Aaron Hotchner x (acting!!!) section chief reader
Genre: Angsty (eventually a happy ending, just not the one you’re expecting) featuring one profoundly ill-advised solo performance
Summary: The epilogue to Hotch’s first meeting with the Acting Section Chief might best be summarized as Katy Perry’s Firework (2010), regrettably reinterpreted and staged entirely within the confines of a federal bathroom stall
Warnings: MDNI!!! Power imbalance, authority kink, masturbation in the workplace (’Cause baby, you’re a firework / Come on, show ’em what you’re worth / Make ’em go, “Oh, oh, oh” / As you shoot across the sky)
Word Count: 3.2k (be proud of me)
Dado's Corner: Went back and forth til the very last sec on whether to make this a single long os packed with different scenarios, but I ended up loving their dynamic way too much (shocker). So... we are doing multiple installments!! :D Let me know what you think!! And ofc, I owe at least 3 tiramisù (20×30 cm pans) to @sweetheartsocks & @hotchology <33
masterlist
Rumor has it the new Acting Section Chief has just started their six-month stint - or longer, depending on when Mateo Cruz returns from yet another task force.
It isn’t office humor so much as a calendar entry: 15:25, already sitting on Hotch’s schedule, already unwelcome. The sort of appointment he’s been bracing for since the moment he stepped into the bullpen that very morning.
He frankly could not care less about making the acquaintance of this allegedly brilliant ASAC from the New York Field Office, temporarily installed by some higher-up.
Experience has taught him that such appointments rarely justify the investment. If the appointee isn’t staying long enough to exercise real authority, then they certainly aren’t staying long enough to merit the expenditure of time, deference, and strategic boot-licking that Bureau politics so enthusiastically demand.
It is, quite simply, an inefficient allocation of resources. Resources Hotch would much rather reserve for matters of greater urgency.
Namely, the actual work.
Which is why, when 15:25 becomes 15:30, Hotch is still at his desk.
He finishes the paragraph he’s on. Reviews it. Signs it. Only then does he close the folder and stand, straightening his jacket unhurriedly.
He checks the reflection of his hair in the darkened screen of his laptop - not because this meeting has suddenly become a priority, but because the Acting Section Chief is, technically, his superior, and appearances remain a functional currency.
It would still be unwise to begin on the wrong footing.
He reaches for the small pot of orchids he nearly forgot to buy that morning. An administrative courtesy, nothing more - meant to inaugurate the office rather than commemorate the tenure, though even that is likely to outlast the mandate it is meant to mark.
He allows himself a faint smirk at the thought.
Your name is already affixed to the door, pristine, without a trace of wear.
He reads it once. Then again, committing it to memory for the necessarily ephemeral duration of the meeting. If it fails to stick, there will be a matching placard on your desk. Redundancy is reassuring.
He knocks at last.
He has never been late to anything - at least not where his job is concerned. Even now, he takes comfort in the fact that five (more accurately… seven) minutes late is not late enough to warrant remark.
The door opens.
“Agent Hotchner.”
He does not expect you to open the door yourself.
“Ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He hopes it will be. Statistically, it rarely is.
You are smiling the same way he is. Polite. Economical. A smile that costs nothing and promises less.
He assumes you will accept the orchids, place them somewhere visible out of courtesy, refrain from asking how often they need watering so as not to appear unprepared, exchange a few lines of administrative small talk, and release him back into the building within minutes.
Efficient. Harmless. No need to sit down-
“Please, sit down.”
You gesture to the chair opposite your desk as you move around it.
…Never mind.
“You know,” you continue, almost conversationally, “no one could stop talking about you and your unit once word got out that I’d been assigned here in Quantico.”
You open a file.
His file. His career. His work. His evaluations. The BAU. His BAU. Familiar enough - except the folder is thicker than he remembers it being the last time someone employed this particular tactic. He briefly considers whether some of it is padding.
Blank pages are an old trick.
“Everyone I spoke to speaks very highly of you,” you add, glancing up. Still smiling.
He feels, faintly, at a disadvantage. There is nothing in the office to read - no personal effects, no decorative tells, nothing that might suggest how he should calibrate himself to be agreeable, as people so often expect him to do.
The absence of decoration might be deliberate, or it might simply mean you haven’t been here long enough to accumulate them. Either way, it gives him nothing.
“I’m glad to hear the BAU’s reputation preceded us, though I’ve found praise is often situational. We focus on results.”
You raise a brow at that. Disagreement. Not a good sign. “The end justifies the means-”
“Machiavelli.”
You tut. “Not quite. It’s a phrase often attributed to him verbatim, but it’s really a shorthand for a broader idea… that positive outcomes can render morally questionable actions acceptable. Particularly in the exercise of power.”
You glance back down at the file, turning a page.
“Your work appears to adhere to that philosophy far more than it does to the regulations issued by the Bureau, Agent Hotchner. I’ve never seen, in my entire career, a unit with so many… incidents - scandals, if you’ll allow the term. And yet, what everyone insists on discussing are your achievements.”
You’re young… younger. Yes, younger. And yet admirably calm about something that clearly irritates you. You haven’t raised your voice. You haven’t postured. You haven’t tried to loom, the way so many colleagues do when they mistake volume for authority.
Hotch clears his throat.
“The offenders my team and I work with occasionally require… unconventional handling, ma’am,” he says carefully. “And with all due respect, much of what you’ve read are either unsubstantiated reports or matters that have already been resolved.”
You chuckle. “Did you attend the Academy, Agent Hotchner?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s what makes me an agent.”
You study him in silence, eyes narrowing just a fraction as you tilt your head. He knows what you are doing. He swallows anyway.
“And they didn’t think to teach you not to waste your superior’s time?”
Ah. So that’s what this is about. Five (seven) minutes… really?!
“I sincerely apologize, ma’am. I had a prior commitment and an urgent report I was required to review-”
“So,” you cut in smoothly, “from what I’m hearing, you’re not only unable to manage your unit, but also incapable of managing your own time.”
“That is not what I-”
“I don’t know what Cruz told you, or what any of my predecessors may have implied,” you continue, entirely unbothered by his polite - definitely polite - attempt to interject. “I don’t know whether strings were pulled on your behalf, or whether years of praise have encouraged the belief that your unit merits special consideration because your criminals are louder, bloodier, or more theatrical. Or whether you’re simply a jackass.”
You lean forward, closing the distance just enough to make it unmistakably intentional. His breath catches before he can stop it.
“But let me be very clear.” You smile. “You are not special, Agent Hotchner.”
He feels tight. His face feels tight. His spine feels tight. His clothes feel tight. But most inconveniently, unhelpfully, it’s his-
“I expect excellence from you because I expect it from everyone I oversee. No more. No less.” You let the words settle before continuing. He feels struck by lightning. “And given that you’re already starting on the wrong footing, it’s more generosity than you’ve earned that I’m even suggesting you correct it now. I am not lenient. Don’t fuck it up.”
Your smile doesn’t fade. He remains seated, and against every instinct that has ever kept him disciplined, he finds himself wishing you might be the one to soothe the very fire you so effortlessly set alight inside him.
(That is quite disgusting, Hotchner.)
“I appreciate your candor, ma’am,” he says, still burning. “If there is any aspect of my conduct, or my unit’s, that you find lacking, I would welcome the opportunity to correct it. Immediately.”
Your gaze drops, at last, to the orchids still in his hands.
“This is more of a piece of advice,” you say, exhaling softly. “Next time you feel compelled to bring a gift to a female superior, I would refrain from flowers. They can come across as… frivolous.”
You look back up at him, not unkindly, thank God… but not indulgently either.
“I’m sure that wasn’t your intent, Agent Hotchner,” you add. “But it’s something to keep in mind.”
He inclines his head at once. “Understood, ma’am. They were intended as a courtesy to the office. Not a personal gesture.”
“See that it stays that way,” you gesture toward the corner of the desk. “You can leave them there, by the way. No need to keep clutching the pot anymore, Agent. Your life is spared… I’m not killing you. For now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Despite himself, he glances down and lets out a genuine chuckle - nervous, if he were forced to categorize it - immediately followed by the belated realization that you are his superior and that any further internal commentary is already drifting into HR territory.
He sets the pot down with care, aligning it with the rest of your desk just enough to look intentional without appearing obsessive, then straightens.
“Good,” you say, rising. “I would have enthusiastically discussed your unit’s budget, but unfortunately - or rather, due to your… flexible interpretation of time - I still have to meet SSA Wright from ViCAP.”
You meet his eyes again. He feels the need to smile at you.
“So I suspect we’ll be speaking again, Agent Hotchner. Preferably on time.”
“Of course.”
He reaches for your hand - not the wisest choice, given the very real risk of betraying himself.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, ma’am.”
Your hand is warm - unexpectedly soft - despite the firm, unmistakably professional grip. You hold his gaze without wavering. Confident. Grounded. Entirely at ease in your authority. He feels smaller by comparison.
Well. Smaller in the ways that matter. And, inconveniently, not at all in others - depending, of course, on one’s point of view.
“I’m afraid my judgment is still pending, Agent Hotchner,” you say, smiling. “But I do appreciate the flowers.”
Even five (seven) minutes (seconds) later, he manages to flawlessly exit your office without further embarrassment. And yet his mind refuses to disengage, looping back to your gaze, to the way you so efficiently - so composedly - reminded him who was in charge without ever needing to pull rank. It feels… electric.
The recollection alone triggers, regrettably, a series of very pressing matters, all arriving at once and demanding immediate attention.
He offers a polite nod to SSA Wright from ViCAP in the middle of the crowded corridor, already aware he’s about to see you again, just as you said he would. With those eyes. That tone.
Yes - by all means, it necessitates an urgent reassessment of priorities. A workflow problem.
He tells himself it’s nothing more concerning than residual adrenaline. A temporary backlog - or perhaps just a log, if you will - that needs to be managed promptly, discreetly, and, ideally, behind a closed door before some decorated agent notices an… excess of enthusiasm, or a camera records his… stiffness of... purpose.
Then he can return to work. Coherently. As usual.
The restroom is mercifully empty. He makes sure of it.
He slips into a stall, locks it - once, twice, a third time, unnecessarily - and exhales. Guilt and self-reproach fail to dull his awareness of the sounds that follow as he loosens his belt, fumbles with the top button of his trousers, and lowers the zipper, the noise echoing with indecorous clarity in the desolated space.
As if he needed the reminder. As if the matter below his navel required any further emphasis.
Hotch offers a fleeting, grateful thought to whatever executive function governs his prefrontal cortex for guiding him toward black slacks instead of gray that morning.
Because now he has no choice but to register the indisputable dampness blooming beneath his zipper - the leak of precum already soaked through his tight white briefs, rendering the fabric diaphanous, outlining the flushed pink crown of his dick straining beneath.
Had his trousers been lighter, the… evidence would have traveled farther than discretion allows, advertising itself to anyone inclined to look.
The thought freezes him in place. Fuck.
He stares fixedly at the door. Never - not in more than ten hard, long (inches…) years (years, although he wishes those were inches too) of service, commemorated by a brass plaque on the far-left central shelf of his office bookcase - has he found himself required to manage an internal situation like this inside a federal building, during working hours.
The precedent alone should be enough to dissuade him.
And yet.
He closes his eyes, steadies his breathing. His hand closes over the thick outline and he hisses at once, biting the sound back just in time. A bathroom stall, he reminds himself, is not synonymous with privacy.
Certain activities are… acoustically indiscreet. Enthusiasm has consequences, and consequences have a way of giving the game away to anyone unlucky enough to walk in at precisely the wrong moment.
The only mercy, he realizes dimly, is that he’s already close - that this debacle could be over in less than a minute (a fact that is, in its own way, profoundly humbling).
He shamefully hooks his fingers into his waistband, pulls his cock free of his briefs, and drags the pad of his thumb over the bead of precum gathering at the head, smearing it across the flushed skin, slicking it with his own pearly arousal.
For a second, he lets himself linger on it - indulges in the simple fact of himself in his grip, the weight, the heat, the flicker of something like… pride.
Then context slams back into place.
The Bureau. He - he - is a senior agent of the Bureau. The badge. The oath. The inescapable truth that even here, even now, he represents it.
He despises himself.
Disgust sharpens his movements. He rushes, spits hastily into his palm, wraps his hand around the thick base with no patience left for reverence. Still, despite himself, his cock twitches at the contact alone, a breathless moan locking in his throat as his hand begins to glide up and down his shaft.
Slower than he intended, deliberate strokes from his girthy base to the head and back again.
He leans his head back, eyes closing, mouth falling unconsciously open as he gluttonously picks up the pace, just a fraction.
His thoughts drift, unbidden, to the disappointment seething across your face beneath that brittle composure, to the words you threw at him.
The image makes everything go hazy.
His grip tightens, his pace turns sloppy at the sheer ecstasy of thinking of you - his superior - right now. His fist quickens at the image of you finding out about this breach of protocol, of rules, of decorum. Of you ending his career without hesitation, without even the mercy of a federal pension.
Just the sound of your heels approaching his office - a sound he would recognize instantly - and the instinctive act of opening the door because you are his superior, and that is what one does. Only to be met with those fiery eyes.
He isn’t certain whether you are skilled enough to conceal the anger simmering beneath your composure, even now. Or whether you would choose not to bother, because you don’t have to. Because you hold all the authority in the room, and he holds none.
A bead of precum lazily works its way down the underside of his cock. He pinches the head between thumb and forefinger. He’s close now. His dick tightens further around his grip; he can see the thick veins along his shaft pulse as the pressure builds.
A strangled sound escapes him at the exact moment the bathroom door swings open.
Footsteps approach the sink area just outside.
His heart stops.
A couple of stalls down, someone is using the restroom exactly as intended. No urgency. No guilt. No shame. Certainly no federal employment implications. The universe, it seems, remains committed to reminding him of proper use cases.
He looks down at the hardness in his hand. His forefinger keeps moving, absentmindedly, circling the head like he hasn’t quite told it to stop.
He bites his lip and pictures you in his office - backing him toward his chair, forcing him down into it, waiting until the last second to let the mask slip.
He isn’t a man in that fantasy. He’s a piece. Something you move at will.
He imagines your hand clamped over his mouth, silencing him as you settle onto his lap. Your skirt rides up. You lean in close and whisper in the shell of his ear that he’s not allowed to touch you until you say so. That you’ll use him until you’re satisfied, and discard him when you’re done.
You don’t bother undressing him. You simply take his dick out, already hard, squirming with anticipation.
He can only infer your wetness from how easily you grind against him, the needy drag of your folds over his aching head. You move slowly on purpose. Taunting. Always composed.
It’s only when he feels your puffy clit slide against him that you finally falter too. Your mouth parts. Your back arches towards him. He aches to touch you now, just as you look like this. For a moment, you seem unreal - perhaps because you are. A goddess, lowering herself onto him at last-
His teeth sink into his lip as the first spurt tears free. Water starts running at the sink ahead, loud enough - he hopes - to cover the sound that escapes him as his cock pulses again, and again, leaving him completely wrecked.
He both admires and despises the mess you’ve made of him (and, inevitably, of a federal gentleman’s bathroom stall.)
He’s still half-hard as he staggers to the sink, obsessively scrubbing his hands, soap worked into every crease and cuticle. Some part of him is irrationally convinced that penitence might work like this, too.
He braces himself against the porcelain and stares at his reflection.
A stranger looks back at him.
The wear etched into his face does nothing to account for the color still burning high on his cheeks, nor the unyielding pressure lodged squarely in his chest. Even the effort to reassert the familiar order of cause and effect fails him.
So, with no one left to convince but himself, he finally flees the scene of the crime - already resolving to work at least two hours longer than planned, clinging to the vague hope that exhaustion might coax his conscience into forgiving something he still cannot quite believe he allowed himself to do.
“Jesus, there you are.” Dave peels himself off the wall just outside the bathroom. “I was starting to think the Section Chief had you in a chokehold.”
Never, in his half-century on this earth, has Aaron Hotchner given such serious consideration to the immediate risk of apoplexy.
“I saw you head in there,” Dave adds, nodding toward the bathroom. “Figured I’d wait. How’d the meeting go?”
“She might be onto us already. I - I’ll brief you on the key points back in the office,” Hotch manages.
A pat on his shoulder. “You all right, Aaron? You look a little… off.”
Hotch takes a beat to consider his epitaph. It seems prudent to have one ready.
Aaron Hotchner, 49. Beloved father. Occasionally a husband. Decade-long servant of the FBI. Prosecutor of justice. Philosopher of logic.
Too frenetic. Too indulgent. Far too long for a modest headstone - which is, admittedly, his preference.
Aaron Hotchner, 49. Beloved father. Devoted public servant. Prosecutor of justice. Casualty of poor impulse control.
Perhaps a touch too accurate.
He settles instead for a brittle chuckle - the kind he knows Rossi will read as nervous even if he has the good manners to pretend otherwise. “Oh, Dave,” he says. “I really need to start incorporating more fiber.”
Dave hums. “Join the club, Aaron. Fifty’s a cruel mistress.”
Warnings: Fluff, angst, tiny tiny tiny amount of smut. Canon is none existing. Family moments, slow-burn romance, workplace banter and teasing, grief and loss of a parent (terminal illness (not disclosed), hospice, mourning), vomiting, breakdown, hospital scenes (emergency c-section and labor complications), canon type cm cases, mental health struggles, very brief non-graphic breakup, lots of kisses, nothing directly explicit, but insinuated that they have sex (a lot), pregnancy and childbirth (but only the finding out and birth (mildly) is described)... Y/N and L/N very sparsely used when I couldn't move around it.
Summary: You and Hotch are desk neighbours in the bullpen, back in a time where Gideon was still unit chief. And the two of you were fairly new agents. Late nights turn into competitions and conversations about anything and everything, until eventually you find each other and flash forward: become the “mom and dad” of the BAU.
A/N: DANDADADAAAAAAAA!!!!! HERE IT IS!!! MY PRIDE AND JOY!! This has been one very long process and i'm so in love with the entire fic, even though I'm super duper tired and pulled way too many long nights writing.
Bon appétit!!!
Also I didn't have the strength to edit this, so hopefully my 2 a.m. writing skills haven't fucked me over completely. 🫣
Christmas came early for you this year, more precisely in September of the year 2000, when you first step into the bullpen of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. There's a lingering scent of stale coffee and freshly printed paper in the air—either it will soon be your favorite smell, or the worst, only time will tell.
There's a constant buzz and popping sounds coming from the fluorescent lights overhead, already begging to give you a migraine if the Bureau doesn't change the tubes soon. Kill me already, you think as you look around, trying to spot Agent Gideon to announce your arrival for your first day.
At twenty-eight, you're fresh out of the Academy, a psychology degree in your toolbox, and one hell of an ability to spot lies through micro expressions, which initially was the reason your attending agent fast-tracked your resume from the bottom of the food chain and straight into Gideon's inbox.
Your transfer papers still feel warm in your hands as you spot Gideon coming toward you. He gives you a quick nod and a small smile before he reaches you.
"Ms. L/N," he stops in front of you. You can already sense that Gideon is a warm person from the cadence of his voice. "Welcome to the team." He extends his hand, and you shake it—it's the kind of handshake that speaks louder than words and says 'I already trust you to keep up'.
"Follow me." And so you do, crossing the bullpen until you reach an empty desk across from a dark-haired agent, hunched over a file and surrounded by several more. His tie is barely loosened, sleeves rolled up, and hair slightly tousled as if he has been running his hands through it in frustration. "That's Agent Hotchner," Gideon says. "He joined us last year. Good man, and the best ex-prosecutor we've managed to steal from the field office in Seattle. You'll be desk neighbors for the foreseeable future."
Agent Hotchner looks up from his file at the introduction and offers you a polite smile before he stands up and extends his hand. "Hotch. Welcome to the unit." He greets.
You shake his hand, wow, his grip is firm, and his hand is warm, you note at the back of your head as you introduce yourself. Gideon's smirk is almost imperceptible as he leaves the two of you, standing at the juncture where your desks connect, hands clasped longer than strictly necessary.
You quickly learn that he's thirty-five, joined the Bureau in '95 after he figured out that he'd rather be catching the killers than prosecuting them for the rest of his life. He's ambitious and plans to one day make director if everything goes to plan, methodical, the kind of guy who color-codes his case notes by the severity of the case, who never leaves a form half-finished, or leaves the office in the middle of writing a report.
And rumor has it that the director is already eyeing him for a leadership role in another unit, despite his current lag of seniority with the Bureau.
And you, your ambitions? Right now, you're just the new kid, hungry to learn and to prove you belong with the travelling profile team, and not just behind your desk from 9-5, scratching notes in the margins of old case files as you study the serial killers the team has already caught.
Neither of you knows it yet, but the rest of your lives just started.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The first few weeks end up being a blur of consultations, training files and videos, observing and learning the rhythm of the unit. The way they speak, the way they move, how they work, basically studying their behaviour to the best of your current training.
Gideon leads the team quietly, mostly keeping to himself in his office and letting his agents run on their own. But he's always willing to lend an ear, or answer a question in a way that is so cryptic and so provocative that it leaves you no other option but to rework your theories and learn even more about the ubsubs. AND YOU LOVE IT.
And then there's you and Hotch, trading polite 'Good mornings', first thing, bringing each other a new cup of coffee from the kitchen if either of you were getting up, and occasionally asking the other for a second pair of eyes on a particularly annoying case file.
It doesn't take long for you to realize that you're both night owls when it comes to work. Cases pile up quickly around here, and not just on your desk, but every desk around the bullpen has a minimum of ten files stacked in the inbox at all times. And while the other agents head home by no later than eight, you and Hotch linger.
You don't plan it at first. It just sort of... happens.
On a late night in October—Gideon has finally deemed you ready to climb a step higher on your case clearances—you're working on your first active serial killer case, a serial arsonist from Oregon, trying to get to the bottom of his MO, reviewing victim statements, mapping timelines, trying to get inside the unsub's head before time runs out and he kills again.
It's not until you finally look up that you realize that the bullpen is empty except for the two of you. It's past midnight, and time has completely run away from you. You rub your eyes, feeling them get heavier and heavier the longer you're looking away from the file in front of you.
Hotch leans back across from you, pulls his arms over his head, and stretches himself as far back as he can. His back is stiff and protesting the many long hours hunched over his desk.
"You know you can go home, right?" He questions, cocking his brow at you. "Gideon's not keeping score about who's here the longest."
"Right, why are you still here then? Don't you have a girlfriend at home?" You retort, you know he can take your push back.
"Touché." He chuckles with a slight huff. Hotch's eyes quickly avert, glancing up at the clock. It's already 12:47 a.m., Haley is asleep by now, and there's no use in him rushing home with a bouquet from the nearest bodega open at this hour. She's used to it by now, it'll be okay, he tells himself.
So, you both keep working. The clock keeps ticking: 1:15, 1:44, 2:13. And finally, 2:30 a.m., you yawn so hard your jaw pops, you can't help but smile as you look over at Hotch, his lips slightly upturned as he tries not to giggle at your sudden burst of noisiness.
"Fine." You mutter in defeat, shutting the Bureau-stamped manila folder. "You win tonight."
"Win?" He looks up from his own file, almost looking confused.
"Yeah! You stayed later tonight. Tomorrow the loser buys coffee—aka me." You stand up from your chair, grab your bag from its usual spot on the floor under your desk, and head for the elevator with a small 'Goodnight, Hotch' as you try to hide the grin currently inhabiting your face.
The next morning, you show up at 7:45 with two coffees in a take-out tray—how you're up and awake after getting less than four hours of sleep, is beyond your knowledge. You place his cup in front of him, black and light roast, you noticed how he took it last week. And yours, almost identical, but with a slash of milk.
"And this is the loser buying?" He raises his brow at you, clearly finding your follow-through amusing.
"Rules are rules, Agent Hotchner."
"Call me Aaron." A small smile tugs at his lips; it's truly the first real one you've seen from him since you joined the BAU.
"Okay, Aaron." You smile back at him.
That night, the game starts, and from that point on, it's on.
The bullpen becomes your battlefield, quiet battlefield that is. No one notices your harmless competition at first. Gideon leaves at five if he can, always with a 'Don't stay too late, kids' on his way past your desks. Anderson waves goodbye around six, and the rest of the agents disappear sporadically sometime between the two, leaving the two of you alone, again.
But you and Hotch? You trade glances across the desks as the team leaves, already trying to figure out which of you will cave first.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
You're working on a case from Billings: three children kidnapped in the past nine weeks, all under ten, all taken from public parks between 5:00 and 7:00 p.m. on weekdays, indicating that the unsub(s?) works a regular 9-5 job. No bodies yet, no ransom demands, no fingerprints, no witnesses who saw more than a dark sedan idling in the parking lot on all three occasions, and a single fresh bootprint near the swings from victim number two's abduction that doesn't match any of the visitors to the park during that time frame.
The photos in the file are the kind that make you feel completely hollowed out as you stare at cheerful, gap-toothed school portraits, birthday parties, one little boy in a Spider-Man costume holding his mother's hand as they went trick or treating last Halloween. And every time you look away, you feel like their eyes follow you, screaming at you, asking why you haven't found them yet.
You've been staring at the timeline from the first victim for forty minutes now, highlighter hovering slightly over the copy you made of the original, trying to force the unsub's pattern to reveal itself to you.
Your chest feels like someone parked their car on it.
It's around 11:30 p.m. when you finally blink away from the case—unable to take another glance at a freckled face with a snotty nose—you realize that Hotch hasn't turned a page in a while. He's watching you instead, elbows resting on his desk, chin resting on his steepled fingers.
He's looking at you, barely containing the fact that he's concerned about you. His eyes are soft, carefully trying to study you, find a clue, anything that can lead him to figure out what's bothering you.
"You okay?" He finally asks, coming to terms with not being able to profile you, yet.
"Just... I hate these ones." You swallow the lump in your throat, not realizing how dry your mouth has become.
Hotch nods once, slowly, understanding you perfectly. "Me too." A moment passes. "Do you want to talk through it, together?"
You do. God! Yes, you do.
You nod.
Hotch rolls his chair around the corner of the desks and straight into your space, stopping so close that your knees nearly touch under the desk. He starts spreading the evidence across the desk, moving pictures, reports, and interview logs into three distinct areas based on which victim the evidence is connected to.
"Okay," he starts, tapping the map in the middle of the desk. "All three abduction zones overlap, here." He circles the elementary school in the middle of the three parks, all exactly six miles away from it. "He has to be local."
"But the presumed comfort zone has a twenty-mile radius out from the school in each direction based on other similar cases," you counter, searching for the ruler, you know it's around here somewhere. Hotch hands it to you. You put it on the map and trace a straight line out from the school and circle the perimeter with a compass. "He's risking a lot of travel time with a live child in the car." You state, staring at the now visual preliminary comfort zone.
"Which means he's either extremely confident, or doesn't fit the regular profile for these types of cases. He most likely has a location nearby, where he holds the kids first." Hotch reaches for the highlighter at the same moment you do. You both freeze, then laugh.
"Sorry," he chuckles, but doesn't move his hand away, letting it linger for a moment as your thumbs and pointer fingers stay slightly interlocked with each other.
"By all means, Mr. Unit Chief-in-training," you tease him, letting him take the highlighter. Hotch told you last night, over a fairly sad and beige plate of leftover canteen food, that the director had approached him about becoming Unit chief of the National Security Branch. Which he had declined, arguing that, for one, he didn't feel that his time with the BAU was a closed chapter yet, and two, the commute to DC during morning rush hour was terrible, and he'd be seeing Haley even less than he already did.
Instead, the director had "offered" Hotch training courses in what it takes to be a Unit Chief—in Hotch's own words, it was more of a 'take the offer, or you're fired' kind of negotiation in the end.
"Not for years, hopefully." He snorts. Leaving it at that.
For the next two hours, the bullpen shrinks down to a tiny desk island, current inhabitants: 2.
You argue about possible stressors—job loss? Divorce? Death? It's hard to tell when a body hasn't shown up yet. You discuss whether the lack of a body could indicate that the unsub is sexually assaulting these kids, if he could be impotent, or simply isn't motivated by traditional dominance and "need" the kids for a bigger purpose—potentially trafficking.
You map possible locations within the perimeter, abandoned farms, storage unit facilities, and closed-down gyms on the edge of town, but quickly scrap those ideas, recognizing that most likely, he's keeping them trapped in a basement somewhere—or something similar.
Every time one of you hits a wall, the other is already there, ready to take over with a new angle.
At one point, you're both leaning over the same photograph of the third victim, missing for six days now, and despite your shoulders pressing together, neither of you does or seems to want to shift away from the other.
"Do you think she's still alive?" You ask, turning your head to look at him, the tips of your noses merely inches away from each other.
"I'll believe that, yes. Until we have a body, we'll keep searching for them all."
The clock on the wall ticks past 2:00 a.m. Your eyes are burning, but the fog around the profile is finally lifting, taking shape, teaching you more and more about what might drive this unsub to abduct children under ten.
You lean back in your chair, rolling your neck until it cracks.
"I can't, not tonight," you admit, mostly to yourself. "My brain's turning to mush, and I fear we're minutes away from me babbling pure nonsense." You smile at him.
Hotch looks at you for a moment, taking in the cloudy look in your eyes, the way you yawn every few minutes, the way you fiddle with the pen in your left hand, trying to keep yourself busy and awake.
He says your name softly. "You win this round." He leans back, looking exhausted, yet amused at the confusion slowly spreading across your face. "Coffee, tomorrow, on me. You take it black with a splash of milk still, right?" He questions.
You blink at him. You never told him that. And he certainly never has had to buy you coffee before.
"I pay attention." He winks before rolling back around to his own desk.
And as you get up to grab your coat, you can't help but glance back at him, still sitting at his desk, but instead of being nose deep in his own files, he's watching you as you leave, with an expression you can't quite place, but all you know, is that currently, a very taken man is making your chest feel full.
You have no idea that twenty-five years from now, this night, is still one of those you look back at with fond memories, realizing that it was the first time you let him see you vulnerable due to a case and the first time—of many—he rolled his chair over, just because you needed him close.
All you know for now is that the case still feels like it has no ending, that three children are still out there somewhere, waiting to be rescued. And for the first time all week, you finally believe that you'll bring these kids home, one way or another.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The competition between you becomes your thing. Unspoken and at times a little ridiculous, but nonetheless perfect in its own sleep-deprived kind of way.
Some nights you win—or as you've come to believe, he lets you win—he trudges in the next morning with two coffees in hand, but is met by a steaming latte waiting on his desk, with a pink sticky note stuck to it saying "Loser" in thick, sharpie lines. On those days, Hotch just huffs, raises his brows, and tries to contain his giggles as he shakes his head at you.
Most nights, he wins, and you return every single time with a black coffee, trying all the different shops along your commute until you find the one you swear you hear him slightly moan at when he takes the first sip.
On his winning days, Hotch somehow always ends up bringing you breakfast, because he knows by now that you would rather sleep thirty more minutes than get up and eat.
The 'Good mornings' no longer feel like necessary politeness, but rather like two friends greeting each other for another, looong, day at work.
The nights become yours entirely along the way, the bullpen giving way to real conversations after midnight, that aren't just: can you take a look at this? Or, do you want anything to drink?
It starts innocently enough one evening when you're both nursing the terrible vending-machine coffee, which is sour, most likely because the machine hasn't been cleaned since the day it was installed in the corridor.
The bullpen is down to the two of you again, the floor dark except for the soft glow from each of your desk lamps.
You're working together on a case for Gideon, something about his two brightest agents working together on something important, or... something ;). You're both running on empty as you keep going through crime scene statements from the field office in Oregon.
Hotch's gaze drifts up from the legal pad he's been scratching notes on all evening as you rub your temples. You hope that you somehow, within the past hour, gained the ability to massage new knowledge into your brain. Because this case feels like you're looking for a needle in a needle stack.
His eyes don't stay on you for long; instead, they glide toward the corner of your desk. And there, half-buried under a stack of fabric analysis reports, lay your battered paperback of Persuasion.
The cover is soft from years and years of rereading, the spine cracked in all the places you love most.
He reaches over without asking and carefully pries it out of the stack. Hotch turns it over in his hands, like he's weighing a pound of meat in the grocery store.
"Jane Austen? In the middle of researching a firebug?" He says, voice low and a little rough from the many long nights and too little sleep. Although his words come as questions, you don't feel like he's judging you for your choice. "That's a new one."
You lean slightly back in your chair, rolling your shoulders until they pop. You look at him, trying to figure out where his sudden fascination with your reading material comes from.
"She's my reset button," you finally say, giving in to his questions. "When everything else feels like chaos, Jane somehow manages to put the world back in order."
He nods.
"I've read this one," Hotch admits, and it almost sounds like he's surprised at his own statement. He quickly glances up at you, waiting for a reaction, before flipping it open carefully, his thumb brushing the edge of a page you've clearly read a hundred times. It's annotated with several different pens and colors, indicating each time you returned to the story.
"You've read Persuasion?" You raise a brow at him.
He nods once, slowly. "Third year of law school. I couldn't turn my brain off after a criminal law final. So, I went to the library, found the most boring-looking book I could on the shelves at two in the morning." Hotch's lips pull slightly up as he sees the—fake—disgust/hurt crossing your features as he messes with you. "I started reading it to bore myself to sleep. Ended up finishing it at sunrise instead."
You stare at him for a moment, trying to picture a younger Aaron Hotchner, tired eyes, ruffled hair, college shirt, and maybe even sweatpants, curled up in his awful dorm room bed with a two-hundred-year-old love story.
The image is so unexpectedly soft and fuzzy that it makes something warm spread through your chest.
"So the stoic prosecutor is secretly a softie for second-chance romance." You try to tease him, but your voice ends up coming out softer than you meant to. In the end, you don't really want to tease him about it, because you're in awe of the fact that a man, yes, a man‚ read a "girly" classic, without complaining.
It doesn't take long for Hotch to huff out a quiet laugh and place the book back down. He doesn't push it back across the desk right away, just gently keeps his fingers curled around the edges.
"It's not the romance," he says, eyeing the cover. "It's the waiting. The way someone can walk away and still come back when the timing finally lines up. The idea that some things are worth the years in between."
There's something in the way he speaks about the story that changes the air between you, thickens it, makes it feel like the exact moment the wind stops blowing after a storm, the exact moment the sun peaks out after the rain. The exact moment you realize that you might be catching feelings for an unavailable man.
"Yeah," you manage, swallowing the lump in your throat. "That part always gets me, too."
Hotch looks up, meets your eyes, case files forgotten, no profile, no pretense. Just the two of you and the quiet that follows as you stare into each other's eyes.
"Some people are worth the wait," he smiles, so quietly you almost miss it entirely.
Your breath catches in your throat for a split second. You don't answer him, you don't have to, not now, maybe never, but the look in his eyes tells you everything you need to know, for now.
He finally slides the book back to you, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second as you reach out to tug it fully over the line between your desks. You curl your hand around the cover, feeling the contact buzzing in your fingertips.
Neither of you opens another file for a long time.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
It's no less than a week later. The bullpen smells like soy sauce and noodles. You're sitting cross-legged on the floor opposite each other, with your backs leaning against your desk's leg and whoever owns the desk next to you. Various boxes of—none authentic—Chinese takeaway surround you, everything from deep-fried meats, rice with curry sauce, noodles with some sort of sweet and sour sauce, and so on.
The food isn't exactly the greatest, but it was the best option at this hour of the night.
The conversation has drifted from case theories to anything but.
You nudge the carton of rice toward him with your chopsticks, hoping that he will eat the last of it, because it is actually awful and you don't want to punish your taste buds with it even more than you've already done. "Come on, Hotchner. You can't hold out on me forever. Worst first date. Go!"
Hotch groans and leans his head back against the desk. He closes his eyes for a split second, praying for strength, cause he knows you won't rest the case until he has told you exactly what went down. "Fine. It's Seattle ´95. I just joined the bureau, and Haley and I decided to take a break to test our relationship. A friend of a friend swore he'd found a perfect match for me. She shows up with a three-ring binder full of pictures. Not of her, but of her cat. Mr. Whiskers—"
"—No way!" You interject.
"Yes way!! Anyway, the binder starts with kitten pictures, then moves to vacation shots from a trip to the French countryside, then..." Hotch drags a hand down his face. "She proceeded to spend forty-five minutes describing the colonoscopy he had a week prior. In detail. I'm talking diagrams, recovery timelines, medication, specialty diet he went on afterward, vet notes. Everything! I ended up timing how long I could go without making eye contact with the waiter. The record was eleven minutes."
"Stop! Please! I can't breathe." You wheeze out, trying to compose yourself, but it's to no avail, so you press your forehead to your knees, trying to quiet your laughs down.
Hotch peeks at you through his fingers, grinning, hands covering his face. "Your turn! Don't think you can get out of telling your worst one!"
"Okay, Okay!" You wipe your eyes, "It's a bar here in Quantico, two years ago. Guy says he's a 'trekkie with a capital T.' He shows up in the red command uniform. Shirt, phaser, badge, the works. Greets me with a Vulcan salute and asks if I'd like to 'boldly go where no man has ever gone before...' to Denny's at 3 in the morning. Then he tries to pay for my coffee with replicator credits he printed in his mom's basement."
Hotch drops his head and laughs. "You wine," he manages through uncontrained bursts of giggles. "At least Mr. Whiskers had personality."
"Mr. Whiskers had detailed medical records," you counter. "It's safe to say that you win this one with crazy Ms. catlady."
"Let's never speak of replicator credits or catladies ever again." Hotch points his chopstick at you before he leans over and steals the last few noodles, emptying another box.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The child-abduction case from Billings, finally, finally, is blessedly closed. All three children were found curled up in the crawl space of the unsub's garage, dehydrated, in various states, but alive—all of them are alive. You sighed loudly and extremely heavily the second the news hit your inbox.
You've spent most of the time since the news broke searching up articles, watching videos of the police and field office agents breaking down the unsub's door, and several different news coverages, everything you can find on the ending of your first nightmare case.
It feels like the first real deep breath you've been able to take in the past two weeks.
You sit on top of your desk, cross-legged, one elbow on your knee, with your head resting in your palm, while the other hand stirs a cube of sugar into the cup of tea you're making.
Your shoes are kicked off somewhere under your desk—because you're a civilised person who doesn't put dirty footwear on the furniture.
Hotch sits across from you in his usual spot, leaning back in his chair, his head tipped back, and his eyes closed—it's been a long day.
His tie is wrapped around your head, something that happened around hour five after the team left, when you both had a sudden burst of insanity. The top button on his shirt is undone, and his sleeves are rolled as far up as he allows himself—which is to the elbow, like a normal person.
Hotch opens his eyes slightly, watching you as you lift your mug and take the first sip, burning your tongue in the process.
"They're really okay," you say, voice small and quiet in the massive expanse of the bullpen. "I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop." You admit.
He leans forward, now resting his elbows on the edge of his desk, and puts his head in his hands, looking at you. "They're okay, because we didn't stop," he says. "Because you didn't forget them, because you didn't stop."
You place the mug back down and slowly slide off the desk. It's almost as if you're thinking the same thing, because he stands up too, and you meet at the line where your desks meet and embrace each other. Needing the reassurance. Your arms wrap around his waist as his chin comes to rest on the crown of your head.
For a long time, neither of you speaks, you just stand there. Embraced.
"Thank you," you finally whisper, pulling your head out from under his chin to look up at him. "For not letting me fall apart on this one."
"You were never falling apart," his arms tighten slightly. "Everyone has that type of case that gets to them more often than not. And you tend to... feel everything. Mine are the ones about fathers and sons."
"Will you tell me about it one day?" You ask, sensing that there's something buried deep within his person, something he wants to talk about, but also something he fears will change the way people view him.
He nods. "Maybe someday."
It's not until an hour later, when you're packing up to leave, that you finally speak again.
"Why'd you really join?" You ask, unprompted.
"My dad was a lawyer," he states, stuffing the last of his things into his bag. "Old-school, 'justice is blind' type. Expected me and my brother Sean to follow him into corporate law, make partner by thirty-five, marry well, die respected." His mouth turns into a frown. "Then I watched a serial rapist walk away because his dad played golf with the judge. I was twenty-seven. Decided I wanted to stop them instead of arguing about whether they were guilty or not. That's the gist of it." He waves his hand in the air at the last part. "Your turn."
"My mom moved us to Ohio when I was a kid because her dream was to open a diner off the I-70," you pick at the label on your water bottle before packing it into your bag. "Open 5 a.m. to 10 p.m. every day, no fail except on Christmas and Thanksgiving. I saw and observed my fair share of truckers, cops, runaway teens, cheating husbands, and plotting wives, you know the works. I started waiting tables when I was twelve. Learned to read people before I even knew what algebra meant. The regulars had patterns: the way Mr. Henderson always ordered decaf after church, how Tammy, the night cook, flinched when men raised their voices. I figured out who was lying over time, who was running from something, who was one bad day away from becoming one of the very people we hunt. I thought... if I could understand why people turn into monsters, that maybe I could keep someone else from becoming the next scared person hiding in a diner bathroom, because their abuser tracked them down." You shrug, a little embarrassed. "I don't know, it sounds a little stupid when I say it out loud."
"It doesn't," he says. "It sounds like the reason we're both still here on a Thursday at 2 a.m."
Over time, you learn more and more about each other.
He tells you about summers on the James River, catching catfish with his little brother Sean, his mother's gardenias that smelled exactly like church on Sunday mornings.
You tell him about your mom teaching you to make pie crust with vodka, because it keeps it tender apparently, about the jukebox that only played Springsteen and The Beatles, because it was broken and you couldn't afford to have it fixed. About the night you caught a line cook stealing from the register and talked him into turning himself in instead of telling your mom and calling the cops.
You learn that he hates peas, but will eat them if they're hidden in a pie or casserole dish. He learns you secretly love cheesy 80's ballads and sing them in the shower like nobody's watching, cause they aren't obviously. You learn that he still has a worn copy of 'The Federalist Papers', which his father gave him when he was accepted into law school, even though they barely spoke before he died. He learns that you lost your mom in a car crash during college, but that she would send you care packages every month with your favorite homemade dishes and a note that always read: "Don't let the bastards get you down, honey."
Piece by piece, you trade small, sacred details of your lives over burnt coffee, like kids swapping baseball cards in the school yard, only these feel like they matter more.
Neither of you wants to admit it out loud, but somewhere between the midnight house, laughter, and brutal cases, your desks stop feeling like two separate entities and start feeling like shared territory.
It's not about who stays the latest anymore.
It's about who you want to stay the latest with.
By mid-December, you're both pretending to read your reports through before delivering them to Gideon's inbox and heading home, but really, you're talking about everything and nothing at all. The best pizza places in the D.C. area, whether aliens would be evil and turn into unsubs, and his terrible attempt at baking cookies last Christmas as an apology to Haley for not being home enough.
"I should go." You yawn, barely able to keep your eyes open.
He looks up. "Yeah. Me too."
Neither of you moves, neither of you wants to move.
"Truce?" You finally laugh, figuring your little competition was having a flare again.
Hotch just smiles and closes his eyes. "Truce. Coffee's on me tomorrow, though. No loser this time."
"Deal, Aaron." You grab your coat from the back of your chair and start heading home.
You've nearly made it through the first six months of your first year now.
The bullpen is once again dead quiet, and half the lights are off except for your two desk lamps that burn like two tiny campfires in the dark.
You're both still here, as usual, finishing a couple of overdue reports and sometimes even pretending to work before the silence turns into silly conversations.
You've won the last three nights in a row, meaning Hotch has shown up every morning with a coffee, exactly how you like it. But there's something about the past couple of days that has been feeling off about him. You don't know what it is, but it's not like him to leave work before 8 p.m.
Tonight, though, something's definitely off. He's been staring at the same page for twenty minutes now. Pen hasn't moved, not even jotting a tiny dot down on his pad by accident. His shoulders are rigid, and his jaw clenched like he's biting words back he doesn't want nor know how to say.
"Aaron." You say as you close your file.
He blinks, looks up from his own file, like he forgot you were there. "Yeah?"
"You've read that autopsy report four times now, and you still look like you want to set it on fire. What's going on? Talk to me." Your voice cracks slightly; you hope he didn't catch it, but you know better—he's a profiler, for Christ's sake, he notices everything.
He exhales through his nose and sets the pen down, harder than he intended to, you can tell by the slight surprise in his eyes at the sound. "I'm fine." He mutters, his words short and almost sounding clipped.
"You're the worst liar I've ever met, and we profile liars for a living, remember." You roll your chair around the corner of the desks until you're sitting beside him instead of across. Close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension around his mouth, the stubble starting to show, which is the biggest indicator that something is definitely wrong—he never neglects his grooming habits, never. "Come on. It's me."
Hotch glances at the clock.
"No one else is here. Spill." You try again.
He rubs a hand over his face, and for a long, very long, minute you think that he's about to shut you down, to tell you to keep your nose to yourself, maybe even go as far as telling you it's none of your business—Hotch would never go that far, not with you.
Then he leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. You don't know if it's a strategic move or just his subconscious way of trying to avoid confrontation.
"Haley ended it," he says, voice so low, so dead, that you almost miss it. "Last week."
Haley's name lands between the two of you like a brick being thrown through a window. You know, Haley, you've seen the framed photo he kept on his desk—come to think of it, it recently disappeared. Why didn't he say anything?—You've met Haley.
Haley, the high-school sweetheart, Haley, the prom-queen, Haley, the future-Mrs.-Hotchner.
"I'm sorry," you finally speak, because it feels too small and too big at the same time. You don't really know how to react. You're sad for Aaron, really sad, but you also know exactly how many hours he spends in the office compared to at home. So you completely get Haley.
He gives a tight shrug, trying to seem casual, but it doesn't come off that way. "We'd been together since we were sixteen. She waited while I attended George Washington, waited through law school, waited through the Academy, through Seattle. She said that she couldn't keep waiting for a life that never really started." His voice cracks, catching on the last word; he clears his throat like it never happened. "The hours here... they're worse than in the field office. Before you started with the team, I came home around 3 a.m. and left again by seven, before she even woke up. Sometimes I'd forget to call to tell her I would be home late. She said I was married to the job." Hotch lets out a laugh. "She isn't wrong."
You don't say anything, not yet; he has more he needs to get off his chest, you can tell. You watch him pick up the pen again, roll it between his fingers like he needs something to do with his hands to keep himself focused.
"She wanted kids," he continues, this time quieter. "A house with a yard and a dog. Normal things, really. And I kept telling her soon, soon, soon, after the next case, after I make supervisor, after, after, after." He finally looks at you, his eyes glaze over in a way you've never seen before. He's always so strong; you're usually the one on the brink of tears. "Turns out 'after' never comes."
Your chest aches for you. You reach out without thinking and cover his hand with yours on the desk. He flinches, just barely, stops rolling the pen, and lets your fingers stay, your thumb gently brushing the back of his hand in a, hopefully, calming motion.
"You're allowed to be upset, Aaron."
"I'm not upset, I'm angry," he admits. "At her for giving up on us, at myself for—" he trails off, "for letting it happen. For choosing this over my partner." He gestures vaguely at the files, at the bullpen, at the life. You know he isn't referring to you, but it stings a little as he says it, knowing that you're a part of this. "I don't know how to be anything... anyone else anymore."
"You're not alone in that," you say, exhaling softly. "Half this unit is allergic to normal. Doesn't mean it makes us broken and unlovable. Just... a little complicated."
Hotch huffs out a tiny laugh; it doesn't quite reach his eyes, but at least he didn't look sad for a split second. "Complicated. Right."
Silence settles between you. Your thumb brushes a last time across the back of his hand before you pull away, rolling your chair backward toward your side of the desks.
He clears his throat, which stops you in your tracks, and sits up straighter. "Anyway. That's... that's why I've been..." He waves at his untouched—now cold—cup of coffee and the unread pages of the autopsy report.
"Thank you for telling me."
"You're easy to talk to. Dangerously easy, do you drug my coffee in the mornings or something?" He jokes, meeting your eyes, finally letting the real Aaron break through.
"Dangerous is my middle name," you deadpan before sending a quick wink in his direction. He bursts out laughing, and you follow quickly after.
When you both come back down to reality, Hotch glances at the clock. "You should go home. Get some sleep."
"So should you."
"Truce?" A asks after a beat.
"Truce," you agree.
You both start packing up, very slowly, neither of you wants to leave, not yet. When you reach the elevators, he holds the door open for you.
"Hey," you smile, turning to him as the doors slide shut. "Tomorrow, the coffee's on me."
He looks at you for a moment before softening with a grateful expression.
"I'd like that," he says.
And just like that, as the elevator starts its descent, you and Hotch leave the office before midnight for the first time since your first day sitting across from him.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
You make it all the way to the women's restroom on the fifth floor—the one no one uses and especially not after 5 p.m.—before you crack.
The door swings behind you before shutting completely—you definitely pushed it open too hard—and the fluorescent tube lights flicker once as the automatic censor turns them on.
You take the stall farthest back and lock yourself inside, hang your bag on the hook, close the seat, and crawl onto the toilet. You draw your knees to your chest, praying that if anyone actually comes in, they won't notice your hiding spot.
And that's when everything hits, all at once.
The hospice doctor's voicemail from earlier, the one you didn't get to listen to until now, two hours later, because you were in a meeting.
"We need to talk about whether your father qualifies for continuous care still... costs could increase significantly..."
The email from their accounting department lay untouched in your inbox, because you're already hemorrhaging your savings on uncovered medications and day rates on his room alone.
The consult file on your desk that's due tomorrow, but you haven't touched yet, because every time you try to read the victimology, your eyes fill and the words blur, leaving you unable to map the profile.
The way your dad didn't recognize you for a full ten minutes yesterday when you went for a visit, he just stared at the ceiling and called you "Linda,"—his sister's name, who died in 1987. Most days, he remembers you, but the days he doesn't hurt, hurt more than you want to admit.
Your chest starts hitching before you can stop it, and you press the heels of your hands into your eyes, like it's physically possible to shove the tears back in. Still, they come anyway—hot, messy, silent at first, but then end with those awful choked noises you can't swallow, the ones when you've been crying too long and can't catch your breath.
You're terrified that you're going to lose your job if anyone finds out how badly you're drowning. That you won't be able to finish another profile or report ever again.
You're terrified of losing your dad, terrified of not being there with him when it happens, terrified of being alone, orphaned. You're not ready, and you'll never be.
You're terrified that the last real thing he said to you, before he started slipping, was 'Don't spend all your savings on me, honey,' and you lied and told him you wouldn't.
