Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader; Platonic!Morgan x Reader
Summary: In the midst of a high-stakes case, you face the terrifying task of being bait for a dangerous unsub. As the mission spirals out of control, the unacknowledged bond between you and Hotch is tested, forcing him to confront the risks of letting his heart lead in a world where vulnerability could mean losing everything.
Warnings: Angst (It's Who I Am), Emotional Distance (On Hotch's End. Go Figure), Canon-Typical Violence, Body Injury (Very Minor), No Use of Y/N or Physical Descriptors, Happy Ending. Let Me Know If I Forgot Something
Word Count: 6.6k (This was a BEAST)
A/N: Happy New Year!!! This is my very first Criminal Minds fic EVER AND my first story of the new year!! I have been a fan of this show for such a looong time. So I'm really excited to be introducing this as a fandom I write for. I have been hyperfixating on Hotch for a while now (something about stoic, emotionally unavailable people really gets me). Anyway, this really was a labor of love and a passion project. Thank you all for reading! I truly hope you enjoy. Have a wonderful day!
Masterlist | Criminal Minds Masterlist
A sudden sharp, insistent knocking echoes through the quiet hotel room, jolting you from your restless sleep. Adrenaline surges through your veins, heart thrumming in your ears, as you instinctively reach for the weapon on your nightstand. Blinking against the fog of your interrupted sleep, your mind races, trying to make sense of what ripped you from your sleep.
You listen carefully, waiting to hear if there is anything that could give you context to your current situation. But the silence returns, as if it had never been broken. You approach the door cautiously, your fingers curling tightly around the handle of your gun. Pressing your eye to the peephole, you freeze when you see Hotch standing on the other side. Relief floods through you and you exhale shakily, but only for a moment as you come to the grim realization that there must be another victim. You set your weapon down, running a hand over your head as you prepare yourself for the bad news and a new case development.
But as you open the door, your rehearsed professionalism falters.
Hotch is far from the professional, composed self he presents to the world. His dark hair is unkempt, the gel that usually holds it perfectly in place seemingly forgotten. His v-neck shirt hangs loose around his clavicle, giving you a glimpse of his defined pectorals, and his pajama pants pool awkwardly at his feet, as if he didn’t pull them up all the way before reaching you. The typical mask of calm authority he wears is nowhere to be found as he stares at you with wide, haunted eyes, face pale and glistening with sweat.
There is clear tension in his posture, his breathing a little too shallow and his expression a little too tight. You’ve never seen your friend like this before. Something unnerved him and quite frankly it was starting to rattle you too.
Hotch hadn’t really thought any of this through. The visceral image of your body disfigured and mutilated just like the victims of this case filled him with raw terror. He needed to see you.
He had to make sure you were safe. He needed to know that you were alive and still intact. To know that you will still look up at him with that wide-eyed gaze filled with so much trust and quiet adoration that it makes his guarded heart falter. To know that when a case is too heavy and you all are exhausted and frayed at the edges, you will still throw him one of those smiles— one that tells him you still believe in him, that you know he will get you all through it. That you are still his team. To know that he will still hear the warmth of your laughter around the bullpen, cutting through the darkest of days at the BAU because you just had that way about you. That quiet, effortless brightness that made the worst days bearable. And he knew it wasn't just the job you were good at; it was the way you kept everyone together.
Most of all, he needed to know that you would still be you. That this job hadn’t taken you away from him— that it hadn’t stolen one more thing he couldn’t bear to lose.
But as the seconds stretch on, the initial terror that gripped him so tightly begins to subside and his mind begins to regain control. The logical Hotch starts to take over, reminding him that everything is fine. That it was only a dream, an irrational fabrication, and he is not the kind of person to allow emotions to overrun his decisions.
He’s being reckless and this moment of weakness could jeopardize the team, and everything he has worked so hard to build. He needs to turn and leave before this situation gets any more out of hand, but it’s too late. The lock clicks. The door swings open and there you are, alive and whole. His breath catches. He had feared the worst— no, not feared, he’d seen the worst in his nightmare— but you’re here, standing right in front of him. The sheer relief almost makes his knees buckle.
