SSA Aaron Hotchner leads one of the FBI's most elite profiling teams, facing the country's worst criminals with precision and control. But his toughest role isn't at the BAU - it's being a single father to five-year-old Brooke, a bright, stubborn child left in his arms after her mother walked away without warning.
Years later, Aaron has built a life for them - steady, guarded, functional. And then came Haley. Compassionate, grounded, and unexpectedly brave, she steps into the role of Brooke's stepmother with quiet strength, slowly helping stitch together what Brooke's biological mother shattered.
But no amount of love can keep the outside world from seeping in.
As Brooke begins to ask questions about the woman who left her - and the job that takes her father away far too often - Aaron is forced to reconcile the life he chose with the family he's trying to hold together. And when a case hits too close to home, the balance he's fought so hard for begins to unravel.
Still Standing - The Fight To Be Believed
Ao3 link
Wattpad link
Spin off to 'Beneath The Silence'
Can also be read on it's own
Aaron Hotchner's 13 year old daughter Brooke Hotchner has recently started experiencing unexplainable symptoms that came on suddenly with no explanation.
Chest pain, dizziness, fatigue and so much more.
As the months progress the worser the symptoms get and the more she declines but what makes it worse is fighting to be believed as everyone is telling her it's in her head.
This spin off will cover topics and conversations that aren't included in the original book and focus on Brooke and her daily struggles as well as the fight to be heard.
Edge Of Eighteen And Beyond
Ao3 link
Wattpad link
Sequel to 'Beneath The Silence.'
At 18 years old, Brooke Hotchner has just walked across the graduation stage-but instead of heading off to college like most of her classmates, she's chosen a different path. The daughter of BAU Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, Brooke has never lived a normal life. Between losing her mother young, battling chronic illness, and surviving more trauma than most adults, Brooke has learned that healing doesn't follow a schedule-and neither does life.
While her friends scatter across the country for dorms and degrees, Brooke stays behind in D.C., navigating the uncertainty of what comes next. She takes time to breathe, to rest, and to figure out who she is outside of trauma and expectations. As she explores jobs, passion projects, and therapy, Brooke begins to rediscover her strength-on her own terms. With the support of her fiercely protective father, her BAU family, and a few unexpected new friendships, Brooke learns that choosing not to go to college isn't giving up-it's choosing to live.
This is a story about second chances, slow healing, and the courage it takes to write your own future.
The Quiet Between Storms - Grey’s Anatomy x Criminal Minds
Ao3 link
Wattpad link
FBI profiler Harper Sloan is used to chasing darkness - long hours, brutal cases, and the constant weight of knowing the minds of monsters better than her own. But when a series of violent crimes unexpectedly end up Seattle at the same time she's visiting her brother, Harper finds herself forced to walk the line between the horrors she hunts and the family she's nearly lost to time.
Her older brother, Mark Sloan - renowned plastic surgeon, legendary flirt, and fiercely protective big brother - isn't thrilled to see his sister tangled in another high-risk investigation. Especially not when it's happening right in the city he calls home. Alongside former childhood friend and neurosurgeon Derek Shepherd, Mark is determined to give Harper something she's never had: space to rest, people to lean on, and a reason to stay.
As Harper balances high-stakes BAU cases with the chaotic rhythm of life inside Seattle Grace Mercy West, she begins to rediscover what it means to be more than a profiler - to be a sister, a friend, and maybe even something more. But the closer her work gets to Seattle's heart, the more the lines blur between healing wounds and confronting old ones.
Hotchniss x daughter oneshots:
(All oneshots are unrelated to my 'Beneath The Silence' Fic and Brooke Hotchner series)
Her Name Was Amy Ryland
The Life We Built
I Hate Vegas
This House Is A Warehouse
The Attitude Problem
Tanned And Mildly Sunburned
Too Close To Home
The Hardest Hour
Bandaids And Bench Swings
Minimal Loss
Tiny Tyrant Mouth
Champagne Coast Solo
The Pain We Almost Missed
Italian Blasphemy
Sugar, Spice And Way Too High
Just The Three Of Us
Watch Me
What Would You Do If I Did?
Hotchner Rage In Spanish
The Party
I Wish You Could See Yourself Through My Eyes
One Step Closer
We'll Get Through This
Tequila Sunrise
Five Finger Discount
Edges Of A Map
It Looks Like A Bomb Hit In Here
The Sound Of Silence
Tethered
Like Family
What Are You Doing?
A Hotchner Sized Attitude
Sunscreen And Suitcases
Operation Baby Shower (AKA: What Could Possibly Go Wrong?)
Barbados Betrayal
Back To The Roots
When The Light Leaves
Slowing Down
Exhibit A
Broken Mugs
Perspective
Brake Brooke Brake
The Streak Lives On
The Desert And The Beard
Chronically Late
Valentine’s Day Violations
Real Life Superhero
Proof Of Life
Apparently We're Rich
A Night To Remember
Parenthood, Payroll and Poor Timing
First Mothers Day
Couple Hours, Couple Hours
Permission Slip To Panic
Passports, Pacifier And Panic
The Midnight Renovation
Hotchner vs Hotchner
Mid-Kiss Mayhem
Mid-Kiss Mayhem - Part II
Aaron Hotchner x daughter oneshots
(All oneshots are unrelated to my 'Beneath The Silence' Fic and Brooke Hotchner series)
About Time
Boxes And Goodbyes
Ten Years
Running For More Than Just Fun
I'm Worried About You
Stay
You're Nothing Like Her
The Word That Doesn't Exist
Emily Prentiss x daughter oneshots
(All oneshots are unrelated to my 'Beneath The Silence' Fic and Brooke Hotchner series)
A Day Out:
Threads Of Who She's Been
Brooke Hotchner x The Team oneshots
(All oneshots are unrelated to my 'Beneath The Silence' Fic and Brooke Hotchner series)
Little Sister
Brooke Hotchner x David Rossi oneshots
(All oneshots are unrelated to my 'Beneath The Silence Fic' and Brooke Hotchner series)
While Aaron and Emily enjoy a rare date night, Brooke spends the evening with Grandpa Dave, who entertains her with hilarious childhood stories about Aaron and reminds her how deeply loved and connected their family is.
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So I'm going for the dynamic that David Rossi is Aaron's dad again. If this dynamic isn't for you, feel free to move on!
Masterlist
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The house hummed with an unusual stillness. No bustle of Aaron heading off to work, no Emily’s energetic tidying, and certainly no Brooke’s constant chatter. Tonight was different — Aaron and Emily had snagged a rare date night, a little stolen time for themselves. It wasn’t that Brooke didn’t understand the need for that, but it still felt strange to be home without them, especially on a Friday night.
Instead, Brooke found herself sprawled on the living room floor, legs crossed and arms folded, looking every bit the typical teenager—half bored, half restless. The TV played softly in the background, a forgotten nature documentary about wolves. Her phone sat nearby, screen dim, ignoring her usual stream of texts from friends. Tonight was babysitting night, and the sitter was none other than her Grandpa Dave.
David Rossi wasn’t your average babysitter. He was tall, with the greying hair and beard that made him look like a grizzled detective from one of Emily’s favourite shows. In truth, Dave had been something far more important than that. He had been Aaron’s father long before the rest of the world knew him as Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner.
So, this night had the special kind of magic that only happens when family gathers. A night filled with stories, laughter, and just a hint of gentle teasing.
Dave had already made himself comfortable in the big leather armchair by the fireplace, a mug of steaming tea in hand. The kind with honey and lemon, just the way he liked it, though he’d gladly have shared if Brooke asked. He had that quiet confidence of a man who had seen it all, been through every kind of storm and come out stronger on the other side. And Brooke respected him for it.
“So,” Dave said, setting down his mug and folding his hands in front of him, “you wanted to hear some stories about your dad, right?”
Brooke raised an eyebrow, a smirk curling on her lips. “Obviously. You always say he was a handful, but you never really tell me the juicy stuff. Was he really as much of a pain in the butt as you say?”
Dave chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “Oh, he was more than just a pain. He was a tornado with sneakers. When Aaron was your age, he had an energy level that could power a small city.”
Brooke scoffed, throwing a popcorn kernel into her mouth. “Sounds about right.”
Dave leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “I remember one time when he decided it would be brilliant to build a ‘spy tunnel’ out back. It was supposed to be this secret passage where he could keep an eye on the neighbours — especially the mailman. He thought the mailman suspicious.
Brooke burst out laughing. “No he didn’t.”
“Oh, he absolutely did,” Dave said, clearly enjoying himself. “Your dad had decided the guy’s delivery schedule was ‘inconsistent.’ So naturally, the logical response was to dig a tunnel along the fence line so he could observe without being detected.”
Brooke was now sitting upright. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.”
Dave gestured vaguely toward the backyard. “He spent two full days digging. Dirt everywhere. Sticks, boards, pieces of cardboard. The whole thing looked like a very small, very determined construction project.”
Brooke wiped tears of laughter from the corner of her eyes. “Did it actually work?”
Dave paused for dramatic effect. “Not even a little.”
“Oh no.”
“The tunnel collapsed on day three,” Dave said, shaking his head with fond amusement. “And your father got stuck halfway inside it.”
Brooke gasped. “You had to rescue him?”
Dave laughed. “Of course I did. Kid was yelling like he’d fallen into a sinkhole.”
Brooke leaned back against the couch, shaking her head. “I cannot believe that’s the same man who interrogates serial killers.”
“Oh, it absolutely is,” Dave replied.
They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, the soft crackle of the fireplace filling the room.
Brooke’s eyes drifted to a framed photograph on the mantel.
It showed a younger Aaron standing beside Emily, both of them laughing at something outside the frame while a much smaller Brooke sat on Aaron’s shoulders, gripping his hair like reins.
“Were you ever mad at him?” Brooke asked quietly.
Dave followed her gaze to the photo.
Dave gave a small sigh. “Sure. Raising him wasn’t easy. He pushed every limit and then some. But he was always brave. And loyal. He’d do anything for the people he loved.”
“Sounds like Dad,” Brooke said quietly. “He’s always there for me, no matter what.”
Dave smiled, pleased. “You’re lucky, you know,” he said. “Both your parents. They’ve been together since they were kids themselves. Eighteen years old and already convinced they’d found the right person.”
Brooke’s smirk returned. “They’re still grossly in love.”
Dave chuckled. “True.”
“Mom definitely runs the house though,” Brooke added.
Dave raised an eyebrow. “You think so?”
“Oh absolutely,” Brooke said. “Dad just pretends he’s in charge.”
Dave laughed outright at that. “Well,” he said, “Emily has always had a certain… presence.”
Brooke’s grin widened. “So what other disasters did Dad cause growing up?”
Dave pretended to think. “Oh,” he said suddenly. “The treehouse.”
Brooke’s eyes lit up. “Oh this sounds promising.”
Dave settled deeper into his chair and launched into the tale of Aaron’s treehouse adventure — how the ambitious, determined boy had convinced him to help build a fortress in the backyard that ended up more like a pile of crooked wood and misaligned nails. The way Aaron had climbed halfway up the rickety ladder, got stuck, and how the neighbours had called the fire department, terrified of hearing the kid’s screams.
Brooke laughed so hard she nearly fell off the couch, tears pricking her eyes. “I can’t believe Dad actually got stuck. What a dork.”
Dave grinned. “Yeah, but he learned a lesson — sort of. He still tried to climb trees, but he got better at not getting stuck.”
Brooke shook her head, thoroughly enjoying the rare chance to see her dad through someone else’s eyes — the eyes of a man who had loved him unconditionally.
The clock ticked, but neither of them cared. Stories turned into jokes, and jokes into shared memories. The night was a balm for both of them — a pause from the chaos of everyday life.
Eventually, Brooke’s eyelids grew heavy. Dave noticed and handed her a blanket. “Time to get some rest, kiddo.”
Brooke snuggled into the warmth, feeling safe and loved in a way only family could provide. “Thanks for the stories, Grandpa.”
Dave kissed her forehead gently. “Anytime, Brooke. Anytime.”
Outside, Aaron and Emily returned from their date night, unaware of the small, perfect moments that had unfolded while they were gone.
And inside, Brooke dreamed of spy tunnels, treehouses, and the family that held her heart.
Like most things inside the Behavioral Analysis Unit, the whole situation began with Penelope Garcia.
Garcia possessed an almost supernatural awareness of the emotional climate of Quantico. It wasn’t just that she liked gossip—though she certainly did—it was that she could sense when something interesting had happened long before anyone officially said a word. Emotional tremors travelled through the BAU like tiny earthquakes, and Garcia had built an entire career on detecting the smallest vibrations.
Which was exactly why, when Emily Prentiss walked into the bullpen that Monday morning with a suspiciously pleased smile and the unmistakable sparkle of someone who had witnessed something extremely entertaining, Garcia noticed immediately.
Her chair rolled halfway across the floor before Emily even reached her desk.
“What did I miss?”Garcia demanded, nearly sloshing coffee onto her keyboard as she grabbed Emily’s arm dramatically. “Tell me everything. That is your ‘Hotch did something unintentionally hilarious’ face, and I refuse to miss the story.”
Emily laughed softly, tugging her arm free. “I promised I wouldn’t be the one to tell the story, but there is someone who needs to know."
Garcia’s eyes lit up like she’d been handed a treasure map. “And who could need to know more than me?"
“Morgan needs to know,” Emily clarified with a wicked grin. “It’s a sibling emergency.”
Derek Morgan was standing in the breakroom pouring coffee when Garcia burst through the door like a woman on a mission. She skidded to a stop in front of him. “I need to talk to you,” she said urgently.
He raised an eyebrow. “What’s with the panic, Baby Girl?”
Garcia leaned in dramatically. “Your little sister committed a federal offence over the weekend.”
His mug froze mid-sip. “What are you talking about?”
Garcia lowered her voice dramatically. “I don’t have all the details, but apparently, Brooke was caught kissing Ethan in her bedroom. By Hotch.”
The silence that followed was almost reverent. Derek blinked once. Twice. Then he put the mug down slowly and backed out of the room with purpose.
“Oh, this I need to hear directly from the source.”
Unfortunately for Brooke Hotchner, she had made the terrible mistake of coming to the BAU that day. Her school had dismissed students early for a teacher training day, and she had decided—very innocently—that dropping by Quantico to grab lunch with her parents would be fun. In theory, it was a harmless plan. In reality, she had unknowingly walked into a building where the entire team was already whispering like teenagers at a sleepover.
She barely made it three steps in before Derek Morgan intercepted her.
“Brooke. My favourite Hotchner. Walk with me.”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Why do you sound like you’re about to interrogate me?”
“Because I am.”
“I didn’t do anything—” She folded her arms.
Morgan leaned closer with a grin. “Oh no? Word on the street is, you had a very romantic weekend.”
