edge and changing the bandage on your head since the morning.
“I can do that mysel- Hey ouch-!”
“Quiet.” He pressed the disinfectant-soaked cotton once more lightly on the abrasion on your temple, and then clean around it, paying no attention to your nagging.
You sat still and quietly ate, the soup was still warm so he must have just got it when everyone was settling in their rooms. He was done before you finished half, bandaged it up neat and careful before letting go of your hair and put all those medicine-cy stuffs back in a bag.
He didn’t have his wedding ring.
They were right, it’s hard to stop being a profiler once you become one. You can’t help but notice the tan line on his ring finger, the absent of the golden jewellery you’ve noticed a few times before.
He still had it the night before.
“There’s also aspirin in the bag but I don’t think you should take too much of thos-” He didn’t seem to notice you were staring, still going through the bag and pulled out some boxed with instructions stuck on them.
“Hotch.”
“Hm?”
“Can you stop doing that?”
Your question seemed to have caught him off guard. For a moment he didn’t understand what he did wrong, but it was more like he didn’t understand what he.. didn’t do wrong. He tried to keep his distance from you, he swore he did, he has only stepped half a step out of his mess of a marriage and already ended up on you, breaking through all sorts of socially acceptable steps and working place policies.
“Stop doing..?”
“Can you stop acting like you care?” There was a hint of annoyance in your tone. It’s been a long and tiring day, and it has been long and tiring days of you trying to figure out what was going on. A moment he was all over you like some kind of believers finding true religion, a moment later he made you feel disgustingly guilty and just wrong, a moment later he was your boss, and a moment later he was tending to your wounds with all the gentleness in the world like it hurt him as well. “It’s late, you can.. le-”
“I’ve never acted in front of you.” He lifted his hand towards your face and let his fingers brush over your cheeks so ever softly, treading thinly, asking for permissions.
He leaned in and sooted to sit closer, his palm embraced your cheek and his thumb rubbing slowly under your eyes, up your eyebrows, down your nose, and your lips, slow and steady.
An Elle Greenaway fix-it fic. TW: mention of blood, gunshot, abuse, injury, trauma.
Post Fisher King. Therapist!Reader
You joined the BAU and grew close to the team, but it wasn't long until one of the team member proved why having you around was important.
It’s officially been 1 week since you took the job and joined the BAU as a… very special agent. You do carry arm, after barely passing your firearm training exam, so you are technically allowed to follow the team around if you wanted to.
It’s also better to have an extra member on the team because you quickly realised that the team needed any extra pair of hands they could get, and you weren’t hesitant to try in your range of ability.
Your first case was the abduction of Trish and Cheryl Davenport, you mainly stayed in the back observing until Gideon was the one who suggested you keeping an eye on Cheryl. Your expertise in cognitive behaviourism and therapeutic counselling quickly revealed to be very useful when dealing with victim. After all, if your twin sister was in danger, it probably is hard to relax and talk to anyone, it’s easy to miss details, and Hotch’s seriously scary face or Spencer’s awkwardness and lack of social cues skill doesn’t away help ease her up.
And it was a frequent thing ever since then.
You had Spencer’s back through his failed firearm exam because sometimes all they needed to succeed is a pat on the shoulder and someone who believe in them, and maybe a cup of hot chocolate.
You offered Hotch a session to just talk after the case of Karl Arnold- he did come after saying he was fine at least 15 times- from which you learned a bit about his family, about how he often find himself more riled up when cases are related to families and children.
You and Elle spent a whole night out listening to Spencer’s ramblings about string theory after the incident on the Texas train, though it’s hard to say you remember anything except how a guy in the bar confused Spencer for a girl and bought them all drinks.
You glimpsed into the minds of psychotic delusional killers, cannibals, stayed back a day later than most of the team to offer most of the surviving victims some counselling, you make sure they can reach you if they ever needed help.