Your voice is soft but laced with concern, the sight of him so disheveled, so unguarded, sets off a ripple of panic in your chest, “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He stands there, staring at you as though he can’t believe you are standing in front of him. His mouth opens, but no words come out. His chest heaves with uneven breaths, and his eyes dart across your face, taking in every detail as though memorizing it.
“Hotch?” you repeat, your brows knitting together, “What’s wrong?”
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost hoarse, a shallow attempt at the calm, authoritative tone he usually uses.
“I just… wanted to make sure you’re alright. We’ve been up late. Thought you might need to check in."
His words are careful, almost rehearsed, but you still hear the vulnerability he’s trying to mask. His eyes dart away from yours, down to the floor, and you can almost see him retreating into himself, as if he’s trying to hide from you.
"Are you sure you’re okay?" you press a little, unable to ignore the worry curling in your chest. This isn’t just about the case. Something deeper is going on, and you aren’t going to disregard it.
You step out a little into the hallway, bringing yourself closer to Hotch, trying to gauge if you’re reading him wrong. But this isn’t like him— Hotch wouldn’t show up at your door in the middle of the night without reason.
He looks as if he is barely holding himself together. You know him well enough to know when something is wrong, and in this moment, everything about him screams that he is on edge. It isn’t just exhaustion or stress— it’s something more that seems to be warring with him.
His lips press together in a tight line and you can see the muscles in his neck contract. "I’m fine," he says quickly, urgingly, as if he is trying to convince you and himself.
The wall of his facade is fissuring and, for the first time since knowing Aaron Hotchner, you feel like he might finally let you in. You push a little harder, hoping that acknowledging the crack in his armor will finally shatter the whole illusion.
“Hotch, you’re not fine,” you say softly, your voice almost a whisper, “Why don’t you come in for some coffee? I still have some of the good stuff Rossi bought me for Secret Santa.”
Hotch opens his mouth, but the words get tangled, and he immediately closes it again. His throat is tight, seemingly collapsing on itself. There are so many things he wants to say to you. Truths he wants to reveal, but he can’t. He can’t bring himself to venture into that unknown territory, to cross that line that’s already too blurry. There are too many things at stake, too many risks he can’t afford to take. He can not allow his feelings to complicate things any further.
He takes a step back, and in doing so, you watch him fully retreat into himself, restructuring the wall you had come so close to tearing down. Perhaps you pushed too hard.
He regains the professional composure you have grown accustomed to seeing. His usual authority slips into something sharp, more distant. "We’re on the job," he says, his voice harder, defensive, "There’s no time for that."
His words sting and you feel a pang of hurt as he continues to shut you out. But you remember who Hotch is. This isn’t about you. This is about him, about whatever had shaken him. Hotch has built walls higher than you can scale. Walls that even you—someone who knows him better than most—aren’t allowed to breach.
"Get some rest," he adds, the words flat and sterile, "We’ll need you ready tomorrow."
Your window for something more is closing, and you can’t bring yourself to stop it. You know what’s happening.
He’s scared. Scared of what? You don’t know, but you have a feeling that you’re the cause. Or at least a part of it.
“Good night, Hotch,” you resign, hoping to mask the disappointment of being kept at arm’s length.
He gives you one last brief nod before he turns away, heading down the hallway with that same brisk, purposeful stride he always uses when he is trying to put distance between himself and whatever feelings are bothering him.
You stand there, the door half-open, watching him go. Your chest aches at the thought of what could have been.
Closing the door softly and locking it behind you, you begin to process everything that unfolded. Questions pace your mind as you crawl back into bed. What just happened? What just really happened? The moment felt like a confession of sorts. An almost admission of something Hotch has been holding on to, but doesn’t want you to know.