Brooke’s entire face flushed. “What?!”
Morgan dropped his voice and waggled his brows. “Don’t play dumb. Someone caught you and Loverboy playing tonsil hockey, didn’t they?”
“Derek!” she groaned, mortified, trying to shove him down the hallway. “Don’t say it like that!”
“Oh, I’m definitely saying it like that,” he laughed. “Because you got caught. By your dad. In your room. With the door closed.”
“It was cracked!” she protested.
Derek leaned against the wall, smug and grinning. “Sweetheart, you don’t ‘crack’ a door when you’re kissing a boy. You bolt it shut and pray your dad’s on a case in Boston.”
She groaned again and covered her face. “I hate all of you.”
“Oh no, you don’t,” he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “But you do owe me the full story. And I swear, if Ethan ever so much as looks at you the wrong way—”
“You’ll what?” she muttered, looking up.
“I’ll bury him six feet under paperwork so thick he’ll wish the FBI had never heard of witness statements.”
She snorted despite herself. “That’s lame.”
“It’s efficient,” he shot back. “But I can go old school if you want. I’ve got a baseball bat in my car.”
“I didn’t ask you to murder him.”
“No, but I offered. That’s family.” Derek said
The rest of the team got involved quickly after that. Spencer looked genuinely traumatised by the idea of Brooke kissing anyone. “But she was eight like five minutes ago,” he kept saying, shell-shocked, as if the passage of time were a personal attack.
JJ found the whole thing hilarious. “She’s a teenager, Spence. You remember being seventeen, right?”
He didn’t. Not really. Because while other seventeen-year-olds were learning how to flirt, Spencer was getting his second PhD.
Garcia tried to console Brooke by printing out a fake certificate that said ‘Officially Caught Kissing While Grounded – 2026 Winner’. Brooke stared at it in disbelief. “If that ends up anywhere near my dad’s desk,” she warned, “I will erase every hard drive you own.”
Garcia clutched the paper protectively. “You wound me.”
Meanwhile, Emily and Rossi watched the entire situation unfold with quiet amusement. “She handled it well,” Dave mused, sipping his espresso.
“That’s only because I was in the room,” Emily smirked. “Otherwise, Ethan would’ve needed reconstructive surgery.”
Rossi chuckled. “I believe that.”
Aaron, of course, remained tight-lipped and sour-faced throughout the ordeal. He refused to talk about it. At all. Any time someone even hinted at Brooke and Ethan, he changed the subject like he was flipping a case file.
When asked directly, he gave the same three-word response every time:
“I saw nothing.”
But everyone knew. Everyone knew what he’d walked in on. And everyone knew exactly how hard it had hit him.
Not because he didn’t trust Brooke. Not because Ethan was a bad kid. But because Aaron Hotchner—fearsome profiler, unshakable interrogator, and master of emotional control—was still, at the end of the day, a father and his little girl was growing up.
Later that afternoon, Brooke collapsed dramatically into the chair in Garcia’s office. The teasing had finally slowed, but the damage to her dignity had already been done.
“I’m never coming here again,” she muttered.
Derek wandered in moments later, holding two sodas, and he handed one to her before dropping into the chair beside her.
“You good, kid?”
She nodded, still blushing. “Eventually.”
He nudged her shoulder gently. “Hey. For what it’s worth, I think you handled it pretty well.”
“You mean the part where I screamed into my pillow and begged the universe to kill me?”
He laughed. “Yeah, that. Very graceful.”
They sat in companionable silence for a beat before she looked over at him.
“Thanks, Derek.”
“For what?”
“For… being my brother, I guess.”
He smiled. “Always. And if that boy ever forgets how lucky he is, you let me know.”
“I will.”
She leaned against him for a moment, letting herself breathe.
Because in a unit built to face the worst parts of the world, the BAU had somehow created something rare. A family. A loud, teasing, protective, sometimes embarrassing family—but a family all the same.
And when you were seventeen, caught kissing your boyfriend, and the entire FBI seemed to know about it… That kind of family made it a little easier to survive.
Aaron Hotchner walks in on his seventeen-year-old daughter and her boyfriend and proceeds to terrify the boy while thoroughly traumatising his mortified daughter.
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I am also writing a second part to this as I'm publishing this! Hopefully, it will be up in the next few days
Masterlist
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There was a reason Aaron Hotchner didn’t trust days without chaos. In his line of work, calm was not a comfort—it was a warning sign, a silence before the storm, a lull in the ocean that meant something was lurking just beneath. So when a rare paperwork-only day graced the BAU with no new cases, no emergencies, and not a single corpse to speak of, he’d already had a bad feeling. It started in the pit of his stomach that morning and settled behind his sternum like a weight, heavy and uneasy.
The team was scattered across their respective offices and desks, quietly buried in files. Emily had been teasing him all morning, her boots kicked up on the edge of her desk as she scrolled through her tablet, glancing up at him with a knowing smirk every time he checked his phone. “You’ve looked at that thing twelve times in the last ten minutes,” she pointed out dryly, not even trying to hide her amusement.
Aaron didn’t look up. “She’s home today. With Ethan.”
“The boy she’s been dating for eight months,” she reminded him. “The one who, by all available evidence, is essentially a golden retriever disguised as a human being.”
Aaron frowned at the screen. “That’s what worries me. Golden retrievers are too friendly.”
Emily chuckled and stood, stretching. “She’s seventeen, Aaron. She inherited your moral compass and my ability to detect nonsense from a mile away. She’ll be fine.”
He still didn’t look convinced. “They said they’d be doing homework. At the house. Alone.”
Emily walked over and leaned on his desk. “You’re acting as if she brought home a biker named Slash who sells counterfeit Rolexes from his backpack. You like Ethan. You said so.”
“I said he was respectful,” Aaron corrected. “That’s not the same thing.”
Emily laughed again. “Well, congratulations,” she said. “Your daughter is growing up.”
Aaron looked unconvinced.
By the time they pulled into the driveway, the evening sun was casting long shadows across the lawn. The windows glowed warmly from within, but there was no music playing, no sound of laughter drifting through the open window. That stillness? That was what had Aaron stepping out of the car like he was breaching a crime scene.
Emily, already used to this particular mode of behaviour, gave him a small smile and murmured, “You’re going to scare the poor boy into celibacy.”
“That’s the goal,” he said flatly.
They entered the house quietly, Aaron pushing the front door open with caution, like the wood might creak too loudly and alert two very specific teenagers to his presence.
Inside, the house looked undisturbed. There were shoes by the door—Brooke’s worn Converse and a pair of Ethan’s Adidas. That was normal. Nothing out of place. No evidence of teenage rebellion. Not yet.
Aaron listened for voices. Silence.
Emily poked her head into the kitchen. “No blood. No wine. No burning pizza. So far we’re doing great.”
Aaron had already started toward the stairs.
Emily stayed behind with a faint smirk, whispering, “Try not to draw your weapon.”
The upstairs hallway was dim, the light from Brooke’s bedroom glowing under the door. Aaron moved quietly, his years of FBI training suddenly repurposed for parental reconnaissance. The door wasn’t closed—not entirely—but it was just cracked enough to make his hand itch.
He reached out.
Pushed. The door creaked slowly open on its hinges, revealing a scene that immediately made his stomach drop and his heart ignite like a flare.
And there were Brooke and Ethan who were sitting on her bed, close, too close.
And in the half-second before either of them noticed him standing in the doorway, Aaron Hotchner witnessed something that made his very soul combust:
Ethan leaned in. Brooke tilted her chin upward, and their lips met.
It wasn’t a sloppy, aggressive teenage kiss. It wasn’t dramatic or inappropriate. But it was a kiss. Sweet, tender, honest—and completely unacceptable in the eyes of the man who had once interrogated serial killers with less intensity.
“Excuse me,” Aaron said coldly.
They broke apart instantly. Brooke yelped and practically launched herself off the bed, landing with a thud and a screech. Ethan turned a pale shade of death and scrambled backwards like someone had yanked the fire alarm.
“DAD!” Brooke squeaked, mortified, covering her face with both hands.
Aaron crossed his arms. “I see the door was mostly open. How generous of you.”
Ethan tried to speak. Tried and failed. “S-sir—I—we—it was a moment—I didn’t mean—”
Aaron raised one eyebrow. “Is this the physics homework I heard so much about?” Aaron asked icily. “Projectile motion of your face toward my daughter?”
“Dad, oh my god, stop!” Brooke moaned, sinking onto the floor. “Can I just disappear into the carpet now?”
That was when Emily appeared behind Aaron, having clearly heard the commotion. She took one look at the scene—Brooke covering her face in abject horror, Ethan looking like he might throw up, and Aaron standing like a federal judge delivering a sentence —and burst out laughing.
“Oh god,” she gasped, leaning against the wall. “You caught them mid-kiss, didn’t you?”
Aaron didn’t move.
Emily wiped a tear from her eye. “I hope you savour this moment, Aaron. This is what raising a teenager is all about.”
Ethan looked at Emily like she was his last hope. “Ma’am, I swear I—”
“Oh, relax,” Emily said kindly. “I kissed boys when I was seventeen, too.”
Aaron whipped his head toward her. “Not helping.”
Emily smiled sweetly. “Not trying to.”
Brooke groaned loudly. “Someone, please knock me unconscious. Please.”
Aaron exhaled slowly. “Ethan.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t want to ever see that happen again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I do, I will take you down to Quantico and let Derek Morgan run interrogation scenarios with you.”
Ethan looked like he might faint. “Understood. Very much understood.”
Brooke finally lowered her hands enough to glare at her father. “You are the worst, Dad.”
Aaron gave her a dry look. “That remains to be determined.”
Emily clapped her hands. “Alright, trauma has been inflicted, lectures delivered, and Ethan looks sufficiently afraid for his life. I think we can all move on.”
“I’m going to my room,” Brooke muttered, clearly forgetting she was already in her room.
Emily raised an eyebrow. “You are in your room.”
Ethan stood, still visibly shaken. “I should probably—go.”
Aaron nodded slowly. “Good instinct.”
As Ethan stumbled out of the room, Aaron followed him down the stairs, just to be certain he didn’t trip or try to sneak back up. Emily stayed behind, watching Brooke collapse face-first onto her bed and groan as the world had ended.
“That,” Emily said with a smirk, “was the most parental moment I’ve ever witnessed.”
Brooke turned her head and mumbled into the pillow, “I’m running away.”
“Sure you are, honey,” Emily said, patting her back. “Right after you survive this grounding.”
Brooke groaned again, louder this time.
Downstairs, Aaron watched as Ethan tied his shoes with the shaky fingers of someone who had just been through psychological warfare. The poor kid looked up.
“I really do like her, sir,” he said softly. “She’s amazing. And I respect her. A lot.”
Aaron studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. “She is amazing. And if I thought you didn’t respect her, you wouldn’t be standing here.”
Ethan blinked.
“Goodnight, Ethan.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
The door closed behind him.
Aaron exhaled, finally letting himself relax for the first time since stepping into the house.
Emily appeared behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder.
“You survived.”
He nodded. “Barely.”
She kissed his cheek. “You did good. Scared him straight. Traumatized your daughter. All in a day’s work.”
On a rare peaceful afternoon, the Hotchner family shares laughter and warmth during a picnic in the park, highlighted by Brooke’s spirited but hopeless race against her seasoned FBI-agent father.
Masterlist
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The park was alive with the easy warmth of a perfect summer afternoon. Sunlight filtered gently through the canopy of tall oak trees, dappling the wide stretches of grass with patches of gold and shadow. Families sprawled across blankets, children raced each other down winding paths, and somewhere in the distance the soft melody of a street musician drifted lazily through the air. It was the kind of peaceful, ordinary day that the Hotchner family rarely experienced, and for once, no one intended to waste it.
Aaron Hotchner sat comfortably on a wide picnic blanket spread beneath one of the larger trees near the edge of the park, his usually rigid posture relaxed in a way that only happened when he was truly off the clock. His sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms, his tie absent for once, replaced by a simple casual shirt Emily had insisted he wear instead of one of his usual suits. A small cooler sat beside him, along with a basket that Emily had packed earlier that morning, full of sandwiches, fruit, and far more snacks than three people technically needed.
Across from him, Emily Prentiss leaned back on her elbows, her sunglasses resting on the bridge of her nose as she watched their daughter with quiet amusement. Emily still found these moments with Aaron deeply grounding. The cases, the danger, the constant weight of the BAU faded into the background when they were like this, simply a family enjoying a rare day without deadlines or criminals to chase.
And then there was Brooke.
Thirteen-year-old Brooke Hotchner was currently spinning in circles several yards away on the grass, arms stretched wide, letting the warm breeze whip through her dark hair. She was savoring every moment of the day with the boundless enthusiasm that only teenagers seemed capable of when something felt special. Because this wasn’t just any picnic.
She had invited Grandpa Rossi.
David Rossi sat nearby in a fold-out chair that Brooke had insisted on bringing specifically for him, his sunglasses perched low on his nose as he observed the scene with an expression of deep contentment. His salt-and-pepper hair caught the sunlight as he leaned back slightly, sipping from a bottle of iced tea. Watching Aaron with Emily and Brooke always stirred something warm and steady inside him.
Brooke suddenly skidded to a stop in front of the picnic blanket, breathing slightly hard but grinning widely. “Okay,” she announced dramatically.
Emily tilted her head. “That tone sounds dangerous.”
Brooke ignored that entirely and turned to Aaron with narrowed eyes, placing her hands on her hips. “Dad.”
Aaron raised an eyebrow, already sensing trouble. “Yes?”
“I bet I could beat you in a race.”
For a moment there was complete silence then Rossi burst out laughing.
Not a polite chuckle a full, uncontrollable laugh.
Emily wasn’t far behind.
Brooke blinked at them, slightly offended. “What’s so funny?!”
Rossi wiped the corner of his eye. “Kiddo,” he said between laughs, “do you know what your father had to do to get into the FBI Academy?”
Brooke crossed her arms stubbornly. “Pass tests?”
Emily grinned. “One of those tests involves running a mile and a half under a very strict time limit.”
Rossi nodded enthusiastically. “And that’s just to get in.”
Aaron remained completely calm, though the faint hint of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Brooke looked between them all, unimpressed.
“So?”
“So,” Emily continued gently, “your father has been outrunning criminals for most of his adult life.”
“And I was pretty good at it too,” Rossi added smugly.
Brooke pointed accusingly at Aaron. “But he’s old now.”
Aaron blinked.
Rossi nearly fell out of his chair laughing again.
Emily covered her mouth as a laugh escaped.
Aaron tilted his head slowly toward Brooke. “Old?”
Brooke shrugged innocently. “You’re like… forty.”
Rossi choked on his drink.
Emily was openly laughing now.
