"You're such a dream to me, before you speak, don't move. 'Cause I don't wanna wake up."
Summary : Hotch is again doing babysitting duty but this time had to drag her with Rossi all the way to Boston cause he didn't like the fact that she lowkey drove a federal agent car like it was a F1 car. And it's not because Morgan called in panic in the middle of his day off.
Warnings : season 3 ep.18 (the crossing), basically she can't drive and Morgan thinks he's about to die. Prentiss was to blame, house breaking, CM typical violence mentioned, psychological themes, mention of past episodes crimes (because I didn't know what they were talking about in the meeting so I lowkey invented), eating from a crime scene (ps. it's lasagna but if u have restrictions just imagine a basic lasagna with your restrictions okayyy thanks), anyways there's also a lot of unprofessional behaviour but it was already to think yk. english isn't my first language, 2.3k words. Likes and repost are accepted :3
Hotch was still babysitting her. Not because he wanted to. Not because he had time.
But because the one time he’d left her alone—after the whole Chester incident—had turned into such a catastrophic mess that Morgan had ended up calling Hotch on his day off like it was an emergency hotline. Hotch had been in the middle of investigating with Rossi. They were in the detective office, going over files, when his phone rang.
Hotch glanced at the screen.
He picked up immediately, because Morgan never called unless something was wrong.
Morgan didn’t even say hi.
Hotch frowned. “What happened?”
Rossi leaned in a little, curious.
Morgan’s voice came through loud enough for Rossi to hear.
Hotch’s face didn’t change, but something in his eyes dimmed like his soul had just left his body.
“She’s driving,” Morgan repeated. “And I think I’m about to die.”
From the background, Hotch could hear her voice—way too cheerful.
“Y’ALL ARE SO DRAMATIC! I’M LITERALLY A SAFE DRIVER! WE NEED TO GO TO THE SOUTH BEFORE HE LEAVES SO I’M GOING !”
Morgan sounded like he was gripping the dashboard for dear life. “Hotch, she just took a turn like we were in Fast and Furious.”
“Stop snitching Derek,” she said. “It’s not that true tho !”
Hotch shut his eyes briefly. Rossi, meanwhile, was openly smiling.
Hotch lowered his voice. “Put me on speakerphone.”
Morgan hesitated. “You sure?”
There was some shuffling, and then her voice filled the line, bright and smug.
Hotch’s jaw tightened. “Pull the damn car over.”
“But it’s fun! And I finally can drive!”
Hotch stared at nothing, like he was contemplating on his life choices and started regretting everything.
“Okayyyy,” she said, dragging it out like she was doing him a favor. “But only because you asked nicely.”
Hotch hung up. Rossi laughed out loud.
Hotch didn’t look at him. “Don’t even start.”
Rossi held up both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking about it.”
“I’m thinking it’s funny,” Rossi corrected.
Hotch exhaled slowly, like he was trying to keep his blood pressure from becoming a federal issue.
A few hours later, Hotch and Rossi were heading to Boston for a meeting about some meeting with other federal agents to talk about analysing and profiling. Hotch had insisted she come with them, because the alternative was leaving her unsupervised in D.C., and apparently Hotch didn’t trust her to set something on fire or be watched by Emily or JJ without HR calling every two seconds.
She was complaining from the second she realized what was happening. Hotch didn’t even let her walk freely.He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her down the hallway like she was a toddler who’d escaped daycare.
Rossi followed behind them carrying her go-bag like a tired dad on vacation.Morgan and Spencer watched from the bullpen. Morgan was grinning like Christmas had come early.Spencer looked conflicted, like he wanted to laugh but also feared for her life.
“She’s literally getting escorted,” Morgan whispered.
Spencer nodded. “Yes. Like a potato sack.”
Rossi walked past them. “She’s not a potato sack more like a feral goblin or a child trying to escape daycare.”
She twisted dramatically in Hotch’s grip.
“SOMEONE HELP ME! I’M BEING ABDUCTED! CALL MY MOTHERRRR!”
Morgan laughed so hard he had to hold the desk.
Spencer covered his mouth, but his eyes were smiling. Hotch didn’t even blink.
She gasped. “Oh my God. You can’t say that to a woman.”
“I can when she’s a danger to society.”
“I’m not a danger to society.”
Hotch glanced at her. “You were driving a car like you had a personal vendetta against the speed limit.”