You even watched Spencer Reid flirt with a Hollywood rising star and make out with her in a pool, gosh you never expected that.
But it was.. extraordinary. You felt helpful. The team was opening up to you, letting you handle witness interviews and teach you profiling tricks, and most importantly, they saw you as someone they could trust and talk to.
And that to you is more important than anything.
“Hey…” You heard the doorbell ring and saw Elle when you opened the door. She wasn’t supposed to be here, having just being discharged from the hospital. But then again, you remembered she got shot at her own home, and instantly understood that she could not bear another second in that place, and your place was her second option.
Elle Greenaway. 28. Female. Ambitious. Extrovert. Confident. Bold. Reckless. Compassionate. You’d say you’re pretty close to her, both newest members of the team, you enjoyed each other’s presence.
What happened to her was… horrible, you were at the hospital when she woke up and was her 24/7 caregiver until she could walk around and take care of herself. You saw her as almost a sibling, as family, and watching her struggle breaks your heart.
But even when the attending physician said she was good to go, you know she wasn’t.
“Sorry I didn’t call- I just, I just, I know it’s late, but I.. thought I could see you.” She stood at the door, holding her arms.
Worried. Insecure. Doubtful. Vigilant. Of course she has to be, she just got shot by a psycho.
Her hair was cut short now, baggy t-shirt giving no clue into the layers of bandages beneath. The usual confident, cunning even, smile was missing from her face. It’s now just exhaustion, eyes darting left and right of the hallway, and then at you. She doesn’t seem to have any of her stuffs with her except her wallet, phone and badge.
“You know you can come whenever you want, Ellie,” You pulled her into an embrace the second you saw her, stroking her back gently and guided her inside. “What can I get you? I guess it is late.. some warm milk?”
“.. Uhm.. yeah, that’s- that’s fine,” It’s not Elle’s first time here, so she could find her way even in the dim light, dragging her steps towards your couch and takes a pillow to hug, trying to feel anything else rather than the phantom pain digging into the side of her waist, aching ever since went back to her place.
You didn’t leave her alone for long, returning with a mug of warm milk -the mug she unofficially claimed as hers- and turns on a few more soft lamps, sitting next to her and taking her hand in yours.
I’m here to listen, you squeezed her hand once. I'm here.
You didn't push her, though. You both sit in the silence, her palm replying by curling up and wrapped around your thumb, so close you can sense a light shiver from time to time.
".. I can still.. feel it, y/n." Elle took a deep breath and whispered, her voice is so out of breath and fragile, that you almost fear you missed something.".. Every time time i close my eyes.. I.. I can still see.. see him, I feel him."
"I know. I understand," All you could do was to be there for her. She instinctively leaned closer to your body, shaking her head and gripping your finger, and all you could do was stroking her back, making your breathing more visible and clear so she could follow along." It's okay Elle, breathe."
"When he.. when he shot me, I was there but I- I wasn't unconscious- frankly I wasn't quite conscious either, just, I don't know.. just somewhere in between, y'know? But I could- I could feel as he reached his- his hand into my wound-"
"I'm so sorry.." You whispered, still sustaining a motion to comfort her, to ground her to you, to let her know she is here, right now, and not in her mind, where the Fisher King was still tearing her apart.
"And I can still feel it- god damn it- I still feel him thrusting into my waist- pulling me inside out- and write- write with the puddle of my blood- my blood- I feel it,"
With each word she uttered her voice got more shaky, and her palm more damp with cold sweats.
"And I don't know how I'm supposed to- to feel damn lucky about this-! I- am stronger than this- I shouldn't be damn upset-"
"No, no, you can be upset, Elle, anyone would be-" You reached your arm across her shoulder and allow her to lean in and let it out. In your most recent evaluation of the team, you did mention how Elle seems to be lacking a healthy coping mechanism to trauma that she might come across in this line of work.
Now you know you were right.
"It's okay to not be invincible, Elle, it's okay.. it's okay, breathe for me."