And maybe you just imagined it, but you feel like you saw a flicker of something in his eyes. An indication that the connection you have been feeling is not one-sided, a hint that you mean more to him than just a colleague, more than just a friend. You close your eyes, but the image of Hotch at your door stays with you, etched into the corners of your mind. An unanswered question you’re too afraid to ask.
The local precinct hums with its usual activity— phones ringing, keyboards clicking, and the low murmur of officers exchanging updates on ongoing cases. Yet, the energy is tenser than the previous days of this case.
Hotch’s behavior has been off all morning— sharply professional, overly focused on the case, and oddly reserved. It isn’t just his terse responses or the way he’s deliberately avoiding meeting your eyes— it’s the heaviness in the air every time you are in the same room. The warmth you usually share with him is gone and his quiet intensity has evolved into a coldness that has made you uncomfortable.
An awkward distance has grown between the two of you and you can’t shake the feeling that it’s your fault.
It hurts, but you try to brush it off. You know the job has a way of consuming him. You try to focus on the case, bury yourself in the details, but the weight of Hotch’s distance is becoming impossible to ignore. And you aren’t the only one to feel it.
“Hey Sunshine,” Morgan approaches your work station, voice quieter than usual, “Everything good with you?” His tone carries a warmth that welcomingly contrasts with the chill you’ve been receiving from Hotch today.
You look up at him, trying to mask your unease, but Morgan isn’t fooled.
“You seem a little… off today,” he says, eyes scanning your face with that trademark perceptiveness, “What’s going on?”
You shift uncomfortably in your chair, glancing over at Hotch across the room. He’s engrossed in the case files, his posture stiff, his face unreadable. But you feel the weight of his distance press heavy on your shoulders.
“Nothing,” you tell him, trying to diminish the effect Hotch’s behavior is having on you, “Just… tired. The case is taking a lot out of me.”
Morgan doesn’t buy it for a second. “Uh-huh. And you didn’t notice Hotch getting all icy on you today?”
You still. You didn’t want to admit it, but it’s true. All of his standoffish behavior is directed at you. The distance, the sharper words, he’s isolating himself from you. And it doesn’t take a profiler like Morgan to see it.
You glance back at Hotch before returning your gaze to Morgan. He’s known Hotch for a while. Longer than you. If there is anyone you can gain insight from, it would be him. Lowering your voice, you confide in your teammate, “I don’t know, Derek… it’s like… he’s pulling away. Like something’s changed. I don’t know what happened last night, but whatever it is, it’s different. I can’t shake the feeling that I did something wrong.”
“What happened last night?”
“Hotch?” He asks astonished, surprised by the uncharacteristic behavior.
“Yeah, he said he wanted to check in with me, but… I don’t know, Derek, something was off. It was like he was hiding something from me.”
Morgan leans in closer, his expression softening with sincerity. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Hotch is going through something. I’ve been around him long enough to know when he’s bottling things up.”
You appreciate the comfort in Morgan’s words, even if they don’t entirely ease your concern. You just wish Hotch would open up to you. Let you be there for him and carry some of the weight of his burdens.
Morgan sighs, seeing the crease still planted in your brow. “Look, he’s been carrying a lot of weight on his shoulders for a while now,” he states, voice turning more serious, “This job— it changes him. Sometimes it makes him pull away from the people he cares about the most, even if he doesn’t mean to. But I’ll talk to him, alright? I’m not gonna let him shut you out.”
You smile up at him, feeling some of the weight lift off of your shoulders.
“Don’t worry about it right now,” he continues, voice morphing into a more professional tone, “We’ve got a case to finish, and we need to focus. But after all this is done, you and I are gonna have a talk, alright?”
You nod, giving him a small, grateful smile, “Thanks, Derek.”