Aaron inhaled slowly, clearly deciding whether to be offended or amused.
“I’m not old,” he said calmly.
Brooke grinned. “Prove it.”
Rossi leaned forward eagerly. “Oh, I like where this is going.”
Emily shook her head. “This is going to end exactly how we all expect it to.”
Brooke pointed toward the long walking path that stretched across the park. “Race to that big tree and back.”
Aaron followed her finger. It was a good distance.
Far enough that Brooke would regret this decision.
He looked back at her. “Are you sure?”
Brooke nodded confidently. “Absolutely.”
Rossi rubbed his hands together like a spectator at a sporting event. “This is the best day off I’ve had in years.”
Emily sighed fondly as she stood up. “Alright, if we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.”
Brooke bounced excitedly on her feet.
Aaron stood slowly, stretching slightly as if preparing for an actual training exercise which, for him, it basically was.
Emily walked out onto the grass and pointed to a starting line. “Okay,” she announced. “From here to the oak tree and back.”
Brooke crouched dramatically like an Olympic sprinter.
Aaron simply stood upright beside her.
Rossi shouted from the blanket, “Don’t embarrass her too badly, Aaron!”
Brooke shot back, “Don’t worry Grandpa, I’ll go easy on him!”
Emily raised her hand. “Ready…”
Brooke leaned forward intensely.
Aaron waited calmly.
“Set…”
Rossi leaned forward in anticipation.
“Go!”
Brooke exploded forward immediately.
Aaron jogged after her.
For about three seconds.
Then he accelerated.
Rossi burst into hysterical laughter as Aaron effortlessly passed Brooke halfway to the tree.
“OH THAT’S NOT EVEN FAIR!” Brooke shouted while sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her.
Aaron reached the tree first, turned around and was already halfway back before Brooke even touched it.
Emily was laughing so hard she had to sit down in the grass.
Rossi was clapping like he was watching the Olympics.
Aaron crossed the finish line with a perfectly controlled stride, barely even breathing heavily.
A few seconds later, Brooke stumbled across the line dramatically and collapsed into the grass.
“I DEMAND A REMATCH,” she gasped.
Rossi wiped tears from his eyes. “Kid… he didn’t even break a sweat.”
Aaron walked over calmly and offered her a hand.
Brooke took it, still breathing heavily.
“That was rigged.”
Aaron raised an eyebrow. “How exactly?”
“You’ve been training longer.”
Rossi called out, “By about thirty years!”
Emily walked over and sat beside Brooke, still smiling.
“You did pretty well,” she said.
Brooke squinted at her father suspiciously.
“Did you slow down?”
Aaron shook his head. “No.”
Brooke groaned and flopped onto the grass again.
Rossi walked over and crouched beside her. “You know… I think you made it farther than I would’ve.”
Aaron gave him a look.
“Okay maybe not.” Rossi grinned.
Brooke finally started laughing. “You’re all terrible.”
Emily brushed some grass out of Brooke’s hair. “But you still challenged him.”
Rossi nodded proudly. “That takes guts.”
Brooke sat up and looked at Aaron.
“Next time I’ll win.”
Aaron smiled slightly. “I look forward to it.”
Rossi leaned toward Emily quietly.
“Ten bucks says she challenges him again before the day’s over.”
Emily smirked. “Make it twenty.”
Brooke jumped up suddenly.
“Okay new challenge!”
Aaron sighed.
Rossi leaned back excitedly. “Oh this is gonna be good.”
And just like that, the quiet afternoon turned into something even better—laughter echoing through the park, playful arguments, and the kind of warmth that only came from a family that had fought through life together for decades.
For once, there were no cases.
No danger.
No urgency.
Just a sunny afternoon, a picnic blanket, and a thirteen-year-old girl determined to beat her FBI-agent father at something.
When Aaron confronts Brooke about her behaviour, she finally reveals the devastating truth about her trauma, guilt, and loss—leaving him shaken by a pain too complex to fix or even name.
------
TW: Mentions of pregnancy loss and trauma
Masterlist
------
The first thing the team notices is that Brooke is quieter.
Not in a way that would concern anyone who didn’t know her—she still shows up, still does her job, still contributes when asked—but something fundamental has shifted. The easy confidence she used to carry into every room is dulled now, like a light turned down just enough to make everything feel… off.
She doesn’t linger anymore, doesn’t tease Morgan or challenge Reid just for the sake of it.
And most telling and concerning of all, she doesn’t go near Aaron’s office unless she absolutely has to.
Three years since Afghanistan and six months since the report that came across Aaron’s desk, stamped classified, detailing things no father should ever have to read about his child.
He had read it anyway.
Every word, every line and every clinical description of pain and survival and endurance that tried—and failed—to capture what Brooke had been through.
He had memorized it and still it wasn’t enough because what was written on paper didn’t match what he was seeing now.
It’s Reid who finally says it out loud. They’re in the bullpen, files spread across desks, the usual low hum of work filling the space. Brooke is across the room, focused on her laptop, headphones in—another new habit.
Reid watches her for a moment too long.
Then—
“She’s displaying textbook symptoms of PTSD.”
Morgan looks up. “Kid’s been through hell, Reid. That’s not exactly ground-breaking.”
Reid shakes his head slightly, already in explanation mode. “It’s more than that. The withdrawal, the hypervigilance, the emotional suppression—it’s all consistent with post-traumatic stress disorder, but there’s an additional layer of—”
“She doesn’t want to be here,” JJ says quietly, cutting in.
Reid pauses then nods slowly. “Exactly.”
Emily exhales softly, her gaze drifting towards her daughter. “She used to feel safe here.”
Aaron hears all of it from his office. The door open because it's always open.
He doesn’t interrupt or step in.
But the words settle heavily in his chest because they’re right.
And because none of them know the full story.
He waits until later until Brooke is alone.
Until the bullpen is quieter, the team scattered, the noise reduced to something manageable.
“A word, Brooke.”
She stiffens slightly at the sound of his voice not visibly enough for most people to notice.
But Aaron does.
She turns slowly, pulling one headphone out. “Yeah?”
He keeps his tone even. “Walk with me.”
For a second, it looks like she might refuse then she nods once. “Okay.”
They walk in silence down the corridor.
Aaron doesn’t push.
Doesn’t speak as he lets her set the pace.
But instead of heading toward his office—
Brooke turns toward the locker room.
Aaron’s brow furrows slightly, but he follows.
She steps inside, waits for him to enter, then closes the door behind them with a quiet, deliberate click.
The sound echoes.
Too loud.
Too final.
Aaron turns toward her. “Brooke—”
“Stop it.”
Aaron blinks. “What?”
“Stop doing that,” she says, her voice tight, controlled but shaking just beneath the surface. “Stop being you.”
The words land harder than anything else could have.
Aaron doesn’t react outwardly, but something shifts in his expression. “I can’t help it.”
“Yes, you can,” she snaps immediately.
Silence stretches between them, heavy and suffocating.
Aaron doesn’t move.
Doesn’t push.
He just watches her and waits.
Because he knows this isn’t about him.
Brooke runs a hand through her hair, pacing once, twice, her movements restless, agitated in a way that feels contained only by sheer force of will. When she speaks again, her voice cracks despite her effort to keep it steady.
“You think you know what’s going on,” she says, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “The team thinks they know. Everyone thinks they know.”
Aaron doesn’t interrupt.
“You don’t,” she continues, shaking her head. “None of you do.”
There’s a beat then Aaron steps forward—not close enough to crowd her, but enough to ground the space between them.
“Then explain it to me, Brooke,” he says quietly.
His voice is steady and gentle.
But firm in a way that leaves no room for avoidance.
“Because all I see—” he pauses briefly, his throat tightening before he forces the words out, “—all I see is my daughter hurting. And when I see her in pain, I want to make it stop.”
That does it.
That cracks something open.
Brooke turns away sharply, pacing again, faster this time, her hands shaking as they curl into fists and release again.
For a few seconds, she doesn’t speak.
Then -
“Give me a word.”
Aaron frowns slightly. “A word?”
She turns back to him immediately, eyes locked on his, intense and desperate in a way he’s never seen before. “A term. A label. Something that explains what I have,” she says, her voice rising despite herself. “Because it is bigger than PTSD and right now, that word is—”
She stops just for a second then forces it out.
“Tivon.” The name hits like a shockwave. “…Tivon Askari.”
Aaron stills as recognition settles instantly, cold and sharp. “…The man who tortured you.”
Brooke lets out a hollow, humourless laugh. “Oh, he was more than that,” she says, her voice trembling now. “He was my partner in Afghanistan. I didn’t know he was a—”
“A double agent,” Aaron finishes quietly. “I know. I read the file.”
Her eyes flicker—surprised, maybe, or frustrated.
“You were attempting to extract intel from a woman named Nadia,” he continues carefully. “He set a trap. Nadia and her daughter were killed.”
Brooke flinches.
“Listen to me Brooke,” Aaron adds quickly, his voice soft but firm. “You cannot blame yourself for that.”
She laughs again but this time it breaks.
“The Humvee,” she says suddenly.
Aaron’s brow furrows. “What?”
“The Humvee,” she repeats, her voice sharper now. “Was that in the file?”
Aaron nods slowly. “Yes. You almost caught him. He set an IED to take out your convoy. I know you were wounded.”
“I was pregnant.” The words cut through everything.
Aaron completely stops with the air leaving the room in a single, devastating moment.
Brooke keeps going because now that she’s started she can’t stop.
“You see,” she says, her voice shaking violently now, “if I had never gotten involved—if I had just stayed where I was supposed to be—Nadia and her daughter would still be alive and you and Mom would have…”
She breaks and the word won’t come out but it doesn’t have to.
Aaron understands.
Grandchild.
The realization hits him like a physical blow, his chest tightening painfully, his breath catching as he stares at her but he doesn’t interrupt and doesn’t speak.
Because this—this is not about him.
Brooke wipes at her face angrily, pacing again, her composure unravelling piece by piece. “I can’t let this go,” she says, her voice quieter now but no less intense. “I can’t.”
She stops and turns to face him fully.
Her eyes are red, raw, filled with something far deeper than grief. “What is the word for that, Dad?”
Aaron opens his mouth and closes it again.
Because there isn’t one. There isn’t a word big enough to hold all of that.
All of her pain.
All of her guilt.
All of what was taken from her.
“I don’t know,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
And it feels like failure like the worst kind.
Because for once he doesn’t have an answer.
Brooke stares at him for a second longer then something shifts.
Not healed.
Not fixed.
But closed.
She wipes her face quickly, forcing her breathing to steady, forcing the tears back, rebuilding the walls piece by piece right in front of him.
By the time she speaks again her voice is controlled.
Composed.
Like none of it happened.
“This stays between us,” she says firmly. “Okay?”
Aaron hesitates for half a second.
“Okay.” Then nods.
Brooke takes one final deep and steadying breath.
Then unlocks the door and walks out.
Just like that leaving Aaron standing there alone, stunned and for the first time in a long time—
Completely powerless to fix the thing that matters most.
When Brooke fears she’ll become like the mother who abandoned her, Aaron reassures her with unwavering love that she is nothing like Claire and will be an incredible parent.
------
I've decided to switch things up a little bit for this one. Aaron and Brooke will be talking about a woman named Claire Monroe who is Brooke's biological mother. Claire walked out when Brooke was 6 months old and has never been in contact since.
Masterlist
-------
Brooke Hotchner had always been the kind of person who walked into a room with a quiet confidence that made people look up before she even said a word, but today she slipped through the front door of her parents’ house with a hesitation Aaron noticed instantly. He was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to the elbow and glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose as he chopped vegetables—domestic, grounded, the kind of normal routine he secretly treasured on the days he wasn’t buried under case files.
The moment he heard the door open, he lifted his head, expecting Brooke’s usual bright, teasing call of “Dad, I’m here, don’t burn the house down.” But instead there was silence, followed by the gentle thud of her bag being placed on the entryway bench. Aaron wiped his hands and stepped out of the kitchen, his brows pulling together when he saw her shrugging out of her coat with movements too careful, too deliberate. She looked pale, tired, and painfully fragile in a way she almost never allowed herself to be. Even eight months pregnant, she carried herself like someone who believed she still had something to prove.
He didn’t say anything at first. Thirty years of profiling taught him that stillness was often more effective than immediate questioning, so he simply leaned against the doorframe and watched her, giving her space but making it abundantly clear he was paying attention. Brooke finally looked up at him, her eyes glossy and avoiding his gaze for just a moment too long. “Hi, Dad,” she tried, and though the words were soft, they wobbled. That alone made his chest tighten. Brooke didn’t wobble. Brooke had inherited his spine, Emily’s sharp wit, and Rossi’s ability to bounce through life with charisma that soothed half the world and irritated the other half. She was the kind of person who could take a punch—emotionally or otherwise—and grin through it. But today… she looked like someone had knocked the wind out of her.
Aaron stepped toward her, the steel in his posture shifting into something warm. “Hi, sweetheart.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, subtle but grounding. “You look like you need to sit down.” She didn’t argue. Another red flag. She nodded, letting him guide her to the couch, where he helped her lower herself carefully, one hand steadying her back like he’d been doing since the moment she told him she was pregnant. He sat beside her, close but not crowding her, watching her fingers anxiously twist at the hem of her sweater. “Brooke,” he said gently, voice threading into that calm, steady register she’d grown up trusting more than anything. “Something’s wrong.”
She swallowed, eyes flickering away again, and for the first time since arriving, she looked absolutely terrified.
It hit him like a punch. Not physically—Aaron Hotchner was built to absorb fear without flinching—but emotionally, it cracked something deep inside him. His daughter was terrified, and whatever the reason, she’d come to him. That mattered. That meant he could fix it. Or at least, he would break himself trying.
For several long seconds, Brooke didn’t speak. Aaron didn’t push. He waited with the patience of someone who understood silence better than language. Finally, her breath hitched, and she whispered, “Dad… what if I’m not made for this?” Her hand drifted to her stomach, a soft protective gesture that contradicted every word. “What if I’m going to be terrible at this? What if I mess her up? What if I—” She choked, forcing the words out as though they scraped her throat raw. “What if I become her?”
The world stilled because Aaron didn’t have to ask who her was.
Claire Monroe. The woman who had given birth to Brooke and then walked out six months later without looking back. The woman who left Aaron standing in an empty apartment with a baby in his arms and a decision to make: break, or become unbreakable. The woman whose absence still sometimes echoed in his daughter’s life like a distant bruise.
He didn’t move for a long moment—only breathed, slow and controlled, processing the weight of what Brooke had carried alone. Then he turned fully toward her, expression soft but fiercely focused. “Brooke,” he said quietly, “look at me.” She did, reluctantly, her eyes shining with tears she tried so hard not to let fall. “You are nothing like her.”