When the warm yellow light illuminates only a half of her face, you can tell a single tear rolled down her cheek before she stopped speaking and started breathing, finally, mimicking your chest movement.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
It didn't take long for you to get her to sleep. She was exhausted, and has not time to regain her usual stamina after the injury. You let her stay on the couch, unfortunately not strong enough yourself to carry her to your bed without risking her waking up, turning all the lights off and making sure she is warm and tucked in, before carefully dabbing the layer of sheer sweat on her forehead off.
You remember the last thing she said before she completely dozed off, it echoing in your mind.
"I need help."
______________________________
You barely slept.
First of all, Elle would just randomly start sweating and you were worried she would get sick, so you would carefully try to dry off her forehead and necks, before her arms as well after knowing she's out like drunk. And then she would start stirring, restlessly turning and mumbling, and you had to keep her from falling off the couch, not having the strength or confidence to carry her to bed. It's all common appearances of PTSD, as you have warned Hotch a few days prior, at least now you can send him a message that you're confident about your diagnosis.
And to be fair, you couldn't really sleep. When Elle settled down, you were back looking at case files again, to find all the details you can about what happened to her, to find out the best way to help her. As soon as the clock hits 8 am, you called Hotch and let him know you won't be coming in today.
Not great, Hotch, she's not great. I don't think she's ready to get back yet, but I'll need to talk to her.
Alright. Thanks for letting me know. Keep me updated.
Will.
When you walked out to check on Elle she was already in the kitchen, making coffee. She looked much calmer, regaining her confident posture, almost like a different person from who you saw her last night. Almost like that Elle was not her.
"G'morning," You knocked on the wood counter as you walk up, to not startle her, before standing next to her side."How did you sleep?"
"Thought.. I could at least do something" She spoke, more like her usual self. Facade, but an improvement."... to say thank you,"
"You can stay for as long as you need," You took the mug she has made for you and sipped it while muttering a thank you, a much needed caffein boost. "Only you can watch those soppy sitcoms with me, I need you here."
She looked over to you and puckered her lips, rolled her eyes in a very Elle-Greenaway™ manner before smiling at you.
"Just so you're prepared- I cleared out the entire day for you," You wait for her to finish making her own coffee before taking her hand by the wrist and pull her back to the couch, putting her down and throwing a few pillows her way. "so we can order breakfast from that shop you love, and might actually have a chance for a last binge watch marathon before Hotch get my ass back on the files I'm missing."
We can do anything. I will spend time with you. Whatever you're comfortable with.
"That place with the crepe you mean?"
"Yes of course, the place with the best crepe in Virginia." You take the place next to hers and tried to convey just how good the morning deals in that shop was. You couldn't, but whoever decided dessert for breakfast was a good idea should win a prize
"You're the best," She grinned. "And I was.. also wondering if..."
"If you need a session, professionally, that's what I am for. If you just need to talk, as friends, I'm also here for you."
It took a while. You both bundled up on the couch and ordered breakfast to be delivered to the door- one of the reasons why you love that shop so much- and you held Elle's hand as she figured herself out, that she guess she just wanted to figure out her feelings a little bit, but if you said she needed to be help professionally she would try to commit to the sessions. Try, was the keyword.
"That's absolutely fine, I don't think one or another is necessarily better for you right now, so let's just start with what's bothering you."
“Right… What bothers me…” Curled up on a comfy couch with soft crepe with berries and cream is, in your professional opinion, the best way to get someone to open up. Elle nestled herself with a plate of warm crepe with cream cheese and extra berries, she always said how she love that the berries here are fresh and they are just different.”.. I don’t know. Truly. I- I didn’t know why I was so.. upset- I just didn’t- I didn’t- I was standing at my door yesterday, and I just couldn’t pull the handle-”
“It’s natural for your mind to rejects going back to the same place. Like how you’d avoid the stove after being burnt. It’s how we learn. It’s okay to be upset.” Elle trusts you as a friend, and she struggles with authority, so it’s better to just sit next to her, also eating like she is, and offer some reassuring perspectives.