“It was literally fine. I wasn't over the speed limit yet.”
“Morgan thought y’all were going to die.”
Morgan shouted from behind them, “I WAS READY TO SEE THE LIGHT!”
She rolled her eyes. “Morgan is being really dramatic.”
Hotch stopped walking just long enough to look at her.
“I told you not to drive.”
She scoffed. “Pinky swear it was Emily who insisted I drive!”
Hotch’s eyes narrowed. “Emily isn’t here.”
“Exactly,” she said. “So stop blaming me. She’s not here to defend herself.”
“I don’t care,” he said. “Chop chop. We’re going to Boston.”
She dragged her feet. Hotch dragged her anyway.
Boston was boring. Like, aggressively boring.
The meeting room was filled with local law enforcement—mostly older men, mostly suits, mostly the kind of people who said things like “perp” unironically.
There were no women besides her and in her sight of view. Which meant the second she walked in, she could feel every pair of eyes swivel in her direction. And it was insane because she was dressed professionally…Mostly.
Her outfit was a normal work fit, but it had a twist: A lacy pink top under her blazer that gave office siren vibes, and a Juicy Couture bag because it was iconic. Plus Spencer had gotten it for her birthday, so it was emotionally non-negotiable.
One officer stared at the bag a little too long. She stared back, deadpan, until he looked away.
Hotch leaned toward her. “Behave.”
She whispered, “I am behaving.”
Rossi murmured, amused, “For now.”
Hotch and Rossi went over the case.
She sat beside them with a notebook open, looking like she was paying attention.She was. Sort of. But her brain got bored easily with the whole psychological issues their unsub faced, so she started doodling.
This time it was rats. Rats on the corner of the page. Rats in the margins. Rats with little speech bubbles. She even doodled a rat wearing sunglasses.
She highlighted in bright pink key words like DEATH, UNSUB, and M.O. And she may or may not have drawn: a dead rat laying next to an unsub rat and few centimeters away, a rat committing a felony
Hotch glanced down once and immediately looked away like it physically hurt him. Rossi glanced down and almost laughed.
One of the officers raised his hand.
Hotch stiffened, because he already knew where this was going.
The officer cleared his throat. “And you—what’s your take on this?”
She blinked, paused, then smiled politely.
And Hotch realized—too late—that she was about to speak.
“Yeah,” she said, voice light. “I don’t remember every detail because I had to help our technical analyst, Ms. Penelope Garcia, during the case.”
The officer nodded like this was normal. Hotch was frozen in place. She continued, surprisingly calm.
“But from what I recall, the M.O. was messy. Like… even I had to think of crazier theories. And then I was like, ‘98% it's a group of teenage boys' and everyone didn't believe teens could do that.”
She leaned back, grinning.
“And turns out I was right! They were coerced by an older alpha male who did the same thing three states away before going there.”
She laughed softly, cocky as hell. A couple of officers chuckled awkwardly while some even clapped in amazement. Hotch rolled his eyes, because of course she was right.
Rossi nodded like a proud grandfather.
“She’s not wrong,” Rossi said.
Hotch muttered, “Of course she isn’t.”
After the meeting ended, an officer approached them with that hopeful look..
Hotch immediately went into leadership mode. Rossi looked interested. While she looked exhausted. The officer started explaining they needed help with another situation. She leaned into Hotch dramatically.
“HOTCHHHHH. You told me I was going to sleep.”
Hotch didn’t even look at her. “It’s overtime.”
She stared at him like he’d personally insulted her.
Rossi leaned in, cheerful. “Come on. Overtime is good.”
She huffed. “Better be worth my time. Gosh.”
Hotch pinched her side without warning. She squeaked and collapsed sideways like she’d been shot. Rossi stared at Hotch like he couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed. Then Rossi offered her a hand. She grabbed it and stood back up, fixing her blazer like she wasn’t just a victim of workplace violence.
Hotch walked ahead like nothing happened, she ran up towards him only for her to hold his hand.
Rossi murmured, “You two are insane.”
She whispered, “He started it.”
They were led into a small interview room.
A housewife sat there, hands folded in her lap.
Her hair was neat. Her clothes were clean.
Her face was blank. Not calm. Not composed.
Blank.
Like her mind had left the building. She didn’t look like a murderer unless you’d look at her house.
Rossi sat down. She sat down too, but leaned toward Rossi and whispered:
“Twenty bucks she’s actually troubled and we just lost time.”