Soon after, the reality of the case takes over again. An officer charges in with a disturbing update: a new victim has been discovered. The pattern is clear, the unsub is escalating. The cooling-off period, which had been a crucial factor in the previous profile, has shrunk dramatically, and you all are running out of time to prevent another murder. The urgency in the room is palpable. The team crowds around the whiteboard and, after analyzing the victims and the unsub’s pattern, you all come to a grim conclusion. You need someone who looks like the previous victims to bait the unsub into a trap.
There is an oppressive silence as the team’s eyes flick to you. The weight of their saddened, knowing gazes is almost unbearable. The fact that you share similar features with the victims of this case had not gone unnoticed by you. In fact, it was one of the first things you noted about the unsub’s victimology. It had been an unsettling realization. One you’d been working through for days, trying to figure out how it would affect your role in the investigation. Now you know.
The air is heavy with the unspoken implication. You had expected this. It’s part of the job. But nothing can prepare you for the moment when the possibility becomes real. Your gaze flicks to Hotch, but he isn’t looking at you. His eyes are fixed on the board, on the files, on anything but you. He was desperate. Looking for an out, for a solution that did not involve putting you in harm’s way.
“Hotch,” Morgan says, cutting through the silence, “We need someone who looks like the unsub’s previous victims. We don’t have time to waste.”
He glances at you, eyes softening, then back to Hotch, sensing the unspoken hesitation. Hotch’s expression darkens. He looks between Morgan and you, his mouth set in a tight line. You can see the internal battle in his eyes—he wants to object, to find another way—but the case can't wait.
“Alright,” Hotch concedes stiffly, his voice potraying none of the inner turmoil he’s feeling, “We’ll set up the trap. We don’t have time for anything else.”
You close your eyes for a brief moment, pushing away the surge of panic that’s threatening to take hold of you. You know it’s the best strategy. It’s what has to be done, and you will do it. But you don’t have to like it.
“You good with this?” Morgan asks, his tone far more personal than professional. He wants to make sure you’re okay, wants to be sure you aren’t being pushed into something you aren’t ready for.
You give a small nod, more for your own sake than his. “I’m good,” you lie, voice steady even though your insides feel anything but.
After your confirmation the team is immediately on, discussing the logistics of setting up the trap. Your gaze flickers to Hotch once more, and for a moment, you think you see something shift in his eyes— something that isn’t just professional concern. It almost looks like he wants to say something more, but he doesn't. He just turns back to the board, his silence louder than any words he could have spoken.
His mind races, unable to focus on the task at hand. His thoughts are consumed with you— the thought of you being so close to danger. He can’t stand it. The very idea that you will be bait— the possibility of you being exposed to the unsub, potentially hurt— makes his insides twist with dread. But he can’t show it. Not now. Not when the mission is the priority.
He focuses on the details, assigning roles, making decisions. But every time his eyes shift to you, his stomach tightens. Bait. It’s a professional term, a necessary risk. But to him, it feels like a betrayal—one he couldn’t afford to confront.
You stand near the edge of the scene, trying to focus on the instructions being relayed through your comms. The humid, night air clings to your skin— another layer pressing on the building panic in your chest. You watch as your team slips seamlessly into their positions with practiced precision. You all have done this before, it isn’t unfamiliar territory; however, it’s different when it’s your life on the line.
You’re the one baiting the unsub, alone, vulnerable. There’s no guarantee of your safety, no script to follow that ensures a happy ending. You’re putting yourself directly in harm’s way, and that knowledge frightens you more than you’d like to admit. You try to steady your breathing, but your heartbeat is louder than your thoughts. This is the moment when everything could go wrong, and that thought sets fear, real visceral and terrifying fear, the kind you’ve been pushing down for hours, alight in your bones.
You feel him come up behind you, his presence heavy, solid and grounding. You feel the weight of his eyes on you. The tension from before charging the air around you. Up until now, his focus has solely been on the operation. You know he is just as worried as you are, maybe even more so, but his stoicism doesn't allow him to show it. You wonder if his concern is more focused on the mission going well or on the risk this poses to you. Regardless, he is a comforting presence, one you feel safe to confide in.