“I.. I guess you’re right- I just… I just.. you know what an UnSub told me a while ago- when I just joined the BAU?”
“Hm?”
“They said.. I can never fit in because it’s a boy’s club, and sometimes I feel like- I don’t.. everyone is so good, and- and I just feel like if I make one mistake-” She paused to take a deep breath, a little more shaky than usual as her fingers land on the bridge of her nose rubbing.
You moved a bit closer to her, putting a hand on her arm. “What if?”
“It’s over. If I make a mistake.. my- my position is compromised- if I make the wrong move, say the wrong thing- someone might die, a victim- an- an innocent victim..”
What you know about Elle is she used to deal with sex crimes, so seeing the.. much more horrific scenes with the BAU must have left some what of an impact on her.
“Elle Greenaway, you’ve earned your position in the Bureau- In the BAU. From what I heard, it was Gideon himself that recommended your application. You’ve done more than earned this. Tell me- tell me, remember the victims you’ve saved?”
“.. I-”
“Remember that creepy guy that preyed on families? How many families have you saved putting that guy away?”
“.. Well-”
“And all those people on the train, that time- if you weren’t so amazing at keeping him calm, we wouldn’t have bought enough time to get there.”
“Spencer di-”
“Spencer could only came in because you’ve kept the situation under control for hours before. And not to mention all the victims- you were always the one to be so nice to them, dragging them away from pressing police officers. You are compassionate. You are attentive to those vulnerable. You are kind.”
“How did you-”
“I practically live with profilers, Ellie, you think I didn’t learn a thing or two?”
This time she didn’t deny it, or at least she knows you’re just gonna pull out more examples until she stops. She’s stubborn and it takes one to know one.
“I haven’t told you what Hotch said when I asked for a general evaluation of the team when I first came here either- my point is,” You shifted in your seat, leaning down and looking at her in the eyes. “You are, undoubtedly, doing this job well. Sure you will make mistakes- doctors do, presidents do, lawyers do, Hotch does, Gideon does- everyone does. It’s a part of being human.”
“People will die if I make mistakes, y/n. It’s-”
“Sometimes bad things happen, Elle, and it’s not your fault. People die all the time- and- and as amazing as you all are, you can’t save everyone. That’s why the ones you do save are so important, the ones you go against all odds to protect. Please, please remember that. Think about it, think about all the people you’ve helped. Think of those you will help.”
First she looks at you in disbelief. She stares at you in disbelief, but as you stares right back, encouraging her to actually do it, she did. Her mind goes back to her first days out of the Academy, her first days at the job when she knew she wanted to use her power for the sake of others.
All the women saved from abusive households. All the kids whose offenders she put to jail. And then when she came to the BAU, she remembers the look on the victim’s face when they know they are saved, when she comes and tell them it’s all going to be alright and there’s just a spark of hope in those eyes. Hope in the better of humanity. Hope in a happy ending.
And when she did, the hope sparked in her eyes as well.
“.. Told you. Elle Greenaway, you are an amazing, fiery, angry at times, bold and reckless gem.” You sighed a breath of relief and reaches your arms around her, pulling her into a cozy embrace while rubbing her back in circles. “And a hero needs to rest as well. You.. might not want to come back to that place for a while, you can crash in mine, indefinitely. It will take time, but the pain will fade, and one day it will all be a memory. A proof of how strong you were and always will be. A huge middle-finger in the face of the universe that screams HEY I SURVIVED”
“… It will go away?” Her face was resting on your shoulder and you can hear her voice almost muffled, her arms putting her plate aside and slowly around your back as well.