She shook her head hard. “You don’t know that. What if—”
“I do.” His tone edged with steel—not anger, but certainty, the kind of unwavering truth that came from the deepest part of him. “I know it the way I know my own name. I know it because I raised you. Because I have watched you grow into someone with more heart than Claire ever possessed. Because you don’t walk away from people—you run toward them.”
Brooke sucked in a shaking breath, tears spilling despite her effort to stop them. Aaron reached out, cupping her face between his hands, thumbs wiping gently beneath her eyes. “You have spent your entire life proving that fear wrong,” he murmured. “You love fiercely. You stay even when it’s hard. You fight for people even when they don’t know they need fighting for. Claire Monroe didn’t leave because of you. She left because of herself. And you—” He swallowed, emotion thickening in his throat. “—you are already more of a mother to that baby than she ever was to you.”
That cracked something inside her. A sob hitched in her chest, ragged and unfiltered, and she leaned into him, letting her forehead press against his shoulder. Aaron wrapped his arms around her immediately, holding her tightly, protectively, the same way he had when she was tiny and fit in the crook of one arm. He pressed his cheek to the top of her head, closing his eyes as she cried, his hand rubbing slow circles along her back.
“You have every right to be scared,” he murmured. “Parenthood is terrifying. It always has been. But fear doesn’t define who you are. Your actions do. And everything you’ve done—everything you continue to do—tells me you’re going to be incredible.”
Brooke clung to him, voice cracking. “But what if I mess up?”
“You will,” he said simply. She pulled back to stare at him, startled, and he smiled softly. “Everyone does. God knows I did. Ask Emily, ask your grandpa Dave, ask anyone who’s known me for more than ten minutes.” He smoothed a stray tear from her cheek. “But messing up doesn’t make you your mother. It makes you human. And the difference is—when you mess up, you fix it. When you stumble, you stand back up. You don’t run. You don’t hide. You never have.”
She breathed shakily, eyes locked on his, searching for something—reassurance, maybe, or truth she couldn’t find herself. Aaron brought one of her hands to his chest, placing it over his heart. “You are my daughter. You are Emily’s daughter.” he said quietly. “No matter what genetics say, no matter what mistakes other people made—you are mine. And I promise you, there is nothing in you that resembles Claire Monroe.”
At the use of her mother’s full name, Brooke flinched, but she also took in a deeper breath, calmer now. More grounded. “You really think so?”
Aaron huffed a soft, almost incredulous laugh. “I know so. Do you want to know the first thing I noticed after she left?” Brooke nodded slowly. “The apartment was silent. Still. But when I looked at you, even as a baby, there was this… spark. You were tiny, but you were fierce. Determined. Stubborn in a way that reminded me of me.” He smiled faintly. “It was the moment I knew you were going to be okay. And that I would spend the rest of my life making sure of it.”
Brooke’s shoulders sagged, some of the tension finally melting. Aaron leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead—something he hadn’t done since she was a kid, but something she seemed to desperately need today. “You’re going to be a wonderful mother,” he said. “Because you already are.”
She sniffed, wiping at her face with the sleeve of her sweater. “I’m sorry I freaked out.”
“You’re allowed.” He rubbed her knee affectionately. “If you go through this whole pregnancy without at least one emotional meltdown, I’ll start to worry you’ve been replaced.”
That earned a weak laugh—small, but real. Aaron felt something warm uncurl in his chest at the sound. She shifted closer, leaning her head against his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her again, letting silence settle between them comfortably this time.
After a moment, she whispered, “Thank you, Dad.”
He squeezed her gently. “Always.”
A few minutes later, the front door opened and Rossi wandered in without knocking—as usual—raising an eyebrow at the sight of both of them curled on the couch. “Should I ask what I walked into,” he drawled, “or should I assume emotional turmoil and fatherly wisdom were involved?”
Brooke managed a faint smile. “Little bit of both.”
Rossi kissed the top of her head. “Well, good. Your father’s had decades of practice.” Then his eyes softened. “You okay, sweetheart?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “I think I will be.”
Aaron met Rossi’s gaze over her head—silent, grateful, steady—and Rossi nodded back, understanding everything without a single word spoken. That was the thing about their family: they were built, not born. Chosen. Fought for.
And Brooke? She wasn’t anything like Claire Monroe.
When Brooke convinces Aaron to redecorate her entire room, what starts as a simple project turns into an all-day renovation ending in a chaotic midnight battle to move her bed—much to her amusement.
Masterlist
------
The idea starts, as most of Brooke Hotchner’s ideas do, with absolute confidence and absolutely no warning.
Aaron is sitting at the kitchen table early Saturday morning, a cup of coffee in front of him, quietly reviewing paperwork he definitely should have left at the office. The house is calm, still half-asleep, the kind of quiet he values more than he ever admits out loud.
That peace lasts exactly thirty seconds.
“A question,” Brooke says, dropping into the chair across from him with far too much energy for the time of day.
Aaron doesn’t look up immediately. “That tone suggests it’s not a question.”
“It is.”
He glances up now, already wary. “…Go on.”
“I want to redo my room.”
There’s a pause.
Aaron sets his pen down slowly. “Redo.”
“Completely,” she says. “New paint, new flooring, new blinds, shelves—maybe rearrange everything—”
Emily appears in the doorway just in time to catch that last part, leaning against the frame with immediate interest. “Oh, this sounds expensive.”
Aaron studies her more carefully now. “You’re paying.”
“Yes.”
“For everything.”
“Yes.”
Emily folds her arms, clearly enjoying this already.
“…And what do you need from me?” Aaron asks, even though he already knows that’s his second mistake.
“I need you to do it.” Brooke smiles.
Emily laughs immediately.
Aaron just stares at her. “No.”
“Come on.”
“No.”
“I’m paying for everything.”
“That’s not the issue.”
“You literally rebuild furniture for fun.”
“That is also not the issue.”
Emily raises a hand. “I’m not getting involved in this.”
“You’re already involved,” Aaron says flatly.
“I’m taking her shopping,” she corrects.
Brooke nods enthusiastically. “We’ve got a plan.”
Aaron closes his eyes briefly.
Of course they do.
“…Fine,” he says finally. “But we’re doing it properly.”
Brooke beams. “Yes.”
Emily grins. “This is going to be fun.”
Aaron already regrets everything.
The shopping trip is chaos in the most predictable way.
Paint samples are debated like life-altering decisions. Flooring is chosen, rejected, reconsidered, and chosen again. Emily encourages just enough to keep things moving but not enough to stop Brooke from spiralling into overthinking every minor detail.
Their final stop at Costco is supposed to be quick.
It is not.
They leave with blinds, storage bins, snacks, and at least two things Aaron will later pick up and ask, “Why do we own this?”
By the time they get home, the living room looks like a construction site with Aaron standing in the middle of it, hands on his hips.
“…You bought everything.”
“Yes,” Brooke says proudly.
Emily disappears into the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“You’re helping,” Aaron calls after her.
“I helped shop,” she replies.
Brooke claps once. “Let’s start.”
Aaron checks the time.
10:30 a.m.
“Alright.” He nods.
By noon, he regrets everything.
“Why is the floor still here?” Brooke asks, gesturing at the stacks.
“Because the old one has to come up first,” Aaron replies, already pulling at the edges.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“I thought it just went over it.”
“…No.” Aaron slowly looks up at her.
Emily is sitting comfortably on the bed, sipping coffee like she’s front row at a live performance. “This is educational.”
Aaron ignores her.
By mid-afternoon, the old flooring is gone.
By early evening, the walls are being painted.
By night, Brooke’s enthusiasm has shifted from active participation to supervising from a safe distance.
“This is taking a long time,” she says from the hallway.
Aaron doesn’t look at her. “Yes.”
Emily nods. “Almost like he said it would.”
Brooke flops onto the couch dramatically. “I didn’t think it would take this long.”
Aaron continues painting with silent precision.
By 9 p.m., the paint is drying.
By 10 p.m., the flooring is going in.
By 11 p.m, Aaron is still going.
Emily is half-asleep on the couch.
Brooke, however, has regained energy which is a problem.
Because that’s when she says it.
“Oh, wait.”
Aaron doesn’t like that tone. He doesn’t even look up. “What.”
“I think I want the bed on the other wall.”
Emily lifts her head slowly. “…What?”
Brooke stands up, suddenly fully alert. “Yeah, like—if we move it, the shelves will look better over there and the light from the window—”
Aaron sets the tool in his hand down very carefully. “…You’re rearranging the furniture.”
“Yes.”
“At eleven o’clock at night.”
“Yes.”
Emily immediately lies back down. “No.”
Aaron looks at her. “Get up.”
“I’m not helping you move a bed at eleven p.m.”
“You are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
Brooke is already moving things out of the way, far too cheerful. “It’ll be quick.”
Aaron and Emily both look at her.
Neither of them believe that.
Five minutes later—
Aaron is at one side of the bed.
Emily is at the other.
Neither of them are happy.
“Lift,” Aaron says.
“I am lifting,” Emily snaps.
“You’re not lifting evenly.”
“I am absolutely lifting evenly.”
The bed does not move.
Brooke is sitting cross-legged on the floor now, watching like this is the best entertainment she’s had all day.
“This is amazing,” she says.
Aaron ignores her. “On three.”
Emily sighs. “Fine.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
They lift—
The bed moves—
Slightly—
Then gets stuck halfway because of the angle.
“Stop,” Emily says quickly.
“I’ve stopped.”
“You haven’t stopped.”
“I have.”
“You’re still pushing.”
“Because you’re not moving.”
“I am moving.”
Brooke is trying not to laugh.
Failing.
“Do you want me to help?” she offers, not moving an inch.
“No,” both Aaron and Emily say at the same time.
She grins.
They try again.
This time the bed moves too much and bumps into the wall.
Aaron winces. “Careful or I'll have to repaint that wall!”
“I am being careful.”
“You just hit the wall.”
“Because you turned too fast.”
“I did not—”
Brooke is now openly laughing.
“You’re both so bad at this,” she says.
Aaron stops and slowly turns his head. “…You want to try?”
Brooke immediately shakes her head. “No, I’m good.”
Emily exhales sharply. “Unbelievable.”
It takes another twenty minutes.
And at least three more minor arguments.
But eventually the bed is in place.
Aaron steps back, slightly out of breath but composed.
Emily drops onto the mattress immediately. “I’m not moving again.”
Brooke stands in the doorway, admiring everything.
“…Okay, that was the right choice,” she says.
Aaron stares at her.
“It looks good,” Emily admits, still lying flat on the bed.
Brooke grins. “See?”
Aaron exhales slowly. “…Next time,” he says, “your grandfather is doing this.”
Brooke laughs. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Emily closes her eyes. “There’s only fun in that.”
Just before midnight—
The room is finally done.
Paint dry.
Flooring perfect.
Blinds up.
Furniture in place.
Aaron leans against the doorframe, arms folded, taking it all in with quiet satisfaction.
Brooke steps into the room slowly, looking around. “…Okay,” she says softly. “I love it.”
Aaron nods once.
Emily smiles.
Brooke turns, walking straight over and hugging him quickly. “Thank you.”
He pauses then returns it.
Emily watches them, something warm in her expression.
“…You’re welcome,” Aaron says.
Brooke pulls back, still smiling then glances at the bed.
Aaron Hotchner realizes too late that taking a nine-month-old on holiday is far more chaotic and demanding than any case he’s ever handled.
Masterlist
-----
By the time Aaron Hotchner realized that traveling with a nine-month-old required approximately three times the luggage and ten times the patience of any federal manhunt he had ever led, it was already too late to back out.
The decision itself had seemed reasonable at the time. Logical, even. Emily had been the one to frame it like a case brief over dinner one night, Brooke asleep in her bouncer beside them, cheeks flushed and eyelashes impossibly long. They both had time off scheduled. Aaron had successfully convinced himself that all-inclusive meant less thinking, which in hindsight was an error on par with underestimating an unsub’s escalation timeline. Emily had argued—very convincingly—that if they didn’t take the chance now, they never would. Rossi had laughed over the phone and said something about “building core memories,” which Aaron suspected was code for you’re going to suffer but it’ll be funny later.
None of them had fully accounted for the logistics.
The living room looked like they were preparing for relocation rather than a weeklong holiday. Suitcases lay open on the floor in neat but rapidly expanding clusters. Aaron’s side was methodical—folded shirts, rolled socks, toiletries packed with TSA-approved precision. Emily’s was more… optimistic. Colourful sundresses draped over the couch, sandals tossed nearby, a wide-brimmed hat perched precariously on the armrest. And then there was Brooke’s pile, which dwarfed both of theirs combined.
Diapers. So many diapers.
“I don’t understand how someone who weighs less than twenty pounds requires this much equipment,” Aaron said, holding up a packet of wipes like it had personally betrayed him.
Emily, sitting cross-legged on the floor and trying to fit a portable high chair into a carry-on that very clearly did not want to cooperate, didn’t look up. “She’s nine months old. She’s basically a very cute, very loud biological hazard.”
Brooke, on cue, squealed from her play mat and kicked her feet, as if personally offended by the description.
Aaron glanced down at her, expression softening instantly. “You are not a hazard.”
Emily raised an eyebrow. “She threw pureed carrots at your face yesterday.”
“That was a warning,” Aaron replied solemnly.
The packing checklist—typed, printed, and color-coded by Emily—had started out manageable. Clothes. Sunscreen. Passports. Then it had grown. Bottles. Formula. Backup formula. Extra bottles in case the first bottles were contaminated by airplane air, which Emily insisted was absolutely a thing. A travel crib. A sound machine. Two sound machines, actually, because what if one died and Brooke decided that was the moment she’d refuse sleep forever.
Aaron stared at the list, pen hovering over the page. “Why do we need three different types of baby socks.”
Emily finally looked up. “Because she loses them.”
“In Mexico.”
“Globally,” Emily corrected. “It’s a global phenomenon.”
Aaron sighed and crossed another item off anyway.
Rossi, naturally, had opinions.
His first text came halfway through packing.
ROSSI: How’s Operation Family Vacation going?
Aaron stared at the screen, then typed back.
AARON: We are reassessing our assumptions.
Emily peeked over his shoulder and smirked. “Tell him about the wipes.”
Aaron added another message.
AARON: Brooke has more luggage than either of us.
The reply was instant.
ROSSI: She’s earned it. She’s the most important person in the room.
Emily laughed softly. “He’s not wrong.”
The airport the next morning was a special kind of hell.
Aaron had been in airports across the world, under circumstances that ranged from stressful to outright deadly. He had moved through crowds with efficiency and calm. He had coordinated teams through chaos. None of that prepared him for attempting to fold a stroller one-handed while holding a baby carrier, three boarding passes, and a bottle that Brooke had decided she wanted now.