“Hotch,” you murmur, almost too quietly for him to hear, turning to face the man who has grown so dear to your heart.
He looks at you, expression unreadable, but his quiet intensity soothes some of your panic.
“Are you sure about this? I- I don’t know if I can do this,” your voice shakes, highlighting the fear you’ve been holding back all night.
Hotch struggles to give you an answer. You are looking at him with those wide, trusting eyes, and all he can think about is last night— the image of you mutilated, the fact he couldn’t save you.
The overwhelming need to protect you surges through him again. He can’t—he can’t let this happen. But he is the leader of this team, it is his duty to see this mission through. To bring this case to a close. He can’t allow his personal feelings to change anything, to interfere with this job.
He forces his voice to remain steady, professional, “It’s the only way.”
You concede with a nod of your head. You don’t argue. You never do. But Hotch studies you, sees the slight tightening around your eyes, the sharp rise in your chest. It makes his heart ache. He feels the weight of this moment. Knows this is a critical point— not just for the case, but for you. He sees how hard you’re fighting to hold yourself together, and for a split second, the professional facade cracks. He takes a step closer.
“You’re not alone in this,” Hotch says, his voice low but steady. He reaches for your arm, gently squeezing the flesh there. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You’ve been trained for this. You can do this.”
His words settle over you, your heart rate slowing, and for the first time since this operation started, you can breathe again.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he repeats urgingly, his voice low, protective. It’s a promise. His hand lingers for a moment longer than necessary before he pulls back, the weight of his words lingering in the air between you two. Hotch’s presence, the way he’s always steady, always calm—it gives you the strength you need.
"Alright," you whisper, your voice steadier now, "Alright, let's do this."
As the team readies themselves, you remain in place, trying to keep yourself from fidgeting. Adrenaline courses through your veins, but it’s not just fear— it’s the anticipation. The waiting. You’ve been taught by Prentiss how to manage these moments, how to keep your emotions in check and your senses sharp. You channel every lesson she taught you— stay calm, stay focused, keep breathing. You’ve studied the unsub’s patterns, and every part of you is ready to play your role.
You survey the area, locating your team’s positions. Morgan, Hotch, and Prentiss are stationed inside as backup, Rossi and Reid near the exits, and the remaining local officers are stationed discreetly around the perimeter. You look towards the nightclub, the neon lights, the rhythmic thrum of music faintly audible even from outside. Static crackles in your ear, and you hear Hotch’s voice, calm and steady, “All units are in position.”
You take a deep breath, trying to control your shaking hands. You’re ready. You have to be ready. With one final glance around the perimeter, ensuring your team’s at your back, you steel yourself, stepping into the lion’s den.
The pulsating beat of the music encapsulates you, the bass reverberating around your body. The flashing lights cast strobe-like shadows across the crowded room. It’s loud, chaotic, and full of life— but that only makes it more dangerous. The lights are meant to disorient and the noise to drown out your thoughts. You see how it is easy for the unsub to get away with his victims.
You stand in the middle of it all, heart pounding in your chest as you pretend to enjoy the music, to be just another partygoer in the crowd. Prentiss’s voice crackles in your earpiece, barely audible over the music, “You need to relax. You look stiff.”
You nod to yourself, trying to ground yourself in the role. You watch the crowd around you, mimicking their movements. Glancing over your shoulder, you see Hotch standing across the club, blending into the shadows near the back of the bar, dark and brooding. He’s close— but not close enough. He can’t be. You can’t afford to look too conspicuous.
The rest of the indoors team is hiding in plain sight. Prentiss is near the restrooms and Morgan is in a corner booth. And Hotch is watching from the shadows. He’s waiting, calculating—but something in the way he’s watching you makes your heart rate spike.
You catch his eyes and everything feels different. The professional wall between you two starts to crumble. You feel yourself becoming looser under his watchful gaze and you dance. You dance for him, you dance as if you’re the only two people in the room. And Hotch can’t take his eyes off you.
But then you feel it. A shift in the crowd.