“I promise it will go away. Don’t chase it, don’t try to ignore it, don’t hate it. Grow around it, like how your scars tissues grow around the injuries. And when it feels unbearable, just know.. I am here. I will be here. I will take you through it until you can walk by yourself.”
“Thank you-”
“The team will be here for you. We all love you, we do.”
“.. I know. I know.” It sounded like she was going to sob, but you don’t point it out. Elle doesn’t like to be vulnerable in front of others, as much as she does trust you. There was no point trying to hold her for it anyway, you were just going to hold her until she’s ready, whispering how you’re going to be there, how everyone is going to be there for her because she is like family.
Introduction: Thanks to an unexplainable rise in funding (I'm the explanation), the FBI appointed therapists to their units, responsible for checking in every now and then with the agents to make sure they are all well, mentally. That includes the BAU.
"Therapists? Why would we need therapists?"
It was a non-case Monday, a rare one for these agents, according to what your supervisor said. It was also a perfect opportunity for Aaron Hotchner to gather the team around in the conference room and explain this new policy, and welcome a new... team member, sort of.
"You seem against this idea, Agent...?" You asked, standing next to Hotchner- Hotch, he asked you to call him that, an unconscious effort to ease you in- and in front of the whole team.
"Greenaway. Elle Greenaway- And no, no no, don't get me wrong, please, it wasn't mean to be demeaning." Her hand met yours in a firm shake as you reached out.
Determined. Driven. Ambitious. Confident.
Want to make a name for herself.
A little impatient.
"Nice to meet you, Agent Greenaway." You smiled. It's important to let her know you're not here to do a psych evaluation that will affect her job." As to why, I think it's really obvious right? Everyone has their own struggles and it's as much the FBI's responsibility to make sure you have coffee and cookies in the pantry, even if it's bad coffee, as it is responsible for your wellbeing. Mental wellbeing."
The BAU, as far as you know, especially needs this. They deal with the most crooked and disturbed criminal minds on a day to day basis, it's a matter of time until those experiences have some sort of negative impacts, even on the toughest minds here.
"See me as someone who will check up on you," You pulled out an empty chair around the round table and sit down. "A new friend, who you can talk to about problems without worrying about security breaches or me telling anyone, who you can come for advices, or just to sit with."
The several few days are not too interesting. You get your own office room, which you spent a good few days trying to transform it into something more... cozy.
The Quantico building itself was terrifying, fluorescent light bright, blinding even, from the ceilings, cold furniture with an agonising lack of personalities and warmth, pantry with tasteless cookies and coffee to fuel the minds of possibly the smartest agents in the country- you will have none of that.
It took you a whole morning to just order various chairs, couches, cushions and beanbags of various shapes and colours. You argued to get rid of the desk- utterly unnecessary and impractical- and opted for a makeshift conversation pit. You mostly work alone, really, the office itself was already busy and the BAU team are on their jet around the country almost everyday, so it was a bit of tiring task.
But help was offered when it's available. It started with Derek Morgan, who arrived surprisingly early in the morning one day to see you at the parking lot of Quantico, unloading huge cardboard boxes from your car.
"Hey," He seemed curious more than all, seeing the new team member with all sorts of unidentified boxes. "You need a hand? Oh right I don't know if you remember me, I'm De-"
"Special Agent Derek Morgan, yes, of course I remember you," You dropped the box you were carrying, and greeted him with a handshake and a friendly smile. "It's alright, they are just.. stuffs, really light stuffs, I can manage,"
"And I have an extra pair of arms and free time, mama, come on," He did not ask twice, eyeing around and stacked some of the boxes on each other, after knowing that they are relatively short, he decided on one more.
Friendly. Outgoing. Helpful. Trusting.
Lady's man.
It was incredibly helpful. You shared casual chit chats on the way, it started as Derek’s concern about how you are fitting in, sharing he was once where you are and the team all are just secretly “softies” that will warm up, and ended up as you learning about his favourite author. It actually seemed like he would not have stopped talking about Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five if not for Hotch arrived and called him to duty.