Emily, for her part, was doing her best to stay upbeat, sunglasses perched on her head, whispering soothing nonsense to Brooke while also fielding questions from a very earnest TSA agent about whether breast milk counted as a liquid.
“Yes,” Emily said patiently. “But also no. But also yes.”
Brooke chose that moment to grab a fistful of Emily’s hair and yank.
Emily winced. “We’re learning about cause and effect today.”
Aaron stepped in smoothly, passing over a bottle. “She’s hungry.”
Brooke accepted it like a tiny queen granting an audience.
They made it through security with minimal incident—if one didn’t count Aaron accidentally setting off the scanner because he’d forgotten about the emergency diaper in his jacket pocket—and collapsed into seats near their gate and Aaron checked his phone.
ROSSI: I assume you’re regretting everything.
AARON: Not everything.
Emily leaned her head on Aaron’s shoulder, watching Brooke gnaw contentedly on the bottle. “Ask him if he wants souvenirs.”
Aaron typed.
AARON: Any requests?
The response came with a pause.
ROSSI: Tequila. And proof you survived.
The flight itself was… educational.
Brooke did not enjoy takeoff. She expressed this loudly and at length. Emily bounced, shushed, sang quietly under her breath in three languages. Aaron held Brooke close, murmuring reassurances with the same calm he used in interrogation rooms, as if logic might somehow apply.
It didn’t.
But eventually, miraculously, Brooke fell asleep, curled against Aaron’s chest, tiny fingers clutching his shirt like an anchor.
Emily watched them, eyes soft. “You’re good at this.”
Aaron glanced down at his daughter. “I’m improvising.”
“That’s parenting,” Emily said.
When they finally landed in Mexico, sun warm and air heavy with salt, Aaron felt something in his chest loosen. The resort was beautiful—white stone, open air, the sound of waves in the distance. All-inclusive, indeed. Someone handed Emily a drink. Someone else smiled at Brooke like she was the most important guest there.
Their room overlooked the ocean.
Emily set Brooke down on the bed and laughed as she immediately began crawling toward the window. “She likes it.”
Aaron dropped onto the chair nearby, exhaustion settling into his bones. “She hasn’t even unpacked.”
That night, as Brooke slept between them in a travel crib that had required an instruction manual and a brief argument to assemble, Aaron checked his phone one last time.
ROSSI: Update?
Aaron took a photo of Brooke sleeping, cheeks flushed, tiny hand curled around the edge of the blanket.
AARON: We made it.
A moment later:
ROSSI: Worth it?
Aaron looked at Emily, asleep beside him, then back at his daughter.
AARON: Yes.
And for the first time since they’d booked the trip, he knew it was true.
As thirteen-year-old Brooke enjoys her first unsupervised mall trip with friends, Aaron struggles hilariously with letting go while the BAU secretly keep tabs on their fiercely independent daughter.
Masterlist
----
Saturday mornings in the Hotchner household typically unfolded with an easy, unhurried rhythm. The sun filtered gently through the kitchen windows, coffee brewed slowly in the background, and the house carried the quiet comfort of a family that had learned how to exist together in peaceful routine. But that calm only lasted when their thirteen-year-old daughter was in one of her agreeable moods—which meant peace was often temporary.
Because Brooke Hotchner existed in that strange, unpredictable territory between childhood and teenage independence, a place where she could hug her parents affectionately one moment and insist they were single-handedly ruining her social life the next.
Most Saturdays, Aaron and Emily navigated it with patience and humor.
But this particular Saturday was not most Saturdays.
No, this was The Day. The day Aaron Hotchner—Unit Chief, feared federal profiler, stone-faced interrogator had marked on his mental calendar all week. He was voluntarily allowing his thirteen-year-old daughter to go out without him. No escort. No chaperone. Just Brooke and two of her equally giggly and chaotic friends let loose upon society.
And he was losing his mind.
“I just think it’s fascinating,” Emily said mildly, leaning against the kitchen counter while cradling her coffee mug in both hands. Her tone held the unmistakable hint of amusement she was trying—very unsuccessfully—to hide. “You’ve stared down serial killers. You’ve kicked down doors. You’ve chased violent offenders through forests at three in the morning. But your daughter going to a shopping center with her friends is what finally breaks you.”
Aaron stood at the sink with a dish towel in his hands, drying the same juice glass he had already dried three separate times. His brow was furrowed in concentration, though the object of his concern had absolutely nothing to do with glassware. “They barely have security there,” he said, his voice tight with suspicion. “Just teenagers and kiosks aggressively handing out free lotion samples.”
Emily took a slow sip of her coffee. “You’re spiraling.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“You’re catastrophizing.”
Aaron set the glass down and turned toward her. “She’s thirteen, Emily.” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the living room as if Brooke might materialize at any second. “Five minutes ago she was building Lego cities and crying because she lost a Barbie shoe under the couch. Now she wants to wander unsupervised into a building full of fast fashion and soft pretzels.”
Emily sipped her coffee. “Yes. Because she’s a teenage girl. Who, may I remind you, took down a fully grown man in her Krav Maga class two weeks ago.”
Aaron scowled. “That man was barely paying attention.”
“She broke his nose, Aaron.”
Brooke stomped into the kitchen, her Converse squeaking with each step. “Has anyone seen my tote bag with the mushrooms on it? Tia says if I don’t bring it, I’ll look like I don’t have a ‘personal aesthetic.’”
Aaron turned, mouth twitching. “Didn’t you have a rainbow aesthetic last week?”
Brooke rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “Dad, that was like—three TikTok trends ago.”
Emily covered her mouth with her mug to hide a laugh. “I’m begging you to stop trying to keep up.”
Aaron crouched slightly so he could look her in the eyes. “Brooke. You have your phone fully charged?”
“Yes.”
“You’re meeting Tia and Ava inside the mall?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll check in every half hour?”
“God, yes.”
“No splitting up?”
“Dad. We’re not going to a rave. We’re going to the food court and then Claire’s.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
Brooke gave him an exhausted, affectionate sigh. “I’m thirteen. I can handle this.”
Emily patted Aaron on the back. “Let the child live.”
He frowned. “She’s our child. She should live here. Where it’s safe.”
Brooke snatched her mushroom tote from under the kitchen table and marched toward the front door. “You two are the most dramatic people I’ve ever met.”
“Thank you,” Emily called cheerfully after her
By the time they arrived at the shopping center’s drop-off area, Aaron looked like a man who was one minor inconvenience away from launching a full federal investigation into every pedestrian in sight.
Brooke, in contrast, looked like she was walking into a movie premiere.
“I love you, I’ll text, I’ll stay in public areas, and if anyone follows me, I’ll scream and run to security,” she said with expert speed, kissing Emily on the cheek and then giving her dad a side hug.
Aaron pulled her into a full hug anyway, wrapping her close and inhaling the scent of her fruity shampoo like it was the last time he’d ever see her.
“I’ll be back in four hours,” Brooke said dramatically, adjusting her sunglasses and tossing her mushroom tote over her shoulder like a runway model. “Try not to cry while I’m gone.”
“I’m not making any promises,” Aaron muttered.
As she disappeared into the building, Emily turned toward him with a grin. “So,” she said. “Do we go home and relax like emotionally stable adults… or do we follow her like deeply invested undercover agents?”
Aaron pulled out his phone. “I may have looped Garcia into a little side project.”
Emily groaned. “Aaron, you’re impossible.”
“And yet you married me.”
“Remind me to reevaluate that choice later.”
At exactly 2:07 p.m., Derek Morgan called Aaron while standing in the middle of the bullpen, smirking.
“So,” he said, “I just got an update from Garcia.”
“Apparently your daughter just left Sephora with a bag full of glitter products and what Garcia described as a ‘thousand-yard stare.’”
Aaron frowned. “She’s thirteen. What could she need at Sephora?”
“According to Garcia’s very detailed observation,” Derek replied, “a lip gloss called ‘Sunset Bloodbath’ and some face stickers shaped like hearts.”
“Jesus.”
Derek chuckled. “She also told the salesgirl that her father works for the FBI and will trace her IP address if she gets charged for anything she didn’t buy.”
Aaron blinked. “Proud of her. Also mildly horrified.” He admitted.
Derek chuckled. “Relax, Hotch. Garcia has live mall security feed, and she’s tracking their path like it’s Mission: Impossible. So far they’ve hit Sephora, Zara, the food court, and a terrifying place called ‘Socks & Stuff.’”
“Socks &—What even is that?”
“I don’t know, man. Teenagers are weird.”
Inside the mall, Brooke and her friends were sitting at a table in the food court surrounded by shopping bags and half-finished drinks.
Ava leaned closer and lowered her voice conspiratorially.
“Your dad is so hot,” Ava whispered, twirling a lock of her hair. “Like, respectfully.”
Brooke choked on her boba. “Gross.”
“I’m just saying! Tall, broody, suit-wearing—if I were forty and into dads, I’d be all over that.”
“You’ve watched too much Criminal Minds.”
Tia grinned. “Didn’t you say he interrogated one of your math teachers over that weird detention thing last year?”
“He didn’t interrogate him,” Brooke sighed. “He just… asked some questions. And maybe brought a sketch pad. And maybe stood behind the principal silently for a few minutes.”
“Okay, but still,” Ava said. “Protective dads are, like, peak content.”
Brooke rolled her eyes again. But inside, a warm, quiet pride curled in her chest. Because, yeah—her dad could be overprotective. But he also memorized her favorite Starbucks order and carried her flu medicine upstairs without being asked. He helped her with algebra and let her cry about friend drama without judgment.
Even if he was probably watching her via satellite right now.
Back at the BAU, Garcia was narrating mall feed to the assembled team like it was the Super Bowl.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the trio has entered novelty gift territory. I repeat—they’ve moved on to novelty gifts. This is dangerous territory. Someone’s going to end up with a weird mug and no dignity.”
JJ leaned over her shoulder, grinning. “What did Brooke just buy?”
Garcia zoomed in. “A mini lava lamp, a plush cactus, and a sticker that says ‘Not Today, Satan.’”
Derek laughed. “Yup. She’s definitely our kid.”
When Aaron returned to the mall at five o’clock, he was still not entirely convinced his daughter hadn’t been kidnapped by glitter merchants or hypnotized by a churro stand.
But then—there she was.
Walking out with her friends, laughing, swinging her mushroom tote filled with chaos and questionable receipts. Her hair was a little frizzy, her sneakers slightly sticky, and she looked like the most alive version of herself he’d ever seen.
“Hey!” she shouted, racing over. “Dad!”
He stood up straighter. “Hi.”
She grinned and gave him a hug without prompting. “We had the best time.”
“Did you buy anything illegal?”
“Only if sticker hoarding becomes a federal offense.”
He smiled—exhausted, relieved, and already preparing for the next round.
“You’re grounded,” he said automatically.
Brooke laughed. “Again?!”
“For my mental health.”
She laughed and skipped ahead toward the car, twirling her bag.
Emily watched from the passenger seat, sipping her latte. “So. Think she’s ready to take on the world?”
Aaron sighed. “Only if the world comes with a food court and a coupon for 10% off friendship bracelets.”
And with that, the Hotchners went home—one tote heavier, one heart lighter, and already planning for round two.
After a chaotic girls’ night out, a severely hungover Brooke, Emily, JJ, and Garcia are dragged to the FBI charity race by a very smug Spencer Reid—while Aaron and Dave enjoy watching the aftermath unfold.
Masterlist
------
It was just past sunrise when the BAU’s most elite agents stumbled their way onto the grassy lawn of the FBI charity fitness race, looking more like an assembly of castaways than decorated federal professionals. The early morning sun cast golden rays across the dewy park, but the light was far too aggressive for four very hungover women who had clearly made some deeply regrettable life choices the night before. At the front of this dishevelled march was 23-year-old Brooke Hotchner, hair tied in a half-done bun, oversized hoodie half-zipped over what suspiciously looked like last night’s outfit. She had on sunglasses—which had been on since they were indoors. The fact that they were outside only made her regret not bringing two pairs.
Following close behind her, Emily Prentiss—Brooke’s mother, normally composed and steel-nerved—was clinging to a Starbucks cup like it was an IV drip. Her blazer was swapped for a hoodie stolen from Aaron’s closet, and she was muttering something about “my head, my poor, poor head” under her breath. JJ trudged silently behind her, a baseball cap low over her eyes, visibly regretting the third tequila shot that had seemed like such a good idea at the time. And bringing up the rear was none other than Penelope Garcia herself, in her usual explosion of patterns—only this time, the bright florals were paired with sunglasses so large they could shield her entire hangover from the public.
And guiding this parade of regret with the cheerful enthusiasm of a man who had slept perfectly and consumed nothing stronger than chamomile tea?
Dr. Spencer Reid.
He was dressed in athletic layers, chipper, energetic, and holding a clipboard like he was about to conduct an experiment on migratory pain thresholds. He had been the designated babysitter for Henry the night before, left with promises of “just a couple hours” that turned into an all-night bender for the women.
Brooke had been visiting home from college and ended up as an honorary member of the “Ladies Night Out,” even though she swore she was “just grabbing one drink.” Spencer, having survived an evening of child-induced chaos and a poppy seed-induced allergy scare, was now exacting his vengeance with scientific precision.
“This,” he announced brightly as the four women staggered across the lawn toward him, “is what happens when people lie about time estimates.”
Emily groaned. “Spencer. We love you. But if you don’t shut up in the next five seconds, I might commit a felony.”
“Mom,” Brooke muttered under her breath, dragging her boots across the grass, “he’s technically a genius. That makes it premeditated.”
The four of them slumped against the metal barricade set up along the edge of the running path, eyes bleary, souls tired. And right on cue, Aaron Hotchner—husband, father, Unit Chief, and annoyingly punctual morning person—jogged by them in full race gear. He was doing warm-up stretches with all the smug serenity of someone who had gotten a full eight hours of sleep and drank actual water the night before. The fitted T-shirt, the muscle definition, the professional-grade running shoes—it was too much. Even Penelope recoiled.
Brooke tilted her sunglasses down and squinted. “He’s running in that? “He looks like he belongs in a sports commercial,” she muttered.
Emily squinted in his direction.. “He woke me up at five to say good luck. I thought I was hallucinating.”
Derek Morgan wandered up to the group with a bottle of Gatorade in hand, looking like he had just stepped out of a fitness catalogue, freshly showered and wholly amused. “Well, well, well,” he smirked. “What did you ladies drink last night?”
Penelope, one hand dramatically pressed to her chest, whispered, “The Green Fairy.”
JJ squinted up. “Wait, was that… was that what the bartender said?”
Brooke threw her head back. “I knew the glowing shot wasn’t a good sign.”
Spencer chimed in, clipboard still annoyingly present: “Absinthe is a hallucinogen, by the way. The chemical compound—”
“Shhh!” all four groaned in unison, practically hissing like feral cats.