You cry until your throat is raw and your sleeves are soaked and your ribs hurt from trying to keep it quiet as physically possible. You count the ceiling tiles—twenty-seven—and try those Bureau-recommended breathing exercises that were attached to your welcome package. But they don't work when the bad thing is real life, and not a case you can close and happily forget.
Eventually, the storm passes—somewhat—leaving you shaky and hollowed out, barely able to stand on your legs—Great, Bambi, it is for the rest of the day, you think. You exit the stall and splash cold water on your face. Your eyes are swollen, nose red and running. You look like you have the wildest case of seasonal allergies... or like someone who's been crying in a federal building—which is exactly what you have.
You rummage around your bag and dig concealer out, dab it under your eyes, praying it'll cover the worst of it. You tell yourself you can do this. You're a profiler—in-training. You can compartmentalize. You work with cool people, people who've stared down serial killers at gunpoint; you can survive one more day of pretending everything is fine.
You practice a smile in the mirror, but end up looking like a corpse pretending to be alive.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket as you're about to push the door open and emerge back into reality. You almost ignore it, but something feels weird, which makes you answer.
"(Y/N)? It's Dr. Singh. I'm sorry to call so late. Your father's asking for you, and I promised to relay the message. He's lucid tonight. If you can come–"
"—I'll be there in thirty." You cut her off, your voice only wobbles a little. You hike your bag further up your shoulder and head out, walking out of the bathroom, slightly hurried, but as if nothing happened.
You don't see Hotch standing at the far end of the hallway, half-hidden by the vending machines, holding two fresh—awful—coffees he came up to deliver, worried about you, when he noticed you'd been gone a little too long.
He watches the restroom door swing shut behind you, watches you swipe under your nose one last time before you enter the elevator with a spine that is entirely too straight and with a smile too bright for you to be okay.
He makes it his mission to figure out what's going on with you, the same you kept 'pestering' him about his bad day.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
A few weeks later, the hospice parking lot is still dark when you pull in. The sky is just starting to fade into that bruised-purple color it gets before sunrise.
You sit in your car for a minute, gripping the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, telling yourself you can do this. You've done this before. You've done it every morning for weeks.
One more time. You can do it one more time. You tell it to yourself every morning before work.
Inside, the night nurse gives you a small smile and waves you through as she's doing the handover to the next shift.
The hallway always smells the same—antiseptic, instant oatmeal, and something faintly sweet that you've decided is hopelessness trying to be kind to you, but is definitely spilled orange juice that died before it got mobbed up completely.
Room 214 is dim; the bedside table lamp is turned on. Your dad is awake, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like he's waiting, waiting for something you can't see.
You pull the chair next to his bed closer and take his hand in yours. It's cold. Lighter than yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Every day, you never expect how much his health has declined compared to the day before.
"Morning, Dad." You greet softly.
He turns his head slowly, and for one heartbreaking second, his eyes focus on you—really focus. Not like usual, when he's there, but not really there at all.
"There's my girl," he rasps, voice shaky and lower than a whisper. A small smile tugs at his cracked lips. "You're too pretty to be up this early, honey."
You laugh, it sounds a little wet, but thankfully, he doesn't seem to notice. "Had to beat the awful D.C traffic," you joke. "How'd you sleep?"
"Like a dead man," he says, then winces, seeing the pained expression crawl into your eyes. "Bad joke. Sorry, kiddo."
"Don't be sorry. If anything, you're allowed bad jokes, dad." You squeeze his fingers, hoping it comes off as reassuring and not pitying.
You talk about nothing important, because everything important hurts too much right now. You tell him the Reds won last night—they didn't, but he won't know, and what's a little white lie when you're putting a smile on a dying man's lips.
You tell him about the stray cat that keeps visiting the dumpster behind your apartment, the one you've considered adopting, but can't bring you to, because you're never home.
He tells you the nurses have started sneaking him extra Jell-O and that the ceiling tiles above his bed look exactly like the 1965 Mustang he and your mom still drove when you were born.
You pretend his breathing isn't getting shallower with every passing minute.
At 6:45 a.m., he starts to drift off, eyes fluttering shut, fighting to stay awake. You lean in and kiss his forehead, tasting salt and the lingering aroma of the hospice soap. "I love you, dad," you whisper, trying not to wake him up. "I'll be back tonight, okay? We'll watch that awful game show you really like."
He manages a barely there nod, already half asleep.
You stand in the doorway to his room for a moment longer, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest under the thin blanket, barely keeping him warm. Then you force yourself to turn away, needing to get to work.
Dr. Singh is waiting by the nurses' station, arms folded, expression trying to stay gentle, but you sense the seriousness in her stance. She touches your elbow as you pass. "Can we talk for a minute?"
Your heart drops straight through the floor. You already know what's coming, but you follow her into the family room anyway—the one with the faded couch and the box of tissues that never seems to empty.
She closes the door behind her and sits down in a chair opposite you. "I'm sorry to do this when you're on your way out."
"It's okay," you lie.
She's close enough that you can smell the coffee on her breath and the hand sanitizer she reapplies after every patient she visits. "The latest labs came back overnight," she folds her hands and leans slightly forward. "His kidneys are failing faster than we expected. The infection isn't responding to anything we have left." She pauses, lets the information settle. "Realistically, we're looking at days. Maybe three to five if we're lucky. A week would be... optimistic at best."
The words land exactly like you knew they would, but hearing them spoken out loud still knocks the air out of you.
Days.
You stare at your hands resting in your lap, watching them slightly begin to shake. You twist the silver ring he gave you when you graduated college, the one that used to belong to your mother.
"Is he... suffering?" You question, voice coming out small and on the brink of tears.
"We've increased the morphine. He's comfortable. Most of the time he's not in any pain at all—he's just... slipping away peacefully, if that makes sense to you." She reaches over and covers your hands with hers. "You've done everything right. He knows you're here; he talks about you every time he's awake." She smiles, trying to reassure you.
You nod, because speaking feels absolutely impossible. Tears blur your vision now, turning the room into watercolor streaks.
"Call anyone who needs to be here to say goodbye," she says softly. "And take care of yourself, too. You've done so much for him; you don't have to be strong every second you're here. It's okay to not be okay." She reassures.
You wipe your eyes with the tips of your fingers. "Thank you."
She walks you to the door. "We'll call if anything changes, day or night. No matter what it is."
You step out into the hallway, pull your coat tighter around you, almost as if it alone can hold you together. The morning sun is finally breaking through the windows. You stand in the hallway for a long time, breathing in the antiseptic air as you try to make the world feel solid beneath your feet once again.
Then, you take one last deep breath, square your shoulders, and walk out to your car. You start the drive to the Academy—because right now, putting one foot in front of the other is the only thing you know how to do, the only thing that seems easy to do right now.
You badge yourself in on autopilot, through the several security checkpoints, until you sit down at your desk. It feels like it takes an hour alone just to make it to the bullpen, the bullpen who's already half-alive—phones ringing, printers printing, Anderson probably running another errand for section chief Strauss... because of course he is, he's the biggest teacher's pet you've ever met.
Your desk is exactly how you left it last night, except there's a fresh coffee waiting in front of your monitor with a post-it note stuck to the to-go cup in Hotch's neat block handwriting:
Latte, two sugars, thought you could use something a little sweet.
— A
You drop your back beneath your desk and sink into your chair before you wrap both hands around the cup like it's the only thing able to warm your cold, cold soul.
The coffee tastes like nothing—Which probably isn't true, but to you, you taste nothing.
Hotch looks up from his desk, eyes flick over you once, twice, cataloging everything your body language tells him: red-rimmed eyes, trembling fingers, the way you're sitting too slouched as if you've given up, like you'll shatter if anyone as much as blinks at you the wrong way.
"Morning," he says softly, tempted to ask questions, but sensing that you need time, how long he doesn't know, but you need time to just be.
"Morning." Your voice is gravel-rough.
He waits, giving you an opening to talk, giving you the opening you always take, to tell him what's going on. But you don't take it. You just open the first file in the pile stacking up in your inbox, and stare at the words. Although they refuse to form any coherent sentences in your head right now.
By eight, Gideon stops by your desk to drop off the Atlanta consult you worked on last week, asking for a few revisions to the profile with a: "Need these by noon."
You nod.
He hesitates, too, sensing that something is up. He glances at Hotch, with a subtle shrug and a look that's asking all the questions Hotch doesn't have the answers to.
Hotch just nods back, signalling that he has it under control—he doesn't. Gideon lets the two of you be.
Later in the morning, you're proofreading the same paragraph over and over when Hotch's chair rolls from his own side of the desks and into your peripheral vision.
"Hey," he whispers, keeping his voice so low that no one outside of your desk bubble had any chance of catching the conversation. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." It comes out snappier than intended, but honestly, you have very little control over your emotions lately, and Hotch is so... so comfortable to be around that you can't help it.
"You don't look fine."
"I look how I look. I'm here, I'm working. I'm fine!" You flip to the next page harder than necessary, your emotions getting the better of you.
He doesn't move. "You missed the staff meeting."
"I was in the restroom," technically true; you were hiding in a stall trying not to hyperventilate. "Is that illegal now?"
He leans his side over your desk, face popping into your field of vision. He doesn't take your hand, but you can tell he wants to, that he wants to squeeze it, to reassure you, to let you know that everything will be okay, even though he doesn't know what's going on. "Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about." The words come out like venom. You barely manage to soften as you turn your attention completely to your file. "I just need to get this done."
"You're shaking." He states, studying you.
You glance down, your left hand is indeer trembling around the pen. You drop it on the desk, curl your fingers into a fist, and crack your knuckles. "I said. I'm fine, Agent Hotchner." You spit at him.
His eyebrows shoot up at the use of his last name. You never call him anything but his name anymore; you rarely use Hotch, only when mentioning him around the other team members.
He lowers his voice further. "Whatever it is, you don't have to carry it alone. I'm here to lend an ear if you need it."
Something inside you snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight.
"I'm not some victim you need to profile, okay?" It comes out loud enough that the agents at the cluster of desks right next to yours glance over, confused that Batman and Robin apparently are 'fighting'.
You drop your volume but not the edge. "I don't need rescuing. I need to finish this damn consult before Gideon decides I'm useless, not cut out for the job. So please! Just. Back. Off."
The bullpen goes quieter than it has any right to at nine-thirty in the morning.
Hotch's face doesn't change, but something appears to shudder behind his eyes. He gives a single, tight nod. "Understood." He says and rolls his chair back to his desk.
He doesn't look at you again for the rest of the day.
The rest of the day is a special kind of hell. Its own kind of nightmare that you can't seem to wake from.
You power through the consult revisions, finally feeling like you're making progress—if that's what you can call it. Every keystroke feels like dragging nails across your own skin. You skip lunch, because the thought of food makes you nauseous. You drink more coffee that tastes like nothing. Answers a few emails in short, brittle sentences.
When Agent Damien asks if you want to join the afternoon run to the food trucks, you bite out "Can't" so harshly that he, for once, doesn't try to pester you into joining. He just leaves you be.
The floor has mostly cleared out by six. You, too, are packing up, movements jerky when Hotch appears again, coat draped over his arm.
"I'm heading out," he says, his tone neutral. "You need a ride?"
"I have a car." Your voice is flat.
He nods, like that was the answer he had expected. "Just... text me when you get home, please."
"I don't need a babysitter, Aaron."
"I'm not offering to babysit," his voice is concerningly calm, but there's still an edge of steel underneath it. "I'm asking you to let me know that you made it home safely, because you're clearly upset, and I don't want to read your name in the headlines tomorrow morning. Humor me, please."
You want to snap again. Instead, the fight drains out of you all at once, leaving you swaying for a bit, not really knowing what to say.
"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know." He cuts you off, steps closer, and lowers his voice so it feels more intimate. "Whatever happened this morning, whenever you're ready. I'm here. No judgement. No profiling. Just... here. But ripping my head off won't make you feel any better; it'll only delay whatever explosion you clearly need to have."
Your eyes start to burn. You nod once, faster than intended, before the tears can fall in front of him. You don't want to cry in front of him, don't want him to view you any differently.
He hesitates, then reaches out and squeezes your shoulder before walking toward the elevators.
You watch him leave, throat tight, guilt and grief tangled together so thoroughly that you can't tell which is which and which of them you're feeling the strongest right now.
You wait for a moment, then grab your bag, shut off your desk lamp, and head down to the parking lot through the back stairs.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The bullpen is a ghost town, and it's just you and Hotch once again. The case files in front of you blur into meaningless ink on paper as your thoughts drift toward your father.
You're both quieter than usual tonight, the tension from your snap three days ago still lingers like a bruise neither of you wants to touch. He hasn't pushed the matter since, and you know that he isn't holding a grudge, but you keep catching him watching you when he thinks you're not looking, trying to read you, trying to figure out what's going on.
You're not ready to tell him, tell anybody—maybe never.
Your phone vibrates under a few scattered files, and when you finally find it, the words: HOSPICE, slap you straight in the face. It feels like your heart stops, then lurches into your throat, all the while a pit is forming in your stomach.
You grab the phone and stand so fast that you nearly tip your chair over. Hotch looks up at the sudden noise.
"I'll be right back," you mutter, already halfway out the door.
Hotch just nods, eyes narrowing slightly, but he doesn't say anything.
You make it to the hallway and lean against the wall by the vending machines, the ones out of sight from the glass doors into the bullpen, before you answer with a voice you barely recognize as your own. "Hello?"
"Hi (Y/N), this is Dr. Singh." Her tone is soft, a little too soft, you think, it's the kind of soft that can only mean bad news, really, really bad news, so you brace yourself, crossing your fingers. "I'm so sorry," she starts. "Your father passed about ten minutes ago. It was very peaceful, he was sleeping and his heart just... stopped." You can tell she's trying to lessen the blow by her phrasing.
But the world still tilts, everything blurs, and it feels like you've had your skull bashed in with a sledgehammer. You slide down the wall to a crouch, phone still pressed to your ear. You hear the words, but not really processing them.
Passed. Peaceful. Stopped.
They play on loop.
"Are you there?" Dr. Singh asks gently when you don't answer her.
"Yeah," you croak out after another few silent seconds. "I... thank you for calling." You blink back tears, trying to keep yourself composed enough to get through the rest of this call.
"Do you want to come in now? We can talk about next steps—"
"—I'll... I'll call back later. I need a minute." You cut her off."
"Of course. Take your time. I'm on the night shift, so you can send me a message if you'll be stopping by tonight." She reassures.
You don't answer her, just hang up. The phone slips from your hand and clatters on the tile. You don't bother looking at your screen—it's probably cracked from the fall.
Your stomach churns, acid burning up your throat, and before you know it, you stumble to your feet and lurch toward the bathroom down the hall. You barely make it to a stall before you're retching into the bowl. Whatever comes up mostly consists of bile and the very healthy diet you've had the past twenty-four hours, of coffee, and the skins of the few grapes you managed to keep down.
Your hands shake so hard that you have to grip the porcelain to keep yourself from collapsing headfirst into the bowl.
When you finally stop, you sink back and slide to the floor, knees pulled to your chest, back against the stall wall. The sobs come fast and violent, tearing out of you like something wild.
You press your forehead to your knees, trying to muffle the sound, but it's no use. You're breaking, and there's no one here to see it, and somehow that makes it all feel ten times worse.
You don't know how long you're sitting in the stall—minutes, maybe ten, maybe twenty, maybe an hour. The tiles are cold through your slacks, cold enough that your shivers now come from the cold and not from your emotional outburst. Your throat is raw, eyes swollen shut, and burning. You don't hear the footsteps outside until there's a soft knock on the door into the bathroom.
"Hey," you hear Hotch's voice call out, low and steady, like he's cooing at a scared animal. "You in there? I saw your phone on the ground and—"
"—Go away," you sob, the words coming out muffled against your knees. "Please, Aaron. Just go."
He doesn't. The door creaks open, and you hear the click of his shoes on the tile as he comes closer and closer to the stall you're in. Then he stops. You don't look, but you know he's there, that he's standing just outside the stall, and if he were to push the door open, that he'd see you curled into yourself, face streaked with tears, shaking as if it's physically impossible for you to stop.
You don't want him to see you like this.
"Talk to me," he says quietly, so quietly it almost sounds like he's... begging? "What happened?"
"I said, go away!" It comes out half-scream, half-whimper.
Hotch ignores your request once again. You hear his palm as it touches the door, pushing it slowly open. You curse yourself for not taking the time to lock it while you were face deep in the toilet bowl. You peek at him from behind your knees as he crouches down in the opening once the door is fully open. The jacket of his suit brushes the probably filthy and germ-ridden floor. He lays his hands, palms up, on his knees, like he wants to grab your hands and hold them, but isn't sure if he should, or if he's allowed to.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says. "Not when you're in this state. Not until you tell me what's going on."
You shake your head at him, tears flowing silently down your cheeks faster and faster. "You can't fix this, Aaron."
"Maybe I don't need to try to fix it. Maybe I just want to be here, because my friend is hurt and too stubborn to ask for help."
You choke on a sob, press your hand over your mouth, trying to hold it all in. He waits, silent, patient, waiting for you to make this next move. His presence is so solid in the stall that it almost feels unbearable.
Finally, the words claw their way out.
"My dad died." Your voice breaks on the last words. "His doctor at the hospice called. He's gone.
Hotch's face softens, grief and understanding in his eyes. He doesn't say 'I'm sorry' or any of the useless things people say when you're grieving. Because in truth, it's bullshitt, and none of it works when you're in such a deep state of pain, that the only thing you feel is misery.
Instead, he shifts to sit beside you on the floor, shoulder barely touching yours, trying his best to ground you without crowding.
"Tell me," he says. "Everything or nothing at all. Just... talk, please."
And you do. It spills out like blood for a stab wound: How you've been drowning in hospice bills and the guilt of feeling like you're not visiting him enough. How you've been terrified every day this week of getting that call. How you're not ready to be alone in the world without the man who taught you how to tie your shoes and believed you could be anything you set your heart on.
You tell him about the doctor's warning three days ago, the days-to-a-week timeline, how you thought you'd have more time—prayed... begged ...for more time. You tell him you're falling apart, and you've been hiding it because you're supposed to be strong, supposed to be a profiler, not a complete mess who throws up in the bathroom stalls at work.
He listens, doesn't interrupt, doesn't flinch when your voice cracks and breaks or raises when you get angry with yourself, or when you start crying again halfway through.
When you're done, you're shaking even harder, so hard your teeth chatter.
He reaches out then, slowly, giving you time to pull away if you aren't ready yet. You don't. His hand finds yours, gently unwrapping your curled form; he's warm, and he pulls you into him. You let him, collapsing against his chest, your face pressed into his shirt as fresh sobs rip through you.
His arms come around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, pushing you closer to him, the other rubbing slow circles on your back.
"I've got you," he murmurs into the crown of your head, over and over, until the words start to sound real to you. "You're not alone. You don't have to be alone. "I've got you."
You don't know how long you stay like that, him holding you together on a bathroom floor, his tie is probably ruined from all your tears, your hands are fisted in his jacket like it's the only connection keeping you from falling apart completely.
Eventually, your breathing evens out, and the sobs slow to hiccups.
"I don't know what to do," you whisper, uncurling one of your hands to wipe your eyes.
"You don't have to know right now," he says. "You just have to let yourself grieve right now. And when you're ready, we'll figure out the next steps. Together."
You pull back, just enough to look at him. His eyes are warm, no trace of judgment. "Why are you doing this?" It comes out as a whisper.
"Because I know you'd do the same for me," he says, simple as that. "And because I care about you."
The words hit harder than they should've. You nod, wipe your face with the back of your hand on instinct, before letting him help you to your feet. You sway, dizzy from the crying. Hotch keeps a hand on your elbow and the other around your hips, steadying you.
"Do you want me to drive you to the hospice?" He asks. "You shouldn't be alone tonight."
You feel the need to argue, to tell him that you need to do it alone, that this is your war to fight, but the fight's gone out of you. "Okay."
You make your way back toward the elevators, Hotch pops into the bullpen quickly—leaving you in the hallway with a blank and emotionless stare in your eyes—he grabs your coat and bag, and slings it over his shoulder before meeting you and calling for the elevator.
The drive to the hospice is quiet, not even the radio is turned on.
Hotch keeps one hand on the wheel, while the other rests on the console between you, palm up, in case you need something to hold. You don't take it, but you steal glances at it the whole way there.
When you walk into Room 214, the lights are dimmed to almost darkness. Your father is still in his bed, sheet pulled up to his chest, and his hands folded, like he's simply resting. Someone has brushed his hair and turned his head so he's staring toward the ceiling. It feels unnatural because he always sleeps on his side.
You stop in the doorway, legs unwilling to move, to walk up to him, to acknowledge that this is, in fact, real. Hotch rests his hand gently on your shoulder, giving it the smallest of squeezes.
"Remember, I'm right here," he murmurs close to your ear.
You take the first step slowly and carefully cross the room until you reach his bedside. The chair is still pulled close to the bed from when you moved it this morning. You sink into it and reach for your dad's hand—it's so cold now, no give in his fingers as rigor mortis has started by now, and worst of all, no answering squeeze.
The reality slams into you all over again.
"Daddy," you whimper, the word breaks in half as your whole world feels like it is crumbling around you.
You fold forward, forehead pressing to the back of his hand, shoulders shaking so hard that you hear the bed rail rattling. The sobs are loud, animalistic, and nothing like the tears that flowed earlier in the bathroom.
You curl over him, like you can shield him from what's already happened, like if you hold onto him tight enough, that you can pull his soul back into his body, that you can warm him back to life again. Your tears soak the sheet, forming a small puddle where your head is resting. Your fingers clutch his like you're drowning, and he's the life ring keeping you afloat.
Hotch moves to stand behind you, one hand resting lightly on your back, letting you know that he's there. He doesn't try to hush or fix you. Doesn't tell you that you'll be okay. He just stays.
After a while—minutes, maybe even an hour—your cries turn to ragged breathing. You stay hunched over your dad, cheek against his knuckles, afraid that if you let go, he'll vanish in a puff of smoke. Instead, you turn your head and stare up at him—he looks peaceful, like he's sleeping, you think.
Dr. Singh appears in the doorway, quietly and apologetic. She grabs Hotch's attention and gestures for him to follow her into the hallways. He hesitates, looks at you, and then leans down.
"I'll be just outside the door," he says softly. "I'm not leaving."
You don't speak, just nod against your dad's hand.
In the hallway, Dr. Singh keeps her voice low. "I know this is an awful time, but there are some decisions we need tonight or first thing tomorrow morning: funeral home arrangements, whether he'll be transported, clothing, personal effects..." She glances at you through the open door to the room, still bent over the bed. "She's in no shape to handle any of this right now."
Hotch nods, throat a little tight as he too glances into the room.
"Technically protocol says next-of-kin only," Dr Singh continues, "but as her boyfriend, if you can sign for—"
Hotch's ears go hot.
"—Uh, no, we're not..." he stops and clears his throat, cheeks slightly flushing. "We're not together. Just... colleagues. Friends. Close friends."
"Oh! I'm so sorry, I assumed..." Dr. Singh's eyes widen, and she winces slightly at her mistake. "You came in together, and the way you appear to know what she needs in a time like this... I shouldn't have—"
"It's fine," Hotch says quickly, maybe a little too quickly. "Really. I'm happy to help however I can. If there's anything I'm legally allowed to sign for her tonight to take pressure off her, I will."
"Thank you! There are a few consent forms for the release of the body and property. They only need a responsible adult, not necessarily kin. After that, I can try to work around the rest until she's ready." She exhales, relieved that she doesn't have to put any more stress on you for now.
"I'll sign whatever you need."
Dr. Singh gives him a tired, but grateful smile. "You're a good man, Mr. Hotchner." Hotch knows he should've been concerned at the use of his name, but on the other hand, he did have to sign the two of you in, in the visitor's log, so perhaps the doctor just looked at his signature.
He glances back through the door. You're still folded over your dad, completely still, and he hopes that you're sleeping.
"I'm just trying to be the person she needs tonight," he says, still glancing at you.
He goes back into the room, kneels beside your chair, and rests his hand carefully on the back of the chair and the other on your thigh. "Hey," he whispers. "I'm going to take care of some paperwork so you don't have to think about it right now. Okay?"
You don't answer him, but you turn your face just enough that he can see the glassiness in your eyes. It's the smallest movement, but it's enough for him to understand that you trust him with this.
Hotch checks his clock at 2:17 a.m. and decides you no longer can stay bent over your father's body. At least not for your own sake.
Your breathing has gone slow and slightly even, forehead still pressed to his hand—he's impossibly cold now. You're not crying anymore, you're just... gone, exhausted, stuck to the vinyl chair.
Hotch crouches beside you and brushes a strand away from your damp cheek. "Hey," he whispers. "Sweetheart, we have to go." You know you should react to the nickname, and he knows he shouldn't have said it. But it felt so right.
You don't move.
He tries again, this time softer. "You need sleep. Real sleep."
A tiny, broken sound escapes you. You shake your head violently, a choked 'No' ripping out of you as you curl closer over the bed, arms locking around your dad’s still hand.
He hates this part. He's seen it done enough times on cases to know it won't go down easily. Hotch slides one arm behind your shoulder, the other under your knees, and gently starts to lift you away from the chair and bed. You start thrashing, although weak, frantic, and grief-fueled, you manage to knock your elbow against the bed rail with a metallic clang; your shoe scrapes the floor as you try to plant your feet.
“No, please, don’t make me, I’m not ready, I’m not—” The words fracture into raw sobs.
He has to use his full strength to lift you away. You fight harder than he thought possible for someone so hollowed out, fingers clawing for the sheet, legs kicking once, nearly hitting him, body arching back toward the bed with a desperate, broken cry the moment the contact breaks.
Your head lolls against his chest only because exhaustion finally wins, but you still reach a trembling hand toward your father even as Hotch pulls you fully into his arms.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, over and over, voice cracking as he cradles you tight against him, carrying you out past the nurses’ station like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Dr. Singh meets his eyes, gives him a sad, grateful nod. Your face is buried in his neck, fists clenched in his shirt, the fight gone out of you, but the sobs still tearing free in waves.
In the parking lot, the air is cold enough to bite, although it's April and should be warming up. He settles you into the passenger seat of his car and buckles you in—it somehow feels too intimate and not intimate enough. He tucks your coat around you like a blanket, hoping it'll keep you warm. You're asleep before he even starts the engine.
When he pulls up outside your building, you stir, but don't wake up. And he's happy that you don't, because explaining how he grabbed your address from your file after he first noticed something being off with you is a lot harder than just carrying you upstairs.
He comes around and lifts you into his arms. Hotch carries you up the three flights of stairs because the elevator is still broken, despite your landlord promising all of the tenants that it would be fixed within a month—it's now month three. Your keys are in your coat pocket. He fiddles around for them, trying to keep you up with one arm, and when he finally finds them and unlocks the door, he shoulders the door open and steps inside.
The apartment is exactly what he expected, and yet it's also much, much worse.
Take-out boxes are stacked on the coffee table. Unopened mail is in teetering piles around the living room and kitchen. Laundry spilling out of the hamper, like it's trying to escape. A week's worth of coffee mugs stacked in the sink, probably on the verge of growing mold.
The air smells stale, like windows haven't been opened in over a month. It's not you, you're not like this, it's the physical evidence of someone who's been barely surviving, while fighting to keep someone else alive.
He doesn't flinch at the mess. He just carries you past it, through the living room, and into your bedroom. Hotch lays you on the bed and kneels to tug off your shoes, careful not to wake you up. You curl onto your side almost immediately, knees to your chest in a fetal position, still fully dressed.
Hotch pulls the quilt at the foot of your bed up and over you, brushes your hair back, and whispers, "Sleep." And your face smoothes into something almost peaceful.
He stands in the doorway for a long moment, observing you, watching the rise and fall of your shoulder, then closes the door halfway—so he can hear you if you wake—and turns back to the disaster zone that is the rest of your apartment.
He can't leave it like this. Not tonight.
He starts quietly by tying up the trash, placing the first bag near the door. Then he continues with the kitchen, rinses and washes the mugs, placing them on a dry tea towel to dry the rest of the way, and wipes down the counters.
He finds a laundry basket of clean clothes and folds them along with the clothes that never made it off the drying rack and stacks them on the dining table.
He opens the window a few inches to let in some air to chase out the staleness. And every so often, he pauses outside your door, listening to make sure you're still asleep.
By 4:45 a.m., the place isn’t perfect, it's far from it, but it’s livable. Trash is waiting by the door—three bags it turned into—dishes are clean and drying, and mail is in one neat pile while all the colorful advertisements are in recycling, ready to be taken out too.
The couch is clear except for a single throw blanket and a few pillows.
He sits down just to rest his eyes for a minute.
You wake slowly, the way you do when your body has forgotten how to rest properly. The room is dim, curtains still drawn, but the light that sneaks around the edges is soft and golden.
Your eyes are swollen and your throat raw from all the crying yesterday, your chest aching like someone parked a truck on it overnight.
And for one terrifying second, you forget exactly why you feel like you've been run over and then backed right back over.
Then it slams back into you, the call, the bathroom floor, your dad’s cold hand, Hotch carrying you out like you weighed nothing to him.
You sit up a little too fast, and the room starts to tilt. You’re still in yesterday’s clothes, shoes off, quilt tucked around you, but you don’t remember going to bed last night.
The apartment is quiet. A little too quiet.
You shuffle to the bedroom door and push the cracked door open further.
The first thing you notice when you emerge from the bedroom is the smell. No gross and sour take-out stench, no stale coffee. Just the faint smell of dish soap and the smell of cold air.
You step into the living room and stop dead in your tracks.
It's so... clean?
Not spotless—Hotch clearly didn't have the energy to scrub baseboards at four in the morning, but there's no doubt that he would've done it if he had. Every surface is clear, trash gone, dishes done, laundry folded with a post-it note slapped on top saying 'clean :)' in his handwriting.
Even the throw pillows are straightened.
And then you see him.
Hotch is asleep on your couch, clearly too long to lie comfortably on the two-seater. His shirt is a little rumpled, tie loosened, and half-hanging off his neck like a limp snake. One of his arms is flung over his eyes, while the other is dangling off the edge. Shoes are lined up neatly next to the couch, like he had meant to leave, but got too tired and simply couldn't. You notice the faint shadow of stubble starting to grow along his jaw as he lets out the softest snore you've ever heard.
Something warm flutters awake in your chest, right beneath the crushing weight of grief. It’s not happiness—Oh, God no. You don't know if you'll ever be happy again—but it’s close to peace.
Gratitude so sharp it almost hurts.
You stand in the doorway for a long time—just looking—blanket wrapped around your shoulders, watching him breathe. He cleaned up your chaos while you slept. He stayed when he didn’t have to. He held you together when you shattered. He's done so much for you these past twenty-four hours, and you feel like you haven't done anything in return for him at all.
The flutter grows, spreads, becomes a quiet ache behind your ribs that feels a lot like falling—slow, inevitable, and terrifyingly falling.
You pad across the room on bare feet, careful not to wake him, and crouch beside the couch. Up close, you can see the faint tear tracks dried on his own cheeks—he cried too, sometime during the night, when he thought no one would know that he too felt your pain.
You reach out for him, hesitate, then brush the back of your fingers lightly across his cheekbone. Just once, barely there, needing to feel him, to know that this man is real.
“Thank you,” you whisper to the sleeping room.
His breathing hitches, eyes fluttering but not quite opening. You stay crouched there a moment longer, memorizing the way the light falls across his face, the way safety feels when it’s shaped like Aaron Hotchner asleep on your couch after the worst night of your life.
Eventually, you stand, pull the throw blanket from the floor—you recon that he must have dropped it during the night—and drape it carefully over him. He sighs in his sleep, shifts onto his side, and settles again.
You linger another heartbeat, then head to the kitchen to start coffee—two mugs, black for him and one with a splash of milk for you, two sugars for you—because the least you can do is make sure he wakes up to something a lot nicer than how you've been treating him the past couple of weeks.
The flutter is still rooted deep in your chest, like the first tiny green thing pushing through the earth after a long and harsh winter.
By summertime, the bullpen is like a hotbox, and every time someone opens the glass doors, waves of hot air drift through, making it miserable to work.
Gideon is gone more than he's there these days, and whispers about a leave of absence are circling like smoke around the office. The team is in shambles lately, most of the travel team is suspended for misconduct during their last case, morale is down, and everyone looks like they hate their jobs.
But the work keeps coming, and the team keeps working despite everyone's lackluster enthusiasm to finish their cases in a timely manner.
You, somehow, are... lighter.
Not healed—because some holes never heal, and this one will never heal—but grief has settled from a constant jabbing pain, into a dull, manageable ache, and it gets better week by week. You feel like you can breathe without doing counting exercises. You can laugh at Anderson's terrible knock-knock jokes without feeling guilty five seconds later.
And Hotch, Hotch has been the constant you needed through it all.
He still brings you coffee every morning, even though the 'who stays latest' competition officially ended last month. You still find sticky notes on your files in his handwriting—"Victim #3's timeline is off by six hours, check page 14"—when he notices new things in M.O. and victimology, or gives you a second pair of eyes when you ask for help. Or on the mornings, when grief over your dad's death creeps too close, he simply tells you to take a moment for yourself and that he'll hold the fort down while you're gone.
He never mentions the night he cleaned your apartment, or the fact that you cried into his shirt until there was nothing left for you to cry out. He just… shows up. Every day. Without fail.
Tonight is a Thursday, almost midnight. The rest of the floor is dark. You’re both still here, because of course you are.
You’re cross-legged in your chair, hair twisted up with a pencil, eating cold lo mein straight from the carton. Hotch is across from you, jacket off, sleeves rolled high, tie abandoned hours ago. There’s a smear of highlighter on his cheek that he hasn’t noticed. And you're not planning on telling him, because he looks way too cute when he's a little messy.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” you say, waving your chopsticks at the geographic profile spread between you. “But the comfort zone is shifting north. He’s getting bolder.”
He leans forward, elbows on his desk, studying the map like it owes him money. “You’re not wrong. Look at the dump-site-to-victim-residence distance. First two were under four miles apart. Last one was eight. Either he’s escalating, or he moved.”
“Or both,” you say, mouth half-full. You're not exactly charming, and your mother would roll over in her grave if she heard you speak with food in your mouth. But he looks up and smiles, before he reaches over, plucking the carton from your hand to steal a bite.
You let him.
You always let him now. Sharing food feels like nothing after he had to wrangle you off a dead body like one of those working dogs resource guarding their dead handlers.
Somewhere in the last few months, the boundaries blurred between you. You touch his arm when you pass him files. He brushes imaginary lint off your shoulder during briefings when you sit next to each other. You hang out together on days off, fall asleep on each other's couches after working on cases together at home, and wake up with blankets draped over you.
He keeps a spare toothbrush in your bathroom 'just in case,' and you keep one in his. You have an extra tie of his folded in your desk drawer because he spilled coffee on his favorite one during a stakeout, and forgot it in your car when you drove him home.
No one in the unit has said anything yet, but everyone's eyebrows climb into their hairlines on a near-daily basis as they observe your desk island.
Tonight, the air conditioning is struggling, badly. You fan yourself with a case folder. “It’s a million degrees in here.” You complain
Hotch stands, stretches, and shrugs out of his jacket. “Rooftop?”
You’re already moving as the words leave his mouth.
The rooftop door sticks—it always does—and he has to shoulder it open for you.
The evening air is warm but better than the stale office. D.C. glitters slightly in the distance, barely visible, but there. You both lean against the ledge, shoulders almost, but not quite touching.
For a while, you just breathe. Enjoying the faint chirping of crickets, the wind rustling, and natural silence.
“Thank you,” you finally say quietly.
He glances over. “For what?”
“For the last three months. For… everything.” You pick at the label on your water bottle. “I don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t—”
“—Hey.” He bumps your shoulder with his, gently. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
Your heart does a slow, traitorous flip. You tell yourself it’s just gratitude, gratitude that he helped you through the worst time in your life, gratitude that you have a friend to turn to when in need—despite being an asshole about it in the beginning (but let's not talk about that).
He keeps talking. “Besides, you’ve been pulling me out of my own head since the day you beat me three nights in a row last November. Fair’s fair.”
You laugh, softly. “I still say you let me win night two. Ain't no way your brother called you for help at nine p.m. to move an antique wardrobe he found in the newspaper.”
“I absolutely did not,” he says, mock-offended, but he’s smiling that full smile now—the one that reaches his eyes and makes tiny lines appear at the corners. You’ve started cataloging those smiles like they're evidence in an unsolved case—which technically they are, because you still haven't locked down the answer to why Aaron Hotchner rarely smiles.
Silence settles between you; it feels comfortable and familiar.
Fireflies blink lazily over the parking lot below. You shiver a little in the breeze. And without a word, he shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.
It smells like him. You love the smell of him.
You pull it tighter. “You’re going to freeze.”
“I run hot,” he says, and the way he says it—quiet, matter-of-fact, eyes on the skyline as if it's no big deal—makes heat pool low in your stomach for reasons you refuse to examine.
You stand there like that for a long time, city lights flickering, his jacket warm around you, the space between your bodies shrinking inch by inch until your pinky brushes his against the railing.
Neither of you moves away.
Neither of you names it yet.
But something tender and inevitable is growing in the quiet spaces. In the way he always saves you the last sip of coffee in the pot, in the way you know exactly how he takes his tea when he’s sick, in the way your hands find excuses to touch and linger.
It’s still just friendship, you both tell yourselves.
For now.
You've been with the BAU for nearly a year now.
The bullpen is almost empty, save for a few agents still complaining about paperwork due that they could've finished hours ago if they didn't stand at the damn coffee machine and chat all day. But they quickly leave.
Gideon has been locked in his office all evening, door cracked just enough for the occasional frustrated sigh to leak out.
You and Hotch are the last ones standing—as usual.
You’re both on the floor now, backs against the front of your desks, case files spread around you like a thick crime-scene carpet. You’ve been arguing good-naturedly for forty minutes about whether the unsub is devolving or just getting sloppy.
“He’s devolving,” you insist, flicking a photograph toward Hotch. “Look at the overkill on the last victim. That’s rage, not control, in the way we saw on victims one through five.” You point out, gesturing at the pictures of the other victims lying in a half circle in front of you.
Hotch catches the photo mid-air and sets it down carefully next to the other victims. “Rage can be controlled. He staged the body perfectly. That takes discipline.”
His knee is touching yours. Has been for the last twenty minutes. Neither of you has moved away.
You reach for the same file at the same moment. Your fingers collide, stay there, overlapping on the manila folder. The air between you goes suddenly, electrically still.
He doesn’t pull back. You don’t either.
You’re close enough to count the flecks of gold in his irises, close enough to see the tiny scar on his upper lip you’ve never noticed before. His gaze drops to your mouth for half a heartbeat—so fast you almost miss it—then flicks back up, something unreadable flaring behind his eyes.
Your breath catches.
The moment stretches, until the door to Gideon’s office bangs open so hard the hinges bounce it back off the wall.
Gideon strides out, coat half-on, briefcase in hand, clearly intending to leave without a word. He stops dead when he sees the two of you on the floor, hands still touching, faces inches apart, the entire room vibrating with something neither of you has said out loud yet.
He stares for three full seconds.
Then he throws his head back and groans like a man who has reached the end of his patience with the entire universe.
“Oh, for the love of God, just kiss already!”
You jerk apart like teenagers caught behind the bleachers. Hotch's ears go scarlet, and you feel your own face ignite.
Gideon points a finger between the two of you, coat flapping dramatically. “I have watched you two moon over each other for months. Months! I am old. I am tired. I have unsubs writing manifestos in blood, and I do not have time for this level of sexual tension in my bullpen. Kiss, date, do whatever it is you children do these days... just stop making it everyone else’s problem!”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Just spins on his heel, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “finally” under his breath, and storms out.
The glass doors swing shut behind him, and you hear the ding of the elevator.
Then... silence.
You risk a glance at Hotch. He’s staring at the floor, jaw working like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or die of embarrassment. His hand is still halfway reaching for the file you both abandoned.
You start laughing first, mortified and unstoppable. He follows half a second later, the low, surprised sound he makes when something actually catches him off-guard.
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, pressing both hands over your burning face. “He did not just—”
You peek through your fingers. He’s looking at you now, something soft and stunned and hopeful in his expression.
The laughter fades, but the air stays as charged as ever.
You swallow. “So… Gideon’s not subtle.”
“No,” Hotch agrees, quieter. “He really isn’t.”
Another beat. Your heart is hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it.
He shifts, just slightly, closing the small distance Gideon’s outburst created. His voice drops to almost a whisper.
“Would it be… completely inappropriate if I took his advice?”
Your breath stalls. The world narrows to the few inches between you, the warmth radiating off him, the way his eyes search yours for permission.
You manage the tiniest shake, giving him the go-ahead.
He leans in slowly and carefully, giving you every possible second to change your mind.
You don’t.
The first brush of his lips is barely there, warm, trembling just enough for you to feel it against your lips.
He smells faintly of coffee and the soap he always uses.
The second is surer, his lips settling over yours with certainty, the softest pressure that makes your breath catch in your throat. You taste the lingering trace of peppermint on his tongue when your mouth parts under his, feel the faint rasp of growing stubble along your upper lip, the warmth of his exhale mingling with yours.
His hand cups your cheek, thumb sweeping slowly across your skin, calloused thumb stroking once along your cheekbone; his other hand threads into your hair, fingers spreading at the nape of your neck like he’s anchoring himself to you. The kiss deepens just enough for the world to tilt, your pulse roaring in your ears, your toes curling hard inside your shoes, every nerve lighting up at the gentle, deliberate slide of his mouth against yours.
When you ease apart, it’s only a breath. Foreheads still pressed together, noses brushing, the air between you warm and a little shaky. The lines are definitely blurred beyond return.
When you open your eyes, he’s smiling, happier than you’ve ever seen him.
“Hi,” he whispers, voice rough.
“Hi,” you whisper back, grinning like a complete idiot.
From somewhere down the hallway, you’re both almost certain you hear Gideon’s ghost mutter 'about damn time'.
You start laughing again, muffled against Hotch's shoulder this time as you lean forward into his chest, and he laughs too, arms wrapping fully around you, holding you close on the bullpen floor like he never wants to let go.
And he doesn’t.
Not for a very long time.
That first kiss doesn’t fix anything, but it changes everything.
After Gideon’s dramatic exit, you and Hotch ended up staying on the bullpen floor another hour, kissing slowly and carefully like teenagers who’ve just discovered the concept, talking in whispers, laughing every time one of you remembers Gideon’s exact phrasing. When you finally stand up, knees stiff, files forgotten, he walks you to your car with his hand at the small of your back like it always belonged there.
You date quietly at first, almost secretly, because neither of you trusts the Bureau rumor mill and because the newness feels too precious to share with anyone but the two of you.
He picks you up on Saturdays when you’re both off rotation. You go to tiny diners outside the Beltway where no one knows your names, or to the Smithsonian after closing because one of the night guards owes him a favor from back in his prosecutor days.
You sit on benches in front of the Hope Diamond and argue about whether it’s cursed. He brings you coffee in bed on Sunday mornings and reads the parts of the newspaper aloud while you steal the comics section and draw little hearts in the margins next to his name when he’s mentioned in an article.
You learn the small, sacred things about him:
He hates surprises but loves planning them for you.
He keeps a spare tie in your glove compartment now—officially 'in case of emergencies'.
When he’s exhausted, he falls asleep with his head on your chest and one arm locked around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
He says your name differently when you’re alone, much softer, almost like a whimper.
December brings the first snow, and the first time he says “I love you.”
You’re in his apartment, stringing popcorn for a tiny, lopsided Christmas tree because neither of you had time to get one before all but the small apartment-friendly ones were the only option left.
You’re on the couch, legs tangled, the Muppet Christmas carol crooning in the background.
You prick your finger on a needle and mutter a curse. He takes your hand, kisses the tiny drop of blood away, and just says it, as natural as breathing: “I love you.”
You freeze, popcorn garland half-finished in your lap. He looks suddenly terrified, like he’s broken some unspoken rule in the relationship guide.
You tug the garland carefully aside, crawl into his lap, and kiss him until neither of you can breathe.
“I love you too,” you whisper against his mouth. “So much it scares me.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that fear in for months and tightens his arms around you. “Good. We can be scared together then.”
January of 2002 is brutal, back-to-back cases, forty-eight-hour consult marathons, but you survive it the way you survive everything now: together.
You fall asleep on each other more often than not, steal kisses in the elevator when no one’s looking, and leave each other notes in case files.
“Meet me on the rooftop at midnight. Bring the good coffee. –A”
“Only if you bring the blanket. –Y/N”
Valentine's Day falls on a Thursday. You both have to work, but he leaves a single red rose on your desk with a sticky note: Dinner. 8 p.m. Wear the black dress. Trust me.
You do.
He takes you to a hole-in-the-wall Italian place in Alexandria you’ve never noticed before. Halfway through tiramisu, he slides a small velvet box across the table.
Your heart stops, and you panic slightly.
He sees your face and actually laughs a tiny chuckle. “Relax. It’s not that. Yet.”
Inside is a delicate silver key.
“To my place,” he says quietly. “I want you to have it. I want… I want this to be official. You and me. No more pretending we’re just really good friends who occasionally make out in the parking garage and have sex in our time off.”
You stare at the key like it’s made of large sparkly diamonds.
“Aaron…”
“If it’s too fast—”
“—It’s not,” you cut in, voice cracking. You lean across the tiny table and kiss him in front of the entire restaurant. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”
He smiles against your mouth, relieved and giddy and so in love it shows on every line of his face.
Later, back at his apartment—well, kind of your apartment now, too, in every way that matters at least—you hang your coat next to his on the rack, put your hairbrush next to the comb in the drawer, and fall asleep tangled together under the same blanket that used to live on your couch, the one he slept with the first night he saw your apartment.
Outside, snow falls softly and quietly over Virginia, covering the city in a hush that feels like the world permitting you to finally be happy again.
You are a couple now—no, almosts, no, hesitations.
Just you and Hotch against the world, desk neighbors turned lovers, building something together.
And you both start to feel like coming home at night isn't something so terrible to do at all.
The years blur in the best way possible.
September 2002
The inn’s garden is small and perfect, and the late-summer roses still cling to the trellises; the air is warm enough to carry the scent of honeysuckle and fresh-cut grass.
Forty white chairs are set in uneven rows on the lawn; fairy lights are already strung even though the sun won’t set for hours. Someone’s old jazz standard drifts from hidden speakers; it’s Ella Fitzgerald, the song you and Hotch danced to in his apartment the first night you ended up admitting you were in love.
You wait in the bridal suite upstairs, heart hammering so hard you’re sure it’s visible through the lace bodice of your dress. Your mother’s veil—now shortened—falls in soft waves over your shoulders.
And when you catch your reflection, you almost don’t recognize yourself: eyes bright and cheeks flushed. You look so... happy.
Downstairs, Hotch stands beneath the arbor in a charcoal suit that fits him like it was invented for his shoulders (A/N: to the people who get this reference, I love you).
His hands are clasped behind his back to hide the slight tremor, but you can see it from the window, the way he keeps rocking forward on the balls of his feet, the way he can’t stop staring at the inn door like the moment you appear might be a dream he’s terrified of waking from.
Gideon—wearing an actual suit and tie for once—clears his throat at the head of the aisle, after your walk, and begins.
His voice is steadier than anyone expected until Hotch repeats “in sickness and in health,” and it cracks on the last word. Gideon’s eyes go glassy instantly; he has to pause, press his lips together, and fan himself with the printed vows like a southern belle.
A ripple of soft laughter moves through the guests, but no one’s eyes are left dry.
You reach for Hotch, and he takes your hands like they’re made of glass. His palms are warm, trembling just slightly, and the stunned, luminous smile never leaves his face during the entire night.
When Gideon finally says, 'You may kiss your bride,' Hotch doesn’t wait for the words to finish. He cups your face with both hands, rushing closer, thumbs brushing the corners of your mouth, and kisses you like he’s been starving for it.
It goes on long enough that his friend Rossi—you've met him once and heard the stories of the few cases the two had together before Rossi retired from the BAU—lets out a low, appreciative whistle.
And Andi Swan, the newest BAU agent, fans herself dramatically with her program, and Gideon throws his hands in the air with a triumphant “I told them to kiss eighteen months ago! You’re welcome, people!” And you know that that will be his go-to line when it comes to tales about the relationship he 'basically made possible'.
Hotch finally pulls back, but only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His eyes are shining.
“Hi, Mrs. Hotchner," he whispers against your lips.
"Hi, Mr. Hotchner," you whisper back, and the grin that breaks across his face is the same one he’ll wear in every photograph for the rest of your lives.
Behind you, forty people cheer, Ella keeps singing, and the mountains hold their breath, and you know—without a single doubt—that this is the moment every late-night bullpen, every shared highlighter, every quiet 'I’ve got you' was leading to all along.
You’re married.
And Aaron still looks like he can’t quite believe you said yes to him when he proposed.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
2003
Fairfax, Virginia
The search takes four months, forty-three open houses, and one near-breakup—not really, you were both being dramatic—over whether 'good bones' is real-estate speak for 'you’ll be sanding floors until you’re sixty.'
You’re both stubborn, both exhausted from cases—both promoted to the travel team one month apart—and both secretly terrified of choosing wrong, because this will be your sanctuary away from serial killers and psychopaths.
Then the realtor unlocks the gate at 127 Oakridge Lane, and you know the second the gravel crunches under your shoes, that this is it.
It’s a 1930s red-brick colonial set back from the street, white trim peeling just enough to feel loved instead of neglected. The wrap-around porch creaks under your weight in the most comforting way; a massive, hundred-year-old oak spreads its branches over the front yard like it’s been waiting for children who haven’t been born, yet.
Inside, the hardwood floors glow honey-gold in the late-afternoon, the fireplace still smells faintly of the last family’s Christmases, and the kitchen—God, the kitchen—has windows on three sides that turn the whole room into a sunlit heaven every morning.
You stand at the farmhouse sink—hands braced on the porcelain as you look into the backyard, imagining growing old here—when Hotch comes up behind you, arms sliding around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
“This one?” he asks quietly, like he’s afraid to jinx it.
You nod, throat tight. “This one.”
You close on a Thursday in May, sky so blue it hurts to look at. The moving truck is late, so the house is mostly echoing emptiness and stacked boxes labeled in Hotch's neat block letters and your chaotic scrawl.
Sunlight pours through the bare windows of your now-empty apartment, dust motes dancing like confetti.
Hotch scoops you up without warning, one arm under your knees, the other behind your back, and carries you over the threshold bridal style, even though your jeans are streaked with paint, and you’re both laughing too hard for it to be dignified.