He’s not the tallest man in the room, but he has a presence that immediately commands attention. His gaze is cold, calculating, but there’s something oddly magnetic about him. He moves through the crowd with purpose, like he knows exactly what he’s looking for. His eyes flick over the people around him, assessing each one with the precision of a predator.
As he approaches you, you feel a rush of adrenaline, but you push it down. Emily’s training coming back to you. He stops in front of you, gaze flicking to your face, studying you for a beat longer than necessary.
He smiles— a dark, knowing smile. “I’ve been watching you,” he says, his voice a hair louder than the music, his tone carrying an eerie calm.
You force yourself to keep your composure. "Have you?" You raise an eyebrow, playing the part. The unsub takes a step closer, his eyes flickering down to your body, sizing you up. You know what he’s doing, know exactly how he’s visualizing your body and all the horrific things he’ll do it— just like the previous victims. It makes your skin crawl.
“You’re not like the others,” he says, his voice lower, whispering in your ear, but thick with amusement. He’s toying with you.
You manage a small smile, “What makes you think that?” You tease, pretending to be at ease.
His hand snakes up your body, eyes never leaving yours, “You’ve got a different look to you. You don’t belong here.”
The trail of his hand on your body sends a chill down your spine. He’s not being aggressive— yet —but the interaction feels like an invitation to a game. He’s testing the waters.
“I belong where I want to belong,” you reply, lifting your chin up to appear more confident than you actually are.
He smiles, his eyes lighting up with something darker. “Maybe you do,” he says, voice quieter now, “Or maybe you're just pretending.”
You take a step back freeing yourself from his grasp, his imposing presence becoming overwhelming. The unsub’s smile falters just a fraction. A flicker of suspicion, quick but undeniable, passes over his face.
You take a breath, keeping your face neutral, trying not to let anything slip. “We all pretend sometimes,” you answer smoothly, “What about you?”
For a moment, his eyes narrow, the two of you engaging in some kind of silent battle, each trying to read the other. He’s intrigued, but he hasn’t made up his mind about you yet.
“I’ve seen your type before,” the unsub says, taking a step closer to you, shortening the distance you previously implemented, “You’re always looking for something. People like you—”
You cut him off quickly, hoping to regain control of the situation. “People like me? And what exactly is that?”
He leans in a little closer, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “The ones who can’t find meaning in their lives, so they run to places like this thinking they can find answers. They never do.”
You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up as his eyes move over you again, this time lingering on your eyes, like he’s searching for something in you— something real. But you know what he’s doing. He’s trying to find a weakness. A slip.
The air between you two grows heavier, and despite everything you’ve been trained to do, despite the calm that you’re trying so hard to project, you feel the pressure building. Your heartbeat picks up, but you push it down. You can’t let him see you panic.
“Well, I guess that depends on what you’re looking for,” you say, your voice more uncertain than you want it to be. You quickly mask the hesitation with another smile, but this time it doesn’t feel as convincing.
His eyes flicker— just for a moment— across your face. Something about the way you said that, the slight nervousness that edged into your voice— it’s enough to make him pause.
For just a split second, he looks confused, as though something doesn’t add up. His eyes narrow, and you see the shift in his demeanor. The playful curiosity turns into something more calculating.
“You don’t talk like them,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His voice is softer now, more contemplative.
You feel your stomach flip, but you don’t flinch. Not yet.
“You have a very... observant eye,” you reply, forcing the words out with more confidence than you feel. You quickly change the subject, hoping to redirect his attention. “Why don’t we go somewhere quieter? I can show you just how different I really am.”
The unsub hesitates, his brow furrowing as he watches you a little too closely. He’s not sure what it is yet, but he’s starting to doubt that you’re just another unsuspecting person in the club. The air between you thickens, the tension building.
The unsub steps back slightly, eyes scanning you again, this time with deeper suspicion. It’s like a switch has been flipped— he knows something is off.