From his vantage point near the race start line, Aaron looked over and spotted his wife, his daughter, and two-thirds of his team slouched against the fencing like overbaked pizza crusts. His brows furrowed. He jogged toward them during his warm-up lap, water bottle in hand.
His eyebrow lifted slightly. “Rough night?”
JJ blinked like she was trying to remember how to form words. Emily groaned. Brooke tried to look dignified but ended up hiccupping. Penelope gripped his arm and rasped, “You’re in the FBI. Can you get the entire crowd to stop cheering? It’s… aggressive.”
Aaron didn’t bother suppressing his smirk. “Spencer, this is cruel even for you.”
Spencer beamed. “Justice.”
At that moment, David Rossi strolled across the lawn carrying a small espresso cup, looking entirely too composed for this hour of the morning. His shoes crunched softly against the grass as he approached the group, surveying the scene with amused curiosity.
When his eyes landed on Emily and Brooke, he let out a quiet chuckle. “Dio mio,” he said dryly, sipping. “You all look like you’ve been through combat.”
“We have,” Emily muttered, eyes closed behind her sunglasses.
Brooke, still swaying slightly, stood up straighter when Rossi looked her way. “Hi, Grandpa.”
Aaron checked his watch. “Alright, I’ve got to line up. Try not to pass out while I’m gone.”
“Don’t strain yourself, Hotch,” Derek teased. “We’d hate to have to drag you back too.”
As the race began, the crowd erupted in cheers—clapping, cowbells, vuvuzelas. Penelope groaned and covered her ears. “I swear I can hear my hangover vibrating.”
Spencer grinned from ear to ear.
“Couple hours,” he muttered under his breath. “Couple hours, and you didn’t get home until sunrise.”
Emily flipped him off. Brooke fist-bumped him.
By the time Aaron crossed the finish line in record time, drenched in sweat and breathing hard but triumphant, his wife and daughter were attempting to stay upright by leaning on each other like twin towers of regret. JJ looked like she was about to cry, and Penelope was fanning herself with a race pamphlet. Brooke managed a half-hearted cheer before sinking back down onto the grass.
Aaron stopped beside them, leaned down, and grinned. “Breakfast?”
“Only if it’s pancakes and a silence agreement,” Emily whispered.
Brooke laughed softly and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Remind me never to drink with your team again.”
Aaron kissed the top of her head. “Noted.”
And as the sun continued to rise, casting golden light over a victorious team—sweaty, hungover, and still somehow invincible—they huddled together, a little worse for wear but bound as always by love, loyalty, and one very long, very loud, very public lesson in payback.
For Emily’s first mothers day, it is a morning filled with laughter as one-year-old Brooke enthusiastically joins the celebration.
------
As it is Mothers Day here in the UK, I of course had to write a oneshot dedicated to the day.
Happy Mothers day to all the moms out there as well as
the moms to be
the solo moms
the step-moms
the adoptive moms
those missing their moms
and the moms who are grieving.
Masterlist
----
Mother’s Day arrived quietly in the Hotchner house.
Sunlight had only just begun to creep through the tall windows of the living room, the soft early morning glow stretching across the hardwood floors and climbing slowly over the couch where Aaron Hotchner had been sitting for nearly forty minutes.
In his lap sat a squirming, determined one-year-old.
Brooke Hotchner had discovered very early in life that mornings were exciting. The world was full of movement and sound and fascinating objects that absolutely needed to be investigated immediately. Sitting still was not among her preferred activities.
Aaron held her carefully against his chest while she twisted around in his arms, trying to grab the shiny ribbon tied around one of the small gift boxes arranged neatly on the coffee table.
“Hey,” Aaron murmured quietly, gently pulling the ribbon away from her curious fingers. “That’s not for you.”
Brooke blinked up at him with wide brown eyes that were unmistakably Emily’s.
Then she tried again.
Aaron caught her hand halfway there and chuckled under his breath.
“You are stubborn,” he muttered.
Brooke responded by leaning forward and trying to grab the balloon string instead.
The balloon bobbed gently above the coffee table, a bright gold “Happy Mother’s Day” printed across it in cheerful lettering.
Aaron had not realized how complicated decorating could be when one arm was occupied by a curious toddler who believed every object within reach belonged to her.
“Alright,” he said quietly, shifting her slightly higher on his hip. “Let’s sit here.”
He settled down on the couch again, carefully positioning Brooke beside him while keeping one arm securely around her waist.
She had already been dressed for the day and that had been the first step in Aaron’s carefully planned morning.
Emily had been so exhausted the night before that she hadn’t stirred when Aaron slipped quietly out of bed at six in the morning. Brooke had woken up twenty minutes later, babbling happily into her crib like the sun rising was the most exciting event of her life.
Aaron had scooped her up, changed her diaper, and dressed her in the small yellow dress Emily loved—the one with the tiny embroidered daisies along the collar.
Now Brooke sat proudly beside him on the couch, kicking her sock-covered feet against the cushions while staring at the colourful arrangement of gifts on the table.
Three small wrapped boxes, one larger one, a card and the balloon.
Aaron glanced up the staircase toward the bedroom.
Still quiet.
He checked his watch.
Emily would wake up soon and he hoped everything looked okay.
Aaron was used to planning operations, coordinating teams, building profiles from incomplete information.
But planning a perfect Mother’s Day had felt oddly more complicated.
Brooke suddenly let out a small delighted squeal that caused Aaron looked down.
She had managed to grab the edge of the card.
“Hey—”
Too late.
Brooke immediately shoved the corner of the envelope toward her mouth.
Aaron gently intercepted it before she could succeed.
“That’s also not for you.”
She frowned at him.
“Your mother better wake up soon.” Aaron sighed softly.
Upstairs, Emily Prentiss stirred slowly beneath the blankets.
The quiet of the house was unusual.
Normally by this time Brooke would already be making some kind of noise—babbling, bouncing in her crib, or loudly announcing her existence to the entire household.
Emily rolled onto her side, blinking sleepily toward the empty space beside her.
Aaron’s side of the bed was already cold.
She sat up slightly, brushing a hand through her dark hair.
The house was too quiet. Emily slipped out of bed and pulled on a loose sweater before heading toward the stairs.
Halfway down she paused as the living room came into view.
And she froze.
The coffee table was covered in presents and a balloon floated cheerfully above them.
And on the couch sat Aaron and Brooke.
Both of them looking up at her.
Brooke’s entire face lit up instantly.
“Mama!”
The word came out in the enthusiastic half-shouted way toddlers used when they had recently discovered language.
“Oh my God.” Emily’s hand flew to her mouth.
Aaron stood slowly, Brooke immediately reaching toward her mother.
Emily hurried the rest of the way down the stairs.
“What is all this?”
“Happy Mother’s Day.” Aaron smiled softly.
Brooke bounced excitedly in his arms as Emily reached them.
“Mama!”
Emily took her immediately, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“Hi, baby.”
Brooke giggled.
Emily looked back at Aaron in disbelief.
“You did all this?”
Aaron shrugged modestly. “You deserve it.”
Emily glanced again at the table.
The presents, the balloon, the card.
Emotion crept quietly into her chest.
“This is my first one.”
Aaron nodded. “That’s why it had to be special.”
Emily laughed softly, shifting Brooke onto her hip.
“Well, I’m already impressed.”
Brooke leaned toward the balloon again.
Aaron sighed. “Yeah, she’s been trying to eat that for twenty minutes.”
“Sounds about right.” Emily grinned.
“Open your presents.” Aaron gestured toward the couch.
Emily sat down carefully, settling Brooke beside her.
Brooke immediately began patting the wrapping paper with intense concentration.
Emily picked up the card first.
Inside, Aaron had written in his neat handwriting:
Happy first Mother’s Day.
Watching you become Brooke’s mom has been the best thing I’ve ever seen.
We love you.
Emily blinked quickly.
Then she looked up at him. “You’re trying to make me cry before breakfast.”
“It’s working?” Aaron smirked slightly.
Emily shook her head, smiling.
Then she opened the first box.
Inside was a delicate gold bracelet and a tiny charm hung from it.
A small engraved “B”.
Emily looked up again. “Aaron…”
“Figured it was appropriate.” He shrugged.
Brooke reached over and grabbed the bracelet.
Aaron laughed. “Careful.”
Emily fastened it around her wrist while Brooke watched closely like it was the most fascinating object in the world.
By the time she finished opening the gifts—each one small but thoughtful—Emily felt warm and overwhelmed in the best possible way.
Then Aaron glanced at the clock.
“Alright.”
“What?” Emily looked up.
“We have a reservation.”
Emily blinked. “You made brunch plans?”
Aaron nodded. “Your favourite place.”
“You are spoiling me today.” Emily groaned happily.
“That’s the idea.” Aaron reached for the diaper bag.
The brunch spot was already packed when they arrived.
Emily’s favourite café sat on a busy corner, sunlight streaming through large windows while the smell of fresh coffee and warm spices filled the air.
Aaron held the door open while Emily carried Brooke inside.
The noise hit them immediately—conversations overlapping, plates clinking, the low buzz of a busy Sunday morning crowd.
“You weren’t kidding.” Emily laughed.
Aaron approached the host stand confidently.
“Reservation for Hotchner.”
The host checked the list.
“Right this way.”
They were led to a small table near the window.
Emily settled Brooke into the highchair the restaurant provided and Brooke immediately began drumming her hands on the tray.
“You already know what you’re getting.” Aaron said while he glanced at the menu.
Emily grinned. “Of course I do.”
The waiter arrived a moment later.
“Shakshuka with grilled halloumi and an iced coffee.” Emily ordered without hesitation.
“You’ve ordered the same thing here every time.” Aaron shook his head fondly.
“It’s perfect.” Emily shrugged.
Aaron turned to the waiter. “I’ll take the breakfast plate and a black coffee.”
The waiter nodded and left.
Brooke leaned forward suddenly, grabbing the edge of the table.
Aaron caught the salt shaker just before it tipped over.
“Nice try.”
Brooke giggled.
“She’s going to start walking soon.” Emily laughed.
“Don’t rush it.” Aaron glanced down at her.
When the food arrived, Brooke’s interest increased dramatically.
Emily had barely taken her first bite when a tiny hand reached toward the plate.
“Hey!”
Brooke grabbed a piece of bread triumphantly.
Aaron chuckled. “She’s begun.”
Emily broke off a smaller piece and handed it to her.
Brooke studied it like a scientist before stuffing it into her mouth.
Aaron leaned back slightly in his chair, watching both of them.
Emily looked relaxed.
Happy.
Brooke smeared a bit of tomato sauce across her tray.
“Oh no.” Emily sighed.
“She’s experimenting.” Aaron grinned.
Brooke reached for Aaron’s plate next.
Aaron moved it just out of reach.
“Nice try, kid.”
Emily laughed again.
And for a while, in the warmth of the crowded café, the three of them simply enjoyed breakfast together—Brooke discovering the joy of solid food while Aaron and Emily shared quiet smiles across the table.
Emily glanced down at the bracelet on her wrist.
Then back at Aaron.
“This really is the best Mother’s Day.”
Aaron lifted his coffee.
“You earned it.”
Brooke responded by grabbing a piece of halloumi off Emily’s plate.
“Hey!” Emily gasped.
Aaron burst out laughing.
And Brooke giggled proudly, convinced she had just accomplished something very important.
A continuation from the oneshot 'Apparently We're Rich.'
Masterlist
----
By the time Brooke Hotchner reached the BAU floor, she had already decided that the universe owed her some kind of apology.
Her café shift had been a masterclass in everything she disliked about customer service — the forced cheer, the unearned entitlement, the way people seemed to forget basic human decency the moment caffeine entered the equation. She still smelled faintly of espresso and vanilla syrup, her feet ached in that dull, persistent way that came from standing too long on unforgiving tile, and she was operating on the last fragile thread of politeness she possessed. At nineteen, Brooke liked to think she was fairly even-tempered, but today had tested that belief aggressively. The BAU, at least, felt like a place where no one would ask her to remake a drink because it “didn’t feel happy enough.”
She signed in at the desk out of habit — muscle memory from years of being in and out of the building with her parents — and stepped into the bullpen, shoulders relaxing almost immediately as the familiar hum of activity surrounded her. Phones rang, keyboards clicked, agents moved with purpose, and for all the darkness the work represented, the space itself felt grounding. It always had. Brooke had grown up around this rhythm, absorbing it in pieces, and now she moved through it with an ease that suggested belonging without entitlement.
She didn’t make it far before she collided with a solid wall of muscle and reflexes.
“Easy,” Derek Morgan said automatically, hands coming up to steady her shoulders before she could even fully register the impact. “You trying to tackle me, kid?”
Brooke groaned, head tipping back in exaggerated misery. “If I were trying to tackle you, I’d have committed more fully.”
Derek laughed, wide and genuine, looking her over with the same familiar mix of amusement and concern he’d worn since she was small enough to sit on his shoulders. “Rough day?”
“The worst,” Brooke replied without hesitation, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder. “I was verbally assaulted by a man who thought decaf espresso was a government psychological operation .”
Derek blinked. “That’s… new.”
“And then,” she continued, warming to her rant, “someone spilled an entire iced latte, stared directly at me, and asked if I could ‘just clean it up real quick’ like I wasn’t already drowning.”
Derek shook his head, sympathy etched into his grin. “Yeah, okay. That qualifies.”
Brooke sighed dramatically. “I love my job. I really do. But some days—”
“—you have to remember not to do anything that’ll get you fired,” Derek finished, pointing at her.
She shot him a look. “Wow. Rude.”
“It’s preventative,” Derek said easily. “Your parents would end me.”
Brooke laughed despite herself. “Fair.”
They started walking together through the bullpen, Brooke matching his stride as she continued to vent, the irritation bleeding off her with every word. Derek listened with the patience of someone who had always taken her seriously, even when she was being dramatic, and that mattered more than she’d ever admit. He’d always been like that — protective without hovering, teasing without dismissing.
“I mean,” Brooke said, rubbing at her temple, “some days I genuinely wonder why I’m doing this instead of something easier.”
Derek raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “Nothing.”
He snorted. “That tracks.”
They were nearing the corridor that led toward Emily’s office when Brooke, still riding the momentum of her bad day, sighed and said casually, “Honestly, worst case scenario, if I get fired, I’ll just live off Mom’s trust fund and call it Wine o’clock every day.”
For half a second, there was silence.
Then Derek Morgan burst out laughing.
It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t restrained. It was loud, sudden, and completely unfiltered, the kind of laugh that echoed down the hallway and turned heads across the bullpen. He bent slightly at the waist, one hand braced on his knee, the other pointing at her as he tried — and failed — to get control of himself.
“Oh my God,” he managed. “You are bold.”