The front door swings shut behind you with a solid, final click that feels like the house exhaling in welcome.
You don’t make it past the foyer before he’s kissing you against the wall, hands already tugging at the hem of your T-shirt, your legs wrapping around his waist like muscle memory.
Boxes topple somewhere down the hall; neither of you cares.
That night, you christen the kitchen island while the pizza you ordered goes cold on the porch, because you "forgot" to open the door when the delivery guy knocked.
The next morning, the sun wakes you in the master bedroom, pouring through east-facing windows you didn’t bother to curtain yet, and you make love on your mattress on the hardwood floor because the bed frame is still in pieces.
By Sunday, you’ve claimed the wide-plank stairs... twice, the claw-foot tub, the window seat in the library that overlooks the oak, and the backporch swing that squeaks in the most perfect rhythm.
Somewhere between the third and fourth room, Hotch starts laughing into your neck, breathless and delirious. “We’re going to need to buy furniture eventually,” he gasps.
You bite his shoulder, grinning. “Later. Much, much later.”
By the end of the first week, the house smells like coffee, fresh paint, and sex; every corner holds the echo of laughter and the imprint of two people finally, finally being home.
The oak tree shades the front yard like it’s keeping your secret, and every morning the kitchen windows flood the room with light.
You hang your mother’s lace curtains in the dining room first, just so the house knows it’s loved.
And every night, when Hotch pulls you into his chest in whatever room you’ve ended up in, he whispers the same thing against your hair:
“Welcome home, Mrs. Hotchner.”
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
2004 - 2005
The BAU is still small enough that every new face feels like it rearranges the gravity in the room.
Derek Morgan arrives first, in the spring of 2004, all swagger and leather jacket, straight from the Chicago PD. He shakes Hotch's hand a little too hard, like he’s testing whether the stories about the grumpy agent are true.
Gideon waits exactly one week before dragging him to the coffee station and launching into the tale of how he's the reason you're married today: the empty bullpen, the unbearable tension, the night he finally lost patience and bellowed, “Just kiss already.” And after that day, Morgan’s go-to greeting becomes a cheeky “Morning, Mama Hotch,” usually followed by him ducking whatever office supply you lob at the rascal's head.
Penelope Garcia blows in that summer like a glitter bomb, pink boa trailing behind her after Hotch manages to snatch the black queen away from the web of hackers interfering with government websites, and onto the team. Gideon barely lets her set down her bedazzled laptop in her tech cave before he’s steering her toward the round-table room, eyes gleaming.
Ten minutes later, she bursts out, finds you at your desk, and squeals so loudly the windows nearly rattle. “You’re the desk-neighbor soulmates! The sacred ‘kiss already’ origin story! I have shipped you since the academy rumor mill got to me a few weeks ago!” She throws her arms around you, then, without hesitation, around Hotch too, who's emerged from his—new—office next to Gideon's. He freezes mid-sentence, arms half-raised, before awkwardly patting her sequined shoulder. From that day on, she declares herself your joint fairy godmother and threatens to make couple T-shirts if she doesn't see you kiss, just once, before the year is over.
Thankfully, she does—although it's by hacking into the bullpen cameras and watching tape from the night before when you were both staying late, again.
Fall brings Spencer Reid and Jennifer Jareau within weeks of each other. Spencer is drowning in a cardigan two sizes too big, clutching three PhDs and the conviction that Gideon can read minds.
JJ is calm on the outside and vibrating on the inside, terrified of choosing the wrong photograph for the press packet. Gideon corners them together in the hallway on their very first day, blocking escape with his whole body, and delivers the performance of his life: sweeping gestures, pregnant pauses, the whole thing.
Spencer turns the color of a ripe tomato and starts reciting workplace-romance statistics under his breath. JJ just laughs, delighted, and by the end of the month, she’s slipping you lists of baby names “for future reference” with a perfectly straight face, because to her, babies are the most wonderful thing in the world.
Elle Greenaway is last, late 2005, striding in like she already owns the bullpen and everyone in it after helping the team on the Seattle strangler case. Gideon waits until she’s halfway through her first official BAU case file, then plants himself on the edge of her desk and launches into the now-legendary retelling—complete with slow-motion reenactment of his dramatic exit and a claim that the overhead lights flickered for cinematic effect.
Elle listens with one eyebrow arched, arms folded, then looks across the room at you and Hotch—who are pretending, very badly, not to hear any of this—and deadpans, “So your entire marriage is because an old man lost his patience?” Hotch mutters “Don’t encourage him” into his coffee, but the corner of his mouth betrays him.
By the third round, with every new hire, the story has grown mythic: wind machines that definitely do not exist, a single heroic tear rolling down Gideon’s cheek, the faint sound of angels singing when your lips finally met.
Each time he tells it, you and Hotch trade the same long-suffering glance across wherever you're standing together—the one that says we will never live this down and we don’t actually mind. Gideon catches the look every single time, grins like a proud, meddling father who knows exactly what he did, and keeps talking anyway.
Because the day he stops telling the story is the day he admits the team has outgrown him, and none of you—no one—is ready for that yet.
So you let him have it. You let them all have it. The whistles, the teasing, the running slideshow Garcia keeps threatening to present at the next holiday party.
You and Hotch just reach for the same highlighter—on purpose—like you’ve done for years, fingers brushing, and smile the tiny, secret smile of two people who know the real story is quieter, slower, and infinitely better than any legend Gideon could invent.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
September 2006
Exactly six years after you join the BAU. You’re both still raw from Oregon, a case that ended with a twelve-year-old girl alive and a father who will never come home.
You come back to your home hollow-eyed and quiet, sleeping in snatches, waking from nightmares you don’t talk about.
Two weeks later, you’re late. Not just late; late enough that your body feels foreign, breasts tender, exhaustion bone-deep in a way no case has ever managed.
You buy the test on your lunch break, hide it in your purse like contraband, and take it in the restroom on the third floor because you can’t wait the fifteen minutes to get home.
You sit on the closed toilet lid, timer on your phone ticking down three endless minutes, and when the second pink line appears, and you feel the world tilt sideways.
You drive home in a daze. Hotch is already there. He took the afternoon off after you texted, “Can you be home early?” with no explanation, worried that something was terribly wrong.
He’s in the kitchen in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, making coffee like it’s any other Tuesday.
You walk straight into his arms without a word. He stiffens for half a second, sensing the tremor in you, then folds you in tight.
“What is it?” he asks against your hair, voice low and treading carefully.
You pull the test from your pocket and press it into his hand.
He looks down. The little plastic window is face-up, two unmistakable lines staring back at him. His breath stops. You watch the color drain from his face, then flood back in a rush. He stares so long you start to worry.
“Aaron?”
He drops slowly, like someone cut his strings. One knee hits the tile, then the other, until he’s kneeling in front of you. His hands find your hips, tentative, reverent, and he presses his forehead to your stomach. The first sound he makes is half-laugh, half-sob, muffled against your shirt. Then the tears come, the same tears you saw the night he asked you to marry him, and the morning you said “I do.” He wraps his arms fully around your waist and holds on like you’re the only solid thing in the universe.
“We’re having a baby,” he whispers, voice cracking on every word. “We’re… God, we’re having a baby.”
You thread your fingers through his hair and let your own tears fall into it.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
May 23, 2007, 3:14 a.m.
Thirty-one hours of labor, twenty-eight of them back labor that leaves you sobbing into Hotch's shoulder, certain you can’t do this. He never leaves your side, phone turned off so the world can't disturb this perfect moment in his life, and never stops whispering “You’re so strong, I’ve got you, just one more,” even when his voice is hoarse, and his shirt is soaked with your sweat and tears.
At 2:56, the doctor says, “One more big push,” and you find strength you didn’t know you had. And Grace Hotchner comes out screaming, red-faced and perfect, a shock of dark hair plastered to her tiny head, your nose already visible in miniature form.
The nurse lifts her onto your chest, and Hotch's hands shake so violently that he almost can’t hold the scissors. When he finally cuts the cord, the snip sounds like the loudest thing in the world.
They place her on your chest; she's so, so small. She stops crying the instant she hears your heartbeat, tiny fist curling against your skin with a grip the nurse actually gasps at. “That’s the strongest newborn grasp I’ve ever felt,” she laughs, a little teary-eyed herself.
Hotch is crying openly now, leaning over the bed rail, one hand cradling your head, the other resting on Grace’s back like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go. His forehead presses to yours, tears mingling with yours.
“Hi, Gracie,” he whispers, voice raw. “Hi, baby girl.”
She blinks up at him with unfocused eyes and squeezes his index finger with that iron grip. Something in his face breaks open—wonder, terror, love, you can't pinpoint which it is, or if it's all at once. All you know is that you feel the exact same.
He doesn’t let go of either of you for the next forty-eight hours. He sleeps in the vinyl chair with Grace on his bare chest, skin-to-skin, her tiny breaths syncing with his.
When the nurses try to take her for routine checks, he follows, hovering like a Secret Service agent. He changes the first diaper with the concentration of someone who only just learned what a diaper is and cries again when she falls asleep on him mid-burp, mouth open, one fist tangled in his collar.
You watch them from the bed, exhausted and euphoric, and think: this is what the Oregon case took from that little girl’s father, and this is what we get to keep.
Grace Hotchner, eight pounds three ounces, the strongest grip in Fairfax County, and already wrapped impossibly tight around both your hearts.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
2010
You’re thirty-eight, and Hotch is forty-five. Grace is two weeks shy of three, obsessed with dinosaurs and convinced she’s going to be a paleontologist-slash-princess when she grows up.
One Sunday night, you’re both in the kitchen cleaning after she's been put to bed, you washing sippy cups, Hotch drying, the house quiet except for the soft hum of the dishwasher.
You catch him watching you over the rim of his coffee mug, as he pauses to take a sip, that familiar, thoughtful look in his eyes.
“We should give her a sibling,” you say, before you lose your nerve.
He sets the mug down very carefully. “You sure?”
“I’m sure I don’t want her to be an only child. And I’m sure I want another one who looks like you.”
He crosses the kitchen in two strides, cups your face, and kisses you like the conversation is already settled.
It is.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
In late 2010, labor starts... politely... at least for the first twelve hours, then turns vicious.
Contractions come hard and all over the place, and progress stalls at seven centimeters.
Grace had been fast; this baby is stubborn as hell. Thirty hours in, your blood pressure spikes, the fetal heart monitor starts its frantic dance on the monitor, and the room fills with quiet and urgent voices.
The OB says the words no one wants to hear: emergency C-section.
They wheel you down the hall under the bright hospital lights that make your head spin. Hotch walks beside the gurney in paper scrubs, one hand wrapped around yours so tightly your fingers go numb.
His face is pale, jaw locked, but his voice never wavers as he keeps reassuring you, even though you can tell he's terrified. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart. I’ve got you. We’re almost there.” He chants it over and over, like a prayer.
In the OR, the spinal takes forever to kick in; you’re shaking, terrified, tears leaking sideways into your hair. Hotch sits by your head, forehead pressed to yours behind the drape, still whispering the same words against your temple.
When the pressure starts, it feels strange, impersonal, like someone rummaging in your insides, without you feeling anything at all. His grip tightens, and he counts every second out loud with the anesthesiologist.
At 3:19 a.m., you hear it: the thin, furious wail of a newborn who is deeply offended by the cold sterility of the OR. The doctor lifts him over the curtain. He's tiny, red, fists pumping like he’s ready to fight the world already.
Benjamin Hotchner, seven pounds eleven ounces, a shock of black hair sticking straight up, just like his sister, and lungs that clearly work perfectly.
They clean him, swaddle him, and place him on your chest while they’re still stitching you up. He’s warm and a little slippery.
His eyes blink open and fix on you with startling intensity—just like his dad staring down an unsub, you think to yourself.
You start crying so hard that the nurse has to steady him in your arms.
Hotch leans over both of you, taking over for the nurse standing beside you, one big hand cradling Ben’s entire back, the other stroking your hair. His voice is wrecked. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known,” he whispers against your temple, lips brushing the skin there again and again as he kisses you, like he can’t stop. “Thank you. God, thank you. For giving me so much!”
In the afternoon, the hospital room is quiet except for the soft beep of monitors and the squeak of your bed when you shift. Hotch is asleep in the recliner pulled up next to your bedside, still in his scrubs, Ben is asleep on your chest under the hospital blanket, tiny fist curled around the necklace Hotch gifted you after Grace was born—You kept telling him that he didn't have to, that it was way too expensive, but he had insisted that not even diamonds could do justice telling you just how much he loves you.
The door creaks open slowly. Grace pads in, wearing her dinosaur pajamas and light-up sneakers with Garcia in tow, hair a wild halo from hanging out with the entire team, and most likely sleeping, flopped against them like a lazy little cat.
She climbs up the bed rail like a monkey, eyes huge.
You brace for jealousy, for tears, for anything, not knowing how a child should react to no longer being an only child.
Instead, she leans over, studies her brother with grave three-year-old seriousness, then looks at you.
“He’s cute,” she announces in her bossiest big-sister voice. “Can we keep him?”
Hotch wakes at the sound, and his daughter bracing her feet on his thigh to lean even further over the bedside. His eyes are bleary and soft as he comes to.
You meet his gaze over Grace’s head, both of you starting to laugh, tears streaming again because the relief is too big to fit inside normal emotions.
“Yeah, baby,” Hotch says, voice thick from sleep. He reaches out with the arm closest to Grace and pulls her into his arms. “We’re keeping him.”
Grace lays her head on his shoulder, sticks her—slightly sticky, you never get used to how quickly kids get sticky—hand out for you while curled into her dad's side. You take it at the same time as Ben stretches his tiny arms with a yawn too big for a newborn body.
And just like that, your family of three becomes four. One exhausted, stitched-up mom, one slightly stunned and besotted dad, one very proud big sister, and one brand-new human who already has all of you wrapped around his perfect, furious little fist.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
Life settles into a rhythm, as the kids grow older, so steady it almost feels unreal.
5:45 a.m.
The alarm never gets the chance to go off. Hotch is already sliding out of bed, careful not to jostle you, pressing a kiss to your temple, forehead, whatever part of your face is closest to his lips as he wakes.
He’s done it every morning without fail since Grace was born.
You hear the soft pad of his feet down the hall, the creak of the third stair, the low hiss of the coffee maker starting, before he comes back upstairs to get dressed. Ten minutes later, the scent of coffee drifts upstairs, and you smile into the pillow because it means the day has officially begun, and he’s still taking care of you first.
6:30 a.m.
The peace lasts exactly forty-five minutes. Then the thundering of small feet announces Hurricane Grace. She bursts through the bedroom door like her only mission is to create a Grace-shaped hole in the middle, hair wild from sleep, wearing mismatched princess pajamas—because she can never decide which pair to wear.
“MOM!!!!! I need triceratops pancakes, and I need them NOW.” Ben is half a step behind, dragging his—once blue—stuffed elephant that Auntie JJ gave him, it's now gray and threadbare by one ear, rubbing his eyes with a chubby fist.
Hotch emerges from the hallway and scoops them both up in one motion, one under each arm, and carries them downstairs, pretending to be a caveman who just found his next meal, while they squeal and kick.
You follow more slowly, tying your robe, already smiling at the chaos.
The kitchen is pure chaos.
Hotch is at the stove, flipping dinosaur-shaped pancakes you once made the mistake of buying from the frozen aisle in the grocery store, and now is the only breakfast food the kids will eat.
Grace is perched on the counter, “helping” by pouring half a bag of chocolate chips directly onto the pan—she's chocolate coating them, if you ask her.
Ben stands on a chair, banging the spatula like it’s a drum solo in between Hotch needing it to flip the pancakes. There are banana chunks on the floor. There’s syrup in someone’s hair. And Hotch meets your eyes over the chaos and mouths 'coffee' or 'Help me'; somehow, the two look dangerously similar when mouthed from afar.
You hand him a mug with one hand and steal a kiss with the other.
7:15 a.m.
Shoes, backpacks, lunchboxes, the eternal hunt for the left sparkly sneaker.
You and Hotch move like a well-oiled SWAT team. He buckles Ben into the car seat while you braid Grace’s hair in the driveway, both of you trading kids mid-sentence:
'Don’t forget show-and-tell!'
'He has swim diapers in the blue bag!'.
Drop-offs are a blur. Grace sprints into school, shouting goodbye without looking back; Ben clings to Hotch's leg until the preschool teacher peels him off with promises of play-dough.
You watch Hotch crouch to Ben’s level, smooth his hair, kiss the top of his head, and something in your chest still flips every single time.
Then it’s the two of you in the car, Quantico-bound, hands linked over the console, debriefing the morning like it’s your version of foreplay now—which honestly, it's starting to be.
Who has the 9:00 a.m. consult, who’s picking up dry cleaning, whether Garcia can babysit Friday night so you can finally have some mommy and daddy time.
He still traces idle circles on the inside of your wrist at red lights.
You still feel it everywhere.
Evenings
Soccer fields, dance studios, and the occasional emergency room visit for split chins or swallowed Lego pieces.
You sit shoulder-to-shoulder on tiny bleachers as often as you can—which is nearly a perfect score still, except for one game where you were on a case.
Hotch's arm drapes along the back of your seat, fingers playing with the ends of your hair while Grace scores her first goal and Ben cheers so loud he falls off the bottom row.
Recitals mean Hotch in a suit outside of work with glitter in his hair because Grace insisted on doing his makeup backstage. You keep the photo on your desk forever.
The kids love every time he's "forced" to wear a suit outside of work, because he looks so sad, they once told you. Which, first of all... evil. And second, you love, because the tiny demons don't know that he's pretending to be miserable and secretly loves dressing up for stuff with them.
After bedtime—two stories, three drinks of water, one monster check under the bed—the house finally quiets. You spread case files across the kitchen table like you once spread them across bullpen desks and floors, only now there are crayon drawings mixed in with crime-scene photos and a half-eaten dinosaur pancake on a plate nearby.
Hotch sits beside you, tie gone, sleeves rolled, reading glasses low on his nose. His hand finds your knee under the table, the same way it has since 2001.
Sometimes you work until 2 a.m.; sometimes you abandon the files entirely and end up slow-dancing in sock feet to whatever’s playing in the radio, foreheads pressed together, swaying more than dancing.
The team folds into your life like they were always meant to be there.
Penelope shows up on Saturday mornings with rainbow sprinkles and her laptop, teaching eight-year-old Grace how to code her own choose-your-own-adventure game while you and Hotch sneak a nap on the couch.
Morgan spends an entire blistering July weekend in your backyard building Ben the most elaborate treehouse known to man—complete with a tire swing and a rope ladder.
He teaches Ben to throw a perfect spiral, and you later try to teach him to stop aiming at Morgan’s head.
Reid reads bedtime stories in English, Spanish, and—once, memorably—Latin, when Ben requests “the dragon one with the big words.”
He still blushes every Thanksgiving when Gideon—retired now, but omnipresent in your lives—launches into the “kiss already” saga with new embellishments like a crazy old man; lightning flashes, swelling orchestral music, the whole works.
Reid hides behind his pie; Grace and Ben chant “Tell it again, Grandpa Gideon!” until Hotch threatens to revoke pie privileges for the entire table.
Years later, when the kids are old enough to ask why Uncle Spencer turns red every holiday, you’ll just smile and say, “Ask your father—he was there.”
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
2015
Mateo Cruz accepts the Deputy Director position on a Wednesday. By Friday afternoon, the Director’s office has made it official: you’re the new Section Chief.
The announcement email goes out at 4:17 p.m.; the bullpen erupts in cheers loud enough to rattle the windows. Hotch pretends to scowl from his office doorway, arms folded, muttering, 'Great, now I have to salute my own wife,' but the corner of his mouth keeps betraying him, because he couldn't be prouder of you.
You stay late for the ceremonial handover, shaking hands, signing the last of the paperwork that makes it real. And when you finally pull the car into the garage, it’s past 10:00 p.m., the house is dark except for the porch light, which Grace still insists on leaving for the 'porch fairies'—you'd hoped she would outgrow it by not, because it brings the electrical bill up by unnecessary amounts.
Hotch is waiting just inside the mudroom door, jacket off, sleeves rolled high, tie already loosened like he’s been pacing, not caring to change out of his work clothes yet.
The second the door clicks shut behind you, he’s on you.
One step, two, a lot of steps, and your back meets the bedroom door before you even realize you made it upstairs.
The new brass nameplate on your credentials folder digs into your palm; he plucks it from your fingers and tosses it onto the dresser without looking.
His hands slide up your sides, under your blazer, pushing it off your shoulders and letting it drop to the floor.
“Section Chief Hotchner,” he says, voice low and rough, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to say that?”
You start to laugh, but it turns into a gasp when he presses you harder against the door, mouth finding the spot just below your jaw that still makes your knees weak after all these years.
His stubble scrapes; his fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head back so he can kiss down the column of your throat he’s mapped a thousand times and somehow never gets tired of.
“Aaron... the kids—”
"They're with Will and JJ," he quickly answers before he continues. "My boss,” he growls against your pulse point, and the possessive, reverent way he says it sends heat flooding straight through you. “Say it.”
You’re already breathless. “I outrank you now, Unit Chief.”
He makes a sound that’s half-laugh, half-groan and kisses you properly then. His tongue slides against yours like he’s been thinking about this all day. One hand splays across the small of your back, the other cups your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheekbone with that same stunned tenderness he had the night he proposed.
You fist your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left, until the only thing in the universe is the heat of his body and the way he keeps murmuring “my boss, my boss” like a prayer between kisses.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and curved in a grin that’s pure mischief and pride.
“Bed! Section Chief,” he says, voice gravel-rough. “That’s an order from your subordinate.”
You laugh and let him push you down on the bed.
Turns out outranking one Agent Hotchner has some very compelling perks.
And he spends the entire night proving he’s more than happy to follow your orders.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The team has made it official without ever actually voting.
You are Mom.
Hotch is Dad.
There is no escaping it.
It starts small.
Penelope bursts into the bullpen at 2 a.m. with new surveillance footage and yells, “Mom, Dad, you’re gonna want to see this!” She freezes, horrified, but you and Hotch are too tired to correct her, so you just wave her over.
From that day on, the nicknames stuck.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
Grace is thirteen, all long limbs and sarcasm and her father’s intense eyes. Ben is ten, fearless, missing two front teeth, and convinced Uncle Spencer can actually talk to aliens.
The house is loud and messy and perfect: drawings taped to the fridge next to family photos, Hotch's running shoes by the door next to Grace’s cleats, your wedding photo on the mantel between Ben’s first-grade portrait and a framed newspaper clipping of your promotion with the headline “BAU Power Couple Still Unstoppable.”
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
Reid skids into your office holding two mugs. “Mom, I made you coffee exactly the way you like it because Dad said if I didn’t, he’d make me redo all the geographic profiles from the last ten cases.”
You take the coffee without looking up from the budget report you’re murdering. “Tell Dad his threat worked.”
JJ corners Hotch in the hallway. “Dad, Grace texted me—she got accepted early decision to Georgetown. She wanted you to hear it from family first.” Hotch's eyes instantly go soft and watery; JJ pats his arm like she’s done this a hundred times—she has.
Tara is presenting when Luke raises his hand.
“Question for Mom: Can we get approval for the extra surveillance hours?”
You don’t even blink anymore. “Ask Dad, he controls the budget this quarter.”
Hotch, without looking up from his tablet: “Approved, but only if you two stop calling us that in front of the Director.”
Everyone, in perfect unison: “Yes, Dad.”
Emily—who swore she would never—slips once on a case in Kansas City: “Dad, the ME’s office is stonewalling us.”
Aaron just sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I will call them. Again.”
Garcia over comms during a tense takedown: “Be careful, children, Mom and Dad are watching, and we do NOT want the lecture if someone gets shot.”
You and Hotch exchange the weary, fond look of parents whose kids just said “shit” in front of the neighbors.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
Some nights, when the kids are asleep and the house is quiet, you and Hotch sit on the porch swing you installed the year Ben was born. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulls you into his side, and you watch the stars come out over the same oak tree that shaded your first family photos.
“Still think Gideon was right to yell at us?” you ask, tracing the wedding ring you’ve worn for eighteen years now.
Hotch laughs and presses a kiss to your temple.
“Best thing he ever did.”
And you sit there, two kids asleep inside, careers that have saved lives countless of times and broken your hearts in equal measure, a house that always smells faintly of coffee and children, and you know—without doubt, without hesitation—that every late night, every loss, every terrifying leap brought you exactly here.
Home.
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
Grace and Ben think the whole mom and dad thing is hilarious.
Grace, now eighteen, texts the BAU group chat from college: “Tell Dad that Grandpa Rossi's carbonara recipe is trending on TikTok and people are calling Dad the ‘Hot FBI Dad’.”
≻──────────────⋆✩⋆──────────────≺
The team is sprawled across their desks after closing another case, this one a little too brutal, even for them.
You and Hotch are the last to pack up, as always.
Penelope yawns, slings her bag over her shoulder, and calls out: “Night, Mom. Night, Dad. Don’t stay too late making out on the conference table.”
Morgan, Reid, Tara, Luke, and JJ chorus “Night, Mom and Dad!” as they file out.
Hotch waits until the elevator doors close, then looks over at you, deadpan.
“We’re never living this down, are we?”
You hook your arm through his, lean your head on his shoulder as you walk toward the elevators.
“Nope. And honestly? I kinda love it.”
He presses the down button, then drops a kiss to the top of your head.
“Me too... Mom.”
You elbow him in the ribs. He laughs and pulls you into the elevator.
The doors close on the two of you, Section Chief and Unit Chief, Mom and Dad, twenty-four years after Gideon yelled at you to kiss already, still stupidly and perfectly in love.
summary: A case calls for you to go undercover, as a stripper. luckily, it would just be the two of you saving your dignity with the rest of the team. unluckily, you have a huge crush on him.
warnings: MDNI, 18+, PIV, VERY LIGHT dom! hotch, light teasing, nipple fondling, boss x employee, stripping, typical cm violence, reader! gets strangled, shitty stripping vocab.
wc:4k
It was always you. The last thing you wanted to do was join the BAU, but Strauss had pulled rank and tried to get you to be a puppet for her rage against Agent Hotchner.
But now you were about to walk out onto a stage, in the world’s tiniest bikini that was bedazzled to the max, the red gems glittering in the light. The pleaser strap is tight around your ankle, rubbing against the bone on the side as you rock back and forth waiting for the curtains in front of you to pull open.
“Fuck my life.” You whisper under your breath, hands shaking your nerves out the ends of your fingers.
The curtains slide open and the music you’d requested stared to pour through the speakers. Your gaze sweeps the room looking for the target, he’s there exactly where you’d profiled, front row, ready to ply you with money.
Your hand wraps near the top of the pole and your feet leave the ground, spinning around the pole and swaying your feet.
He’d already started to throw some dollars onto the stage, and you see Hotch at the bar, drink in hand heading over to the stage.
You slam down onto the floor, legs splayed in the splits. He throws more dollars, landing near your legs and you start a floor routine. On all fours you rock to the beat and crawl to the side of the stage the unsub was sat at. You end up shaking your ass in his direction with a quick glance over to Hotch, he was doing everything but looking at you on the stage.
Moving back to the pole, you twist yourself around it, spinning around and catching the light. Your legs push you up the pole, doing the walk around the pole again, swinging yourself up and holding yourself upside down.
You’re on the floor again, in the splits and shaking you ass again, flipping your hair you look to him again, still not watching. However the unsub was showering you in dollars.
Leaning back on your forearms, bringing your heels together with a loud bang. It catches his attention and he finally looks at you, and you widen your eyes.
Luckily, he gets the hint and starts to also throw money in your direction and now it’s his turn to have your ass in his direct eye line.
Refusing to meet his eyes you keep them firmly planted on the unsub who was ticking, hating that you were showing attention to other men.
He coaxes you forward with a wagging finger and you crawl across the stage towards him.
“Can I pay for a private room?” His smile is wide, flashing his wallet and you nod.
“Of course.” You point towards the bouncer, “He will set it up for you, I have to finish my dance.”
And you do. A mix of pole and floor routine and you try to ignore Hotch but you can’t help it. The red light made his jawline look sharper, and his eyebrows look darker. It was clenched and his eyebrows were furrowed, hands gripping the edge of the leather chair. His slacks were pulled tight across his lap as he plants his feet firmly on the floor.
You feel like you’re on fire every time he looks at you, it’s just him watching you closely so you have no excuse for what you do next.
Sliding off the stage you end up stood in between his spread legs, bending over you shake your ass, bringing it down, hovering directly above him.
You feel the strap of your thong lift off, then flicked back down with some rolled up money underneath. It has a tangy sting as it hits your skin.
“Be careful.” He whispers, hand swiping your hair to the side. “I’ll be watching on the cameras, and I definitely pissed him off.”
With that you nod, the music stops and you climb back on the stage as the DJ sends you off, “That was Kitty, she’s new and will be back on the stage later tonight.” You blow a kiss to the club, bending down to scrape all of the money off of the stage, someone in the back whistles.
Rushing off the stage, you dump the money in the dressing room, the other girls getting ready to go on.
“I’d put that in your bucket or someone will pick at it like a crow.” One of the girls calls over her shoulder, mascara wand in hand.
“Keep it, share it between yourselves.” You shrug, almost running through the corridors, slowing when the black suit catches your eye, hunched over the monitors with some of the security guys.
“What’s the signal?” He jumps slightly at your intrusion, turning on his heels and a light cough escapes his throat.
“Three fingers, scouts honour.” He holds them up, his eyes firmly planted on your face, but he can’t help but let his eyes rake down your body. He didn’t even know they made bikinis that small.
“Alright.” You take a long breath in and out, wringing your hands out, “I’ll get him to confess.” You nod, determined and you set off to the private room.
“Man, I couldn’t work with that.” The security guy snorts, a long whistle accompanies it. A cold glare from Hotch silences him, “Right.”
A bouncer leads you to the room, and opens the door for you, shutting it behind you and you give a sheepish wave to the unsub.
“Hey handsome, so before we start i’ve got to go over the rules, just policy.” You start, sitting down on the plush couch next to him. “So you get thirty minutes which you’ve already paid for and once that time is up, Tony will come in and let you know we’re done. At that point you can pay for an additional thirty minutes if you’re not done. No touching, only looking.” You smile sweetly at him, “Apart from the contact I make with you obviously.”
You hide behind your hair slightly, an airy giggle fills the room and you click play on the stereo. It’s a slow melody, quieter than normal so the bug hidden behind the couch could pick up the audio.
“So what do you do for work?” You ask, straddling his lap, flicking your hair off of your shoulders.
“I work in an office, I’m a lawyer.” It was a lie, you held back the deep eye roll that you wanted to unleash. Instead, you nod and gasp.
“No way! That’s so cool.” Your fingers play with the hair on the back of his neck, “You must make so much money.”
“I mean, I was throwing it at ya.” He winks, the bravado making your stomach churn.
“Thank you, you made the night for sure.” Turning around you sit on his lap, “Works boring,” You shrug. “What do you do for fun?” Biting your lip and glancing over your shoulder.
“Come to places like these.” His hands come to the back of his head, leaning back, spreading his legs more.
“I better be your favourite huh, Josephine’s is the best!” You drop to the splits and move to the pole, doing simple tricks and spins. Enough to keep his attention on you.
“It’s my favourite right now.” You’re back on his lap, grinding lightly.
You let out a mock gasp, “Have you heard about all those girls going missing? I’m so scared to come to work.” You hope and pray he takes the bait, so you can put some full clothes on. “What if it’s me next, yaknow.”
“You’re safe with me, sweetheart.”
“I bet the guy is such a loser, gets no girls or anything. Thinks the stripper is in love with him.” You snort, still on his lap. The muscles in his jaw twitch, and his fingers crick against the leather as he grips the edge of the seat.
“Probably never had a girl even look his way,” You roll your eyes, “Too ugly, bet his face is all crooked.” His leg bounces beneath you.
“Small dick too.” That you were right about, feeling a rather disappointing bulge in your lap, more like a cocktail sausage.
You don’t even see him move, but she’s squeezing the tops of your arms hard, fingers bruising your skin.
“Fuck you bitch!” You knew they had to wait, for him to either admit to the murders or to try and murder you.
It looked like the latter. He’d shoved you against the wall, the tips of your shoes skirting against the wooden floors. His forearm pressed on your throat and your eyes dip down, the tattoo that a witness had described front and centre. The vines climbing up towards your chin.
You’d had enough, knee coming up between his, planting into his balls hard and he stumbles back from you, hand coming back to steady himself as he scrunches to the floor.
Finally, the door swings open. Hotch storms in first, gun drawn and handcuffs ready to go. He throws the unsub to the ground, the metal clinking around his wrists and being hauled out by the security guard.
“Are you ok?” His hand hits your bare shoulder and your head snaps up to him, still bent over and catching your breath.
“I’m fine.” Your voice is hoarse, and you nod.
“I’m sorry, we had to wait.” His thumb smooths over your skin and a trail of goosebumps appears in its wake. Your words are caught in your throat, unable to form a coherent sentence without an embarrassing squeak. “You must be cold.”
Shrugging off his blazer, he drapes it over your shoulders and you finally stand upright. It hurts a bit to swallow, and your back presses against the padded wall. "Thank you." You smile at him, the ever present furrow in his brow still there.
"You have to get checked out by the paramedics." He's back to business, back to the hard ass boss, as if you weren't basically grinding on him not even an hour earlier.
His cool stare shocks you back into reality. He was you boss, he didn't want you on his team, and you were basically naked. Quickly, you wrap his jacket around you, covering you down to mid thigh. "I'll get changed and meet you out front."
The girls in the back stare at you like you're an alien.
"You're like a spy?" One of them questions, mouth hanging open.
"No, I work for the FBI. I'm a profiler." You smile, digging around in your duffle bag for your clothes, sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. Pulling it over your head you lean back in the chair and another one of the girls appear behind you.
"So did you like save our lives."
"Not exactly." You smile, the sweatpants now covering your legs.
"But he would have tried to kill us?" She questions, hands panted on your shoulders, and handing you a makeup wipe.
"Maybe." You shrug.
Its an ambush of hugs then, all of them descend on you covering you in hugs and thanks. They each thank you intensely, one of them even crying lightly.
"So who was the guy that was with you, is he FBI too?" The girl, Diamond, had pulled up a chair as you wipe the glitter from your face.
"Yeah, he's my boss." You glance to his blazer that you had folded and put on the vanity.
The look they all exchange makes your cheeks burn red. "You gave your boss, a lap dance" She giggles, hand flipping through the money you had given to them.
"It wasn't a-" You try to reason, a puff leaving your nose and your head shaking violently.
"It so was." She exclaims, a loud laugh coming from her. "But don't worry it looked like he was having a good time, the veins in his neck looked like they were about to explode. So I'd say he wants to be a lot more than your boss."
You gaze at her in the mirror, long slow blinks as you puff out a long breath. "Have you ever considered becoming a profiler?"
"Have you ever considered becoming a stripper?" She fires back, "You pulled more money than most of us do."
"Been there done that." You laugh, standing up and flinging your duffle over your shoulder. "However, your profile is wrong. The tight neck muscles indicate that he was uncomfortable with me being sat on his lap."
With that, you hold up a hand in a wave and leave out of the back entrance. Heels in hand and you see the SUV waiting directly at the end of the alley.
"You need to get checked out." Hotch says as you as you climb into the car, the door slamming behind you.
"I'll go before we get on the jet tomorrow."
The drive to the hotel was deadly silent, each second ticking by one by one. You could hear the crackle of the gravel under the wheels as the town flew by, unable to look at him directly. Diamonds words echoing in you mind.
The hotel was seedy and cheap, slightly yellow walls and a funky smell that hung around. He hands you your key card without a word, nodding you wander away, waving behind you. Your limbs are heavy as you buzz the door open, flopping face down on the bed. Feet flying up and then tucking them under yourself.
Finding the remote on the side table and you actually take a look around the room. The fading wallpaper is floral and has some weird stains that had no explanation, the bedding at least looked clean and the small desk in the corner looked rickety as if it would fall if you placed anything on it.
The shitty tv show you had picked filled the silence as you lie back on the bed, staring at the.. peeling ceiling. Then a knock rings out, and you groan silently but trudging over to the door anyway. You'd assumed it was Derek or Emily coming to see how you got on.
"Oh." The surprised sound comes from you. It's Hotch, no longer in the suit you had become so familiar with. He's in a plain white t-shirt, and some blue checked bottoms.
"Can I come in?" He asks and you nod, stepping to the side so he can move in. The door clicks closed. He doesn't say anything, just looks.
You shake your head. "Oh sorry, did you want your jacket?" You scurry to your duffle, pulling it out of the bag and outstretching your hand.
He takes it but shakes his head. "I came to check on you." He motions for you to sit on the edge of the bed and you do, feel kicking slightly. The bed dips he joins you on the edge, your hands hanging in your lap. "I'm going to check on your neck." It's not a request, and you don't want to make him hate you more so you tip your head back giving him access to your throat.
His fingers press lightly on your neck, first closer to the edge. No pain comes from that. Then closer and closer to the middle and then onto your windpipe. His breath fans across your face, and you make eye contact for the first time since you planted yourself in his lap ass first.
You take a sharp inhale and it hisses through your teeth and he keeps prodding. "Ow." You say flatly, yanking away from his fingers.
"It'll bruise."
"Well done Sherlock, I wouldn't have guessed that." You roll your eyes and that cold, unmoving expression is back. "Look I'm sorry, I get it It's awkward." You sigh, "You don't want me on the team, Strauss forced you to take me on, I'm a relatively bad profiler, inexperienced. The last thing you want is a lap dance from me."
You stand, walking slowly to the window. Tucking your hands behind you, staring at the rather unimpressive sight of the carpark and a singular dying tree.
The warmth from him hits you first as he appeared behind you, you didn't hear him make his way across the room, surprisingly light on his feet.
“I’m sorry if I haven’t been, welcoming.” His voice is deep and you’re sure your knees almost buckle under you. “I apologise, Strauss has been known to come for my team, our team.”
“I know, she thought I’d give her ammo if she promoted me higher than I ever should have gotten.” You focus on your feet, too scared to turn around, he takes a step back.
“You’re a good agent, tonight you proved that.” His tone is softer than what you’re used to ordering you around in the field, so you turn around.
“Thank you.” Your cheeks burn at the compliment, and your teeth clench to your lip, tasting your cherry lip balm.
You guys stand there for a beat, neither making an effort to leave the others presence.
“And you know, as far lap dances go, it was great.” With that the both of you burst out into laughter doubling over and grabbing your stomach.
“I couldn’t tell by the money you shoved in my underwear.” You giggled, shaking your head, “And that’s me rusty, imagine with some practice.” You joke, but then you hear the words outside of yourself and advert your eyes away from him.
“I think that would end up being a problem for HR.”
You stare at him in disbelief, mouth open and eyes wide, a thick swallow that slightly hurts your throat makes you grimace.
“Do you know how unfair it is,” He steps foreward, “For me to have to focus on anything but you.” Another step, “And then to have to watch you climb all over him in that bikini, that you’re still wearing now.” Another step and he’s directly in front of you. His finger finds his way under the shoulder of your shirt and pings the strap again.
“Jesus.” You whisper, sighing. “I’m glad you liked it.” Your eyes search his and the corner of your mouth ticks up. “If it’s any comfort, it was all for you.”
His lips are on yours as he grips the sides of your face, pulling you up to his lips. They’re softer than you’d imagined, not that you’d been imagining it. Arms snaking around his neck, pressing yourself against him. His fiddle with the hem of your top, pulling it up over your head. Pausing the kissing to drag his eyes down your torso.
“How much did this cost?” His hands circle your waist and lead you backwards to the squeaky bed in the middle of the room.
“I think if you bring it up to Rossi, he might try and strangle me.” You giggle, and the backside of your knees hit the sheets.
He doesn’t find it amusing. “I think we’ve had enough strangling for the night.”
“Right, right.” The smile on your face is unmissable. “Maybe another night.” You wink.
The growl that pools in the bottom of his throat hits your ears and a hand hooks under one of your knees, the other at your waist and throwing you back onto the bed. You bounce and hold yourself up on your elbows.
You bring your feet together again, no heels this time and he yanks off his own shirt. Throwing it to the growing pile of clothes. Your eyes rake over his bare chest and your lip finds home in between my teeth. The way he crawls over you is predatory, eyes dark like you were about to be his last meal.
“You drive me crazy.” He kisses the side of your neck, fingers stroking the rhinestones on the bra.
“I thought you hated me.” Your fingers dig into his shoulder muscles, they’re bigger than they look under the suit.
“Does it feel like I hate you?” He grabs your wrist, guiding it to his cock. The bulge very present in his pyjama bottoms.
“No.”
He chuckles at that, diving back into your neck, kissing down to your boobs. Sucking on the swell of one, leaving a red mark in his wake. The cups of the bra get yanked down and your tits spill out, nipples peaked up to attention.
One gets surrounded by the warmth of his mouth, the other pinched gently in between the pads of his fingers. His tongue circles it, making your back leave the springy mattress in an arch.
He pulls off with a pop, now moving his attention to sliding your sweatpants down your legs. He yanks you forwards by your ankles, face to face with the wet spot on the matching thong.
“I’m tasting this next time.” The buckle of his belt clinks as it hits the floor and his slacks go with them in a crumple. Your face flushes at the thought of a next time.
Grabbing your hips he flips you onto all fours, leaning down and pressing a kiss to one of your asscheeks.
Ruffling through your go bag, you hand him a roll of condoms.
“That’s a lot of condoms.” He snorts.
“Hey! You never know, and see they’re useful.” You bite back, looking over your shoulder.
“Oh, so you’ve thought of it.” He smirks, a light smack hitting your ass where he’d kissed previously.
“I didn’t say tha-.” You’re cut off by him pulling your thong to the side, and his tip nudging inside of you, then the rest of the thickness long after.
Your forehead hits the sheets, and he drags out of you to the tip then all shoving back in at once. The strangled noise that squeaks from you is muffled by the sheets. The head of his cock hits your g-spot every deep, hard thrust that he pumps into you.
“What was that?” He questions as he bottoms out again, hands gripping your hips and bringing you back against him.
“Ah fuck.” Your hands grip the sheets, pulling them up slightly.
He chuckles again, setting into a pace that knocks the breath out of your lungs every single thrust as your hands struggle to keep you up. Fucking into you at a rough pace, ragged gasps leave him as he sneaks his hand under you, grabbing one of your tits as he leans over you, caging you in.
His breath his warm on the shell of your ear, the shift of position making him deeper inside you than before, and your eyes roll back.
You bounce back, meeting each of his thrusts with a press of your ass and the deep groan that erupts from him, eggs you on, matching his rhythm.
Your breathing gets laboured and your knuckles turn white, the pressure building up in your middle at each scrape of him hitting that spongy place inside you.
His fingers slide down your middle, two of them hitting your clit and dragging light circles over it.
“Aaron!” You cry out, never having called him by his full name, his fingers circling faster makes that band inside of you snap. A long winded whine disappearing into the mattress.
He becomes erratic as you cum, the vice like grip throbbing around him. With one last deep thrust, he stills and spills into the condom, panting into your ear.
It’s still for a moment as you both catch your breath, then pulling out, tying the condom off and it thumps into the bin.
He moves around the room quickly, passing your clothes over, turning around as you pull off the rhinestone bikini.
“You just fucked me, you don’t have to turn around when I get changed.” You laugh and pat the bed next to you.
“Strauss is going to have my head.” He states, leaning against the headboard, still shirtless.
“Your head! I’m supposed to be the plant, I think she’d kill me personally.” You laugh.
“I won’t let her do that you know.” He’s serious again, all semblance of a joke gone. “You have a permanent spot on this team.”
“Thank you, Aaron.” You tuck a strand of rouge hair behind your ear, and your head hits his shoulder.
-
join the taglist here!
taglist: @jakiki94 @Michasia24
an: This is kinda shit so sorry about that, just being horny on main because i need that old man.
summary: you're forced to share a hotel room with your boss, gasp! based on this request!
warnings: smut!!! unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), lots of sex jokes, at least 4k words of build up and sexual tension because i was #ovulating, strip poker, hotch almost jizzes in his pants at the sight of your boobs, this fic is baso me spreading the pathetic!hotch agenda, like he’s so desperate and touch starved in this it’s not even funnyyy, overstimulation, creampie, alcohol consumption, r has hair long enough to tug
wc: 8.7k
✰ masterlist
You taste metal before you realise you’ve bitten too far. A stinging telegram from skin you’ve been gnawing at since you got into the car. It’s a habit you never quite managed to break, surrendering crescents of yourself to restless teeth.
“Quit that,” Hotch says, cutting you a quick sideways glance. It’s meant to be a reprimand, but there’s no real bite in it, only the bite of your own teeth on your nails.
You drop your hands into your lap like a guilty child.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, making a turn onto the main road.
“You think I’m biting my nails because I’m hungry?”
“No. I know you only bite your nails when you’re overthinking. And I know you’re more inclined to talk when you’re not running on an empty stomach.”
You glance out the passenger window, taking notice of the rain that has thickened since you bolted to the car. The prison is already a smear in the rear-view mirror, tucked so far into nowhere it feels less like an institution and more like a secret earth is ashamed of. You imagine its architects deciding it should be placed where even guilt would have trouble finding it.
“There’s a diner about half an hour up the road,” he tries again. “Good coffee. Bad pie.”
You consider it, and on any other night you’d say yes without thinking, like you’ve done countless times before. But you remember that tonight, you’re not heading home. You’re heading back to the hotel room you’re sharing with your boss. The same four beige walls that felt far too small last night.
You hadn’t realised that sharing a bed would also mean sharing melatonin. Though clearly Hotch got the better end of the deal, sleeping like a man immune to proximity-induced panic while you lay still, every muscle tense, your heart hammering as if trying to pound thoughts into words you had no business thinking.
“Can’t we make the drive back home tonight?” you ask, shifting to look at him. “I can drive most of the way if you want to doze off.”
“I think given the weather and your driving skills, that wouldn’t be a wise choice.”
“What’s wrong with my driving skills?”
“You once reversed into a mailbox.”
You scoff. “You weren’t even in the car when that happened.”
“No,” he says, unbothered, “but I did have to file the vehicle incident report explaining why the Bureau SUV suddenly had a dent in the rear bumper.”
You glance out again and he’s right. Sheets of rain blur the road, the wipers swiping furiously just to keep a sliver of the world in view. You’d sooner chew down a mouthful of nails than attempt to drive in this, and considering Hotch handled the entire drive here and carried most of the interview, it hardly seems fair to pester him to slog through another four hours just so you can sleep in your own bed.
“You did well,” he offers obligingly, and you know he’s trying to patch up your bruised ego.
You hadn’t imagined your last few days with the BAU would involve revisiting what was meant to be a closed case. But new evidence had surfaced, linking back to one of your consults which, after this week, wouldn’t even be yours anymore. It would probably be passed on to JJ or Morgan, but you’d insisted on coming, unwilling to leave loose ends behind.
That insistence had landed you on a two-day trip with Hotch accompanied by a night in a cheap, overbooked hotel, one bed, a sleepless night yesterday, and the creeping dread of repeating it again tonight.
“You’re lying. I barely got him to talk.”
“You did more than you realise. We managed to get a name.”
We. You turn your head and catch the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “You managed to get a name,” you correct.
His shoulders lift in a slight shrug, eyes still on the road. “It was a team effort.”
“Well, I suppose it's not really going to be my problem anymore after this week.” You exhale, resting your temple against the cold glass.
“Do you need me to stop anywhere before the hotel?”
“Yes, actually.” You turn towards him with a half-smile, because if you’re going to be forced to share the covers with Hotch again, you’re not doing it sober. “Pretty sure there’s a gas station off the next exit, if you wouldn’t mind?”
He nods, and you go back to overthinking the bane of your existence until Hotch finally pulls into the saddest-looking gas station you’ve ever seen.
“Do you need anything?” you ask, unclipping your seatbelt and letting it snap back harder than necessary, purely because you know it irritates him.
His jaw tics. “You can take it off without assaulting the mechanism, you know.”
“So nothing, then?”
“Coffee. If they have it.”
“Sure.” You pause, then grin at him. “I’ll get you a drink.”
You’re out of the car before he can clarify that he meant just coffee. The cold air immediately slides under your coat, no matter how tightly you pull it around yourself. The rain’s turned into that annoying misty kind—so light it shouldn’t count, but somehow it still sticks to your hair and makes you feel damp and miserable. You jog the last few steps to the door.
Inside, it smells vaguely of lemon cleaning wipes, which is funny, because absolutely nothing in here looks like it’s been cleaned. You don’t bother searching for the coffee machine since technically, you’re not taking orders from your Unit Chief anymore.
You make a beeline for the back fridges instead.
Rows of cheap wine stare back at you—the kind that would give Rossi a heart attack. You pick the worst looking bottle out of pure spite, already planning on texting him a picture just to ruin his evening. Then, for insurance, you grab a few miniature bottles of whiskey. On your way to the till, you snatch a bag of popcorn. The sweet kind.
Once you’ve paid, you head back to the car. Hotch reaches across to push the door open for you, and you slide in. The bag clinks in your hands, immediately giving away your intentions—something he’s clearly clocked, judging by the look he gives you.
“Sorry. The coffee machine was broken, so I got wine instead. Or whisky. Whatever floats your boat on this fine night.”
“Please tell me there's at least water in there.”
You reach into the bag and pull out a bottle, dropping it into the cup holder between you. “Have a little faith.”
He shakes his head in that disappointed-dad way he’s perfected over the years and shifts the car back into drive. The wipers groan across the windshield, and you take the moment to pull the questionable wine out of the bag to send a picture to Rossi.
You get a reply just as Hotch is turning into the hotel’s car park.
Rossi: Is this a cry for help? Tell me that’s not going in your body. 💀🍷
You leave him on read, taking your clinking bottles with you as you follow Hotch out of the car and into the building. The two of you are quiet as you watch him fumble with the key to your room. Yes—key, not card, because it’s that ancient. Yet, for a man who can dismantle a Glock blindfolded, he still manages to miss the hole twice.
“Any time today would be nice.”
He exhales through his nose, slotting the key in on the third try. “You could always help.”
“Sure. Usually you just line it up and get it in the hole. Works for me most of the time.”
He goes still for half a second. Then, without looking at you, “You know there are moments I genuinely regret encouraging you to speak.”
The lock finally clicks and he pushes the door open for you.
“Would you look at that,” you say as you brush past him, “you can find the spot.”