“Sure,” he sneers, grabbing your arm roughly and jerking you forward. The action pulls you into his chest as his free hand comes up, producing a blade. The cold metal feels heavy as it presses against your throat— the sharp edge digging into your skin. You freeze, pulse pounding as your fear of this operation plays out before you. One quick jerk and your whole life is over in the middle of a second-rate night club.
“What is this? Some kind of trap?” He demands angrily, pressing the knife harder. You can feel the tip against your skin, its sharp edge threatening to break the surface. Every small breath you take makes the blade press in deeper, but you don’t flinch.
Hotch’s voice rings clear through your earpiece, sharp and commanding, “Move in. Now.”
The team springs into action, bursting from their scattered positions, guns drawn, closing in quickly. Chaos erupts as the crowd disperses from the growing conflict— a cacophony of panic and fear echoing around you, mirroring the terror gripping you inside. The moment the unsub sees them, his eyes widen in recognition, but his grip on you doesn’t loosen. He pulls you in front of him like a shield, his body tight against yours, the knife still pressed to your neck. Panic flickers in his eyes, and he becomes more desperate, realizing the window of escape is shrinking.
“Stay back!” He shouts, his voice shaking with rage and fear, “One move and it’s over. You hear me?” His grip on the knife is trembling now. He’s scared, unhinged, not thinking clearly. You swallow, trying to stay composed. You’ve been trained for this, but the simulation is nothing compared to the real immediacy of danger.
“Stay calm,” Hotch instructs, his gaze locked on you. His voice is sharp, but there’s a layer of raw tension there. He’s not just worried about you as a team member; he’s invested. This isn’t just another case— it’s you. He won’t let anything happen to you.
The unsub’s grip on you is relentless, and the weight of the knife against your throat is a constant reminder of how quickly this can turn deadly.
“Why don’t we just talk about this?” You manage to say, your voice steady despite the panic raging inside, “I can help you. We can work this out.” But the unsub isn’t listening. His eyes gleam with madness as he presses the knife harder against your throat.
“You think I’m stupid?” His voice is low, guttural, “You think this is going to end well for me? For you?”
The tension is unbearable and you know it’s only a matter of time before he makes a move, one way or the other.
“You don’t have to do this,” you try again, voice trembling but steady. His grip on the knife shifts slightly, and you catch a glimpse of hesitation in his eyes. It’s a split second, but it’s enough for you to seize the opportunity. You feel the unsub shift slightly, his weight moving in such a way that it opens up just enough space for you to act. You shift your body weight quickly, slamming your elbows into his ribs. The move is sharp and sudden, and you feel him stumble back, losing his balance for a split second. His hold on you loosens, just enough for you to wrench free from his grasp.
In that split second, everything changes.
“Now!” Hotch’s voice explodes. Prentiss and Morgan surge forward, moving swiftly, but not close enough. In a final desperate attempt to regain control, the unsub brings the knife up, swinging it wildly toward you. Your heart stops and you freeze, only for a moment, before instinct takes over and you dodge to the side. The blade grazes your cheek, cutting a shallow line across your skin. The sting is instant, but you don’t focus on the pain.
With the unsub distracted by your move, Prentiss is the first to close in. She grabs his wrist, wrenching the knife away, while Morgan rushes in, tackling him to the ground. As the remainder of the team rushes forward, the unsub struggles, but he is no match for your team
As soon as the unsub is secured, Hotch is there, rushing towards you. He places a hand on your shoulder, his fingers lightly gripping you as though he needs to make sure you’re real.
“Are you alright?” His voice is softer than it’s been all day, but is still tight with concern. You take a shallow breath, trying to steady your heartbeat. “I’m fine,” you answer, though your voice betrays you, a slight tremor you can not control, “Just some scratches.”
Your fingers graze over the thin line of blood from the knife remaining on your neck, before landing on the shallow wound on your cheek where you swipe away some of the trickling blood. It’s nothing permanent, but the sting is sharp. Hotch’s gaze flicks between the small wounds, and his jaw tightens.