Brooke grinned, pleased. “Thank you.”
Behind them, footsteps slowed.
Emily Prentiss stopped dead mid-stride, coffee cup frozen halfway to her mouth, her expression shifting in real time from neutral focus to sharp, unimpressed disbelief. Aaron Hotchner, walking beside her, registered the change instantly and followed her line of sight to Brooke — smug, unrepentant — and Derek, still laughing like he’d just heard the best line of the year.
Emily cleared her throat.
It was quiet. Controlled. Devastating.
Derek’s laughter cut off immediately.
Brooke turned slowly. “Hi, Mom.”
Emily raised one eyebrow. “Wine o’clock?”
Brooke winced. “Context matters.”
Aaron looked between them, lips pressed together, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in his eyes before he smoothed it away. “What exactly is the context?”
Brooke opened her mouth, then reconsidered. “A joke.”
Emily stared at her.
Rossi, passing behind them, paused just long enough to grin. “Good one, kid.”
Emily didn’t look at him. “Keep walking, David.”
He chuckled and did, entirely unrepentant.
Derek straightened, suddenly very aware of his surroundings. “For what it’s worth,” he said carefully, “she had a bad day.”
Emily’s gaze slid to him. “I gathered.”
Aaron folded his arms loosely, voice calm but authoritative. “Brooke.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“You’re not getting fired.”
“I know.”
“And you’re not living off your mother’s trust fund.”
Brooke shrugged. “Also know.”
Emily exhaled slowly. “Then why joke about it?”
Brooke smiled, softening just a little. “Because it’s funny.”
Emily gave her a look that suggested she was reconsidering several life choices. “You are exhausting.”
Aaron’s mouth twitched despite himself.
Derek, emboldened by the shift, added, “In my defence, it was funny.”
Emily turned her unimpressed gaze on him. “Agent Morgan.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do not encourage her.”
He grinned. “Too late.”
Brooke clasped her hands together innocently. “I would like to point out that I am still gainfully employed and have not thrown anything at a customer.”
Aaron nodded. “Progress.”
Emily sighed, but there it was — the faint smile she tried so hard to suppress, the one that always betrayed her when it came to her daughter. She reached out, straightening Brooke’s hoodie without thinking, grounding the moment.
“You’re doing fine,” she said quietly. “Bad days don’t get to decide your future.”
Brooke’s grin softened into something genuine. “I know.”
Aaron placed a hand at the small of Emily’s back, steady and familiar, and looked at Brooke with that same calm certainty he brought to everything. “You okay now?”
“Yeah,” Brooke said honestly. “Much better.”
Derek clapped his hands together. “Look at that. Crisis averted. No trust funds harmed in the making of this conversation.”
Emily shot him a look. “Go.”
He laughed and retreated.
Brooke watched him go, then looked back at her parents, warmth settling in her chest. “I love you both.”
Emily shook her head fondly. “Go wash the coffee smell off you.”
Aaron nodded. “We’ll be home soon.”
Brooke smiled, turning back toward the bullpen, bad day finally shaken loose — grounded not by money, or jokes, or the idea of an escape hatch, but by the quiet certainty that she was exactly where she was meant to be, supported and loved, even when she was being a menace.
Emily Prentiss had always believed she was good at noticing change. It was, after all, part of the job—tracking the subtle shifts in behaviour, the quiet tells that revealed when something was different beneath the surface. But standing at the bottom of the stairs on a quiet Saturday morning, listening to the sound of Brooke moving around her bedroom, Emily realized that some changes didn’t announce themselves. Some of them crept in slowly, over years and scraped knees and late-night talks, until one day you looked up and realized the child you’d been carrying on your hip was suddenly old enough to need a prom dress.
Brooke Hotchner was going to prom.
The thought sat heavy and light in Emily’s chest all at once. Heavy with memory. Light with pride. Emily leaned against the banister, coffee in hand, and let herself listen—the drawer opening and closing, the muffled music playing from Brooke’s phone, the unmistakable sound of teenage impatience. It was a soundtrack Emily had grown used to over the years, evolving from lullabies to pop songs, from babbling to sarcasm.
“Mom,” Brooke called from upstairs, the word casual but still powerful enough to make something warm bloom in Emily’s chest, even after all these years. “If you tell me I’m late, I swear I will not survive this day.”
Emily smiled. “I wasn’t going to. But now I might.”
Brooke appeared at the top of the stairs moments later, already dressed, hair pulled back loosely, expression somewhere between excitement and dread. She looked so much like herself that it almost hurt—Emily’s height, Aaron’s eyes, that familiar Hotchner seriousness softened by wit and stubborn independence. Not a little girl anymore. Not quite an adult. Something beautifully in-between.
“This is a mistake,” Brooke declared as she descended the stairs. “Prom is a social experiment designed to humiliate teenagers.”
Emily raised an eyebrow. “And yet, here you are. Participating.”
“I was peer-pressured.”
“You asked me to clear my schedule.”
Brooke grimaced. “That was emotional weakness.”
The drive to the boutique was filled with the kind of conversation Emily had learned to treasure—not forced, not heavy, just honest. Brooke talked about school, about friends Emily had known since playdates and science fairs, about the vague, undefined pressure of senior year. Emily listened, resisting the instinct to analyse or advise, content to simply be present.
She remembered other drives. A much smaller Brooke in a car seat, singing nonsense songs at the top of her lungs. Brooke at ten, asking difficult questions about fairness and fear. Brooke at fourteen, furious and grounded, threatening to run away from the BAU and dramatically underestimating federal security. Each version of her daughter lived somewhere inside the young woman now sitting beside her, scrolling through her phone and pretending she didn’t care.
The dress shop was exactly what Brooke had feared—soft lighting, too many mirrors, racks of fabric that shimmered with expectation. Brooke paused just inside the door, eyes narrowing.
“I hate it already.”
Emily hid her smile. “You haven’t even seen anything.”
“That’s worse.”
The consultant greeted them warmly, unfazed by Brooke’s skepticism. Emily let Brooke lead, watching as her daughter’s fingers brushed across fabrics, pausing occasionally, moving on just as quickly. Emily recognized the behaviour immediately. Brooke wasn’t just shopping—she was measuring herself against the idea of the night, the image of who she was supposed to be.
The first few dresses were wrong in obvious ways. Too tight. Too sparkly. Too much like someone else. Brooke emerged from the fitting room each time with commentary sharp enough to make Emily laugh.
“This one makes me look like I’m attending a royal wedding I do not support.”
“This one is itchy. That’s a dealbreaker.”
“This one feels like it’s trying to change my personality.”
Emily offered opinions only when asked, careful not to push. She’d learned, over the years, that Brooke needed room to decide things for herself. Emily’s job wasn’t to steer—just to stand close enough to catch her if she wobbled.
While Brooke changed again, Emily sat on the couch outside the fitting rooms and let her mind wander backward. She remembered Brooke at eighteen months, unsteady on her feet, walking straight into a coffee table while Emily’s back was turned for just a second. The blood. The stitches. The terror of realizing how fragile someone you love can be. She remembered bringing Brooke into the BAU days later, the plaster on her head, the way the team had hovered like a protective perimeter.
She remembered the years after—first days of school, scraped knees, late-night fevers, heartbreaks both small and devastating. She remembered the quiet moments too: Brooke asleep on her chest, Brooke reading on the couch with her feet tucked under Emily’s legs, Brooke leaning into her side during movie nights long after she pretended she didn’t need to.
“Okay,” Brooke said, stepping out again. “This one might be… acceptable.”
Emily looked up—and stopped.
The dress was simple, elegant without being loud. Deep green, soft fabric that moved when Brooke moved, cut in a way that felt confident rather than performative. Brooke stood in front of the mirror, shoulders slightly tense, like she was waiting for the dress to betray her.
Emily stood slowly, her voice gentle. “That’s the one.”
Brooke glanced at her. “You didn’t even hesitate.”
“I didn’t need to.”
Brooke turned back to the mirror, studying herself. “It doesn’t feel like I’m pretending,” she said quietly. “It just feels like… me.”
Emily stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on Brooke’s shoulder. “That’s because it is.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Emily watched her daughter’s reflection—so familiar, yet new—and felt the strange, aching gratitude of having witnessed every version of her becoming this person. Brooke blinked, just once, and lifted her chin.
“Don’t cry,” she warned softly.
Emily smiled. “I wasn’t planning to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“Maybe.”
They bought the dress.
On the drive home, the garment bag hung carefully in the back seat like something precious. Brooke leaned her head against the window, quieter now, the weight of the day settling in.
“Hey,” Emily said. “You okay?”
Brooke nodded. “Yeah. Just… thinking about how fast everything went.”
Emily felt that too. “It doesn’t stop,” she said honestly. “But you don’t lose yourself along the way. You just add to who you are.”
Brooke smiled faintly. “You always make it sound less scary.”
Emily reached over and squeezed her hand. “That’s part of the job.”
When they got home, Brooke carried the dress upstairs with exaggerated care, already planning shoes and accessories and pretending this didn’t matter as much as it did. Emily lingered at the bottom of the stairs, listening to the quiet hum of the house.
Prom was just a night. Just a dress.
But it was also a thread—woven through years of love, fear, growth, and becoming. And Emily knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that no matter how far Brooke went from here, every version of her daughter would always lead back home.
Brooke and her friends decide a bottomless brunch is a great idea
What could possibly go wrong?
-----
This was inspired by a night out I recently have with my sister-in-law
What started out as a bottomless brunch that ended at 5pm actually ended up with us staying until 1am. Safe to say I was struggling at work the next day and my whole body hurt hahaha
And yes we did actually dance on the bar to Shania Twain ‘Man! I feel like a woman!’ and start a conga line.
Masterlist
-----
Brooke Hotchner woke up with the absolute, bone-deep certainty that the universe was punishing her for hubris.
It started with light—aggressive, unfiltered sunlight pouring through the blinds like it had a personal vendetta. Then came the headache, a slow, pulsing throb that suggested someone had been line dancing directly on her brain. Her mouth tasted like tequila, sugar, and regret, and when she shifted even slightly beneath the covers, her stomach responded with a warning she chose to ignore. Brooke groaned, rolled onto her back, and stared at the ceiling, letting the memories seep back in whether she wanted them to or not.
Bottomless brunch.
Western-themed bar.
That should have been the first red flag.
At three in the afternoon, it had felt harmless—four women in boots and denim, laughing too loudly, convinced they were invincible. Ava had ordered the first round with a grin that should have been illegal. Jasmine had dared the bartender to make something “strong but fun.” Lily had found a mechanical bull that may or may not have passed inspection sometime during the Obama administration. Brooke had told herself she’d pace it.
She had lied.
By sunset, the entire bar had become their best friends. By midnight, someone—Brooke refused to confirm who—had climbed onto the bar and declared that Shania Twain was a spiritual experience. By one in the morning, the impossible had happened: the entire bar had linked arms and formed a conga line, weaving between tables and stools while strangers shouted lyrics and sloshed drinks onto the floor. Brooke remembered laughing so hard she cried, remembered Ava yelling “WE’RE MAKING HISTORY,” remembered being lifted onto the bar by a group of women she’d met forty-five minutes earlier and attempting to line dance while the crowd cheered her on.
It had been, objectively, iconic.
Presently, it was a nightmare.
Brooke peeled herself out of bed and immediately regretted the decision to exist vertically. She shuffled to the bathroom, braced herself on the sink, and stared at her reflection. There was glitter on her collarbone. Actual glitter. Her hair smelled like smoke and beer. Mascara smudged faintly beneath one eye gave her the haunted look of someone who had seen things—and done them on Instagram.
She reached for her phone with dread.
Forty-seven notifications.
Brooke closed her eyes. “Oh no.”
Scrolling confirmed her worst fears. Videos. Photos. Stories. One clip showed her in a fringed jacket, standing on the bar, yelling, “BOTTOMLESS MEANS BOTTOMLESS,” before losing her balance and being steadied by Lily. Another featured the conga line in all its glory, Brooke at the front, dragging half the bar behind her like a very drunk pied piper. The caption read: Brunch but make it Yeehaw.
Penelope Garcia had liked everything.
Emily Prentiss had viewed it.
Spencer Reid had commented a single cowboy emoji.
Brooke buried her face in her hands.
Work was a blur of caffeine, professional competence, and the overwhelming desire to crawl under a desk and perish quietly. She made it through her shift on muscle memory alone, smiling through the nausea, counting down the minutes until freedom. By the time she clocked out, she was running on fumes and false confidence.
Then her phone buzzed.
Mom: The spare car keys are at work. Can you come grab them for me?
Brooke stared at the message.
The BAU.
The entire BAU.
All of whom followed her on Instagram.
She briefly considered changing her name and fleeing the country. Instead, she sighed and typed back, On my way.
The FBI building loomed ahead of her like judgment incarnate. Brooke put on her sunglasses—indoors, because shame—and stepped off the elevator into the bullpen and was greeted with silence.
The kind that meant she was already dead.
“Well,” Derek Morgan drawled without looking up from his desk, “if it isn’t the Queen of the Conga Line.”
Brooke stopped walking.
Penelope popped up behind her monitors, eyes sparkling. “YOU SURVIVED.” She clapped. “I genuinely wasn’t sure after the mechanical bull and the bar dancing and the conga line. That was endurance drinking.”
“I was peer pressured,” Brooke muttered.
Spencer Reid turned, thoughtful. “Actually, large-scale synchronized dancing in alcohol-fueled environments often creates a false sense of group safety—”
“Spencer,” JJ said gently, smiling. “Let the girl breathe.”
Emily leaned against the conference room doorway, arms crossed, eyes bright with barely contained amusement. “Did everyone enjoy themselves?” she asked.
Brooke swallowed. “In my defense, the conga line was organic.”
From his office, Aaron Hotchner looked up.
He said nothing.
That was worse.
“Hi, Dad,” Brooke offered.
Aaron’s gaze flicked over her—sunglasses, careful posture, faint glitter—and returned to his paperwork. “Your mother’s desk,” he said evenly. “Left side.”
She had taken two steps when Rossi chimed in. “You didn’t even lead with the right foot.”
Brooke spun. “You watched it?”
Rossi grinned. “I was impressed. Haven’t seen a conga line that committed since the seventies.”
She groaned. “This is a hostile workplace.”
Garcia beamed. “Your friends are delightful, by the way. Ava has main-character energy.”
Brooke retrieved the keys as quickly as her skull would allow. When she turned back, Aaron was standing.
“Bottomless brunch,” he said calmly. “Three p.m. to one a.m. Western bar. Dancing on furniture.”
“How do you—”
“I raised you,” Aaron said. “And Garcia tagged the location.”
“Sorry!” Garcia said, not sorry at all.
“I’m twenty-one,” Brooke said weakly.