Rossi didn’t even hesitate.
“Bet accepted,” he whispered back. “And we’ll go eat the pizza with Hotch credit card.”
She smiled. “Deal. Because you know we eat for ten people and he won’t know what’s coming for him.”
Hotch gave them a look that could’ve killed a man.
They shut up immediately.
The woman spoke quietly.
About being a bad wife. About not doing enough. About her kids hating her. About her husband being disappointed.About how she deserved it. About how she killed him. But something felt off. Her voice didn’t match her words. It sounded rehearsed.
Hotch watched her like a hawk. Rossi asked gentle questions. While she wanted to talk but always got cut off by Hotch who asked the woman questions.
She also watched the woman’s hands, her posture, the way she flinched when the officer raised her voice just a little. Then Hotch ordered her to go “check something with Garcia.” Which meant: Hotch wanted her out of the room before she said something that would get them kicked out of Boston.
She left, annoyed, but she listened.
And because she was bored, she didn’t just “check something with Garcia.”
She went to the woman’s house.
Thirty minutes later, she came back like nothing happened.
She sat down next to Rossi, looking way too satisfied with herself.
Rossi gave her a look.
Hotch gave her a look.
She smiled innocently.
The woman continued talking.
After a while, she leaned toward Rossi and murmured:
“I don’t think she’s guilty.”
The officer snapped his head toward her. “Excuse me?”
“I mean,” she said, “she calls herself a bad wife. Her kids have nothing positive to say. The house is spotless. Except for the husband's bed.”
The officer frowned. “Please don’t tell me you, as a woman, believe she’s innocent.”
Her eyes narrowed instantly.
“Okay first of all,” she said sweetly, “that’s not because I’m a woman.”
Hotch’s shoulders tensed like here we go.
“I think she’s psychologically abused. Look at her. Look at how she speaks. Look at how she blames herself for everything. And the fact that she's been married for years and her with her husband don't even share a bed - Hotch's lowkey divorcing but still slept in the same bed as his wife.”
The officer scoffed. “And you know this because…?”
“Because Hotch made me walk all the way to her house.”
Hotch’s head snapped toward her. Rossi’s eyebrows shot up.
The officer blinked. “Your boss said you had to talk with this Garcia.”
“Woman… I did, and she gave me the records and address.”
The officer stared. “You broke into her house?”
“I didn’t break in,” she said, offended. “The door was open.”
Hotch’s eyes closed for a second like he was fighting for his life.
“And also,” she added, “I didn’t like your crime scene photos. They were boring.”
The officer looked like he was going to pass out.
“And,” she continued, “she had lasagna in her fridge. Like… a mean lasagna.”
Rossi turned his head slowly. “Please tell me you didn’t.”
“Oh I did, it was gonna go bad if I didn't came there.”
The officer’s face twisted. “So you ate from a crime scene.”
She shrugged. “I truly did worse. And trust, her cooking surpass a lot of what I have eaten here in Boston.”
Hotch spoke through his teeth. “We are going to talk about this later.”
She smiled at him. “Okay.”
Eventually, Hotch and Rossi explained to the officer:
Even tho there was no signs of physical abuse.
The woman was psychologically abused by her husband.
The husband also had groomed the children into thinking the mother was useless and unstable. The woman had been broken down for years until she believed she deserved everything.
The officer’s face changed as he finally understood.
Hotch spoke to the officer. “She did kill him.”
“But,” Hotch added, “she needs help. Not prison.”
Later, outside, Hotch walked beside her in silence.
Then he spoke, quiet but firm.
“For once,” he said, “I’m proud of you.”
Her face lit up almost immediately.
Then Hotch added, “But you could’ve behaved better.”
Her smile fell. “Here we go again.”
Hotch stared at her. “You told a police officer you entered their crime scene and ate from their fridge.”
“I didn’t enter it,” she argued. “The backdoor was open.”
“And I didn’t break anything this time .”
She shrugged and continued walking.
“Where’s the fun in pretending they’re doing their job perfectly?” she said. “They needed to know they can’t protect a crime scene as well as they think.”
Rossi walked between them, amused.
“You’re going to give Hotch gray hair.”
She smiled. “He already has gray hair.”
Hotch shot her a look.
She clapped her hands once.
“Okay,” she said. “Now pizza or nah?” Rossi laughed. Hotch didn’t answer.
But he didn’t say no either.