It was no easy task transforming an office room into a place of comfort, but you could manage. By the end of two days, countless cushions, pillows and seats in all shapes and sizes surrounds a small coffee table in the middle of the room, shelves are filled with literature and entertainment of various genres instead of gruesome casefiles, soft ambience lamps replace the eye-damaging LED lights, plants, many plants, and much to Hotch’s hesitation, he gave you permission to burn scented candles, to your own risk of course.
And then there was the real job. You knew the team has not yet knew you and opened up to you, as much as you wanted- needed them to in order to do your job, and the easiest way is perhaps to go out of your way and open up to them first. You walk pass the bullpen and buy morning drinks for everyone occasionally and took it upon yourself to refill the cabinets with various treats and snacks.
And it worked.
Spencer Reid shared incredible statistics and knowledge over his sugar-with-a-bit-of-coffee kind of drink, and you make sure to show him how impressed you are at his 3 PhDs and 2 BAs, even if he is only your age.
Penelope Garcia discovered your room one afternoon and has declared it her secret hideout cave ever since. She brought her own colourful trinkets to decorate your shelves, spending more and more of her free time on your “madly divine goose feathers of goodness”, bonding over gossiping and short novels in your collection. She is really a sweet gem, you find yourself loving her company and has kept your door open for her since.
Elle Greenaway noticed the treats first, as she often is the last to leave the office and in her hunger, often finds herself rummaging through the cabinets. She sent you a thank-you card the next morning, decorated with swirly drawings of flowers and leaves, and you always make sure to keep her favourite granola bars refilled.
One day you came to work to a package, carefully wrapped, on your coffee table. It was Slaughterhouse-Five. Since then you put it first on your to-read list, and often invites Derek Morgan to your room for tea and to discuss the book and share annotations, which he most appreciated.
Jennifer “JJ” Jareau first popped by your office when she heard music playing, a rare occurrence in this government building. She stayed for the card games you shared passion in criticising how bad the team is at taking care of themselves, and you got yourself another person who will help give those poor agents soft pillows and refreshing drinks.
All of your delivery requests, unfortunately, go through Aaron Hotchner’s office. It was fine when it was a few chairs and couches from your budget, but when it’s Star Trek comic books, fairy lights and plushies, he can’t quite help his curiosity to pass by, once, and again, and again, especially when the Beatles is on the speaker.
Jason Gideon was most fascinating, you expected. After all, you’ve heard of his reputation since your early academy days, and by the look of it, he’s a man of many stories, and many burdens. One time you were observing a game of chess between him and Spencer, and the next thing you know you were playing against him next.
“Have you learned much about the team?” He asked, while clearly trying to not checkmate you too fast. You can’t blame him, chess is not your best gimmick.
“I’ve learned that playing chess against you is a really bad idea, sir.” Even when Spencer gives you a “it’s okay me too” look, you still can’t help but raised your hands in defeat, but still taking another move.
“You’re not too bad,” He chuckled and continued the game, barely taking time to think and already few steps ahead. “I’ve seen your qualifications. You’ve attended classes, why not become a profiler?”
“You guys are all dam good already, I can’t compete,” You frowned, there is a move he could have taken that would have rendered you defencelessly defeated, but he gave you another chance to fix it. Fixed you did. “I’d rather play a supporting role.”
“How so?”
“You.. You guys take adventures into distorted worlds of the mind everyday, it takes great courage and expertise. Your minds are all brilliant, I’ve read your cases as textbooks, you’re really quite famous, sir.” You spoke as the game carried on. “But the most brilliant minds that venture the furthest are the most troubled.”
He moved his bishop.
Check mate.
You didn’t see it coming, busy defending the other side of the board.
“If you guys save the world, who’s going to save you?”
''what if my writing isn't good eno--'' what if it's a reflection of your of your soul. what if it has a place in this world. what if you write it anyway
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