“You did great,” his voice is low, but laced with something more. There’s a protectiveness in his eyes now that goes beyond the usual command, beyond the professional distance. Your heart is still racing from the close call, but something in the way he looks at you, something unspoken, makes you pause. It’s more than just concern.
The case is over. The unsub is in custody, and the adrenaline has worn off, but the weight of the last few days— the close calls, the near-misses— lingers heavily in the air.
The team is scattered around the bullpen, tired but relieved. Some are gathering their things, others are engaged in quiet conversation. But Hotch, who is usually the first to bury himself in case notes and paperwork, is standing near the window of his office, his back to the room, staring out at the city lights in silence.
You’ve just finished checking your emails, last light on in the bullpen, and are about to leave when you notice Hotch still standing there, a silhouette against the dimming light. The intensity of his brooding is almost palpable and you can’t help but feel drawn to him. You approach his office slowly, your footsteps light on the floor, knowing that there’s something unresolved between you— something that needs to be addressed, even if the words seem impossible to say.
When you get to his door, he doesn’t turn to face you right away, but you can tell by the way his posture stiffens that he’s aware of your presence. After a beat, he speaks without looking at you.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” His voice is low, still carrying the edge of concern. There’s something in the way he asks that you’ve never heard before, a note of uncertainty beneath his usual command.
You stop a few feet away from him, feeling the familiar tension between you two. But this time, it's different— he's different. His usual reserve is slipping, and the emotional weight of the past days is leaving a crack in his armor.
“I’m fine,” you answer, and you mean it, even if there's more left unsaid. The cut on your cheek has been treated, and physically you’re fine.
His shoulders sag slightly, but he still doesn’t turn. He stands there for a long moment, lost in thought, before he finally speaks again, this time quieter, almost hesitant.
“I need you to know something,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
Turning slowly, he faces you now, his eyes intense, but there's a vulnerability in them that you’ve never seen before. The walls are down. There’s no hiding it anymore— he’s exposing himself in a way that feels foreign to both of you.
“I...” he begins, but stops. He takes a breath, trying to steady himself. “I... don’t know what I would’ve done if I had lost you tonight. I can’t— I can’t keep pretending that it doesn’t hurt to see you in danger.”
The words hang between you two, heavy and unspoken, as he tries to gather himself. You swallow hard at his words, and your heart flutters in your chest. It’s the first time he’s said something this personal, this raw. You can feel your pulse quicken as you wait for him to continue.
“I know we can’t do this... but I need you to know,” he continues, voice thick with emotion. “I care about you. I care about you more than I’ve let on. More than I should.”
You take a breath, feeling your own emotions rising in your chest. You’ve known for a long time that something was there between the two of you. The tension, the quiet moments of connection. You’ve always felt it, even if you were too afraid to acknowledge it.
“I do too, Hotch. I have for a while.”
His eyes soften at your admission. There’s a tenderness in them that makes your breath catch. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance, and you feel the warmth of his presence envelop you.
He reaches out, his hand resting gently on your arm, as if afraid you might vanish if he touches you too hard. You don’t pull away. Instead, you lean into it, letting the moment settle between you. This is uncharted territory for both of you, but it feels right.
“I don’t know what happens now,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “but I need you to know... I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Not again.”
You nod, your heart full of so many things— relief, fear, and the growing certainty that this moment is the beginning of something neither of you can ignore anymore.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you reply, voice steady, meeting his gaze with an honesty you’ve both kept locked away for far too long.
He looks at you for a long moment, the weight of everything you’ve both experienced together in those few words. And then, ever so slowly, he leans forward, just a fraction, and the air between you shifts. It’s not a declaration, not yet— but it’s a beginning. A slow, careful bridge being built from everything you’ve been through.
And at long last, the walls he’s built for so long have finally come down.
If you want to be a part of my taglist, please submit an ask specifying series, fandom, or all and I will happily add you!