The room is exactly as small as you remember, and somehow the freshly made bed almost makes it look worse. Hotch had made it this morning while you were brushing your teeth, tighter and straighter than housekeeping ever could. Pillows fluffed and aligned, corners tucked. True military craftsmanship from a meticulous dork.
A meticulous dork who is now taking off his jacket and folding it neatly over his go-bag and suddenly—though not suprisignlty—your eyes are glued to the way his white shirt pulls across his shoulders.
You rip your gaze away and begin unpacking your haul.
“You want the shower first?” he asks, and you glance at him, pretending it’s the first time you’ve looked at him since walking in.
“Nope. I want alcohol.”
He shakes his head, grabs his toiletry bag, and disappears into the tiny bathroom.
You’re about to enjoy the way this glorified paint thinner will probably strip your taste buds, when you realise there’s a slight problem. It’s a corked bottle and not a twist-off. You try using your nails to get it open, and then your sheer willpower.
Unfortunately it does not respond to either.
You give it one more useless tug before raising your voice.
“Hotch?”
Water is running. He does not answer.
You try again, louder. “Hotch!”
“What?” he calls through the door, voice muffled.
“Are you decent?”
There’s the faintest pause—long enough for you to smile to yourself because you can’t help but imagine him…not decent.
“Yes,” he says cautiously. “Why?”
“I need help.”
“With what?”
“Alcohol-related emergency.”
You hear him sigh, followed by the water shutting off. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens and he steps out, with only his belt missing. Interesting. He’s a belt off first kind of guy.
He looks at the bottle, then at you. “You bought wine without a corkscrew.”
You hold it out to him. “Let me take this as a moment to remind you that I never handed paperwork in late, never took a sick day, never complained about overtime. I was, arguably, the model team member. This is the least you can do to show appreciation.”
He doesn’t argue. Just takes the bottle from your hands and sits on the edge of the bed with it.
Legs spread. Grey slacks pulling just slightly at the seams. Broad thighs taking up most of the mattress. He settles the bottle between them, and you do your absolute best to focus on the glass instead of the fabric creasing over muscle and the very distracting proximity of…everything else.
He braces the bottle with one hand around the base and you forget how to form actual sentences. With his other hand, he uses his thumb to push the cork down into the bottle, veins flexing with each movement.
The cork gives a soft, breathy sound as it starts to sink into the neck of the bottle, and you’re just standing there—useless, wine thirsty, and uncomfortably aware of the fact that this should not be as attractive as it is.
He pulls his hand back as soon as the cork pops and sinks into the bottle, wiping his thumb absently against his thigh and you’re pretty much drooling at the sight, while he looks up at you, unfazed.
“Happy now?”
“Mhm. Ecstatic. Guess you’ve got just as much trouble pulling out as you do finding the hole.”
“You know I can request to have you transferred earlier than Friday.”
“Go ahead,” you say, scanning the room for glasses. “Knock yourself out.” There are none. No glasses. No mugs. Not even a questionable plastic cup.
“You want to take your wine so I can go shower?” he asks flatly.
“You’re not joining me?”
His eyes shift between you and the bottle. “How much was this?”
“Four ninety-nine.” You scrunch your nose as he brings it to his face and smells it. “Come on, you have to toast me. Rossi denied me a leaving party because apparently switching departments doesn't count as officially leaving.”
He lets out a slow breath. “You want a toast?”
“Yes.” You nod. “Or you could list your top five things about working with me. Or both. I have time.”
“Fine,” he resigns, moving along the edge of the bed to make space for you. “One toast.”
You grin as you drop down beside him, your knees touching. You watch as he brings the bottle closer to his lips and mulls over what to say.
“To the fact you never did anything halfway,” he says earnestly and it catches you off guard. You were fully expecting something sarcastic like to the number of sex jokes you made on federal payroll. “Cases, paperwork, people,” he continues. “You were all in. Always.”
And then he tilts the bottle back. You shouldn’t stare, but you do. The way his mouth wraps around the glass, the slow swallow, the faint scrunch of his brows as the taste hits. He pulls it away with a barely-supressed grimace.
“That’s awful,” he scoffs, handing it to you.
Your fingers brush when you take it, and you can’t help but wonder if his thumb still tastes like wine. You lift the bottle, deliberately pressing your mouth to the exact spot his lips just were, and you catch the way his eyes flick down to follow the movement before meeting yours again.
You take a swig, more than you should because it burns. “God—that’s fucking vile.”
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “Told you.”
“Now you have to help me finish it. Otherwise I’ll die, and you’ll have to do the paperwork.”
“That’s manipulative.”
You shrug. “Is it? Thought extra paperwork would be your kind of foreplay.”
His lips twitch, and you almost catch the smile he’s trying so hard to suppress it’s making him look constipated. “You have a foul mouth,” he mutters, taking the bottle back and bringing it to his lips.
“Is that the first of the five things you like about me?”
He pauses mid-sip, lowers the bottle just enough to give you that painfully patient stare. “We are not making a list.”
“So that’s a yes?”
He takes another swig, getting him out of answering. When he hands the bottle back, you notice his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, despite you having a firm hold on it.
“Fine. No list. I’ll just assume it’s implied.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It really isn’t.”
You roll your eyes, taking two big gulps that almost make your eyes water.
The back and forth continues until the bottle is completely empty, along with the mini bottles of whiskey you picked up. The popcorn is gone too, aside from the sad trail of it now crushed into the hotel carpet from your failed attempt to open the bag like a normal person.
At some point, sitting upright stopped being doable. Your backs protested, your vision began to blur at the edges, and now the two of you were lying on top of the covers, side by side, legs still hanging off the edge of the bed.
“Are you still beating yourself up about earlier?” he asks, voice softer than it was before the cheap alcohol.
“A little,” you admit with a sigh. “I wanted to do one last thing before leaving. Not hand it back to you unfinished.”
“You softened him up. Made him think he was in control. It might not seem like much, but it helped.”
You huff and push yourself up onto your elbow, turning to face him. His eyes are a little glassy, and for once he looks relaxed. “Bet you’re going to miss using me as bait.”
He shifts his head to glance at you. “You’re only moving two floors down.”
“And what if my new boss doesn’t like to share?”
“You were always mine first,” he says it so casually, you’re not entirely sure he’s processed his own wording.
“Yours?” you let out a laugh, eyebrows lifting.
“Ours,” he corrects, a vague flick of his hand. “The BAUs”
You’re fairly certain you like the sound of mine more. You look at him again, the alcohol throwing all discreetness out your system. He smiles back up at you in a way you don’t see often. His hair is all mussed, a thin layer of sweat making his skin glow.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, pushing up onto his elbow to mirror you.
You grin at him and he immediately regrets asking because he knows that look. He sighs and drops back onto the bed. “Never mind.”
“I think you need a shower.” You spare him your real thoughts.
“Thanks,” he mutters. “I don’t think I could even get my tie off right now.”
“Do you need a hand?”
He laughs quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I might.”
Sitting up takes more effort than it should. The room tilts a little when you move, but you manage to get onto your knees, wobbling and swaying, before Hotch reaches out and catches your wrist, stopping you from diving face first into his chest.
“What’re you doing?” he asks, just as you swing a knee over his hips and ungracefully settle in his lap.
“Helping you get your tie off because you need to shower.”
He goes rigid beneath you, hands hovering near your waist like he’s unsure if he has permission to rest them on you. “You’re on top of me.”
“We can do this standing if you prefer?”
His eyes close for half a second, like he’s silently begging for patience. “No. Just—”
You catch the speed of that no and can’t help but smile, settling yourself against him. “Okay,” you breathe, leaning in. “Hold still.”
You’ve never actually taken a tie off someone before. Definitely not while tipsy. Which is probably why it’s going so badly. You yank at the knot once… twice… and somehow make it worse. “Why is this thing so tight? Are you into autoerotic asphyxiation or something?”
His hands finally come to rest on your waist. “Please don’t ever say that sentence again.”
“Have we just unlocked a secret turn-on category? It’s fine, I’m very accepting.”
He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It’s called a Windsor knot.”
“Well no wonder you’re so grumpy all the time—this Windsor knot is cutting off circulation to your brain.”
“You’re making it tighter,” he points out, voice sounding strained. He shifts, probably a poor attempt at comfort because all his movement does is press you directly against his groin.
Your fingers fumble with the fabric, because you’re too busy fighting the urge to move. To roll your hips. To test just how good the friction would feel. “Because you’re moving.”
“You’re on top of me.”
You tug at the fabric again. “I gave you the option to do this standing, didn’t I?”
His eyes shift to your lips, then slowly, he removes one hand from your waist. “Slide the narrow end through the loop,” he says, showing you.
Fuck. He’s talking you through it. And you’re pretty sure you could get off on his voice alone, but you will yourself to focus.
“No—other side.”
You follow his direction, fingers brushing his throat.
“Now loosen it,” he murmurs. His thumb presses lightly at the knot, guiding your hand. “Pull there.”
You do as you’re told, giving a gentle tug and the knot slides loosely apart. “Would you look at that! You’re tie-free.”
You give it another tug, slipping it from his collar so you can inspect it. What you thought was just a diamond print now, up close, looks suspiciously like two Gs. You gasp. “Oh my god. You really spent two hundred dollars on a Gucci tie just to choke yourself?”
His hands are back on your waist again. “It was on sale.”
“You could’ve asked me,” you say, looping it clumsily around your neck. “I would’ve done it for free.”
“You’re wearing it backwards.”
“Well,” you breathe, setting your hands on his chest, the warmth of him not doing you any favours, “you’re the expert in expensive silk strangulation. Fix it for me.”
He looks at you intently. His pupils are blown wide, dark as ink, and you can feel exactly how hard he is beneath you. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are. Probably not—not through those overpriced, perfectly tailored slacks clearly designed to prevent situations like this from becoming obvious.
He reaches for the tie, fingers brushing your ribs as he takes each end. The back of his knuckles grazes the thin fabric of your blouse as he lifts the silk to straighten it.
“You want it to lie like this,” he says softly. “Otherwise it twists.”
You don’t breathe. “Mhm.”
“Now it goes over and under…” His hands do exactly that, looping the fabric while all you can feel is the insistent throb between your thighs. The silk slides against you, his hands settling the knot at the top of your sternum, right between your breasts.
“You can pull the longer end through here,” he murmurs and takes a hold of your hands, guiding them with his. His thumb presses to the knot to adjust it, dragging it higher. “See? Not that hard.”
You tilt your hips forward. “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” you whisper, fingers moving to the top button of his shirt, undoing it. You watch his Adam's apple bob around a swallow. “Do you want to know what I was really thinking about earlier?” you ask, working the second button loose, his white undershirt peeking through.
You glance up at him, and his eyes are fixed on the point where you’re straddling the hard line of his cock. “You’re going to tell me either way, aren’t you?”
“Mm,” you hum, dragging your thumb down the column of his throat, just to feel the way he swallows again. “I don’t have to.”
“But you want to.” His hands are back on your hips, fingertips pressing into your skin through your blouse.
You shrug, wetting your bottom lip. “I was thinking…whether you’ve ever actually thought about sleeping with me.”
He stills briefly, like he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing any of this, but also realises the two of you crossed that line half a bottle of wine ago. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
“Tonight doesn’t count. I mean before this. Have you thought about it?” There’s no shame in your voice, just curiosity.
His thumb slips beneath your blouse, making you roll your hips into him again. “Yes,” he grunts out.
“That’s it?”
“You asked a yes or no question.”
Your hand drifts lower, undoing another button on his shirt. “You could elaborate.”
“You really want me to do that right now?”
“Absolutely.” Your fingers pause, leaving his shirt half-open, and slide to the buttons of your own shirt. You toy with one absentmindedly. “Would it help if I took this off?”
His jaw flexes. He looks at your blouse. Then your mouth. Then your blouse again. “That’s not—” He cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose.
“How about this,” you offer with a smile, “every time you tell me when you’ve thought about it, I take off a piece of clothing. Seems fair, don’t you think?”
“And if I don’t want to partake in this game?”
“Then I get off your lap, put on my most conservative pyjamas, go to sleep, you shower, and we never speak of this again.” You really, really hope that’s not the option he picks. “The choice is yours. You tell me what you want to do.”
He goes quiet, thinking—though with how hard his cock is pressing against you, practically straining in those slacks, you’re not convinced he’s capable of coherent thought. You’re hardly better. You’re fucking soaked, and technically the two of you haven’t even done anything remotely obscene. But apparently sitting on your boss’s lap counts as the world’s most effective form of foreplay.
“Rossi’s birthday last year,” he reveals.
“I remember,” you nod and begin working your buttons down. “We stayed behind to help him clean up.”
“And you insisted on putting away the wine glasses—” He stops when your bra comes into view and swallows thickly before dragging his eyes to your face. “You climbed up onto the counter, almost fell and nearly shattered every glass in your hands.”
You laugh, shrugging your blouse off and tossing it on the floor so it can make friends with the popcorn crumbs. “I recall you having a pretty good view of my ass in the process.”
His eyes drop to the breasts spilling out your bra. “Not as good as the view I have now.”
“That’s one.” You toy with the strap of your bra. “Next.”
“The jet.”
You light up instantly. “This’ll be good.”
“We were coming back from Georgia and shared the sofa. You were lying on one end, I was sitting on the other.”
“Do continue.”
“You move a lot in your sleep,” he goes on, eyes fixed on your face, though you can feel the tension in his hands at your hips. “Kept shifting… sighing… dragging the blanket up and then kicking it off again. And with every move, your skirt rode a little higher. I stopped looking when I realised I wasn’t just making sure you were covered. I was… staring.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” you coo sweetly, before attempting to climb off his lap without falling off the bed. His brows pull together as he watches you stand at the edge of the mattress, propped up on his elbows.
There’s a dark patch on his groin, and you don’t know if it’s from you, or him, or both, but it makes your stomach twist, makes you want to end this game so you could finally feel him inside you.
But apparently you enjoy suffering—or making him suffer—especially when he’s looking up at you with his legs completely spread, those wide, helpless eyes and a face tinged pink. So you only smile, fingers sliding to the zipper of your trousers as you prompt innocently, “Did you like the tights I wore?”
“With the seam at the back,” he confirms just as you push the slacks down your thighs.
You hadn’t planned on playing strip—or confessional—poker with your Unit Chief, which is exactly why your underwear is nothing special. Plain grey cotton and embarrassingly damp. You freeze for only a second, then lift your chin like you meant for it to be this way.
“I don’t think I can keep going,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“You can’t last two more rounds?” you tease, kicking out of the fabric pooling at your ankles. “I won’t count the tie as clothing.”
His eyes drag over you like he’s in pain. “I mean if you keep this up for any longer, I’m going to finish in my pants like a teenager.”
You try very hard not to preen. “I’ll do you a deal,” you say, taking a slow step forward until you’re standing between his legs. “Make this one really good…” You lean in slightly, just enough for the tips of your fingers to brush his knee. “…and I’ll take everything off.”
He swallows.
“The last Christmas party.” His words come easily, like this specific memory had been on the edge of his mind for a while.
You nod. “You were my ride.”
“You had on that black dress with the slit up your thigh. You went upstairs to fix your lipstick and asked me to show you the bathroom.” He sits up, his hands coming to rest on the backs of your thighs. “And then your zipper conveniently decided to undo itself halfway down your spine.”
“That zip was very flimsy.”
“I put my hand on your back and you arched into it. Maybe you didn’t even realise you did it. But I did.” His thumb strokes idly against your skin, eyes half-lidded. “All I could think about was how easy it would’ve been to push that dress the rest of the way down… bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror.”
Heat pools low in your stomach. “And you didn’t.”
“You were tipsy and said you’d had too much champagne. So I zipped it back up and walked you downstairs.”
“Such a gentleman.” Your hands are already moving. You reach behind you, fingers brushing the clasp of your bra. “Well…a deal's a deal.” You take your time—partly on purpose, partly because your fingers are shaking the tiniest bit. The clasp gives, and you roll the straps lazily off your shoulders before letting fabric fall.
Hotch has gone completely still, the hands on your thighs frozen like he’s afraid to blink and miss something. The only thing moving are his eyes, dragging over your body so slowly it makes your skin burn. “You okay?”
His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip before he answers. “You know I’m not.”
“Will it make you feel better to do the honours?” Your hands cover his, guiding them up from your thighs to the waistband of your panties.
He looks up at you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this. Wrecked and glassy-eyed. He looks like someone who’d do anything you told him to. If they handed out awards for driving tightly wound, hyper-controlled men right to the edge of composure, you’re certain you’d win.
“Go on,” you whisper softly. “You’ve earned it.”
His fingers slip beneath the waistband and his touch is gentle as he starts easing the fabric down your hips. You glance down as he drags them lower, the inside of your underwear looking far worse than the outside. When you look back up, Hotch is already watching you, mouth curved into a crooked, boyish grin, validated that he’s not the only one soaking his undergarments.
You step out of them the moment they hit the floor.
Hotch’s hands are on you right away, sliding up the backs of your thighs until they settle at the curve of your ass, pulling you closer. He presses a wet kiss followed by a bite to your hip, your hands finding his shoulders to steady yourself.
“I want you on my tongue.”
“Yeah?”
He nods, laying back down and the room is tilting again. Whether from the cheap wine or the intoxication of him, you’re not sure. All you can do is follow, crawling up his body until your knees bracket his head. You don’t lower yourself down just yet.
He doesn’t touch you right away. Just…looks.
“You need instructions?” you tease, threading your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face.
The bastard only laughs, the warm puff of air against your inner thigh making your breath catch. Then he’s lifting his head, and all you can do is watch—lips parted, hand still tangled in his hair—as his tongue finally makes contact with your pussy, dragging a slow stripe up your centre that makes your hips twitch.
He pulls back with obscene patience, and you know exactly why, because a thin, pearly string of your wetness stretches from his mouth to you, and he has the audacity to look proud of it.
He watches the strand break and you barely have time to process what’s happening before he’s hauling you down until you’re sitting on his face. His mouth opens wider to taste more of you, his tongue flattening and dragging through you, like he’s been dying for this. He absolutely has.
“Fuck!” you choke out, yanking at his hair, only for him to groan in response. Your hips stumble forward and for a second, you fear for the man’s airway with the way you’re practically smothering him between your thighs, but you realise he’s the one that’s pulling you down against him.
“So sweet for me,” he thrums, voice buried. You feel more than hear it, a vibration of sound right where you’re most sensitive. Your thighs tremble around his ears as he licks a messy path up you, then dips lower, tongue slipping inside, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly.
A whimper spills out before you can bite it back. You rock into him without meaning to, pulse skittering like it’s trying to outrun your body, that familiar feeling already building too fast.
And that’s when he slows. Doesn’t completely stop, just changes the pace in a way that has you letting out a strangled noise.
“Really?” you pant, trying to catch your breath. “Is this your first time?” You lift yourself enough to look down at him.
“Ask me nicely.”
“What?”
His chin glistens and he looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “You’re used to demanding things.” His hands squeeze the sides of your thighs. “I think it’s time you learnt to be polite.”
Asshole.
You let out a sharp breath, giving his hair a tug. “Please,” you bite out.
He smiles smugly, and then he’s lifting his head to suck your clit into his mouth. A whole parade of curses spill out of you—creative ones too, the kind you don’t even usually say out loud—tripping over each other so fast you barely recognise your own voice.
And then he pulls back. Again.
“Please what?”
Correction: he’s a vindictive asshole.
You see exactly what he’s doing. You recognise his pettiness exactly for what it is. You tormented him first, made him spell it out for you, and now he’s returning the favour. He’s a desperate, competitive perfectionist who insists on winning everything, even the art of sexual torture.
“Sadist,” you hiss.
“Mm.” He turns his head and sinks his teeth gently into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Now be specific.”
You give him a dry humourless smile. “Please make me come. First with your mouth and then with your cock.” You drag a thumb along his jaw tauntingly. “Is that specific enough for you?”
His mouth is back on you again in seconds. No easing in this time.
“Jesus—” you gasp, hands bracing on the mattress above his head for balance. The sheets bunch beneath your fingers, the material scratching against your palms.
You feel his tongue circle and suck, like he’s trying to gauge every possible sound out of you, catalogue every single nerve you possess. Your thighs tighten around his temples, the drag of his stubble scraping lightly against your skin.
He pulls you even lower, thumbs digging into your hips, like he wants to disappear into you entirely. The movement forces you down onto his tongue, and the wet, needy sounds he’s making against your cunt are so lewd, you swear you feel them echo behind your ribs.
“Hotch—fuck!”
He hums at the sound, and then his hands shift, big palms sliding up your back, adjusting your angle to give him better access.
“Okay—okay—slow down—” you whimper, even though your hips are doing the exact opposite.
“You asked nicely,” he mumbles into you.
Your laugh comes out breathless and shaky, your whole body tensing under the intensity of his tongue. “I didn’t think—ah—nicely would get me this.”
He answers without words, drawing a slow circle around your clit, and another moan tumbles out of you. You’re close. You can feel it in every part of you, in your thighs trembling around his ears, in the tight pull at the base of your spine.
You gasp, head tipping back. “I—I’m—”
“You can come,” he says headily, tugging you closer. “Go on.”
You tense and wither against him. “Say it,” you pant. “Say you want me to.”
“I want you to.”
Your body caves forward, thighs clamping his head as your orgasm pulls you under so fast you forget to breathe, forget to think, forget everything except the feeling of coming apart on his mouth, wishing you could bottle it forever.
It takes you a few minutes to come back to Earth. Earth being a cheap hotel room in the middle of nowhere.
The first thing you register is the way Hotch’s thumb strokes your hip, then the press of his mouth to the inside of your thigh, another kiss, then another. You manage to lift yourself, and he immediately helps you, guiding your waist tenderly, letting you settle over him in your dazed state.
“Hi,” you croak.
He raises a brow, amused. “Hi.”
“Your face is shiny.”
A slow smile stretches across his mouth. “That would be your fault.”
“I can help with that,” you murmur, leaning down and running your tongue along the line of his jaw, tasting yourself on his skin. Your mouth then grazes the corner of his lips, and that’s when you realise—this man has had his tongue inside you, yet…you don’t know what he tastes like. The two of you haven't actually kissed.
He must sense something is wrong, because his brows lift slightly, like he’s puzzled by the sudden stillness in your body. “What is it?”
You huff a tiny laugh, breath ghosting his cheek. “We haven’t even kissed.” You pull back, cupping his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping across his chin to clean the shine you left there.
“You want to?” he asks like it’s a reasonable question, like he didn’t just have his mouth on the most intimate part of your body minutes ago.
“Aaron, you just had me sitting on your face. What do you think?”
“Aaron,” he repeats.
“That’s your name isn’t it?”
“Mm.” His hands tighten at your waist. “Say it again.”
“Are you going to kiss me, Aaron?”
For a second, he just stares up at you, like you’ve asked him something sacrilegious, something he's wanted for so long he’s almost afraid it's not real. His hands slide up your bare waist, settling at your ribs, giving them a gentle squeeze.
“Come here.”
You meet him halfway.
His lips brush yours delicately, soft enough to make your stomach lurch in anticipation.
You pull back a fraction, just to see his face, and then you’re kissing him again, deeper, tasting something you’ve both been orbiting for years. His tongue slides against yours, the kiss swallowing the moan that slips out of you.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you breathe against his mouth, the words almost a whine.
“Which ones are bothering you?”
“All of them,” you answer, fingers blindly racing to undo the rest of his shirt. “Sit up.”
He obeys with little afterthought, pushing up on his elbows so you can shove the fabric off his shoulders. You don’t bother folding it neatly, tossing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and you catch the tiny wince he tries (and fails) to hide.
“Arms up.” You grab the hem of his undershirt, tugging, and he sits up properly this time—bringing your bare, aching centre directly against the hard line of his cock.
The sound he lets out is a half-breath, half-groan at the contact. You don’t get the chance to tease him for it. You’re too busy hauling the undershirt over his head, and he has no choice but to help you strip it off. When it joins the rest of the discarded clothes, you press your hands to his shoulders, giving him a gentle push. He falls back without resistance, molten under your touch.
You lean down, placing a kiss under his jaw, then another just below it, relishing in the way his breath stutters each time your mouth lands on new skin. His chest is warm under your lips, rising and falling in a rhythm that’s embarrassingly close to a pant.
“Christ,” he mutters, and you grin against him, continuing to kiss your way down.
You press another kiss just above the waistband of his trousers, moving down to nudge the bulge beneath the fabric with the bridge of your nose. His reaction is instant. His hips twitch, hands shooting to your hair.
“Want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, glancing up at him through your lashes.
He shakes his head far too quickly. “Keep going.”
So you do. You kiss along the outline of him through the slacks, the damp patch dragging faintly across your lips with each pass. His thighs flex beneath your hands, his breathing falling out in tight, rigid bursts, the fabric getting warmer and wetter under your mouth. You drag your lips along the length of him once more, slow enough to be cruel, and his whole body jolts.
That’s when you take pity.
Your fingers finally move to his zipper, and you feel Hotch’s eyes on you as you ease it down. He lifts his hips immediately, allowing you to roll the slacks off him. The second they hit the floor, you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips again—quicker and needier—as you drag the last piece of clothing down his thighs.
And then he’s bare beneath you.
You sit back for a second, just to drink him in, mouth salivating at the flushed skin of his stomach, the tense lines of his abdomen, the way his cock rests hard and heavy on his stomach, precum sliding down the curve of him. You reach out without thinking, placing both hands on his thighs for balance as you crawl back up his body. Hovering over him, you lower your hips, feeling the head of his length nudge your inner thigh.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like the words slip from him before he can decide whether he’s allowed to say them. His hands trace up your sides, thumbs brushing under your breasts.
That sentence almost makes you coy. Almost. But your body apparently didn’t get the memo, because your hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and Hotch hisses through his teeth. He’s painfully hard in your palm, every throb pulsing against your grip.
You press him back against his stomach and grind down on him.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice shaking when the slick tip knocks directly against your clit. His hands grab your hips, fingers digging in. “I’m close, and I want to feel you. All of you. I don’t think I’ll be able to last if you keep doing that.”
You roll your hips again, a trembling little slide that makes your breath catch. “You will,” you whimper, leaning forward until your lips brush his. “For me.”
His jaw goes disastrously tight, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they find yours again, throat constricting around a swallow—and you can’t help the grin that curls up in response. You almost regret leaving the unit, because Monday’s briefing would’ve been something, watching him give orders with a straight face while knowing he couldn’t even wait until he was inside you to come.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he rasps. His hand leaves your hip, slides up your spine, and gathers a fistful of your hair. He tugs it, just enough to pull a gasp from your mouth, and then lifts his head to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against your jaw.
You laugh, his exhale scorching against your skin. Your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping around his length again, and you pull away from his mouth as you shift upright. You rise onto your knees, finally guiding his head of his cock to your entrance, his precum coating your pussy, your thighs, his own stomach.
“I think you’re enjoying this far more than I am,” you murmur—right before you sink down on him, only a fraction, enough to make you both tense at the contact.
“Slow—” he manages, voice breaking around it. “Go slow.”
You pause there, barely taking the head of him, but it's enough for heat and pressure to spark low in your belly. “Slow?” you echo, tilting your head, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know… you weren’t exactly slow with me.”
His hands clamp down on your hips. “That was different.”
You give a faint roll of your hips, just enough for him to feel how wet you still are, how easy it would be to slide all the way down. His breath stumbles out of him, all of his authority stripped.
“Different how?” you tease, tracing a finger down his chest, stopping right where his stomach flexes under your touch.
His eyes flutter shut and when they open again, his pupils are blown, jaw clenching like he’s fighting the urge to thrust into you. “Different,” he repeats, “because I’ve been wanting this a long time.”
“How long?” you probe, sinking down onto him further, the stretch of him intoxicating. His head thunks back against the mattress, a groan lurching out of him.
“Two—years,” he gets out, voice splintering as you take more of him.
You still for a second. “Two years?”
“You’re surprised?”
“I mean… yeah? You don’t exactly flirt. You scowl. And file paperwork. And tell me I have a foul mouth.” You lower yourself another inch, slow enough to make him choke on a sound he’d absolutely murder himself for making in any other circumstance. You feel the stretch deep in your belly.
“Aaron,” you whisper, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Look at me.”
He does instantly.
“You’ve been wanting this for two years?”
He nods, and you sink down onto him, all the way, until the dark curls at the base of him brush your clit. He’s deep—too deep—in a way you’ve never felt before, his cock throbbing inside you as you bite down on a moan.
“Don’t move yet. Just…give me a second,” he whispers, hands kneading the flesh of your ass.
Your fingers splay across his torso as you adjust to him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or do anything about it?”
“Because I was your superior. Still am. For another thirty-six hours.”
“You’re telling me you waited two years because of HR?”
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
You shake your head, lift your hips, and take him again. He fills you up completely, the tip nudging deep enough to pull a choked sound from your throat. You’d imagined him like this—God, probably longer than two years—but it still doesn’t compare.
“You feel so fucking perfect,” he pants, his right hand guiding your roll against him. “So, so perfect,” he mutters, voice fraying as you rise off him and then sink back down.
His spare hand comes up to palm your breast, this thumb brushing the underside before his fingers catch your nipple and pinch. Your head tips back immediately, a moan spilling from you as the pleasure arcs up your spine.
“That’s it,” he grits. “Just like that.”
Every time you sink back down, he stretches you just a little more, hits that spot just a little harder. Your thighs start to tremble with the effort. His right hand only tightens at your hip, guiding your pace, manipulating your angle because of course he knows what feels better. But it’s his other hand, the one that’s still on your chest, that begins to slide lower, drifting over your ribs, over your stomach, the curve of your pelvis.
You don’t even realise what he’s reaching for until his thumb finds your clit.
A helpless cry breaks out of you.
“There she is…” he coaxes, thumb moving in a circle motion. “So pretty and vocal for me.”
You pick up the pace at the praise naturally. His breath falters, hips stuttering every time you grind down and meet his thumb at the same time.
“Aaron—”
His head tips back, a vein standing out at his neck, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumps beneath his skin. His thumb slips against your clit with every shake of his body, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses harder, circles tighter, chasing you towards the edge even as he’s sliding towards his own.
“Sweetheart, slow—slow down—”
You don’t. You do the opposite, rocking into him, burying him inside of you. You feel yourself clench around him.
“Fuck!” he groans, your name following. His hands fly back to your hips, trying to hold you still, but your body squeezes around him and his own hips jerk helplessly. The sound he makes next is loud enough you’re almost certain the entire floor hears it. Every muscle in his stomach goes taut as he throbs inside you, warmth spilling in hot waves as he comes harder than you’ve ever heard him breathe.
One of his hands drags back down to your clit, despite the fact that his whole body seems to shake and twitch. He tries to keep his eyes open—tries to keep watching you on top of him—but his lashes flutter shut as you ride out the aftershocks pulsing through him.
You feel the warmth of his release seep out of you, ropes catching your inner thigh, clinging around the base of his still-sensitive cock. He finally forces his eyes open, his thumb still on your clit.
“Are you close?” he rasps.
You nod, legs shaking around him, barely able to hold yourself upright.
“Okay, baby… okay.” His breath stumbles, his whole body jolting each time you move, but his thumb keeps working you.
“Aaron—” Your voice cracks, head falling forward as a wave of heat curls deep in your stomach.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Come on.”
You grind down again, chasing the high, and he groans at the contact, but pulls you flush against his hips so you can keep moving. Your hands slide across his chest, clutching his shoulders, needing something to hold as the pressure tightens like a fist around your spine.
Your thighs clamp around his hips, your body clenching so fiercely around him that his head falls back with a quiet whimper. He tries to thrust instinctively, but he’s too sensitive. He trembles through the shock of it anyway, jaw flexing, teeth gritted as he tries to stay still for you.
“Sweetheart—” he gasps, “I need—you have to—please—”
And that does it. The please. Hearing him say it.
Your release slams into you like a freight train.
Your whole body seizes around him, your nails dragging down his chest as your vision whites out, a sharp sob catching in your throat. The orgasm tears through you in violent waves, blinding and completely overwhelming.
Your body finally goes limp, folding over him, your hands bracing on either side of his head as you lean forward. A thin string of drool slips past your lips as you gasp for air, your pussy still pulsing around his cock in tight, involuntary aftershocks.
Hotch’s arms come up your back immediately, palms splayed, rubbing slow strokes along your spine.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy…I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
You manage a shuddering inhale against his throat, your forehead pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. You can hear and feel his heartbeat beneath you, syncing with your own like your bodies haven’t quite figured out how to separate yet.
His hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. “There you go,” he whispers. “That’s it.”
Your lips brush the base of his throat when you exhale. “Don’t pull out just yet,” you mumble against him, wanting to keep him inside as long as you possibly can, unsure when—if—you’ll ever get this close to him again.
“I’m not going anywhere. You can have as long as you want.”
You both go quiet for a moment, appreciating the soft ache of being filled and held at the same time. His chest rises beneath you with each slow breath, your body melting deeper into the lines of his.
You lift your head up after a while, meeting his eyes. “Two years, huh?”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Two years.”
“What’s the right thing to do now?” you ask, brushing the back of your knuckles along his jaw.
“You need to go pee so I can get you cleaned up.”
You groan into his neck. “Gee, way to ruin a moment.”
“And then,” he adds, kissing your temple, “when your transfer is official… I can take you out to dinner…If you’d like that?”
“A date?” you ask quietly.
“If you want it to be.”
You pull back to look at him properly. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” he says with a smile, voice warm. “That’s what I was hoping.”
Warnings: 4+1, "angsty" to an extent, fluff in the end, occasional swearing, arguments, insubordination, a little sexual tension (if you ask the BAU agents), animal in danger on multiple occasions, mild descriptions of cases (physical violence, gunfire, explosions, fire, blood, kidnapping, injuries etc.), reader is reckless, "near death experience".
Summary: 4 times you and your K9 partner saves the case and 1 time Hotch saves your partner
A/N: I'm gonna be honest, the amount of work this took actually surprised me. I think I now understand exactly why I never finished any of the other 5+1 ideas I had when I first started writing for Hotch.
1. The Arsonist
The warehouse district on the edge of Baltimore smelled faintly of rust and salt. The air was damp, suffocating, clinging to skin and gear alike.
Floodlights cut white tunnels through the darkness, but beyond their reach, the maze of crumbling brick and corrugated steel swallowed every sound and flicker of light.
The unsub, an arsonist with a penchant for torching abandoned buildings to cover his kills, had slipped the BAU’s outer perimeter forty-three minutes ago.
Forty-three minutes of Hotch’s voice cutting through the comms like a blade. “Hold the line. No one advances until SWAT clears the sector. The building is in danger of collapsing.”
You stood at the edge of the cordon, your partner, Apollo, stood obediently, his ears pricked forward, nose working the air in tight, deliberate passes, still trying to track the unsub despite the scents of the dilapidated buildings overstimulating his nose.
The German Shepherd’s shoulders rolled under his tactical vest, every muscle tuned to the invisible thread of scent faintly drifting from the third row of warehouses.
You weren’t BAU. You were an FBI K9, itinerant, loaned out like a bloodhound to whatever team needed a nose sharper than their own.
Hotch had made it clear from the moment you’d arrived: You follow my command structure. You’d nodded, smiled, and meant exactly none of it.
“Apollo’s got something,” you said into your radio, voice low. “Southeast, and from his body language, scent is moving away, fast.”
Hotch’s reply crackled back instantly. “Negative. Hold position. SWAT’s two minutes out.”
Two minutes! In two minutes, a man who’d already burned three women alive could be three blocks gone, swallowed by the labyrinth of loading docks and rusted rail spurs.
Apollo whined, a sharp and urgent sound, and pawed the cracked asphalt. You glanced at the BAU agents fanned out behind their SUVs: Morgan’s jaw tight, Prentiss scanning rooftops, Reid muttering probabilities under his breath.
Hotch stood at the center, arms crossed, brows furrowed, eyes locked on the darkness ahead, as if he could will the unsub back into custody.
You unclipped Apollo’s lead. “Søg,” you whispered. Search.
He launched forward, a black-and-tan bolt, claws scrabbling for purchase against the asphalt. You were two steps behind, boots pounding, flashlight slicing through the dark.
Hotch’s voice exploded in your ear. “Agent! Stand down—”
You clicked the comm off.
The warehouse Apollo led you to was a gutted shell, its roll-up door hanging crooked on one hinge. Inside, the air was thick and chemically, gasoline most likely, scorched wood, and something sweeter that you couldn't quite pinpoint.
Apollo’s nose dropped to the concrete, then snapped up, tracking a zigzag path between overturned crates. You followed, heart hammering against your ribs, the weight of your Glock steady in your hand, having a feeling you might need to use it for once.
There.
A section of plywood, hastily nailed over a crawlspace. Apollo circled it twice, then sat, ears flat, eyes locked on the dark beneath, and with one loud bark, he signalled that this was the place.
You knelt, pried the board up with the muzzle of your flashlight, revealing a tunnel. Narrow, seemingly hand-dug, the earth was damp from where the unsub’s had frantically scrambled through, overturning the dirt.
Apollo’s tail thumped once, impatient.
You keyed your mic back on. “Tunnel entrance, warehouse 17-B. Suspect’s underground. I’m pursuing.”
Hotch’s voice was ice. “You will not—”
“Too late.” You had already signalled Apollo to drop in before dropping into the hole yourself, knees bending to absorb the impact. The tunnel swallowed you fast in its darkness; the only light was your flashlight’s thin beam.
Apollo's nails scraped against the dirt ahead, and along with his barks, those were the only signs of life.
The passage twisted, narrowed, then opened into a storm drain junction, concrete walls slick with runoff, the stench of mold thick enough to taste.
Apollo’s bark echoed ahead. You rounded the corner at a sprint.
The unsub was halfway up a maintenance ladder, a canister of accelerant slung over his shoulder, lighter glinting in his hand.
He saw you, saw the dog, saw the gun, and lunged for the rungs. And although he was fast, Apollo was faster, locking his teeth around the man’s calf, dragging him down in a tangle of limbs, fur, and curses.
The canister clattered away, rolling into the dark. You were on him in seconds, knee in his back, cuffs ratcheting tight around wrists already slick with blood.
“FBI! Stay down!” Your voice cracked like a whip. Apollo released on command, circling to block the tunnel’s mouth, lips peeled back in a silent snarl.
Bootsteps thundered behind you—SWAT, finally, breaching the drain.
Once you, Apollo, SWAT, and the unsub had cleared the tunnel and were back on the surface, you were met by Hotch. He took in the scene, the cuffed unsub, the evidence bagged accelerant, Apollo sitting proud beside you, tail dusting against the concrete.
You brushed grit from your vest, and met Hotch’s stare. “You’re welcome, sir.”
His jaw flexed, the muscle ticking. “We’ll discuss your insubordination later.”
You stepped forward, boots crunching on a few loose stones, Apollo’s ears swiveling toward the rising heat in your voice. “Insubordination?” The word cracked out of you, sharp enough to make the nearest SWAT officer glance over. You didn't know what had gotten over you, whether it was Hotch or the situation getting on your nerves. “You’re not my unit chief, Agent Hotchner. I’m a K9 liaison, not BAU. My chain of command starts in Alexandria and ends with whoever signs Apollo’s vet bills.”
Hotch’s eyes narrowed to slits. “When you’re on my scene, you follow my protocol.”
“Your protocol just lost us forty-three minutes and almost let a serial arsonist vanish into the sewer system.” You jabbed a finger toward the tunnel mouth. “Apollo had the scent. I had probable cause. You had a perimeter that looked pretty on paper and useless in practice.”
Morgan took one deliberate step back, hands raised in surrender. Prentiss leaned against a crate, arms folded, clearly settling in for the show. Reid’s gaze ping-ponged between you like he was timing the argument with a stopwatch.
Hotch’s voice dropped to that lethal register that usually made rookies flinch. “You breached a tactical line without clearance. You put yourself and that dog in a structurally compromised tunnel with an armed suspect.”
“And I put cuffs on him before your SWAT stack even finished their countdown.” You matched his volume, refusing to cede ground. “You want to write me up? Fine. Send it to Captain Delgado. He’ll frame it next to the commendation we got in Pittsburgh when your profile missed the secondary egress and Apollo dragged a kidnapped kid out of a grain silo.”
Hotch took one step closer; the floodlights carved harsh shadows across his face. “This isn’t about commendations. It’s about discipline. One rogue agent compromises the entire op.”
“Then maybe stop treating borrowed assets like chess pieces you’re afraid to move.” Your pulse hammered in your ears, but you didn’t blink. “I’m not your agent, Hotch. I’m the idiot who just handed you a closed case. A thank you wouldn’t kill you.”
For a heartbeat, the only sound was Apollo’s tail thumping against your calf and the distant crackle of radios. "And next time, remember who it was that called me in for help." Hotch’s nostrils flared as you spoke; you could practically see him counting to ten.
“Quantico,” he said finally, each syllable clipped. “08:00. My office. Bring your after-action report... and your captain’s contact information.”
You gave him the same two-finger salute, slower this time, deliberate. “I'll do you one better, I'll bring the whole man. Looking forward to watching you explain to Delgado why you needed a dog to do your job.”
Hotch pivoted, barking coordinates to SWAT, but the set of his shoulders was rigid enough to snap. You turned on your heel, signalling for Apollo to follow. He trotted at your side, and neither of you looked back at the seething unit chief.
Hotch’s silhouette disappeared into the command trailer. You vanished around the far side of warehouse 17-B, Apollo’s tags jingling like a warning bell.
Thirty yards away, behind the mobile command van, the BAU clustered like kids at recess.
Morgan pulled a crumpled twenty from his pocket. “Three weeks. Max. They’re gonna combust in that office.”
Prentiss smirked, digging for her wallet. “Two. I’m telling you, the second the door closes, paperwork’s hitting the floor.”
Reid adjusted his glasses. “Statistically, workplace proximity plus elevated adrenaline increases the likelihood of a precipitating event by thirty-seven percent. I say ten days, but only if Garcia livestreams the security feed.”
JJ, arriving with crime-scene tape, caught the tail end. “Y'all betting on when they'll finally snap?”
“Pretty much. We call it the Hostile sexual tension bet,” Morgan smiled.
Garcia’s voice piped over the comms, tinny but gleeful. “Put me down for eight days and a utility closet somewhere at the academy. I’ve got popcorn money riding on this.”
Quantico, Monday morning, 07:58.
The bullpen was still half-asleep, agents shuffling with coffee, printers humming like lazy bees. You stood outside Hotch’s office door, Apollo heeling at your left in a perfect sit, tongue lolling.
Your uniform was pressed, boots polished to a spit-shine, but the bags under your eyes said you’d spent the red-eye flight writing the after-action report Hotch had demanded. Captain Delgado leaned against the wall beside you, arms crossed, salt-and-pepper beard catching the fluorescent glare of the lamps above. He looked like a man who’d already won the argument and was just waiting for the room to catch up.
The door opened. Hotch filled the frame, tie knotted with military precision, expression carved from granite—Clearly, he hadn't calmed down since last night. “Agent. Captain.”
“SSA Hotchner.” Delgado’s voice was mild, but the way he said Hotch's title made it sound like Delgado was calling him a paper-pusher. He stepped inside first, claiming the chair angled toward Hotch’s desk without waiting for an invitation. You followed, Apollo’s nails scraping against the carpet. Hotch’s eyes flicked to the dog, lingering half a second on the shepherd’s calm focus, before settling on you.
“Close the door.”
You did. The click sounded final.
Hotch didn’t sit. He rounded the desk, planted both palms on the blotter, and leaned forward. “Let’s be clear. Forty-three minutes of containment, SWAT in stack, and you breached the line without—”
“Without what, Agent Hotchner?” Delgado cut in, voice smooth. “Without waiting for a suspect who’d already set three women on fire to light another match? My handler had critical circumstances, a trained K9 asset with a positive track record, and a tunnel that collapsed thirty seconds after SWAT cleared out. You want to lecture someone on timing, start with your own tactical brief.”
Hotch’s knuckles whitened. “Protocol exists for a reason, Captain.”
“Protocol didn’t smell the accelerant bleeding through cracked concrete.” Delgado pulled a tablet from his briefcase, flicked to a still frame from your body-cam: Apollo frozen mid-sit over the plywood cover, ears pinned, nose pointed like an arrow. “This is probable cause. This is actionable intelligence. Your perimeter map marked that sector ‘low probability.’ Apollo marked it ‘jackpot.’”
Hotch’s gaze slid to you. “Your comm went dark for ninety-two seconds.”
You met it, unflinching. “Because you were busy reciting the manual while a killer crawled away. It was like I experienced tinnitus for the first time. Ninety-two seconds bought you a cuffed unsub and zero extra body bags. You’re welcome.”
Delgado didn’t bother hiding his grin. “She’s not wrong.”
Hotch straightened, folding his arms. “K9 is an adjunct resource. Adjunct follows the primary team’s command.”
“Wrong again.” Delgado swiped to the next screen, which happened to be an organisational chart, BAU in one column, K9 Field Operations in another, both feeding straight to the Deputy Director. “We’re parallel assets. When lives are at stake, my handlers have discretionary latitude. It’s in the MoU you signed last year when we started this collaboration. Page seven, paragraph four. I can wait while you find it.”
The silence stretched, thick enough to chew. Apollo yawned, pink tongue curling.
Hotch’s jaw worked. “Discretionary latitude doesn’t mean solo cowboy stunts in a condemned drain.”
“It means trusting the asset you requested,” you said. “You called us in because your profile said the unsub would rabbit through ‘non-obvious exits.’ Apollo found the non-obvious. If I’d waited for your green light, we’d still be pulling charred bones out of basements right now.”
Delgado leaned back, chair creaking. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Aaron.” First-name basis. Delgado was trying to piss him off, you thought to yourself, trying your hardest not to show your amusement. “You’re going to accept that the collar did your work for you. You’re going to put K9 Apollo, handler Agent [Y/L/N] in the press release. And you’re going to stop pretending borrowed dogs come with leashes you control. Because next time you freeze my team out, I’ll pull them the second they clear the tarmac. Clear?”
Hotch’s eyes flicked to the photo on his desk, Jack, gap-toothed in a Little League uniform, then back to Delgado. Something shifted behind the stoic mask, a calculation you couldn’t read.
“Understood,” he said finally, each syllable scraped raw.
Delgado stood. “Good. Agent [Y/L/N] will forward the body-cam footage and logs. You’ll find they corroborate every decision she made.” He paused at the door, hand on the knob. “Oh, and Aaron? Next time you want to dress down one of my handlers, schedule it through me. Saves us both the paperwork.”
The door opened. Delgado strode out like he owned the hallway. You lingered for a second before standing, Apollo rising to follow.
Hotch’s voice stopped you. “Agent.”
You turned.
He was closer now, voice low enough so the slowly filling bullpen wouldn’t catch it. “Your captain’s not here to referee every scene.”
“No,” you said, meeting him stare for stare. “But the dog is. And he doesn’t file complaints. He bites, on command.” You narrowed your eyes and gritted your teeth at the last part
Apollo huffed, bumping Hotch’s knee with his snout "accidentally", the glint in his eyes told otherwise. Hotch’s hand twitched again, same as in the warehouse, but this time his fingers brushed the shepherd’s ear, a single, involuntary stroke.
You caught it. So did he.
Heat flashed across his cheekbones, gone as fast as it came. “Dismissed.”
You stepped into the bullpen. Behind you, the door shut with a definitive click.
Morgan was already waiting, leaning against Garcia’s desk with a twenty-dollar bill pinched between two fingers. “Pay up, Baby Girl. Captain just ate Hotch’s lunch and used the dog as a napkin.”
Garcia’s eyes went wide behind her cat-eye glasses. “Details. I need details.” You could hear her tapping away on her tablet, probably scrambling to get access to the security camera in Hotch's office.
You kept walking, Apollo’s tags jingling like victory bells, but you didn’t miss the way Hotch’s silhouette stayed framed in the window as the elevator doors closed around you and Apollo.
2. Denver
It was 4 am, forty-one hours since the Amber Alert first shrieked across every screen in the metro area.
The BAU had the unsub in cuffs twenty-four hours earlier. A twitchy thirty-year-old, picked up at a Greyhound depot with the missing girl’s backpack in his locker. But he lawyered up faster than the team had ever seen before, zipped his lips, and let the clock chew through the little girl’s life one merciless second at a time. No location. No ransom. Just the echo of a six-year-old’s name in every briefing room.
Hotch had pulled every string the Bureau owned: search grids, cadaver dogs, thermal drones, infrared helicopters. Nothing. The trail died where the unsub had ditched his van, under the I-25 overpass, where runoff from a busted sprinkler main turned the shoulder into a swamp.
That’s where the K9 unit rolled in.
Three handlers, four dogs. You and Apollo took the east quadrant. The other teams fanned west. You’d been on the ground six hours, boots soaked through, the wind knifing straight through your jacket.
Apollo’s nose never quit though, working the air in tight, methodical arcs, sifting through diesel fumes and wet concrete.
Then he froze.
One paw lifted, tail still. The classic alert. You dropped to a knee beside him. “Whatcha got, buddy?”
He shoved his muzzle under a tangle of kudzu and came up with a scrap of fabric clenched gently in his teeth. It was pale pink with cartoon dinosaurs, crusted with dried blood and grime. The missing girl’s blanket, you confirmed it by pulling up the photo that had been distributed to the search parties.
Hotch’s voice crackled over the comms channel. “K9’s got an article yet?”
“Apollo just found something,” you answered, already clipping a longer line to Apollo’s harness. “Blanket. We're preparing to track.”
“Hold for—”
“Negative.” You were moving before the sentence finished, Apollo lunging forward, pulling you down the embankment into the runoff ditch. “Trail’s degrading in the water. Clock’s ticking.”
The ditch became a culvert, became a concrete throat that swallowed light and sound. You flicked on your headlamp. The beam jittered across ankle-deep sludge, algae-slick walls, and the metallic reek of urban runoff. Apollo splashed ahead, ears flat, nose skimming the surface like a bloodhound in a bayou. Every few yards, he’d pause, circle, re-lock on the scent, then surge forward again.
Your radio squawked, Hotch, Morgan, and Prentiss, all talking over each other.
“Agent, report grid—”
“Tunnel’s unstable—”
“Backup ETA four minutes—”
You clicked the mic once—acknowledged—then clicked it off. Four minutes was an eternity when a kid was turning blue somewhere close by.
The tunnel narrowed. You had to turn sideways, sucking in your gut. Apollo whined, then bolted. You followed, boots slipping, one hand braced on the wall. The passage dumped you into a junction box the size of a subway car: rusted ladder, maintenance hatch overhead, and in the corner...
A tiny shape curled against the concrete.