“Yes,” Aaron agreed. “And very loud on the internet.”
Emily kissed Brooke’s cheek. “Next time, text me before you start a bar-wide conga line.”
“No promises,” Brooke said.
Rossi clapped his hands. “Alright, enough. Let the girl live. She survived brunch and organized a small community event.”
Aaron sighed. “Dinner. Seven.”
Brooke smiled, exhausted but amused. “Love you too, Dad.”
As she fled the bullpen, Garcia called after her, “Post the next one to Close Friends!”
Elizabeth Prentiss decides to pay the Hotchner family and reveals something that Emily tried to keep hidden.
Masterlist
-----
Emily Prentiss woke to the sound of her phone ringing and the immediate, bone-deep certainty that nothing good ever came from answering it.
It was too early — not dangerously early, not the kind of hour that suggested catastrophe, but early enough that the house was still wrapped in that fragile quiet that only existed before Brooke woke up and before the day began demanding things from her. Emily lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the phone ring twice more before rolling onto her side and grabbing it from the nightstand. She didn’t even have to check the screen to know who it was. Some instincts were carved too deeply to ignore.
Elizabeth Prentiss’s name glowed back at her anyway.
Emily exhaled slowly through her nose, already bracing herself, and answered. “Hello, Mother.”
“Emily,” Elizabeth said, voice crisp, alert, and entirely too awake for a Saturday morning. “Good. You’re up.”
Emily closed her eyes. “It’s seven thirty.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied. “A reasonable hour.”
“For you,” Emily muttered.
“I’m in Washington.”
That got her attention.
Emily sat up, the fog of sleep burning off instantly. “You’re what?”
“I had a meeting rescheduled,” Elizabeth continued, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “I realized I was only a short distance away. I thought it would be… efficient to visit.”
Emily swung her legs over the side of the bed, pressing her feet into the floor like she needed the grounding. “You’re already here.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re calling to tell me this now.”
“I didn’t want to inconvenience you.”
Emily laughed once, sharp and humourless. “By giving me no notice?”
“I’ll be there in an hour,” Elizabeth said smoothly. “I assume that won’t be a problem.”
Emily opened her mouth to respond — to object, to ask why, to demand some explanation — but the line went dead before she could say a word.
She stared at the phone in her hand for a long moment, then let it drop onto the bed beside her.
Aaron stirred next to her. “Bad call?” he asked quietly, already half-awake.
Emily rubbed her face. “My mother is coming over.”
Aaron was silent for a beat. “Today?”
“Yes.”
“Unannounced?”
“Yes.”
He exhaled slowly, reaching for her hand. “Do you want me to cancel—”
“No,” Emily said immediately. “No. It’s fine.”
It wasn’t, but she appreciated the offer.
Down the hall, Brooke’s bedroom door creaked open, followed by the soft thud of socked feet. Emily hadn’t even stood up yet when her daughter appeared in the doorway, hair pulled into a messy knot, hoodie swallowing her frame, eyes sharp with the kind of intuition that made Emily both proud and deeply tired.
“Something’s wrong,” Brooke said.
Emily sighed. “Your grandmother is coming to visit.”
Brooke blinked. “Like… visiting visiting?”
“Yes.”
“Like… today?”
“Yes.”
Brooke stared at her for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“That’s it?” Emily asked.
Brooke shrugged. “You're doing that thing you do when you’re already exhausted by a conversation that hasn’t happened yet.”
Emily snorted despite herself. “Fair.”
Elizabeth Prentiss arrived precisely one hour later, immaculate and composed, stepping into the house as though she were entering an embassy rather than her daughter’s home. Her gaze swept the entryway immediately — the coat rack crowded with everyday jackets, the scuffed floor, the shoes by the door that spoke of people who actually lived there.
“Well,” Elizabeth said. “You’ve settled in.”
Emily forced a polite smile. “Come in.”
Aaron greeted her with quiet courtesy, shaking her hand, offering coffee. Elizabeth accepted, though she didn’t drink it right away, instead allowing herself a slow survey of the living space. Brooke hovered near the stairs, pretending to be deeply invested in tying and re-tying her hoodie strings.
“It’s… modest,” Elizabeth said finally.
Emily crossed her arms. “We like it.”
Elizabeth hummed. “Of course you do.”
She moved through the living room with the same assessing air she’d once used in diplomatic residences — eyes lingering on the furniture, the framed photos, the unmistakable signs of a home built on practicality rather than presentation.
“You’ve chosen comfort,” Elizabeth continued. “Though Washington real estate being what it is, one might think—”
Elizabeth turned, studying her daughter carefully. “You could afford more.”
Emily’s jaw tightened. “We don’t need more.”
Brooke chose that moment to wander fully into the room. “I like our house,” she said brightly. “It’s cozy.”
Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to her granddaughter, softening just slightly. “I’m sure you do, Brooke.”
Aaron stepped subtly closer to Emily, a presence more than an action. Elizabeth noticed. She always noticed.
“You’ve always insisted on doing things the hard way,” Elizabeth said, her tone light but sharp underneath. “Even now.”
Emily felt the familiar flare of irritation. “I’m not doing anything ‘the hard way.’ I’m doing it my way.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Emily, it wouldn’t hurt to make use of what you have every now and then.”
Emily stiffened. “What I have?”
Elizabeth gestured vaguely around the room. “Your trust fund.”
The word hung in the air.
Brooke’s head snapped up like she’d been struck by lightning.
“—WAIT,” she said loudly. “WHAT.”
Emily closed her eyes. Aaron froze. Elizabeth blinked.
“I assumed—” Elizabeth began.
“You assumed wrong,” Emily snapped. “That wasn’t meant to be discussed.”
Brooke was already grinning, eyes wide with manic curiosity. “No, no, please. Let’s absolutely discuss it.”
“Brooke,” Emily warned.
“Nope,” Brooke said, stepping forward. “You don’t get to just say trust fund like it’s a normal household appliance.”
Elizabeth looked faintly amused now. “It’s hardly unusual.”
Brooke stared at her. “In what universe.”
Emily pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s not relevant.”
Brooke laughed incredulously. “My entire childhood just got recontextualized.”
Aaron cleared his throat. “Emily—”
“No,” Brooke said, pointing. “No, I need answers. My mother — who yells at me for long showers — has a trust fund?”
Emily glared. “Yes.”
“How big?” Brooke demanded.
“That is none of your business.”
Brooke turned instantly to Elizabeth. “How big?”
Elizabeth hesitated, then said evenly, “Substantial.”
Brooke gasped. “SUBSTANTIAL.”
Emily shot her mother a look that could kill. “You did not need to answer that.”
Brooke started pacing. “Oh my God. Oh my God. This explains everything.”
“What?” Emily asked warily.
“Your weird thing about money. The spreadsheets. The refusal to replace things until they’re actively falling apart.” She stopped short. “You choose this.”
Emily snapped, “I don’t choose hardship.”
Elizabeth interjected smoothly, “You choose principle.”
Emily turned on her. “I choose independence.”
Aaron stepped in, voice calm but firm. “Emily’s choices aren’t about deprivation. They’re about control.”
Elizabeth studied him. “And yet she refuses resources meant to protect her.”
Brooke blinked. “Wait,” she said slowly. “This is your trust fund.”
“Yes,” Emily said flatly.
Brooke stared at her mother in awe. “You’re secretly rich.”
“I am not.”
Elizabeth corrected mildly, “You are.”
Brooke laughed, delighted. “I can’t believe this. I grew up thinking we were just… normal.”
“We are normal,” Emily insisted.
Brooke shook her head. “Normal people don’t have emergency millions they refuse to touch out of spite.”
Elizabeth bristled. “It’s not spite.”
“It absolutely is,” Emily said.
Brooke clutched her chest. “My mom is a rebel heiress.”
“Go upstairs,” Emily ordered.
Brooke grinned. “I love you.”
Emily glared. “Go.”
As Brooke retreated, still muttering about trust funds and generational wealth, Emily turned back to her mother, exhaustion heavy in her bones.
“This,” she said quietly, “is why I never told her.”
Elizabeth regarded her daughter for a long moment. “You’ve always been determined to prove you didn’t need me.”
Emily met her gaze, voice steady. “I didn’t need your money to build a life.”
Aaron’s hand settled at her back, grounding, unwavering.
Elizabeth looked away first.
And in the modest, stubbornly loved home Emily had chosen, the truth finally sat in the open — uncomfortable, undeniable, and very much not going anywhere.
Brooke takes after her mom and can't cook. So when she is left home alone, she relies on food deliveries.
Masterlist
-----
Aaron didn’t turn the engine off right away.
The house sat quietly in front of them, porch light glowing soft and steady against the dark, a familiar sight that usually loosened something tight in his chest. Tonight, it took longer. His hands stayed wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles pale, shoulders still carrying the weight of a case that had dug its claws in deep and refused to let go cleanly. Beside him, Emily leaned back against the headrest, eyes closed, one ankle crossed over the other, breathing slow and deliberate as if she were counting each inhale and exhale back into herself.
They hadn’t talked much on the drive home. They rarely did after cases like this — the kind that followed you, that clung to the edges of your thoughts no matter how many miles you put between yourself and the crime scene. Silence wasn’t emptiness for them. It was trust. It was knowing that whatever needed to be said could wait until they were somewhere safe enough to say it.
Emily finally opened her eyes and turned her head slightly toward him. “We’re home,” she said softly, like she was reminding both of them.
Aaron nodded once, then reached up and turned the key. The engine went quiet, the sudden stillness almost startling. He exhaled, slow and controlled, then opened the door.
The front door clicked shut behind them a moment later, the sound echoing through the house with a finality that felt grounding. Emily set her bag down by the console table and kicked off her shoes, rolling her shoulders as if shedding a weight she’d been carrying since wheels-up. Aaron locked the door out of habit, checking it once, then again — not paranoia, just instinct — before turning toward the hallway.
He stopped.
Emily had paused too, her head tilted slightly, brow furrowing as she inhaled.
“Do you smell that?” she asked.
Aaron did. It hit him all at once — soy sauce, garlic, fried oil, something sweet and something spicy layered together in a way that didn’t belong to any single meal.
“Yeah,” he said slowly.
They exchanged a look. The kind that passed between them without effort now, honed by years of partnership and parenthood. Recognition. Understanding.
They followed the scent into the kitchen.
Emily stopped dead in the doorway.
Aaron froze beside her.
The kitchen looked like it had been overtaken by an entire delivery fleet.
Takeout bags covered the counters, stacked haphazardly, logos peeking out from every direction. Cardboard boxes were piled near the sink and along the island, some open, some half-collapsed, evidence of meals abandoned halfway through. Sauce containers dotted the counter like landmines. Chopsticks, plastic forks, napkins, receipts — all scattered with complete disregard for organization or restraint. The trash can was so full the lid refused to close, balanced precariously on top like it had surrendered.
For a long moment, neither of them said anything.
Emily broke the silence first, letting out a slow breath that turned into a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Well,” she said. “That answers that.”
Aaron glanced at her. “Answers what?”
She stepped into the kitchen, eyes scanning the carnage with the weary fondness of a woman who loved her daughter deeply and had absolutely expected this outcome. “Why Brooke called your father asking for more money.”
Aaron closed his eyes briefly. “She said it was important.”
Emily picked up one of the bags and peered inside. “This is Thai.”
She moved to the next. “Chinese.”
Another. “Burgers.”
She paused, lifting the lid of a foil container. “Tacos.”
Aaron leaned against the counter, arms crossing. “There’s pizza in the fridge.”
Emily turned to look at him. “She ordered pizza after tacos.”
Aaron’s mouth twitched despite himself. “She takes after him.”
Emily laughed quietly at that — the sound soft, tired, real — and for the first time since the case ended, something in her chest eased. “She absolutely does.”
Aaron reached for one of the boxes, opening it and shaking his head at the untouched contents. “She didn’t even finish half of this.”
Emily smiled, warmth flooding her expression. “She ordered for the version of herself who thought she could eat everything.”
Aaron nodded. “Optimistic.”
The humour was gentle, understated — the kind that only landed because of love. The mess wasn’t irritating. It was proof that life had gone on while they were gone. That Brooke had filled the house with noise and food and distraction instead of silence.
Aaron glanced toward the hallway. “She texted me once. Asked if it was okay to order food.”
Emily’s lips curved knowingly. “Plural.”
He sighed. “My father texted me twice.”
That earned a snort. “Of course he did.”
Aaron shook his head slowly. “He asked if we wanted him to ‘cut her off’ or ‘send more just in case.’”
Emily laughed again, louder this time. “And what did you say?”
“I told him to stop encouraging her.”
Emily raised an eyebrow. “And did he?”
Aaron didn’t answer.
Emily grinned. “Thought so.”
The sound of footsteps padded down the hallway then — unhurried, a little sheepish. Brooke appeared in the doorway, hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing one of Aaron’s old t-shirts that hung off her shoulder and socks that didn’t match. She stopped short when she saw them, eyes widening just slightly.
“You’re home,” she said.
Emily turned fully toward her, the exhaustion melting away into something softer, brighter. “We are.”
Brooke glanced at the kitchen, then back at them, bracing herself. “Okay, before you say anything—”
Aaron cut in calmly. “How much did you ask Grandpa for?”
Brooke winced. “Enough that he told me not to tell you.”
Emily laughed, shaking her head. “David Rossi.”
“He said,” Brooke added quickly, “and I quote, ‘You’re growing, you need sustenance.’”
Aaron pressed his lips together, fighting a smile. “He said that to me when I was twenty.”
Emily crossed the room and pulled Brooke into a hug without hesitation, arms wrapping around her instinctively. Brooke sank into it, relief written into every line of her body.
“We’re okay,” Emily murmured into her hair. “We’re home.”
Aaron joined them a second later, one arm wrapping around Brooke’s shoulders, the other settling around Emily’s back. It was easy. Natural. A familiar triangle of comfort.
Brooke exhaled slowly. “Good.”
Emily pulled back just enough to look at her, hands resting on her arms. “Next time, you can just tell us you plan to survive exclusively on takeout and Grandpa’s generosity.”
Brooke grinned. “I thought that was implied.”
Aaron sighed. “You owe him a thank-you call.”
Brooke nodded solemnly. “Already did. He told me he’s proud of my ‘resource management.’”
Emily laughed. “That man should not be allowed to encourage you.”
Aaron’s mouth finally curved into a small, genuine smile. “He’s been encouraging me my entire life.”
Brooke looked between them, eyes warm. “He’s a good grandpa.”
Aaron nodded. “He is.”
They stood there together, surrounded by takeout boxes and quiet laughter, the weight of the case finally beginning to loosen its grip — replaced by something far steadier. Three generations, tangled together by love, exhaustion, indulgence, and the unshakable certainty that no matter how heavy the work became, this was where they always came back to.