Sophie Grant. Six years old. Lips purple, knees drawn to her chest. Barely shivering or breathing.
You dropped beside her, two fingers to her carotid. Pulse thready, but there. “Sophie, honey, I'm with the FBI. You’re safe.” Her eyes fluttered; they were glazed over and unfocused.
Hypothermic. Dehydrated. But alive.
Apollo nosed her cheek, licked once, then sat vigil.
You keyed the mic. “Child located. Junction box delta-seven. Need medics now! She’s conscious but in very critical condition.”
Static, then Hotch’s voice. “Copy. Medevac inbound. Do not move her until—”
“Negative. She’s crashing. I’m extracting.”
You scooped her up, she almost weighed nothing, and you wrapped her in your jacket and started back the way you came. Apollo led, pausing at every fork to be sure you followed. The tunnel seemed longer going out, the mud heavier, every breath burning cold in your lungs.
You emerged under the overpass into a carnival of red-blue strobes. Paramedics swarmed. You handed Sophie over, barking your observations.
Hands pulled you back. You let them. Your knees buckled; someone shoved an emergency blanket around your shoulders. You hadn't even realized how cold you'd gotten. Apollo pressed against your leg, whining.
Hotch was there suddenly, close enough that you smelled the coffee and gun oil on him. His eyes raked over you, raised a brow, then the tunnel mouth, then you again. “You went in alone?”
You were too cold to bristle. “Technically, no.” You patted Apollo’s head, he leaned against your thigh like a small furnace. “Had the best nose in the Bureau with me.”
His mouth twitched, the barest flicker, gone before it became a smile. “You should’ve waited for backup.”
You looked past him to the ambulance where Sophie was already hooked to warm IV fluids, oxygen mask fogging with every shallow breath. “Then she’d be dead.”
He followed your gaze. The fight leaked out of him in one slow exhale. “Medics said another twenty minutes and we’d have lost her.”
“Twenty minutes was four minutes ago.”
Silence stretched. Somewhere behind you, Morgan let out a low whistle. “Damn, Hotch. She just pulled a miracle out of a sewer pipe.”
Prentiss, arms folded, murmured to JJ, “Add ‘superhero complex’ to the profile.”
Reid, ever earnest, piped up. “Actually, the canine olfactory epithelium has roughly three hundred million receptors compared to our six million. Statistically—”
Hotch ignored them. His eyes stayed on you, dark and unreadable, but the muscle in his jaw wasn’t ticking anymore. “Debrief in thirty. Med tent.”
You nodded, too tired to argue. As the team dispersed, you caught the tail end of the betting pool restarting.
Morgan slapped a fresh twenty into Prentiss’s palm. “Reset the clock. Two weeks tops.”
JJ snorted. “You’re optimistic. I say one. That tunnel just became foreplay.”
Reid frowned. “Foreplay is a social construct—”
You pretended not to hear, but heat crawled up your neck anyway. Hotch was still watching you, hadn’t moved. You lifted your chin. “Something on my face, sir?”
He stepped closer, voice pitched low enough that only you could hear. “You’re hypothermic.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
You glanced down, yeah, okay, your hands were trembling around the blanket. Adrenaline crash. He noticed too much.
Without asking, he reached out and tucked the silver foil tighter around your shoulders. His knuckles brushed your collarbone, accidental, maybe. The contact burned hotter than the blanket.
“Med tent,” he repeated. Not an order this time.
Apollo chose that moment to shove his head between you, demanding attention. Hotch’s hand dropped to the shepherd’s ears automatically, fingers scratching the spot that made Apollo’s back leg thump. The dog groaned in bliss.
You smirked. “See? He trusts you.”
Hotch’s eyes flicked up, caught yours. “He’s a better judge of character than most.”
The moment stretched, fragile as frost. Then the paramedic called your name, time for vitals. You stepped back, breaking the spell.
“Debrief in thirty,” you echoed.
He nodded once, sharply, and turned away. But you saw it again, that almost-smile, ghosting at the corner of his mouth as he walked toward the command truck.
3. The Riverbank Strangler
The river was a black ribbon under a moonless sky, its banks choked with the ghosts of four dead women. The BAU had been chasing the unsub for nine days; Hotch’s profile was taped to every whiteboard from the field office to the mobile command trailer:
Male, 30–40, local, blue-collar, ritual-driven.
Escalating but controlled; avoids revisiting dump sites to prevent pattern recognition.
The next body will be north of the city, new territory, higher risk.
You’d sat through the briefing, arms crossed, Apollo sprawled under the table with his head on your boot. When Hotch wrapped up with his usual clipped certainty, you’d raised a hand.
“Respectfully, sir, that’s wrong.”
Every head swiveled. Hotch’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
“Dogs don’t care about your geographic progression. Apollo’s hit the same scent cone at the first two sites. Same signature. If the unsub’s avoiding old sites, why’s the scent pooling heavier each time we grid the old ones?”
Hotch’s answer was immediate. “Transference. Wind off the water. You’re tracking residual, not active.”
You’d let it go. For twelve hours.
Now, at two in the morning, you were back at Site #1. The rest of the team was canvassing a factory district eight miles north, chasing Hotch’s “new territory.” You’d signed out with a vague “K9 re-grid” and a promise to check in. Apollo had refused to load into the SUV until you pointed him at the river. One whine, one paw on the door, and you were driving.
The shepherd hit the ground running.
He quartered the bank like he’d been born to it, nose skimming the mud, tail low and focused. You followed with a headlamp and a collapsible shovel, boots sinking into the soft earth. The air smelled of wet dogwood and rot. Forty yards downstream from the original recovery marker, Apollo froze, statue-still, one front paw raised. Then he dropped his chest to the dirt and began to dig, claws flinging clods of red clay.
You knelt, heart already sprinting. “Show me.”
He dug faster. You joined him, shovel biting earth. Six inches down, the blade struck something soft. Fabric? Denim! Then the unmistakable give of human tissue.
You sat back on your heels, breath fogging in the cold. “Son of a bitch.”
Apollo sat beside the hole, ears pricked, waiting for praise that stuck in your throat. You keyed your radio. “Command, K9-One. Site One-Alpha. I’ve got… a body. Fresh. Request the crime scene immediately.”
Hotch’s voice came back flat. “Repeat?”
“Victim five. Shallow grave, original dump site. Apollo’s on it.”
Silence. Then: “On my way.”
They arrived in a convoy of slamming doors and shouted orders. Floodlights turned toward the riverbank. Morgan vaulted the tape first, Prentiss on his heels. Reid skidded to a stop beside the grave, eyes wide behind fogged glasses.
Hotch was last. He didn’t speak. Just stood at the edge of the hole, hands on his hips, staring down at the partially exposed torso; female, mid-20s, ligature marks around the throat, wrists and ankles. The dirt around her was darker, richer, freshly turned. She'd been there for less than a few hours.
You stood opposite him, Apollo heeling at your side, mud streaked up to your elbows. The silence stretched until it felt like a held breath.
Finally, Hotch looked up. “You disobeyed a direct order to stand down on re-grids.”
“I logged a welfare check on residual scent.” You kept your voice level. “Apollo disagreed with your profile. Turns out he was right.”
Morgan coughed into his fist. Prentiss bit her lip. Reid started muttering about “canine olfactory memory” once again and “spatial revisit tendencies in ritual killers.”
Hotch’s eyes never left yours. “This changes everything.”
“Yeah,” you said. “It does.”
He opened his mouth, closed it. The vein in his forehead pulsed once, twice.
“Guess we’ll be rewriting that geo-profile, huh, Bossman?”
The nickname landed like a slap. Morgan actually choked. Prentiss turned it into a cough. Hotch’s jaw flexed so hard you heard the click.
“Agent,” he said, voice low enough only you could hear, “my office when we’re wheels-up.”
You smiled, sweet as poison. “Can’t wait, Bossman.”
The mobile command trailer smelled of burnt coffee and printer toner. The team huddled around the folding table while Reid scribbled furiously on the whiteboard, erasing Hotch’s neat arrows and replacing them with frantic spirals that looped back to Site #1 like a dog chasing its tail.
You leaned against the wall, Apollo curled at your feet, pretending to study the new map. Hotch stood at the head, sleeves rolled, tie loosened for once. Adding to the whiteboard, and every time his marker squeaked across the laminate, your eyes flicked to the tension in his forearms.
He caught you looking. Held it. The marker paused mid-stroke.
“Something to add, Agent?”
“Just wondering how many more bodies we’d have if I’d listened to you, Bossman.”
The marker snapped in his hand. Ink bled across his fingers like a bruise.
Morgan whistled low. “Damn. She’s got a death wish.”
Prentiss elbowed him. “Or a type.”
Hotch wiped his hand on a napkin, slow and deliberate. “The profile was based on behavioral patterns observed in—”
“Dead women,” you cut in. “Patterns that didn’t account for a dog who can smell guilt through six feet of clay. You built a box. Apollo just kicked it over. When are you gonna admit that my dog is better at your job than you are?”
Reid raised a finger. “Actually, olfactory detection of cadaverine and putrescine—”
“Not helping, Spence,” JJ muttered.
Hotch’s voice dropped to that dangerous register he usually only used during interrogations. “You want to lead the profile, be my guest. But until then, you follow my grid.”
“Funny,” you said, stepping forward until the table was the only thing between you. “I thought the grid followed the evidence. Evidence just barked and dug up your mistake.”
His eyes flashed. “You’re insubordinate.”
“And you’re arrogant.” You leaned in, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his irises. “The difference is, my arrogance saved lives tonight. Yours almost cost one.”
The trailer went tomb-silent. Apollo lifted his head, ears swiveling between you like he was watching a tennis match.
Chairs scraped. The team filed out like kids dismissed from the principal’s office. Garcia’s voice floated back through the open door: “New pool—first one to make the other snap gets the pot. I say Hotch cracks before we touch wheels in Quantico.”
The door shut. Just you, Hotch, and eighty pounds of shepherd who suddenly seemed very interested in the tension vibrating in the air.
Hotch rounded the table, slowly. “You don’t get to undermine me in front of my team.”
“Your team requested K9. You got us. That includes the part where we’re right and you’re wrong.” You didn’t back down. Besides, you couldn't tell if he was refusing to see the signs, or if he truly was blind and hadn't figured out you'd started riling him up on purpose. “Call it whatever you want: insubordination, attitude, truth. Apollo doesn’t profile. He finds. Maybe try listening to him sometime.”
He stopped a foot away. Close enough, you could see the faint scar through his left eyebrow from when he'd nearly been blown up. “You think this is a game?”
“I think you hate being wrong more than you hate me.”
His laugh was sharp, humorless. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Don’t worry, Bossman. I’m not.”
The nickname again. His hand twitched, like he wanted to grab something. Your arm. The table. His own sanity.
Apollo chose that moment to stand, wedging his bulk between your legs and Hotch’s, tail thumping once against the unit chief’s knee. A peace offering. Or a warning.
Hotch looked down at the dog, then back at you. Something shifted behind his eyes; frustration, yes, but something else. Respect, maybe. Or the realization that you weren’t going anywhere, or backing down for the matter.
He stepped back. One step. Enough to breathe.
“Next time,” he said, voice rough, “you find something, you call it in before you dig.”
“Next time,” you countered, “you write a profile that doesn’t ignore a dog’s nose, I’ll consider it.”
He stared at you for a long beat. Then, quietly: “Get some sleep. We’re back at the river at 06:00.”
You nodded with a salute. “Yes, sir.”
As you turned to leave, Apollo paused to bump his head against Hotch’s hand once, this time definitely deliberate. Hotch’s fingers curled, scratching behind the shepherd’s ear without thinking. The dog leaned into it, eyes half-closed in bliss.
You caught the whole thing in the reflection of the trailer window. Smiled despite yourself.
"Woman." Hotch sighed as you closed the door behind you and Apollo.
Outside, the team was waiting like vultures.
Morgan grinned. “So? Who won?”
You kept walking. “Ask Bossman.”
Behind you, the trailer door slammed. But not before you heard Hotch’s muffled voice, low and furious, and maybe a little awed.
“Dammit.”
4. Dallas
The warehouse district south of downtown was a graveyard under a sky the color of dried blood. The unsub had already leveled two strip malls and a daycare. His manifesto was a 47-page screed against “corporate complacency,” delivered via email to every news station in the metroplex.
The BAU had him cornered in a leased storage unit two hours ago, but he had swallowed a cyanide capsule before they could ask where the last device was planted.
Now the clock was a guillotine.
Bomb Squad had swept the warehouse three times, thermal, X-ray, the works. “Clear,” their lieutenant declared, peeling off his helmet. Hotch echoed it in the command huddle. “Package is neutralized. We’re standing down EOD, shifting to evidence collection.”
You stood at the perimeter with Apollo, watching the techs pack up. The shepherd’s ears were forward, tail still, nose working overtime. You knew that look.
“Apollo, søg.”
He moved before you finished the word, cutting across the taped-off bay like he’d been shot from a cannon. Straight to a row of dented storage lockers along the back wall.
He sat. Hard. Stared at the locker door like it had personally insulted his mother and all his brothers and sisters.
You keyed your radio. “K9 alert, Unit 17. Strong hit. Potential of explosives.”
Hotch’s voice came back instantly. “Bomb Squad cleared that row. Stand down.”
“Apollo says otherwise.”
“Stand. Down.”
You looked at the locker. Then, at the civilian tech still inside the bay. You looked at Apollo. His whine was low, urgent. There was definitely something important in there.
You unclipped his lead. He planted himself between the locker and the tech, hackles half-raised. You moved fast, three strides, hand on the photographer’s shoulder. “FBI. Out. Now.”
The tech startled, yanking out an earbud. “What—”
You didn’t explain. You grabbed his vest collar and hauled. He stumbled after you, camera clattering. Behind you, Apollo barked once.
You cleared the bay threshold at a dead run. Ten feet. Fifteen.
The world turned white.
The blast wave hit like a freight train, lifting you off your feet and slamming you into a stack of pallets. Sound vanished, replaced by a high, cottony ringing. Heat rolled over you, singeing the back of your neck. Debris rained: sheet metal, glass, a twisted locker door that embedded itself in the concrete where you’d been standing.
Then silence. Real silence, the kind that follows annihilation.
You rolled to your knees, coughing dust. Apollo was already there, limping, but whole, nosing your face with frantic whines. You ran your hands over him: no blood, no shrapnel. Just a very good boy.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. The warehouse bay was a smoking crater, the locker row obliterated. The tech sat ten yards away, pale and shaking, staring at the hole where he’d been.
Bootsteps pounded. Hotch skidded to a stop in front of you, suit jacket gone, tie askew, face streaked with soot. His eyes raked over you, then flicked to Apollo, then back to you.
“You could’ve died.”
His voice was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that came before a storm.
You pushed to your feet, swaying once before locking your knees. “So could he.” You jerked your chin at the tech.
Hotch stepped closer. Close enough, you saw the pulse hammering in his throat. “I gave you a direct order.”
“And I gave you a live bomb.” You brushed grit from your vest, voice flat. “You’re welcome.”
His hands flexed at his sides. Like he wanted to strangle something. Or hold it together. “You breached the cordon. Again.”
“Apollo alerted. Civilian in the blast radius. Math was simple.”
“You didn’t know it was live.”
“I knew it was possible.” You met his stare, unflinching. “You wanted to risk a kid’s life on ‘cleared’?”
His jaw worked. No answer.
Behind him, the team fanned out. None of them looked at you. They didn’t need to. The tension was alive, coiled between you and Hotch like a third wheel.
He took another step. Now you were toe to toe, the heat of the blast still radiating off the concrete at your backs.
“You don’t get to keep doing this,” he said, voice low. “Running in blind. Risking—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Risking assets.”
Assets. The word hung there, clinical and wrong.
You laughed. “Apollo’s not an asset. He’s my partner. And I’m not yours to command, Bossman.”
The nickname again. His eyes flashed, but this time the anger was tempered by something else. Fear, maybe. Or the realization that you kept walking into fire, and he couldn’t stop you.
Apollo pressed against your leg, leaning hard. You dropped a hand to his head, grounding yourself in the warmth of his fur. Hotch’s gaze followed the motion, lingering on your trembling fingers.
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
You glanced down. A shard of metal had sliced your forearm sometime in the chaos. You hadn’t felt it until now.
“Scratch,” you said.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded handkerchief. It was crisp white and monogrammed A.H. He pressed it to the cut without asking. His hand closed over yours, pinning the cloth in place. The contact was clinical, but his grip lingered.
You stared at his hand on yours. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” His thumb brushed the edge of the wound. “You’re shaking.”
“Adrenaline.”
“Bullshit and you know it!”
The words cracked between you, raw and unexpected. He didn’t swear. Ever. You looked up. His eyes were darker than the smoke still curling behind him, fixed on you with an intensity that felt like a physical weight on top of your already weak body.
“You could’ve died,” he repeated. Quieter. Rougher.
“So could he,” you said again, softer this time. “And you’d have lived with it. I wouldn’t.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t let go of your arm. The silence stretched. Somewhere in the distance, Morgan shouted for a medic, but it felt like another planet.
Apollo whined, nudging Hotch’s knee. The agent’s free hand dropped automatically, fingers finding the shepherd’s ears. Apollo leaned into it, eyes half-closed, tail thumping once against Hotch’s leg.
Hotch’s voice was barely a whisper. “I can’t keep watching you run into danger.”
“Then stop writing profiles that miss it.”
His mouth twitched up, not quite a smile, but close enough. “You’re impossible.”
“Takes one to know one, Bossman.”
He exhaled through his nose, a sound that might’ve been a laugh if he’d let it. Slowly, reluctantly, he released your arm. The handkerchief stayed pressed to the cut, now spotted with red.
“Med tent,” he said. “Now.”
You nodded. “Yes, sir.”
But as you turned, he caught your elbow. “And Agent?”
You looked back.
“Next time you ignore my order and save a life…” His voice cracked, just slightly. “Try not to make it a habit.”
You smiled. “No promises.”
He let go. You walked away, Apollo limping slightly at your heel.
In the med tent, 15 minutes later, the team had formed a loose perimeter around the folding table where a paramedic stitched your arm. Morgan leaned against a support pole, arms crossed, grinning like a kid who’d won the bet.
“Add ‘bomb whisperer’ to the resume,” he said.
Prentiss handed you a bottle of water. “You’re officially insane.”
Reid, peering at the shrapnel fragments in an evidence bag, murmured, “The blast radius suggests a minimum of eight pounds of C-4. Your timing was within a 4.7-second window of—”
“Reid,” JJ warned, “not. helping.”
Hotch stood just outside the tent flap, backlit by floodlights, pretending not to listen. But you caught the way his eyes flicked to you every few seconds, checking the stitches, the dog, the tremor in your hands that hadn’t quite stopped.
Morgan followed your gaze. “Man’s about to short-circuit.”
Prentiss smirked. “Pool’s at three hundred now. First one to admit they’re worried loses.”
You rolled your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks had nothing to do with the explosion.
Apollo flopped at your feet and let out a long, contented sigh. Hotch’s handkerchief, still damp with your blood, was tucked into your pocket.
You didn’t look at him again. But you felt his stare all the way to the bone.
The time Hotch saved Apollo
The rail yard was a maze of rust and shadowed freight cars. The unsub had derailed one Amtrak train and taken a second hostage earlier in the day.
By now, the BAU had him boxed in between two boxcars on Track 7, SWAT stacked on the far side, Hotch negotiating from the gravel berm.
You and Apollo held the blind corner, twenty yards of open track, no cover, just you, the dog, and the wind screaming through the couplings.
Hotch’s voice was steady over the megaphone. “Dale, put the weapon down. Let the kid go. We can still end this without anyone else getting hurt.”
The unsub's answer was a wild shout, half-coherent about “government trackers” and “surveillance in the rails.” The hostage whimpered through the duct tape over his mouth, wrists zip-tied behind his back.
You’d been watching Apollo. The shepherd’s hackles were up, ears flat, body vibrating with tension. He’d locked on something you couldn’t see.
Then it happened.
The ubsub broke cover, fast and panicked, rifle swinging wild. He shoved the kid ahead of him, using the boy as a shield, and bolted straight down the track toward the open yard.
Hotch’s voice cracked like a whip. “Hold fire! Hold—”
You were already moving. Running after Apollo who'd taken off in a sprint to catch the unsub. “Apollo plads!” Heel
The shepherd launched like a black-and-tan missile aimed at the unsub's gun arm. Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten.
He saw him. Eyes wide, manic. The unsub pivoted, rifle jerking down, not at you, not at the SWAT stack, but at Apollo. The barrel flashed orange.
You heard your own voice break. “APOLLO!”
Too far. You were too far.
A second shot, louder and sharper, from your left. Hotch’s Glock.
The bullet took the ubsub high in the right shoulder, spinning him like a top. The rifle flew from his hands, clattering across the rails. He dropped, screaming, blood blooming bright red against his jacket. The hostage stumbled free, falling to his knees.
Apollo skidded to a stop a foot from the unsub's boots, hackles still raised, but otherwise unharmed. He looked back at you confused, waiting for the next command.
You couldn’t move. Your lungs had forgotten how.
Bootsteps crunched gravel. Hotch was there faster than should’ve been possible, Glock still up, eyes scanning the yard for threats. Then he holstered, dropped to one knee beside Apollo without hesitation.
His hands moved over the shepherd with practiced efficiency, checking his flanks, chest, legs, and ears. Checking for blood, for shock, for the smallest flinch. Apollo leaned into him, tail giving one uncertain wag.
Hotch’s voice was low, steady. “Easy, boy. You’re okay.”
He looked up at you, really looked. You were still frozen mid-stride, Glock half-raised, breath sawing in and out like you’d run a marathon.
“You all right?” he asked.
You managed a nod. It felt like lying.
“Yeah.” Your voice cracked. “He’s okay?”
Hotch’s hand stilled on Apollo’s neck, thumb rubbing the spot behind the collar that made the dog’s eyes half-close. “Not a scratch.” His tone softened just a fraction, but enough. “I’d hate to lose our best agent.”
You couldn’t tell if he meant you or the dog.
It didn’t matter.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy, relief, terror, something raw. Snow started to fall, flakes catching in Hotch’s hair, on Apollo’s fur, on the blood pooling under the unsub's shoulder.
SWAT swarmed in, shouting and cuffing the ubsub before dragging him away. Morgan’s voice cut through the chaos: “Hotch! You good?”
Hotch didn’t answer. He was still crouched beside Apollo, one hand on the dog’s chest like he was counting heartbeats. The other reached out and closed over your wrist.
Your pulse was racing under his fingers.
“Breathe,” he said quietly.
You did. In. Out. The world narrowed to the heat of his hand, the solid weight of Apollo pressing against your shins, the snow melting on your lashes.
You swallowed. “You shot him.”
“He was going to kill your dog.”
The words were simple. Final. No apology, no justification. Just a fact.
Apollo whined, nudging Hotch’s knee, clearly not pleased that Hotch had stopped petting him. The agent scratched his ears again, and Apollo leaned hard, nearly knocking Hotch off balance. For a second, Hotch’s mask slipped as he steadied himself quickly.
You laughed. It came out shaky. “He likes you.”
Hotch’s mouth curved. “He’s got good taste.”
Morgan jogged up, Prentiss on his heels. “Hostage is secure. Medics inbound. Nice shot, boss.”
Hotch stood, hand lingering on Apollo’s head a second longer before dropping. “K9 saved the kid. I just kept the dog breathing.”
You met his eyes. “Thank you.”
He held your gaze. “Don’t mention it.”
But the way he said it said everything.
Thirty minutes later, Hotch was re-wrapping the gauze on your knuckles in the med tent, because you’d punched a boxcar in the chaos, apparently. His touch was careful, clinical, but his eyes kept flicking to Apollo like he was double-checking the dog was still breathing.
You cleared your throat. “You ever think about getting one?”
He paused. “A dog?”
“Yeah.”
He tied off the bandage. “Jack’s allergic.”
“Jack’s also eight. Kids grow out of that.”
Hotch’s mouth twitched. “You offering to dog-sit?”
Apollo thumped his tail at the word sit.
You smiled. “Maybe.”
He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, then at the dog, then back at you. The silence wasn’t awkward anymore. It was almost normal.
The park smelled of wet leaves and woodsmoke, late-autumn sun slanting gold through the oaks. You were on day nine of medical leave. Your collarbone cracked in a warehouse raid in Baltimore, nothing BAU-related, just bad luck and a fleeing dealer with a crowbar. The sling chafed under your hoodie, but the air felt good in your lungs, and Apollo trotting off-leash beside you felt better.
He was healed faster than you, always was. The vet had cleared him after the rail-yard scare, and now he moved like liquid muscle, nose to the ground, tail flagging every new scent.
You rounded the bend by the duck pond, debating whether to risk a jog, when Apollo’s ears snapped forward. A low woof, then he was gone.
“Apollo!” The name cracked out of you, sharp with panic. You broke into a lurching run, sling bouncing against your ribs, and you winced in pain. “Come!”
You spotted them at the same moment.
Hotch stood with his hands in his pockets, watching Apollo skid to a stop at his feet. The shepherd sat instantly, tail sweeping leaves, staring up with pure adoration. Hotch’s face did something way too complicated for his usual growl: Surprise, then the faintest curve of a smile.
You caught up, breathing hard. “I swear he’s never done that before.” Knowing that that was a complete lie.
Hotch crouched, scratching Apollo behind the ears with the same ease he’d shown in the rail yard. “You should work on keeping your dog under control, Agent.”
The dry delivery, the Agent, the way his eyes flicked up to yours all of it hit like a match strike. The old banter flared to life.
You propped your good hand on your hip. “Says the man who shot a sniper to save him. Pretty sure that makes you his favorite.”
Apollo leaned into Hotch’s leg, nearly knocking him off balance. Hotch steadied himself with a palm on the dog’s head, the smile threatening again. “He’s biased.”
“Smart dog.”
Silence settled. A jogger passed, leaves crunching. Apollo flopped onto his side, offering his belly to Hotch like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Hotch obliged, fingers ruffling fur. You watched the way his shoulders loosened, the way the park’s golden light caught the faint scar on his knuckle.
He cleared his throat. “How’s the collarbone?”
“Pinned and pissed off. Doctor says another three weeks before she'll clear me for desk duty.”
“You always follow the doctor’s orders?”
“Only when they involve pain meds.”
His mouth twitched. “Good to know.”
Apollo rolled upright, nudging Hotch’s hand for more. Hotch gave it. Then, quietly. “Jack’s with his aunt this weekend.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Okay…”
He stood, brushing leaves from his coat. The dog pressed against his shins like a chaperone. Hotch’s eyes met yours.
“Dinner?” He asked. “Tomorrow night. If you’re not busy breaking medical advice.”
The words hung there, simple and enormous between you.
You felt the grin start before you could stop it. “Thought you’d never ask, Bossman.”
He exhaled. “Aaron.”
“Aaron.” You tested it, liked the way it felt. “Apollo comes too, right? He’ll sulk if he’s not invited.”
Hotch glanced down at the shepherd, who thumped his tail in enthusiastic agreement. “He can have the steak. You get the wine.”
“Deal.”
He offered his hand. You took it. His grip was warm, calloused, steady. Apollo wedged his head between you, demanding inclusion. You both laughed.
Hotch didn’t let go right away.
“Seven o’clock,” he said. “I’ll pick the place. You pick the dog’s outfit.”
You squeezed once before releasing. “He has a bow tie. It’s ridiculous. I put it on him for Christmas and New Years!”
“I expect nothing less.”
Apollo barked, then trotted a circle around you both like he was herding you together.
You started walking, slowly, side by side, the dog weaving between your legs. The tension wasn’t gone. It had just changed shape at this point.
Behind you, you'd been added to the BAU group chat before a text buzzed from Garcia:
> Garcia: PARK sighting CONFIRMED. Hand-holding. Dog third wheel. PAY UP, LOSERS. I. WIN!!! 💍🐾
Neither of you noticed. You were too busy arguing over whether Apollo needed a tux for the date.
Warnings: MDNI, 18+, smut, brat taming, rough sex, multiple orgasms (m), f orgasm, dom/sub dynamics (Dom!Hotch and Sub!Reader), deliberate disobedience, edging/orgasm denial, overstimulation, light bondage, reader being gagged, creampie, cum everywhere, possessive!Hotch, aftercare. L/N used twice.
Summary: You deliberately try to undermine and piss Hotch off in the field so he'll be rough with you behind closed doors.
A/N: If this stinks I'm sorry. I wanted to try and write a fic that wasn't completely in past tense to challenge myself.
But also…. OH MY GOD MY PANTIES ARE SO WET AFTER WRITING THIS 🤤🤭🥴
You’re pushing it today, and you fucking know it.
Every time Hotch opens his mouth to give an order, you directly disobey him, already moving in the opposite direction of what he wanted. Every time he says “hold position,” you take three deliberate steps forward. And every time he shoots you that warning look, the one you know all too well, the one that makes your knees weak and your mouth dry, you smile back like you’re daring him to do something about it right here, right now, in front of God himself and the entire Kansas field office.
He doesn’t. Not yet.
He just keeps that muscle ticking in his jaw that clicks every time he's trying to keep himself professional and his voice clipped, low, and lethal. He knows what you're doing and is mentally tallying every single disobedient act you decide to display for later score.
Morgan keeps glancing between the two of you like he’s waiting for the detonation. Prentiss pretends to be fascinated by the geographic profile. And Reid, poor oblivious Reid, has (actually) backed all the way up against a filing cabinet, as if distance might save him from whatever’s coming when Hotch finally blows.
Rossi, of course, is enjoying the show.
You’re leaning over the evidence table, deliberately bending farther than necessary to reach a photo, when Rossi sidles up beside you.
“You trying to get fired, kid?” he mutters under his breath. Already knowing exactly what you're playing at. Rossi knows Hotch too well, knows you too well. And has definitely figured out just what your relationship entails behind closed doors.
You don’t even look at him. “Just keeping him on his toes, David.”
He hums, unconvinced. “He’s gonna put you on your knees later, and not in the fun way.”
You grin, sharp and sweet, when in reality you should've been mortified at the words coming out of Rossi's mouth. “We’ll see.”
Hotch’s voice cuts across the bullpen. “L/N. My six. Now.”
You straighten slowly, brushing imaginary lint off your shirt. “Yes, sir.”
You saunter over, boots echoing, and stop just inside his personal space, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to glare at you.
The rest of the room pretends they’re suddenly very very busy. And definitely not listening to whatever is about to happen between the two of you.
“You’re off the raid,” he says, voice low enough that only you can hear the tremor of fury underneath. Meaning that you've just struck bingo, and Hotch is giving you exactly what you were playing for later.
You blink, all mock innocence, before you raise your brows at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re staying here with the locals.”
You laugh, actually laugh, straight in his face. “No, I’m not.”
“That wasn’t a request.” His eyes flash, his pupils dilating, darkening. You can tell that he is trying to claw his way out of Hotch, begging to be released upon you.
“And this isn’t a negotiation.” You step closer, dropping your voice to a purr. “You want me on a leash, Aaron, you’re gonna have to put it on me yourself. In front of everyone. Go ahead.” You cross your arms over your chest.
His nostrils flare. For one electric second, you think he might actually do it, might snap right here, take his belt off, and drag you out by the back of your neck like you both know you want him to.
Instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, trying to ground himself before he says something too unprofessional. When he finally speaks, he leans down to whisper in your ear through gritted teeth, “Fine! You’re with me. You leave my sight for less than .01 seconds, I'll cuff you to the SUV and leave you in the car overnight like some abandoned pet left on the side of the road. Try me.”
You lick your bottom lip. “Promise?”
He turns on his heel before he does something he can’t take back in front of twenty witnesses and the entirety of his team.
The raid is a clusterfuck waiting to happen, and you are the match.
Hotch wants to go in quietly through the back. You’re already halfway across the parking lot toward the front door before he grabs your vest and yanks you back.
“Jesus Christ, do you have a death wish today?” He says, leaving little to no discussion in his tone, you know that tone all too well, even strive to get it out of him on occasion... well, more times than not.
You spin, grinning up at him. “Only if you’re the one pulling the trigger.”
He looks like he’s two seconds from gagging you with his own tie and bending you over right here, right now.
Morgan’s voice crackles over comms. “Hotch, we’re set on the east side. You two coming or getting a room?”
You reach up and key your own comm without looking away from Hotch. “We’re coming, 'baby girl'. Unit Chief’s just having a little performance anxiety.” You can already imagine Morgan's confused look at the nickname.
Hotch rips the earpiece out of your ear and crushes it under his boot.
You whistle, low and a little playful. “That’s destruction of FBI property, sir. Very naughty.”
He grabs the front of your vest this time, hauling you in until you’re nose to nose. There he is. “You do not speak again until this unsub is in cuffs. Not one fucking word. Nod if you understand.”
You nod, solemn and mocking. Already planning to break that exact promise.
He releases you like you’re radioactive.
The warehouse is a maze of rusted machinery and broken skylights. Moonlight stripes the concrete floor. You move ahead of Hotch, deliberately, clearing corners before he can tell you to wait.
He hisses your name, barely audible.
You ignore him.
You hear the unsub before you see him: panicked breathing, the clatter of a dropped magazine. He’s reloading behind a stack of crates twenty feet ahead.
You raise your weapon before you step into the open.
Hotch swears viciously behind you and moves to cover, but you’re already talking.
“FBI! Drop it!”
The unsub spins, wild-eyed, gun up.
You don’t flinch.
Hotch is shouting your name now, furious and afraid all at the same time, but you keep your voice steady, taunting. “Come on, sweetheart. You wanted us to chase you. Here I am.”
The unsub’s finger tightens on the trigger.
Hotch’s arm hooks around your waist from behind, and he yanks you sideways, throwing you both sideways behind a forklift just as the shot rings out. Concrete explodes exactly where you were just standing.
You land half on top of him, ears ringing, heart slamming against your ribs.
He’s shaking with rage, hands gripping your vest so hard the straps bite.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls into your face.
You grin, breathless, high on adrenaline and the feel of him under you. “You’re welcome.”
Another shot pings off metal above your heads.
Hotch flips you onto your back, shielding you with his body, weapon already up. His voice in your ear is lethal. “Stay. Down.”
This time, you finally listen.
He rises in one fluid motion, one precise shot to his leg, and the unsub drops like a puppet that just had its strings cut.
Silence falls in the warehouse, broken only by distant shouting as the rest of the team floods in.
Hotch holsters his weapon, turns back to you, where you’re pushing to your feet.
You meet his eyes across the moonlit warehouse, chest heaving, blood thundering in your ears.
The unsub is down.
The cuffs are clicking.
And Aaron Hotchner looks like he’s deciding exactly how long it’s going to take to make you cry tonight.
The jet is grounded until at least morning due to a mechanical failure in the engine, so the team books into the hotel closest to the hangar and landing strip.
Everyone’s exhausted, adrenaline crashing hard, all a little annoyed from the lack of sleeping in their own beds tonight. But the air between you and Hotch is still a live current, ready to explode any second now.
You’re leaning against the check-in desk, tapping your badge against your palm, when Hotch steps up beside you and quietly tells the clerk, “Two singles.”
You don’t miss a beat. “Separate rooms,” you echo, loud enough for Hotch and the clerk to hear. You flash him a saccharine smile. “How very professional of us, Agent Hotchner. Gotta keep up appearances for the Bureau. Wouldn’t want anyone to know their precious unit chief has been balls-deep in his subordinate every night for the last eight months.”
The night clerk’s eyes go wide. Rossi, waiting for his key behind you, chokes on a laugh which he pretends is a cough.
Hotch doesn’t flinch. He just signs the receipt with a pen that might actually snap in his grip, then hands you a keycard.
“Room 312,” he says, voice flat. “I’ll be there in five minutes. You open that door for anyone else, you won’t sit for a month.”
He walks away before you can answer.
You take the stairs two at a time, pulse already racing.
The second the door clicks shut behind him, the mask is gone.
He shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it toward the chair in the corner of the room, and stalks toward you like a predator who’s finally off leash and pouncing straight toward its next meal.
“Strip!”
You arch a brow at him. “Please?”
He’s on you in two strides, hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back, hard.
“Don’t push me any further tonight,” he warns. “You’ve used up every last ounce of patience I have.”
“Good.” You smile slowly up at him.
He kisses you all teeth, no mercy, until you’re gasping against his mouth. Then he spins you, shoves you chest-first over the foot of the bed, yanks your jeans and panties down in one rough motion.
His palm slides between your shoulder blades, pinning you flat. You feel the heat of him behind you, the hard line of his cock pressing against your ass through his slacks.
“You’ve been begging for this all day,” he says, his voice low and more controlled than you had anticipated when you started pushing him this morning. It's the way he gets right before he completely unravels you. “Every smart-ass comment, every eye roll, every time you said my title like it’s a fucking joke. You want my attention? You have it.”
He drags your hips back until you’re bent perfectly for him, feet barely touching the carpet. The first thrust of his clothed hips against your bare skin is deliberate, grinding, a promise and a threat all at once.
You push back, greedy for him to enter you.
He stills you with one hand splayed over the base of your spine, the other winding your hair around his fist until your neck arches.
“Stay still,” he growls. “You move when I tell you to move.” He leans over you, mouth at your ear. “Color?”
“Green,” you breathe, already trembling. “So fucking green.”
He pulls back just enough to unbuckle his belt, the metallic clink loud in the almost silent room. You hear his zipper, feel the blunt, bare heat of him drag up the seam of your body.
He doesn’t enter you. Not yet.
Instead, he notches himself at your entrance and holds there, agonizingly still, while you try to rock back and take him, sheathe yourself on his cock. His grip on your hair tightens, holding you exactly where he wants you.
“Beg!”
“Please, Sir—”
“Louder.”
“Please fuck me, Sir, I need—”
He slams into you in one brutal stroke, no warning, filling you so suddenly your breath catches on a scream.
Your legs wrap around nothing, toes curling into the carpet, hips snapping hard enough to jolt the bedframe into the wall with every thrust.
He flips you onto your back without pulling out, hooking your knees over his elbows, and spreading you wide. The new angle drags a broken sound from your throat as his thrusts take him deeper and deeper.
“Look at you,” he growls against your collarbone as he shoves your shirt up and runs his mouth over your skin, teeth scraping against you. “Acting like a spoiled little brat in front of the entire team. You think they didn’t notice? You think I didn’t see the way Morgan smirked every time you opened that mouth?”
“Maybe I wanted them to know,” you taunt, breathless, reaching for him. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t belong to—”
He cuts you off by pulling out entirely and flipping you again, this time onto your knees, face and chest pressed against the mattress.
He thrusts back in so hard your hands scrabble for purchase on the sheets.
“Say it,” he snarls, one hand sliding up to collar your throat from behind, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave a bruise in the morning. “Finish that sentence.”
“I belong to you,” you sob, clenching around him. “Only you—fuck—Aaron—”
“That’s right.” He presses you deeper into the bed, hips relentless. “You’re mine. And tomorrow, when you can’t walk straight and my cum still dripping down your thighs during our briefing on the jet, you’ll remember exactly who you answer to.”
He reaches beneath you, finds your clit with better precision than a trained sharpshooter, no searching, no hesitation, just the rough pad of his finger settling right where you’re swollen and aching for him. He doesn’t move at first. Just presses, holds, lets you feel the weight of that single point of contact while his cock throbs inside you, stretching you open, owning every trembling inch.
You try to rock back, to chase more, but his grip turns iron.
“Stay,” he growls against the shell of your ear, breath hot, voice shredded. “You take what I give you.”
Then he starts to move, slow, cruel circles that drag over your clit with exactly enough pressure to make your thighs shake. Every stroke is perfectly timed with the roll of his hips, the thick drag of him pulling out until only the head remains before he slams back in, forcing the air from your lungs.
Your hands claw at the sheets. Your spine arches so hard it hurts. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter, vicious and unstoppable, until you’re sobbing his name into the pillow, broken and desperate little pleas of his name.
He speeds up, just barely, thumb flicking faster, hips snapping harder, the wet sound of him fucking you filling the room along with your wrecked moans.
“Cum,” he orders, voice cracking with restraint. “Cum on my cock right now. Show me who you belong to.”
The command rips through you.
You shatter, back bowing, toes curling, a raw scream tearing from your throat as your entire body locks down around him. Wave after wave crashes over you, so intense your vision whites out, every pulse of your orgasm dragging him deeper, milking him with greedy, rhythmic clenches.
He swears once and loses the last thread of control. His rhythm stutters, hips slamming forward one final time as he cums with a rough groan, spilling inside you.
You feel every throb, every pulse, the way he jerks and grinds through it, forehead pressed hard between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to fuse himself to your skin.
He stays there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving against your back, both of you trembling in the aftermath, slick with sweat and utterly spent. You can’t help it, your hips give a tiny, greedy roll, chasing the last sparks of pleasure, trying to keep him deep.
A soft, satisfied moan slips out of you.
Hotch’s chuckle rumbles against your spine. His arms tighten, pinning you flat to the mattress so you can’t move an inch further than you've already wiggled.
“You think we’re done?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. He nips the lobe hard enough to make you gasp. “Oh, sweetheart. You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my time to play.”
He pulls out slowly, letting you feel every inch drag against your oversensitive walls. You whine at the sudden emptiness, but before you can protest, he’s already moving, shirt buttons flying, slacks kicked the rest of the way off, socks gone.
In seconds, he’s gloriously bare, all hard lines, cock still half-hard and glistening with your cum.
He turns his attention to you next, signaling with his hand for you to flip over on your back. You do as ordered.
Your shirt is shoved up under your arms. He yanks it off, unhooks your bra, and tosses both across the room. Then he grabs his discarded tie and crawls over you.
“Hands up,” he orders.
You obey instantly, stretching your arms above your head. He loops the tie around your wrists, threads it through the headboard, and cinches it tight. Not painful, but absolutely inescapable from your end of the deal. You tug once; the silk holds firm.
A helpless little thrill shoots straight to your core.
He settles between your thighs again, slides back inside you with one smooth thrust that makes your back arch. You’re so wet, so swollen, the stretch burns in the best way, you're not sure you can take the sensation much longer before cumming again.
“Good girl,” he praises, voice rough. “Stay just like that.”
He starts slow. Long and deep strokes that hit every spot inside you. His mouth finds your neck, your breasts, sucking bruises into your skin while his hips roll in that maddening rhythm he knows drives you absolutely insane.
It doesn’t take long before you’re writhing, breath hitching, thighs trembling around his waist.
“Please! Sir, I’m close,” you whimper.
He pulls out completely.
You cry out, hips bucking at nothing. He watches you struggle against the tie, thighs squeezing together for friction that isn’t there.
“Shh.” He strokes your hip in a soothing yet cruel manner. “Calm down a little. We’re nowhere near done.”
He waits until your breathing evens, until the desperation fades, then slides back in and starts all over again.
He does it four times.
Four times, he builds you right to the brink, fingers on your clit, mouth on your nipples, cock dragging slow and steady against your walls, until you’re sobbing, begging, tears of frustration gathering at the corners of your eyes.
The fifth time you get loud, really loud, a broken, whining “Please, please, I can’t—” spilling out over and over.
Hotch clicks his tongue. “Too noisy, baby.” He reaches for your discarded panties and balls them up. “Open.”
You shake your head, playful defiance flaring even through the haze.
He arches a brow. “Open that pretty mouth, or I stop entirely and you get nothing.”
Your lips part instantly. He stuffs the panties in, the taste of yourself flooding your tongue, muffling every sound to desperate, garbled whimpers.
“There we go,” he croons, brushing the back of his hand over your cheek. “Much better.”
He fucks you like that for what feels like hours. He comes once deep inside you again, groaning your name against your throat. Pulls out, strokes himself, and paints thick stripes across your stomach and breasts.
Later, he pushes your knees to your chest, and spills across your face while you keen helplessly behind the gag.
Each time he finishes, he starts again, sliding through the mess he’s made across your frame, using it to make you slicker, filthier. You lose count of his orgasms. You’re a trembling, oversensitive wreck, and still he denies you that second release, pulling out the instant your walls start to flutter.
Finally, finally, he collapses over you, sweat-slick and breathless, cock spent and utterly dry. He reaches up and carefully unties your wrists, massaging the faint red marks with his thumbs. Then he gently pulls the soaked panties from your mouth. You work your jaw, swallowing hard, voice hoarse.
He kisses you softly. “Up,” he murmurs.
You’re boneless, but he helps you sit. He slides the same wet panties that he just pulled from your mouth back up your legs, tugging them into place with deliberate care. The fabric settles against your abused, swollen pussy, trapping every drop of his cum inside you. You whimper at the pressure.
He leaves for a second before coming back with a wet cloth in his hand.
When he settles back down beside you, he cups your chin, tilts your face to his, and with the warm cloth, he cleans your cheeks, your lips, your eyelashes with tender, reverent strokes that make you melt against his hand.
But when you reach for a tissue to wipe your chest and stomach, he catches your wrist.
“No.” His voice drops into that stern, deep tone that makes you freeze. “You don’t clean the rest off. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until we’re wheels-down at Quantico and you’re standing in my shower at home. You’re going to feel me on your skin every second on the jet, every time you shift in your chair. You’ll remember exactly who you bratted off to today, and exactly who owns every inch of this body. Understood?”
You nod, throat tight, arousal somehow flaring all over again despite everything.
“Yes, Sir.”
He smiles, a small, satisfied, and soft smile, before he pulls you into his chest. His hand spreads possessively over the sticky mess on your stomach, holding you close.
“Sleep, trouble,” he whispers into your hair. “You’re going to need it.
You’re already half-asleep when he speaks again, voice low in the dark.
“Next time you pull a stunt like that in the field, I won’t wait until we’re in a hotel room.”
You smile against his skin, sore and sated and utterly ruined.
“Next time,” you mumble, “I’ll be worse.”
He bites your shoulder in warning.
You wake up to the alarm on Hotch’s watch at 5:47 a.m. He’s already sitting on the edge of the bed, hair damp from the shower, knotting a fresh tie. You try to roll over and immediately regret it. Every muscle between your hips screams. Your thighs are sticky, your pussy swollen and aching, and when you clench experimentally, you feel the slow, obscene slide of everything he left inside you only a couple of hours ago.
He glances back, eyes satisfied.
“Up,” he says, voice still rough from sleep and sex. “Wheels up in forty.”
You groan. Actually groan. Getting vertical feels like an Olympic event that you never trained for.
He watches you struggle into yesterday’s jeans with the faintest smirk curling his mouth, when in reality, all you want is a pair of sweatpants.
The panties he pulled back up your legs after he finally untied you are soaked through, his cum, yours, the evidence of four separate loads, and every step makes the fabric drag against your oversensitive clit.
By the time you limp into the hotel lobby, the whole team is already waiting. Morgan does a double-take.
“Damn, sweetheart. You pull a muscle wrestling that unsub... or something?”
You flip him off with the hand that isn’t clutching your go-bag strap for support.
Hotch doesn’t say a word, just opens the back door of the SUV for you like a perfect gentleman, as you make it to the cars. You slide across the seat and bite the inside of your cheek to keep from whimpering when your ass meets cold and slightly hard leather.
On the jet, you take the seat farthest from the group, legs pressed tightly together, praying the movement of the plane doesn’t jostle anything loose. Hotch sits directly across the aisle from you, tablet in hand, leading the debrief like nothing happened last night. Like he didn’t wreck you so thoroughly that you’re still tasting him through your pussy.
He starts with the profile review. You’re supposed to contribute. Instead, you’re hyper-aware of the slow trickle working its way down your thigh every time the jet banks left. You shift, and the wet drag of cotton against your folds makes you swallow a gasp.
Hotch’s eyes flick to you. Calm and professional. Except for the slight curve at the corner of his mouth that says he knows exactly what you’re feeling.
“Agent L/N,” he says smoothly, “care to walk us through the victimology again and what we can learn from it for future cases?”
You open your mouth. Close it. Clear your throat. “Uh. Females, twenty-two to twenty-nine, brunettes, all abducted within—”
Your voice cracks on the last word because the plane hits a pocket of turbulence, and you feel a fresh pulse of warmth slip free. You clamp your thighs harder, face burning.
Reid starts rambling about geographic decay rates. You stop listening. All you can focus on is the slow, steady throb between your legs and the way Hotch’s gaze keeps drifting to your lap like he’s cataloging every squirm.
Forty unending minutes later, the wheels finally touch down in Quantico. You stand too fast, and your knees nearly buckle. Hotch’s hand shoots out to steady your elbow, the perfect picture of a concerned boss... or partner.
You make it down the stairs on wobbly legs, every step making the mess in your panties shift and cling. You’re praying no one notices the way you’re walking like you just rode a horse for twelve hours straight.
Rossi falls into step beside Hotch as you head for the car park. He doesn’t even bother lowering his voice.
“Atta boy,” he mutters, clapping Hotch once on the shoulder.
Hotch doesn’t answer, but you catch the faint, wicked tilt of his lips before he slides on his sunglasses.
You flip Rossi off behind Hotch’s back.
Rossi just laughs knowingly and calls over his shoulder, “Feel better, kid.”
Aaron Hotchner x fem!prosecutor!reader
Genre: slow burn (you drive him insane and he finds it endearing against his will)
Summary: Your first case as a prosecutor: no solid evidence, three dead women, and a defendant with a flaccid dick and a good lawyer. Enter SSA Hotchner - your secretary’s favorite fossil, condescending as hell, allegedly a genius. He’s your key witness and consultant. Unfortunately, he also has really, really nice hands.
Warnings: graphic discussion of murder, serial killer case, some swearing, jokes on lawyers doing cocaine, objectification of Hotch’s ladyfingers, Hotch almost cries, serves full passenger-princess energy, and... allegedly gets bricked up on your sofa.
Word Count: 14k
Dado's Corner: This took an enormous amount of sweat and suffering (sorry for disappearing for like… 2+ weeks). If it’s boring I will simply pass away. Consider this my first official entry in the 2025 “Bring Case Fics Back” movement because I LOVE case fics with my whole heart!!! Huge thank you to @sweetheartsocks and @hotchology for listening to me whine about this monstrosity <333 requested by yours truly!!
masterlist
Neutralize men who think they know better than you!
A few simple steps to make them see how your dick is bigger than theirs, even if you’re kind of losing it. Mask it! Be more alpha than the alpha male - destroy him!
On today’s special: how to intimidate a beloved ex-prosecutor who used to sit his skinny buttcheeks on the same chair in your brand-new DA office?
Thinking about it lowkey makes you want to replace the chair - seriously, how many asses have christened that upholstery? Anyway. It’s not like you actually want to destroy the man.
You couldn’t – Bertha, your secretary (who used to work for him), talks about him with such gooey fondness you’d choke if she ever saw the full psychological welfare plan you’ve sketched in the margins of your notebook.
Also: inconvenient fact - he’s your key witness and consultant for your first big murder trial. Everyone’s watching. This goes well, your career keeps breathing. This goes badly, and you may as well hang a sign on the courthouse that says plot twist: rookie prosecutor implodes.
You can’t wreck Aaron Hotchner. You can, however, administer very tasteful humiliation.
Stalk - sorry, research. Georgetown Law, summa cum laude, “highest conviction rate among prosecutors under 35” (office press release: statistics as emotional support). Learn his metrics until you can correct him mid-sentence and watch his neat little kingdom wobble.
Wear a killer outfit (no pun intended) to that murder-trial strategy meeting with the fossil - your job here is to exude confidence, not to blend in. Special-occasion perfume - check. The alarmingly expensive heels that click very loudly on terrazzo tiles- check. Let the tiles announce your arrival.
Master the element of surprise. Position yourself outside the DA steps. Wait for Mr. 92% conviction rate (versus the 84% national average) to arrive, all long-legged nostalgia and hair product. Hide behind a column. Let him pause, look up at the window of his old office - now your office - and smile his little sentimental smile. Spring from your hiding spot, click-clack past his slow, elegant loafers, hold the door like you own the building. Smell him (he smells nice). Note the product in his hair (a lot). Let the moment accumulate.
But then-
You round the corner in full vindictive glide, heel cocked for the final triumphant tap, and your foot finds that one treacherous fleck of terrazzo grease the building has been saving for you.
Time expands so you can regret properly.
You trip. Miserably.
Your briefcase ricochets, pops open, and your files launch into the air like paper petals before the most theatrical sex scene in a cheap rom-com. Bold. Not spontaneous. Impossible to tidy up afterward. And, above all, flagrantly attention-seeking (mission accomplished?).
You land. Spectacularly. Knees, palms, dignity in slow motion.
Aaron Hotchner - thirteen consecutive jury wins, the man the FBI practically begged to recruit (despite the tearjerker version he tells - “it was too late for me as a prosecutor” - the real story is they did ask; he just prefers the nobler exit line) - drops to his knees immediately without hesitation.
First and last time a man will do this for you.
Also: you hear his knees crack. Old man. Ha.
1995 Prosecutor of the Year, D.C. Bar Association’s golden boy, has one hand on your ankle and the other on your neck - steadying you, guiding your chin up with just his thumb, as if afraid to overstep even while you’re sprawled on the floor.
Respectful. Irritatingly so.
His brows are knit, worry lines carved deep into a face that - let’s be honest - looked significantly less… archaeological in the old photo you saw of him last night. He’s ancient, you decide. And still, that hand remains, swallowing your ankle, thumb tracing the bone lightly, checking if anything’s dislocated.
“Are you alright?”
You blink up at him, dazed by proximity and humiliation.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” You scramble up too fast, knees wobbling. He catches you anyway - one hand at the small of your back, gently straightening you. “Don’t worry, really, I’m fine.”
He doesn’t look convinced. He stays there a second too long, brow furrowed, then murmurs, almost apologetically, “Stay here. Let me help.”
He’s already moving before you can stop him - gathering your fallen briefcase and the blizzard of papers you just redecorated the staircase with.
You meet him halfway - because, honestly, you still have scraps of pride left - but he shoots you a look that clearly says I told you to stay put and has the good sense not to actually say it out loud (suck it).
Your fingers brush in the handoff. Great. It’s embarrassingly cinematic. Not at all the commanding entrance you rehearsed.
“I hope they weren’t alphabetized,” he says flatly. A joke from the fossil. (You think.) “A peculiar way to meet, Counselor.”
He offers his hand. You can’t tell if he’s smiling or just lifting his brows to keep assessing you like a potential concussion case.
“You don’t say, Agent.” You take his hand, firm grip. Confidence is theatre. Unfortunately, his hand is enormous, and the scene is not going to plan.
“Hot-”
“Hotchner. I know who you are.” (And yet he’s still holding your hand. Why is he still holding your hand?)
“Are you sure you’re alright, Counselor?”
You’re not going to survive this day.
You clear your throat, pivot, and march for the door - the door where, in the original script, introductions were supposed to happen gracefully inside. Fine. Adapt. You hold it open for him anyway.
“Can we just get this started?”
He steps past you, faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Lead the way.”
So much for dazzling him with efficiency.
“Shall we take the elevator?” he adds, tone suspiciously mild.
Is he humoring you?!
You owe Bertha twenty bucks.
She bet that Mr. Hotchner would ask you to perform your opening statement within five minutes of his arrival.
You tried to delay it. You threw everything at the wall: the usual pleasantries, a weather complaint, traffic from Quantico (terrible, right?), the possibility of replacing the office chairs (“I was thinking burgundy leather instead of this depressing black?”), even the offer of tea - or whiskey, though Bertha swore up and down he never touched alcohol in the five years she worked for him.
People change.
Apparently, everyone changes. Except Aaron Probably-Has-A-Middle-Name-No-One-Knows Hotchner. (Bertha probably knows. You’re not risking another twenty to find out.)
“Why don’t we prepare the questions for your direct examination now that we’re here?” you suggest. It’s too late to win the bet, but still - you’d rather judge his methods before he judges yours.
He looks up from his notes. “That’s premature. The opening statement sets the framework we have to maintain through the trial. I need to hear your version of it first. The jury has to be oriented before they’re persuaded.”
No shit.
He continues, undeterred. “Everything that follows - the direct, the cross, the closing - has to reinforce that first impression. You build the argument from the general to the specific. Deductive structure.”
“With all due respect,” shut the fuck up, “that’s not going to help us here. All we’ve got are circumstantial and partial evidence to indict the bastard-” his brow furrows the second you swear, adorable “and you know better than I do that the profile, however solid, isn’t admissible. It’s a tool, not evidence. There’s no single piece of forensics that seals this. The profile is the case, but it’s off-limits. So we start from what we have - the particular - to build up to the general. Inductive strategy.”
He looks like he’s rewiring - must be hard when no one’s licking your boots or parroting your every sanctimonious syllable like they did back at the FBI. Sure, he’s stacked with awards, but you suspect he’s also stacked with bullshit.
“Induction doesn’t hold up well,” he says evenly, “not with a jury that comes in looking for reasonable doubt. Take it from experience.”
You narrow your eyes. “Why do I feel like you’re implying I lack experience?”
He doesn’t answer - which is smart of him, because that would’ve earned him a slap. Instead, he exhales through his nose, slow. You’re starting to lose patience.
“You’re passionate about this,” he says, which in Hotch-to-English translates to: you’re impulsive because it’s your first case as a DA, and I’m calm because I’ve been devouring trial wins for breakfast since Hammurabi wrote the first criminal code.
He keeps going before you can bite back. “That’s good. Passion’s what separates someone who cares from someone who just clocks hours.” His gaze flicks over your face, then back down to the file in his hands. “I’m not questioning your competence. You’ve earned the chair. You’ve earned this case. You’re here. And I’ve read the transcripts of your prior cases - I know what you can do when the odds are worse than this.”
You hate how that makes you feel. Warm. Seen. Complimented by a fossil. Gross.
“Those transcripts are classified,” you joke. Kind of. Mostly you’re just trying to hide the fact that he intimidates the hell out of you.
He raises an eyebrow, deadpan. “Not from me.”
You roll your eyes. How he likes being special. God forbid Aaron Hotchner be left out of a classified loop. He probably has clearance to your diary. Your rabid, feral crush on 1980s Tom Selleck? Absolutely compromised.
He’s looking at you like he’s already read the footnotes on how much you’re attracted to his body hair and those slutty little booty shorts he used to wear in the ‘80s (when is fashion bringing those back??)
“We’re on the same side, Counselor,” he says, quieter, eyes holding yours a second too long. You feel warm. “Trust goes both ways.”
For once, you’ve got nothing. Which is a pretty damning look for someone whose entire job revolves around always having something to say.
So you clear your throat. “My opening statement’s on page twenty-four, by the way.”
“I know,” he says. “I’ve read it.”
He must be joking.
“...And?”
“It’s good,” he says simply. Then, after a beat: “Actually, it’s perfect.”
Definitely joking. “You’re kidding.”
So all that stupid-ass deductive strategy talk was just to test how easily you could be swayed? Really? You are supposed to be the one doing the psychological warfare here, not him.
“I’m serious. I don’t say that often,” he adds.
This man confuses you.
“Well… um. Thrilled to know I’ve passed the Hotchner Bar of Perfection?”
His mouth twitches. “Let’s not get carried away.”
(???)
“Alright… so. Back to… us.” (Us? Okay, wow. Excellent start. Very professional. Very you.)
Hotch’s expression doesn’t move an inch. Maybe his left brow tightens half a millimeter. Maybe you hallucinated that.
You clear your throat. “You know the fucker- uh, the defense attorney-”
A faint exhale through his nose. Oh. That must mean he thinks you’re hilarious.
“Dennis,” he says, dry. (You are not as hilarious as you thought.)
Travis Dennis - divorced loser (well… so is Agent Hotchner, so let’s not throw stones). Roughly Hotchner’s age, which is either a cosmic joke or a warning sign from the universe.
And… he reeks. Not because he doesn’t shower, but because he willingly marinates himself in the most aggressively masculine colognes known to humankind. Eau de Midlife Crisis. Just thinking about it makes your sinuses file a complaint.
“He filed notice that Laird” - ergo, the alleged homicidal bastard, though you’re saving your premium insults for later - “intends to plead not guilty by reason of insanity. Which means - lucky us,” lucky us your ass “we get to host the full psychological circus. Evaluations, experts, Freudian juggling acts, the whole carnival.”
Hotchner nods once. “That was expected.”
BOOOOOOOO. Seriously? Not even a smirk? You drop some of your best material and this man responds like a fax machine. Why is he only capable of showing signs of life when you’re actively face-planting in front of him?
“Right. And naturally, our friend decided to make it even messier. Had his client evaluated for dissociative amnesia, psychogenic memory gaps… basically every buzzword he could pull from Psychology Today. They even did one of those fancy neuro tests.”
Hotchner nods once. “You mean a P300 recognition paradigm. Event-related potentials. EEG.”
“Yeah, that,” you sigh. “The beeping light show.”
He looks mildly unimpressed.
You roll your eyes. Wow. He really wants you to say the full technical term like a good little jurist, doesn’t he? Can’t he read the diploma on the damn wall?
You got into Harvard. Meanwhile, Prosecutor of the Year 1995 crawled out of the academic backwoods of Georgetown Law.
Please.
“Yes, yes, I know what it’s called, Harris.” No reaction. Okay, maybe his second name is not Harris. “Fine. State v. Harrington, 2005. EEG-based memory detection admissible under Rule 702, examiner qualification required, probative value has to outweigh prejudice, Frye and Daubert still apply, blah blah, I’ve read more than one case file in my life. I call it the beeping light show because it’s less boring than your Bureau bedtime stories. Can we move on, or do you want me to cite the Federal Reporter too?”
He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging up just enough to register on a seismograph. Is that a smirk? Aaron Benedict (???) Hotchner, Esq., cracking under the pressure of your brilliance? Someone alert the historical societies.
“Great. So.” You clap your hands once. “They hooked him up to the machine, flashed a few crime-scene photos, and – shockingly - nothing. But then they show him a picture of Mommy’s grave and suddenly it’s Times Square up there.”
That finally earns you some proper eye contact. And it’s a look.
“That doesn’t help you. It reinforces the amnesia narrative. The defense will use it to claim he’s detached from the crimes and emotionally fixated on grief, not violence.”
No shit. Pt.2
“I know,” you say, shrugging. “That’s why it’s not going in.”
“You’re excluding it?”
“Technically, I’m letting the rules exclude it.” You sit back. OOOOOH, he has no idea what’s coming, “I suggested to the judge that if the court were feeling generous and decided to admit the tests, both sides should meet a strict filing window for full disclosure of data and expert methodology.”
Hotchner waits. You can see him catching up. “You mean-”
“I mean,” you cut in, “I made sure that window happened to overlap with Super Bowl weekend. Dennis is a rabid fan. I could’ve walked into his office with a chainsaw and he wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t playing on ESPN. I knew he’d blow the deadline, or at least screw the paperwork. I even highlighted the clause for him, in yellow. You can’t say I’m not collegial.”
You smirk, basking in your own villainy.
Agent Hotchner folds his hands. “You realize most prosecutors don’t build their cases around the opposing counsel’s calendar habits.”
(And there it is. Ever the party-pooper. God forbid you have fun while obliterating a man’s career.)
“I followed procedure,” you say sweetly. “He’s the one who thought commas were optional in legal filings. Judge struck the neuro evidence on Tuesday morning. Poof. Gone. Officially too unreliable, unofficially too late.” How you love rocket dockets. They never fail you. Unlike men.
A pause. His gaze lingers on you. (Do you have something on your face?) “You planned it.”
You grin. “Maybe.”
He exhales again, surrendered, and glances back at the file. “You’re aware that’s manipulative.”
“Manipulative?” you feign offense, hand to your chest. “Please. Timely. There’s a difference. This is what happens when a man loves balls more than his job.”
And that’s when he actually laughs. Just once - much higher-pitched than his usual voice, and way too loud. You have to admit it’s very contagious.
“That was ballsy,” he says after a beat, deadpan, eyes still on the page like he didn’t just deliver the worst joke of the century.
You stare at him. He keeps reading. Silence.
Then, after a few seconds, he looks up - subtly, expectantly - checking if you caught it. Oh, you caught it. It was just bad, Agent. So fucking lame.
And he’s so proud of it. That tiny smirk creeps up again, like he’s waiting for applause. You hold firm. He stares harder.
You finally crack, a laugh bursting out of you despite yourself - not at the joke, but at his absolute commitment to defending it.
Fucking loser.
Besides whatever anyone claims about “not judging a book by its cover,” everyone does. You could spiral into a thesis on the sociocultural implications of that phenomenon, but right now, the only thing that matters is that a trial is a performance.
Especially when it’s televised, the press is drooling over every frame, and the defendant - Evan Laird, alleged murderer (whatever, confirmed motherfucker, you’re not buying the PR) - has somehow amassed a fan club of shrieking apologists both outside and inside the courthouse. It’s nauseating.
To counteract that circus - to stop the media from cuddling up to the bastard who’s single-handedly spiking newsstand sales 500% - you need control of the optics. You need coherence, look strong, confident, and yes, good-looking for the inevitable prestige drama Hollywood will crank out about this in twenty years (or five, Dahmer-style.)
Which, unfortunately, is hard to pull off when your co-counsel is a six-foot federal agent whose entire wardrobe screams funeral home catalogue.
To his great… surprise (let’s go with surprise), Agent Hotchner receives a text from you that morning. A wonderful text. Truly, it’s the kind of thing that must make his day.
“We’re matching today.”
And before he can even process what that means, a second text arrives:
Wear burgundy.
It brings out the color of your eyes. You’re welcome :)
Then, immediately-
I’ll pick you up at 8. Be ready.
He stares at his phone for a full thirty seconds. Technically, yes, you live on his route to the courthouse, but that hardly explains why you’ve decided to chauffeur him.
Still, if six days of trial prep have taught him anything, it’s that the path of least resistance is usually the one where he just lets you do whatever it is you’re doing. Trust her and don’t ask questions. That’s the lesson.
That doesn’t stop him from muttering under his breath as he stares into his closet. He wishes you’d at least consulted him - or, better yet, picked navy. He was already wearing navy. His eyes looked perfectly fine in navy.
But no. Burgundy.
Burgundy means dismantling his entire morning routine and rebuilding it from scratch.
Would a burgundy tie and socks (safely hidden beneath his slacks) satisfy your mysterious aesthetic vision, or does he need to escalate his commitment? Should he be rifling through his underwear drawer for something that meets your newly instituted color-scheme policy?
Maybe the cufflinks. Just to be safe.
He’s not naïve enough to rule out the possibility that you’d actually storm into his apartment and assemble the outfit yourself if he failed to meet your (let’s be honest) very modest expectations. The thought makes him chuckle under his breath.
Captivated? No. Not the right word. It just… pulls a smile out of him. A small one. Against his better judgment.
The pattern repeats itself the moment he hears your car before he sees it. Hard not to: the bassline hits from half a block away.
You roll to a stop directly in front of the building entrance. You can’t park there. (The signs say so in at least three languages.) You’re lucky he’s already outside - any longer, and the tenants’ group chat would’ve exploded with “WHO IS SHE AND WHY IS SHE BLARING BRITNEY?”
The window slides down. You lean out, sunglasses, smirk. He is terrified.
“Get in, loser. We’re going shopping.”
He blinks. Stares. Processing.
You sigh. Of course. He’s not going to get the Mean Girls reference. He just stands there, holding his briefcase, wondering what part of this qualifies as an appropriate mode of transportation to federal court.
You tap the steering wheel. “We’re going to the courthouse, Hotchner. Try to keep up with the cultural touchstones next time.”
He adjusts his tie, sighs, and climbs in. Under his breath - barely audible over the bassline - you catch something that sounds suspiciously like, “You’re going to be the death of me.”
Perfect. That’s exactly the energy you’re going for.
“You ready to fry the motherfucker?” you ask, grinning. (Allegedly.)
He shoots you a look, then glances at the dashboard - where your music is blaring with the delicate subtlety of an air raid siren. Rihanna (he’s fairly sure that’s who it is - not that he listens to anything so relentlessly upbeat on his commute; his playlist consists of real music. Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, for instance: a profound Beatles ballad about Desmond and Molly who… get married and open a bar. Now that’s lyricism.) is currently pleading please don’t stop the music (music, music, music, music).
And because he’s both a gentleman and, at this point, a hostage, he politely honors her request - raising his voice just to be heard.
“Is this-” he gestures vaguely at the speakers, “-your pre-trial ritual? Or should I assume this is a recent development?”
“Oh no,” you say, smiling sweetly, “back in corporate law we just did cocaine.”
His jaw tightens. “I’ll assume that’s a joke.”
You shrug. “You can assume whatever helps you sleep at night, Agent.”
He exhales through his nose, looks out the window. “It’s too early for this.”
(It’s too early, in general.)
Inside the courtroom, it’s just you and him. Perks of arriving inhumanely in advance - at least that, you agree on.
Excitement thrums in your bones with every click of your heels down the aisle. You find yourself wanting to whisper. Everything you do feels too loud, the echo of your steps almost inappropriate. In an hour, it’ll be chaos. For now, it’s sacred.
You breathe in. Breathe out.
The case folders glow too bright against the old oak table; your reflection in the polished wood looks new, too new, against all this history. Good thing there’s a fossil sitting beside you to balance the composition.
The morning light hits him square in the face, turning his eyes the same honeyed tone as the wood around you. He fits here perfectly, like he never left. (And, annoyingly, you were right, the burgundy does bring out his eyes.)
He looks exactly the same and somehow completely different.
You feel his hand on your shoulder. “You’re going to do great. Trust me.” It’s gone as softly and swiftly as it came.
You wonder if he misses all of this.
If someone asked what a hotshot lawyer like you thinks while delivering the opening statement of the century, you’d have to admit: it’s not the jury. Not the defense. Not even the perfectly rehearsed crescendo you spent three nights memorizing.
It’s five minutes earlier - when you told Aaron Hotchner to take notes on everyone. The judge. The jury. The stinky man. The bastard who can’t get it hard. Especially the stinky man.
All very professional - until Agent Hotchner replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
You’ve been replaying it ever since. Ma’am. Not Miss. Really? Are you supposed to remind him of your birth year again?
Though, to be fair, he probably said it to sound respectful - to emphasize your authority. Sweet. Or maybe he’s just one of those men who secretly likes being second-in-command. After all, when you spend your days commanding a federal unit, maybe it’s a relief to take orders for once. Maybe he likes being told what his place is.
Well. No time to unpack that particular Freudian suitcase.
The gavel drops. Court adjourned. The courtroom drains of people, Dennis’ aquatic nightmare of a cologne finally fades, and your nostrils rejoice - even as the echo of your own voice still lingers in the rafters.
He starts gathering your files and placing them in the briefcase in the exact order you put them this morning without you ever asked him to do so “You did well.” He says softly.
He’s way too caring for being an ex-lawyer. they usually don’t give a shit, he gives a shit enough to tell you you did well instead of great like he reassured you before everything started. You haven’t missed it!
“Well? That’s it? I was going for transcendental.”
“The jury liked you,” he says, ignoring the bait. “They followed you. That’s not common on day one.”
You tilt your head. “Followed me?”
“Jurors five, seven, and ten,” he clarifies. “They were watching you when Dennis spoke. That means they trust your read on him.”
You grin, a little smug. “So, they’re on our side?”
He hesitates. “Mostly. They drank up his opening statement… he played the humanist angle well. But after the detective described the wounds, you pulled them back. They mirrored you. Nodded when you did. Percentage-wise? Maybe sixty-forty, leaning our way now.”
You whistle low. “Sixty-forty, huh? I’ll take those odds. Not bad for a first day.”
“It’ll shift again tomorrow. It always does.”
“Ever the optimist, Agent Hotchner.”
He glances sideways, almost smiling. “I’m a realist.”
“Well, Mr. Realist, if I keep swinging at this rate, we’ll hit eighty-twenty by Friday.”
“That is way too ambitious, Counsel.”
STFU! Instead of worrying about sounding like a dick to you, he should worry about reading the two books you recommended on how to be likable before he even dares step foot in your courtroom again and torpedoes his own examination.
STATE v. EVAN LAIRD - TRIAL RECORD, VOL. II
pp. 162–167
Excerpt: DIRECT EXAMINATION OF SSA AARON HOTCHNER
(as conducted by the best prosecutor who has ever walked this earth in four-inch heels)
Before the record even begins, the court reporter really should have included the following factual corrections:
Counsel for the State (yours truly) entered the courtroom looking like a goddess.
The defense looked like a damp sock.
The jury was already half in love with you before you opened your mouth.
Agent Hotchner looked… well. Like that. In a suit. Under oath. Jury already half in love with him too.
But sadly, the stenographer cannot annotate “Counsel is 100% winning this trial on sheer charisma and the power of a burgundy heel alone,” so the official transcript begins instead - quite drably - with:
The transcript, of course, does not capture:
the way Agent Hotchner kept looking at you like you personally hung the moon over the witness stand (equal parts jealous of your brilliance and quietly, infuriatingly proud),
the fact that you knew you’d already won by page 163,
or how Dennis visibly aged three to five business years between pp. 165–167.
But that’s alright.
History will.
And if not, Hollywood definitely will... you’re not losing hope.
One of the first things you learn in a male-dominated field is that emotion is a liability. Emotion makes you irrational. Emotion shuts down critical thinking. Emotion is exactly what you’re not paid to bring into the courtroom.
You can care, sure, but only in the way a surgeon cares: distantly, cleanly, without blood on the cuffs. Never take anything too much to heart. Never let anything slip under the ribcage.
You’re supposed to represent the State, whatever the hell that means - an actor delivering lines that belong to an institution convincingly enough so no one sees the person underneath.
Which is why you should not be feeling what you’re feeling right now.
“Agent Hotchner, you testified on direct that you’re an expert in behavioral analysis. Correct?” Stinky Man (Harvard Law’s single greatest waste of tuition, oxygen, and institutional reputation) asks. Oh. Sorry. Attorney Travis Dennis.
“Yes.”
“And behavioral analysis - unlike DNA or fingerprints - is not physical evidence, is it?” (No, but your mom is. Nice Star Wars sheets, by the way. And there goes your feminist card, straight into the shredder.)
“It’s not physical in the same way, no.”
“So it’s not measurable. Not testable. Not something you can put under a microscope.”
“It’s measurable in the sense that it’s tied to observable behavior and established patterns-”
Dennis slices the air with a hand, cutting him off. “But you can’t bag and tag it, can you?” (Well, maybe your dad should’ve bagged his dick, Dennis, but here we are.)
Hotchner pauses. “No.”
“Agent Hotchner,” Dennis continues, stepping deliberately into your sightline, blocking your view of your witness and the only pair of eyes in this room that make you feel even remotely anchored, “behavioral analysis is just your interpretation of what crime scene behavior means. Fair?”
Your jaw tightens. Helpless. You feel helpless - and not because Agent Hotchner is struggling. He isn’t.
You’ve rehearsed this exact exchange with him until you could both recite it backward in your sleep. This tactic was more predictable than Dennis’ cologne. He’s reading from the script you outlined, every line exactly where you expected it.
It’s studied. It’s foreseen. It’s controlled. And yet-
“It’s an interpretation drawn from evidence, yes,” Hotchner says, steady, measured, composed. Everything you wish you could be while your pulse tries to batter its way out of your wrist.
“Not from facts,” Dennis snaps back. “From meaning.”
“It’s based on facts. Patterns of behavior are facts.”
“But you can’t show this jury a single photograph, a single document, that proves your interpretation is correct, can you?” Dennis counters, leaning in.
“I can explain why it’s consistent with known patterns-”
“That’s a no,” Dennis pounces, cutting him off. (You hope he accidentally uses industrial-grade sanding paper instead of toilet paper tonight.) “Because you also told us the earrings were taken as trophies, Agent. Let’s go through the evidence. Did law enforcement ever recover a jewelry box containing the victims’ earrings?”
“No.”
“Did you find a single earring belonging definitively to any of the three victims in my client’s possession?”
“No.”
“Any photographs of the earrings in his apartment? Hidden compartment? Safe?”
“No.”
“So,” Dennis says brightly, “this entire ‘trophy’ claim is based on what you think happened, not on anything you actually found.”
“It’s based on the consistency of the behavior across the scenes,” Hotch replies evenly. “Three victims, three missing pairs of earrings, nothing else disturbed-”
“And that’s your interpretation.” Dennis snaps, talking over him.
Your body moves before your brain even clocks the impulse. You’re on your feet. “Objection. Asked and answered.”
Hotchner’s head snaps toward you instantly - like he’d been waiting for you to do exactly that. His mouth twitches. Just the ghost of a smile, the kind only you’d recognize after weeks of working with this man, watching the micro-expressions he pretends are figments of your imagination.
(And after finally persuading him to rotate in a navy tie because studies “suggest it builds trust.” He called it bullshit - no, excuse you, pseudoscience - but you know what else is a pseudoscience? Behavioral analysis. And yet he still wears the navy. And still matches you. Very curious.)
The judge doesn’t even hesitate. “Sustained. Move on, Mr. Dennis.” (SUCK IT, DENNIS!!!)
Dennis gives a little bow, theatrically chastened. You fantasize about frisbee-launching your legal pad directly at his massive forehead.
“Agent Hotchner,” he resumes “can you point, here and now, to a single piece of physical evidence that directly links my client to these murders?” (Your mom, Dennis. Your client would absolutely rail your mom.)
“We have partial prints and fibres consistent with-”
Dennis pounces. “Consistent with. Not unique to. So: no weapon with his DNA. No blood in his car. No security footage showing him at the scene. Correct?”
“That’s correct,” Hotchner says.
“And what you offer this jury instead,” Dennis continues, “is a story. A compelling story; I’ll give you that. But a story.”
Your fingers curl inward so hard your nails dig half-moons into your palm. “Objection, argumentative.”
The judge lets him have this one. “Overruled. The witness can answer.”
Agent Hotchner’s eyes narrow - barely, but enough to make the hairs on your arms stand at attention. “What I’ve given this jury is an analysis of behaviour grounded in decades of data on similar offenders. They’re free to weigh that against the physical evidence.” (Your dick is hard. He’s so competent, so soft-spoken-)
“Of course… and they should,” he says, with that oily courtroom swagger that makes you wish homicide were legal in limited circumstances. He strolls in a slow semicircle, resting one elbow casually on the jury railing.
Overconfident. Loud red flag. Your stomach flips. Instinctively your eyes dart toward Hotchner.
He’s already looking at you. He gives the smallest nod. A barely-there I’ve got it. His eyes look very soft and rounded.
“Agent Hotchner,” he begins, “isn’t it true that under your leadership, the BAU has been involved in several… controversies?”
“Objection,” you fire. “Relevance.”
“Goes to credibility,” Dennis counters.
The judge hesitates, then: “Overruled. Keep it brief, Mr. Dennis.”
Dennis beams like he expected that answer. He turns fully to the jury, ready to perform. “One of your longest-standing members, Jason Gideon,” he says, tapping his butt-chin, “recently left the unit under… what’s the word?”
He pretends to think. He absolutely does not need to pretend. “Oh yes. Scandalous circumstances.”
“After your case in Flagstaff, Arizona,” he continues sweetly (disgusting), “where - correct me if I’m wrong - a college student took her own life because of the Behavioral Analysis Unit’s poor decisions.”
Hotch doesn’t move. But you see it, just the faintest tightening at the jaw.
“And wasn’t this same agent - Mr. Gideon - readmitted into the BAU only a few months after the Boston incident?” Dennis goes on. “The one that left him - how shall we say this gently? - mentally compromised?”
You’re already halfway out of your chair. “Objection - prejudicial, inflammatory, unrelated-”
Dennis lifts a finger at the judge, not even looking at you. (He is a dead man.) “Almost done, Your Honor.” He pivots back to Hotchner. “And wasn’t it you, Agent Hotchner, who personally signed the authorization for his return?”
Hotch sits perfectly still - but something in him fades. Knowing him, you can tell he still loses sleep over this because he can’t help but blame himself. You pray he doesn’t give Dennis the satisfaction of watching him bleed.
“Yes.” Hotchner replies, softer than before. The parasite’s smile blooms. (Cockroach. Absolute cockroach.)
“And before that,” Dennis continues, strolling lazily as if he owns the room, “weren’t there rumors of an internal inquiry into drug use in your unit? And wasn’t another agent suspected of killing a suspect during an FBI operation?”
Oh for fuck’s sake.
“Objection,” you bark. “Speculation, no evidentiary basis, zero relevance to Mr. Laird - and unless this courtroom has suddenly started offering salon services to accommodate counsel’s passion for gossip, Mr. Dennis, would you like a perm? Highlights? A keratin treatment? Perhaps a volumizing mousse?”
A ripple of laughter rolls through the jury… see? This is funny because Dennis is bald.
“Sustained,” the judge sighs - very pointedly avoiding eye contact with you, presumably to hide the half-smirk tugging at his mouth (GOTCHA!) “Counsel, let’s dial back the metaphors. And Mr. Dennis - get to the point. Stop wasting my time.” (OOOOOOF! SUCK IT DENNIIIIIIIS!!)
Dennis nods with that performatively respectful little bow that makes your left eyelid twitch. Bootlicking Maximus. “Of course, Your Honor. Agent Hotchner… isn’t it true that, during the time these homicides occurred, you were going through a divorce?”
He fires it off so fast you barely inhale before-
“My personal life has no bearing on my expertise or the truth of my testimony.” But his voice breaks in a way you’ve never heard from him.
And it guts you. The question blindsided you so completely you didn’t even get a chance to object, and now he’s left standing there, exposed, forced to answer something he never should have had to touch.
Alone. On the stand.
You hate yourself. Fully, viscerally. You want to sink into the floor or rewind the clock or throw a chair - anything but sit there while he takes this hit because you didn’t open your mouth fast enough.
He curls his left hand into a fist, his thumb stroking along the side of his index finger. Your gaze cradles up, catching the sudden shine in his eyes. He doesn’t blink, holding them wide open as if refusing to let anything spill down his cheek.
You are apoplectic.
Dennis smirks. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
You want to… hug Agent Hotchner?!
Court adjourned. You keep your face neutral - your best “nothing to see here, folks” mask - but your chest is doing that awful molten thing, like your sternum is turning into warm pudding against your will.
…Whatever that means.
Probably nothing good.
Your name and loser suddenly rhyme in your head, which is just fantastic, but you refuse to let even a single atom of humiliation surface. Not here. Not in this oxygen-deprived gladiator pit.
Do not crumble. Do not let your eye twitch. Do not let your soul drip out your ears. Just glide toward the double doors, look ethereal, and get the hell out before anyone notices-
But Hotchner reaches them first, holds one open for you, already wearing that bittersweet, worried look of his.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, impossibly gentle for a man who just got carved up on the stand.
“It’s not your fault, Nicholas,” you snap, slicing through the hallway without breaking stride. (You only call him that to punish him. He does not deserve punishment right now, but if you suddenly stopped calling him that, he’d notice. And consistency is the backbone of all effective psychological warfare.)
“We planned for that stunt. We knew the bastard would try it…” You can’t even bring yourself to look at him. Just click. clack. click. clack. Your heels are practically sprinting.
His longer stride easily keeps pace, never falling a step behind. Of course. Even his gait is supportive.
“I can tell you’re upset,” low enough that it hits the side of your neck more than your ear. You feel shivers down your spine.
“Not with you.” You wave a hand, still walking. “You did great. I just… I wish I could’ve-”
“You did everything you could,” he cuts in. “You saved it more than I thought was possible. Don’t blame yourself.”
Talking strategy with him as you walk side by side is…
Shit. (fig.)
It’s one of those Law & Order scenes where the hotshot lawyers stride in sync down a hallway, spitting out legal jargon no actual lawyer would use, clearly written by someone whose only knowledge of jurisprudence comes from a crossword puzzle. But fine. You’ll allow it.
Because the point isn’t the law. It’s the tension. The proximity.
Your arms nearly brushing. Your heels clicking in time with his longer stride. The sexual undertow of two extremely repressed professionals walking two inches apart even though there is an entire corridor available.
And you keep noticing his eyes - those tortured, warm brown eyes that look like they’re holding a century’s worth of moral dilemmas. As if he tucks them into the inside pocket of his suit jacket every morning, right next to his ballpoint pen and that M5 Kraft-paper notebook he only pulls out when he’s about to dismantle someone’s soul.
There has to be something behind them. Or maybe it’s just the fact that he definitely owns prescription glasses and refuses to wear them because of his superiority complex. Most probably the man can’t see shit, and that’s why he’s looking at you like that.
“I’ll review the file on Hudson tonight,” you say finally - meaning the surprise witness Dennis yanked out of his asshole (sorry, out of the cylinder) to magically “confirm” Laird’s shapeshifting alibi for the murder of forty-one-year-old Evelyn Rourke.
It’s a problem. A big one. The kind of wound the defense will pour salt into until the jury starts bleeding doubt.
You hate it. Especially since during BAU interrogation Laird said he’d been grading papers in his office - which would explain his car being parked near Evelyn Rourke’s home - except… no papers were due. No assignments were collected. No class had even taken place.
Hard to grade when the course management system shows absolutely zero student activity, you mother- prick. Liar.
“Allow me to help you,” Hotchner says, meeting your eyes with this steady, infuriating sincerity that hits harder than it should.
It takes you a beat to recalibrate - to remember how to move your mouth. “It’s been a long day for you. You should rest.”
“I can handle it.” He pauses, mouth parting just slightly… just a tiny, unguarded breath.. “And… if anyone should rest, it’s you.” He’s smirking. Boyishly. No grown man with a clearance level that high should be allowed to smirk boyishly.
“Please, I could uncover someone’s dirt to blackmail them with my eyes closed.”
His eyebrow lifts. “So that’s what you did in corporate law?”
You roll your eyes, but the smile ruins any hope of sounding intimidating. Whatever. He deserves the attitude tax.
You know what else you did back in corporate law? Worked overtime waiting for a breakthrough.
Back in the golden days, overstaying even one minute past your billable hours practically bought you a yacht. (You’re joking.)
Now the only thing you earn is the privilege of foreseeing a very constipated (allegedly) FBI Special Agent cross the threshold into what, in hindsight, you absolutely could have tricked him into believing was a no-shoes apartment.
You could have stayed at your office to keep working, but unfortunately – tragically - the building closes at midnight. Such a shame. Heartbreaking. The terrible, terrible curse of public service: being forced to take your work home.
And if that means “home” just so happens to include Aaron Whatever-His-Middle-Name-Is Hotchner standing in your apartment at eleven forty-three p.m. for what is definitely going to be an all-nighter of digging up dirt on Caleb Hudson? Well.
That’s simply circumstance.
Horrible, unavoidable, wildly inconvenient circumstance. Fate. Destiny. Bureaucratic sabotage. The universe has its little jokes.
“Do you need something?” you ask, watching him linger awkwardly by the door.
First time Mr. 1995 Prosecutor of the Year has stepped into someone else’s home for work, apparently. (Work and work-only purposes.)
“Water? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” he says, fumbling a little as his gaze drifts over the space - hopefully taking in the very expensive, very real granite countertops you bought after years of soul-sucking private practice in New York. (Take that, Mr. Record Breaker.)
“Where should we settle?” he asks.
He’s eyeing the sofa. His tired, disciplined, possibly arthritic ass clearly yearns for the sofa. (Oh, no!) And what kind of monster would deny him a guest that? Not you. You’re civilized. (Arguably.)
And sure - sitting beside him would be perfectly logical for case discussion, strategic alignment, professional synergy… and absolutely nothing else. Even though it is, admittedly, an eccentric choice of seating for two people whose jobs technically involve ethics trainings.
But this is his decision. His comfort. You are merely thrilled - overjoyed - that he cares for his spine’s longevity, so he can continue serving this great nation in tailored suits and questionable emotional repression.
Your enthusiasm has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the idea of him settling within accidental-elbow-brush radius is causing your autonomic nervous system to start playing the drums on your ribcage.
No. You are, at the end of the day, simply accommodating an elderly man’s lumbar needs.
It would, however, be about 10,000 times more comfortable if you weren’t still in heels and your work dress inside your own home - but alas, regrettably, tragically, devastatingly, catastrophically, lamentably, inexcusably, and dare you say irreparably the zipper is stationed at the exact latitude of “humanly unreachable.”
Which leaves you with two options:
A. suffer in dignified silence, or
B. ask Agent Big Hands over there for assistance.
…And at what emotional, psychological, and potentially legal cost is Option B even remotely permitted?
“Anything wrong?” he asks gently.
You’d love to object (asked and answered, Your Honor) because he absolutely knows you’re not fine. The question was courtesy, not ignorance. (Rephrase, Counsel.)
Okay, so. He’ll see straight through any lie you try to feed him. He always does. So better be… truthful. You’re basically under oath. (fig.)
“Um.” You clear your throat, which suddenly feels three sizes too small. “I know this is… crazy, but I need your help to-”
“Anything.” Immediate. Automatic. Oh, okay. Okay.
“Yeah. So if you could…” you trail off, turn around, and point to your back. “Unzip this? I can’t reach it.”
Congratulations: Prosecutor of Records also wins Guinness World Record for Fastest Human to Turn Magenta - 0.01 seconds from request to humiliation.
“Sure,” he says. Except he sounds not sure.
You feel his hands hover behind your neck for two - maybe three - agonizing beats before he finally commits, fingers fumbling for the microscopic, sadistic little teardrop masquerading as a zipper pull.
It’s such an offensively unergonomic design that, to get any kind of grip (which is definitely the only reason - jury still deliberating), he has to brace his much-too-large hand right at the center of your back.
His breath warms the back of your neck. Shivers down your spine. Fantastic. Truly the ideal work environment.
It’s… intimate.
Way too intimate for two people who are absolutely-not-anything and definitely-only-here-to-destroy-Caleb-Hudson’s-life.
The rough drag of his knuckles traces the back of your neck, then your spine, then lower - following the slow descent of the zipper. He’s clearly trying to be quick, as respectful as a man can be while undressing someone in their living room, yet his hands are excruciatingly careful.
Too careful.
Maybe because the dress is delicate. Maybe because he’s trying not to touch you more than necessary. Maybe because he is touching you more than necessary. Or maybe (your favorite theory) he’s stalling, and you’re projecting.
God, you wish you could read his mind.
He only removes his hand from your lower back when he reaches the bottom of the zipper - pulling away like someone who knows exactly what lingering would imply. (Or more accurately: like someone you really, really enjoy imagining knows exactly what lingering would imply.)
Silence.
You don’t dare turn around. You don’t know if he’s still looking, or if he’s pretending to breathe normally.
“Thank you,” you manage.
He clears his throat. “Of course.”
The genius, absolutely-not-deliberate-and-premeditated idea you had of changing into your silk, lace-trimmed, sheer, criminally short pajama set suddenly feels… less defensible now that you’re standing half-undressed in front of him.
Hard (much like you imagine his… federal member is right now) to find a statute that would make slipping into that skimpy little number subtle and not premeditated.
You briefly wonder if you pulled a Laird and claimed dissociative amnesia (sorry, Your Honor, I have no recollection of choosing the sluttiest babydoll in my drawer) Hotchner would swallow it as easily as the jury is swallowing Laird’s story.
(Though you do realize this is, annoyingly, the perfect demonstrative example for trial. Too bad it would blow up both of your careers and probably wouldn’t clear evidentiary standards. Damn.)
And so, after one quick change into your responsible, standard pajama set - sitting cross-legged, doing your best “cozy professional” impression, encouraging him with a casual make yourself comfortable - he actually listens.
Unfortunately.
Off comes the jacket, which he folds over the sofa. Then those enormous thumbs of his move to the cuffs, and he starts unbuttoning. Lethargically. Casually. In your personal thesaurus, all tragically perfect synonyms for sensually - and absolutely, infuriatingly, not on purpose.
The striped fabric slips past the monogrammed A.H. cufflinks (ego complex… every lawyer has one), and then he rolls his sleeves - no, folds them, meticulously, because God forbid Aaron Hotchner ever crease a shirt in your presence - up to his elbows.
Forearms.
Veiny forearms.
Veiny, hairy forearms.
Veiny, hairy, salt-and-peppered, “I carry federal authority and maybe also you, sweetheart” forearms.
At this pace, you are absolutely getting nothing done.
All your blood has filed a relocation request to the downstairs levels (something Laird’s permanently off-duty dick could never accomplish), but trying to make actual legal progress while charming thirty-three-year-old Caleb Hudson - small coffee shop owner in a neighborhood where the rent screams corporate dystopia - requires more functioning neurons than you currently have.
And not to rely on prejudice - please, you’re a professional - but based on actual competence and years of corporate law experience (especially those years spent as an intern procuring “assets” for senior partners while juggling six double-espressos), your instincts flare.
“Don’t you think Hudson looks like a drug dealer?” you ask.
Hotchner stops just short of sighing. Then he just stares at you for a full beat. (Hi. Yes. Hello, hot stuff. Put that face away. You’re trying to work.)
Without a single verbal comment, he reaches into the pocket of his slacks and pulls out - not his dick (tragic), though that would’ve been hilarious - his phone and his big federal-agent fingers start punching in a number.
Four.
Two.
Seven (three times).
Two again (three times).
Four (three times).
And one more two.
You watch him compose “GARCIA” on T9 like it’s the most erotic clerical task you’ve ever witnessed.
He presses Call.
Not even a full ring.
“Sir! What do I owe the pleasure of a phone call so late at night?” comes Penelope Garcia’s unmistakable voice.
Mr. Sir turns to you with this tiny, apologetic look, as if you haven’t spent half your prep nights listening to archived BAU recordings where Garcia called him “Hotchie” while delivering data dumps at 2AM.
Ridiculous. He should know better. Penelope Garcia is a national treasure and should be preserved in a bulletproof dome.
“Garcia,” he says, voice flattening into that work-mode baritone that drops your IQ by fifteen points on impact, “I need a quick check. Caleb Hudson. Thirty-three. D.C. resident. Any priors related to narcotics distribution?”
You mouth narcotics distribution??? at him. (Fucking loser.)
He ignores you.
“Ooooh, a bad boy? Finally! I’ve been lighting candles for a morally ambiguous hottie to enter your life, sir.” (So you’re not the only one who thinks he’s a closeted bisexual… interesting.)
“Garcia-” he warns.
“My sincerest apologies, sir. Sir. I’ll get to work.”
Clackclackclack.
“Hm.”
Clackclackclackclackclack.
“…Huh.”
ClackclackCLACKclackclack.
A pause.
“Well, paint me disappointed, but I’ve got nothing.”
Hotchner turns to you, already gearing up for a lecture on ethical stereotyping. “Not everyone who looks like a dealer is a-”
“Hi, Penelope,” you cut in smoothly, leaning toward the phone Hotchner is holding up with one of his… paws. Your mouth ends up perilously near Hotchner’s fingers - pure coincidence, obviously, and any suggestion otherwise is defamatory. “Can you pull the surveillance footage from the alleyway next to Hudson’s shop between 8:30 and 8:45 p.m., any day within the first week of trial?”
Long story short: you’re always right.
At exactly 8:37 p.m. on November 13th, there is a - how to put it - mutually enthusiastic pocket-fishing session between none other than Caleb Hudson and, as Garcia gleefully identifies, Attorney Grant Goodman (the irony…), junior partner at Lesser-Keith, one of DC’s top five law firms.
Drug of choice: cocaine. Of course.
Snowflakes alone don’t make him guilty, but-
Garcia inhales sharply. “Okay soooo… both Goodman and Dennis-” (Smelly man?? Really??) “-go to the same squash club. And - oh ho HO - on November 13th, they had a match scheduled for 4:24 p.m. And! According to Dennis’ office system, his secretary moved a deposition at 5 p.m. last-minute that same day.”
“Because he had to go smash a ball against a wall with a cokehead and discuss something extremely corrupt,” you mutter.
You earn a long look from Hotchner. As if he hasn’t been staring at you this whole time.
No time to unpack any of that because - of course - 1995 Prosecutor of the Year fires up that unfortunately enormous, tragically gorgeous brain of his, and suddenly he’s assembling the sexiest, most airtight theory you’ve ever heard in your life.
Garcia emails over a one-minute clip from the squash club security cameras. Hotchner opens it on your computer.
Then he leans in.
And he gestures - gestures - for you to come closer too. Invites you into his bubble - explicitly, with a little tilt of his head and a “come look at this”.
So you do- (come. Come close. To him.)
Your shoulders touch. They remain touching. For sixty straight seconds.
Pixelated blobs jerk across the screen. Goodman, allegedly. Barely two pixels tall. The resolution is three clicks above Etch A Sketch.
He pauses the footage. “Goodman’s movements are sloppy.”
You stare at him.
Sloppy? Sir, the only sloppy thing in this room is the type of head you are actively restraining yourself from giving him every time he uses that giant brain and that giant pointer finger to gesture at your screen.
“Notice the escalation in his motor control,” he says quietly, analytical as ever, but when he leans in to indicate the exact timestamp, his voice brushes against your neck like he did it on purpose.
“I can’t see shit,” you whisper, which is only partly true. Mostly you just can’t see anything past the hormonal tsunami he’s causing.
He reaches across you, finger brushing yours, hits the 10-second rewind button, slows the playback to half-speed. Then he presses play.
“It’s visible right here.”
Except he turns toward you at the exact same moment you instinctively turn toward him.
Your noses almost brush. Your girl-weiner twitches breath mingles.
You immediately whip your face back toward the screen. “So,” you announce loudly, “cokehead-not-so-Good-man wants to sue Hudson’s ass because the product isn’t hitting anymore.”
He nods. “Exactly.”
“Wow. That was… really smart. You sure are impressive, Hotchner.”
He immediately turns into a raspberry. Like you’ve just kissed him, not praised his PowerPoint-level analysis of two blurry pixels. (Praise kink, check.)
“Thanks,” he manages, clearing his throat. “But… let’s move forward.”
If forward means grabbing a pillow to strategically place on his lap because one compliment turned him into a bricked-up (allegedly bricked-up. Circumstantial evidence only. Not admissible in court. But your professional gut says: guilty.) Boy Scout, then yes.
You’d also like to move forward. Preferably onto that lap, pillow be damned.
“So,” he continues, back to his Very Serious Theory Voice™, “Goodman complains to Dennis that Hudson’s product is weak. Prices up, quality down. Dennis sees an opening. Hudson is vulnerable. Easy leverage. And if Hudson is willing to bend for drugs, he’s willing to bend for anything…”
He glances at you.
(Bending? Interesting choice of verb, Hotchner. Plenty of things in this room could bend for him right now-)
“A tailor-made witness,” he finishes. “An uncomplicated alibi for a homicide defendant. From Dennis’ perspective, it’s the perfect opportunity.”
You want to gargle on his cock and balls.
“Yeah, textbook moron strategy. Checks out.”
“Dennis has been stuck at junior partner for seven years,” Hotchner goes on. “He wants to make name partner. He needs a high-profile victory. He’s frustrated. Overworked. Under-recognized. Recently divorced as well - that kind of personal instability tends to magnify professional desperation.”
(Not to be presumptuous, but… you’re pretty sure he’s veering autobiographical with that last detail. You’re not touching it. Not emotionally. Not right now.)
“And nobody wants to fuck him,” you add dryly.
“That’s… not an unreasonable assessment,” he fumbles a bit. “Men in his position often compensate for perceived inadequacy through career hyperfixation. If he sees Hudson as a tool to win, he’ll use him.”
“Use him to lie under oath and commit perjury so he can win?” you translate.
He nods once. Smiles at you (oh, fuck… dimples.) “Dennis recognizes that Hudson will need legal protection once he’s inevitably arrested for the cocaine trafficking they’re already blackmailing him over. Goodman provides the connection. Dennis provides the motive. Together they construct an alibi for Laird that - on paper - looks credible enough to sway a jury if we don’t dismantle it.”
You blink at him. Horny. Offended. Horrified. Aroused. How dare a man be this brilliant while also looking like that?
Pick one struggle, Hotchner. Jesus.
“And meanwhile,” you say, gesturing, “Hudson gets legal immunity, Goodman gets better coke, Dennis gets a career boost, and Laird gets a shiny new timeline?”
He nods at you proudly. (Winner winner, cokehead dinner.)
Now, if this very dignified chain of reasoning requires a far less dignified (but technically legal… ish) explanation for how you got there… well. Ethics are supposed to transcend the law, but they usually get winded halfway up the staircase.
You cannot – cannot - disclose the details. But.
Let’s just say: Garcia ate a fortune cookie. Opened the little paper. Noticed that a few characters looked suspiciously like part of an encryption key. She said them out loud - as one does - and boom, suddenly the universe “accidentally” revealed an entire chain of coded emails exchanged between Goodman and your former golden boy of a key witness, Caleb Hudson.
Emails in which they discussed every single thing Hotchner had already theorized. (Pick one struggle, Hotchner. Pt.2.)
And to Dennis’ credit, he was smart enough not to leave a single digital trace. Which means his humiliation in front of the jury will be purely emotional… your favorite kind.
Of course Garcia didn’t “find” the code in a cookie message.
Of course she performed an act of digital sorcery that breaks at least three federal statutes and one metaphysical rule of the universe.
But hey… because only she could ever replicate it, technically no one can prove she did anything at all.
You really should’ve gone to wizard school instead of law school. If you’d learned spellwork, you could simply wave lex procedura invisibilis and poof - every mandatory filing would magically assemble itself with perfect Bluebook citations.
Instead, now that the adrenaline crash has hit and the sun is starting to smear orange over your curtains, it’s your job - your mortal, dumb-human job - to crank out:
Motion to admit impeachment evidence (under seal)
Notice of newly discovered evidence
Motion to file exhibits under seal
Affidavit of authenticity (forensic examiner, metadata)
Proposed order for in camera review (the judge’s autograph page)
Motion for permission to recall witness (insurance policy, just in case Hudson testifies before the judge rules)
Supplement to witness disclosure list (because Dennis will whine like a bitch about foundation)
Supplement to witness disclosure list (naming the metadata analyst so Dennis can’t cry foundation)
All before 8AM. Easy, no?
Well - yes. Technically it isn’t that much…
If you hadn’t just survived the most exhausting day of trial in the entire short-but-promising lifespan of your prosecutorial career.
If you hadn’t spent the afternoon listening to Dennis “Eau de Sewer Rat” turn your star witness into pulverized dust on the stand.
If you hadn’t been forced to rescue the entire case with the legal equivalent of dental floss, expired tape, and one glitter pen that may or may not qualify as a controlled substance under federal law.
If you hadn’t been awake for twenty-four hours without a break, a nap, a pizza slice, or the mercy of God.
And - most damningly of all - if you weren’t currently sitting beside a man whose Windsor knot has surrendered halfway down his chest and whose first two shirt buttons are undone (and so are you. Undone.)
Thank fucking God you have not just a competent prosecutor beside you, but the Prosecutor of the Year (1995), the man who once filed a 32-count RICO indictment during a power outage with only a flashlight and spite to guide him.
You can feel him even without looking. The warmth of him soaking into your leg, minute by minute, because at some point your thighs drifted together under the pretense of sharing one stack of Exhibits A–F.
With Agent Hotchner at your side (literally), you can get this mountain of filings done in 45 minutes (WHOOOOHOOOOO) instead of the usual hour and a half.
Right?
…right?
You reach for your laptop, stretch your neck, and start typing the caption line of the first motion-
“THE STATE OF…”
A soft sound brushes your ear.
Not your laptop. Not your legal pads. Not even the steady tick of the wall clock rhythmically mocking your mortality.
It’s a breath. A puff. A tiny rumble. Your brain does the full It’s a Bird, It’s a Plane, It’s…
…no.
No no no no-
It’s a Hotchner.
And he’s snoring.
Head tipped back against your sofa, arms crossed over his chest (he’s… holding himself? Oh fuck.). His brows, usually a fortress of tension and micro-frowns, look finally smooth for the first time in… possibly ever.
His lashes? Oof. Too long. Nature’s favorite child.
And his mouth - pink, no, Barbie-pink, slightly parted in a soft, unguarded way that absolutely should not be happening in your living room. On your sofa. Next to you.
(So that’s why your legs were touching. Fantastic. Wonderful. You hate yourself. Also this is going to be the best hour and a half of your life.)
He looks peaceful. So peaceful that you genuinely frighten yourself with the intrusive thought that you want to drape a blanket over him and brush his hair off his forehead with the same hand that should be busy filing seven legal documents by itself.
And you do manage to work - technically. Sort of.
Despite having to rewrite the last paragraph of the last brief five separate times because your eyes keep closing from exhaustion… and because the sudden morning chill forced you to pull a fluffy blanket over your legs and stomach.
Now, if that blanket happens to fall over Agent Snore beside you, it’s obviously pure kindness. Completely altruistic. Humanitarian aid.
And if he instinctively steals it in his sleep because he’s apparently a big-ass cover hog, that’s none of your business. Neither is the part where he shifts, drowsy, and rests his head on your shoulder.
He stops snoring, but you feel the warm exhale from his nose graze your neck. One of his arms drapes across your torso, settling on your opposite hip unconsciously. He pulls you closer in his sleep.
How many years in prison does the penal code give you if the very first thought that crosses your mind is ‘he’s so divorced-’?
(Not so alleged) murderer Evan Laird looks positively gleeful watching Caleb Hudson sit there and recite, line by line, the perjury Dennis spoon-fed him. A man accused of stabbing three women thirty-four, forty-one, and fifty-two times respectively is finally getting a good day.
Not on your watch.
The fastest way to rattle a liar? Pretend you’re immortalizing every stupid thing the defense says. So every time Dennis lobs another brain-dead question at Hudson, you dutifully jot something down (the classic corporate lawyer prosecutor mind game.)
No one can see what’s on your legal pad, which is exactly why they assume it’s devastating. Fatal.
It is… not.
On your Very Important Legal Pad™, there is now an unflatteringly accurate portrait of none other than Agent Hotchner.
Speaking of which… you feel him shift beside you. Just a small movement, but you know his tells: the tilt of his head, the short hitch in his breath, the controlled inhale through his nose when he’s desperately pretending he’s not reacting.
He’s definitely clocked what you’re doing.
Agent Hotchner gracefully plants both elbows on the table, nudging your arm like he isn’t engaging in psychological foreplay in the middle of a homicide trial. He leans in - purely to “read along,” of course - then lets his arms sink down in a relaxed stretch that is absolutely… wow.
His jacket slides back. The sluttiest wrist in the entire Eastern District of Columbia.
The State now moves to enter into evidence:
Exhibit A: the clean, absolutely obscene line of tendon,
Exhibit B: the Submariner watch sitting just a little loose,
Exhibit C: the pink cufflinks and the dusty-pink shirt he very obviously bought on purpose - despite swearing up and down he didn’t own a single thing in that color - all because you suggested the two of you match in pink today. And the cufflinks? Engraved with his initials. Subtle as a brick. This man absolutely went shopping the second you texted him. (Good for him. That shade looks so good on him it might as well have been custom-designed by a government lab for the sole purpose of making you lose your mind.)
All allegedly accidental, Your Honor. Surely.
You absolutely do not spend a full three seconds staring at the tendon by his watch. No. Never. Ridiculous.
He plucks the pen right out of your hand. Your fingers brush. You stop breathing (clearly because of the pink, obviously). And then - dead serious, not a flicker of shame - he draws a moustache on his own doodled portrait.
He even taps the paper once he’s done, tilting his head like he’s pointing out a key exhibit for show. Playing along with your little psychological warfare routine so convincingly that only then does Laird finally shift, uneasy, in his seat.
Hotchner leans in, his hand coming up to shield your ear. “Laird is looking at you,” he murmurs (meow).
Considering Laird is a homicidal bastard who stabbed three women to death, that warning should make you instantly shit yourself. Instead, your hormones - ever the overachievers - interpret it as a wildly incorrect sign that Agent Hotchner might be… jealous.
Jealous that another man is admiring your supreme elegance. Jealous that someone else is basking in the holy privilege of sitting this close to you. (To be fair, today’s heels do look fucking good.)
Alright.. more likely he’s referring to the fact that Dennis probably told his client that at exactly 7:13 a.m., the docket updated with:
STATE’S MOTION - FILED UNDER SEAL.
No description. No visible title. No attached exhibits. No summary.
You used every inch of procedural power to make sure Dennis would be too blinded by his own ego to see the real problem. You want him thinking you filed a misconduct motion because he acted like a cunt with Agent Snore - sorry, Agent Hotchner - during cross, instead of suspecting the perjury bomb ticking under his case.
Laird, however, is not completely stupid. He’s catching on.
But key-witness Caleb is long past the point of being “under oath,” and Dennis has surely already reassured his client with something in the neighborhood of: you and I, sir, are reasonable men and women are petty; at worst she’ll sanction me, try to get my cross tossed, she has no other path to a win.
(Or some equally slime-coated version of the same sentiment, because Dennis is a slimy man.)
You lean into Hotchner as well, hand cupped to his ear, and try not to faint at the way your fingers instinctively adjust, settling against his cheek instead. He’s warm. (Comfortably warm. Not fever warm. You checked.)
“Laird can suck on my dick– et… docket.”
You savor every millisecond of Hotchner’s pointed look (truly, a five-star entrée) but you can’t ignore the fact that Dennis keeps sneaking glances at you now too. The man’s bald head is practically turning into a lighthouse beacon with how aggressively it’s sweating.
Not that you’re focused on him.
Because what’s really short-circuiting your brain is the exponential spike in how often you’ve felt Agent Hotchner’s gaze on you today. Usually it’s intimidating. Today… not so much. You can feel every time he looks up from his notes, checks the courtroom, breathes.
You glance back at him. He glances down at his notes. You glance at him again. He glances at your Very Important Legal Pad™.
You retaliate by giving his doodle a unibrow.
He exhales, and when you both look up, the rhythm misfires. One of you messes up. (Him. Definitely him.) And now you’re caught staring at each other like two idiots in a very public, very televised courtroom.
You smile. He looks like he’s about to say something-
“Counsellor, cross-examination?” the judge calls.
Showtime. Time to dismantle Caleb Hudson.
If before your cross-examination the question was whether Laird was guilty, now the only question remaining is how many different statutes he violated while trying to pretend he wasn’t.
A fabricated alibi means consciousness of guilt. Perjury means obstruction. Obstruction guts the insanity defense. And all of that, in combination, opens the door to sentencing so harsh you can practically hear the penal code laughing.
The only reason the trial hasn’t officially died today is because the judge wants time to decide whether Hudson, Dennis, and Goodman deserve five years of matching jumpsuits - or if he’d prefer to let the State Bar chew on their bones first.
The beauty of the moonlight interrupts what was absolutely about to be your very premature - hopefully-not-jinxing - celebratory cork-pop of the $100 bottle of wine someone once gifted you on a birthday you barely remember.
You pretend to like it because the bottle costs $100.
Your pulse is still cocky from the big win you landed today… but it spikes higher the moment you remember how Aaron Hotchner’s head fit (perfectly, absurdly, fatefully, indecently, cosmically, architecturally, astronomically) against your shoulder.
Warm. Heavy. Softly snoring. Like a puzzle piece that should absolutely not be a puzzle piece and yet… there it was.
You slouch deeper into the couch.
At this exact time yesterday, you and Agent Hotchner were shoulder-to-shoulder - an arrangement so accidentally deliberate it bordered on contractual - sharing heat and oxygen, both of you very pointedly pretending not to notice that the other one absolutely noticed.
You were bent over your laptop together, parsing grainy, potato-quality surveillance footage until your noses nearly collided, until a single extra millimeter of leaning would’ve legally qualified as a kiss in several progressive jurisdictions.
And now that same laptop is playing your third Julia Roberts movie in a row, doing absolutely nothing to fix the fact that-
You’re alone.
And thinking about him. Way too much
Alone with the what-ifs, the maybes, the very stupid fantasies your brain starts producing when the clock ticks past the hour where lawyers revert into pumpkins, ethics evaporate, and self-control becomes a purely theoretical construct.
It’s late enough that your thoughts are now legally non-binding. Late enough that no jury in the world could hold you accountable for imagining the many, many creative ways Agent Hotchner would ensure the movie currently playing (sorry, Julia Roberts) becomes nothing but faint background noise to a much louder, much wetter soundtrack.
Late enough that you can picture it way too effortlessly, and you let yourself wonder-
Maybe he’s thinking about you too. Maybe he’s replaying the way your shoulder felt under his cheek.
Maybe he’s lying in bed, tie undone, wishing he hadn’t slipped out of your apartment at dawn like a responsible adult who (because he’s him) bought you breakfast, made your coffee exactly how you like it without burning the kitchen, and unloaded your dishwasher as penance for passing out on your sofa.
Maybe-
Your phone rings. You stare at the caller ID.
Agent Hotchner.
Maybe?? Yes, maybe indeed. Not to honk your own horn, but a call this late can only mean one thing and one thing only. One sacred, blessed, horizontal thing.
Starts with booty. Ends with call.
Right?
…Right?
“Hey-”
“There is something I’ve been wanting to tell you-” he begins, intimate.
Oh. Oh.
Oh.
Poor thing. He can’t even say he wants to fuck you to your face. Sweet, repressed, morally upstanding fossil.
“I don’t sleep with consultants during trial,” you cut in... to rescue him. “But if you’ve made your way all the way over here, I’m not going to let you freeze your ass outside. Come up.”
Through your own talking, you hear him, muffled, continue:
“…my team and I kept looking into Laird after what you told me about the EEG - the beeping light show, as you insist on calling it. response you mentioned. Something about that reaction you mentioned… it wasn’t sitting right with me.”
F U C K.
“…I had Garcia re-run the raw data from the psych evaluation so I could see it myself,” he goes on, completely missing the part where you basically told him come upstairs and rail me into a different legal system. “The absence of response to the crime-scene images wasn’t physiological. It was conditioned.”
“What do you mean, conditioned?”
He exhales, low and steady (you wish someone else were low and steady on you right now). “Laird wasn’t detached because of trauma or amnesia. He was trained to suppress his response. The brain patterns match deliberate rehearsal, not dissociation.”
That…
That’s bad. For Laird.
Very, very, veeeeery good for you.
“So he knew the images. He recognized them. Enough to suppress the reaction.”
“Exactly,” he says. “And the only time the suppression failed was with the image of his mother’s grave.”
Oh.
Oh.
If your girl-weiner weren’t already hard for… reasons… she would be now.
“So he wasn’t detached from the murders,” you say slowly. “He was detached from everything but mommy.”
“…Yes. But not in the way you’re thinking right now.” (Pfff. What a fool. If only he knew what you’re thinking right now.)
“Our initial hypothesis,” he continues, “was that he didn’t anticipate they would show him the cemetery photo, so he dropped the suppression and reacted instinctively. But when, in the next slide, they showed him a picture of himself with his mother and the response wasn’t nearly as strong. And that inconsistency… it suggested the reaction wasn’t about grief. It was about something he was hiding.”
“Definitely not his mommy issues,” you mutter. “Those are pretty obvious by now.”
He sighs. A very you are exhausting, but unfortunately you’re also right (!!!) kind of sigh.
“Garcia ran vehicle telemetry. We checked his plate hits over the last eighteen months. His car was logged outside his mother’s cemetery within hours after each murder.”
In the name of teamwork (and ignoring the fact that you’re in pajama shorts and holding a wine glass worth $25) you sprint to the crime-scene of paperwork that is your dining table. You flip through Laird’s bank statements so fast you nearly give yourself a papercut.
“No card activity in that window to suggest he was buying flowers,” you read out loud.
“Exactly,” Hotchner says. “But he still stayed approximately an hour each time he ‘visited’.”
That’s a fuckload of time.
“That’s a staggering amount of time,” you mutter. “What was he doing, having conversations with her ghost? Full-on Psycho reenactment? ‘Mother made me do it,’ that whole routine?”
“I wish it were that simple, Counsel… we just found the box of earrings.”
You go completely still. “Where?”
“Hidden inside Mrs. Laird’s tombstone,” he says. “Cavities cut into the interior. Forensic techs recovered it less than an hour ago. It’s full of the victims’ DNA. And his.”
WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, MY FRIEEEEEEND-
“This is insane. This is fantastic. Do you understand what this means for the case? Hotchner, he’s done. He’s roasted. He is charred. He will rot in prison for the rest of his miserable life, the families will finally get their justice-”
“Don’t rush to notify the families, not yet.”
“Why?” you whisper.
“We didn’t find three pairs,” he says. “We found seven.”
…Shit.
“And by the way,” he adds, clearing his throat. “I’m more the type to invite you to dinner at least three times before going any further, Counsel.”
Heat spikes up your neck. “Three specifically?!” you tease.
You can hear the smile in his voice - can practically see the way he tilts his head down when he chuckles, hiding flushed cheeks from absolutely no one but himself. “See you tomorrow, Counsel. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight… I’ll pick you up at nine.”
“Can’t wait,” he says, soft and unbearably sweet.
Well. Neither can you… especially for the three dinners part.
(The way I had to physically restrain myself with these two or it would’ve ballooned into a 20k-word disaster… I’m not going there. Oof. They need to fuck. I mean... have three dinners.
…Or at least enough for Hotch to pay her back for the gas.)
genre : dad bod hotch!!!, passive aggressive tax filing, smut (fingering & sir kink sort of), not accounting advice
summary : This section governs after-hours encounters between IRS personnel and taxpayers (hereafter, 'you' and 'Hotch'), including situations in which professional boundaries are complicated by mutual attraction. Outlines permissible interactions under § 271(d) (6), excluding unsanctioned intimate activity on office premises. Compliance with standard procedure may be affected by the unexpected thickness of Hotch’s fingers, the sight of his comfortably sturdy frame, and other distractions of a romantic nature.
notes : this is my personal guide on how to make tax fraud sexy (no it's not. im actually scared that i might end up committing tax evasion by accident). huuuuuuuge thanks to @ssa-dado (ILY!!) <3333
word count : 4.7k
From IRS Publication 525 : Taxable and Non Taxable Income, “Income from illegal activities, such as money from dealing illegal drugs, must be included in your income on Schedule 1 (Form 1040), line 8z, or on Schedule C (Form 1040) if from your self-employment activity.”
Which is exactly what you plan to tell the hitman you'll hire to neutralize Aaron Hotchner.
You've only known the man for — you glance at his watch— 27 minutes.
But that is plenty enough time to know that he's an annoying loser.
He comes into your office carrying a metal file box, with an almost giddy look on his face.
Black suit, navy tie, pressed shirt that stretches snugly across his chest, polished shoes. Obnoxious watch. Classic federal poster boy look.
The watch looks obscenely expensive. Leather nicely resting against his wrist. The silver catches the light in a way that screams 'I have so much money I don't know what to do with it except waste it on a watch that costs way too much to just tell the time'.
Everything about him looks like it's made to reflect the light. Which is annoying.
"You're 6 minutes late."
That's the first thing he says.
Normally, the vague looming threat of 'tax fraud' is enough to have most people on their best behavior. Apparently, Aaron Hotchner hasn't gotten that memo. He looks pleased to be here.
"My apologies, Mister Hotchner. Should we get started?" you say.
You notice how he's proudly clipped his badge to his suit jacket. FBI.
You do occasionally get the lone federal agent who thinks they can outsmart the IRS. But you’ve learned the best way to handle them is the same as everyone else: with the cold, uncaring fist of the Internal Revenue Code.
"I've received a notice that says I have an outstanding balance for the fiscal years 2009 and 2010," he begins.
He opens the file box. The latches clink against the metal. You notice his hands. Thick fingers. No ring. Trimmed nails. No ring mark either. Fine dark hairs.
"What seems to be the issue with it?" you ask politely.
His folders are color-coded. The covers have the year written on them with black marker. He has a peculiar way of writing his '2's. His files are grouped with paperclips. Payment receipts stapled on the bills. Bank statements organized by month.
You're starting to understand why he's so happy to be here. This idiot is excited to show off his paperwork.
"I've paid for those years," he states. Matter-of-fact.
He says it with so much certainty that it makes you wonder if he's the kind of guy who gets all his receipts notarized.
You raise an eyebrow at him, unimpressed.
He moves with the kind of efficiency that says that he's rehearsed this posture a thousand times. Or that says that he has a stick so far up his ass, he can't do anything but sit straight. He hands you the receipts. Your hands brush for a second. His skin is really warm.
You quickly scan the pages.
The receipts are stapled in neat stacks. Each payment confirmation stamped with a faint purple IRS mark and a transaction number. Some of the ink bled through and the last 7 looks wonky. Dates printed in a mechanical type.
Bank account numbers highlighted in an annoyingly proud shade of yellow. Like it's there to make sure you appreciate the depth of his meticulousness.
One of the files has a tiny coffee stain in the corner.
The photocopies are crisp. The originals have that slight curl at the corner you only get from a file being handled once and then filed away, as if it's been waiting forever to be useful.
You look back up at him and find him already looking at you. He has nice eyes. Pretty shade of brown. But the glee shining in them irks you.
"Yes, I can see that," you say simply.
The Internal Revenue Code explicitly prohibits tax deductions for illegal activities. So you can't expense hiring a hitman. You'll probably have to shoot him yourself. It's a pity the IRS doesn't hand out guns at new‑hire orientation
"I believe this issue should be easy to resolve then," he says plainly. He sounds so serious it could almost pass as sincere. But you can see that he's clearly enjoying this.
Maybe he has some sort of tax fetish. 'Yeah baby, you like my big fat tax report?' Is that even a thing?
He leans forward a bit. Deliberate, measured. There's a faint scent of vanilla. You notice how some of the buttons of his shirt look like they're straining. Like they're ready to pop. Expensive watch but can't pay for a shirt that fits properly ?
He gives you a small professional smile. The type that's carefully rationed to not reach his eyes but to seem nice enough to warrant cooperation.
"Of course," you answer, as sweetly as you can.
Your coffee mug that says TAXPAYER APPROVED almost dares you to say something to the tune of 'Of course. And while we're at it, you're a freak who gets off on paperwork. Is that easy enough for you?'. But frankly, you don't get paid enough to play with him.
He gives you another small smile. Like he's waiting for you to play along. To keep up the facade of civility. There's a dimple on his cheek.
"Great," he says. "I'm sure we'll have this sorted out in no time."
He lightly taps his fingers on your desk. Looks around your office as you update the records. You take the opportunity to look at his file.
Aaron Hotchner. 49 years old. Filing as head of household. FBI Unit Chief. One dependent : Jack Hotchner. No alimony. Mortgage interests. Total income $143,000. Minus deductions, that's $117,550 in taxable income. No history of audits or amendments.
Clean file. You'd say it's almost too clean but he seems like the real proper and serious type.
You stare at the numbers for a moment. God, if he knew how much fun it would be to drag him through the IRS wringer for his obnoxious salary, he might think twice about walking in here so smugly.
"Well Mister Hotchner," you say. "Looks like you're all set."
You hand him back his files with exaggerated care. He might try to arrest you if you mess with his color-coded system.
He straightens your name plaque on your desk as he stands up. His suit clings to him. To his chest. To his thighs. Solid, broad frame, that's filled out over time. The kind that comes from time, experience, and maybe too many late-night takeout orders.
"Thank you," he tells you softly, your name lingering in his voice. For a moment, you wonder if he does that on purpose. To make sure you remember who’s really in charge here.
"If there's any other issue, I'm happy to come back," he adds.
Obviously he'd be happy to come back. LOSER.
"I believe that won't be necessary," you reply with a stiff smile. Watching as he adjusts his tie and grabs his file box. He’s the picture of effortless efficiency, but it makes you want to roll your eyes anyway.
You might need to help your hitman with his tax filing after all. Paid assassination of Aaron Hotchner, filed under 'Gross Receipts' — Schedule C.
The IRS tends to get a bad rep. Mostly because it's no fun having to hand over a chunk of your paycheck to the government.
It's not that you get pleasure from it. But it is sort of nice to have the imposing weight of 'tax evasion carries a penalty of a fine up to $500,000, imprisonment for up to 5 years or both' behind you.
Of course, people try to get around that. They bring you nice pens or pretty scotch tape (the last one you got has little strawberry drawings, which is sort of cute), maybe even a couple of tickets to some event you couldn't care less about. To 'help you see things their way'.
Obviously, you've never been tempted. If you can't expense hiring a hitman, what makes anyone think they can deduct illegal bribes to a federal employee from their taxes.
Still, the last set of pens you got slides smoothly against the paper. The kind of pens that make you want to use them. Even when you have nothing important to write. Black and shiny. The ink flows effortlessly, it almost makes your handwriting look fancy.
You start doodling on the corner of your notepad. Random loops and swirls. You're about to start a game of Xs and Os against yourself when your office door opens.
You let out a sigh, flip the page and look up.
Aaron Hotchner steps into the doorway. Navy suit, black tie this time.
You catch yourself tracing the lines of his frame. The curve of his neck. How his chest nicely fills out his shirt. The glint of his belt buckle. The way his hand holds out a coffee cup towards you. He adjusts his jacket, giving you a glimpse of how the fabric of his pants strains against his thighs. He looks… really sturdy.
"Mister Hotchner," you say as you take the coffee from him. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
His eyes meet yours. Faint lines at the corners of them. You don't think they're from smiling too much. But it almost looks like they're framing his eyes. He really has pretty eyes.
"I got another notice," he tells you. He sounds tired. The kind of tired you hear from people who've spent too much time dealing with bureaucracy. The IRS doing what it does best : grinding down even the most well-put-together people into frustration. Somehow, hearing it from him is kind of hot.
You take a sip from your coffee to hide your smile. Scrunch up your nose. Black. No sugar. You think that whoever it is that taught him this bribery tactic did a terrible job. You should have expected this from him. He looks like the type to be so uptight that he can't even allow himself the pleasure of a little sweetness with his coffee. That's probably why he has to find convoluted ways to get himself off — ie : voluntarily coming back to dispute another tax notice.
He lets out a small chuckle as he hands you a sugar packet.
"I wasn't sure how you take it," he says with an almost amused tilt of his head.
Condescending loser.
"Pull out your files," you tell him.
This is just like the beginning of some weird administrative porn.
He looks surprised for a moment. You wonder if he's actually into that sort of thing. Office role-play, sexy secretary files reports for hot stern boss. Makes you call him 'sir'. Or maybe it's the other way around. He's the secretary and you're the boss. With how tight his shirt fits, he could definitely play the part.
"I'm sure it's another error but I'd rather have things cleared up," he says as he hands you the files.
"Yes of course sir. I understand."
He discreetly clears his throat. Adjusts his tie for a moment. The fabric looks really soft. The skin of his neck is a tad bit red. He lets his fingers rest against his chin. Running back and forth along the skin. You notice a few gray hairs on his temples. Hidden among the dark strands.
"Is there a reason why I'm getting these notices all of a sudden?" he asks.
"It seems there's an issue with how the system is cross-referencing the records."
The most likely reason is that the system is as ancient as he is and that it's bugging. You can't really say that but you know that he knows what you're actually saying.
He gives you an amused smile. Somewhere between quietly confident and outright cocky. Like he's trying to see if you'll start charging him interest for this little game.
"When will it be fixed?"
"We're working on it as quickly as the system will allow. In the meantime, perhaps your accountant can take care of any further notices," you answer as nicely as you can.
Meaning : pack up your files and don't come back.
He raises an eyebrow. Unfazed.
"I would be more comfortable dealing with this myself," he says calmly, the faintest hint of playfulness in his voice.
He really is insufferable.
"I'm sure you would be, Mister Hotchner," you say, keeping your tone even.
You can't help but wonder if anyone ever mouthed off to him. He carries himself like he expects obedience. Like he's the one in charge.
But you think that might not be entirely true. There's a quiet certainty to him. The sort that comes from knowing that people follow his lead because he earned it.
Even if he's clearly trying to piss you off, he's careful with his tone. No sharp edges. No attempts to intimidate you.
"Thank you for your patience," he says, his voice warm but with just a hint of something else. Like he's aware of the tension between you and finds it almost… amusing.
You notice the way he wets his lips after he says it. They're pink. Too pink. His shoulders rustle under the fabric of his shirt. There's a soft crease between his eyebrows.
He looks like he's all business on the surface. But it's hard to ignore the glint of mischief in his eyes.
"It's my pleasure." You tilt your head and give him a polite smile. All polite on the surface.
He smiles back.
The office smells faintly of old paper. And bleach. Filing cabinets lining the wall like small urban canyons. Fluorescent lights flickering in the hallway.
The kind of place that makes people confess just because it's boring enough to be intimidating. Clinical, indifferent, efficient.
The hum of the building seems louder when there's no one else around. You should be heading home too. But you're not done yet. There's still some reports to go over. Besides, there's something oddly satisfying about being the last one in the office. The stillness. The sense of ownership over it all. Even if it's only for a few hours.
You push back from your desk. The chair creaks under you. You make your way to the breakroom, your coffee mug in your hand.
The sound of the water running as it fills the coffee maker is almost soothing. You lean against the counter. It feels cold. Let the quiet of the empty office sink in.
The coffee starts to drip. A quiet hiss as it brews. You let out a sigh.
You make your way back to your office. The mug feels warm in your hand. You absentmindedly trace the A on TAXPAYER.
You pause once you reach your door.
Aaron Hotchner.
Leaning casually against the edge of your desk. His briefcase resting on the chair next to him. His suit jacket is gone — draped neatly over the briefcase. His tie hangs a bit loose. Nothing improper. Just not as tightly knotted as usual. You can see more clearly his tummy. His hair's a little messy. The neat part has softened, a few strands out of place like they’ve given up trying to behave.
He looks less like 'tough and stern Unit Chief' and more like 'dad who got called back into the office after dinner'.
You let out another sigh. Loud enough for him to hear.
He lifts a page for you to see. The corner of it catches the light. Official seal. Sterile font. Faint red stamp bleeding through the paper. FINAL NOTICE.
God, how dull can this man be and still command a federal salary ?
He's looking at you. Steady, deliberate.
His eyes linger too long for it to be just polite. Tracing over your face like he's cataloguing something. It feels a bit overwhelming.
It's annoying how easily he manages that. How someone built like a spreadsheet in a suit can make your pulse stumble.
You tighten your grip on your coffee mug. Mostly to keep your hands from doing something stupid. Like fidgeting.
You make your way towards him. Tilt your head.
"You're having fun with this," you say plainly.
"I am," he replies with a smile.
He's not even pretending to hide it. It irritates you. You put down your mug on the desk.
"What part of this do you find enjoyable?" you ask. You take the notice from his hand. Your eyes still on his. "Getting to show off your paperwork—", you pause, your gaze slipping lower before you can stop it. "— or the fact that I'm half your age?"
You lightly run your finger over his chest. Trace the soft curve underneath his shirt. He feels warm. Solid. Too real.
You look back up at him.
His eyes are a little too focused on you. The kind of look that feels like it sees more than it should. His hand lightly taps against your desk. He parts his lips to respond but you quickly put your finger on top of them to quiet him.
You lean in closer to him.
"I think what you really enjoy, is having someone put you back in your place," you whisper. You bite back a taunting smile.
You feel him chuckle against your finger. Like he finds it all so amusing. Quiet, in a condescending but calm way. The kind of laugh that's annoying but still manages to sound unfairly good when you're this close.
His hand wraps around yours. His skin is insanely warm. His grip firm but not rough. Like an implicit assertion. Like he's telling you that he's the one letting you play. His thumb brushes over your knuckles once, a small, absent motion that still sends a jolt down your arm.
Then he pulls you in closer to him. Not sharply. Nor forcefully. Just enough to erase the space between you. You can feel the press of his chest against yours. The smell of vanilla. He lifts his hand to the side of your face and his mouth meets yours.
He starts slow. Soft lips pressing gently against yours. They're a bit chapped. Then, just as you start to melt into him, he deepens the kiss. His tongue carefully licks your bottom lip. You part your lips. Exploring. Inviting. Every inch of him demanding your full attention.
Your hands travel upwards. Tracing the gentle curve of his stomach. Feeling the warmth and the subtle strength beneath the fabric of his shirt. You pause to press your palm flat against his waist. Savoring how solid he feels there.
You feel the quiet hum of his breath against your lips.
He groans softly into the kiss. One hand finding your waist, while the other slides around to your lower back. Drawing you impossibly closer into him.
Before you realize it, you're pinned against your desk. His body pressing firmly against you.
His lips leave yours to trail heated kisses down your jawline. He licks the skin of your neck. Bites it.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His chest rising a little faster than usual. A hint of breathlessness softening his usually composed expression. His lips are slightly parted. Almost red-ish. Still glistening from the kiss.
"Do you think you're the one who's going to put me back in my place?" he asks. Voice low and steady. But there's an edge to it.
You let out a small laugh. Bite your lip.
You lock eyes with him. Your fingers sliding down slowly towards the edge of his belt buckle. Tracing deliberately downward over the hardened line beneath his trousers.
A sly smile curls on your lips.
"You tell me, Mister Hotchner."
His breath hitches. A soft, almost involuntary moan slipping past his lips.
He's really predictable.
You think he's trying to gain back some semblance of control when he pulls you back to him. The kiss is more desperate. Tongue and teeth. Hot and demanding.
His fingers, almost hesitantly, trace your waist, caressing your hips. His touch lingers for a moment.
His hand reaches the soft cotton of your panties. He doesn't rush. He thinks he's too in control to rush into anything.
His middle finger finds your clit and begins to circle it slowly over the thin material. Patient. Controlled. It moves with just enough weight to remind you that his touch carries the calm assurance of experience — every movement both tender and assured.
You let out a soft moan. Eyes fluttering open to meet his gaze.
His eyes hold yours firmly. Focused and intense. As if the only thing that matters is the way he watches you.
His finger continues moving in lazy, teasing circles. Pressing gently against you.
You're sort of grateful he doesn't comment on how soaked you are. On how easily your body responds to his touch. You don't think you'd be able to keep making fun of him if he did. No, that's a lie. That wouldn't stop you.
With his eyes still on yours, he slides the cotton of your panties to the side. Thick fingers caressing your heated skin.
He starts off with one. Then a second. Curling them inside you with deliberate and practiced ease. They're insanely thick. The stretch almost hurts. Your hand shoots up, gripping his shoulder tightly.
You see his gaze fall to where his fingers steadily pump in and out of you. He parts his lips, in awe you think.
Your head falls back slightly, eyes closing in pleasure. Your fingers dig into his shoulder.
His voice breaks through your haze.
"Keep your eyes on me."
He brings his other hand back to your face to make you look at him. You feel the warmth of his palm gently resting on your cheek.
You whisper in a playful almost daring tone:
"Yes, sir."
He slips his thumb into your mouth. Like it's the best way he found to keep you from mouthing off.
You lightly suck on the finger. Run your tongue over it. Bite the top of his fingertip as he pulls it out. You lick it sloppily one last time, as it rests on your lips, before he kisses you again.
His fingers continue their slow, steady rhythm. Exploring with a cautious attentiveness. Balancing between careful and confident. Seeking your response in the smallest twitch or gasp.
When you pull back, a thin string of saliva connects your swollen lips to his.
You're breathing shallowly, letting out desperate moans and gasps.
He's still watching you closely. Something like encouragement and smugness in his gaze. You tilt your hips forward, to push in his fingers deeper.
You feel your legs almost trembling as he picks up his pace. Growing bolder, but still never rushed. It'd be infuriating how attentive and patient he is, if it didn't feel this good.
His touch becomes firmer, more insistent, easing you closer to the edge.
The pad of his thumb presses against your clit just right, and your hips jerk against him as you squeal. All of the tension in your body snaps at once.
He rides you through it. Obviously. Because he's an overachieving loser.
As you're slowly coming down from your haze, he grabs your face and kisses you. You feel like you can barely breathe.
"Spread yours legs," he says as he leans back.
You grab his tie, and pull him down to you. You can smell his vanilla perfume where he dabbed it on the pulse of his neck.
"This is my office," you remind him. Like you're saying 'I'm the one in charge here'.
He lets out a small chuckle. One of his hands rests on your inner thigh. His fingers carefully caressing your skin.
"Would you please spread your legs for me, Miss?" he says again, a challenging look in his eyes.
He sounds even more condescending. You note that he says Miss and not Ma'am.
You play with his belt buckle again. Lazily running your fingers over the cold metal before you undo it. The slight softness of his tummy. The fact that his body completely covers yours makes your pulse race.
He's hard. Cock straining almost painfully against his slacks.
You let your nails run lightly along it. He takes a shaky breath when you trace the tip with your thumb. Take it out. And carefully start stroking him.
"Does it feel good?" you whisper.
A breathless moan answers you. His hands start digging into your thighs.
He's thick. And warm. Almost burning. The skin is really flushed. Pretty pink color.
You lift your hand to show him the strings of his precum sticking to your fingers.
He lets out another soft moan. Biting his lips to keep quiet as you continue to stroke him.
You almost want to make a joke about him being 'sooooooo wet'.
You let your thumb run over the underside of his cock. Tracing his veins. You can feel his pulse. Grazing the part where the shaft meets the head. He groans at that. Loudly.
"You're really sensitive," you comment.
He moans lowly again.
"Show me how you like it," you ask.
It's hot. Really hot. How loud he is. How he keeps his eyes on yours as he covers your hand with his. Guiding you to stroke him faster. Increasing the pressure, quickening the rhythm.
He rubs your clit with the head of his cock. Teasingly running it back and forth. Prodding at your entrance but never actually putting it in.
You tighten your hand around him. He groans but doesn't push in. Just keeps running his cock along your pussy. You can see some of your wetness sticking to his fingers. To his skin. To your fingers.
"Can you come again like this?" he asks. His voice sounds strained.
"Don't tell me you're close already?"
He really is all talk… About to cum and hasn't even put it in. Where does he get the confidence to act this cocky when he's a moaning mess from just a little stroking ? LOSER.
"I don't have a condom," he explains sheepishly.
You raise an eyebrow at him. Unimpressed.
"You carry around truckloads of files for fun but you don't have a condom in your wallet?"
He slaps your clit swiftly in retaliation. A surprised moan escapes you.
"Is this that much of a turn on for you… sir?" you taunt him.
Another slap. It's loud. You can hear how wet you are. He chuckles at the way your body jumps up.
"You're making a mess sweetheart."
You stroke him a bit faster. Lower your other hand from his shoulder to his balls. Gently running your nail along the skin. You can feel him start to thrust up. Fucking your hand desperately.
His hand is still covering yours. Giving him the illusion of control.
"Just like that," he moans.
He really is close. You can feel it in the way his chest rises up and down quickly. He looks like he's almost panting. Lower lip caught between his teeth. Brows furrowed in concentration. In the way his hips are rocking so unsteadily into your fist.
"Can I come on your pretty pussy?"
Oh.
He's an old man. He knows all the tricks by now. This isn't just impulse. He's deliberate. The calculated finale of a man who's learned to leave nothing to chance. Coming in would be reckless. But like this… it's almost like he's keeping the upper-hand. Making you see it.
"Yeah," you agree breathlessly.
His hand tightens around yours. Hips pressing flush against your fist. Balls tightening. The veins on his neck look strained. His jaw clenches, lips parting wordlessly.
He cums with a sharp, broken moan. White ropes spurting onto your skin. Thick. Warm. And sticky.
He takes out a handkerchief from his suit pocket to clean you up. Of course he carries one with him. Embroidered with his initials and everything. You do notice however how the letters are wonkily stitched. You wonder if he did it himself.
"Have dinner with me," he says.
"This won't get you out of paying your taxes."
He laughs. Properly this time. Genuinely. You notice how his eyes crinkle when he smiles. It should make him look older. But somehow it doesn't. Somehow, it makes him look really pretty.
"I know." He gives you a soft peck. "Have dinner with me."
married!Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader
Genre: smut, angst though it’s more like ♫ LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING ♫
Summary: Two coworkers walk into a bar. Well... into a club. One’s married, the other’s not, and by the end of the night, professionalism isn’t the only thing getting stripped off.
Warnings: MDNI!!! infidelity, explicit descriptions of the vile act of fornication, reckless consumption of alcohol, language unbecoming of a lady (or an FBI agent), SSA Hotchner engaging in rhythmic pelvic activity to what can only be described as devil music
Word Count: 7k
Dado's Corner: born from a brainrot requested by @sweetheartsocks THANK YOU. I clearly had way too much fun with this (7k words... sorry...). As I was re-reading it I realised there’s an alarming amount of boob action. If you don’t like boobs, please do not perceive me. Or speak to me. Ever again. OOO- right! This takes place right before s1 so Hotch isn’t UC yet...
masterlist
Amor, ch’a nullo amato amar perdona.
Friday nights always suck when all your friends are out getting wasted and tonguing strangers, while you’re overstaying at work, hunched over paperwork from the case you dragged back this afternoon, praying you’ll finish in time to earn tomorrow off.
If you survive the night with your favorite desk mate, that is.
(Favorite meaning: the man you’ve been plotting to murder since the moment you stepped into the office. You only get the chance twice a year, for thirty seconds at 2 a.m., during the legal and solar hour when the surveillance cameras reboot.)
“How fucked up is Gideon for expecting all this done tonight?” you mutter, your pen scraping across the page as the faint scent of freedom finally drifts near. Just a few lines left, and your handwriting’s starting to fall apart.
Ironically enough, the witness report’s the only thing looking sloppy these days. Six weekends in a row of the same joyless grind, while the only kind of sloppy you’d actually kill for involves drunk sex, a warm body, and someone who moans more and weighs less than a tower of case files.
“I think he’s being considerate,” Hotch says, without looking up. “He’s giving us the opportunity to overstay and finish everything so we can take tomorrow off.”
“Wow,” you scoff. “How much of a suck-up are you to abandon basic human logic and call overworking on a Friday night an opportunity? You want his job that bad?”
“I’m not a suck-up.”
“Oh, please. I’ve seen you nod along to every bit of bullshit that comes out of his mouth when you’d rather be quoting Bureau protocol back at him.”
If there’s one thing that really gets under Hotch’s skin, it’s swearing - or worse, being called out on the truths he pretends aren’t there. Which is exactly why you always make sure to do both.
It works like a charm every time: his pen stalls mid-lawyerly sentence, his jaw tightens, and a few rebellious strands of hair (the same ones he probably spent an hour taming with gel this morning) slip loose over his forehead.
He looks like a wounded puppy.
“Haley’s been wanting to expand the family, I wouldn’t be opposed to a promotion if it were… presented. But that doesn’t mean I’m a suck-up.”
His earnest willingness to open up at this hour couldn’t make it more obvious to you that he has no friends. Probably not even his wife, judging by how unenthusiastic he sounds about the whole ‘expanding the family’ thing.
“So you’ve got plans tonight, suck-up?” you ask, smiling, while aggressively trying to scrub the image of Aaron Hotchner breeding out of your head.
He stutters. He’s chronically allergic to anything sexual in the workplace. Hell, to anything not about the workplace in the workplace. Which is the annoying part - because outside of it, he’s actually… decent. Too decent. You hate that he’s decent.
You don’t quite know how to define whatever it is between you two.
Because somehow, somewhere between his “Haley’s at her sister’s, my big plan is trying not to burn a frozen pizza, what about you?” and your ongoing existential rant about wasting your twenties in a government building, you ended up bribing him to come to the club with you.
“It’s a bad idea,” he announces - unoriginally - for the seventh time. But now that you’ve both handed over your jackets and the bass from upstairs is practically vibrating through the floor, he actually sounds like he means it. Not just for moral superiority this time.
“When was the last time you’ve been to a place like this, huh? Were we still a British colony?” you tease, swatting his shoulder. It’s strange - you’re used to the soft padding of his suit jacket, not the actual warmth of him. Solid muscle. It kind of catches you off guard.
“You’re very funny,” he deadpans, clearly irritated, though the corner of his mouth betrays him with the smallest twitch.
Truth is, Hotch hasn’t been to ‘a place like this’ often enough to be fooled by the rhythm of a song he vaguely recognizes, or by the flash of color as he looks down and you climb the stairs ahead of him.
He doesn’t look too high. Tries not to.
And then he’s thrown off again - this time by the chopped-up remix of a commercial he doesn’t recognize at all. Back in his day, music didn’t need borrowed parts. (And America was independent.)
He gestures toward the bar, and you follow him through the clouds of sugary perfume and aquatic cologne, brushing against his shoulder so you don’t lose track of your 6’2” colleague whose thick head of hair is already standing out above everyone else.
You tap him there.
The music’s too loud, so you have to lean in, your mouth brushing the air beside his ear just to be heard. You find yourself suddenly surrounded by a comforting, nutty vanilla scent. You’ve never noticed it before, probably because you’ve never been this close to him. Your lips are hovering barely an inch from the spot where he must’ve sprayed it.
He smells good. Overly sophisticated.
You cup a hand beside your mouth to aim your voice toward his old-man ear, your pinkie accidentally skimming the edge of his stubble.
“You look like a fed.”
He rolls his eyes, then gets his revenge by showing off exactly why he’s been sucking up to Gideon for the Unit Chief job, ordering your drink before you can even open your mouth (obnoxious flex of profiling prowess.)
He knows what you drink. And he pays for it, too.
One drink turns into two tequila shots, then a third, because neither of you really feels it.
Yet.
Every time he downs another, he makes this ridiculous stupid-ass face. Scrunches his nose. Raises his brows. It’s his desperate attempt at looking unaffected, but it only makes him look more affected.
It’s kind of cute. God forbid he lets tequila defeat him. He’d rather die of internal combustion than admit it.
But as the night warms and the liquor starts to dilate your blood vessels, his perfect posture starts to go, too. He slouches, legs spreading wider on the seat, and your eyes dip down before you can stop them.
The strobe light keeps catching him in flashes. One second it freezes his reluctant smile, the one that tugs his mouth into dimples he clearly didn’t authorize, and the next it drifts down the sharp edge of his jaw to the tendons in his hand resting on the counter.
The light hits, ricochets back toward you, golden, before sliding lower - along his arm, over his thigh - and looping back up to his face. Still smiling. At you.
He's just being very, very nice.
You start talking more - half because it’s easier to hear each other here, half because silence feels… dangerous. Office gossip, mostly. You’re surprised how much he knows, actually.
Apparently Aaron Hotchner, professional wall of quiet, is also an unrepentant gossip. And he’s good at it, too - leaning closer when he lowers his voice, lips barely curving when he drops something scandalous.
It’s a little addictive.
The way he speaks, there’s this warmth in his voice you’ve never really heard before, and that dry humor that used to slide right past you suddenly hits like a slow burn.
You start noticing things you shouldn’t.
The small scar on his chin.
That single white eyelash you keep staring at. Also - his lashes are so fucking long.
The way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips when he talks, and how your eyes keep following the movement like you’re under some kind of spell.
The fabric of his shirt pulls tight across his chest when he moves his arm behind you. You feel his sleeve brush across your back, his thumb resting temptingly on your shoulder.
From there, the talking starts to fall apart. Words stretch out, sentences trail off, and what’s left hanging between you feels a lot less like small talk and a lot more like…
“Do you wanna dance?”
He says it like it’s nothing. Like he’s asking for the time. But his head tilts, eyes catching yours, that unreadable half-smile still playing at his mouth.
Polite.
And so, you let him lead you deeper into the crowd, the music swallowing your inhibitions whole while he’s right there in front of you, mouthing the lyrics to some pop song that dropped, what, a week ago? Shakes his head to the beat like he’s pretending he doesn’t know every single word.
Is this the same man who once thought April Fools’ Day meant swapping your pen holder to the other side of your desk? Really? That guy?
Because you hadn’t expected him to move like this. Or to move at all. Truly. His hips roll with an effortless, fluid rhythm that shouldn’t belong to someone that tightly wound. Maybe it’s the alcohol loosening him up, making him look less like a man with a broomstick lodged up his ass, but he looks – damn - devastating.
The dark turns him into something you can’t stop looking at.
You feel it hit low in your stomach, an aching pull that has your hand finding his shoulder before you can think better of it. You want him (plain and simple) and he doesn’t even flinch. If anything, the second he catches someone glancing your way, he moves closer, hand finding your waist, claiming space that wasn’t his a moment ago.
He doesn’t want you distracted by anyone that isn’t him. And you’re not. To the point where you’re standing too close, far too close.
But the dancing makes it forgivable, almost necessary.
Just like the slow drag of your hand as it slips down to feel the damp fabric stretched over his broad chest, coming to rest above the rush of his heartbeat hammering beneath it.
His face grows slick with heat, cheeks flushed a deep pink, dark hair sticking stubbornly to his forehead no matter how many times he tries to brush it away. He drags a hand over his face, then shakes it out with a quick flick, sending a few drops of sweat flying.
You’re transfixed. You’d lick them straight off his fingers if you could.
But instead, that same hand drifts to his collar, loosening the top button of his shirt. Then another. The fabric parts just enough for the light to catch on his collarbones, the sheen of sweat along his skin.
His gaze never leaves you - not even as he tugs at his tie, loosening it and baring the strong line of his throat. A ghost of a smile lingers, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Like this little striptease is for your eyes only.
You’re honestly not sure you could afford this whore.
Not when he pulls you closer, his hands sliding down your back, fingertips grazing the curve of your ass before slipping lower to cup it, guiding you to move with him. To match his rhythm.
There’s no mistaking it anymore. But you don’t say a word. Neither does he. He just keeps moving with you - and the longer you dance, the looser his tie gets, the knot slipping lower, lower, until it’s hanging on by a thread.
You catch it between your fingers and give it a tug, pulling him closer, drawn to the heat rolling off his body. The silk slides under your grip, and you twist it twice around your hand like a leash.
A whimper, swallowed by the music, tells you he’s really into this - but then you see it. The thick outline straining against his slacks. Your mouth goes dry. The alcohol humming through your blood and the sight of him together make a lethal combination.
You want to feel that. Desperately.
So you start moving your hips, drawing circles that drag right against the hardness pressing against you. You grip his tie with one hand, his shoulder with the other, using him as leverage.
Then he takes over.
He grabs you by the hips and spins you, pressing your back flush against his chest, manhandling you into place. His head dips into the curve of your neck, breath hot against your skin as his strong arms lock tight around your waist.
Then he starts to move you, the thick line of his cock grinding against your ass through the fabric. You can feel everything. Every inch. Every pulse. And again, you are very. Very. Horny.
Your body reacts before your mind catches up. Your hips roll back into him, syncing with his rhythm until it stops being rhythm at all. It’s messy. Craving. Addictive. His grip tightens on your hips, almost possessive, and for a fleeting second you hope he leaves marks.
You’re still dancing, technically.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself when one of his hands drifts up, spreading wide over your breast, fingers greedy even through the fabric. The other slides lower, gripping the flesh of your stomach, holding you right where he wants you.
You tip your head back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, breath unsteady. Your hand finds its way into his damp hair, tracing down the side of his face until it catches on his tie. You wrap the silk around your fingers and pull, tugging him closer - not that he needs much convincing.
You feel him twitch against you, his breath coming fast and shaky as his fingers toy with the buttons of your shirt. He slips just beneath the fabric, enough to brush bare skin. He has the decency to stop there, not daring to slide beneath your bra, but the restraint doesn’t last long.
His hand drifts lower, over your waistband, between your thighs, until his fingers find your clit through the thin layers of fabric. He strokes your nub carefully, almost invisible to anyone watching. But you feel it.
The pressure exactly where you need it, the friction so good it turns your legs to water. You bite your lip hard to keep quiet, swallowing the sound that would’ve absolutely counted as an ad-lib this song didn’t need.
But that only seems to do something to him. You feel his hands slide up your sides, his face pressing into your back as he bends down, fingers gripping your hips while you keep rolling them, side to side, right against him.
Suddenly, you feel his teeth on your ass. He bites you.
The song gets its ad-lib this time.
He stays there for a moment, mouth hot against your cheek like he’s savoring it, before shifting to the other side - symmetry, maybe. Or greed. Then he drags himself back up, burying his face in the crook of your neck, the hard press of his cock still wedged between your cheeks, pulsing.
It might be the hottest thing that’s ever happened to you.
It’s still dancing. Technically.
Even if you’re soaked through your panties, and his fingers keep working over your clothed cunt, the fabric now slick and clinging, each drag leaving more of you on his hand.
Even if, when your trembling hand finds his hip for balance, he bends lower, mouth brushing the side of your neck.
He pulls you tighter against him, his breath warm against your ear, carrying the faint tang of the shots you’d downed together not long ago. Then, in a voice so low and buttery you could fuck it, he murmurs, “Can we get out of here?”
How convenient it is that you’re both horny drunks with no self-control.
Hotch still insists on driving you home (because God forbid he stop being a suck-up model citizen for one night), even though he’s clearly just as drunk as you are. He’s too far gone to realize your apartment is literally a few blocks away and there is no need.
Not that he’s supposed to know that, of course.
You play innocent, insisting you’d never burden him with the task of driving you home, gracefully omitting the fact that you picked this club specifically so you wouldn’t have to drive at all.
“Really?” he says, giving you that look - the one that usually makes you want to slap him, but right now, with the booze in your system, you’re thinking it’d be much more effective if you just sat on it instead.
Anyways-
One raised brow. That’s all it takes. It says I know you’re full of shit, and somehow, even worse, I know exactly why.
He’s right, obviously.
You’d love for him to drive you home, just not for the usual reasons. Normally, you’re just glad to be in his SUV instead of Gideon’s (the old man drives like shit), but tonight it’s the thought of those leather seats, that squeaky-clean interior, and how they’d feel against your skin if you ever stopped pretending to be professional.
Still, once you’re outside, the cold air hits him - sobers him up just enough for both of you to slip back into that safe, polite colleague silence.
Just dancing, right? Nothing to talk about. Totally normal.
So normal that his voice is still rough when he insists on walking you home (now that he’s finally realized the car was unnecessary). The moment you fold your arms against the cold, he’s already shrugging off his jacket. He doesn’t even ask - just drapes it over your shoulders and says, “Make sure to slide your arms inside the sleeves.”
Condescending piece of shit.
You would. You really would. If the jacket didn’t smell exactly like him (like an expensive whore). It hits you harder than the tequila. And you’re not the only one feeling it.
He keeps glancing over, subtle but not subtle enough. Maybe he’s checking if you’re cold. Maybe he’s just making sure you’re still there. Or maybe it’s the fact that you’re walking close enough for your arms to brush.
Either way, he’s not exactly trying to fix it.
“Do you want to come upstairs? Get some water?” you ask, pretending it’s casual. Hydration, right? For his safety. For public safety. Nothing else.
He agrees far too easily. Just like that. No “Don’t worry about me,” no polite Disney-princess routine about how he’s fine. Just a quiet, “I’d be glad to.” (Still phrased like a Disney princess, at least.)
You’re not sure how to feel about seeing him in your space.
At this hour. This late. Alone. With you.
He either hasn’t noticed the time or doesn’t care, already poking around your kitchen like it’s a crime scene. Within seconds he’s reorganizing your spice rack (alphabetically, obviously, the same way he arranges case files) while you grab a glass and fill it with the good water from the fridge.
You hand him one of your favorite cups. Even if he doesn’t deserve it. He looks at it. Then at you. Then back again, processing in horror why anyone with a fully developed prefrontal cortex would willingly drink from something so… phallic. (Probably a subliminal message. You hope he gets it.)
“You shouldn’t store water in the fridge,” he says, completely deadpan. “Drinking cold water isn’t good for you.”
Okay, mom. You were hoping the alcohol might’ve dulled the asshole tendencies a little.
“I’ve got tap water too, if you prefer,” you shoot back. But he’s already heading toward your fridge - your fridge - murmuring a quick “It’s alright” before opening it like he pays rent here.
“Would you like something to eat?” he asks, domestic. Again - this is your kitchen. You should be asking him.
“I could make apple fritters,” he continues, half to himself, already rummaging through your shelves. “Are there even any eggs in here?”
He tsks under his breath, shaking his head at what he finds - clearly unimpressed, like your pantry has somehow offended his stupid-ass refined palate. Then he pulls something out. (Sadly, not the beautiful dick you almost regret grinding on, if this is the attitude you’re stuck with.)
“White chocolate? Really?” He glances over his shoulder, smirking. “What are you, twelve?”
He’s taunting you - shaking the bar in one hand before snapping off a piece and slipping it between his teeth.
Then, with the chocolate still wedged between his lips, he picks up the pen from your counter and scribbles something onto your grocery list - the one pinned to the fridge with that tacky Paris magnet he brought you back as a souvenir.
(You have two, actually. Morgan gave you his because he said it looked too kitsch. He wasn’t wrong-)
He scrawls, “Buy real chocolate.” The handwriting’s a little wobbly - clearly not his usual neat penmanship. Then he turns back to you and grins boyishly.
You hate to admit it, but he looks so handsome.
The chocolate’s still there, clamped between his teeth, and his eyes don’t leave yours as he finally bites down and eats it. It’s ridiculous how sexy that looks. Is this foreplay? It has to be.
“It’s way too sweet,” he says, still taunting, crossing his arms as he leans sideways against your fridge - just a few inches from you.
His tie’s still crooked, his shirt half undone, his hair a mess. His eyes look so lively and golden under the lights. What a beautiful slut of a man.
“Don’t blame the chocolate because you’ve got bad taste,” you shoot back, taking a step closer without really meaning to.
“I believe my taste is just fine.”
You roll your eyes. You’re done with him. “Are you sure?”
He hums softly, and steps forward. So do you.
You’re both too drunk to tell who actually moves first, but suddenly his big big big big huge humongous, rough hands are on your face, and yours find the back of his neck as you crash into a kiss.
It’s softer than you expect - oddly tame, almost sweet. Tastes like tequila, gin, and… white chocolate. Of course. Because he’s a suck-up. He probably ate it on purpose just so you’d taste it now.
Like this.
The man’s commitment to people-pleasing really knows no limits.
You pull back for air, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch. They’re darker now, the control gone, his pupils blown wide and – most importantly - fixed on your mouth.
It feels like the floodgates burst open.
He surges against your lips again, hungry, tracing your lower lip with his tongue until you yield to him - parting, melting into the kiss as your hands roam across his chest, over his shoulders, tangling in his tie.
You back him up against the fridge, magnets rattling, one of them clattering to the floor and shattering. He’ll probably pick it up later, but right now he’s too busy helplessly groaning into your mouth as you bite his lip, tug, and suck it between your teeth.
His stupid, naturally pink lips are going to be ruined by the time you’re done.
He slaps your ass once, then grabs a handful, pulling you tight against him and grinding his half-hard cock between your thighs. You moan into his mouth, hips chasing the friction, your clit throbbing where you meet.
You don’t even break the kiss when you start to guide him backward, one hand fisted in his tie. He follows easily, way too easily.
“God,” he groans, smiling against your lips.
Amen.
Your calves bump against the back of the sofa, and he sinks down without hesitation, spreading his legs wide, no pretense left in him. His hands find your waist, guiding you to straddle him on your knees. One slides up your back, pulling you in until your chest meets his mouth.
He bites at the fabric covering your breast, hot breath seeping through, mouth full of you. His other hand grips the opposite side, squeezing possessively. His mouth then moves, open and hungry, latching onto the other, teeth scraping, tongue tracing circles that make you whimper.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pushing him closer, urging him deeper. He hurriedly moves between your breasts, kissing, sucking, biting softly, before pausing to look up at you.
Your fingers are still threading through his coarse strands, and he’s already breathless.
“Can you take this off already?” you mutter, impatiently working through his buttons, tugging the fabric open to expose his chest. Endowed, yes, but it’s what’s lower that really gets you. The soft strip of stomach, the trail of dark curls disappearing beneath his waistband.
It’s so fucking hot you can’t stop staring. You want to touch it. Bite it. Leave marks just to see how he’d react. You need him to return the favor before you give in and lean down to taste the skin you’ve just exposed.
“Ask nicely,” he teases, though his hands are already toying with the flesh of your ass anyway.
“Hotch, for fuck’s sake-” You hate him. Can’t believe he’s the one you ended up tangled up with. Of all people. The fact that it’s him and not Morgan honestly makes you a little sick.
“Aaron,” he corrects you, his wet mouth against your neck. Impatient, too keyed up to play his own dumb power games anymore.
And so, his fingers go to your shirt, working through the buttons. The liquor makes him rush - fast, a little clumsy in places, but stubbornly determined, like he’s trying to prove he still has control over something.
You can’t relate.
You shrug out of it in a hurry, desperate to be rid of anything that isn’t skin. The shirt hits the floor somewhere - you’ll deal with that later (future you’s problem). You’re half out of your mind, while he, of course, takes the time to unclasp your bra in record speed - then neatly folds it and sets it on the side table like a psychopath.
The time he saves with that efficiency, he wastes by looking. Just looking.
“God,” he is so wrecked. “You’re beautiful.”
And then he’s on you. No hesitation - just his mouth latching onto a swollen nipple.
His tongue circles around your peak, perfectly in sync with his fingers rolling the other between them. Then he sucks, and the sound that leaves your mouth only seems to push him further.
“Do you like it?” muffled against your breast, but before you can even form a thought, he pinches your nipple and tugs, pulling another helpless sound from your throat.
Yeah, he’s not asking for feedback. He just likes watching what you turn into when he does that. How you arch, how your voice falters. He’s giddy about it.
Actually giggly, which should infuriate you, especially after he has the nerve to murmur, “You’re so sensitive.”
But he’s too good at this.
Too good at you. The irritation melts right out of you the moment his mouth starts moving again, trailing across your chest. His tongue drags sloppily over your skin, until he finds your other nipple.
“God,” he breathes. You can feel him smiling against your skin when he flicks his tongue - teasing kitten licks (meow?) that start playful and immediately stop pretending to be.
One hand comes up to press your breast harder into his mouth, while the other slips under your waistband, fingers finding your clit, slick and aching, the glide so smooth it’s honestly kind of obscene.
You can practically count down to it - you’re so wet incoming in 3, 2, 1-
“God, you’re so wet.”
Fuck. You’ve missed the God. Also breathing, if you’re being fair.
He circles your nipple and clit at the same time, every touch winding you tighter until you’re practically shaking, right on the edge-
- then he stops.
Leaves you dry, whining. You barely have time to register the loss before he brings his hand to his mouth.
Holy fuck.
He sucks his fingers clean. Purposefully. His gaze stays locked on you while his lips part, tongue dragging between his fingers, tasting you like it’s the first decent thing he’s ever had in his life.
Then he moves.
Guiding you down onto the sofa, he sinks to the floor without a word, his arms braced on the outside of your thighs. His fingers hook under your waistband and in one swift motion, he tugs. Pants and panties gone in a single move.
A shiver runs up your spine. You feel the drag of the fabric as it slips away, a slick string stretching between you and the cotton before it breaks.
You see him bite down on the inside of his cheek.
Oh, he noticed.
He still folds your stuff - because apparently, even like this, he can’t stop being him - but it’s rushed now, like he’s pretending it matters. His hands are shaking a little. His focus is shot. He’s already back where he wants to be.
His pupils go wide, dark swallowing gold, there’s nothing collected left in him. He’s looking at you like a man starving, but then he giggles. Again.
It’s ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. Like he can’t believe what he’s seeing (omg is that a cunt!?!?!?!?! Wooooooah! Okay… it’s probably just the tequila).
You can’t help it - you giggle too. It’s contagious, almost… sweet, until your hand slides back into his hair, guiding him forward. He follows easily, his breath warm against your inner thigh. But he detours (come on, now), pressing open-mouthed kisses up your skin and nipping at the soft flesh.
“Aaron-“ It feels wrong to call him that. Who is Aaron?
He whines, but finally gives in. One long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit. He tastes you, savors it, moans into you like he’s the one being touched.
His lips wrap around your clit, and he sucks (literally, figuratively, and metaphorically.)
You can’t hold back the sound that tears out of your throat; it feels too good. You yank him closer by his hair, and he starts devouring you, loses himself completely. His mouth moves frantically, flicking, shaking, devouring you with an eagerness that borders on worship.
Through the haze, you catch flashes - the veins standing out in his hands as he grips your thighs, keeping them spread when they try to clamp around his head. The tension in his forearms, the tremor in his wrists.
He’s so into it. Such a munch it’s almost... illegal?!
He’s so gone, mouth everywhere, tongue sliding up and down your folds, messy and uncoordinated, pausing to kiss you, to suck, to drag his tongue through you again and again. When he slips the tip of it inside, you arch so hard into him your vision whites out.
He moans again, a deep, guttural noise that you feel more than hear, and it hits your clit perfectly.
He’s so overwhelmed he can’t seem to decide what to do with himself, alternating between making out with your cunt like it’s something precious, the next (barely) remembering this is supposed to be for you.
So, he fucks into you with his tongue, the bridge of his nose nudging your clit perfectly with every movement, and it’s so good you can’t help but arch, the tips of your toes curling as molten heat starts pooling low in your stomach.
He pulls back just enough to find your clit again, mouth wet and greedy, and you feel it - two of his thick fingers sliding through your slick, gathering it at the tips before pushing inside. The stretch knocks the air out of you. He fills you so easily, and when he curls them - just right, just there-
It’s-
“Cold-” you gasp, the word barely forming.
He looks up, eyes glassy and unfocused, still lazily flicking your clit with his tongue. It takes a second for your words to sink in. Then it hits him.
He freezes. Pulls his fingers out, leaving you feeling completely empty. The light catches instantly on the gold band around his finger, glistening wet, smeared with your slick.
The ring.
You see it hit him like a punch. His face changes completely. He stares at his hand, transfixed, still trying to catch up with his own breathing.
He’d completely forgotten it was there.
It’s second nature by now - the way it just stays on through everything. When he drives. When he works. When he washes dishes and grumbles that it makes his hand feel weird. It’s always there. Always been.
He doesn’t really notice it anymore. It’s just part of him.
So why the hell could he forget now?
The band is obnoxiously thick, he’d picked it that way on purpose. When he first bought it, the jeweler told him the size would “balance out his sausage fingers,” laughing as he said it’d be impossible to miss.
And yet - he did.
Because why would he think about it? Why would he ever need to take it off? Everyone knows he’s married.
You know.
Everything suddenly feels colder. He finally drags his gaze away from his hand and looks up at you, and it’s devastating.
You don’t know what to say.
He exhales through his nose.
Shit.
“Does it bother you?” he asks, calm. Way too calm.
He doesn’t clarify, doesn’t gesture, doesn’t even look at the ring. He doesn’t need to. You know exactly what he’s talking about. Still, for a second, you’re not sure if you heard him right - if he really just asked that.
Does it bother you.
Like he’s already accepted what he’s doing, already stepped over the line, and now he’s just politely checking if you’re okay being the accomplice. If you’re fine fucking a married man.
You blink at him, searching his face, trying to understand whether it’s remorse or curiosity flickering behind his eyes.
It’s impossible to tell. He looks too calm for either.
“Does it bother you, Aaron?”
“I asked you,” he says simply. His hands slide back up your thighs. You shiver when the cold metal brushes your skin.
“Aaron, I don’t- I don’t get what you mean by-”
But you don’t get to finish.
He surges up, closing the distance between you, his mouth crashing into yours, desperate, like the realization just made him need you even more.
His hands are everywhere - grabbing, searching, and dragging you closer by the waist, his heavenly touch edged with the cold brush of metal.
You freeze for half a second, brain still trying to catch up to what’s happening, to how wrong it should feel (or if it should, at all-). But instinct wins. It always does.
Your hands find his belt, still locked in a deep, hungry kiss while fumbling with the buckle. The metallic clink cuts through the air as you undo it, pull it free, shove his slacks down, and find him - thick and hard - against the soft fabric of his boxers.
Oh wow.
You palm his erection through it, feel the heat, the damp spot of precum he’s left. He can’t help but hiss into your mouth the second your fingers press against the wet head.
“Please,” he whimpers. Of course it’s vague as hell. Cryptic to the last.
Please what? No, okay. You’re not about to make him say it - please fuck me - even though the thought of hearing those words in his perfect, restrained voice makes you clench around nothing.
You’ll spare him the humiliation, keep his saintly swear-free record intact. And he should really never say you don’t do anything for him.
You strip him down until he’s bare beneath you, nothing left but the loosened tie still hanging around his neck (and yeah, you might need that soon). You sit back, straddling him, just looking.
It’s unfair how beautiful he is.
You could take your time.
Trace every inch of him with your tongue. Follow that line of hair, taste the salt of his skin, lap at the bead of precum glistening at his tip while your hand wraps around all that girth-
But patience isn’t exactly your strong suit. Not now. Not when the alcohol’s still in his system and you’re racing against the possibility of whiskey dick. You need him while he’s like this.
You give him just a couple of strokes from base to tip, pumping him, your cunt clenching around nothing just from holding his weight in your hand and watching him tilt his head back against the couch, his lip caught between his teeth like he’s trying not to make a sound.
You position him at your entrance, teasing the bulbous head as it presses right where you want it, grinding your cunt against him. Slick drips from your folds like honey, coating his girth and trailing down the sides as he breathes shakily. He doesn’t say a word, probably thinking you’re taking your time to ease into it.
You’re not. You’re taunting him. Drawing it out just to watch him unravel.
It’s addictive - how he looks at you, how he whimpers quietly, waiting, eyes wide and so goddamn earnest it almost makes you feel bad.
Fine.
You sink onto him slowly, the first push stealing all the air from your lungs. A sultry moan leaves your lips as you sink down, inch by inch. The stretch feels unreal, toeing the line between pleasure and pain, your walls clamping around him so tight it’s almost too much.
He’s thick. He fills you up so, so, so good.
You feel his rough palms settle on your waist, thumbs stroking over your skin. Tender.
“You’re so perfect like this,” he murmurs, the sound of it alone making your walls clench around him. (#humbling.)
Another moan slips out of you when you feel the blunt tip of him kiss your cervix. The jolt steals your breath, your head tipping back as your hips find a rhythm, grinding against him, slick coating his skin, your swollen clit dragging across his lower stomach with every motion.
The friction rips groans out of both of you, the living room heavy with the sound of it - wet, reckless, echoing through the quiet, past any respectable hour.
His hands roam up your sides, tracing your waist, cupping the soft weight of your breasts. You arch into him when his mouth finds you, catching a peak between his lips, sucking hard, humming against your skin as his teeth graze lightly.
You ride him harder, thighs slapping against his, every thrust punching another sound out of you.
“You feel so good, Aaron…” you pant, pace picking up until all you can think about is taking him deep and deeper inside you.
He mumbles something against your breasts, barely coherent - something about how tight you are, how perfectly you take him, how this is such a good pussy. The words slur halfway through, like he’s losing track of his own damn data, too far gone to remember what he’s saying but unable to stop.
It sends another spark straight through you. You tug on his tie, pulling him closer, and he just melts into it - lets out this low, breathy chuckle that vibrates against you, still flicking his tongue over your nipple like he’s drunk on the taste of you.
You want more. Always more. So you twist the silk tighter around your hand, pull again until it bites against his throat.
He’s gone - completely gone – intoxicatedly giggling through the next moan, head tipping back against the couch, mouth slack and pink.
He smacks your ass once, then again. (Behave, bottom!) Your voice breakis around his name, leaving your mouth far too pornographically to ever be mistaken for anything innocent.
You’re not sure you’re going to survive him.
Tingling pleasure starts to spark up your spine when he grabs your waist and pistons his twitching cock into you, his hips snapping roughly against your thighs, the head of his cock finding that sweet spot inside you over and over until the coil in your belly winds dangerously tight.
“Aaron, I’m-” The words die in your throat, splintering into a cry.
Your head falls back, eyes rolling, mouth open as your body takes over - every nerve sparking, every thought obliterated by the way he fucks into you. All you can think - all you want - is for him to come inside.
It’s a terrible idea.
Disastrous.
But you’re too far gone to care, too cock-drunk on him to remember why it would matter, too lost in the heat to even pretend you’d stop him.
Your hand slips down between you, fingers finding your clit, circling fast and desperate until everything tightens, until the world narrows to heat and pulse and sound. The orgasm hits hard, blinding, ripping through you in waves as your body locks up, fluttering tight around him, milking him until he breaks too.
He groans your name, hips snapping up one final time before he spills. The warmth floods you instantly as he keeps thrusting, chasing the last tremors of pleasure, filling you until it’s spilling back out onto your poor sofa.
You collapse against him, chest to chest, boneless and trembling, every nerve still sparking.
His arms come up around you right away instinctively, pulling you close until you can feel every uneven breath against your skin. Warm praises spill quietly into your ear, even as the ring keeps brushing your spine each time his hand moves in tender caresses - frozen against feverish skin.
It’s distracting - almost as much as the smell of sex clinging to his damp hair, the trace of sweat and you mixed in.
You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But your fingers move anyway, threading through the tangled mess, finding the back of his neck, tugging him closer until he exhales against your shoulder and settles there.
Exactly where he shouldn’t be.
You let him stay. Just a little longer. Long enough that it almost feels… natural. Comfortable. You could fall asleep like this. Bodies tangled, skin still sticky, the air still thick with the proof of what you’ve done.
You keep forgetting someone else is waiting for him.
Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader
Genre: fluff for middle aged men with a crush
Summary: The last time Hotch went on a first date was sometime last century (30 years ago, to be precise.) Now he’s determined to plan the perfect (hahahah) one with you. Unfortunately, he’s far more fluent in Excel formulas than in talking to gorgeous women like you (he is reeeeeally nervous.)
Warnings: allusions to 1. boners, 2. Rossi “accidentally” sending his nudes to Hotch instead of the freshly divorced women he was trying to flirt with on Facebook and 3. consequently getting himself banned from the platform, brief mention of canon death (Haley), excessive Excel usage
Word Count: 5.7k
Dado's Corner: Requested by loooooads of people and yours truly, I love you all! I owe a full tray of pizzas (choose up to 4 flavors) to @sweetheartsocks and @hotchology (HBD Bin!!) Hotch is such a loser in this one... also... FIRST TIME USING HOTCH’S POV IN THE FB!R INSTALLMENTS!! I had so much fun writing it! I hope you guys like it… please like it
masterlist
Hotch’s favorite word of the week (ever since Garcia explained what that meant) is tutorial.
Closely followed by how to delete search history. Though, in hindsight, a tutorial on that would’ve been useful - especially right now, as he drives a Bureau-issued SUV with his best friend in the passenger seat and no escape route in sight, being forced to confront why his search history looks like this:
How to properly ask a woman on a date tutorial
Dating in your forties tutorial
2012 dating etiquette tutorial
How to date an interesting woman when you are demonstrably not tutorial
Conversation topics for emotionally unavailable men tutorial
Best first date locations for adults tutorial
Best first date locations for adults tutorial (no strip clubs)
How to appear confident tutorial
Casual ways to reinitiate physical intimacy without dying inside tutorial
How to find porn that is also romantic tutorial
What are the bases (updated for modern context) tutorial
How to sound casual but not cold when asking out a woman you’ve already reached third base with but still want to surprise tutorial
Alternative ways to say “I love you” that won’t terrify her on a first date tutorial
Does second base count if it was over too fas-
“So…” Dave starts, drawing out the word.
Hotch doesn’t even glance over - partly because he knows that tone too well, and partly because safety rules. He just wishes his phone weren’t currently being held hostage by his so-called friend, so he could Google how to eject yourself from a moving vehicle when you’re the one driving tutorial.
“…You finally decided to ask her on a date?”
Not that Hotch can blame him for the tone - he’s probably earned it after months of Rossi enduring his entirely objective analyses of a woman who just happens to be exceptional, brilliant, and (purely coincidentally) alarmingly compatible with his personality. But platonically, of course, since you’re much youn-
“I told you to open the GPS, not my browser.” Hotch forces himself to keep his eyes on the road, though he can still see Rossi’s smirk reflected in the window.
“Well, that’s what I was trying to do, Aaron. You have to use the internet, you know.”
“There’s an app for it,” Hotch deadpans.
“Really?”
“Yes. Scroll to the second page. It’s called Apple Map-”
“Hold on,” Dave interrupts (apparently, the decoy Hotch had prepared for someone more technologically inept than him hasn’t worked at all. F**k.) “You’re dodging my question about the date, Romeo.”
Hotch exhales, defeated. “Yes,” he says finally. “I need to… address the situation.”
For a man who lives by color-coded schedules and emergency protocols, planning his first first date in thirty years somehow feels like the most destabilizing operation of his entire career.
Not just because the last time involved cinema tickets and sweets bought with his allowance - and called it a day (or more accurately... a date. Get the pun?) - but because now, really, how do you craft a perfectly normal evening when any moment could erupt into a manhunt?
He’s developed a Pavlovian response to his ringtone - minor heart attack (he should probably get that checked), followed by the existential guilt of imagining himself saying, “I’m so sorry, I have to reschedule, there’s been another abduction.”
Because of course he can’t exactly move an abduction to Thursday. But you? Surely you can rearrange your life around his. Which, objectively, makes sense (does it, though?). Subjectively, it makes him sound like a narcissist who believes the world - or at least your dinner plans - revolves around his schedule.
He hates that it sounds like he thinks he’s special. He’s not. You are. He just happens to be inconveniently employed.
Still, that doesn’t stop the panic every time he tries to picture it. Dinner. Conversation. A normal date. Then: what if she thinks I don’t value her time? what if she thinks I’m avoiding her? What if-
For fuck’s sake, calm down, Hotchner. It’s all hypothetical. Nothing’s even happened yet. Have a glass. Breathe.
Maybe drink something that isn’t Bureau-issued tar brewed in a machine older than half the team.
Maybe then (hahahhaahhahahahahahahahah) he’d finally manage to text you like a normal person.
3:32 PM
I may have to postpone dinner. Situation at work. Nothing to worry about.
– A.H.
3:36 PM
I realize that “situation” sounds ominous. It’s not ominous. Please disregard the tone.
– A.H.
3:38 PM
I’m aware that sending a follow-up text to correct tone defeats the purpose.
– A.H.
3:41 PM
You deserve someone capable of normal communication. I am trying.
– A.H.
4:03 PM
sorry i was napping
(You were napping? In the middle of this? He’s on his second anxiety-induced asthma puff and you’re taking a nap?)
with “postpone” you mean you can’t make it today?
4:04 PM
Oh no, I can. I just meant instead of 7:00, it might be better if I picked you up at 7:15. I’m drowning in paperwork. Is that still okay with you?
– A.H.
4:05 PM
wooooooah it’s just 15 mins, it’s fine
(15 mins. He’s been rehearsing a crisis speech for forty-five.)
4:06 PM
Thank you. I appreciate your flexibility.
– A.H.
4:07 PM
aaron, it’s dinner, not a deposition… really, it’s fine :)
(Okay. Fair. But also: technically, dinner is a social deposition...)
4:08 PM
Understood.
– A.H.
4:09 PM
you could just say “can’t wait to see you” like a normal person yk
4:12 PM
Can’t wait to see you.
– A.H.
(There. Normal. Human. Acceptable.)
4:13 PM
proud of you ❤️
4:14 PM
Thank you.
– A.H.
He really hopes no one walks into his office right now - because his reflection in the dark screen is looking back at him a little pink. Okay, maybe deep magenta.
He might actually need to excuse himself. Bathroom break. Deep breaths. Maybe splash some water on his face. Assess the situation - objectively, professionally, and absolutely not because of the proud of you heart emoticon.
At least now that the first minor inconvenience (your words, not his) has been handled, he can finally shift his focus back to the concept of the perfect date.
He tells himself perfection doesn’t exist. Then immediately adds, “But it could, if properly optimized.”
Indeed, there’s an Excel file on his desktop titled DatePlan_v4_FINAL(2).xlsx (perfection requires multiple drafts.)
Columns for time, place, weather contingencies, potential conversational topics, acceptable hand placements, and a risk assessment for each (color-coded by emotional exposure, from green = “you might laugh” to red = “you might touch his wrist”).
He’s also using the same system for conversation topics: green for safe subjects (books, movies, Jack), yellow for mild emotional exposure (divorce, or the fact that serial killers occasionally fixate on him), and red for… well, anything that might accidentally reveal that he’s in love with you.
He pauses, frowning at the screen. Using identical color schemes for two different systems could cause confusion during execution.
(Should he switch to a hue scale of blues for the risk assessments?)
The last blank cells are always the scariest. And this one - this final, flashing red cell titled WHAT TO DO? - is the real monster. He’s been dreading it for days.
What could he possibly do with you that maximizes the probability of success?
(Success here being loosely defined as: “make you fall for him” or, failing that, “at least make you laugh instead of running away.”)
Hm…
Sex?
Tempting. But too risky. He doesn’t want to seem like a whore. That’s at least a fifth-date activity. Unless you jump on him first. Which, statistically speaking, he lowkey hopes you do.
There’s no harm in wishful thinking. He’s still a gentleman. (A gentleman who’s already factored in a potential emergency trip to CVS for condoms. Because it’s better to be prepared than sorry… right?)
Once the variant premature fornication is eliminated, he moves to the next logical step: quantification.
He inputs all the relevant variables into a spreadsheet, lifted from a highly questionable behavioral science blog titled AlphaMindSuccess.biz. The formula looks like this:
P(Success) = (E + L + F + T) / (A × R)
Where:
E = Emotional engagement (estimated 0.45; she laughs at your jokes, but could be pity)
L = Location intimacy (variable: public vs private)
F = Food quality index (adjusted for price-to-portion ratio)
T = Time of day (weighted in favor of dusk, statistically “the most romantic hour,” according to one Reddit post)
A = Anxiety multiplier (currently: 9.7)
R = Risk of looking like a divorced dad trying too hard (constant: 1)
After running the numbers, cross-referencing the regression graph, and briefly considering mini-golf (discarded for humiliation potential), the result appears clear:
Optimal Activity: Dinner. Proper Dinner.
A controlled environment. Warm lighting. Predictable table-to-table distance. A clear plan for eye contact ratios. Perfect.
If he had time, he’d test every restaurant on the Top 30 in D.C. list personally, but since he has less than three hours to decide, he has no choice but to rely on the one man who always knows a guy.
Rossi.
A little nepotism never hurt anybody.
Especially when it comes with a sales pitch like Dave’s. He’s been hyping up this place all week, and since it’s French (and Italians hate the French, so that’s practically a guarantee of honesty), Hotch figures he might actually be onto something.
Apparently, after dining at a restaurant called Ta Gueule - which, when pronounced with Dave’s heavy Italo-American accent, sounds less like a romantic French bistro and more like a contagious rash - he claimed he’d “come back a new man.”
Which, honestly, tracks. It’s been three whole days since Hotch last caught him sexting freshly divorced women on Messenger - or accidentally received a photo of Rossi’s… enlightenment - all thanks to him finally learning how to enlarge the font on his phone.
The place itself is allegedly high-end, exclusive, and very expensive (not that money is a problem; in fact, he’s quietly thrilled at the thought of spoiling you a little. He just… enjoys seeing you happy. Anyway-)
At least the upscale setting saves him the agony of researching what “business casual” actually means. The real struggle, however, begins in front of the mirror.
He’s trying to calibrate the right level of… spice.
To his surprise (and mild alarm), his so-called “special occasion” shirts, especially the grey one he’s planning to wear tonight, fit very differently than he remembers. Namely: they seem to be emphasizing… contours.
Specifically, chest contours. Which is objectively new. He’s fairly certain the fabric didn’t used to cling like that.
Probably the result of doubling his training sessions with the triathlon coming up. (Yes, that must be it.) Still, it’s slightly jarring to realize he’s apparently one endurance circuit away from qualifying for a C-cup.
♫ Titties so plentiful, fish queen jezebel ♫ should be criminal ♫ don't make sense for a bitch to be this endowed. ♫
If it looks too vulgar, he reasons, he can always tone it down. Maybe just… unbutton the top button. For airflow. To avoid feeling constricted.
(And absolutely not to reveal the faintest sliver of collarbone that might, hypothetically, drive you insane. Of course not. He would never.)
For balance - purely aesthetic balance, nothing else - he pairs the fitted shirt with his fitted black trousers. The ones with that subtle sheen that technically “elongates the silhouette,” or, in practice, draws attention to everything below the belt, emphasizing everything he’d rather not think about.
One last look in the mirror.
Not bad.
Except - he notices the coarse layer of hair on his hands. Right. He forgot about that.
He grabs the razor - because yes, he shaves his hands when he wants to make an impression. He always has. He even did it the day he first asked you out. Says it makes him feel neater, more… precise.
(And yes, he is still dutifully fueling the post-war Gillette industrial complex, just to feel worthy of standing next to you.)
He sprays his very expensive, very niche cologne on his pulse points - the one built around tonka bean base notes because, scientifically speaking, they’re supposed to make people subconsciously more drawn to you. (He sprays two extra pumps along his neck, purely out of precaution.)
He rehearses a few lines in front of the mirror - phrases that, in theory, sound casual and not like the frantic rehearsals of a man terrified of sounding frantic.
And off he goes.
Right after… well. A few minor adjustments.
First, Jack’s toys in the backseat have to go. Then the passenger seat gets a quick polish (double polish). The pack of cigarettes in the glovebox? Removed. Replaced with mints. He swaps the car deodorizer for something moodier (specifically purchased for this occasion).
Then, just to be safe, he checks the CD slot to make sure The Greatest Broadway Hits isn’t still in there. (It is.) He sighs. Removes it. Tucks it in the back. Inserts Nina Simone instead. (No risk of failing.)
A few deep breaths. Five, to be exact, and slightly too loud. And now - off he goes. For real this time.
Destination: the flower shop.
Or rather - four of them. Two detours, one questionable parking decision, and several existential crises later, he finds the exact bouquet he’d imagined. The colors. The balance. The meaning
(I believe I might be in love with you, but BuzzFeed says dropping the L-word on a first date is a red flag, so - let’s go with “I really, really like you.” I think about you all the time. Please like me back. And, for the record, I’m still deeply sorry about that one time I… lost composure. Physically.)
Of course, he doesn’t write that on the card.
Instead, he stares at the blank card for a full minute, trying to compress a lifetime of emotional repression and premature panic into something neutral and… legible. (On that note - no pun intended - he swaps the gel pen for a ballpoint. No risk of smudges, no forensic trace of nerves.)
Everything’s in place… so why does it suddenly feel like his chest is tightening?
After a copious number of flights of stairs - because your elevator is, surprise surprise, broken - he’s fairly certain he’s out of breath. Period. Not enough oxygen is reaching his brain to overthink how he’s supposed to knock on your door like he planned.
He hears footsteps approaching (partly thanks to your building’s questionable acoustic insulation, but still-), and then the door opens.
And the second he sees you, dressed like that, it’s as if he’s climbed another six floors with no elevator and a guilty conscience.
Is it too late to Google how to greet a beautiful woman who’s way out of your league and, just to reiterate, beautiful tutorial?
“Hi,” he manages - at the exact same time you say it, though his comes out noticeably more breathless. (Again, elevator malfunction. Definitely not nerves.)
You glance at the bouquet - smiling (smiling!) - which has to be a good sign, before asking, “Flowers?!”
“Yes,” he says, tragically sincere. “These are flowers.” (Great start, Hotchner. Truly poetic.)
You laugh (thank God), and he assumes you must think that line was meant as a joke. It wasn’t, but he’ll take the win. Unfortunately, the momentary triumph disintegrates the instant your fingers brush his in the handoff.
High-to-Moderate Risk on his Excel file. In execution, however, it’s proving to be catastrophic. Elevated pulse. Sudden tunnel vision. Inexplicable shortness of breath. (He should’ve known the data was unreliable in field conditions.)
Aggravating factors include: sustained eye contact and the sight of you lifting the bouquet to your face, smiling as you inhale the scent. Then you glance at the card, read it immediately, and say-
“You’re so sweet-” (You think he’s sweet? Not the gesture? Him? Oh, he’s going to pass out.) “Aaron.”
You said his name.
The hallway tilts half a degree. He’s definitely going to pass out. His entire face feels like it’s been flash-burned.
“Thank you.” He clears his throat, eyes skimming helplessly over you - still trying, still failing to understand why a woman like you would have anything to do with someone like him. “And you’re-”
He realizes, too late, that his mouth is still slightly open in awe. Excellent. Exactly the composed, gentlemanly move he’d rehearsed in the mirror.
Should he hold your hand? Is it too soon? He really, really wants to hold your hand.
The thought chews at him the entire walk to the car. He tries to salvage some dignity by opening the door for you, closing it gently (bare minimum, Hotchner), and forcing the conversation into neutral, non-lethal territory: the traffic on his way over, the efficiency of the parking system, the absurdity of D.C. drivers.
You seem a little nervous too, which helps. Marginally.
Not enough, however, to prepare him for what happens when you both arrive and he moves to help you out of your coat. His hands land - purely by accident - on your shoulders. Warm fabric. Warmer skin beneath.
You turn to face him, and suddenly there’s too much eye contact. Way too much. Your gaze flickers to his mouth. Once. Twice.
His brain stops registering external stimuli. He can’t tell if you’re about to kiss him or if he’s just finally losing his mind wishing you would.
Maybe he should. Maybe he should close the gap. Maybe, for once, he should stop planning and-
“Good evening, sir, madam,” the waiter materializes out of nowhere… impeccable timing. Right. Table. Yes. Of course.
It’s a very good table, actually - if not the best in the entire restaurant. He makes a mental note to send Dave a thank-you he’ll pretend not to mean.
He switches back into Chivalry Protocol: pulls out your chair, waits for you to sit.
You glance up at him. “Just so you know, I’ll start expecting this treatment every single time.”
Oh. Every single time.
So that’s a second date implication. Possibly a third. Hell, maybe even a fourth. And the first one hasn’t even officially started.
Okay. Alright. Totally fine. Normal reaction. He’s not- he’s absolutely not already scheduling future anniversaries in his head or mentally rehearsing how he’d explain to Jack that, yes, technically, he met you before he blacked out from happiness.
And honestly, under the circumstances, he can’t really blame himself for it. He can’t help it. You said every single time. That’s practically a verbal contract and also- you look like that. You’re smiling like that.
Unfortunately, his body reacts like it just heard wedding bells and signed the marriage license. He’s seconds away from encountering a very real, very logistical problem that might make standing up later… inadvisable.
Salvation comes in the form of a distraction: you hand him the responsibility of choosing the wine.
For both of you. (Is this your way of testing him?)
No guidance. No preferences. Just unspoken trust and the faint suggestion that he might actually know what he’s doing.
Speaking of which-
“Do you like the wine?”
It’s the third time he’s asked. Which, in his defense, feels proportionate. You’ve had two dishes so far - each served on a plate large enough to land a small aircraft and containing approximately three molecules of actual food - and he needs something to talk about that doesn’t involve staring at your mouth.
“Yes, Aaron,” you laugh. “It’s good. I’ve told you.”
“Good. Because we can still change it if you-“
He stops the second your hand crosses the table to tap his, a silent “enough already.” Except his hand moves before his brain can issue a cease and desist. Reflex. Instinct. Poor impulse control.
Whatever it is, his hand moves before he can stop it, catching yours before it pulls away. He holds it lightly, his thumb brushing once, tentatively, along the side of your hand.
You’re warm. And he’s almost certain his hand is clammy.
“Is this alright?” he nods toward your joined hands (checking in, just to make sure.)
You blink, a little surprised - but you don’t pull away. Your gaze drifts down to where his hand covers yours, and a small smile tugs at your lips before you lean into his touch (he might be the happiest man alive.)
“It’s more than alright.”
From the look on your face, he can tell you’re a little endeared by the fact that he’s, well… a bit of a loser. Which is probably for the best - because if he actually said something like “is the stroking pace okay?” or “should I go slower?” out loud at some point (really. Is the stroking pace okay?), you wouldn’t be surprised... hopefully not annoyed.
He really doesn’t want to fuck this up.
So far, though, it’s not going as badly as he feared.
You’re smiling, glancing at him, holding these long charged stretches of eye contact that make him feel both like a hopelessly smitten idiot and – regrettably - tight in his pants at the same time.
Even then, he can’t stop watching you.
Listening as you tell him about your day, your job, your roommate - who, apparently, texted to wish you luck on your “date with the FBI fossil” (excuse me?) and to add, “don’t rush home, I’m taking advantage of the empty apartment and having someone over”
You turn the phone toward him to show the messages, and he leans in, squinting, just managing to focus on the microscopic font you insist on using - when another text appears. Unfortunately for him, it’s horrifyingly legible:
maybe you could have fun and fuck grandpa at his place too if he can still get it up :)
(EXCUSE ME?!)
He freezes. Full system failure.
You notice immediately (which is shocking, because he was fairly certain his total neurological shutdown was imperceptible) and snatch the phone back, promptly cycling through what appears to be all seven stages of grief in under five seconds.
Adorable.
“I-I swear she’s not usually like that.”
“I see.” (He does not see. At all. He has never seen less in his life.)
“I-I don’t mean that we have to. You know,” you blurt out, words tripping over each other.
“Oh. Yes. I mean- no. Don’t worry. There’s… there’s no rush. For… that. I- don’t want to rush-”
Okay. How does one say I’d prefer not to have sex on the first date unless you’re into it without making it sound like I don’t want to have sex with you ever? Because that would be wildly inaccurate.
“We-we can stay-somewhere-as long as you want. Or need. If you want to.”
He’s come to realize that, unfortunately, this restaurant is far less life-changing than advertised and far more - what do the youngsters call it these days? - a good vibes killer (and for the record, he is not a fossil).
The “vibes” themselves are… sterile. If not clinically dead. No one’s really talking, and the only audible conversation seems to be coming from your table. Which would be fine if he didn’t feel every pair of eyes in the room turning toward you each time you laugh or say something with actual enthusiasm.
He’s starting to feel a little self-conscious. Possibly paranoid. Definitely stared at.
And whenever you start saying something actually meaningful, inevitably, another waiter swoops in to interrupt the moment. Either to present a single pea on a plate or to politely inquire how you liked the previous pea.
(It’s a pea. How good can it possibly be? It’s… boiled.)
So, he’s not entirely sure you want to continue your evening in a place where joy goes to die - with a boring man who maybe worries too much about peas.
Well, he’s not that boring. The problem is that the things that make him not boring are… not exactly first-date material.
Really, when’s the right time to say:
“By the way, if you intend to date me, you should know serial killers have a tendency to get obsessed with me. Best case scenario, you’ll have to go into witness protection for a bit while I hunt them down. Worst case… well, that’s happened before. With my ex-wife. Almost with my son.”
Or maybe ease in with:
“Just so you know, I have a son. If you date me long enough, you’ll meet him. He’s wonderful. He’ll probably see you as a mother figure, since his actual mother is dead. Thoughts?”
Or perhaps something lighter, like:
“I’m married to my job, which means I’ll cancel plans, forget to eat, and possibly forget what day it is. Also, if things get serious, you’ll end up babysitting my six-year-old while I disappear for a week chasing criminals across the country. Fun, right?”
Or the real kicker:
“By the way, in a few years your roommate’s text might turn out to be prophetic. Would that… be alright with you?”
He takes a sip of wine.
Because dessert has just been served (a single raspberry surrounded by what might legally qualify as dust) and he’s officially run out of safe, non-terrifying things to say about himself.
He’s already covered his childhood coin collection (which he still keeps, neatly catalogued, in his home office), tried to downplay his lifelong obsession with The Beatles, and confessed to reading obscure historical biographies and economics essays for fun - earning a teasing, “oh wow, you’re such a nerd, that’s so cute!”
Nobody has ever called him cute before. (He’s still recovering from it.)
Then came theatre. And musical theatre. Oh, and of course- the triathlon.
That the real reason he’s training has nothing to do with fitness or discipline or any of the noble-sounding justifications he pretends it’s about. It’s a midlife crisis disguised as athletic ambition, paired with his compulsive need to overachieve in three different sports at once. (He phrased it more delicately, of course.)
“I could tell,” you laugh.
Well. That’s humbling.
Now he’s not sure whether to invite you to the race next week. He wants to (God, he wants to) but he’s genuinely uncertain whether “come watch me sweat profusely and wheeze in a skin-tight cycling suit” counts as an appealing activity or a potential dealbreaker.
So now… what’s left?
Oh- maybe, “Did you know my best friend is permanently banned from Facebook for harassing freshly divorced women? Actually, he’s also the one who recommended this restaurant.”
(Probably not a strong closer.)
“What do you think about going somewhere else? Get some real food?” he says softly, leaning forward as old muscle memory takes over - his hand automatically rising to his chest, like he’s stopping his tie from dipping into the plate.
…Except he’s not wearing a tie, which makes the gesture entirely pointless and, frankly, ridiculous.
“Oh my God, Aaron-” Life practically surges back into your face. “I wanted to ask you that, but I thought it’d sound so rude. I’m so sorry, it’s not about you at all, the food was great, I’m just so hungry- like, actually starving! Please don’t think I don’t want to spend time with you, you’re great, it’s just this place is so…”
You’re rambling. It’s adorable.
He stands before you can finish, already shaking his head, gently taking your jacket from the back of your chair and helping you into it. His hands linger for just a moment on your shoulders - two light taps.
“Let’s get out of here.” (Okay. That almost sounded sexy.)
Hotch subtly positions himself between you and the POS machine - tactical blocking maneuver, clean execution - intercepting the check before you can even think about reaching for your wallet.
He adds a 15% tip - professional courtesy, damage control, and plausible deniability for the one-star, three-hundred-word Yelp review he’s already drafting in his head. It’ll be the first thing he handles once he’s back home.
Okay, second.
Let’s just say there’s another… rough draft he’s planning to get out of his system first. He’s not fooling himself.
He still feels like a fool, though - mentally debating whether this is the right moment to hold your hand. You’re walking close beside him, too close, really, and looking up at him in a way that makes rational thought a dying species.
He glances at you.
You glance at him.
He brushes his shoulder against yours - experimentally - testing the waters.
Your brows lift, just slightly. Encouraging? Confused? Is that a good sign? A bad one? He can’t tell. Oh God, what if his face is doing something weird? Is he smiling too much? Not enough? Does he look nervous? (He is nervous. This is a big step. Maybe the step.) What if you don’t want to rush things (figuratively… or otherwise)?
Then your arm brushes his again.
He looks at you - and there it is. That small, thoughtful tilt of your head, that half-smile. And-
“So,” you ask, lighthearted, fingers fitting easily through his, “where are we headed?”
Why aren’t you freaking out?
“Um-” He shakes his head, tries to play it cool, but he’s smiling like an idiot. Like a schoolboy. His tongue darts over his lips (unhelpful), and he readjusts his grip on your hand to hold it properly. (Is this what heaven feels like?) “It’s-”
A very greasy, unromantic, family-owned 24-hour diner a few blocks away.
The kind of place where the entire menu fits on one board, substitutions are treated as personal insults, and the only people inside at this hour are truckers on night shifts or middle-schoolers on milkshake highs.
Which means you’re both wildly overdressed.
“I always bring Jack here after soccer practice,” he explains, opening the door for you. “Best fries in town. You can trust me on that.”
Inside, the familiar waitress looks far too delighted to see him - probably because he may have overshared about you once (fine, twice… four times) after swimming laps and stopping in for “just a coffee” (and what was, in hindsight, a thinly disguised therapy session).
“Oh, goodness, Mr. Hotchner!” she beams, practically sprinting over. “I’ll tell the idiot in the kitchen to make something special immediately.” She pats him on the back, smiling far too wide at you, biting her lip because she knows exactly who you are.
He really, really hopes she won’t say anything that outs him more than he’s already doing just by existing. Especially now, sitting in the booth, where you slide in right beside him instead of across.
He swallows hard. Just a few inches to the left and- yeah. He could rest his hand on your thigh.
He won’t. But he briefly wonders if a strategic knee graze would be too forward. (Almost certainly.)
“This place almost got shut down once,” he says instead. “My first year as a prosecutor.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “The city tried to push a redevelopment plan, claimed the building violated updated zoning codes. Technically, it did. But only because the new permits were deliberately backdated to make it look like they’d missed the renewal window. It was a scheme to clear out small businesses for a luxury complex.”
“Fucked ass capitalists,” you mutter.
He chuckles, but the sound dies halfway, mostly because he feels you shifting in your seat. The booth seat dips slightly (missing springs… terrible for posture) and suddenly he can feel the heat of your body right next to him.
He keeps perfectly still, though he’s pretty sure his pulse is visible through his very tight shirt.
“I went through about four hundred pages of filings before I found the discrepancy. Managed to push an injunction through at the last minute and get it in writing that this building can’t be sold or rezoned without a public hearing and a majority vote.”
You smile at him, knee brushing his under the table. “It’s better for you that you’re not telling me this just to play hero.”
Your knee. Is brushing. His. Knee.
“I’m not. I swear. It’s just… nice to know that despite everything changing around here, some things still stay the same.” The waitress drops off a plate of fries, glistening in oil that’s clearly survived multiple administrations. He leans in under the guise of speaking low enough for only you to hear. “Like the frying oil.”
You turn toward him.
Suddenly, you’re close - close enough that if your noses were just slightly better aligned, they’d be touching. He can feel your breath ghost against his cheek, smell your perfume valiantly fighting (and almost winning) against the deep-fried air of the diner.
You’re looking at him.
He wonders if you can see in him what he sees in you: the way your pupils dilate the instant he’s in your line of sight, the pulse at your throat, the sparkling air between you that has nothing to do with the flickering neon light overhead and everything to do with the courage it takes to claim him.
“You know, you really shouldn’t make a habit of saying things that make you sound a little less awful in my eyes just to get this.”
Before he can ask get what, you kiss him.
It catches him completely off guard - so much so that, for a split second, he forgets to close his eyes but then instinct takes over, and he finally allows himself to lean into you.
It feels like freefall. And somehow, also like peace.
He’s one hundred percent sure you’d kill him if he ever admitted that, in this single, bare second, that’s exactly how he’d describe you. Peace. You’d hate that, but his eyes are stinging anyway.
Do not cry. Get it together.
You tilt your head, glance at him, and fuss with a stray bit of his hair. (Could you please brush your hand through my hair again? No. Okay. Maybe that sounds too desperate.)
“Does that mean I sound less awful?” he asks, hand settling against your warm cheek. (So brave of him. He’s so proud of himself. Wow.) Okay, now he sounds borderline flirtatious.
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